Some called it courageous what she did. Heroic, even. Then others thought it was foolish, what with her fragile health. But hard times call for hard measures and she simply did what other people in her position would do: she took on a job. Any job. 

“Excellent!” The interviewer eyed her up and down. “You’ll blend in perfectly. The customers won’t even notice you’re there. When can you start?”

#

Within days, she was scrubbing toilets all over Saint Petersburg. Mostly public toilets—in Victory Park, in the Narvsky Department Store, and so on—but occasionally also in cultural venues such as the Alexandrinsky Theater on Ostrovsky Square, or even the National Library. 

One day she was sent to the mint, situated inside the Peter and Paul Fortress along the River Neva. She felt fortunate: not only was she given the chance to admire the beautiful Art Nouveau lanterns lining the Troitsky Bridge, her trajectory also led her past her favorite cathedral; and just when she was looking up to marvel at the belfry with its resplendent golden spire, the cast bronze bells of the Flemish carillon inside unleashed their refined violence into the crisp, autumn air. On previous occasions the toll of those bells had always sounded festive to her. Now, however, an unexplainable image of a funereal cannon lodged itself inside her mind. 

Shortly afterwards, the sound of the bells still echoing through her head, she found herself on hands and knees inside a peaceful toilet cubicle at the mint. As she was scrubbing at a particularly nasty stain behind the ceramic bowl, a corpulent gentleman on crutches shuffled into the cubicle, dropped his trousers and carefully lowered himself into the seat. The words of the interviewer sprang to her mind, for the gentleman on the bowl hadn’t noticed her at all. Only when he finished and tried—in vain—to reach for the paper roll, did he become aware of her presence. “Oh,” said he, “I didn’t see you. I hope I’m not interrupting you in your work.”

“No, sir, not at all,” she replied without interrupting her scrubbing, partly to reassure the customer that he shouldn’t pay her any attention but also because she hated the stain.

The gentleman gave a brief nod. “Stubborn stain, that one,” he remarked, pointing with his chin.

“I’ve dealt with stains all my life,” she replied, “all sorts of stains. I’ll remove this one too.”

The gentleman nodded again, unconvinced this time. Then, the moment he reached again for the paper roll, he grimaced, his hand hovering helplessly in the air some two inches short of its target. The roll was placed at a most unfortunate spot. With a tired, sad sigh he dropped his arm and turned to her. “Would you…?”

“Certainly,” she said and tore off a foot-long stretch of paper tissue. “Will that be enough?”

“Let’s see,” he said, “I’m not sure what the situation is like down there.” With one arm he tried to pull himself up on one of the crutches, while the other hand clutching the tissue moved towards his derrière, but before he could even start wiping himself, he slipped and fell back. “Damn crutches!” he hissed between clenched teeth. Then he looked at her again, more meaningfully this time. 

“Could I be of any assistance?” she offered.

“That would be very kind of you.” The gentleman returned the tissue to her and lifted himself now with less effort, leaning on both crutches. Yet, the instant she approached the cleaning zone, he mumbled, “Wait, there’s some more…” And indeed, he had hardly lowered his body back into the seat or a spluttering noise echoed inside the cubicle, as if a sack with bricks was emptied into a muddy well. They both sat in silence, waiting—he on the bowl and she below on the floor, next to him. 

“Okay, I think that’s it,” he said eventually. “It must have been the stress. I’m not used to these crutches, you know?” For a second time he lifted himself up, allowing her to finally clean his backside without interruption. 

“And your name is?” he asked.

“Mrs. Leonova,” she said without looking up. She had never done this before and needed to concentrate. It was distinctly different from the work she used to do years before at the antiquarian bookshop in her hometown, stacking shelves.

“Say, Mrs. Leonova, you’re doing a sterling job. Wouldn’t you be interested in moving up—I mean, of course, as a figure of speech—working for me privately at my mansion? I can assure you the remuneration will be a multiple of what you’re earning now. The hours may be a little irregular—I occasionally suffer from stomach cramps at night—but certainly not that many. What do you say?”

