The Complete Works of Isaac Babel Reprint Edition by Isaac Babel, Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine (124 page)

Raisa Friedman walked majestically up to the foreman.

“Comrade, where can I find the second mess hall?”

“This is it,” the foreman said, pointing at the workers demolishing the barracks.

“What? They re tearing it down?”

“Thats exactly what they’re doing, tearing it down,” the foreman agreed.

“And what about my new mess hall?” Raisa Friedman asked in a faltering voice.

“We haven’t built it yet. Where are you going, Comrade?” Hopping through the ruins of the barracks, Raisa Friedman made

her way to the main office building. Murashko had a new office there— an unfinished room in which the workers were installing the fourth prefabricated wall with the door in it. But Murashko was already at his desk. Two cleaning women were laying out a carpet on the floor.

Raisa Friedman rushed past Murashkos secretary.

“Comrade Murashko! We dont have one!”

“One what?”

“We dont have a mess hall! This is an outrage!”

“We’ll build one!”

“But you told me you were hiring me to run it!”

“There’ll be time enough for that. In the meantime, you can round up all the builders and outfitters, and see to it that they—”

They were interrupted by Murashko’s secretary, who came staggering in with a flushed face.

“Professor Tolmazov is here,” she said in a terrified whisper.

Murashko jumped up, and buttoned his work jacket.

“Well, Raisa Lvovna, the heat is on. Have you ever heard of Tolmazov?”

“Of course I have! Who do you think I am?” she said with dignity.

“Well then, let’s start work! I take it I don’t have to show you too how things need to be done,” Murashko said, quickly riffling through the papers on his desk, hiding a plate of cookies in the drawer, and hurriedly throwing the crumpled-up bits of paper lying on the floor into the wastepaper basket.

“No, I do not have to be shown how things need to be done,” Raisa Friedman said with a touch of doubt in her voice. “But you hired me to run that mess hall.”

And she left the office.

Murashko pulled the soft armchair closer to the desk.

• • •

In the reception room two men stood talking near the flushed secretary. One, a middle-aged man exuding an air of calm, had short-cropped hair and was wearing an expensive, loose-fitting suit. This was the celebrated Tolmazov. Next to him sat a heavy, wide-shouldered, rough-hewn young fellow with prominent cheekbones and a dour face. This was Tolmazov’s student, Vasilyev.

“Ivan Platonovich, I place all my hopes in you,” Vasilyev said to Tolmazov. “All it will take is a single word from you!”

“And I will say that single word,” Tolmazov answered in a voice as loose-fitting as the suit he was wearing. “I will say that word, Seryozha. We wont let these people here snatch you away from our institute!”

Murashko appeared at the door.

“Please come in, Ivan Platonovich!”

• • •

Murashko sat at his desk, Tolmazov in the armchair.

“One sees you so seldom nowadays, Ivan Platonovich,” Murashko said.

“But this time around, I am the one who is coming for a favor,” Tolmazov replied, with almost more coquetry than an academic can permit himself.

“All the luckier for us,” Murashko let slip.

Tolmazov looked at him in surprise.

“Having the opportunity, I mean, of doing you a favor,” Murashko quickly added. “It would be a great pleasure. There aren’t that many pleasures left to us.”

The professor smiled.

“That is very kind of you,” he said. “I have come to you on account of Vasilyev, one of my students at the institute. He defended his dissertation just recently—a wonderful defense! It was on the subject of my vortex theory.”

Murashko nodded sympathetically.

“Vasilyev combines his deep knowledge of aerodynamics with a great meticulousness and exactitude in his work.”

Murashko nodded again.

“And then we suddenly find out that Vasilyev is taken away from the institute as a member of the Komsomol and assigned to your Airship Construction Project! I hope, Comrade . . . um . . .” “Murashko,” Murashko prompted him.

“. . . Comrade Murashko, that you will not object to him remaining on our faculty at the institute.”

“But I do object!” Murashko said. “To be perfectly honest with you,

I did have some misgivings at first about his coming to us, but after the splendid reference you have just given him . . . Well, you’ll simply have to let our Airship Construction Project have him.”

A shadow flashed over Professor Tolmazov’s face. He got up.

“I have no option but to address myself to a higher authority.” Suddenly Zhukov, disheveled, came tearing into the office. “Comrade Murashko, how could you do that? What a blockhead! On the launch pad, we again have—”

Tolmazov, taken aback, stepped to the side, but Zhukov had already seen him. Both men froze.

