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light/05
He brought with him a satchelful of documents, none of which impressed the girl who fetched the transcripts. "I don't know what these are," she told him, and vanished. Esenin spent twenty minutes in wait for further signs of life, pacing the lounge and inspecting its posters with growing resentment. When the hands on his watch crossed into lunchtime, he gave up and went to make his case empty-handed.
Doctor V. O. Kluchevsky, Director of Applied Physics at the Institute, had never been known to open a window. His fifth-floor office was consuming with heat, though Esenin also caught notes of "Russian Leather" cologne, singed paper, and undergraduate fear. He arrived having planned a retrospective on his academics, his admiration of the recent Space Program, and his proposal for greater fuel efficiency in single-engine aircraft, which the Air Club had been permitted to test at Saratovskoye. He handled the academics, but then forgot all about the proposal and vectored right off the map, expressing how tired he was, how much he hated tutoring, and how badly he needed the kind of job that shortlisted his family for individual housing. His very own voice gave life to the poeticism, "I just want to touch something that... might touch outer space." Esenin decided to stop breathing.
Having received all this without nodding, humming, or even really looking up, Doctor V. O. Kluchevsky was immune to the ensuing roll of silence. At last, beneath its flattening ream, he capped his pen. "Nu," he said, "yours were memorable marks, Comrade Esenin. We here reward hard work. The rest you'll have to take up with MGU, where they will sneeze on you." He got up to throw a curtain against the summer and offered his astounded student a cigarette.
Since Esenin was in a state to imagine firing squads, his response was feeble. He managed to add, "I don't smoke."
"Have you considered starting?"
Esenin said, "Ah, I see," for some reason. Then, "Sorry?"
"An abstinent man wastes every intermission," poeticized Dr. V. O. Kluchevsky in turn, and repulsively snorted back a loogie. "He hears nothing, and has nothing to offer."
"Ah. No. But that is food for thought."
"Hum. Have a little drink before your interviews. Not too much, just one or two pulls of vodocka."
"With all due respect," said Esenin, "advice is subjective by definition. Also, I am predisposed to heart disease. Also, it's too late. But for the recommendation, I don't know how to thank you."
He got his signatures and a chance to leave. In the hall they went their separate ways, Dr. V. O. Kluchevsky to get his fill of meatballs in the cafeteria, and Esenin to get his of pawing ardently at objects bound for orbit.
In the lounge the girl was busy helping someone else, having made the mistake of reappearing. As Esenin warmed up for a second round, the student ahead of him seemed to be modeling the paragon. "Anechka," he was murmuring, "for me?" He showed the girl a folded note. Anechka crooked an expert eye at the denomination, took the pass and vanished again. Esenin inwardly lauded the direction of mankind.
"Bitch could show some charity," shared the student in aside, turning to display the expression he'd been holding in.
That sort of thing demanded a reply, so Esenin said, "Huh." Then he trained a cool eye on the back wall and tried to relax, though every muscle in his face started having notions almost immediately. A rhythmic twitch on his top lip was joined by one of his eyelids, and then after a few measures by his nose, which also elected to itch despite having no historical inclination to itchiness. Convinced all this was monstrously conspicuous, Esenin took a sidelong survey of the coast and ran cold to find himself being freely appraised.
"Nu, what," he said.
"What, what."
Having so quickly reached an impasse, Esenin said, "Nothing."
"Not nothing. Last week, who was goggling at me like I'd just killed his mother? Not you? Look at this, it doesn't even register. Panteleev, Oleg. Zdraste."
Esenin had registered it all just fine. By the conference rooms at IMBP, into the chairless hall where he and four other applicants stood shifting their feet and keeping cool in shirtsleeves, Panteleev had stepped wearing a fresh blue suit, carrying a parcel of apples. He had looked ridiculous and magnificent. It was literally the most disgusting cheat Esenin had ever witnessed. Panteleev had surveyed his competitors and pronounced, "Comrades, best of luck. We all deserve this." Then, ever so slightly, he had sighed.
Esenin said, "Zdraste." dismissing the rest. "Sorry if I am not remembering... Ah. The Institute of Aviation. What a coincidence."
