Punishment of a hunter, p.31
Punishment of a Hunter, page 31
“What good marmalade they have,” said Zaitsev. He pulled it over and began to eat it straight out of the bowl, spoon by spoon. Spoon by spoon.
The head waiter gave a contemptuous snort and turned to his desk.
Uglov managed, if not to calm down—his eyelid and the corner of his mouth were still twitching—then at least to pull himself together. He watched Zaitsev, and didn’t touch either his coffee or the Moscow pickles on a plate on the starchy tablecloth, strewn with small patches of May sunshine refracted through the crystal vases.
“I knew from the very beginning,” he said in his absolutely ordinary voice. “You’ll never leave your Finnish swamps. You’re a dead loss. No Moscow’s going to lure you out of there. You’re a fool, Vasya,” he added with regret. “Heading back to Peter today?”
Zaitsev nodded.
IV
Zaitsev knew Uglov well and he had known him long. He wasn’t afraid of his nervous fits or his facial twitches. But the simple and seemingly innocent question of when he was leaving immediately set him on high alert.
Zaitsev stood in the narrow, carpeted corridor. Passengers pushed past with their briefcases in a hurry to find their compartments. Ignoring the way the train shook, Zaitsev gazed intently at the platform. In Moscow, unlike Leningrad, it was already dark at that time of night. But in the light of the yellow street lamps, Zaitsev saw two rosy fellows in ordinary civilian clothes sidle up to the conductor of the next carriage. They flashed their ID cards. And the conductor made an inviting hand gesture. Zaitsev stepped back from the window. He sat down on the already made-up bed with its comforting smell of starch. The light from under the silk lampshade was reflected in the lacquered panels. The carriages were old and luxurious—from before the Revolution. The guard’s whistle. The platform slowly retreated. Zaitsev slipped out of the compartment. The corridor was empty; all the doors were closed; passengers usually sat quietly for those first few minutes, looking out of the window or laying out their toiletries.
Zaitsev walked quickly down the corridor. He passed the clanging vestibule. Walked through another car. Another vestibule. Carriage. Vestibule. Carriage. Vestibule. The floor rocked and shook more and more—the train was picking up speed. Finally, as he left the last vestibule, he was hit by a waft of bodies, tar, coal: that incomparable railway smell for travellers in the hard carriage. Zaitsev quickly spotted the most likely candidate: a fat man in a panama hat.
“Comrade,” said Zaitsev. “I’m in the soft carriage. Was shot twice in the back in the civil war—can’t take anything soft. I tried to get comfortable, but it’s no good. I’d be better off standing.”
He pulled out his ticket. “Do you want it?”
The fat man eyed him suspiciously.
Zaitsev understood. “I don’t need anything for it,” he said, pulling it out of his pocket. “I was given a ticket for the soft carriage on account of the party. Wounded in action.”
The spiel was a success. At the sight of the VIP ticket, the fat man’s eyes sparkled greedily; he didn’t think to look into Zaitsev’s young face and doubt his story about being wounded in the civil war. He eagerly reached under his bunk and pulled out a basket wrapped in fabric and tied at the top. He handed his ticket to Zaitsev.
“Here, thank you, really, thank you,” Zaitsev enthused.
“Goodnight, comrade. All the best with your back.”
Zaitsev sat for a while, peering at the others in the wagon out of the corner of his eye. It was safer here among people in the open carriage than there, in a locked compartment. But he still didn’t feel safe. He could be removed from the train at any stop. “Come along, comrade. No need to kick up a fuss”—and that would be it. It wasn’t like he could grab his pistol. And if he did, the rest of the passengers would immediately pile in and hold him down, always eager to do their bit in the name of justice.
Zaitsev jumped up. Again carriage, vestibule, carriage, vestibule. A locked iron door. The mail car. This was where his “defective” childhood came in handy: only street children roamed the country like this, getting on and off trains like rats. Zaitsev went back to the last passenger car. He locked himself in the toilet. He pulled down the sash window. His body remembered every move. How to haul yourself up, where to cling on, where to place your hands, your feet.
