The Bastard
Spirka Rastorguev was thirty-six but looked about twenty-five, not more.
He was startlingly handsome; on Saturdays he would go to the baths for a good steaming, rip off the week's driving dirt, put on a clean shirt, drink a glass of vodka-arid he was a young god! Clear, intelligent eyes, womanish lips blossoming scarlet on the brown face. Close-knit brows sweeping up capriciously, like a pair of raven's wings. But why, in the devil's name!.. Nature plays these tricks sometimes. What did he need it all for? He himself liked to say he was "easy" about it. He was "easy" about everything. Thirty-six years of age and no family, no proper home. He liked doing his own thing-getting his tongue round the wildest oaths he could think of and keeping lonely women company at nights. He went to them all, without choosing. That was another thing he was "easy" about. The older and uglier they were, the better he liked them just to be bloody-minded.
"Spirka, you fool, don't spite your own face! What a one to pick on-lumpy Lizka, the face-grater! Haven't you got any pride!"
"It's not the face that counts," Spirka opined reasonably. "She may be a grater but she's a lot kinder than any of you."
Spirka's life had gone askew early. Things started happening to him when he was still only in his fifth year at school. The teacher of German, a quiet, touchy old woman, a wartime evacuee, was bowled over by his looks.
"A little Byron! What an astonishing resemblance!"
Spirka hated the old lady ever after.
As soon as they started a session of Anna und Marta baden, he began to feel depressed. Off she would go again, "No, it really is astonishing!.. A perfect little Byron!" It got on his nerves. One day the old girl started off as usual, "Quite extraordinary, no one would believe it, a perfect little By..." But she got no further.
"By all the..." And Spirka let fly with a string of oaths that a drunken cobbler would have been ashamed to utter.
The old lady's eyes jumped onto her forehead. Later she said, "No, I wasn't shocked. I had been a nurse in 1914. So I have seen and heard plenty in my time. But what astonished me was-how could that one have got to know such words? And such a beautiful face! A perfect little Byron!"
"Byron" got a merciless beating from his mother. He stayed in bed till he felt better, then set out for the fighting front. He got as far as Novossibirsk before he was sent home. His mother gave him another ruthless beating, then spent the night wailing over her son. She had had Spirka by a dashing fellow of no fixed address, so she both loved and hated the young devil in the son. Spirka was a chip off the old block, even in character, though the boy had never set eyes on his father.
He would not go back to school, despite all his mother's cajolings and beatings. When he threatened to jump off the roof on to a pitchfork, his mother had to retreat. And Spirka went to work on a collective farm.
He grew up into a brash, cheeky lad, disobedient and unruly, always getting into fights. In the end his mother couldn't take any more and just gave up.
"Just you wait, they'll stick you behind bars yet!"
And they did. After the war. He and a mate of his, as far gone as himself, held up a shop delivery waggon from the neighbouring village and took a crate of vodka off the driver, and even gave him-a grown man-something to remember them by. Then they threw a wild party at Spirka's girl-friend's place and that was where the police caught them. Spirka managed to grab a gun and ran to the bathhouse, where he held out for nearly two days, shooting at anyone who came near. They even sent in his girl-friend Verka ("Chatty Verka") to persuade him to give himself up. But that Verka took him a bottle of vodka and some more cartridges under her skirt. She was in there with him for a long time and when she finally appeared, announced proudly, "He won't come out!"
Spirka kept up his fusillade from the bath-house window, accompanying it with a song about the cruiser Varangian:
Our proud Varangian will never surrender.
And no one for mercy will plead.
"Spirka, every shot you fire means another year!"
"Mind you keep count then!" Spirka shouted back and blazed away from the window. When he sobered up, he began to feel desperately sleepy, so he threw the gun out .of the window and came out.
He was "away" for five years.
He returned home just as wildly handsome as before, just as unruly and unexpectedly generous. He would astonish as much by his generosity as his good looks. He would give away his last shirt to anyone who might need it. Sometimes on a day-off he would drive out to the forest, work like mad, and come back in the evening with a load of fire-wood for someone old and lonely... When he had unloaded it all himself he would walk into the house.
"We can't thank you enough, Spirka, our good angel!" the old folk would fluster. "How can we repay you?"
And that made Spirka feel good.
"Gimme a glass of vodka," he would demand, and add complacently. "Well, I'm not such a bad egg, am I?"
