“We’re getting out.”
I got out with him. There were dorozhkas outside the station. We went up to one of them. The driver evidently knew him, because he was pleased to see him:
“Oh, it’s you, counselor. Greetings, greetings. Haven’t seen you in a long time.” Then he asked: “The usual place?”
We rode for quite a long time, till we pulled up in front of a building with bars on the first floor windows. There he handed me over to someone. They took me, and the first thing they did was shave my head down to the skin. Then they gave me soap and a towel and took me to a shower, and told me to give myself a thorough scrubbing. They gave me clothes and boots. I remember the boots were way too big for me. I’d left my own boots at the forester’s cottage, I hadn’t wanted to wake the forester’s wife as I was leaving. I’d been going around barefoot, though summer was almost over. They took my picture from the front, from one side then the other. Then they brought me to a cafeteria. A few boys were already eating there. There was bread and jam and black ersatz coffee, I remember I didn’t like the food despite being hungry. Then a uniformed guard led us all to a cell. The window was barred, there was a bucket in the corner and a few iron bunk beds. He said:
“You’ll be more comfortable here than at your own mother’s. Go to sleep.” And he bolted the door from the outside.
No one slept though. The moment we turned off the light we began to get bitten by bedbugs. Ever been bitten by a bedbug? I wouldn’t wish it on you. They bit all night long. There were hordes of them. We crushed them, but new ones kept popping up. It was my first time dealing with bedbugs. Believe me, fleas are nothing next to bedbugs. Our bodies were covered in welts, and they itched so bad you wanted to tear your skin off. We scratched ourselves till we bled. And the more we scratched, the worse it itched. It was like that night after night. We complained to the guard who locked us in at night, and all he said was:
“You need to sleep better.”
It was only after several days that a van came for us. Not the usual kind of truck. This one had a metal hatch with barred windows, and another guy in uniform bolted the door after we got in. He sat next to the driver and he kept glancing through the barred window from the cab to see what we were up to. What could we be up to? We were being jolted up and down, that was it. The road was all potholes, so we spent more time driving in zigzags than going straight, and we kept getting thrown against the sides. The whole way I was wondering to myself what I’d actually done to deserve this. Was it because I’d run away from the forester’s wife? Or that I was selling things in trains? That I didn’t have a ticket? Anyway, this was how I found myself at the school.
Oh – we didn’t decide how many turns we’d take. Whatever you like. At school we’d always agree to take a certain number of turns. It depended on how many of us were playing. Also on whether it was early or late we got started playing. And that would depend on when the teacher went away. But I was going to tell you why he collected matchboxes. You’ll never guess. Look at the box we’re playing with. What do you see? Right, here are the scratchboards, this is where you take the matches out from one side or the other, and here’s the label. This one happens to say: Feed the Hungry Children. Some charity. Back then there were different ones. They’d change from time to time. When you’d used up all the matches, you’d go buy more or take some from someone else’s pocket, and there’d be a new label. The previous one had said: Brush Your Teeth, while the new one said: Long Live May 1, or: Power to the Youth of the World, or: The Whole Nation is Rebuilding our Capital. If you didn’t know what times you were living in, you could have figured it out from those labels. These days I don’t know what they change from or to. Like I said, I hardly ever use matches, it’s all electric here. I don’t smoke either. But if you ask me, you could figure out any time on the basis of those labels. And it’s been possible ever since there have been matches.
That’s exactly what our teacher thought too. He had them make him a plywood display board in the shop. How big? Well, not to exaggerate, a little smaller than a classroom chalkboard. On it he would pin matchboxes in little rows. There was still a lot of free space, and so every evening he’d come and remind us to give him our matchboxes when they were empty. For each civics lesson we’d bring the display board to class. There’d be two or three of us carrying it, it was pretty heavy, and he’d follow behind and shout:
“Careful! Careful!”
The boxes mustn’t have been attached very firmly, because every now and then one of them would fall off on the way. When that happened he’d get so mad, he’d call the boys who were carrying the board all sorts of names, say they were oafs, morons, good-for-nothings. And he’d educate us using the board, matchbox by matchbox. He probably thought that since we were constantly playing that game, we’d find it easier to learn in such a way.
He’d call you to the board, point with his stick at one box or another and ask you what you could see on it. But what you saw wasn’t all, because after that it would be, Say more. Saying more was much harder. Even when one of us managed to say more, he’d still keep at him. All right, go a little deeper, think about how that should be properly understood. If anyone happened to understand something improperly, he’d fly into a rage, he’d shout about how we spent all our evenings playing matchboxes, even after he left us, we thought he didn’t know but he knew everything. He knew what kind of game it was. And what we played for.
You know, it really wasn’t such a stupid idea at all, if you think about it. Tell me yourself, how can you educate someone so they’re in no doubt about what times they’re living in? All a person cares about is the fact that they live from birth to death. But who needs someone who only lives from birth to death. Often it seems to them that even that’s too much. Plus, if they could pick what time they could live in, probably not that many people would choose their own. Living in your own times is the hardest thing of all, you have to admit. It’d be a lot easier in some earlier or later time, anything but your own. So educating someone is no simple matter. And you never know what might turn out to be the best method. Then why would matchboxes be any worse?
