ram
by the horns; the motor-cycle was made up of parts of cars,
fire-extinguishers, bicycles and typewriters. It had a one-and-a-half
horsepower Wanderer engine and Davidson wheels, while the other essential
parts had lost the name of the original maker. A piece of cardboard with the
words "Trial Run" hung on a cord from the saddle. A crowd gathered. Without
looking at anyone, Victor Mikhailovich gave the pedal a twist with his hand.
There was no spark for at least ten minutes, but then came a metallic
splutter and the contraption shuddered and enveloped itself in a cloud of
filthy smoke. Polesov jumped into the saddle, and the motor-cycle,
accelerating madly, carried him through the tunnel into the middle of the
roadway and stopped dead. Polesov was about to get off and investigate the
mysterious vehicle when it suddenly reversed and, whisking its creator
through the same tunnel, stopped at its original point of departure in the
yard, grunted peevishly, and blew up. Victor Mikhailovich escaped by a
miracle and during the next bout of activity used the bits of the
motor-cycle to make a stationary engine, very similar to a real one-except
that it did not work.
The crowning glory of the mechanic-intellectual's academic activity was
the epic of the gates of building no. 5, next door. The housing co-operative
that owned the building signed a contract with Victor Polesov under which he
undertook to repair the iron gates and paint them any colour he liked. For
its part, the housing co-operative agreed to pay Victor Mikhailovich Polesov
the sum of twenty-one roubles, seventy-five kopeks, subject to approval by a
special committee. The official stamps were charged to the contractor.
Victor Mikhailovich carried off the gates like Samson. He set to work
in his shop with enthusiasm. It took several days to un-rivet the gates.
They were taken to pieces. Iron curlicues lay in the pram; iron bars and
spikes were piled under the work-bench. It took another few days to inspect
the damage. Then a great disaster occurred in the town. A water main burst
on Drovyanaya Street, and Polesov spent the rest of the week at the scene of
the misfortune, smiling ironically, shouting at the workmen, and every few
minutes looking into the hole in the ground.
As soon as his organizational ardour had somewhat abated, Polesov
returned to his gates, but it was too late. The children from the yard were
already playing with the iron curlicues and spikes of the gates of no. 5.
Seeing the wrathful mechanic, the children dropped their playthings and
fled. Half the curlicues were missing and were never found. After that
Polesov lost interest in the gates.
But then terrible things began to happen in no. 5, which was now wide
open to all. The wet linen was stolen from the attics, and one evening
someone even carried off a samovar that was singing in the yard. Polesov
himself took part in the pursuit, but the thief ran at quite a pace, even
though he was holding the steaming samovar in front of him, and looking over
his shoulder, covered Victor Mikhailovich, who was in the lead, with foul
abuse. The one who suffered most, however, was the yard-keeper from no. 5.
He lost his nightly wage since there were now no gates, there was nothing to
open, and residents returning from a spree had no one to give a tip to. At
first the yard-keeper kept coming to ask if the gates would soon be
finished; then he tried praying, and finally resorted to vague threats. The
housing cooperative sent Polesov written reminders, and there was talk of
taking the matter to court. The situation had grown more and more tense.
Standing by the well, the fortune-teller and the mechanic-enthusiast
continued their conversation.
"Given the absence of seasoned sleepers," cried Victor Mikhailovich for
the whole yard to hear, "it won't be a tramway, but sheer misery!"
"When will all this end!" said Elena Stanislavovna. "We live like
savages!"
"There's no end to it. . . . Yes. Do you know who
by the horns; the motor-cycle was made up of parts of cars,
fire-extinguishers, bicycles and typewriters. It had a one-and-a-half
horsepower Wanderer engine and Davidson wheels, while the other essential
parts had lost the name of the original maker. A piece of cardboard with the
words "Trial Run" hung on a cord from the saddle. A crowd gathered. Without
looking at anyone, Victor Mikhailovich gave the pedal a twist with his hand.
There was no spark for at least ten minutes, but then came a metallic
splutter and the contraption shuddered and enveloped itself in a cloud of
filthy smoke. Polesov jumped into the saddle, and the motor-cycle,
accelerating madly, carried him through the tunnel into the middle of the
roadway and stopped dead. Polesov was about to get off and investigate the
mysterious vehicle when it suddenly reversed and, whisking its creator
through the same tunnel, stopped at its original point of departure in the
yard, grunted peevishly, and blew up. Victor Mikhailovich escaped by a
miracle and during the next bout of activity used the bits of the
motor-cycle to make a stationary engine, very similar to a real one-except
that it did not work.
The crowning glory of the mechanic-intellectual's academic activity was
the epic of the gates of building no. 5, next door. The housing co-operative
that owned the building signed a contract with Victor Polesov under which he
undertook to repair the iron gates and paint them any colour he liked. For
its part, the housing co-operative agreed to pay Victor Mikhailovich Polesov
the sum of twenty-one roubles, seventy-five kopeks, subject to approval by a
special committee. The official stamps were charged to the contractor.
Victor Mikhailovich carried off the gates like Samson. He set to work
in his shop with enthusiasm. It took several days to un-rivet the gates.
They were taken to pieces. Iron curlicues lay in the pram; iron bars and
spikes were piled under the work-bench. It took another few days to inspect
the damage. Then a great disaster occurred in the town. A water main burst
on Drovyanaya Street, and Polesov spent the rest of the week at the scene of
the misfortune, smiling ironically, shouting at the workmen, and every few
minutes looking into the hole in the ground.
As soon as his organizational ardour had somewhat abated, Polesov
returned to his gates, but it was too late. The children from the yard were
already playing with the iron curlicues and spikes of the gates of no. 5.
Seeing the wrathful mechanic, the children dropped their playthings and
fled. Half the curlicues were missing and were never found. After that
Polesov lost interest in the gates.
But then terrible things began to happen in no. 5, which was now wide
open to all. The wet linen was stolen from the attics, and one evening
someone even carried off a samovar that was singing in the yard. Polesov
himself took part in the pursuit, but the thief ran at quite a pace, even
though he was holding the steaming samovar in front of him, and looking over
his shoulder, covered Victor Mikhailovich, who was in the lead, with foul
abuse. The one who suffered most, however, was the yard-keeper from no. 5.
He lost his nightly wage since there were now no gates, there was nothing to
open, and residents returning from a spree had no one to give a tip to. At
first the yard-keeper kept coming to ask if the gates would soon be
finished; then he tried praying, and finally resorted to vague threats. The
housing cooperative sent Polesov written reminders, and there was talk of
taking the matter to court. The situation had grown more and more tense.
Standing by the well, the fortune-teller and the mechanic-enthusiast
continued their conversation.
"Given the absence of seasoned sleepers," cried Victor Mikhailovich for
the whole yard to hear, "it won't be a tramway, but sheer misery!"
"When will all this end!" said Elena Stanislavovna. "We live like
savages!"
"There's no end to it. . . . Yes. Do you know who
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