The Russian National

Postal Service
A Room of Laughter for a Lonely Pensioner

By Oleg Bogaev

Translated by John Freedman

First produced in this translation at the Studio Theatre in

Washington, D.C., Sept.-Oct. 2004

CHARACTERS

IVÁN (Ványa, Vánka) SÍDOROVICH ZHÚKOV

ELIZABETH II, the Queen of England
VLADÍMIR ILYÍCH LENIN
LYUBÓV ORLÓVA, a famous Russian film star
Other figures from Russian history and world literature
Ivan Sidorovich Zhukov is an old man of 70. 
He   sits   sadly   watching   television   or   listening   to   the
radio. 
Two years ago his wife died of pulmonary disease. 
It   may   seem   improbable,   but   somehow   Ivan   Sidorovich
failed to "notice" this disease. 
Nonetheless, a nebulous trace of the funeral remained in
his   memory.   He   remembers   how   his   wife   was   lowered
into the earth; how they put a low wide fence around
the   grave;   and   how   afterwards   everybody   complained
about   the   bad   weather   while   waiting   glumly   for   the
bus at the bus stop. He still remembered the ritual
fortieth   day   after   her   death,   when   nobody   came   to
visit   him   and   he   was   all   alone   when   he   dipped   the
ladle   into   a   pot   of   stewed   fruits   he   had   made.   He
acknowledged the fact of his wife's death, but this
"fact"   was   something   similar   to   a   crack   in   the
ceiling   that   existed   according   to   its   own   laws.
Meanwhile,   Ivan   Sidorovich   existed   according   to   his
own   laws.   Perhaps   his   thinking   showed   signs   of
senility  or  perhaps  he  feared  bringing  down  another
heart attack on himself. Perhaps Ivan Sidorovich was
a philosopher at heart and he subscribed to Plato's
phrase:   "Life   is   constant   movement   from   birth   unto
death." Perhaps, anything is possible. I don't know. 
As he did every morning when his wife was still alive,
Ivan   Sidorovich   would   lug   his   milk   can   to   the   milk
store to buy milk. During the day he would sit on a
bench   with   his   friends.   Evenings   he   would   watch
television, listen to the radio and become upset that
things had so gone to hell.
Two   years   passed   in   this   manner.   Life   continued   on   in
ways and directions he did not understand. Basically,
he did not want to think about it — it was as though
rivers never overflowed their banks and sewage pipes
never   backed   up.   During   the   winter   he   used   a   hand
broom   to   scrape   the   snow   off   the   railing   of   his
balcony.   In   the   spring   he   got   out   his   galoshes.   In
the   fall   he   got   out   his   stiff,   warm   boots   made   of
compressed   fiber.   Suddenly,   however,   in   early   fall,
the milk store was moved to a newly­built district.
His friends, as if they had all conspired to do so,
all went off to the "big bench in the sky" to join
his   wife.   His   television   and   his   radio   broke   down
irrevocably. He got bored. 
For days on end our Ivan Sidorovich did not show his face
in   public.   He   sat   on   his   stool,   rocking   away   his
loneliness   and   listening   to   the   floorboards   squeak
beneath him. He felt sorry for himself. He had no one
to talk to; no one was there to visit him. 
He would think of his old neighbor friends and his wife,
a  woman  of  few  words.  He  would  squint  at  the  blank
television   screen   and   sigh   as   he   recalled   the
 pictures of "live people" he used to see there. 
However,   in   school,   trade   school,   at   the   front   and   at
work,   Ivan   Sidorovich   always   stood   out   for   his   wit
and his talent for inventiveness.
Right now, in fact, as he sits on his stool, his old head
is as filled with the serious work of thought as any
young head ever was. And, apparently, he has an idea!

Ivan Sidorovich's one-room apartment.

The room is furnished simply: a table covered with a plastic tablecloth; a chest of
drawers that has been spiffed up with brown floor paint; a television standing
on a small table; a heap of musty sheets on his bed; and a small rug on the floor.
An identical rug hangs on the wall over his bed.
Way back when, his wife had worked at the post office and she used to bring home
huge quantities of envelopes and slips for telegrams. She never did find a use for
the low-grade paper, although that didn't stop her from bringing home whole
packs, boxes and bundles of things until she finally earned eternal rest.
The envelopes seemed to migrate from the chest of drawers to the overhead storage
compartment, then from there to the balcony.
After his wife died, Ivan Sidorovich remembered the envelopes for some reason and
brought them back in out of the cold.
For the longest time, the bundles stood next to the heat radiators, giving the whole
apartment an odor of dampness mixed with the smell of rancid glue and
bedbugs.
Now Ivan Sidorovich had found a use for the envelopes.
The gray corners of letters protrude everywhere throughout the apartment, from the
chest of drawers, from tears in the wallpaper and from the closet. Every
envelope bears the exact same handwriting.
Ivan Sidorovich gets up from bed and goes to the closet. He opens it, removes from it
a "fresh" notebook and a packet of envelopes. Ceremoniously, he removes a bare
ink cartridge from his small table, blows in the little hole at the top and sits
down at his table. With a single stroke of his hand, he wipes away the bread
crumbs.
For a long moment, Ivan Sidorovich is preoccupied scratching the inside of his ear
with the cap of his ballpoint pen. He wheezes and slowly begins writing
something on a clean sheet of paper.

IVAN SIDOROVICH. Hello, dear Ivan. (Thinks. Writes.) This is the o-l-d g-a-n-
g writing: Mish-ka, Grish-ka and Fyo-dor. (Thinks. Writes.) Finally, we
have found you! (Aside.) Yeah, and I wonder how long the bums looked?
(Thinks. Writes.) After we finished the seventh grade you disappeared
somewhere but good. Somebody said you went off to build a factory
somewhere, but nobody knew where or which one. (Thinks. Writes.)
Others said you sailed off to the Arctic on a ship. We wrote you up there
but they wrote back and said you weren't there. Then the war started
 and we quit looking. (Thinks. Walks around his room. Begins writing again.)
After the war, we started looking for you again everywhere. (Aside.) Sure
they did. Mikhail said the last time he saw you was on the television set
dancing Swan Lake. That must have been the 1970s. And now the
information bureau gave us your address and said that you're the real
Vanka Zhukov, the same one who used to be our friend and companion.
(Thinks. Writes.) So, is that really you? Do answer us, won't you? Because
this gives us no peace. (Thinks. Writes.) Because this gives us no peace.
Signed, your old school chums, Mishka, Grishka and Fyo-dor! (Rereads
the letter. Thinks. Writes.) P.S. And if, and if you are not you, then at least
write us if you know where to find Ivan Sidorovich Zhukov who was
born in 1921. You'd know him by his... (Looks at himself in the mirror.
Writes.) He's of average height and has gray hair. (Looks in the mirror.
Writes.) He had a snub-nosed nose and he answers to the nickname "Old
Stump."

