By the seventh hand, the players tell him that he is out of the card game, because he has run out of money. The matchstick pleads with them to let him stay, declaring that he will soon sweep everyone’s pockets and promising them a surprise if he does not. Happy to keep poking fun at this wretch, the card sharks let him stay in the game. After hands seven, eight and nine, he owes an additional five roubles that he does not have, and when they demand the promised surprise he takes off his hat and offers a free concert. “I am a famous singer,” he announces, expelling a mist of vodka.
“Adooooon olaaaaam . . .” he goes on, now with an extravagant vibrato in his voice. Before he has quite finished the note, a fist lands in his face and he spits out a couple of teeth. Now he is not merely a man in debt but, more pertinently, a Jew in debt to a Pole – a situation that will inevitably end badly. But before a second fist can find its target, Novak gets to his feet, pulls up a chair and declares that he will pay the żyd's debt. Instead of five roubles, he pulls out a twenty-five rouble note.
The card players look at one another in astonishment. A muscled member of the group is tempted to take the money, but his friend snatches the note from him and gives it back to Novak with a bow. “No need, Your Highness.” In a flash, the party breaks up: one of them apologises and says that his wife is waiting for him at home, another volunteers to walk with him, a third is tired, and a fourth has to get up early the next morning. Novak knows that he has just blown his cover. A drunken vagabond like him is not supposed to carry this kind of money in his purse. He persists in trying to pay the żyd's debt as they begin to leave, but the group persists in declining, and before they depart they even sit the matchstick in a chair and straighten his clothes, although it is not easy to spruce up a fool with a bloody mouth and missing teeth. The next to leave are the patrons from the adjacent table, dragging with them a stupefied drinker who had been sitting alone by the door. Finally, the only people left in the room are Novak and the żyd, who stares blankly in front of him and mumbles, “be-terem koll, yetzirrr nivraaa . . .”
Novak sits before him and empties a glass of water over his head. Dazed, the matchstick looks up at Novak like a man blinded by sunlight.
“Where is your wife?” Novak asks, calmly. “I’ll take you to her.”
“My wife?”
“Isn’t she your wife?”
“How should I know who she is? How could she be my wife? We only met today, even though she claims it was the day before yesterday. They picked me up in Telekhany, so they say, although I do not recall having been in Telekhany. How could they have picked me up from a place I didn’t go to? The Devil knows. Maybe the honourable gentleman could tell me, because all this is beyond me.”
And now an excellent opportunity has presented itself to Novak. He could load this matchstick onto his shoulder and take the stairs to the next floor without ever being suspected of his true intentions. They will probably think it was chivalrous of him to rescue their friend from a pack of card-sharks, and will never guess that he is the secret police commander of the north-western districts. But Novak’s one healthy leg can’t manage even the matchstick’s flimsy weight, and when he tries, he slips on the second step and the unconscious singer lands on his maimed thigh. Patrick Adamsky, who must have heard the thud, comes charging downstairs and grabs the two by their throats. “You miserable pigs, that’s enough for today!” He throws the matchstick towards the door and kicks Novak in the belly. The colonel tries to stand despite this humiliation, but his cane is out of reach by the stairs, so he clutches at a table and drags himself along on one foot in the direction of his third foot. Adamsky beats him to it, looks at the etchings on the cane and realises that this is not the cane of a tramp. What is more, Adamsky has seen dozens of these men with their gaits warped by a shrapnel wound, and their legs amputated below the ankle, thanks to the innovation of the great surgeon Pirogov. Now he faces Novak apprehensively. It is clear to both of them that they can be either friends or foes now, nothing inbetween.
“So. Do you have a room for me?” Novak asks, brushing dust and dirt from his shirt.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Adamsky says, assuming that this man is no more than a captain. “We are full tonight.”
“I could share with them,” Novak says. “We could all squeeze in together. Do you think they would mind?”
“They?”
