In his day, Tsukatov had been Chelnokov’s student, and he too had affectionately called his teacher Chief Bird (though not to his face, of course). Now Tsukatov shared the office of the department chair with him. Their desks stood near each other on a low platform by the window, hedged away from the rest of the space by a bookcase and a short wooden banister. Although obliged to become neighbors due to circumstance—Chelnokov’s office was in a perennial state of reconstruction—they both sincerely enjoyed one another’s company. Besides, Chelnokov himself had recently been the chair of the department, but had to abandon the post due to his advanced age.
“Y-you know, we don’t have a single decent primate in our m-museum. I mean, an anthropoid,” said Chelnokov, stuttering elegantly, resuming the conversation they had been engaged in before he had gone off to give a lecture. Their discussion was about how to utilize the unexpected funding that had been allotted for the museum’s needs. “We have macaques and other short-tailed monkeys all over the p-place, but not a single gorilla. Or an orangutan, b-beautiful and orange, like a tangerine. It’s just not right.”
“There are many things we don’t have yet,” said Tsukatov. His personal preference was to augment the reptile collection, and he was considering acquiring a Galapagos tortoise. A thought he shared with all present.
“Who is the Galápagos tortoise to us, anyway? A son-in-law? A brother?” Chelnokov countered, producing a can of coffee from the bookcase they had adapted into a cupboard. “Now, a ch-chimpanzee is basically family. A distant relative, at the very least.” And then to Lera: “Care for coffee?”
Tsukatov pursed his lips into a fine line. A supporter of hierarchies, he preferred not to mix ranks, assuming that as long as he remained on formal terms with both his subordinates and his superiors, neither of them would feel emboldened to indulge in chummy manners with him. Especially his superiors. Why on earth should they? Professor Tsukatov wasn’t looking for their approval. He knew what he was worth, and he knew he was worth a great deal. Hence, his deeply held belief was that laboratory assistants ought to drink their coffee back in the laboratory.
“No,” continued Chelnokov with gusto, “the first thing on our list should be a decent primate…Uh, an anthropoid. Perhaps we could even section off a c-corner as something of an ancestral temple, like a Chinese fanza.” He was playing the buffoon. “My daughter was in Jiangxi. Uh… in their houses the Chinese have a special c-corner they use as an altar, with the ashen remains of their ancestors where they b-burn incense. And they talk to their ancestors in Chinese about everyday matters. Girls talk about their beaus” —Chelnokov winked at Lera who was stifling her laughter with her palm—”and the paterfamilias might talk about the harvest or consult it on matters of monetary investment.”
Chelnokov’s arguments were flippant, empty, and unfounded. In fact, it would be unjustified to call them arguments at all. But as Tsukatov listened to his colleague, he felt that in fact he really had nothing against the idea of a stuffed ape, and that perhaps it would be a better idea than getting a tortoise. After all, the vice-chancellor of science had moved to the administrative position from the Department of Biology. While he was still a practicing zoologist, he had participated in some ridiculous project for acclimatizing chimpanzees to the Pskov region. It stood to reason that he would still feel affection toward anthropoids. This also meant that it would be easier to get the paperwork through.
Ever since the university’s reputation had improved and the Ministry of Education had named it one of the leading institutions in the country, their financial situation had changed for the better. The department’s scientific projects won grant after grant, and they were able to rig up a new laboratory. Some tidbits even trickled down to the museum itself. That was when they realized that they needed a museum curator—a specialist whose obligations, among other things, would include replenishing the museum’s collection, restoring old exhibits and museum furniture, as well as any other matters that came up.
Demyan Ilich had excellent references and extensive experience working at various institutions, including the Russian Academy of Science’s zoology museum. Tsukatov made a special trip to the spit of Vasilievsky Island to make inquiries about the applicant with the assistant director of the zoology museum, who was an acquaintance of his. The latter attested to the fact that Demyan Ilich was an impressive specialist with a deep understanding of his field, although, as a person, he was a handfuclass="underline" gloomy and unsociable. His coworkers found Demyan Ilich difficult. He had a way of putting people on their guard, which is why he changed jobs frequently. He had his own secret (albeit quite economical) ways of obtaining materials for exhibits. He could get hold of some of the rarest, most improbable exhibits, and his taxidermy skills were held in high esteem by the museum staff.
Tsukatov was not put off by the gloomy nature of his future employee. For him, a supporter of hierarchical discipline, warm relations with coworkers meant absolutely nothing. The most important thing to him was how well they did their jobs, and he was certain that he knew how to get them to do their jobs well. Tsukatov was one of those people who didn’t have to play around, gnashing his teeth and crunching the knuckles of his clenched fists. Everyone could see full well that he was a heavyweight. Demyan Ilich’s ability to get hold of whatever was needed was nothing to turn up one’s nose at, either. As a matter of fact, it would prove very useful for replenishing and expanding the museum’s collection. The only problem was that the materials he managed to get hold of—pelts, corpses, and even complete stuffed animals—often lacked the necessary paperwork. But even this did not deter Tsukatov. During the course of his work with the for-profit organizations that delivered the museum its collection of shells of crustaceans, and the glass cube with the display of insects and arachnids from Southeast Asia, their employees had offered, rather unambiguously, to produce the necessary papers for just about anything—any beast, even a diplodocus, hunted in a safari in the swamps of equatorial Africa. For a reasonable fee, naturally. Through their fly-by-night branch offices he could also cash the official funds earmarked for acquiring new museum exhibits, since the suppliers used by Demyan Ilich accepted cash only.
Since hiring the curator, Professor Tsukatov had already used the services of these fly-by-nights twice. First, when at his request Demyan Ilich obtained a wonderful, brand-new stuffed female alligator so large that they had to set it on the highest shelf, just beneath the ceiling, opposite the Steller sea lion, which had been placed in a similar fashion. The second time was when, on his own initiative, Demyan Ilich suggested that they acquire a new stuffed peacock to replace the old one, which had become tattered and frayed during its hundred years of service.
Professor Tsukatov went over to the window and gazed out at the snow, the trees that had turned white, the glass dome of the atrium of the trading house behind the Red Bridge, the chains of black footprints made by students trudging through the courtyard, the sky that promised an early twilight, no longer murky, since the downy winter had already spread itself all around. The calm of the snow-covered earth slowly spread within him.