Mama, Mama, help me, I am sitting here, in Perillo’s office, while he is calling there, for Dr. Zauze. I don’t want that, believe me. Please come here, I promise to follow all your instructions; I give you my word I’ll wipe my feet at the door and wash the dishes; don’t send me away. I’d rather start going to the maestro again. I’ll be delighted. You understand, in those few seconds I reconsidered many things, I realized that basically I love all music a great deal, particularly accordion three-quarters. E-e-e, one-two-three, one-two-three, and one, and two, and three. On the Barcarole. Let’s go again to grandmother; we’ll talk to her and from there—straight to the maestro; he lives quite close, you remember. And I give you my word that I’ll never again spy on him and you. Believe me, it makes no difference to me what you and he are practicing there, in the turret on the second floor. Keep practicing, while I am learning the czardas. And when you come down the screaking stairs again, I’ll play for you. Sixths or even scales from sextets. And please don’t worry. Why should I care! We’ve been grown-ups for a long while, all three of us—you, maestro, and I. How could I not understand? And could I tell on you? Never, Mama, never. Can you recall me even once going to Papa? No. You keep practicing, keep practicing and I will play the czardas. Imagine the day when we go again. It’s Sunday morning; Papa is shaving in the bathroom, I am cleaning shoes, and you are fixing us breakfast. Scrambled eggs, fritters, and coffee with milk. Papa is in a wonderful mood: yesterday he had a difficult meeting, he said he got devilishly tired, but all the accused got what they deserved. That’s why, while shaving, he is singing his favorite Neapolitan song: In Naples at high tide, with a hole in its side, docked Gianetta to have battle scars restored, and to wait for the day when it sails far away, the ship’s crew had been dispatched ashore. Well then, are you going to practice?—he asks during breakfast, even though he knows better than we do that yes, we are going, yes, to practice. Yes, Papa, yes, to practice music. How is he doing, your one-eyed, I haven’t seen him in a long while, is he making noise as before, composing all kinds of rubbish? Of course, Papa, what else can he do besides that, after all, he’s an invalid and he has plenty of free time. We know them, those invalids, Papa smiles, those invalids should load barges rather than scratch on their violins; if it were up to me, I would make them, those fake Mozarts, scratch to a different tune. But— you, Mama, remark—he doesn’t play the violin; his main instrument is a trumpet. All the more so, says Papa, if it were up to me, I’d make him play the trumpet where he’s supposed to. It would be better—Papa continues, wiping up the remaining scrambled eggs with a piece of bread—it would be better if he washed his socks more often. What do socks have to do with this—you answer, Mama—we are talking about music; naturally, everyone can have a weakness; the man is a bachelor, he’s lonely and has to do everything himself. That’s it, that’s it, says Papa, you go ahead and wash his socks if you feel sorry for him; just think—what kind of a genius you found, incapable of washing his socks! Finally we go outside. Well, get going—Papa sends us off, standing on the threshold—get going. He’s wearing his only and his favorite pajamas, holding a bunch of newspapers under his arm. His large face—virtually free of wrinkles—is shining and gleaming after the recent shave. I’ll do some reading, he says; be more careful with the accordion, don’t scratch the case. The electric train is full of people—all of them are going somewhere to their dachas. There’s no place to sit anywhere, but as soon as we appear, everyone looks at us and says to each other: Let the mother with a boy through, don’t stand in their way, sit the mother and the boy with the accordion down, sit them down, let them sit, they have an accordion. We sit down and look out the window. If the day when we are going to practice is in the winter, outside we see horses harnessed to sleighs, we see snow and various tracks in the snow. But if this is happening in the fall, everything outside is different: the horses are harnessed to carts or they are simply wandering by themselves around the rusty meadows. Mama, I bet the constrictor will come in right away. How do you know; there’s no guarantee at all. You’ll see. Tickets please, says the constrictor, entering. Mama opens her purse; she is looking for the tickets but cannot find them for a long time. Worried, she spreads all the small things that are in the purse on her knees and the entire car watches how she does it. The car is examining the things: two or three handkerchiefs, a perfume bottle, lipstick, a notebook, a dried cornflower in remembrance of something that happened long ago, a case for