by Teffi
We thanked the officer.
“So we can leave tomorrow, can we?”
“If you want to. Unless you’d like to stay here for a little while. We’ve got everything here and plenty of it. We’ve even got champagne.”
“Now that does sound good,” Averchenko said wistfully. “Almost too good to be true!”
The officer rose to show us out. Only then did we notice the distraught look on Gooskin’s face.
“But you’ve forgotten the most important thing of all!” he said in a tragic whisper. “The most important thing of all! My own travel pass. Mr. Officer! I too am from their company, and there are three others. They can’t possibly get by without me! They’ll tell you that themselves. What will become of them? I tell you, it will be like the last day of Pompeii, right here on your doorstep!”
The officer looked at us questioningly.
“Yes, yes,” said Averchenko. “He’s accompanying us—and there are three others. Everything he says is true.”
“I shall be glad to be of service.”
We said our goodbyes.
Gooskin complained bitterly all the way back: “How could you? Forgetting Gooskin’s pass! The most important thing of all! Wonderful! Ri-ight?”
Back home, calm, content, and sleepy, we sat down around the samovar that had been heated by one of the daughters’ daughters. Now that the intensity of our feelings about the self-sacrificing old woman had subsided a little, Olyonushka and I accepted the offer of fried eggs.
“Well, we can at least get her to allow us to pay for our food, even if she refuses to accept money for anything else. We don’t want to have to starve to death just because she’s such a wonderful person.”
“And that Gooskin’s so unpleasant. Smirking like an oaf and telling us we don’t need to worry on that score. What does he care?.”
Our room was nice and warm. After the cold wind, our cheeks were burning. It was time to go to bed—almost twelve. Then a young man burst in. I think it was the son of the son’s wife.
“Someone from the office is here—asking for Pan Averchenko.”[32]
“They haven’t changed their minds, have they?”
“And we thought everything had been settled!”
Averchenko went out into the kitchen. I followed.
There, surrounded by a frightened crowd of the daughters’ daughters stood a Ukrainian policeman.
“Here are your travel passes. And the officer also wishes to give you this.”
Two bottles of champagne!
Who’d have thought there could be such magic in a visit from a Ukrainian policeman?
We clinked our cups of warm champagne.
How high the wheel of fortune had raised us! Electric lighting, corks flying toward the ceiling, and cups—yes, we were drinking from teacups—foaming with champagne.
“Oufff!” Gooskin let out a sigh of contentment. “I have to admit it, I was scared halfway to death!”
•
Morning in Klintsy.
The day is somewhat gray, but quiet and reassuringly ordinary—just like any other autumn day. And the rain too is ordinary, not like the despairing rain, the rain as bitter as tears, that only two days before had been watering those bloodied remains by the embankment.
We stay in bed late. Our bodies are worn out, our souls dozing . . .
But we can hear voices from the kitchen. People bustling about. Plates clattering, somebody being scolded, somebody being told to get out of the way, somebody else defending them, several loud voices all shouting at once . . . The sweet symphony of simple human life . . .
“And where are the plates, I ask you. Where are the plates?” a high solo soars above the chorus.
“A vuide Moshke?”[33]
Then an intricate duet, something like “Zoher-boher, zoher-boher!”[34]
And a rich contralto solo:
“A mishigene kopf.”[35]
Ever so cautiously the door begins to open. A small dark eye examines us through the narrow crack. And disappears. A gray eye appears a little lower down, then disappears too. Then, much higher up—another dark eye, enormous and astonished.
The daughters’ daughters were, it seems, waiting for us to awake.
It was time we got up.
Our train wasn’t leaving until the evening. We would have to spend the whole day in Klintsy. This, we feared, would be boring. The town was so very calm—and calm was something we were no longer used to. We could not have complained of boredom two days before this.
One of the daughters’ daughters came and asked us what we would like for lunch.
Olyonushka and I looked at each other and said with one voice, “Fried eggs.”
“Yes, fried eggs and nothing else.”
