Siberian Education (29 page)

We started walking again – or rather, without realizing it, we started running. We all ran; in front was Finger with Geka, who held his broken hand against his chest, supporting it with the other. Then Fima, shouting curses as he ran, and behind him Ivan, who was silent and focused. Although I was in pain I ran like mad too, I didn't know why: maybe that sudden attack, just when we had been feeling as if we were out of harm's way, had put a new fever into us.

Mel ran slowly behind me, he could have run faster, but he was worried because I couldn't run as well as I usually did: the side where I'd been hit was hurting like hell.

At last we reached the border of our district. We slowed down to a halt in the middle of the road that led to the river. Three friends arrived, who were on guard at the time. We gave them a brief account of what had happened, and one of them went straight off to tell the Guardian.

We arrived at my home. My mother was in the kitchen with Aunt Irina, Mel's mother, and when they saw us come in they froze on their chairs.

‘What happened to you?' my mother stammered.

‘Nothing; we had bit of trouble, nothing much . . .' I hurried into the bathroom to hide my torn jacket, and to wash my blood-stained hands. ‘Mama, call Uncle Vitaly,' I said, going back into the kitchen. ‘We've got to get Geka to hospital, he's broken his arm . . .'

‘Are you all crazy? What? He's broken his arm? Have you been fighting with someone?' My mother was trembling.

‘No, ma'am, I fell down, it was an accident . . . I should have been more careful.' Poor Geka, in a voice that seemed to come from the other world, tried to save the situation.

‘If you fell down, why has Mel got a bruise on his face?' My mother had her own special way of saying that we were a bunch of liars.

‘Aunt Lilya,' said that genius Mel to my mother, ‘the fact is, we all fell down together.'

At that Aunt Irina gave his face a good slapping.

I went back into the bathroom and locked myself in. I turned on the light, and when I looked in the mirror my heart sank: the whole of my right leg was soaked in blood. I got undressed and turned towards the mirror. Yes, there it was: a very thin cut, only three centimetres wide, from which a piece of broken blade was sticking out.

I picked up the tweezers my mother used for her eyebrows, and at that moment she knocked.

‘Let me in, Nikolay.'

‘Just a second and I'll be out, mama. I just want to wash my face!'

I gripped the broken piece of blade and gently pulled. As I watched the blade emerge and grow ever longer, I felt my head throb. I stopped halfway, turned on the tap and damped my brow. Then I pinched the blade again and pulled it right out. It was about ten centimetres long; I couldn't believe my eyes. It was part of the blade of a saw for cutting metal, filed by hand till it was razor sharp on both edges, and with a thin, fragile tip. They'd chosen that weapon specially, so they could jab it in and then snap it off, so that it would stay in the wound and be more painful.

The wound was bleeding. I opened the wall cupboard and treated myself as best I could: I put a bit of cicatrizing ointment on the cut, and all around it a tight bandage, to stop the blood. I threw all my clothes and my shoes out of the bathroom window and put on some dirty clothes from the basket next to the washing machine. I washed and dried the knife and went back into the other room.

Mel and Aunt Irina had already left. Uncle Vitaly had arrived; he had his car keys in his hand, ready to take Geka to hospital.

Fima and Ivan were sitting at the kitchen table, and my mother was serving them soup with sour cream and meat stew with potatoes.

‘Well, bungler, what have you all been up to this time?' asked Uncle Vitaly, who was in a cheerful mood, as always.

I was drained of strength; I didn't feel much like joking.

‘I'll tell you later, Uncle, it's a nasty story.'

‘Did you have to go and get into trouble on your birthday, of all days? All your friends are already drunk, they're waiting for you . . .'

‘No party for me, Uncle. I can hardly stand up, I just want to sleep.'

I spent two days in bed, only getting up to eat and go to the bathroom. On the second day Mel came to see me with the Guardian, Uncle Plank, who wanted to hear what had happened.

I told him the whole story, and he promised me he would sort it out in a matter of hours and prevent any reprisals being taken against Geka, Fima and Ivan in Railway. Finger, meanwhile, would be staying on in our district.

About a week later Plank called me round to his home to speak to a man from Railway. He was an adult criminal, an Authority of the Black Seed caste; his nickname was ‘Rope', and he was one of the few criminals in Railway who was respected by our people.

I found them sitting round the table; Rope got up and came to meet me, looking me in the eye:

‘So you're the famous “writer”?'

A writer, in criminal slang, is someone who's skilled at using a knife. Writing is a knife wound.

I didn't know what to say in reply or whether I was allowed to reply, so I looked at Plank. He nodded.

‘I write when I feel the urge to, when the Muse inspires me,' I replied.

Rope smiled broadly:

‘You're a smart young rascal.'

He had called me young rascal – that was a good sign. Maybe the matter was going to be resolved in my favour.

Rope sat down and invited me to join them.

‘I'll ask you only once what you think about this business, then we won't discuss it again.' Rope talked with a great calm and confidence in his voice; you could tell he was an Authority, a man who was able to handle things. ‘If, as far as you're concerned, the matter ends here and you don't want to take revenge on anyone, I give you my word that all those who have bothered you and your friends will be severely punished by us, the people of Railway. If you want to take revenge on someone in particular, you can do so, but in that case you'll have to do it all on your own.'

