Captain of the Steppe

by Oleg Pavlov

  ‘Fyodor Fyodorovich, they won’t let me through!’ Put on the spot, Skripitsyn lost his nerve. The colonel took offence. Looking apprehensively into the corners and saying nothing, he hustled the warrant officer quickly into his office and shut himself in behind.

  In his office, the colonel pounced on Skripitsyn and started bawling at him, giving free rein to his torments: ‘Have you no shame, you little shit? You’re a filthy tramp and you smear shit on everything around you!’

  ‘Fyodor Fyodorovich, I’m sorry. I’ll put it all right, there won’t be a stain left on you …’

  ‘He’ll put it right! The mirror, man, just look in the mirror – do you understand quite what sort of shit you look like in my office?’

  Turning painfully to the mirror, Skripitsyn saw his full reflection smeared across the bulky silver plate: his greatcoat was all covered in brown steppe mud; the splashes had reached right up to his chest, where they hung like medals. His face looked as though people in boots had been walking across it: it was bloodied, and plastered with more of the same mud. He shuddered and peeled himself away from the mirror, turning back to the colonel. Vacantly, yet triumphantly, he said, ‘I was shot at.’

  Hearing this, Pobedov shrank deep within his tunic. Cheered by the effect this had had on the old man, Skripitsyn puffed out his chest and hastened to report, ‘I was at Karabas, at Sixth Company, Captain Khabarov’s … ’ And, after a pause for breath, he blurted out: ‘Khabarov met me with a bullet.’

  ‘That can’t be right!’ buzzed the colonel. ‘Pack that in. I called the Sixth yesterday, as we agreed, and set things to rights. I explained everything to this captain, and he grasped it. He’s a mild enough bloke. I went through it all with him and tore a strip off him like you asked, oh, and then some!’

  ‘How come, Fyodor Fyodorovich,’ said Skripitsyn, in exasperation, ‘you tore a strip off him and yet, when I got there, they treated me like a nobody?’ Pobedov barked: ‘Don’t overdo it; you are a nobody, aren’t you? There’s only one regimental commander here.’ The agent subsided and started mumbling. ‘But this captain called you a general. Said some general rang him. Does this mean you’re a general, Fyodor Fyodorovich? Have you been promoted?’

  The colonel stepped back and sat down, snatching at a chair that was facing the other way. It had become difficult for him to stand. In his upset, he started speaking earnestly, trying to forestall Skripitsyn; that is, trying to come down still harder on him: ‘I always remember what I say; your regimental commander isn’t a clown. Don’t confuse me. What do you mean, a general? What are you snivelling on about, what are you staring for? What did you report to me, you little shit? Wasn’t it that a year’s supply of potatoes had gone missing at the Sixth? But if the potatoes are in fact all there, then what’s to punish? Or is everyone here telling me lies? Argh! Seems I already made the right decision. I bollocked the captain for acting without orders. I approved the fact that the potatoes were all there. Let ’em carry on, at least they can all eat! And you, you fucker, again you’ve messed it all up. Yet again. Listen, you portable monstrosity, I’m tired. You drive me mad. I’ll send you to court myself.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ve already sorted everything out yourself, Fyodor Fyodorovich?’ said Skripitsyn, feigning surprise.

  Pobedov really did not want to answer; it was only anger that made him yell: ‘Oh, leave it alone, man! What are you hassling me for? What I want to do, I’ll do, seeing as I’m regimental commander.’

  ‘I only acted for the best, Fyodor Fyodorovich … ’ Skripitsyn was trying to cover his back. ‘I thought: “What will they say about us?” There’s an inspection on the way.’

  Hearing of the inspection, the colonel began fidgeting at the desk. ‘But what about the general? What was this crap your captain was spouting about a general? After all, there’s a general coming to us for the inspection.’

  ‘That’s what I’m telling you, Fyodor Fyodorovich, you haven’t thought about the kind of creature this captain is … He didn’t seek your permission over the potatoes, so of course you couldn’t have given it. You’d have had to go first to the divisional commander to get permission, and then maybe even higher, to Central Command. So the matter has nothing to do with potatoes, really, but with the fact that a man like that, with nothing to lose, like this Khabarov, has dared to go against the rules. Turns out this is a political problem. Such people are more dangerous than any infectious illness. He got this vegetable patch of his going. I might add: he fired the first shot! Be sure of one thing: you’ve got company commanders in the regiment who fire point-blank at the head of the Special Department … ’ The colonel took fright and called the agitated agent closer to him. ‘Well, now, don’t get worked up. Sit down.’ Then he pondered, and muttered confidentially, ‘Now, these potatoes … What shall we do with them now, eh? Maybe we should hand them to the security organs? But what about this captain?’

