Tale of the Troika

CASE 15 AND FIELD SESSIONS

There was no evening session. Officially we were informed that Lavr Fedotovich, as well as Comrades Khlebovvodov and Vybegallo, were poisoned at lunch by mushrooms, and that the doctor recommended bed rest all night. However the ever-meticulous commandant was not satisfied by the official version. He called his friend, the hotel maître d’. It turned out that at lunch Lavr Fedotovich and Professor Vybegallo had ganged up on Comrade Khlebovvodov on the issue of the relative merits of well-done versus rare steak. Striving to determine which of these two states of steak was more beloved by the people, and with the aid and sustenance of cognac and velvety Pilsner, each consumed four experimental portions from the chef’s stores. Now they were quite ill, flat on their backs, and could not appear in public before morning.

The commandant rejoiced like a kid whose favorite teacher had unexpectedly fallen ill.

We said good-bye to him, bought two ice-cream cones, and went back to our hotel. We spent the evening in our room, discussing our situation. Eddie admitted that Christobal Joséevich had been right: the Troika was a tougher nut to crack than he had expected. The rational part of their psyche turned out to be supernaturally conservative and superrigid. True, it did yield to the humanizer’s powerful field, but immediately returned to square one as soon as it was removed. I suggested that Eddie leave the field on, but he rejected my suggestion. The Troika’s reserves of the rational, good, and eternal were very limited, and Eddie was afraid that lengthy exposure to the humanizer would deplete them. Our business is to teach them to think, said Eddie, not to think for them. But they are not learning. These ex-plumbers have forgotten how. But all is not lost. There is still the emotional side of their psyche. Since we can not awaken their reason, we must try to awaken their consciences. And that was precisely what Eddie planned to do at the very next session.

We discussed that problem until the excited Gabby burst in on us without knocking. It turned out that he had applied to be seen out of turn by the Troika to weigh a suggestion of his. He had just heard from the commandant that they would, and he wanted to know whether we would be present at the morning meeting, which would be historic. Tomorrow we would understand everything. Tomorrow we would learn just what he was. When grateful humanity carried him on their shoulders, he would not forget us. He shouted and waved his little legs, ran around the walls, and distracted Eddie from his planning. I had to take him by the scruff of his neck and toss him out into the hall. He did not take offense, he was above all that. Tomorrow everything would be clear, he promised, then asked for Khlebovvodov’s suite number and disappeared. I went to bed, and Eddie shuffled papers and sat over his dismantled humanizer for several hours.

When the bedbug was called in, he did not enter the meeting room immediately. We could hear him in the reception area squabbling with the commandant, demanding an honor guard. Eddie was getting worried, and I had to go out into the reception area and tell Gabby to stop fooling around or things would go badly for him.

“But all I’m demanding is that he take three steps toward me!” the bedbug said angrily. “Even if there is no honor guard, there has to be some pomp! After all, I’m not asking him to meet me at the door, hat in hand! Let him take three steps in my direction and nod!”

“Who are you talking about?”

“What do you mean, who? What’s his name, your chief—Vuniukov, is it?”

“You jerk!” I shouted. “Do you want them to listen to you? Get in there! You have thirty seconds!”

Gabby gave in. Muttering something about breaking all the rules, he went into the meeting room and obnoxiously lolled on the demonstration table without greeting anyone. Lavr Fedotovich, his eyes puffy and yellow from yesterday’s debauch, peered through his opera glasses. Khlebovvodov, suffering from bilious gas, started the session.

“What do we have to listen to him for? Everything is decided already. He’s just going to drive us crazy.”

“Just a minute,” Farfurkis said, bright and cheery as usual. “Citizen Gabby,” he addressed the bedbug, “the Troika deemed it possible to receive you out of turn and hear what you described as your very important announcement. The Troika suggests that you be as brief as possible and not take up too much of its valuable work time. What do you wish to announce? We are listening.”

Gabby maintained an orator’s silence for a few seconds. Then he gathered himself up noisily, struck a haughty pose, and puffing up his cheeks, began.

“The history of the human race,” he said, “contains many shameful incidents of barbarism and stupidity. A rough ignorant soldier bumped off Archimedes. Lousy priests burned Giordano Bruno. Rabid fanatics attacked Charles Darwin and Galileo Galilei. The history of bedbugs also contains references to victims of ignorance and obscurantism. Everyone remembers the unbearable sufferings of the great encyclopedist bedbug Sapukol, who showed our ancestors, the grass and tree bugs, the path of true progress and prosperity. Imperutor, the creator of the theory of blood types, died a forgotten and impoverished bedbug, as did Rexophobe, who solved the problem of fertility, and Nudin, who discovered anabiosis.

“The barbarism and ignorance of both our races could not avoid leaving its mark on their interrelationship. In vain have the ideas of the great Utopian bedbug Platun been preserved. He preached the idea of a symbiotic relationship between man and bedbug, no longer based on the age-old parasitism of the bedbug—a bright and shining future of friendship and mutual assistance. We know of instances when man proffered peace, protection, and patronage to the bedbug, under the slogan: ‘We are of one blood, you and I,’ but the greedy, always hungry bedbug masses ignored this call, repeating over and over: ‘We drank, we drink, and we will drink.’ ”

Gabby gulped down a glass of water, wiped his lips, and continued, increasing in tempo and volume. “Now for the first time in the history of our two races we face a situation where the bedbug offers humanity peace, protection, and patronage, demanding only one thing in return: acknowledgment. For the first time, the bedbug has found a common tongue with man. For the first time, the bedbug communicates with man not in bed but across a conference table. For the first time, the bedbug seeks not material wealth but spiritual communication. Now at the crossroads of history, standing at the turn that may lead both races to undreamed-of heights, dare we waste time through indecision, follow once more the road of ignorance and hostility, rejecting the obvious and refusing to acknowledge the miracle that has taken place? I, Gabby Bedbug, the only talking bedbug in the universe, the only link between our races, say to you in the name of millions upon millions: come to your senses! Throw away your prejudices. Throw off the shackles of stagnation, muster all that is good and reasonable in you and look with open and clear eyes into the eyes of a great truth: Gabby Bedbug is an exceptional individual, an unexplained phenomenon, and perhaps an inexplicable one!”

