Authors: Mikhail Elizarov
Gorn flung the papers that Klava had given her onto the table.
“Come on in and make yourself at home,” she said, pointing to the sofa. “Being secretive is an intellectual effort⦠When the personality deteriorates⦠control is lost. It's like wine⦠it loosens the tongue⦠And drunk or gaga⦠fundamentally it's all the same. We needed our colleagues suddenly to become more stupid⦠How could we do it? Why, elementary. Under some pretext or other⦠deprive them of the Book of Strength⦠After a week the lack of constant input⦠already affects the brain⦠It all happens confidentially⦠A stenographer is attached to the suspect, and she documents every word⦠Naturally, there were some innocent victims. To make an omelette, you've got to break some eggs⦠A few veterans pegged out. A stroke, or kidney failure, or a heart attack⦠But the important thing, Alexei, was that we caught the ârat'. Or rather, she gave herself away. And you know who it was? Valka Rudenko, your Selivanova's mother. A long time agoâfive
years nowâshe hid⦠a couple of extremely valuable Books. Valka didn't live with usâshe said her health was good enough⦠That's the way we do things here⦠Those who can live independently, without the Book of Strength, live outside in the district. I can see now that Valka wanted to⦠stay in the shadows⦠But two months ago she moved into the Home⦠With a diagnosis of âcerebral atherosclerosis'. She wanted to use the Book as treatment⦠Valka was above suspicion⦠No one was checking her especially⦠But since the opportunity arose⦔ Gorn laughed. “Thank God, all the stenographic reports⦠came straight to my desk. Absolutely appalling facts surfaced. Valka had a Book of Meaning, and she gave it it to someone⦠Who exactly, we couldn't find out⦠Valka was completely off her trolley⦠She couldn't string two words together⦠I didn't report everything to Liza⦠Why upset her?⦠Liza was absolutely raging anyway⦠Bearing in mind her previous services⦠Valka was banned from the readings⦠Let her die on her own⦠Then Ritka Selivanova showed up⦠with a Book of Meaning⦠And that set the cat among the pigeons⦠The insert was missing⦠Ritka was killed⦠At least we found out⦠that the Book of Meaning had been sent to you⦠I won't try to hide my curiosity, Alyoshka⦠I was intrigued why Valka sent the Book to you⦠What is it that makes you so special? And you had the insert too⦠Our agents got busy⦠They found your village⦠Organized people for the attack⦠And that's the whole story⦠It's a month now since Lizka died⦠Valka paints the walls⦠with her own shit⦠It's horrible⦠But on the other hand⦠she would have resented what happened to Ritka. And taken revenge⦠But when's she's crazy⦠she can't even remember⦠her own name⦠Later, if you like, you can pay her a visit⦔ Gorn looked through the sheets of paper as she spoke. “No sedition⦠As pure as turtle doves⦔
“What are those?”
“Stenographic reports⦔
“But who have you recorded? Rudenko again?”
“No⦠the other lovely ladies⦔
“The ones you abandoned to their fate?”
“Don't be sarcastic,” said Gorn, suddenly angry. “I had no choice⦔ She hastily stacked the sheets into a pile and got up from the desk. “I had to go away⦠They'll only turn senile⦠I'll die without the Book⦔ Gorn opened the upper chamber of the safe and hid the papers away. The phone trilled. Gorn answered it and replied curtly: “We're starting in fifteen minutes⦠Damn⦠That interrupted my train of thought⦠I forgot what I wanted to tell you⦔
“Polina Vasilyevna, may I phone home?”
“Where?” Gorn asked in amazement.
“You know, home. To my family. My parents or my sister. They haven't heard a word from me for a month now⦠They'll be worried⦔
A wooden mask of cruelty suddenly seemed to cover Gorn's face.
“Your mother⦠Yelizaveta Makarovna Mokhova⦠is dead,” the old woman said with pitiless, slow emphasis. “And the librarian Vyazintsev is dead⦠There is only Alexei Mokhov⦠He doesn't have a sister⦠And if Mokhov thinks that he is still⦠a little bit Vyazintsev⦠Alexei Mokhov will be dead too⦠Any more questions?”
“Yes⦔ I said in a depressed voice. Gorn's crude rebuke had reminded me yet again what a dangerous escapade I had got involved in. “When's the initiation?”
