Ivan Shmelev (Иван Шмелёв) is one of my biggest literary discoveries. Even as a Russian myself, I didn't even know about him until recently. He wasn't part of our school program, he isn't often mentioned online, and people don't add him to their reading lists as often as they do with Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. It took actual effort to at least find how they translate titles of Shmelev's books! Even the titles, let alone the texts themselves. From what I learned about him, he was actively published in the western world back then in the XX century, and was widely recognized; he was even nominated to the Nobel Prize or something (Thomas Mann really pushed for it), and now there is almost no trace of him. Quite interesting, to say the least. Well, the best introduction to an artist is through their actual works, so here it is: a relatively short novel by Shmelev that I am taking the opportunity to translate in a whimsical and unprofessional way, so at least my friends can experience what I did. Should anyone find this useful or interesting, I am happy.
- Source for the following translation, Russian: https://azbyka.ru/fiction/chelovek-iz-restorana/
- It said that the to-be-mentioned-often-in-the-novel restaurant is a place that had actually existed: the famous Moscow restaurant "Prague". The novel was finished in 1911, just 6 years before the October Revolution which put the Russian Empire to an end, with all the Soviets and all the USSR things to come. This context is important to understand all the police stuff and public unrest that plays an important role with the doings of the main character.
- And now, on all the Russian names. 'Kolyushka' is an archaic diminutive form of Nikolay. Today people say 'Kolya' instead. 'Lusha' is an archaic diminutive form of Lukerya. Even the full name is not common today. The rest is probably can be figured out without my commentaries, good luck.
- Politically charged terms such as 'capitalist' should all be perceived neutrally, bearing in mind that they were used in their literal dictionary sense at the time, without 'signaling' connotations they have today.
I am peaceful and reserved in my temperament. Thirty-eight years old, so to speak, in my prime. But after such words, I felt like I was suddenly burned. Face to face, in private, I would have overlooked it from this kind of person... I might as well get blood from a turnip! He did it in the presence of Kolyushka, and with what words!
"You have no right to rummage around someone else's apartment! I trusted you and never locked my room. But you were rummaging with outsiders!.. You're so used to digging around people's pockets in your restaurants; and now you dare to think I will let you regard my hearth so!.."
So he went... He wasn't even drunk. As if there was actual gold somewhere... That's him taking revenge for us asking him to move out, to clear the room. We have had enough. He once served as a clerk, very proud and suspicious. And I asked him with respect, explaining that it was impossible for us, in one apartment, with such a proud character and his always being drunk. I posted an announcement on the gate. And so he became annoyed that I was showing his room, and lunged at me.
"You don't consider me a person!" and so on!.. Quite the contrary, we were always careful and even cautious with him, because he could be very malicious in his occupation, as Kolyushka warned. And Kolyushka and I often talked about my own occupation back then. As he grew up and became educated, it didn't sit well with him that I worked at a restaurant. Then Crooked, our tenant (his surname is Yezhov; Crooked is what we called him between ourselves), he hit the sore spot. That I'm a pickpocket! I almost beat him up for saying that, but, being a very sly person, he immediately locked the door. Later he wrote a note and sent it to me via Lusha, my wife. It was all as if from sorrow and misfortunes, and he offered to add fifty kopecks for the room. I couldn't care less for these empty promises, since he had always paid that way before. If only he would move out; for he could be even frightening in his actions... Although he was always afraid to show himself up - always trying to sneak past. But I had a very heated conversation with Kolyushka. Back then, I even slapped him for one remark... Often he would make all kinds of reprimands:
And I remained silent and thought to myself that he was still young and didn't understand the depths of life. But once he had been around and taken a closer look at people, he would speak differently.
And yet it was hurtful to hear such things from my own son, very hurtful! Well, a lackey, a waiter... So what if I am a lackey by destiny! Besides, I am not just any lackey, but one from a first-class restaurant where the society is high and most distinguished. We don't even let the common rabble in here; and the doormen, down below, have strict orders on this matter. The clientele is all thoughtful people: generals, capitalists, the most educated people, professors and so on, commercial people, aristocrats... The society is of the highest and most refined sort. With this type of guest, you need very artful service, and you also need to know how to behave properly so that there is no irritation. And they don't just hire anyone off the street, either; it's as if you're put through fire and flames, as if applying to a university. You must have an appropriate figure, a clean and unblemished face, with a stern and dignified gaze. It's not just "give this or that" - everything is done with good reason. And you have to stand there with understanding and stare as if you weren't there at all, yet keep track of everything and be on guard. It's just the same as for a head waiter in a second-rate restaurant.
