Implementació de la interfície amb rol instanciador

And a sleepy Tikhonov emerges from the branches of jasmine, squinting into the sun.

“What are you doing here, Tikhonov?”

“I’m finishing work on the theses. Everything has long been ready except for the theses. And now, here, the theses are ready too.”

“Does this mean that you consider that the time is ripe?”

“Who knows? The moment I have a little something to drink, it seems to me that it is, but the minute I start coming down – no, I think, It’s not yet ripe and it is still too soon to take up arms.”

“Better drink some Hollands, Vadya.”

Tikhonov drank some Hollands, grunted, and fell to grieving. “Well, what? Is the time ripe?”

“Wait a minute, it’s getting there.” “When do we act? Tomorrow?”

“Who knows! The moment I have a little something to drink it seems to me that even today – that even yesterday – wasn’t too early to act. But the minute I start coming down, no, I think that yesterday was too early and that the day after tomorrow won’t be too late.”

“Better drink some more Hollands, Vadimchik, drink some more Hollands.” Vadimchik took a drink and again fell to grieving.

“Well, what? Do you think it’s time?” “It is.”

“Don’t forget the password. And tell everyone not to forget: tomorrow morning halfway between the villages of Garino and Eliseikovo, by the cattle yard, at nine-zero-zero Greenwich…”

“Right. Nine-zero-zero Greenwich.”

“Goodbye, comrade. Try to get some sleep on this night.” “I’ll try to get some sleep. Goodbye, comrade.”

Here I must qualify: in the face of the conscience of the whole of mankind I should say that from the very beginning I opposed this adventure, fruitless as a fig tree. (Well said, “Fruitless as a fig tree”!) From the very first, I said that revolution achieves something essential when it occurs in the heart and not in the town square. But once they began it without me, I could not remain aloof from those who began it. I would be able, in any case, to avert unnecessary bitterness of

heart and to lessen the amount of bloodshed. Before nine Greenwich, in the grass next to the cattle yard, we sat and waited. To everyone who came up, we said, “Sit down with us; take a load off your feet, comrade,” and they all remained standing, clanked their weapons and repeated the agreed-upon phrase from Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin: “I love the ladies’ dainty feet.” This password was playful and ambiguous, but we weren’t up to that – nine-zero-zero Greenwich was approaching.

With what did it all begin? It all began with Tikhonov nailing his fourteen theses to the gate of the Eliseikovo Agro-Soviet. Rather he didn’t nail them to the gate but wrote them on the fence with chalk and they were more like words and not theses, clear and lapidary words, and there were only two of them and not fourteen, but, be that as it may, it all began with that.

We moved out in two columns with our standards in our hands. One column marched without opposition till sunset. No one was killed on any side, no one was wounded either, only one prisoner was taken – the elderly ex-Chairman of the Larionovo Agro-Soviet, removed from his post for drunkenness and congenital imbecility. Eliseikovo was subdued. Cherkasovo lay prostrate at our feet; Neugodovo and Peksha begged for mercy. All the population centers of the Petushki district from the store at Poloshy to the Andreevo willage storehouse – all were occupied by the forces of the rebellion.

And after sunset, the village of Cherkasovo was proclaimed the capital, the prisoner was brought there, and there, too, a congress of the victors was improvised. Everyone who delivered a speech was stinking drunk; they all ground on about one and the same thing: Maximilian, Robespierre, Oliver Cromwell, Sonya Perovskaya, Vera Zasulich…

Some listeners cried, “And Norway, where is that anyway?” “Who knows anyhow, where it is!” Others answered them, “Halfway to hell and back.” “Wherever it is,” I tried to calm them down, “we won’t get anywhere without intervention. In order to restore the economy destroyed by war, we must first destroy it, and for that you need a civil war, at least some kind of a war… you need a minimum of twelve fronts.”

“White Polish forces are needed,” Tikhonov cried, staggering drunk. “Oh, idiot,” I interrupted him, “you’re always running off at the mouth. You’re a brilliant theoretician, Vadim; we have nailed your theses to uor hearts, but as

soon as the time comes, you’re pure shit, you fool, what do you need with White Polish forces?” “So, am I arguing?” Tikhonov started giving in. “As if they’re more necessary to me than to you! Norway’s OK with me.”

In the heat of the moment everyone somehow had forgotten that Norway had been a member of NATO for twenty years, and Vladik Ts-sky was already running to the Larionovo post office with a package of cards and letters. One Letter was addressed, return receipt, to Olaf, King of Norway, declaring war. Another letter – rather not even a letter but a blank piece of paper sealed in an envelope – was sent off to General Franco. Let him see an accusatory finger in that, the old dolt, let him turn pale as the piece of paper, the fucking Caudillo. From the Prime Minister of Great Britain, Harold Wilson, we demanded very little: “Get your gunboat out of the Gulf of Aqaba, Prime Minister, then do as you wish…” And finally, in a fourth letter to Wladyslaw Gomulka, we wrote: “You, Wladyslaw, have full and inalienable right to the Polish corridor, while Jozef Cyrankievicz hasn’t the slightest claim to the Polish Corridor…”

And we sent four postcards: to Abba Eban, Moshe Dayan, General Suharto, and Alexander Dubcek. All four postcards were quite lovely, with little scenes and acorn designs. So let the boys enjoy them, the louts; maybe they’ll recognize us as subjects of international law.

No one slept that night. Everyone was seized by enthusiasm, everyone gazed at the sky waiting for Norwegian bombs, the opening of the stores, and intervention. And everyone imagined how happy Wladyslaw Gomulka would be and how Jozef Cyrankievicz would tear his hair.

The prisoner didn’t sleep either; the ex-Chairman of the Agro-Soviet howled from his shed like a grieving hound.

“Boys!... Does this mean that tomorrow morning nobody’ll bring me anything to drink?”

“Hey, whadaya want! Give thanks that at least we’ll feed you in accordance with the Geneva Convention.”

“What’s that, anyway?”

“You’ll see what it is. That is, you’ll still be able to drag your feet about, Ivanych, but you won’t be much for sniffing around the ladies.”