Notes on the Cuff and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Mikhail Bulgakov
Thank the Lord. Yes,
ASS Lit. My pulse started racing again. Voices inside: mumble-mumble-mumble...
I closed my eyes and imagined the inside. This is what
I saw. In the first room — a carpet, an enormous writing desk
and a bookcase. Awesome silence. At the desk a
secretary — probably one of the names I know from magazines. Then
other doors. The section head's office. Even more awesome silence. Bookcases. Who's that sitting in an armchair? ASS Lit.? In
Moscow
? Yes, Maxim Gorky. The Lower Depths. Mother. Who else? Mumble-mumble-mumble. They're having a talk. Or perhaps it's Bryusov and Bely ? (17)
I knock lightly on the door. The mumble-mumble stops
to be followed by a hollow "Come in!" Then more
mumble-mumble. I turn the knob and it comes off in my hand. I'm
petrified. A fine start to my career! Breaking the door knob! I knock again.
"Come in!"
"I can't!" I shout.
A voice comes through the keyhole:
"Turn the knob right, then left. You've locked us
in..."
Right, left, the door gives slightly, and...
I'M TOP MAN AFTER
GORKY
I was in the wrong place! This couldn't be ASS Lit! A summer-cottage wicker chair, an empty wooden desk, an open
cupboard, a small table upside down in the corner. And
two men. One was tall and very young in a pince-nez. His puttees stood
out. They were white, and he was holding a battered briefcase and a sack. The
other man, greying and elderly with bright, almost smiling eyes, wore a Caucasian fur cap and an army greatcoat. The coat was covered with holes
and the pockets were hanging in tatters. He wore grey puttees and patent
leather dancing shoes with little bows.
My lack-lustre gaze passed over the faces, then the
walls, looking for another door. But there was none. The room with the broken
wires had no windows. Tout. In a
rather thick voice:
"Is this ASS Lit.?"
"Yes."
"Could I see the head, please?"
"That's me," the old man replied
affectionately.
He picked up a large page of a
Moscow
newspaper from the desk, tore a piece
off, sprinkled some tobacco on it, rolled himself a cigarette and asked me:
"Got a match?"
I struck a match automatically, and then under the old
man's affectionately enquiring gaze took the precious paper out of my pocket.
The old man bent over it, and I racked my brains
wondering who he could be. Most of all he looked like Emile Zola without a
beard.
The young man also read the paper over the old man's
shoulder. They finished and looked at me with a kind of puzzled respect.
Old man:
"So you ?.. "
"I'd like a job in ASS Lit.," I replied.
"Splendid! Well, I never!" the young man
exclaimed in delight.
He took the old man aside and started whispering. Mumble-mumble-mumble.
The old man spun round on his heels and grabbed a pen
off the desk. The young man said quickly:
"Write an application."
I had an application in my breast pocket. I handed it
over.
The old man flourished the pen. It made a scratching
sound and jerked, tearing the paper. He dipped it in a small bottle. But the
bottle was dry.
"Got a pencil?"
I handed him a pencil, and the head scrawled:
"Please appoint as Secretary of ASS Lit.
Signed..."
I stared open-mouthed at the dashing squiggle.
The young man plucked my sleeve.
"Hurry upstairs, before he goes. Quick."
I shot upstairs. Barged through the door, tore across
the room with the women and went into the office. The man sitting in the office
took my paper and scribbled: "Appt. seer." Letter. Squiggle. He yawned and said: "Downstairs."
I raced downstairs again in a tizzy. Past the typewriter. Then instead of a bass, a silvery soprano
said: " Meyerhold . October in the
Theatre..."
The young man was storming round the old man and
chortling.
"Did they appoint you? Fine! We'll see to it.
We'll see to everything!"
Then he clapped me on the shoulder:
"Don't worry! You'll get everything."
I have always detested familiarity and always been a
victim of it. But now I was so overwhelmed by what had happened, that all I could do
ASS Lit. My pulse started racing again. Voices inside: mumble-mumble-mumble...
I closed my eyes and imagined the inside. This is what
I saw. In the first room — a carpet, an enormous writing desk
and a bookcase. Awesome silence. At the desk a
secretary — probably one of the names I know from magazines. Then
other doors. The section head's office. Even more awesome silence. Bookcases. Who's that sitting in an armchair? ASS Lit.? In
Moscow
? Yes, Maxim Gorky. The Lower Depths. Mother. Who else? Mumble-mumble-mumble. They're having a talk. Or perhaps it's Bryusov and Bely ? (17)
I knock lightly on the door. The mumble-mumble stops
to be followed by a hollow "Come in!" Then more
mumble-mumble. I turn the knob and it comes off in my hand. I'm
petrified. A fine start to my career! Breaking the door knob! I knock again.
"Come in!"
"I can't!" I shout.
A voice comes through the keyhole:
"Turn the knob right, then left. You've locked us
in..."
Right, left, the door gives slightly, and...
I'M TOP MAN AFTER
GORKY
I was in the wrong place! This couldn't be ASS Lit! A summer-cottage wicker chair, an empty wooden desk, an open
cupboard, a small table upside down in the corner. And
two men. One was tall and very young in a pince-nez. His puttees stood
out. They were white, and he was holding a battered briefcase and a sack. The
other man, greying and elderly with bright, almost smiling eyes, wore a Caucasian fur cap and an army greatcoat. The coat was covered with holes
and the pockets were hanging in tatters. He wore grey puttees and patent
leather dancing shoes with little bows.
My lack-lustre gaze passed over the faces, then the
walls, looking for another door. But there was none. The room with the broken
wires had no windows. Tout. In a
rather thick voice:
"Is this ASS Lit.?"
"Yes."
"Could I see the head, please?"
"That's me," the old man replied
affectionately.
He picked up a large page of a
Moscow
newspaper from the desk, tore a piece
off, sprinkled some tobacco on it, rolled himself a cigarette and asked me:
"Got a match?"
I struck a match automatically, and then under the old
man's affectionately enquiring gaze took the precious paper out of my pocket.
The old man bent over it, and I racked my brains
wondering who he could be. Most of all he looked like Emile Zola without a
beard.
The young man also read the paper over the old man's
shoulder. They finished and looked at me with a kind of puzzled respect.
Old man:
"So you ?.. "
"I'd like a job in ASS Lit.," I replied.
"Splendid! Well, I never!" the young man
exclaimed in delight.
He took the old man aside and started whispering. Mumble-mumble-mumble.
The old man spun round on his heels and grabbed a pen
off the desk. The young man said quickly:
"Write an application."
I had an application in my breast pocket. I handed it
over.
The old man flourished the pen. It made a scratching
sound and jerked, tearing the paper. He dipped it in a small bottle. But the
bottle was dry.
"Got a pencil?"
I handed him a pencil, and the head scrawled:
"Please appoint as Secretary of ASS Lit.
Signed..."
I stared open-mouthed at the dashing squiggle.
The young man plucked my sleeve.
"Hurry upstairs, before he goes. Quick."
I shot upstairs. Barged through the door, tore across
the room with the women and went into the office. The man sitting in the office
took my paper and scribbled: "Appt. seer." Letter. Squiggle. He yawned and said: "Downstairs."
I raced downstairs again in a tizzy. Past the typewriter. Then instead of a bass, a silvery soprano
said: " Meyerhold . October in the
Theatre..."
The young man was storming round the old man and
chortling.
"Did they appoint you? Fine! We'll see to it.
We'll see to everything!"
Then he clapped me on the shoulder:
"Don't worry! You'll get everything."
I have always detested familiarity and always been a
victim of it. But now I was so overwhelmed by what had happened, that all I could do