Faithful Ruslan

by Georgi Vladimov

  He ran to find it—not a trace, not a smell. The people walking around the place, who cheerfully called out to him, had so messed it up with their bonfires, pools of cement mixture and heaps of slag that it was impossible to say even approximately where the kitchen, the exercise yard and the training ground had been. He even had the impression that the place was not a camp at all any longer but some other institution, and the camp had been moved somewhere else. Such a move had, in fact, happened twice during his lifetime. At one camp, the forests had gradually been thinned out and cut back so much that the work columns had to be marched over a long and ever-increasing distance to the logging sites; at the same time the huts had filled up with more and more patients coming for treatment, so that in the end a full-scale relocation had perforce taken place. The whole enterprise had begun again at a new site, starting literally from the driving of the first stake. When everything had settled down and was functioning properly, it turned out that the new camp was much more spacious than the old one, and that the dogs, for instance, had better living quarters—clean kennels, a nice, warm guardhouse and heaters installed in every sentry box; even the inmates could not complain about the new punishment cells, which were made of reinforced concrete and had room for many more of them than the roofless wooden cage at the old place. Even so, by last summer the overcrowding had grown to be as bad as ever. Because of it, everyone’s nerves were on edge and the prisoners began to complain in loud, angry voices; more and more frequently they would gather in crowds, refusing for a long time to disperse. Even the dogs realized that another move had simply become a necessity, otherwise something would happen before long. Sure enough it did happen—and the escapers had not been found yet.

  No, it was still a camp and not something else. When they had moved in the past, the old site had always been completely leveled, leaving behind nothing but a few dead ashes and filled-in latrine pits. Ruslan had to admit he was glad that this time they had decided not to move but to build a bigger camp on the same site. The only thing that worried him was that the new buildings were being placed dangerously close to the forest, and some were actually being built among the trees; if the machine gunner on the watchtower spotted someone trying to escape, he would have no time to take aim before the runaway had vanished into the forest. And by the way—there were no watchtowers! Nor was there any barbed wire to be seen—the wire from which everything had begun, the wire for which that first stake had been driven in!

  He decided that they would string up the wire later, when everything else was ready and in its proper place. Perhaps, too, they would cut down a lot of the trees surrounding the camp, so that there would be good, all-around observation. Where, though, would it go, the double perimeter fence of barbed wire? He could not figure it out. The camp, as he saw it, had started to expand in all directions, and the wire would have to be moved farther and farther back, until it was enclosing the whole forest, and then the town and the station—and finally every bit of the surrounding landscape that Ruslan had come to know. The thought was breathtaking—why, then even that damned moon would be in the line of fire and the masters could shoot it down or lock it up in solitary! That would be wonderful; the light from the camp floodlights was quite adequate—it was also less upsetting and it made fewer dark corners.

  What was the nagging thought that still worried him, which still did not square with his scheme of things? He knew that the world was a big place and that in whichever direction you might go, there was always more of it to come. He remembered how his master had driven him away from the breeding kennels in the cab of a truck and had allowed him to look out of the window. What a long drive that had been and how much there had been to see! So if the world was as big as that, how many stakes would have to be driven in, how many of those heavy coils of barbed wire would have to be unreeled? Perhaps … perhaps the time had come to live without any barbed wire at all—and the whole world would be one huge, happy prison camp?

  He sadly decided, however, that it wouldn’t work. Everyone would wander away where he pleased and the guards could never keep track of them all. It would be impossible to give every person his own guard dog. There were an awful lot of people and not enough dogs; he didn’t count mongrels, of course—there were more than enough of those—but real dogs, fit for the Service, who had been selected, bred up and trained. Only after proper training was a dog capable of teaching something to humans, who bred without selection and never learned anything. Besides that—sad though it might be—there had to be a place where you disposed of certain dogs who forgot the rules of the Service and certain unreliable prisoners; since it was forbidden to use firearms in the accommodation zone, where would you take them if the whole world was a camp? It came down to this: barbed wire was indispensable. But where would it go? Where it was needed—that’s where it would go!

