The Town By The Sea

IN THE NEW TOWN

We walked out on to the station square and at that moment a strong gust of wind carried away the straw cap of a cabman who had been sitting on his break waiting for passengers from the station. The cap bowled away across the square like a little wooden hoop.

In a flash the stocky sunburnt cabman had leapt down from his seat and was chasing after it.

"Go it, Volodya! Catch it!" the other cabmen shouted laughing.

Driven by the gusty wind, the cap zigzagged across the square and Volodya had to pounce for it, like a man after a chicken.

Although it was nearly the end of May, the weather here was unusually grim and cold. A damp sea wind slashed across the puddles that gleamed on the square. The low, white-trunked acacia-bushes bowed in the wind and black, rain-filled storm-clouds raced low across the sky, almost touching the station roof.

In these first minutes of getting to know the new town, I remembered very clearly our little border

town, now so far away, with its steep cliffs and mantle of green, and its warm sunshine tempered by the breezes from the Carpathian Mountains. I remembered our final preparations for the journey, the station platform, the meeting we had held there, and the farewell words of our Komsomol secretary Nikita Kolomeyets: "Before you lie the broad vistas of the bright future. Stick to the Party, chaps, as you always have done, and do all you can to help the cause."

Nikita's words were drowned by the squealing whistle of the engine. All the chaps from the factory-training school stuck their heads out of the carriage windows and, squeezed between other passengers, struck up our favourite song: "When we're watching on the border. . ."

How clear the sky had been as we watched the familiar station buildings gliding past. How sunny !... And now, here we were—tossed into the middle of autumn all of' a sudden. And we were supposed to be in the South!

The cabman Volodya ran up to us, shaking drops of water from his cap.

"What about a ride, lads?" he shouted. "Count of Bengal's carriage at your service!" And he slapped the varnished hand-rail of his break.

No one had mentioned taking a cab in the train. We glanced at one another.

Making little puzzled noises with his lips, Petka, our treasurer, kept his hand in his trousers' pocket where the public money was stored. Sasha Bobir, of course, was ready to go without giving the matter a second thought, and eyed the break with pleasure. Breaks of this kind were unknown in our little town, where we only had old-fashioned phaetons.

Tiktor stood a little apart from the rest of us, holding a heavy suit-case. Wrinkling his eyes, he surveyed the square in front of him, pretending that the cabman's proposal was no concern of his.

"Well, what about it, Vasil?" Petka said rather timidly.

"Shall we take it?"

"P'raps we could walk?" I said.

"Walk where?" Sasha burst out indignantly. "It's a long way."

"All right, let's ride," I agreed. "I wonder how much he'll charge though. Ask him, Petka."

"What's the fare?" Petka inquired.

"Nothing to worry about!" the driver grunted and, running up the steps, grasped Petka's basket and white tin kettle. "Jump in, jump in, lads! I won't skin you. Is this all the stuff you've got?" And he pointed to the rest of our things.

"No, hold on, we're not going like that!" I said, stopping the driver. "Tell us how much first." And I thought to myself: "We know your games!. You're nice and kind now, wouldn't think of skinning us, but wait until we get there —then we'll be in for it!"

"Four of you?" the driver asked, glancing round. "Where are you bound—for the holiday resort or Kobazova Hill?"

"The centre," I said firmly. "How much will you charge for four?"

"Count me out, I'm not coming," said Tiktor.

"Why not?" Petka asked.

"Driving in cabs is a bourgeois luxury. We ought to find somewhere to live first, then think about riding around," Tiktor snapped. And swinging his suit-case on to his shoulder, he walked slowly down the steps on to the square.

"Wait, Tiktor, let's. . ." Petka began, but I checked him: "Let him go... He's up to his old game again." "Bit of a handful, that lad!" the driver said indignantly, shaking his head. " 'Bourgeois luxury!' I like that! Why I wouldn't drive a bourgeois for a million rubles. I was a partisan myself once..."

"Well, how much is it to the centre?" I interrupted him. "Oh, I'll take you for fifty apiece." "Too much," I said. "Try some bargaining, Petka!" "How much will you pay then?" the driver asked hurriedly.

"Twenty kopeks each," Petka grunted.

"All right, it's a deal," the driver agreed. "Better than nothing!"

He put Petka's basket and kettle in the break and was about to pick up my wooden case, when I stopped him and said to the chaps: "Why should we take our things? Let's leave them at the station. Then we'll have our hands free."

"Won't they get stolen?" Petka asked.

"Who'll steal them, fat head! The state will be looking after them," I assured him.

The receipt for our luggage was entrusted to Petka, and our treasurer remembering how I had been robbed in Kharkov, plunged the precious document deep info his pocket, glancing warily at the swarthy driver.

We took our seats and the break clattered gaily over the cobbles.

Stone gutters brimming with yellow water stretched along both sides of the road. Low white cottages with red or grey tiled roofs stood back from the road in clean little yards sprinkled with sand and small sea-shells.

Here and there we glimpsed grape-vines, apricots and young cherry-trees through the fences. Flower-beds blazed with nasturtiums and peonies.

We stared curiously at the first street of the town where we were to live and work.

On a sign-board fixed to a corner house I read: "Avenue of the Thirteen Communards," and again I was reminded of our border town and the special detachments.

"Been having a lot of rain?" Petka asked the driver. "Ever since the storm started. Must be the third day," said Volodya, checking the bay horse. "Yesterday we had hail. Great big stuff. More like buck-shot than hail! Knocked the young grapes about."

"But before that was it hot?"

"Africa!'-' the driver replied. "I was in the sea most of the day. Sweltering it was. Look how brown I am."

The driver's words cheered us up. So the wind and the puddles in the street were temporary things. If we couldn't find a place to live, it wouldn't be so bad to sleep the night on a park bench.