eyeglasses or, as Mama calls it, an eyecase, keys to the apartment, a pincushion, a spool of thread, matches, a compact, and the key to grandmother. Finally Mama finds the tickets and hands them to the approaching constrictor, a fat man in a special black overcoat. He turns the tickets over in his hands, holds them against the light, while keeping one eye apathetically closed, and punches them with a punch that resembles sugar tongs, hair clippers, a dynamometer, tiny pincers, forceps for teeth extraction, and a dynamo flashlight. After noticing the accordion, the fat man apathetically winks at me and asks: A Barcarole? Yes—I say—a Barracuda, three-quarters. We are going to music practice—adds Mama, nervous. The entire car is listening, having risen up from yellow lacquered benches, trying not to miss a word. The teacher’s waiting for us—continues Mama—we’re a little bit late, we didn’t make the ten o’clock, but we’ll make up the lost time from the station we’ll walk a little faster than usual my son has a very talented pedagogue he’s a composer true he’s not quite well you know the war but he’s very talented and he lives completely alone in an old house with a turret you understand that his place isn’t very comfortable and sometimes it’s a mess but what does it matter if our son’s fate is at stake you see the teachers advised us to give our son a musical education at least an elementary one he has a pretty good ear so we found a pedagogue we have an acquaintance and he recommended him to us we’re very thankful they were at the front together our acquaintance and the pedagogue and they’ve been friends for many years by the way if you have a son and he has a good ear then if you want I can give you his address he’s an honest man and a wonderful musician a master of his trade one can only admire he doesn’t charge much if it’s more convenient you can agree and he’ll come to your place it’s not difficult for him and for you it’ll be cheaper too let me write down his address for you. No need—says the constrictor apathetically—to hell with all this music, the Barcarole alone costs who knows how much. You’re wrong, wrong—replies Mama—after all, one can buy an accordion in a consignment store it’s not expensive there at all and can one think about money when the fate of one’s son is at stake and in the end one can take a loan let me talk to your wife we women always understand each other better I and my husband could lend you money if not the entire amount then at least part you would pay us back in installments we would trust you why not. No need—answers the constrictor—I would gladly borrow from you, but I don’t feel like bothering with all this music, the teacher alone costs who knows how much and, in addition, I don’t even have a son at all, no son, no daughter, so excuse me, thanks. Apathetically. The constrictor walks away, the car returns to its seats and presents its tickets. When we get off the train and descend from the platform, I look back: I see the entire car staring at us. Going our own way, we’re reflected in the eyes and windows of the accelerating train: my mama of average height in the light brown jacket with a collar made from emaciated steppe fox, Mama in a scaly, seemingly solid hat, made from some unknown material, and in boots, while I—thin, tall, in a dark duster with six buttons, made out of my prosecutor father’s overcoat, in a horrible maroon cap, in shoes with buckles and in galoshes. We are leaving the station farther and farther behind, dissolving in the world of suburban things, sounds, and colors, and with every motion we seep more and more into the sand and into the bark of the trees, we become the optical illusion, invention, child’s amusement, a play of shadow and light. We break into the voices of birds and people and we reach the immortality of the nonexistent. The home of the maestro is on the edge
of the settlement; it resembles a ship assembled from blocks and matchboxes. You see the maestro from afar—he’s standing in the middle of the glass-enclosed veranda, in front of a music stand, playing a small flute that on other days appears to be a spyglass; in addition, he’s wearing a black eye patch like a pirate captain. The garden is also filled with black trees mutilated by the borer and on the surface of the lake, moved by the refined melody, glassy boats float in the cool and stable radiance of the Sunday sky. Good day, maestro, we finally arrived; we are here again to practice. We missed our music, you, and your garden a lot. The doors to the veranda swing open and the captain slowly moves to greet us. Mama, what happened to your face! Did the lake wind change it so much? Right away, right now. Mama, I can’t keep up with you. Now. Now we’ll step on the threshold of the house, sink into its strange architecture, and permeate its corridors, staircases, and floors. We enter now. One. Two. Three.
