Чемодан

SERGEI DOVLATOV

THE SUITCASE

Translated by Аntonina W. Bouis

Translation editor — Katherine Dovlatov

Комментарии и словарь 

А. Лободы

УДК 372.881.1
ББК  81.2 Англ–93 

Д58

ISBN 978-5-9925-1436-0

Довлатов, Сергей Донатович.

Д58     Чемодан : книга для чтения на английском языке / 

С. Д. Довлатов. — [пер. с русск. Антонины Буис, редактор 
перевода Катерина Довлатова] — Санкт-Петербург : КАРО, 
2020. — 192 с. — (Русская современная проза).

ISBN 978-5-9925-1436-0.

Сергей Донатович Довлатов (1941–1990) — известный 

русский писатель, его книги, переведенные на многие языки, 
завоевали популярность во всем мире. «Чемодан» — сборник 
рассказов, который впервые был опубликован в 1986 году. 
Писатель — рассказчик покинул Родину, бывший СССР, уехал 
в Соединенные Штаты Америки, взяв с собой небольшой чемодан. Каждая вещь из этого оказавшегося ненужным в эмиграции чемодана становится поводом, чтобы рассказать о 
случае из жизни главного героя — «Приличный двубортный 
костюм», «Номенклатурные полуботинки», «Куртка Фернана 
Леже» и др. Рассказывает Довлатов с неповторимой интонацией, и все произведения пронизывают честность, ирония, 
печаль и юмор.

Читателям предоставляется возможность познакомить
ся с произведением русской литературы, переведенным на 
английский язык. Издание снабжено комментарием и словарем.

УДК 372.881.1
 

ББК 81.2 Англ–93

SERGEI DOVLATOV

THE SUITCASE

Translation Copyright
© Аntonina W.  Bouis, 2013
Published by Alma Classics Ltd
© Издательство КАРО, 2020
Все права защищены

But even like this, my Russia,

You are most precious to me… 

Alexander Blok1

1  But even like this… precious to me: From a 1914 poem 
‘Greshit’ besstydno, neprobudno’ (‘To sin shamelessly, ceaselessly’) by Alexander Alexandrovich Blok (1880–1921),  
leading figure of the Symbolist movement. 

Foreword

So this bitch at ovir1 says to me, “Everyone who 
leaves is allowed three suitcases. That’s the quota. 
Aspecial regulation of the ministry.”
No point in arguing. But of course I argued. “Only 
three suitcases? What am I supposed to do with all 
my things?”
“Like what?”
“Like my collection of race cars.”
“Sell them,” the clerk said, without lifting her 
head.
Then, knitting her brows2 slightly, she added, 
“If you’re dissatisfied with something, write a complaint.”
“I’m satisfied,” I said.
After prison, everything satisfied me.

1  OVIR: The Russian Office of Visas and Registrations, which 
issued legal documents for those wishing either to enter or 
leave the Soviet Union. 
2  to knit brows — нахмуриться 

“Well, then, don’t make trouble…”
A week later I was packing. As it turned out, 
I needed just a single suitcase.
I almost wept with self-pity. After all, I was 
thirty-six years old. Had worked eighteen of them. 
I earned money, bought things with it. I owned a certain amount, it seemed to me. And still I only needed 
one suitcase — and of rather modest dimensions at 
that. Was I poor, then? How had that happened?
Books? Well, basically, I had banned books, 
which were not allowed through customs anyway. 
I had to give them out to my friends, along with my 
so-called archives.
Manuscripts? I had clandestinely sent them to 
the West a long time before.
Furniture? I had taken my desk to the secondhand store. The chairs were taken by the artist 
Chegin, who had been making do with1 crates. 
The rest I threw out.
And so I left the Soviet Union with one suitcase. 
It was plywood, covered with fabric and, had chrome 
reinforcements at the corners. The lock didn’t work; 
I had to wind clothes line2 around it.

