WRITERS IN EXILE
507
less," and the boss answered, "My dear friend, what does fifteen
bucks mean
to
you? But for our company, it's big money." My
friend was so surprised that he nodded with understanding.
We have expected dynamism, logic, and nonbureaucracy in
America. We used to think that all Americans were very confident.
I worked for a Russian weekly whose owner was a very nice
American fellow. One time, he came to the editorial office and
said, "Serge, we use too much photographic paper; paper is very
expensive. Can you print pictures on regular plain paper?" I
almost fell off my chair. I said, "What are you talking about? It's
impossible." But he said, "Well, maybe you can try." This boss
would do well working in a Soviet enterprise; he would even
receive high rewards.
We have to learn a lot of things in America, but America
can benefit from our experience, too. So let's start benefiting each
other. I don't want to sound so gloomy. But, I do think that fun
and sadness always go together. So let me digress for a minute to
tell you a story. Soviet Minister Gromyko came to the Polish
city of Lodz, and a magnificent reception was organized for
him. The local intelligentsia were invited. Among them was a
famous writer, Jerzy Ruzhevich. They were having a big banquet
out in the open. They proclaimed steadfast oaths and toasts.
Gromyko was drinking Polish vodka; his face was getting red.
He bent over
to
Ruzhevich, who by chance looked up, and
Gromyko said, "Excuse me, where can I make pee-pee here?"
"You?" asked Ruzhevich. Then he got up, stretched out his
palms, and exclaimed, "For you, everywhere."
There are many terrible things and many marvelous things
in the world. No paradise and no hell in our life, and still we
are living. We have freedom, but freedom, if it is a reality, is
equally well-disposed
to
bad and good. It's like the sun: roses
and marijuana blossom equally well under its rays. With free–
dom, the bad becomes monstrous, and the good becomes delight–
ful. To make things monstrous or delightful depends on us.
In Leningrad a few years ago, one of my friends was trans–
lating an American film for the members of the filmmakers'
club. The action bounced back and forth between Paris and New
York, and a rather banal technique was used: if Paris was shown,
then the Eiffel Tower appeared on the screen; and if it was New
York, then the Brooklyn Bridge. My friend would pedantically