Perhaps it was because all her attention was focused on the last few wipes, without giving his proposal serious thought, she blurted out, “Sure, thank you, sir. That would be a pleasure.”

“Hmm,” the man grunted contentedly, “the pleasure shall be mine,” and before shuffling out of the door, he handed her his card.

#

Mr. Rodchenko, her new employer, proved true to his word. The pay was five times what she had been earning before and the learning curve was steep but short. Soon she had taught herself to calculate exactly how much toilet paper was going to be needed, or to guess whether more discharge would follow a first one. 

Mr. Rodchenko’s diet was fairly uniform—he loved wild boar stew with smetana-topped blini—which made it easier for her to predict the most likely outcome, and before long her work became almost monotonous. This was also due to the fact that Mr. Rodchenko always appeared lost in thought when he did his toilet business—he never communicated with her and she often felt he had forgotten about her. As if she had become part of his sanitary equipment. When then, one day, he rather unexpectedly called her into his home office and asked if she would agree to serving the occasional guest, she quickly assented. It would mean a welcome diversion and, moreover, Mr. Rodchenko offered her a generous bonus for every single visitor. 

Preoccupied as they were with their daily worries, the guests hardly noticed her squatting discreetly on the marble floor behind the toilet bowl, waiting patiently for them to conduct their natural business. It happened, then, several months into Mr. Rodchenko’s service, that she was attending to a guest who had been staying at the mansion on previous occasions. A certain Mr. Slutsky. He appeared very agitated and at one point yelled into his mobile phone, “No, forget it, I’m not taking part in this bullshit, you hear. I’m not snitching on Rodchenko and that’s the end of it. And… what? Yeah, well, fuck you too!” Mr. Slutsky then stood up, pulled up his trousers and walked out of the bathroom in a huff. 

The next day all the guests were gone and she was attending to Mr. Rodchenko after lunch. He too appeared agitated, and like Mr. Slutsky the day before, he too yelled into his phone. “I’m telling you, it must have been Slutsky, that snitching bastard! What? Yes, a source on the inside. We’ve got to discredit that son of a bitch before it’s leaked.” Seconds later Mr. Rodchenko hung up.

Was it simply a craving for human communication? Or a more metaphysical kind of need; perhaps a desire to prove something. Whatever drove her, she heard herself uttering, “I believe Mr. Slutsky is not a snitch, sir.”

Mr. Rodchenko startled and nearly slipped off the bowl. “Huh! What?” Then he looked down and noticed her. “Oh, Mrs. Leonova, it’s you…” He quickly composed himself. “You gave me quite a fright. What is it? Haven’t you been paid last month’s wages yet?”

“No, sir, it’s not that,” she said and repeated her comment.

“Huh? Slutsky? What on earth do you know about him?”

“Yesterday, sir, while I was attending to the gentleman.” She then told him what she had heard.

At first Mr. Rodchenko was dismissive, which was quickly followed by doubt. “Are you absolutely sure, Mrs. Leonova? You haven’t misheard or anything?”

“No, sir. I believe Mr. Slutsky was quite upset—he immediately became constipated, which never happened before. I remember it distinctly because I was cut short in my work.”

Mr. Rodchenko heaved himself up on his crutches. He seemed lost in deep thought. She was discreetly pulling up his trousers when he suddenly said, “You know what, Mrs. Leonova? I believe you! It wouldn’t make sense Slutsky snitching on me. They must have set us up against one another. The bastards!” He silently buttoned up. Then he shuffled out of the bathroom, but before he disappeared through the doorway he paused and turned his head halfway. “Thank you, Mrs. Leonova,” he said, “you have done me a great service.”