But when Spirka came back from prison, his mates had all gone away and his girl-friends were married. People thought he would go away too, but he didn't. He enjoyed himself for a bit, gave all his savings to his mother, and took a job as a driver.
And that was how Spirka lived.
That spring two new people came to live in the village of Yasnoye, Sergei and Irina Zeienetsky, both teachers, husband and wife. Sergei was a physical education instructor. Irina taught singing.
Sergei was a stocky, broad-shouldered, muscular man with a springy walk, good at jumping and somersaulting. It was a treat to watch him practising seriously and enthusiastically on the bar, the parallel bars, the rings. He had an exceptionally broad and kind mouth, a rather fleshy and flattish nose, and big widely spaced, very white teeth.
Irina was small and pale, with a slim girlish figure. Nothing special to look at, but when she slipped off her raincoat in the common room and reached up on tip-toe to lift the heavy accordion down from the top of the cupboard-what poise, what grace. She was a sight for sore eyes.
This was the couple (they were both about thirty or thirty-two) that came to live in Yasnoye in the fine warm days at the end of April. Lodgings were found for them in a roomy house belonging to an elderly couple, the Prokudins.
Their first visitor was Spirka. He had a habit of coming to see new people. He would walk in and introduce himself, drink a glass with his hosts (Spirka drank, but was seldom drunk), chat with them for a while and take his leave.
So one evening Spirka had a wash and shave, put on his best suit and went to the Prokudins.
"I'll just drop in and see what kind of people they are," he told his mother nonchalantly.
The old couple were having supper.
"Sit down and have a bite, Spiridon." Spirka helped the old folk sometimes and they were fond of him.
"Thanks, I've just had mine. Are your lodgers at home?"
"In there." The old man nodded towards the front room. "Going to bed."
"What are they like?"
"Decent people. They gave us this cheese and sausage. Try some."
Spirka shook his head and went to the front room. He tapped on the door.
"Come in!" a voice responded.
Spirka went in.
"Hullo!"
"Hullo!" the couple answered together, and stared. People always did at Spirka. They couldn't help it.
Spirka made his own introductions.
"Spiridon Rastorguyev."
"Sergei."
"Irina. Won't you sit down."
As he pressed Irina's warm little hand, Spirka gave her the once over, quite openly. Irina frowned a little, then smiled, for some reason withdrew her hand quickly, and quickly went out to fetch a chair. When she came back she looked at Spirka not exactly with surprise, but with a great deal of interest.
Spirka sat down.
Sergei looked at him cheerfully.
"Welcome to Yasnoye," Spirka said.
"Thank you."
"I just dropped in to see how you were getting on," their guest explained. "The way people are here, you could go old and grey waiting for them to take any interest."
"Are they not sociable?"
"Like everywhere else-like to keep themselves to themselves."
"Are you a local person?"
"Sure I am. Siberian born and bred."
"Sergei, I'll get something to eat."
"Go ahead!" Sergei responded readily and gave Spirka another cheerful look. "We'll celebrate our house-warming with Spiridon here."
"Yes, we can have a glass or two," Spirka consented. "Where are you from?"
"Not far away."
Irina went to the old people's room. Spirka's eyes followed her.
"What's the life like here?" Sergei asked.
"The life..." Spirka paused, but not in search of words. He had felt a sudden regret that this little woman would not hear what he had to say about life. "Well, life comes in patches, doesn't it? First there's a good patch, then a bad one..." No, he really didn't want to talk at the moment. "Why has she gone out there? You've only got to tell the old folk, they'll get you what you want."
"But why? That's her affair. Well, what kind of patch are you going through at the moment?"
"Six of one and half a dozen of the other. Not so bad, on the whole..." No, he definitely didn't want to talk while she was out of the room, making that stupid "something to eat".
"Mind if I smoke?"
"No, go ahead."
"So you're going to teach here, are you?""Yes.""What's she a teacher of?""Singing.""Oh, is she a good singer?" Spirka asked with interest."She sings.""Maybe she'll sing us a song?"
"You can ask her. She might."
"I'll go and tell the old folk myself. She's wasting her time out there."
He went out and they came back together. Irina was carrying a plate of cheese, sausage and fatback.
"I agreed not to cook anything," she said.
"Good."
