# The Royal Infant (Part 1)

Eduard Dolgunov

A colorful Odessa family discusses the phenomenon of "Black Square" by Kazimir Malevich and the fabulous auction records of Sotheby's, trying to unravel the greatest mystery of the art of the Russian avant-garde.

The Royal Infant

"The Royal Infant". "A square is the creation of an intuitive mind. A square is a living royal infant!" K. Malevich.

— Oh, don't mess with my head, — said Sofa irritably, flipping a cutlet in the pan, — what are you talking about, what millions?

— I swear on my life, — Sema waved his hand, — the tour guide said that at some Sotheby's this painting costs 20 millions, and in dollars. Or maybe even more.

— And you believed it? — Sofa smirked, — well, aren't you a shlemazl? That some daub would cost that kind of money? And in general, what kind of exhibition is that and what brought you there? Do you have nowhere to put your money? Look, all decent people are getting ready to go to their historical homeland, buying and selling things, and he wanders around exhibitions.

— Well, your nephew Yashka and his buddy Fima, the one from apartment 3, dragged me there, but absolutely free, since he got a job there as a security guard. And the exhibition in our museum was organized by some Combank from Moscow. You know times are tough now, everyone wants to make money, so they brought various exhibits to us. And this painting. They have it in a glass case.

— So, in a case, you say? — Sofa asked, turning off the stove. — What did you drink? Come on, breathe on me!

— We didn't drink anything, I swear to G-d, — Sema grimaced, — just a glass of beer, that's all. Ask Yashka.

— Well, okay, let's assume 20 million, — she wiped her hands on her apron, — but what did that wunderkind painter even draw in his painting?

— Sofa, you won't believe it, — Semen whispered, — a black square and that's it!

— What, a black square? — Sofa didn't understand, — you idiot, I'm asking what is in the painting?

— Why are you calling names? — the husband took offense, — I'm telling you, nothing else! A black square and that's it! True, the tour guide said that the artist depicted a battle of some negroes and a royal infant there, but he said that not everyone can see it, only very smart people.

— Oh! — the wife smirked, — so there were negroes and infants? Did you see them?

— You see, everyone who stood next to me, — Semen mumbled, — said they saw them, but I, — he spread his hands, — I'll tell you frankly, I didn't see them. So, what does it mean, Sofa, am I a fool?

— Well, you were never distinguished by intelligence, — the wife smirked, — but to this extent!? What, you saw nothing? And Yashka and Fima?

— They say they saw it, — he got upset, — maybe they are lying?

— Yashka! — Sofa looked out the window facing the courtyard, — come on, come inside.

— Yeah, it seems there were some negroes there, — the nephew said uncertainly, — there was definitely a square, but I didn't see the royal infant.

— And who is the author? — Sofa asked thoughtfully, — who is this "genius" that draws such things?

— The tour guide said it was some Malevich, — Semen said uncertainly, — either from Kiev or from Zhitomir.

— Well, there! — she exclaimed with satisfaction, — I knew it. Our man! Who else can make such money on some square with invisible negroes, and with infants!

— But the tour guide said he seems to be Polish, — the husband muttered uncertainly.

— And in Poland what, are there no Jews? — Sofa cut him off, — of course he is ours, only from Zhitomir! So, Yashka, — she turned to her nephew, — I want to see this miracle myself, well, the negroes in the square. You make an arrangement with the tour guide and give us a tour, got it? And I'll gather the neighbors from our courtyard, and from our entire Peter the Great street. Let's see which of us will see these negroes and infants. We'll figure out, — she smirked vindictively, — who is smart, and who is "you are a fool from Privoz"! I'll show them! Yashka, book it!

— So, take a seat, Semen Petrovich! — the director pointed to a chair, — there is a matter. I have familiarized myself with the exhibits that are kept in the vault of our bank, — and he picked up a paper, — my deputy prepared a list for me. Impressive, I must say. The "Black Square" by Malevich alone is worth a lot! It is just a pity that this wealth lies with us as dead weight. The insurance for this masterpiece alone costs a million rubles. Only expenses for the bank, but all this could bring income. Times, you know yourself, are tough, and to make money you have to spin. So here is what I came up with. My cousin lives in Odessa. He serves there as the director of the local museum and offers to hold an exhibition of our exhibits there. The premises, security, ticket sales, in short, all the administration of this matter, he takes upon himself. The benefit of this enterprise is obvious - the people will join the art, we will get income, and the museum will earn. So, Semen Petrovich, you, as the head of our "treasury", select the necessary exhibits and set off for the "bluest sea". You will rest for a couple of weeks, look at the girls, and also earn some money. Oh, not a business trip, but a fairy tale, I'm downright envious.

