The Suitcase / Чемодан. Книга для чтения на английском языке

By then the rostrum was wrapped in pink sateen. A few minutes later the inspection was over. We were invited to sit down at the table.

A mysterious side door opened. We saw a spacious room. I hadn’t known it existed. This was probably intended as a bomb shelter for the administration.

The guests and a few honoured workmen took part in the banquet. All three of us were invited. Apparently, we passed for the local intelligentsia. Especially since the sculptor was not present.

There were about thirty people at the table: guests on one side, us on the other.

The first to speak was the station chief. He introduced the mayor, calling him a “firm Leninist”. Everyone applauded for a long time.

Then the mayor spoke. He read from a piece of paper. Expressed a feeling of profound satisfaction.

Congratulated everyone who worked on the project on beating the deadline. Stumbled over three or four names. And, finally, proposed a toast to wise Leninist management.

Everyone raised a cheer and reached for their glasses.

Then there were a few more toasts. The station chief drank to the mayor. Composer Andreyev to the radiant future. Director Konstantinov to a peaceful coexistence. And the weightlifter Dudko to the fairy tale that turns into reality before our very eyes.

Tsypin turned pink. He had a tall glass of brandy and reached for the champagne.

“Don’t mix,” Likhachev suggested, “you’re in fine shape already.”

“What do you mean, don’t mix?” Tsypin demanded.

“Why not? I’m doing it intelligently. Scientifically. Mixing vodka and beer is one thing. Cognac and champagne is another. I’m a specialist in that area.”

“I can tell,” the foreman said grimly, “judging by the epoxy.”

A minute later everyone was talking. Tsypin was embracing director Konstantinov. The station chief was courting the mayor. Plasterers and masons, interrupting one another, were complaining about the lowered rates.

Only Likhachev was silent.

He was thinking about something. Suddenly he spoke harshly and unexpectedly, addressing Dudko, the weightlifter. “I knew a Jewish woman. We hooked up. She was a good cook…”

I was watching the mayor. Something was bothering him. Tormenting him. Making him frown and strain. A suffering grimace played on his lips from time to time.

Then, suddenly, the mayor moved closer to the table. Without lowering his head, he bent down.