The Big Boss
Mishka Tolstykh, a carpenter at Construction and Assembly Firm No. 7, a small man with a prominent jaw and long arms, a Muscovite who had grown up on the far side of mighty Lake Baikal, was returning home after a visit to his brother in Leningrad. His brother had not received him well. As soon as he arrived, his brother had proceeded to give him long lectures on how he ought to be living his life... Terribly offended by this behavior, Mishka got drunk on the spot, said some ugly things to his brother's wife, and left.
He got to the train earlier than anyone else, walked into his sleeping compartment, tossed his suitcase on the top berth, and went to ask the conductor for some linens and a blanket. But she informed him: "You won't get all that until after we leave the station." So Mishka went back to his compartment, took off his shoes, stretched out on the cotton batting mattress he found on the top berth, and fell asleep.
He woke up late that night and heard two men conversing quietly in the darkness below. One voice was familiar, and that familiar voice was doing most of the talking, so Mishka began to eavesdrop.
"Well, I wouldn't say that exactly," the voice intoned softly. "I can't agree with you there. Sometimes I call one of those bastards into my office and ask, 'Well, what are we going to do?' He doesn't answer. 'What are we going to do?' He keeps his mouth shut and shrugs his shoulders. 'Are you going to keep it up, or is that the end of it?' The silence of the grave."
"Yes. They are good at keeping their mouths shut," the other voice, tired and no longer young, agreed. "They can do that for sure."
"Like the cat's got their tongues, no less. So I ask, 'Well, how long are we going to play this little game?' "
Mishka recalled who the familiar voice from below reminded him of: Semyon Ivanovich Malafeikin, his neighbor from apartment building No. 37 in Moscow, and not one of his favorite people. Malafeikin was a house-painter - a disabled pensioner who did a lot of moonlighting. Mishka had even done a bit of moonlighting with him once. They had repainted an apartment that belonged to one of the big bosses. They had worked evenings together for a week and a half, and during all that time, Malafeikin had said perhaps a dozen words. He didn't even say hello when he turned up for work. As an explanation for his silence, he proffered the following: "Running my mouth makes my chest hurt." Of course, the fellow below wasn't Malafeikin, but the voice was strikingly similar.
'"I'll have you run out of Moscow up a rail, you bastard!"' I tell him. "'If you try my patience too much, I'll have you thrown out of the city!' 'Don't do that!' he pleads. 'So you can talk, can you!"'
"Do you really have them thrown out of town?"
"Not often. I feel sorry for the poor sots. What will they do if I have them thrown out of town?"
"Oh, that's no problem. We need lots of workers where I come from!"
"What will you do with them-set up your own private distillery?"
The two men gave a soft administrative chuckle that was full of anxiety.
"Well, we've got our share of bootleggers, to be honest. What do you do about that little problem your way?"
"The same as everybody-a little preventive medicine plus the militia. Doesn't do much good, though. A tiresome business, that. I go out to my country house and light a fire in the fireplace. Then I stare at the flames. That's something I love to do by the way-to watch the fire. Then all of a sudden, I see some obnoxious mug peering at me out of the flames, and I think, 'dear God, when will you ever leave me alone'?!"
"What do you mean, peering at you? Is it your imagination, or what?" asked his tired interlocutor in puzzlement.
"I spend so much time looking at them day in and day out that I see them everywhere I go. Is your country house made of brick, by the way?"
"I don't have one at all. Whenever I have a bit of free time, I go out to the village where I grew up. It's not far away at all. Is your country house made of brick?"
"Of course, and it's two storeys high. You really should get yourself one-it's so nice to go out to the countryside at the end of the day when you're exhausted and light a fire. It's good for the nerves."
"Is it yours?"
"The country house?"
"Yes."
"Why, of course not! Belongs to the state. And it's the state that looks after it. And I've got two drivers assigned to me. So when it's a quarter to five one of them is sure to call: 'Are you going home, Semyon Ivanovich?' And I say: 'Yes, Petya, I'm going home.' I say home when I want to go to the country house, not when I want to go to my apartment in town."
Mishka's eyes almost popped out of his head up there on the top berth. So this man's name was Semyon Ivanovich, too, just like Malafeikin. What was going on here?
