Customer Reviews

The Suitcase

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Sergei Dovlatov is one of my top 3 writers. When you read one of his books, you feel as though you as conversing with Sergei. The text flows freely and easily. Dovlatov has the uncanny ability to capture life in the former Soviet Union, displaying not only it's absurdness, but the humor in that absurdness.

This book is a series of short stories. Each chapter is based an item in the suitcase he brought when he came to the US. The book is funny, as is all of his work, well written and poignant. I have read this book many times and on each occassion, I laugh and shake my head with amazement.

It is truly a shame that Dovlatov died so young (49).

The Suitcase was published in Russian in 1986 and in English in 1990. This 2011 republication by One World Classics contained a revised English translation by Antonina Bouis. Dovlatov (1941-90), half-Armenian and half-Jewish, left the USSR in 1978 and died in New York.

There were eight short stories, each featuring an object found in an old suitcase the writer had taken with him into exile and rediscovered in a closet years later: crepe socks, half-boots, a suit, belt, jacket, shirt, hat and gloves. The clothing, so to speak, in which the narrator had lived in his homeland. Prominent in the works were black-market activity, boredom and slacking off in the workplace, drunkenness and fistfights, occasional pointless interrogation by authorities, a wife's emigration, and so on. Family and close friends helped people cope. Occasionally in some of the stories, a note of melancholy was sounded at the passing of time.

The best of the tales for this reader was "An Officer's Belt," which described an incident from the narrator's military service in the 1960s and blended humor with wry observation of human stupidity. It flowed smoothly and contained nothing beyond what was needed to tell the story. Many of the other tales in comparison seemed rambling, less focused, or ended weakly or abruptly. And yet his descriptions of life lived certainly felt authentic.

Most of the stories were set mainly in the near-present--for this book, the late 60s or 70s. In two tales, the author opened up another dimension by going further back into the past and following his characters through a good part of their lives: describing his life in parallel with the pampered son of a famous actor, and his life with his gentle, faithful wife.

From these stories alone, it seemed that the narrator wasn't a political dissident of any kind, more someone who just couldn't fit in and was drawn to those like himself. Nor were the stories taken as straight condemnation. The book was prefaced with lines from a poem by Blok: "But even like this, my Russia / You are most precious to me . . ."

"Belt" was one of the few works by contemporary authors included in the 2005 anthology, Russian Short Stories from Pushkin to Buida, in a translation by Joanne Turnbull. I've no idea which version is closer to the original, but for me Turnbull's English seemed more carefully chosen:

Bouis: "The prisoner accepted it modestly. 'People admired me.'"
Turnbull: "The prisoner humbly concurred, 'I did win the respect of the people.'"

Bouis: "'It's terrible what's going on in the barracks . . . Wine flowing from under the doors . . .'"
Turnbull: "'What goes on in those barracks, it's frightening . . . The liquor flows till they're ankle-deep . . .'"

Bouis: "'What's there to tell?' Churilin said, jumping up. 'You want some Forsyte Saga or something?'
Turnbull: "'There's nothing to tell,' Churilin jumped up. 'Whad'ya want, a f-----g Forsyte Saga?'"

Bouis: "That whole world disappeared for me."
Turnbull: "That whole world has disappeared somewhere."

One of the finest (and most overlooked) writers of the Soviet era, Sergei Dovlatov was a master of the short story. And this slim volume, a collection of stories revolving around the items in his sole allowed emigrant's suitcase, is a masterpiece. Full of amiable charm and cutting satire, these eight tales are deceptively profound forays into the depths of the much-vaunted Russian soul.

As reviewed in Russian Life

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