I have a theory that one’s personal failures can contribute to success if only one knows how to make use of them. I have had a lot of experience with failure and consequently have learned to put it to good use.
One should not, of course, take my theory too literally. If, for example, someone steals your watch, this doesn’t mean that you should immediately start learning to tell time by a sundial. Nor should you suddenly imagine yourself one of the proverbial few for whom time does not exist.
But all this is beside the point. What’s important is the emotion you feel—that righteous but unproductive fury which is an inevitable by-product of failure. This is fury in its purest form, and while it’s still seething in your blood, you should quickly channel it in the right direction and not let yourself get carried away by trifles in the process—which unfortunately is what most people tend to do.
Let us imagine, for example, a certain individual, who in a state of noble fury decides to make the most daring and momentous phone call of his life—and on a pay phone at that. Before he has even been connected, however, the telephone swallows his only coin. Quivering with rage, the man begins tugging at the receiver hook as if it were the ripcord of a parachute that refused to open. Then, even more illogically, he tries to thrust his head into the coin return which, being no larger than a matchbox, obviously cannot accommodate a human head. But never mind that, let us suppose that he does manage to thrust his head into this miserable aperture; what good will it do him? Even if he should happen to catch sight of his lost coin, he will hardly be able to scoop it out with his tongue.
Finally, having spent all his fury in this senseless pulling and tugging, he leaves the phone booth and, quite unexpectedly perhaps even for himself, takes a seat in a shoeshine stall. To look at him now, you would think that he was merely out for a stroll and had decided to stop and get a shoeshine on the way. Just as if his noble fury had never existed! And what is particularly revolting is the way he keeps fiddling with the new laces he has just purchased from the shoeshine man—first checking their tips and then comparing them for length. He continues to sit there for a long time, his lips slightly extended as if he were whistling to himself, and on his face the calm, businesslike expression of a fisherman letting out his nets or of a peasant fingering the old sack in which he plans to take his grain to the mill.
Ah, whither art thou fled, noble fury?
Another individual, having reached this exalted state, suddenly starts dashing after a little boy who has accidentally hit him with a snowball. Well, even supposing it was no accident, why on earth should a grown man go out of his way to chase a little boy, especially when there is no hope of catching him. For of course this little boy knows all of the yards and alleyways of the area like the palm of his hand. And to make things more interesting, he purposely slows down just enough so the man can keep him in sight.
Having squandered all his fury in this unexpected chase, the man suddenly comes to a halt in front of a warehouse and begins to watch some truckers unloading huge barrels from the back of a truck. So intently does he watch them, in fact, that one would think he had come running up for this very purpose. After a while, when he catches his breath, he even starts giving them advice. No one listens to him, of course, but they don’t interrupt him either. Thus, from a distance it might appear as if the truckers were actually working under his supervision, and if he hadn’t come running up in time, who knows what chaos might have resulted. Finally the barrels are rolled into the cellar and the man walks away appeased, as if all that had happened were a normal part of his daily routine.
Ah, whither art thou fled, noble fury?
As I was lost in these reflections, the door opened and once again the girl from the mail and supply room walked in.
“I’ve brought you some paper,” she said, placing a ream of paper on Platon Samsonovich’s desk.
“Thank you,” I replied. This time I was happy to see her; she had roused me from my daydreams.
“Well, what’s the news from Russia?” she asked with affected casualness.
“They want an article on the goatibex,” I replied equally casually.
She gave me a long, quizzical look and then walked out.
Once again I settled down to work. The goatibex emerged as the star of my article, far outshining everyone else. The village of Walnut Springs rejoiced at his presence, though unfortunately, due to local climatic conditions, the goatibex had taken a dislike to the local she-goats. I was just putting the finishing touches on this charming tableau when the phone rang. It was Platon Samsonovich.
“Listen,” he said, “couldn’t you hint in your article that some kolkhoz workers are already beginning to talk about the long-haired Tadzhik goat?”
“What are they supposed to be saying?” I asked.
“Something to the effect that while they’re happy with the goatibex, they want to keep moving forward. Otherwise these people here at the agricultural administration will start dragging their feet and refuse to cooperate.”
“But it’s all your own idea,” I objected.
“Never mind,” said Platon Samsonovich, sighing wearily into the receiver. “I’ll worry about the recognition later. Right now it would be better if the idea came from the masses. That will encourage these people here to take action.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said and then hung up.
I knew that certain sections of my article would not be to his liking, and in order to gain approval for these sections, I decided to support his new idea. But this was easier said than done. For thinking back over all the people I had met at Walnut Springs, I realized that not one of them could possibly have referred to a Tadzhik goat, except perhaps for Vakhtang Bochua—and Vakhtang hardly qualified as a kolkhoz worker. After much deliberation I finally decided to refer to the animal myself, at the end of the article and in such a way as to make it appear that the crossbreeding of the goatibex with the Tadzhik goat was a logical next step in the development of our livestock industry. “The time is not too far away,” I wrote, “when the goatibex will encounter the long-haired Tadzhik goat—an event which will mark yet another significant breakthrough for our Michurin school of biology.”