"Yes, what the ... what for!" Spirka nearly came out with one of his usual qualifiers. "A cucumber and a bit of fatback-what could be better! Isn't that right?" Spirka glanced at his host.
"You know best," Sergei replied rather briskly. Spirka noted that. That was all to the good. He missed the glances that the couple exchanged. He was in high spirits. Now they would have a glass of vodka, and then - well, then he would see what happened.
It was brandy not vodka that appeared on the table.
"I always have my glass right away, and that's it. D'you mind?"
Spirka was politely allowed the privilege. He gulped the brandy and helped it down with a small piece of sausage.
"There we are!" he gave a little shiver. 'That got down to the permafrost, as they say."
Husband and wife drank a small glass each. Spirka watched the quiver in the woman's tender throat. And something-either brandy or blood-surged hot and heavy into his heart. His hands just itched to fondle that little throat. His eyes brightened, his glance became more intelligent, and he felt just grand.
"That's real fine brandy," he said approvingly. "But it's too pricey."
Sergei laughed; Spirka was not with him.
"What could be better than moonshine, eh?" Sergei asked. "Cheap and rough!"
"Now, what can I tell 'em to make 'em laugh?" Spirka was thinking.
"Not much moonshine about now," he said. "That was during the war..." And he remembered the grind of those hard faraway years, the belt-tightening, the ploughing that was too much for any boy... And he suddenly wanted to describe it in a funny way. He lifted his handsome head, looked straight at the woman on the other side of the table, and smiled.
"Shall I tell what kind of life I've had?"
Irina hastily averted her glance and looked at her husband.
"Yes, go ahead, Spiridon," Sergei said. "We'd like to hear about your life."
Spirka lit a cigarette.
"I'm a brat," he began.
"A what?" Irina asked.
"A bastard. Mother brought me home in her apron. There was a smart operator round here buying up skins - what they call a supply agent. And while he was about it he supplied me."
"Do you know him?"
"Never set eyes on him. He never appeared after he got Mum in the family way. Later he got gaoled and nothing's been heard of him since. Must have gone for the high jump. So that's the way I came into the world..." And just as suddenly as he had wanted to give a cheerful account of his life, he lost all desire to do so. It wasn't particularly funny. What could he tell them about-the labour camp? Spirka looked at Irina and that overpowering desire to touch her throat got hold of him again.
He stood up.
"Well, I've got to be on my way. I've a trip to make. Thanks for the drink."
"A trip at this time of night?" Irina said in surprise.
"Yes, we have to sometimes. Bye for now. I'll drop in again sometime."
Spirka went out without looking back.
"He's a strange lad," Irina remarked after a silence.
"Handsome, you mean?"
"Yes, he is."
"Handsome... And you know what- he's fallen for you."
"Has he?"
"And he's got under your skin too, I think. Hasn't he?"
"What makes you think so?"
"Oh, yes, he has."
"D'you want that to happen?"
"Why not? Only-you'd never cope."
The woman looked at her husband.
"You'd get scared," he said. "It takes courage."
"Oh, leave off," his wife said seriously. "What's the matter with you?"
"Courage and, of course, strength," her husband continued. "You have to be in good form, so to speak. He is. Hell cope. Incidentally, he's an ex-con."
"What gave you that idea?"
"You don't believe it? Go and ask the old people."
"Ask them yourself, if you must."
"Why not?"
Her husband went to speak to the old couple.
Five minutes later he came back and announced with clownish solemnity:
"Five years! In a strict regime camp. For robbery."
The damp evening air freshened his burning face. Spirka walked on, smoking. He suddenly wanted it to rain, a real downpour, with the sky all jagged with lightning and thunder booming overhead. Then what? Have a real good shout or something?
He set off for his current "pad"-to Nyura Zavyalova's.
He tapped on the window.
"Who's that?" the sleepy Nyura asked curtly, appearing as a dim white blob against the pane.
Spirka kept silent and thought about Nyura. During the war, when Nyura was about twenty-three and had been left a widow with two little children on her hands, Spirka (he was thirteen at the time) had dropped a sack of grain into her kitchen garden at night (he was carting a load to town for milling). He had tapped on this same window and said in a quick whisper, "Have a look in your garden, by the bath-house... And hide it well away!"
