The Monastery, page 27
When they walked in, Eichmanis raised his eyes and said nothing.
In the bright light of day, it became obvious that he was tanned. His hair was brushed back evenly, his high, bare forehead had a white stripe right under the hairline — evidently, he sometimes walked outside in the heat in a hat or cap. There was a deep groove between his eyebrows. He had full, pursed lips. His immovable gaze was directed right at Boris Lukianovich.
There was something in him that was… Artiom searched for an appropriate word… It’s like he was a foreigner! Any minute, it seemed that he would switch to a different language, his native tongue and not at all Latvian or German or French — something else with shrill, commanding words, crunching like broken glass.
Grakov sat apart from them in the corner, making notes in his notebook with an incredibly intelligent look.
“… Fiodor Ivanovich, I know that the actors are now due an addition to their ration, as they’ve been taken off common labor… but we sportsmen, I think, need a triple ration. At least until the competition. Many of them are underweight… That could have a visible effect…” Boris Lukianovich said, a little shyly, but at the same time insistently, as though forcing himself to utter everything that he considered necessary.
“Boris Lukianovich, there’s only one problem with your team,” answered Eichmanis loudly, as though on the parade ground. He spoke with a somewhat deliberate sharpness, despite the fact that, judging by appearances, the situation seemed amusing to him. “Twenty-three of your twenty-seven prospective participants in our games are incarcerated under the section dealing with ‘terrorism’.”
Boris Lukianovich touched the curve of his glasses as though he wanted to take them off, but changed his mind, as though he had decided — what if I miss something important?
“How small Boris Lukianovich looks next to Eichmanis,” Artiom noticed. “Or is it the authority? What if Boris Lukianovich was sitting in Eichmanis’s place…? Would I think differently?”
“Terrorism!” repeated Eichmanis and raised his pencil in the air, turning it with a light circular motion with a look as though he was ready to hurl it to the far side of the office or at Grakov, whom he simply did not notice.
Artiom remembered inappropriately that Galia also always talked with a pencil in her hand.
“What? Do we not have any other kinds of criminals?” asked Eichmanis. He lessened the grip on the pencil, and it slipped down. Eichmanis caught it by its tip and shook it in the air, as though it were the second hand on a clock. In this unconscious game, there was an attractive boyishness. “Do we have thieves? Yes. Robbers? Yes. Conmen? Ve-e-ery many! So why have you only chosen terrorists? Is that your favorite article of the criminal code? Or are you preparing some kind of surprise for the October anniversary?”
Boris Lukianovich coughed and looked from side to side. Artiom guessed that he was looking for a glass. He wanted some water. But only Eichmanis had a glass.
“Ivan!” Eichmanis called somewhere, lightly slapping his palm on the table. Boris Lukianovich and Artiom jumped, and the water in Eichmanis’s glass quivered. “Bring a mug, there’s a good fellow!”
Eichmanis, despite the fact that he loved drilling, parades and military inspections, was himself dressed in civilian clothing. No matter how many times Artiom saw him, he noticed it every time. While all the rest of the camp administration wore uniforms, he appeared in public in a red sweater or in a sailor’s shirt, whilst he now sat in an elegant jacket, the three top buttons of which were unbuttoned. His strong neck was visible. At the same time, there was something young, almost boyish about him.
Artiom caught himself in an obviously shameful emotion — in this moment, he liked Eichmanis as a person.
He gestured so exactly, so convincingly, and behind every one of his words there was an extraordinary level of self-confidence and power.
If Artiom had had to go to war, he would have wanted such an officer.
They brought a mug and Eichmanis abruptly, familiarly moved the carafe from his own table to the conference table that stood right next to his.
“You understand…” began Boris Lukianovich, having filled his mug and cautiously taking a drink; it was obvious that it was hard for him to express himself. “Most often those who are arrested under the article concerning terrorism are… students. If a student becomes a terrorist, he is, as a rule… in good physical shape. That is, many of them prepare themselves…”
“Well, yes, so I’ve heard,” Eichmanis answered in harmony with Boris Lukianovich, apparently without irritation. However, Artiom felt that the sportsman was afraid to lift his eyes to the head of the camp.
