The Suitcase

A Decent Double-Breasted Suit

I’M NOT DRESSED TOO WELL right now, and I used to dress even worse. In the Soviet Union I dressed so badly that I was rebuked for it. I remember when the director of Pushkin Hills* told me, “Comrade Dovlatov, your trousers ruin the festive mood of our area.”

The editors of places where I worked were also frequently unhappy with me. At one newspaper the editor complained, “You’re compromising us, clear and simple. We sent you to the funeral of General Filonenko, and I have been informed that you showed up without a suit.”

“I was wearing a jacket.”

“You wore some old cassock.”

“It’s not a cassock. It’s an imported jacket. And incidentally, it was a present from Léger.”*

(I really did get the jacket from Fernand Léger. But that story is to come.)

“What’s a layjay?” the editor asked with a grimace.

“Léger is an outstanding French artist. Member of the Communist Party.”

“I doubt it,” said the editor, and then blew up. “Enough! You’re always getting sidetracked! You’re never like anyone else! You must dress in a manner befitting an employee of a serious newspaper!”

So I replied, “Then let the newspaper buy me a jacket. Or better yet, a suit. Naturally, I’ll take care of the tie myself…”

But the editor was not being straight with me. He didn’t care in the least how I dressed. That wasn’t the point. There was a simpler explanation: I was the biggest one at the office. The tallest. That is, as the bosses assured me, the most presentable. Or, in the words of Executive Secretary Minz, “the most representative”.

If a celebrity died, the newspaper delegated me to represent them. After all, coffins are heavy. And I approached these assignments with enthusiasm. Not because I liked funerals so much, but because I hated newspaper work.

“You’re pushing it,” the editor said.

“Not at all,” I said, “it’s a legitimate request. Railroad workers, for instance, get uniforms. Watchmen get warm jackets. Divers get diving suits. Let the newspaper buy me my special clothes. A suit for funerals.”

Our editor was a kind man. With his big salary, he could afford to be. And the times were comparatively liberal then.

He said, “Let’s compromise. You give me three socially significant articles by the New Year, three articles with broad socio-political resonance, and your bonus will be a modest suit.”

“What do you mean by modest? Cheap?”

“Not cheap, but black. For formal occasions.”

“OK,” I said, “we’ll remember this conversation.”

A week later, I arrived at work. Bezuglov, head of the propaganda department, called me into his office. I went down a flight of stairs. Bezuglov was talking on two phones at the same time.

“A Belorussian won’t do. Loads of Belorussians. Give me an Uzbek, or at least an Estonian… Wait, wait, I think we have an Estonian… The Moldavian is doubtful… What?… The labourer gets dropped, we have enough proletarians… Give me an intellectual or someone from the service sector. Best of all, career military. Some sergeant… Well, get going!”

Then he picked up the other phone. “Hello… I urgently need an Uzbek. Any quality, even a parasite… Try, be a pal, I won’t forget it.”

I greeted him and asked, “What’s with the ‘International’?”

Bezuglov said, “It’s almost Constitution Day, so we decided to do fifteen sketches. One for each republic. Encompass representatives of various nationalities.”

He took out his cigarettes and went on. “Let’s say there’s no problem with Russians. Plenty of Ukrainians too. Found a Georgian at the medical academy. An Azerbaijani at the meat-packing plant. Even located a Moldavian, a teacher at the regional Komsomol.* But there’s a real problem with Uzbeks, Kyrgyzes and Turkmen. Where am I going to get an Uzbek?”

“In Uzbekistan,” I prompted.

“What a genius! Of course in Uzbekistan. But I have deadlines. Not to mention the fact that our travel allowance has been used up… So listen, do you want to make fifty roubles?”

“Sure.”

“I thought you would. Find me an Uzbek, I’ll give you fifty. I’ll call it a bonus for dangerous working conditions.”

“I have a Tatar friend.”

Bezuglov grew angry.