Ivan Sidorovich looks over what he has scribbled and then carefully folds the letter
and puts it in an envelope. He seals the envelope, smoothes it down with his
hand and writes an address on it. He hides the letter between his shirt and his
chest. Feeling good about himself, he walks about the room and stops before the
mirror. He slips the letter behind the mirror. He paces back and forth,
whistling. He sits on his stool and dreamily looks out the window.

I feel something coming on today. (Looks out the window.) Aha! A

bullfinch! There'll be news today. Something unexpected! (Squints at the
mirror.)

He walks about the room, looking in alarm at the wall on which the mirror hangs. He
thinks about how he might trick himself. He walks up to the mirror, sticks his
hand behind it and pulls out the letter. Looks around. He puts the letter on the
table.

(He calls himself by his name and patronymic, as if shouting over a distance.)
Ivan Sidorovich! Hey, Ivan Sidorovich! You have a letter, an urgent one!
It finally came! You hear that, you old goat? Where are you? H-e-y!
(Snaps to attention. Blinks repeatedly with alarm.) Here I am! I'm here. Ivan
Zhukov. That's me in the flesh. (Loudly, in a commanding tone.) Here's
your letter! (Looks around. Approaches the table, picks up the letter and reads
what is written on the envelope.) Is this for me? (Looks around. Loudly, aside.)
For you! Take it and get out of here! (Quietly, almost inaudibly.) Where's
this from? Who could have written to me? (Rips open the envelope, reads
what he had scribbled.) Mishka, Grishka and Fyodor?! (Reads.) You've got
to be kidding! Well, I'll be! Look at this! Holy Moses! What do you know
 about that? Who woulda thought? Now isn't that something? What
won't happen next? (Sits down, makes himself comfortable. He rereads the
letter carefully, acting it out in his expressions, oohing and aahing, smiling
happily. When he finishes it, he hides it behind the mirror again. Sadness comes
over him. He paces back and forth, his slippers making shuffling noises on the
floor.) Guys... You didn't forget. Can you imagine that? After all these
years! They found me through information. They don't give up easy,
those guys. (Grows more lively.) They don't give up. No sir. Well, guys,
we'll still mix it up yet! (Decisively walks about the room. Looks at the
window, the table, the chest of drawers. Tears a clean sheet of paper out of his
notebook. Sits at the table and writes.) Howdy, guys! It's me! The real Vanya
Zhukov! (Thinks. Writes.) I'm very gratified that you finally found me.
(Thinks. Writes.) I got your happy letter and I'm answering right away.
(Thinks. Becomes sad. Writes.) So, how's life been all this time? Mishka.
Grishka. Fyodor. I see they didn't kill you in the war. I thought you were
dead. (Thinks. Writes.) So, how's life been? I don't know a damn thing
about you. I'll bet Mishka has grandkids and great-grandkids. And
Fyodor probably married that schoolgirl Anfisa. Did Grisha ever become
a millionaire like he dreamed of? (Thinks. Writes.) Write me everything.
What cities do you live in, what streets, what are prices like there?
(Thinks. Writes.) So, do you play dominoes? And, if you do, which kind
do you play: "crosses" or "regular"? (Thinks. Writes.) I like "crosses"
because it's quick and that way you can keep your opponent on his toes.
(Thinks. Writes.) During the Great Patriotic War my daughter
disappeared and somehow we never had another. Basically, my wife and
I lived a modest life. (Falls into thought. Sits that way a long time. Finally
begins writing.) Grishka still owes me twelve bills hard cash! I'll bet you
forgot. (Thinks. Writes.) So, now I live my life. For the fun of it. Write me
again. I guess that's all for now. Signed, the real Vanka Zhukov. (Thinks a
minute then adds a postscript.) And whoever that was in Swan Lake, it
wasn't me. That was somebody else.

Ivan Sidorovich folds the letter and puts it in an envelope. He seals it, addresses it
and takes it to the chest of drawers. He opens it and a whole pile of envelopes
scribbled with the same writing falls out. He carefully puts the envelopes back.
He becomes sad. Sits on his bed and dozes off.
Outside leaves begin to rustle. The room fills with rays of green, blue and red light. It
is as though the bed, the small table, the television and the closet have been
covered with an expensive, semi-transparent cloth. Sparkles begin flashing in
the air. Voices are heard.
Ivan Sidorovich turns his face to the wall and all of that disappears as if it had never
been.
Ivan Sidorovich awakes. He sits up and hunts for a slipper with his bare foot. He gets
 up. He stands in the middle of the room and seems to remember something. He
goes to the chest of drawers and opens it. He shuffles through the letters all
written in the same handwriting and finds one in particular. He opens it and
reads: "Write me again. The real Vanka Zhukov." Puts the letter back, closes
the chest of drawers. He goes to the table, takes up a clean sheet of paper and an
envelope and thinks.

Mishka. Grishka. And Fyodor. (Writes.) Hello, Vanka! (Thinks. Writes.)

We don't play dominoes. Nothing but chess. We hasten to write you
about our lives. (Thinks long. Writes.) Our life is like a fairy tale. (Thinks.
Writes quickly.) We all had kids grow up in large quantities. All of them
are good and smart. They never say a cross word to us. They take care of
us as if we were crystal vases, and that's a fact. Every Saturday they take
us to resorts. (Falls into thought. Writes again.) The war didn't leave a
trace on us! Even our neighbors didn't get so much as a splinter the
whole war through. Just a few scratches. Basically, it was like there
wasn't even a war at all. All our aunts and uncles and cousins are all
healthy and in their right minds. Our grandsons all graduated from
college with straight A's and our granddaughters all married very
impressive young men. As for us, we live in a huge, quiet city where
there is never any snow or mud. (Thinks. Writes.) Our city is as beautiful
as a dream. All the buildings have transparent roofs and there are all
kinds of different flowers on every balcony. They scrub the streets with
soap and water and there are berries and mushrooms growing right
there in every courtyard. (Thinks. Writes.) Everything here is cheap, well-
made, of good quality and is pleasing to the eye. People on the street
behave with dignity. They don't shove and they smile at visitors to our
city. Nobody steals and we only know about poverty if we read an old
newspaper. The city fathers are upstanding and they don't do any
politicking at all. (Looks at the piece of paper. A bead of sweat has appeared on
his brow. He is satisfied. Writes again.) And on that note, that's the end of
that. (Writes carefully.) Signed, Mish-ka, Grish-ka and Fyo-dor!

