The Matiushin Case

by Oleg Pavlov

  He was carried home from the outskirts by a bus that laboured away until it was dark, wandering around for a long time, already half-empty, a bright spot in the hazy little town, as if it was meandering over the vault of heaven. Matiushin’s soul was just as bright and as empty. He didn’t sit, but stood in the corner by the doors, as if he’d been punished. People in the bus kept looking at him, some angrily, some pityingly, seeing a worthless, drunk young man with his clothes soaked in vomit.

  The door was opened by his mother – in her nightshirt, with her hair dangling. She looked like a little kid like that, and her loose hair covered her head sparsely, as if it wasn’t growing but lying on her.

  ‘Have you lost your mind, gadding about until midnight!’ she asked, her voice soaring to a wail. ‘Did you get there? Did you see them off? Did they get on the train?’ With her weak sight she hadn’t got a good look at him yet.

  Not knowing what to answer, he hovered outside the door.

  ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ She dragged him into the house and then gave a shriek, immediately frantic. ‘Son, son, what’s wrong with you? Oh, Vasenka … What … What … Ah, you villain … been drinking, haven’t you? You’ve been drinking! And your shirt, your trousers, what’s that, what have you gone and done?’

  Matiushin couldn’t utter a single word, but he didn’t want to stay silent any longer – he cringed as if he had been struck and started breathing hoarsely.

  ‘Yashka, the villain, Yashka, it was him! He poured the drink, come on now, tell me!’

  ‘Ya–a … sh-ka … ’ Matiushin forced out, groaning feebly.

  ‘Did he hit you? Answer me, what did he do to you?’

  ‘Nn-o-o … No …’

  ‘And the blood, where’s the blood from?’

  ‘It’s from the box … It got broke … Compote …’

  ‘Did they get on the train? And you? Have you been lying around drunk?’

  But he didn’t answer any more questions, he just gazed at her stupidly. His mother fell silent too, she’d run out of steam. Already thinking of something else, she shepherded him out.

  ‘Go and wash, take everything off there. Quick now, or your father will come. It’s just your luck, you villain, that your father’s not in. Have a sleep, and then I’ll give you a good talking-to, I’ll give you what for, knock this nonsense out of you. You’ll remember Yashka, oh you will.’ And in her anger she lashed the shirt across his bare back. ‘You’ll remember him all your life!’

  His father showed up: he clattered about in the hallway while he gave the mother instructions, then walked through into the kitchen, where she set the table. Matiushin was afraid to make a single sound as he lay there because his head was spinning as if he was being tortured on the wheel, and the bleary vodka haze was stifling him. But he endured this torture, managing to breathe and make himself fall asleep, he managed to do everything, even though he was poisoned with vodka. In the morning, when his mother interrogated him about Yashka, he lied to her, answering in fabrications, saying that he’d only asked Yashka for a sip in the bar, and kept mum about everything else. And so his mother cursed that train, and cursed his father for getting them tickets without places for a third-class sleeper, when he should have taken them to Gradov in the car and put them in a compartment carriage: there was another train that went to Moscow from there. And she kept mournfully recalling the particular box that had got broken – she’d only set aside one like that for them, with the jars of cherry compote.

  Six months later the couple got in touch. They wrote to say that Liudmila was expecting a baby … Matiushin’s father wasn’t exactly delighted, but he trembled over that letter and made the mother read it out again, exulting that the line had been continued and joking that his little dacha had come in useful. Yakov was serving in a little town on the Polish border. He had set himself up, ignoring his father’s advice, and he hadn’t asked for any help. But as soon as the time drew close, the father seconded the mother to them with money, so that she could make sure they had all they needed for the baby and also stand guard over Liudmila and maintain order. The mother lived with the couple a long time. She stayed until the birth of a little girl, the granddaughter about whom Grigorii Ilich, strangely enough, had been dreaming. Knowing that this little Alyona was in this world, he loved her, not rationally, and not in an emotional sort of way, but with his blood. He went to see his granddaughter that very year, in person, after his wife. He considered this his duty also because Yakov hadn’t obtained any accommodation in the little town and the young family was stuck in a dreary hostel. He used his visit to do everything for them: he got friendly with some people, bent over backwards where he needed to, gave some people a fright and some people presents – and managed to arrange a separate apartment for Yakov.

