In the morning the red dawn arrived, the mountain with the black bug of Makov on its peak dissolved, the weary lunatic fell sweetly asleep, degenerate city birds struck up a song, and two sky-blue tears rolled from Denisov’s eyes into Denisov’s ears.
In search of Sylvia, Denisov knocked on all sorts of doors, but everywhere he ran up against rejection. Are you crazy? Imports have been cut back. And Sylvia all the more so. Hah!… Even a general couldn’t get one! Maybe a marshal, but it depends what kind, what kind of troops. No, Comrade Petryukov won’t help you. Neither will Kozlov. And don’t bother approaching Lyulko —there’s no point. Now, Comrade Bakhtiyarov… Comrade Bakhtiyarov could do it, help that is, but he’s a capricious, eccentric fellow, he’s got a sort of florid, unpredictable personality, and the devil knows how you can pressure Bakhtiyarov. But you’ve definitely got to catch him out of his office, in the Woodland Fairy Tale restaurant, for instance, when the comrade is eating and relaxing. You could try going to the baths, the baths would be best of all, and it’s an old trick—wait for the moment when the beauty drops her swan feathers to bathe in the spring, so to speak—then you’ve caught the little bird, you close in and stash the feathers somewhere, and you can ask whatever your heart desires. But Bakhtiyarov is no beauty, as you’ll see for yourself, and his feathers and pants and suitcase with underwear and all kinds of tasty goodies are so well guarded, and getting into the bathhouse is so difficult—like Babà Yaga’s house, it can turn its face to the forest and rear to people quick as a wink—that you shouldn’t even think of getting in there without a magic password. So why don’t you try to find him out of town, in the Fairy Tale? Well, what can you do, give it a try. He goes there to relax.
And the Fairy Tale came to pass.
Whew, how warm it was in there, how fancy, and how glorious it smelled. If only Lora were here, and I had a bit more money, yes, over there in that corner under the yellow lampshade, where the napkins are folded like fans and the armchairs are soft. Peace for a tormented, half-mad soul!
Waiters were passing by and Denisov asked the sweetest and friendliest of them: Comrade Bakhtiyarov isn’t here by any chance, is he? And the waiter immediately took to Denisov like a brother and pointed with his little finger, directing him: The comrade’s relaxing over there. In a circle of friends and lovely ladies.
Now go on over there—what will be, will be—over there— I’m not asking for myself—over there, where a dome of blue smoke billows, where giggles cavort like gusts of wind, where champagne leaps out onto the tablecloth in a frothy arc, where heavy female backs sit, where someone in a lilac-colored tie, puny, doglike, quickly prances around the Boss, incessantly adoring him. Take a step—and Denisov stepped, he crossed the line and became the envoy of the forgotten, the nameless, those who hover in dreams, who lie covered with snow, whose white bones protrude from the ruts of the steppe.
Comrade Bakhtiyarov turned out to be a round, soft, Chinese-looking person, he even seemed rather a fine fellow, and it was impossible to say how old he was, sixty or two hundred. He saw straight through people, saw everything—the liver, spleen, and heart, but he had no use for your liver or spleen—what good were they?—so he didn’t look straight at you lest he pierce right through you, and he wound conversations around somewhere to the side and past you. Comrade Bakhtiyarov was consuming veal of a downright disgraceful tenderness, as well as criminally young suckling pig; and the salad—a mere three minutes separated it from the garden—was so innocent, it hadn’t even had a chance to come to its senses; there it had been, minding its own business, growing, and suddenly—whoosh!—it was picked, and before it had time to cry out, it was being eaten.
“I love to eat young things,” said Bakhtiyarov. “But you, my little bunny rabbit, shouldn’t—you have an ulcer, I can see it in your face.” He was right on target: Denisov had had an ulcer for ages. “So I’ll treat you to something that’s for your own good,” said Bakhtiyarov. “Drink to my health, drink deep to my hospitality.”
And at the snap of his fingers they brought Denisov stewed carrots and sweet Buratino soda water.
“I keep thinking, thinking,” said Bakhtiyarov, as he ate. “Day and night I keep thinking, and I can’t figure out the answer. You look like a scholarly fellow—your eyes are oh so gloomy—come on, tell me. Why is the brewery named after Stenka Razin? After all, my little lovebirds, it’s a government organization with plans and quotas to fill, fiscal accountability, socialist competition, Party committees and—oh, goodness, I can’t take it—lo-ocal trade union committees. Trade union committees. This is serious business, it’s no joke. And then they go and name it after some bandit! No, I don’t get it. In my opinion it’s funny. Go on, laugh!”
The friends and ladies laughed, the lilac-colored one even shrieked. Denisov also smiled politely and took a sip of his warm Buratino.
“But if you look at it from the other side: Razin, Stepan Timofeevich—he’s a folk hero, an inspiration, our national pride and joy:
“That, you see, is an event with great political resonance—and now we have some measly little factory with, you get my meaning, a dubious profile. To my way of thinking, it’s funny. Go on, laugh!”
The ladies again opened their mouths and laughed.
“Like Grandma’s furs stored in the chest… he doesn’t rot, he doesn’t rust, he doesn’t sweat, he gets his rest,” the lilac-colored one suddenly sang, wiggling his shoulders and stamping his heels.
“See what great fun we’re having here,” said the contented Bakhtiyarov. “We play around and laugh like innocent children, and it’s all within the bounds of the permissible, we don’t go beyond what’s allowed, now do we?… And everything’s just hunky-dory, but I can see you’ve got a little favor to ask of me, so ask away, we’ll have a listen….”
“Well, actually, it’s very simple, that is, it’s very complicated,” said Denisov, trying to concentrate. “That is, you see, I’m not really asking for myself—personally, I don’t need anything….”
“Oh my willow, green willow, who asks favors for himself? Nowadays nobody asks for himself…. Nowadays you only have to spit—and a bunch of those inspectoring fellows grab you by your little white arms—did you spit in the right place, where did you get that spit, and on just what grounds—but what do we have to do with it, we didn’t do anything, we’re clean as a whistle…. Can I call you my little chickypoo? ‘You’re my frost—frost, don’t freeze me out,’” comrade Bakhtiyarov began to sing. “Sing, my little lovebirds!”
“Don’t freeze me out!” they struck up at the table.
“Like Grandma’s furs stored in a chest…” the lilac-colored one tried to sing against the chorus, but he was drowned out. They sang well.
“Klavdiya’s soprano isn’t just any old la-di-da,” said Bakhtiyarov. “Our Zykina! Maria, so to speak, Callas, or maybe even better. You sing too, chickypoo.”