Ah?! He dared to scorn me for the coins! But he himself grew up on those very tips I received for my service - for my bows, for my assistance to all kinds of gentlemen, drunk and noble, and so on! His pants were sewn from those tips, and his jackets, and all the books for his studies were bought, and his boots - everything! So that's what it means to know nothing of life! If only he could imagine how people bow down and lick all kinds of feet out of so-called 'high principles,' let alone for tips! I have seen it all.
Once, a formal dinner was served in the round hall to mark the arrival of a minister, and I was appointed to the service along with the others. I then saw with my own eyes how an important gentleman, with medals all over his chest, quickly ducked under the table to pick up the handkerchief the minister had dropped. He was faster than me; he picked it up and even pushed my hand away. All of this under the table. They have nothing to do with it - crawling around for handkerchiefs... If only Kolyushka could see, with all his "lackey this and lackey that!" I do my job, naturally, and even if I hand over a match, I do so in accordance with the regulations of my service, and not beyond.
Having started in this specialty when I was still but a boy, I stayed with it, unlike other, and even very distinguished, gentlemen... One day you look - his gaze is that of an eagle, at the head of the table, drinking Schlossganisberg or some champagne, sticking out his little finger with a ring on it, signaling with it in conversation; and he grumbles into his glass so that you can't make anything out. And another time you see him in a completely different company, where his voice is sugary and thin, and he sits on the edge of his chair, holding his head like a heron, on the alert, his whole figure straining in one direction. I have seen it all.
And my appearance is no worse than that of others'. I even bear a resemblance to the lawyer Glotanov, Anton Stepanovich - so all our lot had a laugh about it. We are both wearing tailcoats, except, of course, his is tailored more neatly and made of a better cloth. Well, his stomach is more prominent, to be sure, and he sports a thick golden chain. And he also has a bald little spot. In general, though, it's all in the same vein. Only I have sideburns; they don't shave theirs. Though if you were to make them shave and attach my badge to their side, they could easily pass for me. And I do have a wallet too, but all the difference is internal. His wallet is bulging, of course, with stacks of all sorts of cash and bills. While mine is flat and scarce, and instead of bills, there are two business cards that have been lying there for three weeks now: one from a judicial candidate, Perekrylov, for twelve rubles from an occasion when he forgot his money at home; and one from Mr. Zatsepsky, a theater singer - a crowned piece of paper - for nine rubles, for the same reason. They haven't been here for three weeks and are probably thinking of not paying, but - just you wait, madam! We have many such gentlemen. To pay for every forgetful one, even the state bank wouldn't be enough, I should think. There are those who have no funds but like to show off and put on airs in a first-class restaurant, especially when they are in the company of high-society specimens. It is very flattering, indeed, to walk upon our carpets and dine in the white halls with mirrors, particularly when it comes to satisfying the demands of spoiled ladies... And, so to speak, they end up acting rashly. But overall, it's not quite pleasant to watch them get embarrassed: nervously checking their bill, and then calling the staff out into the hallway under the pretense of verifying the expenses, their voice full of tremor. They are ashamed in front of everyone. Well, you accept the business cards at your own risk. And it can be beneficial when they add a couple of rubles as a thank you. It's not harmful to anyone; on the contrary, it's useful and helps the wheels of life turn. And there is nothing wrong with that. Even Anton Stepanovich himself, when having breakfast with business people, speaks very well of turning wheels of capital; and they now have two houses in a good location - they were recently congratulated on a third one, bought at auction. Also, Vasily Vasilyevich Kasherotov, a 'first responder,' as we call him, is friends with him. He always carries blank promissory notes with him to hand out to young people from good families. Everything is done on the spot; then he reaps the benefits. And right before my eyes, he came out into society and became acquainted with such people that... well! A trustee of a convent, and a lover - he particularly adores the nuns; he wins them over, all through his influence and 'sacrifices.' Through his business with the promissory notes, they say, he has become acquainted with elegant ladies from the wealthiest families. Indeed!.. What money can do! And as for himself, he's all shriveled up, and with his rotten teeth, you can smell his breath from a mile away. Of course, life has taken its toll on me, and I have lost some of my luster, but I am no slouch, and my face still has a presentable appearance. I am even allowed to keep my sideburns, contrary to our rules. The restaurant is French-style, and therefore everyone is supposed to be clean-shaven. But once, when the director, Mr. Stross - who keeps excellent racehorses and two mistresses - deigned to observe me during my duty, he demanded the head waiter and ordered: "Let him keep the sideburns."
