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.