FICTION
199
About eight of them or so. A universal journalist, I was secretly
proud of them.
An instructor from the Central Committee named Vanya Trule
called up. "Who wrote this chauvinistic fable?"
"Why chauvinistic?"
"Then it was you who wrote it?"
"Me. What's the matter?"
"A beast figures in it."
"So? "
"He says hello in Estonian. Don't you see the impression that
makes? That an Estonian appears to be a beast? Am I a beast? Am I,
an instructor of the Central Committee, a beast?"
"Look, this is a fairy tale, a conventional form. An illustration
goes with the verses. The little kids meet a bear. The bear has a kind,
likable face. He's a positive character.... "
"Why does he speak Estonian? Let him speak the language of a
capitalist country."
"I don't understand."
"Why do I have to bother explaining this to you! You are
obviously not mature enough to write for a Party newspaper, not
mature enough . . ."
An hour later the chief editor looked in. "The jury is fining
you two points."
"Now what. What jury?"
"You forget, the journalists' competItlOn is still going on.
Those who write good material will receive prizes. The best of the
best will be awarded a trip to the West."
"That's logical. And the worst of the worst-do they get sent to
the East?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing. I was only joking. Is East Germany supposed to be
the West?"
"And what is it in your opinion?"
"Well, I would say Japan,
that's
the West!"
"What!" Turonok shouted in fright.
"In the ideological sense ," I added.
A shadow of infinite weariness darkened the editor's face.
"Dovlatov," he said, "it's impossible to converse with you.
Remember, my patience has its limits."