All right, it’s your turn.
13
Did I not tell you? I thought I told you already. I went and bought it. Not to the nearest town. The nearest towns were backwaters, they might not have had anything like that there. I wanted a brown felt one. I walked all over before I found a hat shop. I might have passed it by, the display window was no bigger than my window here, and it contained nothing but caps and berets and a single drab-colored hat. Luckily, a bit further back, behind the caps and berets, kind of hidden, I spotted a brown felt hat. I perked up and went in. The store was dark, it long and thin like a hallway, the only light was what came from the display, and right at the far end, behind the counter, was the clerk. He looked to have been dozing, because when I came in he raised his head, yawned, and said quickly:
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for a hat,” I said in an apologetic tone, as if for having woken him up.
“What kind?”
“A brown felt one.”
“We don’t have anything in brown felt. There aren’t any in brown. Generally speaking, what you see is all we have, young man.” He gestured toward the shelves behind him. There were peaked caps, other caps, berets, and no more than a handful of hats, most of them the same dull color as the one on display, plus two or three greenish ones, as far as I could make out in the gloom that reigned at that end of the store. “I bet you thought you’d walked into a shop, didn’t you, young man?” He grew so animated he sat up on his seat. He was a short man, but all of a sudden he seemed a lot bigger to me. “But this is no shop. And certainly not a hat shop. Before the war I had a hat shop. Now if you’d come to me before the war …”
I broke in:
“What about the one on display?”
“I can’t take anything down from the display.”
“Why not?”
<
br /> “I’m only allowed to take things from the display when the display is changed.”
“When will that be?”
“Who can know. Who can know, young man. There has to be a new shipment so there’ll be something to change.” He seemed unwilling to forgive me for having interrupted his nap. “Besides, the one in the display is too big for you. You need the next size down, I can tell. Or even two sizes, if you got a haircut. Where did this taste for big shocks of hair come from? Everything evidently has to be changed. Everything’s all wrong.”
I figured my hair must have set him against me, since he himself was bald. At the time I had a full head of hair, and it made me embarrassed next to his shiny head.
“At least let me prove it to you,” he said unexpectedly in a milder tone. He took a tape measure, came out from behind the counter, had me stoop down, and measured my head. “Like I said, too big. I’ve been in this line so long I don’t even need to take measurements. One look at a client and I know right away, they’ll need such and such a size. And what style will suit them. What’s the right color for them. Before the client tries anything on I know all there is to know. If you want to give good advice you have to sense everything. Sometimes a different style or color might be better, but I take one look and I know which one the client is going to like himself in best, so I advise them accordingly. And which one they’ll like themselves in, that requires a lot more knowing than size and style and color. You might say that every client is a mountain, and on the summit of the mountain you need to be able to see the right hat. Though why am I even telling you this? As far as the hats are concerned there is what there is here, and there aren’t any more clients either. All of us, we’re just the ‘working people of city and country.’ As for brown felt ones, I don’t remember when I last had anything.”
“Do you expect to be getting any in?”
“Who can tell. Who can tell anything these days? You can tell that the sun will rise tomorrow, that much we still know. I put in an order. Way back. Including brown felt ones. Personally I like brown felt hats the best. I have one from before the war, it still does the job. These days, putting in an order means sending the thing off then just waiting and waiting. And even if it finally comes, it’s not the styles you asked for, or the colors, or the sizes. You’re lucky if the number of items matches up. Numbers still count some. Numbers fulfill the plan, so to speak, not styles or colors or sizes. It’s another matter that no one buys hats anymore nowadays. These aren’t good times for hats. It’s as if people are afraid to be too tall. Because hats make you taller. That extra two or four inches, depending on the style, it adds to your height. There was a time, everybody wanted to be taller. There were even special styles for shorter clients. I’ve worked in hats all my life, and in my old age I don’t understand any of it. You’d have thought that someone like me, who had a shop before the war - and not just any old shop, I even imported hats from abroad - that I ought to be able to read hats like you’d read the book of wisdom. But evidently that book doesn’t include present times. Before the war, if you’d come to me I’d have had just the right hat for you. What kind was it you wanted again?”
“Brown felt.”
“I’d have had a brown felt one, yes indeed. Would you prefer darker or lighter brown? Wide or narrow brim? By all means. Higher, lower? You’re quite tall, I’d suggest something a little lower. By all means. The client was actually a client. And the hats – you could tell a person from their hat. These days, though, big industry comes first, producing hats is a sideline. What about this one? It’s your size.” He took one of the dull-colored hats from the shelf behind him. “Try it on, go take a look in the mirror.”
“No thank you,” I said.
