Requiem for a Soldier

by Oleg Pavlov

  All of a sudden, in all those poor men languishing with their illnesses in the hospital waiting room, waiting, just as he was, for Institutov, Alyosha saw some courageous cosmic silt, of the kind you might find in turbid water. He was filled with happiness, indeed, he nearly cried aloud for joy: It will all happen tomorrow! We won’t even recognise ourselves tomorrow!

  Institutov turned up. He cast a hurried glance around the assembled men, but nothing too alarming caught his eye, and so he called out: ‘For today, my friends, I’ll be the pain and not the doctor!’ He reassured himself that the patients’ lives were not in danger, before having the medical staff politely eject them until the following day. He glanced around again to check that the path was clear. Then he beckoned impatiently to Alyosha.

  Outside the infirmary, a vehicle with bulging sides was grazing like a cow, gently chomping on petrol. It was the field ambulance, the regiment’s only one, in which Kholmogorov had once set out on his journey, not knowing where he was being taken nor what would become of him. A new driver – remarkably unlike the jolly old wag who had driven him the first time – was sitting self-importantly behind the wheel. Alyosha greeted him, but the guy did not even look round in response.

  Kholmogorov was perched in the back like a bird. The seat for the orderly had gone: in its place was a board abraded to a mouldering, polished darkness. It was so narrow that you could easily slide off unless you held tight with your hands. By the door lay some human-length military stretchers and an old, abandoned woollen blanket. It was as though a very tired or indifferent person had just been sleeping on a stretcher in the back of the ambulance and had wrapped himself up in the blanket.

  ‘I’ve been in this ambulance. It was before you arrived,’ Kholmogorov said, thinking that the new driver would enjoy this conversation. ‘Piss off!’ the latter abruptly replied in disgust, and Alyosha felt uneasy at the gravelly, somewhat whining voice. He could see only half of the stranger’s face: the single predatory eye stared keenly ahead. His tightly pursed lips made his mouth look like a seam. The moody man reminded Alyosha of a lizard: most likely he was supple and agile, but none too meaty.

  The sullen driver also ignored the boss who was prodding him on. As if by magic the vehicle began to pull away, but so slowly that it was like a boat drawing away from a dock – or perhaps it was a deliberate taunt to the head of the infirmary.

  Institutov took offence. ‘Look, this is all I need. Life hasn’t taught you much, my friend,’ he said, with a hint of menace.

  ‘Yes sir, Citizen Boss!’ the guy flared up. ‘I get mad when people try to teach me about life. Makes me want to put a gun to their forehead – bang!’

  ‘What! Where did you get hold of firearms?’ Institutov flinched with fear, then caught himself and fell silent in embarrassment.

  But the guy couldn’t resist giving still more cheek to the head of the infirmary, who had awakened something evil in him: ‘And what gives you the right to preach to me about life, when you do as you damn well please? You’d better leave me alone. I’ve become all jumpy since I’ve been in your infirmary: seen too much, I have! Else I might just blurt out the wrong thing one day – well, I only ferry about, you know, undesirables…’

  ‘Quiet, my friend, we’re in company…’ Institutov said under his breath. ‘Don’t speak out, there are mice about,’ he hissed through his teeth and then went quiet.

  They arrived so unexpectedly soon that it came as something of a let-down. Institutov leaped out and disappeared into a demure, solid-looking red-brick building. Alyosha peered at the lodge and the double gates, adorned with protuberant red stars. The lodge was deserted, as though everyone had gone into hiding from the cold. Five minutes passed and nobody entered or emerged from the building.

  The almost wild expanse of this place rolled out freely in all directions, airy and pure, appearing to lap at the shores of uninhabited granite palaces. Each building was five storeys tall and made of stone, as if it were a castle or palace. And that was how the whole of Karaganda looked, this city built in the steppes. Constructing the city had been akin to draining away the sea. The palace islands and the fortress dams traversed not rivers but the wild-roving river-like winds of the steppe. Every street looked like an avenue: they lay heavy and straight, with the elongated spans of bridges. Anyone who found himself here would shiver and huddle, dreaming of home and pining like an orphan for shelter.

