by Ayn Rand
Pavel Syerov staggered across the room, waving an empty bottle, muttering in an offended, insistent voice: "A drink. . . . Who wants a drink? . . . Doesn't anyone want a drink? . . ."
"Hell, Pavel, your bottle's empty . . ." someone called from the darkness.
He stopped, swaying, held the bottle up to the light, spat, and threw the bottle under the bed. "So you think I haven't any more?" he waved his fist menacingly at the room. "Think I'm a piker, don't you? . . . A measly piker who can't afford enough vodka? . . . A measly piker, that's what you think, don't you? . . . Well, I'll show you. . . ."
He fumbled in a box under the table and rose, swaying, brandishing an unopened bottle over his head. He laughed: "I can't afford it, can I?" and reeled toward the corner from where the voice had come. He giggled at the white spots that turned to look up at him; he swung the bottle in a huge circle and brought it down to smash with a ringing blast against a book case. A girl screamed; glass splattered in a tinkling rain. A man swore violently.
"My stockings, Pavel, my stockings!" the girl sobbed, pulling her skirt high over drenched legs.
A man's arms reached for her from the darkness: "Never mind, sweetheart. Take 'em off."
Syerov giggled triumphantly: "So I can't afford it, can I? . . . Can I? . . . Pavel Syerov can afford anything now! . . . Anything on this God-damn earth! . . . He can buy you all, guts and souls!"
Someone had crawled under the table and was fumbling in the box, looking for more bottles.
A hand knocked at the door.
"Come in!" roared Syerov. No one came in. The hand knocked again. "What the hell? What do you want?" He tottered to the door and threw it open.
His next-door neighbor, a fat, pallid woman, stood in the corridor, shivering in a long, flannel nightgown, clutching an old shawl over her shoulders, brushing strands of gray hair out of her sleepy eyes.
"Citizen Syerov," she whined with indignation, "won't you please stop that noise? At such an indecent hour . . . you young people have no shame left these days . . . no fear of God . . . no . . ."
"On your way, grandma, on your way!" Syerov ordered. "You crawl under your pillow and keep your damn mouth shut. Or would you like to take a ride to the G.P.U.?"
The woman wheeled about hastily and shuffled away, making the sign of the cross.
Comrade Sonia sat in a corner by the window, smoking. She wore a tailored khaki tunic with pockets on her hips and breast; it was made of expensive foreign cloth, but she kept dropping ashes on her skirt. A girl's voice pleaded in a plaintive whisper at her elbow: "Say, Sonia, why did you have Dashka fired from the office? She needed the job, she did, and honest . . ."
"I do not discuss business matters outside of office hours," Comrade Sonia answered coldly. "Besides, my actions are always motivated by the good of the collective."
"Oh, sure, I don't doubt it, but, listen, Sonia. . . ."
Comrade Sonia noticed Pavel Syerov swaying at the door. She rose and walked to him, cutting the girl off in the middle of a sentence.
"Come here, Pavel," said Comrade Sonia, her strong arm supporting him, leading him to a chair. "You'd better sit down. Here. Let me make you comfortable."
"You're a pal, Sonia," he muttered, while she stuffed a pillow between his shoulder blades, "you're a real pal. Now you wouldn't holler at me if I made a little noise, would you?"
"Of course not."
"You don't think that I can afford a little vodka, like some skunks here think, do you, Sonia?"
"Of course not, Pavel. Some people don't know how to appreciate you."
"That's it. That's just the trouble. I'm not appreciated. I'm a great man. I'm going to be a very great man. But they don't know it. No one knows it. . . . I'm going to be a very, very powerful man. I'm going to make the foreign capitalists look like mice. . . . That's what: mice. . . . I'm going to give orders to Comrade Lenin himself."
"Pavel, our great chief is dead."
"That's right. So he is. Comrade Lenin's dead. . . . Oh, what's the use? . . . I've got to have a drink, Sonia. I feel very sad. Comrade Lenin's dead."
"That's very nice of you, Pavel. But you'd better not have another drink just now."