“What do I need a Tatar for? I’ve got Tatar neighbours on my floor. So what? They’re not a Union republic. Find me an Uzbek. I’ve divided up the Kyrgyz and the Turkmen among the freelancers. Sashka Shevelyov seems to have a Tajik. Samoilov’s looking for a Kazakh. And so on. I need an Uzbek. Will you do it?”

“All right, but I’m warning you: the article will be socially significant, with broad socio-political resonance.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“No. Is that an offer?”

“Don’t be silly, it’s out of the question. I drink only in the evenings… Not before 1 p.m.”

I’d known Bezuglov a long time. He was a special man. Came from Sverdlovsk.

I remember I had been on my way to the Urals on a business trip, and I had to stop in Sverdlovsk. It was around the May holidays, which meant trouble getting hotel reservations.

I had asked Bezuglov, “Could I spend the night at your parents’ house in Sverdlovsk?”

“Naturally!” he’d shouted. “Of course! As long as you like! They’ll be very glad to have you. They have a huge place. My pop is a corresponding member of the Academy, my mother is an honoured worker in the arts. They’ll give you home-made pelmeni…* One condition though: don’t tell them you know me. Otherwise, forget it. I’ve been the black sheep of the family since I was fourteen!”

“All right,” I now said, “I’ll find you an Uzbek.”

I began. I flipped through my phone book. Called three dozen friends. At last, one acquaintance, a trumpet player, said, “We have a trombonist, Baliyev. He’s an Uzbek by nationality.”

“Terrific,” I said, “give me his phone number.”

“Write it down.”

I wrote it down.

“You’ll like him,” my friend said. “He’s a cultured guy, well-read, good sense of humour. Got out recently.”

“What do you mean, got out?”

“He served his term and got out.”

“You mean he’s a thief?” I asked.

“Why a thief?” My friend was insulted. “He was doing time for rape…”

I hung up.

Just then Bezuglov called. “You’re in luck,” he shouted. “We found an Uzbek. Mishchuk found him… Where? At Kuznechny Market. A small businessman – that’s even a good thing, it’s got unofficial support now. Private allotments, all that… So everything’s fine with the Uzbek.”

“Too bad,” I said, “I just got an excellent candidate. A cultured, educated Uzbek. Orchestra soloist. Just back from touring.”

“Too late. Save him for another time. Mishchuk brought in the article. I have a new assignment for you. It’s almost Efficiency Day. You have to find a modern Russian handyman. And do an article on him.”

“Socially significant?”

“You bet.”

“All right,” I said, “I’ll try.”

I had heard of a handyman like that. My older brother, who worked in newsreels, had told me about him.

The old man lived on Yelizarovskaya Highway, near Leningrad, in a private house. It was easier than I expected to find him. The first person I ran into showed me the way.

The old man’s name was Yevgeny Eduardovich. He restored antique cars. He dug out rusty, shapeless hulks from garbage dumps. Somehow he managed to recreate the car’s original look. Then he really went to work: moulding, gluing, chroming…

He had restored dozens of antique models. There were Oldsmobiles and Chevrolets and Peugeots and Fords among his collection. Multicoloured, with glistening leather, brass and chrome, awkwardly refined: they created a smashing impression. And all the models worked. They vibrated, moved, honked. Rattling slightly, they passed pedestrians. It was an impressive sight, almost like a circus act.

Yevgeny Eduardovich sat high behind the wheel. His old leather jacket shone. His eyes were covered with celluloid glasses. A wide-brimmed cap completed his unique look.

By the way, he was practically the first Russian car driver. He had started driving in 1912. For a while he was Mikhail Rodzyanko’s personal chauffeur. Then he drove Trotsky, Lazar Kaganovich and Andrei Andreyev.* He ran the first Soviet driving school. He ended the war as a commander of an armoured tank division. He had received numerous government awards. Naturally, he spent time in prison. In his declining years, he took up restoring antique cars.

His production was shown at international fairs. His models were used for domestic and foreign films. He corresponded in four languages with innumerable car magazines.

