We the Living

by Ayn Rand

  She stood without removing her coat, without saying a word, cold with a feeling of sudden, inexplicable panic.

  "What's the matter, Kira?" Leo asked.

  "Leo, haven't we met Citizen Morozov before?"

  "I don't believe so."

  "Never had the pleasure, Kira Alexandrovna," Morozov drawled, his eyes at once shrewd and naive and complacently friendly.

  While Kira was removing her coat slowly, he turned to Leo: "And the store, Lev Sergeievitch, we'll have it in the neighborhood of the Kouznetzky market. Best neighborhood. I have my eyes on a vacant store--just what we need. One window, narrow room--not many square meters to pay for--and I slipped a couple of tens to the Upravdom, and he'll let us have a good, big basement thrown in--just what we need. I can take you there tomorrow, you'll be most pleased."

  Kira's coat dropped to the floor. A lamp stood on the table; in its glow, she could see Morozov's face leaning toward Leo's, his slow words muffled on his heavy lips to a sly, guilty whisper. She stared at Leo. He was not looking at her; his eyes were cold, widened slightly by a strange eagerness. She stood in the semi-darkness, beyond the circle of lamp light. The men paid no attention to her. Antonina Pavlovna threw a slow, expressionless glance at her and turned to the table, flicking ashes off her cigarette.

  "How's the Upravdom?" Leo asked.

  "Couldn't be better," Morozov chuckled. "A friendly fellow, easy-going and . . . practical. A few ten-ruble bills and some vodka once in a while--with careful handling, he won't cost us much. I told him to have the store cleaned for you. And we'll order new signs--'Lev Kovalensky. Food Products.' "

  "What are you talking about?" Kira threw the words at Morozov with the violence of a slap in the face. She stood over him, the lamp light scattering broken shadows across her face. Morozov leaned away from her, closer to the table, startled.

  "It's a little business deal we're discussing, Kira Alexandrovna," he explained in a soft, conciliating drawl.

  "I've promised you that Koko would do a great deal for Leo," Antonina Pavlovna smiled.

  "Kira, I'll explain later," Leo said slowly. The words were a command.

  Silently, she pulled a chair to the table and sat facing Morozov, leaning forward on her crossed elbows. Morozov continued, trying not to look at her fixed eyes that seemed to register his every word: "You understand the advantage of the arrangement, Lev Sergeievitch. A private trader is no easy title to bear these days. Consider the rent on your living quarters, for instance. That alone could swallow all the profits. Now if we say you're the sole owner--well, the rent won't be so much since you have just this one room here to pay for. Now me, for instance, we have three large rooms, Tonia and me, and if they brand me a private trader--Good Lord Almighty!--the rent on that will wreck the whole business."

  "That's all right," said Leo. "I'll carry it. I don't mind if I'm called private trader or Nicholas II or Mephistopheles."

  "That's it," Morozov chuckled too loudly, his chin and stomach shaking. "That's it. And, Lev Sergeievitch, sir, you won't regret it. The profits--Lord bless us!--the profits will make the old what-they-called-bourgeois look like beggars. With our little scheme, we'll sweep in the rubles, easy as picking 'em off the street. A year or two and we're our own masters. A few hundreds slipped where necessary and we can fly abroad--to Paris, or Nice or Monte Carlo, or any of the foreign places that are pleasant and artistic."

  "Yes," said Leo wearily. "Abroad." Then he shook his head, as if breaking off an unbearable thought, and turned imperiously, throwing orders to the man who was hiring him: "But that friend of yours--the Communist--that's the danger point of the whole scheme. Are you sure of him?"

  Morozov spread his fat arms wide, shaking his head gently, reproachfully, his smile as soothing as Vaseline: "Lev Sergeievitch, soul of mine, you don't think I'm a helpless babe making my first steps in business, do you? I'm as sure of him as of the eternal salvation of our souls, that's how sure I am. He's as smart a young man as ever you could hope to find. Quick and reasonable. And not one of those windbags that like to hear themselves talk. He's not aiming to get nothing but big words and dried herring out of his life, no, sir. He knows when he has bread and butter in his hands--and he won't let it slip through. And then again, he's the one who takes the big chance. One of us common folks, if caught, might wiggle out with ten years in Siberia, but for one of them Party men--it's the firing squad and no time to say good-bye."

  "You don't have to worry, Leo," Antonina Pavlovna smiled, "I've met the young man. We entertained him at a little tea--champagne and caviar, to be exact. He is smart and thoroughly dependable. You can have absolute faith in Koko's business judgment."

