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Not long ago, citizens, they were hauling a load of bricks along the street. God almighty!

My heart, you know, fluttered with joy. Because, citizens, we are building. They're not hauling these bricks just for nothing. It means a little house is being built somewhere. It's been started— spit twice and keep the evil eye off!

Maybe in twenty years, maybe even less, each citizen will probably have a whole room to himself. And if the population doesn't make the mistake of increasing too rapidly, and if they let everyone have abortions, maybe even two rooms. And maybe even three per person. With bath.

That's how we're going to be living then, citizens! In one room, let's say, sleep, in another, entertain guests, in the third, something still different . . . Isn't that something! There'll be things to do in a free life like that!

Well, for the time being, it's a bit difficult on account of the space ration, which is limited in view of the critical situation.

I was living in Moscow, brothers. I just came back from there. I experienced this crisis at firsthand.

I arrived, you know, in Moscow. I'm walking along the streets with my things. That is, nowhere in particular. It isn't as though I had a place to stay—a place to put my things.

For two weeks, you know, I wandered around the streets with my things—I grew a beard and gradually lost my things. Well, so, you know, it's easier walking without my things. I'm looking for a place to stay.

Finally, there's a house where one guy on the staircase lets me in.

"For thirty rubles," he says, "I can set you up in the bathroom. A luxurious little apartment," he says . . . "Three toilets . . . Bath ... In the bathroom," he says, "you can live all right. Even though," he says, "there's no window. There is a door. And water right at your fingertips. If you want," he says, "you can fill the bathtub full of water and dive under, even for the whole day."

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I say: "Dear comrade, I am not a fish. I," I say, "don't need to dive. I'd just as soon," I say, "live on dry land. Take off a little," I say, "for the dampness."

He says: "I can't, comrade. I'd like to, but I can't. It doesn't depend entirely on me. It's a communal apartment. And our price on the bathroom has been very strictly set."

"Well," I say, "what can I do? O.K. Grab my thirty," I say, "and let me in right away. Three weeks," I say, "I'm pounding the pavements. I'm afraid," I say, "I might get tired."

Well, O.K. They let me in. I began to live.

But the bathroom really was luxurious. Everywhere, no matter which way you move—there's a marble bathtub, the water heater, and faucets. But there isn't much place to sit. Unless you sit on the side, and then if you slip, you fall straight down into the marble bathtub.

Then I built myself a plank of boards, and I'm living.

Within a month, among other things, I got married.

My wife, you know, was young and good-natured. She didn't have a room.

I thought that on account of this bathroom she'd refuse me, and I did not foresee any family happiness and comfort, but she didn't refuse at all. She only frowned a little, and she answers: "What of it," she says, "lots of nice people live in a bathroom. And if worse comes to worse," she says, "we can divide it off. In one place," she says, "we might make a boudoir, for example; and in another a dining room . . ."

"You can screen it off, citizen. But the tenants," I say, "the devils, won't let you. Even now they're saying: No remodeling."

Well, O.K. We take things as they are.

In less than a year a little boy is born to us.

We called him Volod'ka, and we go on living. We bathe him right here in the bathtub—and we live.

And, you know, it's even going pretty well. The boy, that is, is getting bathed daily and he doesn't even catch cold.

There's only one inconvenience—in the evenings the communal tenants pour into the bathroom to wash themselves.

At this time my whole family is pushed out into the corridor.

I even asked the tenants: "Citizens," I say, "bathe yourselves on Saturdays. You just can't," I say, "take a bath every day. When," I say, "are we supposed to live? Enter into our position."

But there are thirty-two of them, the bastards. And they're

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all cursing. And in case I do anything, they threaten to smash me in the face.

So what is there to do—you can't do anything. We take things as they are.

After some time, my wife's mother from the province visits us in the bathroom. She settles down behind the water heater.

"I," she says, "have dreamt a long time of rocking my grandson. You," she says, "can't refuse me this pleasure."

"I'm not refusing you. Go ahead," I say, "rock. To heck with you. You can," I say, "fill up the bathtub and go diving with your grandson."

But I say to my wife: "Maybe, citizen, you have more relatives who are planning to visit us; if so, you better speak up right now, don't torment me."

She says: "Only a kid brother for the Christmas holidays . . ."

Since I hadn't expected any brother, I left Moscow. I am sending my family money by mail.