Venedikt Yerofeev Moscow Stations A poem translated by ‘Stephen Mulrine ff aber and faber i | i | | | i { in association with Brian Brolly‘To Vadim Tikhonov, my beloved first-born, the author dedicates these tragie pages First published in Great Butain in 1997, by Faber and Faber Limited 3 Queen Square London wes 3a ‘i sesciation with ‘Brian Broly ‘This paperback edition fist published in 1598 Photosct by Avon Dataset Led, Warvckshire Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham ric, Chatham, Kent All sights reserved ‘This translation © Stephen Mulrine, 1957 Stephen Murine s hereby identified as translator ‘ofthis work in accordance with Section 77 ‘ofthe Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 088 ‘The frst translation of Mescow Stations o appearin English was by Jana Howiett published by The Waters and Readers Co-op under the title ‘Mascom Cinles in the mic-19808, Stephen Mulrine's dramatization of Moree Stotons was broadeast on BBC Radio 3 and then staged at the Traverse Theatre, Edinbutgh, i Janaary 1953, starring Tom Courtenay. The present prose tansation e published by Eber and Faber in association with Bian Broly who presented the Traverse Theatre production starring Tom Courtonay atthe Gattck Theatre, Landon, {1994 and atthe Union Square Theatre, New York, in 1995; ‘This okie soldsdjet othe condition tht if hall et iy nyo rade br others, be fent, resold, red xt or otherwise circulated wou! the Publishes prio consent i ay fr finns or coe other dan that inthichit is published and without sinilr condition including ‘his conditian being impo on the ube purchaser ACIP record fr thisbook 1s avallable from the British Library TSN o-S71-a5em-1 24681097533 Foreword Venedikt Yerofeev was born on 26 October 1938, in Poyskonda, a small town in the far north of Russia, a treeless Aretic land- scape relieved only by the watch-towers of Stalin’s labour ‘camps. Yerofeev’s father was the local stationmaster, with a reputation for womanizing and hard drinking, In the year of Yerofeev's birth, he was arrested for openly criticizing the Soviet power, and sent to the camps, where he remained until 1954. Yerofeev’s mother, to avoid the same fate, temporarily abandoned her infant son, and Yerofeev spent his early years in a children’s home near Murmansk, of which his most lasting impression was mortification ofthe flesh and a cult of physical fitness’, Despite these unpromising beginnings, Yerofeev excelled at school, and in his final year won the prestige gold medal award, his passport to what he later described as ‘that idiotic ‘monument on the Lenin Hills’, the newly built Moscow University. In an interview given in 1989, the year before his death, Yerofeev confesses that on his journey south to Moscow he saw cows and pine-trees forthe first time, He also claims to have written his first story at the age of six, a work titled Diary of a Madman’, but his serious literary ambitions date from his time at university, which was perhaps fortunately cut short by his expulsion midway through second year. Yerofeev had already begun absenting himself from lectures, out of boredom, but the last straw, as far as the univer- sity was concemed, was an incident during compulsory military training, when the Major in charge of the class in- formed the students, standing half-heartedly to attention, that the most important thing a man could possess was a straight ‘back Yerofeev couldn't resist itt ‘Those were Hermann vGoering’s words,’ he pointed out, ‘and they hanged him in 046!" After leaving university, Yerofeev drifted from one town to another, and in 1959 took up residence in Petushki, some eighty miles east of Moscow, selected apparently on a whim, and enrolled for teacher training at the Viadimir Pedagogical Institute, His second encounter with the academic world proved no happier than the first, and by 1962 not only was Yerofeew himself persona non grata with the authorities, but any student spotted in his company was liable to immediate expulsion. Nonetheless, in April of that year lectures at the Viadimis Institute had to be suspended while the ‘if-rai’, as ‘Yerofeev describes them, flocked to his wedding, His marriage to Valya Zimakova later broke up, but not before the birth of a son, who figures prominently in the novel as a focus for Yerofeev's feelings of regret During these years, when he traversed Russia like a latter- day Maxim Gorky, Yerofeey did a variety of jobs, including bricklayer’s mate, librarian, factory inspector, and cement storekeeper on the Moscow-Peking roadworks. Depending on one's point of view, Yerofeev’s most bizarre employment was either as a laboratory technician in Tadjikistan in Soviet Central Asia, waging war on the local midge population, or as a police desk-clerk at Orekhovo-Zuevo, onto whose station platform his fictional ticket-inspector drunkenly tumbles. And perhaps the comparison with Gorky is more apt than it might seem, given the extent to which Moscow Stations, even its most fantastic episodes, is grounded in Yerofeev's experience. In the same 1989 interview, Yerofeev recalls having once bartered a full bottle of vodka, which the ticket collector drank on the spot, for his train fare, and both the absurd ‘war’ on Norway and his propased demonstration of Turgenev-style true love — breaking into Party headquarters and swallowing ink - derive in some measure from an incident in which Yerofeov and his drunken cronies attempted to set fire to the local KGB office ‘Yerofeev did indeed work as a brigade leader, laying under- wt ‘ground telephone cables in Moscow and elsewhere, during a ter-year spell of continuous employment. And while one need not speculate about the authenticity of his ‘notorious system of individual performance graphs’, there is evidence that his equally celebrated ‘cocktails’ ~ Canaan Balsam, Tears of a Komsomolka, Dog's Giblets and the like ~also have a basis in fact. Western readers may regard Yerofeev’s murderous recipes as inspired fantasy, but Russian career alcoholics will, as the repeatable half a popular saying puts it, ‘drink anything that bums. And in a series of reminiscences published in the magazine Tear the year after Yerofeev’s death, more than one contributor bears witness to the writer's extraordinary drink- ing habits. A woman friend even describes having to hide bottles of expensive perfume, whenever Yerofeev visited the house. Although written in 1970, Yerofeev’s novel was not pub- lished in his homeland until 1989, when it was serialized as a cautionary tale, ironically, in a journal titled Sobriety and Culture. Only then did Yerofeev achieve local fame, as distinct from international, and the great Russian physicist Pyotr Kapitsa described Moscow Stations as being distinguished by “the most brilliant form, the most tragic content’. Yerofeev’s life was not lacking in the latter. The novel ends with the death of Venya, stabbed in the throat with a cobbler’s awl wielded by the leader, presumably Stalin, of the four Horsemen of the ‘Communist Apocalypse, who eventually run him to ground near the Kremlin, Within a few months, Yerofeev was himself stricken with an incurable cancer of the throat, in an obscene parody of Venya’s fate in the novel. His full-length dramatic fantasy, Walpurgis Night, written in 1985, also features a charac- ter who dies of a throat wound, inflicted by the spire of the Komsomol Palace of Culture. In April 1990, BBC2 screened a documentary film by Pawel Pawlikowski on Yerofeev’s life, including a poignant scene in which the writer, his vocal chords removed, cracked jokes dur ing an interview, speaking with the aid of a primitive squawk-box. Meanwhile recorded passages from the novel, read by Yerofeey himself in his resonant, mellifluous voice, were heard in the background. A month later, Yerofeev was dead, at the age of fifty-one, Regardless of the almost uncanny connections between work and life, the notion of autobiography is much too limiting. to apply to Yerofeev’s ‘poem’, as he terms it, in witich close personal friends ~ Vadim Tikhonov, for example, and Igor Avidliev (Black Moustache) ~ enter the lists along with Franco and King Olaf, not forgetting the Sphinx and Mithridates, Yerofeev claims to have written the entire work in three months, but despite its comparative brevity, Moscow Stations sweeps across time and space with cosmic ease. Strewn with quotations and allusions - literature, history, politics, philoso- phy, scripture — Yerofeev’s journey from Moscow to Petushki ‘extends infinitely beyond the 125 kilomettes of its nominal ‘rack. A recent critical study, Svetlana Geisser- Schnittmann’s The Rest is Silence, is supplemented with a reference index of around a dozen pages, yet the novel is anything but ‘heavy’. Far from it: Moscow Stations is wonderfully funny, Rabelais in ‘miniature, filtered through the dark surreal imagination of a ‘modern Gogol. And for the reader, Yerofeev’s philosophical reflections are almost invariably fixed in the mind by a comic image ~ Turgenev’s lace jabois, Schiller’s champagne foo!