  "And it's not so difficult for him, either," Morozov lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. "He's got one of those engineering positions with the railroad--and he's got pull in all directions, like a river with tributaries. All he has to do is see that the food shipment is damaged a bit--dropped accidentally, or dampened a little, or something--and see that it's pronounced worthless. That's all. The rest is simple. The shipment goes quietly to the basement of our little store--'Lev Kovalensky. Food Products.' Nothing suspicious in that--is there?--just supplies for the store. The State co-operatives are short a load of stuff and the good citizens get nothing on their ration cards but an excuse and a promise. We wait a couple of weeks and we break up the load and ship it to our own customers--private dealers all over three provinces, a whole net of them, reasonable and discreet--I have all the addresses. And that's all. Who has to know? If anyone comes snooping around the store--well, we'll have some punk clerk there and he'll sell them half a pound of butter if they ask for it, and that's all we're doing, for all they know--retail trade--open and legal."

  "And furthermore . . ." Antonina Pavlovna whispered, "if anything should go wrong, that young Communist has . . ."

  "Yes," Morozov whispered, and looked around furtively, and paused to listen for any suspicious sound from behind the door, and, reassured, murmured, his lips at Leo's ear: "He has connections in the G.P.U. A powerful friend and protector. I'd be scared to mention the name."

  "Oh, we'll be safe from that quarter," Leo said contemptuously, "if we have enough money."

  "Money? Why, Lev Sergeievitch, soul of mine, we'll have so much money you'll be rolling ten-ruble bills to make cigarettes. We split it three ways, you understand; me, yourself and the Communist pal. We'll have to slip a little to his friends at the railroad, and to the Upravdom, and we'll pay your rent here--that'll go under expenses. But then you must remember that on the face of it, you're the sole owner. It's your store, in your name. I have my position with the State Food Trust to think about. If I had a private store registered to my name, they'd kick me out. And I've got to keep that job. You can see how useful it will be to us."

  He winked at Leo. Leo did not smile in answer, but said: "You don't have to worry. I'm not afraid."

  "Then, it's settled, eh? Why, pal, in a month from now you won't believe you ever lived like this. You'll put some flesh on those sunken cheeks of yours, and some pretty clothes on Kira Alexandrovna, and a diamond bracelet or two, and then maybe a motor-car and . . ."

  "Leo, are you insane?"

  Kira's chair clattered against the wall, and the lamp rocked and settled, shivering with a thin, glassy tinkle. She stood, the three startled faces turned to her.

  "This isn't a joke you're playing on me, is it? Or have you lost your mind entirely?"

  Leo leaned back slowly, looking straight at her, and asked coldly: "When did you assume the privilege of talking to me like that?"

  "Leo! If that's a new way of committing suicide, there are much simpler ones!"

  "Really, Kira Alexandrovna, you are unnecessarily tragic about it," Antonina Pavlovna remarked coolly.

  "Now, now, Kira Alexandrovna, soul of mine," Morozov said amicably, "sit down and calm yourself and let's talk it over quietly. There's nothing to be excited about."

  She cried: "Leo, don't you s
ee what they're doing? You're nothing but a living screen for them! They're investing money. You're investing your life!"

  "I'm glad to find some use for it," Leo said evenly.

  "Leo, listen, I'll be calm. Here. I'll sit down. Listen to me: you don't want to do a thing like that with your eyes closed. Look at it, think it over: you know how hard life is these days. You don't want to make it harder, do you? You know the government we're facing. It's difficult enough to keep from under its wheels. Do you want to invite it to grind you? Don't you know that it's the firing squad for anyone caught in a crooked, criminal speculation?"

  "I believe Leo has made it clear that he did not need advice," said Antonina Pavlovna, holding her cigarette poised gracefully in mid-air.

  "Kira Alexandrovna," Morozov protested, "why use such strong names for a simple business proposition which is perfectly permissible and almost legal and . . ."

  "You keep quiet," Leo interrupted him and turned to Kira. "Listen, Kira, I know that this is as rotten and crooked a deal as could be made. And I know I'm taking a chance on my life. And I still want to do it. You understand?"

  "Even if I begged you not to?"

  "Nothing you can say will change things. It's a filthy, low, disgraceful business. Certainly. But who forced me into it? Do you think I'll spend the rest of my life crawling, begging for a job, starving, dying slowly? I've been back two weeks. Have I found work? Have I found a promise of work? So they shoot food speculators? Why don't they give us a chance at something else? You don't want me to risk my life. And what is my life? I have no career. I have no future. I couldn't do what Victor Dunaev is doing if I were boiled in oil for punishment! I'm not risking much when I risk my life."

