Syerov whispered: “All right.” His spoon cut into a chocolate éclair, and a soft, yellow custard spurted, spreading over his plate. He hissed through white lips, low, even sounds without expression: “Now listen here. I want my share in advance — on every load. I don’t want any delays. I don’t want to ask twice.”
“So help me God, Pavlusha, you’ll get it, you don’t have to tell me, you ...”
“And another thing, I want caution. Understand? Caution. From now on, you don’t know me, see? If we meet by chance — we’re strangers. Antonina delivers the money to me in that whorehouse, as agreed.”
“Sure. Sure. I remember everything, Pavlusha.”
“Tell that Kovalensky bum to keep away. I don’t want to meet him.”
“Sure. You don’t have to.”
“Got the store?”
“Renting it today.”
“All right. Now sit still. I go first. You sit here for twenty minutes. Understand?”
“Sure. The Lord bless us.”
“Keep that for yourself. Good day.”
A secretary sat at a desk in the office of the railroad terminal. She sat behind a low wooden railing and typed, concentrating intently, drawing her upper lip in and biting her lower one. In front of the railing, there was an empty stretch of unswept floor and two chairs; six visitors waited patiently, two of them sitting. A door behind the secretary was marked: “Comrade Syerov.”
Comrade Syerov returned from lunch. He strode swiftly through the outer office, his tight, shiny military boots creaking. The six heads of the visitors jerked anxiously, following him with timid, pleading glances. He crossed the room as if it were empty. The secretary followed him into his inner office.
A picture of Lenin hung on the wall of the inner office, over a broad, new desk; it hung between a diagram showing the progress of the railroads, and a sign with red letters saying: COMRADES, STATE YOUR BUSINESS BRIEFLY. PROLETARIAN EFFICIENCY IS THE DISCIPLINE OF PEACE-TIME REVOLUTIONARY CONSTRUCTION.
Pavel Syerov took a flat, gold cigarette case from his pocket, lighted a cigarette, sat down at the desk and looked through a stack of papers. The secretary stood waiting diffidently.
Then he raised his head and asked: “What’s doing?”
“There are those citizens outside, Comrade Syerov, waiting to see you.”
“What about?”
“Mostly jobs.”
“Can’t see anyone today. Got to hurry to the Club meeting in half-an-hour. Have you typed my Club report on ‘Railroads as the blood vessels of the Proletarian State’?”
“Yes, Comrade Syerov. Here it is.”
“Fine.”
“Those citizens out there, Comrade Syerov, they’ve been waiting for three hours.”
“Tell them to go to hell. They can come tomorrow. If anything important comes up, call me at the Railroad Workers’ Union headquarters. I’ll be there after the Club.... And, by the way, I’ll be in late tomorrow.”
“Yes, Comrade Syerov.”
Pavel Syerov walked home from the Railroad Workers’ Union headquarters, with a Party friend. Syerov was in a cheerful mood. He whistled merrily and winked at passing girls. He said: “Think I’m going to throw a party tonight. Haven’t had any fun for three weeks. Feel like dissipating. What do you say?”
“Swell,” said the friend.
“Just a little crowd, our own bunch. At my place?”
“Swell.”
“I know a fellow who can get vodka — the real stuff. And let’s go to Des Gourmets and buy up everything they have in the joint.”
“I’m with you, pal.”
“Let’s celebrate.”
“What’ll we celebrate?”
“Never mind. Just celebrate. And we don’t have to worry about expenses. Hell! I’m not worrying about expenses when I want a good time.”
“That’s right, comrade.”
“Whom’ll we call? Let’s see: Grishka and Maxim, with their girls.”
“And Lizaveta.”
“Sure, I’ll call your Lizaveta. And Valka Dourova — there’s a girl! — she’ll bring half a dozen fellows along. And, I guess, Victor Dunaev with his girl, Marisha Lavrova. Victor’s a nit that’s going to be a big louse some day — have to keep on the good side of him. And ... say, pal, do you think I should invite Comrade Sonia?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Oh, hell. That cow’s after me. Has been for over a year. Trying to make me. And I’ll be damned if I ... No appetite.”
