Little Apples

SALON DES VARIÉTÉS

“Cabbie! Are you asleep, dammit? Get me to the Salon des Variétés!”

“Um . . . ah . . . the saloon day very tea? That’ll be thirty kopecks, sir.”

Lit by lanterns: the entrance and a lone constable loitering outside. A ruble and twenty kopecks to get in and twenty kopecks to check your coat (the latter, however, is not mandatory). You barely put your foot inside the door when the potent stench of shoddy boudoirs and bathhouse changing rooms washes over you. The guests are slightly tipsy. Incidentally, I would discourage a visit to the salon by anyone who is—how shall I put it—not at least three, if not four, sheets to the wind. It is a fundamental requirement. If a guest arrives with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his bleary eye, it is a good sign: it is unlikely that he will die of boredom, and he might even get a small taste of bliss. Unlucky is the teetotaler who ventures into the Salon des Variétés. It is doubtful that he will take a shine to it, and when he gets home he will give his sons a good hiding so they will know better than to visit the salon when they grow up. Tipsy guests totter up the stairs, hand the doorman their ticket, enter the hall filled with portraits of the great, brace themselves, and plunge bravely into the hurly-burly, stumbling through all the rooms, from door to door, thirsting to catch a peek of something rare. They push and jostle as if looking for something. What a seething hodgepodge of faces, colors, and smells! Ladies—red, blue, green, black, variegated and piebald, like three-kopeck woodblock prints. The same ladies were here last year and the year before—and you will see them here next year, too. Not a single décolleté, as they are in corsets and bloomers and . . . have no busts worth mentioning. And what strange and marvelous names: Blanche, Mimi, Fanny, Emma, Isabella. You will not find a single Matryonna, Mavra, or Pelageya.

The dust is terrible! Specks of powder and paint hang in the air in a haze of alcoholic fumes. You cannot breathe, and the urge to sneeze tickles your nose.

“What a rude man you are!”

“Me? Ah . . . hmm, well, permit me to express to you in prose that I am fully up-to-date on feminine ideas. Allow me to escort you.”

“How dare you, young man! You had better introduce yourself first, and wine and dine me a little!”

An officer hurries over, grabs the lady by the shoulders, turning her away from the young man so that she faces him. The young man is not pleased. He pauses, decides to take offense, grabs the lady by the shoulders, and turns her so she faces him again.

A big German with an oafish, inebriated face stumbles through the crowd. He emits a loud belch for all to hear. A pockmarked little man comes shuffling up behind him, clasps his hand, and shakes it.

“F-f-fool!” the German says.

“I wish to express my sincerest gratitude for your sincere belch,” the little man says.

“Um . . . ja . . . th-th-thank!”

By the entrance a crowd has gathered. Two young merchants are gesticulating furiously at each other in blind hatred. One merchant is red as a lobster, the other pale. Needless to say, they are both drunk as lords.

“How about . . . I punch you in the mug!”

“You ass!”

“No, You’re an ass yourself! You . . . philanthropist!”

“You rat! Why are you waving your arms around? Go on, punch me! Go on!”

“Gentlemen!” a woman’s voice rings out from the crowd. “How unseemly to use such language in front of ladies!”

“And the ladies can go to hell too! I don’t give a flying hoot for your ladies! I can feed and clothe a thousand of them! And . . . you, Katya, stay out of this! Why did he insult me when I didn’t do anything to him?”

A dandy sporting a gigantic cravat hurries over to the pale merchant and takes him by the hand.

“Mitya! Your papa is here!”

“He c-c-can’t be!”

“Upon my word, he is! He’s sitting at a table with Sonya—he almost saw me, the old devil! We have to get out of here!”

Mitya glares at his opponent one last time, shakes his fist at him, and retreats.

“Tsvirintelkin! Come here! Raissa’s looking for you!”

“I’m not interested in her, she looks like a weasel! I’ve found another one—Fräulein Luisa!”

“What? That tub of lard?”

“A tub of lard she might be, but she’s a lot of woman, and a triple helping, too! Try getting your arms around her!”

Fräulein Luisa is sitting at a table. She is big, fat, sluggish as a snail, and covered in sweat. Before her on the table are a bottle of beer and Tsvirintelkin’s hat. The outline of her corset bulges over the expanse of her gigantic back. She prudently hides her hands and legs; her hands are large, rough, and red. Only a year ago she was still living in Prussia, where she washed floors, made beer soup for the Herr pastor, and looked after the little Schmidts, Müllers, and Schultzes. Fate decided to disturb her peace: she fell in love with Fritz, and Fritz fell in love with her. But Fritz could not marry a poor woman. In his eyes he would have been a fool to marry a poor woman. Luisa vowed eternal love to Fritz, and left her beloved Vaterland for the cold steppes of Russia in order to earn herself a dowry. And so she goes to the Salon des Variétés every night. During the day, she makes little boxes and crochets tablecloths. Once she has got together the agreed-upon amount of money, she will return to Prussia and marry Fritz.

“Si vous n’avez rien à me dire . . .” comes echoing from the stage. There is a rumpus, applause for whoever happens to be performing. A feeble cancan is underway: in the front rows mouths are watering in delight. Look at the audience as the women onstage shout “Down with men!” Give the audience a lever, and it would turn the whole world upside down. There is roaring, shouting, howling.

“Sss! Sss! Sss!” a little officer in the front row hisses at a girl.

The audience rises against the officer in furious indignation, and the whole of Bolshaya Dimitrovka Street rattles with applause. The little officer gets up, and, his head high, leaves the hall with a haughty flourish, his self-respect intact.

The Hungarian orchestra launches into a thunderous melody. What fat louts these Hungarians are, and how badly they play! They are an embarrassment to their country.

The bar has been taken by storm. Behind the counter is Monsieur Kuznetsov in person, standing next to a lady with dark eyebrows. Monsieur Kuznetsov is pouring glasses of wine, and the lady is collecting the money.

“A g-g-glass of vodka! You hear me? V-v-vodka!”

“Grab a glass, Kolya! Bottoms up!”

A man with short-cropped hair stares dully at his glass, shrugs his shoulders, and avidly downs the vodka. “I shouldn’t, Ivan Ivanich, I have a heart condition.”

“Nonsense! Nothing will happen to your heart condition with a few drinks!”

The man with the heart condition downs another glass.

“Have another!”

“No, I’ve got a heart condition, and I’ve already had seven!”

“Nonsense!”

The young man downs another glass.

“Please, sir,” a girl with a sharp chin and rabbit eyes whines, “buy me dinner!”

The man resists.

“I’m hungry. Just a little portion of something.”

“What a nag you are! Waiter!”

The waiter brings a piece of meat. The girl eats. And how she eats! With her mouth, her eyes, her nose.

In a shooting booth bullets are whizzing. Two Tyrolean ladies are loading one rifle after another, and they are not at all bad-looking, either. An artist is standing next to them, drawing one of them on the cuff of his shirt.

“Thank you! Goodbye! Good luck to you!” the Tyrolean women shout as they leave.

As they leave the clock strikes two. The women onstage are still dancing. Noise, uproar, shouts, shrieks, whistling, a cancan. Oppressive heat and stuffiness. At the bar the drunks are getting drunker, and by three o’clock there is total mayhem.

In the meantime, in the private rooms . . .

Anyway, time to go! How wonderful it is to leave this place. If I were the owner of the Salon des Variétés, I would not charge customers at the entrance—but at the exit.