From: the.wise.one@abel.co.uk   
      
   An Unpleasant Story   
      
   by Mikhail Zoshchenko   
   1928   
      
      
   This happened long ago.  I think it was 1924.  In a word, when NEP [New   
   Economic Policy] had expanded to its full magnificent size.   
      
        NEP, you could say, is beside the point.  But what I'm going to   
   tell you is just a funny Moscow story.   
      
        The story unfolded out of the fear of certain circumstances.  Well,   
   you'll see what it's all about for yourself.   
      
        So, this event occurred in Moscow.  In fact it was in Zusev's   
   apartment, Yegor Mitrofanych Zusev, maybe you know him, this comrade   
   from Moscow.  He works in one of the free professions.   
      
        Anyway, he had a party at his place one Saturday.  No particular   
   reason.  Just felt like having a bit of a good time.   
      
        So of course people gathered.  Mostly young, passionate.  All with   
   young, what they call beginners' brains.   
      
        And they'd hardly even arrived, really, before energetic arguments   
   immediately broke out.  Conversations.  Discussions.   
      
        And somehow or other, the conversation soon turned to major   
   political events.   
      
        One of the guests said something about Comrade Trotsky's book.   
   Another supported him.  A third said:   
      
        'That's sheer trotskyism.'   
      
        A fourth said:   
      
        'Yes,' he said, 'maybe that is the case, but, maybe it isn't the   
   case.  Anyway,' he said, 'we don't yet know what Trotsky understands by   
   the word trotskyism.'   
      
        Suddenly one of the guests, a woman, Comrade Anna Sidorova, went   
   all white and said:   
      
        'Comrades!  You know what, why don't we call Comrade Trotsky.   
   Let's ask him.'   
      
        The guests fell silent.  For a moment everyone was looking at the   
   phone.   
      
        Comrade Sidorova went even whiter and said:   
      
        'Why don't we phone the Kremlin, say... We'll ask for Comrade Lev   
   Trotsky and ask him...'   
      
        There was a shouting and mumuring.   
      
        'That's right!' they said, 'why not... Good idea!... We'll call and   
   ask him... We'll say, blah, blah, blah, Lev Davydovich...'   
      
        Then one energetic comrade, Mitrokhin, walked confidently over to   
   the phone and said:   
      
        'I'll just get him.'   
      
        He picked up the handset and said:   
      
        'Please get me... the Kremlin...'   
      
        The guests held their breath and stood around the phone in a   
   semi-circle.  Comrade Anna Sidorova turned completely white, like a   
   sheet of paper, and went to the kitchen to bring herself round.   
      
        Tenants gathered in the room from the whole apartment of course.   
   The landlady also appeared, Darya Vasilyevna Pilatova -- the apartment   
   was registered in her name.  She stopped by the door and watched events   
   unfold, looking sick with worry.   
      
        And events were unfolding with a terrible speed.   
      
        Energetic Comrade Mitrokhin said:   
      
        'Please get me Comrade Trotsky on the telephone... What?...'   
      
        And suddenly the guests saw that Comrade Mitrokhin's face had   
   changed, he glanced around at all the people who'd gathered, jammed the   
   handset between his knees so that they wouldn't hear anything at the   
   other end, and whispered:   
      
        'What should I say?... They're asking -- What's it about?  Who am I   
   calling from?... It must be his secretary...'   
      
        At this everyone started away from the phone slightly.  Someone said:   
      
        'Say you're from the editorial board... from Pravda... Go on, say   
   it, you stupid bastard...'   
      
        'From Pravda,' mumbled Mitrokhin.  'What's that sir?  Oh, just   
   about the article.'   
      
        Someone said:   
      
        'Now you've done it.  You're really in trouble now.  Just wait,   
   something unpleasant' going to happen.'   
      
        The landlady of the apartment, Darya Vasilyevna Pilatova, in whose   
   noble name the apartment was registered, started swaying from side to   
   side and said:   
      
        'Oh, I feel sick!  You've landed me right in it, you bastards.   
   What's going to happen now?  Put the phone down!  This is my apartment,   
   put the phone down!  I won't have people talking with leaders in my   
   apartment...'   
      
        Comrade Mitrokhin cast an anguished glance over the whole company   
   and hung up.   
      
        Another awful silence fell over the room.   
      
        Some of the guests quietly stood up and made their way home.   
      
        Those left sat in complete immobility for five minutes.   
      
        Suddenly the phone started ringing.   
      
        Zusev, the host, went over to the telephone himself and with gloomy   
   determination picked up the handset.   
      
        He began to listen.  And suddenly his eyes grew wide and his   
   forehead became covered in sweat.  And the handset began to tap against   
   his ear.   
      
        A voice thundered in the handset:   
      
        'Who called Comrade Trotsky?  What did they want him for?'   
      
        'There must be some mistake sir,' said Zusev... 'No one here called   
   him.  Sorry...'   
      
        'We haven't made any mistake.  Someone called us from your number.'   
      
        The guests began to go out into the hall.  And trying not to look   
   at one another, they silently put on their coats and left the apartment.   
      
        No one guessed that the call was a hoax.   
      
        They only found out about it the next day.  One of the guests   
   confessed.  He had left the room straight after the first conversation   
   and called from a public phone-box.   
      
        Comrade Zusev got into an argument with him.  He even wanted to   
   smash his face in.   
      
      
   from:   
   "The Galosh and other stories"   
   by Mikhail Zoshchenko   
   translated from the Russian by Jeremy Hicks   
   Angel Books, London, 2000   
   ISBN 0-946162-65-4   
   pages 151-153   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)