His words stirred something in her. Something to do with the fact that he had addressed her directly and had valued, so she felt, her modest contribution. And suddenly some hope arose in her, that with hard work she could perhaps ascend the ladder. Move up existentially—by proving her worth on a sentient level in addition to that on a sanitary level—but also professionally, and even literally, for example by stacking shelves, for Mr. Rodchenko’s mansion housed an impressive private library which, she had noticed, could do with some reorganizing. Encouraged by this unexpected development, she continued to abide by her duties with renewed devotion.  

#

That year she was sent on loan to many of Mr. Rodchenko’s friends and business partners, not only in Petersburg but also into neighboring provinces. Lawyers, politicians, judges, military and religious leaders… Sometimes she was even sent all the way to the Black Sea to work at a special event such as a political congress or a prestigious ceremony. Might this be a token of appreciation for the great service she had rendered her employer, she wondered? But eventually it became clear to her that her new ambulatory work still amounted to nothing more but wiping and cleaning. 

Initially, it didn’t particularly affect her for she was earning buckets full of rubles, and it certainly broke the monotony. Yet, after many weeks into this hectic work schedule, she felt glad to be called back to Mr. Rodchenko’s mansion and into his familiar bathroom. Perhaps she had gotten tired, but she suspected it might also have had to do with her increasingly assertive desire for human communication. For the fact was that Mr. Rodchenko had become more talkative on the toilet bowl. This meant not simply talking to himself, but he now also seemed to expect some type of verbal feedback from her, a real exchange, which solicited from her the same kind of excitement as during her very first such exchange about Mr. Slutsky. Yet, while she enjoyed, even craved, the direct character of these interactions, they never seemed to be acknowledged as such. There was an unspoken, natural understanding that no eye contact be made. It was clear that they both still had their places—he up on the bowl, and she squatting down behind it. It felt strange to her, since it was as if nothing had changed, that he wasn’t really aware of her, just as in the beginning; only now he clearly was aware of her for he expected her to respond to his utterances. Yet, overall, it still was, she noted with a certain emotion, as if she didn’t exist.

#

One of the first of those exchanges was about a Mr. Filipov whom she had attended to, only weeks earlier, inside the restrooms of a convention center during a United Russia rally. “I wonder what Chairman Filipov privately thinks of the new Infrastructure budget proposal,” Mr. Rodchenko said right after his first discharge. He was staring absentmindedly into the void before him while the sounds of his effort still lingered inside the otherwise silent bathroom. 

At first she didn’t get the hint. When Mr. Rodchenko let escape an unusually large amount of gas, as if he wanted to grab her attention, and slowly repeated the sentence, only then did it come to her that perhaps her feedback was expected. After briefly clearing her throat, she spoke with a soft voice from behind the bowl where she was kneeling. “Mr. Filipov supports the proposal.” At least, that was what the gentleman had muttered inside the convention center’s restrooms, wondering aloud if he should go public about it. Back then it had occurred to her that as soon as people found themselves on a toilet seat, they were not only letting go of their bowel contents but also of all sorts of tensions. As they willingly lowered their trousers, their guard lowered with them and truth slipped out together with all the rest. Perhaps, she speculated, it was the intimate, quiet space of the restroom that reinforced people’s sense of security. 

Her intuition to speak up had been right. Mr. Rodchenko discharged one last time, now with more gusto, as if his action bore a certain approval in it. He heaved himself up, she carried out the usual cleaning and then he wordlessly dragged himself out of the bathroom, leaning on his crutches. 

Initially, their interactions felt a little contrived to her: something inside her was expecting that, after a year of hard work under Mr. Rodchenko, a recognition of her physical existence would have seeped into these exchanges, which, she admitted, she was aspiring to. Nevertheless, it soon became clear that she would never transcend the realm of invisibility in which she dwelled. This marked the beginning of a new phase in their working relationship, and also a manifestation inside of her of something that could possibly be described as disenchantment. It was shortly afterwards that she began to invest her earnings in stocks—a careful selection based on certain things she picked up at work.  

