The Monastery, page 26
For some reason, the call from IID was even more frightening than the possibility of meeting the gangsters at the entrance to the abbot’s wing.
“That’s because dishonor is more frightening than death,” Artiom uttered pathetically about himself, knowing in advance that all of it was stupid words, a fantasy.
On the way to the kremlin, Artiom resolutely turned into the retail store and bought a small iron pot. “At least I can feed myself with something warm before I fall into sin.”
Now he carried his money on his person — it seemed to give him strength; it led to a delusive sense of freedom and importance.
“But as soon as you start snitching,” Artiom goaded himself, “they’ll give you yet another ration, a third! You’ll always have money in your pocket. You’ll get fat. You’ll get greasy, slow, fat-cheeked…”
He imagined how he would walk through the kremlin’s courtyard, hiccupping, as fat as any NEP-er. He got a little more cheerful.
In the main kitchen, the first chef gave him a dry ration according to Boris Lukianovich’s paper. He even added some cabbage with a head of garlic and some lard…
The chef — he stank unforgivably of gruel, fish, millet porridge and buckwheat, with a completely shaved head and a single eye — carefully examined Artiom, trying, just in case, to understand what sort of a character stood before him and why he was receiving an increased ration.
Artiom winked at him. It was a bit wild to wink at a man with one eye.
“Let him think that I am the camp’s most important snitch,” Artiom continued to mock himself, carrying back his ration. “Let him guess by my brazen mug that I’ve done my time and remain a freebie in the monastery because of a natural inclination towards villainy, a true lickspittle! That’s why they feed me!”
Neither the gangsters nor any soldiers awaited Artiom at the abbot’s wing.
He hurried to the entrance as though there were forty loving sisters waiting for him in his room.
… Or better yet, only one, and not a sister at all.
“Maybe Galina has forgotten about me?” thought Artiom, crunching his cabbage leaf and energetically ascending the staircase to the second floor, while no one was calling him. “Or maybe IID won’t be able to find me? They’ll lose me in the papers, thinking that the inmate Goriainov was sent on a distant business trip, and they’ll forget about me until the end of my time? That happens, right?”
He was ready to believe in anything, just to avoid meeting that thin-lipped creature ever again.
In his monastic cell, a sullen Osip half-lay on his sheets-less bed, reading some kind of textbook without a cover.
“Osip is home,” Artiom remarked with a warm feeling, as though his learned comrade would also serve as protection. At the same time, he caught himself thinking that he’s calling this cage a home, while he had never called his previous loathsome louse-house, the twelfth brigade, home.
“Osip, shall we make some cabbage soup?” Artiom offered from the threshold.
“You know how to?” Osip asked without confidence, licking his lips.
Artiom knew.
Osip only licked his lips when he was in a good mood, Artiom noticed. While he was in a bad mood, he held his mouth sealed and dry.
Someone had already lit the stove in the corridor. Artiom added some logs and added his iron kettle so no one else could occupy his place on the common stove.
After an hour and a half, everything was ready.
“The storms throw the seaweed out to the shore,” Osip explained about his work, holding his bowl with both hands by the edges, as though the bowl might jump away somewhere. “Sometimes the waves are several kilometers long. The seaweed is all edible; there are no poisonous kinds. In England, Japan, Scotland, they make many delicious things from seaweed. Candies, jams, blancmange.”
“Is that what you work on?” Artiom joked, sweating after bustling a long time near the stove, as he poured the cabbage soup. “Will you bring me some blancmange made from seaweed to taste?”
“No, that’s not my work,” answered Osip, carefully examining first his bowl, then the kettle. “Yes, they make blancmange. Also, ice cream, crème brûlée, cookies. But we are working on something else for now, for the Soviet government has no time for cookies. They need the aforementioned iodine to treat their own wounds.”
Osip always joked extremely caustically and completely without smiling. The humor confirmed that this person was not as absentminded and lost as it might seem at first glance.
