For the Good of the Cause (8 page)

Nature had given Ivan Grachikov rough-cast features: thick lips, a broad nose, and big ears. But, although he wore his black hair brushed to one side, which gave him a rather forbidding look, his whole appearance was so unmistakably Russian that no matter what foreign clothes or uniform you might put on him, you could never disguise the fact that he was a Russian born and bred.

“Honestly, Ivan,” the principal said with feeling, “don’t you think it’s stupid? I don’t mean just for the school, but from the point of view of the state, isn’t it plain stupid?”

“Yes, it’s stupid,” Grachikov said promptly, without shifting in his chair.

“Look, I’ve jotted down how much all these alterations will come to. The whole building costs four million, right? Well, these changes are sure to cost at least one and a half million, if not two. Look …”

From his notebook he read out a list of the various jobs and their probable cost. He was becoming more and more convinced that he had an absolutely airtight case.

Grachikov remained quite still, listening and thinking. He had once told Fyodor that the great thing about this job, compared to the War, was that he no longer had to make decisions by himself and on the spur of the moment, leaving the question of whether they were right or wrong to be settled in the other world. Grachikov much preferred to decide things without rushing-giving himself time to think and letting others have a say. It went against his grain to bring discussions and conferences to an end by simply issuing orders. He tried to argue things out with the people he was dealing with, to get them to say “Yes, that’s right” or else have them convince him that he was wrong. And even in the face of very stubborn opposition he never lost his restrained, friendly manner. But his way took time. Knorozov, the First Secretary of the District Committee, had been quick to seize on this particular weakness of Grachikov’s, and in his laconic fashion that admitted of no argument had once hurled at him: “You’re too soft for this job. You don’t do things in the Soviet way!” But Grachikov had stood his ground: “What do you mean? On the contrary, I do things the way the Soviets are supposed to: by listening to what other people have to say.”

Grachikov had been made Secretary of the Town Committee at the last conference of the local Party organization, following some remarkable achievements on the part of the factory where he was then Party secretary.

“Tell me, Ivan, have you heard anything about this research institute? Whose idea was it?”

“Yes, I’ve heard about it.” Grachikov continued to rest his head in his palm. “There was talk about it back in the spring. Then it got held up.”

“I see,” Fyodor said in a chagrined tone. “If Khabalygin had signed for the building, we would have moved into it around the twentieth of August, and then they wouldn’t have shifted us.”

They both remained silent.

During this silence Fyodor began to feel that the firm ground on which he had been standing was slipping away from under him. The prospect of a million and a half rubles’ worth of alterations hadn’t exactly caused an earthquake. Grachikov hadn’t grabbed both of his phones at once, nor had he jumped up and rushed out of the room.

“So what did you hear? Is it a very important institute?” Fyodor asked dejectedly.

Grachikov sighed: “Once you know that its address is a P.O. box number, you don’t ask any questions. With us everything is important.”

Fyodor sighed too.

“But, Ivan, what are we going to do? They are planning to get a Government decision, and once they do it’ll be all over. We’ve only got a couple of days. There’s no time to be lost.”

Grachikov was thinking.

Fyodor turned to face him. He leaned on the desk, propping his head on his hands.

“Listen. What about sending a telegram to the Council of Ministers in Moscow? This is just the right moment, when they’re talking so much about the need for contact between the schools and real life… I’ll sign it. I’m not afraid.”

Grachikov studied him closely for a minute.

Suddenly all the sternness vanished from his face, giving way to a friendly smile. He began to talk the way he liked to, in a sing-song voice, in long, well-rounded sentences which had a tone of genuine warmth.