Boris Lukianovich once again fell silent for a few seconds.
“No matter what you say about the working class or the peasants… or the NEP-ers. Or the majority of inmates — many of whom have had their health destroyed. There are, I think, among the counter-revs, some people who might…”
“Yes, yes, terrorists from among the new and counter-revs from among the old,” Eichmanis laughed. Artiom finally decided to look at him in passing and immediately met his gaze. The commissar’s eyes were grey, a bit arrogant and a bit tired, though with full and long eyelashes. How he was able to keep them this long, Artiom didn’t know. What, did he never smoke on a windy day?
His laughter sounded as though it was clear that only he could laugh in his office, while everyone else wasn’t required to.
Eichmanis’s teeth were straight, his ears firm, seemingly carved by a carver, there was an obvious dimple in his chin… Only the cut-off, even slippery line of his cheekbones, once again noticed by Artiom, slightly ruined the general effect. With such cheekbones, Eichmanis’s head didn’t seem large enough for his body. It reminded him of something like a cliff in the see that the waves had eroded after a long time, then it was as though the waves spit, smoothing out that which needed to look sharper and more distinct.
“That would be quite a team,” finished Eichmanis and then immediately asked Artiom, looking at him for the first time, “What are you in for, Artiom?”
Artiom almost choked when he heard his name — he remembered clearly that Boris Lukianovich had only introduced him as his assistant, not giving any name; after all, it would have been stupid to acquaint the head of the camp with a simple inmate.
This knowledge of Eichmanis’s could mean anything, but Artiom painfully sensed a deafening pride — they know me! I’ve been noticed!
“Me?” repeated Artiom, a habit that wasn’t usual with him.
Eichmanis gave a short and patient nod: yes, you.
“For murder,” said Artiom.
“Domestic?” Eichmanis quickly asked.
Artiom nodded.
“Whom did you kill?” Eichmanis asked just as quickly and ordinarily.
“My father,” answered Artiom, losing his voice for some reason.
“You see!” Eichmanis turned to Boris Lukianovich. “There are normal ones.”
Boris Lukianovich looked at Artiom and said nothing, only drank his water one more time.
Grakov didn’t take his eyes off his notebook and it seemed he wasn’t even writing, but drawing or scribbling something.
“I have a suggestion,” suddenly Artiom offered, trying to redirect their attention to something else. “Maybe it makes sense to include the Information and Investigation Department and look into the files? We might find something there, information about people who used to do sports, but for some reason or another didn’t announce their desire to take part in the competition. They can be asked separately and insistently. You just need to know who.”
“Ivan!” Eichmanis called, and immediately the secretary’s face appeared in the doorway. “Send someone to IID to summon Galia.”
“It’s an obvious idea, but it didn’t occur to me. Thank you, Artiom,” said Eichmanis very simply, and Artiom didn’t redden from pleasure, only with difficulty, but the head was already speaking to Boris Lukianovich. “So. You can get your third ration. As for the composition of the participants, we’ll work some more on that. Now for the general organization. You have my full attention…”
Boris Lukianovich gave a full report. Before every new item, he took a breath, as though every time he needed to swim up to the next section.
Eichmanis didn’t interrupt him anymore.
Artiom thought with some doubt: will his initiative result in a new, separate meeting with Galia, whom he had absolutely no desire to see?
She still hadn’t arrived.
He had to butt into the conversation one more time when they started talking about the educational content of the competition. Here, Grakov puffed his chest out anew and loudly turned over his ink blobs to a fresh page.
Artiom had already thought of several cracking slogans for the competitions and immediately offered them to choose from. He had put neither heart nor soul into them, so this sort of work came to him very easily. However, Eichmanis was more than serious about it and he wrote down every single slogan, contracting words or sometimes whole sentences, in which you could clearly see the habits of a student who had seriously attended lectures in the past. Grakov, Artiom noticed, was writing much more exactly, so wasn’t keeping up, in vain trusting in his memory.
