Monday Begins On Saturday Part 5

"Were you amusing yourself, or what?" he asked me.

"Or what," I said gloomily.

"Not prudent of you," said the lieutenant. "Not prudent, citizen. Tell me about it."

I told. At the end of the story, I asked the lieutenant most earnestly not to interpret my actions as an attempt to save up the price of a car. My ears were burning. The lieutenant chuckled.

"And why not so interpret it?" he inquired. "Cases of it have been attempted."

I shrugged.

"I can a.s.sure you such a thought couldn't enter my head. . . . What am I saying? It couldn't, when, in fact, it didn't!"

The lieutenant was silent for a long time. The young Kovalev took mypa.s.sport and again set to studying it.

"It would be rather ridiculous to suppose . . ." I said, distraught.

"An altogether loony concept . . . to save by the kopeck . . ." I shrugged again. "You'd be better off begging on the church steps, as they say. .

"As to begging, we try to combat that," said the lieutenant significantly.

"And that's correct and only natural. . . . I just don't understand what that has to do with me. . . ." I caught myself shrugging once more, and resolved not to do it again.

The lieutenant was silent for a tiresomely long time, examining the coin.

"We'll have to make out a report," he said finally.

"Please, of course . . . although . . ." I didn't know exactly what followed the "although."

For a while, the lieutenant looked at me in expectation of a continuation. But I was busy figuring as to which section of the criminal code my actions came under, so he drew a sheet of paper toward him and set to writing.

The young Kovalev returned to his post. The lieutenant was squeaking away with his pen, and dipping it often and noisily into the inkwell. I sat, dully staring at the posters hung on the walls and thinking, listlessly, how, in my place, Lomonosov, for example, would have grabbed his pa.s.sport and jumped out the window. What's at the core o/ it all? I thought. The essence of the matter is that a man does not regard himself as guilty. In that sense, I was not guilty. But guilt, it seems, can be objective and subjective. And a fact is a fact: all that copper money in the amount of seventy-four kopecks, juridically speaking, was the result of theft, carried out by technical means in the form of an unspendable coin.

"Read it and sign, please," said the lieutenant.

I read. According to the report it was manifest that I, the undersigned, Privalov, A.I., had, by means unknown to me, come into the possession of a working model of an unspendable five-kopeck coin, All-union Government Standard type 7 18-62, and had willfully misused same; further, that I, the undersigned Privalov, A.I., allegedly carried out my operations with the aim of conducting a scientific experiment, and without any intent to defraud; that I was prepared to make rest.i.tution for the losses suffered by the state in the amount of one ruble and fifty-five kopecks; and, finally, that in accordance with the resolution of the Solovetz City Council of March 22, 1959, I had handed over said working model of the unspendable five-kopeck coin to the lieutenant on duty, Sergienko, V.V., and received in return five kopecks in monies of legal tender on the territory of the Soviet Union. I signed.

The lieutenant verified my signature with the one in the pa.s.sport, again meticulously counted the coppers, rang up somebody to confirm the prices of the toffee and the wire brush, and wrote out a receipt and handed it to me together with five kopecks in monies of legal tender on the territory of the Soviet Union.

Returning the papers, matches, candies, and wire brush, he said, "As to the soft drinks, you have consumed those as you have already admitted.

Altogether, you owe eighty-one kopecks."

I paid up with a feeling of tremendous relief. The lieutenant having leafed through my pa.s.sport once again, handed it back to me.

"You may go, citizen Privalov," he said. "And be careful from now on.

Are you in Solovetz for long?"

"I'll be leaving tomorrow," I said.

"Well then, be careful until tomorrow."

"Oh, I will!" I said, putting the pa.s.sport away. Then, responding to an impulse and lowering my voice, I asked, "Would you mind telling me, comrade Lieutenant, don't you find it a bit strange here in Solovetz?"

But the lieutenant was already absorbed in his paperwork. "I've been here a long time," he said absentmindedly. "I'm used to it."

Chapter 5.

"And do you believe in ghosts?" asked someone from the audience.

"Of course not," replied the speaker, and melted slowly in the air.

A Truthful Story All the time, until the evening arrived, I concentrated on being extremely careful. I went directly home from the police station to Lukomoriye Street and immediately crawled under the car. It was very hot. A menacing dark cloud was creeping in from the west. While I was lying under the car, dripping oil on my person, old Naina Kievna become most unctious and friendly, twice approaching me to take her to Bald Mountain.

"They tell me, governor, that it's bad for a car to stand still," she cooed in her creaky voice, peering under the front b.u.mper. "They say it's good for it to drive it around. And have no fear, I'd make sure to pay....

I was not inclined to drive to Bald Mountain. In the first place, my friends could show up any minute. In the second place, the old woman was even more distasteful to me in her cooing version that in her snarling mode.

Further, it developed that it was ninety versts* one way to Bald Mountain, and when I asked the old lady about the condition of the road, she joyfully told mc not to worry-- that it was quite smooth, but that in case of any trouble, she would push it out herself. ("Don't a.s.sume that I am plain old, governor; I am still quite vigorous.") After the first unsuccessful a.s.sault, the crone retreated temporarily and went off into the cottage. At which point Basil the tomcat came to visit me under the car. For a long minute, he watched my manipulations and then enunciated in a low voice, but very clearly, "I don't advise it, citizen, mn-e-eh . . . I don't advise it.

You'll be eaten," after which he departed precipitately, tail a-quiver.

____________________________________________________________________________.

* Sixty-three miles.

I wanted badly to be very careful, and so when the crone launched her second attack, I demanded fifty rubles, so as to put an end to the game once and for all. She desisted at once, regarding me with fresh respect.