The daughter’s daughter went out again, looking surprised and maybe even displeased. The kind old woman must have been wanting to spoil us.
“Yes,” said Olyonushka, “for us to abuse her generosity would be unforgivable.”
“Of course. And there’s certainly nothing cheaper than eggs. Although one doesn’t really want fried eggs two days running.”
Olyonushka glanced at me reproachfully, then looked down at the floor.
Averchenko appeared, bringing something wonderful—a whole pile of apples.
Olyonushka then went out for a walk herself. She came back full of excitement and said, “Guess what I’ve brought?”
“Don’t know.”
“Guess!”
“A cow?”
“Don’t be silly. Guess.”
“I can’t. The only thing I can think of is a cow. . . . Or a candelabra?”
“Nothing of the sort,” she said triumphantly—and placed a bar of chocolate on the table. “There!”
The actress with the little dog went over to the table, her eyes on stalks. Her little dog was no less surprised—it sniffed the chocolate and gave a little yelp.
“Where’s it from?” we began to interrogate her.
“You won’t believe it—you’ll think I’m joking. I simply bought it at a little stall. And nobody asked anything at all. I didn’t need any papers, and I didn’t have to line up. I just saw it in the window, went in and bought it. Real Boreman’s chocolate.[36] Look!”
How strange life can be—someone walks down the street, feels like eating some chocolate, goes into a shop and—“Yes Madame, here Madame, as you wish Madame.” And there are people everywhere. They can see and hear everything that’s going on, yet nobody seems in the least bothered—as if all this is completely normal. Who’d have believed it!
“And it was just an ordinary stall?”
“Yes, just an ordinary little stall.”
“Hmm! And you don’t think it’s some trap? Well, let’s try some of this chocolate. And when we’ve finished it, we can buy some more.”
“Only I probably shouldn’t go there again myself,” said Olyonushka. “Let someone else go—otherwise it might look suspicious . . .”
Olyonushka was right. One can’t be too careful.
Once the first surge of delight and elation had passed, we all began to feel bored again. How were we going to pass the time until evening?
The little dog was whining. Her owner was darning her gloves and grumbling about something.
Olyonushka was in one of her moods: “No, this really can’t be the right way to live. We should learn how to live without trampling the grass. Today we’re having fried eggs again, which means still more destruction of life. One should plant an apple tree and live only off its fruit.”
“Olyonushka, darling,” I say. “Just now you polished off a good dozen apples in one sitting, without even thinking about it. A single apple tree won’t last you very long, will it?”
Olyonushka’s lips were trembling. She was about to start bawling. “You’re laughing at me. Yes, I ate a dozen apples, but so what? What ups . . . what really upsets me . . . that I’ve sunk so low . . . lost all self . . . self-control . . .”
At th
is point she began to sob. She truly did lose all self-control. Her mouth fell open and, like a child, she began to howl: “Boo-hoo, boo-hoo!”
Averchenko didn’t know what to do.
“Olyonushka!” he said gently. “Don’t get so upset! It won’t be long till we get to Kiev. Then we can plant your apple tree for you.”
Olyonushka carried on weeping inconsolably.
“Honest to God, we will. And the apples will ripen just like that—Kiev has a wonderful climate. And if there aren’t enough for you, then we can buy a few more. Just now and again. Just now and again, Olyonushka! All right, we won’t buy any more apples, only please stop crying!”
“It’s all the old woman’s fault for being so saintly,” I said to myself. “Olyonushka now sees all of us—herself included—as vile, callous, and petty-minded. Ach, ach, ach . . .”
The door gave a quiet creak, interrupting my troubled thoughts.
Another eye!
The eye peeps in, then disappears. A quick scuffle behind the door. Another eye, very different. It peeps in, then disappears. And yet another. This eye is bold enough to allow a nose to follow it into the crack.
A voice behind the door asks impatiently, “Ri-ight?”
“There,” replies the eye. And disappears.
What on earth was going on?
We watched.