Yes, the vanity of that insect was enough to stun the most jaded imagination. I felt that this would come to no good and nudged Eddie with my elbow. There was a chance that the digestive prostration that afflicted the larger, and better, part of the Troika would preclude any show of passion. Another hopeful factor was the absence of the dissipated Vybegallo, who was still bedridden. Lavr Fedotovich was not well, he was pale and sweating profusely. Farfurkis did not know what course of action to take and kept looking over at him uncertainly. I thought that perhaps it would pass, when suddenly Khlebovvodov spoke up.

“ ‘We drank, we drink, and we will drink!’ Who do you think they’re talking about? Us! He’s talking about us, the bugger! Our blood! Hah!” He looked around wildly. “I’ll squash him right now, I will! Get no sleep at night from them, and now they torture us in the daytime too! Torturers!” And he set about scratching furiously.

Gabby was frightened but continued to carry himself with dignity. However, he was eyeing a convenient corner in case it came to that. The odor of very strong cognac spread through the room.

“Bloodsuckers!” Khlebovvodov rasped, as he jumped up and lunged forward. My heart stopped. Eddie grabbed my hand—he was frightened too. Gabby just squatted in horror. But Khlebovvodov, clutching his stomach, raced past the demonstration table, opened the door, and ran out. We could hear his footsteps on the stairs. Gabby wiped the cold sweat from his brow and dispiritedly lowered his antennae.

“Harrumph,” Lavr Fedotovich said pathetically. “Who else would like the floor?”

“Allow me,” said Farfurkis. I realized the machine was starting up. “Citizen Gabby’s announcement has created a unique impression on me. I am sincerely and categorically incensed. And not only because Citizen Gabby is giving a perverted history of the human race as the history of the suffering of exceptional individuals. I am also willing to leave the orator’s totally un-self-critical pronouncements as to his own person to his conscience. But his idea, his offer of union—even the idea of such a union sounds, to me, both insulting and blasphemous. Just what do you take us for, Citizen Gabby? Or perhaps the insult was intentional? Personally, I am inclined to classify it as intentional. And on top of that, I looked through the minutes of the earlier meeting on the case of Citizen Gabby and noted with chagrin that, as far as I am concerned, there is a total lack of the necessary interlocutory decree for the case. This, comrades, is our mistake, our oversight, which we must correct with all due speed. What do I mean? I mean that in the person of Citizen Gabby we are confronted by nothing more than a typical talking parasite, in other words a sponging loafer with means of support that can only be classified as illegal.”

At that moment the exhausted Khlebovvodov appeared in the doorway. As he walked past Gabby he brandished his fist at him and muttered, “You tailless, six-legged cur!” Gabby ducked his head. He finally understood that things were bad. “Alex,” Eddie whispered to me in a panic. “Alex, think of something.” I feverishly looked for a way out, while Farfurkis droned on.

“Insulting humanity, insulting an authoritative body. This is typical parasitism, which belongs behind bars. Is this not a little much, comrades? Are we not displaying spinelessness, toothlessness, bourgeois liberalism, and abstract humanism? I don’t know the feelings of my respected colleagues in this matter, and I don’t know what decision will be reached in this case; however, as a man who is not malicious by nature but who is principled, I permit myself to address you, Citizen Gabby, with a word of warning. The fact that you, Citizen Gabby, have learned to speak, or rather to gab, in Russian, may be a temporizing factor in our attitude toward you. But beware! Don’t pull the string too tight!”

“Squash the parasite!” rasped Khlebovvodov. “Here, I’ve got a matchstick.” He started patting his pockets.

Gabby’s face was blank. So was Eddie’s. He was feverishly tinkering with the humanizer. And I still had not come up with a way out.

“No, no, Comrade Khlebovvodov,” said Farfurkis, grimacing in disgust, “I am against illegal acts. Why this lynch law? We’re not in America, you know. Everything must be done according to the law. First of all, if Lavr Fedotovich has no objections, we must rationalize Citizen Gabby as an unexplained phenomenon, which will therefore put him in our competence.”

Gabby, the fool, cheered up at those words. Ah, vanity!

“Then,” continued Farfurkis, “we will classify the rationalized unexplained phenomenon as a dangerous one, and therefore one that can be expunged during the utilization procedure. The rest is ridiculously simple. We will write the decree along these lines: the decree on expunging the talking bedbug, hereafter referred to as Gabby.”

“That’s right!” rasped Khlebovvodov. “We’ll get him with the Seal!”

“This is arbitrary rule!” squeaked Gabby.

“Excuse me!” Farfurkis was on the attack. “What do you mean arbitrary? We are expunging you in accordance with paragraph 75 of the Appendix on Expunging Social Vestiges, where it most clearly states …”

“It’s still arbitrary!” Gabby was shouting. “Executioners! Gendarmes!”

And that’s when I finally figured it out.

“Hold on,” I said. “Lavr Fedotovich! I beg you to intervene! This is squandering your cadres!”

Lavr Fedotovich barely managed his “Harrumph.” He was so sick that he didn’t care.

“Do you hear that?” I asked Farfurkis. “And Lavr Fedotovich is absolutely right! You must pay less attention to form and look more closely at content. Our injured feelings have nothing to do with the best interests of the people’s resources. Why this administrative sentimentality? Is this a boarding school for young princesses? Or courses for improving qualifications? Yes, Citizen Gabby is rude and impertinent and uses questionable parallels. Yes, Citizen Gabby is far from perfect. But does that mean that we should expunge him as being unnecessary? What are you thinking of, Comrade Farfurkis? Or are you perhaps prepared to pull out another talking bedbug from your pocket? Maybe your circle of acquaintances includes a talking bedbug? Why this lèse majesty? ‘I don’t like the talking bedbug, let’s write off the talking bedbug.’ And you, Comrade Khlebovvodov? Yes, I can see that you are a man who has suffered deeply from bedbugs. I sympathize deeply with your sufferings, but I ask you: perhaps you have already found a means of combating these bloodsucking parasites? These pirates of the bed, these gangsters of the people’s dreams, these vampires of rundown hotels?”

