The commandant, giving one last sob, read in a quavering voice:
“A large swamp, from which come occasional sighs and moans.”
“So?” asked Khlebovvodov. “What’s next?”
“Nothing. That’s it.”
“What do you mean that’s it?” Khlebovvodov whined. “You killed me! Destroyed me! And for what? For some lousy sighs? Why did you drag us here, you terrorist? Why did we shed our blood? Just look at me—how can I show up at the hotel like this? You’ve undermined my authority for life! When I get through with you, you won’t even be able to sigh or moan!”
“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. Khlebovvodov shut up.
“There is a motion,” continued Lavr Fedotovich. “In view of the extreme danger that Case 38 poses for the people, the above-named case should be rationalized in the highest degree—that is, it should be classified as irrational and transcendent, and therefore, not really existing, and as such, it should be expunged from the memory of the people, that is, from geographic and topographic maps.”
Khlebovvodov and Farfurkis applauded wildly. Lavr Fedotovich extracted his briefcase from under his seat and placed it squarely in his lap.
“The decree!” he called.
The decree of the highest degree fell on the briefcase.
“Signatures!!”
The signatures fell on the decree.
“Seal!!!”
The safe door clanged open, a wave of office staleness engulfed us, and the Great Round Seal hovered before Lavr Fedotovich. Lavr Fedotovich took it in both hands, raised it over the decree, and lowered it forcefully. A dark shadow passed over the sky, the car settled on its shocks, and Lavr Fedotovich put his briefcase back under the seat and continued.
“To Colony Commandant Comrade Zubo for irresponsibility, harboring the irrational, transcendent, and therefore nonexistent Cow’s Muck Swamp, for not ensuring the safety of the Troika’s work, and also for displaying heroism at the swamp, we announce our gratitude and enter it in the record. Are there any other motions? Next. What else do we have on the agenda, Comrade Zubo?”
“The enchanted place,” said the relieved commandant. “Not far from here, two miles or so.”
“Are there mosquitoes?” inquired Lavr Fedotovich.
“As Christ is my witness,” swore the commandant. “None. Some ants, maybe.”
“Well …” Lavr Fedotovich hesitated. “Wasps? Bees?” he said, revealing great perspicacity and vigilant concern for the welfare of the people.
“By no means.”
Lavr Fedotovich was silent for a long time.
“Wild bulls?” he finally asked.
The commandant assured him that bulls were entirely unknown in the area.
“How about wolves?” asked Khlebovvodov suspiciously.
But the area had neither wolves nor bears, which Farfurkis had remembered. While they did their zoology exercises, I studied the map, trying to figure out the shortest route to the enchanted place. The decree of the highest degree had taken effect: the map indicated Tmuskorpion, the Skorpionka River, Zverinoe Lake, and Lopukhi, but Cow’s Muck Swamp, which used to lie between the lake and Lopukhi, was gone. There was just an anonymous white spot, like the ones for Antarctica on old maps. I was ordered to go on, and we drove off. We went around the oats, through the herds of cows, around Kruglaia Grove, across Studenyi Brook, and a half hour later we found ourselves in the enchanted place.
It was a hill, covered by a forest on one side. Probably there used to be dense forests all over, all the way to Kitezhgrad, but they had been felled, and now the only trees left were on the hill. There was a blackened shack at the very top; two cows with a calf grazed along the slope in front of us, guarded by a big German shepherd. Chickens scratched in the dirt in front of the porch, and there was a goat on the roof.
“Why did you stop?” Farfurkis asked. “You should drive right up. You don’t expect us to walk.”
“And it looks as if they have milk,” Khlebovvodov added. “I could go for a glass of milk. You understand, when you’ve had mushroom poisoning, it’s very good to drink milk. Come on, come on, let’s go!”
The commandant tried to explain that it was impossible to drive up the hill, but his explanations were greeted with icy wonderment on the part of Lavr Fedotovich, infected with the thought of steaming milk, and with Farfurkis’ moans of “Sour cream! From the cellar!” He did not try to argue. To tell the truth, I did not understand either, but I was curious.