“More than that,” he continued in the same tone, “you can make a kind of glue from it called algin, or cellulose, even potassium salts.”
“But for now, you only make iodine?” Artiom clarified.
“Yes,” Osip answered curtly, ladled some soup with his spoon and held the spoon for some time above the bowl, paying no attention to it. “They incinerate the seaweed, soak it in water and from this water extract the iodine from potassium iodide. It’s all very simple. For more large-scale work, we don’t have the facilities. Even so, Comrade Eichmanis, naturally, has huge plans.”
Osip finally tasted the soup. Artiom was sure he wouldn’t even notice that he ate it, but quite the opposite happened.
“This is very good,” said Osip with dignity. “Will you teach me?”
Artiom nodded sweepingly. For some reason he was in a very good mood.
“The Bolsheviks in general love to plan everything, make a graph of it and delegate it,” continued Osip, raising the next spoon to his mouth. “It’s some special kind of psychological disease. They’re insane, but they approach everything in a strictly scientific manner.”
Artiom cheerfully looked at the door and changed the subject.
“Have you socialized with Eichmanis?” he asked as simply as he could and even frivolously, in order to attune Osip to this new melody.
“Naturally, I have. I immediately demanded that he bring my mother here.”
“To prison?” Artiom wanted to joke but didn’t.
“And what did he say?”
“He immediately agreed,” Osip said proudly.
“Why do you need your mother, Osip?” Artiom asked.
“She can’t do without me,” he answered confidently, “while I absolutely need her to be able to work normally.”
“What do you think of Eichmanis?” Artiom asked.
“He’s the head of the camp. That means he’s a piece of shit; otherwise, how would he have gotten to the top?”
“Yep…” said Artiom, raising his spoon vertically, as though he was planning on striking Osip on his intelligent forehead. “What other delicacies do they make from seaweed?”
During the morning warm-up, Boris Lukianovich was called into the cultural and educational section.
“Artiom, can you lead it?” he asked simply, as though it were obvious.
It wasn’t a hard job. Artiom led the warm-up.
An hour later, Boris Lukianovich returned, but only for a minute, and he asked Artiom to make sure that they’d dig in the parallel bars where they needed to be, not just wherever.
They brought the bars soon afterwards.
It wasn’t a difficult job. He made sure.
The rest of the time, Artiom tortured himself on the pull up bar. All of this was incomparably better than the logs.
“And no one is guarding me,” Artiom basked. “If I want to, I hang here. If I want to, I sit here. If I want to, I stare at the sky.”
For that matter, he stared more at the road from the monastery, even as he spun around on the bars — were there red army soldiers hurrying from the guard corps to lead him to the IID? Galina must be tired of waiting there.
Instead of soldiers, Artiom saw Passport, who schlepped under guard from the forest work group to go eat lunch, together with other inmates as exhausted as he was.
From this distance, it wasn’t clear whether Passport looked at Artiom or whether he couldn’t care less.
After lunch, there was a bit of a lull in the sport section — it was hard to fervently lift and run energetically from morning until evening on a single dry ration, even with added bread and carrots. But Boris Lukianovich returned and Artiom decided with pleasure that this was no longer his headache. Let the boss watch everyone and drive them forward.
Boris Lukianovich appeared without any added food, though he did have good news.
“Friends and comrades!” he announced. “From this day, in addition to your monetary allowance, we will also have daily hot food for lunch!”
The students whooped; Artiom was also not upset — as before, he wanted to eat constantly.
“Only for some reason they didn’t bring it to us,” Boris Lukianovich, smiling, ruined everyone’s mood. “Artiom, maybe you can go and find out what’s the trouble?”
Hoping that Passport was already in the sleeping quarters and that they would miss each other, Artiom hurried to the monastery, through the St. Nicholas gates, to the main kitchen.
He walked through the main entrance, past the guard, with an iron expression on his face. They didn’t even call to him, though inmates were naturally not allowed to enter the working area of the main kitchen.