"There. Let it remain as an example." So they made a special disposition in my case. And Ignatius Eliseich gave me a strict order: "And you are on no account to shave them off! This is nothing short of a blessing for you."
A blessing, sure! It makes me look more important, of course, but now they're ashamed to just slip me a fifty-kopeck piece. And that's a hindrance in our line of work.
In general, my appearance is very respectable and even diplomatic, as Kirill Saveryanich used to joke. Kirill Saveryanich!.. Ah, how I used to admire him, and how he went to seed before my eyes! What a man he was!.. If it weren't for his humble origins, with his intelligence and good connections, he could have been involved in government affairs. And what a mess he would have made there! Even now, he still runs a barbershop and also sells perfume. A highly intellectual person - he even used to write about life in a notebook. Many times he comforted me in my sorrows and would argue with Kolyushka, using all sorts of fancy words to prove his point.
"You, Yakov Savronych, facilitate the intake of meals; I, for my part, tidy up appearances. And this is not some invention of ours, but a principle that comes from life itself..."
Pure gold he was! And when you stand there in your full uniform in front of the mirrored walls, it is truly hard to believe that it's really me, and that, as it happens, I can be yelled at in the office when I'm drunk. Once... But I am, after all, not a nobody, not some hearthless wretch. I am a person with a habitation and I earn not just kopecks, but sometimes seventy, sometimes even eighty rubles; and I understand the subtleties of propriety and how to address even the most distinguished individuals. Furthermore, my son attended a real school, and my daughter, Natasha, was educated at a gymnasium... Now, taking all my routine into consideration, at times most noble gentlemen, who ought to understand, they... And they are so subtle in their behavior and actions, and how they speak different languages!.. They eat so delicately and handle even the tiniest bone with care, and when they knock over a chair, they apologize. But sometimes...
There was this exceedingly polite gentleman in a uniform - with a round badge on his chest - sitting next to a lady in an enormous feathered hat. I even knew the lady and her background. When I accidentally brushed the edge of the fish platter against a feather - they were sitting so close together - he called me a dimwit. And, of course, I said, "I beg your pardon," for what else could I say? But it was deeply hurtful. Of course, I received a fifty-kopeck piece as a tip, but it wasn't an apology; it was for show, to parade their nobility in front of the mistress, not as compensation for the offense. Of course, Kirill Saveryanich, with his quick wit and sharp mind, turned it all into a discussion of the "bewilderment that befalls even the most illustrious people" - and yet, it's no good. He even cited a book where some scientist wrote that all labor is honest and noble and cannot be tarnished by words. But I know this without the book, and still, it's no good. It's all easy talk when you've never experienced it yourself. He is doing well; he has his own business, and if anyone calls him a dimwit, he can take them to court on the spot. But I would be fired the next day for causing a scandal, and I could forget about ever working in a first-class restaurant again, because they would sound the alarm everywhere. So a scientist can write anything in his book and no one will call him a dimwit. But if only this scientist had been in our shoes, when everyone feels superior to you for every kopeck - sometimes even for someone else's kopeck - he would have written something completely different. By the book, everything is slick, but let Agafya Markovna talk about the engineers - that's how things really turn out... All these scientists dined at our place once. They were toasting some short, bald one for his book, and in the process, they broke ten rubles' worth of dishes, with no thought of who the head waiter would deduct it from - such is the administration's order. You can't bother such people with trifles, or they might take offense! In the heat of conversation, with an irritated gesture, they knock glasses together and snatch a coin straight from your pocket. Indeed, there is no science that can explain this.
When you see Anton Stepanich selecting various delicacies and washing them down with the finest brandy, you wonder what great feat he accomplished to have all this bestowed upon him - houses, capital, all of it. And there is no way to understand. What's more, even his own friends call him a crook. I swear it. There was an annual dinner for the board of factory owners, with whom Anton Stepanich conducts business in all the courts and litigates against all the specimens; they were capitalists, including the world-famous millionaire Gushchin. And during the merry dinner - I heard it myself - this very same Mr. Gushchin clapped Anton Stepanich and said,
"Such a cro-o-o-ok you are, what a brilliant mind!"