“Hello, Ivan Platonovich,” Zhukov said after a few moments of silence in an unexpectedly high-pitched voice.

Tolmazov bowed. Then Zhukov bowed too, but bolts of lightning were already flashing in his eyes.

“As you can see, I am alive and have not gone insane.”

“Judging by your last article, one might well—”

Zhukov came bounding forward. “You disagree with my position?” Tolmazov nodded. “I completely and utterly disagree.”

“I cant believe you didn’t even try to understand what I was saying!” Zhukov shouted, marching toward Tolmazov.

Tolmazov turned to Murashko and explained in a condescending tone, “Pyotr Nikolayevich and I have been arguing for some twenty years now.” “I am aware of that,” Murashko said.

“I am trash, that’s what I am! Worthless!” Zhukov began yelling, almost in delirium. “While you, you have been blossoming! Handsome! A handsome youth! A handsome man! A handsome old man! A god! Yes, Ivan Platonovich is a god!”

Zhukov squirmed, waved his arms, and ran in circles around the office.

Professor Tolmazov grimaced.

“Are you also here visiting Comrade Murashko?” Tolmazov asked, in an attempt to change the subject.

“Visiting! I’m here because of the airship!” Zhukov sputtered furiously.

“Pyotr Nikolayevich is the chief engineer of our Airship Construction Project,” Murashko said, leaning forward slightly.

“Ah,” Tolmazov said, visibly shaken.

“Ah, indeed!”

Zhukovs eyes flashed with boyish fire and he ran out of the office, muttering under his breath.

“A dangerous decision,” Tolmazov said, completely dropping his official tone. “He is a dreamer, an autodidact! A dangerous man indeed!”

“And yet we have found a counterbalance for him,” Murashko said, glancing at Tolmazov. “I received a phone call today. A council of scientists has been appointed to oversee our Airship Construction Project, and it is to be headed by the highly esteemed Professor Tolmazov.”

“Me? Youre joking!” Tolmazov said.

“No, I’m not joking,” Murashko answered. “The main thing for us is to send them up.”

“Send who up?” Tolmazov asked.

“The Soviet airships.”

7.

A panoramic view of the airship dockyard: hangars scattered over its vast area, gas reservoirs, a mooring mast. Some of the buildings were ready, some were being finished, others were still surrounded by scaffolding. A gigantic excavator was tearing at the earth with its prehistoric jaws and then moving on, tirelessly hacking a path for itself.

The office buildings, the aerodynamics laboratory, and the new mess hall.

The design department. Hot shafts of light were falling onto the drafting tables and the heads of the young women working there.

In the corner stood a desk with a sign above it: “Chief Engineer of Fledgling Bird.”

Fate had thrown Natasha Maltseva into a train compartment together with Comrade Murashko, and now this twenty-six-year-old woman with chestnut hair neatly parted in the middle was occupying the position she deserved—that of chief engineer of operations.

• • •

A brightly lit corridor. The shine of the walls, and a hospitallike silence.

Disheveled Zhukov hurried down the corridor with the chief bookkeeper at his heels.

“Comrade Zhukov! Your cleaning woman has sent a request for an advance on her pay!

“Aksinya . . . oh, yes, she’s a good woman. A very good woman! Give her five thousand!” Zhukov stammered as he hurried on.

The chief bookkeeper was on the brink of extending his stubby little wings and bouncing into the air.

“Comrade Zhukov, shes only asking for eighty rubles!”

But Zhukov had already disappeared behind the doors of the design department.

Natasha Maltseva raised her calm, intent eyes to Zhukov, and without saying a word handed him a large blueprint with the heading: “High-speed airship USSR 1, designed by Zhukov.” She made a sign to one of the cleaning women. “Get me Comrade Vasilyev!”

Zhukov quickly riffled through a pile of supplementary blueprints lying on a nearby desk. Then he caught sight of an outline sketch of the cross-section of the airship.

“A fabulous piece of work!”

“Brilliant,” Natasha said, with the same calm, intent stare fixed on Zhukov.

Zhukovs spectacles sparkled angrily. “Girlish enthusiasm!”

Natasha shrugged her shoulders. “It s obvious enough that it’s brilliant.”

Vasilyev entered the office. Zhukov turned to him energetically: “What we need now is your okay to launch this baby!”