I started the engine, and the car sped merrily toward the hill. The odometer clicked off the miles, the wheels whirred in the grass, Lavr Fedotovich stared straight ahead, and the back seat, in anticipation of sour cream and milk, started an argument about what mosquitoes feed on in swamps. Khlebovvodov based his argument on experience and maintained that they feed exclusively on responsible workers on expeditions. Farfurkis, giving way to wishful thinking, maintained that mosquitoes live by cannibalism. The commandant babbled on about God’s solicitude, about something called God’s dew, and fried locusts and wild honey. We drove on this way for twenty minutes. When the odometer showed eight miles, Khlebovvodov gasped.
“But what’s happening?” he said. “We’re moving all right, but the hill is just where it was. Speed it up, driver. What’s the holdup?”
“We’ll never get to the hill,” the commandant said meekly. “It’s enchanted. You can’t drive there, you can’t walk there. We’re just wasting gas.”
Everyone stopped talking after that, and the odometer racked up another four miles. The hill was not even a foot closer. The cows, attracted by the sound of the engine, looked in our direction for a while, then lost interest and went back to their grazing. Indignation mounted in the back seat. Khlebovvodov and Farfurkis exchanged several remarks that were maliciously businesslike. “Sabotage,” said Khlebovvodov. “Sabotage,” said Farfurkis. “Premeditated sabotage.” Then they started whispering, and I heard snatches of conversation: “Set on blocks. That’s right, the wheels turn, but the car doesn’t move. The commandant? Maybe, and the scientific consultant pro tem as well—gas—undermining the economy—then they’ll write off the car as heavily used, while it’s practically brand-new.” I paid no attention to the malicious parrots, but then the back door slammed shut and Khlebovvodov’s passionate howl receded in the distance. I braked hard. Lavr Fedotovich, still moving, smashed into the windshield. I saw stars from the impact, and Farfurkis’ false teeth clacked right in my ear. The car swerved. When the dust had settled, I saw Comrade Khlebovvodov far behind us, running and waving his arms. “Difficulties?” inquired Lavr Fedotovich. “Get rid of them, Comrade Khlebovvodov.”
We had been rid of the difficulties for quite some time. I had to go get Khlebovvodov, who lay some thirty yards back on the road, ragged, in torn trousers, and very surprised. It turned out that he had suspected the commandant and me of conspiring to set the car on blocks and to run up the mileage for our own benefit. Impelled by a sense of duty, he decided to get out and reveal our plot by looking under the wheels. The commandant and I dragged him back to the car and laid him down so that he could see for himself. Then we went to help Farfurkis, who was looking for his glasses and upper dentures in the car. The commandant found them on the road.
The confusion was done away with completely, Khlebovvodov’s arguments turned out to be rather superficial, and Lavr Fedotovich, who finally realized that there would never be any milk, ever, moved that we not waste gas, which belongs to the people, and get on with our primary responsibilities.
“Comrade Zubo,” he said. “Read the report.”
Case 29, as was to be expected, had neither surname, nor name, nor patronymic. It was provisionally called Enchantings. The date of birth was lost in the mists of time, but the place of birth was given with extremely precise coordinates. Enchantings’ nationality was Russian, it had no education, spoke no foreign languages, its profession was being a hill, and its place of work was again given by the same coordina
tes. Enchantings had never been abroad, its closest relative was Mother Earth, and its place of permanent residence was again those same coordinates. As for the brief summary of its unexplainability, Vybegallo had wasted no words: “First of all, you can’t drive there, and second of all, you can’t walk there.”
The commandant glowed. The case was definitely proceeding to rationalization. Khlebovvodov was pleased with the application form. Farfurkis was enjoying the self-evident unexplainable factor that did not threaten the people in any way, and it looked as if Lavr Fedotovich had no objections. In any case, he confided to us that the people need hills, as well as dales, ravines, gullies, Elbrus Mountains, and Kazbek Ranges.
But then the door to the shack opened, and an old man dressed in long shirt tied at the waist came out onto the porch, leaning on a stick. He stood on the porch, looked at the sun, shielding his eyes, shook his stick at the goat to get it off the roof, and finally sat on the steps.
“A witness!” said Farfurkis. “Shouldn’t we call the witness?”