And everyone laughed uproariously, and Anton Stepanich just winked and bragged. And when the French women arrived for dessert, one of them even tried to flatter Mr. Gushchin in the same manner, but all she managed to slur was "gru-u-uk" - just imagine! Then Mr. Glotanov emerged, looking not terribly sober, of course, and shouted: "Ah, you... Such a... You as well!.."
They used very harsh words and made an obscene gesture. It caused such a scandal that only our restaurant's good reputation prevented serious consequences. And the girls got their dresses splattered with grainy caviar... They knocked over an entire jug! All sorts of things used to happen.
And you look at all this... Ah... Unfortunate creatures of God and the Creator! How many of them I have seen! They were pure and innocent once, but then they were seduced and cast out into the street. And no one pays any mind... At times, you come home, pray to God, go to bed... And behind the wall is Natasha. She breathes quietly... And you start to wonder... What lies ahead for her in life? She will not be left with any bonds or lottery tickets, winning or otherwise, or multi-story houses, like the ones inherited by the Pupayev sisters, in whose house I was living at the time.
We lived quietly and unseen, and then suddenly it began and kept on... It went at such a terrible pace, in a whirl... It was a Sunday. I had gone to early mass - though Kolyushka always mocked my every religious effort - and was drinking my tea unhurriedly, since that day the restaurant wasn't to open until noon. And we had cabbage pies. Present too was the barber, my friend Kirill Saveryanich, who was in the highest spirits - having read the Apostle with exceptional clarity during the liturgy - and was holding forth on politics and the nature of life. He only held forth like this on holidays, for - as he rightly explained - weekdays were meant for tireless labor, and holidays for useful discourse. And when he began to speak of religion and faith in the Almighty Creator, I - owing to my lack of education, as Kirill Saveryanich later put it - murmured against learned men, saying they relied too much on their science and intellect in their wisdom, and had no wish to acknowledge God. I said this from the bitterness of my soul, because Kolyushka would never set foot in a church. And I said that giving children an education is a bitter thing, for it can utterly ruin them. Then my Koluyshka spoke up:
"You, Papa, understand nothing of science and are in error." He even stopped eating his pie. "You," he said, "know neither science nor even faith and religion!.."
"You have no right to speak to your father like that! You are lying! I admit I never mastered your sciences, of course, or study geography and the like, but I'm the one who set you on your feet, and I want to grant you the station of a gentleman - so you would be no worse than others, and not end up some lackey, as you speak of me..." - Oh, how he winced! - "And if I did not believe in religion, I would have despaired of life long ago and ended it, perhaps even by suicide! So you study, but you have no true nobility in you... And it is bitter to me, bitter..."
"Spare me your long-winded sermons! If," he said, "everything were revealed to you, then you would understand what true nobility is. And your prayers to God are pointless - if he even exists!"
But what was this! Here I was speaking of faith and religion, and he just stuck to his own tune... I cursed myself for ever putting him on the scholarly path. Hauling books by the armful, sitting up all night, all the kerosene he burned through. And then there was that Vasikov from the road administration, who’d come to see him - consumptive, probably... And Kolyushka himself grew thin and bitter, like a plagued man.
I shook my finger at him for his words about the Creator, and Kirill Saveryanich shot him such a look - he was quite capable of that, his mouth sometimes twisting into a sneer - when suddenly Kolyushka leaped up! And he began to curse everyone... even... certain prominent persons, calling them every name imaginable - it was terrifying. And Kirill Saveryanich grew uneasy, coughing repeatedly and glancing out the window.
"A waste of all your efforts!" he shouted. "And I know just what kind of nobility you want! It's all so that..." Here he began jabbing a finger at his own chest through his jacket. "I'd rather grind stones on the street than give you such pleasure!"
Like a madman! Ah! What was the point of all my efforts? Why did I plead with the school's director to waive the fees? Solely because he used to dine at our restaurant, and I would attend to him, and I'd ask the chef, Alexei Fomich, to take special care. In recognition of my service, they granted the favor. Then I had to submit three petitions detailing our need and expenses... how many times did I cut them short - which you can manage when you have connections with the kitchen steward - and how much effort it took to gain his attention! And for all that, such words!