I read over what I had written, placing the commas as best I could, and then turned the article in to the typist. Having struggled with it for almost three hours, I was utterly exhausted. At the same time, however, I felt like a diplomat who has just pulled off a brilliant coup. For thanks to my skill and finesse, the goatibexes had been given their due and the chairman had emerged unscathed.
I left the office and went to have lunch at an outdoor café located in the courtyard of one of our seaside restaurants. I sat down at a table under a palm tree and ordered a bottle of Borzhom mineral water, some chebureki,* and two cups of Turkish coffee. After finishing the chebureki, I furtively wiped my hands against the shaggy trunk of the palm—the waitress having neglected as usual to bring any napkins. Then I settled back and began sipping the strong, thick coffee. Once again I pictured myself as a diplomat—an exceptionally skillful and experienced one at that. The hypnotic rustling of the palm leaves, the hot coffee, the cooling shade of the palm tree, the old men peacefully clicking their worry beads—all these things gradually drove the goatibex from my mind, and I sank into a blissful torpor.
At the next table the dentist Solomon Markovich was holding forth before a group of old-timers. Long ago, sometime before the war, his wife had slandered and deserted him, and from that time on he had started drinking and generally going to seed. He was a great favorite with the café regulars, who were always buying him drinks. Although their sympathy for him was probably genuine, still it is always pleasant to see someone who is even more unfortunate than ourselves. At the moment, he was relating parables from the Bible to his elderly Muslim audience, interspersing them with examples from his own life.
“… So they say to me: ‘Solomon Markovich, we’re going to put you on the bottle.’ And I say to them: ‘
Why bother? You might as well put me right on the floor?’ ”
Every time Solomon Markovich caught sight of me, he would say:
“Young man, I’ve got quite a story for you, quite a story! Why, I’ll tell you the story of my life from the cradle to the grave.”
After this I usually had no choice but to order him a cognac and a cup of Turkish coffee. Every once in a while, however, I refused to go along with this ritual, either because I was pressed for time or was simply not in the mood to listen to someone else’s troubles.
I finished my coffee and returned to the office. On the way back to my desk I stopped off to pick up my article from the typist, only to be informed that the editor had taken it.
“You mean he actually came in for it himself?” I asked, feeling a sudden, inexplicable anxiety and, as usual, getting caught up in irrelevant details.
“He sent his secretary in for it,” she replied without letting up on her typing.
I went into my office, sat down at my desk and began to wait. The editor’s haste was not entirely to my liking since there were several points in my article that I felt needed to be worded more clearly and precisely. And in any case, I had wanted Platon Samsonovich to read the article first.
I sat there awaiting my summons. Finally the secretary came running in and announced in a frightened voice that the editor wished to see me. Although her voice always sounded frightened when relaying the editor’s requests, on this occasion I found it particularly disturbing.
I opened the door to Avtandil Avtandilovich’s office and saw, somewhat to my surprise, that Platon Samsonovich was there too.
The editor was sitting in his usual pilot’s pose. He had turned off the engine but was still in the cockpit. The greasy blades of the fan looked like the giant petals of some tropical flower—most likely a poisonous one. One could easily imagine that Avtandil Avtandilovich had just flown over the locale of my assignment and was now making a comparison between what he had seen and what I had written.
Next to this tall, dashing pilot the diminutive Platon Samsonovich looked at best like a mere mechanic. And at the moment he looked like a mechanic who had made a mistake. Approaching Avtandil Avtandilovich’s desk, I felt a sudden chill emanating from his presence, as if he were still enveloped in the high-altitude atmosphere from which he had just descended.
So great was this atmospheric chill that I felt I was beginning to grow numb. I tried to shake off this humiliating sense of paralysis, but nothing came of it, perhaps because he kept silent.
Suddenly it occurred to me that my article was thoroughly confused and mistaken. And now as all my errors came vividly to mind, I could only wonder how I had managed to overlook them before. Particularly unpleasant was the realization that I had even confused Illarion Maksimovich’s name, referring to him instead as Maksim Illarionovich.
Finally, when the editor sensed that I had reached the necessary degree of paralysis, he proclaimed in a voice calculated to maintain this paralysis:
“Your article is hostile to the goatibex.”
I looked at Platon Samsonovich; Platon Samsonovich looked at the wall.
“Moreover, you tried to disguise your hostility,” added Avtandil Avtandilovich, obviously enjoying my discomfort. “At first even I was taken in by it,” he continued. “Some of your similes and comparisons are quite good… Nonetheless, your article represents a revision of our basic position.”
“Why a revision?” I asked, my voice rising from some great depth where patches of unfrozen consciousness still remained.
“And what’s all that nonsense about local climatic conditions—the goatibex and the microclimate? What do you think we’re raising—oranges and grapefruit?”
“But he really does refuse to have anything to do with the local goats,” I said in an agitated voice, trying to disarm him with hard, cold fact. And suddenly I realized beyond the shadow of a doubt that there had been no mistakes in my article and that I had referred to Illarion Maksimovich throughout by his right name.
