Captain of the Steppe

by Oleg Pavlov

  ‘I won’t give any more out, anyway,’ responded Kolodin.

  ‘That’s right, Sasha, don’t. I’ll have ’em all. Do you know how much it hurt? ’Ere, look, this gap will be with me all me life.’

  Remembering the gap, he went quiet, for no other reason than that he was delving about in it on the sly with his tongue, and tears again sprang unbidden to his eyes. He found it both insulting and painful. The Tatar simply couldn’t come to terms with the loss of his tooth. He pulled out the little smoke-yellowed pebble from his pocket and again tried to stick it back in its burning socket.

  No one noticed the warrant officer had returned, he appeared so noiselessly. He emerged from the opposite side, having circled around on the steppe. The crowd shook in confusion, people turned their heads, looking around, thinking they had stumbled into an ambush.

  ‘Brothers!’ someone yelled. ‘That’s Skripitsyn himself, he’s a regimental investigator. Everyone at the regiment knows him. He’s the one who shipped me off.’ Kolodin instantly sprang up, acknowledging his boss. The Tatar lad once more struck fear into them when he leapt up and saluted; their breath caught, although they still did not salute the investigator. ‘Comrade Skripitsyn!’ A red-faced soldier singled himself out. ‘I’m Prikhodko, you remember? You were interrogating me, I’d done over the stores?’

  ‘No, I don’t remember …’

  ‘What do you mean? That was some interrogation, and you don’t remember! Last year, this was. It was you who got me sent here, I did over the stores. Prikhodko, that’s me … ’ Skripitsyn remained silent and simply glared at him malevolently.

  ‘Their captain’s asleep,’ Kolodin hastened to report. ‘He’s not waking up by himself, and I didn’t want to order him woken up without you.’

  ‘Good,’ Skripitsyn cut in. ‘I left my briefcase in the truck, bring it to me.’

  The case that Sanka brought to his boss was entirely ordinary; it made the man seem a mediocre, dreary being. As badly scraped as though someone had gone at it with emery paper, its original firm shape long gone, the case had clearly been in service way past its allotted term, which gave it a sinister air. It resembled a trunk and seemed to have been refashioned to carry heavy weights rather than papers. Standing with it, somewhat elevated on the steps leading down from the gatehouse, even Skripitsyn instantly took on a new aspect. Something weighty and capacious appeared about both his stooping posture and his oar-like arms. Even now, he hardly looked at anyone directly, rather angling his drooping head and unblinking, motionless stare off to one side. When he did suddenly look straight at someone, he would catch them completely unaware, and then study them shamelessly with curiosity and disgust. His face appeared profoundly stupid, but also frightening. The case gave Skripitsyn the appearance of those medical orderlies posted to obscure military hospitals that are built like drying rooms or barracks who, if they treat you, will surely cripple you. And if they are walking about with briefcases, then the cases contain nothing but a selection of saws and hammers: blunt instruments.

  ‘Make sure they don’t run off, because they might feel the need,’ he said to Sanka. ‘And make sure they don’t go near the shack. That, especially.’

  Turning about with great difficulty, exactly as if tumbling over, Skripitsyn marched into the barracks and, without asking which direction to take, was soon lost in its depths, as though he were one of the company and knew the building inside out.

  It was quiet behind the door of the company office, quieter than Skripitsyn’s breathing. Establishing that the captain was indeed asleep, Skripitsyn knocked loudly, deliberately, so as to wake him, and did not stop.

  There was nothing strange in the fact that he woke up a sleeping person by knocking, but Skripitsyn’s actions made it look as though he were trying to break into the office. When he woke Khabarov, he must really have scared him, which was why the captain hurriedly flung open the door and appeared half-naked in the cold, while Skripitsyn, standing on the threshold in his greatcoat, took his time about coming in. Loitering, he prolonged this somehow significant pause, then at a stroke he crossed the threshold and was already in the middle of the office when he addressed the captain: ‘It’s cold in here; you should light the stove, seeing as you’ve taken up living here.’

