„Aleksey Ivanovich, could it be that he misspoke?“ Mama asks ingratiatingly. „All kinds of things can happen. Sometimes I blurt out things like that too,“ she tried to think of an excuse, „and them I regret it. I have to apologize a hundred times.“ She waves her left hand, as if rejecting the nonsense she has spoken by accident.
The party committee leader is implacable and does not respond to her guileless tricks.
„This is political immaturity. Scoundrels like him turn into ‘dissdents.’“
This is a new word for me, „dissdents,“ and although I feel a nervous chuckle running through Mama’s stomach, she remains impenetrable on the outside; not one muscle moves in her face.
„Aleksey Ivanovich,“ Mama fawns, contorting her suffering face and pressing her arms against her chest, „His father died recently. The fellow is twenty years old… I’m sure he didn’t mean to…“
„Age is no excuse for committing anti-Soviet activities! When I was his age, I was defending the Motherland. This is provocation. Most likely premeditated. Think, Kotlova – think about whom you are sheltering!“
Every word the party committee leader speaks sounds like a hammer blow and conceals a threat. I am in shock. What does he think he’s doing? Is it conceivable that one could treat a pregnant woman in such a rough and callous manner? Mama should reveal her news immediately and tell him about the pregnancy. She must defend herself! However, I don’t recognize her – she stiffens herself and continues her resistance. She is presently silent and humbly listening to his insults.
„You need to find someone more suitable for the editorial office. So far, you’ve managed to attract all sorts of riff-raff. Where did you find him? In the gutter? On a trash heap? You seem to have an amazing instinct for finding this kind of crap. It must be pathological…“
Stiffened and grown limp, Mama listens without objection to the insults that are pouring down on her like peas, one after the other.
„Kotlova, I hope this incident will teach you something. Choosing the staff for ideological agencies is a very serious matter. And what do you do? Everywhere you look, there’s this rabble of Schwartzes, Krugmans…“
The party committee leader becomes silent. I hear the rustle of a newspaper. Mama calmly waits for a pause, then figures that the dressing down is over, and it’s time to „make tracks.“ She stands up and heads dejectedly towards the door.
„Kotlova!“
Mama turns around at the shout.
„I’m not done with you! What kind of verses have you published in the newspaper?“
„Verses by our students, members of the literary association,“ Mama answers timidly.
„Have you even read them?“
„I have, and so has the editor. Is something wrong?“ Mama sits down without objection on the last chair, the closest to the door.
„I’ll say!“ snorts Aleksey Ivanovich, and begins to read:
Disarmament. Not waiting
For a bomb in an envelope, or a mine concealed within its lines,
Not summoning or invoking those things
That are hidden in a flask of gin.
Not being blown to pieces
By the sound of a falling line,
And not taking the dots you have written down
To arrange them in rows.
He throws the newspaper onto the table and yells:
„What do you think this is?!“
Mama trembles from the sharp cry, and without understanding the question being asked, she answers cautiously.
„Verses. About love.“
