The Suitcase

by Sergei Dovlatov

  The controller replied mildly, “A minimum of six years. And that’s if you get an early release. After all, you were charged with conspiracy.”

  The prisoner paid no attention and went on shouting, “Bastards, give me an athletic broad!”

  Churilin took a good look at him and poked me with his elbow. “Listen, he’s no nut! He’s perfectly normal. First he wanted to eat and now he wants a broad. An athlete… A man with taste. I wouldn’t mind one, either.”

  The controller handed me the papers. We went out onto the porch. Churilin asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Doremifasol,” the prisoner replied.

  So I said, “If you’re really crazy, fine. If you’re pretending, that’s fine, too. I’m not a doctor. My job is to take you to Iosser. The rest doesn’t interest me. The only condition is, don’t overplay the part. If you start biting, I’ll shoot you. But you can bark and crow as much as you like…”

  We had to walk about three miles. There weren’t any lumber trucks going our way. Captain Sokolovsky had taken the camp director’s car. They said he went off to take some kind of exam. We had to walk on foot.

  The road went through a village towards the peat bogs, then past a grove all the way to the highway crossing. Beyond that rose the camp towers of Iosser.

  Churilin slowed down near the village store. I handed him two roubles. We didn’t have to worry about military police at that hour.

  The prisoner was clearly in favour of our idea. He even shared his joy. “My name is Tolik.”

  Churilin brought back a bottle of Moskovskaya vodka. I stuck it in my jodhpur pocket. We had to hold back until we got to the grove.

  The prisoner kept remembering that he was deranged. Then he’d get on all fours and growl. I told him not to waste his strength. Save it for the medical examination. We wouldn’t turn him in.

  Churilin spread a newspaper on the grass and took a few biscuits from his pocket. We took turns drinking from the bottle. The prisoner hesitated at first. “The doctor might smell it. It would seem unnatural somehow…”

  Churilin interrupted. “And barking and crowing is natural?… Have some sorrel afterwards, you’ll be fine.”

  The prisoner said, “You’ve convinced me.”

  The day was warm and sunny. Fluffy clouds stretched along the sky. At the highway crossing lumber trucks honked impatiently. A wasp vibrated over Churilin’s head.

  The vodka was starting to take effect, and I thought, “How good it is to be free! When I get out I’ll spend hours walking along the streets. I’ll drop by the café on Marata. I’ll have a smoke near the Duma building…”

  I know that freedom is a philosophical concept. That doesn’t interest me. After all, slaves aren’t interested in philosophy. To go wherever you want – now that’s freedom!

  My fellow drinkers were chatting amiably. The prisoner was explaining, “My head isn’t working right. And I have gas, too… To tell the truth, people like me should be let out. Written off completely because of illness. After all, obsolete technology is written off, isn’t it?”

  Churilin interrupted. “Your head isn’t working right? You had enough brains to steal, didn’t you? Your papers say group theft. What was it you stole, I’d like to know?”

  The prisoner was modest. “Nothing much… A tractor.” “A whole tractor?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you steal it?”

  “Easy. From a reinforced-concrete plant. I used psychology.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I go in. Get in the tractor. I tie a metal barrel to the tractor and drive to the checkpoint. The barrel’s making a racket. The guard comes out. ‘Where are you taking that barrel?’ And I say, ‘It’s for personal needs.’ ‘Got documentation?’ ‘No.’ ‘Untie the fucker.’ I untie the barrel and drive off. Basically, the psychology worked… And then we took the tractor apart for spare parts.”

  Churilin slapped the prisoner’s back in delight. “You’re a real artist, pal!”

  The prisoner accepted it modestly. “People admired me.”

  Churilin suddenly stood up. “Long live the labour reserves!”

  He took a second bottle from his pocket.

  By then the sun was shining on our meadow. We moved into the shade. We sat down on a fallen alder.

  Churilin gave the command, “Let’s roll!”

  It was hot. The prisoner’s shirt was unbuttoned. He had a gunpowder tattoo on his chest that said, “Faina! Do you remember the golden days?!” Next to the words were a skull, a bowie knife and a bottle marked “poison”.