Forgive me, sir, it seems to me that I digressed too far from the essence of our conversation. I want to say that Savl Petrovich is sitting as before on the windowsill with his back to the window. The bare bottoms of his feet rest on the radiator and the teacher, smiling, says to us: Yes, I remember well that Perillo wanted to fire me as by the will of the pike. But after thinking about it, he gave me a two-week trial period—and, in order not to be kicked out, I decided to show my best side. I decided to try and try diligently. I decided not to be late to school, I decided to buy and wear sandals, and I swore to conduct classes strictly according to plan. I would have given someone half of the dacha summer just to be able to remain with you, my friends. But then the thing about which I am constantly asking you happened. I don’t remember—do you understand? I don’t remember what happened during my trial period, perhaps at its very beginning. The only thing I know—is that it occurred on the eve of the next exam. Student so-and-so, do a good deed, help me. My memory gets worse each day; it grows dim, like the silverware that lies unused in the drawer. So breathe on this silver and buff it with a flannel cloth. Savl Petrovich, we answer, standing on the slab—or whatever these tiles are called—Savl Petrovich, we know, now we know, we remember, no need to worry. But I am not worried, Lord, just tell me, please, tell me. Worried. Savl Petrovich, it may be extremely unpleasant news for you. Well, well—the teacher urges us—I am all attention. You understand what is going on, after all, earlier you knew what happened and you told us about it. Well, sure, well, sure, I am saying that my memory resembles silver. All right, so listen. That day we were supposed to take the last exam in such-and-such class; to be precise, your exam, geography. The exam was scheduled for nine in the morning; we gathered in the classroom and waited for you until twelve, but you did not come. Clicking his heels around the corners, Perillo appeared and said that the exam was being postponed until tomorrow. Someone among us assumed that you were sick and we decided to visit you. We went to the teachers’ room and Tinbergen gave us your city address. We set out. Some woman, unusually pale and gray-haired, opened the door. To be honest, we’ve never met a woman who resembled chalk to such a degree. She spoke almost inaudibly, through her teeth, and she was wearing a baffling duster the color of a bedsheet, without buttons and without sleeves. More likely it was not even a duster but a sack, stitched from two bedsheets, in which only one opening was cut out—for the head, do you understand? The woman said that she was your relative and asked what message she should give you. We answered that we had no message and inquired where we could find you, Savl Petrovich, where, so to speak, we could see you. And the woman says: He does not live here now but lives outside of the city, at the dacha, because it is spring. And she offered to give us your address, but, thank God, we know your dacha and we decided to drive there immediately. Wait a minute, interrupts Savl, at that time I really had moved already to the dacha, but you got the wrong apartment because in my apartment there could have been no such woman, particularly no relative of mine; I have no relatives, even men; my apartment is always empty from spring to fall; you got the wrong address. Perhaps, Savl Petrovich, we say, but for some reason this woman knew you, after all, she wanted to explain how we could find the dacha. That’s strange, answers Savl pensively, and what was the apartment number—do you remember? Such-and-such, Savl Petrovich. Such-and-such?—asks the teacher again. Yes, such-and-such. I’m scared, says Savl, I don’t understand what’s going on and I am scared. How could any woman be there? And had you noticed whether a sled stood there, next to the door, on the landing? It did, Savl Petrovich, a children’s sled, yellow, with a cord made from a kerosene lamp’s wick. Right, that is right, but my God, what woman? And why gray-haired, why wearing a duster? I don’t know women like that; I am scared, but continue. Dejectedly. And so we set out to your dacha. The morning ended, but, regardless, along the entire railroad, in the bushes beyond the right-of-way, in spite of the trains, nightingales continued to sing in accord. We were standing on the car’s end platform, eating ice cream, and heard them—they were louder than everything in the world. We are assuming, Savl Petrovich, that you did not forget how to get from the station to your dacha, so we will not describe the trip. We should only note that in the ditches along the road there still stood thawed cool water and the young leaves of the plantain hurriedly drank it to survive and live. We can also mention that the first people appeared on the garden plots: they lit garbage fires, dug in the soil, knocked with their hammers, and kept waving off the early