“The plesiosaur!” Khlebovvodov shot from a pistol and missed.
It turned out that the people desperately need plesiosaurs, that certain members of the Troika have lost their sense of perspective, that certain commandants have forgotten whose bread they are eating, that certain representatives of our glorious scientific intelligentsia have revealed a tendency to view the world through a glass darkly, and that, finally, Case 8 must be postponed until some winter month when it can be reached along the ice. There were no other motions, and certainly no questions for the speaker. And that was the final decision.
“Let’s move on to the next question,” announced Lavr Fedotovich, and the members of the Troika pushed their way into the back seat. The commandant was hurriedly dressing, muttering: “You’ll pay for this. I gave you the best pieces—like my own daughter, you floating pig.”
Then we took the road along the lake shore. The road was horrible, and I thanked heaven that the summer was dry, or it would have been the end of us. However, I had thanked the heavens too soon, because the closer we got to the swamp the more the road displayed a tendency to disappear and turn into two damp ruts with grass growing in them. I downshifted and tried to estimate my passengers’ physical strength. It was perfectly clear that fat, flabby Farfurkis would be of little help. Khlebovvodov looked sturdy enough, but I did not know if he had recovered sufficiently from his stomach attack. Lavr Fedotovich would probably not even get out of the car. That left the commandant and me if anything went wrong, because Eddie would not reveal himself just to push a two-thousand-pound car out of the mud.
My pessimistic thoughts were interrupted by a gigantic black puddle on the road. This was no bucolic, patriarchal puddle, no small-town puddle that everyone had driven through and that was used to everything. Nor was it a muddy urban puddle, lazily spreading amid the litter of a construction site. This was a calm, cold-blooded puddle, vicious in its morbid appearance, casually stretching between the two ruts in the road, as mysterious as the eye of a sphinx, as perfidious as a wicked witch—evoking nightmarish thoughts of drowned trucks. I braked sharply.
“That’s it. We’re here.”
“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. “Comrade Zubo, read the file.”
I could see the commandant vacillating in the silence. It was still rather far to the swamp, but the commandant could also see the puddle blocking our only approach. He sighed and rustled his papers.
“Case 38,” he read. “Surname: Blank. Name: Blank. Patronymic: Blank. Nickname: Cow’s Muck Swamp.”
“Just a minute!” Farfurkis interrupted anxiously. “Listen!”
He raised his finger. We listened, and we heard.
Somewhere in the distance silver horns sang out victoriously. The sound pulsed, grew, and seemed to come closer. The blood froze in my veins. That was the trumpeting of mosquitoes, and not even all of them were calling to battle—only the company commanders or maybe even only the battalion commanders and higher. With the mysterious inner vision of a trapped animal, we saw around us acres and acres of marshy mud, overgrown with thin sedge, covered with layers of decaying leaves, with rotten stumps sticking out here and there, all under the canopy of emaciated aspens. And all these acres, every square inch of them, had detachments of the reddish cannibals, ruthless, starved, and frustrated.
“Lavr Fedotovich!” babbled Khlebovvodov. “Mosquitoes!”
“There is a motion!” Farfurkis shouted. “To postpone the examination of this case until October… November!”
“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich in surprise. “The public doesn’t understand.”
Suddenly the air around us was filled with movement. Khlebovvodov squealed and slapped his face as hard as he could. Farfurkis replied with the same. Lavr Fedotovich started to turn slowly and in surprise, and then the impossible happened: a huge redheaded pirate landed smoothly on Lavr Fedotovich’s forehead and drove his sword right between the poor man’s eyes. Lavr Fedotovich reeled. He was shocked, he did not understand, he could not believe it. And then it really began.
Shaking my head like a horse, waving the mosquitoes away with my elbows, I tried to turn the car around in the narrow space between the aspen groves. Lavr Fedotovich was roaring and squirming on my right, and from the back seat came such a volley of smacks that it sounded as though a whole company of uhlans and hussars had embarked on an evening of mutual insults. By the time I had the car turned around, I was completely swollen. My ears were hot doughnuts and my cheeks were pound cakes, and there were millions of horns on my forehead.
