Well, they warned me, thought Denisov, opening his mouth in time to the rhythm. They warned me, and I was prepared— after all, it’s not for myself, and you don’t get something for nothing, without suffering you won’t get anywhere, I just didn’t realize that suffering would be so incredibly unpleasant.
“No sweat, no sweets,” affirmed Comrade Bakhtiyarov, looking straight into Denisov’s heart, “what did you think, my pretty boy? You need some kind of article? A ca-a-abinet, is it? Oooh, we’re a naughty boy…. Why don’t you sing for us personally, eh? Something simple, heartfelt? Give us your best consumer solo, make our spirits rejoice. We’re listening. Quiet, my little lovebirds. Be respectful.”
Denisov sang hurriedly, suffering under the gaze of Bakhtiyarov’s guests; he sang whatever came to mind, what’s sung in courtyards, on camping trips, in trains—an urban ballad about Lenka Sharova, who believed in love and was deceived, and who decided to destroy the fruit of her frivolous lapse from virtue: “She dug a hole, pushed the stones inside, and then wee Zina gave one last cry!” he sang, already realizing that he was in a desert, that there were no people about. He sang of the sentence pronounced by the heartless judges: “To the firing squad with her, to the firing squad it be!” of the sad and unjust end of the girl who’d gone astray: “I walked right up to the prison wall, and there lay Lenka in her death pall,” and Bakhtiyarov nodded his soft head sympathetically. No, Bakhtiyarov himself was all right, not bad at all, really, his face even began to reveal some nice cozy nooks and crannies, and if you squinted, it was even possible to believe for a minute that here was a grandfather, an old-timer who loved his grandchildren… but of course only if you squinted. The others were much worse: that woman over there, for instance, an awful woman, she resembled a ski— her front was entirely encased in brocade, but her back was completely bare; or that other one, the beauty with the eyes of a cemetery caretaker; but the most horrible of them all was that fidgety giggler, that unstrung Punch with his lilac tie and toadlike mouth and woolly head; if only someone would wipe him out, exterminate him, or burn him with Mercurochrome so that he wouldn’t dare look!… But then, actually, they’re only horrid because they’re celebrating my humiliation, my trials and tribulations, otherwise—they’re just citizens like anyone else. Nothing special. “There lay Lenka in her death pall.”
“How fine, my sweets!” exclaimed Bakhtiyarov in surprise. “How fine our comrade sang for us. Downright pianissimo and nothing else. No other word for it. Come on now, let’s show him our stuff. In reply. Let’s give our guest a taste of our D-flat.”
The guests burst into song; the lilac fidget—all attentiveness—conducted with a fork, tears streamed from the beauty’s dead eyes; the diners from neighboring tables, wiping their mouths with their napkins, joined the chorus, Klavdiya’s soprano entered on a piercing, violinlike note:
There, in the mountains, the snow began to fall thicker and thicker, sweeping into drifts, burying Makov, his sprawled legs, his face turned toward eternity. He doesn’t rot, he doesn’t rust, he doesn’t sweat, he gets his rest. The snowdrifts rose higher and higher, the mountain creaked under the weight of the snow; it groaned and cracked, and with the roar of a steam engine the avalanche fell, and nothing remained on the peak. A snowy mist smoked a bit and settled on the cliffs.
“Dear visitor! Aren’t I your friend—to the bitter end!” cried Bakhtiyarov, grabbing Denisov by the cheeks. “How do you like that? I’m talking in verse. That’s me. No stranger to poetry. Eh? That’s just the way I am. Drink your Buratino to my health. Bottoms up, bottoms up! That’s the ticket. You know what: Humor an old friend. If you go to town, go all the way. Crawl under the table. For fun! Go on!”
“What the…” said Denisov, free of Makov. “Who do you think you are, old man? Arrivederci to you, I don’t need your cabinet. I changed my mind.” And he started to get up.
“Under the table. What’s going on? What’s the matter?” Bakhtiyarov tore at his coat. “We’re asking you. Gentlemen!”