“The nice couple for whom you went to such an effort to provide a room.”
Adamsky is silent.
“Did they pay you at all? With money, I mean?”
“What else would I do it for?” Adamsky chuckles. “For nothing?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“If they don’t pay, I’ll kick them all the way to the police.”
“Well,” Novak sits down, “the police are exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Adamsky also sinks into a chair. “Are you . . .?”
“Not exactly,” Novak says. He’s been in the job for ten years and still finds it hard to admit that all he has become is a lousy mole in the police force, albeit a high-ranking one. “I won’t ask you for your papers, Mr Adamsky – or, should I say, Captain Adamsky.”
Novak notices that the landlord is trembling. The interrogator has gained the upper hand.
“Anyway, I am tired, it’s late, and I need a bed. As you have seen – or maybe you haven’t, busying yourself with tavern matters – I just rescued this fool from the clutches of those angry card players. I mean him no harm. And what do I ask in return? To share a room with the man whose life I just saved. His wife also seems nice – humble and shy. How did she end up in this sewer? The Devil must have had a hand in it, although I could not say for sure. Surely the two of them would like to tell me about their adventures out on the road? And in the meantime, you will have time to talk about the old days with that friend of yours. Or is he an adversary? It’s hard to tell. Either way, if you wake up in the morning and find that the couple has indeed left without paying, I will gladly take care of their bill. We can even agree to keep this a secret between the two of us, can’t we?”
At that moment, the man with the scarred mouth comes downstairs. He passes them and nods politely, then lunges at the matchstick still lying near the entrance. For a moment, it seems as though he means to revive the wretch, but instead he kicks him in the face, yanks his ear and drags him away by the scruff of the neck. They disappear upstairs. Novak scratches at the filthy floor with his cane as though annoyed by a stain, then he plants the cane on the ground and stands up, looming over Adamsky, who remains seated.
“I can see you are concerned about that man, don’t think that I haven’t noticed,” Novak says. “Is he really an old comrade, Adamsky? If he is indeed your friend, he’ll be guaranteed immunity. I think we understand each other, do we not?”
Adamsky grows pale.
“I think that if we keep those we care about close, maybe locked up in a private room, it is a safe bet that no harm will come to them, at least not tonight. And as for the others, why don’t we let fate take its course?”
Adamsky nods.
V
* * *
At about three in the morning, Fanny awakes with a start, with the feeling that a giant spider is crawling up her neck. There is a figure sitting in a chair by her bedside, holding her arm. She twists over onto her back and sends her hand to the scabbard on her thigh. But her movements are too abrupt, and the figure grabs her by the throat and pins her arm to the mattress.
“There’s no need to be afraid,” the man says softly. “It’s just me here.”
Fanny is breathless. The moonlight coming through the window has peeled back the darkness from a small patch on the floor, but left everything else almost pitch black.
“What do you want?” she says in a raised voice, hoping that Zizek might hear her from the other room, or at least that she will wake Shleiml Canto
r, who is snoring in the other bed. She assumes that the man sitting beside her is Patrick Adamsky, the Jew-hater. A man who has burned down synagogues wouldn’t hesitate to assault her.
“Well, my dear, we do not know each other, but I am not important right now, and I certainly do not intend to become the subject of this conversation. You, on the other hand . . . it’s not every day that one meets a woman so quiet and fragile in a miserable tavern such as this, and especially not one with your foreign accent. If I had to guess, I would say a Jewess, a Jewish mother even, but I wouldn’t bet my life on it. For it is a well-known fact that Jewish mothers do not abandon their homes and children, is it not so?”
Every one of Fanny’s senses is on fire. The landlord’s clothes give off a reek of liquor that blends with the waft of stale breath, a smell of sweat and the faint scent of blood. The hand around her neck is rough and strong; it would be impossible to escape from its grasp.
