Monday Begins On Saturday

by Arkady

  “What do you mean ‘I don’t know’? Is this Alexander?”

  “Look here, citizen,” I said. “What number are you calling?”

  “Number seventy-two… Is that seventy-two?”

  I couldn’t tell.

  “Apparently not,” I said.

  “Why do you say you are Alexander?”

  “Because I really am Alexander.”

  “Drat…is this the agency?”

  “No,” I said. “This is the museum.”

  “Ah…in that case, I apologize. You can’t call the master…”

  I hung up. I stood a while looking around the entry. It had five doors. One to my room, one to the yard, one to the crone’s room, one to the washroom, and one other covered with iron sheeting with a huge padlock.

  It’s dreary, I thought. Lonely. And the lamp is dim and dusty… Dragging my feet, I returned to my room and stopped at the threshold.

  The sofa was not there.

  Everything else was exactly as before: the table, the stove, the mirror, the wardrobe, and the stool. The book, too, lay on the windowsill just as I had left it. On the floor, where the sofa had been, there remained only a very dusty, littered rectangle. Then I saw the bedclothes very tidily put away in the wardrobe.

  “Just now there was a sofa here,” I said aloud. “I was lying on it.”

  Something about the house had changed. The room was filled with an indefinable noise. Someone was talking, there were strains of music, somewhere people were laughing, coughing, scraping their feet. A dim shadow momentarily shut off the light from the lamp; the floorboards creaked loudly. Next there was an abrupt medicinal smell, and a chill blew into my face, I backed up. At the same time, there was a clear and insistent knocking on the outside door. The noise died away instantly. Looking over at the spot previously occupied by the sofa, I went out in the entry again and opened the door.

  Standing before me in the drizzle was an elegant man of smallish stature, wearing a short cream-colored raincoat of immaculate cleanliness, with its collar raised. He removed his hat and pronounced in a dignified manner:

  “Begging your pardon, Alexander Ivanovich. Would you be so kind as to allow me five minutes to converse with you?”

  “Of course,” I said distractedly. “Come in…”

  I saw this man for the first time in my life, and the thought flashed through my mind that he might be connected with the local police. The stranger stepped into the hall and made a motion to enter my room directly. I blocked his way. I don’t know why I did it; most likely I did not relish the prospect of questions about the dust and litter on the floor.

  “Excuse me,” I mumbled. “Perhaps we can talk here…my place is in disorder. And there’s nothing to sit on…”

  He jerked his head in reaction.

  “How’s that—nothing?” he said quietly. “And the sofa?”

  We stood a good minute regarding each other in silence.

  “Mmm…what—the sofa?” I asked in a whisper for some reason.

  The stranger lowered his eyes.

  “Oh, so that’s the way it is?” he said slowly. “I understand. Too bad. Well, in that case, excuse me…”

  He nodded his head politely, put on his hat, and advanced determinedly toward the washroom door.

  “Where are you going?” I cried. “You are going the wrong way!”

  Without turning around, the stranger muttered, “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” and disappeared behind the door. Automatically, I turned on the light, waited a while, listening, and then threw the door open. There was nobody in the washroom. Carefully I drew out a cigarette and lighted it.

  The sofa, I thought. What has the sofa to do with it? I had never heard any fairy tale about a sofa. There was a flying carpet; there was the magical tablecloth. There was the invisibility hat, the seven-league boots, the playing harp. There was the magic mirror. But there was no magic sofa. Sofas were for sitting or lying on; there was something respectable and ordinary about them… In fact, what fantasy could be inspired by a sofa?

  Returning to my room, I was at once aware of The Small Man. He was sitting on top of the stove, up against the ceiling, twisted into an uncomfortable pose. He had a puckered unshaved face and hairy gray ears.

  “Hello there,” I said tiredly.

  The Small Man twisted his long lips in a grimace of suffering.

  “Good evening,” he said. “Please excuse me. I’ve been shunted here some way I don’t quite understand. It’s about the sofa.”

  “You are a bit late about the sofa,” I said, sitting down at the table.

  “I can see that,” said The Small Man in a low voice, twisting about clumsily. Bits of plaster rained down.

