July 12, 1993
Monday
9:40 AM
Zhorik, seething, mighty, undefeated by anyone, kept his promise. The business was underway.
A little after nine we arrived at NIIVychMekh, and ran into security, who had no authority to let strangers in.
Zhorik settled it with a couple of phone calls. An elderly fellow arrived to meet us. Moved smoothly, spoke slowly, gazed on everything with grandeur, despite standing shorter than average. While we signed the arrivals log, the registration log, and the pass issue book, Zhorik explained that the old man was none other than Ivan Timofeyevich Rudakov, deputy director for facilities, third in rank after God and the Director on these premises. I filled up with respect and stepped back a couple of paces. Zhorik also pretended to be duly awed, and stepped back the same two paces.
From then on we moved in a wedge formation. Timofeich in front, Zhorik and I behind him. Went up to the second floor for the floor plan, came back down to the site of our future labor glory: the first floor of the right wing. Eight offices along the corridor to the right, ten to the left, a hall in the middle with ficus plants and two restrooms, men’s and women’s.
After inspecting the offices, narrow and elongated like pencil cases, Zhorik asked about the possibility of remodeling. Timofeich reasoned that the walls absolutely could not be knocked down, but in principle, purely theoretically, such a thing could be done, though he wouldn’t recommend it, but if it was really necessary, then why not, though it wasn’t a sure thing, because…
Zhorik, satisfied with the flow of reasoning, promised to come back later and work through the matter with the numbers in hand. At these words Ivan Timofeyevich nodded graciously and departed with the gait of a lead soloist in a folk dance ensemble.
Zhorik and I moved to the office farthest from the entrance. Zhorik fumbled with the keys he’d been handed, fished out the right one, and opened the door:
— I’m taking this room for myself.
I paced it off, ten by four, proportions just like the dorm. Zhorik walked over to the window looking onto the inner courtyard:
— Nobody in the smoking area… too bad… Now here’s your task: clear the junk out of the rooms. I’m going to round up some builders, they’re hanging around the corner on Khlebozavodskaya.
Zhora tossed over a ring of keys, followed by a banded stack of thousand-ruble notes. Already walking off, he ordered:
— Find some movers, ask Timofeich where to haul it all…
He vanished.
I walked out of the office, shuffled around the hall. How to solve this problem? Empty corridors, hazy shadows in corners that looked like… I felt a jab at the back of my skull, what, again? no, wait, yes… I was standing in the middle of a dorm corridor, there’s my room, forty-four… no, not mine, some office or other…
Either way, I’d found my solution. I dashed outside, flagged down a private car, and sped off to the dorm.
Ten minutes later I was tearing through the floors in search of strongmen who wouldn’t turn their nose up at physical labor for decent pay.
Half an hour later I was directing the hauling of furniture and scientific equipment down to the designated basement.
By five in the evening, briskly, efficiently, dust flying everywhere, we’d hauled out all the junk, from ruling pens to fireproof cabinets. The site was cleared, renovation could begin.
Zhorik, with his crew of slight-framed fellows of non-Slavic appearance, kept badgering me with questions about how soon we’d be finished. My offer to pitch in and speed things up was ignored. They explained that a builder isn’t some hourly-paid mover. He’s a divinely chosen executor of the client’s will, formalized in a blueprint and officially confirmed by contract. Zhorik, meanwhile, was citing Friedrich Schelling and Arthur Schopenhauer, I didn’t stick around to hear the rest.
Turned in the keys and headed back to the dorm. The guys suggested knocking back a beer, celebrating the odd job.