I did the DC and the TS, drove to the gas station to fill up with the greatest of care, had dinner in dining room No. 11, and was once again subjected to doc.u.ment inspection by the vigilant Kovalev. To clear my conscience, I inquired of him the state of the road to Bald Mountain. The young sergeant considered me with vast disbelief and said, "Road? What are you talking about, citizen? What road? There isn't any road." When I returned home, it was already raining heavily.

The crone had departed. Tomcat had disappeared. In the well, someone sang in duet voices, and that was both frightening and somehow woeful. Soon the shower was replaced with a dismal fine rain. It grew dark.

I retreated to my room and attempted to experiment with the changeling book. However, it had somehow broken down. Maybe I was doing something wrong, or the weather influenced it, but it remained as it had been, Practical Exercises in Syntax and Punctuation by F.F. Kuzmin, no matter what I tried. Reading such a book seemed simply impossible, so I tried my luck with the mirror. But it reflected anything at all and remained silent.

Nothing to do but lie down on the sofa.

Lulled by boredom and the sound of the rain, I was beginning to doze when the telephone rang. I went out in the hall and picked up the receiver.

"h.e.l.lo."

There was a silence against a background of static.

"h.e.l.lo," I said, blowing into the mouthpiece. "Press the b.u.t.ton." There was no reply.

"Tap on the set," I counseled. The receiver was quiet. I blew again, pulled on the cable, and said, "Call again from a different set."

Then there was a rude query.

"Is this Alexander?"

"Yes." I was surprised.

"Why don't you answer?"

"I am answering. Who's this?"

"This is Petrovski, bothering you. Go on over to the pickling shop and tell the master to give me a call."

"What master?"

"Well, who's there today?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean 'I don't know'? Is this Alexander?"

"Look here, citizen," I said. "What number are you calling?"

"Number seventy-two. ... Is that seventy-two?" I couldn't tell.

"Apparently not," I said.

"Why do you say you are Alexander?" "Because I really am Alexander."

"Drat. . . is this the agency?"

"No," I said. "This is the museum."

"Ah . . . in that case, I apologize. You can't call the master "

I hung up. I stood a while looking around the entry. It had five doors.

One to my room, one to the yard, one to the crone's room, one to the washroom, and one other covered with iron sheeting with a huge padlock.

It's dreary, I thought. Lonely. And the lamp is dim and dusty. . . .

Dragging my feet, I returned to my room and stopped at the threshold.

The sofa was not there.

Everything else was exactly as before: the table, the stove, the mirror, the wardrobe, and the stool. The book, too, lay on the windowsill just as I had left it. On the floor, where the sofa had been, there remained only a very dusty, littered rectangle. Then I saw the bedclothes very tidily put away in the wardrobe.

"Just now there was a sofa here," I said aloud. "I was lying on it."

Something about the house had changed. The room was filled with an indefinable noise. Someone was talking, there were strains of music, somewhere people were laughing, coughing, sc.r.a.ping their feet. A dim shadow momentarily shut off the light from the lamp; the floorboards creaked loudly. Next there was an abrupt medicinal smell, and a chill blew into my face, I backed up. At the same time, there was a clear and insistent knocking on the outside door. The noise died away instantly. Looking over at the spot previously occupied by the sofa, I went out in the entry again and opened the door.

Standing before me in the drizzle was an elegant man of smallish stature, wearing a short cream-colored raincoat of immaculate cleanliness, with its collar raised. He removed his hat and p.r.o.nounced in a dignified manner: "Begging your pardon, Alexander Ivanovich. Would you be so kind as to allow me five minutes to converse with you?"

"Of course," I said distractedly. "Come in...."

I saw this man for the first time in my life, and the thought flashed through my mind that he might be connected with the local police. The stranger stepped into the hall and made a motion to enter my room directly.

I blocked his way. I don't know why I did it; most likely I did not relish the prospect of questions about the dust and litter on the floor.

"Excuse me," I mumbled. "Perhaps we can talk here... my place is in disorder. And there's nothing to sit on...."

He jerked his head in reaction.

"How's that-- nothing?" he said quietly. "And the sofa?"

We stood a good minute regarding each other in silence. "Mmm - . . what-- the sofa?" I asked in a whisper for some reason.

The stranger lowered his eyes.

"Oh, so that's the way it is?" he said slowly. "I understand. Too bad.

Well, in that case, excuse me....

He nodded his head politely, put on his hat, and advanced determinedly toward the washroom door.

"Where are you going?" I cried. "You are going the wrong way!"

Without turning around, the stranger muttered, "Oh, it doesn't matter,"

and disappeared behind the door. Automatically, I turned on the light, waited a while, listening, and then threw the door open. There was n.o.body in the washroom. Carefully I drew out a cigarette and lighted it.

The sofa, I thought. What has the sofa to do with it? I had never heard any fairy tale about a sofa. There was a flying carpet; there was the magical tablecloth. There was the invisibility hat, the seven-league boots, the playing harp. There was the magic mirror. But there was no magic sofa.

Sofas were for sitting or lying on; there was something respectable and ordinary about them. . . . In fact, what fantasy could be inspired by a sofa?

Returning to my room, I was at once aware of The Small Man. He was sitting on top of the stove, up against the ceiling, twisted into an uncomfortable pose. He had a puckered unshaved face and hairy gray ears.

"h.e.l.lo there," I said tiredly.

The Small Man twisted his long lips in a grimace of suffering.

"Good evening," he said. "Please excuse me. I've been shunted here some way I don't quite understand. It's about the sofa."

"You are a bit late about the sofa," I said, sitting down at the table.

"I can see that," said The Small Man in a low voice, twisting about clumsily. Bits of plaster rained down.