by Oleg Pavlov
Funereal music was leaking through the walls. The mellow, muffled sounds were drifting around like shadows. The ward attendant slipped back in unnoticed, looking like a restless ghost. She had brought into the morgue two thin but well stuffed pillowcases. Institutov grabbed the fatter bundle, shook its contents onto the bare concrete ledge and froze: out tumbled a soldier’s tunic that had faded to a greyish hue and some useless old trousers of the same shade. They had been laundered, gone through a good clean, but a pale reddish-brown stain across the entire breast of the tunic still showed through. From the other pillowcase Institutov pulled out a pair of clunking combat boots, on which sparks of blood had caked into stains like burn holes. The head of the infirmary flung aside the blood-stained boots, grabbed the tunic and gave out a whimper, clutching the tunic in his hands as if it were his own doomed soul: ‘What’s this, Comrades? There should be a dress uniform on their books…’
‘It’s what it looks like: a complete screw-up, sir,’ said Serge with a smirk.
‘This is the end… Oh, what have we come to! They’ve fouled things up over and over!’ The head of the infirmary whined and groaned like a man who’d been robbed. ‘The murderers… The morons… I have to send him to Moscow in this!’
But Serge spoke in a buttery voice, oozing sympathy: ‘Oh, so they bungled things a little? Well it happens, we all make the occasional mistake. I can see the perfect candidate, just a stone’s throw from you: gormless old cloth-ears here. Go on, take it, a full dress uniform just waiting to be used, and, as for Georges and me, oh we won’t breathe a word. We’re civilised men, Georges and I… Heh heh.’ He looked straight at Kholmogorov, snickered and said pitilessly, staring him in the eye: ‘What you gawping at, greedy little peasant? Physical fitness uniform, pronto! Man is a friend to man – now, do as you’re told.’
Institutov turned in bewilderment to Alyosha and immediately flopped to his knees, wailing: ‘Kholmogorov, my dear son, save the day! Let me have it! You’ll get an even better one! Tomorrow we’ll drive out to the supply warehouse and you can pick out the very best, the very finest!’ He began clinging like grim death to the skirts of Alyosha’s coat, as though he were trying to snatch off even just a tuft of it, and shook him from side to side. ‘Get undressed, come on, time to toughen up,’ the male nurses joined in gleefully from behind Institutov.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Institutov was getting worked up, hearing the mocking, grasping voices behind him as though from somewhere above. ‘Give it to me now and tomorrow you’ll get an even better one. Look, I can’t use my own – I mean I’d happily take it off and use it but they’d see straight through that, Kholmogorov! Now, where am I going to find a soldier’s uniform? Where, tell me? I’ll scrub the boots clean, I’ll do it myself. Just think about it: how can they bury the soldier in my clothes? Don’t you feel any pity for your comrade? Just think what it will be like for his mother and father seeing him like this, put yourself in their shoes – imagine it’s your own mum and dad finding their son in this state!’
Kholmogorov came to and began handing over his things one by one, to the head of the infirmary’s delight. Institutov caught the items and passed them on like hot potatoes to the ward assistant, who lost no time in dressing the other man. Alyosha was standing there shirtless, while she was already buttoning up the shirt on the other soldier, struggling to slip the tie over his head until soon enough everything was concealed beneath the green of the uniform. Kholmogorov had given up his parade jacket, his shirt, his trousers, socks and shoes, and now he was barefoot and in his underwear. Pavel Pavlovich turned away so as not to see him. The head of the infirmary didn’t have the heart to tell the shivering half-naked youngster that he couldn’t remain like that either.
The ward assistant suddenly recollected something: ‘No need to be squeamish, my boy: it’s all as clean as can be, all nicely laundered. And I’ll bring you some shiny boots, even better than your old ones! I’ve got some, I have, been keeping them aside specially for you. And we’ll make you some footcloths. We can use some old towels, we’ll use waffle-weave ones if you like them nice and warm, or if you prefer them soft I can tear up some old sheets.’ And she slipped out to get the boots. Kholmogorov was touched by the sisterly warmth in her voice and he obediently began to put on the dead soldier’s uniform. ‘Right, now we’ll wrap you up in your overcoat, and everything will be just splendid!’ said Institutov buoyantly. ‘It’s called making something out of nothing. Well, what did I tell you? Ah, look, your boots have arrived…’ The smiling ward assistant came running into the morgue, out of breath, hugging to her chest a pair of weird and wonderful boots that were indeed shiny; in fact they looked like they’d been coated in varnish.
