Faithful Ruslan

by Georgi Vladimov

  “You still haven’t answered my question, Sergeant,” the Shabby Man reminded him.

  Again Ruslan’s master sighed.

  “What more can I say? I treat you like an intelligent person and you talk like a kid. I’ll try and give you an example to make it clearer. You’ve seen young kids collecting bugs and butterflies and so on, haven’t you? Well, when they’ve caught ’em, they stick a pin through the bugs and write something about ’em in a notebook. That’s what ‘keeping forever’ is like.”

  “What’s ‘forever’ about it? In a year or so there’ll be nothing left of that bug except a bit of dust. Well, let’s say in ten years.”

  “No, it won’t be just a bit of dust!” Master raised his finger. “ ’Cause it’s all been written down about it in a notebook. So that bug still exists. You may think it’s gone, but it hasn’t—it’s still there.”

  Ruslan looked reproachfully at the Shabby Man. Master’s finger should have convinced him, but he just went on grinning and scratching his cheek.

  “So we are just so many bugs, is that it?”

  “That’s right,” said Master. Clasping his elbows with his hands, he leaned on the table and looked at his companion with a kindly smile. “You’ve flown away, spreading your wings and going wherever you please—but you’re all still there in those records. At any moment you can be picked up again and questioned. If anyone has anything on his conscience, or has tried to duck out of sight for some reason, it’s all there …”

  “But we’ve been declared not guilty and given a free pardon, after all …”

  “Think so? Well, you can go on thinking it if you like. But I’d advise you to look at it a bit differently if I were you. You should tell yourself you’ve been … temporarily released. Got it? You’ve been temporarily entrusted with your freedom. Besides, that way you’ll appreciate it more. Because I’ve noticed the way you’ve been acting, now you’re free. Hanging around bars, getting a bit fond of drinking, aren’t you? Now back in camp your head was clear as a bell and your liver was in good shape. Isn’t that so?”

  “Well, I suppose you might say so.” The Shabby Man seemed to be agreeing with him. “But in that case, what is there worth knowing about us? We’re pretty well washed up. The stuffing’s coming out of us. Now take them, fr’instance”—he nodded toward the people sitting at the two nearby tables—“what d’you know about them?”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get them, too, if need be. There’s plenty about them in the records.”

  The Shabby Man also leaned on the table, and for a long time they stared into each other’s eyes, grinning cheerfully.

  “By the way,” said the Shabby Man. “I noticed your finger was twitching, Sergeant. Your hands are shaking, even more than mine. You’re twitching all over, brother. Is that ‘forever,’ too?”

  Master frowned, took his hands off the table and reached for the decanter. He poured an equal amount into each glass and held the decanter’s mouth over the Shabby Man’s glass so that he would get the last drops. The Shabby Man watched his hand. Master noticed this and shook the decanter, although there was nothing left in it to shake out.

  They drained their glasses again and sipped some more yellow stuff, after which they grew more friendly, and the Shabby Man no doubt felt embarrassed at his question.

  “But you can’t say I was a monster,” said Master. “Did I ever once touch you, for instance?”

  “No, you never touched me.”

  “There you are. And the reason was that you’d got the message. If the gov’ment thought you ought to be punished, that means there was a reason for it. They don’t punish people for nothing. Once you understood that, then it’s O.K.—I’m human, and I treat you like a human being, too. That’s my rule. Of course, if I’m ordered to lay hands on you, that’s another matter. I took the oath of allegiance when I joined the army, didn’t I? But if I get no such order … Get me?”

  “I get you, brother.”

  “O.K., then. But the ones we roughed up, they were the ones who never got that message. They just didn’t understand people like you and me. But you and I—we understood each other, isn’t that right? Right. That’s why I sat down with you here.”

  Either the Shabby Man could finally stand Master’s look no longer or he was tired of arguing with him, but for whatever reason, he lowered his eyes.