  I smoked, regarding him pensively.

  The Small Man looked down at the floor in indecision.

  “You need help?” I said, making a move toward him.

  “No, thank you,” The Small Man said drearily. “I’d better do it myself.”

  Smearing himself with calcimine, he worked his way to the edge of the shelf and, pushing off in an ungainly manner, dived down head first. My heart flipped, but he hung in midair and began to descend slowly, arms and legs spread-eagled convulsively. It wasn’t very aesthetic, but it was quite amusing. Landing on all fours, he stood up and wiped his wet face with his sleeve.

  “Getting really old,” he croaked. “Now, a hundred years ago, say in the reign of Gonzast, I would have been drummed out without a diploma for such a descent, you may be sure, Alexander Ivanovich.”

  “Diploma in what?” I demanded, lighting my second cigarette.

  He wasn’t listening to me. Having sat down on the stool, he continued mournfully.

  “In the old days, I levitated as well as Zex. But now, forgive me, I can’t eradicate the growth in my ears. It’s so untidy… But if you have no talent? There is a vast number of attractions around, all kinds of degrees, titles, but no talent! Many get overgrown in their old age. Of course, this does not apply to the stars. Gian Giacomo, Cristobal Junta, Giuseppe Balsamo or, say, comrade Feodor Simeonovich Kivrin…not a trace of hairy growth!” He looked at me triumphantly. “Not—a—trace! Smooth skin, elegance, suppleness…”

  “Forgive me,” I said. “You said—Giuseppe Balsamo…but that’s the same as Count Cagliostro! And according to Tolstoi, the count was fat and very unpleasant to look at…”

  The Small Man looked at me with sadness and smiled condescendingly.

  “You are simply not informed, Alexander Ivanovich,” he said. “Count Cagliostro is something entirely different from Giuseppe Balsamo. It’s, how shall I put it…it’s not a very successful copy. Balsamo matricized himself in his youth. He was most extraordinarily talented, but you know how it is done when one is young… Hurry up, make it more amusing, slam bam, and it’ll get by… Yes-s…never say that Balsamo and Cagliostro are one and the same. It could be embarrassing.”

  I was embarrassed.

  “True,” I said. “Naturally, I am not an expert. But, excuse my indiscreet question, what has the sofa to do with it? Who needed it?”

  The Small Man started.

  “Inexcusable arrogance,” he said loudly, getting up. “I committed an error and I am prepared to admit it with complete candor. When such giants…and even these cheeky youngsters…” He began to bow, pressing his pale hands to his heart. “Please forgive me, Alexander Ivanovich, I have importuned you so… Let me apologize once again most sincerely. I am departing at once.” He approached the Russian stove and looked up queasily.

  “Old is what I am, Alexander Ivanovich,” he said, with a deep sigh. “Old indeed…”

  “Maybe it would be more congenial for you through the…eh… There was a chap came through here before you, and he used the…”

  “Oh, no, my friend, that was Cristobal Junta! What’s it to him to percolate through the plumbing for a distance of ten leagues…?” The Small Man waved his hands in grief. “As for me, I take the simpler way… Did he take the sofa w
ith him or did he transvect it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Fact is, he, too, was late.”

  Overwhelmed, The Small Man pulled on the hairs of his right ear.

  “Late? Him? Most improbable! However, how can we be the judge of that? Farewell, Alexander Ivanovich. Please find it in your generous heart to forgive me.”

  With obvious effort, he passed through the wall and disappeared. I threw the cigarette butt into the litter on the floor. Some sofa! That was no simple talking tomcat; that was something a bit more substantial—some sort of drama. Perhaps it was even a drama of concepts. Maybe more would come…the late ones. For sure, more would come. I regarded the litter. Where had I seen a broom?