“Forward!” they shouted from all sides. “Back! Give it gas! Get moving! I’ll have you tried, Comrade Privalov.” The motor was roaring, clumps of mud flew in all directions, and the car bounced like a kangaroo, but our speed was low, disgustingly low, and meanwhile new squadrons and armadas were taking off from innumerable airfields. The enemy was indisputably superior in the air. Everybody except me was busy indulging in furious self-criticism, even self-torture. I could not tear my hands away from the wheel, and I could not even use my legs to fight them off. I had one foot free, and with it I scratched everything it could reach. Finally we got to the lake. The road was better and it was uphill. I felt a breeze on my face. I stopped the car. I caught my breath and started scratching. I lost myself in scratching. When I did manage to stop I realized that the Troika was finishing off the commandant.
The commandant was accused of planning and executing a terrorist act. They were holding him accountable for every drop of blood lost by the Troika, and he paid dearly for each and every drop. What was left of the commandant when I could see, hear, and think again could not accurately be called the commandant anymore: a few bones, an empty stare, and a weak mumble: “As God is… In the name of Jesus Christ…”
“Comrade Zubo,” said Lavr Fedotovich finally. “Why did you stop reading the report? Please continue.”
The commandant began gathering the scattered papers from his files.
“Go right to the brief description of the unexplained,” demanded Lavr Fedotovich.
The commandant, giving one last sob, read in a quavering voice:
“A large swamp, from which come occasional sighs and moans.”
“So?” asked Khlebovvodov. “What’s next?”
“Nothing. That’s it.”
“What do you mean that’s it?” Khlebovvodov whined. “You killed me! Destroyed me! And for what? For some lousy sighs? Why did you drag us here, you terrorist? Why did we shed our blood? Just look at me—how can I show up at the hotel like this? You’ve undermined my authority for life! When I get through with you, you won’t even be able to sigh or moan!”
“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. Khlebovvodov shut up.
“There is a motion,” continued Lavr Fedotovich. “In view of the extreme danger that Case 38 poses for the people, the above-named case should be rationalized in the highest degree—that is, it should be classified as irrational and transcendent, and therefore, not really existing, and as such, it should be expunged from the memory of the people, that is, from geographic and topographic maps.”
Khlebovvodov and Farfurkis applauded wildly. Lavr Fedotovich extracted his briefcase from under his seat and placed it squarely in his lap.
“The decree!” he called.
The decree of the highest degree fell on the briefcase.
“Signatures!!”
The signatures fell on the decree.
“Seal!!!”
The safe door clanged open, a wave of office staleness engulfed us, and the Great Round Seal hovered before Lavr Fedotovich. Lavr Fedotovich took it in both hands, raised it over the decree, and lowered it forcefully. A dark shadow passed over the sky, the car settled on its shocks, and Lavr Fedotovich put his briefcase back under the seat and continued.
“To Colony Commandant Comrade Zubo for irresponsibility, harboring the irrational, transcendent, and therefore nonexistent Cow’s Muck Swamp, for not ensuring the safety of the Troika’s work, a
nd also for displaying heroism at the swamp, we announce our gratitude and enter it in the record. Are there any other motions? Next. What else do we have on the agenda, Comrade Zubo?”
“The enchanted place,” said the relieved commandant. “Not far from here, two miles or so.”
“Are there mosquitoes?” inquired Lavr Fedotovich.
“As Christ is my witness,” swore the commandant. “None. Some ants, maybe.”
“Well…” Lavr Fedotovich hesitated. “Wasps? Bees?” he said, revealing great perspicacity and vigilant concern for the welfare of the people.
“By no means.”
Lavr Fedotovich was silent for a long time.
“Wild bulls?” he finally asked.
The commandant assured him that bulls were entirely unknown in the area.
“How about wolves?” asked Khlebovvodov suspiciously.
But the area had neither wolves nor bears, which Farfurkis had remembered. While they did their zoology exercises, I studied the map, trying to figure out the shortest route to the enchanted place. The decree of the highest degree had taken effect: the map indicated Tmuskorpion, the Skorpionka River, Zverinoe Lake, and Lopukhi, but Cow’s Muck Swamp, which used to lie between the lake and Lopukhi, was gone. There was just an anonymous white spot, like the ones for Antarctica on old maps. I was ordered to go on, and we drove off. We went around the oats, through the herds of cows, around Kruglaia Grove, across Studenyi Brook, and a half hour later we found ourselves in the enchanted place.
