Dappled shade fell across the pages of the books, the bare elbows, and the cute bangs.
When the stranger stepped into the cool alley there was a noticeable stir on the benches.
The girls hid their faces behind volumes by Gladkov, Eliza Orzeszkowa, and Seyfullina and eyed the visitor with temerity.
He paraded past the excited book lovers and emerged from the alley at his destination, the city hall.
At that moment, a horse cab appeared from around the corner.
A man in a long tunic briskly walked next to it, holding on to the dusty, beat-up fender and waving a bulging portfolio embossed with the word “Musique.”
He was heatedly arguing with the passenger.
The latter, a middle-aged man with a pendulous banana-shaped nose, held a suitcase between his legs and from time to time shook a finger in his interlocutor’s face in vehement disagreement.
In the heat of the argument his engineer’s cap, sporting a band of plush green upholstery fabric, slid to one side.
The adversaries uttered the word “salary” loudly and often.
Soon other words became audible as well.
“You will answer for this, Comrade Talmudovsky!” shouted the Tunic, pushing the engineer’s hand away from his face.
“And I am telling you that no decent professional would come to work for you on such terms,” replied Talmudovsky, trying to return his finger to its original position.
“Are you talking about the salary again?
I’m going to have to launch a complaint about your excessive greed.”
“I don’t give a damn about the salary!
I’d work for free!” yelled the engineer, angrily tracing all kinds of curves in the air with his finger.
“I can even retire if I want to.
Don’t treat people like serfs!
You see
‘Liberty, equality, brotherhood’ everywhere now, and yet I am expected to work in this rat hole.”
At this point, Talmudovsky quickly opened his hand and started counting on his fingers:
“The apartment is a pigsty, there’s no theater, the salary . . .
Driver!
To the train station!”
“Whoa!” shrieked the Tunic, rushing ahead and grabbing the horse by the bridle.
“As the secretary of the Engineers and Technicians local, I must . . .
Kondrat Ivanovich, the plant will be left without engineers . . .
Be reasonable . . .
We won’t let you get away with this, Engineer Talmudovsky . . .
I have the minutes here with me . . .”
And then the secretary of the local planted his feet firmly on the ground and started undoing the straps of his
“Musique.”
This lapse decided the argument.
Seeing that the path was clear, Talmudovsky rose to his feet and yelled at the top of his lungs:
“To the station!”
“Wait, wait . . .” meekly protested the secretary, rushing after the carriage. “You are a deserter from the labor front!”
Sheets of thin paper marked “discussed-resolved” flew out of the portfolio.
The stranger, who had been closely watching the incident, lingered for a moment on the empty square, and then said with conviction:
“No, this is definitely not Rio de Janeiro.”
A minute later he was knocking on the door of the city council chairman.
“Who do you want to see?” asked the receptionist who was sitting at the desk by the door. “What do you need to see the chairman for?
What’s your business?”
Apparently the visitor was intimately familiar with the principles of handling receptionists at various governmental, non-governmental, and municipal organizations.
He didn’t bother to claim that he had urgent official business.
“Private matters,” he said dryly and, without looking back at the receptionist, stuck his head in the door.
“May I come in?”
Without waiting for an answer, he approached the chairman’s desk.
“Good morning, do you recognize me?”
The chairman, a dark-eyed man with a large head, wearing a navy blue jacket and matching pants that were tucked into tall boots with high angled heels, glanced at the visitor rather distractedly and said he did not recognize him.