  The broom stood by the cask under the telephone. I set to sweeping up the dust and debris, when something heavy caught in the broom and rolled out into the middle of the room. I stared at it. It was a shiny elongated cylinder about the size of my thumb. I poked at it with the broom. The cylinder swayed, something crackled crisply, and the room filled with the smell of ozone. I threw the broom aside and picked up the cylinder. It was smooth, finely polished, and warm to the touch. I tapped it with my nail and again it crackled. I turned it to see the other end, and at the same moment, felt the floor sway under my feet. Everything turned before my eyes. I struck something most painfully with my heels, then my shoulder, and then my occiput, dropped the cylinder, and finished my fall. I was thoroughly disoriented and did not immediately grasp that I was lying in the narrow space between wall and stove. The lamp was swinging overhead, and, raising my eyes, I was surprised to discover the prints of my rib-soled shoes on the ceiling. Groaning, I climbed out of the crack and looked at my soles. They had calcimine on them.

  “How about that,” I cerebrated aloud. “Why not percolate through the plumbing next…”

  I searched visually for the cylinder. It stood, touching the floor with an edge of its flat end, in an attitude defying all the laws of balance. I approached it cautiously and squatted down next to it. It was swaying to and fro and crackling softly. I looked at it for a long time, stretching my neck, and then blew on it. The little cylinder rocked harder and leaned over, at which point there was a stir of wind and a sound of hoarse clucking behind my back. I turned to look and sat down hard on the floor. There on the stove, folding its wings, sat a colossus of a griffin with a bald neck and menacingly curved beak.

  “How do you do,” I said. I was convinced that the griffin was of the talking variety.

  It looked at me with one eye, which made its appearance instantly resemble a hen. I waved my hand in a gesture of greeting. The griffin opened its beak, but no words came forth. It raised its wing and took to clicking its beak, searching under its armpit. The cylinder kept swaying and crackling. The griffin quit its hunt, drew its head down into its shoulders, and covered its eyes with a yellow membrane. Trying not to turn my back to it, I finished my clean-up and threw the litter out the door into the rainy blackness. Then I returned to my room.

  The griffin slept and the ozone stank. I checked my watch: it was twenty past midnight. I stood a while looking down at the cylinder, cogitating on the conservation of energy and of matter, too. It wasn’t likely that griffins condensed out of nothing. If the given griffin had materialized here in Solovetz, then it must be that a griffin (not necessarily this given one) disappeared in the Caucasus, or wherever it was they lived. I estimated the energy of transport and eyed the cylinder warily. Best not to touch it, I thought. Better cover it up with something and let it stay there. I brought in the dipper from the hall, took careful aim, and, holding my breath, let it settle over the cylinder. Next I sat down on the stool and waited for whatever would come next. The griffin snored with remarkable clarity. In the light of the lamp its feathers had a coppery sheen, and its huge claws were sunk into the plaster. A stench of decay slowly expanded from its vicinity.

  “You shouldn’t have done it, Alexander Ivanovich,” said a pleasant male voice.

  “Done what?” I said, looking around at the mirror.

  “I am referring to the umclidet…”

  It was not the mirror talking. It was somebody else.

  “I don’t understand what you are talking about,” I said. There was no one in the room and I was beginning to feel irritated.

  “I am talking about the umclidet,” said the voice. “It was entirely incorrect of you to cover it with an iron dipper. The umclidet—or, as you call it, the magic wand—requires extremely careful handling.”

  “That’s why I covered it… Why don’t you come on in, comrade? It’s most unhandy to talk this way otherwise.”

  “Thank you,” said the voice.

  Right in front of me, a most assiduously dressed, pale man in a gray suit of superb cut slowly took shape. His head bent slightly aside, he inquired with exquisite politeness, “Dare I hope that I did not unduly disturb you?”

  “Not at all,” I said, rising. “Please be seated and feel at home. Would you like some tea?”

  “Thank you,” said the stranger and sat down opposite me, hitching his trousers with a decorous gesture. “As for tea, please let me beg off, Alexander Ivanovich; I just had supper.”

  He looked me in the eye a while, wearing a drawing-room smile. I smiled back.

  “You are after the sofa, right?” I said. “Alas, the sofa is not here. I am very sorry, and I don’t even know…”

  The stranger threw up his hands.

