The Town By The Sea

GETTING SETTLED

Our landlady gave us three long canvas sacks. Petka and I stuffed them with dry, prickly hay and, after sewing them up, propped them against the shed where the goat was bleating to be milked.

Maria Trofimovna wanted to wash the floor in our room herself, but we had got used to the job while living at the hostel, and we decided we could manage without her help. Petka carried up buckets of cold water from the little well in the yard, while I, barefooted and with my trousers rolled up to the knees, scrubbed the cracked boards with a wet rag. Then I cleaned the window. When I had polished it, the window let a lot more light in, and we were both glad to see our little room so spick and span.

In the tree-surrounded house next door, which faced the sea, someone was playing the piano. The windows of the house were open and the sounds of the piano floated into our room, mingled with the bleating of the goat and the boom of the near-by sea, which as evening approached was falling into a calm.

"What a window! So clean you can't even see the glass!" said Petka, surveying my handiwork.

"Bring up the mattresses!" I commanded, encouraged by his praise.

And while Petka went for the mattresses I worked out where we should spread them. I decided to put mine right under the window. "It'll be chilly at night, but I'll get the fresh air. And-I'll be the first to hear the works hooter in the morning," I thought.

The room smelt fine of freshly scrubbed boards and hay.

As I listened to the sounds of the piano, I found myself wondering anxiously how I could kill time until tomorrow morning—the first morning at our new place of work!

The only thing I could remember about the works—not counting our conversation with the director, of course—was the long and dusty alley in the foundry, down which I had walked to reach the foundry office. What with the distant glare of iron being poured from the furnace, the clatter of the moulding machines, the clang of the signal bell, the screech of the tackles which the foundry men used to lift heavy moulds—I had been so stunned by it all that I had not even noticed how my future mates in the foundry worked.

How little this huge foundry with its low glass roof resembled the tiny foundry at our factory-training school, which was always quiet and fairly cool, and where even on casting days there was no noise to speak of.

Fedorko, the shift foreman, whom I met in the foundry office, a little man of about forty, with a red weather-beaten face and sparse scorched eyebrows, showed no surprise when I gave him the note from the director. Perhaps the management office had rung him up before I arrived.

Fedorko put my name down on the foundry register and gave me a worker's ticket and a temporary pass.

"I'll put you on a machine tomorrow," he promised.

"But I've never worked on a moulding machine before," I told the foreman with a gulp.

"You'll get used to it," the foreman said shortly. "Two weeks probation is a long time."

And that was all. The only thing for me to do was to say "good-bye" and leave the office.

With difficulty I sought out the little house near the management building where, as a passing worker told me, the Komsomol fellows "hung out."

Finding a door bearing the notice "Works 'Komsomol Committee," I pushed it open.

A tall man was standing with his back to me on a chair in front of a large map, swishing a ruler about over the territory of China. The room was barely furnished with a desk, bookshelves, a cupboard, and about ten chairs. Maps covered the walls.

The tall man turned round, and to my surprise I noticed that he was wearing a neatly-tied crimson tie.

"Who are you looking for?" he asked, surveying me closely. His eyes were grey and rather clever.

"I want to see the secretary of the Komsomol," I said rather surlily. "I'll come in later."

I was about' to go, when the man with the ruler jumped noisily to the floor.

"How do you do!" he said loudly, holding out a big sinewy hand. "I was just studying the situation in China."

Although the stranger wore a Komsomol badge in the lapel of his handsome dark-brown suit, I had already been put off by his smart appearance, particularly his tie, and was anxious to get away.

"I'll come in tomorrow," I muttered.

"Why not today?"

"When today?"

"Why not stay here now? I'm the secretary. Let's get to know each other. My name's Golovatsky. Who are you?"

Something seemed to choke me and for a minute I could not say a word. This was news! The secretary of the works Komsomol organization wearing a tie! Who had ever heard of such a thing! The main point in all the debates we had ever held about culture and petty-mindedness was that the more attention a young man paid to his appearance and all that nonsense of creased trousers and particularly the wearing of a tie, the sooner he lost touch with his mates and became a grubbing bureaucrat who did not understand the needs of the working class. Nevertheless I had to tell Golovatsky what had brought me here.

