第 48 页

"Well, come on! What's on your mind?"

His hand with the piece of bread remained suspended in mid air. He stared at his visitor blinking with astonishment.

"Hey.... What's this? ... Well, of all the! ..."

The sight of the confusion and bewilderment on Pankratov's red face was too much for Pavel and he burst out laughing.

"Pavka!" cried the other. "But we all thought you were a goner! Wait a minute, now? What's your name again?"

Pankratov's elder sister and his mother came running in from the next room at his shouts. All three began showering Pavel with questions until at last they finally satisfied themselves that it really was Pavel Korchagin and none other.

Long after everyone in the house was fast asleep Pankratov was still giving Pavel an account of all that had happened during the past four months.

"Zharky and Mityai went off to Kharkov last winter. And where do you think they went, the beggars? To the Communist University! Got into the preparatory course. There were fifteen of us at first. I also got into the spirit of the thing and applied. About time I got rid of some of the sawdust in my noodle, I thought. And would you believe it, that examination board flunked me!"

Pankratov snorted at the memory and went on: "At first everything was fine. I fitted in on all counts: I had my Party card, I'd been in the Komsomol long enough, nothing wrong with my background and antecedents, but when it came to political knowledge I got into hot water.

"I got into an argument with one of the chaps on the examining board. He comes at me with a nasty little question like this: 'Tell me, Comrade Pankratov, what do you know about philosophy?'

Well, the fact is I didn't know a damned thing about philosophy. But there was a fellow used to work with us at the wharves, a grammar school student turned tramp, who had taken a job as a stevedore for the fun of it. Well, I remember him telling us about some brainy fellows in Greece who knew all the answers to everything, philosophers they called them, he said. Well, there was one chap, can't remember his name now, Diogineez or something like that, he lived all his life in a

barrel. .. . The smartest of them all was the one who could prove forty times over that black was white and white was black. A lot of spoofers, you see? So I remembered what that student told me and I says to myself: 'Aha, he's trying to trip me up.' I see that examiner looking at me with a twinkle in his eye and I let him have it. 'Philosophy,' I says, 'is just poppycock, and I'm not going to have any truck with it, Comrades. The history of the Party, now, that's another matter. I'll be

only too glad to have a crack at that.' Well, they went for me good and proper, wanted to know where I'd gotten those queer ideas of mine. So I told them about that student fellow and some of the things he'd said and the whole commission nearly split their sides. The laugh was on me all right. But I got sore and walked out.

"Later on that examiner fellow got hold of me in the Gubernia Committee and lectured me for a good three hours. It turns out that the student down at the docks had got things mixed up. It seems philosophy is all right, dashed important, as a matter o' fact.

"Dubava and Zharky passed the exams. Mityai was always good at studies, but Zharky isn't much better than me. Must have been his Order that got him by. Anyway I was left back here. After they went I was given a managing job at the wharves — assistant chief of the freight wharves. I always used to be scrapping with the managers about the youth and now I'm a manager myself. Nowadays if I come across some slacker or nitwit I haul him over the coals both as manager and Komsomol secretary. He can't throw dust in my eyes! Well, enough about me. What else is there to tell you?

You know about Akim already; Tufta is the only one of the old crowd left on the Gubernia Committee. Still on his old job. Tokarev is Secretary of the District Committee of the Party at Solomenka. Okunev, your fellow commune member, is on the Komsomol District Committee.

Talya works in the Political Education Department. Tsvetayev has your job down in the repair shops. I don't know him very well. We only meet occasionally in the Gubernia Committee; he seems to be quite a brainy fellow, but a bit standoffish. Remember Anna Borhart? She's at Solomenka too, head of the Women's Department of the District Party Committee. I've told you about all the others. Yes, Pavel, the Party's sent lots of folk off to study. All the old activists attend the Gubernia Soviet and Party School. They promise to send me too next year."

It was long past midnight when they retired for the night. By the time Pavel awoke the next morning, Pankratov had gone to the wharves. Dusya, his sister, a strapping lass closely resembling her brother, served Pavel tea, keeping up a lively patter of talk all the while. Pankratov the elder, a ship's engineer, was away from home.