Hanging from the roof, Zaitsev smashed in the glass of the next window. He hammered away the sharp shards with his heel. And like a lizard he slipped inside. He fell onto the sacks, a corner of a box jabbing him in the side. Never mind. He settled down comfortably on the mailbags.
Maybe he was imagining it all. Or maybe not. He never liked to be 100 per cent sure of anything. He tucked his hands under his armpits—another proven way to keep warm. And he soon fell asleep.
Meanwhile, the two ruddy fellows did their rounds. They reached the door of the mail car. They pulled the handle. Locked.
“He’s given us the slip, the bastard.”
“Or this isn’t the right train.”
“Fuck knows.”
Suddenly they both had the same hunch at the same time. They rushed back. Yanked the toilet door: locked.
“Exactly. He’s in there, the bastard,” one whispered. They stepped aside quietly. One deftly and softly dropped on all fours and peered through the fine mesh grille near the floor. He gestured as if to say, “Yep, he’s in there.” The second silently took out his gun, stood ready. Both froze like caryatids.
The first knocked.
“Comrade, you’ve had your turn. Fallen asleep in there, or what?”
There was a rustle behind the door, movement. The lock clicked. The door swung open. They went in for the grab.
“Hey, what’s all this?” squealed a red-haired man in a T-shirt and underpants. One of the men loosened his grip. The toilet window gaped open like a dark jaw: it was a damp night out there. The man rushed to the window, stuck his head out. Looked right, left.
“What? I came out for a smoke. What of it?” muttered the man they had seized. “Even opened the window so as not to cause a nuisance. All above board!”
“Go on, then. Piss off. Quick.”
Both waited until they were sure he had gone.
“Can’t be the right train,” answered the first. They got off at Bologoye.
Knowing Uglov as well as he did, Zaitsev was also confident that, having missed once, he wouldn’t take aim for a second throw. It was enough for him to drive the enemy away. Away from Moscow, that is.
On the platform, Zaitsev quickly tucked himself into the throngs of arriving and departing passengers, those meeting or seeing off others, letting the crowd carry him into the city. It was chilly. Nothing strange there: it meant that ice had flowed into the Neva from Lake Ladoga. Zaitsev glanced at the station clock tower; he could do with going home to warm up, but he didn’t really have time. He had better go straight to work.
His brisk pace warmed him slightly. Walking along Ligovsky Prospekt, Zaitsev shuddered as he thought about the capital—that greasy, oily city, with its complex groupings, government chess and party intrigues. You just pull a tiny thread—and in no time at all word reaches all the way to government member Comrade Pyatakov. A web that Uglov was entangled in, too.
Even the shabby Ligovsky Prospekt with its shady gangs felt free and safe in comparison. At least Zaitsev knew how to deal with ordinary petty criminals.
On the Fontanka embankment, close to the walls of CID, he saw a horse and cart. The nag stood with its long suede lips, but the driver was nowhere to be seen. The cheek, Zaitsev thought.
Zaitsev crossed the road.
“Comrade Zaitsev!” A pleasant voice called out to him. It seemed familiar.
He turned around. Or rather, he didn’t quite. A damp, pungent rag covered his face, which rapidly became a deep darkness, devoid of any thoughts or feeling.
The man stretched a canopy over the cart, covering his load. He jumped up, clicked his tongue and clapped the reins. The horse shook its mane and set off, briskly clattering along the street.
V
His body felt like it belonged to someone else. Either from the cold, or from being motionless for so long. Bushes. The trees were still covered with buds. His head was heavy. The familiar sensation of coming round from ether: he knew it from having had surgery. Swaying, staggering, like he was drunk. Zaitsev remembered something: Fontanka embankment. He tried to look around: no, this wasn’t Fontanka. Where would you find a scrap of bare earth in the centre of Leningrad? Everywhere was rock. But he was lying on soil. Gradually, the feeling of it being his own body returned. Zaitsev realized that his hands were tied behind his back. His feet were free. He rolled over and got onto his knees. He was wearing red trousers. A white shirt. His feet were squeezed into some tall boots. Someone had changed his clothes. He could just about make out some open space behind the trees: that must be the Neva or one of its tributaries.
“Good morning, Comrade Zaitsev. How did you sleep? Not too cold, I hope?”
