# Son Lavrentii.The Defender

Lavrentii Son

The Defender


By Lavrentii Son

Translated by Steven Sunwoo Lee


By his physical build and standing, he was a man of an impressive sort, arousing trembling on the verge of terror, but giving to all visitors the possibility of approaching him with a request—to a favorable response. But when he tiredly extended to me a folded piece of paper on which a second earlier he'd scribbled a few words, I understood that he took my request to be nonsense. With this leaflet he simply and facilely send me packing. And it seemed to be something simpler—to believe in the hopelessness of my position, to go and talk to the appropriate person, and as fate would have it, things just couldn't get better...

I arrived in Sverdlovsk with the firm intention to enter (and I was certain that I would enter) the Ural Polytechnic Institute's technophysics department, upon completion of which I would become, without fail, a prominent atomic energy specialist. The institute's admissions committee leafed through my documents and there and then returned them on the grounds of my poor health. Indeed, I don't possess an Apollo-like frame and an even gait, and opportunely, I frequently still forget this.

But anyway, they returned them, oh well: I'd enter another institute, where by merit they'd appraise my knowledge of physics, electronics, and particularly radio technology. I didn't doubt for a second that I possessed such knowledge. I was 17, and I intended to succeed and prevail! In this city there were still mining and railway institutes. However, it occurred to me in the next instant that these institutes might also require excellent health and maybe wouldn't be able to accept my documents. Then I decided that I would enter a technical school, provided that they gave a decent scholarship, on which I could support and clothe myself.

Approaching the tram stop, I confidently asked a middle-aged man, with a misted-over forehead and large gray eyes, who for some reason aroused my trust:

“How do you get to the electrical technical school?”

The man shrugged his shoulders, indicating, “I don't know.”

“And how are their scholarships, do you know?”

“How would I know, boy? Go and find out.”

“I need a technical school that gives out big scholarships.”

“The technical schools don't tend to give out big scholarships,” said the man. He sat in the tram and then exited.

I was distressed by his information, but not for long. An old lady approached, with a cane and string-purse, in which there were two green cucumbers and a bundle of radishes.

“Where are you going, boy?” she asked sympathetically.

“To the electrical technical school. But I'm hoping for a big scholarship.”

“Exactly how much they got, I can't say, but my neighbors have a son who completed the radio-technical school, and they're very satisfied. At the factory he'll receive a lot of pay.”

“And where's this technical school located?”

“Sit on the number five tram, to the Tokarey stop, and there ask where the radio-technical school is, got it? Here comes the five tram now...”

“Thanks, grandma!” I beamed to her and boarded tram number five.

At the Tokarey stop, I was given directions to a gray, five-story building, raised on the summit of a gently sloping hill along which a small path lazily coiled. On the path's left side someone had thoughtfully built a handrail, holding onto which facilitated the approach to the hidden radio-technical building. Ascending the hill took two climbs. About halfway up the path was a small square for resting, and then, once again, the path and handrail continued to the top.

In the spacious and cool foyer of the radio-technical school, I saw on the wall a plaque, “Admissions Committee.” An arrow directed me to the second floor. I approached the table of the committee, holding with my armpit my file and documents.

“Hello,” I greeted two young ladies who received documents.

“Hello.”

“Tell me, what kind of scholarships does your technical school give?”

“And why do you ask?” the lady was taken aback.

“If the scholarship is small, then I won't enter. I came from far away, and I don't have any relatives here, no one to help me.

“How many grades have you finished?”

“Ten.”

“You would enter immediately into the third year, and would study for three years.”

“And the scholarship?”

“360 rubles. In the final year 390.

I thought, that's not bad. Kiosk newspaper sellers, I knew, received a salary of 350 rubles a month, and here was 360...

“Wow,” I was inspired and extended to the ladies my file and documents. They checked my documents, registered them and asked:

“Which department will you enter?” for some reason unceremoniously switching to the informal “you,” and I liked this.

“And what departments are there?”

“Radar, mechanics, radio design...”

“The design department,” I stopped the lady.

She wrote something in a journal and gave to me an examination paper.

“You asked about the scholarship as if you had already entered. There's still an exam.”

“And your transcript is not very impressive.”

“What subjects does the exam test?”