  Churilin unexpectedly got drunk. I didn’t notice it happen. He suddenly grew grim and still.

  I knew that the garrison was filled with neurotics. Work as a prison guard inexorably leads to that. But Churilin of all people seemed comparatively normal to me. I remembered only one crazy act on his part. We were taking prisoners out to cut trees. We were sitting around the stove in a wooden shed, keeping warm, talking. Naturally, we were drinking. Churilin went outside without a word, got a pail somewhere, filled it with gasoline, climbed up on the roof and poured the fuel down the chimney. The shed burst into flames. We only just got out. Three people were badly burnt.

  But that was a long time ago. So now I said, “Take it easy…”

  Churilin silently took out his gun, then barked, “On your feet! The two-man brigade is now under the soldier’s command. If necessary, the soldier in charge will use arms. Prisoner Kholodenko, forward march! Private First Class Dovlatov, fall in behind!”

  I continued trying to calm him down. “Snap out of it. Pull yourself together. And put away the gun.”

  The prisoner reacted in camp idiom. “What’s the fucking stir?”

  Churilin released the safety catch. I walked towards him, repeating, “You’ve just had too much to drink.”

  Churilin started backing up. I kept walking towards him, without making any sudden moves. I repeated senseless things out of fear. I remember smiling.

  But the prisoner didn’t lose spirit. He cried out cheerfully, “Time to run for cover!”

  I saw the fallen alder tree behind Churilin. He didn’t have far to back up. I crouched. I knew that he might shoot as he fell. And he did.

  A bang and a crash of twigs and branches.

  The gun fell on the ground. I kicked it aside.

  Churilin got up. I wasn’t afraid of him then. I could lay him out flat from any position. And the prisoner was there to help.

  I saw Churilin take off his belt. I didn’t realize what it meant. I thought he was adjusting his shirt.

  Theoretically I could have shot him, or at least wounded him. We were on a detail, in a combat situation. I would have been acquitted.

  Instead I moved in on him again. My manners got in the way back when I was boxing, too.

  As a result Churilin whopped me on the head with his buckle.

  Most importantly, I remembered everything. I didn’t lose consciousness. I didn’t feel the blow itself. I saw blood pouring onto my trousers. So much blood I even cupped my hands to catch it. I stood there and the blood flowed.

  Thank goodness, the prisoner didn’t lose his nerve. He grabbed the belt away from Churilin. Then he bandaged my head with a shirtsleeve.

  Here Churilin began to realize what had happened, I guess. He grabbed his head and headed for the road, weeping.

  His pistol lay in the grass, next to the empty bottles. I told the prisoner to pick it up.

  And now picture this amazing sight: in front, bawling, is a guard. Behind him, a crazy prisoner with a gun. Bringing up the rear, a private with a bloody bandage on his head. And coming towards them all, a military patrol. A GAZ-61 carrying three men with sub-machine guns and a huge German shepherd.

  I’m amazed they didn’t shoot my prisoner. They could have shot a round into him easily. Or set the dog on him.

  When I saw the car, I passed out. My voluntary reflexes gave way, and the heat took its toll. I just had time
to tell them that it wasn’t the prisoner’s fault. Let them figure out for themselves whose fault it was.

  And to top it off, I broke my arm as I fell. Actually, I didn’t break it, I damaged it. They found a fracture in the upper arm. I remember thinking that this was really superfluous.

  The last thing I remembered was the dog. It sat next to me and yawned nervously, opening its purple jaws.

  The speaker over my head began to work – a hum followed by a slight click. I pulled the plug without waiting for the triumphant chords of the national anthem.

  I suddenly remembered a forgotten feeling from childhood. I was a schoolboy, I had a fever. I would be allowed to miss school.

  I was waiting for the doctor. He would sit on my bed, look at my throat, say, “Well, young man.” Mama would look for a clean towel for him.

  I was sick, happy, everyone pitied me. I didn’t have to wash with cold water.

