Chevengur

At first he thought that the Whites must have entered the city. There was a refreshment counter at the train station that was selling loaves of bread – no lines, no ration cards. Near the train station, on the premises of the Gubprodkom [Provincial Food Supply Commissariat], hung a crude sign lettered with gobs of poor quality paint. The sign featured the laconic and sloppily written message: EVERYTHING SOLD TO ALL CITIZENS. PREWAR-QUALITY BREAD, PREWAR-QUALITY FISH, FRESH MEAT, OUR OWN CUSTOM-MADE PICKLINGS. Underneath, in small letters, the name of the company had been added: Ardulyants, Romm, Kolesnikov & Co.

Dvanov decided that this was some sort of a joke and stepped inside. There he encountered the ordinary accoutrements of commerce, which he had not seen since his early youth and had long since forgotten: glass display cases, shelving, a fine-tuned scale instead of a steelyard, courteous shop clerks rather than warehouse workers and food distribution managers, a lively crowd of customers, and stores of grocery items emanating the smells of surfeit.

“No mistaking this for some Provincial Distribution Point!” a fellow contemplator of commerce pronounced empathetically. Dvanov cast a hateful glance his way. The fellow was not the least embarrassed and actually responded with a rather triumphant smile, as if to say, “What’s it to you? I’m rejoicing in something perfectly legal.” Besides the customers, an entire crowd was standing around. They were simply observing and exhibited a lively interest in the pleasant turn of events. There were more of them than the customers, and they were also playing an indirect part in commerce. One walked up to the bread, broke off a piece and put it into his mouth. The shop assistant made no objection and awaited the verdict. The devotee of commerce chewed the bit of bread, taking its measure with his tongue and engrossed in thought. He then gave the clerk his assessment.

“Bitter! You know, just a bit! You use yeast?”

“Sourdough,” replied the clerk.

“Uh-huh. You can tell. On the other hand, the flour’s been well ground – not like you’d get under rationing – and the baking’s first-rate, no doubt about it!”

The fellow moved over to the meat, affectionately pinched it, and took an unhurried sniff.

“Shall I cut you some?” the tradesman asked.

“I’m trying to figure out – it’s not horsemeat, by any chance?” the man investigated. “Probably not. Hardly any tendons and you don’t see any foam. You know when you try to make broth with horsemeat you just get foam. Doesn’t agree with my stomach; I’m a bit sickly…”

The tradesman, venting his pique, boldly grabbed the meat. “You’re calling this horsemeat?! This is straight from Cherkasy – one filet. See how fresh it is – it’ll melt in your mouth. You can eat it raw, like tvorog.”

Satisfied, the man walked over to the crowd of onlookers and gave them a detailed account of his discoveries. The onlookers, without leaving their post, were making a sympathetic attempt to comprehend all the workings of commerce. Two of them could stand it no longer and had gone to help the clerks. They blew dust from the counter, gave the scale a going-over with a feather duster to improve its accuracy, and aligned the weights. One of the volunteers was cutting pieces of paper and writing the names of items on them. He then attached them to little wires and stuck the wires into the corresponding items. As a result, each item now had a little sign hanging down over it in such a way as to immediately give customers a clear understanding of things. Into a box of grain the volunteer stuck “Millet,” into beef he stuck “Fresh Cow Meat,” and so on, in keeping with a more normal explanation of things. His friends watched his efforts with admiration. These were the forefathers of the ameliorators of government service, ahead of their time. Customers entered the store, read the labels – and had greater faith in the goods that bore them.

One old woman came in and spent a long time looking around the premises. Her head was shaking from old age exacerbated by hunger. Her centers of self-control were weakened and there was an involuntary discharge of moisture from her nose and eyes. The old woman approached the clerk and extended him a ration card, held together by stitches of coarse thread.

“No need, Grandma. We’ll just give it to you,” the clerk announced. “What did you eat while your children were dying?”

“Oy, have we lived to see the day?” the old woman was deeply moved.

“We have: Lenin taketh away, and Lenin giveth.”

“He is father to us all,” the old woman whispered, and began to shed tears so copious as to suggest she still had another forty years of this good life ahead of her. The clerk gave her a slice of fresh bread for her trip home, to make up for the sins of War Communism.