Giving them a big smile, without a word, she spun around and cut across the frozen meadow. Far from the ears of the crowd, with the wind hitting against her back, she burst into song.
“The bulls are horny as hell. The cows are in heat. It’s spring! It’s spring!”
CHAPTER 20
Kulik reread the letter for the tenth time.
Dear Comrade Kulik,
We are enclosing our debt to you and we apologize for not contacting you any sooner. Because we started receiving letters from Lonia a few weeks after your visit, we didn’t need your generous loan after all. Happily, Lonia writes he should be arriving in Pinsk sometime at the end of April. Thank you for your good will and we remain forever grateful.
Sincerely,
The Bohdanoviches.
Kulik’s heart sank. The letter read like a standard piece of business correspondence; there was no invitation to visit, no interest in his affairs or his well-being. It was obvious Marusia had written the letter, yet for some reason she hadn’t signed it. He despised her indifference, her matter-of-fact tone, and he became convinced she wanted to distance herself from him. “It’s no secret Sobakin got lucky with her.” Dounia’s harsh, brutal words went through his head over and over again. How could Marusia have succumbed so easily? Obviously, the Bohdanoviches no longer had any use for him, Kulik, or for his money. Because their Lonia was finally coming home, Kulik’s friendship no longer mattered to them. He was deeply hurt.
And to make matters worse, the isolation of village life was not helping his state of mind. In fact, it was causing him horrible spells of depression. More than anything he wanted to lose himself in the city, where he could walk into a crowd and remain anonymous. Since learning of Marusia’s affair with Sobakin, he could find no peace. Jealousy and revulsion tore away at him, causing him bitter pain. “If only …” he murmured to himself hopefully, “If only she and I could have …” But before finishing this thought, he sighed in anguish. “Marusia has fallen prey to a wild beast. Sobakin has already sunk his sharp fangs into her tender flesh.” These dismal thoughts rolled around in his head, mixed with other thoughts about the village, which seemed to him like a kettle of boiling water. It was one incident after another.
For a brief moment Kulik felt grateful that he had not attended the village meeting. He had not attracted attention to himself and, at least for the time being, he was free from scrutiny. But was he really free? Was anyone free anymore? Danger lurked in all corners and the Party henchmen saw and knew everything.
With these disturbing thoughts streaming through his mind, Kulik was startled by a knock on the door. He was surprised to find Boris Paspelov, the newly appointed school inspector, standing on the threshold. He was a young man in his thirties, his sandy-colored hair oiled and combed back smartly. A thick mustache concealed his upper lip and his left eye twitched slightly. He was dressed in a neatly pressed overcoat, carried a bulging leather satchel, and his black leather boots shone. He was clutching several documents.
“Good day to you, Comrade Kulik,” he said, tipping his cap. “How are things in your school?” He cleared his throat. “Well, in any case, we’ll see about that soon enough.”
It was clear at once that he took his job very seriously. After scanning the room, he walked to the bookcase behind Kulik’s desk and took down a volume from the top shelf. As he flipped through the pages, shaking his head, he made several unintelligible remarks and scribbled something in his notepad. Then he made his way to the filing cabinet, where, starting with the top drawer, he pulled out folder after folder, studying each one thoroughly. Almost half an hour went by before he turned his attention to Kulik’s desk. He rummaged through the drawers, turning papers upside down, ripping open envelopes, and scattering pencils and paper clips across the floor. When finally his eyes rested on several boxes piled in a corner, he looked very serious. “Unacceptable,” he stated. “This is completely unacceptable.”
Without another sound, he went out into the corridor, and after briefly inspecting the bulletin board outside the office door, walked into every classroom, where he sat quietly in the back row, carefully observing the lessons and making copious notes. Classes had barely finished, when, rather huffily, he called all the teachers into the office for a meeting.
“Unsatisfactory!” he snapped at them. He turned to Ivashkevich. “Comrade Ivashkevich. You don’t pronounce names correctly. Your diction is improper and reeks of provincialism. The children are all confused. For example, you say Lyavon, but you should really say Lyev. It’s as simple as that! Haven’t you heard of Lyev Nikolayevich Tolstoy? Well, he’s Lyev Tolstoy and not Lyavon Tolstoy.”
Ivashkevich shrugged. “Lyev Tolstoy is a Russian writer and naturally he has a Russian name. In Belorussian there are no Lyevs, only Lyavons and therefore Lyev Tolstoy becomes Lyavon Tolstoy. In England, for example, Lyev Tolstoy becomes Leo Tolstoy. In France, Léo Tolstoy. Lyevs are found only in Russia and nowhere else. And since the regime has made our school a Belorussian one, we’ll continue to say Lyavon and not Lyev.”
“A Belorussian school!” Paspelov stared at him haughtily. “You’re not about to teach me what kind of school this is! First and foremost this is a Soviet school, and in Soviet schools there are no Lyavons only Lyevs. Understand?”
Visibly disturbed, Paspelov paced the room for a while with his arms folded, looking down at the floor, after which he turned his attention irritably to Sergei. “I listened to your geography lesson, and it was most unsettling, to say the least. You mispronounced all the place names. For example, Kiiv should be Kiev, Lviv, Lvov, even Polissia should be Polyessia. I am sorry to say, these are serious blunders and I am obliged to bring them to the attention of the People’s Commissariat of Education once I return to Pinsk.”
Having said this, clearly disturbed by the state of affairs in School Number Seven, he set his eyes on Kulik. “Your lesson in ancient history, comrade, was very troubling. Every historical reference you alluded to was a distortion of the worst kind. For example, under Sagron, the Assyrian Empire was not only the …”
“Uh, not Sagron,” Kulik delicately corrected him, “but Sargon.”
“That’s what I said. Sargon! In any case, when teaching ancient history you should really focus on truly great rulers like, uh, like …”
“Sargon?” Kulik tried to be of help.
“Yes, like Sargon,” repeated Paspelov, laying special emphasis on the letter ‘r’. “However, by giving lessons on Sargon, you are not to ignore the integral part our great Mother Russia played in the development of ancient history.”
“Excuse me, Comrade Inspector,” Kulik said, even more carefully than before, “but Russia did not exist in ancient times.”
Paspelov stood looking rather shaken. Collecting himself as best he could, forcing a smile, he strove to keep up appearances. “Yes, yes, it seems to me you are correct, after all. My memory fails me. It’s been a long time since I studied history, let alone ancient history. Of course, of course, how could I have forgotten?”
Kulik and Sergei exchanged brief glances, deriving great pleasure at seeing Boris Paspelov make a complete ass of himself.
Shuffling uncomfortably for a moment or two, Paspelov stepped up to Kulik, and patting him on the back, said in a condescending tone, “I’ll have you know, Comrade Director, you’ve made a good impression on me today. You seem, if I may speak bluntly, well-informed and intelligent. This is a pleasant change, I must say, from what I normally come up against.” Then looking straight at him, “In any case, I’m confident that by the time I see you again you will have straightened up this whole mess regarding your ancient history classes.”