  ‘I’ve got him under arrest for now, back there in Karabas.’ Skripitsyn did not flinch. ‘The security organs, they’re not exactly a loving mother. You were right when you said we got into a right mess with these potatoes. It would be better if not a soul knew about them; if they all disappeared, or rotted away completely.’

  ‘Everything must be done as the law demands …’

  ‘That’s right, Fyodor Fyodorovich, but you don’t need to think about that. Take it as read that I’ll take all responsibility myself. I’ve already seen to it that there are none left.’

  ‘You’ve planted them back in, or something? Anatolii, look, stop driving me up the wall.’

  ‘Now don’t you worry, Fyodor Fyodorovich, I am indebted to you. I did everything necessary.’

  ‘But what about the captain, what should we do with this Khabarov?’

  ‘Leave Khabarov to me. I’ll put a full stop in his dossier, in a way that won’t cause a fuss.’

  ‘Ah, this weighs me down … It’s a strange old dish to be cooking up just before an inspection, of all things.’

  ‘But Fyodor Fyodorovich, who said we have to scoff it all down now? Cases, they take a long time to prepare … We’ll have the trial after the inspection has happened, so that the regiment looks all fluffy.’

  ‘All right, make your own decision on this; only, I know nothing about it.’

  Looking at Fyodor Fyodorovich, it was clear that he gained in strength as he arrived on duty, appearing a dashing chap, with firm, freshly shaved cheeks and in a tunic that fitted him well – perhaps he had had it specially tailored. By the end of the day, though, Pobedov already looked wrung out, his cheeks sagged and the rosiness that appeared shortly after shaving turned into blueish stains through which grey stubble poked like a pin-cushion. Skripitsyn could not hold back and asked the old colonel suddenly, ‘So why were you looking for me, Fyodor Fyodorovich? I was imagining all kinds of things on the way here.’ And the colonel, who had been intent on dismissing this bearer of bad news, felt his heart ache, as though a worm had crawled into it. Pobedov was remembering why he had sought Skripitsyn out, although he now feared to say, so he flushed and yelled cantankerously in reply, ‘When the regimental commander calls, you are duty bound to present yourself. Present yourself and make your report! You’re a little shit, but the commander’s been looking for you all day, because you are duty bound to present yourself and report.’

  On removing himself from the colonel’s office, Skripitsyn inhaled deeply, filling his whole chest, like after a good steaming in the bathhouse. His mood was excellent. ‘So, you arse, is your arse not hurting yet?’ he enquired, condescendingly, even mockingly, of Sokolskii. The latter was by now sitting in the anteroom that wasn’t so much empty as seemingly laid waste by someone, and he had taken hold of some of the papers he found hateful; even their colour was grey. ‘Silence!’ the lieutenant shot out, suppressing the envious lump that caught eternally in his throat. ‘I apologise, comrade General,’ Skripitsyn bowed low, with an obsequious expression. ‘It’s my fault. If you would, a
pply your belt to my backside.’ Then he smirked and straightened up. ‘Listen, comrade … general; say another word out of line, and I’ll break your neck.’ For the pleasure of it, he risked a kick at the heavy anteroom door with his boot, and it flung open with a bang. And he walked out holding himself so tall and straight, perhaps he thought himself some kind of general.

  Barely in control after what had happened, Sokolskii burst into the colonel’s office, where he had a nervous crisis: ‘Again Skripitsyn gets away scot-free. I refuse to understand it! He comes in here, filthier than a pig, but you … Again you don’t pay any attention. What’s he doing, strolling round headquarters, the swine? Where’s the honour due us officers?’

  ‘Shut the door, man, shut the door … ’ said Pobedov in irritation – doorways had been bursting open in his line of sight, which meant his gaze fell as if into a tomb, ending at the distant, mute wall in the corridor of HQ, some twenty paces away.

  ‘No. I won’t shut it, and I won’t leave,’ said Sokolskii, boldly. ‘First, you answer me: what gives him the right to insult officers and to tip up in your anteroom as though he’s at home in his own hovel?’

