Monday Starts on Saturday isn’t quite that book, but it comes closer than any other I can think of. The Strugatskys understand that, for most people, science and magic are not opposite terms, since for most people “science” is now so complex and specialized, so incomprehensible, so apt to being translated into mere technological marvelousness, that it is in effect a form of magic. Not one person in a hundred million really understands what goes on inside his or her iPhone. The scientific publications of the Institute might as well be alchemical gobbledygook, or indeed fairy stories, as far as the average, reasonable woman or man is concerned.
This in turn has a strange consequence, something this marvelous novel understands on a deep level. We talk about “real magic” to distinguish it from “stage magic”—which, as illusion, is of course not magic at all. It’s a “false magic.” But the irony here is that real magic is the kind of magic that can’t actually be done, whereas the “unreal” stage magic is the kind that can actually be performed. This is a nice irony, but it’s more than that. It’s symptomatic of the way performance—whether on stage, on screen, in a book, or in song—upends the logic of actuality. This curious paradox is at the heart of this superlative novel. If magic were “real,” it would insert itself into the logic of the stage, of performance and theatrical companies, or of people bickering and scheming and looking for the main chance. But if magic is unreal, not a part of the real world, then it retreats to the logic of dreams, wish-fulfillment, and psychological fantasy. And where else does this exercise in imaginative creation take us?
STORY No. 1
The Commotion over the Sofa
1
TEACHER: Children, write down the sentence “The fish sat on the tree.”
PUPIL: But do fish really sit on trees?
TEACHER: Well… this fish was crazy.
I was nearing my destination. On both sides the green forest pressed right up against the road, giving way now and then to clearings overgrown with yellow sedge. The sun had been trying in vain to set for hours and still hung low over the horizon. As the car trundled along the crunching gravel surface of the narrow road, I steered the wheels over the large stones, and every time the empty gas cans in the trunk clanged and clattered.
Two figures emerged from the forest on the right, stepped out onto the edge of the road, and halted, looking in my direction. One of them raised his hand. I eased off the accelerator as I examined them. They looked to me like hunters, young men, perhaps a little older than me. I liked the look of their faces, and I stopped. The one who had raised his hand stuck his swarthy, hook-nosed face into the car and asked with a smile, “Could you give us a lift to Solovets?”
The other one, who had a ginger beard but no mustache, peeped over his shoulder, also smiling. They were definitely nice people.
“Get in,” I said. “One in the front and the other in the back—the backseat’s pretty cluttered.”
“Our guardian angel!” the hook-nosed one exclaimed delightedly, slipping his gun off his shoulder and getting into the seat beside me.
The one with the beard glanced in uncertainly through the rear door and said, “Do you mind if I just…?”
I leaned over the back of my seat and helped him clear the space that was occupied by the sleeping bag and folded tent. He sat down cautiously, setting his hunting gun between his knees. “Make sure you close the door properly,” I said.
So far everything seemed normal. I drove on. The young man with the hooked nose turned to face the back and started talking boisterously about how much nicer it was to ride in a car than to walk. The young man with the beard mumbled his agreement and kept trying to slam the door shut.
“Pull in your raincoat,” I advised him, looking through the rearview mirror. “Your coat’s jamming it.”
Five minutes later everything was all sorted out. “About ten kilometers to Solovets, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yes,” replied the hook-nosed one. “Or maybe a bit more. Only the road’s not so good, of course—it’s just for trucks.”
“The road’s just fine,” I retorted. “I was told I wouldn’t be able to get through at all.”
“You can get down this road even in autumn.”
“Here, maybe, but from Korobets on it’s a dirt track.”
“It’s a dry summer this year—everything’s dried out a bit.”
“They say there’s rain up around Zaton,” remarked the bearded young man in the backseat.
“Who says?” asked the hook-nosed one.
“Merlin says.” And for some reason they laughed.
I took out my cigarettes, lit up, and passed them around.
“The Clara Zetkin Plant,” said the hook-nosed one, eyeing the pack. “Are you from Leningrad?”
“Yes.”
“Doing a bit of traveling?”
“Yes,” I said. “Are you local?”
“Born and bred,” said the hook-nosed one.
“I’m from Murmansk,” declared the bearded one.
“I suppose from Leningrad there’s no difference between Solovets and Murmansk—it’s all the North,” said the hook-nosed one.
“No, not at all,” I said politely.
“Will you be staying in Solovets?” asked the hook-nosed one.
“Certainly,” I said, “Solovets is where I’m headed.”
“Have you got family or friends there?”
“No,” I said, “I’m just going to wait for some guys. They’re hiking along the coast, and we arranged to meet up in Solovets.”
I spotted a large patch of rocks ahead, braked, and said, “Hold on tight.” The car started shuddering and shaking. The young man in the front hit his hooked nose against the barrel of his gun. The motor roared and stones smashed against the bottom of the car.
“Your poor car,” said the hook-nosed one.
“Can’t be helped,” I replied.
“Not everyone would drive down a road like this in their own car.”
“I would,” I said.
The patch of large rocks came to an end. “So, it’s not your car then,” the hook-nosed one deduced.
“Where would I get a car from? It’s rented.”
“I see,” said the hook-nosed young man, and I thought he sounded disappointed.
I was stung, so I answered, “What’s the point of buying a car for driving around on asphalt? The places covered in asphalt aren’t interesting, and in the interesting places there isn’t any asphalt.”
“Yes, of course,” Hook-Nose agreed politely.
“I think it’s stupid to turn a car into a fetish,” I declared.
“It is,” said the bearded one, “but not everybody thinks that way.”
We talked a bit about cars and came to the conclusion that if you were going to buy anything, then it should be a GAZ-69 all-terrain model, but unfortunately they weren’t for sale.
The hook-nosed one asked, “Where do you work?”
I answered the question.
“Tremendous!” he exclaimed. “A programmer. A programmer’s just what we need. Listen, why don’t you leave your institute and come to work for us?”
“And what have you got?”
“What have we got?” asked the one with the hooked nose, turning around to the back.
“An Aldan-3,” said the one with the beard.
“A very versatile machine,” I said. “And does it run OK?”
“Well, how can I put it…?”