“Literature, which is an essay. There's also a written math part and an oral physics part.”

“I'll pass,” I assured the ladies. “And what's the passing mark?”

“Last year it was 13. This year it's not yet settled.”

I began to weigh my prospects—somehow I'd get a three on the essay, and I'd have to get a five on math and physics. The important thing was that they'd accepted my documents and that the scholarship was decent! I immediately went to my “home,” that is, to the train station.

The point is that this entire time I lived on the train tracks, in a sleeper car with every convenience. There were two such splendid cars, and they were intended for young specialists who arrived after graduating from the institute to begin careers. These cars stood on a siding and Aunt Tanya, of the Kurochkina family, looked after them. All of her life she worked as a train conductor and traveled all over the Soviet Union, but due to a disease in her legs, the authorities appointed her as the overseer of these two cars on the condition that she could receive her previous pay and not go around the country.

And when I arrived to study atomic energy, I was not alone, but with my older sister, who had just graduated from a commercial school in Samarkand. Regarding her work assignment, she had implored the commission to send her to the Ural city of Sverdlovsk since her younger brother was going there to study, and he was still so young and naОve; he would vanish in a big city without his sister's care. And she got her way. So as a pair we arrived in the huge city. On the square in front of the station, my sister left me to watch the suitcase and bundle of books, and by herself made for a tall building with a spire, where her future director was—the director of DORURS. DORURS could be described in the following way: the mobile management of Sverdlovsk's railway labor supply, and it pretty much constituted a ministry with numerous offices, wide corridors, and vast stairwells, with steps covered by red runner carpets. The head of all of this stuff was equal to a man with the rank of minister. I found out about all of this only later on, and of course, I relate this to you, dear readers of my opus. And so my sister left for the ministry, and I sat on the hot asphalt of the square in front of the station, energetically swallowing tasty cabbage pierogies and looking at the rushing red trams, which I saw for the first time in my life.

Thus, I sat on a suitcase and ate pierogies, and then a tall, middle-aged woman in a rail conductor uniform approached me and asked:

“Who are you, boy? I've been watching you this whole time. For three hours you've just been sitting and shoveling in pierogies.”

I explained to her.

“Oh, that's how it is. Well then, your sister will show up at my place. I'm on the eighth line in a siding, tell that to her. Aunt Tanya is my name, Kurochkina,” she said and left with her unsteady, duck-like gait, hobbling on both legs.

So everything worked out. My sister, as a young specialist gaining a career, was assigned temporary accommodation in the form of a compartment in a sleeper car, the overseer of which was Aunt Tanya Kurochkina. Temporary, because the next day my sister had to leave for Serov—known for its aluminum factory—where she would work as a commodity researcher of food-stuffs. She left, persuading Aunt Tanya to keep me in the compartment while I began my studies.

I hurried along the tracks to my wagon, and on the car platform, I reported directly to Aunt Tanya that I gave my documents to the radio-technical school, which, to my satisfaction, gave a decent scholarship of 360 rubles.

“Excellent,” she praised me. “Even though you're not Russian, you're bright, and 360 rubles is money that you can live on.”

First, the essay exam, which made me unspeakably happy—a four! I was given a choice of three topics. “Maternal imagery in M. Gorky's novel Mother,” “Onegin—the superfluous man” about the epic poem by A.S. Pushkin, and the third topic—a free one, write what you want. The first one didn't rouse me at all. I knew the material poorly, and I didn't have time to finish that book. The third topic, the free one, I immediately rejected, because in 17 years nothing remarkable had happened to me: I couldn't even write about first love. I settled on the “superfluous man,” even though in school I'd teased the literature teachers. Why was Onegin a superfluous man? If he were superfluous, for what did the great Pushkin highlight him and write an entire book—in verse, no less. But still, in this decisive moment, with a decent scholarship on the line, I categorically cast aside idle questions about the superfluous man and threw myself feverishly into remembering the words from my textbook about the novel and its main character. In this, I intended to strictly adhere to a single rule: if the spelling of any words caused any doubt, then on no account use it in the essay and, even with my poor vocabulary, to apply maximum force to replace such tricky words. And the sentences had to be kept short—subject and predicate, subject and predicate! Most of all, it was required in writing not to make grammatical mistakes, and superfluous man or not, poor Onegin was not as important as me being satisfied in due time—a four!

