“Self-preservation,” she told him, “for both of us.”
Andrei had spent the summer on a Party mission in the villages of the Volga.
He met Kira again at the Institute on the first day of the new semester. His suntan was a little deeper; the lines at the corners of his mouth were not a wound nor a scar, but looked like both.
“Kira, I knew I’d be glad to see you again. But I didn’t know that I’d be so ... happy.”
“You’ve had a hard summer, haven’t you, Andrei?”
“Thank you for your letters. They’ve kept me cheerful.”
She looked at the grimness of his lips. “What have they done to you, Andrei?”
“Who?” But he knew that she knew. He did not look at her, but he answered: “Well, I guess everybody knows it. The villages — that’s the dark spot on our future. They’re not conquered. They’re not with us. They have a red flag over the local Soviet and a knife behind their backs. They bow, and they nod, and they snicker in their beards. They stick pictures of Lenin over the barns where they hide their grain from us. You’ve read in the papers about the Clubhouse they burned and the three Communists they burned in it — alive. I was there the next day.”
“Andrei! I hope you got them!”
He could not restrain a smile: “Why, Kira! Are you saying that about men who fight Communism?”
“But ... but they could have done it to you.”
“Well, nothing happened to me, as you see. Don’t look at that scar on my neck. Just grazed. The fool wasn’t used to firearms. His aim wasn’t very good.”
The boss of the Gossizdat had five pictures on the walls of his office: one of Karl Marx, one of Trotsky, one of Zinoviev and two of Lenin. On his desk stood two small plaster busts: of Lenin and Karl Marx. He wore a high-collared peasant blouse of expensive black satin.
He looked at his manicured fingernails; then he looked at Leo. “I feel certain, Comrade Kovalensky, that you will welcome this opportunity to do your duty in our great cultural drive, as we all do.”
Leo asked: “What do you want?”
“This organization has taken the honorary post of ‘Cultchef ’ to a division of the Baltfleet. You understand what I mean, of course? In line with the new — and brilliant — move of the Party toward a wider spread of education and Proletarian Culture, we have accepted the position of ‘Cultural Chief’ to a less enlightened unit, as all institutions of note have done. We are thus responsible for the cultural advancement of our brave brothers of the Baltic Fleet. Such is our modest contribution to the gigantic rise of the new civilization for the new ruling class.”
“Fine,” said Leo. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“I think it is obvious, Comrade Kovalensky. We are organizing a free night school for our protégés. With your knowledge of foreign languages — I had a class of German in mind, twice a week — Germany is the cornerstone of our future diplomacy and the next step of the world revolution — and a class of English, once a week. Of course, you are not to expect any financial remuneration for this work, your services are to be donated, inasmuch as this is not an undertaking of the government, but our strictly voluntary gift to the State.”
“Since the beginning of the revolution,” said Leo, “I haven’t been buying gifts for anyone, neither for my friends — nor otherwise. I can’t afford them.”
“Comrade Kovalensky, did it ever occur to you to consider what we think of men who merely work for their pay and take no part in social activity in their spare time?”
“Did it ever occur to you that I have a life to live — in my spare time?”
The man at the desk looked at the five pictures on his walls. “The Soviet State recognizes no life but that of a social class.”
“I don’t think we shall go into a discussion of the subject.”
“In other words, you refuse to do your share?”
“I do.”
“Very well. This service is not compulsory. Oh, not in the least. Its meaning and novelty is the free will of those participating. I was merely thinking of your own good when I made the offer. I thought, in view of certain events in your past, that you’d be only too glad to.... Never mind. However, I must call to your attention the fact that Comrade Zoubikov of the Communist Cell had been rather unpleasant about a man of your social past on our pay roll. And when he hears about this....”
“When he does,” said Leo, “tell him to come to me. I’ll give him a free lesson — if he cares for the subject.”
Leo came home earlier than usual.
The blue flame of the Primus hissed in the gathering dusk. Kira’s white apron was a white spot bending over the Primus.
Leo threw his cap and brief case on the table. “That’s that,” he said. “I’m out.”
Kira stood holding a spoon. She asked: “You mean ... the Gossizdat?”
“Yes. Fired. Reduction of staffs. Getting rid of the undesirable element. Told me I had a bourgeois attitude. I’m not social-minded.”
“Well ... well, it’s all right. We’ll get along.”
“Of course, it’s all right. Think I care about their damn job? This affects me no more than a change in weather.”
“Certainly. Now take your coat off and wash your hands, and we’ll have dinner.”
“Dinner? What do you have there?”
“Beet soup. You like it.”
“When did I say I liked it? I don’t want any dinner. I’m not hungry. I’m going to the bedroom to study. Please don’t disturb me.”
“I won’t.”
Left alone, Kira took a towel and lifted the cover of the pan and stirred the soup, slowly, deliberately, longer than it required. Then she took a plate from the shelf. As she was carrying it to the table, she saw that the plate was trembling. She stopped and, in the dusk, whispered, addressing herself for the first time in her life, as if speaking to a person she had never met before: “Now, Kira, you don’t. You don’t. You don’t.”
She stood and held the plate over the table and stared down, all her will in her eyes, as if a great issue depended on the plate. Presently the plate stopped trembling.
When he had stood in line for an hour, he smoked a cigarette.
When he had stood for two hours, he began to feel that his legs were numb.
When he had stood for three hours, he felt that the numbness had risen to his throat, and he had to lean against a wall.
When his turn came, the editor looked at Leo and said: “I don’t see how we can use you, citizen. Of course, our publication is strictly artistic. But — Proletarian Art, I may remind you. Strictly class viewpoint. You do not belong to the Party — nor is your social standing suitable, you must agree. I have ten experienced reporters — Party members — on my waiting list.”
She really didn’t have to fry fish in lard, Kira decided. She could use sunflower-seed oil. If she bought good oil it would leave no odor and it was cheaper. She counted the money out carefully over the co-operative counter and walked home, cautiously watching the heavy yellow liquid in a greasy bottle.
The secretary said to Leo: “Sorry you had to wait so long, citizen, but the comrade editor is a very busy man. You can go in now.”
The comrade editor leaned back in his chair; he held a bronze paper knife; the knife tapped the edge of a desk calendar bearing a picture of Lunacharsky, People’s Commissar of Education and Art; the editor’s voice sounded like a knife cutting paper:
“No. No opening. None expected. Plenty of proletarians starving and you bourgeois asking for a job. I’m a proletarian myself. Straight from the work-bench. I’ve been jobless — in the old days. But your bourgeois class brothers had no pity. It’ll do you good to learn how it feels on your own hide.”