"What do you think of the opposition?" he asked me guardedly, obviously trying to sound my attitude.

"What, have you still got opposition supporters here?" I countered.

"They weren't our own. A lot of riff-raff came here, got themselves jobs and tried to stir up the workers. It didn't come off. The day before yesterday, when the district Party active debated the decisions of the April Plenum of the Party Central Committee, everyone voted unanimously for the Central Committee's line. Our people stuck together well and those traitors didn't get a look in. Now you answer me, what is your personal attitude to the opposition?"

"My attitude?" I said more calmly, realizing that I was dealing with a real, decent sort of fellow. "I think it's high time that Trotskyite riff-raff was kicked out of the Party and the Komsomol. We've got enemies all round us who want to strangle Soviet power. We must stick together and rally round the Party. Those opposition supporters want to spread disagreement among us."

"Well, I'm very glad you've been put in the foundry!" said Golovatsky. "They're good lads there, I know, and last year when we smashed the Trotskyites who had wormed their way into the management workers' Komsomol group, the Komsomol foundry men were the first to come out for the Party line. They got the whole works round them and didn't let those traitors dig themselves in. But since then, some of the chaps have gone away to the Navy, on the Baltic, and there are not so many active members now. And we'll soon be holding re-elections. . . Now tell me, whet have you got a leaning for?"

"I don't drink," I said gruffly.

The secretary frowned. "I didn't mean that. What Komsomol work did you do before? What are you keen on?"

Little by little I told Golovatsky about our Komsomol club and about the evening debates on such subjects as "What came first—thought or speech, the chicken or the egg?" I told him about the mock trial of Don Quixote, and about the evenings of self-criticism, at which every Komsomol member went through the mill for his shortcomings. I also said a word or two about the discussions on culture and petty-mindedness, staring at the secretary's crimson tie, as I did so.

"Oho!" Golovatsky exclaimed joyfully. "You've got some sound working experience behind you, good experience too.

That's fine. Everything flows, everything changes. Every Komsomol member ought to keep his mind alert and active. That's the only thing that can save us from the danger of turning into human cabbages. I'll take account of everything you've told me." And he made quick notes on a pad. "You've obviously got a leaning for cultural work with the masses. We may even entrust you with the job of organizing a Time League' society in the foundry. That's an important job, you know." Golovatsky glanced at his watch. "But for the time being, old man, I'll ask you to concentrate all your energy on the fight against defective output. Your department is on piece-work. But piece-work under a capitalist is one thing, and it's quite a different thing under our Soviet system, when we are working for ourselves and are interested not only in quantity but quality. Some of the foundry men don't understand that. They bash away as hard as they can go, and give us a lot of spoilage. Pay special attention to these castings." And Golovatsky took down from the bookshelf a casting just like the one the director had shown us. "That must be the most perfect casting of the lot," he went on. "All the other castings must be perfect as well, of course. But this one

particularly. And you, as a 'Komsomol member, must wage a campaign against bad workers. Find out where the trouble lies... "

"But I've never worked on a machine before!" I interrupted the secretary, repeating what I had said to the foreman. "I worked on the moulding-bed. I can do fly-wheels even without the bottom mould-box."

"You'll catch on," said the secretary, and he seemed to know something about the foundry. "Where's your card?. . ."

And now, as I stared through the clean glass of the window, I remembered the cold, abrupt words of the foreman, "you'll catch on," and my conversation with Golovatsky, and I thought, "Suppose things go wrong? Suppose I still haven't learnt to work on a machine after two weeks and they tell me to get out! What will happen then?"

I began to feel as if I had never been to a factory-training school, as if the fifth grade that I had qualified for there meant nothing, as if I didn't know anything at all and should have to start tomorrow right from the beginning again. And since I did not know what awaited me on the following day, I felt even more worried.

There was a creak on the stairs and Petka appeared. He was carrying a small round table with a long, thin centre leg.

"Look at this!" Petka said, puffing with exertion and pride.

