He left the empty bakery boxes; but he carried home his faded cotton sign. He folded it neatly and put it away in a drawer where he kept old stationery with the embossed letterhead of the Argounov textile factories.
“I will not become a Soviet employee if we all starve,” said Alexander Dimitrievitch.
Galina Petrovna moaned that something had to be done. Unexpected help appeared in the person of a former bookkeeper from the Argounov factory.
He wore glasses and a soldier’s coat and he was not careful about shaving. But he rubbed his hands diffidently and he knew how to respect authority under all circumstances.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Alexander Dimitrievitch, sir,” he wailed. “This is no life for you. Now, if we get together ... if you just invest a little, I’ll do all the work....”
They formed a partnership. Alexander Dimitrievitch was to manufacture soap; the unshaved bookkeeper was to sell it; had an excellent corner on the Alexandrovsky market.
“What? How to make it?” he enthused. “Simple as an omelet. I’ll get you the greatest little soap recipe. Soap is the stuff of the moment. The public hasn’t had any for so long they’ll tear it out of your hands. We’ll put them all out of business. I know a place where we can get spoiled pork fat. No good for eating — but just right for soap.”
Alexander Dimitrievitch spent his last money to buy spoiled pork fat. He melted it in a big brass laundry tub on the kitchen stove. He bent over the steaming fumes, blinking, his shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows, stirring the mixture with a wooden paddle. The kitchen door had to be kept open; there was no other stove to heat the apartment. The bitter, musty odor of a factory basement rose, with the whirling steam of a laundry, to the streaked ceiling. Galina Petrovna chopped the spoiled pork fat on the kitchen table, delicately crooking her little finger, clearing her throat noisily.
Lydia played the piano. Lydia had always boasted of two accomplishments: her magnificent hair, which she brushed for half an hour every morning, and her music, which she practiced for three hours each day. Galina Petrovna asked for Chopin. Lydia played Chopin. The wistful music, delicate as rose petals falling slowly in the darkness of an old park, rang softly through the haze of soap fumes. Galina Petrovna did not know why tears dropped on her knife; she thought that the pork fat hurt her eyes.
Kira sat at the table with a book. The odor from the kettle raked her throat as if with sharp little prongs. She paid no attention to it. She had to learn and remember the words in the book for that bridge she would build some day. But she stopped often. She looked at her hand, at the palm of her right hand. Stealthily, she brushed her palm against her cheek, slowly, from the temple to the chin. It seemed a surrender to everything she had always disliked. She blushed; but no one could see it through the fumes.
The soap came out in soft, soggy squares of a dirty brown. Alexander Dimitrievitch found an old brass button off his yachting jacket and imprinted an anchor in the corner of each square.
“Great idea! Trademark,” said the unshaved bookkeeper. “We’ll call it ‘Argounov’s Navy Soap.’ A good revolutionary name.”
A pound of soap cost Alexander Dimitrievitch more than it did on the market.
“That’s nothing,” said his partner. “That’s better. They’ll think more of it if they have to pay more. It’s quality soap. Not the old Jukov junk.”
He had a tray with straps to wear over his shoulders. He arranged the brown squares carefully on the tray and departed, whistling, for the Alexandrovsky market.
In a hall of the Institute Kira saw Comrade Sonia. She was making a little speech to a group of five young students. Comrade Sonia was always surrounded by a brood of youngsters; and she always talked, her short arms flapping like protective wings.
“... and Comrade Syerov is the best fighter in the ranks of proletarian students. Comrade Syerov’s revolutionary record is unsurpassed. Comrade Syerov, the hero of Melitopol....”
A freckled boy with a soldier’s cap far on the back of his head, stopped his hurried waddle down the hall and barked at Comrade Sonia: “The hero of Melitopol? Ever heard of Andrei Taganov?”
He sent a sunflower seed straight at a button on Comrade Sonia’s leather jacket and staggered away carelessly. Comrade Sonia did not answer. Kira noticed that the look on her face was not a pleasant one.
Finding a rare moment when Comrade Sonia was alone, Kira asked her: “What kind of man is Comrade Taganov?”
Comrade Sonia scratched the back of her head, without a smile. “A perfect revolutionary, I suppose. Some call him that. However, it’s not my idea of a good proletarian if a man doesn’t unbend and be a little sociable with his fellow comrades once in a while.... And if you have any intentions in a bedroom direction, Comrade Argounova — well, not a chance. He’s the kind of saint that sleeps with red flags. Take it from one who knows.”
She laughed aloud at the expression on Kira’s face and waddled away, throwing over her shoulder: “Oh, a little proletarian vulgarity won’t hurt you!”
Andrei Taganov came again to the lecture for beginners, in the crowded auditorium. He found Kira in the crowd and elbowed his way toward her and whispered: “Tickets for tomorrow night. Mikhailovsky Theater. ‘Rigoletto.’ ”
“Oh, Andrei!”
“May I call for you?”
“It’s number fourteen. Fourth floor, on the back stairs.”
“I’ll be there at seven-thirty.”
“May I thank you?”
“No.”
“Sit down. I’ll make room for you.”
“Can’t. I have to go. I have another lecture to attend.”
Cautiously, noiselessly, he made his way to the door, and turned once to glance back at her smiling face.
Kira delivered her ultimatum to Galina Petrovna: “Mother, I have to have a dress. I’m going to the opera tomorrow.”
“To the ... opera!” Galina Petrovna dropped the onion she was peeling; Lydia dropped her embroidery.
“Who is he?” gasped Lydia.
“A boy. At the Institute.”
“Good-looking?”
“In a way.”
“What’s his name?” inquired Galina Petrovna.
“Andrei Taganov.”
“Taganov? ... Never heard.... Good family?”
Kira smiled and shrugged.
A dress was found at the bottom of the trunk; Galina Petrovna’s old dress of soft dark-gray silk. After three fittings and conferences between Galina Petrovna and Lydia, after eighteen hours when two pairs of shoulders bent over the oil wick and two hands feverishly worked two needles, a dress was created for Kira, a simple dress with short sleeves and a shirt collar, for there was no material to trim it.
Before dinner, Kira said: “Be careful when he comes. He’s a Communist.”
“A Com ...” Galina Petrovna dropped the salt shaker into the pot of millet.
“Kira! You’re not ... you’re not being friendly with a Communist?” Lydia choked. “After shouting how much you hate them?”
“I happen to like him.”
“Kira, it’s outrageous! You have no pride in your social standing. Bringing a Communist into the house! I, for one, shan’t speak to him.”
Galina Petrovna did not argue. She sighed bitterly: “Kira, you always seem to be able to make hard times harder.”