The Corsican
The interrogation had been dragging on, and the
police officer felt exhausted; he declared a break and
went off to his office for a rest.
With a sweet smile of satisfaction he was approaching
the couch; suddenly he stopped, his face taking on a twisted
look, as if he had seen something foul.
The other side of the wall, a loud bass voice was singing,
clearly enunciating each word: “Forward, forward, O
working class!”
Not quite able to keep up with this, out of time and out of
tune, a timid and hoarse little voice was singing: “Fowad, fowad!”
“What on earth’s going on?” the officer exclaimed, pointing
to the wall.
The clerk straightened up a little in his chair.
“I have already had occasion to report to you on the
matter of this agent.”
“What
are you on about? Keep it simple.”
“Agent Fialkin has expressed a pressing and imperative
wish to enter the ranks of our provocateurs. This is the
second winter running that he has been on duty by the
Mikhailov tramway. He’s a quiet chap. Only he’s ambitious
beyond his station in life. Here I am, he says, wasting my
youth and expending the best of my strength on the trams.
He is concerned about the slow progress of his career on
the trams and the impossibility of applying his exceptional
abilities—that is, supposing he possesses such abilities.”
“For juthtith thake we thpill our blood,” went the thin
voice behind the wall.
“Out of tune!” said the bass.
“And is he talented?” asked the officer.
“He’s ambitious—even excessively ambitious. He wants
to become a provocateur, but he doesn’t know a single revolutionary
song. He’s been moaning on and on about this.
And so police constable No. 4711 has come to his rescue.
No. 4711 knows every song perfectly—you’d think he had
the music right there in front of him. Now, of course, most
constables know the words well enough. You can hardly
block your ears when you’re out on the streets. But this one
has a fine feel for music as well. So he’s teaching Fialkin.”
“Well, well! And so now they’re belting out the
‘Warszawianka’,” the officer murmured dreamily. “Ambition’s
no bad thing. It can help a man get on in the world. Take
Napoleon. A simple Corsican, but he achieved… quite
something…”
“The people’s flag is burning red. It’s sheltered oft our
martyred dead,” growled constable No. 4711.
“They seem to be on another tune already,” said the
officer, suddenly suspicious. “Is he teaching him all the
revolutionary songs in one go?”
“Every last one of them. Fialkin’s in a hurry. He thinks
there’s an important conspiracy being hatched.”
“Well, there’s certainly no lack of ambition round here!”
“The see-eed of the future,” Fialkin bleated from behind
the wall.
“The energy of the Devil,” sighed the officer. “They say
that when Napoleon was just a simple Corsican…”
From the staircase below came muffled thumps and a
kind of roar.
“And what’s that?” asked the officer, raising his eyebrows.
“That’s our lot, on the ground floor. They eat there.
They’re getting agitated.”
“What about?”
“Seems they can hear the singing. They don’t like it.”
“Damn it! This really is a bit awkward. People out on
the street might hear, too. They’ll think there’s a protest
meeting here in this building.”
“Damn you!” said the bass the other side of the wall.
“Howling like a dog! Is that the way a revolutionary sings?
A revolutionary sings with an open heart. He makes a clear
sound. Every word can be heard. But you just whimper
into your cheeks, and your eyes keep darting about. Keep
your eyes still! I’m saying this for the last time. Or I’ll up
and leave. If you’re really so keen to have lessons, you can
go and find yourself a Maximalist!”
“Now he’s losing his temper,” grinned the clerk. “A real
Vera Figner.”
“Ambition! Ambition!” the officer repeated. “And he’s
taken it into his head to be a provocateur… No, brother,
there’s no rose without thorns. Court martials don’t have
time for long deliberations. Get yourself arrested, brother,
and no one will bother to check whether you’re a revolutionary
or whether you’re the purest of provocateurs. You’ll
swing for it anyway.”
“Gluttons grow fat on workers’ sweat,” roared the bass,
letting himself go.
“Ow! It’s even making my teeth ache! Can’t anyone find
a way to talk him out of all this?”
“But how can they?” sighed the clerk. “He’s a man possessed.
People are all such careerists nowadays.”
Copyright © 2021 by Teffi. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
