Maria Reva - Good Citizens Need Not Fear - Stories

Daniil reached the entrance to his building in late evening. His eyelids were heavy with fatigue, but his feet resisted going inside. Perhaps it was the hacking coughs, the endless questions, the innumerable pairs of shoes he’d have to dig through just to find his slippers. With his index finger he traced the red stenciled numbers and letters beside the main entrance. Nineteen thirty-three Ivansk Street. The building was a clone of the other two buildings on the block: identical panels, square windows, and metal entrances; identical wear in the mortar; identical rebar under the balconies, leaching rust. Nineteen thirty-three Ivansk was solidly there, in front of his nose. He blinked. But if it wasn’t? He stepped closer to the stenciled numbers, felt the cold breath of the concrete. Was he the only one who could see it? It was there. Or it wasn’t.

“Fudgy Cow?” a voice behind him asked.

Daniil jumped, and turned. He discerned the hunched silhouette of one of the benchers. From the spot the man occupied—right bench, left armrest—he knew it was Pyotr Palashkin, retired English teacher, loyal Voice of America listener. Palashkin lit a cigarette, illuminating his mole-specked face, and handed a candy to Daniil. The chubby cow on the paper wrapper smiled up at him dreamily. Daniil hadn’t seen candy like this for months. He pocketed it for later.

“What are you out here stroking the wall for?” Palashkin asked.

Daniil shrugged. “I was just on my way in.” He stayed put.

Palashkin looked up at the sky. He said in a low voice, “It’s all going to collapse, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Whispers are all we hear now, rumors here and there, but give it a few more years. Know what I’m saying? It’s all going kaput.”

Daniil gave the concrete wall a pat. “Let’s just hope none of us are inside when she goes.”

“What are you, cuckoo in the head? We’re already inside. And I’m not talking about that building.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m outside,” Daniil said, now feeling unsure.

“Go eat your Fudgy Cow, Daniil.” Palashkin extinguished his cigarette between his thumb and his index finger, stood up, and disappeared into the dark.

Daniil bent so close to the glass partition, he could almost curl his lips through the circular opening. The woman in booth number 7 (booths 1 to 6 were CLOSED FOR TECHNICAL BREAK), Kirovka Department of Gas, wore a fuzzy yellow sweater that Daniil found comforting, even inviting. He gazed at her and felt a twinge of hope.

The woman shut the directory with a thud. “What was it, 1933 Petrovsk, you said?”

“Ivansk.”

“Look, I’ve heard rumors about that place, but it’s not on any of the lists. Nineteen thirty-three Petrovsk is, though.”

“That doesn’t help me.”

“Don’t be hostile, Citizen. You are one of many, and I work alone.”

“I know you know 1933 Ivansk exists. It exists enough for you to fiddle with the gas when you feel like it,” Daniil said.

“What are you accusing us of, exactly?”

“Us? I thought you worked alone.”

The woman took off her reading glasses, rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Refer to the town council with your questions.”

“Already did. They said you’d fix it.”

“Refer to the factory in charge of your suite assignment.”

“What do they know? The whole combine is in a state of panic.” Daniil was referring to the problem of the string bean.

“Best wishes with your heating problem,” the woman pronounced. “Next!”

Candies Available for Civilian Consumption: Masha and Bear / Bear in the North / Little Bear / Clumsy Bear / Stratosphere / Strike! / Brighter! / Little Squirrel / Thumbelina / Moscow in Evening / Kiev in Evening / Fantastic Bird / Little Lemon / Little Lenin / Snowflake / Jelly / Fuzzy / Iris / Fudgy Cow / Little Red Hat / Alyonka / Little Miracle / Solidarity / Leningrad / Bird’s Milk / Red Poppy / Mask / Meteorite / Vizit / Red Moscow / Dream / Caramel Crab Necks / Goose Feet / Duck Beaks / Kiss Kiss / Golden Key / Snow / Crazy Bee…And So Many More!

Daniil entered his apartment to find every square centimeter of shelf and bed space covered in stacks of red bills. His relatives had squeezed themselves into corners to count the money.

Daniil backed out of the apartment, closed the door behind him, stood on the landing until he had counted to thirty, and reentered. The red bills were still there. All right, he thought, so the hallucination continues. Run with it. Let the mind have its fancy.

The children’s shrieks and snivels and coughs rang out from the kitchen, yet seemed warped and far away, as though they were coming from inside a tunnel.

Uncle Timko, the only grown-up not counting bills, sat cross-legged on Daniil’s bunk, hacking away at a block of wood with a mallet and chisel. “Your grandfather’s disappearing testicles saved the day, Daniil,” he said, without looking up.

“I can’t stand lamenting them anymore,” said Grandfather Grishko, cocooned in a comforter. “Back in my district, they enjoyed quite a reputation. The girls would come from far and wide—” He went on to say a few things Daniil chose to expunge from his hallucination.

“The children !” Aunt Nika exclaimed from the depths of her fur.

Grandfather Grishko tossed a red stack at Daniil, and Daniil leafed through the crisp bills, half-expecting them to crackle and burst into pyrotechnic stars.

“This is my life’s savings, Daniil,” his grandfather said. “I’ve been keeping it for hard times, and hard times have arrived. Take the money. Don’t ask me where I’ve been stashing it. Put it in for heating, bribe someone—anything.”

Daniil mustered a weak thank-you.

Uncle Timko held up his mangled block of wood. “Does this look like a spoon or a toothpick?”

“Neither.”

“It’s supposed to be both.”

“You’re getting wood chips all over my sheets,” protested Daniil.

Uncle Timko ignored him. “Spoon on one end, toothpick on the other. A basic instrument of survival.”

When at last the counting was done, Grandfather Grishko’s savings, along with money the other relatives had scrounged up, came to a hefty 8,752 rubles and 59 kopeks.

Daniil did a quick calculation in his head, imagining what 8,752 rubles and 59 kopeks could buy. He took the rabid inflation into account, and recalled the prices he’d seen at the half-empty state store the week before. Then he looked up from the stacks of bills into the expectant eyes of his family.

“We’ve got enough here to buy one space heater,” he declared. He quickly held up a cautionary finger to stop the dreamers in the room. “If I can find one.”

The next day, Daniil found another memo on his desk, this one from Sergei Igorovich:

TO FILL UNFILLABLE STRING-BEAN TRIANGULAR VOID, ENGINEER TRIANGULAR VEGETABLE.

DUE FRIDAY.

Daniil rubbed his temples. An irresistible desire to stretch came over him. He wanted his body to fill the office, his arms and legs to stick out of the doors and windows. He wanted to leap and gambol where wild pearwood grew. His great parachute lungs would inflate, sucking up all the air on the planet.

The phone rang.

Sergei Igorovich was calling from his office again. He stood in his doorway, coiling the powder-blue phone cable around his index finger. “Is that a Fudgy Cow on your desk?”

“Just the wrapper, Sergei Igorovich.”

“I haven’t had one in months.”

The line filled with heavy silence.

“I should get back to the triangular vegetable, Sergei Igorovich.”