— Yashka, are you an idiot? — Kolya twisted his finger at his temple, — I'm telling you that my brother opened a security cooperative. It already exists and is called "Atas". My brother needs his own people, and you and I have known each other since first grade. I recommended you. Don't you need the dough? There is already an order. The museum, where in a week there will be an exhibition organized by some bank from Moscow, needs security. No work at all - just walk around in uniform in the hall and look at the girls. And they even pay dough for it. For the sake of this, I even temporarily abandoned my thimbles at the "Privoz".

— Kolya, — Yashka objected, — don't you get it? What work, I'm applying to leave the country.

— And who cares, idiot! — the friend smirked, — this is a security cooperative, not a job in the police. You'll earn money and scram to your Israel. That's it, let's go get registered.

— Stepan, — applying a stroke to the painting, Kazimir shouted irritably, — you can barely stand on your feet again. You'll soon drink your nose away. Why is it dirty in the studio again? When do you plan to clean up? The canvases are scattered, you can't find paint, the brushes are unwashed. Where is Marfa? I'll fire you to hell!

— Kazimir Severinovich, — Stepan hiccuped, — by God, I haven't had a drop today, this is from yesterday. I came across some unfermented mash, that's what gave weakness to my legs. And a vile burp, — and hiccuping again, shook his head, — oh, do you hear? And Marfa went to the market. Should I get you something to snack on, and a half-pint for me, to get over a hangover? Don't worry, I'll clean up, I'll clean up. And you, as always, are toiling? What will you call the painting, these cubes, stripes, well, what you are drawing now?

Malevich stepped back from the canvas and said thoughtfully: I think to call it - "Suprematist Composition".

— Beautiful name, — Stepan sighed, — only very tricky, I won't remember it. Well, you, of course, know better.

— Don't mess with my head, — Kazimir turned to the servant, — better tell me, where did you put my old canvas that lay here, next to the easel? I cleaned my brushes on it, mixed paints on it, well?

— We beg your pardon, — Stepan got embarrassed, — I adapted it for myself. I thought that since it was with your old pictures, then it means you designated it for the trash. Well, I indulged myself, being drunk, took your paints and daubed some nonsense on it. I thought to give it to my wife for Easter, as if you had drawn it and gave it to me. Please don't be angry, for God's sake.

— So you drew a painting, eh, Stepan? — Kazimir smiled, — come on, show, "artist", your creation. Wow! — and he put the framed canvas brought by the servant on the neighboring easel, — interesting, very interesting.

— Yes, I spied on you, — Stepan lowered his head, — then I smeared the strokes where you deigned to clean your brushes and mix paints and...

— And it turned out to be a "Black Square", — continued Malevich, thoughtfully examining the canvas, — interesting, interesting...

— Oh, if you, Kazimir Severinovich, hold no grudge against me, — Stepan rejoiced, — maybe, you'll write something on the picture, eh? I have a pencil right here, — he held out a stub, — do me a favor, well, for solidity.

— Write something? — Malevich thought, taking the pencil, — and here is what we will write: "Battle of Negroes in a Dark Cave"!

— What? — Stepan didn't understand, — what's that? What negroes?

— What negroes? — the artist smiled, — and do you know, my dear man, the history of such squares? Back in 1882, at an exhibition in Paris, — squinting his eyes the artist continued, — the poet Paul Bilhaud presented a painting "Combat de negres dans un tunnel", which translates as "Battle of Negroes in a Tunnel". True, it was not a square, but a black rectangle on a white background. The next was a journalist and eccentric "humorist-hooligan" Alphonse Allais, who was so carried away by this theme that he developed it and in 1893 exhibited his painting at the "Incoherent Arts" exhibition in the Vivienne Gallery, under the title "Battle of Negroes in a Cave in the Dead of Night". Then there appeared white, and red, and other multi-colored "stunning innovative works" of this shocking joker. The titles alone are worth a lot: "Red Square" is "Harvesting Tomatoes on the Shore of the Red Sea by Apoplectic Cardinals", "White Square" - "First Communion of Anemic Young Girls in the Snow", etc. So, Stepan, — Malevich smiled, — your painting can be designated as an evolution in art, that is - Performance! In this painting, you have moved from "Cubo-Futurism" to pure "Suprematism"! And we will call this your "Opus magnum" - "My divine royal infant"! And you will be the founder of "Suprematism" - the dominant art, color dominance. And let it be a very harsh and absurd way to convey important information to the masses, but time will tell how effective this method is!

— Stepan, hey Stepan, what are you doing? — Kazimir shook his head, seeing the servant asleep on a pile of rags, — oh you, founder of "Suprematism"!

— Citizens visitors, citizens, — the museum employee strained her voice, — stop pushing and making noise. The museum will open in 15 minutes and then you can go in and see the exposition.