  Ruslan, too, was growing tired of waiting for Master to notice him amid the noise and bustle of the restaurant. People going in and out jostled him, and he pressed himself pathetically against the wall until he thought of a good way to occupy himself and to be of use to his master: he would guard his suitcase and bag and the greatcoat thrown on top of them. With a gentle, inward reproach to Master for being careless, he lay down beside the luggage with dignity, taking up the position that always inspires us with respect for a four-footed sentry and prevents us not merely from approaching him but from coming closer to him than one pace. The position was also a good one in that it allowed him to watch his master’s face. He was slightly disturbed by the drops of sweat that had broken out on Master’s forehead and upper lip, but even so it was a splendid, godlike face.

  Ruslan had long since observed that, despite their obvious differences, all masters’ faces were in some respects alike. A face might be broad or narrow, might be pale or dark, but all of them invariably had a slightly cleft chin, tightly closed lips, a small nose, prominent cheekbones and honest, piercing eyes from which it was hard to discern whether they were angry or laughing, but which could keep up a stare for a long time and could command without using words. Faces like this could only belong to the most superior breed of bipeds, to the most intelligent, priceless and select race, but he had always been curious to know one thing about them: were these faces purposely selected for the Service or was it the Service itself that made them look as they did? With dogs it was simpler: Toby, a black dog with one white ear, who spent all his time hanging around the kitchen, had belonged to the Service as much as any of them, otherwise he would not have been kept on strength, but for the whole of his mysterious career in the Service, he had never grown an inch in size, had never changed his coloring and had never changed in character—always remaining a scrounger and a windbag; he would even bark at a fly, whereas to prisoners—through the wire—he simply wagged his tail. The dogs, of course, were specially selected; they were obviously not picked up off the street, but bought from breeders, but how the masters were selected remained a mystery. Of one thing, however, Ruslan was certain: with a face like his, Master had no need to waste so many words on the Shabby Man, and the latter should long since have been made to stand at attention with his hands down the sides of his pants and sent off to work.

  The Shabby Man spoke again: “Where are you headed for, Sergeant? Going to the city or back to your village?”

  “Home,” Ruslan’s master answered reflectively. “What’s good about the city? And I need a rest.”

  “That’s understandable. But what about work? I’ll bet you’ve forgotten how to hold a pitchfork.”

  “Don’t need to. I’ve learned another sort of pitchfork—one with a magazine and seventy-two rounds. Remember, I’ve been in the service twice as long as you’ve spent in prison, so I’m due for a pension—the same as they pay a transpolar airman who’s flown a million kilometers.”

  “That’s fine, but money isn’t a cure-all. If I were you, I’d have waited till now and given myself some nice little wound. Helps a lot, you know; then they give you a disability pension as well.”

  Master gave him a hard stare.

  “I thought we’d agreed not to go on talking like that. You sit here and drink with me, yet you still give me all that crap. It’s called ‘lack of proper respect.’ ”

  “What—me? Not show you proper respect?” laughed the Shabby Man. “After all these years spent learning it? Don’t get riled—you’ll sort yourself out soon enough. You’re young; life’s still in front of you.”

  So saying,
he did something that might have cost him his life: he leaned across the table and patted Ruslan’s master on the shoulder. Ruslan sprang to his feet and lunged headlong at the Shabby Man, moving almost soundlessly except for the scraping of his claws across the floor.

  Swinging around in a flash, Master stopped Ruslan just in time with a punch of his clenched fist. Though aimed at his jaw, the blow struck Ruslan on the nose and almost sent him rolling away with a howl of pain; but he stood his ground in silence, lest the Enemy see how much it hurt him, and instead only growled at the Shabby Man, whom he could hardly see for tears.

  “My God,” said Master in amazement, “so it’s you, is it, you brute? Scrounging food in restaurants already?”

  Still growling, Ruslan rubbed his nose on Master’s knee and felt a little better, but when Master stroked him the pain went altogether.

  “Does he always act like that?” asked the Shabby Man, who had not even had time to be frightened.