Ivan Sidorovich seals the letter and hides it beneath his mattress. He removes an
accordion from his storage space and sings something like "She'll be coming
around the mountain when she comes...." Sits on his stool, tapping his foot in
time and stretching the accordion to its limits. He sings the last verse and sets
the accordion aside. He falls into thought and sits motionlessly for a long time.
He closes his eyes — and falls asleep.
Outside leaves begin to rustle. The room fills with rays of green, blue and red light.
The bed, the small table, the television and the closet seem to be inundated in
snowy sparkles flashing in the air.
Upstage, at the back of the room, Elizabeth II, the Queen of England sits facing
 Vladimir Ilyich Lenin.

ELIZABETH II. (Glancing at the sleeping Ivan Sidorovich.) No, Vladimir Ilyich. I
think loneliness is that state of a man's spirit when the soul despises its
own body.
LENIN. (Glancing at the sleeping Ivan Sidorovich.) If you think Ivan Sidorovich
is lonely, you've got it all wrong.
ELIZABETH II. Well, you can't deny that...
LENIN. But I can! And I will. You see, uh, your honor..., loneliness is one of
the psychological factors influencing the emotional state of a person who
is trapped in the usual conditions of social isolation.
ELIZABETH II. No, Vladimir Ilyich. You don't know what loneliness is. This
guy is writing letters to himself. Poor Ivan Sidorovich.
LENIN. In certain cases a state of shock arises which characterizes anxiety,
depression and...
ELIZABETH II. You're the one who drove him to it.
LENIN. I did?!
ELIZABETH II. (Sighs and shakes her head.) Ivan Sidorovich... (Wipes away
tears.)
LENIN. (Pointing at the sleeping Ivan Sidorovich.) There's the first victim of your
economic reforms! A sack of potatoes in a suit! And he used to be a hale
and hearty man! What have you done?! No! It's you that did it! Supply
and demand! Buy-sell!
ELIZABETH II. Oh, don't be so tedious.

Lenin clenches his hands into fists and, with a threatening expression on his face,
goes at the Queen of England. Ivan Sidorovich stirs.

Shh! I think he woke up.

The two disappear. Ivan Sidorovich opens his eyes and sticks his hand under the
mattress. He pulls out a letter, reads it, smiles, gets up, goes to the chest of
drawers and hides the letter there. He paces back and forth. Remembers
something. Goes to the table. Picks up a new envelope, a sheet of paper and
writes.

IVAN SIDOROVICH. Hello, Ivan Sidorovich. (Thinks. Writes.) This is the

director of television writing to you. The national television network.
Your neighbors in your apartment building informed us that you play on
the accordion very loudly and very beautifully. We highly respect your
particular talent and ability to perform Russian folk songs. We especially
like the way you play "Kalinka." (Thinks. Writes.) Therefore we are
inviting you to perform in a broadcast that we will devote only to you
 and your accordion. (Thinks. Writes.) You will be seen by millions of our
television viewers! (Catches his breath. Writes.) We often receive requests
asking us to allow you, our dear Ivan Sidorovich, to play a little bit
longer... and to be on television. So that everybody could see you.
(Thinks. Writes.) Sincerely and with deepest best wishes, your fan, the
Director of Television. The national network.

Ivan Sidorovich carefully folds the letter and scrupulously writes on the envelope:
"To Ivan Sidorovich Zhukov."
He walks around for a long time, not knowing where to put the letter. It then occurs
to him to put it under the television set. He is pleased with himself. He goes
into the kitchen to fix himself a cup of Georgian tea. He leans back and sticks
out his chest, coughs and frowns. He drinks, looking out the window with a
bored expression on his face. The tea in the cup long ago cooled down and he
continues staring out the window thinking about something. An hour passes
and finally he gets up and walks around the room. He approaches the television.
An envelope falls out from under it.
Sincerely surprised, he reads what is written on it. He glances around in confusion
and picks up the envelope.

From the director of television. (Amazed, he can't read his own writing. He
turns on a lamp and puts on his glasses.) The national network. (Frightened,
he looks cautiously at the envelope and finally decides to open it. His hands
shake. He reads the letter hungrily, occasionally raising his brows and blushing
from embarrassment.) Sincerely and with deepest best wishes, your fan,
the Director of Television. The national network.

Ivan Sidorovich cannot believe his own eyes. He carefully studies the envelope, his
own handwriting and finally concludes that the letter must be authentic.
He walks around the room proudly, staring at himself in the mirror and tugging at
the dirty collar of his shirt. His gaze falls on his accordion which is lying
upturned on its side. The accordion is old and beat-up, its sides are all
scratched as if it had been attacked by some wild animal. The bellows have been
eaten by moths, the strap is frayed and ready to snap. Ivan Sidorovich carefully
lays the accordion under his blanket and goes back to his table. He does not
know what to write or how to answer his "fan."
Mustering courage, Ivan Sidorovich exhales sharply and begins writing.

Hello, respected director of national network te-le-vi-sion. It's me...