"You are still a very young man," he said, "full of passion, and you have not yet grasped the full depth of the sciences. Science gradually draws a person toward true nobility and provides the eternal key to happiness!" He spoke so remarkably! "Faith and religion, meanwhile, soften the spirit. And so," he continued, "see what becomes of science: I am, of course, a barber just now," he said, "and if not for the scientific perfection of machines, I would need a full ten minutes with my scissors, even with my skill as an excellent master. But once the machine was invented, I can do it in one minute. So it is with everything. And the time will come when scientists will invent such machines that they will do all things. Even now they extract much from the air by machine, even sugar. And when all that comes to pass, then everyone will rest and contemplate nature. And that is why the sciences must be studied, as noble and educated men do, while the rest of us must for now endure and believe in God’s providence. Do not forget this!"
"I don't want to hear this nonsense! So... in your opinion, the horse should just die waiting for the grass to grow? It's all well for you, selling perfume and shaving the faces of fine gentlemen without doing any real labor yourself! All you do is dye and polish, cover their bald spots so they look refreshed!"
"The Gospels," he said, "learn them first, then I will reason with you! I have studied philosophy! First read as much as I have read, then... I could even instruct your teacher, let alone..."
"Ah! So now you turn to the Gospels! Well, I'll serve them up right under your nose! I'll lay out your faith point by point and shove it in your face! I'll present your precious machines in numbers, I'll choke the streets with rags! Is that the Gospel you want?! You," he cried, "you keep your accounts for shaves and haircuts on its pages now!.."
He carried on like a rabid dog. My son is very hot-tempered and sensitive - well, in that too, God did not stint him. He paced the room, jabbing his fingers, shaking his fist; he launched into talk of life, of politics - of everything. And surnames leaped from his speech. He invoked renowned and illustrious men... he quoted them. And of history... where things come from, how they unfold. He had read a great many books. And it was all about how things should be, and how they are, and this is where the nobility of life lies!
Kirill Saveryanich appeared quite deflated and merely twisted his mouth in reply. But this weakness was just for show; all the while he was preparing his speech. And he began very politely, even with a gesture of his hand:
"That is merely empty talk and sophistry on your part. All this talk of yours is violence, and such things do not exist in real life. Just think it over carefully, and everything will become clear to you. I know politics quite well, and I consider that..."
"Hold on, don't go breaking the dishes. You're not even drunk yet! And besides, who is this 'us' you speak of? This 'us,'" he said, "will finish their education, become engineers, build little bridges here, lay out pathways... Then the money will come flowing in, you'll have gloves on your hands, and things will be tight here and there, with plenty set aside and tucked away. Little houses, ladies in low-cut gowns... You won't even wish to speak with our sort then - the kind who shave faces... Oh no, you wait now, don't you try to shut my mouth! You'll do that later, when I'm the one shaving you... And you'll read your little books and utter all sorts of fine words—more than you know what to do with! And with those gloved hands of yours, you'll grab certain people by the nail, by the throat... We've seen it all, I tell you - more than we know what to do with! And that's the truth! The real truth... the truth is by [Peter and Paul](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_and_Paul_Fortress)!"
Ah, good Lord! We'd forgotten all about him - the very one we kept meaning to chase away. A most inscrutable man, judging by his doings. He’d once worked in a rubber-goods shop, it seems, and his wife had run off with a district officer. He'd rented a little room from us, its window overlooking the rubbish heap, and every evening he would come home drunk and raise a row. Straight for the guitar on the wall and the waltz ["Irretrievable Time"](https://youtu.be/X3cf0zj168g) until three in the morning. He let no one sleep, and if you complained - instant scandal:
He downright intimidated us. And there was such a reckless boldness in his words, it was astonishing. At that hour! Sometimes he would leave his guitar and fall quiet. Lusha watched through the crack in the door. He would stand in the middle of his little room, ruffle up his hair and look all around. And he'd burn bedbugs with a candle under the wallpaper - you'd think he'd start a fire any moment! He hung over us like a fever.
And so this very Crooked - his left eye was always half-closed - appeared right behind Lusha in a new jacket. His face was spiteful, and he was pointing a trembling finger at us. You could see by his eyes that he was already drunk.
"So I've caught you red-handed! We-ell?! You took me for a police clerk - well, you've got the wrong man! But I'll see you reported for a political conversation! We-ell!.."
I knew he was a simple, foolish fellow - and now one all wound up - so I kept silent. Kolyushka turned away; he couldn't stand the man. But Kirill Saveryanich immediately began to placate him:
"And we ourselves," he said, "are patriots, and not concerning anything of that kind... And I beg you, don't get the wrong idea. I even run a barbershop establishment..."
