The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life) - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
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We changed clothes right there, into fresh spetzovkas given out by the factory, and hung our rigs onto the chair backs. The shower was working around the clock, round the corner down the corridor – some halcyon days in full swing. My fellow-business-trippers were amazed at my talent of sitting in the same position and never strolling about the Red Corner, nor partaking in the mutual idle gossip but only listening and watching in a modest, still, and silent way…
After another of working days, I returned to the boarding house and got it that the blond was thru his business trip and went home because only my bed remained in the room, and my perverted bag was unzipped and gaping wide, with my last 10 rubles missing from it. And there still remained 1 week to survive on my business trip.
Next morning, it was Saturday, I went out in search of food. I did not make any definite plans, but simply walked towards the distant bridge across the Dnieper. Then I walked along that bridge almost free of traffic even though supported by a looking solidly multitude of steel cables from pylons. On the opposite riverbank, in the field to the right, towered several apartment blocks – the embryo of Troyeshchina neighborhood, but I passed by and on, towards the faraway forest.
The road ran thru the village of Poghrebby and entered the forest where I started looking for mushrooms. I came across of just 2 species, both unfamiliar. Their gills looked alike, but those with pointed caps tasted too bitter, so I had to eat the other sort, with concave caps. The hunger slackened and I went back.
In the field between the village and the distant tower blocks, I hit the mother lode. There was a scattering of potatoes on the roadside. Probably, the truck was loaded with potatoes piling above the sides and, on the way, the surplus poured over when the truck dodged an oncoming vehicle. I stuffed my pockets with potatoes, and on Sunday came to the same spot with the obviously female bag. In the boarding house, at the very end of the corridor, there was a kitchen with a gas stove and a large common pan. Without peeling the potatoes, I boiled a quantity of them for a few days of consumption.
But before it, while I was coming back to Kiev over the bridge hanging from its steel cables, I understood what namely prevented me from living a normal life, it was because of my poetry. Everyone else was living like all the other people, because they did not write poetry, and if I gave it up, then everything would, probably, get to rights…
It's easy to say "it's time to give up", but how? To burn the pocket notebook which the blond generously left in my bag? An overly trivial tack. So I decided to make a collection of poems and put the final full-stop to all that. Such was the plan.
On Monday, I visited the ante-room of the personnel department at the factory and asked the secretary-typist for 32 blank sheets of paper. Exactly the volume of Manifesto of the Communist Party by Karl Marx, but just as many pages were needed for all the poems plus the preface. Apart from that, she gave me two uncut sheets, which she couldn't use because of that defect. Yet, the defective double sheet turned easily into a perfect folder for the rest. Returning to the Red Corner room, I asked the artist to make from that folder a cover for the collection of poems titled "Just so?" In the evening at the boarding house, I copied the preface and the poems to the sheets of the donated paper with almost a typeset handwriting.
Next morning at the factory, the artist showed the cover he created – the name of the author and the title against a background of abstractionism-styled beige waves. Then he scratched the back of his head and confessed, that starting the creation he was somewhat tired and emotional, for which reason the author’s name, as well as the collection title, were drawn on the back, instead of the front, cover… Abnormal double sheets were not an everyday find, so I had no other option but to paginate the collection in Arabic style – from the back cover to the front…
It's very convenient to live in the same city with a publishing house, after finishing your work at five, you've got plenty of time to visit them without any absenteeism… The office where some time ago a young man directed me to the specialist on Maugham was already shared by a couple of workers – some young man and an additional young woman. I asked where they were handing poetry in. They were delighted to send me to the first office room round the left corner in the corridor. In that office, on gently breaking the news of delivery a collection of poetry, I heard the familiar response, "Who sent you?"
"Ah! Yes, of course! I was sent from the neighboring office, just round the corner. D'you know them?" That served a sufficient recommendation for the collection to change hands.
I left the publishing house both grieving and laughing.
Grieving? I rejected my own offspring, made them a bunch of doorbell babies, pledging to keep sterile infertility from that moment on, forever and ever.
Laughing? I was free!
(…starting a poem you are doomed to merciless bondage. You strain yourself and plow like a slave until the moment you can step aside and say, "Well, yes, it's, like, rather-more-or-less, sort of, so enough, I can't do better anyway…" …)
Even louder I laughed at the poetry receiver because there was no return address with the collection, only the fictitious name of the author – Klim Solokha. Stuff it in your pipe and have a smoke, salaga!
"…service
