Even if the cited documents exude a certain unreliability, especially the last few, one of Chelyustnikov’s stories- the one relating to Herriot-although seemingly a figment of the imagination, nevertheless deserves to be recorded. I am doing so because one can hardly doubt its credibility, and because everything suggests that some of Chelyustnikov’s stories, strange as they seem, arc nevertheless based on real events. The most convincing proof of all is that the following story was in a way confirmed by Edouard Herriot himself, that dazzling intelligence (“une intelligence rayormante"), as Daladier accurately described him. So I will tell the story of that encounter of long ago between Chelyustnikov and Herriot as well as I can, freeing myself for a moment of that awful burden of documents in which the story is buried, while referring the skeptical and curious reader to the appended bibliography, where he will find the necessary proof, (Perhaps it would have been wiser if I had chosen some other form of expression-an essay or a monograph-where I could use all these documents in the usual way. Two things, however, prevent me: the inappropriateness of citing actual oral testimony of reliable people as documentation; and my inability to forgo the pleasure of narration, which allows the author the deceptive idea that he is creating the world and thereby, as they say, changing it.)
THE TELEPHONE AND THE GUN
On that cold November night in 1934 Chelyustnikov, a contributing editor of the local newspaper responsible for cultural affairs and the fight against religion, was sleeping naked as a baby in a large aristocratic bed in a cozy room on the third floor of a house on Yegorovka Street. His shiny raspberry-colored boots were leaning neatly against the bed, while his clothes and underwear lay strewn about the room, mixed haphazardly (a sign of passionate haste) with a woman's silk underwear. The room gave off the warm smell of sweat, vodka and cologne.
Chelyustnikov had a dream (if he is to be believed), in which he was to appear on stage in a role, probably as Arcady in The Forest, but he couldn't find his clothes anywhere. Terrified (in the dream), he heard the bell calling him to the stage, but he stood as if petrified, or, rather, sat, naked and hairy, unable to move. Suddenly, as if all this was happening onstage, the curtain rose, and through the dazzling side lights, which held him in the cross fire of their rays, he made out the audience, up in the balcony and down in the orchestra, their heads illuminated by purple haloes. In the first row, he thought he could recognize the members of the Provincial Committee, and among them he clearly distinguished the shiny bald spot of Comrade М., the editor-in-chief of New Daum, who was choking with laughter and mocking and insulting him about his masculinity. The bell in the dressing room kept ringing, more loudly and insistently, so that Chelyustnikov thought (in the dream) that it was a fire alarm, that rhe curtains had caught fire, and that at any moment a general scrambling and panic would break out while he would stay there on the stage, naked as a baby, unable to move, exposed to the mercy of the flames. His right hand suddenly broke free of the spell, and, on the bonder between dream and reality, instinctively reached for the gun that, by force of habit, he kept under his pillow. He turned on the light on the night table, and knocked over a glass of vodka. At the same instant he realized that his boots were now more important than his gun, and quickly jumped into them, as into a saddle. The wife of the editor-in-chief of New Dawn turned in her sleep and then, awakened by the ringing, opened her beautiful, slightly puffy Asiatic eyes. To their relief, the telephone abruptly stopped ringing. There followed an anxious whispered conference, Nastasia Fedotevna М., confused and frightened, tried to put on her bra, which Chelyustnikov had tossed over to her from the pile of clothes. The phone started ringing again. "Get up,” Chelyustnikov said, putting the gun under his belt. Nastasia Fedotevna stared at him, horrified. Chelyustnikov walked over to the flustered woman, placed a kiss between her ample breasts, and said: "Pick up the phone." The woman got up, and Chelyustnikov covered her gallantly with his leather coat. A moment later he heard her voice. "Who? Chelyustnikov?" (The man put his finger to his lips.) "I have no idea." (Pause.) Then the woman replaced the receiver, from which an abrupt click could be heard, and sank into the armchair. “The Provincial Committee…" (Pause.) "They say it's urgent.”
THE FOLDER
Before he returned to his cold apartment on Sokolov Prospect, Chelyustnikov wandered awhile through the snowy streets. He used a roundabout route along the Dnieper, and it took him a whole hour to get home. He slipped off his leather coat, poured himself a glass of vodka, and turned on the radio. Scarcely five minutes had passed when the telephone rang. He let it ring three times before picking up the receiver. He acted as if surprised by this late call (it was already past two), then said that, since it was urgent, he'd be there in half an hour at most: he had to put his clothes on, since he had just undressed. All right, they said, since it was urgent, they'd send the car to pick him up. Comrade Pyasnikov would explain everything to him in person.
Comrade Pyasnikov, secretary of the Provincial Committee, quickly came to the point: this morning around eleven o’clock Citizen Edouard Herriot, the leader of the French workers, would arrive in Kiev. Chelyustnikov replied that he had read in the paper of Herriot's visit to Moscow, but didn’t know that he would visit Kiev also. Pyasnikov asked him if he realized how important the visit of such a man was. Chelyustnikov said, yes, he knew (although it wasn't too dear to him why this visit was so important or what part he was to play in it). As if he had sensed Chelyustnikov's uncertainty, Pyasnikov began to explain: Citizen Herriot, in spite of his political persuasion, entertained certain typical bourgeois suspicions of our revolutionary movement. He cited many details from the life and works of Herriot, emphasizing his petty bourgeois origins citing his various positions, recounting his love for classical music and progressive movements the world over, and stressing the role he played in getting the land of the Bolsheviks that was what he said, "the land of the Bolsheviks") recognized by France. Finally, Pyasnikov took a folder out of his desk drawer and started to leaf through it. "Here", he said, “for example, I quote: "It is impossible even for an irreligious Frenchman" (as you can see, Herriot liberated himself from religious scruples, if one can believe him) ‘even for an irreligious Frenchman not to raise his voice against the persecution of priests (Here Comrade Pyasnikov paused, looking up at Chelyustnikov: "You understand?" Chelyustnikov nodded and Pyasnikov added: "For them, priests are still some kind of sacred cow, as they are for our peasants… of former times, of course.") " '… since that also represents an attack on freedom of thought. An attack which, after all, is totally unnecessary, et cetera, et cetera,' ” said Pyasnikov closing the folder, “I think it’s clear now?" "Yes," said Chelyustnikov, pouring himself a glass of water. He stayed in Comrade Pyasnikov's office until four in the morning. And he was on his feet again at seven. He had exactly four hours until the arrival of the train.
THE HOURS AND THE MINUTES
That important morning in the life of A. L. Chelyustnikov unfolded, hour by hour, as follows: at 7:00 he was awakened by the telephone service. He gulped down a glass of vodka on an empty stomach and, naked to the waist, washed himself with cold water. He dressed, shined his boots. For breakfast he scrambled a couple of eggs on the hot plate and ate them with cucumbers. At 7:20 he telephoned the Provincial Committee. Comrade Pyasnikov answered with his mouth full, apologizing: he hadn't left the office all night, he had dozed off sitting at the desk; he asked Chelyustnikov how he was; he had set up an appointment for him with Avram Romanich, a make-up man, in the lobby of the theater (the stage entrance) for four that afternoon; he should be prompt. At 7:25 Chelyustnikov phoned Nastasia Fedotevna. After a long pause (downstairs, the car sent by the Provincial Committee was honking) he heard the flustered voice of the wife of the editor-in-chief of New Dawn, She couldn’t imagine why they had looked for him at her place last night. She was desperate.