Brandishing
a Platinum Baton
(a Man with Frayed Nerves)
Sergey Kalmykov
Brandishing
a platinum baton,
the majordomo,
dressed in a platinum-and-rose suit
embroidered with silk
threads, announced
to those gathered in
the room:
the Grand Master
of Unidimensional Arts
and Doctor of Painting,
A MAN WITH FRAYED NERVES.
A dapper
thousand-year-old young man
ran into the room,
slightly cocking
his head, he ran up
to the hostess
and boldly introduced himself:
the Grand Master of Unidimensional
Arts and Doctor
of Painting — THE INVENTOR
OF GOLDEN TUMBLE
WEEDS.
Whispers of surprise
(and admiration)
echoed around
the crowded
parlor.
The thousand-year-old young man
immediately
began to present
his ideas.
The guests froze
in their seats
in poses of
sincere attention
and admiration.
The man with
the nerves spoke
at length.
His successes were
literally dizzying.
The hostess treated
him to candies.
Little Leda
Lead him by
the sleeve
as they descended to
the garden grounds.
After circling the pond, they
entered a gazebo
covered in ivy.
In the middle of the gazebo
there was a round
wooden table,
on the table was a glass,
and in the glass —
a blue rose.
The girl took out
a box from under the bench
and opened it
with a small key.
In the box lay
nine pale-blue eggs, each
of the size of
a pigeon
egg.
— What are those?
— the great artist
asked with interest.
At that moment,
a long-faced modest
girl, a friend
of Leda, came to the gazebo,
she held in her hands a little
straw basket,
covered with a knit
napkin.
The girl said
that she brought
another four eggs.
She took off the napkin,
took the eggs out of the basket
and placed them in
the box.
— She was at the farm of her
second cousin’s aunt,
conducting experiments.
The great artist
was listening attentively
to what the girls
were telling him.
— Bzz — bzz — bzz.
Bzz — bzz — bzz — buzzed
the girls
into his ears.
Suddenly unexpected
shots rang out. Thirteen
pistol shots
from a toy
gun. Thirteen
eggs cracked. From
them hatched
thirteen agile
bees.
And immediately they
started flying
and buzzing over
everyone’s head.
Fearing
that the bees might
sting his
face, the great
artist took out
of his pocket
a vial filled with
some kind of pinkish
greenish
liquid, and
poured the contents
of the vial on
the steps of the gazebo.
— We must divert
their attention — he
muttered, pocketing
the vial labeled in violet ink:
“The latest tincture
of Leonardo da Vinci.”
Smelling the spicy,
pungent scent
of the tincture, the bees
began to crawl
up the steps and collect
the aromatic
liquid
with their proboscises.
As they drank the tincture,
their movements
started to become
lazier and lazier,
and with that
they themselves began —
not by days and hours,
but by the seconds —
to grow and increase
in weight and volume.
Having reached about
three meters each
and fixating their
enormous unmoving,
vacant eyes
on Leda, her friend, and the great
artist, the bees
froze in dazed
poses, like an Indian
or Chinese statue.
The great
artist examined
their broken shells and
touched them
with his hand.
Having felt that
they were not yet
hard and stiff,
but flexible, like
celluloid, he
advised the friends
to eat as much quicklime
as they could. — Otherwise,
as you see — he said —
they hatch prematurely,
and instead of
little beings,
bees
will hatch.
— Well — said
the girls — we
will try to eat
the lime now.
— You need to be able to organize your
experiments — said
the great artist.
— I should also go with you to visit
your second cousin’s aunt
at her amazing farm.
My dears,
you need to change
tactics. You, like
me as of yesterday,
have been sticking to
tactics of secrecy and
mystery. But —
ADVERTISING — is
the ticket to success.
— Bang
a gong. Bet
on advertising.
Amplify your
intimate
secrets to the level of
global publicity.
May they
shimmer in fiery
letters above the cities
of the world.
— So said
the great artist
to two thirteen-year old
girls.
— I myself didn’t know
what luck is.
But now I
know it.
The great
artist patted
the long-faced girl
patronizingly
on the shoulder. — We must
announce to the whole
world that you
are carrying eggs.
No, do not hide
your boxes
under the floorboards.
On the contrary, show
them to the entire world.
The great artist
took out his notebook and
drafted the text
of a telegram.
— Take it
to the telegraph office — he said
to the courier.
A boy in
a cape, who suddenly appeared
like a ghost
from behind a bush,
took the text,
turned on
his heels, gave a wink
to the girls, and
ran out through
the garden gate.
- I can well imagine
how it’s all going to turn out,
— said THE GENIUS OF THE EPOCH
After walking past
the flowerbeds and
letting Leda’s girlfriend into the street
through the garden gate, the greatest
genius
of the epoch
and Leda returned to
the lounge.
