What a strange person you are! Not everyone... Just
those who... Oh, dear, what's the matter with me! I forgot. We're disturbing
the patient."
A dress rustled. The lady of the house bent over me.
"I am not dis-turb-ed ..."
"Nonsense," Slyozkin retorted sharply. "Nonsense!"
"What's nonsense?"
"All that about Ossetians and the rest of it. Rubbish."
He puffed out a cloud of smoke.
My exhausted brain suddenly sang out:
Mamma! Mamma!
What we gonna do?
"And what precisely are we going to do?"
Slyozkin grinned with his right cheek only, thought for a moment and had a burst
of inspiration.
"We'll open an ASS, an Arts Sub-Section!"
"What on earth is that?"
"What?"
"A sob-sexy on?"
"No, a sub-section!"
"Sub?"
"That's right."
"Why sub?"
" Er ... well, you
see," he shifted around, "there's a Sec. of Ed. or Ed. Sec. Sec. Get
it? And this is a sub-section. Sub. Get it?"
"Sec. of Ed. Pin-head. Barbousse . Screw loose."
The lady of the house let fly.
"Don't talk to him, for goodness sake! He'll get
delirious again..."
"Nonsense!" said Yuri sternly. "Nonsense! And all those Mingrelians and Imere ... What are they called? Circassians . They're plain stupid!"
"Why?"
"They just rush about. Shooting. At the moon. They won't rob anyone."
"But what'll happen? To
us?"
"Nothing. We'll open up..."
"The Arts?"
"That's right. The whole lot. Fine Arts. Photo. Lit. and Dram."
"I don't get it."
"Please don't talk, Misha dear! The doctor..."
"Tell you later! It'll be alright. I've been in
charge before. What do we care? We're a-political. We're Art!"
"And how shall we live?"
"We'll hide our money behind the carpet."
"What carpet?"
"In the town where I was in charge, we had a
carpet on the wall. And when we got paid, my wife and I used to hide it behind
the carpet. They were anxious times. But we ate. Ate well. Special rations."
"What about me?"
"You'll be ASS Lit. head .
Yes."
"What head?"
"Please, Misha . I beg
you!"
3.
THE ICON-LAMP
The night swims. Pitch black. Can't
sleep. The icon-lamp flickers anxiously. Shots in the
distance. My brain's on fire.
Everything's misty.
Mamma! Mamma!
What we gonna do?
Slyozkin's building something. Piling something up. Fine Arts. Photo. Lit. Dram. Scram. Sam. It's photographic boxes. Why? ASS Lit. for the writers. Poor blighters. Dram. Ham. Ingushes gallop about on horseback, eyes flashing. Pinching the boxes. Dreadful racket. Shooting at the moon. Nurse injects my thigh with
camphor. A third bout!
"Help! What'll happen? Let me go! I must get out..."
"Be quiet, Misha dear.
Be quiet!"
After the morphine the Ingushes disappear. The velvety night sways. The icon-lamp casts its divine light and
sings in a crystal voice:
Ma- amma ! Ma- amma !
4.
AND HERE IT IS—THE SUB-SECTION
Sun. Clouds of dust behind carriage wheels. People walking in and out of an echoing building. A room on the fourth floor. Two cupboards
with broken doors, some rickety tables. Three young ladies with violet
lips bang away loudly at typewriters, stopping now and then to have a smoke.
In the very centre a writer snatched from death's jaws
fashions a sub-section out of the chaos. Fine. Dram. Actors' bluish faces keep pestering him. Asking for money.
After the typhus a rocking swell . Dizziness and nausea. But I'm in charge. ASS Lit. head . Getting
to know the ropes.
"ASS head. Sec. of Ed. Lit. Coll."
A man walks between the tables. In a
grey army jacket and monstrous riding-breeches. He plunges into groups
that fall apart. Like a torpedo boat ploughing the waves. Everyone quails under
his glance. Except the young ladies. They're not
afraid of anything.
He comes up. Eyes boring into me, he
plucks out my heart, places it in his palm and scrutinises it carefully.
But it is as clear as crystal.
He puts it back and smiles graciously.
"ASS Lit. head ?"
"That's it."