(Thinks. Writes.) Ivan Zhukov. Son of Sidor. In your letter you wrote
(thinks, writes) that you like how I play the accordion. Thank you very
much. It is very nice to hear something like that. (Thinks. Writes.) In fact,
I do know how to play "Kalinka." I also know how to play "The Weaver
 Women's Song," "The Waves of the Amur" and many others. (Thinks.
Writes.) But I mix up the words. Sometimes I forget them completely
and then I add a few verses of my own. (Thinks. Writes.) As for television
and your invitation to perform on it, well (thinks, writes), I can say a lot
about that. First, I'm already old and young girls aren't going to like
looking at my ugly mug. Second, I don't go out of my apartment too
much any more. Only when I need bread. Or a bit of hamburger. (Aside.)
That is, if I have enough left over for hamburger. (Thinks. Writes.) And I
haven't been downtown for ages. Being so old, I could easily get run
over by a car or get lost in the metro. (Thinks. Writes.) Third, even if you
took the risk of sending a driver and a van out to pick me up, I still
wouldn't come. (Thinks. Writes.) The reason why is because all those
young girls wouldn't like me and because all the old folks would say,
"The old stump's gone off his rocker. He's got the star bug." But I don't
have the star bug. (Thinks. Writes.) I do it because I love the music. I'd
ruin your whole TV show and I'd be scared to death myself. By nature,
I'm shy. I get embarrassed easy and I'd hit all the wrong notes. (Thinks.
Writes.) I'd mess up the whole song and then they'd all say, "What are
you doing? Where did you get that old coot?" (Thinks. Writes.) So for that
reason, goodbye. Your trusty Ivan Zhukov.

Ivan Sidorovich wipes the sweat from his brow and rereads what he wrote. He finishes
reading. He's satisfied. He sets the letter aside and goes to the kitchen. He puts
the teapot on the stove and waits for the water to boil. He drinks. He goes back
into his room. He sits at his table and begins writing a new letter.

(Decisively.) To the Social Welfare Department. (Thinks. Writes.) I have a

demand! I, Ivan Sidorovich Zhukov, demand that you increase my
retirement pension. I can't live on what you send me anymore. My back
is against the wall. Everything in the store is expensive and I am already
an elderly man. My pension lasts me a week. For the rest of the month I
boil Chinese noodles and eat rye bread. (Thinks. Writes.) How did you
guys get to the point that your whole government can't even feed one
single former worker and veteran of the war? (Thinks. Writes.) Look for
yourself: The last week of the month I eat like a cat. And then for the
next seven days after I get my pension I am so starved I eat like a hog
until there's nothing left. Someday my stomach will burst and it will be
your fault. (Thinks. Writes.) I don't have a wife or a television set... and I
love meatballs. But I can only afford four pounds of hamburger plus
what they charge for packaging it. Therefore, I officially demand that
you raise my pension to the living standard and cancel my rent fees!

Ivan Sidorovich bangs his fist on the table and aggressively prints the final period.
 Suddenly, his gaze falls on the letter from the "director of television," his
answer to the "director of television" and the third letter that he has just
written. He compares the handwriting in horror, tears the three letters up and
throws them on the floor.
In confusion, Ivan Sidorovich paces the floor. He doesn't know what to do. He picks
up the tea cozy and looks inside. He twirls the dial of the television set. He goes
out on his balcony and looks down at the snowflakes hitting the brick wall of the
apartment building and then returns into his room.
His neighbors are listening to a record. The languorous voice of a black singer
undulates and seems to float on a sea of melancholy. Ivan Sidorovich's eyes
reflect depression. He lies down on his bed and turns to the wall. He swallows
some pills.
Outside leaves begin to rustle. The room fills with rays of green, blue and red light.
Everything seems to be inundated in snowy sparkles flashing in the air.
The Queen of England and Vladimir Lenin become visible upstage. They are playing
dominoes.

ELIZABETH II. What do you think, Vladimir Ilyich? Has he gone crazy or is
he not quite there yet?
LENIN. Listen, if you're in a hurry...
ELIZABETH II. Not at all!
LENIN. Your move.
ELIZABETH II. You think he'll die soon?
LENIN. What do you care?
ELIZABETH II. How can you say that?
LENIN. (With irritation.) I repeat: Ivan Sidorovich is a member of the
proletariat. And if you go trying to weasel him over to your side...
ELIZABETH II. Then what?

Lenin sings "The International."

The two disappear. Ivan Sidorovich wakes up. He opens his eyes. On the accordion he
plays an old-fashioned love song.
He is gayer now. He paces the floor. By the time he makes his tenth round, Ivan
Sidorovich is really in a good mood. He begins muttering to himself under his
breath and waving his arms about. He sits at the table and lightly rips a clean
sheet of paper out of his notebook. He sets a new envelope on the table and
writes.

IVAN SIDOROVICH. Hello, Ivan Sidorovich Zhukov! Zhukov! Zhukov! (He

deliberately writes in oversize letters and laughs.) I, the President of our
country, am writing to you to wish you happy birthday and to bestow
upon you the Order for Noted Service to the Motherland and the
Fatherland! I would also like to award you the title of Honored
 Pensioner. (Thinks. Writes.) And also the rank of general in the Strategic
Weapons Attack Team. SWAT! (Thinks. Writes.) Furthermore, I want to
wish you a happy 70th birthday and, once again, to wish you health,
happiness and lots of pranks. And I hope all your dreams come true!
December 31 according to the Gregorian calendar. Signed, the President!
Pre-si-dent.

Ivan Sidorovich turns the envelope over and writes in big letters: "The Kremlin. To
Ivan Sidorovich from the head of state."
He laughs, makes faces, waves the letter around and tosses it in the air. Finally, it
gets stuck in the prongs of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Ivan
Sidorovich jumps up and down trying to retrieve it. Suddenly, he hunches over
and clutches at his chest. He goes to his bed, takes some pills. He turns his face
to the wall and appears to fall asleep.
Leaves begin to rustle. The room fills with colored light. Everything seems inundated
in flashing sparkles.
The Queen of England and Vladimir Lenin become visible upstage. They are drinking
tea from Ivan Sidorovich's teapot.

ELIZABETH II. Sometimes I wonder, why do people live on this earth? And
quite often it seems to me that a human's life is pointless.
LENIN. Dialectics. Dialectics. Tell me this, how long has it been since you
read anything? Huh? Well, you must read newspapers and women's
magazines. Hm? You don't even know how to read, your Majesty, but
you're all full of ideas, aren't you? Now there's an example of a
bourgeois monarchy — an idiot sits there and calls herself a queen! "Life
is pointless!" Now how do you like that?
ELIZABETH II. You pitiful Marxist!
LENIN. (Howls with laughter. Looks at Ivan Sidorovich. Abruptly stops laughing.)
All right. You've had your fun, now. Just what are you after, comrade?
ELIZABETH II. I am the Queen of England!
LENIN. And I am the great Lenin!
ELIZABETH II. And I... and I... and I... Ivan Sidorovich willed his apartment
to me!
LENIN. No he didn't! He willed it to me! (Pulls an envelope out of his pocket.)
ELIZABETH II. Oh no, he didn't. He willed it to me. (Pulls an envelope out of
her dress.)