  For a year, and then another, contact was maintained with postcards and letters, which Yakov wrote stingily, less and less often. But, having once made the effort to travel to such distant foreign parts, the father couldn’t manage that kind of exertion again. His concern for himself, his desire for habitual comforts and – most importantly – for peace, were stronger. Looking out at him from the china cabinet, Alyonushka’s photograph, with Grigorii Ilich in his dress uniform and medals, holding his granddaughter in his arms while Liudmila and Yakov stood at the sides like sentries, lulled him and put him off his guard. Many times he felt the impulse to go, but he didn’t, and he wouldn’t let the mother go either. They kept expecting Yakov and his family to visit them in the summer. Grigorii Ilich dreamed of how he would take leave and they would live at the dacha, how his granddaughter would eat raspberries and strawberries and he would take her fishing. The mother sometimes used to buy a toy, if she liked the look of it, or a beautiful child’s blouse, or little woolly leggings or, if the price was good, a skirt or little shoes, storing them away to be grown into. But no one came. Then the postcards and letters suspiciously dried up. They thought: if there’s no bad news, then at least they’re alive and well.

  Yashka showed up in Yelsk in April, 1982. On that day Matiushin was late, he’d had a couple of drinks, and he arrived in time to feel the air of invisible devastation in the home, the desolation, as if someone had just died. His father was in a bad way and his mother was fluttering around him, giving him something to drink to make him feel better. Grigorii Ilich was lying in an armchair with his head thrown back, looking up at the ceiling. And the first thing he said, in a pitiless, even boastful voice, was this:

  ‘That’s it. You don’t have any brother. If he shows his face here, don’t open the door, let me know immediately and I’ll come – I’ll fling that lousy dog out so hard, he’ll forget the way back here and never show his face again!’ The mother shed a few tears, and the father flew into a fury and shouted: ‘Shut up, I’ve spoken! Who are you weeping for? Who’s thrown away everything that was ever done for him in this life? A drunkard, a degenerate, a deserter, a bastard … Let him rot, the lousy dog, he’ll never set foot in my house again!’

  ‘But how can you, Grigorii… ’ the mother sobbed quietly. ‘Have pi-ity, forgi-i-ive him … Our little son …’

  ‘It’s over. He’s finished. I’ll give the order to the commandant’s office, to the militia, let them catch him and put him in jail, the deserter. He’s no son of mine.’

  However, he couldn’t bring such shame on himself. He waited, realising that Yakov might come back, preparing himself for the meeting. Matiushin also waited, in torment, although he couldn’t understand what was happening. But Yakov didn’t come. The father stayed at home and wouldn’t let anyone leave, as if he were afraid. Yakov didn’t come the next day either, or the day after that, when the father stayed to stand guard over the home again.

  ‘Yashenka’s run away from the army … His Liudka left him for someone else. She took Alyonushka away from us, took away my only granddaughter … Yashenka took to drinking … And your father drove Yashenka away … ’ the mother wailed. But she kept silent when the f
ather was there.

  In a flash the two photographs on display in the china cabinet disappeared. Matiushin kept looking at his father, amazed at how calm he was. The only thing that mattered to the father now was to banish Yakov from his sight, to erase Yakov from his memory. And Matiushin had to forget everything too. On the third day, the father recovered. He felt even better than before, had a good sleep and ate his fill. He was so certain that Yashka was no longer in his life, or in Yelsk, that there was no more talk about him.