I'd get a five, of course, on the physics exam, and I could receive a four on math. Then I'd have a total score of 13, which last year was the passing score. I didn't know if it'd be higher that year. But I went to the math exam with some strands of doubt, because in school, Mr. Pak, the math teacher, always gave me a four. He gave me a lower grade on the basis that, in the solutions for long equations, I omitted rows of operations by talking my way through them with him; in a word, I managed to avoid the details. Recalling these classes, I treated the math exam with a great deal of discipline, imagining that Instructor Pak would stringently verify my work. And I received the highest mark—a five.

So, there were nine points in my pocket, but I still needed to get a four—or even better, a five—and I would doubtlessly get this five.

After the two exams, the group of people didn't thin much, and the passing score worried everyone—could it rise above 13? But the ubiquitous girls among the test takers, they were even more nervous. All of them figured and calculated that a score of 13 would be enough to enter the school. I confess that I quietly celebrated victory: surely I could muster a 14 by getting the highest physics score.

Two instructors—male and female—administered the physics exams. They sat on different ends of a long table. And, simultaneously, two future students began their exams at once.

I took my exam card and felt heat arising in me from the anticipation of imminent success. And the problem and two questions weren't difficult; I could answer them even without preparation. But I didn't go about betraying my emotions and, driving into myself an element of samurai serenity, I indifferently asked:

“May I answer?”

The examiners glanced at me with distrust.

“And the problem?” asked the male instructor.

“I know its solution,” I answered as serenely as possible.

“Sit there by that table and write the solution,” he articulated with dissatisfaction.

I had to obey. I quickly jotted down the problem's answer, rose, and approached the male examiner.

“What do you have there?” he asked unwillingly.

I read aloud both questions on my card and held out the stamped paper with the problem's answer. It was right. And I answered the first question correctly, while the second question was even easier, about radio technology. Although in school physics wasn't sufficiently brought to light, I studied in centers for young technicians where I participated in radio-controlled model boat competitions. My grasp of radio technology was more extensive and firmer than the school curriculum's. The question was such: the nature of radio signals and their transmission in space. I lucidly spoke about wavelengths, their properties and peculiarities during diffusion in a spherical expanse, and finally, I even flaunted some additional knowledge:

“In short, via the equality of a transmitter's and receiver's intrinsic resistance, the maximum transmission of energy occurs.

“What?” the instructor sourly drawled. “Repeat that.”

“When the intrinsic resistance of a transmitter equals the intrinsic resistance of a receiver, the maximum transmission of a radio signal's energy occurs,” I answered more publicly.

The instructor thought it over.

“Who told you this?”

“Nobody...Any radio-phile knows this.”

Now I understand that I shouldn't have said this. Any radio-phile knows! And he was not a radio-phile, he was a pedagogue, a specialist, and my reckless sentence was processed by this professional as my disqualification, my verdict...The instructors exchanged glances.

“Did you hear that?” he asked her.

She hesitated and to my absolute satisfaction said:

“Perhaps he's right...”

The male examiner nervously took a breath and, pursing his lips, drew to himself, with impeccable decisiveness, my paper. He put in the margin a pair of checks and opposite the problem's final answer put down an equals sign, irritably remarking:

“The answers needed to be in kiloohms, not in ohms. Why were you in such a hurry, young man? And remember, on the next exam, answer the given question and don't indulge in fantasies.”

He took my exam card, and, not looking at the previous scores, wrote, “physics—satisfactory,” that is, he evaluated my knowledge of physics as a three...

“Three?!” I all but cried out. “What have you done? I answered correctly!”

“You're done,” the instructor snapped. “I say, let the next person come up.”

“But you gave me a three, and I won't make it through the competition. My score won't be high enough...”

“Next?” the instructor yelled.

“I don't agree!” I revolted. “I know physics!”

“You can submit a retest,” he hemmed.

“Why would I need a retest?!”

“As you wish. I'm speaking to you in Russian. Do you understand Russian?”

He would not bend. I had to leave the classroom.

One day later they posted the list of entrants. I didn't find my short last name. One point short...But how would I tell my sister of my failure? And what would mamma think? And the relatives? No, this was unbearable; I needed to do something.