  "Lev Sergeievitch, soul of mine," Morozov sighed with admiration, "how you can talk!"

  "You two can go now," Leo ordered. "I'll see you tomorrow, Morozov, and we'll look at the store."

  "Indeed, Leo, I'm surprised," Antonina Pavlovna remarked, rising with dignity. "If you let yourself be influenced and do not seem to be gracious about appreciating an opportunity, when I thought you'd be grateful and . . ."

  "Who's to be grateful?" he threw at her sharply, rudely. "You need me and I need you. It's a business deal. That's all."

  "Sure, sure, that's what it is," said Morozov, "and I appreciate your help, Lev Sergeievitch. It's all right, Tonia, soul of mine, you come along now and we'll settle all the details tomorrow."

  He spread his legs wide apart and got up with effort, his hands leaning on his knees. His heavy stomach shivered when he moved, making his body seem uncomfortably close and apparent under the wrinkles of his suit.

  At the door, he turned to Leo: "Well, Lev Sergeievitch, shall we shake on it? We can't sign a contract, of course, you understand, but we'll depend on your word."

  His mouth arched contemptuously, Leo extended his hand, as if the gesture were a victory over himself. Morozov shook it warmly, lengthily--and bowed low, in the old peasant manner, on his way out. Antonina Pavlovna followed without looking at Kira.

  Leo accompanied them to the lobby. When he came back, Kira still stood as he had left her. He said before she had turned to him: "Kira, we won't argue about it."

  "There's only one thing, Leo," she whispered, "and I couldn't say it in front of them. You said you had nothing left in life. I thought you had . . . me."

  "I haven't forgotten it. And that's one of the reasons for what I'm doing. Listen, do you think I'm going to live off you for the rest of my days? Do you think I'm going to stand by and watch you dragging excursions and swallowing soot over the Primus? That fool Antonina doesn't have to lead excursions. She wouldn't wear your kind of dresses to scrub floors in--only she doesn't have to scrub floors. Well, you won't have to, either. You poor little fool! You don't know what life can be. You've never seen it. But you're going to see it. And I'm going to see it before they finish me. Listen, if I knew for certain that it's the firing squad in six months--I'd still do it!"

  She leaned against the table, because she felt faint. She whispered: "Leo, if I begged you, for all of my love for you, for all of yours, if I told you that I'd bless every hour of every excursion, every floor I'd scrub, every demonstration I'd have to attend, and every Club, and every red flag--if only you wouldn't do this--would you still do it?"

  He answered: "Yes."

  Citizen Karp Morozov met Citizen Pavel Syerov in a restaurant. They sat at a table in a dark corner. Citizen Morozov ordered cabbage soup. Citizen Syerov ordered tea and French pastry. Then Citizen Morozov leaned forward and whispered through the soup steam: "All settled, Pavlusha. I got the man. Saw him yesterday."

  Pavel Syerov held his cup at his lips, and his pale mouth barely moved, so that Morozov guessed rather than heard the question: "Who?"

  "Lev Kovalensky is the name. Young. Hasn't got a brass coin in the world and doesn't give a damn. Desperate. Ready for anything."

  The white lips formed without sound: "Dependable?"

  "Thoroughly."

  "Easy to handle?"

  "Like a child."

  "Will keep his mouth shut?"

  "Like a tomb."

  Morozov unloaded a heavy spoonful of cabbage into his mouth; one strand remained hanging out; he drew it in with a resounding smack. He leaned closer and breathed: "Besides, he's got a social past. Father executed for counter-revolution. In case of anything . . . he'll be the right person to blame. A treacherous aristocrat, you know."

  Syerov whispered: "All right." His spoon cut into a chocolate eclair, and a soft, yellow custard spurted, spreading over his plate. He hissed through white lips, low, even sounds without expression: "Now listen here. I want my share in advance--on every load. I don't want any delays. I don't want to ask twice."

  "So help me God, Pavlusha, you'll get it, you don't have to tell me, you . . ."

  "And another thing, I want caution. Understand? Caution. From now on, you don't know me, see? If we meet by chance--we're strangers. Antonina delivers the money to me in that whorehouse, as agreed."

  "Sure. Sure. I remember everything, Pavlusha."

  "Tell that Kovalensky bum to keep away. I don't want to meet him."

  "Sure. You don't have to."

  "Got the store?"

  "Renting it today."

  "All right. Now sit still. I go first. You sit here for twenty minutes. Understand?"