Elizabeth II and Lenin wave their envelopes in each other's face. They twirl around
the room as each tries to grab the other's envelope.

You scoundrel!
LENIN. You slut!
ELIZABETH II. You scum!
LENIN. You sleaze!
ELIZABETH II. Give it to me!
LENIN. Gimme it!

They spin around the room.

Ivan Sidorovich awakens and the two disappear. He caresses his chest with his palm.
He wheezes. He stands in the middle of the room. Tired, he sadly stares out the
window. Suddenly, the envelope falls from the chandelier.
Ivan Sidorovich is curious. He picks up the envelope and reads it. Slowly, his hairs
stand on end.

IVAN SIDOROVICH. (Reads.) The K...K...Kremlin. To Ivan Sidorovich. From

the President, the head of state.

Ivan Sidorovich is stunned. He looks around in confusion. With quivering hands he

pulls the letter from the envelope but can't bring himself to read it. He pours
some water into his cup from the teapot and drinks it in a gulp. He shouts,
jumps around, spits the water out, opens his mouth wide and waves at it with
his hand.
He reads carefully. He reads every line twice. His face expresses fear transforming
into quiet ecstasy.
Having read the letter from "the President," Ivan Sidorovich swallows hard and puts
his fingers to his forehead.

(He dances euphorically. He cannot fight back a huge, naive, childish grin.)
Comrade President... Thank you... Why, we... Thank you. What can I...
You have made... I am very...!

Ivan Sidorovich sits at the table. He ceremoniously tears a sheet of paper from his
notebook, gingerly peels the perforated paper off the edge, blows dust from the
piece of paper. He selects the newest and crispest envelope. He writes with great
care, as if tracing each letter. Whenever he makes a clumsy letter, he becomes
upset.

Comrade President! Your letter was delivered safe and sound by the
postal service employees. They handed it to me personally. (Looks at his
chandelier. Writes.) I read your dispatch very attentively to the very end of
your signature. (Thinks. Writes.) I extend to you my great and vast thanks
for your birthday wishes, for the state honor and for the especial trust
that you have entrusted to me. (Thinks. Writes.) Despite my elderly age, I
can still be of use to your... (crosses out last word) to our homeland. And I
am prepared to labor endlessly, giving no thought to my own well-being
 if it be for the good and flourishing of your... (crosses out last word) of our
fatherland. In your dispatch, comrade President, you expressed an
enthusiastic interest in how I am doing. Let me tell you: I-am-do-ing-gr-
eat. I have all the comforts I need for that — gas, cold water on
Mondays, hot water all the time, 220 volts of electricity and heat in the
radiator pipes. My mood is good and I am healthy. I still want to live...
(Thinks. Writes.) I have beaten back whooping cough and the mumps. I
have high blood pressure, but only in a mild form. I have excellent sight.
I could serve in the armed forces. (Thinks. Writes.) I have some
knowledge of the Chinese language. (Thinks. Writes.) Sincerely, your new
general and a friend of your attack team, Ivan Sidorovich Zhukov.
December 31, 7:22 p.m. Moscow time.

Ivan Sidorovich diligently and seriously corrects all his mistakes. He plays the
harmonica and sings a patriotic war song. As he plays, he doesn't so much sing
as shout. Emotions have gone to Ivan Sidorovich's head. He enthusiastically
begins writing a clean copy of the letter. He affectionately looks at the letter
from "the President" and freezes: He recognizes his own handwriting. He can't
believe his eyes. He compares the handwriting on the letters again. He tears up
both the letter "from the President" and the letter "to the President." He throws
them on the floor and stomps them underfoot. He slaps himself on the cheeks
and lies down in bed. He lets out a sob and turns his face to the wall. He takes a
pill.
The black singer's voice is heard singing from the neighbor's apartment. It sounds as
if she is somewhere on a sunny beach and is lying in the shade of a huge, golden
palm tree. Generously, although in English, she shares her melancholy with all
the inhabitants of damp apartments with cold heat radiators.
Outside the window leaves begin to rustle. It is as if the room shudders and rays of
light dance on the floor.
Upstage the Queen of England and Vladimir Lenin become visible.
The Queen picks her crown up off the floor, Lenin smoothes down the hairs on his
temples and straightens his tie. They stare at each other maliciously.

LENIN. You tore off my button!

ELIZABETH II. Class struggle!
LENIN. You thug! That's right! Just you wait! You think he willed you his
apartment!
ELIZABETH II. He will! Ivan Sidorovich loves me!
LENIN. Who? You? Ivan Sidorovich doesn't love you! He told me he loves
me... If you want me to, I'll read it to you. (Opens the chest of drawers and
pulls out a packet of letters. Removes one of them and reads it.) "My dear,
precious leader, comrade Lenin!" Need I read any further?
ELIZABETH II. No.
LENIN. He won't will his apartment to you!
ELIZABETH II. Yes he will!
LENIN. It's my apartment!
ELIZABETH II. Mine!

The sound of a drill howls through the wall. The neighbors' bookshelf keeps falling
down and today they bought a drill to fix the problem.
The two disappear. Ivan Sidorovich opens his eyes. He sighs as if he were a holy
martyr. He doesn't know what to do to hide from the noise of the drill. He goes
into the kitchen to boil some water for a package of noodles. He boils it. He
comes back into the room with the teapot. His gaze falls on a poster of a heroine
from a TV soap opera. He turns away. The masking tape holding the poster on
the wallpaper falls away. The poster falls and with it a new letter.