“My dear Fyodor, how do you picture this being arrived at, this decision by the Government? Do you imagine the whole Council sitting at a long table, discussing what to do about your building? Do you think they’ve got nothing better to do? And then I suppose you think your telegram will be brought in at just the right moment. Is that what you believe? No! A Government decision means that one of these days a Deputy Prime Minister will see one of the Ministers. The Minister will have some papers with him to make his report and at some point he will say: ‘This research institute, as you know, has top priority. It has been decided to locate it in this town, in which there happens to be a building it can use.’ The Deputy Prime Minister will then ask: ‘Whom was it built for?’ And the Minister will reply: ‘For a school. But the school has got rather decent premises for the time being. We sent a commission of experts down and the Comrades studied the matter on the spot.’ Then, before giving his final okay, the Deputy Prime Minister will ask one more question: ‘Does the District Committee have any objections?’ Do you get this—the District Committee! Your telegram will be returned right to this place with a notation on it saying: ‘Check facts.’” Grachikov pursed his thick lips. “You’ve got to know how these things work. In this case it’s the District Committee that holds the power.”

He laid his hand on the telephone but didn’t lift the receiver.

“What I don’t like about this business is that the District Committee Supervisor was with them and raised no objections. If Knorozov has already given his okay, then, my friend, you’re in trouble. He never goes back on a decision.”

Grachikov was a little scared of Victor Knorozov. But then, there was hardly anyone in the district who wasn’t.

He lifted the receiver.

“Is that Konyevsky? This is Grachikov. Say, is Knorozov there? When will he be back? I see… Well, if he does come back today, tell him I’d be most grateful if he would see me… Even after I get home this evening …”

He put the receiver down but continued toying with it on its rest. Then he turned his eyes from the telephone to Fyodor, who was now holding his head in his hands.

“You know, Fyodor,” Grachikov said earnestly, “I’m very fond of technical schools. I really like them. In this country of ours they’re always making such a fuss over the top scientists. They don’t seem to think that anyone with anything less than an engineering degree has any education at all. But for us in industry it’s the technicians who matter most of all. Yet technical schools get a raw deal—and not just yours alone. Take your place for example. You accept kids this high”—he held his hand at desk level, though Fyodor had never accepted anybody that young—“and in the space of four years you turn them into first-class specialists. I was there when your kids were taking their examinations in the spring, remember?”

“I remember.” Fyodor nodded unhappily. Seated at his large desk, to which another covered with a green cloth stood at a right angle, Ivan Grachikov spoke with such warmth you might have thought that instead of an inkwell, pen-holder, calendar, paperweight, telephones, carafe, filing basket, and ashtray, the desks were covered with white tablecloths and delicacies, which the host was offering his guest, even urging him to take some home with him.

“There was a boy of about nineteen, maybe, who was wearing a tie for the first time in his life, with a jacket that didn’t match his pants—or is that the fashion now? He hung his diagrams on the board and set up on the table some regulator or calibrator or whatever you call it that he had made himself. This thingamajig clicked and flashed while the young fellow walked around waving his pointer at the diagrams and talking away like nobody’s business—I was really envious. The words he used and the things he knew: what was wrong with existing indicators, the principle on which his thing worked, the power of the anode current, the meter readings, economic efficiency, coefficients and goodness knows what else! And he was only a kid! I sat there and I felt sorry for myself. After all, I thought, I’ve been around for fifty years, and what’s my specialty? That I once knew how to work a lathe? But the sort of lathe I operated is a thing of the past. That I know the history of the Party and Marxist dialectics? But that’s something everybody ought to know. There’s nothing special about it. It’s high time that every Party official should have some special knowledge or skill. It was boys like him who were running things in my factory when I was Party secretary. Who was I to tell them to increase productivity? I had to learn the ropes as best I could by keeping my eyes and ears open. But if I were a little younger, Fyodor, I’d enroll in your evening classes right away …”

And seeing that Fyodor was now thoroughly depressed, he added with a laugh: “In the old building, of course!”

But Fyodor couldn’t manage even a smile. He drew his head in, hunched his shoulders, and just sat there with a dazed look.

At this point a secretary came in to remind Grachikov that there were other people waiting for him.

Nobody had told the students what was going on. Yet by the next day they already knew all about it.

In the morning the sky was overcast and there was rain in the air.

Those who turned up at the school gathered in groups outside, though it was pretty cold. They were not allowed into the lecture rooms because the students on duty were cleaning them, and the labs were out of the question because apparatus was being set up there. So, as usual, they hung around the stairway in a crowd.