  “Such trifles!” he said. “Such a commotion over a lot of nonsense, forgive me, in which no one really believes… Judge for yourself, Alexander Ivanovich—to engage in mysteries and repulsive cinematic pursuits, to disturb people over the mythical… I fear this word, yes, the mythical White Thesis… Any sane thinking man considers the sofa as a universal translator, somewhat oversize, but quite well made and stable in operation. The old ignoramuses prattling about the White Thesis are all the more ludicrous… No, I don’t even wish to talk about this sofa.”

  “As you wish, sir,” I said, concentrating my best high-society tone into the phrase. “Let’s talk of something else…”

  “Superstitions…bigotry…” he murmured absent-mindedly. “Laziness of thought and envy, arrant tentacle-sprouting envy…” He cut himself off. “Forgive me, Alexander Ivanovich, but may I take it upon myself to ask your permission to remove the pitcher? Regretfully the iron is not transparent to the hyperfield, and the rise in the tension of the hyperfield in a restricted space…”

  I raised my hands.

  “By all means, take anything you wish! Take the pitcher away… Take even that…um…um…the magic wand…” There I stopped, noticing with astonishment that the pitcher was no longer there. The little cylinder stood in a pool of liquid resembling tinted mercury. The liquid was evaporating rapidly.

  “It’s better that way, I assure you,” said the stranger. “As to your high-minded suggestion to remove the umclidet, I am unfortunately unable to make avail of it. That is a question of ethics and morals, a matter of honor if you will… Conventions are so strong! I shall permit myself to advise you not to touch the umclidet again. I can see you hurting yourself, and then the eagle… I surmise you detect the…eh…a certain aroma.”

  “Indeed,” I said with feeling. “It stinks atrociously. Like a monkey house.”

  We looked at the eagle. The griffin slept, its feathers fluffed out.

  “To employ the umclidet properly,” said the stranger, “is a complex and fine art. You must not by any means reproach yourself or feel chagrined. The course on the usage of the umclidet takes eight semesters and requires a thorough knowledge of quantum alchemy. As a software expert, you would probably assimilate the electron-level umclidet operation without undue effort, the one designated as the UEU-Seventeen…but the quantum umclidet…hyperfield…matter translation… Lomonosov’s generalized law—Lavoisier…” He spread his hands apologetically.

  “I understand perfectly!” I said precipitately. “I don’t even pretend… Of course, I
am totally unprepared.”

  Here I caught myself and offered him a cigarette.

  “Thank you very much,” said the stranger. “I don’t use them, to my everlasting regret.”

  Undulating my finger in a gesture of politeness, I inquired—not asked, mind you, but inquired—“Would it be improper of me to learn to what I owe the pleasure of our meeting?”

  The stranger looked down in some embarrassment.

  “At the risk of appearing immodest,” he said, “I must, alack, confess that I have been present here for some time. I would wish to avoid naming names, but I think that even to you, Alexander Ivanovich, who are remote from all this, it must be obvious that a certain unhealthy fuss has arisen around the sofa, that a scandal is brewing, the atmosphere is heating up, and the tension is rising. Errors and highly undesirable coincidences are inevitable in such an environment… We don’t have to look far for some examples. A certain personage—I repeat I don’t wish to name names, especially as a colleague is involved, who deserves every respect, and I have in mind a huge talent and self-denial, if not good manners—so, a certain personage, being in a hurry and in a state of nervous tension, loses an umclidet here and this umclidet becomes the center of a sphere of activity, into which someone, who has no relation whatever to these activities, is drawn…” He bowed in my direction. “In such instances, a counteraction somehow neutralizing the bad influences is absolutely required…” He glanced at the bootprints on the ceiling with stern significance, then smiled at me. “But I wouldn’t want to appear as an abstract altruist. Naturally, all these events are of immense interest to me, both as a specialist and as an administrator… Anyway, I don’t intend to importune you any longer, and, inasmuch as you have assured me that you will not experiment any further with the umclidet, I would like to ask your permission to retire.”

  He got up.

  “How can you!” I exclaimed. “Don’t leave—it’s so nice talking to you. I have a thousand questions for you.”

  “I value your sensitivity most highly, Alexander Ivanovich, but you are fatigued, you must rest.”