“In any case, Adamsky, the landlord, has assured me that we can have our little chat without fear of interruption, and I’ve brought this fine plum brandy along with me to toast the occasion. As you people say, lechayim! If I loosen my grip a little, will you promise not to scream?”
Fanny nods. Evidently, the man pinning her down is not Adamsky. The bastard has betrayed them instead.
“Alright then. Sure you won’t have a drink with me? No? Not to worry, the matter is settled in any case. Any moment now, a few close friends of mine will arrive and help me take in the thug you hired to do your dirty work. Forgive me for not including the vision of loveliness snoring at your side, but even after only a brief acquaintance I can safely say that if that fool is involved in any crime at all, it was without his knowledge. Wouldn’t you agree? You took him along for insurance – an alibi, in legal parlance. But a reliance on the testimony of a wastrel like that is a double-edged sword that can easily turn against you. In any event, I would let you and your plot roll on, and maybe even assist you, if it would help me to understand what it is that you want. But there are three bodies to your credit already, and I’m afraid that the damage will only worsen if we do not get to the bottom of this right here and now. So, I have only one question, and if you are wise enough to answer it honestly, perhaps we can evaluate your position anew. My question is: why? That’s all. Why?”
Fanny says nothing. The grip around her neck grows tighter.
“Zvi-Meir,” she hisses.
“Zvi-Meir?” The grip slackens a little. “What the hell is a Zvi-Meir?”
From the road outside, they hear the sound of galloping hooves. The horses stop by the inn, and then the clatter of their riders’ footsteps rises from the ground floor. The man at Fanny’s bedside releases his hold on her throat and goes out to greet these new arrivals. He summons a brute called Simansky to guard Fanny, and then, with calm authority, Piotr Novak orders the two other men to follow him to the room of the tavern’s landlord, Patrick Adamsky, with the warning that they should expect a certain resistance from the captain and his friend, two battle-hardened soldiers.
Simansky is not at all satisfied with his task. Keeping watch over a woman is a trifling business, the stuff of new recruits. Instead, he hovers out in the corridor, closer to the real action. Perhaps he will still get the chance to show his true worth.
The other two agents and Novak break into Patrick Adamsky’s room and find the landlord and his burly friend fast asleep. Adamsky jolts awake, jumps out of his bed and yells at Novak, “You bastard! You promised you would leave us alone,” only to be punched in the face by Albin Dodek. Ostrovsky and Dodek already have control of the scar-mouthed ruffian: they handcuff his arms behind his back and slam his forehead against the wall. Novak kicks Adamsky hard in the stomach, to return the blow the landlord had dealt him earlier, and jabs at his chest with his cane.
“Do you know the difference between a captain and a colonel?”
Adamsky squirms.
“Well, it will be my pleasure to explain it to you, my good sir. A good captain must be an exemplary officer on the battlefield. He has to lead his men always from the front, he has to show great courage and conquer his foes. But a colonel must be more cunning, he has to design strategies, engineer diversions, even sacrifice one squadron for the sake of another. The long and short of it is that he has to be a sly bastard. The higher up you go in the chain of command, the more people you are required to deceive, not only among your enemies, but also among the ranks reporting to you. Is not that so? And now, let’s return to us. During our last conversation, I sensed that you were not only sacrificing this strange couple in order to save your friend, but also that you would welcome their capture. But if this is the case, then according to the deal that we struck, I would be doing you a favour, and you would be sacrificing nothing for me in return. Therefore, if we evaluate our situation anew, our deal is void as of this moment. And now, let us all have a glass of plum brandy and a nice friendly chat, shall we? Simansky!” Novak yells into the corridor. “Bring the woman.”
It has proved an impeccable plan, executed perfectly. Dodek and Ostrovsky gaze at their commander in admiration. Novak’s instructions to his deputy and agents have been flawless from the start, and his assessment of the situation equally brilliant, especially when you consider the fact that he constructed the whole scheme after spending most of the night in this sewer, being kicked in the ribs and stomach. After the colonel’s sharp, precise speech to Adamsky, his colleagues can only imagine what he might have in store for the interrogation.
