Siberian Education (7 page)

‘Not bad, Kolima. Good plan, if Lyoza agrees,' said Gagarin, looking at Lyoza to see how he would react.

Lyoza adjusted his glasses on his nose, and in a resolute voice he said:

‘Sure I agree. Only afterwards, when the fighting starts, I don't know what to do; I don't think I'll be able to hit anyone, I've never done it in my whole life . . .'

I was impressed by the dignity with which the boy told the truth about himself. He wasn't afraid at all, he was just explaining the facts, and my respect for him grew.

‘When we jump out from the trees you hide behind them; Besa will keep close to you in case anyone tries to get at you.' Gagarin made a gesture to Besa, pointing two fingers at his eyes and then at Lyoza. ‘Not one hair must fall from his head!'

We headed for the centre of the park. We kept in the dark and avoided the main avenue. We reached the trees behind which there was an asphalted space with benches arranged in a circle, under the dirty yellow light from three lamp posts. The Polygon.

There was the sound of music; we could see the kids sitting on the benches, on the ground, on their scooters. There were about fifty of them, including some girls. The atmosphere was very relaxed.

We split up into six groups and surrounded the area. At the right moment I nudged Lyoza with my shoulder:

‘Go on, little brother, let's show them nobody messes around with the boys of Low River . . .'

He nodded and set off towards the enemy camp.

As soon as Lyoza came out into the open, there was a flurry of movement among those present. Some got up from the benches and peered at him curiously, others laughed, pointing at him. One girl screamed like a mad thing, laughing and sobbing at the same time. She was obviously drunk. Her voice immediately disgusted me. She sounded like an adult alcoholic, her voice ruined by smoking, very coarse and unfeminine:

‘Look, Whisker! There's that fairy from the coach! He's returned to get his stamps!'

The girl couldn't pronounce her ‘r's properly, so her speech sounded faintly comical.

We all listened attentively, ready to spring into action as soon as we identified the guy she'd spoken to. He didn't keep us waiting long. From a nearby bench, crammed with girls, a boy who had been strumming a guitar got up and, putting down the instrument, walked towards Lyoza with a light, theatrical step, throwing his arms apart as you might to welcome an old friend.

‘Well, look who's here! You little bastard! Have you decided to commit suicide this evening? . . .' He didn't manage to say any more, because out of the darkness appeared the figure of Gigit, who leaped on him like a tiger and knocked him to the ground, giving him a rapid succession of violent kicks in the face. I too jumped out from the trees; in a second we were all on the square and surrounded our enemies.

Panic spread among them – some rushed first one way and then the other, trying to escape, but as soon as they came up against one of us they retreated. Then a group of more determined guys broke away from the rest and the fight really began.

I saw a lot of knives flash, and I too took out my pike. Gigit came close to me, and shoulder to shoulder we advanced, striking out in all directions and dodging the few attacks that came towards us.

A lot of them, seizing their chance, started running away. The girl who had screamed was so drunk she'd fallen down as she ran, and one of her friends trampled on her head – I heard her cry out and then saw the blood on her hair.

In the end we were left against about twenty of them and, as they say in our language, we ‘gave them a good combing': none of them was left standing, they were all on the ground, many had cuts on their faces or their legs, some had their knee ligaments sliced through.

Mel marked the end of the fight with a flourish. Shouting like an enraged monster and making strange contortions with his hideous face, he picked up a scooter which was resting peacefully on its stand, raised it to the level of his chest and after running five or six metres threw it on top of a group of enemies, who were lying on the ground massaging their wounds.

The scooter landed with a crash, hitting one boy on the head, and others on various parts of their bodies. The ones who had been struck started screaming with pain all together, in chorus. For some reason Mel got even more angry because of those screams, and started hitting them with inexplicable violence. Finally he climbed on the scooter and cruelly jumped up and down on it (and on them). Those poor devils screamed desperately and begged him to stop.