-bath, Mussorgsky’s ditch. His ‘scientific’ analysis of the deunken hiccup, for example, employing the Kantian categories, is introduced by a detailed account of how to achieve the desired State, fuelled on strong vodka and ‘bread that has seen better days’, which is no less entertaining for the sombre fatalism it embodies. Structurally, the novel is picaresque in character, a series of bizarre encounters and adventures in ‘real time’ or reflection, fitted loosely over the thirty-odd stations of the Moscow Petush line, It is an odyssey of sorts, an alcoholic philo- sopher’s vain quest for the land where the jasmine forever blooms and his golden-haired she-devil awaits him. But it is also a Via Dolorosa, its bleak suburban halts the stations of the cross which Venya must beat; and Yerofeev underlines this throughout the novel by direct and indirect reference to Christ's own agony: Moscow Stations is in many ways @ pro- foundly religious book, a hymn of praise to the meek who, even if they don’t inherit this earth, will atleast be te-assessed when they depart it. It is a scholarly tour-de-force, furthermore, the work of a cultured reader with near-total recall, And it is a critical record of its time, what Russians call ‘the period of stagnation’, though Yerofeev was no dissident in the accepted sense— that would have been a ‘heroic’ posture of the kind he repeatedly deplores. Nonetheless, the circumstances in which the action unfolds ~a sick economy, a demoralized people, a complex uunder-class of the disaffected, among whom we may count its narrator ~ have changed litle since the Brezhnev years, The play may have been re-cast, but its tragicomic essence remains fresh. And Yerofeev’s Venya, armed with his Russian survival kit of irony and self-deprecating black humour, still stands erect outside some Kursk Station of the mind, a monument to the resilience of the human spirit. My involvement with the work began in 1990, when I was asked by lan Brown to adapt Moskoa-Petushki for the Traverse ‘Theatre in Edinburg. Soon after its completion, the mono- logue script found its way into the hands of Faynia Williams, ‘who persuaded the Traverse to let her offer it to BBC Radio 3, where Moscow Stations duly received its first production, with ‘Tom Courtenay as Venya. He later recreated his interpretation on the Traverse stage, and with the help of Brian Brolly the play transferred to the Garrick Theatre, where Courtenay won the +1994 Evening Standard ‘Best Actor’ award forhis performance in arole that might have been designed for his unique talent. ‘Moscow Stations was later also staged in the Union Square ‘Theatre, New York. My dramatization employed perhaps less than a fifth of PsYerofeev's masterpiece, and I was painfull , as painfully aware of how ‘muuch had to be omitted, for reasons of time and structure, 1 thus owe a debt of gratitude to all the aforementioned, and ‘many others, who have made it possible for me to tran complete novel site Stephen Murine Glasgow, 1996 Preface ‘Thanks to there being only one copy; the frst edition of Moscow Stations sold out fast. Since then T have taken a good deal of criticism over the chapter titled ‘Hammer and Sickle to Kare- charovo’, all of it quite unjustified. In the preface to the first edition I did warn young ladies to skip that chapter, since the ‘words, ‘Then I promptly had a drink’, ae followed by a page and a half of ripe obscenity ~ indeed, in the whole chapter there’s nota single printable word, that is, with the exception of the phrase: ‘Then I promptly had a drink’ And of course the cxttcome ofthis well-intentioned advice was that every reader, ‘young ladies in particular, homed in immediately on Hammer and Sickle to Karacharovo’, and didn’t read the preceding ‘chapters, not even the opening words, ‘Then I promptly had a drink.’ So that’s why I've considered it necessary to cut all the foul language out ofthat chapter in the second edition. That's a better idea because first, they'll read me right through. and second, they won't take offence. Venedikt YerofeevMoscow stations Moscow. On the Way to Kursk Station Everybody says: the Kremlin, the Kremlin. They all go on about it, but F've never seen it. The number of times (thow. sands) I've been drunk o: hung over, traipsing round Moscow, north-south, east-west, end toend, straight through orany old way ~and I've never once seen the Kremlin. For instance, yesterday ~ yesterday I didn't see it again, though I was buzzing round that area the whole evening and it’s not as if was particularly drunk. I mean, as soon as | came out onto Savyelov Station, I had a glass of Zubrovka for iarters since] know from experience that as an early morning ‘pple, nobody’ so far dreamed up anything beter, Anyway, a glass of Zubrovka. Then after that - on Kalyaev Street — another glass, only not Zubrovka this time, but cori, ander vodka. A friend of mine used to say coriander had 4 dehumanizing effect on a person, ic, it refreshes your parts but it weakens your spirit. For some reason or other it had! the ‘opposite effect on me, ie, my spirit was refreshed, while my Parts went alto hell. But I do agree i's dehumanizing, so {that's why I topped itup with tivo glasses of Zhiguli beer plus some Albe-de-dessert straight from the botile, in the middle of Kalyaev Street, Of course, you're saying: come on, Venya, get on with it ~ what did you have next? And I couldn't say for sure. I remember ~I remember quite distinctly in fact ~ I had two glasses of Hunter’s vodka, on Chekhov Street, But I couldn't have made it across the Sadovy ring road with nothing to drink, I really couldn't. So { must’ve had something else Anyway, after that I walked into the city centre, because Whenever I'm looking for the Kremlin, {invariably end up at Kursk Station. Imean, I was supposed to go to Kursk Station,and not iat the city centre, but I made forthe centre xegand- less, to have a look at the Kremlin even just once. I knew I wouldn't find it anyway. I knew I'd end up at Kursk Station f'mso annoyed now I could almost cry. And it's not because I dicin’t make it to Kursk Station yesterday (shit, who cares? I didn’t get there yesterday, Ill doit today). And it’s not because {woke up this morning in some godforsaken entry. (Seems Ta sat down on the entry step, actually the fortieth, counting from ‘ground level, pressed my litte suitcase to my heart, and fallen asleep just like that.) No, what's annoying me is this: I've just Worked it out, that from Chekhov Street up to that entry T must've drunk more than six roubles’ worth - but of what, aad ‘where? And in what order? And did I drink it for good ov ill? Nobody knows, and now nobody'll ever know. I mean, to this day we don’t know whether Tsar Boris killed the Crown Prince Dmitri, or the other way round. What sort of place was this entry? I still havent a clue, but that’s asit should be, Same with everything ~everything ought tc happen stowly, and out of joint, so we don’t get above ourselves, so we remain miserable and confused. Anyway, when I came out this morning into the fresh air it ‘was already dawn. And if you've ever fetched up unconscious insome entry, and emerged from it at dawn, well, you'll know ‘what a heavy heart [bore down the forty steps ofthat godfor. saken piace, and out onto the street, Still, what the hell I said, it doesn’t matter. Look, there’s a chemist’; you see? And over there ~ there's some old bugger in a brown jacket scraping the pavement, So, relax. Every. thing's fine. If you want to go left, Veny, go left, 'mm net forcing you, Ifyou want to go right, then go right So | went right practically staggering from cold and grief, yes, cold and grief. Oh, that morning burden on the heart! Oh, the unreality of calamity! Oh, the irredeemable moment! What does it mostly consist of, that burden which nobody's yet found a name for? Paralysis, or nausea? Nervous exhaustion, or a deathly sadness somewhere in the vicinity of the heart? And if it's in equal parts, then what's it got most of, al in all? por, or fever? wind and go quietly. And breathe only now and then. Take the oid breath, s0 your fet dant graze the back of your knees. Yes, and go somewhere. Anywhere. Even if you go left, you'll wind up at Kursk Station, and if you go straight ahead, you'll get to Kursk Station just the same. So, go right, and you'll get there for sure. Oh, vanity of vanities! ; Oh, transience! Oh, that most impotent shameful tame inthe life of my people — the hours between dawn and opening time! How many extra grey hairs has it woven into us all, all us homeless and homesick brunettes! Go, Venya, go ‘Moscow. Kursk Station Square You see, didn’t I tell you? You go right, and you'll definitely wind up at Kursk Station, You were fed up with thse litle byray eng, you waned a bitof wel now you've gt it Oh, piss off [told myself, do you really think I want this You think want all these people? Imean even Our Redeemer said ~and to his own mother, mind: What ar¢ thou to me? So what's this nasty seething mass got to do with me, indeed? Ta better find a pillar to Tean against, and shut my eyes ight, so I won't feel so sick... "ceva srgout om Shih en softy and oo sweetly: “Phat right, Vega pet, just shut your eyes tight, and you Pontoon ia: voice! It's them again! The angels of the "er of cuss they sng and again 0 sweat “And do you know something, angels? Tsaid, just as softly. “What? said the angels.