  So all was well. He started back, satisfied with what he had seen, even though he was late; he had not had time to go hunting, and somewhere along the way would be the moon, which no one had yet managed to shoot down. Clearly the moon did not want to come out tonight, but something was lighting his way all the same: he could easily make out the path, the bushes and the trees. Stopping to relieve himself, he looked up at the sky and saw the stars. It was they who had decided to shine for him tonight—good, let them shine. He ran on, and the stars ran with him. When he stopped, the stars stopped, too, patiently waiting for him. He knew this trick of theirs already, but it always thrilled him. He stared at the stars with gratitude, meaning to give them a friendly bark—when at that moment it suddenly came to him that the train, which he and the Shabby Man were waiting for so longingly, was soon due to arrive.

  A bright flash lit up his brain and showed him a vision, the most delightful of all his visions. He had never seen the sea, but the salt of our primal mother was dissolved in his blood and carried with it ancestral memories of the menacing roar of the ocean, rolling its endless waves upon the gray, shingly beach, while the smoking wave-crests surged into the air like fountains and white birds wheeled in the dark sky, heralding disaster. His master’s crook and white cloak lay on the shore, alongside his rope sandals and the knapsack with his bread, while his master was swimming beyond the line of surf. Though exerting all his strength, he could not overcome the roaring undertow of the waves and he called for help. Ruslan barked to him: “I’m coming, hold on a little longer!” and flung himself into the thick of the water, which rose before him like a solid wall. He thrust his muzzle into it, blinded and half-deafened, hearing only the glasslike scrunch of pebbles, and when he could hold his breath no longer, he surfaced and gulped air into his lungs. Then he swam toward his master, full of pride and happiness, flying high on the crests and slithering down into the troughs, nearer and nearer to his master, at one moment losing him from view, at the next catching sight of his head amid the raging elements.

  Shaking off this vision, Ruslan trotted on. Other cares were burning him and driving him on now: he must keep a better watch on the station, he must alert the other dogs. He was nagged by a doubt: would they believe him? For a long time now his attitude of unflagging zeal had only antagonized them. Themselves soiled with corruption, they were all too ready to suspect him of being corrupted, too: he had already overheard a rumor that he was serving the Shabby Man! No slander could be more vile! If you looked at things calmly, however, it might be said that he had lowered his standards: he had nuzzled a prisoner’s knee—the shame of it! In a sudden access of guilt, he asked himself: on the very eve of their return to the Service, could he be said to have transgressed its rules? Had he given his allegiance to anyone or anything but the Service? No, no and no again. He had taken no food from anyone, had obeyed no one’s orders, had never truckled to anyone. He had never befriended strangers, had never had any contacts that did not befit a dog who belonged to the Service. Just a moment, though—what had happened between him and Alma? Yes, with Alma—without orders, without a leash and without the masters, who were alway
s supposed to be present on such occasions. Good Lord above—nothing had happened between Ruslan and Alma! There had been a tremulous attraction, a heedless surge of emotion, they had run alongside one another as though harnessed together, shoulders touching—but she had been thinking all the time of her puppies, and her puppies were her sin and she must answer for it as best she could. True, Ruslan had felt very sorry for Alma, but he himself had a clean conscience.

  Gentlemen! We, the lords of creation, can feel satisfied that our efforts had not been in vain. A strong, mature, pureblooded animal, running at night through the deserted forest, felt upon himself the cruel, ugly though invisible harness that we have made for him and counted it a joy that this harness was nowhere too tight, nowhere chafed or scratched him. If anyone were to undertake to fill out Ruslan’s official questionnaire concerning his political reliability—and there was a time when dogs actually had such questionnaires, though they have since disappeared along with all the other records into the cellars where archives are kept “in perpetuity”—it would be a gleaming, unspotted piece of paper, with nothing on it but deletions, no entries but that favorite word of ours: “Not.” He was not. Did not have. Did not belong to. Had not taken part in. Had not been interested in. Had not been subject to. Had not wavered. If there is justice in heaven, then the great Service should have taken that into account and should have summoned him, the first of the first, as he sped on toward his duty, fearing to be late.