“That’s just what I’m saying,” said Khlebovvodov. “Just squash him without any to-do. All these decrees and nonsense …”

“Oh, no, Comrade Khlebovvodov! We forbid it! We will not allow you to take advantage of the scientific consultant’s sickness to introduce and apply crude administrative methods instead of scientific administrative methods. We will not allow voluntarism and subjectivism to reign once more! Don’t you understand that Citizen Gabby here is the only opportunity we have so far to begin a reeducation program among these frenzied parasites? In the past, some homegrown talent turned peaceful vegetarian bugs to their present disgusting modus vivendi. Don’t you think that our contemporary, educated bedbug, enriched with the full power of theory and practice, is capable of doing the reverse? Armed with carefully composed instructions and the latest techniques of pedagogy, knowing that all of humanity supports him, he could become the Archimedean lever with whose help we will turn the tide of bedbug history back to the forests and fields, to Nature’s bosom, to a pure, simple, and innocent existence. I beg the commission to take all these thoughts into consideration and carefully examine them.”

I sat down. Eddie, pale with joy, gave me a thumbs-up sign. Gabby was on his knees, fervently praying. As for the Troika, it was dumbstruck by my oratorical power. Farfurkis stared at me with joyous amazement. I could tell that he thought my idea was a stroke of genius and that he was feverishly examining the best way to take over the command of this new undertaking. He was picturing how he would write a wide-ranging, detailed instruction manual; he could see the paragraphs, chapters, appendixes, and footnotes in his mind’s eye; in his imagination he was consulting with the bedbug, organizing courses in Russian for gifted bedbugs, being named head of the State Committee on Propaganda for Vegetarianism Among Bloodsuckers, whose expanding sphere of activity would also include mosquitoes and gnats, midges and leeches.

“Grass bugs are no joy either, let me tell you,” grumbled the conservative Khlebovvodov. He had already capitulated, but he did not want to admit it, so he was picking on minor points.

I shrugged expressively.

“Comrade Khlebovvodov is thinking along rigid, narrow lines,” countered Farfurkis, pulling ahead by half a length.

“They’re not narrow at all,” said Khlebovvodov weakly. “They’re quite broad, those … whatchamacallits. Boy, do they stink! But I realize that can be fixed up in the process, too. I mean, do you think we can trust this upstart. He just doesn’t seem serious—and he has no good record of anything.”

“I have a motion,” said Eddie. “Perhaps a subcommittee should be set up, headed by Comrade Farfurkis, to study this matter. I would suggest Comrade Privalov, a man who is impartial, as a scientific consultant pro tern.”

Lavr Fedotovich stood up. Anyone could see that he had been seriously impaired by yesterday’s lunch. Ordinary human weakness shone through his usually stony countenance. Yes, there was a crack in the granite, the bastion was breached, but despite all that he stood firm and powerful.

“The people,” began the bastion, rolling his eyes in pain. “The people do not like being locked within four walls. The people need room. The people need fields and rivers. The people need the wind and the sun.”

“And the moon,” added Khlebovvodov, loyally looking up at the bastion.

“And the moon,” Lavr Fedotovich confirmed. “The health of the people must be safeguarded, it belongs to the people. The people need work in the great outdoors. The people can not breathe without the open air.”

We didn’t understand. Even Khlebovvodov was still trying to figure it out, but the perceptive Farfurkis had already gathered his papers, packed up his notebook, and was whispering to the commandant. The commandant nodded and inquired respectfully:

“Do the people like to walk or drive?”

“The people,” announced Lavr Fedotovich, “prefer to ride in a convertible. Expressing the general consensus, I move that we postpone the present session and hold at once the field session scheduled for this evening. Comrade Zubo, take care of the details.” With those words Lavr Fedotovich fell back heavily into his chair.

Everyone started bustling. The commandant ordered the car, Khlebovvodov plied Lavr Fedotovich with mineral water, and Farfurkis dug around for the necessary documents. I took advantage of the bustle, grabbed Gabby by the leg, and threw him out. Gabby did not protest: this experience had shaken him profoundly and changed him for a long time to come.

The car arrived. Lavr Fedotovich was led out by both arms and seated in the front. Khlebovvodov, Farfurkis, and the commandant, fighting and scratching, shared the back seat with the safe containing the Great Round Seal. “The car seats five,” Eddie said worriedly. “They won’t take us.” I replied that that was fine with me, I had talked enough to last me a month. It was all a waste of time. We wouldn’t change them in a hundred years. We saved the stupid bedbug, fine, let’s go for a swim. However, Eddie said that he would not go swimming. He would follow in invisible form and try one more session—in the open air. Maybe that would be more effective.

They were shouting in the car. Farfurkis and Khlebovvodov were tangling. Khlebovvodov, who was getting sicker from the smell of the gas, demanded an immediate departure. And he was yelling that the people love fast driving. Farfurkis, feeling that he was the only businesslike person in the car, responsible for everything, maintained that the presence of a strange and untried driver had turned the closed session into an open one, and besides, according to the regulations, the absence of the scientific consultant made it impossible to have a session, so that even if it were held, it would be null and void.

“Difficulties?” inquired Lavr Fedotovich in a slightly firmer voice. “Comrade Farfurkis, get rid of them.” Farfurkis, emboldened, took to getting rid of them with zeal. And before I could blink an eye, I found myself co-opted as a temporary replacement for the scientific consultant, the driver was let go, and I was in his seat. “Go ahead, go ahead,” invisible Eddie whispered in my ear. “Maybe you’ll be of some help to me.” I was nervous and kept looking around. The car was surrounded by a crowd of kids. It was one thing to be in a room with the Troika and another thing to expose oneself in their company to the public eye.