  “Like what? Is he always so touchy, d’you mean? Yes, he and I stand up for each other. Don’t we, Ruslan? That was how we used to go for anybody if they tried any funny business.” Everyone in the restaurant was looking at Ruslan, as though expecting him to do some trick, or perhaps because he was still handsome enough for people simply to admire him, as they had in the past when his master had been so proud of him. Unfortunately, the barmaid was not so pleased with him:

  “Citizen,” she announced to Master from a dim, smoke-filled corner of the restaurant, “you should take your dog somewhere else. This isn’t the camp, you know. It’s a restaurant. He’s supposed to wear a muzzle in public places.”

  “What for?” Master smiled at her. “He’s never worn one in his life and he’s managed O.K. without it. You can have him yourself, if you like.… Why shrug your shoulders? He’ll earn his feed—he won’t let the public health inspector through the door!”

  “The inspector doesn’t worry me. But I’ve given you an official warning. If that dog bites anyone, you’ll have to pay a fine. Plus the cost of antirabies shots.”

  “Hear that, Ruslan? Take note. You’re running around without a license.”

  Ruslan twitched his ears slightly, creased his forehead into a look of suffering and shifted from paw to paw. If people were expecting a trick, they were virtually seeing one now, so eloquent and clear was the message that Ruslan was able to express: that he found it strange for people to be talking such nonsense about him, that he was embarrassed by this stupid woman who was being nasty to his master on his, Ruslan’s, account and that he wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible but was waiting until his master was ready.

  Leaning back in his chair, Master gave a belch of repletion and took out his cigarette case. He could feel hostile looks directed at him and was slightly unsure of himself; on such occasions the lighting of a cigarette turned into a complete ritual: he spent a long time selecting a cigarette, tapped it on the lid with its engraved picture, blew into it with a whistling sound and then, scrunching the cardboard mouthpiece, rolled it around his mouth in a spiral. Biting the mouthpiece greedily with his small, even teeth, he squinted down at the tip as he lit it, drew in a lungful of smoke and then blew out a smoke ring while he held the cigarette between the extended fingers of his outstretched hand.

  “He’s a problem, you see,” he said to the Shabby Man, nodding toward Ruslan. “Nobody would take him even if you paid them. And now these fine dogs are just running around on the loose.”

  “Yes, say what you like, it’s a pity,” the Shabby Man replied. “When we were behind the wire we used to wish all those beasts dead, yet now I feel sorry for them. It would be better if they’d all been put down, instead of leaving them like this.”

  “That’s just the trouble. Everyone’s full of pity, I notice, but as for shooting the dogs—no thank you, someone else can do that.”

  “I suppose someone was ordered to do it?”

  “So what if they were? The man who gave the order has already put his epaulets in mothballs and by now he’s trying on his civilian suit. Why should I dirty my hands? Not me, if I can help it. But you can see what pity does, can’t you? The end result’s the worst of all.”

  As Ruslan understood, his master was still feeling upset at that stupid woman, and he pushed his nose into Master’s hand, resting on his knee, The hand was raised reluctantly and placed on Ruslan’s forehead. Although neither very fond of a show of affection nor accustomed to receiving it, he still appreciated this gesture on the rare occasions when it was made. This time, however, Ruslan did not like the feel of Master’s hand. It was limp, indecisive and for some reason it was trembling; worse still, it stank of the filth in the decanter.

  “Don’t worry, Ruslan old boy, you’ll find your feet,” said Master. “And when the call comes, you can go back to the Service. Haven’t forgotten about the Service, have you? Still dream about it at night? Ah, yellow eyes! Shut your eyes, they’re terrible to look at.”

