"Valentin Katayev. The Cottage in the Steppe (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

University in Odessa, and the student delegation had come to express their
solidarity and also to request him to repeat his lecture to a
Social-Democratic student circle. Vasily Petrovich, while flattered, was
unpleasantly surprised. He thanked the young people but categorically
refused to address the Social-Democratic circle. He told them that he had
never belonged to any party and had no intention of ever joining one, and
added that he would regard any attempt to turn Tolstoi's death into
something political as a mark of disrespect towards the great writer, as
Tolstoi's abhorrence of all political parties and his negative attitude to
politics generally were common knowledge.
"If that's the case, then please excuse us," the young lady said dryly.
"We are greatly disappointed in you. Comrades, let's go."
The young people departed with dignity, leaving behind the odour of
cheap tobacco and wet footprints on the doorstep.
"What an astonishing thing!" Vasily Petrovich said as he strode up and
down the dining-room, wiping his pince-nez on the lining of his house
jacket. "It's really astonishing how people always find an excuse to talk
politics!"
"I warned you," Auntie said. "And I'm afraid the consequences will be
serious."
Auntie's premonition turned out to be correct, although the results
were not as immediate as she had expected. At least a month went by before
the trouble began. Actually, the approaching events cast a few shadows
before them. However, they seemed so vague that the Bachei family paid
little attention to them.
"Daddy, what's a 'red'?" Pavlik asked unexpectedly, as was his wont, at
dinner one day, his shining, naive eyes fixed on Father.
"Really, now!" Vasily Petrovich said. He was in excellent spirits.
"It's a somewhat strange question. I'd say that red means . . . well-not
blue, yellow, nor brown, h'm, and so on."
"I know that. But I'm talking about people, are there red people?"
"Oh, so that's what you mean! Of course there are. Take the North
American Indians, for example. The so-called redskins."
"They haven't got to that yet in their preparatory class," Petya said
haughtily. "They're still infants."
Pavlik ignored the insult. He kept his eyes on Father and asked:
"Daddy, does that mean you're an Indian?"
"Basically, no." Father laughed so loudly and boisterously that the
pince-nez fell off his nose and all but landed in his soup.
"Then why did Fedya Pshenichnikov say you were a red?"
"Oho! That's interesting. Who is this Fedya Pshenichnikov?"
"He's in my form. His father is senior clerk in the Governor's office
in Odessa."
"Well! If that's the case, then perhaps your Fedya knows best. However,
I think you can see for yourself that I'm not red, the only time I ever get
red is during severe frost."
"I don't like this," Auntie commented.
Not long afterwards a certain Krylevich, the bookkeeper of the mutual
aid society at the boy's school where Vasily Petrovich taught, -dropped in
one evening to see him about some savings-bank matters. When they had