He goes on his way. Seems a good
chap. Only what's he doing here? Doesn't look like Dram. And certainly
not
those who... Oh, dear, what's the matter with me! I forgot. We're disturbing
the patient."
A dress rustled. The lady of the house bent over me.
"I am not dis-turb-ed ..."
"Nonsense," Slyozkin retorted sharply. "Nonsense!"
"What's nonsense?"
"All that about Ossetians and the rest of it. Rubbish."
He puffed out a cloud of smoke.
My exhausted brain suddenly sang out:
Mamma! Mamma!
What we gonna do?
"And what precisely are we going to do?"
Slyozkin grinned with his right cheek only, thought for a moment and had a burst
of inspiration.
"We'll open an ASS, an Arts Sub-Section!"
"What on earth is that?"
"What?"
"A sob-sexy on?"
"No, a sub-section!"
"Sub?"
"That's right."
"Why sub?"
" Er ... well, you
see," he shifted around, "there's a Sec. of Ed. or Ed. Sec. Sec. Get
it? And this is a sub-section. Sub. Get it?"
"Sec. of Ed. Pin-head. Barbousse . Screw loose."
The lady of the house let fly.
"Don't talk to him, for goodness sake! He'll get
delirious again..."
"Nonsense!" said Yuri sternly. "Nonsense! And all those Mingrelians and Imere ... What are they called? Circassians . They're plain stupid!"
"Why?"
"They just rush about. Shooting. At the moon. They won't rob anyone."
"But what'll happen? To
us?"
"Nothing. We'll open up..."
"The Arts?"
"That's right. The whole lot. Fine Arts. Photo. Lit. and Dram."
"I don't get it."
"Please don't talk, Misha dear! The doctor..."
"Tell you later! It'll be alright. I've been in
charge before. What do we care? We're a-political. We're Art!"
"And how shall we live?"
"We'll hide our money behind the carpet."
"What carpet?"
"In the town where I was in charge, we had a
carpet on the wall. And when we got paid, my wife and I used to hide it behind
the carpet. They were anxious times. But we ate. Ate well. Special rations."
"What about me?"
"You'll be ASS Lit. head .
Yes."
"What head?"
"Please, Misha . I beg
you!"
3.
THE ICON-LAMP
The night swims. Pitch black. Can't
sleep. The icon-lamp flickers anxiously. Shots in the
distance. My brain's on fire.
Everything's misty.
Mamma! Mamma!
What we gonna do?
Slyozkin's building something. Piling something up. Fine Arts. Photo. Lit. Dram. Scram. Sam. It's photographic boxes. Why? ASS Lit. for the writers. Poor blighters. Dram. Ham. Ingushes gallop about on horseback, eyes flashing. Pinching the boxes. Dreadful racket. Shooting at the moon. Nurse injects my thigh with
camphor. A third bout!
"Help! What'll happen? Let me go! I must get out..."
"Be quiet, Misha dear.
Be quiet!"
After the morphine the Ingushes disappear. The velvety night sways. The icon-lamp casts its divine light and
sings in a crystal voice:
Ma- amma ! Ma- amma !
4.
AND HERE IT IS—THE SUB-SECTION
Sun. Clouds of dust behind carriage wheels. People walking in and out of an echoing building. A room on the fourth floor. Two cupboards
with broken doors, some rickety tables. Three young ladies with violet
lips bang away loudly at typewriters, stopping now and then to have a smoke.
In the very centre a writer snatched from death's jaws
fashions a sub-section out of the chaos. Fine. Dram. Actors' bluish faces keep pestering him. Asking for money.
After the typhus a rocking swell . Dizziness and nausea. But I'm in charge. ASS Lit. head . Getting
to know the ropes.
"ASS head. Sec. of Ed. Lit. Coll."
A man walks between the tables. In a
grey army jacket and monstrous riding-breeches. He plunges into groups
that fall apart. Like a torpedo boat ploughing the waves. Everyone quails under
his glance. Except the young ladies. They're not
afraid of anything.
He comes up. Eyes boring into me, he
plucks out my heart, places it in his palm and scrutinises it carefully.
But it is as clear as crystal.
He puts it back and smiles graciously.
"ASS Lit. head ?"
"That's it."
He goes on his way. Seems a good
chap. Only what's he doing here? Doesn't look like Dram. And certainly
not
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