“Which only means that they haven’t yet learned to handle him properly, that they haven’t explored all possibilities… And you let yourself be taken in by them.”
“It was that chairman Illarion Maksimovich who pulled the wool over his eyes,” interjected Platon Samsonovich. And turning to me, he added: “After all, I did tell you that your article should be organized around the theme: ‘Tea is fine, but meat and wool are better.’ ”
“And you can be sure,” the editor interrupted him, “that if we give these chairmen any loopholes like this business with the microclimate, they’ll all start screaming that their microclimate is unsuitable for raising goatibexes… And to have this happen now, just when the whole country is taking an interest in our undertaking…!”
“Well, aren’t we and they supposed to be the same thing?” I blurted out without stopping to reflect. Well, now I’m done for, I thought to myself.
“There, you see, that just goes to show what backward notions you have,” replied the editor in a surprisingly mild tone and went on to ask: “By the way, what was that nonsense about the long-haired Tadzhik goat—where on earth did you get that from?”
I noticed that he had calmed down right away. Apparently I was responding just as he had intended.
Platon Samsonovich pursed his lips, and red splotches appeared on his temples. I kept silent. Avtandil Avtandilovich cast a sidelong glance at Platon Samsonovich, but didn’t say a word. Apparently he wanted to give both of us time to feel the full weight of my fall. Once again I began to think that everything was lost, though it occurred to me that if he were going to fire me, he should have seized upon my last words. Yet for some reason he had chosen not to.
“Redo it in the spirit of full-scale goatibexation,” said the editor with a meaningful look as he flung the manuscript in Platon Samsonovich’s direction.
How does he know that word, I wondered, now waiting for what would come next.
“I’m going to transfer you to the cultural section,” said the editor in the tone of a man who is doing his utmost to be fair. “You know how to write, but you don’t have any knowledge of life. We’ve decided to have a contest for the best literary piece on the goatibex. You’re to take charge and see to it that it’s conducted in a serious, professional manner… That’s all I have to say.”
Avtandil Avtandilovich turned on the fan, and his face gradually began to stiffen. And now as Platon Samsonovich and I made our way out of his office, I had a fearful vision of his airborne plane swooping down on us with a volley of machine-gun fire. Only after the heavy office door had slammed shut did I regain my composure.
“It’s fallen through,” said Platon Samsonovich as we started down the corridor.
“What’s fallen through?” I asked.
“The Tadzhik goat,” he replied. Then rousing himself from his daydreams, he added: “You didn’t handle it right. You should have let the idea come from one of the kolkhoz workers.”
“Okay, okay,” I replied. I was fed up with the whole business.
“Goatibexation! The way he throws words around!” grumbled Platon Samsonovich, nodding in the direction of the editor’s door.
We returned to our office and I began gathering up the contents of my desk drawer.
“Don’t feel bad, I’ll manage to have you transferred back here later on,” promised Platon Samsonovich. “Oh, by the way, is it true that the paper you used to work for has asked you to send them an article?”
“Yes, it’s true,” I replied.
“Well, if you’re not in the mood, I could do it for you,” he said, brightening.
“Fine. It’s all yours,” I replied.
“I’ll do it this evening,” he said. By now he had thrown off the last traces of his despondency and, nodding once again in the direction of the editor’s office, he muttered: “Goatibexation! Some people play around with words; others get things done.”
Later that same afternoon a terrible thing
happened to me as I was walking along the main street of town. A man wearing a brand new suit was standing near me on the sidewalk, gazing into the display window of a department store. Behind the window stood several mannequins. These mannequins were dressed exactly like the man—so much so, in fact, that I couldn’t help thinking how alike they were. But no sooner had this thought flashed through my mind than one of the mannequins began to move. I was stunned though at the same time I had enough common sense to realize that this must be some sort of hallucination. Mannequins don’t move—we haven’t yet come to that.
But before I could collect my thoughts any further, the mannequin that had begun to stir suddenly defied all laws of nature by turning on its heels and walking calmly away. I was still recovering from this shock, when suddenly the other mannequins began to stir. They stirred for a moment, then they too turned on their heels and followed calmly after the first one.
Only after they had all come out onto the street did I realize that this conspiracy of mannequins was merely some sort of optical illusion which had been intensified by my fatigue, nerves, and who knows what else. For what I had taken to be a department store was actually a glass partition, and the people whom I had taken for mannequins had merely been standing on the other side of the glass wall.
I need a breath of fresh air, otherwise I’ll go mad, I thought to myself as I hastily directed my steps toward the sea.
I have always hated mannequins. Ever since childhood the very sight of them has filled me with loathing and disgust, and even now I fail to understand why such an abomination is tolerated. For a mannequin is quite a different thing from a scarecrow, which does at least have some character of its own. And while the scarecrow may frighten children for a short time and birds for a somewhat longer time, still it does not really offend us. There is, on the other hand, something brazen and vile in the mannequin’s striking resemblance to man.
The Goatibex Constellation Page 12