At the end of the conference, without any pathos, Eichmanis summarized the complete picture and added a few ideas for Boris Lukianovich to consider.
His conversation proved him to be a collected and attentive person.
When everyone got up, Eichmanis asked once again, “Artiom, you are responsible for general discipline, but you are also a participant in the competitions?”
“Exactly so,” Artiom calmly answered, already settled in.
Eichmanis cast his eyes over Artiom with a careful gaze; Artiom immediately guessed what the head was about to ask him.
“Boxing,” said Artiom, barely smiling.
Eichmanis nodded.
“Evidently, Galina is busy with something,” he said. “They’ll take you to her and she will prepare the necessary information in the meantime concerning possible sportsmen.
Artiom wanted to say, “Galina and I have already met,” but immediately thought better of it.
Waiting in the corridor for their summons were a priest, a young man — a leopard judging by his appearance — and a counter-rev — his deportment and gaze gave him away.
All three carefully examined Boris Lukianovich, Artiom and Grakov.
Artiom, unable to stop himself, had his special election into esoteric mysteries, unknown to everyday inmates, stamped all over his face.
As for Boris Lukianovich, he didn’t even notice the other visitors, but was merely thoughtful.
“Mezernitskii is having a get-together tonight, will you come?” Grakov offered Artiom when they came outside. “He speaks well of you.”
They were looking at the sea. A gull flew over the water, first lowering, then rising up, as though it was swinging on an invisible swing set.
Artiom interpreted this new mode of address from Grakov as yet more proof of his new position.
“Yes?” Artiom asked amicably. “At what time?”
He had suddenly decided not to fear the gangsters any more — who would touch him after Eichmanis had called him by name? Artiom would trample all of them.
“As for Boris Lukianovich finding out for what reason the inmate Goriainov was imprisoned — people here are imprisoned for all kinds of reasons!” Artiom made excuses for himself.
At the very least, they parted normally. “Not a bad idea to find new sportsmen,” said Boris Lukianovich, not very sure, for all that, judging by his appearance, in what he was saying.
Never mind, Artiom decided. The important thing was that Eichmanis had liked it.
“But what about the fact that they’re going to take you back to Galina?” he asked himself one more time. “Does that mean that you are a complete cretin with all your good ideas?”
“Why would she make me a snitch if I’m working on a separate project for the head of the camp?” Artiom answered himself with a bit of challenge.
In general, he calmed down. It had all turned out not badly, even well.
He walked back to his building — confident and strong. A gull obnoxiously circled just over his head — he jumped up and almost hit its tail with his palm.
There was only one question: whether or not to invite Osip.
“Do I need that neurotic or not?” Artiom asked himself. “Is it right for every person to bring his own friends to the get-together?”
He wisely decided not to remember how Vasilii Petrovich had himself invited Artiom to Mezernitskii’s the last time.
“After all, he was speaking so badly and stupidly about Eichmanis. He completely misunderstood him,” thought Artiom, meaning Osip, and kept trying to come up with a good reason to go alone. But for all that, what had Eichmanis to do with it? You’re not going to Eichmanis’s get-together,” he quietly mocked himself.
Of course, he invited Osip.
Osip had returned from work irritated as usual. Artiom knew in advance that Osip would immediately begin to complain about the lack of tools or about the stupidity of the limitations of the camp, or about the rudeness of the administration; therefore, he cut it all off immediately.
“Osip, we’ve been invited to a get-together!” he announced triumphantly, chomping on his carrot — he hadn’t had time to have a proper lunch, after all.
Osip, squinting, looked at Artiom for some time. Then he answered, “You think that’s appropriate? I, probably, don’t want to go anywhere.”
“Come on,” Artiom said confidently. “They’ll feed us very well there… But you and I will also bring a few things with us.” With these words, he pulled out his own dry ration from under the bed.
