SERGEI DOVLATOV
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periors he simply nodded wordlessly. With the rank and file reporters, he
would exchange bits of news. He paid compliments to the women....
People in the
nomenklatura
system of the Party have one attractive
attribute. They don't hold grudges - if only because they're lazy. They
lack the energy for really zealous vengefulness. They don't have the en–
thusiasm for genuine malice. Over the course of many well-fed years,
their feelings have been dulled to the level of mere condescension. Their
thoughts are so feeble that at times they resemble kindness. The editor of
Soviet Estonia
was a kind-hearted, decent person, at least until he was
forced to issue cruel and malicious instructions. A decent person, as we
all
know, is one who takes no pleasure in doing a repulsive thing.
Anyway, Busch was published. At first his pieces were edited with
special care. Then it became clear that he had changed, matured. His sto–
ries had greater breadth and depth and dealt with more significant topics.
Three or four of his articles caused a mild sensation. Against the back–
ground of all the local run-of-the-mill journalists, Busch stood out. In
December the editor spoke again about granting Busch permanent status.
And all the older women on the Local Committee stood up for him.
Shablinsky and I actively campaigned for him. At one meeting I said, "It
is essential to make full use of Busch's talents. Otherwise, we will be
pushing him toward the slippery road of dissidence."
The rehabilitation of Busch took on the character of an ideological
test. The editor-in-chief, smiling, kept his eye on him. His fate could be
decided in the very near future. New Year's approached. We were get–
ting ready for the traditional office party. Work finished early that day.
The part-time people were told not to leave. The editor called Busch in
and said, "I hope we'll see each other this evening. I have some pleasant
news to tell you."
People wandered up and down the corridors. A few went home to
change clothes. Busch showed up in a fashionable imported suit. His
patent-leather shoes gleamed. His shirt was so new that it crackled.
"You look superb," I said to him.
Busch smiled, embarrassed . "Yesterday Galina sold her teeth. She
took two platinum crowns to the jeweler's and bought me this entire
outfit. How could I ever abandon her after this?!"
We sat down in the large composition room. The final preparations
were being made. Everyone was talking loudly, smoking, laughing.
Busch sternly held himself in check. He sat in an armchair by the win–
dow. He took down a book from the shelf He lost himself in reading.
The book was called
Problems in Orthography and Punctuation.
Finally, everyone was invited to the table. The editor waited for
complete silence, then said: "My friends! Another year has now passed, a
