Happiness in Russia means drinking! But there is no happiness in this drunken epic. There is a woeful evil hidden behind the grotesque irony, if only, as seen in the recital of the extraordinary drinks, that include the perfume White Lilac, Athlete’s Foot Remedy, Alcohol Varnish. The protagonist has the same name as the author, but that does not mean that they are identical. Venedikt-Venichka cites Kant and Sartre, Pushkin and Blok. He wanders around Moscow, only seeing the Kremlin at the end of the story. From the train station in Moscow he travels to Petushki. Life there is, supposedly, heavenly, birds are always chirping and jasmine never stops blooming. There, also, lives his “most beloved of trollops.” This is, of course, ironic, since he does not believe, after all, that in Petushki “will come together in a kiss the predator and the victim” and the evil will disappear. Sometimes he is blasphemous, sometimes he is praying, and this Erofeev also talks about with irony. There is no self pity. But there is a pity for others, for the drunk and not particularly old woman, who will give up anything for a ruble. Here though, the irony is pretty much gone. Venichka is living in a drunken hell, as well as everyone he talks to in Moscow and on the train. He doesn’t meet anyone sober. Looking up at him are the empty, protruding eyes of “my people.” In the epilogue, we see four vulgar hooligans, who do not forgive Venichka his being different from other brainless drunks; he is, after all, educated and dares to think. They stuck an awl into Venichka’s throat, “And since then I have not regained consciousness, and never will.”

All sorts of intricate grotesque techniques are now in fashion among certain authors and artists in both the “internal” and “external” emigration. They are pretending to be avant-garde, but clearly do not notice that their modernism is but a stale product from a hundred years ago. Erofeev has no such ambition. Behind his grotesque techniques is sharp pity, unfabled horror, burning pain and a pungent hatred for the Soviet official hypocrisy and the Soviet commonplace vulgarity. Erofeev is witty, spot-on, but you could still fault him with being too wordy. Zoshchenko would have made this story twice or three times shorter. Still, there is no doubt that he has a lot to say about the drunken, woeful evil in the Soviet Union.

 On the cover we see a picture reproduction of V. Kalinin’s painting “Thirsty Man” in an already familiar to us style of the young blue Picasso. Erofeev’s novella was first published in Israel and translated into Polish by Shekher and into English by Tjalsma.

Yurii Ivask