‘Phew, ran as fast as I could! Here you go, young man. Have no fear, they’re spanking new boots, see how lovely and shiny they are. An officer used to wear them for playing his trumpet in the orchestra.’
‘Playing his trumpet? You mean popping his clogs!’ Serge said.
The woman got angry and, for the first time, her pale and homely face grew flushed. ‘Don’t believe him! It’s all lies!’ She suddenly flew at him in fury, pressing the boots hard to her chest, as though she wouldn’t part with them for the world. ‘That man got better and left. But he forgot his boots. He had lots of pairs. These were the ones he wore when he played in the orchestra.’
Everything felt new and fragile. In the morgue they were all waiting and waiting for the nearby ceremony to draw to an end; its reverberations roamed about like ghosts, one moment humbly dying away, the next surging proudly like waves in the ocean. The noises drifted through the silence, automatically tingeing it with sorrow, until the male nurses could no longer sit still on their ledge and they began acting out this very grief. They stood guard either side of Mukhin, all decked out in his dress uniform, pulling grimaces as they called out, ‘Farewell, Comrade General! We shall always remember you, Comrade General.’ Their horsing around once again unsettled the head of the infirmary, and he tried to put an end to it. ‘I don’t expect Immanuil Abramovich would approve of this. Young men, this isn’t the circus.’
The nurses simply looked surprised, but they went back to sit on their boring old concrete ledge. ‘Are we disturbing anybody? I mean, they can’t see us or anything,’ Serge said with a puzzled look, but the head of the infirmary took this as another taunt and remained sulkily silent. In no time the young men were at it again, jostling each other, competing to see who was strongest and shoving each other off the ledge. Finally the last strains of music died away. Institutov began impatiently counting the minutes. Then came the sound of the funeral procession driving away.
Serge and Georges became cold and guarded now the party was ready to depart, and their entire demeanour urged their tiresome unwanted guests to make for the door. Pavel Pavlovich called Kholmogorov over; for some reason his voice was agitated. In his hurry to leave the place, Institutov even tried to help raise the costumed corpse onto the stretcher. ‘Complete barbarism. It’s all so brutal…’ But he suddenly faltered, upon spying the blackish caked-up hole in the dead man’s forehead. ‘Stop!’ he shouted and began nervously rummaging in his coat pockets until, relieved, he pulled out what he’d been looking for: an ordinary first-aid plaster. Institutov peeled off the white backing tape and, with an unfeigned look of anguish, he stuck it over the dark hole in the corpse’s forehead. ‘There, we’re done. My conscience is clear. I’ve done everything in my power.’
As they began lifting their load, the ward assistant crept up to Pavel Pavlovich and into the gaping pocket of his padded jacket she slipped a huge firm round apple that she had been clutching as though it were a cobblestone, then she ran straight off. Harnessed to the stretcher, in all the commotion the object of her affection did not even feel what had happened. The woman wept silently once she had run off a little way. Then she swivelled her head from side to side, gazing at all their faces and believing she liked what she saw. But the male nurses would
not let her out of the building, keeping her hidden away with pokes and prods, and they themselves vanished into hiding like wild little animals, silently locking the door from the inside. ‘Georgie Porgies, japers and jesters, jammy little buggers, may they all be damned!’ Pavel Pavlovich chanted his incantation without looking back.
