Эльвира Барякина - Russian Treasures

“I have,” Klim said, and as he said so, it seemed to Lubochka that he quickly glanced at her.

Finally, he had given in and acknowledged her preeminence. Indeed, Klim treated her with a deference so pronounced that sometimes Lubochka felt he was mocking her. But then again, how could he mock her when he was entirely dependent on her charity?

Lubochka felt particularly sorry for Nina. In no more than a year, she had changed beyond recognition not only in appearance but also in character. Once an elegant, business-like young woman, she was now little more than a skinny scarecrow. Nina seemed to see signs of ill will everywhere around her, and that was why Lubochka had been unable to resist the urge to tease her.

It would be nice, for example, to seduce her husband. Nina was no match for pretty, pampered, and perfumed Lubochka. Surely, Klim would never risk refusing the irresistible lady of the house and being thrown out into the freezing cold.

Lubochka smiled at her sinful thoughts and sighed. No, she wouldn’t cheat on Osip, at least for now. But then who knew what the future might bring?

7

After the church ceremony, Lubochka took the newlyweds to the registry office in the basement of a former merchant’s house. The Soviet Republic only recognized civil marriages.

“Father and I have decided to make you a wedding gift,” Lubochka told Klim when the formalities were over. “He’s going to give you a job in his newspaper. You’ll get ration cards and a union membership card and the right to use the canteen at the Journalists’ House.”

“What will I have to do?” he asked.

“Write me a sample article.”

“Something along the line of a Passionate Appeal to the Workers?”

“Exactly. But don’t try to be clever. Nowadays, journalism isn’t about bringing readership and profits. All that matters is to get the approval of the Regional Executive Committee.”

After much thought and numerous edits and revisions, Klim brought Lubochka his work. “I think I’ve done a reasonable job. It’s full of nonsense and ‘comrades,’ ‘long lives,’ and exclamation marks.”

Lubochka read the article and patted Klim on the shoulder.

“Very good. You have a special gift for nonsense.”

1 EL CUADERNO NEGRO ^{Klim Rogov’s little black notebook}

I am now a Soviet worker and enjoy a third category allowance of ration cards, which entitles me to ten pounds of rotten potatoes a month. The authorities have promised a delivery next week on the barge Friedrich Engels, but if the Oka River freezes over, the Friedrich will take my potatoes somewhere else.

The print-run of the Nizhny Novgorod Commune varies between two and six thousand copies, depending upon the availability of paper. You could hardly call our work “journalism.” Almost all news worth reporting is a state secret. In the meantime, we occupy ourselves with publishing Soviet decrees and appeals and insulting the bourgeoisie.

I’m the one responsible for the workers’ letters. All of the tolerably educated Bolsheviks are busy with party work, and the local correspondents tend to have a rather shaky grasp of Russian prose.

I have to edit their letters, and if we don’t have enough material, I just write them myself. Recently, we had a competition for the best short story. As we didn’t get any entries, I dashed off ten stories and then chose the winner and received the prize—a subscription to the Nizhny Novgorod Commune.

There have been coups in Germany and Austria-Hungary, and the Allies have won the war. Uncle Anton was almost in tears when he learned about that. For months, he had been hoping that the Germans would come deep into Russia and overthrow the Bolsheviks.

“If only the Allies would attack us!” he said hopefully. “On the other hand, if they’d wanted to attack, they would have done so long ago. It’s beyond a joke! They’re sending tiny landing parties in at the ports and pretending to be at war with the Bolsheviks. Still, who knows what will happen? The Whites are moving in from the east under Admiral Kolchak, and General Krasnov is coming up from the south with his army.”

I widened my eyes, pretending to be skeptical. “Surely not!”

Uncle Anton showed me the map and pointed to the villages and towns now occupied by the Whites. He told me details of the news from the frontline—not the contradictory nonsense that the public gets from the newspapers but the latest reports straight from the headquarters. Only kremlin officials and chief editors can read these reports, and they have to sign for them.

From time to time, Uncle Anton shares some other choice pieces of news with me. Accurate information is vital to me, Nina, and Dr. Sablin as we have decided to escape from the land of the Soviets.

