Chapter 1
Bezenchuk and “The Nymphs”
The district town of N had so many barbershops and funeral bureaus that it seemed the townspeople were born only to be shaved, get a haircut, freshen their heads with vegetaline, and then immediately die. In reality, people in the district town of N were born, shaved, and died quite rarely. Life in town N was exceptionally quiet. Spring evenings were intoxicating, the mud shimmered like anthracite under the moon, and all the town’s youth were so deeply in love with the secretary of the communal workers’ local committee that it hindered their ability to collect membership dues.
Questions of love and death didn’t concern Ippolit Matveevich Vorobyaninov, though he dealt with these matters in his official capacity from nine in the morning until five in the evening daily, with a half-hour break for breakfast.
In the mornings, after drinking his portion of hot milk, served by Klavdia Ivanovna in a frosty, veined glass, he would step out of the dimly lit little house onto the spacious street named after Comrade Gubernsky, full of wondrous spring light. It was one of the most pleasant streets found in district towns. To the left, through wavy greenish glass, the coffins of the “Nymph” funeral bureau shimmered. To the right, behind small windows with crumbling putty, lay the gloomy, dusty, and dull oak coffins of Bezenchuk, the coffin maker. Further on, “Hairdresser Pierre and Konstantin” promised their clients “nail care” and “home perms.” Even further, there was a hotel with a barbershop, and beyond it, in a large vacant lot, stood a fawn calf gently licking a rusty sign leaning against a solitary gate:
FUNERAL OFFICE “WELCOME”
Though there were many funeral businesses, their clientele was not wealthy. “Welcome” had gone bankrupt three years before Ippolit Matveevich settled in town N, and Master Bezenchuk drank heavily and even once tried to pawn his best display coffin.
People in town N died rarely, and Ippolit Matveevich knew this better than anyone, as he worked in the civil registry office, where he oversaw the registration of deaths and marriages.
The desk where Ippolit Matveevich worked resembled an old tombstone. Its left corner had been destroyed by rats. Its flimsy legs trembled under the weight of plump, tobacco-colored folders filled with records, from which one could glean all information about the genealogies of town N’s inhabitants and the “genealogical firewood” that had grown on the meager district soil.
On Friday, April 15, 1927, Ippolit Matveevich woke up as usual at half past seven and immediately poked his nose into his old-fashioned pince-nez with a gold bridge. He didn’t wear spectacles. Once, deciding that wearing a pince-nez was unhygienic, Ippolit Matveevich went to an optician and bought rimless glasses with gilded shafts. He liked the glasses at first, but his wife (this was shortly before her death) found that in them he looked exactly like Milyukov, and he gave the glasses to the janitor. The janitor, though not nearsighted, got used to the glasses and wore them with pleasure.
“Bonjour!” Ippolit Matveevich sang to himself as he swung his legs out of bed. “Bonjour” indicated that Ippolit Matveevich had woken up in a good mood. Saying “Guten Morgen” upon waking usually meant that his liver was acting up, that fifty-two years was no joke, and that the weather was damp today. Ippolit Matveevich slipped his lean legs into pre-war, ready-made trousers, tied them at the ankles with ribbons, and plunged into short, soft boots with narrow square toes. Five minutes later, Ippolit Matveevich was adorned in a moon-colored waistcoat sprinkled with tiny silver stars and an iridescent luster jacket. Wiping the last dewdrops from his gray hair after washing, Ippolit Matveevich ferociously twitched his mustache, hesitantly touched his rough chin, brushed his short-cropped, “aluminum” hair, and, smiling courteously, moved to greet his entering mother-in-law, Klavdia Ivanovna.
“Ippole-et,” she boomed, “today I had a bad dream.”
The word “dream” was pronounced with a French accent.
Ippolit Matveevich looked down at his mother-in-law. He stood one hundred and eighty-five centimeters tall, and from such a height, it was easy and comfortable for him to regard his mother-in-law with some disdain. Klavdia Ivanovna continued:
“I saw the deceased Marie with her hair down and in a golden sash.”
From the booming sounds of Klavdia Ivanovna’s voice, the cast-iron lamp with its “core,” “shot,” and dusty glass trinkets trembled.
“I’m very worried. I’m afraid something might happen.”
The last words were uttered with such force that the bob of hair on Ippolit Matveevich’s head swayed from side to side. He wrinkled his face and distinctly said:
“Nothing will happen, Maman. Have you paid for the water yet?”
It turned out they hadn’t. The galoshes hadn’t been washed either. Ippolit Matveevich didn’t like his mother-in-law. Klavdia Ivanovna was foolish, and her advanced age offered no hope that she would ever become wiser. She was exceptionally stingy, and only Ippolit Matveevich’s poverty prevented this captivating feeling from fully blossoming. Her voice had such power and depth that Richard the Lionheart, whose shouts, as is known, made horses crouch, would have envied it. And besides—which was the most dreadful thing—Klavdia Ivanovna had dreams. She always had them. She dreamed of girls in sashes, horses embroidered with yellow dragoon piping, janitors playing harps, archangels in sheepskin coats walking around at night with rattles in their hands, and knitting needles that jumped around the room by themselves, making a distressing clatter. Klavdia Ivanovna was an empty old woman. In addition to everything, a mustache had grown under her nose, and each hair of the mustache resembled a shaving brush.
