FROMthe moment when the two men burst into the compartment Godorov sensed that this might, indeed, be the beginning of the end of his life. Not that it mattered. He felt no pain now. He was stretched out in the lower bunk, floating, it seemed, on the bounce of the train. He wondered whether he was feeling joy, since he could barely remember what it was like.
Perhaps he had been sleeping, was still sleeping, or had been transported back in time to his old home and he was lying in his own warm, soft, quilted bed, his head on the oversized feather pillow. He could not summon the barest personal memory of the past thirty years of his life. It was as if all that misery had happened to someone else, a man for whom he could feel only some vague pity, like a blind beggar who had sat perpetually on the wooden steps of his little village’s only store. Occasionally his father would fling a kopek into the man’s lap. Godorov was always envious of the gift, but he had been ashamed of his greed. It was that sense of shame, of wanting to do good, that he could recall in himself now, which tranquilized him and made that other Godorov, that hateful, miserable, murdering Godorov, seem a figure beyond reality.
The other man in the compartment, the Jew Ginzburg, had jumped to the floor, obviously startled by the two men’s sudden entrance. They stood in the center of the compartment, feet planted firmly as they hesitated momentarily, their eyes darting from one man to the other.
“Krasnoyarsk,” the man with the white hair said. “Which one of you got off at Krasnoyarsk?” Oh that, Godorov thought, remembering the old Godorov, that limping wretch who had paid a little visit to Shmiot. That one. What does he have to do with me? he thought. He rolled his eyes away from the two men and looked into the Jew’s face. It was twisted into a defiant grin.
“I had better get the boy,” the man with the quivering chins said. He started to move toward the door. The white-haired man put a hand on his chest, postponing his exit.
“Make it easy on yourself,” he said to both men at once. “The boy will identify you in any event.”
Godorov remembered the small face of the boy watching the other Godorov, mimicking the silly walk of the other Godorov. He smiled. It was a good likeness, a perfect replica. In his mind he could see the boy, staring as the other Godorov sweated over the body of Shmiot, cracking the bones as if they belonged to a doll.
“Well,” the white-haired man said.
Godorov felt the eyes of the Jew on him.
“Yes, Krasnoyarsk,” the Jew whispered.
“You admit it then,” the white-haired man said gently, looking at Ginzburg.
“The boy will know,” the man with the quivering chins said.
“That’s why it would be better to admit it,” the white-haired man said, looking at the Jew. Godorov felt himself merging with the other Godorov again, but only in body, since he was certain that his spirit had moved elsewhere. He could not muster any pity or compassion for Shmiot. It all seemed to have occurred quite outside of himself.
“You might as well tell him,” Godorov said.
It hardly mattered. It was of absolutely no importance. He was trying to remember what hate had been like, what pain was.
“That is good advice,” the white-haired man said to the Jew.
His manner seemed vaguely familiar, Godorov thought, recalling other interrogations. At the beginning of these affairs there was always politeness, he remembered. He knew he had returned to the essence of himself again, and he was almost giddy with delight. Tell them what I did, he told the Jew silently.
“Tell them,” he said aloud.
“Your passports, please,” the white-haired man said. He was polite, soft-spoken. Ginzburg reached into the suitcase that lay under Godorov’s bunk. Their eyes met. The Jew’s eyes flickered briefly. It is all right, they seemed to say. I am used to such matters.
“Mine is in the inner pocket of my coat on the hook.” Godorov pointed.
“Well, then, stand up and get it.”
Godorov chuckled. “I can’t walk.”
The officials looked at his legs.
“He is crippled,” the man with the white hair said.
“That is the long and short of it,” Godorov said.
The heavier man dipped fat fingers into the pocket. He removed the passport and looked into Godorov’s face, confirming his identity.
“Godorov, Ivan Vasilyevich,” he read.
But the white-haired man was obviously more interested in Ginzburg, who rummaged through his suitcase and withdrew a packet containing two passports. He handed them over.
“Mikhail Moiseyevich Ginzburg.” The white-haired man intoned the name, looking sharply into Ginzburg’s face.
Ginzburg nodded. The white-haired man held out the opened passport for the man with the quivering chins to see. Godorov watched him nod conspiratorially. Now that the pain was gone, he felt more lucid, almost clairvoyant. Ginzburg looked at him again, the hooded eyes transmitting information clearly. I know them, Godorov imagined the eyes said. He blinked in affirmation.
“And this other passport?” the white-haired man said, looking around the compartment.
“My wife.”
“Where is she?”
“In the baggage car.”
The two officials looked at each other. Godorov smiled. I am being deliberately obtuse, Ginzburg’s eyes said. His silence seemed a deliberate affront.
