As the individual most sensitive to the winds of change, the head of the propaganda section was appointed to replace Platon Samsonovich as head of the agricultural section. In order to make his transition as easy as possible, Platon Samsonovich was to be kept on in the capacity of literary assistant. He was also given an official reprimand. For the time being the editor decided to take no further measures against him, though only on condition that he return to his family and enroll in night school at the beginning of the fall semester. Platon Samsonovich had never been to college.
“And by the way, be sure you get rid of that goatibex horn,” instructed the editor as we were beginning to leave the room.
“The horn?” echoed Platon Samsonovich, his Adam’s apple jerking convulsively as he spoke.
“Yes, the horn,” repeated Avtandil Avtandilovich. “I don’t ever want to see it again.”
A few minutes later I saw Platon Samsonovich walk out of the building with the goatibex horn wrapped carelessly in a sheet of newspaper. As I pictured him returning to his solitary apartment with his solitary horn — now all that remained of his grand design — I felt a sudden wave of pity. But what was I to do? I could not bring myself to comfort him, nor would I have succeeded had I tried.
The Moscow article was reprinted in our paper, and the section dealing with the ill-advised promotion of the goatibex was put in italics for special emphasis. In the same issue there appeared an editorial entitled “The Ill-Advised Promotion of the Goatibex,” which contained a critical evaluation of our paper’s recent performance, and especially that of the agricultural section. The editorial also made reference to certain university lecturers who, without bothering to find out what it was all about, had thoughtlessly offered their services to the propagandizing of this new and as yet insufficiently investigated experiment.
While the writers of the editorial were obviously alluding to Vakhtang Bochua, they hesitated to attack him directly, since only a week before, he had presented the local historical museum with a valuable collection of Caucasian minerals.
Naturally, Vakhtang had seen to it that his gift did not go unnoticed. He had phoned in to the newspaper and asked us to have someone attend the presentation ceremony. The assignment was given to the staff photographer, who did indeed produce a memorable photograph of the occasion. Looking for all the world like a repentant pirate, Vakhtang was shown handing over his treasures to the shy museum director.
And now, only one short week after this magnificent display of altruism it seemed somehow inappropriate to bring up his name in connection with the goatibex.
Subsequent issues of the paper featured carefully screened reader responses to the attack on the goatibex. Here I should add that one of our staff members paid a special visit to the stubborn livestock expert in order to persuade him to write a long article against the goatibexation of the livestock industry. But the stubborn livestock expert remained true to character and flatly refused to write any such article. Apparently the subject no longer interested him.
After our publication of the Moscow article we were besieged with phone calls. Someone from the trade office, for example, called in to get our advice on what should be done about the name of the soft drink pavilion “The Watering Place of the Goatibex.” We also began to receive warning calls to the effect that in some kolkhozes goatibexes were being slaughtered. In this connection we advised the interested parties to avoid rushing from one extreme to another; instead they should see to it that the goatibexes were treated like any other animal and quickly integrated into the collective farm herd.
After consulting with the rest of us as to what to advise the trade office people, Avtandil Avtandilovich decided that here too there was no need to go to extremes. Rather than destroy the pavilion sign completely, they should merely eliminate the first syllable of the word “goatibex” as quietly and inconspicuously as possible, thus transforming the pavilion into “The Watering Place of the Ibex”—a much more romantic name as it seemed to me.
While the sign on the pavilion itself was quickly altered according to Avtandil Avtandilovich’s specifications, the neon sign above the pavilion proved to be somewhat of a problem. In fact, every night for a whole month afterward the letters of the old name, “The Watering Place of the Goatibex,” winked down impudently from on high. Thus one might have supposed that the watering place was frequented by ibexes during the day, while at night the stubborn goatibexes still held sway.
Certain members of the local intelligentsia began congregating in this spot for the express purpose of gazing up at the neon sign. For them it seemed to contain a hint of the liberals’ struggle against something or other, while at the same time offering concrete proof of the dogmatists’ wicked intransigence.
One evening as I happened to be entering the café next door, I myself saw some of these freethinkers gathered in a large if unobtrusive group outside the pavilion.
“There’s more to this than meets the eye,” declared one of them with a slight nod in the direction of the neon sign.
“Spit in my eye if this is going to be the end of it,” said another.
“My friends,” interrupted a prudent voice, “everything you say is true; still, you shouldn’t stare so openly at the sign. Just take a quick look and walk past.”
“Who does he think he is?!” protested the first one. “If I feel like looking, I’ll go ahead and look. This isn’t the old days.”
“No, but someone might get the wrong idea,” said the voice of prudence, peering cautiously around him. Then, noticing me, he immediately stopped short and added: “Well, as I was saying, the criticism has come at just the right time.”
They all looked over in my direction and, as if by command, began moving toward the café, now vehemently gesticulating as they continued their argument in barely audible tones.
During this same period I received a phone call from the business manager of the Municipal Opera and Choral Society, who wanted my advice as to what should be done about the goatibex song, which was still being performed by the tobacco factory choir as well as by several soloists.
“You see, I do have a financial plan to fulfill,” he said in an apologetic voice, “and the song is very popular…, and though its popularity may not be a good thing, as I can now appreciate, still…”
I decided that it wouldn’t hurt to consult Avtandil Avtandilovich on this particular matter.
“Please hold on for just a minute,” I said to the business manager, and putting down the receiver, I set off for the editor’s office.
After hearing me out, Avtandil Avtandilovich declared that any choral performances of the goatibex song were absolutely out of the question.
“And besides, the members of that choir are no more tobacco workers than I am,” he added abruptly. “But as far as the soloists are concerned, I think it’s all right for them to sing it, as long as they give the right interpretation to the words. The main thing now,” he concluded, switching on the fan, “is to avoid rushing from one extreme to another. Just tell him that.”
I conveyed the contents of our conversation to the guardian of the Municipal Opera and Choral Society, after which he hung up — rather pensively as it seemed to me.
Platon Samsonovich had not come to work that day. On the following day his wife appeared in his place and marched straight into the editor’s office. Several minutes later the editor summoned the chairman of the trade union committee, who subsequently told the rest of us what had happened. It seemed that upon hearing of the goatibex’s fate, Platon Samsonovich’s wife had gone to visit her husband in his solitary apartment and had found him lying in bed, the victim either of some sort of nervous disorder resulting from physical exhaustion or of physical exhaustion resulting from some sort of nervous disorder. In any case, they had now become reconciled once and for all, and Platon Samsonovich’s wife had rejoined her husband in the old apartment, leaving the new apartment to their grown children.