“Can’t we go?” Khlebovvodov begged in a dying voice. “With a stiff breeze …”

“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. “There is a motion to go. Any other motions? Driver, go.”

I started the engine and turned carefully, picking my way through the crowd of children.

At first Farfurkis drove me crazy with his backseat instructions. He wanted me to stop in no-stopping zones; or not to drive so fast, reminding me of the value of Lavr Fedotovich’s life; or to drive faster, because the breeze did not cool Lavr Fedotovich enough; or not to pay attention to the stoplights, since that undermined the authority of the Troika. But when we finally got out of the white suburbs of Tmuskorpion and into the country, when the green fields stretched before us and we could see the blue waters of a lake in the distance, and when the car bounced along on the gravel, peace descended on the car. Everyone stuck his face into the oncoming breeze, everyone squinted in the sun, and everyone felt good. Lavr Fedotovich lit up his first Herzegovina-Flor of the day, Khlebovvodov hummed an old folk song, and the commandant napped with the case files clutched to his breast.

Only Farfurkis, after a brief struggle, was able to overcome the relaxation that overtook the others. He unfurled a map of Tmuskorpion and environs and diligently marked out our itinerary, which, however, was of no use, since Farfurkis had forgotten that we were traveling by car and not by helicopter. I suggested my version: the lake, the swamp, the hill. At the lake we had to look into the case of the plesiosaur; at the swamp, to rationalize and utilize the mysterious sounds; and at the hill, to examine the so-called enchanted place.

Farfurkis, to my surprise, had no objections. It turned out that he had total confidence in my driver’s intuition, and moreover, he had always had a high regard for my abilities. He would be very happy working with me in the bedbug subcommittee, he had long had me in mind, and in general he always had our wonderful, talented youth in mind. His heart is always with youth, even though he does not close his eyes to its fundamental faults. Today’s youth does not struggle enough, does not pay enough attention to the struggle, has no desire to struggle more, to struggle to make struggling the true, primary goal of the struggle, and if our wonderful talented youth struggle so little, then they will have little chance of becoming a truly struggling youth, always involved in the struggle to become a true struggler who struggles to make the struggle …

We sighted the plesiosaur from a distance—something looking like an umbrella handle was sticking out of the water a mile from shore. I drove up to the beach and parked. Farfurkis was still struggling with grammatical permutations in the name of struggling youth, but Khlebovvodov had jumped out of the car and opened the door for Lavr Fedotovich. Lavr Fedotovich did not wish to get out. He looked benevolently at Khlebovvodov and announced that there was water in the lake, that the session was officially declared open, and that Comrade Zubo had the floor.

The commission settled in the grass around the car. The mood was somehow different. Farfurkis unbuttoned his shirt, and I took mine off, so as not to miss an opportunity to work on my tan. The commandant, breaking all the rules as he went along, rattled off the file on the plesiosaur called Liza, and nobody listened to him. Lavr Fedotovich dreamily looked at the lake, seemingly trying to decide whether the people needed it or not, and Khlebovvodov was telling Farfurkis sotto voce how he was once chairman of the Musical Comedy Theater Kolkhoz, where he used to get fifteen piglets a year from each sow. Oats rustled not twenty feet from us, cows grazed in distant pastures, and the inclination to agricultural subjects was understandable.

When the commandant had finished reading the brief section on the unexplained, Khlebovvodov made a new remark—that pleurisy was a dangerous disease and he was shocked that it was allowed to be on the loose around here. Farfurkis and I spent quite a while trying to explain that pleurisy and plesiosaurs were two entirely different things. Khlebovvodov, however, maintained his position, referring us to Ogonek magazine, which had many precise descriptions of fossilized plesiosaurs. “You can’t confuse me,” he said. “I’m a well-read man, even if I’ve had no higher education.” Farfurkis gave up, but I continued arguing until Khlebovvodov suggesting calling over the plesiosaur and asking it. “It can’t talk,” the commandant said, squatting down next to us. “It doesn’t matter,” Khlebovvodov said. “We’ll figure it out. After all, we have to see it anyway. At least this way, there’ll be some use out of it.”

“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. “Are there any questions for the speaker? No? Call in the case, Comrade Zubo.”

The commandant jumped up and started running along the shore. First he shouted hoarsely: “Liza, Liza!” But since the plesiosaur seemed to be deaf, the commandant tore off his jacket and started waving it, like a shipwreck victim hailing a sail on the horizon. Liza gave no sign of life. “She’s asleep,” the commandant said in dismay. “I’ll bet she’s had her fill and she’s asleep.” He ran around and waved some more and then asked me to honk. I beeped the horn. Lavr Fedotovich, leaning over the hood, examined the plesiosaur with his opera glasses. I honked for two minutes or so and then said that any more honking would wear down the battery. The whole thing seemed hopeless.

“Comrade Zubo,” Lavr Fedotovich spoke without putting down his glasses. “Why is the case not responding?”

The commandant blanched and could not come up with a reply.

“Discipline is lacking here, too,” Khlebovvodov piped up. “You’ve let your subordinates get out of hand.”

“This is a case of undermined authority,” Farfurkis noted. “You should sleep at night and work during the daytime.”

The commandant began undressing in despair. There was no alternative. I asked him if he could swim. It turned out that he did not know how, but that it did not matter to him. “Never mind,” Khlebovvodov said bloodthirstily. “He’ll be supported by authority.” I carefully voiced my doubts about the wisdom of the planned course. The commandant would undoubtedly drown, I said, and was it really necessary, I asked, for the Troika to take on duties that had nothing to do with its function, that is, becoming a lifeguard station. Besides, I reminded them, if the commandant did drown, the goal would still remain unreached and someone else, that is either Farfurkis or Khlebovvodov, would have to swim out after the case. Farfurkis rejoined with the information that calling the cases was the function and prerogative of the representative of the local authorities, or, in his absence, of the scientific consultant. So that my words could be seen as an attack and an attempt to shift responsibility. I announced that in the present situation I was less the scientific consultant and more the driver of an official car, which I could not leave for more than a distance of twenty feet. “You should know the appendix to the Statutes of Driving on Streets and Roads,” I said accusingly, risking nothing. “Paragraph 21.” There was a tense silence. The black umbrella handle still stood lighthouse-straight on the horizon. We watched anxiously as Lavr Fedotovich’s head turned slowly, like the turret of a battleship. We were all in the line of fire, and none of us wanted to be hit.

