“Nothing,” I said. “What can I say? A serious play.”
“You’re a cultured person, educated. We decided to draw you into this undertaking.”
“I have nothing to do with the theatre.”
“Do you think I do? But a Communist should always demonstrate his social commitment.”
“I’m not a Party member.”
“All the more reason to take part. Your indifference goes too far. You put yourself outside the collective. Political awareness is not for you, social activity is not for you. Don’t think you’re so much cleverer than everyone else.”
“I don’t think that.”
“Good. You will help with this cultural initiative. I’m managing, casting is done and I’ve already given out scripts, but without an assistant it’s hard. Our actors – well, you know yourself… Lenin is being played by a thief from the Ropcha transit camp. A lifelong pickpocket, with high standing under their Code. It’s the opinion of some here that he’s actively planning to escape.”
I kept quiet. How could I tell the PI what had happened in the forest?
Khuriyev continued, “In the role of Dzerzhinsky – Tsurikov, nicknamed ‘Stilts’, from the Fourth Brigade, in for perverting minors, term – six years. There is evidence he smokes dope. In the role of Timofei – Gesha, a nitwit from the sanitation brigade, a passive homo. In the role of Polina – Tomka Lebedyeva from the Division of Economic Administration, an incredible bitch, worse than the female zeks. In a word, this bunch leaves a lot to be desired. The use of narcotics is a probability, also illicit contacts with Lebedyeva. All that skirt wants is to flap around the zeks. Do you understand me?”
“What is there to understand? Our people.”
“Well then, put your hand to it. There is a rehearsal today at six. You will be assistant director. Your duties in the logging sector are temporarily suspended. I will notify Captain Tokar.”
“No protest here,” I said.
“Be there at ten minutes to six.”
I wandered around the barracks till six. A few times, officers wanted to send me off somewhere to take part in security operations. I told them that I had been placed at the disposal of Senior Lieutenant Khuriyev, and they left me in peace.
Close to six, I sat waiting in the Lenin Room. A moment later, Khuriyev appeared with a briefcase.
“And where are our personnel?”
“They’ll come,” I said. “Most likely they were delayed in the mess hall.”
Just then, Gesha and Tsurikov walked in. Tsurikov I knew from work in the unmarked sector. He was a sullen, emaciated zek with a revolting habit – he scratched himself. Gesha worked as an orderly in the sanitation brigade cleaning barracks, looking after the sick. He stole pills, vitamins and any medications with alcoholic content for the bosses. He walked with a barely noticeable dance step, submitting to some inaudible rhythm. It was said that zek chieftains in the zone would not let him near the campfire.
“Six on the dot,” Tsurikov said, and without bending down scratched his knee.
Gesha was rolling a smoke.
Gurin appeared, wearing only a worn undershirt. “Hot in here,” he said. “Pure Tashkent! But in general, this isn’t a zone, it’s a Palace of Culture. Soldiers address you in the polite form. And the food is choice. Do people really try to escape?”
“They run,” Khuriyev replied.
“To get in or get out?”
“To get out,” the PI answered without smiling.
“And I thought they’d run into the cooler from the outside. Or right from the capitalist jungles.”
“You made your joke, now that’s enough,” Khuriyev said.
Just then, Lebedyeva appeared in a cloud of cheap cosmetics, her hair in a six-month perm. She was a civilian, but she behaved like the inmates and spoke their slang. Generally, administration office workers started resembling the zeks after a month. Even contracted engineers fell into using camp argot. Not to speak of the soldiers.
“Let’s get down to it,” the PI said.
The actors took creased sheets of paper out of their pockets.
“Your roles must be learnt by Wednesday.” Then Khuriyev raised his hand. “I will now present the basic idea. The central line of the play is the struggle between feeling and duty. Comrade Dzerzhinsky, scorning illness, gives himself totally to the Revolution. Comrade Lenin insistently recommends that he take leave. Dzerzhinsky categorically refuses. Parallel to this, the storyline of Timofei develops. Animal lust for Polina temporarily blocks him from world revolution. Polina is a typical representative of the petit-bourgeois mind—”
“The black-marketeer type?” Lebedyeva asked loudly.
“Don’t interrupt. Her ideal is petit-bourgeois well-being. Timofei experiences a conflict between feeling and duty. The personal example of Dzerzhinsky has a strong moral effect on the youth. As a result, his sense of duty triumphs… I hope everything is clear? Let’s begin. So then, we see Dzerzhinsky at work. Tsurikov, sit there, stage left… Enter Vladimir Ilych. In his hand he holds a suitcase. We haven’t got the suitcase yet, we’ll use an accordion case for now. Take it… So then, enter Lenin. Begin!”
Gurin grinned and said with spirit, “How are you, Felix Edmundovich!” (He said this, swallowing his Rs like Lenin, “How ag you?”)
Tsurikov scratched his neck and answered gloomily, “Hello.”
“More respect,” Khuriyev said.
“Hello,” Tsurikov said a little louder.
“Do you know, Felix Edmundovich, what I have here in my hand?”
“A suitcase, Vladimir Ilych.”
“And just what it’s for – can you guess?”
“As you were!” the PI shouted. “It says here, ‘Lenin, with a tinge of irony.’ Where’s the tinge of irony? I don’t see it.”
“It’s coming,” Gurin assured him. He stretched out the arm with the case and winked insolently at Dzerzhinsky.
“Excellent,” Khuriyev said. “Continue. ‘And just what it’s for – can you guess?’”
“And just what it’s for – can you guess?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Tsurikov said.
“Not so churlish,” the PI said, breaking in again. “Milder. Before you is Lenin himself. The leader of the world proletariat.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Tsurikov said, as sullenly as before.
“That’s better. Continue.”
Gurin winked again with even more familiarity. “The suitcase is for you, Felix Edmundovich. So that you, dear fellow, can go off and take a rest at once.”
Without special effort, Tsurikov scratched his shoulder blade. “I can’t, Vladimir Ilych – there is counter-revolution all around us. Mensheviks, Social Revolutionaries,* bourgeois spouts—”
“Scouts,” Khuriyev said. “Go on.”
“Your health, Felix Edmundovich, belongs to the Revolution. The comrades and I have discussed it and decided: you must take a rest. I say this to you as a member of the ruling body.”
Suddenly we heard a female yowl. Lebedyeva was sobbing, her head against the tablecloth.
“What’s the matter?” the PI asked nervously.
“I’m sorry for Felix,” Tamara explained. “He’s skinny as a tapeworm.”
“Dystrophics happen to be hardier,” Gesha said with hostility.
“Break,” Khuriyev announced. Then he turned to me. “Well, what do you think? I would say they’ve grasped the main thing.”
“Och,” Lebedyeva exclaimed, “it’s so close to life! Like in a fairy tale.”
Tsurikov was giving his belly a good scratch. While he did this, his eyes clouded over.
Gesha was studying the escape map. This was considered suspicious, even though the map was displayed openly.
“Let’s continue,” Khuriyev said. The actors put out their cigarettes. “Next come Timofei and Polina. The scene is the reception room of the Cheka. Timofei is manning the switchboard. Polina enters. Begin!”