Ippolit Matveevich, slightly irritated, left the house.
At the entrance to his dilapidated establishment stood Bezenchuk, the coffin maker, leaning against the doorframe with crossed arms. From the systematic failures of his commercial ventures and long-term consumption of alcoholic beverages, the master’s eyes were bright yellow, like a cat’s, and burned with an unquenchable fire.
“Honor to the dear guest!” he rattled off, seeing Ippolit Matveevich. “Good morning!”
Ippolit Matveevich politely raised his stained castor hat.
“How is your dear mother-in-law’s health, may I ask?”
“Mm-mm-mm,” Ippolit Matveevich replied vaguely, and, shrugging his straight shoulders, proceeded onwards.
“Well, God grant her good health,” Bezenchuk said bitterly, “such losses we incur, confound it all!”
And again, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door.
At the gates of the “Nymph” funeral bureau, Ippolit Matveevich was detained again.
There were three owners of “Nymph.” They bowed in unison to Ippolit Matveevich and in chorus inquired about his mother-in-law’s health.
“She’s well, well,” Ippolit Matveevich replied, “what could happen to her! Today she saw a golden girl, with her hair down. Such was her vision in a dream.” The three “nymphs” exchanged glances and sighed loudly. All these conversations delayed Ippolit Matveevich on his way, and he, contrary to habit, arrived at work when the clock hanging above the slogan “Do your business – and leave” showed five past nine.
Ippolit Matveevich was nicknamed Maciste at the office because of his tall stature, and especially his mustache, although the real Maciste had no mustache.
Taking a blue felt cushion from his desk drawer, Ippolit Matveevich placed it on the table, aligned his mustache correctly (parallel to the table line), and sat on the cushion, rising slightly above his three colleagues. Ippolit Matveevich didn’t fear hemorrhoids; he feared wearing out his trousers and therefore used the blue felt.
Two young people — a man and a young woman — shyly observed all the manipulations of the Soviet clerk. The man, in a cotton-padded broadcloth jacket, was completely overwhelmed by the office atmosphere, the smell of alizarin ink, the clock that often breathed heavily, and especially the stern poster “Do your business – and leave.” Although the man in the jacket hadn’t even begun his business, he already wanted to leave. It seemed to him that the matter he had come for was so insignificant that it was shameful to bother such a prominent gray-haired citizen as Ippolit Matveevich about it. Ippolit Matveevich himself understood that the visitor’s business was small, that it could wait, and so, opening binder No. 2 and twitching his cheek, he delved into the papers. The young woman, in a long jacket trimmed with shiny black braid, whispered to the man and, warming with shame, slowly began to move towards Ippolit Matveevich.
“Comrade,” she said, “where here…”
The man in the jacket sighed happily and, unexpectedly to himself, bellowed:
“To get married!”
Ippolit Matveevich looked attentively at the railing behind which the couple stood.
“Birth? Death?”
“To get married,” the man in the jacket repeated, looking around in confusion.
The young woman snickered. The matter was well underway. Ippolit Matveevich, with the dexterity of a conjurer, set to work. He recorded the names of the newlyweds in his old-womanish handwriting in thick books, sternly questioned the witnesses whom the bride had run out to fetch from the courtyard, breathed long and tenderly on the square stamps, and, rising slightly, pressed them onto the worn passports. Accepting two rubles from the newlyweds and issuing a receipt, Ippolit Matveevich said with a smirk, “For the performance of the sacrament,” and rose to his full splendid height, habitually puffing out his chest (he used to wear a corset). Thick yellow rays of sun lay on his shoulders like epaulets. He looked somewhat comical, but extraordinarily solemn. The biconcave lenses of his pince-nez shone with a white spotlight. The young couple stood like lambs.
“Young people,” Ippolit Matveevich declared grandiloquently, “allow me to congratulate you, as was formerly said, on your lawful marriage. It is very, very pleasant to see young people like yourselves, who, holding hands, go towards the achievement of eternal ideals. Very, very pleasant!”
Having delivered this tirade, Ippolit Matveevich shook the newlyweds’ hands, sat down, and, quite pleased with himself, continued reading papers from binder No. 2.
At the next desk, the clerks grunted into their inkwells.
