452
MIKHAIL ZOSHCHENKO
I walk up and down a corridor waiting for the literary
evening to start.
The fact that I'm an inspector
in
the criminal investigation
department means nothing. I already have two critical articles
and four stories to my credit. And they have
all
been very well
received.
I walk along the corridor and look at the writers.
Here comes A. M. Remizov. He's small and ugly like a
monkey. His secretary is with him. A cloth tail sticks out from
under the secretary's jacket. It's a symbol. Remizov is the Dean
of the "Free Monkey Parliament." E.
I.
Zamyatin's standing
over there. His face is rather shiny. He's smiling. He's holding a
long cigarette in a long elegant holder.
He's talking to someone in English.
Here's Shklovsky. He's wearing a central-Asian skull-cap.
He has an intelligent and impudent face. He's arguing vehe–
mently with someone. He can't see anyone but himself and his
adversary.
I say hello to Zamyatin.
Turning towards me, he says:
"Blok's here. You wanted to see him. . .."
Zamyatin and I go into a dingy room.
A man is standing by the window. He has a deeply tanned
face, a high forehead and light, wavy, almost curly hair.
He's standing surprisingly still. He's looking at the lights of
the Nevsky Prospect. He doesn't turn round when we go in.
"Alexander Alexandrovich," says Zamyatin.
I have never seen such empty, lifeless eyes. I never thought
that a face could express such sadness and apathy.
Turning slowly round, Blok looks at us.
Blok holds out his hand-it is limp and lifeless.
. I ·feel awkward at having disturbed a man lost in his
oblivion..
~
. I mumble an apology. '
, Blok asks .me in a rather dull voice :
"Will you be speaking at the evening?"