There was no doubt. People were taking turns to peep into our room.
“Maybe Gooskin’s making them pay to see us,” said Averchenko.
I walked quietly up to the door and flung it open.
About fifteen people, maybe even more, sprang back and did their best to squeeze behind the stove. They were clearly not part of the family—the daughters’ daughters and other family members were all going about their household chores with particular zeal, as if to emphasize that they had nothing to do with these outsiders. As for Gooskin, he was standing alone, innocently picking bits of loose plaster from the wall.
“Gooskin! What’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing much—just people being inquisitive! ‘What do you want to look at writers for?’ I asked them. ‘If you really must look at something, then look at me. So what if they’re writers! You’re not going to see inside them and on the outside they’re no different from me. Ri-ight? How could they be any different?”
Had Gooskin been selling tickets? I wondered. Or had he been letting everyone in for free—like a pianist practising on mute keys so that his fingers don’t lose their agility?
We went back inside, closing the door more firmly.
“I don’t know,” said Olyonushka. “Do we really have to deprive them of their entertainment? If they’re that interested, why not just let them look?”
“Yes, you’re right,” I agreed quickly, afraid she might start bawling again. “Really, we should have put on even more of a show for them. We could have got Averchenko to stand on his head. Then we could have held hands in a circle and danced round him, while your fellow actress sat with her little dog on top of the wardrobe calling out ‘Cuckoo! Cuckoo!’ ”
In the afternoon, after the first serving of fried eggs (there would be yet more before our departure), the old woman’s husband came and entertained us. In all my life I have never met anyone so gloomy. He neither trusted the present nor had faith in the future.
“It’s nice and peaceful here in Klintsy.”
He hung his head dejectedly.
“Peaceful enough. But who knows what tomorrow will bring?”
“The apples you have here are delicious!”
“Good enough. But who knows what tomorrow will bring?”
“You have a lot of daughters.”
“A lot of daughters—yes. But who knows . . .”
Since none of us knew what tomorrow would bring, we were unable to reply. And so our conversations with this old man always took the form of brief questions and answers, dense with philosophical implication, somewhat like Plato’s dialogues.
“You have a lovely wife,” said Olyonushka. “And you are, I think, all kind and good people!”
“Kind, good. But who . . .”
With a sudden gesture of despair he turned around and walked out.
After our second serving of fried eggs we packed our things; the husbands of the daughters’ daughters dragged our luggage along to the station; we said emotional goodbyes to everyone and went out onto the porch, leaving Gooskin to handle the most delicate aspect of our departure—payment. We told him he really must get the family to accept our money. If he failed, the best thing he could do—Olyonushka and I were agreed—was to put the money on the table and make a swift exit. And we added that if the saintly old woman chased after him, he should run all the way to the station without a backward glance. We’d meet him on the platform. She was, after all, an old woman; she wouldn’t be able to catch up with him.
We waited anxiously.
Through the door we could hear their voices—Gooskin’s and the old woman’s, one at a time, then both together.
“No!” Olyonushka said in distress. “He’s simply not up to it. Matters like this require tact and sensitivity.”
Then a sudden wild shriek. Gooskin.
“He’s gone mad!”
He was shrieking loud, wild words.
“Gelt?” we heard. “Gelt?”
And the old woman began to shriek too. The same word: “gelt.”
And then silence.
Gooskin rushed out. He looked awful. He was bright red, soaked in sweat, his mouth all twisted. His bootlaces were undone and his collar had broken free of its stud.
“Let’s go!” he commanded grimly.
“Well, did she take the money?” Olyonushka asked with timid hope.
Gooskin’s whole body began to shake: “Did she take the money? Just try stopping her! I’d understood long ago that she was out to fleece us, but to fleece us so royally—may never the sun set again if ever I have heard the like of it!”
When angered, Gooskin would launch out into the most complex of rhetorical figures. There were occasions when we really had no idea what he was talking about.