  Through the blurry glass everything looked small, as though it had been plopped in a jar.

  ‘See, that’s where they decide people’s fates, where they search for the guilty. And there’s no precision to it. Who knows precisely what he has coming to him, how many years he’ll get? The prosecutor doesn’t know either; he just pretends to know. If they knew, we’d already be living in paradise – peace and precision, what mighty fine Communism. But I don’t buy it. Damn that old Citizen Prosecutor!’ the driver said without turning around, gritting his teeth. ‘The only thing I respect is the death penalty. You’ve killed – so die. A death for a death.’ At this point he suddenly objected excitedly to himself, ‘Well, don’t hold your breath, that’s the last thing they need! You know, people stink. In the slammer they do, that’s for sure. And who do you think they put away? If any of them had brains or brawn, they’d all be living it up on the outside. Who’s going to turn themself in, or even own up to themself what they’ve done or thought? But they make out there are some people who smell of roses and others who smell of crap. Those bastards decide who gets a bed of roses and who gets the slops. For certain people to be happy, they need others to be miserable. So, found yourself a cushy little number in the infirmary have you? Think you can spend your life on a hospital bed? You’re soft in the head and a weakling, yeah? Or maybe you’re a smart guy, a real go-getter?’

  Alyosha informed him gladly: ‘I’ve already done my service and tomorrow I’m catching the train home. They’ve still got to fit my tooth in the infirmary. See, I was looking after the firing range, not putting my feet up, you’re wrong if you think that. My place was in the trenches, that’s why not many people knew me. Me and Abdulla Ibrahimovich, we took care of the firing. You could say I spent two years at war.’

  His words met with mockery: ‘Well of course, forward, march! That’s where we all come from originally. Smoked weed, seen combat, wound your spilt guts round your wrists…’

  ‘Do you mean we come from the same place?’

  ‘Only if they found you among the cabbages. So, my vegetable, you’re from which patch then? Pray tell me your name.’ The reply did little to calm him down: ‘Right, Aleksei, much indebted, cheers for coughing it up. And your father’s name, your patronymic?’

  ‘I’m Aleksei Mikhailovich Kholmogorov.’

  ‘Well, that’s clear then, you’re no relation of mine. You’re Rumpelstiltskin, whereas I go by the name of Pavel Pavlovich… Got it? It’s the name I gave myself and what I put in my passport next to the family portrait. It means Pavel who comes from himself: Pavel Pavlovich. Want to know my surname? It’s a good ’un… My first name was given to me – but the rest I did for myself. Well, some kind people took it upon themselves to loan me the name Pasha, but I didn’t get any further in debt.’

  ‘But how’s that…’ Alyosha felt afraid before the mysterious Pavel Pavlovich, who, it turned out, had practically been born all by himself.

  ‘It just is. If I say so, then I’ve decided, and if I’ve decided, then I do it, and if I don’t do it, then what do you expect – I die.’

  These words sent a shiver through Kholmogorov. ‘Why die, though? If you take your time, you can do anything. That’s the whole point of it, of life, that no matter what happens, what counts is you’re alive.’

  The driver cooled off. ‘And who do you think you are? What life are you on about? Wait for what? One man runs about kowtowing and nipping off a bite of whatever falls into his lap. And he’s happy, and when his time comes, he’ll just lie there on the ground. And the other? He sets
himself up, earns his keep, won’t give anyone a chance to feel sorry for him and he’ll be buried in an expensive new suit. There’s nothing he can’t do. Even death comes naturally to him. A real man! But it makes you sick looking at the sucker lying with a hole in his head – oh how badly he wanted to survive, he probably screamed. I have no respect for those types. They want to live but they don’t want to do anything, and no one’s going to come along and make them. See, they’ve got nothing of their own! Men like that, even their death is a pile of rubbish. It’s like the kind of death you’d get on credit.’ Then he added in a patronising tone, as though confiding something of importance: ‘Death doesn’t kid about, and you don’t get to joke with it. Each of us only gets one shot at it. Death is like the highest risk game, a game of aces. It’s win or die. Make just one mistake, or be down on your luck – and sorry, but goodbye. Everyone’s playing against everyone else in this game. The thing I find most interesting is that for some reason the nasty people win the most. There’s no precision. Don’t screw up your face, no need for that, I won’t bite! You’re not worried that I’m one of those bastards, are you?’