"Da, a planetary alignment. No one else around here wants their shot at a little job in a little basement, right? Good for advancement. Bad for the soul."
"Soul? Ah, I get it." Esenin gave the joke its due. Panteleev laughed, too. He had a terrific laugh. It was hard and unexpected, a laugh like a schlagbaum, the sort to stop your own with the possibility of having been, after all, at your expense. It was one of the most telling things about Panteleev, and Esenin liked watching him turn it on others. Himself he had theretofore thought immune. "Sorry to hear," he retorted. "Sorry to hear. Did you have that much trouble with the interviews?"
"Trouble?" Panteleev shut his eyes. "Horror. The Director starts right off asking about friction in Zero-G environments, and all I know is, ogo! Right here. Not up there. So I tell her, 'The research is incomplete,' like an idiot, not knowing she published a whole book of it. That's real trouble."
"The research is incomplete," Esenin assured him. "I have read the book."
"Pfff. I bet that won her heart."
Esenin waved that away. "Nu, hard work tends to pay off. But who really knows?"
"Who really knows," said Panteleev, only half-listening, for there was a click of heels and the girl was back with his papers. "Anechka, bringing the sun. You have saved me. Here's a little more. Da, just five. I need to eat, too. Stall for all that's worth. Comrade Esenin here needs these by Friday, and there's only two or three spots open." Aping Esenin's surprise, Panteleev told him, "I've seen your exam scores," and with that slouched out.
It was difficult to instantly choose which front to barricade. Esenin started after him, then turned on his heel. The girl was gone, of course. In the cavern of Esenin's chest, the key always working its heavy spring met maximum torque. He clapped shut his satchel.
Just outside the gate, he braced on Panteleev's shoulder and delivered a sound row of knuckles to his face. Panteleev had the kind of reedy stature that no man carries well, and unbalanced easily, putting the punch at an awkward angle that nearly broke his nose.
He reeled away and shouted, "What, are you clinked?"
People were staring, a few with interest for further activity. Panteleev didn't even bother. He folded like a futballer in time-out and checked his nose for structural damage. All of a sudden Esenin appeared to be towering over the moral victor, feeling very stupid. He wished the dodge hadn't been so bad.
"I need those transcripts," he explained.
Panteleev was going to laugh at him, but had to spit on the asphalt instead. "Shit, but he really got me. Is that blood?"
"I didn't... Eh, who's blaming who here?"
"Oh, did I bruise your little hand when you popped out of nowhere? Forgive me. Am I bleeding, or what?"
"Crawl off to hell with your forgive me. Ah, it's your nose."
"Ogo? Is that an official hypothesis? Go get me a napkin."
Esenin told him, "No," and walked away. Then he turned back and handed over his handkerchief. Then he walked away again. And that was how he got his chance to talk to Oleg Panteleev.
In fact that day he happened to realize a pair of personal goals. It would do to remember that Panteleev was best regarded from afar, like the pictures in a tourism brochure; focus in, and you would notice the grain, the edge of a tire factory. Remiss, you might have to spend a vacation on the Black Sea bunking with a crowbar, defending your family from the asps living under your rental, or else find yourself bluntly counter-bribing Anechka with savings you'd put aside for a winter hat.
It is still disorienting to note that nothing about Panteleev was ever photogenic. His face was ordinary, with premature smile-lines that never quite endorsed the openness he put on. His hair was too fine and had a tendency to stand on end about a pronounced widow's peak, unless mauled by a cap or ushanka, in which case it adopted the shape of a folkloric maiden's headdress. Seeing him in black-and-white, the effect is that of having picked an old friend out of a class picture, only to realize that it is actually some other schoolmate. In official group shots he is workaday and forgettable; other times he resembles a bad actor, disarrayed and glancing to the wings.
The only photograph that actually captures him is one of a set that Esenin took himself, testing out an uncle's new Zenith. In it Panteleev is standing in the gray light of the kitchen window. He has been momentarily distracted from the photographer by a winning Pear, who has draped his arm about her shoulders. With his other hand he is holding away the last third of a cigarette. His smile is equal parts arch and indulgent, toothy between its bold parentheses. His lashes brush his cheeks, and he is just a second away from looking up.