  The doorbell rang, the mother went to answer it and there was Yakov. Maybe catching the smell of food from the kitchen, he lumbered in as if he owned the place and sat down at the table, dressed just as he was. Matiushin fell silent with his plate in front of him. His brother reeked of drink and the stubble on his face made it look dirty, even repulsive, as if Yakov had sprouted fur. He was wearing civilian clothes. But the hat, coat and shoes aged him and made him look pitiful. He didn’t take the coat off, just sat there like that. His shirt collar stuck out like a dislocated wing. His tie dangled from his neck like a boa constrictor, orange and thick – a style that had been out of fashion for years.

  ‘I see you’re still stuffing your face … ’ Yakov said tersely to his brother, and stared dismally into Matiushin’s half-emptied plate.

  Then the mother recovered her wits and said timidly:

  ‘Why don’t I give you some, Yashenka? Will you have some borshch?’

  ‘Serve it up, mother! I love your borshch: no one in the world makes borshch like our borshch, the real article! Where’s father, why isn’t he at home?’

  ‘Why, he hasn’t come back yet.’

  ‘Well, well, the old man’s still serving, he just can’t settle down. Give me the thick stuff now, good and thick. Don’t be mean: there’ll be enough for everyone. It’s three days since I ate last!’

  The mother didn’t say anything, and he went into a daze – and then he attacked the soup, gulping it down like a navvy digging, and after he’d dug a great hole in the plateful, he said:

  ‘Come on, mother, serve me some more! Seconds!’

  She answered him without moving from her seat.

  ‘I haven’t got any seconds, Yashenka. There’s only enough left for your father. Go away, or he’ll be here any minute now. Don’t get him roused. You know your father: he doesn’t want to see you.’

  ‘What does that mean, he doesn’t want to? Aren’t I at home then? Am I sitting in some strangers’ house, eating strangers’ borshch?’

  ‘You go back to your home, that’s all. You’ve eaten for the journey, so go on. Afterwards, who knows: your father might forgive you and calm down.’

  ‘So that’s it then. You’re telling me to fuck off, your own son?’ he screeched, and started weeping shrilly, then suddenly hammering on the empty table, trying to crush it and smash it with his fist. ‘Take that! Take that! Get out! Get out! Go and rot! Go and rot!’

  Blood spurted. He held his hand up, stretching it out, showing it the way a child shows a little cut, and intoning in a meek, quiet voice:

  ‘What have I done? Who have I killed, to be condemned like this, to have everything taken away from me? I love them, I love my father, I love them all! So why are they all killing me? She wanted to study, but I wouldn’t let her, but this other one will let her, he’s smarter, the child’s not his, he doesn’t mind … He’s got fine manners and I haven’t. He’s got the right approach, he read her poems, the snake, but I didn’t! Why, ma, why? Why did you have me? Why didn’t you and father get divorced – then I’d have a different life, I’d be different, everything would be different!’

  ‘Yashka, listen, don’t you get started, do you hear me? You’ve done enough shouting. Stop it, or I’ll forget you’re my son,’ the mother said harshly. ‘Your wife left and now look at you, sitting there bellowing, drunk. You’ve done what you’ve done, you’ve got to understand that. And there’s no point bellowing, you can’t undo it. You have to live as things are, the way they’ve turned out. And why, why do you want to go chasing after her – have you lost your mind? You got your fingers burned once: do you want to get burned up completely? Live, there’s no one stopping you. Just live. If you want to croak, then you will. You know you don’t need a father or mother to do that. Get out of my sight, stop tormenting me.’