"Did Maria Trofimovna give it you?"

"That's right! 'Until you've got your own furniture, you can use this,' she says, 'I don't need it.' "

"Now we've only got to get hold of some stools and we'll be all set."

"Maria Trofimovna was asking me what to cook for dinner tomorrow—vegetable borshch or cold cherry soup? 'I don't know,' I says, 'let the other chaps decide.' What do you want, Vasil?"

"What does she think this is—a restaurant?" I replied frowning.

"Well, if she's agreed to give us full board, let her get on with it."

"We don't know yet what wages we'll be getting."

"Don't worry, we'll get our due," Petka said confidently. "When I was signing up, one of the joiners told me that none of them get less than a hundred, even the third-graders!"

"It's all right for you, Petka, you'll be doing work you know. That's easy! But I've got to requalify. Blowed if I know how you use one of those moulding machines! I've never even seen them before."

"Don't worry, Vasil! If you're in a spot, you can always count on Sasha and me."

"Where's Sasha got to?" I said, glancing at the old alarm-clock that our landlady had put on the stove-ledge. "What's become of him? It's over an hour since he left."

"It's quite a way to the station, you know. He's got to find Volodya and get the things. Then he's got to buy some grub. Our landlady won't start cooking for us till tomorrow, you know,"

We had sent Sasha to the station to get our luggage. While he was away it had been our job to stuff the mattresses, wash the floor and get the room ready for sleeping.

"Did he make a note of the address?" I asked Petka. "Perhaps he's been wandering all over town and can't find the way back."

"What for? We agreed that he'd get hold of Volodya at the station and Volodya would bring the stuff back free."

"Oh yes, that's right," I said. "Well, we've finished our job, let's go for a stroll."

We walked past the landlady, who was ironing our sheets in the kitchen, and opened the gate.

"Let's go left, Petka," I suggested.

We walked along Primorskaya Street towards the harbour, passing the house from which the music had been coming a little while ago.

Now the piano was quiet and a clink of glasses could be heard from the house—it must be their tea-time. The yard in front of the house was a mass of hollyhocks, young vine bushes, tea roses, purple carnations, and mauve wistaria. The sweet tobacco was not out yet, but the scent of flowers, freshened by the recent rain, seemed to pour over us from behind the low fence. Roses of a kind that I had never seen before climbed under the eaves of the roof, weaving a flowery archway round one of the open windows.

In the corner of the garden, just by the fence, stood a summer-house, covered with dark green ivy and mauve convolvulus.

As we passed the summer-house, I heard the sound of voices and could not help glancing in.

On the rail of the summer-house, swinging her sunburnt legs, sat the girl whose dressing-gown we had minded on the sea-front. Kneeling on one knee beside her, pumping a bicycle tyre, was the dandy from the personnel department. I stared at the girl as if I had never seen anyone like her before. Noticing my glance, she raised her eyes and freed her hair from the ivy with a pettish shake of her head. I felt awkward. Blushing, I gave a sort of half nod. As I turned hurriedly away, I noticed that the girl was smiling. "Did you see who that was, Vasil?" Petka asked, nudging me with his elbow. "Who?"

"The princess there?" And mimicking the girl, Petka squeaked: "Do you mind looking after my things, please?..." "Didn't you recognize the lanky fellow?" I said. "What lanky fellow?" "The one who was pumping the tyre." "No. Who was he?"

"That toff who wouldn't take us on at the works!" "-Really?" Petka exclaimed. "You don't mean to say they're our neighbours?"

"I'm sure the girl in the dressing-gown is!" "And he's her brother," Petka declared. "Why should he be! Her boy friend most likely!" For some reason I didn't like to think that the dandy knew the girl next door and might tell her how we had begged him to give us a job.

Petka and I wandered slowly down Primorskaya Street. The railway lines leading to the harbour gleamed on our left. Beyond them the sea stretched away to the horizon.

The wind had dropped completely and the sea was calm. Instead of thundering against the wall, as they had in the morning, the waves rolled up the sandy beach with a rustling sound. A wooden fence ran along the railway line. Above it swayed the tops of masts. The flags on them scarcely stirred. A scarlet sunset gleamed in the west, where the sinking sun was still wrapped in clouds.

