MIKHAIL ZOSHCHENKO
"Yes?" he asks cautiously. "Do you suppose there's a
reason? Are you sick?"
We begin to talk about illness. Mayakovsky enumerates
several ailments from which he is suffering-something wrong
with his lungs, stomach and kidneys. He can't drink and even
wants to give up smoking.
I notice one more ailment in Mayakovsky-he is even more
concerned about his own health than I am about mine. He
wipes his fork twice on his napkin. Then he wipes it with a piece
of bread. Finally, he wipes it with his handkerchief. He also
wipes the edge of the glass.
An
actor I know comes up to our table. Our conversation
is interrupted. Mayakovsky says to me:
"I'll call you in Leningrad."
I give him my number.
Public Appearance
I had agreed to speak in several cities. It was an unfortunate
day in my life. My first appearance was in Kharkov, then in
Rostov.
I was taken aback. I was greeted with stormy applause, but
at the end they hardly clapped at all. So in some way I dis–
pleased the public, deceived them in some way. How?
It's true I don't re.ad like an actor; I read motonously, some–
times boringly. But surely they don't come to my evening to hear
me as a "humorist"? Really! Maybe they think that if actors
can recite a work humorously, what will the author himself
be
like?
Each evening is torture for me.
I mount the stage with difficulty. The knowledge that I am
about to deceive the audience spoils my mood even more. I open
the book and mumble a story.
Someone cries from the back:
"Give us 'The Bathouse'
are you reading that rubbish!"
'The Aristocrat' . . . why