IVAN SIDOROVICH. (Gazes in surprise. Picks up the letter, tears open the
envelope and reads.) "Hello, Ivan Sidorovich! This is the Queen of England,
Elizabeth Two writing to you. Here is the poem of my life. I was sailing
along on the fourth-floor deck of my ship and I was tired of eating
meatballs. I was staring blankly at the water when suddenly the
television set fixed itself and I saw you on the screen, Ivan Sidorovich.
There you were, holding your Russian accordion in your hands. You
played a lively tune and you pushed all those buttons beautifully. For
some reason it made me very cheerful and anxious at the same time. It
was as though I had awakened from a deep sleep and had suddenly
taken off for somewhere. As God is my witness, you are such a subtle,
romantic man that I instantly shouted out for everybody to hear on the
steamship: 'It's him! Look! My prince!' Naturally, my crooked-legged
husband, the king, came running up right away. He threw a tantrum and
yelled but I told him all about you anyway. Ivan Sidorovich! I can't live
without you. You are the only real man in this capitalistic world. Shelter
me with the power of your passion! Tomorrow my steamship is leaving
for Paris and I am going to the justice of the peace with my husband. To
get a divorce! I do nothing but pine for you and stare out at the sea in
the direction of Russia where my long-awaited love waits for me.
Signed, Queen Elizabeth Two." (Twirls the letter in his hands. Does not
understand.) What does she want from me? (Looks at the letter. Looks at
himself in the mirror. Takes a sheet of paper and writes a reply.) Good evening
or good morning, revered Queen of England Elizabeth Two. (Compares
what he wrote with what is on the envelope.) Elizabeth Two. (Thinks. Writes.)
I received your letter and, frankly, I just don't know what to do with it.
How do people live in your country and how is the weather at sea?
(Thinks. Writes.) Why did you fall in love with me? I am a sad person, I
am old, and I cannot make your happiness. But if you truly do love me,
 then send me your photograph and I'll think it over good. I am a
Russian, you know — my toilet always leaks. If worse comes to worse,
you can sleep on the sofa. (Thinks. Writes.) If need be, it can be folded out
double. (Thinks. Writes.) Revered Queen! Do you like jam in half-liter jugs
like the ones I fixed last summer? (Thinks. Writes.) I won't lie to you. I
had never thought about you before. But if life has served up this
surprise, then why not with a queen? (Thinks. Writes.) Best wishes, Ivan
Sidorovich Zhukov, general of the Strategic Weapons Attack Team.
(Sticks the letter in his side table.)

Ivan Sidorovich sits on his bed and plays his accordion: "My Bonnie Lies over the
Ocean." Angrily squeezes the bellows one last time and sets aside the accordion.
He turns his face to the wall.
Leaves rustle. The room fills with light. Colored light sparkles. Upstage appear
Vladimir Lenin, Elizabeth II, Robinson Crusoe, Chapayev, Lyubov Orlova and 1

Stalin. They argue and wave envelopes in each other's face.

ELIZABETH II. (Rings a bell.) Ladies and gentlemen! Attention, please!

Silence.

I will try to describe the state of affairs as briefly as possible. I suspect

you all know the pensioner Ivan Sidorovich from apartment twenty-nine.
ALL. (Cutting each other off.) Yes! Yes! Yes!

The Queen rings her bell. All fall silent.

ELIZABETH II. In spring of this year, Ivan Sidorovich began battling

boredom by engaging in secret correspondence — with each and every
one of us!
ALL. (Together.) Yes! Yes! Yes!
ELIZABETH II. In his letters, Ivan Sidorovich promised to will his apartment
to me.

Noise and arguing.

ALL. (Cutting each other off.) And to me! And to me!

ELIZABETH II. In his letters to me, Ivan Sidorovich declared his undying love

1 Lyubov Orlova (1902-1975) was a beloved matinee idol from the golden age of Soviet
cinema in the 1930s and 1940s, who starred in a number of popular comedies and
musicals. Vasily Chapayev (1887-1919) was a hero of the Russian revolution who
became a genuine folk hero thanks, in large part, to a wildly popular film, Chapayev
(1934), which continues to enjoy cult status today.
 for me.

Noise and cursing.

ALL. (Cutting each other off.) Me too! Me too! He loves me! It's me he loves!
ELIZABETH II. Then it follows that he loves each of us. Consequently, we
each have claims on his living quarters.
ALL. Yes!

Noise and cursing. The Queen angrily throws her bell on the floor. All fall silent.

ELIZABETH II. I suggest taking the following steps.

Ivan Sidorovich coughs and stirs. Everyone disappears.

Ivan Sidorovich gets up and walks about the room.
The black singer is heard beyond the wall. Ivan Sidorovich thinks it is a hungry cat
who has caught a cold and, to top things off, has been caught in a trap.
Ivan Sidorovich paces the floor. He approaches the table, tosses back the edge of the
checkered tablecloth and picks up an envelope. This, however, is a usual
envelope, with a stamp and someone else's handwriting.
He opens the envelope and reads.

IVAN SIDOROVICH. "Hello, Ivan! Happy birthday! I hope you kick the
bucket soon. Because all you do is dirty the air, take up space somebody
else could use and give bed bugs a place to multiply. You old stump.
You're just tormenting yourself and others. What did you accomplish
with your life? You fucked up in old age. You're nothing but skin and
bones, you old coot, and your head is all twisted inside out. You ought to
drop dead out there in the entry way. Paralyzing's too good for you. Let
the bedbugs eat you. Or a bunch of young kids mug you at the milk store
and throw your body in the river. They ought to withhold your pension
for six months, you worthless geezer. You never got over private in the
national guard 6th tank division. Shove your medal up your ass, hero.
You lived like a castrated rabbit and you wallowed in shit like a pig. You
ate up that Soviet crap by the spoonful and sucked on watermelon seeds
for vitamins. Now you pee in your pants because you can't make it to
the toilet in time. What the hell did you live for? Cash in your chips,
loser! Signed, Adolph Hitler's bastard son."

Ivan Sidorovich thoughtfully folds the letter back up and places it back under the
tablecloth. He sits on his stool and pointlessly gazes around the room. Finally,
he gets up and continues pacing aimlessly. He mutters under his breath: "It's
Ivan's birthday. It's Ivan's birthday. It's Ivan's birthday." He jumps up and
 runs to the bathroom, taking little steps. The toilet backs up and overflows
when he flushes it, the pipes wheeze and bang and rattle. The neighbors begin
banging on the heat pipes.
Ivan Sidorovich returns. His pants are wet but he wears a happy smile on his face. He
holds a congratulatory greeting card and a ballpoint pen.

(Cracking up with laughter.) Dear Ivan Sidorovich! We wish you

happiness, health, a long life ahead and a house full of happy guests.

Today is Vanya's birthday.