“As God is my witness.” The commandant cracked first, kneeling in his underwear. “Jesus Christ our Savior, I’m not afraid of swimming or of drowning. But what does she care, that Liza. She’s got a gullet like a subway! She can swallow a cow! And she’ll be drowsy.”

“Actually,” Farfurkis said nervously. “Why call her? Actually, we can see from here that she presents nothing of any interest, anyway. I suggest that we rationalize her and expunge her as unnecessary.”

“Expunge her right away!” Khlebovvodov added. “So she can swallow a cow, big deal! I can swallow one, too. But try getting fifteen piglets from one. Now that’s real work!”

Lavr Fedotovich finally rolled out the artillery. However, instead of a horde of scrabbling individuals, instead of a nest of teeming, contradictory passions, instead of undisciplined spiders undermining the Troika’s authority, his sights showed him a workers’ collective, full of solidarity, enthusiasm, and zeal, burning with a single desire: to write off that scourge Liza and move on to the next problem. There was no salvo. The turret made a 180-degree turn, and the terrifying muzzles pointed at the unsuspecting umbrella handle on the horizon.

“The people,” we could hear from the conning tower. “The people look into the distance. The people see a plesiosaur. The people do not need …”

“The plesiosaur!” Khlebovvodov shot from a pistol and missed.

It turned out that the people desperately need plesiosaurs, that certain members of the Troika have lost their sense of perspective, that certain commandants have forgotten whose bread they are eating, that certain representatives of our glorious scientific intelligentsia have revealed a tendency to view the world through a glass darkly, and that, finally, Case 8 must be postponed until some winter month when it can be reached along the ice. There were no other motions, and certainly no questions for the speaker. And that was the final decision.

“Let’s move on to the next question,” announced Lavr Fedotovich, and the members of the Troika pushed their way into the back seat. The commandant was hurriedly dressing, muttering: “You’ll pay for this. I gave you the best pieces—like my own daughter, you floating pig.”

Then we took the road along the lake shore. The road was horrible, and I thanked heaven that the summer was dry, or it would have been the end of us. However, I had thanked the heavens too soon, because the closer we got to the swamp the more the road displayed a tendency to disappear and turn into two damp ruts with grass growing in them. I downshifted and tried to estimate my passengers’ physical strength. It was perfectly clear that fat, flabby Farfurkis would be of little help. Khlebovvodov looked sturdy enough, but I did not know if he had recovered sufficiently from his stomach attack. Lavr Fedoto-vich would probably not even get out of the car. That left the commandant and me if anything went wrong, because Eddie would not reveal himself just to push a two-thousand-pound car out of the mud.

My pessimistic thoughts were interrupted by a gigantic black puddle on the road. This was no bucolic, patriarchal puddle, no smalltown puddle that everyone had driven through and that was used to everything. Nor was it a muddy urban puddle, lazily spreading amid the litter of a construction site. This was a calm, cold-blooded puddle, vicious in its morbid appearance, casually stretching between the two ruts in the road, as mysterious as the eye of a sphinx, as perfidious as a wicked witch—evoking nightmarish thoughts of drowned trucks. I braked sharply.

“That’s it. We’re here.”

“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. “Comrade Zubo, read the file.”

I could see the commandant vacillating in the silence. It was still rather far to the swamp, but the commandant could also see the puddle blocking our only approach. He sighed and rustled his papers.

“Case 38,” he read. “Surname: Blank. Name: Blank. Patronymic: Blank. Nickname: Cow’s Muck Swamp.”

“Just a minute!” Farfurkis interrupted anxiously. “Listen!”

He raised his finger. We listened, and we heard.

Somewhere in the distance silver horns sang out victoriously. The sound pulsed, grew, and seemed to come closer. The blood froze in my veins. That was the trumpeting of mosquitoes, and not even all of them were calling to battle—only the company commanders or maybe even only the battalion commanders and higher. With the mysterious inner vision of a trapped animal, we saw around us acres and acres of marshy mud, overgrown with thin sedge, covered with layers of decaying leaves, with rotten stumps sticking out here and there, all under the canopy of emaciated aspens. And all these acres, every square inch of them, had detachments of the reddish cannibals, ruthless, starved, and frustrated.

“Lavr Fedotovich!” babbled Khlebovvodov. “Mosquitoes!”

“There is a motion!” Farfurkis shouted. “To postpone the examination of this case until October … November!”

“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich in surprise. “The public doesn’t understand.”

Suddenly the air around us was filled with movement. Khlebovvodov squealed and slapped his face as hard as he could. Farfurkis replied with the same. Lavr Fedotovich started to turn slowly and in surprise, and then the impossible happened: a huge redheaded pirate landed smoothly on Lavr Fedotovich’s forehead and drove his sword right between the poor man’s eyes. Lavr Fedotovich reeled. He was shocked, he did not understand, he could not believe it. And then it really began.

Shaking my head like a horse, waving the mosquitoes away with my elbows, I tried to turn the car around in the narrow space between the aspen groves. Lavr Fedotovich was roaring and squirming on my right, and from the back seat came such a volley of smacks that it sounded as though a whole company of uhlans and hussars had embarked on an evening of mutual insults. By the time I had the car turned around, I was completely swollen. My ears were hot doughnuts and my cheeks were pound cakes, and there were millions of horns on my forehead.

