T. Boyle - T. C. Boyle Stories

It was somewhere around thirty below, give or take a degree. Akaky was wearing two sweaters over his standard-brown serge suit (the office wags called it “turd brown”), and still the cold made him dance. If it was any consolation, the streets were alive with other dancers, shudderers, sprinters, and vaulters, all in a delirious headlong rush to get back inside before they shattered like cheap glass. Akaky was not consoled. His throat was raw and his eyelids crusted over by the time he flung himself into Petrovich’s shop like Zhivago escaped from the red partisans.

Petrovich was sitting beneath a single brown lightbulb in a heap of rags and scraps of cloth, the antique pedal sewing machine rising up out of the gloom beside him like an iron monster. He was drunk. Eight o’clock in the morning, and he was drunk. “Well, well, well,” he boomed, “an early customer, eh? What’s it this time, Akaky Akakievich, your cuffs unraveling again?” And then he was laughing, choking away like a tubercular horse.

Akaky didn’t approve of drinking. He lived a quiet, solitary existence (as solitary as the six Yeroshkin brats would allow), very rarely had occasion to do any social drinking, and saw no reason to drink alone. Sure, he had a shot of vodka now and again to ward off the cold, and he’d tasted champagne once when his sister had got married, but in general he found drinking repugnant and always got a bit tongue-tied and embarrassed in the presence of someone under the influence. “I… I… I was, uh, wondering if—”

“Spit it out,” Petrovich roared. The tailor had lost an eye when he was eighteen, in the Hungarian police action — he’d poked his head up through the top hatch of his tank and a Magyar patriot had nailed him with a dexterously flung stone — and his good eye, as if in compensation, seemed to have grown to inhuman proportions. He fixed Akaky with his bulging protoplasmic mass and cleared his throat.

“—wondering if you could, ah, patch up the lining of my, ah, overcoat.”

“Trash,” Petrovich said.

Akaky held the coat open like an exhibitionist. “Look: it’s not really that bad, just peeling back a little. Maybe you could, ah, reinforce the lining and—”

“Trash, shtampny, brak. You’re wearing a piece of Soviet-bungled garbage, a fishnet, rotten through to the very thread of the seams. I can’t fix it.”

“But—”

“I won’t. It wouldn’t last you the winter. Nope. The only thing to do is go out and get yourself something decent.”

“Petrovich.” Akaky was pleading. “I can’t afford a new coat. This one cost me over a month’s salary as it is.”

The tailor had produced a bottle of vodka. He winked his eye closed in ecstasy as he took a long pull at the neck of it. When he righted his head he seemed to have trouble focusing on Akaky, addressing himself to a point in space six feet to the left of him.

“I’ll make you one,” he said, pounding at his rib cage and belching softly. “Down-lined, fur collar. Like they wear in Paris.”

“But, but… I can’t afford a coat like that—”

“What are you going to do, freeze? Listen, Akaky Akakievich, you couldn’t get a coat like this for five hundred rubles on the black market.”

Black market. The words made Akaky cringe, as if the tailor had spouted some vile epithet: faggot, pederast , or CIA. The black market was flourishing, oh yes, he knew all about it, all about the self-centered capitalist revisionists who sold out the motherland for a radio or a pair of blue jeans or — or an overcoat. “Never,” he said. “I’d rather wear rags.”

“Hey, hey: calm down, Akaky, calm down. I said I could get you one, not that I would. No, for five-fifty I’ll make you one.”

Five hundred and fifty rubles. Nearly three months’ salary. It was steep, it was outrageous. But what else could he do? Go back to the department store for another piece of junk that would fall apart in a year? He stepped back into the tailor’s line of vision.

“Are you absolutely sure you can’t fix this one?”

Petrovich shook his massive head. “No way.”

“All right,” Akaky said, his voice a whisper. “When could you have it done?”

“One week from today.”

“One week? Isn’t that awfully fast work?”

The tailor grinned at him, and winked his bloated eye. “I have my methods,” he said. “Rely on me.”

At the office that morning, while he crouched shuddering over the radiator in his worn overcoat, ragged sweaters, and standard-brown serge suit, Akaky became aware of a disturbance at his back: strident whispers, giggling, derisive laughter. He turned to look up into the grinning, wet-lipped faces of two of the younger clerks. They were wearing leather flight jackets with fur collars and blue jeans stamped prominently with the name of an American Jewish manufacturer, and they were staring at him. The shorter one, the blond, tossed his head arrogantly and made an obscene comment, something to do with mothers, sexual intercourse, and Akaky’s Soviet-made overcoat. Then he put a finger to his head in a mock salute and sauntered through the main door, closely tailed by his tall cohort. Akaky was puzzled at first, then outraged. Finally, he felt ashamed. Was he really such a sight? Shoulders hunched, he ducked down the hallway to the lavatory and removed overcoat and sweaters in the privacy of one of the stalls.

Akaky took his afternoon break in the window of a gloomy downstairs hallway rather than endure the noisy, overcrowded workers’ cafeteria. He munched a dry onion sandwich (he hadn’t seen butter in weeks), drank weak tea from a thermos, and absently scanned the Izvestia headlines. RECORD GRAIN HARVEST; KAMA RIVER TRUCK PLANT TRIPLES OUTPUT; AMERICAN NEGROES RIOT. When he got back to his desk he knew immediately that something was wrong — he sensed it, and yet he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. The others were watching him: he looked up, they looked down. What was it? Everything was in place on his desk — the calendar, the miniature of Misha the Olympic bear, his citation from the Revolutionary Order of United Soviet File Clerks for his twenty-five years of continuous service … and then it occurred to him: he was late. He’d dozed over lunch, and now he was late getting back to his desk.

Frantic, he jerked round to look at the clock, and saw in that instant both that he was as punctual as ever and that a terrible, shaming transformation had come over the life-size statue of Lenin that presided over the room like a guardian angel. Someone, some jokester, some flunky, had appropriated Akaky’s overcoat and draped it over the statue’s shoulders. This was too much. The bastards, the thoughtless, insensitive bastards. Akaky was on his feet, his face splotched with humiliation and anger. “How could you?” he shouted. A hundred heads looked up. “Comrades: how could you do this to me?”

They were laughing. All of them. Even Turpentov and Moronov, so drunk they could barely lift their heads, even Rodion Mishkin, who sometimes played a game of chess with him over lunch. What was wrong with them? Was poverty a laughing matter? The overcoat clung to Lenin’s shoulders like a growth, the underarm torn away, a long tangled string of felt depending from the skirts like a tail. Akaky strode across the room, mounted the pedestal and retrieved his coat. “What is it with you?” he sputtered. “We’re all proletarians, aren’t we?” For some reason, this fired up the laughter again, a wave of it washing over the room like surf. The blond tough, the punk, was smirking at him from the safety of his desk across the room; Moronov was jeering from beneath his red, vodka-swollen nose. “Citizens!” Akaky cried. “Comrades!” No effect. And then, shot through with rage and shame and bewilderment, he shouted as he had never shouted in his life, roared like an animal in a cage: “Brothers!” he bellowed.