The Monastery, page 51
Only Afanasiev managed to endure the torture — he, pulling on his forelock, got red all over his body, but didn’t scream once, enduring, biting his hand and screwing his eyes shut…
Tottering on his legs and grabbing the blackened walls, he walked naked outside.
“Where are you going? There’s that… woman,” the fox-chef tried to stop him, but Afanasiev heard nothing.
Krapin had no strength left to torture Artiom.
Artiom got on the top ledge that was strewn with birch leaves and got lost in his blessedness, his legs extended, his head covered with his arms, breathing out as though he were floating in a boiling river… suddenly he caught himself thinking that he was still happy — even in this Solovetsian middle-of-nowhere, in bondage, surrounded by human pain, on a small island that stank of fox, not far away from a crazy woman with whom he had fallen in love — he did love her, right…? And she had lain here, just before, on this very ledge, naked… if only he could find just one drop of sweat that had fallen off her…
“Hey! Move!”
Artiom turned onto his back, then sat down, his legs hanging, from time to time rubbing off the sweat and dirt off his chest with his right hand and listening to the confident beating of his heart.
Afanasiev added water to the stones.
They hissed like Zmei Gorynich, caught on a chain and tortured by people, whom he, given his freedom, would immediately devour. The breathing of that dragon was heady, aromatic, because they had fed him with only grass and tree bark since his capture.
The back of his head was burning and Artiom leaned forward a bit, got used to it, and in a short time felt that his heart had started to beat faster, as though it were trying to beat its way out of his ribcage. The sweat poured in four new streams, and his joy became thicker and hotter.
“My soul’s been cooked like a baked potato,” Afanasiev said huskily. “With such a soul, it’ll be easier to live now…”
The evening turned out to be quite astonishing.
The chef laid out dinner in the administrator’s hut on the large table. Krapin had probably commanded it, and it was clear why — he couldn’t invite Galia to his own hut, now could he? But to send her alone to drink tea in an empty hut — that was simply inhospitable.
There was no wine on the table — it seemed that Krapin didn’t drink, and if he did, he wouldn’t have given it to anyone else. But after the sauna, everyone was in a pleasant, clean state of mind, smiling and amicable.
Artiom walked in when his friends had already gathered, and Galia sat unexpectedly happy, while the fox-chef hurried about her with pies — apple, cabbage, fish and one even with cheese — you could go mad, and then some.
“This is my house,” Artiom suddenly imagined. “And she’s my wife. I can’t be jealous of anyone and can’t feel bad about it, because when everyone will have drunk their tea and chatted to their heart’s content, she will be left with me, and all night I will breathe in her warm neck.
“… Can that really be?” he asked himself.
“… It can. And it will,” he answered himself. “Only I will never again drink whortleberry tea from the berries of Solovki.”
And he pushed against the empty mug.
He looked somehow anew at the frivolously-talking Krapin, whose eyes even sparkled and became clearer.
“… But the day before yesterday,” Krapin hoarsely laughed, then coughed, but also somehow cheerfully, continuing the conversation he had started himself. “I went with a fishing rod to catch some fish for myself to fry. With me came Fura — that’s one of the foxes,” explained Krapin, especially for Galia. “I pulled out my first. Fura’s spinning around next to me: give me some! ‘No,’ I say, ‘You’ve eaten already.’ She barked, but I keep on fishing, we’ve got nothing more to say on the subject. Hey! Another one! And Fura does her dance again. My answer is the same. She says, oh, so that’s how it’s going to be? And grabs my tobacco pouch and runs away into the bushes. I left the fishing rod and went after her. She ran about for a while, then dropped the pouch in the bushes and continued on her merry way. Good thing I saw where she dropped the pouch, found it quickly. Rolled up a cigarette, walked back. Laughing. I got back to the shore and she, can you imagine? She’d eaten all my catch! She knew in advance, while she was carrying around my pouch, that she’d come back and have her revenge! But that’s typical: she came closer just to enjoy the show of me jumping around with fury. But she picked a perfect distance, so that if I wanted to throw a rock at her, she’d have a chance to run away…! Eh?” And Krapin again looked at Galia, “Most people wouldn’t come up with such an elaborate plan!”
He told another dozen stories about foxy characters; the chef played second fiddle and inserted a well-aimed word here and there. Artiom suddenly saw in his buttery eyes the afterglow of his previous, NEP-er life in Moscow’s hot spots. The official assistant didn’t know how to talk; however, he didn’t ruin the general, pleasant picture. It was truly entertaining to listen to Krapin; Galia laughed in moderation, as though aware of her status, which even the sauna and tea hadn’t fully removed, but still, she laughed from the heart. On the other hand, Afanasiev was crying from laughter and it seemed that he was filled with the gentlest emotions towards the former policeman. He hadn’t even expected such solicitude and kindness from Krapin. But whoever sees and knows the beasts is inevitably wise also in the affairs of man.
They finished the pies, collected the dishes — Galia, of course, didn’t even touch the empty cups, neither did she allow Krapin to help her with her Chekist’s leather jacket: I’ll do it myself, thank you.