“But then, Pavlusha, you’ve got to be careful. If you hurt her feelings, with Comrade Sonia’s position ...”
“I know. Hell! Two profunions and five women’s clubs wrapped around her little finger. Oh, hell! Oh, all right. I’ll call her.”
Pavel Syerov had pulled the curtains down over the three windows of his room. One of the girls had draped an orange scarf over the lamp, and it was almost dark. The guests’ faces were whitish blots strewn over the chairs, the davenport, the floor. In the middle of the floor stood a dish with a chocolate cake from Des Gourmets; someone had stepped on the cake. A broken bottle lay on the pillow of Syerov’s bed; Victor and Marisha sat on the bed. Victor’s hat lay on the floor by the davenport; it was being used as an ashtray. A gramophone played “John Gray”; the record was stuck, whirling, repeating persistently the same hoarse, grating notes; no one noticed it. A young man sat on the floor, leaning against a bed post, trying to sing; he muttered a tuneless, mournful chant into his collar; once in a while, he jerked his head up and screeched a high note, so that the others shuddered and someone flung a shoe or a pillow at him, yelling: “Grishka, shut up!” then his head drooped again. A girl lay in a corner, by the cuspidor, asleep, her hair glued in sticky strands to a glistening, flushed face.
Pavel Syerov staggered across the room, waving an empty bottle, muttering in an offended, insistent voice: “A drink.... Who wants a drink? ... Doesn’t anyone want a drink? ...”
“Hell, Pavel, your bottle’s empty ...” someone called from the darkness.
He stopped, swaying, held the bottle up to the light, spat, and threw the bottle under the bed. “So you think I haven’t any more?” he waved his fist menacingly at the room. “Think I’m a piker, don’t you? ... A measly piker who can’t afford enough vodka? ... A measly piker, that’s what you think, don’t you? ... Well, I’ll show you....”
He fumbled in a box under the table and rose, swaying, brandishing an unopened bottle over his head. He laughed: “I can’t afford it, can I?” and reeled toward the corner from where the voice had come. He giggled at the white spots that turned to look up at him; he swung the bottle in a huge circle and brought it down to smash with a ringing blast against a book case. A girl screamed; glass splattered in a tinkling rain. A man swore violently.
“My stockings, Pavel, my stockings!” the girl sobbed, pulling her skirt high over drenched legs.
A man’s arms reached for her from the darkness: “Never mind, sweetheart. Take ’em off.”
Syerov giggled triumphantly: “So I can’t afford it, can I? ... Can I? ... Pavel Syerov can afford anything now! ... Anything on this God-damn earth! ... He can buy you all, guts and souls!”
Someone had crawled under the table and was fumbling in the box, looking for more bottles.
A hand knocked at the door.
“Come in!” roared Syerov. No one came in. The hand knocked again. “What the hell? What do you want?” He tottered to the door and threw it open.
His next-door neighbor, a fat, pallid woman, stood in the corridor, shivering in a long, flannel nightgown, clutching an old shawl over her shoulders, brushing strands of gray hair out of her sleepy eyes.
“Citizen Syerov,” she whined with indignation, “won’t you please stop that noise? At such an indecent hour ... you young people have no shame left these days ... no fear of God ... no ...”
“On your way, grandma, on your way!” Syerov ordered. “You crawl under your pillow and keep your damn mouth shut. Or would you like to take a ride to the G.P.U.?”
The woman wheeled about hastily and shuffled away, making the sign of the cross.
Comrade Sonia sat in a corner by the window, smoking. She wore a tailored khaki tunic with pockets on her hips and breast; it was made of expensive foreign cloth, but she kept dropping ashes on her skirt. A girl’s voice pleaded in a plaintive whisper at her elbow: “Say, Sonia, why did you have Dashka fired from the office? She needed the job, she did, and honest ...”
“I do not discuss business matters outside of office hours,” Comrade Sonia answered coldly. “Besides, my actions are always motivated by the good of the collective.”
