“Some name you’ve got,” a zek named Leibovich said to him. “You ought to call yourself King. Or Bonaparte.”
At that point, a well-read “doll-maker” named Adam joined in. “Just what do you think a bonaparte is? Some kind of title?”
“Kind of,” Leibovich agreed amicably. “Like a prince.”
“It’s easy to say, bonaparte,” Mishchuk protested. “But what if I don’t look like one?”
A hundred metres from the camp was a wasteland. Chickens wandered among the daisies, broken glass and muck. A brigade on sanitation duty had been led out there to dig a trench.
Early in the morning, the sun appeared from behind the barracks, just like Guard Chekin. It moved along the sky, touching the treetops and sawmill chimneys. The air smelt of rubber and warmed grass.
Each morning, prisoners pounded the dry ground. Then they went to have a smoke. They smoked and chatted, sitting under a shade. Adam, the doll-maker, told the story of his first conviction.
His stories had something of the quality of this wasteland. Maybe it was the smell of dusty grass, or the crunch of broken glass underfoot. Or maybe it was the muttering of the chickens, or the monotony of the daisies – the dry field of a fruitless life.
“And what do you suppose the prosecutor does then?” Adam said.
“The prosecutor then makes conclusions,” Leibovich answered.
The guards napped by the fence. And this is how it was every day.
But one day a helicopter appeared. It looked like a dragonfly. It was flying in the direction of the airport.
“A turboprop Mi-6,” Boob observed, standing up. “He-ey,” he yelled lazily. Then crossed his arms over his head. Then stretched them out as if they were wings. Then crouched down. And finally repeated all this over and over again.
“Oh-h-h…” Boob shouted.
And that was when the miracle occurred. It was acknowledged by everyone. Everyone including Chaly the pickpocket, Murashka, who came from an old line of “jumpers”, Leibovich, the embezzler of government property, Adam the doll-maker, and even the black-marketeer Beluga. And they were hard people to surprise.
The helicopter hovered and then began to descend.
“Incredible,” Adam was the first to confirm.
“May I live so long!” Leibovich said.
“I’d give a tooth,” Chaly swore.
“Seance,” Murashka said.
“Phenomenal,” Beluga said, and then, in English, “It’s wonderful!”
“Not supposed to be happening,” said Corporal Dzavashvili, the guard, getting nervous.
“He’s weathervaning the propeller!” Mishchuk bawled at the top of his lungs. “He’s slowing the rotations! Oh f-f-f—”
The chickens ran to all sides. The daisies bent down to the ground. The helicopter gave a little jump and then stopped. The cabin door opened, and down the gangplank ladder came Marconi. This was Dima Marconi, a self-assured and brawny fellow, philosopher, wit and man of obscure origins. Mishchuk rushed at him.
“You’re too scrawny!” Marconi said.
Then for an hour they pretended to slug each other.
“And how’s Vadya doing?” Mishchuk asked. “How’s Zhora?”
“Vadya’s hitting the bottle. Zhora’s training to fly passenger Tupolevs. He’s sick of layovers in the sticks.”
“Well, and you, old dog?”
“I got married,” Marconi said in a tragic tone, and hung his head.
“Do I know her?”
“No. I hardly know her myself. You’re not missing much.”
“Hey, do you remember that flight of woodcock over Lake Ladoga?”
“Of course I remember. And do you remember that outdoor party at Sozva when I sank the ship’s rifle?”
“Are we going to get juiced when I get back? In one year, five months and sixteen days?”
“Oh and how! It’ll be great! It’ll be greater than Goethe’s Faust.”
“I’ll go to Pokryshev himself, I’ll get down on my knees before him…”
“I’ll drop in on Pokryshev, don’t worry. You’ll fly again. But first you’ll work for a while as a mechanic.”
“Naturally,” Mishchuk agreed. He was silent for a moment, then added, “I should have known better than to pinch that silk.”
“There are different opinions on that subject,” Marconi said tactfully.
“What do I care?” Corporal Dzavashvili said. “Regulations make no provisions—”
“Right,” Marconi said. “I know Caucasian hospitality when I see it. Shall I leave money?”
“Having money is not allowed,” Mishchuk said.
“Right,” Marconi said. “Looks like you’ve already achieved true Communism. In that case, take my scarf, watch and lighter.”
“Merci,” said the former pilot.
“Should I leave my shoes? I have a reserve pair on board.”
“Forbidden,” Mishchuk said. “We have to wear standard issue.”
“So do we,” Marconi said. “Right. Well, I’ve got to be going.” He turned to Dzavashvili. “Take three roubles, Corporal. To each according to his abilities.”*
“Forbidden,” the escort guard said. “We’re on an allowance.”
“Goodbye.” Marconi put out his hand to him. And then climbed up the gangway.
Mishchuk smiled. “We’ll fly again,” he yelled. “We’ll pull a corkscrew out of some bottles yet. We’ll spit on hats from up there yet!”
“For real,” Murashka said.
“I’d give a tooth,” Chaly repeated.
“The heavy shackles will fall!” Beluga shouted.
“Life continues, even when in essence it doesn’t exist,” Adam observed philosophically.
“You may laugh at this,” Leibovich said shyly, “but I’ll say it anyway. It seems to me that not everything is lost yet.”
The helicopter rose above the ground. Its shadow became more and more transparent. And we watched it go until it disappeared behind the barracks.
Mishchuk was released after three years, having served the full term. By that time, Pokryshev had died. The newspapers wrote about his death. Mishchuk was not permitted to work in an airport. His conviction prevented it.
He worked as a mechanic at the Science Research Institute, married, and forgot prison slang. Played the mandolin, drank, grew old, and rarely thought about the future.
And Dima Marconi crashed over Uglegorsk. Among the fragments of his plane they found a forty-pound canister of Beluga caviar.
February 23, 1982. New York
Dear I.M.,
Thank you for your letter of the 18th. I’m glad that you seem well disposed towards my notes. I’ve prepared a few more pages here. Write and tell me your impressions.
To answer your questions:
A “doll-maker” is camp slang for a con man. A “doll” is a swindle of some kind.
A “jumper” means a burglar. A “jump” is a burglary. Well, it seems that’s it. Last time I stopped at the horrors of camp life. What happens around us is not important. What’s important is how we experience ourselves in the face of it. In so far as any of us really are what we sense ourselves to be.
I felt better than could have been expected. I began to have a divided personality. Life was transformed into literary material.
I remember very well how this happened. My consciousness emerged from its habitual cover. I began to think of myself in the third person.
When I was beaten up near the Ropcha sawmill, my consciousness functioned almost imperturbably: “A man is being struck by boots. He shields his face and stomach. He is passive and tries not to arouse the mob’s savagery… But what revolting faces! You can see the lead fillings in that Tartar’s mouth.”
Awful things happened around me. People reverted to an animal state. We lost our human aspect – being hungry, humiliated, tortured by fear.
My physical constitution became weak. But my consciousness remained undisturbed. This was evidently a defence mechanism. Otherwise I would have died of fright.