But Semyon Ivanovich was continuing his tale down below.
"So I say, 'Home, Petya, home. The hell with Moscow and all this hustle and bustle!' Then I go out to my country house and lay a nice fire in the fireplace."
"Don't you have any servants to do it for you?"
"Of course-plenty of them, but I like to do it myself! I lay the fire myself, then light it-such a wonderful feeling! You know, sometimes I think: What the hell do I need with all these honors and medals and the huge pension I'll be entitled to! I'd be just as happy living in some village and lighting up my stove every day."'
His tired interlocutor gave a quiet chuckle of disbelief.
"You don't believe me, do you?" objected Semyon Ivanovich, probably also with a smile. "I'm dead serious. I could leave it all in a heartbeat!"
"So why don't you?"
"Ifs'not as simple as it might seem. Who would let someone like me leave just like that?!"
"I see what you mean," said the other with a sigh. "Sometimes I also..."
"No one will let me leave. They're trying to give me another promotion. But I don't want it. I've already got more than enough headaches, thank you."
"Were you in Leningrad for that special conference? I heard something about it..."
"No, I'm in another line of work. We've got plenty of problems of our own, though. Do you go to that village of yours in the summer, too?"
"Almost always. I do a lot of fishing with my father."
"Not me. I go to a health resort."
"Where, in Kislovodsk?"
"Sometimes I go there and sometimes to the Black Sea."
"Do you stay in the central building of the big government resort there?"
"Oh no. We have a private building of our own."
"Where?"
"Just before you get to the town proper."
"Tell me where it is. Maybe I've seen it. I've been all over Kislovodsk."
"No, you've never seen our building, I'm sure. You can't see it from the road," said Semyon Ivanovich with a laugh.
They both fell silent for a moment, then Semyon Ivanovich added by way of explanation: "Because of the high fence around it, you see."
"I see," his exhausted interlocutor added somehow indefinitely then fell silent again.
For some reason, this silence seemed to disturb Semyon Ivanovich greatly.
"It's pretty boring there, to be perfectly honest," he continued. "Of course, there's always champagne and plenty of fresh fruit at the buffet. Whatever you want, really. But that's not the point. I get tired of the same old thing year after year."
"Sure," agreed the tired one vaguely. "That's fine by me... Do they show films?"
"Yes, of course. But we usually ignore the regular ones. We get a bunch of just the guys together and watch something a little bit spicy, you know? With some naked girls. Don't you like films with a little spice?" Semyon Ivanovich laughed uncertainly. "They're not bad, you know."
The other man did not react to this in any way whatsoever. He remained silent.
"Well?" asked Semyon Ivanovich anxiously.
"What?" said his interlocutor.
"You mean you don't like girly flicks?"
"To tell the truth, I haven't seen that many of them."
"You don't say! They're really good fun. Some sweet young thing comes out wiggling her-well, you know- her... Can't take your eyes off her! It's really something!"
"And is she completely naked?!"
"Naked as a jay bird!"
"Do they make films like that in our country?"
The anxiety which had seized Semyon Ivanovich a moment before dissipated, and he chortled with genuine pleasure.
"They're foreign films-not ours!"
"Oh, yes. I see,' the other replied. "But of course!"
"Those devils sure know how to do it! You have to give them that. Every girl pretty as a picture!"
"I didn't say anything!" his interlocutor replied fearfully.
"But probably you condemn me in your heart of hearts."
"Me? No, not at all."
"Oh yes you have, but don't be too quick to judge me, because many's the night I've sat so long at my desk and worked so hard I just fell asleep right where I was sitting. That's how thorough I am when I study a case. May I be honest with you?"
"Why? I understand perfectly well," his interlocutor hastened to add, no trace of tiredness in his voice. "Many's the time..."
"I'm sure. In fact, I'm certain there are plenty of times you don't get enough sleep and you don't even have time to eat. Yours is a hard lot, toiling as you do! But then you turn and point an accusing finger and say-'Look at that hot shot with a pot belly!' But you don't see any pot belly on me, do you?"
"By no means!" his interlocutor remarked in utter confusion. "I didn't mean anything when I... That's not the point at all..."
"What is then?" asked Semyon Ivanovich harshly.
"Well..."