1  to make do with smth — обходиться, довольствоваться 
2  clothes line — верёвка для сушки белья 

Once I had taken it to Pioneer camp. It said in ink 
on the lid: “Junior group. Seryozha Dovlatov.” Next 
to it someone had amiably scratched: “Shithead”. 
The fabric was torn in several places. Inside, the lid 
was plastered with photographs: Rocky Marciano, 
Louis Armstrong, Joseph Brodsky, Gina Lollobrigida1 
in a transparent outfit. The customs agent tried to 
tear Lollobrigida off with his nails. He succeeded 
only in scratching her. But he didn’t touch Brodsky. 
He merely asked, “Who’s that?” I said he was a distant relative…
On May 16 I found myself in Italy. I stayed in 
the Hotel Dina in Rome. I shoved the suitcase under 
the bed.
I soon received fees from Russian journals. 
I bought blue sandals, flannel slacks and four linen 
shirts. I never opened the suitcase.
Three months later I moved to the United States, 
to New York. First I lived in the Hotel Rio. Then we 

1  Rocky Marciano, Louis Armstrong, Joseph Brodsky, 
Gina Lollobrigida: Rocky Marciano (1923–69), ItalianAmerican undefeated champion heavyweight boxer; Louis Armstrong (1901–71), famous American jazz musician; 
Joseph Alexandrovich Brodsky (1940–96), Russian Nobel 
Prize-winning poet and close friend of Dovlatov; Gina Lollobrigida (b.1927), Italian actress mostly active in the 1950s 
and 60s.  

stayed with friends in Flushing. Finally, I rented 
an apartment in a decent neighbourhood. I put 
the suitcase in the back of the closet. I never undid 
the clothes line.
Four years passed. Our family was reunited. Our 
daughter turned into a young American. Our son was 
born. He grew up and started misbehaving. One day 
my wife, exasperated, shouted, “Into the closet, right 
now!”
He spent about three minutes in there. I let him 
out and asked, “Were you scared? Did you cry?”
He said, “No. I sat on the suitcase.”
Then I took out the suitcase. And opened it.
On top was a decent double-breasted suit, intend ed for interviews, symposiums, lectures and fancy 
receptions. I figured it would do for Nobel ceremonies, too. Then a poplin1 shirt and shoes wrapped in 
paper. Beneath them, a corduroy jacket lined with 
fake fur. To the left, a winter hat of fake sealskin. 
Three pairs of Finnish nylon crêpe2 socks. Driving 
gloves. And last but not least, an officer’s leather belt.

1  poplin — поплин, двусторонняя ткань с мелким рубчиком
2  crêpe — креп, группа прочных, износостойких тканей 

On the bottom of the suitcase lay a page of Pravda from May 1980. A large headline proclaimed: 
“LONG LIVE THE GREAT TEACHING!” From the middle of the page stared a portrait of Karl Marx1.
As a schoolboy I liked to draw the leaders of 
the world proletariat — especially Marx. Just start 
smearing an ordinary splotch of ink around and 
you’ve already got a resemblance…
I looked at the empty suitcase. On the bottom 
was Karl Marx. On the lid was Brodsky. And between 
them, my lost, precious, only life.
I shut the suitcase. Mothballs rattled around inside. The clothes were piled up in a motley mound on 
the kitchen table. That was all I had acquired in thirtysix years. In my entire life in my homeland. I thought, 
“Could this be it?” And I replied, “Yes, this is it.”
At that point, memories engulfed me. They must 
have been hidden in the folds of those pathetic rags, 
and now they had escaped. Memories that should 
be called From Marx to Brodsky. Or perhaps, What 
I Acquired. Or simply, The Suitcase.
But, as usual, this foreword is beginning to drag…

1  Karl Marx — Карл Маркс (1818–83), немецкий философ, социолог, общественный деятель, политический 
журналист, писатель, экономист

The Finnish Crêpe Socks

This happened eighteen years ago, when I was 
a student at Leningrad University.
The university campus was in the old part of 
town. The combination of water and stone creates 
a special, majestic atmosphere there. It’s hard to be 
a slacker under those circumstances, but I managed.
Since there is such a thing as the exact sciences, 
there must also be the inexact sciences. It seems to 
me that first among the inexact sciences is philology. 
And so I became a student in the philology department.
A week later a slender girl in imported shoes fell 
in love with me. Her name was Asya. Asya introduced 
me to her friends. They were all older than us — 
engineers, journalists, cameramen. One was even 
a store manager. These people dressed well. They 
liked going to restaurants and travelling. Some had 
their own cars.