When his cars took part in movies, their owner accompanied them. Film directors noticed Yevgeny Eduardovich’s impressive mien. First they used him in crowd scenes. Then he got bit parts: Mensheviks, noblemen, old-time scientists. He became something of an actor as well.

I spent two days in Yelizarovskaya. My notes were filled with interesting details. I couldn’t wait to start writing.

I came back to the office. I learnt that Bezuglov was on a business trip. And he had told me that the travel funds were used up.

All right… I went to Borya Minz, the executive secretary of the newspaper. Told him about my plans. Told him the most exciting details.

Minz said, “What’s his last name?”

I pulled out Yevgeny Eduardovich’s card. “Holiday,” I replied. “Yevgeny Eduardovich Holiday.”

Minz’s eyes grew round. “Holiday? A Russian handyman named Holiday? You’re joking! What do we know about his background? Where did he get a name like that?”

“You think Minz is any better? Not to mention your background…”

“It’s worse,” Minz agreed. “Without a doubt. But Minz is a private individual. Nobody’s writing articles about Minz for Russian Efficiency Day. Minz isn’t a hero. No one’s writing about Minz…”

(I thought to myself: don’t write yourself off!)

He added, “Personally, I have nothing against the English.”

“I should think not,” I said.

I suddenly felt nauseated. What was happening? Everything was not for publication. Everything around us was not for publication. I don’t know where Soviet journalists got story ideas!… All my projects were unrealizable. All my conversations were not for the phone. All my acquaintances were suspicious.

The executive secretary said, “Write about a Heroine Mother.* Find an ordinary, modest Heroine Mother. And with a normal last name. And write two hundred and fifty lines. Material like that will always get through. A Heroine Mother is like a no-lose lottery…”

What else could I do? I was a staff journalist, after all.

I started calling my friends again. A pal said, “Our janitor has a whole horde of kids. Terrible hooligans.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

I went to the address.

The janitor’s name was Lydia Vasilyevna Brykina. No Mr Holiday there! Her living quarters were a horrible sight. A rickety table, a couple of torn mattresses, a stifling stink. Ragged, messy kids everywhere. The youngest yowled in a plywood cradle. A girl of fourteen grimly drew on the window pane with her finger.

I explained the aim of my visit. Lydia Vasilyevna grew animated. “Go ahead and write, dearie… I’ll try. I’ll tell the people everything about my dog’s life.”

I asked, “Doesn’t the state help you?”

“It does. And how! I get forty roubles a month. Well, and the medals and ribbons. There’s a jar full of them on the sill. I’d rather exchange them for tangerines, four to one.”

“What about your husband?”

“Which one? I’ve had a whole troop of them. The last one went out to buy a bottle of rotgut and never came back. Over a year ago…”

What could I do? What could I write about that woman?

I spent a little time there and left. Promised to drop by next time.

I had no one to call. I was thoroughly disgusted. I wondered if I should quit again, find work as a stevedore.

My wife said, “A cultured lady lives across the way. Walks children in the morning. She has about ten of them… Find out… I’ve forgotten her name, starts with Sh…”

“Shvarts?”

“No, no, Shapovalova… Or Shaposhnikova… You can get her name and number from the building office.”

I went to the building office. Spoke to Mikheyev. He was a friendly and kindly man. He complained, “I got twelve jokers working for me, but I got no one to send for a bottle of booze…”

When I began talking about the lady, Mikheyev grew wary .

“I don’t know, talk to her yourself. Her name is Galina Viktorovna Shaporina. Apartment twenty-three. There she is out with the kids. Only I got nothing to do with it. It’s none of my concern.”

I headed for the park. Galina Viktorovna turned out to be a good-looking, respectable woman. In Soviet movies that’s how the people’s assessors* look.

I introduced myself and explained what I wanted. The lady grew tense. She began talking just like our building manager. “What’s the matter? What’s the problem? Why me?”

I was getting sick of this. I put away my pen and said, “Why are you so scared? If you don’t want to talk, I’ll leave. I’m not a hooligan.”

