THE LEVERS
413
or other was talking about the success of his work in the Altai region.
The men at the table listened.
"They call us Muscovites here, although we're from different
towns. We stick together, we don't take anything lying down. The
harvest last year was out of the world. You walk into the wheat
just like into reeds. Even the oldsters don't remember such crops.
There weren't enough places to pour the grain, it was rough...."
The young fellow was addressing his dear mamma, but in such
a way, as if he had never pronounced this name before. He was
obviously intimidated by the microphone.
"Take a look," said Piotr Kuz'mich, "they have their troubles
there, too: no place to pour the grain." He poked his arm in the
direction of the radio and the tarpaulin raincoat slipped off his arm–
less left shoulder.
"Not everyone, after all, can go to the Altai region," muttered
Konoplev and, again taken by coughing, got up from the table, took
the pot with the cigarette butts in both hands and went to the door–
way. There he pushed aside the broom with his foot and threw the
butts into the comer.
And then it was revealed that in the hut, during all the time
this talk was going on, one other person had been present. From be–
hind the wide Russian stove there resounded an imperious old lady's
VOIce.
"Where are you throwing things, you old croak? You're not
the one who has to sweep.
I
just washed the floor, and you mess
it all up again."
From the unexpectedness of it the men started and exchanged
looks.
"You still here, Marfa? What do you want?"
"What
I
want! I'm keeping watch on you. You set fire to the
office and they'll have me in court for it. The broom's dry, and what
if suddenly there's a spark, God forbid.
"
"You better go home."
"When
I
have to-I'll go."
The conversation of the friends broke off, as though they felt
guilty
of something before one another.
For an instant the street became audible, the sound of the wind,
girls' singing in the distance.
