The boy Alexander splintered wood in the kitchen. Golden, delicious peels covered the cuts on his fingers.
The kitchen opened into a yard. It was spring: doors would not shut, grass grew by the stoop, spilled water glistened against the rocks. A rat took refuge in the trash bin. Someone was frying potatoes. A kerosene stove was lit. The life of the stove began lavishly, in a plume of fire that reached to the ceiling. It died in a tiny blue flame. A neighbor boiled crabs. He would use two fingers to grab a crab by its waist. The crabs bore a greenish tinge reminiscent of the plumbing. Suddenly, a few drops of water escaped the faucet. The faucet snorted. Its pipes started their back and forth in various voices. Dusk took shape at once. A lone glass tumbler remained on the windowsill to receive the last rays of the sun through the wicket gate. The faucet continued to grumble. A varied crackle and stir commenced around the stove.
Twilight was splendid. People ate sunflowers; someone sang. A domestic, yellow light fell onto the sidewalk. A food stand was illuminated brightly.
A critically ill man by the name of Ponomarev lay alone in a room next to the kitchen. A candle burned. A flagon of medicine marked by a doctor’s script stood above his head. When friends visited, Ponomarev would say:
“Congratulate me, I am dying.”
A delirium took him in the evening. The doctor’s script stretched like a ribbon. The medicine flask stared. It turned into a royal bride named Onomastica.1 The patient was hallucinating. He wanted to write a scholarly treatise. He conversed with his blanket.
“Are you not ashamed?” he chastised it in a whisper.
The blanket sat beside, lay down beside him, left on occasion, and returned with news.
He was surrounded by a few things: his medicine, a spoon, light, wallpaper. Other things left him. When he understood that he was critically ill and that he was dying, he also understood how great and varied was the world of things and how little of it had remained under his control. With every day their numbers diminished. A near thing like a rail ticket was now irreversibly distant. At first, the quantity of things diminished at the periphery, far from him. Then, the diminishing approached, at a rapidly increasing pace, toward the center, to him, toward the heart—into the yard, house, hallway, and into his room.
Initially, the disappearance of things did not cause him much distress.
Whole continents of possibility disappeared as a matter of old age: the Americas, the possibility of being rich or good looking, the prospect of a family (he was single). The real pain came when he saw that even those objects that followed regularly beside him were receding. And so one day, the street, the concept of work, post office, and horses, all left. The vanishing accelerated nearby, close at hand. The corridor was already out of reach and in his very room, before his eyes, his overcoat, door latch, and shoes slipped from his grasp. He knew that on the way to him, death was destroying things. From a world of their vast and easy quantity she left him only a few, and those that, if it were up to him, he would never let into his household. He received a bedpan. He received the terrible visits and looks from his friends. He was powerless to resist these unsolicited and unwanted (as he always thought) possessions. They were singular and indispensable now. He lost the right to choose his things.
The boy Alexander was tinkering with a model airplane.
The boy was more complicated and more serious than others thought of him. He cut his fingers, bled, littered his wood chips, left glue streaks, begged for silk,2 cried, and got whacked upside the head. Adults thought themselves in the absolute right. Meanwhile, the boy’s actions were completely mature. More than that, he acted as few adults can: in total agreement with science. His model was built according to blueprint. Calculations were made. The boy understood the underlying principles. He could object to the harassment of his elders with rational explanations and with experimental results, but he remained silent, because he did not feel justified in appearing more serious than them.
Around the boy were arranged bands of rubber, wire, wood planks, silk, airy wisps of silk fabric, and the smell of glue. The sky sparkled. Insects walked on stone. Inside of a stone on could see a hardened shell.
The boy at work would be approached by another boy: tiny and mostly naked except for his blue elastics. He touched stuff and was in the way. Alexander ousted him regularly. The naked rubber boy roamed the house and the corridor where a bicycle stood, resting a pedal to one side of the wall. (The pedal left a scrape on the wallpaper—it was as if the bicycle held onto the wall by that scrape.)
The little boy would come to visit the sick man. His head bobbed up and down at the broadsides of the bed. Ponomarev’s temples were pale, like a blind man’s. The boy would approach bluntly and examine them. He thought nothing of it. The world was always so: bearded men were supposed to lie on beds in rooms. The boy only just entered the understanding of things. He could not yet distinguish a difference in their duration.
He turned and began to march around the room. He saw floor tiles, dust under the baseboards, cracks in the wall plaster. Lines converged and diverged around him. Bodies came to life. A focal point of light appeared suddenly. The boy rushed towards it, but no sooner that he took a step, the shape dissolved due to a change in perspective. The boy looked for it—up and down, behind the furnace. He searched and finally gave up, perplexed, shrugging his shoulders. Every moment created a new entity. Wondrous was the spider. It flittered away at a mere thought of a touch.
For the dying man, things that departed left only their names.
There was an apple in the world. It shone in the foliage, rotated slightly, seized, and spun with it a few shreds of the day, the blueness of the garden, the window transom. The law of gravity awaited it under the tree, on black soil, among the knolls. Beaded ants scurried among the knolls. Newton sat in the garden. Inside the apple were concealed a multitude of causes capable of producing many more effects. But not one of those effects were meant for Ponomarev. The apple became for him an abstraction. And the fact that matter escaped him while the abstraction remained was painful.