“So he’s a witness,” the commandant said sadly. “Isn’t everything clear? If you have questions, I can …”
“No!” said Farfurkis, peering at him suspiciously. “Why shouldn’t we call him? Remember, you don’t live here. He’s a local.”
“Call him, call him,” said Khlebovvodov. “He can bring us milk.”
“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. “Comrade Zubo, call the witness for Case 29.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the commandant, throwing his hat on the ground. The case was falling apart before his very eyes. “If he could come here, do you think he’d be sitting over there? He’s a prisoner, you see. He can’t get out! He’s stuck there, and there he’ll stay!”
In total despair, under the suspicious scrutiny of the Troika, anticipating new difficulties and therefore becoming very talkative, the commandant told us the Kitezhgrad legend about the forester Feofil. How he had lived peacefully with his wife, how he was still young and hearty then, how green lightning struck the hill and horrible things started to happen. His wife was in town at the time and when she came back she couldn’t get up the hill to the house. And Feofil tried to get to her. He ran nonstop for two days—to no avail. And so he stayed there. Him up there, and her in town. Then of course, he got used to it in time. You have to go on living. And so he has. He got used to it.
Having heard this horrible tale and having posed several tricky questions, Khlebovvodov suddenly made a discovery. Feofil had avoided the census takers, had never been subjected to any educational activity, and for all we knew could still be an exploiter, a kulak.
“He has two cows,” Khlebovvodov said, “and look, a calf. And a goat. And he doesn’t pay taxes.” His eyes lit up. “If he’s got a calf, he must have a bull, too, hidden away somewhere!”
“He has a bull, that’s right,” the commandant admitted glumly. “It must be grazing on the other side.”
“Well, brother, you really run things well here,” Khlebovvodov said. “I knew you were a phoney, but I didn’t expect something like this, even from you. That you would be a kulak’s henchman, that you would cover up for a kulak.”
The commandant took a deep breath and wailed. “Holy Mother of God. In the name of the twelve original Apostles.”
“Attention!” whispered invisible Eddie.
Feofil the forester suddenly looked up and, shading his eyes from the sun, gazed in our direction. Then he tossed his stick aside and started walking down the hill slowly, slipping and sliding in the tall grass. The dirty white goat trailed after him like a puppy. Feofil came up to us, sat down, and rubbed his chin with his bony brown hand in puzzlement. The she-goat sat next to him and stared at us with her yellow devilish eyes.
“You’re regular people,” Feofil said. “Amazing.”
The goat looked us over and settled on Khlebovvodov.
“This here is Khlebovvodov,” she said. “Rudolf Arkhipovich. Born in 1910 in Khokhloma. His parents got the name out of a romantic novel. Education, seventh grade. He is ashamed of his parents’ background, studied many foreign languages, speaks none.”
“Oui,” Khlebovvodov confirmed, giggling with embarrassment. “Naturalichjawohl!”
“Has no profession as such. At the present time is a public administrator. Traveled abroad to Italy, France, both Germanics, Hungary, England, and so on—a total of forty-four countries. Has bragged and lied everywhere. His distinguishing character trait is a high degree of tenacity and adaptability, based on his fundamental stupidity and an unwavering desire to out-orthodox orthodoxy.”
“Well,” said Feofil. “Is there anything you could add to that, Rudolf Arkhipovich?”
“No way!” Khlebovvodov said gleefully. “Except maybe that ortho—ortho—doro—orthxy, it isn’t quite clear!”
“To be more orthodox than orthodoxy is sort of like this,” explained the goat. “If the authorities are displeased by some scientists, you declare yourself to be an enemy of science in general. If the authorities are displeased by some foreigner, you are ready to declare war on everyone on the other side of the border. Understand?”
“Absolutely,” said Khlebovvodov. “How else could it be? Our education is awfully limited. Otherwise, I might make a mistake.”
“Does he steal?” asked Feofil casually.
“No,” said the goat. “He picks up things that fall off the gravy train.”
“Murder?”
“Don’t be silly,” laughed the goat. “Personally, never.”
“Say something,” Feofil asked Khlebovvodov.
“There have been mistakes,” Khlebovvodov said quickly. “People are not angels. Anyone can make a mistake. Horses have four legs and still they stumble. He who makes no mistakes does not exist, that is, does not work.”