The head chef walked towards him in his boots, in a dirty black apron, holding an ax. He recognized Artiom and looked at him with a certain amount of tension, not winking his only eye with its burned-off eyelashes and missing eyebrow.
Artiom again didn’t introduce himself, but immediately asked about the hot lunch for the sports section, who were preparing for the Olympics according to the personal command of the head of the camp in honor of the anniversary of the revolution. Perhaps, he suggested, he should write a complaint to Fiodor Ivanovich?
Artiom said “Fiodor Ivanovich” on purpose — it sounded more convincing, as though he had just sat with him at the table and came to know the names and responsibilities of saboteurs.
“What’s going on?” the chef growled. “I told them to do it!”
His words were as though they had been chopped with his ax, like pieces of meat: “Whassgoinon! I tol’em t’do it!”
Artiom walked out of harm’s way outside to wait, as though he, in his authoritative irritation, had decided to take a smoke break.
They carried out the vats with hot food in three minutes.
“Next time,” Artiom declared to himself, hurrying after the kitchen staff, “when the gangsters, Burtsev and Sorokin are planning to beat you up, a one-eyed chef with a soup ladle will join them and take your head off with the ladle finally.
The courtyard was almost empty — only Bear the deer watched out for someone with sugar, while Black watched after the deer.
The gangsters didn’t leave him waiting — Artiom heard their voices and turned around; they were right there.
“I saw that bitch from the window,” Gulls said, leering with his fish-teeth. Apparently, while Artiom was going to the kitchen, he had time to find Passport and Shaferbekov in the twelfth. A fourth — some leopard filled with interest in how they were about to catch the friar and tear him into pieces or at least knife him — hurried along with them.
“Comrade warden! Comrade soldier!” Artiom yelled, calling the serviceman a “comrade”, which was forbidden — only “citizen”! — and ran to the monastery’s gates, hearing stomping feet behind his back.
“Passport’s shoes are falling apart; it’s not easy for him to run,” Artiom managed to remember.
Behind them, Black started to bark, then run after them, soon reaching Artiom.
“Hey! Don’t bite! Hey!” Artiom asked while running, because the dog was running right at his feet, baring his teeth. At least Bear didn’t run anywhere, though he jumped in place, raising his tail.
The leopard, who was running barefoot, reached Artiom almost at the gates, then grabbed his jacket, ripping the sleeve.
“What’s going on here?” asked the soldier. “Whoah there, all of you! I’ll shoot you between the eyes!” He actually racked the slide and raised his rifle.
Only the kitchen staff stopped with their vat, while Shaferbekov, Gills and Passport ran right up to the post and now stood next to Artiom.
He quickly looked from one vile face to the next.
Black was getting tangled up in everyone’s feet, barking shortly at the people.
“I need to leave,” said Artiom, showing the pass to the soldier, then pushed the leopard in the forehead, because he still hadn’t dropped his sleeve.
“Why were you yelling?” asked the soldier, returning his pass.
Artiom said nothing and walked through the gates, taking his paper and putting it in his pocket without looking at it.
On the other side, he stopped and, heavily breathing, turned to the gangsters, who were still standing there next to the post.
Artiom felt that his back was hot and the back of his head flared as though burned. But he immediately recognized the comedy in the situation. He stood here, they stood there and they couldn’t get out. They didn’t have any passes. Even Passport went to his forest work under guard.
They let the kitchen staff with their vats pass as well — they, egged on by the head chef, hurried towards the sportsmen.
“Gills, come over here,” Artiom called him gently. “I’ll give you a candied fruit. Want a candied fruit?” He did pull a candied fruit bought this morning from his pocket. “Catch!” And he threw it. “Just make sure that you don’t rip your mouth open again.”
The leopard picked up the candied fruit and immediately swallowed it without chewing.
“Passport!” Artiom yelled. “Don’t piss sideways!”
