, and senior pupils were admitted to
Lenin’skomsomol, the union of young builders of Communism. In research institutes and nuclear laboratories white busts silently sanctioned new progress in spread of Communist influence over the world. In front of these busts at the thousands of factories workers and engineers, that reached outstanding productivity, were triumphantly awarded with honorary titles and decorations as the winners of
socialist competition. In the
Lenin’s rooms of army and navy in front of these busts
politruki, the Commissars, awarded the heroes with combat decorations.
That’s why passing this bust I involuntarily slowed down; my guide did just the same, and we stopped. In fact, I haven’t seen any Lenin’s plaster bust several decades, that’s why I looked at it with kind of amazement.
After a polite pause the man said, “You talked over the phone to me. I am Fomin”.
I turned to him and nodded. He took a deep breath and said, "Come."
Behind the next door I saw two closely shifted tables and a dead body lying on them. I walked slowly around man’s body and only then looked at his face. Perhaps, I had dumbfounded look, because I noticed Fomin darted a fast sharp glance at me.
“Do you recognized him?” he asked.
I didn't answer. This man was dead, and one couldn’t be mistaken about it. Otherwise, I would take it for a strange and shameless performance. Not only his face incredibly resembled a person well-known in this country, but even this cable on which he was apparently hung, now was loosely stretched over his motionless body. I felt as if I was looking at almost century-old revived photo. In front of me lay the body of the famous Russian poet Sergey Esenin, who hung himself almost hundred years ago in the Sankt-Petersburg’s hotel.
“What’s his name?” I asked, continuing to examine the familiar features of the man’s face.
“Well, I quite anticipate your further surprise. His name was also Sergey. He was colleague of ours working in this office.”
“Striking resemblance.”
“By the looks he could be taken for a twin, you know, and he idolized the great poet, too. Of course, he also wrote verses.”
“He played this role too true. But why put the neck into the noose!”
After poet’s suicide almost hundred years ago dozens of his admirers did the just same, in the same manner – his fans, as they could be called today. Perhaps this case was of this kind, very belated, but outwardly indistinguishable.