Borislav Pekic - Houses

Yes, take good note of that, Isidor: down with the red bourgeoisie! They probably meant bloody , but they said red . For them the bourgeoisie was bloody. For them Arsénie Negovan was bloody! Arsénie, whose forebears had built this ungrateful town with their sweat and skill. Arsénie, who let people off from their rent, and whose building workers were the best paid in the country — that same Arsénie was bloody, and ought to be dragged out of his house and clubbed to death in a ditch like a dog!

All at once I was conscious of something which in my excitement I hadn’t noticed: I was standing on a wooden tie between two rails just as I had at Solovkino, where beneath me the track had lain glistening in the rain. There had been firing in the town from all directions, but I can’t remember whether the Reds were entering and the Whites fleeing, or the Whites entering and the Reds fleeing. I only remember a small shunting engine that rumbled slowly toward me, on whose engineer’s platform was fixed a pole where five men were hanging from a single wire noose. Because of the unbalanced load, the engine was tilting to one side, and it rocked like a boat sliding down the ways to the water. It clattered on past me so quickly that I had no time to read the sign hanging around the necks of the dead men. It went on around the gentle bend behind the railway station and, picking up speed, disappeared into the gray steppes of the Ukraine.

The rioters stood opposite the cordon of soldiers, singing. I’m not sure that I can remember the words exactly, but they went something like this:

Awake the East and the West ,

Awake the North and the South ,

Steps thunder into the onslaught ,

Forward, comrades, shoulder to shoulder!”

But still they hadn’t attacked; the lines simply rippled as if the force of the rear ranks, who could see nothing, carried forward into those in front with a violence that didn’t abate despite the sharp warnings from the soldiers.

“I wouldn’t even talk to them,” said the colonel, taking the binoculars from his eyes. “If they’d let me, I’d teach them a lesson!”

The man behind me spat again. “What would you do then?” he asked.

“I’d go straight at them — what else? Attack both sides. I’d surround the column and smash them before they knew what was happening!”

“It’s easy to attack,” said the man behind us. “Why not meet their demands?”

I had to intervene. “In heaven’s name, sir, de quoi parlezvous? Can’t you see what they’re demanding? They want our property!”

“Only property unjustly accumulated,” said the man dryly.

“The only property unjustly accumulated is what belongs to the banks!” This was my own ground, on which I acknowledged no superior. “I’ve always maintained that those damned Yiddisher banks would be the end of us! On no account should they be allowed to make a middleman’s profit. Yes, by the law of the land, those industrious people who’ve been bearing the whole weight of social progress for centuries…”

“I wouldn’t even talk to them!” repeated the colonel. “They’ve been given freedom, and now all kinds of scum are wandering about the country!”

“… before the most illustrious gathering of the C.S.S., but to be honest with you, they didn’t listen to me then, nor do these people now.”

“Hirelings, that’s what they are,” said the colonel bitterly.

“Of Moscow,” I added.

“Not just of Moscow. All sorts.”

The man behind us spat again.

“Why are you spitting all the time?” asked the colonel. “Are you on their side?”

“I’m not on anyone’s side. If all were well they wouldn’t be worked up, that’s what I’m saying. I spat because I feel like spitting.”

“Well next time you feel like spitting, just read that.” The colonel pointed his finger at the placard: DOWN WITH THE RED BOURGEOISIE. “Who’s the ‘red bourgeoisie?’ Me, do you think, because I own a house?”

“You own a house?” I was sincerely pleased.

“Over there, to the left,” he said. “That yellow two-storied house. A beautiful house, don’t you think?”

I took the binoculars and directed them toward the house he indicated. The building was revolting from every point of view — squat, with harsh colors that reminded one of an Oriental eunuch. But it was his , and judging by the pride with which he spoke, very close to his heart. It was a primitive stage of the feeling of ownership.

“A fine house, colonel,” I said, putting the binoculars down. I felt almost ill just looking at it. “ C’est une vraie perle!”

“Those hooligans have almost destroyed it! Smashed the windows with rocks — not a single one left! They opened the hydrants and turned them on the police! And after that you expect us to talk to them? If it was up to me, I’d get rid of them all.”

“That’s a political error,” said the man behind us.

“It’s an urbanist error, gentlemen!” I shouted. “ C’est une faute urbanistique! The workers’ suburbs have been located in an encircling belt which grips the commercial heart of the city like a vise. This has concentrated the proletariat in breeding grounds of revolt and destruction. Why, gentlemen, didn’t they place those people in closed-off Soleri cones?”

“What’s all that crap about?” said the colonel.

“I’m speaking of Paolo Soleri, who designed a town like a beehive, or rather a conical anthill with internal passageways. All its exits can be easily controlled, and production carried on without any fear of revolutionary ideas or attitudes. In a word, a real town for workers. Si l’on avait appliqué les plans de Solerie, cela ne nous serait pas arrivé, je vous le garantis, messieurs!”

Suddenly the crowd below the embankment became agitated and began to sing:

Arise, you prisoners of starvation ,

Arise you wretched of the earth .

It was my last chance to leave. I had to think quietly. Although I knew what conclusions I would reach, I had no idea that afterward it would induce me to write my will, and to make the decision that I’m now carrying out. One thing, however, was beyond all doubt: Arsénie Negovan’s city of thirty thousand inhabitants would not be built, nor would any of his houses ever again feel the hand of a true property owner.

The man behind joined in the chorus:

’Tis the final conflict, let each stand in his place ,

The Internationale shall be the human race .

“What in God’s name are you singing about?” Despite the cramped space on the tracks, the colonel managed to turn around; from the side, his profile stood out like a worn ancient coin. “Well?”

“Why shouldn’t I sing the Internationale? I’m a Communist.”

“I’m a Communist, too, but I’m not singing — not with that rabble. I fought for this country, comrade!”

“I fought too, comrade!”

“For what?”

“That’s just what I’m asking myself!”

I couldn’t understand a word of it. They sounded as if they’d taken leave of their senses.

“Gentlemen, get a hold of yourselves!”

But they’d already come to blows. They were grappling with each other as violently as the cramped space allowed, and in doing so pushed me right up to the edge of the embankment, above the sandy field where at that very moment the military cordon was under growing pressure from the frenzied mob.

I cried out once again: “ Mais s’il vous plaît, messieurs!”

(Whenever I was excited or in a difficult situation, I always resorted to French, probably because I went to school in Grenoble and first began to think maturely in that language.)