He got up with the sun.
He cleaned his shirt and made a pie —
Isn't he the happy one!

(Laughs. Takes his pen and adds a few words.) Your friends, the Martians!
(Chuckles. Goes to his table. Feverishly looks for a new envelope and a clean
piece of paper. Writes.) Hello, Martians! This is Ivan Sidorovich Zhukov
writing you. I am an Earthling! Thank you so much for your birthday
wishes. Especially for the poem. It's very clever and it's all about me:
"Today is Vanya's birthday. He got up with the sun. He cleaned his shirt
and made a pie — Isn't he the happy one!" (Thinks. Writes.) I am very
curious why they say here that there is no life on Mars. That's downright
seditious! I'll bet they do that on purpose so you can't wish anybody
happy birthday. Mars is not visible from Earth and I don't know
anything about how you live. But your greeting card is very beautiful.
We don't have cards like that. (Thinks. Writes.) I would like to learn a lot
about flora and your fauna. And I'll tell you about ours. No matter which
way you look at it, it's better here in the country than in the city. Let's be
penpals. I have lousy handwriting, but I can make it out. So, write me.
Oh, I forgot! Happy New Year, Martians! I zealously await your reply.
(Thinks. Writes.) Like a nightingale on the fly! December 31 of the Earth
year. (Seals the envelope, puts it in the chest of drawers.)

Ivan Sidorovich plays the accordion and sings something gay and uptempo.
It sounds as if the accordion has gone crazy — it gives out nothing but sour notes,
squeaks, loud blats and unexpected chords, perhaps what a pagan fanfare might
sound like.
He plays and sings. An envelope falls out of a heap of laundry .

(Picks up the envelope and opens it. Reads. ) "Our dear Ivan Sidorovich! We
wish you a happy 70th birthday and a very Happy New Year! We wish
you happiness, hot young blood and lots of optimism in bed. May your
life be long! We love you. Your bedbugs. December 31." (Lies down in bed,
 tucks a pile of sheets under his head. Looks dreamily at the ceiling and sighs.)
Yes-sir-ee... (Jerks his hand, squashes a bedbug.) My God! What am I doing?
What a traitor!

His neighbors knock on the wall. The drill squeals. The walls hum, paint peels and an
envelope falls out of the overhead storage compartment.

(Approaches the envelope, opens it and reads.) "Dear comrade Zhukov! We

hope you have a super jubilee birthday and we wish you paramount
happiness. And paramount happiness can only be found up here with us
in the overhead storage compartment. Really, Ivan Sidorovich, move in
up here with us. You'll play your accordion and we'll listen to you. And
we'll all sleep together at night. It's warm up here and your bed catches a
nasty breeze. For the last time we wish you paramount happiness.
Signed, your bedbugs in the overhead storage compartment." (He directs
a frightened gaze at the overhead storage compartment and at the pile of
laundry. Shakes his fist threateningly. Sits at his table. Writes.) Hello, Ivan
Sidorovich! (Thinks for a long time. Writes.) This is cosmonaut
Sevastyanov writing to you. (Thinks. Writes.) In the name of the entire
space program, I want to wish you happy birthday and congratulate you
on the eve of your seventy-five-year health. (Thinks. Writes.) I particularly
hasten to inform you that the day before yesterday I saw you from up
here in space. (Thinks. Writes.) There are a lot of specialized instruments
on a spaceship and I noticed you right away. You were walking on Earth
in the direction of the housing office. My dear Ivan Sidorovich, your
overcoat is threadbare. The wind was whipping at you from all sides.
After all, it is winter out there, Ivan Sidorovich. It's pretty chilly to be
wearing a coat like that. Buy yourself some furry gloves and a hat or you
will catch cold and suddenly fall ill. At your healthy age you've at least
got to take care of yourself and respect your organism. (Thinks. Writes.)
Here is a special bulletin: In my optical lenses I could see that the stitches
on your left boot have pulled out and are ripping. (Thinks. Writes.)
Everybody up here in orbit is concerned about your health. (Thinks.
Writes.) Signed, the conquerors of the cosmic seas — the cosmonauts of
the space station "Friendship."

Ivan Sidorovich carefully seals the envelope, writes an address on it and hides the
letter in a saucepan.
He goes to the window and stares proudly into the sky.
He sits on his stool. Stares abstractly into space.
Leaves rustle. The room fills with red, green and orange rays of light. Golden clouds
embrace all the objects on stage.
Upstage appear Vladimir Lenin, Elizabeth II, Robinson Crusoe, Chapayev, Lyubov
 Orlova, Stalin, Martians, the cosmonaut Sevastyanov and Bedbugs. A stool
stands on the table as if it were a throne. The Queen of England takes her place
on it.
There is a deathly silence.

ELIZABETH II. (Reads.) "To Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, the genius leader of the
proletariat; comrade Stalin, the first builder of communism; and Vasily
Ivanovich Chapayev, the courageous Red commander, Ivan Sidorovich
wills in whole and for complete unconditional use his battle medals from
the Finnish campaign and the Great Patriotic War as well as his half-size
refrigerator, his teacup holder decorated with a scene of Berlin, the three
issues of 'Soviet Police Force' magazine and his ax and tools. Add also
the living space in the bathroom — four square meters of floorspace."

Tense silence.

"The really fine actress Lyubov Orlova is willed three kilograms of salt,
the teapot, the milk can, the salad bowl, the four sieves and the mirror.
Also the kitchen."

Silence.

"The Martian inhabitants of the solar system receive total and

unconditional use of the television set, the long underwear, the round
table, the autumn shoes, the sweater with the diamonds on it and the
iron bed."

All are quiet.

"The cosmonaut Sevastyanov receives full and unlimited use of the

bicycle chain, the gloves, the mid-season raincoat, the umbrella, the set
of bent scissors, the washing machine and the closet with the mark of
quality."

A heavy silence.

"The bedbugs receive full and unconditional use of the Saratov

accordion!"

Silence.

Well, I think that does it. (Ceremoniously tears up the sheet of paper.)
LYUBOV ORLOVA. What do you get?
ELIZABETH II. I get, uh... I get the domino set and the main room.

All stare in amazement at the Queen of England.

LENIN. Kill! Kill the capitalists!

All attack Elizabeth II. They struggle.

