The Suitcase Read Online Free Page B

We had to hang our ill-starred relief. That meant lifting it with a tackle, putting in what they call pitons, and finally pouring epoxy over the fastening to make it sturdier.
    It’s rather complicated lifting a slab like that four yards into the air. We spent several hours doing it. The blocks kept getting stuck. The pintles missed the holes. The chains creaked and the stone swayed. Likhachev kept shouting, “Keep away!”
    At last the marble lump was suspended. We took down the chain and stepped back a respectful distance. From afar Lomonosov looked better.
    Tsypin and Likhachev drank in relief. Then they prepared the epoxy.
    We left near dawn. The formal unveiling was at one.
     
    Likhachev came in a navy suit. Tsypin wore a suede jacket and jeans. I’d had no idea he was a dandy. What’s more, both were sober. That changed even the colour of their complexions.
    We went underground. Well-dressed, sober workmen (although many of them had suspicious bulges in their pockets) strolled among the marble columns.
    Four carpenters were quickly finishing off a rostrum. It was being set up under our relief.
    Osip Likhachev lowered his voice and said to me, “There’s a suspicion that the epoxy has not hardened. Tsypin put in too much solvent. Basically, that marble fucker is hanging by a thread. So when the rally starts, stay to the side. And warn your wife.”
    “But the cream of Leningrad will be standing there! What if the thing falls?”

    “Might be for the best,” the foreman replied wanly.
    The celebrated guests were to appear at one o’clock. The city mayor, Comrade Sizov, was expected. He was to be accompanied by representatives of Leningrad society – scholars, generals, athletes, writers.
    The programme for the opening was this: first a small banquet for the select few. Then a brief rally. Handing out of certificates and awards. And then – as the station chief put it, “by preference” – some would go to a restaurant, others to an amateur concert.
    The guests arrived at 1.20. I recognized the composer Andreyev, the weightlifter Dudko and the director Konstantinov. And, of course, the mayor.
    He was a tall, middle-aged man. He looked almost intellectual. He was guarded by two grim, beefy guys, who were distinguished by a light air of melancholy, evidence of their clear readiness to get into a fight.
    The mayor walked around the station and lingered in front of the relief. He asked softly, “Who does he remind me of?”
    “Khrushchev,” Tsypin whispered to us with a wink. The mayor did not wait for an answer and moved on. The station chief, laughing obsequiously, ran after him.
    By then the rostrum was wrapped in pink sateen. A few minutes later the inspection was over. We were invited to sit down at the table.
    A mysterious side door opened. We saw a spacious room. I hadn’t known it existed. This was probably intended as a bomb shelter for the administration.
    The guests and a few honoured workmen took part in the banquet. All three of us were invited. Apparently,
we passed for the local intelligentsia. Especially since the sculptor was not present.
    There were about thirty people at the table: guests on one side, us on the other.
    The first to speak was the station chief. He introduced the mayor, calling him a “firm Leninist”. Everyone applauded for a long time.
    Then the mayor spoke. He read from a piece of paper. Expressed a feeling of profound satisfaction. Congratulated everyone who worked on the project on beating the deadline. Stumbled over three or four names. And, finally, proposed a toast to wise Leninist management.
    Everyone raised a cheer and reached for their glasses.
    Then there were a few more toasts. The station chief drank to the mayor. Composer Andreyev to the radiant future. Director Konstantinov to a peaceful coexistence. And the weightlifter Dudko to the fairy tale that turns into reality before our very eyes.
    Tsypin turned pink. He had a tall glass of brandy and reached for