  I was waiting for the doctor. Instead, Churilin showed up. He peeked through the window, sat on the windowsill. Then he stood up and headed towards me. He looked pathetic and beseeching.

  I tried to kick him in the balls. Churilin took a step back and, wringing his hands, said, “Serge, forgive me! I was wrong… I repent… Sincerely, I repent! I was in a state of effect — ”

  “Affect,” I corrected.

  “All the more so…”

  He took a careful step towards me. “I was joking… It was just for a laugh… I have nothing against you…”

  “You’d better not.”

  What could I say to him? What do you say to a guard who uses aftershave only internally?

  I said, “What happened to our prisoner?”

  “He’s fine. Crazy again. Keeps singing ‘My Motherland’. He’s being tested tomorrow. For the moment, he’s in the isolation cell.”

  “And you?”

  “Me? I’m in the guardhouse, of course. That is, actually I’m here, but in theory I’m in the guardhouse. A pal of mine is on duty there… I have to talk to you.”

  Churilin came another step closer and spoke fast. “Serge, I’m doomed, done for! The comrades’ court is on Thursday!”

  “For whom?”

  “Me. They say I’ve crippled Serge.”

  “All right, I’ll say I have no charges to bring against you. That I forgive you.”

  “I already told them you forgive me. They say it doesn’t matter, the cup of patience runneth over.”

  “What else can I do?”

  “You’re educated, think of something. Put a spin on things. Otherwise those sons of bitches will hand my papers over to the tribunal. That means three years in the disciplinary battalion. And that’s even worse than the camps. So you’ve got to help me…”

  He screwed up his face, trying to weep.

  “I’m an only son. My brother’s doing time, all the sisters are married.”

  I said, “I don’t know what to do. There is one possibility…”

  Churilin perked up. “What?”

  “At the trial I’ll ask you a question. I’ll say, ‘Churilin, do you have a civilian profession?’ You’ll reply, ‘No.’ I’ll say, ‘What is he supposed to do after his discharge – steal? Where are the promised courses for chauffeurs and bulldozer drivers? Are we any worse than the regular army?’ And so on. This will create an uproar, of course. Maybe they’ll let you out on bail.”

  Churilin grew more animated. He sat on my bed and said, “What a brain! Now that’s a real brain! With a brain like that there’s really no need to work.”

  “Especially,” I noted, “if you whack it with a brass buckle.”

  “That’s in the past,” Churilin said, “forgotten… Write down what I’m supposed to say.”

  “I told you.”

  “Write it down. Or I’ll get mixed up.”

  Churilin handed me a pencil stub. He tore off a scrap of newspaper. “Write.”

  I neatly wrote “no”.

  “What does it mean, ‘no’?” he asked.

  “You said: ‘Write down what I’m supposed to say.’ So I wrote: ‘No’. I’ll ask the question: ‘Do you have a civilian profession?’ You’ll say: ‘No.’ After that I’ll talk about the driving classes. And then the commotion will start.”

  “So I just say one word, ‘no’?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “That’s not enough,” Churilin said.

  “They might ask you other questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “What will I reply?”

  “Depends on what they ask.”

  “What will they ask? Roughly?”

  “Well, maybe: ‘Do you admit your guilt, Churilin?’”

  “And what will I reply?”

  “You reply: ‘Yes.’”

  “That’s all?”

  “You could say, ‘Yes, of course, I admit it and repent deeply.’”

  “That’s better. Write it down. First write the question, and then my answer. Write the questions in regular script and print the answers. So I don’t confuse them.”

  Churilin and I worked on this till eleven. The paramedic wanted to chase him out, but Churilin said, “Can’t I visit my comrade in arms?”

  As a result we wrote an entire drama. We anticipated dozens of questions and answers. And at Churilin’s insistence I added parenthetical stage directions: “coldly”, “thoughtfully”, “bewildered”.

  Then they brought lunch: a bowl of soup, fried fish and pudding.

  Churilin was astonished. “They feed you better here than at the guardhouse.”

  I said, “I suppose you’d prefer it the other way round?”