On the whitewashed fence there was a notice in big letters:

LIFE-SAVING SOCIETY BEACH

A bicycle bell rang behind us.

We pressed against the fence and the dandy flashed past on his bicycle with the girl on the cross-bar in front of him. He rode awkwardly, but at a good speed.

"Isn't the street wide enough for him?" Petka grunted.

"Don't you see the puddles on it? He's afraid of dirtying his pants," I said with unconcealed annoyance, staring after the rapidly disappearing couple.

The back wheel of the bicycle grew smaller and smaller, leaving a faint pattern on the sandy path.

By the time we had finished staring through the railings at the sidings and a number of long, corrugated-iron warehouses in the harbour yard, Sasha Bobir had brought back our cases and unpacked everything.

We found him getting supper ready. Sasha was carving a big dry roll that had been left over from the journey into three big hunks.

"Where have you been all this time?" Sasha cried when he saw us. "Do you know who I met?"

"The Count of Bengal?" I asked sarcastically. I didn't like Sasha's habit of yapping at you as if you were a kid.

"You can joke!" Sasha snapped. "I've seen Pecheritsa!"

"Pecheritsa?" Petka repeated. "Look out, Vasil, he's starting again. Where's the thermometer? It's time to take his temperature. Feeling shivery, Sasha, old chap?"

"What thermometer! What do you need a thermometer for!" Sasha gave a positive screech of indignation. "I'm telling you the truth, you laughing loons!"

"Hold on, Sasha, old pal," I said. "Who did you say you saw?"

"Pecheritsa!"

"Really?"

"Of course!"

"Where did you see him?"

"Near the station."

"Near the station?" Petka asked more seriously.

"Yes, near the station," Sasha rattled on. "He was drinking buza."

This was too much, and Petka and I yelled with laughter.

"Hear that, Vasil?" Petka asked gurgling. "He saw Pecheritsa, Pecheritsa was drinking buza, and the buza went to this freckle-faced boozer's head, and he's come back here to booze us up too..."

"All right!" Sasha shouted, by this time thoroughly put out. "If you don't want to believe me, you needn't! But I'm not making anything up. Buza is what people drink round here, it's made of millet. It's on sale at all the stalls. I've tried it, and if you don't know about it, it's not my fault. . ."

Much as we should have liked to spare Sasha's feelings, we could not restrain our laughter.

Sasha was not the only factory-school trainee who had dreamed of catching Pecheritsa. When we set off for our various destinations in the Ukraine, we had made a vow that if any of us ran into Pecheritsa we should not let him slip through our fingers.

But the one among us who longed most of all to nail Pecheritsa was Sasha Bobir. By catching Pecheritsa he hoped to make amends for the unfortunate blunders he had committed back in our town. After a time, our hot-headed Sasha simply started seeing things. He imagined he saw Pecheritsa

everywhere.

On his way here, to the Azov Sea, Sasha had twice been on the point of catching Pecheritsa. Once, when the train stopped at Fastov, Sasha, who was looking out of the window, suddenly shouted hoarsely: "There he is, chaps! Grab him!" and made a dash for the door.

The man strolling about the platform whom Sasha had taken for Pecheritsa bore little resemblance to the runaway.

He turned out to be a little hump-backed old man in a tarpaulin coat. Only his big ginger moustache made him look anything like Pecheritsa.

In Yekaterinoslav, when we were having dinner in the station buffet, Sasha nearly upset a plate brimming with rich Ukrainian borshch, and croaking "Look!" pointed with his spoon at the newspaper kiosk.

A man" in a grey rain-coat was buying postcards. This time Sasha had decided that he was Pecheritsa. As soon as the traveller in the grey rain-coat looked up from the kiosk, we -all saw at once that he was a young lad a good head taller than Pecheritsa...

Now, knowing the illusions that Sasha had suffered from the journey, could we be expected to take his words seriously?

I said: "All right, Pecheritsa was standing there drinking buza. What did you do?"