“I think it will be the seventh of November. We'll combine two celebrations⦠In the meantime, you'll get used to things, settle in⦔ Gorn looked at the clock. “I'll be back⦠in about four hours⦠Lock yourself in securely⦠Don't open the door to anyone. How can I keep you amused? By the way, have you ever seen the one-hander?”
“Who?”
“Well, Gromov.”
“Why the one-hander?”
“What, you mean you didn't know? For crying out loud! Ritka didn't tell you? No? That's strange⦠Gromov lost his right handâ¦
at the front. He wrote with his left hand⦠We've got⦠his photograph. Shall I show you it? In
By Labour's Roads
there's only a pencil portrait. Ah, yes⦠You've only⦠read two Books⦔
Gorn walked over to some shelves crammed full with many years of archive material. The lacquered spines of notebooks, folders and thick journals protruded from them.
“I think it's here⦔ Gorn pulled apart the plastic covers that had glued themselves together and dragged out a thick envelope. “Who have we got here?⦠E-e-er⦠Hello there!⦔ She turned round. “Have you seen Lagudov? No?” She handed me a dogeared, faded photo that was once coloured, with a long white crack across its glossy surface. The snapshot showed a small group of people huddled together in friendly style, like a set of pan pipes.
“Lagudov and his inner circle?” I asked at random.
“No. This is 1981. A birthday at the publishing house⦔
“Where did you get this from?”
“A company secret⦔ Gorn said with a smile and a wave of her hand. “There isn't any secret⦠Just normal intelligence work⦠We cadged it from Lagudov's wife⦠We gleaned⦠a lot of useful things from her.⦔
“And which one here is Lagudov?”
“The third from the right⦠There's a woman in a blue dress⦠with ruffles⦠and he's perched beside her⦠A real opera-singer type⦔
Lagudov turned out to be a portly, well-fed gentleman with a dense thatch of greying hair. His dramatic appearance was spoiled by flabby cheeks and a chin the size of a small dumpling.
“And this is Gromov,” said Gorn. “In this snapshot⦠he's already almost seventy⦠We appropriated it from his daughter. At first we wanted to initiate her into the cause⦠but then we changed our minds⦠Lizka was afraid of the competition⦔
Staring out at me from the black-and-white photo was a distinctive old man with a thin face, who looked more like a physicist than a lyric writer, wearing glasses. His forehead was bony, as if
it were faceted, and emphasized by a receding hairline on both sides. The horn-rimmed spectacles had slipped down his nose and the slim legs had lifted up above his ears, so that Gromov seemed to be looking through the lenses and over the top of them at the same timeâwith two glances. This produced a strange impression.
“A good portrait,” I said, giving the photo back to Gorn.
“I like it too⦠The one on his grave⦠is the same.”
“Where is he buried?”
“In the town of Gorlovka⦠in the municipal cemetery⦠Right, now, Alyoshka⦠Recognize this?”
The next photograph was of me. Slightly out of focus, because I had been caught in movementâmy waving hand looked like ethereal pigeon fluff. Kruchina and Sukharev had also been caught in the frame, but they were completely blurred and cloudy, like ghosts.
“Our photocorps's work,” Gorn explained. “Taken back in June⦠For the archive⦠Who would ever have thought it?⦔ She shook her head. “The new Shironin librarian⦠A pawn⦠A nothing⦠A tiny little screw⦔ Gorn held up her hand with the tips of her fingers bunched together, as if she was straining to make out something microscopic. “And the Book of Meaning⦠Even now⦠I can hardly believe it⦠All right then,” she said with a start, “I'll go⦠You remember, right? Lock yourself in⦠Don't put a foot out in the corridor⦠Don't get bored⦠Take a rest⦠Watch the television⦠Only quietly⦠Don't attract attention⦔
The moment the door closed behind Gorn I turned the key twice, but I still didn't feel any calmer. On the contrary, I now found myself face to face with a feeling of dangerous uncertainty, as acrid as heartburn. Pounding away in my head was the thought that I had to use this pause I had been given to analyse things. I strode round the office witlessly, repeating to myself, like an incantation: “I have to think everything through carefully.” But there wasn't anything to think through. That is, I had plenty of thoughts, but they didn't require analysis. Everything was absolutely clear as it
was: I didn't have the slightest degree of control over the situation and by acting independently I could only make my position worse.