“Then perhaps this sort of greenish one? For a young face it’s even better. And it’s also the right size. I’d not suggest brown. Brown ages a person. Especially felt. There’s no reason to hurry toward old age, even in these times. It’ll come of its own accord. Oh yes, it’ll fly here on wings. You expect it, but still you’re taken by surprise. People aren’t able to come to terms with old age. You, you’re young, you don’t need to understand how painful old age is. Though at times youth is painful too. That’s how life is, there’s something painful at every age. The worst pain comes from inside a person. There was this one client before the war, I’d order the very best quality hats for him … I’ll never have clients like that anymore.” All of a sudden he seemed to remember something. “Wait a moment, I have just the thing for you. It’ll be perfect.” He started rummaging about among all the caps and berets and hats on the shelf, and from somewhere deep down he produced a cream-colored hat. He straightened it and said with pride in his voice: “This is from my old shop. Try it on.” When I said thank you but no, that wasn’t what I was looking for, he actually begged me: “What do you have to lose. Please, try it on. Maybe it was just sitting here waiting for you. That’s how it is sometimes, that a hat is waiting for a particular client. When the client finally shows up its destiny is fulfilled, so to speak. And not just the hat’s. Unfortunately, the client I mentioned probably won’t be coming back. Now there was a client. Simply brimming with life. He changed hats like he changed women, so to speak. I always knew he had a new woman when he came in for a new hat. The last time, he happened to be looking for something youthful, in cream. The color of desert sand in the glare of the sun, he said. In a whisper he added, there’s going to be war. You have to enjoy life before then, right up to the final minute, because this may be the last time. I told him I’d have something in a month, please come by. But he never did. And this is the hat. The color of desert sand in the glare of the sun. Please, do try it on. That way I’d no longer have to … Especially as I hide it under the other hats. This is a state-owned store, and here I am selling my own merchandise. From before the war. What if they found it during an inspection? Luckily there’s nothing to inspect here. They usually just have me sign a form that there was an inspection, the inventory was such and such, no discrepancies noted. Sometimes they try and reprimand me, saying the orders I put in are evidently too small and don’t include every kind of headwear, because the plan includes all different kinds and so I ought to have more in the way of merchandise. Sometimes they ask if I have any particular requests. But what kind of requests can you have in a state-owned shop, in a state job, when requests have also been placed under state control, so to speak. I mentioned that it would be good to have more hats. Of course they wrote it down. Had me say what different styles, colors, sizes, they wrote all that down too. Now I’m waiting for those requests of mine to be granted. One request I had was that they fix the lamp in here. For the last month, when it gets dark I’ve had to light a candle, because I mean I can’t shut up shop early. It says on the door that I’m open from such and such till such and such a time, and that has to be. When a client comes in I have to go up to them with a candle, how can I help you, because I never know if they can even see me here behind the counter.”
“What happened to the light?” I asked, all set to leave, especially since he’d given me no indication that he might take that hat from the display and at least let me try it on to see if it really was too big.
“The usual – it went out and it doesn’t work anymore. I checked the bulb and the fuses. They’re fine. There’s nothing more I know how to do.”
“Is it just in your shop?”
“As if out of spite, they have power in all the neighboring stores. Upstairs too, on all the floors. Throughout the whole building. The only problem is in here.”
“Do you have any tools? A screwdriver and pliers at least? I could take a look. Maybe something can be done.”
“You?” he said in surprise.
“I’m an electrician.”
“An electrician?” He was even more amazed. “Who’d have thought? Who’d have thought? I reckoned I could tell every client’s line of work. Your line of work is your character, and everyone’s character is written on th
eir face. In their movements, their walk, their posture, their way of being. I was convinced … See what happens to a man when he works in a state-owned shop. These days it’s getting harder and harder to know people.”
“Do you have pliers at least?” I reminded him. “If need be, ordinary pincers might do.”
“Sorry, no.” He shrugged helplessly, as if he were confessing to some misdemeanor. “Wait a minute though, there’s a tool shop a couple of doors down.”
He scurried out. And before I’d had time to take a good look around – though truth to tell there wasn’t a whole lot to look at, except maybe for the mirror, which reached from the floor to over halfway up the wall – he was back with an armful of various tools. Screwdrivers, flat-blade and crosshead, pincers small and large, pliers; wire-cutters, a small hammer, a wrench, a roll of insulating tape, even rubber gauntlets.
“Why did you bring all this?” I said with a laugh. “It won’t be needed. First I have to take a look.”
“Just in case,” he said, visibly excited. “In the store they said that electricity is serious business.”
“Luckily I know that already,” I said.
He put it all on the counter, removing the hats he’d been offering me, and he rubbed his hands with satisfaction.
“Who’d have thought. How can anyone not believe in serendipity. And serendipity is precisely destiny. Even in a state-owned shop. I mean, if I’d had a brown felt hat in your size, I’d still be without light.”
“That remains to be seen,” I said, trying to calm him down a little. But he ignored me.
“You’d have tried the hat on and bought it, and I’d still be sitting here by candlelight.”
“This switch is working,” I said, screwing in the clips that attached it to the wall. “But it would be good to replace it. It’s from before the war. The box has perished. I’ll check the lamp now. I just need to push the counter into the middle of the room, I won’t be able to reach it from a chair.”
A Treatise on Shelling Beans Page 32