The familiar figure of Tiktor loomed ahead. He was walking into town with long, heavy strides, carrying his green suit-case on his shoulder.

He had insisted on walking just to show that he did not want to have anything to do with us. But all the same we felt bad about it. He was one of us and there he was, plodding along on foot, carrying his luggage. We really were like a lot of pot-bellied old businessmen jogging along in this flashy break!

Petka, who was more soft-hearted than any of us, could not help whispering:

"Let's whistle him, chaps, shall we?"

"We can whistle him," I said, "but he'll only show off all the more. Forgotten what he was like on the journey? He wants us to lick his boots. Nothing doing!"

"Vasil's right," Sasha agreed. "Yasha thinks he's the only pebble on the beach.. . Let him ask for a lift himself, if he's tired."

But Yasha had no intention of stopping the break. He walked on with his head high. The wind ruffled his blonde forelock that bunched out proudly under his grey cap. His eyes were narrowed fiercely. Tiktor pretended not to notice us at all.

Volodya spat. " 'Bourgeois luxury!' Bah! The young devil! Thinks I'll get rich on his twenty kopeks! Carry your luggage, you skinflint... Do you come from the same place as him, lads?"

"Round about there," I answered evasively, reluctant to tell a stranger about our personal relations.

"Come to stay at the holiday home, I expect?" the driver asked, whipping up his horse.

"What makes you think that?" Sasha said in surprise. "Savages, eh?"

"What do you mean, 'savages'?" I asked indignantly. "That's what we call 'em. Holiday-makers who don't book anything in advance. You'll rent a room in some private house, I suppose, and lie on the beach sunning yourselves for a month or two. Is that it?"

Embarrassed by the driver's curiosity, I said sternly: "We've come here to work. We passed out from a factory-training school in our own town and have been sent to work at the Red Lieutenant Schmidt Works. Is there a place of that name here?"

" 'Course there is! Used to be the John Caiworth Works. But they haven't taken anyone on for a long time. Our own folk are -at the office every day asking for work."

We exchanged glances.

"Unskilled, I suppose?" Petka asked worriedly.

"All kinds. Unskilled and skilled. But if you've been sent, may be..."

"And do you know who sent us!" Sasha boasted. "The Supreme Council of National Economy in Kharkov. Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinsky of Moscow gave the order himself. And our passes say we're to be taken on straightaway. Show him my pass, Petka."

"Not likely!" Petka snapped back at him. "Think I'm going to fiddle about with our papers in this wind!"

Bobir is a silly chap, I thought. Even drags in Comrade Dzerzhinsky to make himself sound more important. Fancy wanting to show such important papers to a man he's never seen before!

The break bowled along down the long Avenue of the Thirteen Communards. Now and then Volodya gave the silky flanks of his bay a lazy flick with the reins.

The street was quite deserted. Here and there we noticed a chance passer-by. The town seemed very quiet. Not much work going on.

"If the local people can't find work, what will happen to us?" I thought. "After all, we're strangers and we're not very experienced. Such a long way from home and from Polevoi and Kolomeyets and Panchenko... There'll be no one to help us if something goes wrong!" And the more I thought about it the less happy I became.

"Where were you thinking of staying, lads?" the cabman asked suddenly.

"We don't know yet..." Sasha volunteered.

"What are you here for, just a spell of practical training, or permanent?"

"If they take us on, we'll be here for a long time," I explained.

"Well, listen to me, young fellows," said the driver triumphantly. "I've got a flat for you. Just the thing! A real dream! The town park's just round the corner, music playing all the summer. If you climb on the roof, you can see a cinema show every Thursday. The place belongs to my aunt. And it's a treat, believe me. The sea's on your very doorstep."

"We don't need a flat. One room would do for us," I said doubtfully.

"Why don't you want a flat, Vasil?" Sasha asked. "If there's two little rooms..."

"Of course! Perhaps you'd like a grand piano and a separate drawing-room!" Petka snapped at Sasha. "If you want a flat, find it yourself. One room will be enough for Vasil and me. Won't it, Vasil?"

"I should think so!" I grunted, realizing that it would be hard enough for us to scrape up enough money for one room, let alone two.

"That's just what my aunt will give you," said Volodya. "My aunt's a nice old soul. Lives alone with the whole house to herself. Makhno's men killed her son, and she. . ."

"But will your aunt take us?"

"Why not! I've only got to recommend you. You'll suit her a lot better than these newly rich. They come here, to the seaside, to get rid of their fat, and then make a fuss: 'Oh, upstairs! It's too high, I've got a bad heart...' No end of trouble they are. But you'll suit my aunt just right."

"Your aunt's got a two-storey house of her own, has she?" I asked.

"That's right. Two storeys," Volodya replied airily. "But there's no furniture—that's the only trouble. What do you care though? You're young. You can buy yourself tropical furniture for the time being—orange boxes and that kind of thing. It's not far from here... Gee-up, Sultan!" And with these words the driver swung off to the left.

The break turned off the road and rolled smoothly down a narrow dusty lane.

This was a nice thing! Going to live with a private householder. In a two-storey house!

I began to look grim. Why the dickens had we got tied up with this gas-bag of a cabman!

But the break drew up sharply in a quiet street, heavily puddled after the rain of the night before, and we jumped stiffly down on the damp sandy earth, and when Volodya introduced us to his aunt, a thin old lady in a long skirt, she turned out to be quite simple and homely-looking.

She was called Maria Trofimovna. Her grey hair peeped out from under a simple, black-spotted cotton kerchief. She came out to us with a gleaming spade in her hands—the old lady had been digging her garden herself.

"I've brought some lodgers for you, aunt. Make them welcome!" Volodya said gaily, cracking his long whip.