Good Citizens Need Not Fear: Stories

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.”

“You should.” Sergei Igorovich kept the receiver pressed to his ear. “Blinov?”

“Yes, Sergei Igorovich.”

“Was it good?”

“The candy? A bit stale.”

Sergei Igorovich let out a brief moan before glancing over at his own superior’s office, to find that he was being observed as well. He hung up.

Daniil placed the wrapper in his drawer, beside the T-square and his drawings of the Cheburashka gang. He turned to the diagram lying on his desk: a tin can containing exactly seventeen black olives. Seventeen was the maximum capacity, provided the olives were a constant size. The ones in the middle compacted into cubes, with barely any space for brine. Good, thought Daniil. No one drinks the brine anyway.

—

The heater was set to a lavish High. Its amber power light flickered like a campfire. Fourteen figures huddled around the rattling tin box and took turns allowing the warm air to tickle their faces. A few disrobed down to their sweaters. A bottle of samogon appeared from its hiding place, as did a can of sprats. Daniil felt warmth spread to his toes, to his chilliest spots. Aunt Nika took off her hood; her cheeks had gained a lively red. Grandfather Grishko sat on a stool like a king, knees spread, about to bite into a piece of vobla jerky he claimed predated the Great October Revolution.

“Let’s hope the jerky has fared better than Ukraine,” toasted Aunt Nika.

A knock came at the door.

Everyone fell quiet.

Another knock.

Aunt Nika poked Daniil’s arm.

Daniil took another swig of home brew, slid off his chair (which Uncle Timko immediately occupied), and opened the door.

Two tall men in black beanies stood in the narrow hallway, holding a coffin.

Daniil felt himself teeter as his relatives crowded behind him. “If you’re here to collect me, I’m not ready yet.”

“We need access to your apartment, Citizen,” the square-jawed man on the right said.

“Why?” Daniil asked.

The man on the left, endowed with wet meaty lips, rolled his eyes at his colleague. “God dammit, Petya, do we have to give an explanation at every landing?”

“An explanation would be nice,” Daniil insisted.

“The guy on ninth croaked, and the stair landings aren’t wide enough to pivot the coffin,” Petya said. “So we need to do it inside the apartments.”

“Yet somehow you got it all the way up to ninth.” Daniil knew the cabinet-size elevator wouldn’t have been an option.

“When the coffin was empty, we could turn it upright.”

“And now you can’t.”

Petya narrowed his eyes at Daniil. “Some might find that disrespectful, Citizen.” In agreement, Baba Ola flicked the back of Daniil’s neck with her stone-hard fingers. Petya said, “Look, this thing isn’t getting any lighter.”

“You sure you aren’t here to collect anyone?” Daniil asked.

“As you can see, we’ve already collected. Now let us in.”

Daniil stood aside and the men lumbered in with the coffin, trampling on shoes without taking off their own, scratching the wallpaper.

“Yasha, we’ll have to move the cot to make room,” Petya said.

“Which one?”

“Pink flower sheets.”

“Keep holding your end while I set mine down,” Yasha instructed. “Toasty in here, eh?”

“Yes, mind the heater by your feet,” Daniil chimed in.

“I’ll have to step out on the balcony while you pivot.”

Baba Ola lunged at the men, yelling something about the balcony, but no one understood exactly what.

A panicked brood of hens stormed the room.

Aunt Nika clutched at her chest. “Sweet Saint Nicholas.”

“We’ll have to report this poultry enterprise, Citizens,” said Petya.