Владимир Беляев - The Town By The Sea

Never in his life could Zuzya have felt so foolish as he did that evening. On the football field he would have been far more at ease. Even if he had missed a shot at an open goal, the blunder would have been quickly forgotten, for the spectators' attention would have turned to the other players. But here Zuzya twisted and squirmed in full view of the audience for rather a long time.

At first the real Trituzny, recognizing himself in his double, snorted and, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, started talking to Angelika. But when Pasha the carpenter approached the footlights and called out Zuzya's favourite phrases, the footballer with the cannon-ball shot realized that he was being made fun of in a rather unpleasant way. He began to blush. His neck turned purple, his lips hardened in a straight line. He tried to sit still as if nothing had happened, but more and more of the audience fixed their eyes on him. At last the, works director turned round in his direction and burst out laughing. Zuzya could stand it no longer. Twisting in his seat, he whispered something to his neighbour. Angelika smiled and shook her head. Zuzya grabbed her hand, obviously trying to lead her out of the hall. But with surprising calm Angelika took her hand away and again shook her head, continuing to watch the stage attentively.

Zuzya shrugged his shoulders offendedly, and letting his seat bang, walked towards the exit. He strode down the long passage between the rows. His long pointed shoes squeaked and people's heads turned as he passed. Some winked, others whispered the hateful phrases after him, but the final blow came from Pasha himself. Seeing that the dandy whom he was imitating was retreating, Pasha stepped up to the footlights with his girl friend in the tunic and shouted after Zuzya: "Au revoir!"

Then, sweeping Pasha aside, Madame Rogale-Piontkovskaya herself burst on to the stage. She ran up to the footlights, stirring up the dust with the hem of her old-fashioned dress sewn together out of overalls. Surveying the audience through an ivory lorgnette, Madame began a slow dance.

Who would have thought that this amazing likeness to the mistress of the dancing-class was not an actress but my friend Petka Maremukha!

Petka's hair had been transformed into grey ringlets and his plump cheeks had received a liberal coating of rouge. With paper clips Petka had fixed bits of cut-glass from a lamp shade to the lobes of his ears. The result was the living image of Madame! Only when Petka's husky bass began a monologue did we guess who it was.

Speaking to her dancing pupils and patting their shoulders,. Petka chattered away at about the speed of the Charleston.

"How are you getting on, my dears? Missing your Mummikins? Don't miss anyone, don't be sad. I'll teach you not to think. . . Why should you study and think of the future and read books? There's no need! It's terribly bad for you! Dance! Think with your feet! Like I'm doing, look at me. That's the way! That's the way! One-two! One-two-three! Hot it up, maestro!..."

Holding up his voluminous skirts, Petka began to perform amazing antics. It might have been a chechotka, it might have been a Ukrainian' gopak. But that did not matter.

He went over to the piano, and brushing the pianist aside, sat down at the instrument himself. And just as. his fingers touched the keys, an invisible band picked up the melody.

Although Petka swayed from side to side and worked the pedals, everyone realized that he was not playing, and gradually forgot about him.

The dancers quickened their pace in time with the music. Each pair danced in their own fashion. One of Madeleine's heels broke. She came down with a crash, pulling her partner, a lanky fellow with a pointed moustache, down on top of her. In the scramble that followed the girl with the fox furs had the green doll torn out of her hair and an elegant dandy attempted surreptitiously to hide it in his pocket. Trituzny (alias Pasha) left his tunic girl and started dancing with another. His insulted partner rushed at her rival with clenched fists. Madame Rogale-Piontkovskaya dashed up to separate them. In the confusion the dancers gave way to all their petty feelings. From stiff, stuck-up dummies they turned into yelping, whining creatures, jostling and abusing one another. Someone trod on Mavrodiadi's foot. But still he went on dancing, brandishing his walking-stick at his offender.

One after another the girls in high heels began to look down at their feet. Painful grimaces appeared on their faces. While they danced they tried to stick their fingers in their heels to gain a little relief.

At this point an obliging pair of hands appeared from the wings and placed a sign-post and a little bush on the edge of the stage. The sign-post had many arms, on which were written: "To the Liski," "To Sobachaya Gully," "To Matrosskaya Settlement," "To Kobazovaya Hill". . . The dancers made a dash for the cherished "grove." And then the audience saw more or less what Golovatsky and I had seen, when we were sitting on the park bench under the acacias. The girls pulled off their tight shoes, hopped about barefoot round the sign-post, uttering cries ofjoy and relief, then ran off home.

A few of the most determined couples went on dancing.

At that moment the lighting-effects man twirled the spot light. Bluish moonlight flooded the stage, and when the lights returned to normal, the men all had grey beards. They had danced their lives away. The girls, too, had turned into old women. Their movements were tired and feeble. And Zuzya Trituzny was not only bearded, but to cap everything—bald.

Several times the curtain had to be raised while the performers came out on the. stage joining hands with Madame Rogale-Piontkovskaya in the middle.

But the real show did not begin until after this introductory parody.

As usual, the "Blue Blouse Show," which was very popular in those days, performed a few turns.

After that, the milling shop's string orchestra, which was almost entirely composed of young people, performed the Russian folk song The Moon Is Shining and Chaikovsky's Sentimental Waltz.

Then the old workers' choir appeared on the stage. To my great surprise I saw Gladyshev among them. I had been accustomed to seeing him in a rough shirt with short sleeves, and now I could scarcely recognize him. He was wearing a long black dress-coat over a finely-embroidered blue high-necked shirt. Gladyshev turned out to be the leading bass.

The choir sang In Bondage Harsh, then O'er the Wild Steppes of Trans-Baikal and The Red Banner. The old men were loudly applauded and asked for an encore. After whispering together for a moment, they sang By the Don a Young Cossack Roams, then We Are Smiths and Young in Heart. But anyone could see that the songs of exile were the favourites of the old workers, for when they were encored again, they sang Ding-Dong, Hark the Fetters Ring\ While they sang, chains could be heard clanking backstage. And you could just imagine the long road across Russia and a party of revolutionaries tramping through frost and snow to Siberia...

To vary the programme, Golovatsky and the club-manager had invited some singers from the watermen's club. There were only three of them. To show that they were connected with the sea, they came on to the stage in oilskins and sou'westers. One of them I recognized as Kolya, the big sailor from the Life-Saving Society who had offered Angelika a life-buoy when she and I took a boat out together. The singers cleared their throats and to the tune of a bayan sang the gay Taganrog Chastushki. Now and then they stamped their big fishermen's boots that came up to their thighs. I did not know that Azov Sea fishermen were so good at composing comic songs.

Then they sang some comic songs about the sea which can still be heard along the Azov and Black-Sea coasts. Composed in the early years after the Revolution, these songs made fun of the interventionists who helped the Whiteguards to fight against the young Soviet Republic. To the twanging of a pair of balalaikas, the singers ridiculed the black Baron Wrangel, the shaggy-headed Makhno, and the British naval commanders who had taken the Russian grand princes out of the Crimea in their destroyers and been rewarded for their services with the family jewels.