  Approaching the desk as though it were specially designed for him, Skripitsyn began to make himself at home in such a rush that he might have been unpacking anyone’s old clothes; he set down his case and unbuttoned his greatcoat, although he had been the one to mention the cold. Not turning round, preoccupied with his greatcoat, he muttered, ‘I’ve come to you on a certain matter; they should have let you know, put you in the picture, so to speak. So I’ve come about this business, I’m going to get to the bottom of it … ’

  Still half-asleep, Khabarov took the warrant officer to be spotless, glowing, as though of very high rank, and he stood bewitched by the man’s listless, whining voice. Then suddenly, realising, he shrieked, ‘You’ve come from the comrade general!’ Slamming the door and grabbing his boots, he lunged for his trousers and tunic. ‘I can’t believe it!’ The captain’s head was spinning and in his excitement he was shaking all the bits of uniform he had picked up. Then, looking out of the window, he fell back, dazzled. ‘What’s that? They sent a truck? He promised me, he promised. He said, “I’ll send you everything, show me what you can do!”’

  Initially completely stunned by what he had heard, Skripitsyn moved – he sat down on the chair and said, ‘Well, then. What’s he like, this here general?’

  ‘Oh, what a man, what a man! He asked all about it and got right to the heart of it … He’s far away, but he knows everything, just like he was standing next to you! It’s incredible … A different sort would eat you alive, entrails and all, but this one takes you at your word, and praises you … ’ Khabarov was yelping and running about the office, which made it seem more cramped than ever.

  However, Skripitsyn had fused with the chair and turned into wood. ‘You mean he praised you?’ He forced the words out.

  The captain stopped short and straightened his tunic. ‘So are potatoes like stones? You can’t boast about growing them?’

  ‘This is the first I’ve heard of this guff you’re spouting,’ said the special investigator, cutting him off. ‘Skripitsyn is my name, I’m from the Special Department, perhaps you’ve heard about it. You all know it, comrade Khabarov, don’t play the idiot; quit feeding me these fables about the general.’

  The captain’s shoulders drooped. He sat down on the unmade bed; this put him face to face with Skripitsyn, who frowned at him sourly. ‘If it’s the Special Department … You mean the general didn’t send you?’

  ‘Oh leave off, Khabarov, that’s not even funny any more.’

  ‘I can’t make head or tail of this. Since when did the Special Department have a sense of humour? If you’ve come, then what for?’

  ‘I thought you’d gathered your thoughts, so to speak, you’d confessed. I thought we’d quickly get everything sorted out. But I see you’re very stubborn. Let’s begin, then. You’d best start getting used to it, citizen, if that’s how it’s going to be.’

  Skripitsyn reached for his briefcase, looked into its depths and, plunging his arm in almost to the elbow, stirred around in its bottomless maw before dragging out a cardboard folder, one of those in which ‘dossiers’ are put together. However, this folder seemed atrophied, apparently from not having enough to do. Under its cardboard cover lay several sheets of dried-out paper, looking like someone’s flayed hide. Peeling them off and handing them sternly to the captain, Skripitsyn left the folder completely bare.

  ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘Read and you’ll find out.’

  ‘Go on, tell me, I’ll understand that way, I’m not deaf.’

  ‘What’s this? Have you forgotten how to read, too?’ Skripitsyn snorted.

  ‘You find everything funny,’ said the captain, and listlessly took all the papers just as they were give
n him.

  Khabarov was unused to reading. It was difficult for him to understand things on paper; it was like groping around in the dark. For this reason, even in front of Skripitsyn, he set about reading aloud. Skripitsyn grew annoyed – he thought the captain was putting this on, taking the piss. But the captain was reading sullenly for his own benefit. He had forgotten about the investigator and was reading the denunciations.

  He stumbled in places; he would read the words out a second time, and then he would blurt out in surprise: ‘Oh, the bastards!’ Skripitsyn had to sit motionless, listening to the captain’s loud monologue, and seeing with astonishment that the captain was not at all cowed by the words he was reading – he was clearly and unhurriedly enunciating each one in measured tones. When the papers had been read through, Khabarov wordlessly placed them on the table but then, seeing that the investigator didn’t understand a thing, went ahead and said his piece. ‘This one was written by Sinebriukhov, the camp commandant. I don’t know about this one … Many soldiers have deserted, they go to Dolinka. Some run for it in the summer, others maybe go in the spring, due to the lack of food.’