As Pavel was preparing to go out, Dusya reminded him:"Don't forget now, we're expecting you for dinner."

The Gubernia Committee of the Party presented the usual scene of bustling activity. The front door opened and closed incessantly. The corridors and offices were crowded, and the muffled clicking of typewriters issued from behind the door of the Administration Department.

Pavel lingered in the corridor for a while in search of a familiar face, but finding no one he knew,went straight in to see the secretary. The latter, dressed in a blue Russian shirt, was seated behind a large desk. He looked up briefly as Pavel entered and went on writing.

Pavel took a seat opposite him and studied the features of Akim's successor.

"What can I do for you?" the secretary in the Russian shirt asked as he finished his writing.

Pavel told him his story.

"I want you to restore my membership and send me to the railway workshops," he wound up.

"Please issue the necessary instructions."

The secretary leaned back in his chair.

"Well put you back on the lists, of course, that goes without saying," he replied with some hesitation. "But it'll be a bit awkward to send you to the workshops. Tsvetayev is there. He's a member of the Gubernia Committee. We'll have to find something else for you to do."

Korchagin narrowed his eyes.

"I don't intend to interfere with Tsvetayev's work," he said. "I'm going to work at my trade and not as secretary. And since my health is rather poor I would ask you not to assign me to any other job."

The secretary agreed. He scribbled a few words on a slip of paper.

"Give this to Comrade Tufta, he'll make all the arrangements."

In the Personnel Department Pavel found Tufta giving a dressing down to his assistant. Pavel stood for a minute or two listening to the heated exchange, but since it threatened to last for a long time, he broke in.

"You'll finish the argument another time, Tufta. Here's a note for you about fixing up my paper."

Tufta stared. He looked from the paper to Korchagin, until at last it dawned on him, "I'll be damned! So you didn't die after all? Tut, tut, what are we going to do now? You've been struck off the lists. I myself turned in your card to the Central Committee. What's more, you've missed the census, and according to the circular from the Komsomol C.C. those who weren't registered in the census are out. So the only thing you can do is to file an application again in the regular way." Tufta's tone brooked no argument.

Pavel frowned.

"I see you haven't changed, Tufta. The same musty old bureaucrat. When will you learn to be human?"

Tufta sprang up as if a flea had bitten him.

"I would thank you not to lecture me. I am in charge here. Circular instructions are issued to be obeyed and not violated. And you'd better be careful with your accusations!"

With these words, Tufta sat down and demonstratively drew the pile of unopened mail toward him.

Pavel walked slowly to the door, then remembering something, he went back to the desk and picked up the secretary's slip that lay before Tufta. The latter watched him closely. He was a mean spiteful person, with nothing youthful about him, a trifle ridiculous with his big ears that seemed forever on the alert.

"All right," Pavel said in a calm mocking voice. "You can accuse me of disorganising statistics if you like, but, tell me, how on earth do you manage to wangle reprimands for people who go and die without giving formal notice in advance? After all, anyone can get sick if he wants to, or die if he feels like it, there's nothing in the instructions about that, I bet."

"Ho! Ho! Ho!" roared Tufta's assistant, no longer able to preserve his neutrality.

The point of Tufta's pencil broke and he flung it on the floor, but before he had time to retort several people burst into the room, talking and laughing. Okunev was among them. There was much excitement when Pavel was recognised and endless questions were fired at him. A few minutes later another group of young people came in, Olga Yureneva with them. Dazed by the shock and delight of seeing Pavel again, Olga clung to his hand for a long time.

Pavel had to tell his story all over again. The sincere joy of his comrades, their undisguised friendship and sympathy, the warm handclasps and friendly slaps on the back made Pavel forget about Tufta for the moment.

But when he had finished his account of himself and told his comrades about his talk with Tufta there was a chorus of indignant comments. Olga, with an annihilating look at Tufta, marched off to the secretary's office.