I suddenly realized that I had been wanting to go to the toilet for ages, and now it was too late; Gorn had gone. I didn't torment myself, but simply took a leak into the palm tree's pot. Then I sat down at the desk. For a few minutes I was tempted by the phone, but after a moment's thought I decided not to violate Gorn's prohibitions. Maybe the line was monitored, and I didn't want to get on the wrong side of Gorn.
I spotted a print-out that Gorn had forgotten on the desk:
NATALIA ALEXANDROVNA SUPRUN. BORN 1915. SEVENTEEN-DAY CASE HISTORY.
Week 1
. S is anxious about the lack of readings. Irritable. Spends most of her time in bed, tries not to move or speak. Believes that in this way she reduces the use of her body's energy to the minimum and so prolongs her life.
Start of week 2
. SundayâThursday. Emotionally heightened mood. Agitated. Gluttonous. Immediately after eating, she forgets about it and demands a new portion of food. Obsessed by the idea that the woman next to her in the ward, T.A. Kashmanova, is wearing her slippers. Becomes abusive and aggressive. Takes the slippers and reads out to Kashmanova the supposedly special inscription on the sole: “This is Suprun's slipper. Kashmanova is strictly forbidden to wear it.”
End of week 2.
FridayâMonday. Has lost the ability to keep herself clean and tidy. Finds it hard to get her bearings in the ward. Fussy and rude. Often becomes quarrelsome. Walks with a short, mincing stride, grabs everything that comes within reach, grates her teeth and laughs unnaturally. Happily sits by the television and makes conversation with
the presenters. Her sense of taste is distorted. She picks up rubbish and earth outside and puts it in her mouth. Forgets the names of things. Instead of “alarm clock”, she says “temporal”, instead of “pencil she says “written”, instead of “glass” she says “drinkable”.
Start of week 3.
Does not understand what people say to her. Her facial expression is frozen. Active. Broad, sweeping movements. Afraid to change her clothes, starts shouting and protesting. Keeps asking the same question all the time: “How much?”âthen runs away without waiting for an answer. Wanders aimlessly around the corridors. Fingers the folds of her dress one by one. Takes matches out of a matchbox and puts them on the floor, then puts them back again. Sings the same set of words over and over to a definite melody and rhythm.
My attention was caught by the clamour of a vast nesting ground of birds of prey coming from the yard. I walked across to the window and my eyes were dazzled by a welter of orange waistcoats and padded work jackets. There were so many of them, perhaps a hundred and fifty or two hundred clamouring women. A truck slowly crept into the yard, pulling a compressor behind it. Another truck disgorged more female workers from its canvas belly. In only half an hour the almost extinct home was engorged with fresh strength.
Of course, I didn't switch on the television. It seemed to me that someone was walking to and fro outside the doorâI pressed my ear to it and heard the linoleum squeaking as regularly as a pendulum. The invisible steps affected my nerves, and I tried to make as little noise as possible.
The marble slab was piled high with post. Some envelopes had already been opened, and until it got dark I passed the time reading this correspondenceâmostly boring reports on the housekeeping.
*
Gorn appeared four hours later, as she had promised. She was not alone. Masha's jowly face peeped in round the door. Probably the orderly had been watching me in Gorn's absence.
“How did everything go, Polina Vasilyevna?” I asked cheerfully. “Well?”
“
Alles gut
⦔ Gorn said with a nod. “Although one reading is not enough. The girls have more strength⦠More than enough, in fact⦠But they don't have much more wits⦠They'll be their old selves again in a couple of day⦠You'll meet them then⦔ Gorn studied the desk and turned towards me. “The curious cat⦔âthe old woman's voice trembled with reproach; starting with a gentle tone, it suddenly slid down to a harsh crackle, like someone stepping on spilled sugarâ“⦠ended up dead.”
I took offence.
“I haven't touched anything, Polina Vasilyevna. Check for yourself⦔
“Too much knowledge⦠can be dangerous, Alyoshka⦠But then, who are you here? That's right⦠The grandson⦠The future heir⦠Of the biggest clan of all⦠We'll educate you⦔ She went over to the shelves and tugged on a wide cloth spine with her nail. “Thereâyou can browse through it at your leisure. Lots of useful things⦔
“What is it?” I asked, taking the loosely assembled volume out of Gorn's hands.
“The Chronicle of the Home. And not only that⦠A little bit about everyone⦔
I opened the cardboard cover with red corners. The close-set text had been typed on tracing paper. Blurred by carbon paper, the print was as fluffy as wool thread.