It was a hill, covered by a forest on one side. Probably there used to be dense forests all over, all the way to Kitezhgrad, but they had been felled, and now the only trees left were on the hill. There was a blackened shack at the very top; two cows with a calf grazed along the slope in front of us, guarded by a big German shepherd. Chickens scratched in the dirt in front of the porch, and there was a goat on the roof.
“Why did you stop?” Farfurkis asked. “You should drive right up. You don’t expect us to walk.”
“And it looks as if they have milk,” Khlebovvodov added. “I could go for a glass of milk. You understand, when you’ve had mushroom poisoning, it’s very good to drink milk. Come on, come on, let’s go!”
The commandant tried to explain that it was impossible to drive up the hill, but his explanations were greeted with icy wonderment on the part of Lavr Fedotovich, infected with the thought of steaming milk, and with Farfurkis’ moans of “Sour cream! From the cellar!” He did not try to argue. To tell the truth, I did not understand either, but I was curious.
I started the engine, and the car sped merrily toward the hill. The odometer clicked off the miles, the wheels whirred in the grass, Lavr Fedotovich stared straight ahead, and the back seat, in anticipation of sour cream and milk, started an argument about what mosquitoes feed on in swamps. Khlebovvodov based his argument on experience and maintained that they feed exclusively on responsible workers on expeditions. Farfurkis, giving way to wishful thinking, maintained that mosquitoes live by cannibalism. The commandant babbled on about God’s solicitude, about something called God’s dew, and fried locusts and wild honey. We drove on this way for twenty minutes. When the odometer showed eight miles, Khlebovvodov gasped.
“But what’s happening?” he said. “We’re moving all right, but the hill is just where it was. Speed it up, driver. What’s the holdup?”
“We’ll never get to the hill,” the commandant said meekly. “It’s enchanted. You can’t drive there, you can’t walk there. We’re just wasting gas.”
Everyone stopped talking after that, and the odometer racked up another four miles. The hill was not even a foot closer. The cows, attracted by the sound of the engine, looked in our direction for a while, then lost interest and went back to their grazing. Indignation mounted in the back seat. Khlebovvodov and Farfurkis exchanged several remarks that were maliciously businesslike. “Sabotage,” said Khlebovvodov. “Sabotage,” said Farfurkis. “Premeditated sabotage.” Then they started whispering, and I heard snatches of conversation: “Set on blocks. That’s right, the wheels turn, but the car doesn’t move. The commandant? Maybe, and the scientific consultant pro tem as well—gas—undermining the economy—then they’ll write off the car as heavily used, while it’s practically brand-new.” I paid no attention to the malicious parrots, but then the back door slammed shut and Khlebovvodov’s passionate howl receded in the distance. I braked hard. Lavr Fedotovich, still moving, smashed into the windshield. I saw stars from the impact, and Farfurkis’ false teeth clacked right in my ear. The car swerved. When the dust had settled, I saw Comrade Khlebovvodov far behind us, running and waving his arms.
“Difficulties?” inquired Lavr Fedotovich. “Get rid of them, Comrade Khlebovvodov.”
We had been rid of the difficulties for quite some time. I had to go get Khlebovvodov, who lay some thirty yards back on the road, ragged, in torn trousers, and very surprised. It turned out that he had suspected the commandant and me of conspiring to set the car on blocks and to run up the mileage for our own benefit. Impelled by a sense of duty, he decided to get out and reveal our plot by looking under the wheels. The commandant and I dragged him back to the car and laid him down so that he could see for himself. Then we went to help Farfurkis, who was looking for his glasses and upper dentures in the car. The commandant found them on the road.
The confusion was done away with completely, Khlebovvodov’s arguments turned out to be rather superficial, and Lavr Fedotovich, who finally realized that there would never be any milk, ever, moved that we not waste gas, which belongs to the people, and get on with our primary responsibilities.