He remembered Shaferbekov too. Afanasiev had told him, while they were preparing the sauna switches that he had chopped up his wife, put her in a basket and mailed it to Shemakha.
“Shaferbe-e-e-ekov!” Artiom drawled. “They say that your wife sent you a parcel from Shemakha? Or was it that they send her in a parcel? Not sure which one! Why don’t you go to the post office and find out?”
Gills and Passport stood in place, their mouths open, beside themselves with fury. Passport’s nose even turned blue. Shaferbekov was smiling and squinting, as though Artiom were blinding him.
“Get out of here,” the soldier commanded the gangsters, and, turning around to look at Artiom, added, “You go take a hike too, jokester.”
The gangsters walked away and sat near the monastery’s walls.
“Are you feeling better, jester of Solovki?” Artiom asked himself, shuddering with pleasure, as though a beautiful, buxom girl with long, painted nails had just scratched his back and blew on his neck.
“Oh yeah!” he answered himself, with excitement. “But how will I go back? It’s not like I can ask the soldier to lead me back to my cell.”
He caught and smashed a big drip of sweat with his finger as it poured down from his hair down to his forehead.
Boris Lukianovich was hurrying towards him — from a lack of anything to do, Artiom examined him carefully — flared pant legs, sailor shirt, all full of energy, his shoulders bulging with muscle, the neck of a boar, his ears — like the ears of all healthy people — small.
“Listen!” Boris Lukianovich said a few steps away. “I’m impressed! I see that they’re carrying the lunch at a trot! What did you say to them in the kitchen?”
Without answering, Artiom waited while Boris Lukianovich drew level with him. He only smiled.
“I was looking for you; good thing I found you.” Boris Lukianovich said, coming up and not noticing a certain nervousness in Artiom’s face, although he did pay attention to something else: “Oh, your sleeve is ripped… Listen, there’s going to be a meeting with Eichmanis right now. Tell them that you’re my assistant and we’ll go together, OK? You speak well. Butt in if you have to. Especially since Grakov will be listening in again and writing it all down. So we need the right speeches. I’m not good at those.”
“Me neither,” answered Artiom, still not calmed down after all that had happened.
“You can do everything very well!” Boris Lukianovich said with conviction. “Can you do without lunch? I’m hungry too. After the meeting, you’ll go straight to rest.”
Artiom hoped that the gangsters had left, but no, they were still sitting there. They jumped up in amazement. The leopard got up and scratched himself in the nether regions.
“What, back again?” the soldier asked Artiom.
Having searched for it, Artiom found the pass in his pocket — it was covered in mustard and grease spots.
“You can use it to flavor your soup,” said the soldier, returning the pass.
Sighing, Artiom walked after Boris Lukianovich.
The gangsters rose up and slowly walked towards them.
“Why aren’t you back at the sleeping quarters?” Burtsev yelled at them, arriving like a storm. “Did they cancel your work group? Did they announce a rest stop here? Or did they open up a boulevard here?”
Seeing Burtsev, Passport took two steps back, Shaferbekov took one.
“Who are you?” Burtsev yelled at Gills. “Which brigade?”
Gills sniffed and quickly walked in the direction of the infirmary, his entire face screwed up, as though he were counting the remaining teeth in his mouth.
Burtsev didn’t touch Passport or Shaferbekov, but he swung his stiletto at the leopard.
“Get out of here, trash!”
After half a minute, everyone walked away, leaving only Burtsev. Artiom and Boris Lukianovich walked past.
Burtsev was wearing new, excellent boots that had been polished so much they shined.
He didn’t greet Artiom.
They walked through the monastery courtyard and exited from the other side — the administration of the camp was located in a building at the quayside. They didn’t allow inmates to leave through those gates, but evidently Boris Lukianovich had a special document.
Eichmanis’s office was large and airy. A carafe of pure water stood on his table. There were no portraits on the walls, only a handwritten map of Solovki with many small flags.
“Probably one of the inmates drew that,” Artiom thought.
