‘You don’t look like a spinning-wheel salesman.’
‘That’s the secret of my success.’
He nodded thoughtfully and returned his attention to the dossier. He spoke to the pages. ‘You are familiar with the story of Sleeping Beauty? Tell me, on what part of the spinning wheel did she prick her finger?’
I shifted in my seat and was overwhelmed by a flood of pins and needles from my wrists. ‘Strictly speaking, there isn’t anywhere on a Saxon wheel that could prick her finger, there are no needles, although there are cases where the distaff can get sharpened to a point after years of use if remedial action is not taken. It might be sharp enough to give you a jab, but not really break the skin.’
He made a steeple of his fingers and peered at me over them. ‘It is interesting that you opt for a literal interpretation. You do not consider, for example, the possibility of a more . . . allegorical approach, looking for the meaning within the gestalt?’
‘I must confess I had overlooked that particular avenue.’
My interrogator considered; a faraway look entered his eyes and, for a while, it seemed that I no longer existed for him. He thought for a long minute or two. I waited, fascinated by the sweep of the second hand on his wristwatch which was the only thing moving in the room. Eventually he spoke, but as much to himself as to me. ‘A father forbids his daughter from visiting a big tower. You are a man and know what a tower symbolises, I do not need to be so indelicate as to spell it out. In the tower is a terrible secret locked away in a room. The father warns her that entering this room will be perilous. She agrees not to go there, but as she grows the secret room preys upon her mind. And then one day, many years later, perhaps at a time when she has almost forgotten this room, she becomes aware of changes in herself. Physical and emotional changes. It is the most natural thing in the world which all girls must pass through and yet to her, like all girls, it is deeply disconcerting. Perhaps she is distracted by these changes and follows a dark instinct inside her and, without ever consciously intending to, finds herself climbing the steps to the tower. She knows it is wrong, she knows that to disobey her father is the greatest sin a little girl can commit and yet somewhere buried deeply inside her is the knowledge that there comes a time when every young girl must commit this very sin. She reaches the top, her heart beating with fear and excitement and unfocussed expectation; and behold! The door is ajar. Almost as if this day had been preordained, which of course it had. She goes into the room at the top of the forbidden tower and finds a spinning wheel. She begins to spin . . .’ He paused in contemplation. ‘I must admit the verisimilitude breaks down a little here. This has always struck me as an unsatisfactory part of the story: would a teenage girl symbolically on the trail of her first sexual adventure sit down at mummy’s spinning wheel? But no matter. She spins and the rest, as they say, is history. She pricks her finger, there is blood and the girl is ruined, save for the intervention of a good fairy.’ He stopped and looked at me expectantly. ‘You see?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I see.’ I had no idea what he was talking about.
He grimaced. ‘You do not see. You have no children and so for you the true significance will always remain purely in the realm of the abstract. But me, ah me! I have a daughter, a beautiful wonderful daughter who is more precious to me than the droplets of blood that visit the chambers of my heart. In this sad sordid world there is nothing as important to me as her happiness. To see her married to a respectable man who would look after her . . . I do not care whether he be rich, although being poor is not easy, just so long as he were a decent man who meant well by her . . . This is my only dream. And this humble goal is none the less a very difficult one to achieve because you and I as men of the world know well what dark qualities are to be found in the hearts of men. Yes, if you had a lovely daughter like mine, you would live this tale every day of your life.’ He paused and said, almost sheepishly as if embarrassed to bring the matter up, ‘You are not really a salesman, are you, Louie Eeyoreovitch?’
‘Truly, I am a humble salesman.’
‘It will be much easier for you if you tell the truth. You might as well. Calamity has told us everything.’
‘She wouldn’t tell you the time of the next train to Devil’s Bridge.’
‘She wouldn’t need to, we already have that information.’
‘If you’ve harmed her, I will make you pay for it, somehow. One day.’
‘Yes, I know, when you get back from the camps. They all say that. But twenty years carrying a pick in a subterranean labyrinth north of the Kolyma River is a long time to keep the flame of hatred alive. Those long dark arctic nights, when the sun shines for less than an hour or two, invariably give a man a different perspective on these things.’
‘She’s just a kid.’
‘Then what are you doing embroiling her in a man’s game? Tell me, why are you really here in Hughesovka?’
‘I’m attending the Lower Don Collective Spinning Wheel conference.’
‘They’ve never heard of you.’
I shrugged.
‘Have you ever played the game known as tug-of-war?’
‘Once or twice, at the donkey derby.’
‘Do you know how they cut down trees along the Kolyma? We could give them chainsaws but that would be too easy. They might even enjoy it. No, we give them nothing and the clever ones, the survivors, tie rope around the bole of the tree and play tug-of-war to rock the tree out of the frozen tundra. Could you do that wearing nothing but kapok pyjamas in temperatures so cold your spit freezes in mid-air? You think, perhaps, you could handle it. I see you are a brave man, you think if needs must be you will die out there and it will not be so very bad. You think life is a treasure but we must all lose it one day, we must all open the chest to find it empty and acquire therewith the sickening knowledge that it will never again be filled. You think, faced with this, the most implacable fact of all facts, that it ill-behoves a man to quibble about the date of his exit; you think a man is nothing without dignity and to squeak and babble and moan about this is the mark of a man who has abandoned his dignity and is therefore not a man any more. You think all this, I see, because you are a brave and noble man. But you err, my friend, alas! How you err! Your God is not so merciful as to let you die out there in the frigid desert. He has a much worse fate for you in mind, a terrible fate reserved only for the strong ones, for the brave noble strong ones. You will survive! In temperatures so low it is impossible that a man could last a day you will survive twenty years. On a diet so poor and meagre, on a bowl of thin gruel once a day, you will chop down trees or break rocks and it will be impossible, and though it be impossible still you will do it. Every second will be a torment, and each of those seconds of torment will last the entire twenty years. It is impossible that a man so ill-fed, so badly clothed, so overworked could live to tell the tale, and yet you will. And then, when your twenty years are up, they will release you and two weeks after returning to civilisation you will catch cold and die. This is how it happens; no one knows why, but it does. I tell you this because I like you. Please, Louie Eeyoreovitch, I beg you, do not make me do this. Tell us what brought you to Hughesovka.’