“Comrade Zubo,” he said. “Read the report.”
Case 29, as was to be expected, had neither surname, nor name, nor patronymic. It was provisionally called Enchantings. The date of birth was lost in the mists of time, but the place of birth was given with extremely precise coordinates. Enchantings’ nationality was Russian, it had no education, spoke no foreign languages, its profession was being a hill, and its place of work was again given by the same coordinates. Enchantings had never been abroad, its closest relative was Mother Earth, and its place of permanent residence was again those same coordinates. As for the brief summary of its unexplainability, Vybegallo had wasted no words: “First of all, you can’t drive there, and second of all, you can’t walk there.”
The commandant glowed. The case was definitely proceeding to rationalization. Khlebovvodov was pleased with the application form. Farfurkis was enjoying the self-evident unexplainable factor that did not threaten the people in any way, and it looked as if Lavr Fedotovich had no objections. In any case, he confided to us that the people need hills, as well as dales, ravines, gullies, Elbrus Mountains, and Kazbek Ranges.
But then the door to the shack opened, and an old man dressed in long shirt tied at the waist came out onto the porch, leaning on a stick. He stood on the porch, looked at the sun, shielding his eyes, shook his stick at the goat to get it off the roof, and finally sat on the steps.
“A witness!” said Farfurkis. “Shouldn’t we call the witness?”
“So he’s a witness,” the commandant said sadly. “Isn’t everything clear? If you have questions, I can…”
“No!” said Farfurkis, peering at him suspiciously. “Why shouldn’t we call him? Remember, you don’t live here. He’s a local.”
“Call him, call him,” said Khlebovvodov. “He can bring us milk.”
“Harrumph,” said Lavr Fedotovich. “Comrade Zubo, call the witness for Case 29.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the commandant, throwing his hat on the ground. The case was falling apart before his very eyes. “If he could come here, do you think he’d be sitting over there? He’s a prisoner, you see. He can’t get out! He’s stuck there, and there he’ll stay!”
In total despair, under the suspicious scrutiny of the Troika, anticipating new difficulties and therefore becoming very talkative, the commandant told us the Kitezhgrad legend about the fores
ter Feofil. How he had lived peacefully with his wife, how he was still young and hearty then, how green lightning struck the hill and horrible things started to happen. His wife was in town at the time and when she came back she couldn’t get up the hill to the house. And Feofil tried to get to her. He ran nonstop for two days—to no avail. And so he stayed there. Him up there, and her in town. Then of course, he got used to it in time. You have to go on living. And so he has. He got used to it.
Having heard this horrible tale and having posed several tricky questions, Khlebovvodov suddenly made a discovery. Feofil had avoided the census takers, had never been subjected to any educational activity, and for all we knew could still be an exploiter, a kulak.
“He has two cows,” Khlebovvodov said, “and look, a calf. And a goat. And he doesn’t pay taxes.” His eyes lit up. “If he’s got a calf, he must have a bull, too, hidden away somewhere!”
“He has a bull, that’s right,” the commandant admitted glumly. “It must be grazing on the other side.”
“Well, brother, you really run things well here,” Khlebovvodov said. “I knew you were a phoney, but I didn’t expect something like this, even from you. That you would be a kulak’s henchman, that you would cover up for a kulak.”
The commandant took a deep breath and wailed. “Holy Mother of God. In the name of the twelve original Apostles.”
“Attention!” whispered invisible Eddie.
Feofil the forester suddenly looked up and, shading his eyes from the sun, gazed in our direction. Then he tossed his stick aside and started walking down the hill slowly, slipping and sliding in the tall grass. The dirty white goat trailed after him like a puppy. Feofil came up to us, sat down, and rubbed his chin with his bony brown hand in puzzlement. The she-goat sat next to him and stared at us with her yellow devilish eyes.
“You’re regular people,” Feofil said. “Amazing.”
The goat looked us over and settled on Khlebovvodov.
“This here is Khlebovvodov,” she said. “Rudolf Arkhipovich. Born in 1910 in Khokhloma. His parents got the name out of a romantic novel. Education, seventh grade. He is ashamed of his parents’ background, studied many foreign languages, speaks none.”