I was put into a team of stone-cutters. There were three of us. The foreman’s name was Osip Likhachev. His helper and friend was called Viktor Tsypin. Both were masters of their craft and, of course, confirmed drunkards.
Likhachev drank daily, while Tsypin suffered from chronic binges. Which did not keep Likhachev from having an occasional binge or Tsypin from having hair-of-the-dog[32] at any opportunity.
Likhachev was grim, severe and taciturn. He said nothing for hours and then suddenly pronounced brief and completely unexpected speeches. His monologues were continuations of complex inner thoughts. He would exclaim, turning sharply to whoever happened by, “And you say capitalism, America, Europe! Private property!.. The lowliest darkie has a car!. But the dollar, let me tell you, is falling!”
“That means it has somewhere to fall,” Tsypin responded merrily. “That’s not so bad. But your shitty rouble has nowhere to fall.”
But Likhachev, plunged once more into silence, did not react.
Tsypin, on the contrary, was talkative and friendly. He liked arguing.
“The car’s not the point,” he said. “I like cars myself… The point is that under capitalism you have freedom. If you want to, you can drink from morning till night. If you want to, you can slave away around the clock. No ideological education. No socialist morality. Magazines with naked babes wherever you look. And then there’s the politics. Let’s say you don’t like some minister – fine. You write to the editor: the minister is full of shit! You can spit in any president’s kisser. To say nothing of the vice-president’s. But a car isn’t such a rare thing here, you know. I’ve had a Zaporozhets[33] since 1960, and so what?”
And Tsypin had indeed bought himself a Zaporozhets. However, since he was a chronic drunkard, he didn’t drive it for months at a time. In November the car was covered with snow. The Zaporozhets turned into a small snow hill. The neighbourhood kids were always around it.
In the spring the snow melted. The Zaporozhets was as flat as a sports car. Its roof had been squashed by the kids’ sleds.
Tsypin seemed almost relieved. “I have to be sober at the wheel. But I can get home drunk in a taxi…”
Those were my teachers.
In due time we received a commission, a rather lucrative rush job. We were supposed to hack out a relief depiction of the great writer and scientist Mikhail Lomonosov[34] for a new metro station. The sculptor Chudnovsky quickly prepared the model. The moulders cast it in plaster. We came to take a look at this business.
Lomonosov was shown in a suspicious-looking robe. In his right hand he held a rolled paper. In his left, the globe. The paper, as I understood it, symbolized creativity, and the globe, science.
Lomonosov himself looked well fed, feminine and unkempt. He resembled a pig. In the Stalin years, that’s how they depicted capitalists. Apparently, Chudnovsky wanted to reaffirm the primacy of the material over the spiritual.
But I liked the globe. Even though for some reason it showed the American side to the viewers.
The sculptor had diligently modelled miniature Cordilleras, Appalachians and Guiana Highlands[35]. He hadn’t forgotten the lakes and rivers, either – Huron, Titicaca, Manitoba…
It looked rather strange. I doubt that such a detailed map of the Americas had existed in Lomonosov’s era. I mentioned this to Chudnovsky. The sculptor grew angry.
“You talk like a tenth-grader! My sculpture isn’t a visual aid! Before you is Bach’s Sixth Invention[36], captured in marble. Rather, in plaster. The latest thing in metaphysical syntheticism!”
“Short and sweet,” said Tsypin.
“Don’t argue,” Likhachev whispered. “What’s it to you?”
Unexpectedly, Chudnovsky softened. “Maybe you’re right. Nevertheless, we’ll leave it as is. Every work must have a minimal dose of the absurd…”
We started work. First we worked at the studio. Then it turned out that it was a bigger rush. The station was going to be opened during the November holidays.
We had to finish up on-site. That is, underground.
Lomonosovskaya Station was in its completion stage. Stoneworkers, electricians and plasterers were at work. Innumerable compressors created a fiendish din. It smelt of burnt rubber and wet lye. Bonfires burned in metal barrels.
Our model was carefully lowered underground. It was set up on enormous oak scaffolds. A four-ton marble slab was suspended next to it on chains. You could make out Lomonosov’s approximate contours on it. The most delicate part of the work lay ahead.
And here an unexpected complication arose. The escalators were not working yet. To go up for vodka meant climbing six hundred steps.
The first day, Likhachev announced, “You go. You’re the youngest.”
I’d never known that the metro was so deep, especially in Leningrad, where the soil is damp and friable. Twice I had to stop to catch my breath. The Stolichnaya I brought back was consumed in a minute.
I had to go up again. I was still the youngest. That day I went up six times. My knees hurt.
The next day we tried a different plan. To wit, we brought six bottles with us. But it didn’t help: our supplies attracted the attention of the men around us. Electricians, welders, painters and plasterers came by. In ten minutes the vodka was gone. And I went upstairs again.
By the third day my teachers had decided to quit drinking. Temporarily, of course. But the other men were still at it, and they treated us generously.
On the fourth day, Likhachev announced, “I’m no punk! I can’t drink on other people’s money any more! Who’s the youngest among us, boys?”
And I went upstairs again. It was easier this time. My legs must have become stronger.
So basically it was Likhachev and Tsypin who did the work. Lomonosov’s image was getting clearer. And, I must add, more repulsive.
Occasionally the sculptor Chudnovsky stopped by offering guidance and making some changes as he went.
The workers were also interested in Lomonosov. They asked questions like: “What’s that supposed to be, a man or a woman?”
“Something in between,” Tsypin replied.
The holidays approached. The detailed work was coming to an end. The Lomonosovskaya Metro Station was taking on a festive and solemn look.
The floor was tiled with mosaics, the arched vaults ornamented with cast-iron sconces. One of the walls was intended for our relief. A gigantic welded frame was set up. A bit higher hung the heavy blocks and chains.
I cleaned up the garbage. My teachers were putting on the final polish. Tsypin was working on the lace jabot and shoelaces. Likhachev was polishing curls on the wig.
On the eve of the opening we slept underground. We had to hang our ill-starred relief. That meant lifting it with a tackle[37], putting in what they call pitons, and finally pouring epoxy over the fastening to make it sturdier.
It’s rather complicated lifting a slab like that four yards into the air. We spent several hours doing it.
The blocks kept getting stuck. The pintles missed the holes. The chains creaked and the stone swayed. Likhachev kept shouting, “Keep away!”
At last the marble lump was suspended. We took down the chain and stepped back a respectful distance. From afar Lomonosov looked better.
Tsypin and Likhachev drank in relief. Then they prepared the epoxy.
We