“I thought the external world does not exist,” he pondered. “I thought it was my eye and my ear that ruled objects and I thought the world would cease to exist when I cease. Now I see that everything is turning away from me, even while I am still alive. But I exist still! Why then do these objects disappear? I thought it was my brain that gave them form, weight, and color. They left me nevertheless, and only their names—useless, abandoned names—swarm around my brain. And what am I to do with these names?”
Ponomarev looked wistfully at the child. This one walked. Things rushed toward him. Not knowing one of their names, he smiled at them. A lush wake of things would break behind him when he left.
“Listen,” the sick man called to the child. “Listen… You. Know that all this will be gone when I die, neither yard, nor tree, nor daddy, nor mommy. I will take them all with me.”
A rat got into the kitchen.
The man listened to its chores as it clanked the dishes, opened the faucet, rustled in the bucket.
“Washing the dishes, eh?” he thought.
At once a restless thought came to him: What if the rat possessed a proper name, unbeknownst to people? He began to imagine such a name. He was delirious. The more he thought about it the more afraid he became. He understood that he must stop thinking about the rat’s name by all means and yet he continued, knowing that, at the very moment this nonsensical and horrifying name would appear to him, he would die.
“Liompa!” he suddenly screamed in a terrible voice. The house slept. It was early morning, a few minutes past six. The boy Alexander did not sleep. The kitchen door was left open into the yard. The sun was still somewhere beneath. The dying man walked through the kitchen, bent at the waist, his outstretched hands weighed heavy by his limp wrists. He came to take his things. The boy Alexander ran through the yard. A model airplane flew ahead. It was the last thing Ponomarev saw. He did not take it. It flew away. Later that day a casket appeared in the kitchen. It was blue with yellow decorations. The rubber toddler watched from the corridor, his hands folded behind his back. The casket was tediously manipulated to get it through the door. A shelf was hit, a pot; bits of plaster fell. The boy Alexander climbed on top of the stove to help by holding the box from beneath. When the casket came through, finally, into the corridor, turning black at once there, the rubber toddler pitter-pattered ahead.
“Grandpa! Grandpa,” he yelled. “They brought you a casket.”
Olesha’s prose is characterized by choppy, hypnotic, often repetitive diction, lean descriptive lists, and idiosyncratic idiom. The author punctuates short, sentences containing clinically precise description, with flights of lyrical estrangement in which simple things are described in unfamiliar, jarring ways. A sense of melancholy haunts this story, conveyed through ambiguous grammatical constructs that waver between the simple and the habitual past tense. In this way, Olesha purposefully blurs the lines between “the boy approached” and “the boy would often approach.” Such scenes seem to have happened once and to have always been happening continuously, creating a sense of eternal time which transcends the specificity of narrative placement. The rural house comes alive through careful detail, yet lives on as an archetype. I tried to preserve and prioritize these features in translation, where possible.
Previous translations (out of print) include:
Oleša, Jurij K, and Aimee Anderson. Complete Short Stories & Three Fat Men. Ann Arbor, Mich: Ardis, 1979.
Yarmolinsky, Avrahm. Russians: Then and Now: A Selection of Russian Writing from the Seventeenth Century to Our Own Day. New York: Macmillan, 1963.
A few select tools are essential for my translation workflow. The first of these is [multitran.ru], a remarkable online meta-aggregation of high quality Soviet-era Russian/English dictionaries which deserves a media archaeology of its own. In addition I use the following common resources:
Oxford English Dictionary Online. The online version includes full etymological entries, which are important in reconstructing English approximates of phrasing that relies on a sense of the Russian root form.
Dal’s Russian Etymological Dictionary. Same as above. Dal’s is the golden standard in Russian etymology.
Oxford American Writer’s Thesaurus. It is usually on my desk, although writers like Olesha tend toward plain, colloquial expression. I did not have much need of it in this translation.
Garner’s Modern American Usage is my go-to guide through tricky grammatical or stylistic terrain. Garner finds the right balance between proscription and description, and that with a sense of humor and humility that makes this reference work a pleasure to read.
It is worth noting that, according to Russian Federation [Federal Law N230-F3]3 (03.07.2016), copyright of literary creative works applies retroactively for 70 years after publication. Olesha’s “Liompa,” published in 1928, therefore entered the public domain in 1998.
The Russian тезоименитство is derived from an Old Church Slavonic root and means “namesake day,” a holiday distinct from one’s birthday celebrated in Christian Orthodox and Catholic traditions. It is not a common word. I chose the similarly uncommon (in English) Greek-derived name for the holiday: onomastico in Italian and ονομαστική γιορτή in Greek. Names and naming of objects are a major theme in the story. ↩
Silk was (and still is now, in the hobbyist community) commonly used to create an aerodynamic surface around an airplane wing or an aileron. See for example “How to Silk a Model Aircraft Wing” on Airfield Models: https://web.archive.org/web/20170614043457/http://www.airfieldmodels.com/information_source/how_to_articles_for_model_builders/finishing_techniques/silk_a_wing/index.htm ↩