There wasn’t the slightest irritation in Chistov’s tone.
Platosha signed the paper and Chistov put it away in the binder. He stuck the pen back in his pocket.
‘You know, I understand your emotions,’ he said in just as even a tone, ‘but I want you to understand me. The law is the law. Everything must take place without any incidents. Do you promise?’
‘I promise,’ answered Platosha, somehow very seriously.
And he repeated:
‘I promise.’
The three of them went up to the apartment and I stayed downstairs, by the elevator. Maybe, it occurred to me, our SS officer will kick the bucket at the sight of Platosha? That sort of incident seemed allowable to me.
The meeting with Voronin. It was strange.
I’d foreseen various scenarios, but not this one.
I thought there would be mutual damning. Or reconciliation. But there was neither one nor the other here.
Voronin was sitting in an armchair when we entered. He was holding a cup with both hands. Warm sweater, trousers, slippers. Skull taut with skin, fluff at the sides.
I suspect he thought to have the cup so his hands would be full. In order to have the opportunity not to be the first to offer a hand – he was afraid nobody would respond. I, for example, didn’t plan to offer him a hand under any circumstances.
But maybe he wasn’t afraid. Maybe I’m attributing too much subtlety to his feelings.
There was someone else with us, wearing civilian clothes; Voronin invited him. After we entered, he half-sat on the windowsill and it was as if he was no longer there. The ideal escort. He was, thus, by the window, and Innokenty and I were at the threshold.
‘I know that you were resurrected,’ murmurs Voronin. ‘I wanted to have a look at you.’
His voice is already almost gone, but his will remains. It’s the last thing that will leave him.
He wanted to have a look at zek Platonov: there he is, delivered. Under surveillance, by the way. Delivered and remaining silent.
‘So, have I changed?’ Voronin asks Innokenty.
‘Yes.’
‘You, however, have not.’
A woman enters the room and takes the cup from Voronin’s hands. She remains, to stand, rocking from heel to toe. Squeaking the parquet.
A fly buzzes by the window pane.
‘Catch it, would you, Chistov?’ Voronin suggests in a whisper.
Chistov slowly slides his hand along the glass and catches the fly with a brief, precise motion. He explains to us:
‘The fly doesn’t see when you extend your hand behind it.’
He removes the fly from the room. The woman addresses Voronin:
‘Do you need anything else, Dmitry Valentinovich?’
Without answering her, Voronin looks at Innokenty point-blank:
‘Don’t expect repentance.’
The woman sighs and gazes into the cup.
‘Why?’ asks Innokenty.
After closing his eyes, Voronin quietly but distinctly utters:
‘I’m tired.’
He’s tired. Chistov, who returned, points to his watch.
We leave.
Life is constructed so very astonishingly. Voronin turns out to be the only person who has remained to bear witness to my time. I searched for the dead so they could bear witness, if not through words then at least through their presence, but then someone who is alive turned up. Now he is not so much a criminal as a witness. I feel that and he feels that. And there is no hatred between us. Something akin to – yes, yes – solidarity is appearing. Just as you find a common language even with a savage on an uninhabited island. In a sense, Voronin and I are now on an island, the two of us. There are just the two of us from our time. It’s another matter that his witnessing differs little from that of the dead. Voronin’s appearance is somehow posthumous, too.
He said: don’t expect repentance. I ask myself yet again: why? Why was he left alive until the age of a hundred if not for repentance? He is a great criminal and it is possible the Almighty delayed his departure, giving him an opportunity to change his mind. Voronin said he’s tired. Everybody decided that was a signal to end the meeting. I think, though, that he was speaking about his condition, when there is no longer either rage or penitence. The soul submerges into slumber.
Tea on an open veranda in autumn. Smoldering coals fanned by a boot. A boot as soft as an accordion. And clean: otherwise how would you fan coals with that at the table? Really, they could be fanned in some other place, but the people sitting at the table want to see everything from the very start. The samovar is large and the water in it is slowly coming to a boil. Everybody’s waiting for the first little wisps of steam to appear: steam is still only floating from the mouths of the people sitting there. It’s very noticeable in the rays of a weakened sun that warms no one. The air is harsh, with smells of pine and the river. A dog barks on the other side of the fence; its chain hits audibly against the doghouse. Supposedly it could relax and not bark much if chained up, but no, that’s not happening. It’s agitated. Participating in public life.
Everyone, no matter who, is dressed warmly; some are wearing scarves. Hands reach toward the samovar: it’s already capable of warming. The discussion is endless ‘Titanic’ and ‘Ferdinand’ and it moves in waves, now quieter, now louder. The conversation turns into muttering (everyone has withered a little) that prefaces the samovar’s churning. That’s it, it’s boiled. The teapot for the tea concentrate appears right away and catches the first stream from the samovar, still gurgling. A time-out for it to steep. One cup follows another. They sit and drink tea; one could say they’re reveling in it.
The event is dated 1914. Or 1911, for example. Platosha insistently asks that all descriptions be dated. Why? I ask. That way, he says, it shows that fundamental events (like the tea-drinking on the veranda) are capable of defining completely different times, meaning they’re universal. According to him, that line of reasoning in favor of precise dating is equally applicable against precise dating, too. It works out, I realized, that the line of reasoning is universal, too.
Let’s say it’s 1907.
A child has a cold and a severe cough.
They read Robinson Crusoe to him.
The cough is so deep that the reading alone isn’t enough for recovery. The doctor recommended cupping.
They do this as a family. His grandmother reads, his mother and father set out the jars on the nightstand and prepare the wick.
They grease the child’s back with petroleum jelly, using light round motions.
His father will place the jars. He takes the most crucial tasks upon himself.
The patient is seven and he is afraid. This is the first time they have cupped him.
It becomes genuinely scary when they light the wick, wetted with alcohol. That might have suggested thoughts of the inquisition, if the patient had known about that.
An open flame is always scary.
The boy is lying on his stomach and grasping a pillow with his arms. He’s burying his face in it. A moment later, he senses the first jar on his back.
It’s not as painful as he had imagined. Maybe it’s not at all painful.
Carefully, he lifts his head. Watches his father’s hands.
His father moves the wick inside the jar a bit, removes it, and lowers the jar on the boy’s back. Of course it’s a little hot.
He can feel the jars pulling his skin into them. His father winks at him. His mother uses a blanket to cover his back, with the jars on it.
His grandmother continues reading Robinson Crusoe. The book is curative in combination with the jars.
A new rush of fear before the jars are removed. The boy seems to think they sank themselves into his back for good. They remind him of mean little fishes. Maybe piranhas.