Mikhail Ivanych held the Nikitins in contempt[58]. As they did him, naturally.
“Still drinking?” enquired Nadezhda Fyodorovna, mixing chicken feed in the pail.
“I saw him at the centre,” said Nikitin, wielding a jointer plane. “Laced since the morning.”
I didn’t want to encourage them.
“But he is kind.”
“Kind,” agreed Nikitin. “Nearly killed his wife with a knife. Set all ’er dresses ablaze. The little ones running around in canvas shoes in winter… But yes, other than that he’s kind…”
“Misha is a reckless man, I understand, but he is also kind and noble at heart.”
It’s true there was something aristocratic about Mikhail Ivanych. He didn’t return empty bottles, for example; he threw them away.
“I’d feel ashamed,” he’d say. “How could I, like a beggar?”
One day he woke up feeling poorly and complained:
“I’ve got the shakes all over.”
I gave him a rouble. At lunchtime I asked:
“How goes it, feeling any better?”
“Whatsa?”
“Did you have a pick-me-up?[59]”
“Huh! It went down like water on a hot pan, it sizzled!”
In the evening he was in pain again.
“I’ll go see Nikitin. Maybe he’ll gimme[60] a rouble or just pour some…”
I stepped onto the porch and was witness to this conversation:
“Hey, neighbour, you scrud, gimme a fiver.”
“You owe me since Intercession[61].”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“We’ll talk when you do.”
“You’ll get it when I get paid.”
“Get paid?! You got booted for cause ages ago.”
“Fuck ’em and the horse they rode in on! Gimme a fiver anyway. Do it on principle, for Christ’s sake! Show them our Soviet character!”
“Don’t tell me, for vodka?”
“Whatsa? I got business…”
“A parasite like you? What kinda business?”
Mikhail Ivanych found it hard to lie; he was weak.
“I need a drink,” he said.
“I won’t give it to you. Be mad, if you want, but I won’t give it you!”
“But I’ll pay you back, from my wages.”
“No.”
And to end the conversation Nikitin went back into the house, slamming the heavy door with the blue mailbox.
“You just wait, neighbour,” fumed Mikhail Ivanych. “You wait! You’re gonna get yours! That’s right! You’ll remember this conversation!”
There was no sound in response. Chickens maundered about. Golden braids of onions hung above the porch…
“I’ll make your life hell! I’ll.”
Red-faced and dishevelled, Mikhail Ivanych bellowed:
“Have you forgot?! Have you forgot everything, you snake? Clean forgot it?!”
“What’d I forget?” Nikitin leant out.
“If you forgot, we’ll remind you!”
“What’d I forget, eh?”
“We remember everything! We remember 1917! We whatchamacallit… We dispossessed you, you scummy scrud! We’ll dispossess your whole Party lot! We’ll ship you off to the Cheka[62]. Like Daddy Makhno[63]. There they’ll show you…”
And after a short pause:
“Hey neighbour, lend me a fiver… All right, a trey. I’m begging you, for the love of Christ. you larder bitch!”
Finally I mustered up the courage to start work. I was assigned a group of tourists from the Baltics. These were reserved, disciplined people who listened contentedly and did not ask questions. I tried to be brief and was not entirely sure I was being understood.
Later I would be given a full overview. Tourists from Riga are the best-mannered. Whatever you say, they smile and nod in agreement. If they do ask questions, then they’re always on the practical side: how many serfs did Pushkin own? What was the revenue from Mikhailovskoye? What was the total cost of renovations to the manor house?
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