DWELLERS IN THE DUST
‘All a man has is his mother’s belly – that’s his God-given protection and shelter. But once we’ve been chucked out into the world awaiting us, we spend the whole time trying to dive back into that little den. In this world we’re given all we need for life – it’s only that dear old mummy’s tummy that’s missing. See, when you’re in your mother’s belly you’re all swaddled up, but once you’re out in the world you’re hardly swaddled, are you? So there you have it. Birth, my good man, is what frees us all, starting with our little arms! God creates us unfree, and then, because of our original sin, we all get released. And like we’re trying to save ourselves from sin, each of us off his own bat begins building his own little house, his own den, his own prison, but we’re wasting our time. Now here it really is all the work of human hands – those little arms that were all swaddled up. Argh, those damned sinners’ hands! Truth is those houses of ours won’t protect us. They’re just like sunflowers, where there’s evil in every seed. What is it we covet and envy? Our neighbour’s house. Where is it we’re at each other’s throats? In our own homes, where we’re jam-packed like sardines. The Earth is ginormous, but people never have enough space, they’re always pigging away till they choke. They hang icons in their homes, so I hear – see, that’s all so they can lay the blame on God, while they’re ruling the roost in their own four walls. You think God’s going to punish them? Well He ain’t. Yes true, He is the creator, but how can His handiwork be guilty before its maker? I mean, how can this object here be guilty before me, and what comeuppance can it expect from my hand? Say my own handiwork gets me all worked up: I can’t even burn it, because I wasn’t making it for myself, I was making it for the grave, and it stops belonging to me the moment I hammer in the last nail. Well, it’s the same with God – we stopped belonging to Him after Adam and Eve. When we became free and sinners! He had a son, created him for Himself – and that son belonged only to Him. Poor thing, he suffered on the cross. Deary me, how he suffered when the Creator was driving the last nails into him for the perfection of human life. But He didn’t drive any nails into us, did He? No, my good man, everything the Creator made that wasn’t for Himself is beyond the reach of His hands. And no matter how much of your heart you put into your handiwork, you always know where its limits are. However much you invest your soul in it, your soul’s not going to be eternal if what you’re investing it in isn’t eternal. Now, I believe God Himself is made out of eternal stuff – He’s not made out of these here planks. But it’s only if you’ve created yourself that you can create thousands, millions of eternal beings just like you. But from the look of it, God can’t create more beings like Himself, because He doesn’t possess the secret and He wasn’t created for Himself but for us, for humankind. And that goes for people, too – they aren’t created for themselves, they’re created for their children. Right, and what do we need all this for? Sorry, my good man, but it’s not for me to say. I’ll just slog away my time. I’ll make myself a coffin for my final journey – now that’s where I’ll invest my entire mortal soul, oh yes! I’ll brush it all over with varnish, line it nice and soft – it’ll be as comfy as snow – and then it will be good night, Pankraty Afanasevich, sleep peacefully. God never let me have kids. That’s the fate He chose for me: not to have any children, my good man. Because I have so much bountiful soul in me, beautifying my coffin will be like ascending up to heaven itself out of sheer happiness. And I’ll be flying… See, the moment I sense my death is near, I’ll set to work. It won’t be like making a coffin, honest, it’ll be like creating wings! And who’ll begrudge me? Nobody! And what will trouble me? Nothing. They’ll close the lid behind me like it’s a door. They’ll leave me alone and in peace – and then it’s into the earth, into my own dear grave, as good as going back into my mother’s belly… Something happens after a person dies, only it’s not Heaven or Hell, and the Lord won’t breathe a new soul into you to replace the one that’s given up its heat. Maybe in our hour of death we depart for another creator, eh, my good man? To one who doesn’t hew us out of flesh but creates us out of dust. That one who breathes something into our dust is another creator, that’s right. Not a carpenter but a herbalist, that’s how I understand it. See, the only thing that grows out of those grave mounds is herbage. And what’s herbage for? It’s for everything – medicine, food, shelter for the bugs, and it’s just generally teeming with life… Now this herbalist must be the one who decides which of us gets to be which herbs or grasses and which of us turns into food for the worms…’
The Herculean grandfather craftsman cut an imposing figure: he was bearded, with a great round forehead that swallowed his hair right up to the crown of his head, which almost formed a second forehead in its place. He held forth tirelessly while lovingly embracing one or another of his robust heavy-shouldered coffins that measured a head taller than him.
The coffins stood in rows, leaning upright and silent against the walls.