“I told her in plain language—you, Madame, must have woken yourself up, Madame, from the wrong side of bed, Madame. So I suggest we wait until you’ve slept your way through it. Yes, I put it to her straight.”
“But did you pay her the right amount?” we asked anxiously.
“Indeed I did! A lot more than the right amount. Do I look like the kind of person who doesn’t pay? No, I’m the kind who pays.”
He said all this with pride. And then, a little inappropriately, he muttered, “Though really, of course, it’s you who’ll be paying.”
6
WE LEFT Klintsy in a freight car.
At first, this seemed fun. We sat in a circle on top of our luggage, as if gathered around a campfire. We munched chocolate and chatted.
Climbing up into the carriage was especially entertaining. There was no step or ladder of any kind and, since our car was toward the rear of the train, it always stopped beyond the end of the platform. You had to lift your foot almost to the height of your chest and then lever yourself up while those already inside seized hold of your arms and pulled.
But all this soon lost its appeal. The stations were empty and dirty. The signs, looking as if they had been nailed up in a hurry, were written in Ukrainian, and the unexpected spelling and unfamiliar words made everything seem like the work of some practical joker.
New to us as it was, this language seemed as inappropriate for official use as, say, the language of a Russian peasant. As surprising as if, in some official Russian institution, you were to see a sign saying, “No barging in without prior announcement,” or, inside a train carriage: “Don’t stick your mug out,” “Don’t lean your noggin against the glass,” or “All tittle-tattle strictly prohibited.”[37]
But even these entertaining signs and notices ceased to amuse us.
The train moved slowly, and the stops were many and
long. The station buffets and cloakrooms were all closed. It was evident that a wave of popular fury had swept through these parts and that the newly enlightened population had not yet returned to the mundane tasks of everyday life. There was filth everywhere, and a vile stench, and the authorities’ appeals to “misters” and “missies” to observe the wise old rules of station etiquette had clearly gone unheeded. These now liberated souls were above such concerns.
I don’t know how long all this lasted. I remember that we managed somehow to get hold of a lamp. But the fumes were unbearable: “the stench of hellfire,” as Gooskin put it.
So the lamp was put out.
It began to get cold. Wrapping myself up in my sealskin coat, which until then I had been lying on, I listened to the hopes and dreams of Averchenko and Olyonushka.
It’s not for nothing that I just mentioned my sealskin coat. A woman’s sealskin coat represents an entire epoch in her life as a refugee.
Were there any of us who did not have a sealskin coat? We put these coats on as we first set out, even if this was in summer, because we couldn’t bear to leave them behind—such a coat was both warm and valuable and none of us knew how long our wanderings would last. I saw sealskin coats in Kiev and in Odessa, still looking new, their fur all smooth and glossy. Then in Novorossiisk, worn thin around the edges and with bald patches down the sides and on the elbows. In Constantinople—with grubby collars and cuffs folded back in shame. And, last of all, in Paris, from 1920 until 1922. By 1920 the fur had worn away completely, right down to the shiny black leather. The coat had been shortened to the knee and the collar and cuffs were now made from some new kind of fur, something blacker and oilier—a foreign substitute. In 1924 these coats disappeared. All that remained was odds and ends, torn scraps of memories, bits of trimming sewn onto the cuffs, collars, and hems of ordinary woolen coats. Nothing more. And then, in 1925, the timid, gentle seal was obliterated by invading hordes of dyed cats. But even now when I see a sealskin coat, I remember this epoch in our lives as refugees. In freight cars, on the decks of steamers, or deep in their holds, we spread our sealskin coats beneath us if it was warm or wrapped ourselves up in them if it was cold. I remember a lady waiting for a tram in Novorossiisk. Cheap canvas shoes on her bare feet, she was standing there in the rain, holding a little baby in her arms. To make it clear to me that she wasn’t just anyone, she was speaking to the baby in French with the rather sweet accent of a Russian schoolgirl: “Seel voo ple! Ne plur pa! Voysi le tramvey, le tramvey!”