Doctor V. O. Kluchevsky, Director of Applied Physics at the Institute, had never been known to open a window. His fifth-floor office was consuming with heat, though Esenin also caught notes of "Russian Leather" cologne, singed paper, and undergraduate fear. He arrived having planned a retrospective on his academics, his admiration of the recent Space Program, and his proposal for greater fuel efficiency in single-engine aircraft, which the Air Club had been permitted to test at Saratovskoye. He handled the academics, but then forgot all about the proposal and vectored right off the map, expressing how tired he was, how much he hated tutoring, and how badly he needed the kind of job that shortlisted his family for individual housing. His very own voice gave life to the poeticism, "I just want to touch something that... might touch outer space." Esenin decided to stop breathing.
Having received all this without nodding, humming, or even really looking up, Doctor V. O. Kluchevsky was immune to the ensuing roll of silence. At last, beneath its flattening ream, he capped his pen. "Nu," he said, "yours were memorable marks, Comrade Esenin. We here reward hard work. The rest you'll have to take up with MGU, where they will sneeze on you." He got up to throw a curtain against the summer and offered his astounded student a cigarette.
Since Esenin was in a state to imagine firing squads, his response was feeble. He managed to add, "I don't smoke."
"Have you considered starting?"
Esenin said, "Ah, I see," for some reason. Then, "Sorry?"
"An abstinent man wastes every intermission," poeticized Dr. V. O. Kluchevsky in turn, and repulsively snorted back a loogie. "He hears nothing, and has nothing to offer."
"Ah. No. But that is food for thought."
"Hum. Have a little drink before your interviews. Not too much, just one or two pulls of vodocka."
"With all due respect," said Esenin, "advice is subjective by definition. Also, I am predisposed to heart disease. Also, it's too late. But for the recommendation, I don't know how to thank you."
He got his signatures and a chance to leave. In the hall they went their separate ways, Dr. V. O. Kluchevsky to get his fill of meatballs in the cafeteria, and Esenin to get his of pawing ardently at objects bound for orbit.
In the lounge the girl was busy helping someone else, having made the mistake of reappearing. As Esenin warmed up for a second round, the student ahead of him seemed to be modeling the paragon. "Anechka," he was murmuring, "for me?" He showed the girl a folded note. Anechka crooked an expert eye at the denomination, took the pass and vanished again. Esenin inwardly lauded the direction of mankind.
"Bitch could show some charity," shared the student in aside, turning to display the expression he'd been holding in.
That sort of thing demanded a reply, so Esenin said, "Huh." Then he trained a cool eye on the back wall and tried to relax, though every muscle in his face started having notions almost immediately. A rhythmic twitch on his top lip was joined by one of his eyelids, and then after a few measures by his nose, which also elected to itch despite having no historical inclination to itchiness. Convinced all this was monstrously conspicuous, Esenin took a sidelong survey of the coast and ran cold to find himself being freely appraised.
"Nu, what," he said.
"What, what."
Having so quickly reached an impasse, Esenin said, "Nothing."
"Not nothing. Last week, who was goggling at me like I'd just killed his mother? Not you? Look at this, it doesn't even register. Panteleev, Oleg. Zdraste."
Esenin had registered it all just fine. By the conference rooms at IMBP, into the chairless hall where he and four other applicants stood shifting their feet and keeping cool in shirtsleeves, Panteleev had stepped wearing a fresh blue suit, carrying a parcel of apples. He had looked ridiculous and magnificent. It was literally the most disgusting cheat Esenin had ever witnessed. Panteleev had surveyed his competitors and pronounced, "Comrades, best of luck. We all deserve this." Then, ever so slightly, he had sighed.
Esenin said, "Zdraste." dismissing the rest. "Sorry if I am not remembering... Ah. The Institute of Aviation. What a coincidence."
"Da, a planetary alignment. No one else around here wants their shot at a little job in a little basement, right? Good for advancement. Bad for the soul."