“Forward!” they shouted from all sides. “Back! Give it gas! Get moving! I’ll have you tried, Comrade Privalov.” The motor was roaring, clumps of mud flew in all directions, and the car bounced like a kangaroo, but our speed was low, disgustingly low, and meanwhile new squadrons and armadas were taking off from innumerable airfields. The enemy was indisputably superior in the air. Everybody except me was busy indulging in furious self-criticism, even self-torture. I could not tear my hands away from the wheel, and I could not even use my legs to fight them off. I had one foot free, and with it I scratched everything it could reach. Finally we got to the lake. The road was better and it was uphill. I felt a breeze on my face. I stopped the car. I caught my breath and started scratching. I lost myself in scratching. When I did manage to stop I realized that the Troika was finishing off the commandant.

The commandant was accused of planning and executing a terrorist act. They were holding him accountable for every drop of blood lost by the Troika, and he paid dearly for each and every drop. What was left of the commandant when I could see, hear, and think again could not accurately be called the commandant anymore: a few bones, an empty stare, and a weak mumble: “As God is … In the name of Jesus Christ …”

“Comrade Zubo,” said Lavr Fedotovich finally. “Why did you stop reading the report? Please continue.”

The commandant began gathering the scattered papers from his files.

“Go right to the brief description of the unexplained,” demanded Lavr Fedotovich.

The commandant, giving one last sob, read in a quavering voice:

“A large swamp, from which come occasional sighs and moans.”

“So?” asked Khlebovvodov. “What’s next?”

“Nothing. That’s it.”

“What do you mean that’s it?” Khlebovvodov whined. “You killed me! Destroyed me! And for what? For some lousy sighs? Why did you drag us here, you terrorist? Why did we shed our blood? Just look at me—how can I show up at the hotel like this? You’ve undermined my authority for life! When I get through with you, you won’t even be able to sigh or moan!”

“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. Khlebovvodov shut up.

“There is a motion,” continued Lavr Fedotovich. “In view of the extreme danger that Case 38 poses for the people, the above-named case should be rationalized in the highest degree—that is, it should be classified as irrational and transcendent, and therefore, not really existing, and as such, it should be expunged from the memory of the people, that is, from geographic and topographic maps.”

Khlebovvodov and Farfurkis applauded wildly. Lavr Fedotovich extracted his briefcase from under his seat and placed it squarely in his lap.

“The decree!” he called.

The decree of the highest degree fell on the briefcase.

“Signatures!!”

The signatures fell on the decree.

“Seal!!!”

The safe door clanged open, a wave of office staleness engulfed us, and the Great Round Seal hovered before Lavr Fedotovich. Lavr Fedotovich took it in both hands, raised it over the decree, and lowered it forcefully. A dark shadow passed over the sky, the car settled on its shocks, and Lavr Fedotovich put his briefcase back under the seat and continued.

“To Colony Commandant Comrade Zubo for irresponsibility, harboring the irrational, transcendent, and therefore nonexistent Cow’s Muck Swamp, for not ensuring the safety of the Troika’s work, and also for displaying heroism at the swamp, we announce our gratitude and enter it in the record. Are there any other motions? Next. What else do we have on the agenda, Comrade Zubo?”

“The enchanted place,” said the relieved commandant. “Not far from here, two miles or so.”

“Are there mosquitoes?” inquired Lavr Fedotovich.

“As Christ is my witness,” swore the commandant. “None. Some ants, maybe.”

“Well …” Lavr Fedotovich hesitated. “Wasps? Bees?” he said, revealing great perspicacity and vigilant concern for the welfare of the people.

“By no means.”

Lavr Fedotovich was silent for a long time.

“Wild bulls?” he finally asked.

The commandant assured him that bulls were entirely unknown in the area.

“How about wolves?” asked Khlebovvodov suspiciously.

But the area had neither wolves nor bears, which Farfurkis had remembered. While they did their zoology exercises, I studied the map, trying to figure out the shortest route to the enchanted place. The decree of the highest degree had taken effect: the map indicated Tmuskorpion, the Skorpionka River, Zverinoe Lake, and Lopukhi, but Cow’s Muck Swamp, which used to lie between the lake and Lopukhi, was gone. There was just an anonymous white spot, like the ones for Antarctica on old maps. I was ordered to go on, and we drove off. We went around the oats, through the herds of cows, around Kruglaia Grove, across Studenyi Brook, and a half hour later we found ourselves in the enchanted place.

It was a hill, covered by a forest on one side. Probably there used to be dense forests all over, all the way to Kitezhgrad, but they had been felled, and now the only trees left were on the hill. There was a blackened shack at the very top; two cows with a calf grazed along the slope in front of us, guarded by a big German shepherd. Chickens scratched in the dirt in front of the porch, and there was a goat on the roof.

“Why did you stop?” Farfurkis asked. “You should drive right up. You don’t expect us to walk.”

“And it looks as if they have milk,” Khlebovvodov added. “I could go for a glass of milk. You understand, when you’ve had mushroom poisoning, it’s very good to drink milk. Come on, come on, let’s go!”

The commandant tried to explain that it was impossible to drive up the hill, but his explanations were greeted with icy wonderment on the part of Lavr Fedotovich, infected with the thought of steaming milk, and with Farfurkis’ moans of “Sour cream! From the cellar!” He did not try to argue. To tell the truth, I did not understand either, but I was curious.

I started the engine, and the car sped merrily toward the hill. The odometer clicked off the miles, the wheels whirred in the grass, Lavr Fedotovich stared straight ahead, and the back seat, in anticipation of sour cream and milk, started an argument about what mosquitoes feed on in swamps. Khlebovvodov based his argument on experience and maintained that they feed exclusively on responsible workers on expeditions. Farfurkis, giving way to wishful thinking, maintained that mosquitoes live by cannibalism. The commandant babbled on about God’s solicitude, about something called God’s dew, and fried locusts and wild honey. We drove on this way for twenty minutes. When the odometer showed eight miles, Khlebovvodov gasped.