Two days later, when he came to see Nyura again, also at night, she flew at him, "What d'you think you're up to, Spirka, you little snake. Do you want to get me into prison?! Want to keep yourself well fed by planting the stuff on others?"
Spirka was staggered.
"I didn't do it for myself! What are you all het up about?
"Who for then?""You. They've got to have something to eat!" He meant Nyura's children. "They must be real hungry, I reckon."
Nyura went off into tears and started kissing and hugging Spirka. And Spirka, deeply moved, swore for all he was worth.
"Well, there you are... You can grind it yourself and bake some bread in hot ash. There's nothing tastier."
That was the memory that had come back to him all of a sudden.
"What're you standing there for?" Nyura asked. 'The door's open... Don't wake the old folk."
Spirka stood and waited. There was a vein of mischievous curiosity in his character. What would she do next?
"Spirka!.. What are you playing at?"
Silence.
"Aren't you coming in?"
Silence.
"Oh, you silly loon! He wakes you up in the middle of the night, then starts his tricks... Well, go to the devil then!" And Nyura went back to bed.
Spirka crept silently through the first room, where Nyura's parents were snoring, and reached the front room.
"What are all the antics for?"
Spirka felt unbearably sorry for Nyura. Why act like this? It would have been better not to come.
"Forget it, Nyura. Let's sleep."
Three days later, Spirka called on the Prokudins in the evening. The lodgers were not at home. Spirka talked to the old folk while he waited.
Irina came in first, alone. So fresh-looking. And with her came the cool of the spring evening. She looked surprised and, so it seemed to Spirka, pleased.
Calm, resolute, he followed her into the front room.
"Bunch of flowers," he said, and handed her a flaming bunch of flowers.
"Oh!" she was even more pleased. "What lovely things! What are they called? I've never seen that kind before."
"Zharki" Something was singing gaily in Spirka's chest, as it always did when he was about to have a fight or a woman. He made no attempt to hide his love. "I'll bring you more."
"But why should you?.. It's extra work."
"Oh what a job," Spirka countered playfully. "I'm always driving past, they're so thick you could mow 'cm with a scythe." He reflected that it was a good thing, after all, that he had such good looks. Anyone else would have had the boot by now. He smiled, he felt on top of the world.
The woman also began to laugh, and then looked embarrassed. Spirka relished every moment. It was like drinking from a cool spring on a very hot day with your face in the water. He was drinking and drinking and an aching shiver ran through his body like fire. He took the woman's hand... It was like a dream-if only he would never wake!
She tried to take her hand away. Spirka didn't let it go.
"But why?.. Really, you shouldn't."
"Why shouldn't I?" Everything he knew, everything that had always worked unfailingly on other women he longed to bring to bear on this sweet frail creature. A prayer went up from his heart: "Lord, help me! Please, don't let her kick!" He drew the woman into his arms... He saw her eyes, very close, surprised, growing wider. Now don't waver, don't let go. "Oh God, all t want now is to kiss her-that's all, nothing more." And he kissed her. And fondled her white tender little throat... And again kissed those soft yielding lips. Then her husband came in... Spirka didn't hear him, he only saw the woman's head jerk
and the flash of fright in her eyes... Then he heard a voice behind him, such a familiar voice:
"Scene as before. Enter husband."
Spirka released the woman. He felt neither shame nor fear.
He was just sorry-and riled at this well-groomed, straight-backed, self-confident man. The master! One of those lucky devils, everything under control, always welcome. He-looked round at the husband.
"Quite a lad, eh! Well, did you get very far?"
Sergei meant to smile, but the smile would not come. His eyes narrowed and the fleshy lips trembled resentfully. He looked at his wife. "Why are you so quiet? And pale too? " The fierce, angry shout lashed her like a whip. "You whore! So you did get somewhere?" He stepped towards her.
Spirka barred the way. Close up he saw the fury and resentment burning in the schoolmaster's dark eyes. He also noticed the faint cool odour of Eau-de-Cologne from his clean-shaven cheeks.
"Keep calm," said Spirka.
The next moment a short strong arm plucked Spirka out of the front room.
"Come along, handsome! "
Spirka just couldn't do anything about that arm. It seemed to have welded itself on to the back of his neck and its strength was superhuman. It was like a piston rod propelling him along from behind.
Spirka was dragged through the old people's room; the couple stared at their lodger and Spirka in astonishment.
"I've just caught a dirty yong Tom," the lodger explained.