#

From then onwards, the frequency of Mr. Rodchenko’s visits increased substantially. What was different now was that most of the time there was no longer any wiping required of her. It felt as if he was merely going through the motions—entering the bathroom, dropping his trousers, carefully lowering his body and, after a few minutes of silence, uttering something to himself. “I bet Popov will sell his shares in Agrokultura” or “Surely, Soskovets will run for minister of Health…” upon which she softly responded along the lines of “Popov won’t sell” or “He plans to run”. Mr. Rodchenko would then pull up his trousers and exit the bathroom, sometimes only to reappear after fifteen minutes or so. A period like that was then followed by another long stretch during which she was once again sent out on loan all over the country, and then back to Mr. Rodchenko’s. It was exhausting but she earned a small fortune with it. Yet, while her finances consolidated, the persistent absence of existential recognition felt as if it was erasing her soul, as if her soul was merely another of the innumerable floor stains she had so dutifully been scrubbing at.

By now, the foreboding image of a funereal cannon salute had started to reappear, particularly at those very moments when the otherwise unresponsive Mr. Rodchenko emptied his bowels with a cracking salvo. 

#

One day Mr. Rodchenko sat on the bowl again, muttering to himself. At that particular moment she thought he had subconsciously forgotten about her presence, for his words did not seem to require an answer. “Have to get her into the Kremlin,” she heard. “Must speak to Mitkin about it.”

Within a week she was sent on loan to Moscow. After many security formalities she was brought before a lady who was sitting behind a desk leafing through a file. “Mrs. Leonova,” she spoke. “You come highly recommended. I’m assigning you to the President’s quarters. Follow me.”

Despite a certain sense of achievement, she didn’t like that long episode at all. The toilets were already pristine and required very little work. She soon felt bored spending her time sitting on the floor behind a shiny toilet bowl, waiting. Sometimes a man in a suit and with a gun strapped to his chest opened the door, peered inside, then continued on his round—he never spoke a word and never used the facilities. Rarely did she have a visitor, and when she did it was always the same man. To his credit, his bowel movements were unusually irregular which somehow provided her with a source of diversion. Now and then he grunted a little, and only once did he actually utter a few words: “Hard times, hard times… Unprecedented. What to do?”

Her reaction came with confidence, as if she had been waiting for it all along. “Hard times call for hard measures,” she said. “Agriculture, Infrastructure and Healthcare.” With little regret she expected that her words, spoken without hesitation, would prompt the termination of her special tenure, for her job description had required absolute discretion. But what excited her more was the prospect of immediate human interaction, for it felt like an eternity since someone had addressed her directly—never mind if it was going to be a rebuke.  

After waiting for a minute or so, the anticipation that had mounted in her, plummeted like a shot bird. She wasn’t even sure if he had heard her speak for the gentleman on the bowl remained absolutely still, his head resting in his hands in a disheartened pose. After a good ten minutes did he finally get up and leave.  

#

As soon as her tenure in Moscow ended, was she returned to Mr. Rodchenko. He called her into his home office without delay. “Tell me, Mrs. Leonova,” he began, “what did he say?” Mr. Rodchenko was standing, leaning heavily into his crutches. She noticed his excitement.

“Who, sir?”

“Well, the… your latest customer!”

“‘Ooh’, sir.”

“What?”

“That’s what he most often uttered, sir, ‘Ooh’ and sometimes also ‘Aah’.”

“But, and—what about real words? Did he utter any words?”

“Only once, sir. Something along the lines of, ‘Hard times, what shall I do?’”

“That’s all?”

“Yes, sir, that’s all.”

Mr. Rodchenko sank into a wide fauteuil. “What a waste of time,” he mumbled, “so much effort for nothing.” When he looked up and noticed her still standing there, he dismissed her with a listless wave of his hand. 

#

Not long afterwards, Mr. Rodchenko received a telephone call while she was attending to him inside his bathroom, a brand-new paper roll close at hand. Suddenly he shouted, “He did what?” The voice in the telephone continued but she couldn’t make out what was being said. The longer it spoke, the more Mr. Rodchenko’s body slumped, until he finally pressed the disconnect button. He sat still with his head buried in his hands, not unlike how she had witnessed her previous customer do in Moscow. 