"Spare me your flattery! I can see how you regard me well enough without spectacles! Did I make an impression? We-ell? I could ruin every one of you, and in my educated soul I might even pity you for it. But since I've been scorned and driven from the apartment like the lowest scum, I cannot permit it! And if you are a lackey" - this was aimed at me - "then I am no man's..."
Very inappropriate. Then Kolyushka slung a glass at him - drenching his fancy new jacket. Everyone jumped up. Kirill Saveryanich seized Kolyushka by the arms, I blocked Crooked's path to the door to keep him from taking the scandal outside, Lusha was practically on her knees, imploring him to have mercy on our family's situation, and Natasha was there too - while Crooked just stood with his eyes bulging, drilling us with his stare and jabbing a finger at his own chest. What a bedlam they raised... And then our other lodger appeared, a musician who played at weddings on the big trumpet - Cherepakhin, Polycarp Sidorovich, a man of imposing physique... He went straight for Natasha:
I pleaded with him not to stir up the scandal further, but he is a very hot-headed man and well-disposed toward us. He was all but ready to punch Crooked in the face.
"Let me at him, I'll polish him off right now! I'll put his other eye out! This vile creature!.."
And Crooked just muttered on like the wind, paying no heed at all. And Kirill Saveryanich pleaded with him:
"You wish to ruin this young man - that is unconscionable! It is positively malicious on your part! The discussion concerned machines and the essence of life, and you have twisted it inside out to a political lining..."
And that one kept jabbing a finger at his own chest and said again:
"I know perfectly well what the 'lining' is! He's ruined my new jacket! I am not some ragamuffin!.. I have cultured manners!"
"We shall see to that," said Kirill Saveryanich. "We'll send the jacket to an establishment and have it all cleaned. I have a cousin, too, who serves under Bookerman..."
"It's not about the jacket!" he yelled. "Don't you try to reduce it all to my jacket! The substance is quite different! I have noble blood in my veins, and nothing you do can satisfy me! I may still consider it, but he must beg my pardon this instant!.."
Of course, to keep things from flaring up, I whispered to Kolyushka:
"Apologize... Come now, it's not worth it with a fellow like this..."
"And I must have a brand-new jacket, without fail!"
But Kolyushka rounded on me:
"Me, apologize to such a parasite!.."
"Ah! So I'm the parasite? Well then, I'll sh-show you!.."
He instantly thrust a hand into his pocket - then pulled out a paper. It struck us all dumb.
"We-ell, what's this?! A parasite? You asked for this yourselves - now swallow this official circular! Farewell."
And with that he left. Kirill Saveryanich hurried after him, and I said to Kolyushka:
"What are you doing to me? I raised you on my own blood, I got you exempted from fees by my diligent service... Ah?! And this is how you repay me! What is to become of us now?"
"It was all in vain," he said, "that you troubled yourself and bowed to every scoundrel! It wasn't some street rabble, itching for their own cut, who paid for me... And perhaps Crooked isn't even to blame... Where there is carrion, there will be maggots."
"What maggots?"
"The kind that are green..." And he even laughed!..
"What's with you?" I said sternly. "Who do you take yourself for?"
"Nothing. Let's have some tea. You'll have to be at your restaurant soon..."
"You, don't you pull the wool over my eyes," I said. "Watch yourself!"
"You're a funny one! Why the long face? I only meant to protect you from an insult."
"Well done!" I said," Now he'll go to the magistrate about the jacket, report you to the police for the things you said... See what a piece of work he is? Now he can even cause trouble for you at the school..."
And then Kirill Saveryanych came running, pale, waving his arms, twirling his tie in frustration.
"He's gone! Must be to the precinct! And now they'll drag me into this mess with you... Everybody knows I am a peaceful man, and now, because of some kid, they'll get me too! Mark my words," he said. "I was talking about machines, and science, and about faith in God and patience... These are troubled times, and I'm sick enough even without politics... My business is going under..."
He grabbed his hat and ran out. And without finishing the pie. What was to be done! I wanted to run after him, to ask his advice, but then I saw it was twenty to twelve: time to get to the restaurant. And it was a holiday, a busy day, I've got to stay on my toes.
So I walked on, thinking: What on earth is going to happen now! What on earth is going to happen!
## III
And that same day, something trully bizarre happened at our restaurant. Ignatius Eliseich issued a new order:
"Starting tomorrow, everyone should become more silent!"
