Vladimir Polyakov
THE STORY OF A STORY OR
FIREMAN PROKHORCHUK
1
(The action takes place
In
the editorial offices of a Soviet
magazine. A woman writer-a
beginner-shyly enters the edit–
or's office.)
She: Pardon me. . . . Please
excuse me.... You're the editor
of the magazine, aren't you?
He: That's right.
She: My name is Krapivina.
I've written a little short story
for your magazine.
He: All right, leave it here.
She: I was won d e r i n g
whether I couldn't get your
opinion of it right away.
If
you'll permit me,
I'll
read it to
you.
It
won't take more than
three or four minutes. May
I?
H e: All right, read it.
She: It is entitled "A Nobl e
Deed." (She begins to read.)
It was the dead of night-three
o'clock. Everybody in the town
was asleep. Not a single electric
light was burning. It was dark
and quiet. But suddenly a gory
1.
Published in Moscow in 1953,
this little frolic states in plain
language some of the ideas which
the editors of
this
special issue
have been most concerned in
conveying to their readers.
tongue of flame shot out of the
fourth-floor window of a large
grey house. "Help!" someone
shouted. "We're on fire!" This
was the voice of a careless ten–
ant who, when he went to bed,
had forgotten to switch off the
electric hot-plate, the cause of
the fire. Both the fire and the
tenant were darting around the
roam. The siren of a fire engine
wailed. Firemen jumped down
from the engine and dashed into
the house. The room where the
tenant was darting around was
a sea of flames. Fireman Pro–
khorchuk, a middle-aged Ukrain–
ian with large black mustachios,
stopped in front of the door.
The fireman stood and thought.
Suddenly he rushed into the
room, pulled the smoldering ten–
ant out and aimed his extin–
guisher at the flames. The fire
was put out, thanks to the daring
of Prokhorchuk. Fire Chief Gor–
bushin approached him. "Good
boy, Prokhorchuk," he said,
"you've acted according to the
regulations!" Whereupon the
fire chief smiled and added:
"You haven't noticed it, but
your right mustachio is aflame."
Prokhorchuk smiled and aimed
a jet at his mustachio. It was
dawning.
He: The story isn't bad. The
title's suitable too: "A Noble