In the middle of the timber shack, in the windowless space where the dirt floor was trodden down by boots, the craftsman’s latest work lay like a ship on the stocks: it too was a coffin. This was the handiwork of which he’d spoken. The unfinished coffin seemed much more solemn than all the completed ones and it looked particularly impressive amid the other unremarkable upended caskets. The gates of the shed were flung wide open, revealing a sombre grey sky of tufty clouds. One of the gates was entirely lopsided and supported by a post, like a one-legged invalid leaning on a crutch.
Near the entrance lay a heap of boards that had once been fencing, wooden walkways and plain old timber crates. Not a single board was clean; all were plastered with mud, battered and caked in clay. These planks were as mucky as swine and furry with thick bristles; they had splinters visible even to the eye and looked as rough as a pig’s snout. But it was clear that whenever the craftsman fished out a board from the pile, set it on the workbench and lovingly ran his crude plane over it, each plank would be purified of sin, take on a tender hue, almost the colour of flesh, and turn as smooth as a human palm, with all its unique natural lines laid open to the eye.
For this reason the workshop did not smell of rot or decay. It smelled of life-giving wood resin; the freshly-planed boards nailed together into coffins exuded the kingdom-of-heavenly spirit of pine and spruce.
The craftsman was searching for a suitable coffin, one that fitted in size and most likely in rank too. He went to take the measurements himself, although Institutov, in his desire to get everything going as quickly as possible, had already issued the prison-camp worker his orders, informing him what rank of coffin was needed and dictating the precise dimensions of the deceased. ‘But he might have swollen… Might have shrivelled… Depends on what kind of man he was, a good or a bad ’un.’ Then, disregarding the commander, and walking openly and upright as though on stilts, he went over to the army field ambulance that had been driven into the prison camp, unarmed and clapped-out from its long journey – quite unlike the trucks that came in from the outside world, which were stuffed with living creatures under guard. The ambulance had not waited for permission to enter but had simply sailed into the barbed wire zone more breezily than death itself, doing nothing at all to disturb this dingy world, and waved in by the guards without the slightest inspection.
The coffin maker peered into the back of the ambulance, his gaze dwelling for a minute alone with the corpse. Then, when he had gone ten paces back towards the workshop, he said gravely, in a reproach that only he understood, ‘He’s withered.’
Institutov stood there, arms hanging by his sides, and watched this perplexing prisoner walk back, realising in amazement that he was now
dependent not only on this man’s labour but also on his opinions. ‘My friend, how much time will you need to carry out the procedure? Will one hour be enough to get it done?’
‘For the love of the Lord, Citizen Boss. Work steams ahead when your soul harbours no sin. It all depends on God’s mercy: it could take an hour, or, for our sins, it could take five.’
‘You know, I can’t afford to wait for mercy from your God. See, your personal sins are nothing to do with me; religion is just an invention for slaves. That Jesus Christ of yours would have been better off learning to read and write before teaching morality to all mankind.’
‘So then, we have the coffin, the fabric covering, the zinc plating… And seeing as you don’t believe in God, you can throw in a packet of tea, and I’ll do the finest tip-top job, like a bespoke order.’
‘Well now, we’ll talk about your compensation when we’ve seen the end product.’
‘Ah yes. Then you can slip me another packet on top of it, Citizen Boss. And some sweets to go with the tea. That way I’ll be certain to do you a coffin within the hour. You can find it all in the shop. See it’s us folk who are lowest in the food chain, I’m afraid. When our time comes to die, we’ll find it easy – ’cause we’ve got nothing. Go on, give us the payment up front, to keep my inspiration up, otherwise my thoughts will drag me down.’
Institutov sent Pavel Pavlovich off to the shop. He waited impatiently until he’d returned, then showed the craftsman the two packets of tea and the biscuits, hoping simply to lure him into work, but the coffin maker refused to speed up without an advance and the head of the infirmary gave in, powerless that whole day to compel anyone to do as he wished.
‘And what about us – we meant to live on air?’ Pavel Pavlovich bellowed.
‘No, no, of course not!’ Institutov took fright. ‘I’ll see that you’re all fed… I’ll go to the canteen and arrange it right now!’