“Oh, sure, I don’t doubt it, but, listen, Sonia....”
Comrade Sonia noticed Pavel Syerov swaying at the door. She rose and walked to him, cutting the girl off in the middle of a sentence.
“Come here, Pavel,” said Comrade Sonia, her strong arm supporting him, leading him to a chair. “You’d better sit down. Here. Let me make you comfortable.”
“You’re a pal, Sonia,” he muttered, while she stuffed a pillow between his shoulder blades, “you’re a real pal. Now you wouldn’t holler at me if I made a little noise, would you?”
“Of course not.”
“You don’t think that I can afford a little vodka, like some skunks here think, do you, Sonia?”
“Of course not, Pavel. Some people don’t know how to appreciate you.”
“That’s it. That’s just the trouble. I’m not appreciated. I’m a great man. I’m going to be a very great man. But they don’t know it. No one knows it.... I’m going to be a very, very powerful man. I’m going to make the foreign capitalists look like mice.... That’s what: mice.... I’m going to give orders to Comrade Lenin himself.”
“Pavel, our great chief is dead.”
“That’s right. So he is. Comrade Lenin’s dead.... Oh, what’s the use? ... I’ve got to have a drink, Sonia. I feel very sad. Comrade Lenin’s dead.”
“That’s very nice of you, Pavel. But you’d better not have another drink just now.”
“But I’m very sad, Sonia. No one appreciates me.”
“I do, Pavel.”
“You’re a pal. You’re a real, real pal, Sonia....”
On the bed, Victor held Marisha in his arms. She giggled, counting the buttons on his tunic; she lost count after the third one and started over again. She was whispering: “You’re a gentleman, Victor, that’s what you are, a gentleman.... That’s why I love you, because you’re a gentleman.... And I’m only a gutter brat. My mother, she was a cook before ... before.... Well, anyway, before. I remember, many, many years ago, she used to work in a big, big house, they had horses and carriages and a bathroom, and I used to peel vegetables for her, in their kitchen. And there was an elegant young man, their son, oh, he had such pretty uniforms and he spoke all sorts of foreign languages, he looked just like you. And I didn’t even dare to look at him. And now I have a gentleman of my own,” she giggled happily, “isn’t it funny? I, Marishka the vegetable peeler!”
Victor said: “Oh, shut up!” and kissed her, his head drooping sleepily.
A girl giggled, standing over them in the darkness: “When are you two going to get registered at the marriage office?”
“Go ’way,” Marisha waved at her. “We’ll be registered. We’re engaged.”
Comrade Sonia had pulled a chair close to Syerov’s, and he sprawled, his head on her lap, while she stroked his hair. He was muttering: “You’re a rare woman, Sonia.... You’re a wonderful woman.... You understand me....”
“I do, Pavel. I’ve always said that you were the most talented, the most brilliant young man in our collective.”
“You’re a wonderful woman, Sonia.” He was kissing her, moaning: “No one appreciates me.”
He had pulled her down to the floor, leaning over her soft, heavy body, whispering: “A fellow needs a woman.... A smart, understanding, strong and hefty woman.... Who cares for those skinny scarecrows? ... I like a woman like you, Sonia....”
He did not know how he found himself suddenly in the little storage closet between his room and that of his neighbors. A cobwebbed window high under the ceiling threw a dusty ray of moonlight on a towering pile of boxes and baskets. He was leaning against Comrade Sonia’s shoulder, stammering: “They think Pavel Syerov’s just gonna be another stray mongrel eating outta slop pails all his life.... Well, I’ll show ’em! Pavel Syerov’ll show ’em who’s got the whip.... I’ve got a secret ... a great secret, Sonia.... But I can’t tell you.... But I’ve always liked you, Sonia.... I’ve always needed a woman like you, Sonia ... soft and comfortable....”
When he tried to stretch himself on the flat top of a large wicker basket, the piled tower shuddered, swayed and came down with a thundering crash. The neighbors knocked furiously, protesting, against the wall.
Comrade Sonia and Pavel Syerov, on the floor, paid no attention.