"But I'm very sad, Sonia. No one appreciates me."
"I do, Pavel."
"You're a pal. You're a real, real pal, Sonia. . . ."
On the bed, Victor held Marisha in his arms. She giggled, counting the buttons on his tunic; she lost count after the third one and started over again. She was whispering: "You're a gentleman, Victor, that's what you are, a gentleman. . . . That's why I love you, because you're a gentleman. . . . And I'm only a gutter brat. My mother, she was a cook before . . . before. . . . Well, anyway, before. I remember, many, many years ago, she used to work in a big, big house, they had horses and carriages and a bathroom, and I used to peel vegetables for her, in their kitchen. And there was an elegant young man, their son, oh, he had such pretty uniforms and he spoke all sorts of foreign languages, he looked just like you. And I didn't even dare to look at him. And now I have a gentleman of my own," she giggled happily, "isn't it funny? I, Marishka the vegetable peeler!"
Victor said: "Oh, shut up!" and kissed her, his head drooping sleepily.
A girl giggled, standing over them in the darkness: "When are you two going to get registered at the marriage office?"
"Go 'way," Marisha waved at her. "We'll be registered. We're engaged."
Comrade Sonia had pulled a chair close to Syerov's, and he sprawled, his head on her lap, while she stroked his hair. He was muttering: "You're a rare woman, Sonia. . . . You're a wonderful woman. . . . You understand me. . . ."
"I do, Pavel. I've always said that you were the most talented, the most brilliant young man in our collective."
"You're a wonderful woman, Sonia." He was kissing her, moaning: "No one appreciates me."
He had pulled her down to the floor, leaning over her soft, heavy body, whispering: "A fellow needs a woman. . . . A smart, understanding, strong and hefty woman. . . . Who cares for those skinny scarecrows? . . . I like a woman like you, Sonia. . . ."
He did not know how he found himself suddenly in the little storage closet between his room and that of his neighbors. A cobwebbed window high under the ceiling threw a dusty ray of moonlight on a towering pile of boxes and baskets. He was leaning against Comrade Sonia's shoulder, stammering: "They think Pavel Syerov's just gonna be another stray mongrel eating outta slop pails all his life. . . . Well, I'll show 'em! Pavel Syerov'll show 'em who's got the whip. . . . I've got a secret . . . a great secret, Sonia. . . . But I can't tell you. . . . But I've always liked you, Sonia. . . . I've always needed a woman like you, Sonia . . . soft and comfortable. . . ."
When he tried to stretch himself on the flat top of a large wicker basket, the piled tower shuddered, swayed and came down with a thundering crash. The neighbors knocked furiously, protesting, against the wall.
Comrade Sonia and Pavel Syerov, on the floor, paid no attention.
V
THE CLERK WIPED HIS NOSE WITH THE back of his hand and wrapped a pound of butter in a newspaper. He had cut the butter from a soggy, yellow circle that stood on a wooden barrel top on the counter before him; he wiped the knife on his apron that had once been white. His pale eyes watered; his lips were a concavity on a crumpled face; his long chin hovered uncomfortably over a counter too high for the wizened skeleton under his old blue sweater. He sniffled and, showing two broken, blackened teeth, grinned at the pretty customer in the blue hat trimmed with cherries:
"Best butter in town, citizen, very best butter in town."
On the counter stood a pyramid of square bread loaves, dusty black and grayish white. Above the counter hung a fringe of salami, bagels and dried mushrooms. Flies hovered at the greasy brass bowls of old weighing scales and crawled up the dusty panes of a single, narrow window. Over the window, smeared by the first rain of September, hung a sign: LEV KOVALENSKY. FOOD PRODUCTS
The customer threw some si
lver coins on the counter and took her package. She was turning to go when she stopped involuntarily, for a brief, startled moment, looking at the young man who had entered. She did not know that he was the owner of the store; but she knew that she could not have many occasions to see that kind of young man on the streets of Petrograd. Leo wore a new, foreign overcoat with a belt pulled tightly across his trim, slender waistline; he wore a gray foreign felt hat, one side of its brim turned up over an arrogant profile with a cigarette held in the corner of his mouth by two long, straight fingers in a tight, glistening, foreign leather glove. He moved with the swift, confident, unconscious grace of a body that seemed born for these clothes, like the body of an animal for its regal fur, like the body of a foreign fashion plate.