“Go on, go on!” shouted the ladies, friends, guests, waiters, even the cook, who appeared from out of the blue, and the entire room, rising to its feet, moving out from behind the tables, still chewing, made a scene and clapped: “Go on!”
No, for goodness’ sake, no, no, no! Why? I’m a human being, and proud to be one. I won’t crawl, go ahead and kill me!… Yes, but what about suffering? Hey, remember! Suffering! You’re the one who wanted it.
He plunged into despair, as though facing death, he lost heart, he frowned—it didn’t help, he wanted to take a deep breath—there was no air left to breathe. And Bakhtiyarov had already thrown back the tablecloth and seated himself sideways so that his legs wouldn’t be in the way. He gestured invitingly with his hand: Go ahead, be my guest!
…He huddled in the half-light of the darned linen, hugging his knees like an embryo, and gazed dumbly at the women’s legs, the silvered tails, and the lacquered hooves; the insidious repast had clouded his hearing and sight; the soprano set his teeth on edge. Here’s what I’ll do. I know. I’ll erect a monument to the forgotten. Even if it’s only a flat patch of land in the middle of the steppes, with no fence, no marker—let feather grass or rushes grow there, let the sun scorch the earth till the salt comes out, let gravel or broken glass litter the ground, let a jackal howl in the evenings or a boisterous crowd feast. Greetings to you, tin cans, and to you, beer caps, glory to spittle, hurrah for squashed tomatoes. A hill of garbage or a salty clearing, the whoosh of feather grass or the whistle of the wind—anything will do, it makes no difference, nothing frightens the forgotten—after all, nothing else can happen to them.
A tearstained, eyeless female face hung under the table and muttered, seeking sympathy:
“Why, tell me why’s it allays rile lires, salastically yuffy for some, and others only get lurdle, glud, and droom, why?”
The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning.
The Buratino had made Denisov drowsy, and he fell asleep.
A moonbeam, breaking through a darned patch, stabbed him in the eye. The moonlit tablecloth lay on the parquet floor, a silvery garden stood beyond the window, August ignited stars in the dark. It was as if all the snow from all the mountains were cascading onto the garden, the silence, and the mute paths. Denisov creaked across the floorboards and stood by the window. He hadn’t dreamt about anyone today.
The cock crowed, Bakhtiyarov and his warlocks had vanished, the shades were sleeping, the world was at peace.
And what kind of nonsense was this anyway—to be tormented by memories of nothing at all, to ask forgiveness from a dead man for something you weren’t guilty of in human reckoning, to clutch handfuls of fog? There isn’t any fifth dimension, and no one will keep count of your sins and victories, and there isn’t any punishment or reward at the end of the road, there isn’t even a road, and fame is smoke, and the soul is vapor, and if you crawled under the table, well, pardon me, my dear, but that was your choice, a matter of personal taste, and humanity will not follow after you in a grateful throng, and unseen forces won’t cry out from the everlasting azure: “Good going, Denisov, attaboy! Keep up the good work! We fully approve and support you!”
He walked around the Fairy Tale, pulling on doors, all of which were locked. Well, what a pickle! Now just sit there till morning. Break a window, or what? There’s probably an alarm here. It’s a small village, everything’s out in the open—they’ll whistle, lights will blink, the police will move in; if they don’t catch you in the garden, then they’ll get you on the highway for sure. “The heavens are wondrous and exultant, earth slumbers in a luminous blue glow,” and Denisov is going to rush about among the bushes and watchman’s booths, squat behind trash cans, and rustle in the hawthorn to elude the searchlights. There’s no point in it. A rampart of darkness encircles the world; incorporeal moon sugar will sift from leaf to leaf, trembling and glinting; sugar, snow, dreams, depths, everything has frozen, everything’s dying, growing dull in the senseless beauty, everything’s forgotten, forgiven, and anyway nothing happened, and nothing ever will.