“What is she doing in the baggage car?” the man with the quivering chins asked. “There is no heat or light in there.”
“I am taking her to Birobidjan,” Ginzburg said, not even bothering to explain.
“What does he mean?” the white-haired man said to Godorov.
Godorov shrugged. Could they possibly understand? He could feel their politeness ending, their exasperation and cruelty starting.
“You can stop all this Jewish cleverness,” the white-haired man said. Ginzburg was standing up, his bare feet cold on the icy floor. The white-haired man grabbed a handful of his flannel undershirt and, lifting, forced Ginzburg to rise up on his toes.
“I am talking about you, you little Hebe.”
Godorov watched as Ginzburg took the abuse without resistance. The man with the quivering chins had joined the attack, grabbing a handful of hair and roughly tilting Ginzburg’s head back.
“We have a witness,” the white-haired man said. “It is useless to claim your innocence. It will go better with you if you confess.”
“Confess?” Ginzburg whispered. “I killed no one,” he said with mild indifference.
“He is so clever,” the white-haired man said. “These Jews are so damned clever.”
Ginzburg watched them, expressionless.
“He knows damned well he didn’t kill him,” the white-haired man said to his companion. “He didn’t try to kill him. He wanted to maim him beyond hope of recovery.” He turned again to Ginzburg. “Isn’t that right, you little Jew bastard?”
Ginzburg refused to respond. I’ll handle them, he seemed to say, looking briefly at Godorov.
“What did he do to you, this Shmiot?” the white-haired man probed. They still held Ginzburg by the shirt and head. “Try to rape your precious Hebe wife? Something like that, Ginzburg?”
“She wasn’t Jewish,” Ginzburg said in a tone of indifference. The white-haired man released Ginzburg’s shirt and opened the passport of Ginzburg’s wife.
“Russian,” he said with disgust.
“And in the baggage car?” said the other man, with heavy sarcasm. “If she was in there since Moscow, she’d be dead by now.”
“She is,” Ginzburg said calmly.
“Killed her too?” the white-haired man said.
“Perhaps.”
“The man’s a psychopath,” the white-haired man said.
“You are all absurd,” Godorov said calmly. “It was me.”
The two officials looked at each other and smiled.
“They are both crazy,” the man with the White hair said. “A man who can’t walk could hardly be a suspect.”
“I’m telling you. It was me,” Godorov persisted, but the officials ignored him.
“I’ll get the boy for a formal identification,” the man with the quivering chins said.
“That will close the matter,” the white-haired man agreed.
Ginzburg settled into the only chair. Clasping his hands in front of him, he seemed like a small child showing his good behavior. The man with the quivering chins let himself out, leaving the white-haired man scowling at Ginzburg.
“They are very clever, these people,” the white-haired man said, speaking to Godorov. “You cannot imagine how brutal the attack on Shmiot was. The man is literally a basket case. You can never tell about motive. Jealousy. Greed. A fit of temper. Could have, stemmed from a simple argument over some trifling subject. You never know about these people.” He seemed to warm up as he continued. “They have these hidden aggressive tendencies, all disguised under a bland humble exterior. Look at him sitting there.” He tapped his own head. “You’ll never know what goes on in their heads, some plotting and deviousness, no doubt.” He opened Godorov’s passport and studied it again. “You Georgians know what I mean.” He winked at Godorov. “Although I’ll never understand why you wanted to take the rap for him.”
It was a game they were all playing, Godorov thought. Very soon the boy would arrive and the little charade would be over. He wished it could be prolonged. The idea of humiliating these officials was titillating, especially to him, who had been deprived of such amusement for so long. He felt younger, stronger, clearer in mind than he had felt since his youth, as if the balloon of his anger had burst and all the horror had sputtered out in one continuous exhalation.
“Did you really think you could get away with it?” the white-haired man asked Ginzburg, who looked up at him blankly.
Godorov turned his head quickly when he heard the latch of the compartment click. In the doorway, filling it up, the man with the quivering chins held little Vladimir by his upper arm. The little boy’s face was a mass of black and brown smears, from the charcoal and the chocolate, and he was squirming in the man’s grip.
“It will only take a moment, you little brat,” the man with the quivering chins said. Godorov watched as the little eyes darted from face to face, coming to rest on Godorov. He is a stupid little fellow, Godorov thought, wondering how he could have harbored such hatred for him. He is just another ridiculous little boy. Godorov prepared to rise from the bunk and submit to the two officials. But although he pictured the movement in his mind—the actual act of rising, then sitting, finally standing—he could not move. He touched and squeezed his thighs, but the flesh was unresponsive. Summoning all of his will, he again made an effort to move, only to find that it was impossible. He traced downward with his fingers from his neck to his hips. That far he had feeling. Beyond that point was only soft flesh without feeling and without pain. He saw the eyes of the boy meet his own, the little mouth twisted in a sticky smile. He raised himself on one elbow, conscious that he was grimacing with effort. Only the little boy noticed.