  "Sure. The Lord bless us."

  "Keep that for yourself. Good day."

  A secretary sat at a desk in the office of the railroad terminal. She sat behind a low wooden railing and typed, concentrating intently, drawing her upper lip in and biting her lower one. In front of the railing, there was an empty stretch of unswept floor and two chairs; six visitors waited patiently, two of them sitting. A door behind the secretary was marked: "Comrade Syerov."

  Comrade Syerov returned from lunch. He strode swiftly through the outer office, his tight, shiny military boots creaking. The six heads of the visitors jerked anxiously, following him with timid, pleading glances. He crossed the room as if it were empty. The secretary followed him into his inner office.

  A picture of Lenin hung on the wall of the inner office, over a broad, new desk; it hung between a diagram showing the progress of the railroads, and a sign with red letters saying: COMRADES, STATE YOUR BUSINESS BRIEFLY. PROLETARIAN EFFICIENCY IS THE DISCIPLINE OF PEACE-TIME REVOLUTIONARY CONSTRUCTION.

  Pavel Syerov took a flat, gold cigarette case from his pocket, lighted a cigarette, sat down at the desk and looked through a stack of papers. The secretary stood waiting diffidently.

  Then he raised his head and asked: "What's doing?"

  "There are those citizens outside, Comrade Syerov, waiting to see you."

  "What about?"

  "Mostly jobs."

  "Can't see anyone today. Got to hurry to the Club meeting in half-an-hour. Have you typed my Club report on 'Railroads as the blood vessels of the Proletarian State'?"

  "Yes, Comrade Syerov. Here it is."

 
"Fine."

  "Those citizens out there, Comrade Syerov, they've been waiting for three hours."

  "Tell them to go to hell. They can come tomorrow. If anything important comes up, call me at the Railroad Workers' Union headquarters. I'll be there after the Club. . . . And, by the way, I'll be in late tomorrow."

  "Yes, Comrade Syerov."

  Pavel Syerov walked home from the Railroad Workers' Union headquarters, with a Party friend. Syerov was in a cheerful mood. He whistled merrily and winked at passing girls. He said: "Think I'm going to throw a party tonight. Haven't had any fun for three weeks. Feel like dissipating. What do you say?"

  "Swell," said the friend.

  "Just a little crowd, our own bunch. At my place?"

  "Swell."

  "I know a fellow who can get vodka--the real stuff. And let's go to Des Gourmets and buy up everything they have in the joint."

  "I'm with you, pal."

  "Let's celebrate."

  "What'll we celebrate?"

  "Never mind. Just celebrate. And we don't have to worry about expenses. Hell! I'm not worrying about expenses when I want a good time."

  "That's right, comrade."

  "Whom'll we call? Let's see: Grishka and Maxim, with their girls."

  "And Lizaveta."

  "Sure, I'll call your Lizaveta. And Valka Dourova--there's a girl!--she'll bring half a dozen fellows along. And, I guess, Victor Dunaev with his girl, Marisha Lavrova. Victor's a nit that's going to be a big louse some day--have to keep on the good side of him. And . . . say, pal, do you think I should invite Comrade Sonia?"

  "Sure. Why not?"

  "Oh, hell. That cow's after me. Has been for over a year. Trying to make me. And I'll be damned if I . . . No appetite."

  "But then, Pavlusha, you've got to be careful. If you hurt her feelings, with Comrade Sonia's position . . ."

  "I know. Hell! Two profunions and five women's clubs wrapped around her little finger. Oh, hell! Oh, all right. I'll call her."

  Pavel Syerov had pulled the curtains down over the three windows of his room. One of the girls had draped an orange scarf over the lamp, and it was almost dark. The guests' faces were whitish blots strewn over the chairs, the davenport, the floor. In the middle of the floor stood a dish with a chocolate cake from Des Gourmets; someone had stepped on the cake. A broken bottle lay on the pillow of Syerov's bed; Victor and Marisha sat on the bed. Victor's hat lay on the floor by the davenport; it was being used as an ashtray. A gramophone played "John Gray"; the record was stuck, whirling, repeating persistently the same hoarse, grating notes; no one noticed it. A young man sat on the floor, leaning against a bed post, trying to sing; he muttered a tuneless, mournful chant into his collar; once in a while, he jerked his head up and screeched a high note, so that the others shuddered and someone flung a shoe or a pillow at him, yelling: "Grishka, shut up!" then his head drooped again. A girl lay in a corner, by the cuspidor, asleep, her hair glued in sticky strands to a glistening, flushed face.