SERGEI DOVLATOV
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was standing near the showroom window of a photographer's studio.
He had half a French roll in his hand. Everything indicated that he was
not working. I suggested we stop in at the Kungla - a bar close by.
We checked our coats, went up to the second floor, and sat down
by the window. I wanted to know what had happened to him - what
had caused his bizarre outburst at the office party. Was it a nervous
breakdown? Was he losing his faculties? Busch started to talk about it
himself. "You've got to understand, old fellow. All those people at the
newspaper are jackals.... "
Then he corrected himself "Except for you and Shablinsky and four
of those pathetic older women. In other words, the pigs are in the ma–
jority. And then came that stupid part. And all those obscene conversa–
tions. And I had to sit there and wait for that fat-assed editor to do me
the honors. And then this bow-legged Zoyka pops up with her tray. We
all
wanted to do the same thing - kick the tray right out of her fucking
hands. And suddenly I understood that my moment of decision had ar–
rived. Now we would know - was I a knight, as Galina thinks, or a
piece of shit, as everyone else maintains? So I stood up and took a step
forward . .. ."
"How is Galina?" I asked.
"Okay," he said. "She had an operation ... female trouble."
We went downstairs. After that we seldom saw each other I was
busy at the newspaper. And I was getting a collection of stories ready for
publication. Once I ran into Busch at the hippodrome. He looked
completely down and out. He asked me to lend him a little money,
thanked me, and rushed off to buy a bottle. I couldn't wait and left. In
the summer they sent me to a Bulgarian film festival. This was my first
foreign assignment - a sign of my political trustworthiness and an obvi–
ous testimony to my loyalty. On my return I heard a shattering story.
Tallinn had been celebrating November 7th. People carried banners
and portraits of leaders. There was band music. The police kept order.
Everyone was in high spirits. It was a real holiday. Busch was there with
the marchers. He was even carrying a placard on a wooden stake. It
looked like a snow shovel. Painted on it in green gouache was the bold
line, "A STERN REBUFF TO THE ENEMIES OF WORLD
IMPERIALISM." Busch had carried this placard all the way from
Kadriorg
to
the piano factory. And only there, finally, did the police
catch on. "Who are these enemies of world imperialism? And who's
supposed to get this stern rebuff?'
Busch did not resist. They put him into a black sedan and took him
to Pagara Street. Within three minutes he was being interrogated by
General Pork himself He answered all the questions calmly and suc–
cinctly. He categorically refused
to
admit any guilt. He said everything