"Well, what?"
"The point is that we all have the same ultimate goal, don't we?"
"You don't say! I really had no idea! And do you mean absolutely everyone?"
The other kept his peace.
"Come on, say something," Semyon Ivanovich said. For some unexpected reason he had grown angry. His companion said nothing.
"Why don't you answer? Keeping your mouth shut too?"
"Listen here," said the tired man, obviously rising from his berth. "What is going on here? What do you have against me?"
"God forbid I should have anything against you!" Semyon Ivanovich hastened to say with utter sincerity. "I have absolutely nothing whatsoever against you. I was just asking. I thought you might have something against me. Do you?"
"Of course not. We should be getting to bed, actually. About what time is it?"
"I can't tell you exactly, because I left my watch with the illuminated dial at home. It's about two in the morning, I would imagine."
"Yes, I guess so. It's time to get some sleep."
"I agree, especially since I had a little nip today when I was saying goodbye to my friends. Let's get some shut-eye."
They fell silent immediately: no one said another word.
Mishka didn't know what to think: who was that down there? The man's voice resembled his neighbor Malafeikin's quite remarkably, and his name was Semyon Ivanovich, too. But what was going on then? Mishka knew almost everything about Malafeikin one could possibly know about one's neighbor without really trying to find out. Once Malafeikin had fallen from a scaffolding and hurt himself badly... He had lived alone then, and he was still alone. Quiet and laconic. On Sundays, a woman who was older than he came to visit. She brought a little girl with her. But Mishka had no idea what their relation was to his neighbor. Malafeikin would go outside with the little girl. She would play in the sandbox, and he would sit reading the paper. The woman was probably his sister and the little girl, her daughter. Somehow, that seemed the most likely explanation. Basically, that was all there was to know about Malafeikin. But what about the big boss down there on the lower berth? Well, that had to be a coincidence-nothing more. Such things did happen, after all...
Mishka climbed carefully down from his berth and went to the toilet. He returned, got back in bed very quietly, and closed his eyes. There was silence in the compartment, and Mishka fell asleep.
In the morning, Mishka woke up later than the rest, when the train was already on the outskirts of Moscow. He opened his eyes, looked down, and who should he see sitting by the window but his neighbor, Semyon Ivanovich Malafeikin. Another man was sitting by the window on the other side. He was about fifty and had very red cheeks. Both were looking out the window. A young woman in slacks was sitting off to the side reading a book. No one was saying a word.
Mishka's first inclination was to exclaim: "Howdy, neighbor!" from above, but then he remembered the conversation of the night before. He jerked his head back in a hurry and paused to think matters over. Perhaps the conversation had never taken place. Perhaps he had been dreaming.
While he was racking his brains, the red-cheeked fellow stretched and said in the manner of someone who had been silent for a long time:
"It looks like we're almost there." There came a rustling sound-perhaps of a newspaper being rolled up-and with that, the man rose and left the compartment.
Mishka hung his head over the edge of the berth... The young woman glanced at him, then at the window, then went back to her reading. Malafeikin was pug-nosed and had tiny, beady eyes with no lashes. Wearing a tie, his hair neatly parted and combed, Malafeikin sat drumming the fingers of his right hand on the table and looking out the window.
"Morning, Boss!" Mishka said softly from above.
Malafeikin's head snapped up in the direction of the sound, and their eyes met. Malafeikin's tiny eyes opened wide with amazement, and even-or so it seemed to Mishka- with fear.
"Oh!" Malafeikin said with disapproval. "What ill wind has blown you here?"
Mishka looked at his neighbor in silence, trying to muster an expression of irony.
"What's all this wandering about the wide world?" Malafeikin intoned with what seemed like malice. He darted a glance at the door.
Sure as anything, it had been him bragging about a two-storey country house and complaining about how tired he was of medals and honors.
"What kind of tall tales were you spinning last night?" Mishka began, but just then, the red-cheeked fellow came back, and Malafeikin jumped up from his berth, turned to him, and said:
"Well, it looks like we're almost there." He glanced out the window and patted his parting with a businesslike air to make sure it was straight. "Yes, we're crossing the Yauza. My, my..." He turned to leave the compartment, but bent over his suitcase.