The guests were already
seated at a large
table in the adjoining
dining room.
The majordomo
invited them into
the dining room.
A very
thin and tall
man in black
glasses proposed
the first toast to
the man with frayed
nerves.
— We are going to
the farm — said
the ARTISTIC GENIUS
— I gave notice to
the great and contemptible
LAI–PI–CHU–PLEE–LAPA,
Designer of the Flying
Tower-Vortexes.
He is coming here
at my summons.
In fifteen
minutes a zeppelin
with forty-seven or forty-eight
motors
appeared
over the edge
of the horizon.
The chimneys and roofs
of the houses
were eclipsed
by its moving shadow.
The zeppelin
stopped
above the terrace of the house.
Immediately
a rope ladder was dropped
from the zeppelin,
and guests on the
terrace, attracted
by the noise of forty-seven or forty-eight
motors,
went out together with
the hostess and began
to witness
a circus act,
finding themselves all
involuntary participants
in some kind of
circus
act.
LAI–PI–CHU–PLEE–LAPA,
Designer
of the Flying Tower-
Vortexes
— in a
tailcoat and
top-hat —
frantically flailing
his arms and legs,
descended
the staircase.
The push is on
— he said
to the ARTISTIC GENIUS.
— I created
the text of the advertisements myself:
— You will see them
soon. —
The baskets are about
to be lowered down.
The baskets were
lowered from the zeppelin,
and LAI–PI–CHU–PLEE–LAPA
invited
the attendees
to take their seats
in the baskets:
— We would like to take you to
the zeppelin: Now,
into the baskets!
Above on the airship there was
the shriek and clang
of jazz.
In the blink of an eye, the baskets
were filled.
In the blink of an eye, they were raised to the sky.
The zeppelin
spun around
its magnetic
axis and floated on,
gliding
over
the rooftops.
A red-bearded
man of forty
eight, resembling
an ancient Greek
warrior, lit
a cigarette with a golden
mouthpiece, having removed
it from a brand new
case.
On the case
there was an inscription:
C i g a r e t t e s o f W a r.
— My angel, why
do you smoke
such awful
cigarettes —
asked
an alluring
thousand-pound
lady, addressing
the red-bearded
man.
— Why do you
think them
awful?
— On the contrary,
interjected a bald-headed
thousand-year-
young dandy
in a stylish jockey
uniform.
— They are extremely
chic!
— The most fashionable
cigarettes.
— Would you like
one — said
the red-bearded
man to
the great artist.
— Thank
you, I don’t smoke
— responded
the Grandmaster
of Unidimensional Arts.
Oh my, oh my
what a bore,
the flies are dying-
said a young lady of
twenty, honestly.
— Where have you seen
flies — a young bald-headed
dandy asked her.
— What do you mean, where —
look
under your feet —
responded
the red-bearded man.
The floor is covered
with dead flies.
What
a nuisance.
— They were probably
brought here
in the baskets.
— The baskets are delivered
without having been cleaned
beforehand
of flies.
— Far from it!
— Look, these
dead flies are already
up to our knees.
Soon it will be difficult to breathe
because of these flies.
Look, before our
eyes the piles of dead flies
are really growing!
— Sirs,
calm down, they
were blown in from
the air duct
of the airship.
It has not been cleaned out
for a hundred
thousand years!
Citizens,
our zeppelin
has to be cleaned from
dead flies!
Open the grates,
shutters and barriers.
Open the ports in the floor.
Where are the brooms?!
Sweep them into these
holes, sweep it all
clean!
Billions
of dead flies
poured down
onto sun-scorched
fields and croplands.
— What is it —
locusts, or what?
Some kind of
dead flies.
Some kind of plague.
What sensationalism.
Probably, a
new
publicity stunt.
— What a disgrace,
this International
Advertising Agency,
there’s just
no peace —
complained
the inhabitants of the districts
suffering from
the rain of dead
flies.
Iridescent
thousand-kilometer-long
letters hung
above the fields.
They combined
into slogans.
The slogans
appeared and
disappeared before the eyes
of the stunned
inhabitants
of the land.
— “This is no
way to live!”
— “Even flies
die of
boredom”.
— “The world
must be renewed”.
— “This is what
the genius of the epoch
was concerned about”.
— “Keep an eye on
his experiments”.
Craning their necks,
everyone read the slogans.
They materialized
in the clouds, over
the tops of the mountains.
They flashed
like
uncurling
scrolls, over
seas and
oceans,
shifting from one
continent to
another, to
the third, to
the fourth, to
the fifth — and further
— to the Moon and
further —
to the Sun and
the stars.
— What else?
There doesn’t seem
to be anything
left to wish for —
the Designer
of the Flying
Fower-Vortexes
asked
the artistic genius.
— For a start,
not bad at all — answered
the ARTISTIC GENIUS.
Translated by Alex Warburton