  Returning to his bunk, Khabarov spoke calmly and distinctly. ‘I remember now: that Smershevich, the boss of you specials, was here once. He liked to fling papers about, too. Obnoxious individual.’ Khabarov did not know what else to say to the special investigator, but he hesitated to escort him back out, now that he was here.

  ‘Memory not coming back?’ enquired Skripitsyn, in the hope that this was precisely the case. ‘It’s just that Smershevich is no longer with us. Pardon me, he burned up.’

  ‘Turns out he couldn’t hack it, so they signed him off … ’ said Khabarov, unwillingly.

  ‘No, that’s not it, he actually burned to death, in a fire! Last winter. Didn’t anyone mention it? That there’d been a fire at the regiment? It’s like a different world here … If you’re going to light that stove, better set it on a metal plate. They can give off sparks. Maybe you don’t quite realise who I am. If they had told you I was coming, you’d know I’m in charge of the Special Department, in place of Smershevich.’

  ‘A warrant officer … ’ Khabarov looked him over.

  ‘A senior warrant officer,’ Skripitsyn corrected him, and reached for the folder. ‘Well, then, now that we’ve refreshed our memories, let’s start drawing up the charge sheet. That’s, pardon me, enough reminiscing.’

  Khabarov suddenly grew indignant, not knowing how to take this at all. ‘What do you mean, “charge sheet”? Sinebriukhov wrote lies. And lots of my soldiers have run off to Dolinka prison camp. At Dolinka the work’s a bit easier and the grub’s more filling, which is why the most incorrigible men get sent to me, for punishment. But give ’em time, they’ll come running back, because life with me has got sweeter. They’ll make Dolinka the punishment battalion, and then what? You’ll whisk yourself off to Dolinka and wave reports under their commander’s nose?’

  Skripitsyn responded with ingratiation, which might have been taken for trust. He clapped shut the folder with an emphasis the captain did not miss. ‘All right, let’s leave the charge sheet for now. Maybe we’ll get by without any charge sheets … You see, I understand you, comrade Khabarov; you could say, I share your … Well, what do you suggest, where do you see the causes of this regrettable situation?’

  ‘I’m telling you: look for the people who are stealing!’ cut in Khabarov without thinking.

  ‘Well, who’s objecting to that?’ Skripitsyn dodged the captain’s suggestion. ‘My job is to find the guilty. Maybe even the regimental commander is guilty. My job is to establish the truth.’

  The captain took heart: ‘I’ll tell you to your face, everything we have has gone rotten.’

  Skripitsyn was on his guard. ‘Well, if everything we have … If it’s gone rotten … I understand. I for one believe you. But you just put down in writing what’s going on in the regiment. I’ll send the document off where it needs to go. There’s going to be an inspection, soon. They’ll sort out where the truth lies and who’s to blame. And in the meantime I’ll watch your back, as long as you don’t stitch me up.’

  ‘I’ll make a statement, I’ll put it in writing, but they’ll convict an innocent man.’ Khabarov hesitated. ‘Mind you, they’re good folk at the regiment! You wait months for a delivery, but they send out special investigators in trucks for nothing.’

  There’s no telling exactly what the captain was going through, although he actually felt sorry for this conscripted man. However, Khabarov’s office had grown depressing; it had become an interrogation chamber. He was depressed by the greasy bare walls, by the bed that looked more like a bench. And by the desk at which the investigator had sat himself down. The captain was frozen through by a prison-cell chill. Skripitsyn paled. ‘Well, if that’s how it is, we’ll continue the interrogation.’

  ‘You mongrel! You get in everywhere, sniffing about, you make me sick. We harvested the potatoes, and stored them. I won’t say anything more.’