Finally, after a prolonged moment of total immobility, he picked up his phone and pressed a number. “Shvernik? Rodchenko. He’s called for the hardest of measures. He’s ravaged the Agriculture budget—shares have plunged by half. That’s not all; he’s also cut deep into Infrastructure and Healthcare, as if he’s custom-targeted us. Investors are pulling back in droves. We’re finished.”

After the call they both remained in their respective positions for nearly fifteen minutes. Apart from a little water splash now and again, the silence was absolute. Then Mr. Rodchenko spoke again, not into his phone but into the empty space before him. “Hard times call for hard measures. I’ll have to halve Mrs. Leonova’s salary. But I swear, by the end of the year I shall have it up again.”

Feeling fairly certain a response was required, she softly said, “Mrs. Leonova thanks you, sir, but she wishes to retire.”

Mr. Rodchenko’s reaction was emotional. After a loud burst of wind he cried, “But… No! That’s not possible! She’s my… my… sanitary oracle—I need her, now more than ever!”

He slowly turned his head and looked over his shoulder, downwards at her. For the first time since their unspoken arrangement, eye contact was made while attending to him. He didn’t speak but his gaze was pleading.

“I am sorry, sir,” she said quietly, upon which she began, one final time, wiping his backside. 

#

Never before in her existence had she spent so freely on lobster and vodka. She had sought out a few long-lost friends from the past to celebrate her retirement over dinner at the Beau Rivage. Her three-year stint with Mr. Rodchenko had turned her into a wealthy woman—the generous salary, the innumerable bonuses, but above all the vast returns from her investments in stocks; stocks which she had sold off immediately after her return from Moscow and before the subsequent market crash. She had even been able to afford herself a dacha in a quiet spot near the lake. 

“So then, Arina, how did you amass your fortune?” one of her friends asked.

She failed to remember the last time someone had uttered her first name. She realized this was what she had been aiming for all the while, but now that it happened it almost felt uncomfortable.

“Yes, Arina, tell us your secret,” another friend said.

Her answer disappointed them. “Through hard work.”

“Yeah, right, that’s what all rich people claim. Don’t they love to dispense their little truths!”

“Yes,” she agreed, “they certainly do.”

It was true that she felt she had endured a fair amount of hardship, but she was reluctant to elaborate on it with her companions. She had never questioned the willingness with which she had subjected herself to certain conditions that others might have taken offence at. For aren’t we all willing, she asked herself, to temporarily surrender our principles and standards when we find ourselves in hard times, especially with the promise of riches in our sight? Do we even have a choice, she wondered? Unsure that her friends would sympathize, she kept her explanation oblique for fear of being misunderstood. However, now that she had finally reached a position of both financial and existential security, she wondered if, with it, those principles and standards had been safely restored.

The evening unfolded pleasantly and the food was fabulous. Before dessert arrived, she excused herself. Not used to such copious meals, she felt an urge to visit the bathroom. The moment she lowered her skirt and sat down, a total relaxation settled over her. She closed her eyes and enjoyed that solitary, peaceful moment, contemplating her newfound fortune. “I wonder how Mr. Rodchenko is doing,” she murmured to herself.

Moments later a feeble, disembodied voice from down behind her said, “He’s struggling very hard. He’s taken on a job.”

She opened her eyes but kept her gaze in front of her. Next to the door, a pair of crutches stood leaning against a corner. She hesitated. Images of the Peter and Paul Cathedral swirled through her mind. This time the cast bronze bells resounded brightly as if they were made out of clear, thick crystal. It made her smile. 

Her eyes then fell on a floor stain. It was unattended to. As the sounds in her head once again turned into the somber toll of a death knell, she emptied her bowels and spoke into the void, “I wonder if the price of gold will continue to rise.”

She waited expectantly. 

When nothing followed, she wiped her rear end by herself, pulled up her skirt, and left.

---