The girl looked straight at him, softly, defiantly. He answered with a glance that was an invitation, and a mocking insult, and almost a promise. Then he turned and walked to the counter, as she went out slowly.
The clerk bowed low, so that his chin touched the circle of butter: "Good day, Lev Sergeievitch, good day, sir."
Leo flicked the ashes off his cigarette into an empty can on the counter and asked: "Any cash in the register?"
"Yes, sir, can't complain, business was good today, sir, and . . ."
"Let me have it."
The man's gnarled hand fingered his chin uncertainly; he muttered: "But, sir, Karp Karpovitch said last time you . . ."
"I said let me have it."
"Yes, sir."
Leo stuffed the bills carelessly into his wallet. He asked, lowering his voice: "Did that shipment arrive last night?"
The clerk nodded, blinking confidentially, with an intimate little giggle. "Shut up," said Leo. "And be careful."
"Why, yes, sir, yes indeed, sir, you know I'm the soul of discretion, as they say in society, if I may say so, sir. Karp Karpovitch knows that he can trust a loyal old servant who has worked for him for . . ."
"You could use some flypaper here once in a while."
"Yes, sir, I . . ."
"I won't be in again today. Keep the store open till the usual hour."
"Yes, sir. Good day, sir."
Leo walked out without answering.
On the corner, the girl in the blue hat rimmed with cherries was waiting for him. She smiled hopefully, uncertainly. He hesitated for a second; then he smiled and turned away; his smile spread a flush of red on the cheeks and nose under the blue brim. But she stood, watching him jump into a cab and drive away.
He drove to the Alexandrovsky market. He walked swiftly past the old wares spread on the sidewalk, ignoring the eager, pleading eyes of their owners. He stopped at a little booth displaying porcelain vases, marble clocks, bronze candlesticks, a priceless loot that had found its way from some demolished palace into the dusty twilight of the market.
"I want something for a gift," he threw at the clerk who bowed solicitously. "A wedding gift."
"Yes, indeed," the clerk bowed. "Ah . . . for your bride, sir?"
"Certainly not. For a friend."
He looked indifferently, contemptuously at the delicate, cracked dusty treasures that should have reposed on velvet cushions in a museum showcase.
"I want something better," he ordered.
"Yes, indeed, sir," the clerk bowed, "something beautiful for a beloved friend."
"No. For someone I hate." He pointed at a vase of blue and gold porcelain in a corner. "What's that?"
"Ah, sir, that!" The clerk reached timidly for the vase and brought it slowly, cautiously to the counter; its price had made him hesitate to show it even to a customer in a foreign overcoat. "Genuine Sevres, sir," he whispered, brushing cobwebs out of the vase, upturning it to show the delicate mark on the bottom. "A royal object, sir," he breathed, "a truly royal object."
"I'll take it," said Leo.
The clerk swallowed and fumbled at his tie, watching the wallet in the gloved fingers of a customer who had not even asked the price.
"Comrades, in these days of peaceful State Construction, the workers of Proletarian culture are the shock battalion in the vanguard of the Revolution. The education of the Worker-Peasant masses is the great problem of our Red weekdays. We, excursion leaders, are a part of the great peace-time army of educators, imbued with the practical methodology of historical materialism, attuned to the spirit of Soviet reality, dedicated to . . ."
Kira sat in the ninth row, on a chair that threatened to fold under her at any moment. The meeting of excursion guides was coming to an end. Around her, heads drooped wearily and eyes looked furtively, hopefully at a large clock on the wall, over the speaker's head. But Kira tried to listen; she held her eyes fixed on the speaker's mouth to catch every word; she wished the words were louder. But the words could not drown out the voices ringing in her mind: a voice over the telephone, pleading, trying not to sound pleading: "Kira, why do I see you so seldom?"; an imperious voice in the darkness of her room at night: "What are those visits of yours, Kira? You said you were at Irina's yesterday. But you weren't." How long could she keep it up? She had not seen Andrei for three weeks.