‘Hey, arseholes! We're from Low River! You beat up our brother, and you haven't finished paying for it yet!' Gagarin communicated his solemn message to all those who were lying on the ground. ‘We've just taken personal satisfaction, by beating you up and cutting you. But you still have to satisfy the criminal law, which you've shamefully violated! By next week five of you pansy bastards will report to our district with five thousand dollars, to be paid to our community for the trouble you've caused. If you don't do it, we'll repeat this massacre every week, until we've killed all of you, one by one, like mangy dogs! Goodbye and good night!'

We felt like unbeatable champions; we were so pleased with how things had gone that we set off for home singing our Siberian songs at the tops of our voices.

We crossed the park, breathing in the night air, and it seemed to us as if there would never be a happier moment than this in our whole lives.

When we came out of the park we found a dozen police cars in front of us: the cops were lined up behind the cars, with their guns trained on us. A searchlight flicked on, blinding us all, and a voice shouted:

‘Weapons out of your pockets! If anyone tries anything stupid we'll fill him full of holes! Don't be fools, you're not at home now!'

We obeyed and all threw our weapons on the ground. In a few seconds a heap of knives, knuckledusters and pistols had formed.

They put us into the cars, hitting us with the butts of their rifles, and drove us all to the police station. I thought of my pike, that beloved knife that was so important to me, and which I would certainly never see again. That was the only thing I could think about. The idea that I might go to prison, because of my situation, didn't even cross my mind.

They kept us in the police station for two days. They beat us up and kept us in a cramped room without food or water. Now and then someone would be taken out of the room and brought back bruised and battered.

None of us gave our real names; the home addresses were false too. The only thing we didn't lie about was the fact that we belonged to the Siberian community. Under our law juveniles can communicate with the police – we exploited this possibility to trick them, and make their job more difficult.

Mel wouldn't calm down and tried to attack the police, who hit him very hard, striking him on the head with their pistol butts, giving him a nasty wound.

Finally they set us all free, saying that next time they would kill us. Hungry, exhausted and battered we set off for home.

Only then, as I dragged myself like a dying man through the streets of my district, did I suddenly realize that I'd been very lucky. If the police had identified me I would have had to spend at least five years on the wooden bunks of some juvenile prison.

It was a miracle, I said to myself, a real miracle, to be free after an experience like that. And yet I kept thinking about my pike: as if a black hole had formed inside me, like a member of my family had died.

I approached home staring at the tips of my shoes, eyes on the ground – under the ground if it had been possible, because I was ashamed; I felt as if the whole world was judging me because I hadn't been able to keep my pike.

When I arrived, I was like a ghost, transparent and lifeless. My Uncle Vitaly came out onto the veranda and said, smiling:

‘Hey! Have they reopened Auschwitz? How come nobody told me about it?'

‘Leave me alone, Uncle, I'm aching all over . . . I just want to sleep . . .'

‘Well, young man, unfortunately it's not possible to give punches without taking them . . . It's the rule of life . . .'

For two days I did nothing but sleep and, occasionally, eat. I was covered with bruises, and every time I turned over on my side in bed I gritted my teeth. Now and then my father or my uncle would look in at the door of my bedroom and make fun of me:

‘Really makes you feel good, doesn't it, a sound beating? Will you never learn?' I didn't reply, I just sighed heavily, and they laughed.

On the third day the desire to return to normal life made me get up early. It was about six o'clock and everyone was still asleep, except Grandfather Boris, who was preparing to do his exercises. I felt a discomfort, a feeling very different from pain, but one which stiffens your body, so that every movement you make comes with effort; you're slow, like an old man who's afraid of losing his balance.

I washed, and examined my face in the bathroom mirror. The bruise wasn't as bad as I had expected, in fact it was barely visible. On my right hand, however, there were two very obvious black bruises, one unmistakably in the shape of a boot heel. While they were beating me up one cop must have crushed my hand: they often did this as a preventative measure, to give you irregular fractures which usually healed badly, so you would never be able to close your fist tightly or hold a weapon. Luckily they were only bruises – I had no fractures or torn ligaments. I had another big bruise between my legs, just below my male pride – it looked as though something black was stuck to my body, it looked very nasty, and above all it hurt when I emptied my bladder.