bees. That day, everything in our settlement was exactly the same as on the corresponding day of the previous year and of all the bygone years, and our dacha stood awash in the happy six-petal lilac. But there, in our garden, now some other dacha dwellers, not us, busied themselves, since we sold our dacha before that time. Or perhaps hadn’t bought it yet. We cannot state here anything for sure; in this case everything depends on time—or conversely, nothing depends on time, we can mix everything up, we can imagine that the day comes at a certain time, while in reality it belongs to a completely different period. It is terrible when one thing overlaps the other without any system. Correct, correct, right now we are unable to even claim with certainty whether we had, whether our family had, any dacha, or whether we had it and have it or will have it later. One scientist—I read about it in a scientific journal—says: If you are in a city and at the given moment you think that you have a dacha in the countryside, it doesn’t mean that you really have it. And vice versa: Lying in a hammock at the dacha you cannot seriously think that the city where you are planning to go after lunch really exists. Both the dacha and the city between which you travel all summer— the scientist writes—are just products of your overly disorganized imagination. The scientist writes: If you wish to know the truth, this is it: Here you have nothing—no family, no job, no time, no space, no yourself; you invented all of this. I agree—we hear Savl’s voice— I, as far as I remember, never doubted this. And then we said: But Savl Petrovich, after all something does exist, it is as obvious as the fact that the river was called. But what, what exactly, teacher? And then he answered: Dear friends, perhaps you won’t believe me, your drummer of the retired goat, cynic and mischief-maker, wind-chaser and weather vane, but believe the other me—the poor poet and citizen, who appeared to enlighten and to set a spark in the minds and hearts so that they would become inflamed with hatred and thirst for willpower. Right now I am shouting with all my blood, like they shout with the upcoming vengeance: In the world there is nothing, there is nothing in the world except the Wind! And the Sender?— we asked. And except the Sender, answered the teacher. The water made noises in the wombs of unpainted heaters, outside the window walked a thousand-legged, inescapable, ineradicable street, in the basement of the boiler room our stoker and guard, bellowing, rushed from one furnace to the other with a shovel in his hands, and on the fourth floor a quadrille of the fools rumbled like a cannonade, shaking the foundations of the entire establishment.
And so our dacha stood awash in six-petal lilacs. But there, in our garden, some other people, not us,
busied themselves now, even though perhaps they were us after all, but when we hurried past ourselves in the direction of Savl, we did not recognize ourselves. We went down to the end of the street, turned left and—as it often happens—right, and found ourselves at the edge of the oat field, beyond which, as you know, the dacha Lethe rolls its waters and the Land of the Goatsucker begins. On the road cutting the oat field in half, we met the mailman Mikheev or Medvedev. He was slowly riding his bicycle and, even though there was no wind, the wind ruffled the beard of the mailman and—piece after piece—fragments separated from it as if it were not a beard but a cloud at the mercy of a storm. We said hello. But gloomy—or perhaps sad—he didn’t recognize us and didn’t answer but kept riding in the direction of the water tower. We followed him with our eyes and asked: Have you seen Norvegov? Without turning, representing an ideal of mailmanobicycle, a monolith, a slave permanently cemented to the seat, coarsely, crow-like, Mikheev shouted just one word: There. And his hand, having separated itself from the handlebar, made a gesture later fixed in countless ancient icons and frescoes: it was a hand that proved good and giving, the hand beckoning and pacifying, the arm bent in the elbow and in the wrist, the hand with its palm turned towards the spotlessly shining sky; he made a gesture of a world creator. And this hand was pointing towards the river. Friends, interrupts Norvegov, I am glad that on your way to me you met our esteemed mailman; in our place it is considered a good omen. But I am scared again; I want to return to the conversation about that woman; I am waiting for further details. Tell me to whom or to what you could compare her, give a metaphor, give a comparison, otherwise I can’t imagine her very clearly. Dear formentor, we could compare her to the cry of a night bird, incarnated in human form, as well as to the bloom of a wilting chrysanthemum, and also to the ashes of burned-down love, yes, to the ashes, to the breath of the lifeless, to an apparition; finally, the woman who opened the door was that grandmother’s chalky angel with