"I just took a look and dashed back here."

"Why didn't you grab him? You ought to have grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and laid him flat."

"All very well for you to talk! What about the things?"

"What things?"

"Our things, of course! I was afraid to leave them. Suppose he ran away and I went after him, someone might have nabbed our stuff."

"What about Volodya, where was he?"

"I didn't go with Volodya, you see. Another driver brought me here. Volodya let us down."

"Wait, had he got a moustache?" I asked, deciding to test Sasha.

"A moustache?... No, not a moustache. . . Just little bristles, like a glue brush."

"He got it trimmed at the barber's to please Sasha," Petka remarked sarcastically.

"Go on, go on, laugh if you're so cheerful!" Sasha grunted huffily. "But I'm going to report this to the proper place."

"All right, give it a rest for a bit, Sasha, old chap," I said gently. "Better tell us what you've bought for supper."

"Here's some goat's cheese," Sasha said quite subdued, and unwrapped a piece of grease-proof paper in which lay a piece of goat's cheese that must have weighed well over a pound.

"Is that all?" Petka snorted.

"No, why? Here's some fish I brought... Don't touch that, they're radishes. This is the fish." Sasha unwrapped an oily package. "Look how small they are!" And he lifted three strings threaded with tiny smoked fish out of an old newspaper. The fish had little fat bellies and were glistening with oil. "They're called tulka!" Sasha announced proudly, and hung a string of fish on his wrist, like a bracelet.

"Couldn't you have found something smaller!" Petka grunted disapprovingly. "What trashy stuff!

Who's going to clean 'em?"

"Why clean 'em!" Sasha exclaimed. "They don't need cleaning. You eat 'em whole. Look, they showed me at the stall."

Our "quartermaster" pulled a couple of oily fish off the string and popped them in his mouth. After munching for a bit, Sasha opened his mouth like a conjuror, then boldly swallowed the tulkas, heads, tails, and all.

"You'll be getting appendicitis next!" Petka said. For some reason, Petka was more afraid of appendicitis than of any other illness. He was even frightened of swallowing a cherry-stone.

But Sasha's bold example made Petka forget the illness that threatened him. He carefully broke one fish off the string and started nibbling it.

"Tastes all right. . ." he murmured. "You can't even feel the bones. Kamsa, isn't it?"

"Not kamsa, tulka!" Sasha corrected him pompously.

" 'Tulka, tulka!' " I mimicked Sasha. "You didn't bring back some buza, by any chance?"

"I hadn't got a bottle," Sasha replied, thinking I was serious. "But if you want some, we can go and have a glass after supper. There's a kiosk round the corner that sells it."

"Listen, Petka," I commanded. "Buzz downstairs and get some hot water and a bowl from the landlady. We've got to soak the cheese."

While we polished off the tulka, the marble-like goat's cheese, rid of some of its salt and bitterness by the boiling water, grew soft and very good to taste.

We cut it with an old sheath knife and ate it with our tea.

When we had had supper, we took the crockery downstairs and spent a long time washing ourselves by the well in the yard. Then, refreshed and contented, we climbed up into our attic and lay down on the bulging mattresses.

The window was still open. Outside, it was already dark. Now and then a young moon peeped through the ragged, scurrying clouds and the room grew lighter.

"Isn't it quiet here, chaps?" said Petka, breaking the silence. "No shooting, not even a whistle. Makes all the difference when the frontier's a long way away! Only a couple of militiamen in the whole town, probably, and I expect they're asleep..."

Maria Trofimovna clattered some pots and pans downstairs. A primus was hissing in the kitchen. Our landlady must be making breakfast for us overnight.

"We're daft, you know!" Petka spoke again. "When we started at the factory-training school we ought to have all gone in for one trade. Then we'd all be working together in one shop. It'd have been much more fun. Now we're split up..."

And again no one answered Petka. I realized that Sasha, too, who had been making himself out very brave, must be wondering how his work would go tomorrow.

It grew darker and darker outside. Again the sky was wreathed with clouds and the moon showed no more. The steady beat of the waves lulled us as if we were still in the train...