“It’s not hooligans I’m afraid of.” She continued, “You seem like a cultured man. I know your mother and I knew your father. I think you can be trusted. I’ll tell you what it is. I really don’t fear hooligans. I’m afraid of the police.”

“But why are you afraid of me? I’m not a policeman.”

“But you’re a journalist. In my position, drawing attention to myself would be the height of stupidity. Naturally, I’m no Heroine Mother. And the children aren’t mine. I’ve organized something like a nursery school. I teach the children music, French, read poems to them. In state day care the children get sick, and they never get sick here. And I charge moderate fees. But you can imagine what would happen if the police learnt about it. It’s a private school, basically…”

“I can imagine,” I said.

“Then forget I exist.”

“All right,” I said.

I didn’t even bother calling the office. I figured I’d tell them I had writer’s block, if they asked. My fees for December would be symbolic, anyway. Around sixteen roubles. Forget about the suit. Just so they didn’t fire me…

Nevertheless, I did get a suit from the newspaper. A severe, double-breasted suit made in East Germany, if I’m not mistaken. This is how it happened:

I was at the typing pool. The red-haired beauty Manyunya Khlopina said, “Why won’t you invite me to a restaurant? I want to go to a restaurant, but you don’t invite me!”

I offered a weak excuse, “I don’t sleep with you, either.”

“Too bad. We’d listen to the radio together.”

At that moment a mysterious stranger appeared. I had noticed him earlier that day.

He was wearing an elegant suit and tie. His moustache blended into his low sideburns. A miniature leather bag hung from his wrist.

Running ahead, I’ll tell you he was a spy. We simply had no clue. We thought he was from the Baltics. We always took elegant men for Latvians.

The stranger spoke Russian with a barely noticeable accent.

He behaved matter-of-factly and even a bit aggressively. He slapped the editor on the back twice. He talked the Party organizer into a game of chess. He leafed through the technical guidelines in Minz’s office for a long time.

Here I’d like to digress. I am convinced that almost all spies behave incorrectly. For some reason they hide, lie, pretend to be ordinary Soviet citizens. The very mysteriousness of their activities is suspicious. They should behave much more simply. First of all, they should dress as flashily as possible. That instils respect. Secondly, they shouldn’t hide their foreign accent. That instils sympathy. And most importantly, they should act as unceremoniously as possible.

Say a spy is interested in a new ballistic missile. He meets a famous rocketry man at the theatre. He invites him to dinner. It’s stupid to offer the man money. He wouldn’t have enough. It’s stupid to try to work the man over ideologically. He knows all that without anyone’s help.

He has to use a completely different tactic. They should drink. Then he puts his arm around the man’s shoulders. Pats him on the knee and says, “So how’s it going, old man? I hear you’ve invented something new. Why don’t you scribble down a couple of formulas for me on this napkin, just for fun?…”

That’s it. The missile’s as good as in his pocket.

The stranger spent the whole day at the office. We got used to him, even though people gave each other meaningful looks.

His name was Arthur.

So Arthur drops by the typing pool and says, “Excuse me, I thought this is being the bathroom.”

I said, “Come with me. We’re headed the same way.”

In the can the spy looked in horror at our editorial towel. He took out his handkerchief.

We got to talking. Decided to go down to the canteen. From there I called my wife and went to the Kavkazsky restaurant.

It turned out we both liked Faulkner, Britten and paintings of the Thirties. Arthur was a thinking and competent man. In particular, he said, “Picasso’s art is merely drama, while Magritte’s work is a catastrophic spectacle.”

I asked, “Have you been in the West?”

“Of course.”

“Did you live there long?”

“Forty-three years. Until last Tuesday, to be precise.”

“I thought you were from Latvia.”

“Close enough. I’m Swedish. I want to write a book about Russia.”

We parted late at night near the Evropeyskaya Hotel. We made a date for the next day.

In the morning I was called into the editor’s office. A stranger, a man of fifty or so, was there. He was thin, bald, with just a dull-coloured wreath of hair over the ears. I wondered if he could comb his hair without taking off his hat.

