Notes on the Cuff and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF

was say weakly:
    "But we need desks ... chairs ... and at least
some ink!"
    The young man shouted excitedly:
    "You'll get them! Good lad! You'll get
everything!"
    He turned to the old man, winked at me and said:
    "He means business, that lad! Fancy
asking for desks straightaway. He'll put things right for us."
     
    *
     
    Appt. Seer. Heavens! ASS Lit. In
Moscow
. Maxim Gorky. The Lower
Depths. Sheherazade . Mother.
     
    *
     
    The young man untied the sack, spread a newspaper on
the table and poured about five pounds of lentils onto it. "That's for
you. A quarter of the food ration."

 
     
     
I PLUG IN ASS LIT
     
    Historians of literature, take note:
    At the end of 1921 three people were engaged in
literature in the Republic: the old man (dramas; he turned out not to be Emile
Zola, of course, but someone I didn't know), the young man (the old man's
assistant, whom I didn't know either — poetry) and myself (who hadn't written a
thing).
    Historians, also note: ASS Lit. had no chairs, desks, ink, light bulbs, books, writers or readers. In short, nothing.
    And me. Yes, I rustled up from nowhere an antique mahogany writing-desk. Inside
I found an old, yellowing, gold-edged card with the words: "...ladies in
semi- decollete evening dress. Officers
in frock-coats with epaulettes. Civilians in uniform
tail-coats, with decorations. Students in uniform.
Moscow
.
1899."
    It smelt soft and sweet. A bottle of expensive French perfume
had once stood in the drawer. After the desk a chair arrived. Then ink, paper, and finally a young lady, sad and pensive.
    On my instructions she laid out everything that had
been in the cupboard on the desk: some brochures about "saboteurs",
12 issues of a
St. Petersburg
newspaper and a pile of green and red invitations to a congress of provincial
sections. It immediately began to look like an office. The old man and the
young man were delighted. They clapped me on the shoulder affectionately and vanished.
    The sad young lady and I sat there for hours. Me at the desk and she at the table. I read The Three Musketeers by the inimitable
Dumas, which I had found on the floor in the bathroom. The young lady sat in
silence, occasionally heaving a deep sigh.
    "Why are you crying?" I asked.
    In reply she started sobbing and wringing her hands.
Then she said:
    "I've found out that I married a bandit by
mistake."
    I don't know if anything could surprise me after these
two years. But at this I just stared blankly at her...
    "Don't cry. Things like that do happen."
    And I asked her to tell me about it.
    Wiping her eyes with a handkerchief, she told me she
had married a student, enlarged a photograph of him and hung it in the
drawing-room. Then a detective came, took one look at the photograph and said
it was not Karasev at all, but Dolsky ,
alias Gluzman , alias Senka Moment.
    "Mo- ment ..." the
poor girl said, shuddering and wiping her eyes.
    "So he's gone, has he? Well, good riddance to
him."
     
     
     
    But this was the third day. And still nothing. Not a
soul had come. Nothing at all. Just me and the young
lady...
    I suddenly realised today: ASS Lit. isn't plugged in. There's life overhead. People walking about. Next door too. Typewriters clattering away and people
laughing. They get clean-shaven visitors too. Meyerhold's fantastically popular in this building, but he's not here in person.
    We have nothing. No papers, nothing. I decided to plug
ASS Lit. in .
    A woman came upstairs with a pile of newspapers. The
top one was marked in red pencil "For ASS Fine Arts".
    "What about one for ASS Lit.?"
    She looked at me in fright and did not answer. I went
upstairs. To the young lady sitting under a notice that said
"secretary". She listened to me, then looked nervously at her neighbour.
    "That's right, ASS Lit..." said the first
young lady . " There is a paper for them, Lidochka ," said the second. "Then why didn't you
deliver it?" I asked in an icy tone. They both looked worried. "We
thought you weren't