Zaitsev saw a man sitting on a fallen tree and watching him with interest. At a distance, the dancing orange flames of a small bonfire.
Zaitsev watched morosely. Alexei Alexandrovich stood up. He was wearing practical golfing trousers tucked into kneehigh socks, English style. Sturdy boots.
“What are you doing, Alexei Alexandrovich?” Zaitsev tried to ask. His mouth was dry; his tongue was like sandpaper. Alexei Alexandrovich walked up to him and lifted his head by the hair; Zaitsev felt water on his lips, and began to drink eagerly. Alexei Alexandrovich then put away his flask, which was emblazoned with a Boy Scout badge.
“How do you feel, Comrade Zaitsev?” he asked sympathetically.
He waited for an answer that didn’t come.
“Aha, we’re playing who can keep silent the longest,” he teased. “Well. Nothing wrong with that. I understand perfectly well what kind of questions you’ve got in there right now,” said Alexei Alexandrovich, jabbing a finger on Zaitsev’s forehead.
“Your first question: where am I? The answer: here.”
Alexei Alexandrovich stood up, adopting a demonstrative posture with his foot resting on a fallen trunk: the orator about to recite a tale. He pulled out a small book, opened it and read with expression:
“Paulus Potter. Punishment of a Hunter.”
He slammed the book shut and tossed it into the fire.
“A brochure for savages like you. You’re a savage savant—at least you can read. You even signed up to the library. Commendable.”
“So enlighten me then,” croaked Zaitsev. “What kind of painting is it? I haven’t come across it.”
Behind his back, his fingers were living an independent life: they fumbled around, crept along, tugged at the rope. He just had to buy some time. Alexei Alexandrovich was so self-assured and smug, he was bound to be complacent.
“Why not, since you ask. Punishment of a Hunter. We’re presented with fourteen scenes: twelve small vignettes surrounding two larger scenes. In the smaller scenes, we see a hunter basking in his glory. You bet! Young, capable, athletic, the very picture of a model Komsomolets. Master of his new destiny! Ah, but little does he know!”
Alexei Alexandrovich met his victim’s glassy stare and grinned with satisfaction.
But he misunderstood his captive’s fishy gaze. Zaitsev wasn’t listening at all to his narration—all his attention was focused on the tips of his fingers tugging at the rope.
“And in the two central scenes we see the consequence. The former victims, the animals, collaborate to put their hunter on trial. And then they mete out his punishment. His dogs are strung up from a bough. The huntsman himself is grilled on a spit. Among the fourteen scenes, we see certain mythological tropes… But why am I telling you this? I could go on for hours, telling you about Potter and Holland of the Golden Age… Dr Nicolaes Tulp, who is captured in Rembrandt’s famous Anatomy Lesson… Punishment of a Hunter… There’s so much I could tell you about this small picture. And about the others. Alas, it won’t make you any less savage. Or the others. You lot are all the same. I know your second question: why me? Because, Comrade Zaitsev. You could have stopped these savages. But you didn’t. I was counting on you. But you don’t understand simple words. Beauty has no effect on you, either. I checked! I made sure! But no, neither persuasion nor clarification—nothing seemed to work with you philistines. You don’t understand subtle hints. One cannot negotiate with a savage. The likes of you understand only pain!”
“You are the savage,” Zaitsev answered. “You’re killing people, Alexei Alexandrovich.”
“People?” Alexei Alexandrovich squatted in front of him. “Huh?” He cupped his palm behind his ear. “I thought I heard you say ‘people’. I must have imagined it. What we’re talking about are a bunch of wretched, depraved souls whose entire life consists of nothing but eating, defecating, sleeping and serving the Soviet Union. No one misses them. They were already forgotten by the very next day. Well, OK, by the next week, once I had liberated this beautiful city from those miserable hordes of worthless organisms. But the paintings… Paintings, Comrade Zaitsev, live for centuries. This is what I have been trying to explain to you. What I’ve been screaming at you! I’ve been screaming at you from the very beginning. In your very ears!”
“Paintings are more important to you than living people?”
