Good Citizens Need Not Fear: Stories

When the contestants’ friends and relatives began showing up—not just from Kirovka but from the surrounding towns and villages—Konstantyn had begun to feel hopeful. His event would be well attended, his Cultural Club once again the center of activity. A beauty pageant would hardly be the pinnacle of the Club’s achievements, but Konstantyn had to be patient. Poetry camps don’t organize or fund themselves overnight.

—

On the Wednesday morning after the Minister’s call came a special All Union First Radio program announcement. The same nasal voice that intoned Party proceedings and member passings informed Citizens that in eight weeks, in celebration of the mighty Union, an unprecedented event would take place: a Miss USSR beauty competition. Young women from every republic—aged sixteen to eighteen, in good moral standing—were invited to Moscow to take part, and the legitimate winner would be crowned at the Yuon Palace of Culture.

In his office, Konstantyn listened in disbelief. A legitimate winner. An unprecedented event. Either Konstantyn and his town—his country, even—were being punished, or attendance numbers at Moscow’s many Palaces of Culture had been lagging, too. He was incensed that Irina Glebovna was both crushing the legitimacy of his pageant and copying it. True, he had copied it himself, from the Americans, who had probably copied it from the Europeans, but he had elevated the pageant to a more palatable level by enlisting a philosopher, a painter, a novelist, and an astronomer as judges.

Normally he would have laughed off the injustice, feeling above the government’s antics; over dinner he would have regaled Milena with his droning impression of the radio announcer. But without Milena, without an audience, to laugh now felt pathetic, akin to drinking alone.

Konstantyn turned off the radio. The Cultural Club grew silent save for the shuffling footsteps in the hallway outside his office, then the jingle of a fifteen-kopek coin being pumped into Viktorina. He didn’t want to imagine what would happen if the arcade game broke.

The phone rang again.

This time, Konstantyn picked up. It was the journalist, a bored-sounding woman with a smoker’s rasp, still looking for that statement about Olga Bondar.

“Orynko Bondar,” he corrected.

“Sure,” the journalist said, clearly unhappy to have been assigned a story about some yokel town with ethnically named residents.

Konstantyn loosened the scarf around his neck, feeling hot. “Not only will Miss Kirovka be keeping her title,” he heard himself declare, “but she’ll be competing in the Miss USSR pageant.” A dizzying array of possibilities opened within him. Yes, Miss Kirovka would go to Moscow. She would not be silenced. Finally he and his town would take pride in something other than the canning combine or the rumored silo under the sunflower fields. “Watch out for Orynko Bondar, representing Ukraine,” he proclaimed, voice rising. “She will win over an entire empire.”

—

On Thursday morning, upon arriving at the Cultural Club, Konstantyn discovered a man sitting in Konstantyn’s swivel armchair, behind Konstantyn’s oak desk. The surface of the desk had been cleared, the usual piles of documents replaced by a potted African violet.

The intruder’s magnified eyes swam behind thick glasses. “Do you have an appointment?”

Konstantyn stood at his office door, kept his hand on the cold metal knob. “Do you?”

“Ah, Konstantyn Illych.” The man, irritatingly young, hair slick with pomade, gave a tight smile, apparently embarrassed for them both. “Haven’t you received the directive?” When Konstantyn shook his head, the man turned to the telefax machine, flipped through the pages hanging from its mouth, plucked one out, and handed it to Konstantyn. The curt letter informed the Director of the Kirovka Cultural Club of his termination.

Konstantyn focused his anger on the potted violet on the desk. He wanted to shred its chubby leaves. Instead, he reached forward and grabbed the phone, clamped it between his ear and shoulder—a gesture of importance, of expert phone handling. “If you’ll excuse me.” He didn’t know what he would say to the Minister, exactly. The damage had been done.

Konstantyn nodded at the door, but the stranger didn’t move.

“I’m sorry, Konstantyn Illych.”

For a moment the men stared at each other. Both wore navy industrial-made suits. Konstantyn planted himself in the metal wire chair across from the desk. He had never sat in it before. The chair was angular, possessed bones of its own that poked up to meet the occupants, hurry them out of the office. He must have the chair replaced, he thought, before realizing this would no longer be in his power. He reread the letter and this time its contents sank in. His words came slowly: “I’ve worked here for twenty years. I’m a respected poet. Ten years ago I was named People’s Artist.”