— Well, of course, — Sara, a stout lady in a huge red beret, became indignant, — probably the employees there are inspecting the exposition themselves right now and picking out the best things for themselves, and we'll be left with only tears. I know them! Oh, Tsilya! — she turned to the woman standing next to her, — stop shoving, you crushed all my feet with your size 45.

— And you Sara take off your "beret", — she replied snidely, — because with your red "airfield" you are blocking the entrance to the building for all of us. And I have my dad standing here, a veteran of labor, by the way, he needs air.

— You shouldn't have dragged your father-in-law here, — Sara snorted, — he should have stayed home, he doesn't hear or understand anything anyway.

— Such a smart one, — Tsilya became indignant, — he doesn't have to understand, he has me for that. And what if they give one item per hand here? So even a deaf man will be useful.

— And what if what they will give here, you won't need? — Sara asked snidely, — you'll still take two pieces?

— It's okay, my hands won't fall off, none of your business. What I don't need, I'll sell at "Privoz", — Tsilya nudged the elderly man with a stick in his hand, — dad, move forward.

— Ah, why are there so many people here, — the old man asked his daughter-in-law, — is this a May Day demonstration?

— No, dad, — Tsilya sighed, — this is a queue to OVIR. Just stand still.

The crowd began to make noise, a crush started. Indignant shouts were heard:

— Why without a queue? He wasn't standing here... What veterans..? What veterans..?

— So, listen here! — Tsilya raised her voice, — Izya Feldman is a veteran of labor, he has a certificate and I know his rights. So shush, everyone shut up at once!

— What rights can a veteran have? — a woman in a headscarf hissed, — if we don't even know what they will be giving.

— And I know, — a man in a crumpled hat said solemnly and looking haughtily at the crowd, added, — but this is secret information and I do not intend to share it, — after which he fell mysteriously silent.

— Well? Will you finally tell, or will you trade your information? — the woman in the headscarf pressed against him, — the people are listening.

— Okay, I'll tell, — he said conspiratorially, — some bank from Moscow, through our museum, will sell its things, because it went bankrupt. My son-in-law told me this. He is a butcher at the market and one of his clients, who works as a newsagent near the police, whispered that he heard how the chief of police, in secret, told someone about this on the phone.

— Oh, I'll believe your son-in-law that someone went into some "notepad", — a lady with a fox skin on her neck grimaced, — it's all lies. I think it's "humane" aid to the starving from the West. It's fashionable now, to help. Madam! — she turned to a large woman standing behind her, — if you have a size 15 bust, that doesn't mean I have to hold those centners on my shoulders. Save this wealth for your husband and don't press them on me. I'm not a scale and you don't need to weigh them on me.

— Nothing will happen to your shoulders, — parried the lady with the bust, — they are, look, covered by your mangy fox. It's nothing that today in Odessa, just a minute, is July and it's +35 outside. Doesn't your fox sweat? My bust bothers her, — she continued to resent, — a fox on the neck in summer doesn't bother, but a chest bothers!

— Well, comrades, I beg you, — the employee began to lament again, — stop cursing and stop the crush. Do not forget that you are in a temple of art, not in a market.

— What, what? — the grandfather with a stick perked up, — what temple? Are we in a church? — he addressed his daughter-in-law.

— What church, dad? — Tsilya sighed, — what is there for you to do there, with your nose? Just stand quietly already. Oh! — she perked up, — it seems they are letting us in.

— So, so - Malevich thought, stepping a pace away from the painting, — interesting, very interesting. How about exhibiting your painting in the opera we are doing with friends, as a decoration, eh, Stepan? And we will call it "Black Suprematist Square", as the maximum forms of activity of light-forms!

Stepan snored and without waking up rolled over to his right side. Kazimir approached the sleeping servant, looked at him thoughtfully and continued quietly:

— If "Victory Over the Sun" is a futuristic spectacle-opera, a work of the alogism of word, music and image with an allegory of the eclipse of the sun, the triumph of a new world, the triumph of reason over the elements - then we cannot come up with a better decoration for the "eclipse of the sun", dear Stepan.

Malevich again approached the painting.

— The "Square" will cover the sun, and the white border will symbolize the breaking through rays. Stepan! — the artist exclaimed enthusiastically, shaking the sleeper, — yes, wake up Stepan!

— What is it? — the servant woke up and shaking his head, mumbled in embarrassment, — we ask forgiveness, Kazimir Severinovich, got a little overcome. The mash, damn it...

— Yes, what the hell mash, — Malevich waved his hand, — Stepan, you are a genius! You have essentially invented a new pictorial language with its own alphabet. "Black Square", — he muttered walking excitedly around the studio, — is the main sign of this alphabet - "zero of forms". Yes, yes, we will call it that!