one broken wing; the one—well, you probably know. What a funny thing, responds Savl, I am beginning to suspect the worst, I’m desperate, this cannot be, after all I’m conversing here with you as usual, I hear your every word, I sense, feel, and see, but nevertheless, it seems that, as it appears from your descriptions, all this has, essentially, a forever diminishing meaning. But I do have the right to not believe it, to not accept it, to claim that it makes no sense, isn’t it so? With conviction. With tousled gray hair. Gesturing. Savl Petrovich, there, where the oat field ends, there, almost right away, the Lethe begins. Its shore is quite high and steep; it consists mostly of sand. At the very top of the precipice, on the grassy knoll, grow the pines. From the knoll one can see the other shore and the entire river clearly—up and down the stream. The river is dark blue and translucent; it advances its waters carefully, without hurry. As far as its width is concerned, one would be better advised to ask those rare birds that . . .They fly and don’t return. After approaching the precipice we immediately saw your house—as always it stood on that shore, in the meadows, and around it the flowers were swaying and the dragonflies were flying. Moreover, there were swifts and swallows. And you, Savl Petrovich, you sat by the water, and several fishing rods were cast with their handles secured to special Y stands. From time to time the fish would bite and the bells attached to the strings rang and woke you from a midday reverie. You would wake up, yank the line, and pull out another gudgeon. No, no, remarks the geographer, I was never able to catch even one meager fish; in our Lethe there simply are no fish, these were the tritons biting. I have to say that they are no worse than a roach or perch, maybe even better. Dried, they taste like vobla and they go very well with beer. Occasionally I sold them at the station: I carried the entire bucket and sold them there, by the beer kiosk. Sometimes while I carried them, they dried up right before my eyes, right in the bucket, of course, when it was hot. And so we approached the precipice, saw you sitting on the opposite sand bank, and greeted you: Hello, Savl Petrovich, are they biting? Bless you, you answered from the other shore, today for some reason not much, it’s a scorcher. We kept silent and one could hear how the Lethe flowed backwards. Then you asked: And you, my friends, why aren’t you in class, are you skipping? Oh no, Savl Petrovich, we came to get you. Anything happen at school? No, no, nothing, or rather this; it so happened that today you did not show up for the exam: the mountain systems, rivers, and so on—geography. Well, well, I never!—you answered—but I cannot at this time, I don’t feel good. What’s wrong with you—is it tonsillitis? Worse, kids, much worse. Savl Petrovich, wouldn’t you like to come to our shore; you have a boat and we don’t have anything; even though our boat is here, the oars are locked in the shed; we have a gift for you; we brought you a cake. Go ahead without me, friends, you said, I have absolutely no appetite and besides I don’t like sweets, thank you, don’t be shy. Fine, then we—we’ll probably eat it now. We untied the box, sliced the cake into two equal portions with our pocket knife, and started to eat. A self-propelled barge was floating by, on its deck linens were hanging on ropes and a simple girl was swinging on a swing. We waved to her with the cover from the cake box, but the girl did not notice us because she was looking at the sky. We quickly ate the cake and asked: Savl Petrovich, what should we tell Tinbergen and Perillo, when will you be back? I don’t understand, I can’t hear, you answered; let’s wait for the barge to sail away. We waited for the barge to sail away and said again: What should we tell Trachtenberg; when will you be back? I don’t know what will happen, fellows, apparently it seems that I won’t be back at all, tell her that from this Tuesday on, I’m not working for her, I am giving notice. But why, Savl Petrovich, we are quite sad; we’ll miss you, it’s so unexpected. Don’t be upset—you smiled—in the special school there are many well-qualified pedagogues besides me. But from time to time I’ll be flying in, dropping in, we’ll see each other, our relationship won’t end. Savl Petrovich, can our entire class visit you this week on the other shore? Absolutely, I’ll be happy to see you, but warn the others: No snacks are necessary; I’m experiencing a total loss of appetite. What kind of illness is it, Savl Petrovich? Well, it is not an illness, friends, it’s not an illness—you said, getting up and shaking off your pants, which were rolled up to your knees—the thing is that I died, you said, yes, died after all, darn it, I died. Of course our medical services are dreadful, but as to this—it is always precise, no mistakes; diagnosis is diagnosis: I died, you said, it simply makes me mad. Irritated.
A School for Fools Page 18