  Slowly the hand slid across Ruslan’s closed eyes, and as it passed over his jaw it was suddenly closed in a harsh grip. Forced together with a loud snap, Ruslan’s teeth pinched his lips, and the pain caused tears to spurt up beneath his eyelids. Worse than the pain, though, was the feeling of resentment. One of the masters’ more unpleasant habits was to make a sudden grab with the hand; if they were doing it to a dog, they would snatch at the muzzle—if to a man, they went for his face. When they said it in words, the gesture meant, “Talk to me like that and I’ll bash you into pulp.” The action itself, though, was much quicker; neither dog nor man ever had time to step back or dodge. And it was a long time before they recovered. One day his master had done it to a prisoner who had been arguing with him and would not step back into line. Afterward the prisoner simply stood there as though stunned, with a pale, sweating face. His glasses had fallen from his nose. The man was very fond of his glasses, because he would frequently breathe on them and wipe them with a cloth; now he did not even bend down, although Master reminded him, “Pick up your specs!” and kicked them toward him with the toe of his boot. So this was what that prisoner had felt on his face when he had stumbled back into the ranks like a blind man, and then screamed and started running across the field—the same prisoner whom the unfortunate Rex had failed to catch!

  “Don’t squeeze him like that,” said the Shabby Man. “That devil will bite you if you don’t look out—and I wouldn’t blame him!”

  “Shows how much you know about him,” Master grinned, “Ruslan and I have been welded together by the Service, haven’t we, Ruslan?”

  Freeing himself from the detested grip, with a painful turn of the head and a sullen glare from under his high forehead, Ruslan slowly looked around at the other people sitting in the restaurant and raised unblinking eyes to his master. There was still some uneaten food on the table, but from youth Ruslan had been strictly taught not to beg, and he did not even look at the food. His glum stare, in fact, was not asking for anything, but only a fool or a blind man could have failed to read what it was saying: “You’re being unkind, Master. That was a bad joke. And in front of strangers, too.”

  The Shabby Man suddenly frowned, grabbed a slice of bread from the table and put it on the floor. Ruslan neither noticed it nor looked down.

  “Aha, so you thought he’d take it!” Master smirked in great satisfaction. “Of course, he’s been dreaming all his life of eating a piece of bread from your hands.”

  “O.K., you’re the boss. Give it to him yourself.”

  The other customers in the restaurant were no doubt expecting to see Ruslan perform a simple but always successful trick. Our hearts are invariably touched when our four-footed friend displays the rudiments of reason and does violence to his own nature by refusing food from a stranger and then immediately grabbing it, drooling with hunger, from the hand of his master. This time, however, the trick turned out to be even more entertaining than anyone expected: the bread did not leave the Master’s hand, and Ruslan merely looked a
t it and backed away—carefully, so as not to overturn the slice of bread by mistake.

  “Aha!” the Shabby Man was triumphant. “That shows that you mean nothing to him now, don’t you see?”

  “What’s the matter with you, Ruslan? Fussy?” Master asked. A pink flush spread slowly over his face. “Suppose you found enough to eat somewhere else. Don’t waste much time, do you? All right then”—he put the slice of bread on the floor—“pick it up. D’you hear me?”

  “Stop throwing food around, Citizen.” The barmaid intervened again. “As if I didn’t have enough to do, without having to clear up after your dogs!”

  “Why? He’ll take it, Just you watch.”

  Still grinning, though his cheekbones were turning pale, Master picked up the bread and jauntily waved his fork in the air. He dug the fork into a pot on the table and began thickly spreading mustard on the slice of bread.

  “Don’t do it,” the Shabby Man begged him.

  A man standing in line at the counter also spoke up:

  “Don’t play the fool, Sergeant.”

  “Impossible,” Master explained. “It’s impossible for him to disobey my order. Don’t worry, he knows he’s committed an offense by not obeying the first time. So he’s got to take the consequences. This dog’s loyal to the Service; he’ll show you right now just how loyal he is.… Afraid I’ve used up all your mustard, ma’am!” Master grinned cheerfully at the barmaid.

  He broke the slice of bread into two and put the halves together with the mustard inside.

  “Feed, Ruslan, feed. Take it, I say!”

  A man in a leather coat, sitting with his back to Master, turned around, the whites of his squinting eyes ablaze:

  “Have you gone crazy, by any chance?”

  “I’ll give you ‘crazy’ in a moment,” said Master. “Mind your own damn business!”

  The leather-clad man did not, however, turn away. The woman sitting with him, who was wearing a gray headscarf and feeding a child with a spoon, put down the spoon and covered the child’s eyes with her palm.