“Well?” the man with the white hair said impatiently. The boy looked at Ginzburg, who smiled back at him, his face glowing with contentment.
“Well?” the man with the white hair said again, trying to be more patient.
The old Godorov might have felt despair in this predicament. But the new Godorov continued to be calm, savoring the joy of painlessness, the absence of any anxiety whatsoever. The old Godorov might have felt the biting desperation of a wasted life, while the new Godorov felt only tranquility and fulfillment. He lay back again on the bunk and waited for the boy to accuse him.
“Dammit,” the man with the quivering chins said, shaking the boy like an oversized rag doll.
“Just point out the man you saw in Krasnoyarsk,” the white-haired man said.
“Tell him, you little brat,” the man with the quivering chins said.
“Let me.” The white-haired man knelt beside the boy.
Vladimir stared imperiously down at him. For a moment Vladimir looked away, glanced at Godorov. Then he looked down again.
“Would you like some more chocolate?” the white-haired man said. The boy’s eyes opened wide. He nodded his head.
“Then just point out the man you saw in Krasnoyarsk.” He pointed his own finger at Ginzburg. “Just point your finger,” he urged.
Godorov did not wonder about Ginzburg’s silence in the face of the accusation. Between them there was a kinship of understanding. What did it matter to either of them?
“Well, you little monster? Point,” the white-haired man said.
“Point,” the man with the chins echoed, shaking the boy again.
“He is the one,” Vladimir said at last, turning abruptly and pointing to Godorov.
“You little bastard,” the man with the quivering chins said. “I’ll see you are severely punished.”
Godorov chuckled to himself. Even Vladimir must be intimidated by now, if that were possible.
The white-haired man stood up slowly and, with a sweeping motion of his arm, struck Vladimir across the cheek. The boy yelped like a kicked dog, then stepped back and kicked the white-haired man in the groin. He doubled up, clutching his genitals. The man with the quivering chins grabbed Vladimir from behind and pinned his arms against his sides. But the boy continued to strike out with his feet.
The white-haired man slowly straightened, conscious of his lost dignity and obviously angered by the general refusal to cooperate. He turned to Ginzburg and grabbed him again by the shirt, lifting him from the chair. “I warn you for the last time.”
Indifferent, Ginzburg turned his eyes away. The white-haired man pushed him back in the chair, turning again to the boy.
“One last time,” he shouted, “before I lock you up.”
He pulled out a ring of keys from his pocket. Obviously he was a policeman of the old school, a wielder of the carrot and the stick.
At the sight of the keys, the boy quieted. They were always dangling their keys, Godorov remembered. It was their greatest weapon of intimidation. The old Godorov had dissolved in paroxysms of fear at the mere sight of those keys, swinging ominously on huge metal rings. It was not at all odd to Godorov that the boy would understand the meaning of the keys. They were the perfect symbol of power.
“We will lock you up forever,” the white-haired man said. “No more chocolates. No more good things to eat. No more fun. No more mother and father. No more play.”
“It was him,” the boy said suddenly, pointing at Ginzburg, who looked at him blankly.
“Are you sure?” the white-haired man said.
The boy looked at Godorov, who turned his eyes away. What difference did it make?”
“Deny it,” Godorov said to Ginzburg.
“Deny what?”
“That you did that.”
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t.”
“He did,” the boy said, pointing again at Ginzburg.
“I did it, you idiots, I did it. It took me thirty years to find him.”
“Take him out of here,” the white-haired man said. The man with the quivering chins began to drag the boy from the compartment.
“What about the chocolates?” he asked.
“I’ll give you chocolates up your ass,” the white-haired man said. He dragged Ginzburg to his feet and snapped on a pair of handcuffs.
“Deny it,” Godorov repeated.
“Why?”
“How can he deny it?” the white-haired man said.
Ginzburg smiled. “It is much better this way,” he said gently.
“Why?” Godorov asked.
“It is something specific. At least if I am guilty of something, it is something specific.”
Godorov could understand that. He could remember his own unspecific crime. How it confused him.
The white-haired man opened the door of the compartment. He stopped for a moment and looked down at Godorov.
“Why would you want to save this Jew?” he asked. Then, as if expecting no answer, he stepped through the doorway.
Godorov lay back again and looked up at the underside of the bunk above him. What did it matter? he told himself. He was quite content to lie there without pain, without anger, without hope, heading nowhere.