  ‘You’ve got a high opinion of yourself, if you think I’m sniffing around you. I’m standing here in defence of national interests. It’s you who needs the statement. Otherwise, you see, I’ll be forced to impound all your potatoes. The inquiry’s already under way, after all; you can’t stop it. I’ll take them off to the regiment and hand them over for safekeeping. But the potatoes will spoil while they try and work out where they came from. They’ll write them off, feed them to the pigs. Do you understand what will happen to all your hard work if all the rules are followed? But there’s always someone who will do you a favour, so it will be better if you and I get along.’

  And then something happened which Skripitsyn hadn’t been expecting at all: the captain had grown so angry that he lunged towards the desk and with a great sweep of his arm all the denunciations covering it were sent flying. If Skripitsyn hadn’t snatched up the charge sheet, then the cardboard folder would have plummeted to the floor, too. ‘What the hell are you doing in my office?’ roared Khabarov. ‘You’re up to no good, but I’ve been living here for years! I’ve been living for this day; I’m not scared of dying. And somehow you think you can take away my happiness with just a piece of paper? I’ve spent my whole life in torment over this, and you think you can simply take it away and throw it to the pigs, for pity’s sake?’ Skripitsyn was mesmerised by how simply and easily the captain swept to the floor documents that, had they been put in other hands, could have destroyed him even more easily.

  It might have occurred to him that this was because the captain was privy to something even more powerful than the contents of these documents.

  The special investigator sat down and apprehensively set about picking his documents off the floor. ‘Look how hard you’re trying!’ the captain shouted, trembling.

  Skripitsyn stashed everything back into his case and said, in a sort of questioning voice, ‘So you’re refusing to make a statement?’

  ‘You’ll not chew me up, you’ll choke. This has to happen. There are so many mouths to feed. Give them all potatoes! And you like them, too, I can see that … You must, if they’re fried in lard! In lard, I’m telling you!’ Khabarov emphasised the lard, seeing joyfully that the trembling investigator had thrown his arms around his briefcase and greatcoat and was shrinking back from him towards the door; now he leapt away as though he’d encountered something monstrous.

  Calming down, the captain sighed in disappointment, ‘I swear, I want to rattle him up, knock some sense into him … ’ The other man’s unexpected flight brought peace to Khabarov – and a kind of sympathy.

  ‘But who’s to blame?’ he wondered, disappointed.

  Hearing a noise from the square, he hurried to look out of the window, thinking that the regimental lorry was pulling away.

  In the square, the man from the Special Department was yelling at the soldiers crowded round. One of them noticed that the captain was taking it all in and waved his arms like someone drowning. In a daze, Khabarov
ran out onto the square.

  The Special-Department agent turned away. Next to him, scowling, his faithful acolyte stood braced, ready to launch himself against all of them. The soldiers, growing braver and surrounding the strangers, began to wail: ‘Comrade Captain, he’s ordering us to load up the potatoes.’

  ‘Tell ’im to piss off!’

  ‘It’s Khabarov who gives the orders round here.’

  ‘Don’t raise a panic, lads!’ The captain could hardly make himself heard over his men, but the crowd grew quieter. He turned to the Special-Department agent. ‘You’d do that? Listen. Leave, while the going’s good.’

  ‘I’ve been ordered by Pobedov to take the potatoes to the regiment.’

  ‘Bullshit! You’re sheltering under the regimental commander?’

  ‘Captain Khabarov, do you understand that I am from the Special Department?’

  ‘But do you understand, comrade Skripitsyn, that you’re bullshitting? Lads, don’t listen to this piece of crap!’

  ‘Do you understand what he’s dragging you into?’ shouted Skripitsyn, turning to the men. ‘There isn’t any general … It was the regimental commander Pobedov who rang this idiot. An idiot who’ll be under arrest by tomorrow!’ A shower of mud and stones rained down on the investigator, who made no attempt to protect himself, although he did see one handy soldier aiming vengefully at his head, who was filled with silent joy when his rock struck the peaked cap from the warrant officer’s head.

  ‘Stop pissing about! Whoever’s throwing stones, leave off, bloody hell! That’s just what he’s waiting for.’ The captain was agitated; he interposed himself in front of Skripitsyn, to cover him.