  ‘Simmer down, brother, what have you got so upset for? He does a difficult job … And shut the door, do you need telling twice?’

  ‘Fyodor Fyodorovich, how can you not see that Skripitsyn is consciously doing you harm? That he’s weaving a web around you? And how he looks, the way he looks at you? Have you noticed? Insolent, disrespectful …’

  ‘Oof, you’re talking out of turn yourself, there. Aren’t you at least soaking the drink up with anything? Eat something with it, brother, or else you’ll spew up from fright right here, if you see a ghost.’

  ‘Fyodor Fyodorovich!’ shrieked the lieutenant. ‘I understand, you think it’s funny … But just you keep in mind: wherever Skripitsyn has been, a fire soon follows. Everyone of higher rank than him – everyone – he hates. The criminal! But do you know how he got that nickname – Lard? It was back when he was still a simple soldier. One day he actually stole some lard from the cookhouse!’

  ‘Well, same here, I nearly ended up before the court. Ah, we all go before the court.’ Pobedov smiled wryly. ‘And you aren’t so simple, either, I’ve seen. You wait, your turn will come. Don’t answer back. I’m in command here. I know better than you. Smershevich, you know, was an old wolf, and he only gave Skripitsyn exemplary appraisals, so you put your fire out. Skripitsyn will be here as long as I need him. And so will you … Shut the door, I said, you turd, you’ll let all the warmth out! And you will, you know, do your duty … ’ Confused and tormented, the old colonel bashed the desk in his rage, blurting out: ‘If it comes to it, I made you all who you are now, and I’ll take you all apart. Limb by limb, if need be.’

  Just as Pobedov was striking his desk, staring around with his bulging eyes, his gaze seemed to collide with a slumped figure, twisted around a briefcase, which had suddenly appeared to grow out of the dim HQ corridor as though it were some kind of awful phantom … ‘Get out!’ roared the colonel. However, the phantom had already dematerialised, as though it had never been there at all. Calming down, he turned to Sokolskii, ‘Gah, I’m seeing things … Anyone would go mad with you lot around. I’m sorry, son. Go brew me a nice hot cup of tea … ’ Sokolskii instantly skipped out of the room to make some tea for Fyodor Fyodorovich.

  Incidentally, the old colonel hadn’t been hallucinating at all when he thought he saw Skripitsyn. On leaving the anteroom, the investigator hadn’t quit HQ but had gone for a wander instead. He’d walked along the corridor into a dead end, as if planning to take a good run up from that direction. However, as he approached the wall, he had happened to find himself before an inconspicuous door tucked right away in the HQ building. It had a veneered nameplate, which read: ‘PV Degtiar’. He went and knocked on this door. The adjutant was just having a bite to eat when this furtive knock came. He had deployed himself at his government-issue desk with his cap covering his bald spot; in one hand he held a biscuit that he’d dipped in some condensed milk, while in his other he had a simple faceted tumbler of steaming liquid. Degtiar’s office was more modest than the colonel’s: there was no anteroom, no walnut cupboards or elongated desks, no mirror. It did, though, contain a strict tidiness: it was clear that this equipment served just as punctiliously as its owner. When the knock came, Degtiar became embarrassed and hid his biscuit in his desk. ‘Petr Valerianovich, can I come in?’ A head came round the door. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were eating. Enjoy your food, I’ll look in later.’ The adjutant just managed to recognise the investigator before he vanished again, leaving Petr Valerianovich in solitary silence. Understanding nothing, Degtiar breathed out heavily, feeling a peculiar sense of guilt, for no particular reason.

  Worn out, Skripitsyn decided to spend the night in the Special Department, so as not to have to slog all the way to his quarters at the other end of Karaganda. After their wooden building had burnt down, the Special Department had occupied an extension stuck on the backside of the HQ building. It had been so poorly rendered that the plaster had peeled off the sides, so that beams stuck out of its three walls like skinny ribs. There were no lights in the windows and the door was locked. Sanka had yet to make his way back from the garage where he’d had to park the lorry. Sanka actually lived in the Special Department, by Skripitsyn’s permission, although just now he had completely forgotten this fact. Skripitsyn dealt with the lock using his personal key, and passed like the wind through the department.