Aimlessly wandering about the corridors of the technical school, which had nearly become my own, I insensibly turned up in the area opposite the admissions office, absolutely devastated, and sluggishly proceeded to contemplate what to do.

From the admissions office emerged a woman, not so tall, for some reason in a black gown; it was incredibly hot—the latter half of August. The skin on her face was grayish, and her fingers on both hands trembled, hastily taking a match to the tip of a cigarette. Exhaling a puff of smoke with relief, she asked in a hoarse voice:

“You didn't get in?”

I shook my head in the affirmative.

“How many more points did you need?”

“Short by one.”

“And what do you intend to do?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't know what to do.

“One point isn't terrible. Don't withdraw your documents.” She tapped her ashes into an urn and measured me with a long glance. “You, I see, aren't Russian. What nationality are you?”

“Korean.”

“From Korea?”

“No. I was born in Kazakhstan.”

“Ah, ah, in the south. Indeed, all tan...One point isn't terrible,” she repeated. “This is what you should do. Let some man plead on your behalf—someone influential, respected, the head of something.”

“I don't know anyone here. Not even acquaintances.”

“Then that's bad...And yet if someone were to come and talk with Victor Nikolaevich, they might include you. One point is nonsense.

“And who is this Victor Nikolaevich?”

“The director of the school. Victor Nikolaevich Tsaregorodtsev. He's strict and principled, but fair. One can discuss things with him.”

“I don't have anyone here,” I heaped pity on myself once more.

“That's bad,” she said. “I've worked as Victor Nikolaevich's secretary for many years, and he always hears a man out to show that his decision is fair; he's that kind of man. It's a pity that you don't have an intercessor.”

She extinguished her cigarette in the urn and departed back to the admissions office.

That night I imparted my troubles to Aunt Tanya Kurochkina in a gravelly tone, and she grieved.

“And what do you intend to do?”

“I'll probably go to Serov. Maybe my sister can find me a job at the aluminum factory. I'll do some work for a year, and then I'll apply again.”

Aunt Tanya ruminated.

“How could you be a worker?” she bluntly referred to my sickly legs. “Think of something else.”

I didn't know what to think and suddenly said:

“Aunt Tanya, maybe you can talk with the director of the technical school. I don't have anyone else, eh?”

“What's with you, kiddo?! He wouldn't stoop to listen to me.”

“Why?”

“Because who am I? A conductor, an invalid. Nooo, this requires a real man, a leader...This is what you'll do. Tomorrow go to DORURS, to the highest boss—he's like the minister of the railways. Tell him, explain, let him go and talk with your patron Tsaregorodtsev; some profit will come of this.

“And will he see me?”

“Just go and get it. You need a defender. To think, one point!”

I had a restless night in my berth, imagining how I would go up to a big boss, a minister, and explain everything: ask him to say a word for me, defend me, because I arrived from far away, I have nobody here, and my sister works with railroad commodities in Serov, and last of all, that the proctor was altogether wrong, that I answered all of the questions, and he should have given me a five, not a three, and the passing score was thirteen—why did he give me a three? Probably, he didn't know that the neutral resistance of a transmitter should equal the neutral resistance of a receiver, resulting in the maximum release of energy...I fell asleep in the morning. And I didn't wake up until midday. I bathed, dressed and exited the sleeper car onto the platform, climbed up, had a bite to eat in the workers' cafeteria and approached the apse of the vast Management of Sverdlovsk's Railways building.

Mustering my strength, I resolutely opened the massive oak door and entered a gigantic hall with a cupola up top.

“Where are you going, boy?” asked an old porter.

“I'm from Kazakhstan,” I solidly articulated. “I need to see the head of the railways.”

“Second floor on the right,” the porter softened. I ascended the broad marble staircase with red runner carpets, turned right, and at the end of the wing I located a door with a plaque reading, “Reception.” And then perfidious shyness enveloped me. I hesitated, but then entered.

By the window, under an outstretched palm in a wooden pot, sat a plump secretary drinking lemon tea from a faceted cup in a silver glass-holder. She silently adjusted her dress and said nothing. I stood in the doorway and was also quiet.

“What do you need, boy?” the woman finally asked.

“I'm here to see the head.”