Terrible things were brewing in Spirka's heart! A mixture of humiliation, pain, fury was choking him.
"What are you doing, you bastard!" he groaned.
They came out on to the porch. The piston went into action. Spirka flew down from the high porch and measured his length on the wet straw that had been spread as a door mat.
"I'll kill him!" the thought flashed through Spirka's head. Sergei walked down the steps.
"Getup!"
Spirka was up before the words reached him... And the next moment he was down again. And with disgust and horror came the realisation: "He's beating me up!" Again he sprang up and tried to duck under that dreadful piston -to get at the P. E. instructor's throat. But a second piston jabbed him hard on the jaw. Spirka fell over backwards with a taste of brass in his mouth. Once again he buried himself at the schoolmaster. He was a good fighter, but fury, pain, humiliation and the feeling of not being able to cope with those pistons had robbed him of his former agility and control. Blind fury threw him forward again
and again and the pistons worked with splendid efficiency. He didn't get near the schoolmaster once. Eventually he was knocked down and stayed down. The schoolmaster bent over him.
"I'll fix you," Spirka mumbled weakly, but seriously.
"We shall consider that a lesson in good manners. You had better drop your prison habits." The schoolmaster's voice was mild, but serious too.
"I'll kill you," Spirka said distinctly. There was a nasty mess in his mouth, as if he had been chewing a battle of Eau-de-Cologne-everything was cut and burned. "I'll kill you, remember."
"What for?" the schoolmaster asked calmly.
"Remember."
The schoolmaster went back into the house, closed the door and bolted it.
Spirka tried to get up and couldn't His head was buzzing, but the thoughts came clearly. He knew a way down from the roof of the Prokudins' house into the store-room. The store-room was never locked-just a loop of string over a nail, to stop the door opening by itself. The old people's room was never locked either and there was no lock at all on the door of the front room. He knew the Prokudins' house so well because their son, Mishka, had been a friend of his when they were kids and Spirka had often stayed the night there. Mishka was one, but the old folk kept everything the same as before, of course.
At last Spirka dragged himself to his feet, clung to the wall of the house for a bit and stumbled away down to the river. Slowly his strength returned.
He washed his bruised face and struck matches to examine his suit and shirt. He didn't want his mother to see any signs of blood and get suspicious when he went in for the gun. Any excuse would do for taking it. He could say he had a load of seed grain to deliver and wanted to do a spot of looting by the lake on the way back.
His mother was in bed.
"Is that you, Spirka?" she asked in a sleepy whisper from the stove.
"Yes. Go to sleep. I've got a trip to make."
"Have some fried potatoes, they're still hot in the stove. And there's milk in the porch. You must have something to eat before you go."
"All right, I'll take it with me." Quietly, without putting on the light Spirka took the shot-gun down from the wall, and for bluff's sake made a bit of noise in the porch ...Then he went back into the house (leaving the gun in the
porch), reached up beside the stove, found his mother's head in the darkness and stroked her thin warm hair. Sometimes, when he was a bit drunk, he liked to caress his mother; so now it caused her no alarm.
"Been drinking, have you?.. How can you drive then?" His mother had come to love him more and more as the years went by. She was ashamed that he didn't seem able to get himself a family-always a loner, not like other respectable folk) Her only hope now was that some decent-living widow or divorced woman would come their way.
"It's nothing. I'd better go."
"Well, Christ be with you." His mother blessed him in the darkness. "Drive slowly, don't belt along like a madman."
"I'll be all right," Spirka was forcing himself to sound cheerful. He wanted to get away as soon as possible and somehow forget his mother. The person it was hard for him to leave in this life-his mother.
He walked down the dark street, gripping his gun. He was still trying to throw off the thought of his mother. She'd never get over it. When they brought him in, with his hands tied behind his back, and when she saw him... Spirka quickened his pace. "Oh God, give her the strength to bear it," he pleaded. He was almost running and in the end he did run. And he was excited as if he was going in, not for the kill, but to jump into bed with Irina, all warm and willing. And he actually saw her in his mind's eye, but she suddenly disappeared. Those lips of hers, soft, half open, but he couldn't enjoy the memory because of the taste of blood in his mouth and ... yes, that was it, the Eau-de-Cologne chill from the schoolmaster's smooth cheeks. That scented cool came to him again now.