The calm flow of the workday began. No one disturbed the death and marriage registration desk. Through the window, citizens could be seen, shivering from the spring chill, dispersing to their homes. Exactly at noon, a rooster crowed in the “Plow and Hammer” cooperative. No one was surprised. Then came the metallic quacking and clatter of a motor. A thick cloud of purple smoke rolled out from Comrade Gubernsky Street. The clatter intensified. Soon, the outlines of the district executive committee’s car, State No. 1, with a tiny radiator and bulky body, appeared from behind the smoke. The car, churning in the mud, crossed Staropanskaya Square and, swaying, disappeared into the poisonous smoke. The clerks stood at the window for a long time, commenting on the incident and linking it to a possible staff reduction. After a while, Master Bezenchuk carefully walked across the wooden boardwalks. He wandered around the town all day, inquiring if anyone had died.
The workday was drawing to a close. On the nearby yellowish-white bell tower, the bells rang with all their might. The windows rattled. Jackdaws flew from the belfry, held a meeting above the square, and flew away. The evening sky froze over the deserted square. It was time for Ippolit Matveevich to leave. Everything that was to be born that day had been born and recorded in the thick books. All those wishing to be married had been married and also recorded in the thick books. And there was, to the clear ruin of the undertakers, not a single death. Ippolit Matveevich put away his papers, hid the felt cushion in the drawer, fluffed his mustache with a comb, and was just about to leave, dreaming of a fiery soup, when the office door swung open, and Bezenchuk, the coffin maker, appeared on its threshold.
“Honor to the dear guest,” Ippolit Matveevich smiled. “What do you have to say?”
Although the master’s wild face glowed in the encroaching twilight, he couldn’t say anything.
“Well?” Ippolit Matveevich asked more strictly.
“Does ‘Nymph,’ confound it, give good merchandise?” the coffin maker mumbled vaguely. “Can it truly satisfy a customer? A coffin — it takes so much wood…”
“What?” Ippolit Matveevich asked.
“Well, ‘Nymph’… Three families live off that one little trade. Their material isn’t the same, and the finishing is worse, and the brush is flimsy, confound it. But I’m an old firm. Founded in nineteen hundred seven. My coffin — it’s a gem, choice, amateur…”
“What, have you gone mad?” Ippolit Matveevich asked meekly and moved towards the exit. “You’ll go crazy among coffins.”
Bezenchuk obligingly pulled the door open, let Ippolit Matveevich pass, and then followed him, trembling as if with impatience.
“Back when ‘Welcome’ was around, now that was something! No firm, not even in Tver itself, could stand against their glaze — confound it. But now, frankly, there’s no better product than mine. Don’t even look.”
Ippolit Matveevich turned around angrily, glared at Bezenchuk for a second, and walked a little faster. Although no unpleasantries had occurred at work that day, he felt quite nasty.
The three owners of “Nymph” stood by their establishment in the same poses in which Ippolit Matveevich had left them that morning. It seemed they hadn’t spoken a word to each other since then, but a striking change in their faces, a mysterious satisfaction dimly flickering in their eyes, showed that they knew something significant.
At the sight of his commercial rivals, Bezenchuk desperately waved his hand, stopped, and whispered after Vorobyaninov:
“I’ll let it go for thirty-two rubles.”
Ippolit Matveevich grimaced and quickened his pace.
“On credit, if you like,” Bezenchuk added. The three owners of “Nymph,” however, said nothing. They silently followed Vorobyaninov, continuously doffing their caps as they walked and bowing politely.
Thoroughly angered by the undertakers’ foolish persistence, Ippolit Matveevich ran up the porch steps faster than usual, irritably scraped the mud off his boots on the step, and, feeling intense pangs of hunger, entered the hallway. Father Fyodor, the priest of the Church of Flor and Lavr, came out of the room towards him, radiating heat. Picking up his cassock with his right hand and ignoring Ippolit Matveevich, Father Fyodor hurried towards the exit.
It was then that Ippolit Matveevich noticed the excessive cleanliness, a jarring new disorder in the arrangement of the sparse furniture, and felt a tickling in his nose from a strong medicinal scent. In the first room, Ippolit Matveevich was met by his neighbor, agronomist Kuznetsova. She whispered and waved her hands:
“She’s worse; she just confessed. Don’t thump your boots.”
“I’m not thumping,” Ippolit Matveevich answered meekly. “What happened?”
Madam Kuznetsova pursed her lips and pointed towards the door of the second room:
“A severe heart attack.” And, repeating clearly someone else’s words that she liked for their significance, she added:
“The possibility of a fatal outcome is not excluded. I’ve been on my feet all day today. I came this morning for the meat grinder, looked — the door was open, no one in the kitchen, no one in this room either, well, I thought Klavdia Ivanovna went for flour for kulich. She was going to just now. Flour now, you know, if you don’t buy it in advance…”
Madam Kuznetsova would have talked for a long time about flour, about the high prices, and about how she found Klavdia Ivanovna lying by the tiled stove in a completely lifeless state, but a groan from the next room painfully struck Ippolit Matveevich’s ear. He quickly crossed himself with a slightly numb hand and went into his mother-in-law’s room.
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