“Here’s the article.
See?
Amid ice ridges and icebergs.”
“Icebergs!” sneered Mitrich.
“Yes, we can understand that.
Ten long years of nothing but tears.
Icebergs, Weisbergs, Eisenbergs, all those Rabinovitzes.
Pryakhin is right.
Let’s just take it, end of story.
Especially since Lucia Franzevna here agrees about the law.”
“And his stuff can go into the stairwell, to hell with it!” exclaimed the former Prince, lately a proletarian from the East, Citizen Hygienishvili, in his throaty voice.
Barbara got a good pecking and ran to her husband to complain.
“But maybe that’s how it should be,” replied the husband, raising his pharaonic beard, “maybe the Great Russian Homespun Truth speaks through the simple peasant Mitrich.
Just think of the role of the Russian intelligentsia and its significance.”
On that extraordinary day when the icebreakers finally reached Sevryugov’s tent, Citizen Hygienishvili broke the lock on Sevryugov’s door and threw all of the hero’s belongings out into the hallway, including a red propeller that was hanging on the wall.
The room was taken by Dunya, who immediately brought in six paying bed renters.
The conquered territory was the site of a night-long feast.
Nikita Pryakhin played the concertina, and Chamberlain Mitrich did Russian folk dances with a drunken Auntie Pasha.
If Sevryugov had been slightly less famous, if his incredible flights over the Arctic hadn’t given him international celebrity, he would never have seen his room again. He would have been sucked in by the centripetal force of litigiousness, and for the rest of his life he would have referred to himself not as “the brave Sevryugov,” not as “the hero of the ice,” but as “the injured party.”
But this time the Rookery was hit back hard.
The room was returned (although Sevryugov soon moved to a new building), while the daring Hygienishvili spent four months in jail for acting without proper authority; he came back mad as hell.
He was the one who first pointed out the need to turn off the bathroom lights regularly to the orphaned Lokhankin.
As he spoke, his eyes looked decidedly devilish.
The absentminded Lokhankin failed to appreciate the importance of this demarche by Citizen Hygienishvili and thus completely missed the beginnings of the conflict that was soon to lead to a horrifying event, unheard of even in the history of communal living.
Here’s how it all happened.
Basilius Andreevich continued to leave the lights on in the shared facilities.
How could he possibly remember such a trivial thing when his wife had left him, when he found himself penniless, when the multifaceted significance of the Russian intelligentsia was not yet entirely understood?
Could he even imagine that the lousy, dim light from an eight-watt bulb would inspire such powerful feelings in his neighbors?
At first they warned him several times each day.
Then they sent him a letter, which had been composed by Mitrich and signed by all the other tenants.
In the end, they stopped issuing warnings and sending letters.
Lokhankin still didn’t appreciate the gravity of the situation, but he had developed a vague premonition that some kind of circle was about to close around him.
On Tuesday evening, one of Auntie Pasha’s girls came running in and reported in a single breath:
“They’re telling you one last time to turn it off.”
But it somehow happened that Basilius Andreevich got distracted again, and the bulb continued to shine nefariously through the cobwebs and dirt.
The apartment gave a sigh.
A minute later, Citizen Hygienishvili appeared at Lokhankin’s door.
He was wearing light-blue canvas boots and a flat brown sheepskin hat.
“Come,” he said, beckoning Basilius with his finger.
Holding his hand tightly, Citizen Hygienishvili led Lokhankin down the dark hallway, where Basilius got antsy and even started kicking a bit. The former Prince pushed him into the middle of the kitchen with a blow to his back.
Grabbing onto the laundry lines, Lokhankin managed to stay on his feet and looked around fearfully.
The whole apartment was present.
Lucia Franzevna Pferd stood there in silence.
Creases of purple ink ran across the imperious face of the leaseholder-in-chief.
Next to her, a boozed-up Auntie Pasha slumped forlornly on the stove.
Barefoot Nikita Pryakhin was looking at the frightened Lokhankin with a smirk.
The head of nobody’s grandma dangled from the loft.
Dunya was gesturing at Mitrich. The former Chamberlain of the Imperial Court was smiling and hiding something behind his back.
“What?
Are we having a meeting?” asked Basilius Andreevich in a high-pitched voice.