Spirka ran along humming to himself to keep his courage up.
Will my raven steed
Snap the bit 'tween his teeth?
Will my love... |
The house was in darkness. "Aha, here we are then," Spirka murmured to himself. "Now we take a ladder... Up it goes... Quiet now." He climbed down safely into the store-room and stood listening-not a sound. Only his heart pounding against his ribs. Keep calm, Spirka! No sound either as the string broke, except for tile slight ping of the nail. Spirka reached forward with his free hand and made his way silently through the inner porch, groped lightly for
the door and found it. "Here we are..." He bent down, pushed his fingers under the door, lifted it as far as he could and pulled. The door opened with a soft pleasant "pah", and swung back soundlessly. The place smelted of old people, of damp sheepskin, the warm stove, dough... This was where he had been marched out by the scruff of the neck. Oh God, don't tot the old folk wake up. His fear now was that someone might stop him... "What a bashing he gave met He knows how it's done."
Spirka was surprised at his own ease and agility. He couldn't even hear himself. He found the door of the front room, lifted it from below. The door creaked. Spirka quickly and carefully closed it behind him-and he was there! In the darkness of the front room, slightly diluted by the light of a street lamp, the bed creaked. Spirka found the light switch and turned it on. Sergei was sitting up in bed staring at him. Irina also sat up. First she stared at her husband, then her glance rebounded from him on to Spirka and his gun. Her mouth opened soundlessly... Spirka realised that Sergei had not been asleep-there was too much understanding in those dark motionless eyes.
"I warned I'd fix you," Spirka said. He tried to cock the hammers of the shot-gun but they were cocked already. (When had he done it?). "I told you, didn't I!"
Spirka was not disturbed by the fact that Irina was wearing only a slip and that one shoulder strap was down and a firm white breast that had never suckled, was showing to the nipple.
The couple said nothing and stared at Spirka.
"Get out of bed," Spirka commanded.
"Spiridon... they'll shoot you for this. Surely you..."
"I know. Get up."
"Spiridon! But surely!.."
"Getup!"
Sergei jumped out of bed in his vest and pants.
Spirka raised his gun.
Sergei went deathly pale...
And suddenly Irina began to scream, and in such a terrible way, so loud and frenziedly, so urgently that it was not like her at alt-such a small, clever woman with warm soft lips. It just didn't sound human, it was so bitter and despairing... She fell out of bed and crawled with out-stretched arms towards him.
"Don't! Don't! Oh, please, oh, oh, oh!" And she tried to clasp the gun, still on her knees...
At that moment Sergei sprang open-armed at Spirka-and received a blow in the chest with the butt of the gun that floored him.
"Please, dearest... Oh, don't!" the little woman wailed. It was as if she had forgotten Spirka's name. "O-o-oh!"
The old couple in the other room were also roused and crying out.
"Don't!" the woman kept screaming, shaking her head, trying to embrace his legs, crawling over the floor without her knickers on-her shirt was halfway up her back, but she never even noticed, she just kept trying to embrace Spirka's legs.
Spirka was dumbfounded. He pushed her away, and then quite clearly he realised that if he pulled the trigger now there would be no forgiveness and no drink would ever drown the thought of what he had done. If only she hadn't howled like this!.. The strength she had in her!
Spirka swore... He walked out of the room and away from the dark house. Somehow he suddenly felt very tired. He remembered his mother and started to run. He wanted to run away from this thought of his mother, from all thoughts. He recalled Irina, kneeling there naked, and his heart burned with love and pity for her. And for a minute he was glad he hadn't fired the fatal shot... God, how she had screamed! And how she would have screamed and wept over her dead husband! Then back again to his mother... That was the one who would howl now! Spirka ran even faster. He reached the cemetery, and sat down on the ground. It was dark. He pointed the gun barrels at his heart, reached for the trigger's, thought to himself, "Well... Is this all?" His fingers felt the two cold thin hoops...
"Now it'll knock me down," he thought again. Suddenly, he distinctly saw himself lying with his chest blown open and his arms flung apart; he was staring with blank eyes at the clear morning sky... The sun would rise and the fat, greedy, darkblue flies would start buzzing over his cold body. Someone would say, "We must cover him up. Like..." Ugh! Spirka shuddered. He sat down. "Wait a moment, my friend, wait a moment. Wait, wait. Hold it, you clot, don't be in such a hurry! I ask you, what's the big idea? God!-you were given a walloping. Were you never thrashed before? What's the big idea?"