At first, I thought we should invite Uncle Anton to join our conspiracy, but the more I see of him at work, the more relieved I am that I’ve told him nothing.

He turns a blind eye to the fact that his daughter has two husbands, and he is reluctant to argue with Osip or Sablin because both of them are very useful to him.

“It’s not my business to give other people advice,” he says.

At the same time, if some girl sends in a letter to the newspaper, pleading, “Dear Comrade Schuster, please tell me how to live—I’m at the end of my tether.” Uncle Anton will write a five-page letter full of recommendations and exhortations. And what’s more, he’ll send the poor girl a copy of one of his books.

It turns out that Uncle Anton writes novels about courtly love and reverence before some mysterious, beautiful lady. Often when we are alone in his office, he walks over to the window and, tugging his beard, asks if I would object if he recites certain passages from his novel to me, which he knows by heart.

Marusya, the secretary, enters the room.

“What are you doing in here, you fool?” the knight in shining armor screams. “Can’t you see we’re busy? You’re fired! Don’t bother coming in to work tomorrow.”

Marusya begins to cry, and Anton Emilievich grudgingly relents. “All right then. Forget what I said just now. I tell you, Klim, these girls couldn’t tell a work of art if it came up and introduced itself to them. All they care about is getting home early at the end of the day.”

I don’t remember him being like this. Could the Bolsheviks have sent us back an imposter in place of the old Uncle Anton? Or does he only bother to behave like a gentleman when he’s around people who can be of use to him and make no effort with anyone else? My stock is so low just now that he doesn’t have to worry about making a scene in my presence. As for Marusya, she’s quite beneath his notice.

In our household, a secret religious conflict is smoldering below the surface. The abyss between the sects is so deep and wide that reconciliation is quite impossible. We have the great reformer, Comrade Osip, who is absent for the time being. Lubochka and her father belong to the Order of Opportunists who—while they might not believe in anything—diligently serve the powers that be as long as they get some benefit from doing so. Nina, Sablin, and I are dissenters. We stand firmly for the old faith. If we’re not allowed to serve our ideals, we’ll set sail and travel to the end of the world to get as far away from the infidels as possible. We don’t intend, God forbid, to openly challenge the official religion. We even pretend that we are ready to renounce our mistaken beliefs. But at night, when the opportunists go to bed, we call secret meetings to exercise the right to assembly and freedom of speech.

Lubochka is desperate to lure us into her sect. She tempts us with food rations in the present and salvation in the future. As a sweetener, she has offered Nina a job as a dishwasher in her canteen. It’s a prestigious job because it entails proximity to both food and the warmth of the kitchen.

At first, my proud wife just laughed. Then she cried. Finally, she agreed. We’re going to need money if we want to get out of Nizhny Novgorod.

My longing for Argentina has become an obsession. On my way to the editorial office, I lose myself so deeply in my memories that it seems I can feel the fresh breeze from the Rio de la Plata and hear people talking in Spanish with a strong Italian accent, the incomparable language of Buenos Aires.

When our office girls wonder what to do with tough horse meat, I remember the recipe of the gauchos. They soften tough meat by putting it under the saddle and then riding the horse at a gallop. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of somebody gesticulating like an Argentinean, and of course, it always turns out I’m mistaken. It’s just a mirage, but it says a lot about my state of mind. My old life has become a symbol of peace for me while the present is a symbol of war.

I’m sure Nina has already had enough of me telling her stories about the asado. This is a special Argentinean ritual, a whole day spent preparing food on a barbecue and then a feast. People eat at nine or even ten in the evening and then stay up late drinking homemade wine, talking, and dancing. I miss those Argentinean nights most of all.

I try to keep Nina’s hopes up. I promise her that I’ll get an Argentine visa for her, whatever the cost. But sometimes I feel her faith in that fading away, and that scares me more than anything. She needs big goals, not a vegetable existence. It’s insulting for her that someone else is in charge of her time and energy even if that person is Lubochka. And that’s why I love my Nina—for her inability to go with the flow and for her burning desire to become a successful person and do something significant. She has a strong will, a kind heart, and a good head on her shoulders. She’s the kind that could never live in slavery even if that slavery comes complete with prestige and every comfort.