“Those ones!” he barked through clenched teeth to the militiaman accompanying him, pursing his lips as if he were getting ready to spit. “There is no need to make something up, they’re model freaks; the money will just roll in.”
And having blown his nose on the floor, the “pug” continued addressing us directly:
“Congrats! You’ve got a job: standing in a walking tunnel. Hey, don’t make that face; to tell the truth, there’s not much choice: either going with me or staying here in jail. And don’t forget to thank Shanita for helping you.”
We needed to make a decision. In search of advice, I looked around but saw no one. The bench in the depth of our cell was empty; the gipsy, probably the same Shanita, had miraculously disappeared. The only sound to be heard was the snotty pug’s voice:
“The treatment of detainees at militia stations might actually be worse than in prisons.”
We hesitated, but we really had no choice.
“Deal,” you agreed.
In half an hour we were brought to a tunnel where some cripple was already standing with his knees slightly bent and his head tilted sideways. Thrusting his only hand forward, he squinted intensely, as if from blinding sunlight, and smiled mildly. As we came nearer he put his hand to his face convulsively, as if protecting himself from invisible blows, and started shivering miserably. Meanwhile, the pug whispered something in his ear, making the one-armed beggar screw up his face, which became small and sloped. A minute later he picked up his can from the floor, poured its contents into the pug’s pocket and obediently left the tunnel, casting fearful glances around.
“Now this is your spot,” the supervisor told us. We didn’t know yet that that was what people collecting tribute from beggars were called – supervisors! Dwellers of and in the tunnels – cripples and the poor – literally worshipped the pug. He endowed them with a spot, and having a spot ensured, they didn’t die, and food and a roof over their heads were guaranteed.
“There’s no spot for us,” you murmured in disbelief.
“Don’t play stupid,” he barked and handed us a can that had emerged from his hands and seemingly out of nowhere.
“Nobody will give alms to us; besides, we don’t know how to beg,” I said.
But instead of answering, the supervisor burst into loud laughter, which made the giant pug substituting for his face shake jerkily on his shoulders.
“If everybody knew how to beg, half of this country would stand in the tunnel. Don’t look them in the face until they give alms; and when they throw a coin, raise your head, and shed a tear; they love it. I will come for money in the evening.”
He took our blanket away so everyone could see. Some people feel ashamed – those immediately turn away and reflect on the injustice of the world; others, on the contrary, look at us with aversion, spit near our feet with defiance and go their way, but there are also those who feel pity easily and quantify it in monetary terms. That’s our target public.
And, indeed, there were a lot of sympathetic people, and coins rained into our can. Well, it couldn’t have been any other way. After all, they are normal, and we are not; and they had to pay for the difference!
After getting used to it a little, we found three other cripples standing along the wall at a distance. They were really unlucky: true cripples who, by a twist of fate, managed to turn their grief into a profession playing a social role on people’s consciences. But however long I watched them, I couldn’t find that intangible borderline where their lameness ended and their real acting began. Over time, their faces were no different from the unsightly masks they wore.
Many of them could easily have run away, but they didn’t; on the contrary, they stood in the dirty tunnel every day as if in the line of duty, begging from people they despised and enriching others they hated. From the very beginning, their fate was obvious: to perish and thereby create space for others to take their place, those more lame. And still they didn’t hurry to die, demonstrating incredible miracles of longevity, clinging to life by all means possible; and the more worthless it was, the more unwilling they were to leave it.
At first I was constantly pursued by a quiet, pitiful pleading of my inner voice that kept telling me: “Quit it, Faith. Get up off your knees. This is not what you came to this city for. Where is that inquisitive girl spending her days with piles of books? Where is the girl dreaming of beautiful feelings day and night? Have you lost the last bit of your dignity?” Yes, I lost everything. I have nothing left but this animal instinct to survive. I lost my pride; my soul is trampled and crippled. This is the bottom. I am not a human being any more. The people passing by are merely obliged to point their fingers at us and to scoff at us, not hiding their disgust. With my head hung down and my arm stretched out, I was almost looking forward to new humiliation and pain, but soon, to my great surprise, I found out that this entire crowd actually didn’t care about us at all. That brought me relief and a certain freedom. Earlier, I happened to watch a small river flowing in the wood where we were roaming in search of a shelter from rain and people, or a natural turnover of inmates in the foster home; now, I see a gloomy, impenetrable flow of half-poor people rich in fake compassion; everybody is in a senseless hurry, drearily moving in space.
Several months passed; we got used to standing in the tunnel and felt at home. And everything would have been good but for a rampant and unrestrained boredom. Having nothing better to do, we counted and recounted our “old acquaintances” – white spots of faces floating by, whom we met on a daily basis. We recognized some of them by their walk, others by the clothes they wore, and others appeared so regularly that they could serve to synchronize watches. Every face was different, but they all were unified by a strange similarity, that is, by an indifference to the world around them. And if somebody put two dolls in our place, threw two quilted jackets over them and made them stretch their hands forward, nobody would notice the difference. That’s how it goes. It’s easier to close your eyes than to ruin your life with risky and unattractive truth. We catch indifference like the flu from each other: symptoms are different, but the consequences are always the same and catastrophic.
Most often, however, we met passersby for the first time; they gave us a glance not expressing any sort of surprise; their eyes were disinterested and bored; not a single urge enlightened their “blind” faces. It is hard to believe, but owing to such “day-flies” I quickly got used to being in the public eye and started seeking people’s company from an urge of my own. Thus, having become conspicuous, from an ugly burlesque of humans, we turned into ordinary twins. There’s a certain magic in it, don’t you agree? It turns out that conjoined people aren’t so unnatural. They are just a strange whim, a kink in nature, deviation that doesn’t seem to exist but is encountered every day.
All day long we were acting out ecumenical grief and humility, but I didn’t really feel anything of that kind, though I tried my best. In order to correspond to the “beggar’s iconic image”, I always raised my head submissively when people were throwing us money, and thanked them. Donors truly believed that by giving alms they were doing something very significant and well-timed, which fed their egos. Like a wooden idol in a temple, we had nothing but to play mute, accepting other people’s donations and “absolving sins”. However, I don’t claim to be an angel speaking the undeniable truth; these are just the ordinary thoughts of unordinary people among ordinary people.