"What a sharp operator he is!" Mishka thought to himself in amazement. He could see from his vantage point that Malafeikin's ears had turned crimson. He decided not to torment his fellow moonlighter any more, but simply observed him with great interest.
"Are you headed for downtown?" inquired the red-cheeked passenger with a respectful glance at Malafeikin.
"Who me?" Malafeikin sputtered. "Why, no. I'm not. Not at all. I'm going another place entirely."
"Too bad. I thought I might be able to catch a ride with you."
"Sorry. I'm headed in the opposite direction."
"The two of us are headed home to Sviblovo," Mishka announced loudly, then stretched and sat up on his berth. Suddenly, he burst out laughing.
"Oh, ho! Our fellow-traveller has awakened," said the red-cheeked passenger. "Good morning, young man! I envy you your sound slumber. I can hardly sleep a wink on trains. I tell myself it's silly not to get some shut-eye while I have the chance, but it doesn't help."
Mishka gazed at Malafeikin with a smile.
"I could sleep another ten hours, and it wouldn't bother me a bit."
"Ah, to be young again!"
Malafeikin closed his creaky yellow suitcase, fastened the belts, picked it up, and stepped into the corridor with it. Then, without returning to the compartment, he reached in and took his leather coat from the hanger, pulled his hat down from the shelf, and moved as far away from the door as he could.
"He's running scared! Afraid I'll spill the beans!" Mishka realized. "But why should I waste my time on him?!"
Malafeikin did not return to their compartment. Rather, after he put his coat on, he headed for the exit.
However, once they were on the platform, Mishka caught up with his neighbor and walked alongside him.
"Were you boozing last night, eh?" asked Mishka in his friendliest manner. "What was all that you were carrying on about? Whatever possessed you?"
"Leave me alone!" Malafeikin snapped suddenly, turning beet-red. "Why are you pestering me? Are you drunk yourself? Do you have a hangover? You'd better go and sober up instead of bugging me!"
People began to look at them. Some even slowed their pace in hopes of witnessing a row.
Mishka was afraid of having to provide anyone with an explanation-especially the militia. So he slowed down and let Malafeikin walk ahead-but he didn't let his neighbor out of his sight. He was furious at the man.
They got on the same subway car, and Mishka kept a close watch on Malafeikin. Still he had no idea how to make the best of the opportunity to needle his neighbor. At the slightest provocation, Malafeikin would surely call the militia.
Malafeikin glanced cautiously about the car and met up against Mishka's persistent, devastating gaze. Mishka gave him a wink, and Malafeikin's ears flushed red as poppies. He raised the stiff collar of his leather coat, pulled his hat down, and didn't look around any more.
On the escalator leading out of the subway, Mishka approached his neighbor again and whispered into his ear:
"Don't start yelling your head off... I just have one question for you, and then I won't bother you any more. I promise. Listen-I have a brother in Leningrad who's just like you-always trying to make himself out to be something he's not. What I want to know is, what makes you do it? What do you get out of it? I'm serious. I really want to know."
But Malafeikin said not a word in reply. He just stared straight ahead.
"Do you feel better after the show?"
Malafeikin didn't reply.
"Why did you tell that man a pack of lies last night? Huh?"
When the escalator was about to spit them out of the bowels of the subway, Malafeikin began to look around for a militia man. Mishka rushed ahead of him, glanced around, and reached the bus stop before his neighbor.
"I'll grab him by the short hairs once we reach home," he decided.
When they got off the bus, Mishka was about to walk up to Malafeikin again when his neighbor cringed with agony and shook his head so hard his hat almost flew off. He stamped his feet and shouted:
"Don't you dare come near me! Let me be! Go away!"
He shouted like a madman and stormed off, making a bee-line for their apartment building. His big yellow suit-case with the two belts around it banged against his leg. His leather coat flapped and rustled pleasantly. Malafeikin righted his hat with his left hand as he strode forward. He didn't look back- not even once.
Suddenly, Mishka began to feel sorry for him.
"Fibber!" he said softly to himself. "He's got a house in the country, you see-with a fireplace, no less, you see., What a fibber! Big shots like him know how to live, if you please!"
And with that, Mishka set off for the store to buy some cigarettes. He had run out, you see.
|
