“That you shall have,” said Vakhtang, and taking Solomon Markovich’s arm in lordly fashion, he directed him to his table.
“And here is one more of our archaeological rarities,” said Vakhtang by way of introduction. And pulling up a chair for him, he added: “Please welcome the wise Solomon Markovich.”
Solomon Markovich sat down and in a quiet and dignified manner began:
“Yesterday I was reading a certain book; it’s called the Bible.”
He always began this way, and it now occurred to me that his approach to life was a good illustration of my theory of failure and how to make the most of it. For from the great failure of his life he had extracted one small but enduring triumph: the privilege of daily libations at others’ expense.
VII
I had been quietly at work in the cultural section for about a month. The furor in connection with the goatibex campaign had not yet died down, but by now it no longer bothered me. I had gotten used to it, just as one gets used to the sound of waves pounding against the shore.
The high-level regional conference to promote the goatibexation of our Republic’s kolkhozes had already taken place, and although a few critical voices had been raised against the measure, they were quickly drowned out by the clamor of the triumphant majority.
Our paper’s contest for the best literary piece on the goatibex was won by an accountant from the Lykhninsky Kolkhoz. He had written a satiric ode entitled “The Goatibex and the Hardheaded Chairman,” the last stanza of which read as follows:
I take up my pen in praise of the goatibex,
For despite what the hardheaded chairman may say,
The animal’s meat and its beautiful horns
Have made their mark and are here to stay.
To appreciate the biting effect of this stanza one needs to know something of the poem’s background. For the poem was actually based on a real-life incident.
On a certain kolkhoz a goatibex had almost gored the kolkhoz chairman’s small son. According to Platon Samsonovich, the little boy had frequently teased and made fun of the defenseless animal, taking advantage of his father’s position to do so. The goatibex had given the child a good scare, it seemed, but had not inflicted any serious injuries. Nonetheless, acting at the insistence of his infuriated wife, the chairman had ordered the local blacksmith to saw off the animal’s horns.
It was at this point that the secretary of the village soviet had written in to us. Platon Samsonovich was outraged by the incident and the very next day went out to the kolkhoz to see for himself what had happened.
It turned out that everything the secretary had written was true. Platon Samsonovich even brought back with him one of the goatibex’s horns (the other, as the kolkhoz chairman was embarrassed to admit, had been dragged off somewhere by a dog). Every one of our paper’s employees came trooping into Platon Samsonovich’s office to see the famous goatibex horn; even the phlegmatic typesetter made a special trip up from his presses to have a look at it. Platon Samsonovich was delighted to be able to show it off and, in doing so, he would direct everyone’s attention to the traces left by the blacksmith’s barbarous saw. The horn was brown and heavy like the tusk of some antediluvian rhinoceros, and the head of the information section, who also happened to be the chairman of the paper’s trade union committee, suggested that we turn it over to a local craftsman and have it converted into a drinking horn for use at staff picnics.
“It could easily hold three liters,” he said, scrutinizing the horn from every angle. His suggestion, however, was indignantly rejected by Platon Samsonovich.
In connection with this same incident Platon Samsonovich wrote a satirical sketch entitled “The Goatibex and the Hardheaded Chairman,” in which he gave the kolkhoz chairman a merciless going-over. He even suggested to the editor that his sketch be supplemented by a photograph of the dishonored animal, but after some reflection Avtandil Avtandilovich decided to let it go with the sketch.
“They might take it the wrong way,” he replied, though exactly who the “they” was, he did not bother to explain.
So it was that when the Lykhninsky accountant submitted his poem of the same title, it received Platon Samsonovich’s full backing and was virtually assured of first place, since Platon Samsonovich was the most influential member of our contest jury and its only technical expert. Nor did the editor have anything against the poem; he merely observed that the last two lines would have to be revised in such a way as to pay tribute to the goatibex’s wool along with his meat and horns.
“We don’t yet know which is going to be more important for the economy,” he said and then suddenly came out with his own improved version of the last stanza, which was now amended to read as follows:
I take up my pen in praise of the goatibex,
For despite what the hardheaded chairman may say,
The animal’s meat, its wool and its horns
Have made their mark and are here to stay.
The author had no objection to Avtandil Avtandilovich’s slight revision and shortly afterward the poem was even set to music. The tune was a popular one, or at least so one would judge from the fact that it was frequently played on the radio. It was also sung on stage by an amateur choir from the tobacco factory — the choir consisting in this case of members of the Municipal Opera and Choral Society. Scarcely recognizable in their folk dress, the latter sang under the direction of the now rehabilitated Pata Pataraya, a performer of Caucasian dances who had been popular in the thirties.
As for the horn, it remained in Platon Samsonovich’s office, surmounting a pile of unfiled papers as a visible reminder of the need for vigilance.
Most of my time in the cultural section was spent processing our readers’ letters (usually complaints about the poor performance of their village social clubs) and their attempts at verse.
The verses were devoted largely to the goatibex and, strangely enough, the majority of them came pouring in after the contest was already over. Many of them even bore the heading: “Entered for the next contest,” though in fact no such contest had ever been announced.
Some contributors, and especially the elderly and the retired, would let it be known in an accompanying letter that they had been well provided for by the State and hence had no need for any prize money. If, however, they would go on to add, there were some young staff writer who would be willing to make whatever corrections were necessary for the poem to be printed, then his modest efforts would not go unrewarded; for all forms of labor should be remunerated, etc., etc. At first I was annoyed by these references to a young staff writer, but eventually I got used to them and no longer paid any attention.
In my initial replies to these contributors I politely hinted that creative writing requires a certain amount of talent and even some familiarity with literature. After a few days, however, Avtandil Avtandilovich called me into his office and informed me that in the future I would have to be more tolerant. Pointing to a particularly candid section of one of my more recent replies, which he had underlined with red pencil, he said:
“You can’t tell a person that he hasn’t any talent. It’s our responsibility to educate people’s talents and to encourage their creative efforts, especially those of ordinary workers.”
By this time I had managed to discover Avtandil Avtandilovich’s one great weakness. This powerful individual would freeze like a rabbit when under the hypnotic spell of a cliché. And if at the moment he happened to be promoting some new political cliché, it was literally impossible to win him over by logical argument. Instead, one had to fire up his enthusiasm with some other cliché—one that was even more up to date than the first. Thus, when he began talking about the education of talent and the creative efforts of ordinary workers, I was immediately reminded of the old cliché about not flirting with the masses. I didn’t have the courage to quote it, however, nor did it quite seem to fit this particular situation.