  I had to give him the pudding and the fish.

  After that Churilin left. He said, “My pal at the guardhouse goes off duty at twelve. After that some Ukrainian jerk is on. I have to get back.”

  Churilin went to the window. Then he returned. “I forgot. Let’s trade belts. Otherwise they’ll add to my sentence for the buckle.”

  He took my soldier’s belt and hung his on the bed.

  “You’re in luck,” he said. “Mine’s real leather. And the buckle is weighted. One blow and a man’s out for the count!”

  “You don’t say…”

  Churilin went back to the window. Turned around again. “Thanks,” he said. “I won’t forget this.”

  And he climbed out the window. Even though he could easily have used the door.

  It’s a good thing he didn’t take my cigarettes.

  Three days passed. The doctor told me I got off easy: all I had was a cut on the head.

  I wandered around the military base. Spent hours in the library. Tanned myself on the roof of the woodshed.

  Twice I tried to visit the guardhouse. Once a Latvian doing his first year of service was on duty. He raised his sub-machine gun as I approached. I wanted to pass cigarettes through him, but he shook his head.

  I dropped by again in the evening. This time, an instructor I knew was on duty.

  “Go on in,” he said. “You can spend the night if you want.”

  He rattled the keys. The door opened.

  Churilin was playing cards with three other prisoners. A fifth was watching the game with a sandwich in his hand. Orange peels were scattered on the floor.

  “Greetings,” Churilin said. “Don’t bother me. I’m going to flatten them in a minute.”

  I gave him the cigarettes.

  “No booze?” Churilin asked.

  One could only admire his gall.

  I stood around for a minute and left.

  In the morning there were posters all over the place: “Open Komsomol divisional meeting. Comrades’ court. Personal case of Churilin, Vadim Tikhonovich. Attendance mandatory.”

  An old-timer was walking by. “It’s about time,” he said. “They’ve gone wild… It’s terrible what’s going on in the barracks… Wine flowing from under the doors…”

  About sixty people were gathered in the club. The
Komsomol bureau sat on the stage. Churilin was seated to one side, next to the banner. They were waiting for Major Afanasyev.

  Churilin looked absolutely thrilled. Perhaps it was his first time onstage. He gestured, waved to his friends. What’s more, he also waved to me.

  Major Afanasyev came onstage.

  “Comrades!”

  Silence gradually came over the hall.

  “Comrades! Today we are discussing the personal case of Private Churilin. Private Churilin was sent on an important mission with Private First Class Dovlatov. On the way Private Churilin got as drunk as a skunk and began acting irresponsibly. As a result, Private First Class Dovlatov was wounded, even though he’s just as much of a fuckwit, forgive my language… They should have been ashamed of themselves in front of the prisoner at least…”

  While the major spoke, Churilin glowed with joy. He patted his hair, twisted in his seat, touched the banner. Clearly, he felt like a hero.

  The major went on. “In this quarter alone, Churilin spent twenty-six days in the guardhouse. I’m not talking about drunken behaviour – that’s like snow in winter for Churilin. I’m talking about more serious crimes, like brawling. You’d think that for him Communism has already been built. He doesn’t like your face, he throws a punch! Soon everybody will let fly with their fists. Don’t you think I get the urge to clock someone in the face? The cup of patience runneth over. We must decide: does Churilin stay with us or do his papers go to the tribunal? It’s a serious case, comrades! Let’s begin. Tell us how it happened, Churilin.”

  Everyone looked at Churilin. A crumpled paper appeared in his hands. He turned this way and that, looked it over, and mumbled to himself.

  “Speak,” Major Afanasyev repeated.

  Churilin looked at me in bewilderment. We had not foreseen this. We had left something out of the scenario.

  The major raised his voice. “We’re waiting!”

  “I’m in no rush,” Churilin said.

  He looked grim. His face was becoming resentful and morose. At the same time the major’s voice was growing more irritated. I had to raise my hand. “Let me tell it.”

  “As you were,” the major shouted. “You’re a fine one to talk!”