Iron Logic
A tiny sun-bunny – hop! – flips from the window, from the crack in the lace curtains – hop! – onto the mirror, and crackles, and pops, and skitters all over the room: onto the ceiling, the floor, the Yatran typewriter, the desk and into Shishmaryov’s eyes. The chairman squints, pushes budget sheets away, leans back in his chair. On a day like this one should be out in the field, waiting for dusk. When things go still, the sun sets, and only pink streaks, then scarlet, then purple – then dusk. That’s when they come: wizz! – jet-quick teals, whoosh! – golden-eyes, swoop! – fat mallards. And after – wild onion, fish stew over the fire, and Pal-Petrovich, serene, happy, Pal-Petrovich finally at peace, and Andrei Yevgeniyevich – with all his troubles sent to hell, and a story, a joke! And in the morning – out in the mist, whistle to the grouse: a hard full trill like a cock, one cut-off quick, half-garbled – like a hen’s.
“Yes, siree...”
But there is the Plan. Norms to fulfill. The harvesting of things. Of bark, for instance. And there are huntsmen. The Forester. The hunting season’s around the corner... And where are the huntsmen? The huntsmen are ready – but he’s got no money for staff. And where can he get it? From Pal-Petrovich, of course. Pal-Petrovich: we take him hunting, he gives us a staff position. Although, truth be told, Pal-Petrovich doesn’t need anyone’s permission to hunt; if he wants something, he gets it. But no, he won’t just go over the chairman’s head like that – they’re friends, aren’t they? So, what then – to beg? Calling, cow-towing, pleading? And Pal-Petrovich is stern at work, oh, very stern. It wouldn’t look good. Not good at all, quite disgusting in fact. And if he refuses – then what? Flattery, ingratiation, so on? Right? Quite logical indeed. And wasn’t there a Lefaucheux rifle procured for Pal-Petrovich? Such a piece of work that rifle – pretty as a picture! A perfect toy. I’d love to shoot one myself: for bird there’s nothing better. But it wouldn’t be right. You wouldn’t look right with it, Mister Chairman of the Stargorod Sporting Society, you would not indeed. You have to wait. Be patient. When Colonel Yegorov croaks, someone’ll have to find a new home for his Sauer – the old soldier promised to bequeath it to you, didn’t he? A three-ring Sauer, the real deal! A trophy. That’s even better than a Lefaucheux. Certainly not worse. And Yegorov’s got cancer. The hospital won’t admit him again – Vdovin refused to operate, said it’s pointless. So there you have it. Ready, set, march – the grouse will still be there. Trilling.
And that’s when the phone on the desk, a Hungarian model, with buttons, trills just like a grouse: “Bee-bee-bee-beep!”
Perk up, like a spaniel, grab the thing – gently, like a shot bird – carry it to your ear:
“Shishmaryov speaking.”
Sound stern, sharp. Take pride in the sharpness – you can’t keep things in order without being sharp and stern.
On the other end of the line – the regional administration chairman, clearly irked.
“Shishmaryov? Shestokrylov here. Is there a reason you’re not cleaning out your toilet?”
“Which toilet, Savvatei Ivanovich?”
“What do you mean, which toilet, damn it? You know perfectly well! I have to apologize to my Italian tourists for your toilet, and you want to fool around? Who’s in charge of the portable toilets on Solikha dig, me or you?”
“I am, Savvatei Ivanovich, I am indeed, but you know, those archaeologists...”
“Shishmaryov, do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth? You have three days, and I don’t care if you have to scoop it out by hand, do you hear me? I don’t give a flying hoot about your damn archaeologists, and you better think long and hard about why the chairman of the regional administration should have to clean up your shit! All right, that’s it, Shishmaryov. If you don’t get it done – I’ll see you in my office.”
Shishmaryov placed the receiver carefully back on the phone and only then cursed. Without any special anger, however – a snap, as if at a passing fly. That’s life right there, isn’t it? Like he’s got nothing better to do. And, of course, it has to be the scientists! He’s just about had it with their kind – you give them an inch, they take a mile, never fails. But not this time, no sir – they’ll clean it up themselves!
He rubbed his hands together, let himself chuckle even, put on his suit jacket, looked himself over in the mirror, straightened his tie, sighed and grabbed a leather portfolio for added solemnity. Then he went out onto the porch.
All this is happening why? He knew it – he didn’t want to move into Syrtsov’s lush offices, he did everything to get out of it. But no, they just had to move him there – twisted his arm, basically. Said it was temporary. It’s been ten years. And it’s a his-to-ri-cal landmark (like they’d ever let him forget about it)! It’s good historical wood heating – that’s one thing. Then he had to give up one of his precious huntsman lines for a stoker – that’s another. Then he had to build them an outhouse – with six holes, a beauty of a thing, that was the third. Except now, every batch of snot-nosed kids that comes through on a school trip just has to stop by his, Shishmaryov’s, place. And use the toilet.
“Who’s in charge of that toilet?” he repeated, mocking the chairman’s tone. Rather than yelling at him, why couldn’t he build a regular public one? But what are you gonna do, eh? You live in Russia.
But – it’s your own damn fault. You let them in. And how could you refuse? Who hasn’t heard Professor Koldin speak on Stargorod radio, who hasn’t seen him, damn his cotton socks, on national TV – he is a public figure, that’s for sure. And he came to Shishmaryov himself, asked for an appointment, said, “We’re beginning an archaeological project right outside your door...”
An archaeological project, right. The hole’ll be here when we are all gone, that’s for sure. They have a conveyor belt for the dirt in there. A whole swarm of school-kids – there was a special order to send them all to the dig, for “practice.” Barns, laboratories, a lean-to for when it rains. And a chicken-wire fence around the whole thing – can’t have just anyone walking in and out, it’s a site!
But – you do what you have to do. How could you not? It’s history! Shishmaryov has great respect for history.
He pushed the gate, walked into their territory, sniffed the air. Yep, it stinks alright. You bet. Could’ve at least closed the door in this heat. Oh, they’ll clean it up – he’ll see to that! Look how many kids they have tooling around in that hole, and every last one of them’s getting paid. Of all things, money here is not a problem. Anyone can see that.
He introduced himself to a student – the nice girl who sat at the desk, reading a nice red book. He asked to see the professor. She gave him a displeased kind of look – for interrupting her nice work, how else – but stood up and went to get the professor.
“Please, wait here a minute,” she said when she came back. “Pyotr Grigoriyevich is climbing up.”
And indeed, Pyotr Grigoriyevich is climbing already. Tiny steps, short, exact, one foot in front of the other on the plank – planted firmly, solid on the good pine boards (they made the footpaths from one-by-fours). Professor’s rubbing his hands, professor can’t wait to see him. Professor is smiling, but Shishmaryov can’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses. It’s hot out here, of course.
Looks like it might just work. It will! Professor’s in the right mood.
“Andrei Yevgeniyevich, my dear, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”
A bit old-fashioned, but Shishmaryov actually likes being addressed like this.