“For what sort of request?”

“I really need to.”

“For a private request?”

“Yes.”

“Right now it's lunchtime. For another half an hour.”

“I'll wait.”

We grew silent. And then a solid-looking man in a gray suit entered the reception area, glanced at his watch, walked past me, and vanished through the door of his office.

“Is that him?” I asked. “May I enter?”

“Wait, I'll ask him. For some reason he's early today...”

The secretary went into the office. Soon she exited and said with sudden politeness:

“You may go in.”

I walked past her to the door and ended up in a huge office with high windows facing the sun. Drawn blinds along the window frames instilled the room with calm and grandeur.

“Come in and have a seat.”

I went over and sat.

“I'm listening,” said the minister of Sverdlovsk's railways.

I mustered my spirit and began my story.

“I came from far away. To study. The Polytechnic wouldn't take my documents because of my health, and I wanted to study at an atomic institute. The radio-technical school gives a good scholarship and I could study there, so I gave my documents to them. The physics proctor gave me a three and I fell one point short; the passing score was thirteen. My grasp of physics deserved a five, but he gave me a three, though even with a four I could've entered, because in math I got a five and on the essay a four...”

“Hold on, I'm missing the point,” the minister stopped me.

“I need for you to go to Viktor Nikolaevich Tsaregorodtsev and request that they admit me, because I need to study, and my grasp of physics is a five...”

“Who is this Tsaregorodtsev?”

“The director of the technical school.”

“And so?”

“Please, petition for me, there's nobody higher than you.”

“Who advised you to come to me, who suggested it?”

“Aunt Tanya Kurochkina.”

“Who is this Aunt Tanya?”

“She works as a conductor in the sleeper cars. The cars stand in a siding, and young specialists who are just beginning to work for you live there.”

“What are you talking about?” the minister was at a loss. “And what does this have to do with sleeper cars?”

“I live in a sleeper car berth; there are two cars, and young specialists live there. Aunt Tanya is the overseer of these cars. She has sickly legs, and so you assigned her to look after them and receive her normal pay.”

“Young man, you've completely confused me. Once again, in an orderly manner.”

“You need to go to the technical school and speak with Victor Nikolaevich, who's a fair man, and get him to admit me. I want to study, and all that's needed is for you to tell him what he should do.”

“And he'll listen to me? Why?”

“Because you're an important man, the minister of the railways. How can you not understand?!”

“Yes, I don't understand!”

“I have nobody here, nobody, do you understand? I came from far away in order to enter this technical school, but I received a three in physics, understand?”

“Which technical school?”

“Radio-technical. But I fell one point short and somebody needs to tell the director that one point is not so horrible, and maybe he'll admit me.”

“Why this technical school in particular? Do you know anything about radio technology?”

“I do. But the physics proctor gave me a three, because he didn't know that the neutral resistance of a transmitter should equal the neutral resistance of a receiver in order for the maximum release of energy to occur. My only fault was that he didn't know this...”

“Stop! You're going completely over my head. What's that about neutral resistance?”

“If a transmitter and receiver have neutral resistance, they...”

“Stop, I said!...Now let me ask some questions. You want me to speak with the director of the technical school regarding your admittance, right?”

“Right.”

“Right. Second question—where would you enter, the radio-technical school?

“The scholarship there is 360 rubles.”

“Okay! You would enter the radio-technical school. And why'd you come here?”

“To see you. If you properly discuss things with the director, they'll admit me.”

“Hold it! The radio-technical school has to do with the radio-technology industry, but you came...By the way, do you understand Russian well?”

“I finished Russian school. And I received a four on the essay test. It was on `Onegin, the superfluous man.'”

“All right, then I'm telling you in Russian that your technical school has to do with the radio-technology industry, and you came to the Management of Railways. This is a different department, understand?”

“But I have nobody here! I live on a railway, in a sleeper car, and I need someone to petition for me, to defend me!”

“And you reckon that this has to do with me?”

“Well, what's stopping you?!”

“Oh, God!...” the minister bitterly wiped sweat from his brow. He took his pen and a small sheet of paper and scribbled something on it. He folded it into two and extended it to me. “Go to the personnel department, it's on this floor, in the other wing. Give this to Arcady Ivanovich, the department head.”

