The Naked Year Read Online Free PDF

shapely knees. Olga’s lips, with crying, were pursed provocatively, like cherries.
    â€œThis is bad, bad! I’m not dressed. I’m sorry for Andrei. Goes away!”
    Comrade Laitis left. Sergey Sergeevich was running all over the house, sinking down heavy on each foot, helping out. They didn’t find Andrei Volkovich. The Head of the People’s Police went away. Sergey Sergeevich saw him off. Through the streets stalked the damp fog, in the distance the dawn shone violet.
    Olenka Kuntz was crying in the gray dawn dirty murkiness, as if insulted Olenka Kuntz was crying: she felt sorry for Andrei Volkovich and she enjoyed having a cry.–And in the gray dawn dirty murkiness a mighty guffaw bellowed through the whole block: now it was Sergey Sergeevich guffawing. Sergey Sergeevich was treading heavily, sinking down onto each foot, down the stone staircase to Semyon Matveev Zilotov’s basement. Semyon Matveev was standing near the stove, the stove was blazing, in little jars potions of some description were heating by the fire.
    â€œDid you see?” said Sergey Sergeevich maliciously, and laughing out loud, holding his stomach.
    Semyon Matveev answered, “The pentagram, not pentagon!”
    â€œNot bad, eh! I opened the door myself and–out the back way, eh?–Ho, Ho! Look for the wind in the field. Ho! Ho!”
    â€œIt’s just a pity he’s Russian. By Hell. But:–you see this sign?–the foreigner is found.”
    â€œDid you see? Ho, Ho!… You still cooking? You must have burned that pork cutlet by now… Ho. Ho. You’ll not buy another one!”
    In a gray dirty murkiness the dawn broke, and the damp mists crawled along the streets. At dawn, in the mist, a shepherd began to play his pipe, sorrowfully and softly, like the Permian northern dawn.
    Sergey Sergeevich sat down tailor fashion, on the window sill, his swollen legs folded under him. In the stove, just out of reach of the flames, glues of various sorts were heating in crucibles and from behind the stove had been pulled out a small table with open books, in which the Russian letter Ш looked more like a T and the B like a П and a globe, on which Russia was painted in red. Semyon Matveev Zilotov, carefully carrying the crucibles from the stove to the table, walked with a gait resembling the gait of an ancient hound.
    Semyon Matveev Zilotov took from the table a pentagonal piece of cardboard, in the center of which was the word “Moscow,” circled and in the corners–Berlin, Vienna, Paris, London and Rome. Silently he approached Sergey Sergeevich, Semyon Matveev folded the corners of the pentagon:–Berlin, Vienna, Paris, London and Rome now came together. After unfolding the corners again Semyon Matveev remade the pentagon. Berlin, Vienna, Paris, London and Rome leaned towards Moscow and the piece of cardboard began to resemble a tomato, painted red from the bottom upwards.
    â€œSee this sign?” said Semyon Matveev Zilotov very sternly–“The foreign towns, once they had come together, bowed down to Moscow town. But Moscow has remained humiliated.”
    Semyon Matveev went over to the stove and poured out a liquid from one crucible into another, a bluish smoke rose up, there was a hissing sound and the smell of burning sulphur.
    â€œThe pentagram,” said Semyon Matveev standing by the table leaning a hand on the globe.
    â€œSwear: the pentagram, Hell’s bells! And I’ll reveal a great secret. You see what’s happening in Russia?”
    â€œIt’s well known. Boorocracy, hunger, plundering. That’s what’s going on!”–answered Sergey Sergeevich. “Pork’s seventy five! What’s happening?! Russia’s walking on her hind legs,” Sergey Sergeevich smiled. “Just you run along and buy me some salami. Ho, ho!”–Sergey Sergeevich became maliciously joyful: “Ho, Ho!… Andrei, Andrei then,