Almost all the passengers got off the trolley at the Victory, and it continued on its way empty. Immediately on the other side of the tracks was a seething human broth, a thick, swaying mass that possessed its own internal currents, like every crowd, unconscious but clearly subject to some common law. Once Vitka Zhuk, the projectionist at the Victory, took Eddie with him high up onto the roof of the House of Culture and showed him the crowd from above. Looking down on it, Eddie was amazed by how much it resembled a treacherous river – in some places it seemed to swirl around shoals, while in others it seemed to bump up against them and flow powerfully off in one direction, only to stop suddenly and begin flowing in another. "Holy fuck!" was all Eddie could say then, although that evening he did try to write a poem about the crowd. In the poem too he compared the crowd to a river, but the poem didn't work out – Eddie himself didn't care for it.
"Hurry and sign up!" Kadik now says to Eddie, pulling him along. "Come on, come on!" he urges, and they move through the crowd toward the immense stairway that leads up to the first level of the building's terraced apron. The Victory is built like the Parthenon, although it's much bigger. On the apron are towering microphones, crates containing electrical equipment, the famous amplifiers Kadik is so delighted with, and a place for the band, which has just left the stage for a break. Somewhere in the depths of the Victory, Vitka Zhuk is playing records in the band's absence, at the moment a song called "The Black Sea," popular that year:
Whoever was born by the sea
Has fallen in love forever
With the white masts at rest
In the smoke of the maritime city
sings a saccharine voice from all the loudspeakers on the square. Here and there people in the crowd dance, while the rest buzz, yell, converse, and gather in little clusters.
Making their way onto the apron, Eddie-baby and Kadik slip under the rope surrounding the microphones and equipment and go up to a group of people crowded around a man in a black suit and bow tie – the master of ceremonies. Several Komsomol auxiliaries – well-fed youths with red armbands – had tried to stop them, but Kadik very impressively announced, "We're taking part in the poetry contest," and the Komsomol auxiliaries let them through to the master of ceremonies.
"Excuse me! Excuse me!" the insolent and persistent Kadik politely says to everyone, shamelessly pushing his way into the little group. "My friend, a very talented poet from Saltovka, would like to take part in your contest," Kadik says in a dignified tone, addressing the master of ceremonies.
"By all means!" the master of ceremonies answers without any particular pleasure but with professional courtesy. "Whose poems will you be reciting, young man?" he asks, addressing Eddie.
Eddie hardly has a chance to open his mouth before Kadik is answering for him: "His own, naturally. Whose poems would a poet recite, anyway?"
"His own. Very fine!" the master of ceremonies says, becoming more animated. "Ten people have already signed up, but most of them will be reciting the poems of well-known Soviet and Russian poets. Only" – and here the master of ceremonies looks at a piece of paper he's holding in his hand – "only four will be reciting their own poems. Last year there were a lot more," he notes absently, as if puzzled, as if not knowing how to explain the drop in the number of poets who will be reciting their own poems at the Victory this year.
"But aren't you having a contest for the best poems?" Kadik asks him.
"As a matter of fact, we did plan a tourney for poets," the master of ceremonies confirms, "but in view of the small number of participants, we have pretty much decided to have a contest just for poetry reciters -"
"Oh no, you have to have a contest for poets, just as you announced!" demands the indignant Kadik. "It was announced in the press that there would be a contest for poets," says the stern Kadik-Kolka, laying down the law.
Eddie has even forgotten his fear of the crowd, so completely delighted is he with his friend-impresario. That's how he said it – just like a responsible comrade: "It was announced in the press…"
"Well, we have five people now. It's not a lot, but I think it will be enough for a contest," the master of ceremonies says, making up his mind. "Four poets just wasn't enough," he justifies himself to Kadik.
"The public has come to hear a contest for poets," Kadik declares, waving his hand over the sea of people below them. "You can see how excited and full of anticipation they are," he adds.
The crowd really is excited, but Eddie-baby, Kadik, and the master of ceremonies know it couldn't be less interested in poetry. "It would watch the circus with the greatest of pleasure," Eddie-baby thinks with a grin. "It wants bread and spectacles, biomitsin and the circus. Roll out barrels of biomitsin for them and invite the regional circus to come with its bears, elephants, and clowns, and the crowd at the Victory will be the happiest crowd in the world. They'll remember it for years afterward."
The young people have come to the Victory to see each other, to drink together, to get into fights, to pass the time with their friends. Every district has its own place on the square. The half of the square to Eddie's right belongs to the kids from Tyurenka and Saltovka, to "our guys," as he puts it. The other half belongs to the kids from Plekhanovka, who share it as hosts with the kids from Zhuravlyovka. That doesn't mean that the kids from Tyurenka or Saltovka can't go over to the side belonging to the kids from Plekhanovka and Zhuravlyovka; certainly they can, but officially the gangs congregate on different sides of the square – that's how the territory is divided. Eddie-baby has no idea who divided it that way, but that's the way it has always been. It's a tradition that has been passed down from one generation to the next.
"I'd like to look at your poems before you recite them," the master of ceremonies says to Eddie. "Forgive me, young man, but what's your name?"
"Eduard Savenko," Eddie identifies himself with a certain reluctance. He doesn't like his last name and dreams of changing it when he grows up.
"All right then, Eduard," the master of ceremonies says, "I'd like to take a look at your work. Please don't be offended – that's the policy around here -"
"Censorship!" the insolent Kadik mockingly interjects. "Show him what you plan to recite, Eddie."
It's a good thing that Eddie has brought the notebook with him. He leafs through it now to find the poems he needs. This isn't the beach, after all; they won't let you recite poems about the militia and prison. What's required are poems about love. You can recite poems about love anywhere.
"Here's one," Eddie says, sticking his finger in the notebook. "And this one too," he indicates, turning the page. "And here's another one," he says, "just a short one," and he hands the notebook to the master of ceremonies, who immediately immerses himself in it. The master of ceremonies reads professionally and rapidly, and after a few minutes he gives the notebook back to Eddie.
"Very talented, young man," he says. "Very. I'm pleasantly impressed. The majority of people who recite here," he says, taking Eddie by the arm and leading him a little away from the others, "the majority of the poets here are, how shall I put it" – and he frowns – "are not very literate about poetry. And then too," the master of ceremonies adds condescendingly, "they lack spiritual culture… You understand what I mean?" he says, looking Eddie in the eye. "By the way, what do your parents do?" he asks.