There was a hum of conversation. The girls were moaning and groaning. Everybody was talking about the building, the dormitory, and the furnished rooms. Mishka Zimin, a very strong boy who had broken all records digging ditches at the site, hollered at the top of his voice: “So we put in all that work for nothing, eh? For nothing at all! Well, Igor, how’re you going to explain this one?”

Igor, one of the Committee members, was the dark-haired boy in the red-and-brown checked shirt who had drawn up the list of people for moving the labs. He stood on the top landing looking rather sheepish.

“You’ll see, it’ll all be straightened out.”

“But
who’s
going to straighten it out?:’

“Well,
we
will… Maybe we’ll write a letter to someone or something.”

“That’s a good idea,” said a prim and serious-looking girl with hair parted in the center. “Let’s send a protest to Moscow! They’ll surely listen to us.”

She was the meekest of them all, but now even she had had enough and was thinking of quitting. She just couldn’t go on paying seventy rubles a month out of her stipend for a bed.

“All right—let’s get going!” another one cried, and slapped the banister with her hand. She was an attractive girl, with jet-black, fine, curly hair, and was wearing a loose jacket. “I’m sure everybody will sign—all nine hundred of us.”

“That’s right!”

“Sure!”

“You better find out first whether we’re allowed to collect signatures like that,” somebody cautioned.

Valka Rogozkin, the school’s leading athlete, the best runner in the 100 and 400 meters, the best jumper, and the loudest talker, was poised on the banister of the staircase. He kept one foot on the stair, but he had swung over the rail and was lying face downward on it. His hands were interlocked on top of the rail and his chin was resting on them. From this awkward position, ignoring the girls’ outcries, he stared up at Igor. Valka Guguyev, a swarthy, broad-shouldered boy, sat recklessly in the curve of the banister, apparently unconcerned about the 20-foot drop behind him.

“Hey, wait a minute!” cried Valka Rogozkin in a shrill voice. “That’s no good. I’ve got a better idea. Let’s all stay away tomorrow, every single one of us.”

“That’s it—let’s all go to the stadium,” others backed him up.

“Where are you going to get permission?” Igor asked uneasily.

“Who says we’ve got to have permission?” Rogozkin burst out. “Of course they won’t give us permission! We’ll just stay away! Don’t worry!” His shouts grew louder as he got carried away by his own words. “In a few days there’ll be another commission. This one will come by plane and they’ll give us our building back and maybe even something else besides!”

But some of them got worried.

“You’re sure they won’t stop our stipends?”

“They wouldn’t do that to us!”

“But they might expel us!”

“That’s not the way we do things,” Igor shouted above the noise. “Just forget about it.”

Because of all the racket they hadn’t noticed old Dusya coming up the stairs carrying a pail. When she reached Rogozkin, she switched the pail from one hand to the other and raised the free one to give him a good smack on the backside with the flat of her hand. But he saw this just in time and hopped down from the banister, so that Dusya’s hand only just brushed him.

“Now, Dusya,” Rogozkin howled. And he wagged his finger at her in mock anger. “That’s not the way we do things! Next time, I’ll—”

“The next time you lie down like that,” Dusya threatened him with the palm of her hand, “I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget in a hurry! That’s not what banisters are for!”

They were all laughing loudly. Everybody at the school liked old Dusya because she was so down-to-earth.

She continued up the stairs, pushing past the students. Her face was wrinkled, but it was full of life, and she had a strong chin. She looked as though she deserved something better than this job.

“Aw, cut it out, Dusya!” Mishka Zimin blocked her way. “Why do
you
think they’ve given up the building?”

“Don’t you know?” Dusya answered. “There’s far too many parquet floors there. I’d go crazy trying to polish them.”

And off she went, rattling her bucket.

There was another round of laughter.

“Hey, Valka! Do your stuff!” the boys on the top landing called to Guguyev as they caught sight of another bunch of girls coming into the building. “Lusya’s coming!”