The man was in the editor’s armchair. The owner of the office sat in a hard-backed visitor’s chair. I sat on the edge of the couch.

“Let me introduce you,” the editor said. “A representative of the KGB, Major Chilyayev.”

I rose politely. The major, without a smile, nodded. Evidently he was burdened by the imperfection of the world around him.

In the editor’s behaviour I observed – simultaneously – sympathy and gloating. He seemed to be saying, Well? Now you’ve done it! You’re on your own now. I told you so, didn’t I, you fool?”

The major spoke. His harsh voice was at odds with his weary demeanour.

“Do you know Arthur Tornstrom?”

“Yes, we met yesterday.”

“Did he ask you any suspicious questions?”

“I don’t think so. He didn’t ask me any questions at all, I don’t think. I can’t remember any.”

“Not one?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How did you strike up an acquaintance? Rather, where and how did you meet?”

“I was in the typing pool. He came in and asked — ”

“Ah, he asked? Then he did ask questions? What did he ask, if it’s not a secret?”

“He asked where the toilet was.”

The major wrote it down and said, “I suggest you be more precise…”

The rest of the conversation seemed absolutely meaningless. Chilyayev was interested in everything. What did we eat? What did we drink? What artists did we talk about? He even wanted to know if the Swede went to the men’s room often.

The major insisted I recall all the details. Did the Swede abuse alcohol? Did he have an eye for the ladies? Did he appear to be a latent homosexual?

I replied thoroughly and conscientiously. I had nothing to hide.

The major paused. He rose partly out of his chair. Then he raised his voice a bit. “We are counting on your conscientiousness. Even though you are rather frivolous. The information we have on you is more than contradictory: indiscriminate personal life, drinking, dubious jokes…”

I wanted to ask where the contradiction was, but I controlled myself. Especially since the major pulled out a rather voluminous folder. My name was written large on the cover.

I stared at the file. I felt what a pig might feel in the meat section of a deli.

The major continued. “We expect total frankness from you. We are counting on your help. I hope you understand the importance of this mission?… Most importantly, remember, we know everything. We know everything ahead of time. Absolutely everything…”

I wanted to ask, then how about Misha Baryshnikov?* Did they know ahead of time that Misha would stay in America?

The major asked, “What arrangements did you make with the Swede? Are you supposed to meet today?”

“We’re supposed to,” I said. “He invited the wife and me to the Kirov Theatre. I think I’ll call, apologize, say I’m sick.”

“Not on your life,” the major said, rising up in his seat. “Go. Definitely go. And remember every detail. We’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

I thought to myself: just what I need!

“I can’t,” I said. “I have good reasons.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t have a suit. You need appropriate clothes for the theatre. Foreigners go there, by the way.”

“Why don’t you have a suit?” the major demanded. “That’s ridiculous! You work for a major organization.”

“I have a small salary,” I replied.

The editor chipped in. “I’ll let you in on a small secret. As you know, the New Year festivities are approaching. We have decided to award Comrade Dovlatov a valuable present. In half an hour he can go to the accounting office, and then to the Frunze Department Store. And pick out an appropriate suit for about one hundred twenty roubles.”

“But,” I say, “I’m not a regular size.”

“Don’t worry,” the editor said. “I’ll call the store manager.”

And so I came to own an imported double-breasted suit. Made in East Germany, if I’m not mistaken. I wore it about five times. Once when I went to the theatre with the Swede. And about four times when I was sent to funerals.

My Swede was expelled from the Soviet Union for being a conservative journalist who “expressed the interests of the right wing”.

Six years he had studied Russian. Wanted to write a book. And he was expelled. I hope without my participation. What I had told the major about him seemed perfectly harmless.

Moreover, I even warned Arthur that he was being watched. Rather, I hinted that the walls had ears. The Swede didn’t understand. Anyway, I had nothing to do with that. The most amazing thing was that my dissident friend Shamkovich then accused me of helping the KGB!