  But Alyosha didn’t have time to think, for Institutov had appeared out of nowhere. It was as if he’d crawled over to them on all fours and then suddenly popped up like a jack-in-the-box. His face was pensive, sullen, lofty even. ‘Righty-o, chaps. One problem solved. That’s grand!’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘Please note I’m proceeding at my own risk, going it alone, almost groping in the dark. Assistance is nowhere to be had and, as always, I’ve been left to shoulder everything. Well, let’s go, off and away, my friend. To the kingdom of the dead, haha! To the house of mourning and grief! To a place they’re not expecting us, but where – ha! – we have a meeting.’

  ‌WHERE THERE’S DEATH, THERE’S LIFE

  The basement forensic pathology unit extended a warm and hospitable welcome to its guests and service users. It was located at the back of a vast greyish-white clinical complex, through which the weak and ailing were meant to flow like some sort of fluid along the coiled channels of variously sized buildings in order finally to emerge stronger and healthier. The many indistinguishable deserted drives, entrances and exits were all yawning with their willingness to serve as fire escapes and looked, at a glance, like dead ends. They had to circumnavigate this maze, while the same views kept flashing past like a deck of cards being shuffled: the tarmac, a street lamp, yet another drive… Pavel Pavlovich steered them patiently through the short and narrow streets. The head of the infirmary elbowed him several times, shouting out: ‘You’ve gone past it! Yes, my friend, there it is… Stop! Brakes!’

  Institutov got out gingerly and knocked on the resonant iron door. He stood in front of it, alone and vulnerable; he was stooping tensely, his head planted firmly on his impenetrable armour-clad body, and his sturdy stomach peeping from under his green and cockroach-brown officer’s trench coat.

  The door opened and out poked a smooth, rosy-cheeked mug that recognised the head of the infirmary with a smile. Institutov grimaced in disgust and, gesturing for Pavel Pavlovich and Alyosha to leave the vehicle, he deftly sneaked past the smarmy snout.

  The door to the morgue was now flung wide open, revealing a hefty young man, bursting with strength and satiety and for some reason eager to oblige. ‘Welcome!’ the porter greeted the downcast trio in a syrupy voice. ‘You’re here for the soldier? Come to send him on his final journey?’

  Institutov replied, ‘Can we get straight down to business? I’m pushed for time.’

  ‘Oh, but there’s just the one. Honestly, it’s no work at all!’ the porter said in surprise. ‘Have no fear. We’ll get it done in a trice. You’ve brought the coffin and suit with you? We’re going to make him up?’

  ‘Look, you may be running your own private shop here, but that’s not the way we do things!’ Institutov bellowed indignantly. ‘We have our own rules, our own procedures in these matters.’

  ‘But how can you leave out the coffin? I don’t follow you…’

  ‘No one’s asking you to follow anything. It is none of your business.’

  The porter’s face fell. ‘Well, in that case, you can deal with it yourselves.’

  ‘Quite, that’s just what we’ll do, and with no outside help, thanks. Could you show my men to the place.’ Then suddenly the head of the infirmary named aloud the man who had been on his mind all this time: ‘Gennady Albertovich Mukhin. Sent for post-mortem on the tenth of November. The examination has been performed. I have with me the documents from the prosecutor, so would you be so kind as to release the body straight away.’

  ‘Yes, but what are you going to carry him in?’ asked the burly man.

  ‘We have everything we need.’ Institutov puffed up importantly and, no doubt wishing to rouse his workers who stood rooted to the spot, he urged them on with the poetic exuberance of a team leader: ‘Come on guys! Time’s running out! Let’s have the stretcher!’