“As you can see, Comrade Vasilyev, we have reached the stage of aerodynamics computations,” Natasha said quietly. “And thats your field.”

Vasilyev walked over to the blueprints and bent over them.

“I don’t quite understand this. You are intending to put the gondola—”

“To hell with the gondola!” Zhukov shouted. “Everyone will be inside! Forget the gondolas! Get inside!”

“The fuel tanks—” Vasilyev continued.

“There are no tanks! There is no fuel! There’ll be hydrogen engines .. . running on their own gas.”

“You see, Comrade Zhukov’s basic idea is—” Natasha began.

“I know Comrade Zhukov’s basic ideas,” Vasilyev interrupted her.

“Nevertheless, I would still like to know where the ships steering system is!”

Zhukovs eyes flashed beneath his spectacles.

“Well, Tm sorry, but you wont find one!”

“In that case, I would be grateful if you would enlighten me as to how you intend to steer the ship,” Vasilyev asked with undisguised derision.

Zhukov came tearing forward, but the drafting table cut off his path.

“You’re still living in the eighteenth century! I’m going to install a ring at the tail of the ship which will replace the steering system— the ring will be eight meters in diameter. It will control the ships direction, speed, and mobility!” And looking at his watch he suddenly shouted, “Good God, its past four already! And God Almighty, Im sure, is waiting impatiently. ... So, Comrade Vasilyev, get working!”

And he rushed off. “A-e-ro-dy-na-mic!” he shouted in a voice that ran from declamation to cocks crow.

Vasilyev stared after him until the door fell shut.

“I dont know who one should contact first, the psychiatric ward or the NKVD,”
¹
he said to Natasha. “Is he insane or a saboteur?”

“He is a genius,” Natasha said.

“One that denies that two times two equals four.”

“Does two times two equaling four have anything to do with Professor Tolmazov’s vortex theory?” Natasha asked archly.

Vasilyev furiously grabbed the table with both hands.

“No, my highly esteemed Comrades,” he shouted, as if he were addressing the committee of scientists. “No, Comrades, science plays no role whatsoever here! This is now a matter for the Party to decide!”

“Everything is decided by our Party,” Murashko said, appearing suddenly in the doorway. “Calm down, young man.”

“Young man? Why, are you old or something?” Aksinya mumbled from a corner.

“Comrade Murashko!” Vasilyev said, drawing himself up. “I am speaking for my whole group when I tell you that we will not attempt to work our way through these ravings. I demand that an expert be brought in.”

“As in Professor Tolmazov?” Natasha asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Do you know of anyone who is more of an authority in this field?” Vasilyev answered, barely able to contain his anger.

8.

The aerodynamics laboratory of the Airship Construction Project. Airship models hung from the ceiling. A sleek, silver, cigar-shaped model, suspended from a wire, was swaying gently, the gondola and engine within it. Next to it, near the aerodynamics air pumps, stood the airship design commission: Tolmazov, Zhukov, Murashko, Vasilyev, Maltseva, Polibin, and the engineers from the design department. The engines of the air pumps were droning. All heads were turned to the indicator panel.

Maltseva switched off the machine.

Tolmazov walked over to where the models were hanging, and the rest followed him. He stood by the wall, and checked the notes in his notebook.

“Now to the air pump results. I accept the hydrogen engine, it is a risk worth taking. I admit that it does offer a chance for a slight increase in speed.”

“A slight increase?” Zhukov interrupted him. “You call going from fifty kilometers an hour to three hundred a slight increase in speed?”

“As for the rest,” Tolmazov continued, turning to Zhukov, “I will remind you of some basic facts that every schoolboy knows. The way you have designed the ring that is to replace the steering system, it will inevitably stall in the contiguous stratum of air. In other words, the airship will be unnavigable. I would like to refer you to the handbook issued by the Armstadt Firm in Mannheim.”

“I see what you are saying!” Zhukov snapped. “Even the moon was invented by the Germans!”

“Youre the one who is aiming for the moon, Comrade Zhukov!” Tolmazov retorted.

“One day well even get that far,” Zhukov muttered.

Seeing that the discussion was veering from its scientific course, Polibin stepped in.

“I think one could go so far as to say,” he began in his mellifluous voice, “that there might be a touch of dilettantism in the model of our highly esteemed Comrade Zhukov....”