  And the Service did summon Ruslan one more time.

  5

  HE HAD WAITED—AND WAS REWARDED. ANYONE who waits with such single-minded devotion is always rewarded in the end. Nor was the good news brought to him by someone else who by a lucky chance happened to be there: that morning Ruslan himself was on the platform when the red light began to glow and a dirty, wheezy little switching engine, tender first, pushed the train of gray-green passenger cars into the siding.

  The wheels were still clicking over the rail joints, a hissing sound could still be heard beneath the cars when an astonishing, incredible horde of people started pouring and tumbling out of the doors with a great deal of shouting, hubbub and laughter, with much clattering of boots, shuffling of shoes, banging of suitcases, trunks and backpacks. Ruslan was almost stunned, blinded and overwhelmed by a wave of stupefying smells; he jumped up and ran, barking furiously, to the other end of the train—something that he had never done before, but then never before had he been called upon to meet such a huge party nor one that was so strange, noisy and slovenly, half of it, for some reason, made up of women.

  The Service had come back, though—and Ruslan was ready for it. In a moment he was transformed: flexible, alert, his yellow eyes sharp and keen; the hairs on his ruff stood on end like a collar, while ears, stomach and the tip of his extended tail quivered with a low metallic growl. If he allowed himself to misbehave slightly, it was out of joyous excitement: he grabbed and tugged at a backpack, whose owner, roaring with laughter, pulled it away from him by the straps, and although he almost yanked Ruslan’s teeth out with it, this did not annoy him. He jumped up with his forepaws on the men’s chests and licked their salty faces until someone stuffed the corner of a prickly army blanket into his mouth—and this did not upset him either, although it took him a long time to spit the wool out of his mouth. They had all come back! And what’s more, they had come back voluntarily! They had realized after all that there was no better life beyond the forests, far away from the camp—which, of course, the masters and the dogs had known all the time—and they were obviously delighted at their discovery.

  Ruslan, however, did not forget his duties, which were to check that everyone except the uniformed conductors had left the cars, and to make sure that the passengers lined up two paces back from the edge of the platform, where they must wait until the masters arrived.

  The masters were disgracefully late, especially since in the old days they had always been standing there long before the train pulled in, each one with his dog, opposite the door assigned to him. There, on the concrete platform, the train escort had handed over the incoming batch of prisoners to the camp escort; the new arrivals were then made to sit down in line, hands clasped behind their necks, while the masters walked up and down between the rows calling the roll, counting and recounting them, and examining their luggage. Anything that could not be carried was removed and loaded onto a truck, and if any of them objected to this, the dogs would intervene without orders.

  On this occasion, however, nothing seemed to be done according to the rules: they did not sit down or pile their baggage alongside them, but simply picked up their belongings and surged off in a disorderly crowd. This upset Ruslan very much, but he was reassured when he saw that they obviously had no intention of trying to escape, that they were not jumping down from the platform, but were taking the familiar route—down the steps and into the square. His only concern was to see that the party did not get too strung out, for which purpose he had to prod a few people with his paws or his muzzle. Who had been the first to think of this method of urging on the stragglers? No doubt it was Ingus. Who else could have dreamed up anything so stupid? The men he prodded did not like it at all; he was, after all, urging them on so that they would get into the warmth all the sooner, but they shied away and shrieked in terror—as if the dogs’ only pleasure was to bite, whereas they were in just as much of a hurry to get back indoors. Later, Djulbars had adopted this method, and of course the swine had ruined everything as he always did—but then he was Djulbars!