"Soul? Ah, I get it." Esenin gave the joke its due. Panteleev laughed, too. He had a terrific laugh. It was hard and unexpected, a laugh like a schlagbaum, the sort to stop your own with the possibility of having been, after all, at your expense. It was one of the most telling things about Panteleev, and Esenin liked watching him turn it on others. Himself he had theretofore thought immune. "Sorry to hear," he retorted. "Sorry to hear. Did you have that much trouble with the interviews?"
"Trouble?" Panteleev shut his eyes. "Horror. The Director starts right off asking about friction in Zero-G environments, and all I know is, ogo! Right here. Not up there. So I tell her, 'The research is incomplete,' like an idiot, not knowing she published a whole book of it. That's real trouble."
"The research is incomplete," Esenin assured him. "I have read the book."
"Pfff. I bet that won her heart."
Esenin waved that away. "Nu, hard work tends to pay off. But who really knows?"
"Who really knows," said Panteleev, only half-listening, for there was a click of heels and the girl was back with his papers. "Anechka, bringing the sun. You have saved me. Here's a little more. Da, just five. I need to eat, too. Stall for all that's worth. Comrade Esenin here needs these by Friday, and there's only two or three spots open." Aping Esenin's surprise, Panteleev told him, "I've seen your exam scores," and with that slouched out.
It was difficult to instantly choose which front to barricade. Esenin started after him, then turned on his heel. The girl was gone, of course. In the cavern of Esenin's chest, the key always working its heavy spring met maximum torque. He clapped shut his satchel.
Just outside the gate, he braced on Panteleev's shoulder and delivered a sound row of knuckles to his face. Panteleev had the kind of reedy stature that no man carries well, and unbalanced easily, putting the punch at an awkward angle that nearly broke his nose.
He reeled away and shouted, "What, are you clinked?"
People were staring, a few with interest for further activity. Panteleev didn't even bother. He folded like a futballer in time-out and checked his nose for structural damage. All of a sudden Esenin appeared to be towering over the moral victor, feeling very stupid. He wished the dodge hadn't been so bad.
"I need those transcripts," he explained.
Panteleev was going to laugh at him, but had to spit on the asphalt instead. "Shit, but he really got me. Is that blood?"
"I didn't... Eh, who's blaming who here?"
"Oh, did I bruise your little hand when you popped out of nowhere? Forgive me. Am I bleeding, or what?"
"Crawl off to hell with your forgive me. Ah, it's your nose."
"Ogo? Is that an official hypothesis? Go get me a napkin."
Esenin told him, "No," and walked away. Then he turned back and handed over his handkerchief. Then he walked away again. And that was how he got his chance to talk to Oleg Panteleev.
In fact that day he happened to realize a pair of personal goals. It would do to remember that Panteleev was best regarded from afar, like the pictures in a tourism brochure; focus in, and you would notice the grain, the edge of a tire factory. Remiss, you might have to spend a vacation on the Black Sea bunking with a crowbar, defending your family from the asps living under your rental, or else find yourself bluntly counter-bribing Anechka with savings you'd put aside for a winter hat.
It is still disorienting to note that nothing about Panteleev was ever photogenic. His face was ordinary, with premature smile-lines that never quite endorsed the openness he put on. His hair was too fine and had a tendency to stand on end about a pronounced widow's peak, unless mauled by a cap or ushanka, in which case it adopted the shape of a folkloric maiden's headdress. Seeing him in black-and-white, the effect is that of having picked an old friend out of a class picture, only to realize that it is actually some other schoolmate. In official group shots he is workaday and forgettable; other times he resembles a bad actor, disarrayed and glancing to the wings.
The only photograph that actually captures him is one of a set that Esenin took himself, testing out an uncle's new Zenith. In it Panteleev is standing in the gray light of the kitchen window. He has been momentarily distracted from the photographer by a winning Pear, who has draped his arm about her shoulders. With his other hand he is holding away the last third of a cigarette. His smile is equal parts arch and indulgent, toothy between its bold parentheses. His lashes brush his cheeks, and he is just a second away from looking up.