something must...
What?
No, nothing.
You're a strange guy.
I never know what you might be
thinking when you're silent like this.
Hey, you, think of something!
Let's drink.
Not me, I feel good as it is.
Hi!
Hi, our dear potatoes!
Everyone got sour here.
Meet my friend.
- Yura.
- Kolia.
All we needed here is you.
Where did you get it?
At the Metropole.
A dish by special order.
Potatoes "a la Russe".
Take your coat off.
I can't, I have to make three more
visits. Even got no time for work.
Then don't work.
Congratulations.
The potatoes onto the table!
Why do you keep silent all the time?
I know almost nobody here.
It's even better.
It's so boring being among your own.
There're only your own here.
- How you doing?
- So-so.
Have you been to anywhere?
Couldn't you have asked
something else?
About what?
Seryozha.
Seryozha, you're wanted on the phone.
The Ural sAutomobile Works
has finished testing
a new powerful car...
Yes? Hello?
Who? Slavka?
Yes, It's me. Speak louder,
I can't hear anything.
What?
I think you're exaggerating.
Yes, as if it's the first time that
Kolka didn't spend the night home.
Yes, I think so.
You're wrong.
Yes.
All right. Bye.
All right.
Thank you.
A fall-winter fashion.
Please, pay attention.
This outfit got a special
award for modesty
at the Cannes festival.
A very practical garment for balls,
exhibitions and recreation,
countryside recreation, playing
skittles, and business trips.
The line starts at the throat
and ends in pleats
in the area of the spine.
You'll need 3 meters of fabric
1.45 wide to make it.
Dances!
- Shall we dance?
- Yes.
I was at a fashion show once.
It looked just like this.
I'm a model.
- May I have your phone number?
- I'm married.
I'm not asking for your hand,
just a phone number.
- What letter does it start with?
- K. I'm saying no more.
Quiet! You're in for a surprise,
something like bast shoes and potatoes.
Come on, come on.
Now we've got a complete set.
Bast shoes, potatoes.
An old ritual song.
All we need here are
Gypsies and bears.
Enough of that.
Let's drink.
To what?
To potatoes.
Why not to turnips?
I want to drink to potatoes.
Maybe you'd better
say that toast in verse?
It's clear that love is no potato.
To potatoes.
A toast to the beat of drums.
Experienced orators knock
through the rostrum with a fist.
I don't understand
what you meant by that?
And I understand.
I can guess.
What do you understand?
Omitting all
details, explanations,
protestations and incantations,
I'll define all your ideas
about potatoes like this:
hurrah or "kvass" patriotism.
- What?
- Derived from the word "kvass".
One can't
take it seriously.
Perhaps.
But what should
we take seriously?
What actually can we
talk about seriously?
Only don't take upon yourself
the role of national conscience.
Stop playing the fool.
I can talk like this, too.
We all can.
And what's next?
Are there things you
can talk seriously about?
Can you answer that?
If there's nothing
you can talk seriously about,
why live, then?
This is a provocative question.
I can put this question to you, too.
And I'll answer you.
I take seriously the Revolution,
the "Internationale" anthem,
the year of 1937,
the war, the soldiers,
the fact that almost all of us
have no fathers,
and the potatoes, too,
which had saved us
during the hunger and which...
- And what do you think of turnips?
- What?
What do you think of turnips?
You never said.
It was a nasty thing to say.
I said it automatically.
Stop, stop, stop.
Stop.
Take it easy.
You have to sort it out quietly.
Do you hear?
With a cool head.
I don't want to go on like this.
I don't want to.
One shouldn't drift with the current.
One shouldn't just drift.
All right, gather up your willpower.
Hold yourself together.
Today is the turning point.
I don't want
to just wear out the time,
to wear out the days.
Nothing lives its separate life.