“Lec terrble’ I said. “That's right, we know you do’ sang the angels. ‘But you just fave abi ofa wll, you'l fel better andi be opening time in half am hour, Ofcourse, there'll ben vodka tl nine, bu they give you ‘spot of red firs thing... ‘Red wine?” ‘Rel wine’ chorused the angels of the Lond again. “Nicely chilled?” “Of course chilled. Oh, I got so excited! ‘All right, you're telling me to keep moving, and I'l feel better, But I can’t be bothered. Imean, you know what it’s ike for somebody in my condition, just walking, even,’ After that, the angels went quiet for abit. Then they started. singing again: “Tell you tohat~ why not try the station buf? They might lace something. They had sherry there yesterday, and they couldn't have drunk all the sherry in one night!” “es, yes — Ill do that, 11 ty them right now. Thank you, angels!” And they sang out so sofily: “Your good health, Venya” And then again, oh, so sweetly: ‘Feel fre! Now, wasn’t that nice of them? Well, anyway, if you've got 10 g0.... And it’s just as well I bought the presents yesterday ~ Tmean, no way can you go to Petushki without the prezzies. Actually, it was the angels reminded me about the presents, because the people they were bought for remind me of angels, $0, isa good thing I did buy them. Yes, but when did you buy them? Think. .. Start walking, and think Anyway; I crossed the Square ~ dragged myself over it, rather Two or three times Thad to stop, just freeze on the spot, to Keep the nausea down. You see, a man doesn’t only have a physical side, he’s also got a spiritual side, and beyond that there's a sort of mystical side, And here's me, in the middle of the Square, about to be sick any minute from all three sides! $0 stopped and froze again. Right then, when did you buy these presents yesterday? 4 ‘Was it after the Hunter's vodka? No, Twas in no condition to buy presents after that. Between the first and second glass, maybe? No, no way. There was a thirty-second gap between them, but I'm not Superman, I could’t have got anywhere in thirty seconds. Besides which, not even Superman would've managed a second glass, he'd have collapsed after the first. So when was it then? Oh, merciful God, how many mysteries there are in this world! An impenetrable curtain of mysteries! Was it before the coriander, or between the beer and the Alte- desdessert? Moscow. Kursk Station Buffet No, it wasn't between the beer and the Albe-de-desser, there definitely wasn'ta gap between them. Maybe it was before the coriander, that’s quite possible. Actually, no, T bought the nuts, ‘before the coriander, and the sweets afterwards. Or maybe it was the other way round: once I'd had a drink of coriander, = “No spirits here!” That was the bouncer, looking at me like I was some sort of dead bird, ora soiled buttercup. “No spirits” Las in despair totally crashed, but I sill managed to mumble something about not having come infor that anyway, What odds did it make why I was there? I mean, maybe my train to Perm didn’t want to go there for some reason, and I'd just dropped in to have a bit of beef stroganoff and listen to Ian Kozlovsky, or something from The Barber of Seville ‘Anyway, fd got my litle suitcase with me, same as in that ‘entry, so I pressed it to my heart and waited to order. No spirits! Mother of Godt! I mean, if you believe the angels, this place was swimming in sherry. Now they've got nothing but music, yes, and music with some sort of godawful chord 5sequence, to boot. Tt actually was Ivan Kozloveky singing, 1 knew that voice right away, it's so disgusting, Singers have all ‘got disgusting voices, every one of them, but they're each dis- gusting in their own way. That's why I can easily tell them apart. And it was Ivan Kozlovsky, of course. ‘O-o-oh, the chalice of my fore-fcavathers....O-o-oh, just let me gaze on you by sta-a- ar-light. ..’ Oh yes, Ivan Kozlovsky, for sute. ‘O-o-0h, tohy am I 50 encha-a-anted by you... Don’t turn me do-o-oron ..” “D'you want to order” Js that all you've got — just music?" ‘Whatd'you mean, “just music”? We've got beef stroganoff, pastries, cow's udder...” Tielt a wave of nausea again. “What about sherry?’ ‘We've got no sherry. “That's funny. You've got cow’s udder, but no sherry?" “Extre-e-emely funny, that’s right, Udder yes, sherry no.’ And I was left on my own. Anyway, to keep down the ‘nausea, Istarted looking at the chandelier just above my head. lt-was anice chandelier. Abit too heavy, though. I mean, ifit ‘were torip out and fall down on a person’shead, i¢d be terribly painful .-. No, on second thoughts, it wouldn’t even be pain- ful; while it rips out and flies down, you'd be sitting here all unsuspecting, drinking sherry, say. And by the time it reached ‘you, you'd no longer be in the land of the living. That's a de- pressing thought: you're sitting here, and poised right above you the chandelier Yes, a very depressing thought. Well, actually no ~ why depressing? I mean, okay, you're drinking your sherry, you've already had a hair ofthe dog it's not such a depressing thought then ... But let's say you're sitting here seriously hung over, and you haven't had a hair of the dog yet, and they wont give you any sherry, and on top of, that you've got thai chandelier coming down on your head, now that is serious. That's an extremely depressing thought. ‘The sort of thought not everybody can cope with. Especially if they're hung over. Okay, you might agree to it if they made you an ofr: like, we'll bring you Boo grammes right now, they'l say, if you let us unhook that chandelier over your head and “Right, have you made your mind up? Do you want some- thing?” ‘Tl have sherry, please. 800 grammes.” ‘Look, who are you kidding, chum? You've already been told, in plain language, there's no sherry!” “Fine, ll just wait till you've got some’ “You'lljust wait? Like hell you will. Il give you sherry right ‘And I'm left on my own again. Watching the woman walk away, I felt some disgust. Especially at her white stockings, with no seams, Seams would've calmed me down, maybe, un- burdened my soul and conscience. Why are people so rude, ch? And why are they particularly sade, just when they shoulda’tbe, when you've got a hangover and all your nerves are exposed, when you're feeling weak and pusillanimous? I mean, why? Itell you. ifthe whole world, and everybody in it, was as weak and frightened as Tam now, and as unsure of everything ~ unsure of themselves, their place in the schome of things ~ itd be a far better place. No more en- thasiasts, no heroic deeds, no commitment, just general all round pusillanimity! I be content to live on this earth forall elemity, if somebody’d just show me a corner of it where there's not always room for heroics. ‘General pusillanimity’ ~ yes, that’s our remedy forall ills, our panacea, our guarantee of ultimate perfection! But as for the up-and-doing side of our natures ‘Who's asking for sherry?” ‘Two women and a man, towering over me, all three in white looked up at them, and there must've been a great deal of ugliness and confusion in my eyes —I knew that from them, from their eyes, since that ugliness and confusion was reflected there. I felt completely crushed, and lost all heart “L wasn't really asking, honestly... T ean, I don’t mind if 7there's no sherry, Yl wait. It's just that I'm—" “What d'you mean “just”? What d’'you mean, you'll wait?” ‘Arsnothing, really I's just that I'm going to Petushiki, to see ‘my best git] (Hah! His best girl, he says!). Look, I've bought some presents ‘And those butchers waited to see what] would say next. ‘V'ma from Siberia, you see, I’m an orphan ... Tjust wanted a drop of sherry, so as nat to be sick...” Well, thet was a mistake, the sherry again ~ that set them off. They grabbed me by the collar, all three of them, and frogmarched me right across the room ~ oh, the shame! — ight across the room, and flung me out into the street, And my litte suitcase with the presents, they flung that out after me t00. Out again. Out into the howling wildemess, the grinning jaws of life! ‘Moscow. To the Train via the Off-Licence Well, what happened next -between that station buffet and the off-licence, between the off-licence and the train, the tongue of| man cannot express. I won't even try. And supposing the angels had 2 go, they'd just burst out crying, they wouldn't be able to get anything out for tears. Thave a better idea. Why don’t we dedicate a minute's silence to those two terrible hours? Yes, cast your mind back to those hours, Venya. In times of joy, on the happiest, most scin- tillating days of your life, remember those hours. At moments of sheer bliss and rapture ~ keep them in mind. They must never be repeated, So I call out to all those nearest and dearest to me, to all men of goodwill, to all whose hearts are open to poetzy and compassion: ‘Stop whatever you're doing, Pause ‘with me, and observe a minute's silence for that which is inex- 8 pressible. And if you have any sort of old hooter lying around, then give that hooter a good blast” So ~ I stop too, and stand in the middle of Kursk Station Square like a statue, bleary-eyed, staring at the railway clock for precisely one minute. My hair's blowing in the breeze, standing up on end, billowing out again. Taxis flow round me on all four sides ~ people as well, giving me funny looks. No doubt they're debating whether or not should be sculpted like that, for the edification of the peoples of antiquity. ‘Sudcienly the silence is broken by a husky female bass, pour- ing down out of nowhere: ‘Attention! he train for Petushki will leave from Platform Four at 8.16, calling at Hammer and Sickle, Chukhlinka, Reutovo, Zheleznodorozhnaya and all stations beyond except Yesino But I stay put. “Trepeat ~ the train for Petushki will leave from Platform Four at 8.16, calling at Hammer and Sickle, Chukhlinka, Reutovo, Zheleznodorozhnaya, and all stations beyond except Yesino..” Okay, that’sit. The minute's over. And now, of course, you'll start firing questions at me: ‘So, you're on your way from the shop, Venya?” “Yes, yes, from the shop.” ‘And I carry on walking towards the platform, my head tilted to the lef. “And your little suitcase is heavy now, right? And there’s a song in your heart, right?” “Well, [don’t know about that/ T say tilting my head to the right. My suitcase is heavy, yes, but it’s a bit early to say about the song...” “So what did you buy, Venya, for God's sake tell us, we're dying to know!’ ‘Yes, [ can see that. Right then, hang on, and Ill just check: okay there's two bottles of Kuban vodka, at two roubles 62 apiece, that’s five roubles 24 altogether. Then there's two quarter-litres of Rossiiskaya, at a rouble 64, that's five 24 plus 9three 28 ~ eight roubles, 52 kopecks. And some sort of red—oh yes, a fortified rosé at a rouble 37. “Right, right’ you're saying, ‘but what's it come to al- together? I mean, this is fantastically interesting ...’ “Okay, just wait a sec and Il give you the total ... Right I say, stepping onto the platform, ‘the sum total is nine roubles, 89 kopecks. Actually, [had to buy a couple of sandwiches, so's not fo throw up’ ‘Venya, don’t you mean, “so as not to feel sick”?” ‘No, [say what T mean. Ian’t manage the fist cose without «bite to eat, in case I throw up. But the second and third I can, drink straight, since even if feel sick, there’s no way I'm going to throw up. And that applies right up to the ninth. At which point I need another sandwich’ “And why's that? You'll feel sick again?” "No, no, I told you — there’s no way Ill feel sick, but ll cer- tainly throw up.” Well, of course, you're all nodding your heads a that. can see even from here, from this wet platform, all you people scattered across my country, nodding your heads and getting, readly to be ironic. “Ooh, Venya, that’s complicated! That's so subtle!” “Isn't it just” “Such clarity of thought! And is that al? Is that all you need tobe happy, eh? Nothing else?” ‘What d'you mean “nothing else” I say, stepping into the carriage. ‘mean, if Yd had a bit more money, I'd have bought some beer, and a couple of bottles of port, but there you are...’ This really gets you going. ‘Ooh, Venya, love — ooh, you're so primitive!” “Well, so what? What if Tam primitive? Isay. Anyway, that’s the end of that conversation. Primitive, indeed! I'm not answer- ing any more of your questions. I'l just sit here and hug my litle suitcase to my heart, and look out of the window. Like so. ‘Primitive, huh!’ But you keep on at me. = 7 [ ‘What's the matter, are you offended?” °No, of course not! I say. “Don’t take offence. We don’t mean you any harm. We just want to know why you're hugging your suitcase like that, like 1 simpleton. It’s because the vodka’s in there, isn’t it’ Right, now [ really am offended. What's the vodka got to do with it? Obviously you can't talk about anything else but vodka “Citizen passengers! This is the train for Petushki Sta- tion, calling at Hammer and Sickle, Chukhlinka, Reutovo, Kuchino, Zheleznodorozhnaya, and all stations beyond except Yosino.. mean, what's vodka got to do with it? You're obsessed with vodka, that’s what! I was hugging it to my heart in the buffet, and there wasn’t any vodka in it then. No, not so mach as a sniffl Anyway, ifyou want the full story, Il tell you, but you'll have to wait, I've just got to get a hair of the dog at Hammer and Sickle, and then: Moscow to Hammer and Sickle 1H tel al, absolutely everything. Just be patient. I mean, ve got to be patient, haven't Of course, everybody thinks I’m no good. Actually, when I'm hung over in the mornings I'm of the same opinion. But really, how can you trust the opinion of a person who hasn't yet hhad a hait of the dog? Now in the evenings ~ oh, God, what depths I can reveal! ~ always assuming, of course, T've had a good skinful during the day ~ in the evenings I'm truly un- fathomable. ‘Well, okay, I'm no good, 90 what? In general terms, I'd say a person who feels lousy in the morning, and who's buzzing, with ideas in the evening, full of dreams and schemes, is justvo good at al, Rotten mornings, and great evenings, area sure sign of a bad person. But if it’s the other way round ~ if some- body's bright and cheerful first thing, full of hope, and then totally knackered by evening, they’se nothing bat garbage, narrow-minded mediocrities. Complete shits, in my view. I don’t know about you, but I reckon they're shits. Of course, there are people to whom morning and evening are all the same, sunrise and sunset equally pleasing — people like that are straightforward bastards, it disgusts me even to talk about them. Then again, if somebody feels lousy morning and evening alike, well Ijust don’t know what to say, that’s the last word in scum, a complete dickhead. I mean, the off- licences stay open till nine at night, and the Yeliseev’s open till eleven, for God's sake, and if you're not a scumbag, you can, always manage lift-off to somewhere by evening, you can surely reach some sort of shallow depths ‘Well, anyway, what have I got? Took everything out of my little suitcase, and gave it the ‘once-over, from the sandwiches to the fortified rosé ata rouble 37. Iran my fingers over it, and suddenly felt depressed and jaded. Oh, Lord, you see before You everything I possess But is this what I need? Is this what my soul hungers for? No, this is what people have given me instead. And if they'd given me what my soul hungers for, would I really have needed this? You see, Lord? Have a look ~ fortified rosé at a rouble 37 And the Lord, wreathed in blue lightning, answered: ‘So what did Saint Teresa need with her stigmata, then? They ‘weren't what she needed. They were what she desired.’ “That's tight!” I cried out in ecstasy. ‘That's the same as me~ this is what I desired, but no way is it what need! ‘Okay, Venya, Isaid to myself, ‘if this is what you desire, go, head endl czink it’ But hung on fora bit~ was the Lord going. ‘to say anything more? ‘The Lond was silent, Fair enough, then. I took a quarter tre and went out to the ‘end of the corridor, Fine. My spisi’s been languishing in jail for a the past four and a half hours, now Iletit out for walkie. I've got my glass, and I've got my sandwich, so as not to feel sick, ‘And this is my soul, just barely opening up to impressions of its existence. Come share my simple repast, O Lord! Hammer and Sickle to Karacharove ‘Then I promptly had a drink. Karacharovo to Chukhlinka ‘And once I'd done that, well, you should've seen me, holding. my eyes tight shut for ages, trying to keep down the nauses effing and blinding. Five minutes, seven, an absolute eternit rushing round inside those four walls, with my hands gripping iy throat, praying God to have merey on me. ‘And all the way to Karacharovo ~ that's right, fom Hammer and Sickle to Karacharovo ~ the Lord remained deaf to my entreaties. One minute the glass I'd drunk lay smoking some- where between my belly and my gut, next minute it was shooting up and falling back down again. Itwas like Vesuvius, Herculaneum and Pompeii, like the May Day salute in my country’s capital. And I suffered and prayed .. Yes, not until Karacharovo did the Lord hear my prayer. It all settled down then, and peace was restored. And with me, once things settle down and go quiet, well, it’s irreversible ‘And that's for sure. I've too much respect for Nature, it would be churtish to return her gifts. Yes, indeed. So, I smoothed my hair down a bit and went back into the carriage. The passengers looked at me almost apathetically, 3with their round, seemingly vacant eyes Now, I ike that. like the way people in our country have such vacant, bulging eyes. It instils in me a legitimate feeling of pride. I mean, you can imagine what eyes are like Over ‘There, where they're all rushing around buying and selling: deep-set, secretive shifty eyes, full of fear. .. Devaluation, un- employment, poverty ... Those sort of eyes peer out at you suspiciously, tormented with worry ~ that’s what eyes are like in ready-money land. But my people's eyes are something else again. They bulge non-stop without the slightest sense of strain, Utterly devoid of thought, but such power! (Yes, spiritual power!) Byes like that won't sell out. They'll buy and sell nothing. No matter what happens to my country, in times of doubs, times of the gravest misgivings, periods of whatever torment and misery, eyes like that don’t even blink. It’s all in God's hands. Yes, [like my people. I'm glad I was bor here and grew to ‘manhood under the gaze of those eyes. Just one thing, though suppose they noticed what I was doing out there in the cor- ridot? Cartwheeling from comer to comer like the great opera singer Chaliapin, with my hands at my throat, as if Twas boing choked? ‘Oh, what the hell - supposing they did see me? I could've been rehearsing something, Yes, that’s it -T could've been re- hearsing that immortal tragedy Othello, the Moor of Venice, play- ing all the parts at once, say. Like, for instance, I could’ve been unfaithful to myself, betrayed my own convictions. Or rather, ve begun to suspect myself of infidelity, and Iwhisper some really frightful stuff into my own ear! And so there Tam, I've fallen in love with myself on account of my suffering, as much as my own person, and I start to strangle myself. Yes, I take hold of my own throat, and start choking, Oh, who the hell cares what I was doing! Anyway, over by the window on the right are two men. One of them’s wearing a bodywarmer and looks really thick; the other's in a heavy overcoat and looks really intelligent. And ry they're sitting there cool as you like, pouring and drinking. ‘They're not running out to the end of the carriage, wringing, their hands. The really stupid one has a drink, belches, and says, Ooh, fucking hell, that hit the spot!’ And the really intel- ligent one has a drink and says, ‘Tran — scen — dent ~ all’ As if he couldn't give a shit! And then the really stupid one has abit to eat and says, “This tastes fan-ta-a-astic today! Talk about sit up and beg!’ And the really intelligent one goes on chewing and says, ‘Ye-e-es. .. Tran ~scen~ dental...’ Amazing! I go into the carriage and sit down, still in agon- ies, wondering whether or not they've taken me for the Moor. Did they think the worst of me, or what? Meanwhile they're Knocking it back quite openly, like the lords of creation, in the full consciousness of their superiority over the rest of us. ‘Talk about sit up and beg!” I mean, when Thave a hair of the dog in the mornings, 'm in hiding from heaven and earth alike, be- cause this is the most intimate of intimacies. If drink before ‘work, Ido it on the sly. IT drink at work, that’s on the sly £00, but these people! “Tran — scen — dent — al!” Vm too sensitive, that’s my trouble. It blighted my entire youth, childhood and boyhood. Or rather it’s not so much that I was too sensitive, it's just that I had infinitely extended the sphere of the intimate, and that’s been my downfall many a time. Yl give you an example. I remember about ten years ago I ‘went to live in Orekhovo-Zuevo. When I moved in there were already four other blokes in this one room, so I was the fifth, and we were like soul-brothers, never a cross word between us. I mean, if one of us fancied some port, he'd get up and say, ‘Right, lads, I fancy a drop of port’ And the others would say, ‘Great idea ~we'll have a drop too’ And if one of us fancied a beer, then we all had to have one. ‘Tertfic. But I suddenly started to notice that the other four were sort of drifting away from me, whispering, and giving me fanny looks, watching me whenever I went out. It was weird, and just a bit alarming. And I could see the same kind of 15anxiety, and fear, even, on their fizzogs. ‘What's going on?” I agonised. ‘Why are they doing this?” ‘Then one night found out why they were acting that way. I remember I hadn’teven got up out of bed. I'd drunk some beer and got depressed, so I was just lying there, fed up. And I see the four of them quietly surrounding me ~ two at the head of the bed, and two at the foot. And they're looking me straight in the eye, accusingly, with the sort of bitter look of people who can't get access to some secret I'm harbouring. Something's happened, obviously. “Right, you listen ~ just pack that in!" ‘Pack what in?’ Isat up, surprised. “Thinking you're superior to the rest of us, that’s what~ that ‘We're just small fry, and you're Cain and Manfred.’ “What are you on about” ‘This is what we're on about - you've been drinking beer today, right?” Chukhlinka to Kuskovo "Yes. ‘A lot of beer?” es! ‘Right then, get up and go. ‘Go where?” “Where do you think? You see? There you go again — we're Aleabites, we're just garbage, and you're Cain and Manfred’ ‘ey, hold on, I've never once suggested ~" “Oh, you've suggested it all right. From the minute you moved in here, every single day, you've suggested it, Not in word, butin deed, No, not even in deed, but in the absence of a deed. You've suggested it negatively.’ 6 - ‘What “deed”? What “absence”?’Istared at them wide-eyed in astonishment. "You know perfectly well what deed. You never go to the toilet, that’s what. We knew right off there was something, funny about you. From the day you moved in here, we've never once seen you go to the toilet. Fair enough, if it was just Number Two, but it’s not even Number One ~ not even wee- wees!’ And all this without a smile, as if they were mortally, offended. “Look, lads, you've got me all wrong... It’s just that I...” ‘No, we've got your mumber all right” 'No,no, you haven't, I's just that Ican’tdo it like you. Ican’t just get up off the bed, and announce it publicly, “Right, lads, Tm off for a piss!” of, “Right, lads, 'm off fora crap!” Ican’t do it’ “And why can't you do it? We can, but you can't? That means you're better than us! We're filthy beasts, and you're the lily-white boy!” “No, no... Look, how can I explain this to you?! “There’s nothing to explain, it's perfectly clear’ ‘No, listen, listen. You've got to understand. It's just there are certain things in life’ “Hey, we know as well as you what things there are, and what arent” just couldn’t make any headway with them. They pierced right through to my soul with those grim expressions. I started. tocavein. “Well, I'can, obviously. .. I could just .. “You see? You see? You can do it, same as us. But we can’t do the same as you. That means you can do anything, and we can do nothing. You're Cain and Manfred, and we're just some- thing you picked up on your shoe!” Weil at that point I got totally confused. ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘There are certain things in life ~ certain areas... I mean, it's not that easy, just to get up and go... “Cause there’s such a thing as self-control, right? There’s.a kind Yof shame, sort of a holy precept, ever since the days of Tur- genev ~ and then later, Herzen’s oath on the Sparrow Hills. ‘And really after that, just to stand up and say, “Right, lads", well, it’s offensive, somehow, I mean, if you have a sensitive soul...’ Al four of them stood looking daggers at me. I shrugged, and tailed off, helplessly. “You pack in that Turgenev crap, and watch what you're saying. We've read him too, you know. just tell me this: have you been drinking beer today "Yes. "How many jars?” “Two big ones and one small’ “Right then, get up and go now. And we'll all watch you Stop trying to humiliate us and torment us. Get up and go!” Well, what the hell I got up and went. Not to relieve myself, you understand. To relieve them. And when I got back, one of them said: "You know, with an outlook like yours, you're al- ways going to be lonely an miserable” ‘Yes, and he was absolutely right. know a good few of God's intentions, but to this day I've never been able to figure out why He should have burdened me with such modesty. And what's really funny is that this modesty of mine has been so perversely interpreted that I've been denied even the most elementary courtesies. In Pavlovo-Posad, for instance, they take me to see the girls. and introduce me thus: ‘Here he is, ladies — this is the famous Venya Yerofeev. He's famous for lots of things, but actually his {greatest claim to fame is that in his entire life he’s never once farted.” “What Not once?” The ladies are all eyes, gaping at me in astonishment. ‘Ne-e-ever?” OF course, I get all embarrassed. [mean, [ean'thelp getting ‘embarrassed in the presence of ladies. And I say: ‘Well, not really never... Now and again ~I suppose...’ “What!” The ladies are even more astonished. ‘Yerofeev, 8 = that’s weird! - “Now and again, I suppose!” ‘And I'm completely thrown by this, and say something like: ‘Anyway, what's so... What's s0 special about ...Tmean, I'm just. ...[mean, farting’s really quite noumenal. There's nothing, phenomenal about it~ about farting, that is...” ‘Well, well, just fancy!’ The ladies are absolutely stunned Later on, though, they broadcast it all over the Petushkk line: ‘Hee does it out loud, and he says what he's doing isn’t bad! He says it’s actually good!” So, you see? And that’s how it's always been. I've been haunted by this nightmare my whole life. And the nightmare isn't that people misinterpret you — that wouldn't bother me — 1, it's the fact that they take the exact opposite meaning, at a really swinish low level, ie, antinonially Tcould say a lot more on this subject, but if Istart giving you the whole story, itl sitetch right up to Petushki. So I'd better not tell al, I'l just give you one solitary example, since it’s the freshest in my mind: about how T lost my brigade leader's job a week ago, on account of: ‘introducing a corrupt system of individual performance graphs’. Yes, the entire Moscow ‘management trembles with fear at the very memory of those graphs. But really, what was 60 terrible about them? Hold on - where are we now? Kuskovo! We're grinding through Kuskovo without stop- ping! Well, in honour of the occasion I ought to have another rink, but I’d better tell you this from the beginning Kuskovo to Novogireyevo «+ then Iwill go and have a drink. ‘Anyway; it was a week ago they fired me from my brigade leader's job, four weeks after they appointed me. You know yourself, you can’t make radical changes in four weeks, and 1 9didn’t introduce any, so even if anybody thought [had, well, they dida’t give me the bullet for radical changes. ‘Actually, it was a lot simpler. Before my time, our produc- tion schedule looked like this in the morning we would sitand play three-card brag for money (you know how to play brag? Okay: After that we'd get up, unroll a drum of cable and lay it underground, Then, obviously, we'd sit back down ond kill, some time, each in his own way. I mean, everybody has a dif ferent temperament, different aspirations; one would be drinking vermouth; another, slightly more basic, Fraicheur eau- de-cologne; and the ones with a bit of class would be on the cognac at Sheremetyevo airport. Then we'd go to sleep. And the next morning, well, first we'd sit down and have a drink of vermouth. Then we'd whip yesterday's cable back up out the ground and chuck it away, because it'd got soaked through, naturally. After that ~ shit, what the hell? We'd sit down and play brag for money again. And we'd fall asleep without finishing the game. ‘Next moming early, we'd wake each other up: Hey, Lyokha, come on, get up and play brag!” ‘Stasik, get up and finish yee terday’s hand!’ And we'd get up and finish the game. Then, beforeit got light, befoze daybreek, without a drop of Fraicheer or vermouth, we'd grab a drum of cable and start unwinding itso it'd get soaked through and useless for next day. Where- upon each would turn to his own, because everybody has their own ideals. And so on, back to the beginning again. Anyway, when I took over as brigade leader I rationalised the whole process, and this is what we did now: we would play brag one day, drink vermouth the next, play brag again the third day, and on the fourth back to vermouth again. Mean- while, the intelligentsia disappeared altogether at Sheremet- yevo, and sat there drinking cognac, Needless to say, we didn’t lay a finger on the cable dram — in fact if Yd so much as suggested touching the drum, they'd have pissed themselves laughing, and punched my lights out, before splitting up into brag-players, vermouth-drinkers, and them as drank Fraicheur. | | | So, for a time everything went like clockwork: we'd send off our Socialist pledges once a month, and they'd send us our money once a fortnight. We would write, for example; “To mark, the occasion of V. I. Lenin's forthcoming centenary, we pledge ‘ourselves to eliminate industrial injuries.’ Or else we'd write: ‘On the occasion of the glorious centenary, we shall strive to censure that every sixth worker takes a correspondence course at an institute of higher education.’ I mean, injuries and in- stitutes, for Christ's sake, and we're tucked out of sight playing, brag, and there's only the five of us anyway! Oh liberty and equality! Oh, fraternity and freeloading! Oh, sweet unaccountability! Oh, that most blessed time in the life of my people, the hours between opening and closing! Yes, having cast aside shame and all care, we lived the life of the spirit exclusively. I broadened their horizons as best 1 could, and they enjoyed having them broadened, especially when it concerned Israel and the Arabs. They were in an ab- solute transport of delight - truly in ecstasies about both Israel and the Arabs, and, in particular, the Golan Heights. Abba Eban and Moshe Dayan were never far from theit lips. They'd tum up in the morning after a randy night out, for instance, and one would say to the other: ‘Well, how'd it go with that Nina in No. 33, did you abba?’ And back he'd come with a smug grin, “You bet ~ she was just davan for it” ‘And later on — listen to this - later on, when they found out how Pushkin had died, I gave them Alexander Blok’s poem to read, “The Nightingale Garden’. Right at the centre of the poem ~ that is, if you cast aside all those perfumed shoulders and impenetrable mists, the rosy towers in their smoky vestments, ‘etc, ~at the very heart of the poem is a tragic figure, dismissed from his job for drunkenness, whoring and absenteeism. And T said to them: This is a very contemporary work’ I said. ‘You'll find it extremely valuable.’ So, what then? They read it, and in spite of everything, it actually had a depressing effect on them. Fraicheur vanished out of all the shops. I've no idea why, but three-card brag was forgotten, vermouth was forgotten, Shere-‘metyevo Intemational was forgotten — and Fraicheur emerged triumphant, they drank nothing but Fraicheus! ‘Oh, halcyon days! Oh, birds of heaven, that store not up in sgranaries! Oh, lilies ofthe field, arrayed more splendidly than Solomon! They drank up all the Fraicheur between Dolgo- prudnaya Station, and Sheremetyevo International Airport! Yes, that was when it suddenly struck me: you're a total dimwit, Venya, a complete numskull: I mean, didn’t you read in some philosopher or other, that the good Lord only concerns Himself with the fate of princes, confident that He can leave the fate of the people in their hands? And here you are a bri- gade leader, yet, and as it might be, a‘ittle prince’. Right then, where the hell’s your concern forthe fate of your people? Have you looked into the souls of these parasite, into their be- anighted souls? Eh? The dialectic ofthe heart of these four shit heads - are you familiar with it? If you had been, you'd have understood the common factor between “The Nightingale Garden’ and Frafchewr, and why "The Nightingale Garden’ just couldn’t live with brag and ver- mouth, while they could get along perfectly happily wi Moshe Dayan and Abba Eban! Well, anyway, that was when I worked up my notorious ‘in- dividual graphs’, on account of which they eventually sacked Novogireyevo to Reutovo Shall [tell you what they were like? There's really nothing to itt ona sheet of vellum, in Indian ink you draw two axes: one horizontal, the other vertical. On the horizontal, you set out all the working days for the past month; on the vertical, the quantity of booze consumed at work, estimated in grammes of pure alcohol. Boozing after work is, of course, more or less 22 2 constant and can offer nothing of interest to the serious researcher. Anyway, at the end of the montha worker comes to me with his report: on such-and-such a day, I drank this much of what ever, on such-and-such another day, that much, etc. And I, with Indian ink on vellum, work all that up as a beautiful diagram. Here, for instance, is the chart of one Victor Totoshkin, Kom- somol member: enjoy . BEER ‘And this is Alexei Blindyaev, Communist Party member since 1936, and shagged-out old creep: eeeey And behold —your humble servant, ex-brigade leader of the OTC cable layers, and author of the poem Moscow Stations: Seo: 12 sore ae Interesting lines, n’est-ce pas? 1 mean, even on the most superficial inspection, fascinating. On the frst, the Himalayas, the Tyrol, the Baku oilfields, even the top of the Kremlin wall, (which P've never seen, incidentally). On the second, a breeze on the river Kama just before dawn, all gentle plashes and rip- pling beads of lantern light. On the third, the beating of a 33proud heart, the Song of the Stormy Petrel, the Ninth Wave. ‘Yes, and all this from a mere outline. Anyway, to the seeker after truth (like myself, for example), those lines let every cat out of every bag about man and the +human heart: about his virtues, from the sexual to the practical, and his failings, from the practical to the sexual; about his Gegree of mental equilibrium, his aptitude for treachery, and. all the secrets of his subconscious, if indeed he’s got any. So, I now scrutinized with intense interest the souls of each. cone of those dozy buggers. Not for long, however: one un- happy day al the graphs vanished from my table. Yes, that old fart, Alexei Blindyaev, Communist Party member since 1936, was posting out to head office our latest Socialist pledge, in which we had sworn, on the occasion of the forthcoming centenary, to be exactly the same in our daily lives as we were at work ~ and whether from stupidity or drink, he put my individual graphs into the same envelope ‘The instant I spotted they were missing, Ihad a stiff drink and clutched my head. Likewise at admin, when they got the packet, they clutched their heads, had a drink, and drove out that same day ia their Moskvich to our site. So what did they unearth, when they burst into our office? Nothing but old Alexei and Stasik - Alexei was having a kip on the floor, rolled up into a litte ball, and Stasik was puking. Quarter of an hour and it was all over: my lucky star, which had flared up for four weeks, passed out of sight. My Crucifixion took place exactly thirty days after my Ascension. One month, that was all, be- ‘ween my Toulon and my St Helena, In short, they gave me the bullet, and replaced me with Alexei Blindyaey, decrepit old git and Communist Party member since 1936. As for him, the instant he was appointed he got up off the floor and asked them for a rouble ~ which they didn’t give him. Stasik stopped puking and asked for a rouble as well- they wouldn’t give him one either. Then they had a swig of red wine, climbed into their Moskvich and drove back to head office. And solemnly sweer to you now, that to the end of my days 24 I shall embark upon nothing which might bring about a repetition of my unhappy experience of life at the top. I shall remain atthe bottom, and from down there spit on your whole social ladder. Yes. One spit for each rung. To climb upiit, you've got tobe a heathenish, thick-skinned bastard, a pervert, forged ‘out of pure steel from head to foot. Which I'm not. Anyway, they gave me the bullet, Me, the thoughtful prince, the analyst so lovingly sifting through the souls of his people, yes, me~ Iwas regarded by those at the bottom as a scab and collaborator, and by those atthe top asa headbanger and a bit of a waster. The lower orders didn’t want to see me at all, and the higher-ups couldn't mention my name without laughing. “The ruling classes couldn’t, and the working classes ‘wouldn't’ So whatdoes al this signify, you connoisseurs of the philosophy of history? You're dead right: next payday I'll get done over, in accordance with the laws of Goodness and Beauty, and since next payday’s the day after tomorrow, that ‘means day after tomorrow I'll get the shit kicked out of me. “ugh” ‘Who said “Ugh!” Was that you, angels? Did you say “ugh?” ‘Yes it ons us. Ugh, Venya, the way you swear!” ‘Welt, really, I ask you, who wouldn't swear? I'm so fucked up by all this banal rubbish that I haven't had a dry day since! Fair enough, I can’t say I've been dry that often before, but at least I could remember what I'd drunk, and in what order Now I can’t even remember that: It’sall ups and downs, some- how, my life's full of vicissitudes. Sometimes I won't touch @ drop for a whole week together, then I'll drink for forty days, then I'l come off it again for four days, then T'll go on a six- ~ month bender without a break. Like now, for instance’ “We understand, Venya, we understand everything. They've abused you, they've wounded your beautiful heart?” Yes, indeed, that day my heart fought against my reason for ‘a whole half-hour. Like in the tragedies of the poet laureate ‘Corneille, you know? ‘Duty wrestles with the promptings of 25the heart.’ My heart kept telling me: ‘You've been hurt, you've been treated like shit. Go on, Venya, go and get pissed out your skull’ That's what my beautiful heart was saying. And my reason? It kept whingeing, relentlessly: ‘Just stay where you are, Yerofeev, you're going no place. Don’t you dare drink a single drop!” And my heart's response to this was: ‘Okay. Venya, okay — you don’t need to go over the score, you don’t have to get rat arsed, just drink 400 grammes and call it a day’ ‘Grammes nothing! my reason rapped out. If you really can’t do without, then go and have three jars of beer, but you can forget the spirits, Yerofeev, grammes are out’ Then my heart started whining: ‘Okay, so what about 200 grammes?” Reutovo to Nikolskoe “Or 150, say?” And my reason said: ‘Okay, right, Venya, go ahead and have your 150, just don’t go out anywhere, stay indoors.’ So what d’you think? Did I drink 150 grammes and stay home? Hacha. I've been drinking 1500 grammes every single day since then, so I could stay home, and it didn’t work Because by the sixth day I was so pissed that the line dividing, heart and reason had disappeared altogether, and they were both clamouring: ‘Go to Petushkil Go to Petushki! That's where your happiness and salvation lie, go to Petushki!” Petushki is where the birds are never silent, day or night, ‘where the jasmine never fails, winter or summer. Original sin ~ presuming there ever was one ~ doesn’t burden anybody there, And even people who don't dry out for weeks on end have a cleat, unfathomable look in their eyes in Petushki, ‘And there, every Friday, at exactly eleven o'clock, that git! cof mine, with the white eyes, white turning to whitish, that 26 best-loved bitch of the lot, that flaxen-haired she-devil, meets, ‘me on the station platform. And it’s Friday today, and in less than two hours it'll be eleven o'clock, and she'll be there, and the station platform be there, and that whitish gaze of hers, in which there is neither conscience nor shame. Oh, come with, ‘me, and you will behold such wonders! ‘Now, what did I leave behind, back there where I've come from? A pair of rotting socks and work trousers, pliers and a rasp, wages on account and expenses — that’s all I left be- hind me. And what's before me? What's on that platform at Petushki? Ginger eyelashes, that's what, modestly lowered, shapes in swelling motion, and a pigtail from nape to ramp. ‘And after the platform - Trapper’s vodka and port, sheer bliss and contortions, ecstasies and orgasms! Oh, Mother of God, how far away is Petushki still! Yes, and there beyond Petushki, where sky and earth inter- ‘ingle, and the she-wolf howis atthe stars - where everything, is different, and yet the same ~ there in a smoky, flea-bitten ‘mansion, unbeknownst to the whitish one, blossoms my little boy, the chubbiest and best-behaved infant of them all. He can point to the leter U, and waits for me to give him some nuts. So which of you knew the letter U at three years old, eh? Not one ~ you don’t know what it means even now, But he does, and he doesn’t expect anything for it but a tumblerful of nuts, Pray forme, angels. Let my way be clea, let me not stumble against a rock, that I might see the place I so long for. And ‘meanwhile — if you'll excuse me - meanwhile keep an eye on iy litle case while [nip out for ten minutes. Ineed a drink of Kuban vodke, s0 I don’t go off the boil Whereupon I got up again and walked halfway down the carriage to the end of the corridor. ‘And I had a drink, but not like had at Karacharovo, no, this time there was no nausea or sandwiches. I drank straight from the bottle, tossing my head back like a concert pianist, aware of great things just beginning, and those still to come . 7Nikolskoe to Saltykovskaya Well, you'll get no joy out of those thirteen gulps, I thought, as Iswallowed the thirteenth. Imean, you know yourself, the second dose of the morning, if you drink it straight out the bottle, casts a cloud over the soul, albeit not for long, just tll the third dose, drunk from a sass ~ but it casts a cloud just the same. You don’t know that? Anyway, what the hell. May your today be bright. And may your tomorrow be even brighter. But why do the angels get embarrassed, the minute you start talking, about the joys of, Petushki Station, and beyond? Imean, what are they thinking? That there'll be nobody to ‘meet me? Or that the train‘ll crash down an embankment? Or that the ticket inspectors'Il chuck me off at Kupavna? Or that somewhere around Kilometre 105 fall into a drunken stupor and somebody 'Il strangle me, like a kid. Orknife me like alittle itl? Why are the angels embarrassed and silent? My tomor~ row's bright, yes. So there! Our tomorrow's brighter than our yesterday or today, But who can guarantee that our day after tomorrow won't be worse than our day before yesterday? ‘Well said, Venya, yes~ all that stuff about our tomorrow. Yes, that’s pretty smart, it's not often I put things so neatly. Generally speaking, you've got very little in the way of brains, you surely know that. Even so, Venya, at least you can take some comfort from the fact that your soul’s more capa- cious than your mind. I mean, what do you need brains for, if you've got conscience, yes, and taste to boot? Conscience and taste ~ that’s enough in itself, brains are downright superfluous. So when did you first notice you were an idiot, Venya? ViLtell you when. It was when I heard two polar opposite reproaches being flung at me simultaneously: that [ was boring and frivolous. Because if a man’s intelligent and boring, he 28 won't stoop to frivolity. And if he’s frivolous and intelligent — well, he won't allow himself to be boring. But L numskull that Lam, somehow managed to achieve both. Shall tell you why? It's because I'm sick in my soul, though 1 don’t look it. I’'s because as far back as I can remember, I've done nothing but fake spiritual health, every second of the day, and that’s what I expend all my powers on (not a scrap re- maining), mental, physical, what have you. That's why I'm boring. Everything you talk about, all your day-to-day con- cems, well, they just pass me by, [couldn't care less. Whereas the things that really concern me, Inever say a word about, not to anyone. Maybe I'm afraid of being considered a nutcase, or maybe for some other reason, but anyway — not a word. Tremember a while back people would be holding forth on some topic or other and I'd say, ‘What d’you want to bother with that crap for?" ‘What crap? If this is crap, kindly tell us what isn’t’ And I'd say ‘I don't know, I really don’t know. But it does exist” Now, I’m not claiming I know the truth, or that I’m even lose to it. No way. But I've come within shouting distance, ‘enough to get @ reasonable fix on it. ‘So I'm looking atit, and what I see upsets me, And I don’t believe any one of you has to drag around the same bellyfal of sgief. What this sour mash consists of, well, it’s hard to say, and you wouldn't understand anyway, but it's mostly made up of sorrow and fear. At least that’s what we'll call it -sorrow and fear for the most part, plus dumbness, And every day, from the morning onwards, ‘my beautiful heart’ exudes this distillation, and bathes in it till night, Yes, I know this can happen to other people, if somebody dies suddenly, if the person they need ‘most in all the world suddenly dies. But with me this happens all the time, everlastingly. Just think about that! So, what else can I do but bore people, and drink Kuban vodka? I've earned the right. know what Weltschmerz is better than you. It isn’t some fiction put about by old. writers no, 1 carry it inside me, I know what it is, and I'm not going to 29conceal that. We've got to acquire the habit of speaking out, telling people to their faces, proclaiming our virtues. I mean, who else but ourselves can know just how good we are? For instance ~ you've seen Kramskoy’s famous painting Inconsolable Grief? OF course you have. Anyway, imagine a cat at that very minute knocked something onto the floor ~ ch, I don't know, say a Stvres porcelain vase belonging to that grie!- stricken princess or noblewoman ~ or say it had just ripped up some incredibly expensive peignoir, what would she do? Would she start running around like mad, lapping her arms? No, of course she woulda’t, all that would be so much crap to hes, ‘because for at least a day or three she'd be on a higher plane — beyond peignoirs, cats, Sevres, whatever. So, what d'you think? Is that princess boring? Yes, she’s impossibly boring, couldn't be more so, And is she frivolous? Yes, in the highest degree, And that’s how itis with me. So new do you know why Ym the saddest of all drunks? Why I'm the most brainless of all idiots, but at the same time the most miserable of shits? Why Ym a fol, @ demon, and 2 bag of wind al rolled into Wonderful, so now you understand, Let's drink to that un- derstanding ~ let’s polish off what's left of the Kuban vodka, straight out the bottle. Watch, this is how it's done! Saltykovskaya to Kuchino ‘The remains of the Kuban vodka were still heaving up from my Bullet when a voice came to me from on high: : “Why did you finish that of, Venya? That's too much’ Thad scarcely enough breath in me to reply: Listen, in this whole world... In this entite world, all the way from Moscow 30 right out to Petushki, there’s nothing whatsoever that's too much for me... So why are you afraid for me, heavenly angels, eh?” “We're afraid you're going to—' “What, that I'm going to start swearing again? No, no, Ijust didn’t know you were with me all the time, or else I wouldn't have... mean, I'm getting happier by the minute, and if T start using bad language now, then it'll be sort of happy stuff like in German poetry: “Get rainbowed!” or “Up your pearls!”, stuff like that. God, you're really stupid.’ “No, we've not stupid, i’ just that we're afraid you won't get there again... “Won't get where? Petushki? I won't get to Petushki? Twon't see het? My shameless empress with eyes like clouds? Don’t make me laugh’ “We're not being funny, we've afraid you won't get to him again, and he'll have to do without his nuts..." ‘Hey, wait a minute, hold on that was last Friday, for God’s sake. And that was her ~ she wouldn't let me go to him last Friday. [went limp, angels, okay, I got sidetracked in her white belly, as ound as earth and sky. But Il get there today allright, if I'm spared, if I don’t snuff it on the road, Well, maybe not, today ~ today I'l be with her, I'l be grazing among the lilies till morning, but tomorrow for sure... “Poor litte boy...’ The angels let out a sigh. ‘Poor little boy? What d'you mean poor? Now listen, angels, you'll stay with me all the way to Petushki, right? You won't fy away” “No, no, we can't go all the ay to Petushki. We'll fly avay as soon 1s you smile. You haven't smiled once today, but the minute you mile, we'l fly eoay, our minds willbe at ens.’ “And you'll meet me there on the platform, right?” Oh yes, we'll meet you there You know, they're really charming creatures, these angels, But what do they mean ~ ‘poor little boy’? He's not poo, no way! Akid who knows the letter U like the back of his hand, a 38kid who loves his father like himself ~ does he really need anybody's pity? Well, okay, he was sick the Friday before last, and everybody ‘was in a state of alarm, but he started to get better the instant he saw me, he did, truly! Oh, merciful God, don’t let anything happen to him, not now, not ever! Promise me, Lord, that even if he should fall off the roof, or the top of the stove, he won't break an arm or a leg. And if his eye should land on a knife or arazos, he won't play with them, Jethim find some other toys, Lord. And when his mother lights the stove ~ that’s what he really loves, watching his mother light the stove ~ pull him back out of the way, if you can. Oh, ‘God, Thate to think of him getting burned . .. And ifhe should {alll let him start getting better as soon as he sees me! Yes, that’s right, the last time I turned up they told me he was asleep. They told me he was sick, he was in bed with a fever. I sat by his cot, drinking lemon vodka, and they left me alone with him. He really did have a fever, even the dimple in his cheek was feverish ~ that was weird, that something so insignificant could have a fever. Anyway, I'd had three glasses of lemon vodka by the time he woke up and looked at me, and at the fourth glass in my ‘hand. We had a long chat then, and I said: “Hey, listen, kiddo — don’t die, eh? Just think (after all, you can draw letters, that ‘means you can think) itd be really stupid to die, knowing only the letter U and nothing else. You surely understand that, that it's stupid’ “L understand, Father! And the way he said it! Everything they say ~ the eternally living angels, and dying children ~ all so important that I'm writing down their words in flowing italics, whereas everything we say goes down in tiny letters, since it’s more or less rubbish. ‘I understand, Father!” “You'll soon be up, and you'll be able to dance to my “Little Piggies’ Farandole”, you remember? You used to dance to it ‘when you were two. Musicby Father and wards to boot. “Such, 32 cute litle, fanny little imps, they snatched and scratched and bit at Daddy's tum...” And you had one hand at your waist, waving a hanky with the other one, leaping about like a tiny litte idiot, “From February to August I snivelled through my nose, and by the end of August 'd turned up my toes...” Do you love your father, kiddo?” "Very much..." ‘Well then, don’t die. And once you don’t die, and get better, you can dance something for me again. Only we won't dance the farandole I's got some words that area’t really suitable — “By the end of August 'd turned up my toes...” That's no use, Far better would be: “One, two, buckle my shoe, get out of bed, sleepy-head ...” Ihave a special reason for liking that sort of vile trash.” finished my fourth glass and started to get agitated. ‘When [haven't got you, kiddo, I'm all on my own. You ‘understand that? You were running around in the woods this, summer, weren‘t you. You'll probably remember what pine ‘trees look like. Well, that’s me, I'm like a pine tree. They're 50 tall, really tall, and so lonely — realy, really lonely, same as me. ‘And all they do is look up at the sky, same as me, but as for what's under their feet, they don’t see that, and they don’t want to see it. They're so green, and they'll be green forever, ‘until they fall down. And that's like me — I'l be green forever, {ill fall down... ‘Green, said my little boy. “And then there’s dandelions, for instance, They sway in the wind, and fly all over the place, and it’s really sad to look at them. Well, that’s me too don’t I fly all over the place? And isnt it disgusting to look at me, the way I fly all over the place for days on end?” ‘Disgusting,’ my litte boy repeated after me, and smiled blissfully. And even now I remember his ‘Disgusting’, and I smile blissfully too, and Ican see the angels nodding to me from afar, and flying away, just as they said they would. 3Kuchino to Zheleznodorozhnaya Wel, right but P’ve still got to see her frst! Yes, to.see her on the Platform, with that pigtail from rump to nape, to flush crimson with excitement, to catch fre, and get flat-out drunk, and graze, pasture among the lilies tll m dead from exhaustion! Bring me bracelets and necklaces, Velveis and silks, diamonds and pearls For I must be robed like a Queen, Now my King has come home! This is absolutely not just a gil! No, thisis no mere girl, but a temptress, a ballade in A flat major! This woman, this red- haired tart is io woman, she’s sorcery itself. And you're asking me: Venya love, you're saying, where did you dig her up, where did you get hold of this ginger bitch? Can any good thing come out of Petushki? “Yes, there can!’ I say, 50 loudly that both Moscow and Petushki tremble. Not out of Moscow, no, out of Moscow no ‘way, but Petushki, yes! And what if she is a bitch? She’sa pretty harmonious bitch regariless! And if you want to know where and how T dug her up ~ if you really want to know ~ well just listen, you shameless creeps, and Il reveal al In Petushki as I've already said, the jasmine never fails and the birds sing non-stop. That’s how it was on the first day, exactly twelve weeks ago, with the birds, and the jasmine in Petushki. And it was somebody's birthday party, a bottomless well of all kinds of drink, could've been ten, twelve, twenty- five bottles. Everything a man could wish for, who's drunk as, much as I have ~ absolutely the lot, from draught beer to bottled ‘Yes, but what else? you're asking, What else was there? ‘What else? Well, there were two other guys, and three wall 4 eyed bits of stuff, one drunker than the next, plenty of hell- raising and bullshit. That was about it, think. Anyway, I started mixing my drinks, I mixed some Ros- sliskaya with Zhiguli beer and sat looking at that trio, fancying, J could see something in them. I can’t exactly say what it was | could see in them, but the more I saw of that something, the ‘more I mixed and drank, and that made me perceive it even ‘more acutely. But as for reciprocal perception I could sense that in only cone of them, just the one! Oh, those long ginger eyelashes, Jonger than the hair on your head! Oh, those innocent eyes! Oh, that whiteness, passing to whitish! Oh, sorcery and the wings of doves! 'So you're Yerofeev” she said, leaning towards me, and her eyelashes met and parted. ‘Well, of course Iam. Who else” (Oh, what a harmonious creature! How did she guess?) ‘ve read one of your things. And you know what? I'd never have believed you could get s0 much crap into a hundred and fifty pages. IS beyond the powers of man “Beyond nothing,’ I said, flattered, mixed another and drank, ‘Tcould fit even more in if you want. Raise the level.’ Anyway, that’s how itall started. Atleast, that’s when T lost consciousness, Three hours of oblivion. What did I drink? What did | talk about? In what proportions did I mix? Maybe there wouldn't have been any oblivion if I'd been taking it straight, till, no matter, I came to three hours later, and this is the situation I found myself in: sitting at a table, mixing and, drinking. ‘Apart from us two, there’s nobody in the room, and she's sitting beside me, laughing at me like some kind of good- natured baby. And think to myself, Fantastic! Here's a woman, ‘whose breast, until today, has been gripped by nothing but pre- ‘monitions! This is a woman who, up till I arrived, hasn't even had her pulse felt! Oh, blessed itch, in my soul and everywhere else! 35