I took the sheet and realized that the minister was getting rid of me.

“You don't want to speak with the director.” I wasn't asking for anything, only summing up my visit. And there was a moment that it seemed to me that he became interested in my fate and would take an active part in it...

In the end, I dragged my upset self to the personnel department. Entering, I immediately ended up before a high banister, and lightly rising on my tiptoes, I saw behind it two middle-aged ladies, about the same age, around 40, and even with similar hair-dos: their light locks were tidily curled.

“Hello,” I greeted.

“Hello,” they answered, noticing my head beneath the floor paneling.

“I was sent here to see Arcady Ivanovich. Here...” and I presented the paper.

The woman who sat at the closer table got up, approached, and unfolded the sheet. She read it and returned it to me.

“Arcady Ivanovich will arrive soon. Have a seat,” she said and indicated a seat at the end of the side.

I followed her counsel, sat, and completely vanished from the women's vantages. Opposite me, I saw a door with the plaque, “Head of the Personal Department.”

Soon Arcady Ivanovich himself appeared. He was in a light, untucked Chinese shirt of a light beige color with short sleeves. It was small, but his leather attachИ case, worn away by handling, was an impressive size. He wasn't of great height and was heavyset. Breathing wasn't easy for him: drops of sweat appeared as beads on his balding head.

“Arcady Ivanovich, a man is here to see you,” said a woman. She approached the rail and indicated me with a glance.

Arcady Ivanovich turned. I drew myself towards him and extended my message. He unfolded it, read it. Then he stared at me with an air of doom and curtly said:

“Wait,” and vanished through the door of his office.

Then he left, exited the department, and for four long hours I languished in waiting, losing all crumbs of hope that he would return. I didn't eat lunch and I really wanted to eat. But I couldn't leave: what if he suddenly appeared, and I wasn't there? Tired from the heat and an empty stomach, I fell asleep on the stool. I awoke by the warm touch of Arcady Ivanovich's soft fingers.

“Excuse me,” he said. “We're leaving. Where are we going?”

“Tram number five to the side of the Verk-Isetski factory, the Tokarey stop,” I blurted out.

And we urgently exited the Management of Sverdlovsk's Railways building. We were in a hurry because 7:00 had passed, and maybe we wouldn't be able to find the technical school director. We waited for tram five.

It was rush hour, and people were in hurry, gloomily elbowing their ways through. Arcady Ivanovich and I urgently shoved our way into the streetcar. I tried not to get separated from him, and miraculously, I grasped the wooden back of a seat, upon which a stocky passenger had drowsily settled. Arcady Ivanovich stooped towards him and began to speak. In reply, the passenger rose and moved forward with dissatisfaction. Arcady Ivanovich sat me down on the freed seat and we continued on our way.

The tram was stuffy. Sweat poured along the cheeks of my companion. The Chinese shirt had dampened on his shoulder and underarms from moisture. Around halfway through the trip, I began to feel out of sorts: I was comfortably traveling on a seat while Arcady Ivanovich stood the whole way, wet with sweat, jolted by the knock of the wheels, with one hand holding the upper rail and with the second pressing to himself his worn leather attachИ case.

I lifted myself slightly:

“Sit down, Arcady Ivanovich. Let's change places...”

“No, no, sit.”

Getting off at the Tokarey stop, I pointed to the five-story building of the radio-technical school. Arcady Ivanovich drearily glanced at the sloping hill with the small path and handrail; a climb to the summit lay before us.

We ascended slowly, stopping for breath at the small square halfway up and then started to clamber up again. Finally we finished the climb and began to hurry again.

It was already 7:30, but I was certain that the director of the technical school was there waiting to meet us. And once Arcady Ivanovich spoke with him and talked things out—why else would he have put aside all of his affairs to get here so urgently?—I was certain that the school would admit me.

In the director's reception area, near the door to his office, a man in military uniform sat on a chair and patiently waited his turn. Evidently, someone had already gone to the director to intercede for a son or nephew who hadn't scored well enough.

Arcady Ivanovich politely greeted the secretary with the black dress and gray face.

“Is Victor Nikolaevich here?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she answered. “Our comrade the major is also here for him.”

“Good, I'm after you,” said Arcady Ivanovich to the uniformed man and sat next to him on an adjacent chair.