  Yakov wept, quiet now, almost radiant. The mother found a bandage and silently bound up his swollen hand. He asked her pitifully:

  ‘Ma. What should I do? They’ll court-martial me, now. I had no right to abandon my post …’

  ‘Well, now, we’re all equal before the law, and you left your unit voluntarily, you have to understand that,’ the mother reasoned seriously. ‘You go back, confess everything, tell them it was like this and that, admit your guilt, say it won’t happen again. Only don’t disgrace your father: don’t let the whole town know about it. And if you don’t go away, he’ll hand you in himself. But if it’s voluntary, with a confession, they’ll forgive you, and no one will even notice. You’re not some private after all: you’re an officer, they won’t want to disgrace themselves. You haven’t spent all your money on drink, have you? Have you enough left for a ticket? Well, look here, I’ll give you some for the train, but if you spend it on drink, don’t you come back, I won’t open the door …’

  The sight of this hunted man who was called his brother roused a scornful disbelief in Matiushin, as if he knew this man was only pretending and wasn’t in pain at all. He couldn’t forgive his brother for the words he had blurted out so thoughtlessly – and he sat there waiting for this unwelcome, drooling man to be gone from the table and the house.

  Yakov vanished from their turbid period of hard times. Three years later, a zinc coffin arrived for burial in Yelsk from a foreign war too far away to be heard: that was how they found out that all that time Yakov had existed, lived and fought. Liudmila disappeared without trace: the family heard nothing more about her and Alyonushka after Yakov came to Yelsk and was cursed by his father. When they got the death notice, Grigorii Ilich was shocked to think that his son had turned out to be a hero. But the coffin arrived without any military decorations and the accompanying letter said he died in the course of performing his international duty.

  The mother’s grief was breaking her heart, but she couldn’t sense the body of her son through the zinc: she didn’t know, and so she couldn’t believe that he was lying in that zinc container. It seemed as if at any moment Alexandra Yakovlevna would fall silent, stop crying, come to her senses and move away from the coffin. Matiushin understood that a terrible calamity had occurred, that his brother had been killed, but nothing stirred in his soul, and that made him fearful: his soul was living its own life, and it felt bleak and cold inside him. People kept doing things around him, as if Yakov had been dear to them. Matiushin stood there, feeling nothing but weariness – how hard and dreary it was for him to stand. His father kept a strict, stern face, standing near the coffin, but even now he couldn’t bear to be closer than two steps to his son.

  He was buried in the ‘Soviet’ cemetery, as the people called it, where they buried Party people and those who had served in the armed forces. The military commissariat was supposed to pay for the funeral, but the father wouldn’t demean himself and refused.

  From then on Grigorii Ilich cut himself off from his family. While previously they used at least to see him at the table, a new order was suddenly adopted in the house, under which the father ate alone. First the mother laid the table for him, then, when he went away, they finished up after him. And everything was like that. Matiushin had the feeling that he wasn’t living but had sunk down underwater, where everything was murky and green, as if he were seeing it through bottle glass. Now the despondency could stifle him for months at a time, making anything he did or any thoughts he had dreary and meaningless. And he lived without doing anything, not even knowing where the time went. From somewhere he remembered the ineffable light of life, its joy and the clarity, but when he tried to
remember where the light came from, a bleary haze drifted up in front of his eyes, and what he knew wasn’t that, but something different, and in that life of theirs, battened tightly shut, there wasn’t even a chink through which to glimpse the light, and there was nowhere he could run away to from these four walls: he just lived inside them.

  That spring, when Matiushin turned twenty-three, he suddenly received a notice summoning him to the military commissariat for a medical. When the two elderly medical-commission doctors rejected him again, all he understood was that he had been declared finally and completely useless. He walked out of the commissariat but he couldn’t go home. His wanderings led him to the station, and there he found himself in the same buffet where he had once said goodbye to his brother. He recognised the buffet and ordered a bottle of vodka, as his brother had done then, drank as much as he could, then set off back to the commissariat.

  In the doorway he started yelling that he wanted to serve in the army – but they wouldn’t let him in, drunk as he was, so he rushed about, smashing and shattering everything in sight. Everyone on duty came running to grab him, even the commanding officer got involved. He calmed Matiushin down and led him into his office. The commander knew whose son he was, he knew his brother had been killed carrying out his international duty – but if only he could tell which decision would suit Grigorii Ilich and which wouldn’t … He would probably have to guess.