Osip glanced at the dry ration, as though he might find something new and unexpected there.
In Mezernitskii’s room, Grakov and Vasilii Petrovich were already sitting down. Grakov was on the bed, Vasilii Petrovich sat near the window on a chair. The host himself was addressing them.
Artiom barely stopped himself from laughing aloud like a child. He was extraordinarily glad to see his old comrade. Vasilii Petrovich’s eyes also sparked, as though someone had blown on the coals.
“Oh, Artiom, my dear Artiom,” Vasilii Petrovich’s entire countenance seemed to say.
“There was the empire, it shone all over,” Mezernitskii expounded, waving about his hands. His nails were, as before, untrimmed and with a black edge. “Now, Solovki. Everyone thinks it’s the Bolsheviks, the Bolsheviks who ruined everything.” Grakov, listening to Mezernitskii, looked at the table, his eyebrows barely twitching, as though he had a nervous tic. “But it’s merely the empire turned inside out, the entire fur coat! There, you find lice, all kinds of vermin, bed bugs — it was all there! It’s just that now, we’re wearing the fur coat with the lining out! And that’s Solovki!”
For a minute, Osip looked around in all directions until his attention settled on the table, which was laden with a variety of food.
Vasilii Petrovich got up, silently calling Artiom to his place with a look saying that he had been sitting there for more than an hour and was already tired of resting, while Artiom, who was tired after his journey, must definitely take a seat.
All of this, of course, moved Artiom even more. He put the fish he had wrapped in paper on the table and firmly embraced Vasilii Petrovich.
“What, you don’t see each other in your brigade?” asked Mezernitskii seriously, though with a barely evident sarcasm.
“They moved me,” Artiom answered. “This is my friend Osip. He’s a scientist.”
“And day and night the learned cat kept walking round and round the chain…”14 said Mezernitskii, extending his hand to Osip. Osip grasped it with a certain disapproval.
“I brought you your things, Artiom. After all, you haven’t visited at all,” Vasilii Petrovich said quietly. “But you are right not to, of course.”
Artiom realized that Vasilii Petrovich smelled. It was an unpleasant, but strangely familiar, stench.
“That’s the smell of our sleeping quarters! My own twelfth brigade!” Artiom realized. “When did I have a chance to forget it?”
It somehow made him feel better and relieved him: “Our good old familiar smell!” He didn’t even think about it, but rather commanded it to himself. He commanded and submitted.
“… begun to see clearly what sort of a nation it is,” Mezernitskii continued his topic, setting up the various foods brought by the guests in different parts of the table — that’s to cut, that’s to clean, that’s for the salad, that’s for later. “Maybe it’s like this? Or maybe it’s like that? And here, they’ve finally brought them all to one place to see what sort of nation it is. Now they see clearly! Except their clear sight is darkness. Clear sight into darkness! They see darkness! And now they try to describe it in the correct language. The nation, you know, is dark and taciturn. ‘Yes, dark and even frightening!’ ‘Truly so, dark, frightening, and smells somehow damp too!’ ‘And prickly too! Smelly and prickly!’ But all this is the fur coat pulled inside out! They wore that fur coat and had no idea what sort of smell was in the sleeves or armpits!”
“What is that?” asked Osip, pointing.
“That,” Mezernitskii interrupted himself, completely nonplussed that he had been interrupted, “is seal meat.” Immediately, he asked Artiom, “Where have they moved you?”
“Into the second,” said Artiom, smiling.
“What do you do now?” asked Mezernitskii, without the “w” at the end of the phrase.
“I invent slogans,” answered Artiom, continuing to smile.
Mezernitskii, pursing his lips in a unique way, nodded: yes, I see, not bad.
“Is it easier than at the logs?” he asked.
“A bit easier,” Artiom answered, just as seriously.
“Mezernitskii, here you’re saying that they saw the light on Solovki. But I think that they had a chance to see and understand the nation during the Civil War, no? Don’t you think so?” said Vasilii Petrovich, smiling.