Krapin determined that Galia would sleep in Artiom’s house — where he used to sleep together with the inmate who had been bitten and now where he shared a roof with Afanasiev. The procurement officer found some clean sheets and pillow cases for their guest.
The motorboat captain slept in the sauna. Krapin was in his own hut, where, as the head of the nursery, he lived alone.
As for Artiom and Afanasiev, Krapin sent them to the third house on the island, where the chef (who was also the procurement officer) and his assistant (according to the paperwork) resided.
That house had an attic, dusty, but good enough for a single night’s sleep.
Having laughed his fill and eaten his fill of pies, Afanasiev immediately fell down and snored.
Artiom tried with all his strength not to move and kept listening to what was going on downstairs. From the attic, he could have come down into the hut itself, or he could also exit along a ladder leading to the attic window. He still wanted to wait until everyone calmed down, not having to worry about making some noise, which was inescapable. The chef, as is the custom among chefs, started snoring immediately, while the paperwork-assistant kept his lamp lit an entire hour, apparently inspired by Galia’s visit, he was writing something there, filling up tables and counting fox tails.
Finally, even he fell silent, having put out the light.
With a heaviness in his chest — as though he lay under a bag of wheat — Artiom waited some more time, trying to recite poems in his head — but he stopped halfway through, not making it after the first lines either to the executioner with his wife, nor to the devil who croaked by the swings, nor to the rabbits’ eyes, nor one teasing under the trees…1
He hoped that more than half an hour had passed, but it was more likely fifteen heavy minutes instead.
Trying not to make any noise, Artiom got up and moved to the attic window… naturally, the floor creaked so loudly that it seemed the house would fall apart any moment… Artiom froze in place and decided to take two decisive steps, he thought it would be quieter in the end — and instead he smacked his head into a beam — he almost screamed from the pain... he sat for a moment to enjoy the golden dust in his eyes… he touched his forehead, licked his hand, was sure that he had cracked open half his head and was all covered in blood… but no, his hand was dry…
He pushed open the attic window; it howled into the darkness — good thing that the rain was falling a bit, its light knocking and tapping at least covered something.
But maybe not so much…
From the window, a completely not autumnal cold began to blow.
He spit at everything: “What if I need to go relieve myself? What? Do I have to prowl?” So he confidently climbed down, almost making a racket on purpose.
While he was going down the stairs, he leaned his head back so that the drops would fall on his cracked-open forehead. The rain was almost white in color, but he felt nothing on the wound, as though the rain was evaporating as it fell.
Having stepped on the ground, he felt like an animal that had escaped its cage — freedom, and nothing else.
Without looking around, he hurried to the hut where Galia was spending the night.
She looked out the window as soon as he had barely touched it with his finger.
“She wasn’t sleeping,” it pinged his heart.
“You didn’t see Krapin?” she asked, smiling. Her voice was well audible through the glass. “He came an hour ago, asked to give his report.”
“What did you say?” asked Artiom, standing at the window, as though he were not hurrying inside.
“What do you mean what did I say? I asked if he wanted to visit Sekirka — there he could give as full a report as he’d like.”
… She was doing awful things… Asked him to touch everything, to scratch her, to brag, and she herself scratched him and knew no shame in anything, as though she had never before met a person with a different anatomy and wanted to learn it by heart forever, in the most excruciating detail…
It was the first time she was completely naked with him; he went completely mad from it.
“How can it be?” Artiom thought afterwards, without any sorrow, but only in a tremulous and grateful astonishment, “In bodily union, this woman from the beginning nestles so much closer than with any emotional connection. And she is filled with the physical so much earlier than with the emotional. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
“How could it be the other way around here?” Artiom laughed at himself. “You would have taken her arm-in-arm on walks to the sea for three months first?”
Any possibility for it to be otherwise simply didn’t exist. To know each other, they had to get completely naked.
The fox once again ran across the roof, constantly changing its place — Galia had yet to hear such noise and scrabbling.
“Who’s that?” Galia noticed the foxy footfalls a bit late; before that, she only heard what was going on inside her.
“It’s a fox, a fox.”
“Why is it on the roof?”
“It’s warm there.”
“Oh yes... Krapin warmed it up…” And she threw the blanket off herself.
She lay — quiet, like a saint. Only a bit giggly, and she didn’t want to look him in the eyes. While the saints do look, and always in the eyes.
Artiom leaned on his elbow and caressed her stomach.
My meek one. My delight.
She smiled. Her lips stuck together slightly and she finally looked at him, squinting in the darkness, as though she were nearsighted, and Artiom felt such an awful gentleness towards those eyes and those lips, such pain, such life inside him.
She knew what he was thinking.
“When you take my clothes off, it’s as though I’ve come out of the ocean, I’m purified,” said Galia. “I’m not ashamed. Right now, I’m so clean, as clean as I’ve never been.”
“Yes,” said Artiom, not meaning that he agreed, but that he was listening to her.
Then he thought and leaned towards her face, whispering into her ear, because to say this aloud would have been embarrassing: “Un-bear-a-ble… joy… though I’m inside… you…” and the rest in a quick patter, “with only a small part of me…” then was quiet, and finished, “What if it was possible to be completely inside you? With all my blood to flow through all of you, all… its heaven there!”