‘Well, it could have been worse . . .' I concluded, and went to have breakfast. The warm milk with honey and a fresh egg put me back in the world.

I decided to go and check my boat on the river and mess about with the nets, and maybe go round the district to ask how my friends were doing.

Coming out of the house, I found my grandfather doing his exercises in the yard. Grandfather Boris was a rock – he didn't smoke and had no other vices, he was a total health fanatic. He did wrestling, judo and sambo, and transmitted these passions to all the rest of the family. When he was exercising he usually didn't stop for a second; so we only greeted each other with a look. I gestured to him, indicating that I was going out. He smiled at me and that was all.

I went down the street that led to the river. As I passed I saw on the corner, near Mel's front door, his massive figure. He was naked, except for his underpants, and was talking to a boy from our district, a friend of ours nicknamed ‘the Polack'. He was showing him all his bruises and telling him what had happened, making a lot of gestures and punching imaginary enemies in the empty air.

I approached. He had a sewn-up wound on his head, a dozen stitches. His horrible face was lit up by a smile and eighty per cent of his body was various shades of blue, green and black. But despite his physical condition he was in a very good mood. The first thing he said to me was:

‘Holy Christ, your poor mother! Look what a state you're in!'

I couldn't help laughing. Nor could the Polack: he bent double with laughter, tears were coming out of his eyes.

‘You clown! Have you seen yourself in the mirror? And you say I'm in a bad way! Go and get dressed, come on, let's go down to the river . . .' I gave him a gentle shove with my shoulder and he let out a yell.

‘Can't you be a bit more gentle with me? I took enough blows for all of you the other evening!' he said with vanity.

He hurried off to get dressed and we started towards the river. While we were walking he told me about the others: they were all okay – a little the worse for wear, but okay. The very next day after the fight Gagarin had gone to Caucasus, a district of our town, to settle a score with one of the locals. Lyoza and Besa, who had miraculously succeeded in hiding in the park and hadn't been caught by the police, were in the best state of all: they didn't have a scratch.

When I reached my boat I suggested to Mel that we go for a trip up the river. There was a cool wind – a pleasant morning breeze – the sun was rising and everything was bright and peaceful.

Mel jumped into the boat and lay down in the bow on his back, looking up at the cloudless sky – it was a yes.

I took one oar and with it pushed the boat away from the bank, then I rowed slowly, standing up: I had the wind on my face, it was wonderful and relaxing. Ten metres from the bank I felt the current of the river grow stronger and stronger, so I switched on the motor and, gradually increasing speed, I set off upstream towards the old bridge. I put on the jacket that I always kept in the boat. Mel was still lying down in the bow. He was hardly moving: his eyes were closed, and his foot was just faintly rocking to and fro.

When we reached the bridge I made a wide curve and turned back with the motor switched off, letting the current carry the boat, rowing only occasionally to correct the direction. As the boat floated slowly downstream, now and again we jumped into the river and swam around. In the water I felt protected, I let myself be carried by the current, holding onto the boat or keeping slightly away from it. It was the best medicine in the world, the water of the river; I could have stayed in it all day long.

When we touched the bank, Mel jumped down from the boat and said he wanted to go and see an old aunt of his who lived not far away and always complained that nobody went to visit her. I decided to go and see Grandfather Kuzya, to tell him about everything that had happened to us.

In the community of the Siberian Urkas the greatest importance is attached to the relationship between children and old people. As a result there are many customs and traditions which make it possible for elderly criminals with great experience to participate in the education of children, even if they have no blood relationship with them. Each adult criminal asks an old man, usually one who has no family and lives on his own, to help him in the education of his children. He often sends his children to him, to take him food or give him a hand about the house; in exchange the old man tells the children the stories of his life and teaches them the criminal tradition, the principles and rules of behaviour, the codes of the tattoos and everything that is in any way connected with criminal activity. This kind of relationship is called in the Siberian language ‘carving'.