“The paintings in question are masterpieces. The pinnacle of the human spirit. While the individuals you’ve been harping on about are the precise opposite: the very trough of mankind, the lowest stage of human development. Philistines. Neanderthals. Infusoria. And great works are sacrificed, destroyed, for the sake of some food to throw into their stinking, putrid mouths?”
“Don’t lie—you know nobody’s going to destroy them, these paintings. They won’t be burnt or ripped up. They’ll carry on being hung on the wall. Just in another country.”
“They belong to this city!” With all his strength, Alexei Alexandrovich kicked Zaitsev, again and again. “They belong here!”
Alexei Alexandrovich took a deep breath, pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his bald head.
“Why am I trying to explain to you? I won’t get through to you. Enough. You’re beyond hope.”
He shook his head.
“When I met Comrade Prostak, I thought he was the one I needed here. But you’re even worse, Comrade Zaitsev. Well, you’ll achieve one good thing: your worthless husk may remind other fools of the beautiful picture that, thanks to your negligence, has now been sent to Berlin for auction, and from there, God only knows where to…”
Zaitsev needed at least a few more minutes. The rope was weakening, but the knot still wouldn’t yield. Whatever he did, he needed to keep Alexei Alexandrovich talking.
“What are you laughing at?” Alexei Alexandrovich asked in surprise.
“You said fourteen? Fourteen?” asked Zaitsev. “You’re going to butcher me into fourteen parts?”
“Well, you are an animal,” Alexei Alexandrovich said contemptuously. “You’re bidding farewell to life, but even this fact is beyond your imagination. You find it laughable. Well. At first, I thought about choosing the lower of the two central scenes for you. Yes”—he waved his hands around as he spoke—“and the Leningrad Zoological Garden seemed perfect for the occasion. This idiotic Sancho Panza of yours is eminently suitable for the role of the dog hanging by its neck.”
“Is Nefyodov here?” Zaitsev was worried.
“But then I thought: the fire would attract attention. And they’d notice the smell of your chargrilled body. So I chose one of the corner vignettes. Ah, a shame the little book’s gone bye-byes. Otherwise, I’d show you. Well, then, I shall describe it in my own words. A naked Artemis surrounded by her escort nymphs. A rather common motif. What a gullible lot Soviet women are… Well, you, Comrade Zaitsev… You’re the cheerful Komsomolets Actaeon, hunted by his own dogs. Don’t worry, Comrade Zaitsev. I know you don’t have any four-legged friends. Or two-legged ones, for that matter. Well, I’ve set you up with a companion.”
Alexei Alexandrovich leant over Zaitsev and noticed the loosening rope.
“Tut-tut, you bad boy.”
He tightened the knot around his wrists. Then he helped Zaitsev up, lifted him onto his feet. Zaitsev tried to headbutt him, but Alexei Alexandrovich dodged him in time.
“Well, now, no need for that. We’re almost done. Take a little walk with me, arm in arm.”
He dragged Zaitsev along behind him.
“Here, Comrade Zaitsev. I thought: a large fire, a real bonfire, would be too noticeable, we would be interrupted. But then I thought: why not have a metaphorical bonfire? I shall grill you, Comrade Zaitsev. Slo-o-o-owly, slowly.”
Before them stood a tree with a long, thick bough, looking like an outstretched arm. Or a gallows, Zaitsev realized with horror. Below the bough, on a rickety canvas chair, the kind beloved by fishermen and artists, Nefyodov was teetering on his very tiptoes. Hands tied behind his back, noose around his neck. With his pointed toes, Nefyodov looked as though he were mid dance. His boyish face was mortally pale.
“Your dog,” Alexei Alexandrovich said gently. He grabbed Zaitsev by the wrists and fiddled with the knot. And his foot casually knocked the chair out from beneath Nefyodov. He dangled, twitching in the noose.
Zaitsev felt that his hands were free, that Alexei Alexandrovich wasn’t holding him. Zaitsev rushed forwards, caught Nefyodov by the legs and raised him up. He clung on. Nefyodov hissed. But he was alive. Zaitsev’s arms were quickly going numb from the weight. Nefyodov coughed. He was breathing. Zaitsev’s only thought was not to drop him.
Alexei Alexandrovich laughed.
