“That’s too bad,” said Koreiko, glancing with curiosity at the borscht with gold medals of fat floating in it.
There was something meritorious about this borscht, something of a decorated veteran. “‘Through struggle you will attain your rights’ is the motto of the Socialist Revolutionaries, not the Bolsheviks.
It’s no good for publication.”
“Oh my God!” moaned the old man.
“Merciful Mother of God!
I messed up again!
You hear, Zosya sweetheart?
I messed up.
What am I going to do now?”
They tried to calm the old man down.
After eating dinner half-heartedly, he rose quickly, collected the week’s puzzles, put on a huge straw hat, and said:
“Well, Zosya dear, I’m off to The Youth Courier.
I’m a bit concerned about the algebraic puzzle, but I’m sure they’ll give me some money.”
The editors at the Young Communist League magazine The Youth Courier often rejected the old man’s material, and admonished him for his backwardness, but they treated him kindly—the magazine was the only source of the tiny stream of money that came his way.
Sinitsky was bringing in the puzzle that began with
“My first one is a little word,” two collective-farm anagrams, and an algebraic puzzle which, through some very complex division and multiplication, proved the superiority of the Soviet system over all other systems.
After the puzzle-maker left, Alexander Ivanovich began to examine Zosya gloomily.
He had started eating at the Sinitskys’ because their dinners were good and inexpensive.
Besides, his first and foremost rule was to always remember that he was just a lowly clerk.
He liked to talk about how hard it was to live in a big city on a meager salary.
After a while, however, the price and the taste of the food lost its abstract, camouflaging value for him.
If he had to—and if he could do it openly—he would gladly pay not 60 kopecks for dinner, but three or even five thousand rubles.
Alexander Ivanovich—this hermit who deliberately tormented himself with financial chains, who forbade himself to touch anything that cost more than fifty kopecks, and who at the same time was irked that he couldn’t openly spend a hundred rubles for fear of losing his millions—fell in love with the abandon of a strong, austere man who had been embittered by an endless wait.
Today he finally decided to open his heart to Zosya and to offer her his hand, with its small, mean, ferret-like pulse, and his heart, which was bound by enchanted hoops.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s the way things are, Zosya Victorovna.”
Having made this pronouncement, Citizen Koreiko grabbed an ashtray—it had the pre-revolutionary motto
“Husband, don’t vex your wife” printed on the side—and began studying it very carefully.
One needs to point out here that there isn’t a young woman in the whole world who doesn’t sense an upcoming declaration of love at least a week in advance.
That’s why Zosya Victorovna sighed uneasily as she lingered in front of the mirror.
She had that sporty look that every pretty young woman had acquired in recent years, and after reaffirming her beauty in the mirror, she sat down in front of Alexander Ivanovich and prepared to hear him out.
But Alexander Ivanovich said nothing.
He knew only two roles: clerk and secret millionaire.
He hadn’t known anything else.
“Have you heard the news?” asked Zosya. “Pobirukhin was purged.”
“It started at our place, too,” said Koreiko, “heads will roll.
Lapidus Jr., for example.
Come to think of it, Lapidus Sr. isn’t squeaky clean either . . .”
At this point, Koreiko realized that he was playing the role of a poor clerk, and he fell back into his leaden thoughtfulness.
“Yes,” he said, “one lives like this, alone, without any bliss.”
“Without any what?” Zosya perked up.
“Without a woman’s affection,” said Koreiko tensely.
Seeing that Zosya wasn’t offering any help, he elaborated.
He’s quite old.
Well, not exactly old, but not young.
Well, not exactly not young, but time passes, you know, the years go by.
Time flies, in other words.
And this passage of time makes him think of various things.
Of marriage, for example.
Let nobody think that he is something like, you know . . .
He’s actually not bad.