“I understand,” said Feofil. “Are you going to go on making mistakes?”
“Never!” Khlebovvodov said firmly.
“Thank you,” said Feofil. He looked at Farfurkis.
“And this kind gentleman?”
“That’s Farfurkis,” said the goat. “No one has ever used his name and patronymic. Born in 1916 in Taganrog, higher education in law, reads English with a dictionary. Profession, lecturer. Candidate of oratorical sciences. Has never been abroad. Outstanding character trait is perspicacity and caution. Sometimes he risks incurring the wrath of his superiors, but his actions are always calculated to lead eventually to their gratitude.”
“That’s not quite right,” Farfurkis said softly. “You’re mixing your terms a bit. Caution and perspicacity are part of my character whether I deal with my superiors or not. They’re in my chromosomes. As for my superiors, well that’s my job, pointing out the legal parameters of their competence.”
“And if they go outside the parameters?” asked Feofil.
“You see,” said Farfurkis. “I can tell you’re not a lawyer. There is nothing more flexible than a legal parameter. You can delineate one, but you can’t overstep one.”
“How do you feel about perjury?” asked Feofil.
“I’m afraid that that’s a rather old-fashioned term,” Farfurkis said. “We don’t use it any more.”
“How’s he on perjury?” Feofil asked the goat.
“Never,” she replied. “He always believes every word he says.”
“Really, what is a lie?” said Farfurkis. “A lie is a denial or a distortion of a fact. But what is a fact? Can we speak of facts in our increasingly complex life? A fact is a phenomenon or action that is verified by witnesses. But eyewitnesses can be prejudiced, self-interested, or simply ignorant. Or, a fact is a phenomenon or action that is verified by documents. But documents can be forged or tampered with. Or finally, a fact is a phenomenon or action that is determined by me personally. However, my sensations can be dulled or even completely deceived under certain circumstances. Thus, it is evident that a fact is something ephemeral, nebulous, and unverifiable, and the elimination of the concept becomes necessary. But in that
case falsehood and truth become primitive concepts, indefinable through any other general categories. There exist only the Great Truth and its antipode, the Great Lie. The Great Truth is so great and its validity is so obvious to any normal man, such as myself, that it is totally futile to try to refute or distort it, that is, to lie. And that is why I never lie and never perjure myself.”
“Tricky,” said Feofil. “Very neat. Of course, Farfurkis’ philosophy will remain after him?”
“No,” said the goat with a laugh. “I mean, the philosophy will remain, but Farfurkis had nothing to do with it. He didn’t invent it. He hasn’t invented anything at all, except his dissertation, which will be his only legacy, a model of such works.”
Feofil was thinking.
“Do I understand correctly?” asked Farfurkis. “Is everything finished? Can we continue our work?”
“Not yet,” Feofil replied, awakening from his meditations. “I would like to ask a few questions of this citizen.”
“What!” shouted Farfurkis. “Lavr Fedotovich?”
“The people …” said Lavr Fedotovich, gazing into the distance through his opera glasses.
“Question Lavr Fedotovich?” muttered Farfurkis in shock.
“Yes,” the goat said. “Lavr Fedotovich Vuniukov, born in ____”
“That’s it,” said Eddie. “I’ve run out of energy. That Lavr is a bottomless barrel.”
“What’s this?” shouted Farfurkis in dismay. “Comrades!! What’s going on? It’s improper!”
“That’s right,” said Khlebovvodov. “It’s not our concern. Let the police take care of it.”
“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. “Are there any other motions? Questions to the speaker? Expressing the general consensus, I move that Case 29 be rationalized as an unexplained phenomenon that should be of interest to the Ministry of the Food Industry and the Treasury. As part of preliminary utilization Case 29, known as Enchantings, should be turned over to the district attorney’s office of the Tmuskorpion Region.”
I looked toward the top of the hill. Feofil the forester leaned heavily on his stick, standing on his porch, and peered into the sunlight, shading his eyes. The goat wandered in the garden. I waved my beret at him in farewell. Eddie’s bitter sigh sounded in my ear simultaneously with the thud of the Great Round Seal.
Tale of the Troika s-2 Page 11