Ivan Sidorovich coughs.
Everyone disappears.
Beyond the wall the voice of the black singer continues to undulate as she sings
languorously and rolls back her dark eyes.
Ivan Sidorovich feels a pain in his chest. He attempts to squeeze a tear out of his eye.
The last doctor he saw, a very intelligent man, told him to cry more often so as
not to feel so much pain.
But Ivan Sidorovich can't seem to cry even though they say that's much more
advantageous for the health than those pills they make in America.
The pain subsides.

IVAN SIDOROVICH. (Rocking back and forth on his stool, talking to himself.)
Hello, Ivan Sidorovich! This is an engineer with no name writing to you.
My train was bombed and I was left crippled. I have no arms, legs, heart
or head. Otherwise, I'm a perfectly normal person and I am very happy
that I returned home from the war alive. I have nothing to add to that.
No matter how I wish I did, I do not believe in God or the devil. I do not
count for much, ladies, gentlemen and comrades. I have wood stumps in
place of arms and wheels in place of legs. I have a cabbage stalk in place
of a head and a sewing machine in place of a heart. Farewell!

Ivan Sidorovich goes into the kitchen. The door of his oven bangs. He returns into the
room and puts on his best suit. He pulls on his old sport coat with his faded
war medal on it. He puts on his long underwear, his wrinkled slacks and he
tightens up his tie.
He stands at attention before the mirror and sings a bold, patriotic war song. He
sings with difficulty for he is out of breath.
He goes into the kitchen. Returns with a huge, black, ugly, overbaked cake. It is
horribly unsightly, but he looks at it and even slurps a bit at the sight.
The black singer on the other side of the wall has become more lively. She sings a
blues number. Ivan Sidorovich marches about the room holding the cake. Back
and forth. Back and forth.
He puts the cake on the table. He takes a swipe at all the letters and envelopes and
they fall on the floor.
He sticks three candles in the cake and counts them.
 (Satisfied with himself, he wipes his hands.) Dear comrades and friends!
Today Ivan Sidorovich turned seventy-five years old! (Looks over all his
letters.) Please, be seated! All of you. Queen. Robinson. Mishka. Grishka.
Fyodor. Comrade Lenin. Comrade Stalin. Where's the actress? And
where are the conquerors of the cosmic seas? Be seated! Please, be
seated! (Gathers up the letters, places them about the table.) Does everyone
have a place? Is anyone without? Last one's a rotten egg. (Shakes letters
out of the chest of drawers. Places them around the table.) Insects sit by
themselves. (On each envelope he places a cup of hot tea or a saucer.) Where's
our birthday boy? Come on, take center stage! Let everybody take a
gander at your handsome face. (Stands in the center of the room. Looks over
the cake, the multitude of letters and mugs and the hot tea.) I am the birthday
boy today! (Ceremoniously, with exaggeration.) Dear Ivan! We Martians
have a gift for you! (Makes a silly, naive, childish face.) The Martians do?
Well, what do you know? Where is it? (Loudly.) Just one minute! (Goes
out and a minute later brings back in a small box.) What Martians? Well,
what do we have here? May I take a peek? (Looks over the envelopes and
letters.) May I? (Opens the box and oohs and aahs. He pulls out a small,
artificial Christmas tree the size of a pencil.) Well, I'll be!! Those Martians...
It's a... (Sets the Christmas tree in the center of the table.) Thank you. (Cuts
the cake. It is as hard as a rock.)

Ivan Sidorovich breaks the cake into little pieces. He affectionately places the pieces
around the table on the envelopes, struggling to read his handwriting and
reading off the names and addressees. The candles burn. Mugs are set out
around the table. Ivan Sidorovich sits down. He is amazed himself: Where did
he ever get so many mugs and so much hot tea?
Ivan Sidorovich sits at the far edge and grows weak with the warm feeling that it is
his birthday and the New Year is beginning.
Suddenly he notices that a letter is protruding from inside the cake. Ivan Sidorovich
gazes at the dried fruits and rips at the burned crust of the cake to get at the
letter.
The letter is smeared with ash and sticky resin.

(Tears open the envelope. Reads.) "Hello, Vanya! This is your death writing
to you. I wish you a very happy seventy-fifth birthday and a very Happy
New Year. So, how is life without me? Still wasting your time on
nonsense? You forgot about me and you never think about me as if I
wasn't a member of the family. Eh, Vanya, Vanya. You avoid me like the
plague. Where do you get the strength to keep it up? Your wife is dead.
Your television set and your radio conked out. And you're having a feast.
You invited all your friends and you're having a big bash. Eh, Vanya,
Vanya. You're a fool, that's what you are. All right, I'll sit here at your
 table for a few minutes. I'll take a rest and raise a toast to you and then
I'll go on to the neighboring apartments to collect all those stubborn old
goats like you. Eh, Vanya, Vanya. What times we live in, huh? Life is
tough these days, but you know what? Nobody wants to die. I have to
drag 'em away kicking and screaming. I get a grip on their ears and I just
drag 'em away into the fire. So, you know what, Vanya? Here's my
birthday gift to you — Go on, Vanya, live eternally. Farewell. Signed,
your death."

Ivan Sidorovich is taken aback. He doesn't know whether to believe this letter or not.
He paces the floor in confusion, stomping on piles of letters.
"Eternally. Eternally. Eternally." He listens carefully to the sounds his voice is
making, to the intonation of this new word — "Eternally. Eternally.
Eternally."
He caresses his chest with his palm. Stares out the window.
The muddy moon rolls out from behind some dark clouds and the entire room is
flooded with light. We see a sea of stars against a backdrop of city roofs and
chimneys.
"Eternally. Eternally. Eternally," sighs Ivan Sidorovich. He lies on his bed and
coughs.
A huge pack of letters falls out of his chest of drawers.
Ivan Sidorovich turns his head and looks out the window.
Outside are heard the city sounds of cars and voices.
The water pipes in the toilet howl like a trumpet.
His neighbors beat on the radiator pipes.
A drill howls and someone on the third floor plays a piano.
Up on the upper floors, there are people celebrating the New Year ahead of time.
Drunken voices sing a happy song.
Right on the other side of the wall, some neighbor pops the cork of a champagne bottle.
The clock strikes twelve.
The New Year has come.
Shouts: "Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!"
The door flies open. A stiff breeze blows the packs of letters around the room.

CURTAIN