  Out on the square, around the railing of the little central plot of grass, they all gathered into a crowd again, put down their luggage and turned to face the station. There on the steps stood two short men wearing identical gray suits, with something red at their throats; one was fat, the other, thin. The fat one only smiled, his hands clasped behind his back, but the thin one put a pair of spectacles on his nose, unfolded a piece of paper and talked to it for a very long time, occasionally flinging his hand into the air as though throwing a stick to be retrieved. Two or three times, after a pause, he repeated the words: “And so you, young builders of the cellulose fiber factory …” As soon as he had finished and was folding up his piece of paper, the fat man unclasped his hands from behind his back and started to smack his palms together. Everybody else started to slap their own hands, too, and to shout “Hurrah!” while some at the very back shouted “Boo!” and seemed very pleased with themselves for this. Then one of the newcomers mounted the steps, put his suitcase at his feet and also took out a piece of paper. He did not talk to his paper for quite so long, and repeated a slightly different phrase: “And so we, young builders of the cellulose fiber factory …” All these strange words tickled Ruslan’s ears—rather like the words that the Shabby Man liked to shout after he had been at his bottle for a while: “sandalwood,” “palisander,” “White Finns …” By the way, thought Ruslan, he might like to be here. Shall I go and fetch him?

  There was, however, no time for him to go—the people had finished talking, waving their arms and smoking; they picked up their luggage from the ground—luggage that no one had examined!—and began to form up into a column. This was a surprise—and a pleasant one: they were forming a column on their own initiative! Although they had so far broken almost every rule, they had at least remembered the most important one of all—not to move in a disorderly crowd but in a proper column. Feeling very satisfied and immeasurably proud that he alone was escorting such a large party and knew where to lead it, Ruslan took up his position on the right-hand side near the head of the column, and set out on the road—a road whose end he was not to see.

  The column headed out onto the main street. Moving at a leisurely pace, it flowed over the permanent ruts in the street, while its thousand boot-soles trampled the wayside plantains and raised a cloud of pale, clay-colored dust that settled on the sparse poplar trees and sharp-pointed tops of fences. Somewhere amid the ranks a guitar tinkled and accordions began to wheeze, at which a gi
rl wearing men’s pants and with short-cropped hair like a boy eagerly ran out ahead, turned to face the front rank and started to dance backward, neatly and deftly, singing in a raucous, cracked voice:

  “I stepped out on the road so smooth,

  Along the road so wide-oh!

  My lover wants to have his due,

  But I won’t be his bride-oh!”

  This was an unheard-of breach of regulations, but since it was being committed by a woman, Ruslan was not sure what to do. In the columns he had escorted in the past, women had been an exceptional rarity. They had never given any trouble, except that they were more prone to lag behind and had to be made to catch up; on the other hand they never tried to escape, so on balance he felt indifferent toward them. He decided to leave this girl alone, especially as her performance was not causing the others to break ranks. The accordions were bellowing away at full blast, the girl twirled around on her own axis so that she ended up again facing the front rank and dancing backward, smiling all over her high-cheekboned, sunburned face. She was still singing but now quite inaudibly, because the men’s voices were roaring out their own nonsensical song:

  “Ruble for the hay, the cart costs two,

  Ruble for the ride for me and you—

  Beans and peas, peas and beans,

  Load it to the top with peas and beans …”

  Farther down the column they were singing about the soldier and his girl who had to part because:

  “He’s been ordered to march westward

  But eastward she must turn her steps …”

  While from the back came the strains of a song about the old tomcat who “… sat on the mat, eating bread and mutton fat …”

  Windows were opened along the street and people looked out—some as though stunned, others with a mirthless grin of amazement. In some front yards, women with their long skirts hitched up for gardening straightened their backs and stared, shading their eyes from the sun. A white-haired old man wearing a patched army tunic walked over to his low fence and watched silently and impassively with his faded blue eyes. His hands, grasping the handle of a spade, were covered in large veins as dark in color as the spade handle, as dark as his lined, weather-beaten face, while his elbows and open neck were thin and white, the skin underlain by a network of little blue veins. The old man moved his lips for a long time before stroking the top of his head and asking: