Gogol's Disco Read online

  Gogol’s Disco

  Paavo Matsin

  GOGOL’S DISCO

  Translated from the Estonian by Adam Cullen

  Originally published by Viljandi, Lepp ja Nagel as Gogoli disko in 2015.

  Copyright © by Paavo Matsin in 2015.

  Translation copyright © by Adam Cullen, 2019.

  First Dalkey Archive edition, 2019.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-943150-38-0

  Dalkey Archive Press

  McLean, IL / Dublin

  Supported by the Estonian Minister of Culture and the Cultural Endowment of Estonia.

  Printed on permanent/durable acid-free paper.

  www.dalkeyarchive.com

  Contents

  Gogol’s Disco

  Part I

  Part II

  Part III

  Glossary

  Murka

  All flew and rushed about looking for the philosopher.

  Nikolai Gogol, “Viy”

  Hither, come hither!

  The porridge is here;

  The table I’ve spread,

  Come taste of my cheer.

  Wilhelm Hauff, “Little Muck”

  Gogol’s Disco

  Part I

  Konstantin Opiatovich

  The pickpocket Konstantin Opiatovich kept certain daily routines he had acquired over many years spent in penitentiaries. Having ironed his pants in the morning with a heated tin mug; polished his shoes using a small, worn scrap of velvet he always kept on his person; and filled his pockets with plenty of the bread crusts he dried on the windowsill, he would then take an early tram to the last stop. Stepping off the paved street onto a narrow path of cobblestones (carefully, to avoid puddles), he jauntily made his way towards the old Jewish cemetery. Jews were known for their stubbornness and honoring of traditions. They adhered to many ancient rules and, therefore, their shadowy cemetery was an ideal place for a respectable pickpocket to begin his day. His former yard-mate, who was an Odessan Jew, had informed him of quite a lot of interesting tidbits concerning the tiny, persecuted nation’s secret customs. Opiatovich couldn’t remember it all any more, but the pebbles placed on the gravestones instead of flowers, and that entire fairytale world with a miniature gate meant only for the rabbi, had a somehow invigorating effect before he attended to his daily job. Later, after working the tram, it would be too dangerous to ride back to the last stop purely to take a stroll. Whenever he tired of the noisy passengers and pinching from purses, Opiatovich would often relax by walking between tram stops and feeding pigeons with the bread crusts. Yet here in the deserted world of silent Hebrew-language tablets, he would, if possible, carry out a calm introduction to the business about to begin. Stopping next to a gravestone he picked by intuition, he would place upon its dewy surface a tiny stone scooped up casually from the path. In doing so, Opiatovich practiced a specific and vital skill for a karmanchik: digital mobility. He would also listen to the silence and to himself. At the same time, he never violated the age-old rule of thieving when scooping up the stones: he was all too familiar with the fact that even the most sentimental pickpocket should never lift anything heavier than a wallet.

  In the wake of recent events, in which Tsarist Russia had once again annexed the Baltic states of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, even the provincial town of Viljandi was awash with changes—good and bad alike, of course. Take for example the trophy tram that had been transported from Krakow or Warsaw or elsewhere—rails, depot, engines and all—after the terrible battles with Poland. The town’s pensioners applauded the novelty and soon, every resident was in the habit of taking free rides on the unprecedented means of transport that the beaks of a double-headed eagle had deposited there. Finely calibrated by Muscovite specialists, it now ran very naturally from one end of Viljandi to the other, coping with every topographical anomaly, entering a transparent modern tunnel under the lake and speeding across the castle ruins with the bravado of an American railroad in order to carry the ever-swelling population to the new residential areas under construction on the outskirts. Opiatovich generally steered clear of politics (a proper thief never collaborates with any regime), but the tram was extremely beneficial in several ways. Thus, to employ technical terms, Opiatovich could proudly state that when the tsarist eagle came back to roost in the region, he, as a former sident and—to the best of his abilities—current stilyaga, suffered no great depresyak, but simply did what he did best. The giant swing of history simply was repeatedly to circle the same beam over his lifetime, so it would seem. Furthermore, he’d managed to make nice friends at a used bookstore downtown, where it was nice to kick back and converse like human beings after the day’s scuffles on the tram.

  Musing, Opiatovich strolled a short circuit to appreciate the scattered gravestones that resembled an abandoned game of dominos—sunken and leaning here forward, there back, reminding him of the good old days when he belonged to a chic Riga gang that spent its evenings playing those endless black-and-white games. Similarly, real dominos were often associated with the deceased! Once, for example, he’d wound up at a gaming table in a bunker in Riga’s Pārdaugava district, where he’d discovered a sheath nailed beneath the table so one could furtively pull a knife if things went south. In his younger days, Opiatovich had indeed worn a white scarf and carried a Finnish blade, a finka, but had never openly drawn a sharp weapon against another person. With the exception of the sharpened coins he used to slit purses, of course. Now, all that remained were the trams and the old women returning from the market with their scant coins … but luckily, also the tunes! How wonderful it was to whistle as he walked in this kingdom of shadows, be it the classic “Murka,” “The Prosecutor’s Daughter,” or the particularly funereal “Sweet Berry.” Life wasn’t actually all that bad! He wouldn’t have minded a wife, but he who is unlucky in love … Only yesterday, he’d been tracked down by the young female thief known by the telling nickname Murka, who had asked his permission to do a little purloining around town. She was pretty like an evil princess, and the local boys were said to be afraid of her already—rumor had it she’d pluck the bread from your hand and was as talented as the devil … Oh, he could use a woman like that as his wife, indeed he could! Naturally, he’d granted his permission—it had never been in any doubt.

  Thereafter, Opiatovich’s thoughts drifted to the queen of games: billiards, a contest of immense philosophy, greater even than any bespectacled old professor could ever concoct! Take, for instance, the durak—a ball that rolls randomly into a pocket, the same way anyone at all might end up in the wrong place, suffer a crippling blow, and … meet their demise! Or, viewed from the opposite angle, a man may enjoy great and unparalleled fortune even though he himself seems to play no significant part in it, simply standing agape, staring at the world like a lamb fetched to the slaughter. But then, suddenly, a shot rings out … and you’re buried either in gold or in the ground! Opiatovich’s former cellmate had told him that the Jews bury their dead quickly and always in a seated position. Again, what an interesting fact! How rich life is! It turns out that underground all the Jews are seated as if on a tram, riding off in some direction, toward Judgement Day, Jerusalem, or whatever end awaits them there. Of course, there couldn’t be any thieves on those underground trams … But wait, wait—what did that make grave robbers, then? Not long ago, there’d been an article in the bilingual provincial newspaper telling of how restorers from St. Petersburg’s Hermitage had been working on the church in Suure-Jaani, just to the north of Viljandi, and had drunk all the embalming fluid from a glass container holding the old Baltic German’s heart, which they had found in the grave obelisk! Yes, life was certainly interesting, no doubt about it! So very unexpected! So very rich!

 
Mulling these thoughts and chuckling to himself at the start of that beautiful day in the tiny imperial town of Viljandi, pickpocket Konstantin Opiatovich headed back to the tram stop. He paused for a moment next to the large sepulcher depicting a menorah, the seven-branched Jewish candelabrum, where he always polished his shoes with the scrap of velvet. Today, he even had to remove one shoe to dislodge a tiny stone from the tread. As he lifted his eyes, Opiatovich was struck dumb by the unusual color of a certain bush. It was as red as a blazing fire against the surrounding greenery!

  The Stranger

  The tram screeched to an awful halt, clattering like a tambourine left hanging around a bandit’s neck after a night of heavy revelry. To his great surprise, the pickpocket noticed the tram wasn’t empty: seated across from the middle door was an individual fully wrapped in a frayed, faded brown scarf. On his head, the odd stilyaga wore a brimmed cap with astrakhan trimming, which resembled an old-fashioned accordion or a gigantic cloth snail shell. Around the seat, and in spite of the fact that the tram was still running its first circuits of the day, the floor was already so dreadfully sandy that Opiatovich was forced to execute a nimble rhumba-like sidestep as he passed the eccentric. Nutcases such as him were not his forte, as their unpredictability could only cause problems. However, since it was obvious that the ghost of a man had boarded at the previous stop, i.e. the new Russian Orthodox cemetery, Opiatovich—a professional—decided to take the risk. There is no one in the world more careless and preoccupied than a person wrapped up in corpses and funerals! Everyone on this side of mortality inevitably dupes the grieving and the bleary-eyed, from the coffin salesman and the gravedigger to the old tuba player who, reeling from the heavy scent of incense, insists on receiving his payment. And those imbeciles pay up, of course! They weep and they pay up! Not to mention the cynical caterers and the whole gamut of professional wake organizers. The business is truly burgeoning. Such impious jackals left barely anything for the honest thief! Still, one had to try!

  Opiatovich sat behind the man and was immediately struck by a sweet, musty smell—an unusual mixture of incense and an elderly man’s intimate ailments. Fighting nausea, more out of curiosity than greed, he slipped a hand into a pocket of the stranger’s plaid coat. Oh-ho … it was lined with luxurious fur … but filled with sand! Startled, he withdrew his hand as he realized the stranger was mumbling to himself. The thief was able to make out two phrases: something had happened too soon, and someone had been warned. Over and over, the deranged man murmured the word … malaria! Then, the lunatic began shuddering with increasing intensity and, by an unbelievable stroke of luck, his bulging leather wallet dropped to the floor next to his seat, as thick as a cachalot. Opiatovich spontaneously started whistling the tune of “Murka.”

  Bully J. Badenov

  Two older men had settled onto folding chairs on the sidewalk in front of the used bookstore on Castle Street, Viljandi’s sole thoroughfare, where the narrowness of the medieval old town had been preserved and natural daylight was uncommon. Sipping from cups of hot tea, both rested their elbows on the thick, worn iron handrail behind them, which had been installed probably even before the previous imperial era to protect the display window. Adjacent to the little shop, which resembled a garden of delights, was a mildew-glazed alleyway leading into an overgrown courtyard where an unusual To Rent sign (still only in Estonian, for some reason) hung above the padlocked door to a cellar bar. Also taking into account the balcony above the men’s heads, which boasted a couple of grand balustrades but was otherwise in a state of dreadful disrepair, and the shattered glass panes in the door of the shuttered puppet theater directly across from them, it was clear that the former main street’s golden days lay somewhere in the distant past. The entire street felt like a gloomy, gray-haired mamochka-mamashake, who, leaning against a window frame as if resting on eternity, is forever awaiting the homecoming of her long-since convicted and executed son.

  The thinner of the two, who weighed a mere 85 pounds, wore a stain-splattered tie, and was nicknamed Arkasha, was squeezing a plastic bag between his knees. He never let it out of his sight, as it contained all his earthly possessions (which mainly consisted of cheap underclothes). Arkasha’s whole life had been luckless: he lived in perpetual separation from family and a proper lunch, or, as his friends would say, “Our Arkasha survives on music.” For the last few years, he had been keeping his head above water thanks to underground recordings in which he delivered heartfelt renditions of classic songs about an officer’s honor, the Russia he had lost, the woeful path of the émigré, and similar topics. Even the famous “Murka,” a rendition of which we just had an opportunity to hear in the form of Konstantin Opiatovich’s mild and cheerful whistling when he noticed an enticing bumashnik land on the floor of the tram, was included in Arkasha’s golden repertoire and was, in fact, his specialty, his koronaya. The ditty told of a new gang arriving in Odessa, led by the revolver-wielding female thief named Murka. Tending to the technical end of the old-fashioned music business was Arkasha’s present tablemate and good friend Bully J. Badenov. After the local Ugala Theater closed down, Badenov cleverly arranged for the institution’s entire array of sound equipment to be stored in one room of the communal apartment on the upstairs floor of the building that housed the bookstore. Consequently, he usually slept right there in front of the main door next to Arkasha; not upstairs in his rented space.

  Bully J.’s room was a spectacle all of its own. Russian and American flags hung prominently alongside autographed posters with personal dedications by Vysotsky and Presley. The latter had once even sent Badenov an official invitation to visit! The Soviet bureaucrats had initially laughed in his face when he submitted the document, but to the surprise of all, he was permitted to leave. The rest of Badenov’s lair was occupied by record players, all kinds of sound equipment, vinyl records, and odd musical souvenirs he’d acquired abroad. Wonderous tales were told about Bully J.’s short-lived emigration to America, though all he himself would comment was that everything had been truly designer-chic. One’s initial impression that total chaos reigned among the tangled extension cords and plug sockets was nevertheless false, as each and every object rested neatly in its rightful place. Bully J. believed that vinyl records had zero tolerance for familiarity, so to deter any risk of destruction, he stored his rarest specimens with the record and cover kept in separate boxes. His most prized possessions, however, were the underground records cut in that very same dark den on X-ray films still showing bones and all, which he’d also peddled quite successfully abroad. Bully J. felt pity for the recently deceased Republic of Estonia, because in truth, he despised the totalitarian regimes that had prevented him from dedicating himself fully to his true calling and hobby: studying early rock and roll, a.k.a. “ancient” rock and roll; or, if you wish, pre-rock-and-roll rock and roll. On the whole, however, he was at peace. He knew that although undeserved oblivion had befallen many a great talent, fate had sent Arkady Dmitriyevich a.k.a. Arkasha, a national and ancient-rock-and-roll great, to cross his path before he, a hopeless romantic and authentic old-school producer-poet-collector, ultimately met his demise. Conversations with the vibrant soul that was Arkasha always demonstrated how true giftedness will gradually accumulate social status and designer-chic. Every moment spent with him made Bully J. sigh in joy and blush to remember the time before they met. Back then, he had spent his miserable days sitting in his musical garage, conjuring up strange, ineffective, additional verses or false refrains for his favorite songs. He hadn’t dared to dream of ever enjoying a pretty wife or an intellectual companion. Nevertheless, an incredible guitar-pluck of fate had introduced him to Arkasha, to that divinely-ordained chic muzykant-Beatle-stilyaga!

  Arkady Dmitriyevich Severny

  Badenov could recall their first meeting down to the finest detail. He had just sat down with Vasya Kolyugin—Viljandi’s leading Beatles aficionado—to discuss various future options for erecting a Beatles temple by the lake. The bearded Va
sya had arrived like a saint and founder of a church, carrying a bizarre model made out of clay and a soccer ball that had been sliced in half. One side was meant to symbolize the world, the other love! They were in the communal apartment’s communal kitchen when there came a knock on the door and a drab individual, wearing a gray suit and carrying a plastic bag, asked to see Bully J. The host showed the stranger to his studio/communal/multipurpose room and asked him to wait; however, he completely forgot his guest while discussing and debating temple affairs with Vasya. Suddenly (they’d just progressed to the topic of colors for the planned sanctuary and were arguing over whether the dome symbolizing love should be purple or pink), they heard someone had set the needle down on a record in the other room, whereafter jarringly harsh and gleeful blatnyak thieves’ music echoed throughout the space. Vasya later remarked that upon hearing those heavenly sounds, it was as if a dove began fluttering in his breast, just like on the way back from the bird market when he was a very young boy. Such sweet pain comparable to a lover’s first scratches, and yet, at the same time, another incredibly tragic element—a sense of life’s last summer and the trickling of fresh, crystalline birch-resin tears—had erupted into the kitchen. Bully J. Badenov could vividly recollect every motion that followed. Enraptured, they waded to the source of the sounds, where they discovered the visitor had taken a guitar down off the wall, sat upon a table amidst heaped bottles of mineral water and cookie wrappers, and was now singing with his eyes squeezed shut. Oh, what freedom! What inexplicable volyushka issuing from a mouth opened only the width of a dash, as an eternal autobiographical minus sign, and delivered to the ears of the squatting listeners! A friendship was forged, the first records were cut, and before long, all the militsiya officers and their lovers in the little town were secretly playing on their mobile phones Arkasha’s rendering of a song about two storks landing on the field outside a prison one night. And the officers wept as they fucked.