Lower-level employees sat in one-ruble rooms on the fourth floor—the kind that used to be frequented by country priests who were attending diocesan conferences, or minor salesmen with Warsaw-style mustaches.
These rooms had pink metal sinks and still smelled of armpits.
Department heads, their assistants, and the head of Maintenance occupied the nicer rooms, where pool sharks and provincial actors used to stay.
These rooms were a bit better: they had mirrored wardrobes and floors covered with reddish-brown linoleum.
The top administrators nested in deluxe rooms with bathtubs and alcoves.
The white bathtubs were filled with files, while the walls of the dim alcoves were covered with diagrams and charts that depicted the organizational structure of the Hercules and its network of local affiliates.
Rooms like this still contained silly gold-painted love seats, carpets, and night stands with marble tops.
Some alcoves even had heavy nickel-plated beds with ball knobs.
The beds were also covered with files and all kinds of correspondence.
It was very convenient, since the papers were always at hand.
Back in 1911, the famous writer Leonid Andreev stayed in one of these rooms—No. 5.
All the Herculeans knew about it, and for some reason, No. 5 had a bad reputation in the building.
Every administrator who had set up their offices in this room had gotten into some kind of trouble.
The moment a No. 5 would become more or less comfortable with his new responsibilities, he’d be demoted and transferred to another position.
If he was lucky, there would be no formal reprimand.
But at times there was a reprimand; at other times there would be an article in the paper; and sometimes it was much worse—it’s unpleasant even to think about it.
“That room is cursed,” complained the victims afterwards. “But who knew?”
And so the author of the scary story, The Seven Who Were Hanged, was held responsible for terrible things: Comr.
Lapshin giving jobs to his own six mighty brothers; Comr.
Spravchenko, hoping that the tree-bark collection campaign would somehow take care of itself, thus making said campaign a total failure; or Comr.
Indochinov losing 7,384.03 rubles of state funds in a game of cards.
And no matter how Indochinov wiggled, no matter how he tried to convince the authorities that the 0.03 rubles were spent on state business, and that he could produce documentation in support of this claim, nothing helped.
The ghost of the late writer was implacable, and one fall evening, Indochinov was escorted to the slammer.
Room No. 5 was definitely no good.
The director of the entire Hercules, Comr.
Polykhaev, had his office in what used to be the winter garden, and his secretary, Impala Mikhailovna, would pop up here and there amid the surviving palms and ficus.
This same area also contained a long table, like a train station platform, that was covered with thick crimson fabric; this was the site of frequent and lengthy board meetings.
In addition, Room 262, which used to be the snack bar, was recently taken over by the Purge Committee, eight unremarkable men with dull gray eyes.
They came in punctually every day and were always reading some kind of official-looking papers.
As Ostap and Balaganov were climbing the stairs, an alarm bell went off, and the staff immediately started pouring out of every room.
Everyone moved quickly, it felt like an emergency on a ship.
The bell didn’t signal an emergency, however; it called for the morning break.
Some of the employees rushed to the cafeteria, in order to secure a red caviar sandwich for themselves.
Others walked up and down the hallways, eating on the go.
A remarkably noble-looking man came out of the Planning Department.
A young, rounded beard hung from his pale, kind face.
He was holding a cold meat patty, which he kept bringing to his mouth, examining it carefully each time.
His routine was almost interrupted by Balaganov, who wished to know where they could find Finance and Accounting.
“Can’t you see, Comrade, that I’m having a bite to eat?” said the man, turning away from Balaganov indignantly.
And then, ignoring the half-brothers, he immersed himself in studying the last remaining morsel of the meat patty.
He examined it carefully from all sides, even sniffed it goodbye, and finally placed it in his mouth. Then he puffed out his chest, cleaned the crumbs off his jacket, and slowly approached another employee, who was standing near the door to his department.
“So, how are you feeling?” he asked after looking around.
“Don’t even ask, Comrade Bomze,” the other one answered. Then he looked around and added: “What kind of life is that?
No room for individuality.
Same stuff over and over again: the Five-Year Plan in four years, in three years . . .”
“I know,” whispered Bomze, “it’s just terrible!
I couldn’t agree more.
Like you said, no room for individuality, no incentives, no personal growth.
My wife stays at home, of course, and even she says there are no incentives, no personal growth.”
Sighing, Bomze moved on to another co-worker.