There is one flaw in the plan however – albeit one that could not have occurred to any of them at the time. Simansky, despite his instructions to guard the woman, has been standing outside in the passageway for a while now, still stewing about having been denied any participation in the main action next door. In the room he was supposed to be guarding, he has left a poor, helpless woman and another miserable creature lying next to her, who, judging by his rancid smell, is slumbering in a pool of his own urine. And he, Simansky, instead of acting like a force for law and order, is expected to hang about here and play the nurse. His comrades might as well call him Florence Nightingale and replace his rifle with bandages and disinfectant.
And so, ever so slowly, he abandons his post and draws closer and closer to the main battlefield in the landlord’s room. Finally, leaving his back exposed to anyone who should come along the corridor, he presses his ear against the door behind which the arrests are taking place.
Quite suddenly, Simansky feels a sting on his neck, followed by sharp pain. He freezes, expecting it to pass quickly, and then he slaps at the place where he has been stung to drive away the mosquito or fly. But when he turns back to continue his eavesdropping on the action in the landlord’s room, he realises that his hand is wet with a strange fluid. He looks over his shoulder and sees the woman he was supposed to be guarding standing right behind him. She is watching him with equanimity, the crazy witch, and he thinks he should politely tell her to go back to the room. At that point, an unbearable pain cuts through his head, smashing down the gates of his consciousness, and his fists flail at the door, pushing it open.
At the sight of Simansky on the threshold, Novak regrets not dismissing him immediately after he submitted his fabricated report. It is a disgrace for the Okhrana to have an agent on its books who looks like this, eyes bulging and mouth drooling like a filthy drunk.
“Simansky!” Novak bellows. “Where is the woman?”
But before Simansky has a chance to reply, he falls to the floor with a muffled thud, quite dead. His collapse reveals his killer, still standing behind him, and, for a moment, all of the enemies in Adamsky’s room are united in shock. Then Fanny erupts into the room and leaps at the neck of one of the two men holding Zizek. Unlike Simansky, Agent Ostrovsky has some idea of what to expect, but he is still unprepared for such swift and decisive blade-work. His throat is slashed and he sinks to his death, appearing almost to reli
sh his last moments. He slumps onto the floor with his face between his knees, looking as though he is lost in thought about God knows what.
Albin Dodek grabs Fanny’s arm and tugs the butcher knife out of her hand, and Novak breathes a sigh of relief. Prematurely, however – for Captain Patrick Adamsky, who had been pinned down by Novak’s cane on his chest, takes advantage of the scuffle and springs up from the floor. Despite his two broken ribs, he manages to wrest the cane from Novak’s grasp. He charges at Albin Dodek and thrashes his back with the stick, shouting at the colonel not to move. Dodek drops the knife, Fanny snatches it and raises it again, and Adamsky undoes Zizek’s handcuffs. Before they flee, the captain stares at Novak, who looks back at him, sullenly. The colonel knows exactly what is going through Adamsky’s mind. Captains are usually excellent fighters, and although their strategic thinking tends to be somewhat limited, they know what it takes to win in hand-to-hand combat. Adamsky raises the cane. Novak instinctively protects his head, but the captain opts for his leg, and the cane breaks asunder on Novak’s already smashed leg. The pain shoots up it, just as it did in the battle on the Shipka Pass, when he took one look at his mangled limb and knew that his dream of becoming a general, like the great Osip Gurko, was over. He had crawled over the bloody earth like a broken lizard, hoping that the Ottoman swordsmen would impale the wreck he had just become. Instead, his regimental doctor scrambled to stop the bleeding and saved his life, which only went downhill from there. And now Novak is writhing in agony at Adamsky’s feet, screaming loudly enough to be heard across all Baranavichy.
The Slaughterman's Daughter Page 14