  There were three little rooms in total, if you didn’t count the cold changing room with its coat stand and basin; they were like train compartments, leading to the office at the end, where the boss worked. They were filled with fireproof cabinets, containing secret souls in paper form. In one of these rooms, behind the cabinets, was Kolodin’s nook, where his bed was. Here, Skripitsyn undressed, tossing his shroud-like greatcoat to the floor, followed by his tunic and shirt, leaving himself bare to the waist. His flabby white belly and chest wobbling freely, he stepped into the cold changing room to wash, but when he set the tap running, the duty telephone began chirruping in the department.

  Despite his ignoring it, the ringing did not stop.

  Skripitsyn shrank into himself: how did anyone know he was still there? Only one man could have known, and only one man could be asking for him. Dragging himself into his shaken-up office, the Special-Department agent found he was not mistaken. Pobedov’s choked-up voice squeezed down the receiver: ‘Anatolii, he rang me!’

  ‘Who did, Fyodor Fyodorovich?’

  ‘Oh, your Khabarov, that’s who!’

  ‘What did he say to you?’

  ‘I didn’t speak to him, the piece of shit. I ordered them not to put him through, to break the connection immediately … So, what happened then, did you not arrest him? How’s this happened, how come he’s still at liberty?’ Skripitsyn remained silent, and the colonel grew tense: ‘Anatolii, are you there? Hello, hello … Anatolii, I’m telling you, tomorrow he must be behind bars!’ Skripitsyn tried to buy time, asking: ‘And the order for his arrest?’

  ‘You go there and nip it in the bud, and I’ll take care of the paperwork.’

  ‘Very well, Fyodor Fyodorovich. I’ll come to you in the morning and we’ll discuss it.’

  ‘There’s nothing to discuss. In the morning, you go to Sixth. You’ve created this mess, so now you can make sure it’s all tidied up for me. You’re a bunch of shits and scumbags, you should all be buried in a ditch somewhere!’

  Skripitsyn tossed aside the beeping receiver, and then gave a dry, rasping laugh, like the breath of a guard dog on the chase. Catching his breath, and picking up the abandoned telephone, he called the regimental switchboard: ‘This is Skripitsyn speaking. Did the colonel get a call from Sixth Company? Who made the call? Then put me through right now … I’m telling you, put me through. Those orders do not apply to the Special Department. Give me Karabas.’ A voice was heard, finally getting thro
ugh, and he immediately lashed out at it, ramping up the pressure: ‘Is that the Sixth? Are you so drunk you can’t talk sense? Where’s Khabarov? What did you say? You piss-artist, say that again to me and … Listen, and remember! You let Khabarov go! Let him go! This is me talking to you … Yes, I’m a general! Here are my orders. Don’t let him have command. As of now, he is considered relieved of his post. Don’t let him near the guards. Do you hear? Don’t let him make any calls, we’ve enough idiots as it is without him. You tell him just that: “idiots”.’

  Ringing off, Skripitsyn immediately dialled the switchboard again. ‘This is Skripitsyn. I’ve spoken to them … If the colonel himself calls the Sixth, let me know … You what? Do you want to end up in the Special Department? And if they call from Sixth, put them through to us. We’ll figure out what they’re after over there.’ While Skripitsyn was managing these calls with aplomb, Sanka appeared in the Special Department’s annexe. He had had no thought of encountering his boss, but when he heard his voice he realised that Skripitsyn had decided to spend the night there. This had happened before, although learning from last year’s fire, Skripitsyn was reluctant to stay in the department at night; and if he did stay, Sanka gave up his bunk behind the fireproof cabinets and went to sleep in the garage. This was why, shifting from one foot to the other, Kolodin waited for a similar order.

  Catching sight of Sanka, seared by his gaze, Skripitsyn grew angry. ‘What are you up to, why are you lurking behind me?’

  ‘Right, I’ll be off to the garage,’ said Sanka, stepping back, but Skripitsyn collected himself and changed his mind. ‘Hang on a sec. You can sleep later. First, wash down the lorry.’

  ‘Yes sir, I have washed it down already.’ Kolodin turned his dark, leathery face away and stepped towards the door, but Skripitsyn still couldn’t let him leave the department. ‘Wait up, Kolodin, listen to me a minute … Those potatoes were dangerous. The order came to destroy them. And all I know is that it was a matter of state. The only ones told were me and the regimental commander, and you, of course. But from now on, you just forget all about it.’