"What's the big idea!" 'asked Spirka aloud. "Eh?" Distastefully and apprehensively, he pushed the barrels away, took hold of the gun again and carefully put on the safety-catches. He sighed deeply, with joy. He began talking loudly, inanely, happily, with a great sense of relief.
"What's the big idea, Spirka? Eh? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! How could you? Did the little boy get a thrashing?.. He certainly did. It hurt, didn't it? You wanted to point the gun at your forehead and-pop!.. You're a right swank, you are!" Spirka even laughed and clutched at his lips: they had been split open by the schoolteacher's piston and hurt whenever he laughed. "What's this, what's this, what's this? (His smashed mouth said, "What fiff, what fiff, what tiff?") How can you? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! It's bad. So you got beaten... Now you want to ...to shoot. Oh, no, not that!"
Spirka lay supine on the cool ground and flung his arms apart... That was how he'd be lying there tomorrow. In the place where his heart was now beating-Spirka pressed the palm of his hand to his chest-there would be a jagged hole, bigger than his cap, blasted open by two shots. He might catch fire and his jacket and shirt would be burnt up. He'd be lying there naked... Oh, shit, what a sight! Spirka sat up, lit a cigarette and inhaled with pleasure. He'd been in such a hurry to plant those two charges in himself that he hadn't even thought of having a smoke. Even those who're about to be executed, so Spirka had heard, ask for a last cigarette. He remembered a little girl, his niece; when she felt her father was tired of carrying her on his back, she would daringly screw her little face and say: "One more time! Just one more time!" Spirka laughed. He lay down again, smoked and looked at the stars; and it seemed to him that they mere ringing as they twinkled, were ringing very, very faintly; and he wanted to shine, very faintly, like a puppy..! He frowned and felt himself being smoothly and powerfully borne along by the earth. Spirka jumped to his feet. He must; do something, he must do something definite. "I'm going to do something right now!"
he decided. He picked up the gun and quickly walked off without knowing where he was going. Anywhere, as long as it was away from this cemetery with its crosses and its silence. He began swearing silently and without venom at the dead.
"Lying there, are you?.. Well, lie there-that's your lot. But what am I doing here? You're lying there, but I'm going to trot about on Earth for a little while yet. I've still got some buzzing around to do."
He now wanted to flee from his thoughts about the cemetery, about his having lain there... He wanted to run somewhere, to someone. To tell all, maybe... Perhaps have a bit of a laugh. And a drink! Only where? Fancy asking
That! How about Vera, the drinks girl from the tea-shop. Aha, she'd always got some booze in! He could spend the night there, too.
Spirka turned off down a side-street.
Vera started grumbling at first. No rest for the weary... Spirka lit a match and let it shine on his face.
"Look, they nearly killed me and you're playing for time."
Vera took fright. Spirka laughed softly, pleased with the effect.
"Where did that happen to you?" asked Vera.
"Somewhere... Nice job of work?"
"My God, Spirka!.. They'll do you in one of these days. Where've you been?"
"Shan't tell you. It's secret."
They went into Vera's room. Vera tugged the curtains closer together and put on the light. She looked at Spirka again. With the palm that was fragrant with cream she touched the hot grazes on his face.
"Ow!" exclaimed Spirka, shamming. He laughed again and began stomping round the room.
What wonderful people they are, those lonely women! For some reason, you always feel at ease and happy with them. You can stomp around at will, if the floorboards don't creak. You can thinks. You can, incidentally, caress your hostess, you can stroke her hand... Everything fits, everything's fine. They jump because they're so unused to it and they look at you tenderly, but quizzically. They're nice. They're kind-hearted. You feel sorry for them.
Vera found a bottle of vodka. She even went down into the cellar for some gherkins. But she looked frightened when she came bade.
"What's that you've got there? A gun? I tripped over it..."
"It's a gun. Let it be."
"What d'you want a gun for?"
"Nothing special."
"Spirka, what are you up to?"
Vera's husband had been a good man. He had died at forty. God knows what had been wrong with him. Cancer, most likely.
"Spirka!"
"Yoo-hoo!"
"What are you doing... Have you been up to something! Are you in a flap?" |
