SERGEI DOVLATOV
121
We told him our names.
"Go to the dispatcher's office," said Oleg. "See Tsurikov."
In the dispatcher's booth, with its iron door, the noise of the boilers
was deafening. On a dented table lay schedules and work sheets.
Overhead hung a cheap loudspeaker. On a narrow cot slept a man in a
soldier's uniform. A man wearing a jockey cap was working at the table.
Noticing us, he raised his head. "You new?" Then he stood up and
shook hands with us. "Tsurikov, chief dispatcher. Have a seat."
I noticed that the former soldier was awake. "Khud," he said tersely,
introducing himself
"We need people, " said the dispatcher. "The work is easy. Come
with me."
We went down some rickety stairs. Khud followed . Oleg waved at
us, as if we were old friends . We stopped near the boiler on the left - so
close that I could feel the intense heat.
"At the beginning of the shift," said Tsurikov, "You have to lay in
the coal. I advise you not to fill the wheelbarrow to the top - it'll tip
over. Before you leave, clean the grates and remove the clinkers. The
work schedule is simple - twenty-four hours on, three days off. Pay is a
hundred and fifty."
Tsurikov took us over to our new colleagues and said, "I hope
you'll get along. Our workers are quite original. Olezhka, for example,
is
a Buddhist - a follower of the Zen school. He's searching for tran–
quillity in the monastery of his own heart. Khud here is a painter - left–
wing of the international avant-garde. He works in the tradition of
metaphysical synthesis. He primarily paints consumer packaging - boxes,
jars, and cans."
"I call my cycle 'Morbid Truths'," explained Khud in a whisper, red
with embarrassment.
Tsurikov went on: "As for me, I'm just an ordinary guy. In my spare
time I study music theory. By the way, what do you think of Britten's
polytonal superimpositions?"
Busch had remained silent until then. But now his face suddenly be–
came
all
distorted. "Let's get out of here," he snarled.
Tsurikov and his coworkers stared at us in dismay. We went outside.
Busch burst out angrily: "That's not a boilerhouse. It's some goddarnned
Sorbonne! Here I was, dreaming of plunging into the depths of real life.
Becoming stronger morally and physically. Getting in touch with my
roots. And what do I find here?! A bunch of Zen Buddhists and meta–
physicians! With their fucking polytonal superimpositions! In other
words, let's go home!"
Galina met us with joyful tears. Three more days went by. Galina
sold several books to a used bookstore. I went around to
all
the edito-