  Pavel Pavlovich looked around the hall, as though searching for something to assuage his hunger. Alyosha, feeling nervous, clumsily copied his partner’s moves as they took the stretcher, allowing himself to be led. The light vanished as they stepped into a dank and gloomy passage, along the bottom of which a draught was blowing as they drew closer to the cadavers. They had to stoop so as not to bang their heads against the oppressive and bulbous skull-shaped vault that disappeared into the depths. The passage was only wide enough for one; two men could not pass. So they descended in single file like convicts. Behind Pavel Pavlovich, all was silent. Alyosha felt underfoot the springy planks that had been laid across the ground and formed little steps; suddenly he tripped on one and stopped dead in shock… The stretcher knocked into Pavel Pavlovich, who was still moving forward, and he angrily shoved it back. The strange sensation of this poke in the stomach drove everything home to Alyosha and got him moving again.

  The ground had now become rock-hard and reverberant. Something lurking and festering with mould was giving a lively response to each sound. All that the eye could discern in the light shafts was the path they had travelled; now the tunnel began to climb, and a cloud of dust raised from the planks ascended towards the daylight while a luminous spectre of air hovered above, where it was cold and dry. But a moment later Kholmogorov found himself inside the morgue – and what he saw had him wide-eyed in shock. The door opened up like a secret panel: it was as though a section of the dust-coated wall had come away to reveal a hall shimmering with pallid cold bluish fragility. White-tiled walls and floors reflected the flat, lifeless incandescent light so that it cut like a blade.

  Kholmogorov had never in his life seen a corpse; he’d never been to a funeral. The hall was tiled from floor to ceiling, with each tile emitting bluish-white light like a headlamp. One half stood empty – for the sake of orderliness – while the other side was packed with wilted waiting naked bodies, also arranged in a semblance of order. Some lay on trolleys: single bodies, or pairs arranged head-to-toe, or piled on top of each other. There must have been around twenty of these trolleys. Mounting up against the wall in the corner was a heap of cadavers that had been unloaded right onto a tarpaulin on the floor and covered with a canvas sheet, but the cover was too short at the edges and lone arms and legs protruded. Through the humming in his ears Alyosha could make out the insistent call of ‘Mukhin, Mukhin.’ And, instinctively turning towards this call, suddenly he saw the head of the infirmary standing nonchalantly just a couple of paces away, right up close. Merely wincing slightly from the odour, Institutov was quibbling again.

  Pavel Pavlovich looked around the morgue with the coolness of an old hand, although not without curiosity. Meeting Alyosha’s gaze, he quickly motioned with his eyes, silently bringing something to Alyosha’s attention in a brotherly way. The horror subsided, his eyes adjusted to the waxy, anonymous figures, yet Kholmogorov rotated his head from side to side like a blind man and was merely amazed by what he heard. Nearby, two animated voices were cawing loudl
y like crows, quarrelling amid the chorus of voices keeping intently silent about their own deaths. The abundant human nudity for some reason made Alyosha think of a bathhouse. He imagined this freezing room once upon a time giving off clouds of bathhouse vapours. But in that bathhouse, where people emerged from the steam as naked as babies and shrieking from the whole experience as though they were being tickled, it was blissfully breezy to go without clothes. In this place, not a single one of these lifeless bodies could feel that delicious lightness – they were probably not even human now. Alyosha began to feel odd, swaddled up in his coat and uniform amid all the glaring nudity. His clothes suddenly felt as heavy as lead and he had the repulsive sensation of being covered all over in tawny fur, like a monkey, from the shag of his ochre greatcoat.

  ‘Mukhin, Mukhin,’ rang out over and over beneath the vaults of this hall where no mourners were to be found.

  In the hall the funeral team was greeted by another porter, who offered his commiserations as if they were relatives of the deceased. It turned out that the hefty man who had met them at the door was the one tasked with running the errands.

  This new porter was in the prime of life and looked even burlier than his accomplice. Under the white surgical cap that he wore to hide his bald spot, a rustic face smudged by drunkenness was framed with manly silver sideburns. He must have overheard the discussion between his deputy and the head of the infirmary from down the tunnel, and was no longer holding out for anything much. Institutov quickly adopted the same sculptural pose, only this time expressing contempt; twining his overworked arms into the same toothpuller’s knot, he disdainfully proceeded to dictate his duties to the new porter and demanded that he hand over the body of ‘Serviceman Mukhin’.