July 13, 1993
Tuesday
10:00 AM
The next morning, at ten o’clock sharp, I wandered past heaps of construction debris. Looked like Zhorik had negotiated a better layout. Jackhammers thundered here and there, non-Russian speech rang out framed by Russian cursing, here and there. Zhora and a fellow who looked like a foreman darted from one space to another with an A0-sized floor plan. Once a minute they’d unroll it and stare: «Right, this is a load-bearing wall. Don’t touch it! Knock down this cardboard partition here.»
Once he’d settled the demolition question, Zhorik darted over to the color mixer, a fair-haired guy. Didn’t linger. Tore off toward the checkpoint, muttering «drywall,» «Tigi Knauf,» «Volokolamskoye,» and other such gibberish.
I trudged off to the smoking area, mulling over how best to approach the theme of the «superfluous man.»
Never got the chance. Zhorik, running past, ordered Bazarov to quit dicking around and go get the keys to the assembly hall. That meant me, he was demanding a room for interviews:
— Clear, Pechorin?
— Yes!
— Then why are you sitting there? Get to work, Comrade Chatsky!
Awkwardly at first, then more confidently, and by the end easily and casually, I carried out the task. Got the keys on the third try: from Lyubochka to the deputy director for research, Sergei Konstantinovich, and from there to the head librarian, Rimma Vitalyevna.
Went up to the third floor, unlocked the assembly hall.
Nothing had changed since the days of unanimously approving Party resolutions. On the stage, a presidium table, with, as required, a podium and a potbellied carafe beside it. Behind the stage, a velvet curtain the color of dried blood. Up on the right, a yellow-green appliqué of laurel leaves, crowned with a yellow hammer and sickle. Missing a bas-relief of Lenin. Taken down. Left a bare patch behind.
So this was where passions had once boiled over about the Interregional Group of Deputies, democratic fronts with their coordinating councils, and the Memorial society. Maybe darling Sergei Stankevich himself had once stood here delivering speeches to a room full of dreamers. From here the fired-up intelligentsia had marched off, first to the million-strong rally at Luzhniki, then to the barricades at the White House…
I shook off the spell. No freebies today! Happiness wasn’t going to drop on my head like an overripe fruit. Time to act!
Shoved the podium backstage, pulled the red cloth off the presidium table. Took stock.
Shabby. Crooked. Five battered tables and a dozen chairs. Put the red cloth back.
Went to report to Zhora. Learned that Zhora was now HR, and I was the secretariat of a thriving company.
Went over to Lyuba and wrote down the full names and phone numbers of the candidates.
Went back to the library, set up a workspace in a nook behind the shelves.
Tortured the telephone, calling people in for interviews. Dashed to the assembly hall, handed out application forms to arrivals, checked they were filled out correctly. Bolted down a floor, dragged Zhorik out of the construction chaos and hauled him off to interviews. Rushed back to the library, back to the phone… Whew!!!
By seven in the evening the rush had died down. The company had gained ten employees, ready to start their positions the following week.
I locked up the assembly hall, returned the key to Rimma Vitalyevna. Went down to the first floor, found ruins.
The builders had smashed every wall they could get away with, left the resulting rubble behind as a lesson for future generations, and vanished into the depths of the ages… from those depths came a shout: «pound the crap out of all this crap till you’re done pounding it!»
A jackhammer started up. Work resumed.
I headed for the inner courtyard, to the smoking area.
About five minutes later Zhorik ran past, throwing hand signals my way, «Wait! Wait! Be right there!»…
Ran back the other way without any signals at all.
Either he was play-acting a chase, or a search. Maybe just simulating frantic activity. Took a swig from his flask, vanished.
You don’t drink during a chase or a search. I remembered gulping cognac from that same flask at the disco.
Half an hour later Zhorik ordered everyone out to Bucephalus.
An hour later we pulled out onto Varshavskoye Highway.
After five turns near Danilovskaya, Zhorik held out the flask: «Relax, or you won’t be able to sleep.»
Ugh! No!!!
Cognac’s not for me.
I know for a fact: hard liquor turns me into an idiot! Although today was a special day. For the first time in my life, I’d carried out a task that involved not just me, but other people too.
My whole life up to this point, I’d only ever done things that concerned me and my own personal duties. Answered for whatever fell within the bounds allotted to my body and my mind. Today I’d stepped past the borders drawn by my own indecision. I’d exercised will and made the hiring process happen. Personally.
Not exactly made it happen, but did something right, at least.
One little sip couldn’t hurt!