“… Stupid, stupid, stupid…” Galia answered, having thought a bit, as though listening in to her temperature inside. “It’s not heaven in there. It’s so hot that only I can bear it…”
Artiom laughed quietly and breathed on her a little above her chest, his mouth almost on her skin — in childhood, he used to breathe on windows like that, trying to see the street, the cabby, the posters on the corner.
“Why did you ask that time about Esenin?” he suddenly remembered that day when Galia had called him in and scared him.
“I love him,” she answered simply. “And also, Utkin, Marienhof, Lugovskii… Tikhonov.”
“Really?” Artiom asked.
“Why not?” she asked with a certain, barely evident, annoyance. “Who else should I love?”
He looked at her in surprise and joy, as though every time he took off her clothing, it was a new set every time, then, he took another layer off her already naked body, then another, third invisible cover, and every time he found her again, only even better.
Galia found her blouse and asked him to turn around.
He listened, but thought to himself, “She was just lying here without anything on and didn’t ask me to turn away, but as soon as she starts dressing, it’s ‘turn around!’ She’s funny.”
Now Galia sat in her blouse and nothing else, and it looked very good on her.
But, looking around and finding nothing nearby, she covered herself up to her waist with the blanket — evidently, she was planning on saying something that you shouldn’t say while undressed.
“I have some very good news for you,” said Galia triumphantly and with a completely unknown voice, not in her feminine, gasping, blubbering voice, but also not in her authoritative, unbearable and chilling one. It was a third one. “Your mother’s come to visit you. She asked permission to visit you, and I gave it to her.” Galia looked Artiom in the eyes.
Artiom blinked and turned away.
“And she came immediately,” Galia repeated; and, not waiting for an answer, asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Yes, good,” he said, but the lie was too obvious, all the more so because internally, with sorrow and disgust, Artiom kept repeating, “Why all this? What are you doing all this time, Galia! I didn’t ask you for the favor with Avdei Sivtsev and Zahar either… no sooner had I fallen greedily on your white titties… I’m cattle, cattle!”
“What’s wrong with you?” Galia kept asking him in a different intonation, a lot louder. “You don’t want to see your mother?” Artiom raised his eyes but didn’t say anything. “I got a boat on purpose to come and get you… to give you… joy! Your mother is waiting for you! And you don’t want to go?” As though she couldn’t at all understand what was going on, she kept asking, but instead of answering, Artiom caressed his cheek, it was bristly, rough, but hot and kissed. “What are you? A monster?” she asked with powerless anger, and even her hands — ready just a moment ago to slap him across the cheek — seemed to lose their strength.
Her questions made it sound as though he were rejecting her — Galia — not his mother. As though she had found out something about him, something that made any intimacy between them impossible — what right had he, after such behavior, to see her and breathe on her skin?
“Everything’s going to end badly again right now…” Artiom understood. “Why does everything end so badly for me every time…? As soon as I’m happy, that everything is fine, everything goes wrong.”
“I will go, I’ll go,” he said hurriedly, though he dimly understood that he didn’t have to go anywhere, someone whispered to him that he couldn’t do it, but he didn’t hear the hint and repeated a second time, “I’ll go, I’ll go, I’ll go. I was just very surprised. I’m here… and suddenly my mother.” Artiom was trying to charm Galia and he even began to believe his tongue-twister; after all, how could she expect him not to be surprised? But now he understood everything, and he was very grateful to her — not everyone got a visit, and here she made a holiday for him — what a good, good, good, Galia she is. Kind and gentle, he must do everything not to offend her.
At first, she didn’t believe him at all, then she believed him a little bit, the very smallest bit, then she gave up a little and believed a little more, later, she even let him kiss her, without pleasure, half turning away… but the next kiss landed on her lips and her lips opened, and though her mouth was tired, it was hot… Artiom threw off the annoying blanket and discovered that she was hot and ready all over — only her eyes were cold, but we’ll kiss those eyes right now, kiss them and warm them up, only the blanket… it’s completely unnecessary, even on your feet.
While he was at Galia’s, an unexpected snow fell — evidently it was falling constantly while they were scratching each other in there. It wasn’t a puffy snow, but it fell in an even, brittle layer.
It fell and went on its course towards the big island.
Everything around was new, never before seen.
“What? It’s not bad,” Artiom decided, having had his fill. “The stars above, the snow below.”
“It’s good!” he repeated, deciding to leave the thoughts of his mother for tomorrow, and hurried back to his room.
In about fifteen steps, he looked back in hope — maybe Galia was looking at him — and at that moment terror pinched his heart — his clear tracks led directly from the hut, and he stood at the end of his path like an exclamation point.
“Damn! Devil take me!” Artiom suddenly swore.
Sweeping the tracks aside with his feet, he returned back.
Behind him remained a black, unkempt line, leading still to the hut. As though Artiom flew by on a broom, jumped off near the house and walked the rest of the way on hands and knees — accept your slave, O princess! Warm him in your skirts!