"Come on, let's all go to Nezhdanov," cried Okunev. "He'll take care of him." And with these words he took Pavel by the shoulders and the whole group of young friends trooped after Olga into the office of the secretary.

"That Tufta ought to be taken off the job and sent down to the wharves to work under Pankratov for a year. He's a hidebound bureaucrat!" stormed Olga.

The Gubernia Committee secretary listened with an indulgent smile when Okunev, Olga and the others demanded that Tufta be dismissed from the Personnel Department.

"Korchagin will be reinstated without question," he assured Olga. "A new card will be issued him at once. I agree with you that Tufta is a formalist," he went on. "That is his chief failing. But it must be admitted that he has not done so badly on the job. Komsomol personnel statistics wherever I have worked have always been in a state of indescribable chaos, not a single figure could be relied on. In our Personnel Department the statistics are in good order. You know yourselves that Tufta often sits up nights working. Here's how I look at it: he can always be removed, But if his place is taken by some free and easy chap who knows nothing about keeping

records, we may not have any bureaucracy, but neither will we have any order. Let him stay on the job. I'll give him a good talking to. That will help for a while and later on we'll see."

"All right, let him be," Okunev agreed. "Come on, Pavel, let's go to Solomenka. There's a meeting at the club tonight. Nobody knows you're back yet. Think what a surprise they'll get when we announce: 'Korchagin has the floor!' You're a great lad, Pavel, for not dying. What good would you be to the proletariat dead?" And Okunev threw his arm around his friend and piloted him down the corridor.

"Will you come, Olga?"

"Of course I will."

Korchagin did not return to the Pankratovs for dinner, in fact he did not go back there at all that day. Okunev took him to his own room in the House of Soviets. He gave him the best meal he could muster, then placed a pile of newspapers and two thick files of the minutes of the District Komsomol Bureau meetings before him with the advice: "Glance through this stuff. Lots of things happened while you were frittering away your time with the typhus. I'll come back toward evening and we'll go to the club together. You can lie down and take a nap if you get tired."

Stuffing his pockets full with all kinds of papers and documents (Okunev scorned the use of a portfolio on principle and it lay neglected under his bed), the District Committee secretary said good-bye and went out.

When he returned that evening the floor of his room was littered with newspapers and a heap of books had been moved out from under the bed. Some of them were piled on the table. Pavel was sitting on the bed reading the last letters of the Central Committee which he had found under his friend's pillow.

"A fine mess you've made of my quarters, you ruffian!" Okunev cried in mock indignation. "Hey, wait a minute, Comrade! Those are secret documents you're reading! That's what I get for letting a nosy chap like you into my den!"

Pavel, grinning, laid the letter aside.

"This particular one doesn't happen to be secret," he said, "but the one you're using for a lampshade is marked 'confidential'. Look, it's all singed around the edges!"

Okunev took the scorched slip of paper, glanced at the title and struck himself on the forehead in dismay.

"I've been looking for the damn thing for three days! Couldn't imagine where it had got to. Now I remember. Volyntsev made a lampshade out of it the other day and then he himself searched for it high and low." Okunev folded the document carefully and stuffed it under the mattress. "We'll put everything in order later on," he said reassuringly. "Now for a bite and then off to the club. Pull up to the table, Pavel!"

From one pocket he produced a long dried roach wrapped in newspaper and from the other, two slices of bread. He spread the newspaper out on the table, took the roach by the head and whipped it smartly against the table's edge to soften it. Sitting on the table and working vigorously with his jaws, the jolly Okunev gave Pavel all the

news, cracking jokes the while.

At the club Okunev took Korchagin through the back entrance behind the stage. In the corner of the spacious hall, to the right of the stage near the piano sat Talya Lagutina and Anna Borhart with a group of Komsomols from the railway district. Volyntsev, the Komsomol secretary of the railway shops, was sitting opposite Anna. He had a face as ruddy as an August apple, hair and eyebrows the colour of ripe corn. His once black leather jacket was extremely shabby.