“But what’s happening?” he said. “We’re moving all right, but the hill is just where it was. Speed it up, driver. What’s the holdup?”

“We’ll never get to the hill,” the commandant said meekly. “It’s enchanted. You can’t drive there, you can’t walk there. We’re just wasting gas.”

Everyone stopped talking after that, and the odometer racked up another four miles. The hill was not even a foot closer. The cows, attracted by the sound of the engine, looked in our direction for a while, then lost interest and went back to their grazing. Indignation mounted in the back seat. Khlebovvodov and Farfurkis exchanged several remarks that were maliciously businesslike. “Sabotage,” said Khlebovvodov. “Sabotage,” said Farfurkis. “Premeditated sabotage.” Then they started whispering, and I heard snatches of conversation: “Set on blocks. That’s right, the wheels turn, but the car doesn’t move. The commandant? Maybe, and the scientific consultant pro tem as well—gas—undermining the economy—then they’ll write off the car as heavily used, while it’s practically brand-new.” I paid no attention to the malicious parrots, but then the back door slammed shut and Khlebovvodov’s passionate howl receded in the distance. I braked hard. Lavr Fedotovich, still moving, smashed into the windshield. I saw stars from the impact, and Farfurkis’ false teeth clacked right in my ear. The car swerved. When the dust had settled, I saw Comrade Khlebovvodov far behind us, running and waving his arms. “Difficulties?” inquired Lavr Fedotovich. “Get rid of them, Comrade Khlebovvodov.”

We had been rid of the difficulties for quite some time. I had to go get Khlebovvodov, who lay some thirty yards back on the road, ragged, in torn trousers, and very surprised. It turned out that he had suspected the commandant and me of conspiring to set the car on blocks and to run up the mileage for our own benefit. Impelled by a sense of duty, he decided to get out and reveal our plot by looking under the wheels. The commandant and I dragged him back to the car and laid him down so that he could see for himself. Then we went to help Farfurkis, who was looking for his glasses and upper dentures in the car. The commandant found them on the road.

The confusion was done away with completely, Khlebovvodov’s arguments turned out to be rather superficial, and Lavr Fedotovich, who finally realized that there would never be any milk, ever, moved that we not waste gas, which belongs to the people, and get on with our primary responsibilities.

“Comrade Zubo,” he said. “Read the report.”

Case 29, as was to be expected, had neither surname, nor name, nor patronymic. It was provisionally called Enchantings. The date of birth was lost in the mists of time, but the place of birth was given with extremely precise coordinates. Enchantings’ nationality was Russian, it had no education, spoke no foreign languages, its profession was being a hill, and its place of work was again given by the same coordinates. Enchantings had never been abroad, its closest relative was Mother Earth, and its place of permanent residence was again those same coordinates. As for the brief summary of its unexplainability, Vybegallo had wasted no words: “First of all, you can’t drive there, and second of all, you can’t walk there.”

The commandant glowed. The case was definitely proceeding to rationalization. Khlebovvodov was pleased with the application form. Farfurkis was enjoying the self-evident unexplainable factor that did not threaten the people in any way, and it looked as if Lavr Fedotovich had no objections. In any case, he confided to us that the people need hills, as well as dales, ravines, gullies, Elbrus Mountains, and Kazbek Ranges.

But then the door to the shack opened, and an old man dressed in long shirt tied at the waist came out onto the porch, leaning on a stick. He stood on the porch, looked at the sun, shielding his eyes, shook his stick at the goat to get it off the roof, and finally sat on the steps.

“A witness!” said Farfurkis. “Shouldn’t we call the witness?”

“So he’s a witness,” the commandant said sadly. “Isn’t everything clear? If you have questions, I can …”

“No!” said Farfurkis, peering at him suspiciously. “Why shouldn’t we call him? Remember, you don’t live here. He’s a local.”

“Call him, call him,” said Khlebovvodov. “He can bring us milk.”

“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. “Comrade Zubo, call the witness for Case 29.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the commandant, throwing his hat on the ground. The case was falling apart before his very eyes. “If he could come here, do you think he’d be sitting over there? He’s a prisoner, you see. He can’t get out! He’s stuck there, and there he’ll stay!”

In total despair, under the suspicious scrutiny of the Troika, anticipating new difficulties and therefore becoming very talkative, the commandant told us the Kitezhgrad legend about the forester Feofil. How he had lived peacefully with his wife, how he was still young and hearty then, how green lightning struck the hill and horrible things started to happen. His wife was in town at the time and when she came back she couldn’t get up the hill to the house. And Feofil tried to get to her. He ran nonstop for two days—to no avail. And so he stayed there. Him up there, and her in town. Then of course, he got used to it in time. You have to go on living. And so he has. He got used to it.

Having heard this horrible tale and having posed several tricky questions, Khlebovvodov suddenly made a discovery. Feofil had avoided the census takers, had never been subjected to any educational activity, and for all we knew could still be an exploiter, a kulak.

“He has two cows,” Khlebovvodov said, “and look, a calf. And a goat. And he doesn’t pay taxes.” His eyes lit up. “If he’s got a calf, he must have a bull, too, hidden away somewhere!”

“He has a bull, that’s right,” the commandant admitted glumly. “It must be grazing on the other side.”

“Well, brother, you really run things well here,” Khlebovvodov said. “I knew you were a phoney, but I didn’t expect something like this, even from you. That you would be a kulak’s henchman, that you would cover up for a kulak.”

The commandant took a deep breath and wailed. “Holy Mother of God. In the name of the twelve original Apostles.”

“Attention!” whispered invisible Eddie.

Feofil the forester suddenly looked up and, shading his eyes from the sun, gazed in our direction. Then he tossed his stick aside and started walking down the hill slowly, slipping and sliding in the tall grass. The dirty white goat trailed after him like a puppy. Feofil came up to us, sat down, and rubbed his chin with his bony brown hand in puzzlement. The she-goat sat next to him and stared at us with her yellow devilish eyes.