I didn't think about it for a moment; the reply came to my lips at once:

‘I've got nothing personal against anyone in Railway. What's done is done, and it's right that it should be forgotten. I hope I didn't kill any of your people, but in a fight, you know how it is – everyone's intent on his own survival.'

I wanted him to understand that revenge wasn't important for me, that well-being and peace in the community came first.

Rope looked at me earnestly, but with a kindly, amiable expression:

‘Good, then I promise you the person who organized this shameful action against you, while you were guests in our district, will be punished and expelled. Your friends can live their worthy life and walk with their heads held high in Railway . . .' He paused, glancing at a door on the other side of the room. ‘I want to introduce you to my nephews; you've already met them, unfortunately, but now I want you to accept their apology . . .' At these words, two boys with gloomy faces and bowed heads came in. One I recognized immediately – it was Beard, the little bastard whom we had beaten up and locked in the school – while the other's face seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it. Then I noticed he was limping, and that under his trousers, on his left leg, there was the swelling of a bandage: it was the guy I'd stabbed when I was giving him my message for Vulture, after the first fight.

The two boys approached and stopped in front of me, with all the enthusiasm of two condemned prisoners in front of a firing squad. They greeted me in unison. It was very sad and humiliating; I felt sorry for them.

Rope said to them sternly:

‘Well, then? Begin!'

Immediately, Beard, the little junkie, jabbered out what was clearly a prepared speech:

‘I ask you as a brother to forgive me, because I've made a mistake. If you want to punish me I'll let you, but first forgive me!'

It wasn't as moving as it might sound; it was clear that he was just going through the motions.

I too had to act my part:

‘Accept the humble greetings of a fond and compassionate brother. May the Lord forgive us all.'

It was pure Grandfather Kuzya, that speech. If he'd heard me he would have been proud of me. Poetic tone, Orthodox content, and spoken like a true Siberian.

After my words Plank sat with a contented smile on his face, and Rope looked astonished.

Now it was the other wretch's turn:

‘Please, forgive me like a brother, for I have committed an injustice and . . .'

His voice was less resolute than Beard's; it was clear that he couldn't remember all his lines, and had shortened them. He threw a helpless glance at Rope, but Rope remained impassive, though his hands involuntarily clenched into fists.

Then I decided to kill them all with my kindness, and after taking a deep breath I reeled off the following sentence:

‘As our glorious Lord Jesus Christ embraces all us sinners in His gentle love, and affectionately impels us towards the way of eternal salvation, so with equal humility and joy I enfold you in brotherly grace.'

Saintly words: my feet were almost lifting off the ground and it seemed as if a hole were going to open up in the ceiling for me.

Plank didn't stop smiling. Rope said:

‘Forgive us for everything, Kolima. Go home and don't worry; I'll sort everything out myself.'

A month later I heard that Vulture had been given a savage beating: they had ‘marked' his face, giving him a cut that started from his mouth, ran right across his cheek and ended at his ear. Then they had forced him to leave Railway.

One day someone told me he'd moved to Odessa, where he'd joined a gang of boys who stole wallets on trams. People who had no respect for any law, neither that of men nor that of the criminals.

Some time later I heard he'd died, killed by his own cronies, who had thrown him out of a moving tram.

Geka soon recovered; no sign of the fracture remained on him – later he went to university to study medicine.

Fima, to his misfortune, was taken by his family to Israel. I heard that when they tried to get him to board the plane he started to protest, shouting that it was shameful for a sailor to travel by air. He punched a co-pilot and two customs officials. In the end they had to knock him out with a sedative.

Ivan continued to play the violin in the restaurant, and after a while found a way of consoling himself for the absence of his friend: he met a girl and went to live with her. In fact it was rumoured among the girls of the town that Ivan had been endowed by nature with another talent besides his musical one.

Finger lived in our district for a while, then robbed banks with a Siberian gang, and finally settled in Belgium, marrying a woman of that country.

After the trouble in Railway, for a couple of years I would occasionally bump into boys I didn't know around town, who would greet me and say:

‘I was there that day.'

Some of them showed me the cuts behind their knees and the scars on their thighs, almost with a sense of vanity and pride, saying:

‘Recognize that? It's your work!'

I remained on friendly terms with many of them. Luckily no one had been killed that day, though I had wounded one boy quite seriously, by stabbing him near the liver.

Grandfather Kuzya, after hearing from Plank how I'd behaved towards Rope's nephews, congratulated me in his own way. A lopsided smile and a single sentence:

‘Well done, Kolima: a kind tongue cuts and strikes better than any knife.'

I didn't get any birthday presents that year – my father was angry with me and kept repeating: ‘You can't keep out of trouble, even on your birthday.' My mother was offended because I'd kept from her what had happened to me that day, and in the midst of all this mess nobody gave me anything, except Uncle Vitaly, who brought me a genuine leather football, a beautiful one, but my dog tore it to shreds that very same night.

No presents, and above all a nasty wound which encouraged me to reflect on, and to understand better and put into perspective, the life I was leading.

After many thoughts and debates with myself I came to the conclusion that knives and fisticuffs didn't get you anywhere. So I moved on to guns.