The chairs around her clattered; the meeting was over. She hurried down the stairway. She was saying to a fellow guide: ". . . yes, a splendid speech. Of course, our cultural duty to the proletariat is our primary goal . . ." It was easy to say. It was easy, after she had looked straight at Leo and laughed: "Leo, why those foolish questions? Don't you trust me?" pressing her hand to her breast to hide the mark of Andrei's teeth.
She hurried home. In Marisha's room, two trunks and a wicker basket stood in the middle of the floor; empty drawers gaped open; posters were torn off the walls and piled on the trunks. Marisha was not at home.
In Kira's room, a maid hurried from the hissing Primus by the window to take her coat.
"Leo hasn't returned yet, has he?" Kira asked.
"No, ma'am."
Kira's coat was old, with rubbed patches on the elbows. Her dress had grease stains on the collar and threads hanging out of its frayed hem. With one swift movement, Kira pulled it off over her head and threw it to the maid, shaking her dishevelled hair. Then she fell on the bed, kicking off her old shoes with run-down heels, tearing off her darned, cotton stockings. The maid knelt by the bed, pulling thin silk stockings up Kira's slender legs, slipping delicate, high-heeled pumps on her feet; then she rose to help her into a trim dark woolen dress. The maid put the old coat and shoes into a wardrobe that contained four new coats and six pairs of new shoes.
But Kira had to keep her job for the protection of the title of Soviet employee; and she had to wear her old clothes to protect her job.
An extravagant bouquet of white lilies, Leo's latest gift, stood on the table. The white petals had caught a few specks of soot from the Primus. Kira had a maid, but no kitchen. The maid came for five hours every day and cooked their meals on the Primus by the window.
Leo came home, carrying the Sevres vase wrapped in newspapers.
"Isn't dinner ready yet?" he asked. "How many times have I told you that I hate to have that thing smoking when I come home?"
"It's ready, sir." The maid hurried to turn off the Primus, her young, round face obedient and frightened.
"Have you bought the present?" Kira asked.
"There it is. Don't unwrap it. It's fragile. Let's have dinner. We'll be late."
After dinner, the maid washed the dishes and left. Kira sat at her mirror, carefully outlining her lips with a real French lipstick.
"You're not wearing that dress, are you?" Leo asked.
"Why, yes."
"No, you're not. Put on the black velvet one."
"But I don't feel like dressing up. Not for Victor's wedding. I wouldn't go at all, if it weren't for Uncle Vasili."
"Well, since we're going, I want you to look your best."
"But, Leo, is it wise? He's going to have many of his Party friends there. Why show them that we have money?"
"Why not? Certainly, we have money. Let them see that we have money. I
'm not going to act like trash for the benefit of trash."
"All right, Leo. As you wish."
He looked at her appraisingly when she stood before him, severe as a nun, graceful as a Marquise of two centuries past, her hands very white and thin on the soft black velvet. He smiled with approval and took her hand, as if she were a lady at a Court reception, and kissed her palm, as if she were a courtesan.
"Leo, what did you buy for them?" she asked.
"Oh, just a vase. You may see it, if you wish."
She unwrapped the newspapers and gasped. "Leo! But this . . . this cost a fortune!"
"Certainly. It's Sevres."
"Leo, we can't give it to them. We can't let them see that we can afford it. Really, it's dangerous."
"Oh, nonsense."
"Leo, you're playing with fire. Why bring such a present for all the Communists to see?"
"That's exactly why."
"But they know that a regular private trader couldn't afford gifts like this."
"Oh, stop being foolish!"
"Take that thing back and exchange it."
"I won't."
"Then I'm not going to the party."
"Kira . . ."
"Leo, please!"
"Oh, very well!"
He seized the vase and flung it to the floor. It burst into glittering splinters. She gasped. He laughed: "Well, come on. You can buy them something else on our way there."