The secretary looked knowingly at me, smiled for some reason, and gently led me out of the reception area to the place where she smoked. Beginning a cigarette, she asked:

“Who's he?”

“Arcady Ivanovich,” I answered.

“I'm asking in terms of what he does, in what esteem is your uncle held?”

“The head of the personnel office.”

“Of which ministry?”

“The Management of Railways.”

“Ah, really...And you said that you don't have anyone here.”

“Do you think that they'll admit me or not?” I asked her.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“All day today they've been coming to Tsaregorodtsev; you're about the twentieth. Almost all were rejected,” she threw in.

“You stay here, don't hang around the reception area.” And she went back to her post.

“Wait here”—that was easy for her to say; and what a wait...Oh, Arcady Ivanovich! If you manage to persuade the inaccessible director to admit me to the technical school, I wouldn't let you down: I would study as I should and thank you my entire life. I would tell mamma how good and steadfast you were to do this so suddenly, to go and argue with Tsaregorodtsev himself...By the way, where and when did he manage to learn that the director's name was Victor Nikolaevich? Probably, the Management's head told him everything: that I came from far away, that I don't have money for the return trip, that my knowledge of physics is a five or even higher, that it's essential for me to study, namely in this technical school, where they give good scholarships. But for me it's very important because it's uncertain how much of the rice crop mamma will collect this year and whether she'll be able to sell it without the police finding out: they can seize everything if one doesn't have the necessary rent papers for vacant lots. And my sister is a young specialist, to whom they offered some kind of salary, and whether it's enough to support me...I need to, I absolutely need to enter the school!

An obese man in a dark suit and tie emerged from the director's reception area and stepped away. He had an angry expression on his face.

I glanced into the reception area. The major had already gone in. Arcady Ivanovich was waiting for his turn.

...Something possessed me to say that it wasn't necessary to apply neutral resistances. But the physics proctor wasn't right either! Well, he didn't know or he forgot that the neutral resistances of a transmitter and receiver determine the maximum release of energy. Why did he take offense at me? Quash my arrogance, give me a four, that's all it would've taken!...

The major emerged from the reception area. His face conveyed obvious satisfaction. Certainly, he persuaded, proved that the youth for whom he was petitioning deserved to study at the technical school, that in the future, the fatherland would be proud to be the origin of his constructive thought...Lightly bobbing up and down in his steps, the major descended and left.

Arcady Ivanovich was probably already speaking with Tsargorodtsev. I should've also gone in with him: what if he suddenly forgot or neglected something important regarding my situation, or got distracted in the insignificant, ancillary neutral resistance model...Okay, it's too late now to tweak anything. What will be will be: I'm not the first, not the last, and next time I'll prepare more thoroughly and I won't rush at all. But how will I convey my failure to mamma? And my sister?

The reception area door opened. An exhausted Arcady Ivanovich exited. I went to him. I stopped in front of him with a single mute question.

“Let's go,” he said almost without life. “It seems that they're going to admit you.”

“It seems or for sure?” I became anxious.

“He promised to consider your candidacy.”

“How will they consider, when?”

“Come back tomorrow. It's possible that on a supplementary list you'll find your name. He noted and put down a mark opposite your name.”

“And if I don't find my name?” I blurted out.

“I think you'll find it.” He became silent. Then: “And about neutral resistance, don't try to remember more than what's on the exam.”

So he knew about this! The Management's head told him...How I wanted to eat—since morning, not a crumb in my mouth. We got to the street. I offered:

“Arcady Ivanovich, there's a snack bar nearby—they drink vodka there, but we can eat there. I really want to eat. Shall we go?”

“No, young man, I'm hurrying back to work.”

“But it's already 8:00...”

“There are a lot of papers there, and I'm taking them home.”

“Well, I'm also going to the train station. I live there!”

“Excellent, let's go. Tram number five?” he smiled.

“Yes!”

...They admitted me and I graduated from the technical school with a specialty in radio design. I received a post at a radio factory in Barnaul, which is in the Altay Mountains.