“You’re regular people,” Feofil said. “Amazing.”

The goat looked us over and settled on Khlebovvodov.

“This here is Khlebovvodov,” she said. “Rudolf Arkhipovich. Born in 1910 in Khokhloma. His parents got the name out of a romantic novel. Education, seventh grade. He is ashamed of his parents’ background, studied many foreign languages, speaks none.”

“Oui,” Khlebovvodov confirmed, giggling with embarrassment. “Naturalichjawohl!”

“Has no profession as such. At the present time is a public administrator. Traveled abroad to Italy, France, both Germanics, Hungary, England, and so on—a total of forty-four countries. Has bragged and lied everywhere. His distinguishing character trait is a high degree of tenacity and adaptability, based on his fundamental stupidity and an unwavering desire to out-orthodox orthodoxy.”

“Well,” said Feofil. “Is there anything you could add to that, Rudolf Arkhipovich?”

“No way!” Khlebovvodov said gleefully. “Except maybe that ortho—ortho—doro—orthxy, it isn’t quite clear!”

“To be more orthodox than orthodoxy is sort of like this,” explained the goat. “If the authorities are displeased by some scientists, you declare yourself to be an enemy of science in general. If the authorities are displeased by some foreigner, you are ready to declare war on everyone on the other side of the border. Understand?”

“Absolutely,” said Khlebovvodov. “How else could it be? Our education is awfully limited. Otherwise, I might make a mistake.”

“Does he steal?” asked Feofil casually.

“No,” said the goat. “He picks up things that fall off the gravy train.”

“Murder?”

“Don’t be silly,” laughed the goat. “Personally, never.”

“Say something,” Feofil asked Khlebovvodov.

“There have been mistakes,” Khlebovvodov said quickly. “People are not angels. Anyone can make a mistake. Horses have four legs and still they stumble. He who makes no mistakes does not exist, that is, does not work.”

“I understand,” said Feofil. “Are you going to go on making mistakes?”

“Never!” Khlebovvodov said firmly.

“Thank you,” said Feofil. He looked at Farfurkis.

“And this kind gentleman?”

“That’s Farfurkis,” said the goat. “No one has ever used his name and patronymic. Born in 1916 in Taganrog, higher education in law, reads English with a dictionary. Profession, lecturer. Candidate of oratorical sciences. Has never been abroad. Outstanding character trait is perspicacity and caution. Sometimes he risks incurring the wrath of his superiors, but his actions are always calculated to lead eventually to their gratitude.”

“That’s not quite right,” Farfurkis said softly. “You’re mixing your terms a bit. Caution and perspicacity are part of my character whether I deal with my superiors or not. They’re in my chromosomes. As for my superiors, well that’s my job, pointing out the legal parameters of their competence.”

“And if they go outside the parameters?” asked Feofil.

“You see,” said Farfurkis. “I can tell you’re not a lawyer. There is nothing more flexible than a legal parameter. You can delineate one, but you can’t overstep one.”

“How do you feel about perjury?” asked Feofil.

“I’m afraid that that’s a rather old-fashioned term,” Farfurkis said. “We don’t use it any more.”

“How’s he on perjury?” Feofil asked the goat.

“Never,” she replied. “He always believes every word he says.”

“Really, what is a lie?” said Farfurkis. “A lie is a denial or a distortion of a fact. But what is a fact? Can we speak of facts in our increasingly complex life? A fact is a phenomenon or action that is verified by witnesses. But eyewitnesses can be prejudiced, self-interested, or simply ignorant. Or, a fact is a phenomenon or action that is verified by documents. But documents can be forged or tampered with. Or finally, a fact is a phenomenon or action that is determined by me personally. However, my sensations can be dulled or even completely deceived under certain circumstances. Thus, it is evident that a fact is something ephemeral, nebulous, and unverifiable, and the elimination of the concept becomes necessary. But in that case falsehood and truth become primitive concepts, indefinable through any other general categories. There exist only the Great Truth and its antipode, the Great Lie. The Great Truth is so great and its validity is so obvious to any normal man, such as myself, that it is totally futile to try to refute or distort it, that is, to lie. And that is why I never lie and never perjure myself.”

“Tricky,” said Feofil. “Very neat. Of course, Farfurkis’ philosophy will remain after him?”

“No,” said the goat with a laugh. “I mean, the philosophy will remain, but Farfurkis had nothing to do with it. He didn’t invent it. He hasn’t invented anything at all, except his dissertation, which will be his only legacy, a model of such works.”

Feofil was thinking.

“Do I understand correctly?” asked Farfurkis. “Is everything finished? Can we continue our work?”

“Not yet,” Feofil replied, awakening from his meditations. “I would like to ask a few questions of this citizen.”

“What!” shouted Farfurkis. “Lavr Fedotovich?”

“The people …” said Lavr Fedotovich, gazing into the distance through his opera glasses.

“Question Lavr Fedotovich?” muttered Farfurkis in shock.

“Yes,” the goat said. “Lavr Fedotovich Vuniukov, born in ____”

“That’s it,” said Eddie. “I’ve run out of energy. That Lavr is a bottomless barrel.”

“What’s this?” shouted Farfurkis in dismay. “Comrades!! What’s going on? It’s improper!”

“That’s right,” said Khlebovvodov. “It’s not our concern. Let the police take care of it.”

“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. “Are there any other motions? Questions to the speaker? Expressing the general consensus, I move that Case 29 be rationalized as an unexplained phenomenon that should be of interest to the Ministry of the Food Industry and the Treasury. As part of preliminary utilization Case 29, known as Enchantings, should be turned over to the district attorney’s office of the Tmuskorpion Region.”

I looked toward the top of the hill. Feofil the forester leaned heavily on his stick, standing on his porch, and peered into the sunlight, shading his eyes. The goat wandered in the garden. I waved my beret at him in farewell. Eddie’s bitter sigh sounded in my ear simultaneously with the thud of the Great Round Seal.