— Yashka, — Sofa took her nephew by the sleeve, — the tour guide won't let us down? You instructed him that the lecture should be at least an hour? That will be enough for my friends' brains to go crazy. These market women won't endure more, — she smirked vindictively, — they'll know how to curse with me at the market.

— Oh, don't worry aunt, everything will be fine. Better tell me, — Yasha smirked, — how did you manage to drag such a multitude of people here in such a short time? Half of "Privoz" is here. What on earth must it be for people to drop trading?

— Oh, such a big problem, — Sofa smirked, — it was enough that I quietly said at home by the open window: — Sema! Just don't dare blab to anyone. Yashka said that the goods at the exhibition, brought from the Moscow bank, are only for ours, but as an employee of the museum, he will lead us through the back passage. Did I not guess, — she winked at her nephew, — that in an hour the whole street will know about it? Do I not live my whole life in Odessa? That uniform really suits you, — she smiled, — go Yashka, open the doors for these "art connoisseurs", otherwise they will break it down.

The doors swung open and in a few minutes the hall was filled with an excited and clamoring public.

— Quiet citizens, please pay attention, — the thin tour guide tried to hold back the crowd, — I ask for silence. It is very pleasant to realize that there are so many art connoisseurs in our beautiful city. So, we are starting an interesting excursion in the museum of fine and decorative applied arts.

— Well, of course, — Sara turned to Tsilya with indignation, — Sofa with her family has been here since morning and you can have no doubt that she has already gone through the goods. And where Sofa has gone through...

— Yeah, — pushing her father-in-law forward, Tsilya sighed, — we have little chance.

— Performance - which translated from English means - presentation, action, — the excursion had already lasted for 40 minutes and the tour guide's voice was muffled by the tired breathing of the listeners, — as a form of art originated more than 100 years ago and is called - "Futurism". The artist, — he pointed with a pointer to the painting standing on a wooden pedestal in a glass sarcophagus, — was no stranger to another interesting direction of Performance, the so-called - "Happening". And the cracks on the painting, the so-called "Craquelures"....

— Tsilya! — the veteran's voice suddenly rang out from the crowd, — what "lures"? I don't understand a single word, are we in Israel and this shlemazl is speaking in Hebrew?

— No, dad, — the daughter-in-law answered loudly, — even though he speaks Russian, it is impossible to understand him anyway. Listen people, — she addressed the spectators, — we have been listening to some nonsense for an hour, looking at some "Black Square" under glass, and we still haven't seen the goods. Will someone explain to me what we are doing here?

— What goods? — the astounded tour guide muttered stuttering, — before you is the famous "Black Square" by Malevich, the pearl of world art...

— Oh, who are you telling this to? — Sofa interrupted him and looked squeamishly at Sara and Tsilya, — do you think they understand anything in art? — and she pointed her finger at Sara's red beret, — they only know how to trade fish at the market. Now I, in this square, — looking thoughtfully at the painting she continued, — seem to see negroes and some infant. These are the visions I have. Or am I mistaken? — she looked at the tour guide.

— Madam, — he admired, — I am amazed! To see the artist's allegory, his inner world expressed by him in the painting, can only be done by a genius art connoisseur.

— Sema! — Sofa looked triumphantly at the neighbors frozen like tetanus, — let's go home. We have nothing more to do among such "art connoisseurs"! Incompetents, — she said, looking squeamishly at the women, — fools from "Privoz".

— What negroes? — a woman from the crowd suddenly shouted, — I have 100 kilos of fish going bad at home, and what, instead of trading I came to look at some square? Where are the normal goods?

The crowd became agitated. The new arrivals pushed from behind, a crush began, shouts: — Give us the goods! Not more than one per person!... Yashka and Kolya, who were standing in the uniform of guards near the glass sarcophagus with the painting, tried to hold back the crowd, but the forces were unequal. A fight broke out, bags and other improvised means went into action. Someone snatched his cane from Tsilya's father-in-law and... The glass of the sarcophagus with the painting broke with a deafening crash and shattered into a thousand splinters. This excited the crowd even more. Yashka grabbed the fallen painting, thrust it into the hands of the frightened tour guide and shouting to his colleague Kolya:

— Cover the historian and drag the painting to the director's office, — he himself returned to the "battlefield".

All "beautiful" things sooner or later come to an end. A police squad called by someone appeared, and the guardians of order, although with difficulty, stopped the riots, detained the violators and escorted them to the police station. In the front rows walked Sara in a crumpled red beret, Tsilya with a rejuvenated and smiling veteran dad, carrying his cane on his shoulder like a rifle, and the lady with the fox on her neck.

— Tsilya, — the father-in-law asked, — was this a pogrom? I hope that at least in Israel there are none of them.

— Do not flatter yourself dad, — the daughter-in-law sighed, — where there are Jews there will always be pogroms. Either they smash us, or we smash them!