His next-door neighbor, a fat, pallid woman, stood in the corridor, shivering in a long, flannel nightgown, clutching an old shawl over her shoulders, brushing strands of gray hair out of her sleepy eyes.
“Citizen Syerov,” she whined with indignation, “won’t you please stop that noise? At such an indecent hour ... you young people have no shame left these days ... no fear of God ... no ...”
“On your way, grandma, on your way!” Syerov ordered. “You crawl under your pillow and keep your damn mouth shut. Or would you like to take a ride to the G.P.U.?”
The woman wheeled about hastily and shuffled away, making the sign of the cross.
Comrade Sonia sat in a corner by the window, smoking. She wore a tailored khaki tunic with pockets on her hips and breast; it was made of expensive foreign cloth, but she kept dropping ashes on her skirt. A girl’s voice pleaded in a plaintive whisper at her elbow: “Say, Sonia, why did you have Dashka fired from the office? She needed the job, she did, and honest ...”
“I do not discuss business matters outside of office hours,” Comrade Sonia answered coldly. “Besides, my actions are always motivated by the good of the collective.”
“Oh, sure, I don’t doubt it, but, listen, Sonia....”
Comrade Sonia noticed Pavel Syerov swaying at the door. She rose and walked to him, cutting the girl off in the middle of a sentence.
“Come here, Pavel,” said Comrade Sonia, her strong arm supporting him, leading him to a chair. “You’d better sit down. Here. Let me make you comfortable.”
“You’re a pal, Sonia,” he muttered, while she stuffed a pillow between his shoulder blades, “you’re a real pal. Now you wouldn’t holler at me if I made a little noise, would you?”
“Of course not.”
“You don’t think that I can afford a little vodka, like some skunks here think, do you, Sonia?”
“Of course not, Pavel. Some people don’t know how to appreciate you.”
“That’s it. That’s just the trouble. I’m not appreciated. I’m a great man. I’m going to be a very great man. But they don’t know it. No one knows it.... I’m going to be a very, very powerful man. I’m going to make the foreign capitalists look like mice.... That’s what: mice.... I’m going to give orders to Comrade Lenin himself.”
“Pavel, our great chief is dead.”
“That’s right. So he is. Comrade Lenin’s dead.... Oh, what’s the use? ... I’ve got to have a drink, Sonia. I feel very sad. Comrade Lenin’s dead.”
“That’s very nice of you, Pavel. But you’d better not have another drink just now.”
“But I’m very sad, Sonia. No one appreciates me.”
“I do, Pavel.”
“You’re a pal. You’re a real, real pal, Sonia....”
On the bed, Victor held Marisha in his arms. She giggled, counting the buttons on his tunic; she lost count after the third one and started over again. She was whispering: “You’re a gentleman, Victor, that’s what you are, a gentleman.... That’s why I love you, because you’re a gentleman.... And I’m only a gutter brat. My mother, she was a cook before ... before.... Well, anyway, before. I remember, many, many years ago, she used to work in a big, big house, they had horses and carriages and a bathroom, and I used to peel vegetables for her, in their kitchen. And there was an elegant young man, their son, oh, he had such pretty uniforms and he spoke all sorts of foreign languages, he looked just like you. And I didn’t even dare to look at him. And now I have a gentleman of my own,” she giggled happily, “isn’t it funny? I, Marishka the vegetable peeler!”
Victor said: “Oh, shut up!” and kissed her, his head drooping sleepily.
A girl giggled, standing over them in the darkness: “When are you two going to get registered at the marriage office?”
“Go ’way,” Marisha waved at her. “We’ll be registered. We’re engaged.”
Comrade Sonia had pulled a chair close to Syerov’s, and he sprawled, his head on her lap, while she stroked his hair. He was muttering: “You’re a rare woman, Sonia.... You’re a wonderful woman.... You understand me....”
“I do, Pavel. I’ve always said that you were the most talented, the most brilliant young man in our collective.”
“You’re a wonderful woman, Sonia.” He was kissing her, moaning: “No one appreciates me.”
He had pulled her down to the floor, leaning over her soft, heavy body, whispering: “A fellow needs a woman.... A smart, understanding, strong and hefty woman.... Who cares for those skinny scarecrows? ... I like a woman like you, Sonia....”
He did not know how he found himself suddenly in the little storage closet between his room and that of his neighbors. A cobwebbed window high under the ceiling threw a dusty ray of moonlight on a towering pile of boxes and baskets. He was leaning against Comrade Sonia’s shoulder, stammering: “They think Pavel Syerov’s just gonna be another stray mongrel eating outta slop pails all his life.... Well, I’ll show ’em! Pavel Syerov’ll show ’em who’s got the whip.... I’ve got a secret ... a great secret, Sonia.... But I can’t tell you.... But I’ve always liked you, Sonia.... I’ve always needed a woman like you, Sonia ... soft and comfortable....”
When he tried to stretch himself on the flat top of a large wicker basket, the piled tower shuddered, swayed and came down with a thundering crash. The neighbors knocked furiously, protesting, against the wall.
Comrade Sonia and Pavel Syerov, on the floor, paid no attention.
V
THE CLERK WIPED HIS NOSE WITH THE back of his hand and wrapped a pound of butter in a newspaper. He had cut the butter from a soggy, yellow circle that stood on a wooden barrel top on the counter before him; he wiped the knife on his apron that had once been white. His pale eyes watered; his lips were a concavity on a crumpled face; his long chin hovered uncomfortably over a counter too high for the wizened skeleton under his old blue sweater. He sniffled and, showing two broken, blackened teeth, grinned at the pretty customer in the blue hat trimmed with cherries:
“Best butter in town, citizen, very best butter in town.”
On the counter stood a pyramid of square bread loaves, dusty black and grayish white. Above the counter hung a fringe of salami, bagels and dried mushrooms. Flies hovered at the greasy brass bowls of old weighing scales and crawled up the dusty panes of a single, narrow window. Over the window, smeared by the first rain of September, hung a sign:
LEV KOVALENSKY. FOOD PRODUCTS
The customer threw some silver coins on the counter and took her package. She was turning to go when she stopped involuntarily, for a brief, startled moment, looking at the young man who had entered. She did not know that he was the owner of the store; but she knew that she could not have many occasions to see that kind of young man on the streets of Petrograd. Leo wore a new, foreign overcoat with a belt pulled tightly across his trim, slender waistline; he wore a gray foreign felt hat, one side of its brim turned up over an arrogant profile with a cigarette held in the corner of his mouth by two long, straight fingers in a tight, glistening, foreign leather glove. He moved with the swift, confident, unconscious grace of a body that seemed born for these clothes, like the body of an animal for its regal fur, like the body of a foreign fashion plate.
The girl looked straight at him, softly, defiantly. He answered with a glance that was an invitation, and a mocking insult, and almost a promise. Then he turned and walked to the counter, as she went out slowly.
The clerk bowed low, so that his chin touched the circle of butter: “Good day, Lev Sergeievitch, good day, sir.”
Leo flicked the ashes off his cigarette into an empty can on the counter and asked: “Any cash in the register?”