During my three years of studies, I remembered Arcady Ivanovich two or three times, my benefactor and “defender,” as Aunt Tanya Kurochkina said, but I didn't visit him, didn't express a word of thanks, and to this day I reproach myself for this. Youth often tends to be ungrateful. What would it have cost me to go on tram number five, ascend the broad staircase to the second floor, drop in on the personnel department, and say:

“Arcady Ivanovich, they did admit me, and I'm studying in the radio-technical school, receiving a good scholarship, and all of this is thanks to you? Thank you, Arcady Ivanovich!”

But no, I didn't visit, didn't tell him...The defense of my research went successfully, and I was satisfied with my job assignment—an army radio factory, evacuated during the years of war in the Altay Mountains. I wrote to mamma in Ushtobe that as soon as I found a place in Barnaul I would take her in. I sent a telegram to my sister saying that all was fine and happy.

It was my farewell night, and by Vovka Epanchintsev's initiative, we decided to throw a party in his home. It's a private home, so the food and drinks could be set up in the entranceway. Vovka is married with a two year-old child. There's something gypsy-like about him, although he speaks Russian, has a Russian-Ural surname, and has a Russian wife. But his child is definitely a gypsy, and the records he played had gypsy songs and romances. Well, enough about Vovka. Sitting to the side and observing the girls busily setting the table, I suddenly remembered Arcady Ivanovich and became anxious: like lightning, the idea flashed into my mind that I should visit him this very hour. I leaped up:

“Guys, I'm leaving for an hour or so. I really need to.”

“Where are you going, what's happened?”

“I'll be back, I'll tell you. I need to meet Arcady Ivanovich!”

“We're going to drink all of this without you!”

“You won't have time. I'll be quick!” And I ran off.

In the gourmet shop, I picked the biggest cake, a size that I'd never tried, not even dreamed of, took a taxi, and soon ended up in the square by the train station, before the apse of the huge Management of Sverdlovsk's Railways building. I climbed up that same wide staircase with red carpeting, opened the door of the personnel department, and became paralyzed with excitement at the banister, behind which sat the same inspector-women with the invariable blond haircuts.

“Hello!” I all but screamed, greeting them.

“Hello...”

“You don't recognize me?”

The women did not recognize me.

“I was that crank whom your Arcady Ivanovich petitioned for because I didn't get one point! Arcady Ivanovich spoke to the director of the technical school, and now I've already finished it! Is he here?” I nodded at the door with the plaque, “Head of the Personnel Department.”

“Arcady Ivanovich...”

“Yes! I came to thank him. Here!” I raised the cardboard box with the cake and placed it on the parapet.

The women didn't respond. The one that was sitting closer to me turned away and began to wipe away tears from the tips of her eyelashes.

“I'm here for Arcady Ivanovich. Do you remember, three years ago, in August, I was here...”

The extended pause was interrupted by the quiet voice of the woman who'd wiped tears:

“Arcady Ivanovich three years ago...died. In September.”

“Died?” I repeated for some reason.

“Yes...He was always like you said. He helped everyone. And so he helped you.”

I was at a loss, I didn't know what to say. And what would I do with the cake?

“Arcady Ivanovich...Can I leave the cake...for you? Can I?”

“No, what for? That's not necessary. Thank you.”

Not hurrying, I exited onto the street. For some reason I decided that there was no reason to rush, that I'd let the guys begin the food and drinks without me. I waited and took tram number five, passed by the Tokarey stop and got off at the end of the line. From there, I went by foot to Vovka Epanchintsev's home, which was quite nearby. Today was my farewell night...In the tram, finally, I realized it—Arcady Ivanovich was dead.

“Look at you, you made it!” The guys were surprised. “Why did you run out for a cake? Now we have two cakes. Girls, kiss our Korean!”

The huge cake was set on the party table, to be cut up into many small slices so that there'd be enough for everyone. But the girls knew that the majority of the “gentlemen” would refuse portions for the girls' benefit, and they quietly rejoiced over this.

I passed the cake to Vovka, and he passed it to the girls. They began to cut it into small pieces, enthusiastically licking the tips of their fingers.

“This is from Arcady Ivanovich,” I said.

“Your Arcady Ivanovich is a good man!” said Vovka.

“We need more uncles like that! You should've invited him here!”

“Of course! Go and invite him!”

I didn't respond with anything.


Lavrentii Son

Almaty

January 2002


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