I found them sitting round the table; Rope got up and came to meet me, looking me in the eye:
‘So you’re the famous “writer”?’
A writer, in criminal slang, is someone who’s skilled at using a knife. Writing is a knife wound.
I didn’t know what to say in reply or whether I was allowed to reply, so I looked at Plank. He nodded.
‘I write when I feel the urge to, when the Muse inspires me,’ I replied.
Rope smiled broadly:
‘You’re a smart young rascal.’
He had called me young rascal – that was a good sign. Maybe the matter was going to be resolved in my favour.
Rope sat down and invited me to join them.
‘I’ll ask you only once what you think about this business, then we won’t discuss it again.’ Rope talked with a great calm and confidence in his voice; you could tell he was an Authority, a man who was able to handle things. ‘If, as far as you’re concerned, the matter ends here and you don’t want to take revenge on anyone, I give you my word that all those who have bothered you and your friends will be severely punished by us, the people of Railway. If you want to take revenge on someone in particular, you can do so, but in that case you’ll have to do it all on your own.’
I didn’t think about it for a moment; the reply came to my lips at once:
‘I’ve got nothing personal against anyone in Railway. What’s done is done, and it’s right that it should be forgotten. I hope I didn’t kill any of your people, but in a fight, you know how it is – everyone’s intent on his own survival.’
I wanted him to understand that revenge wasn’t important for me, that well-being and peace in the community came first.
Rope looked at me earnestly, but with a kindly, amiable expression:
‘Good, then I promise you the person who organized this shameful action against you, while you were guests in our district, will be punished and expelled. Your friends can live their worthy life and walk with their heads held high in Railway…’ He paused, glancing at a door on the other side of the room. ‘I want to introduce you to my nephews; you’ve already met them, unfortunately, but now I want you to accept their apology…’ At these words, two boys with gloomy faces and bowed heads came in. One I recognized immediately – it was Beard, the little bastard whom we had beaten up and locked in the school – while the other’s face seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Then I noticed he was limping, and that under his trousers, on his left leg, there was the swelling of a bandage: it was the guy I’d stabbed when I was giving him my message for Vulture, after the first fight.
The two boys approached and stopped in front of me, with all the enthusiasm of two condemned prisoners in front of a firing squad. They greeted me in unison. It was very sad and humiliating; I felt sorry for them.
Rope said to them sternly:
‘Well, then? Begin!’
Immediately, Beard, the little junkie, jabbered out what was clearly a prepared speech:
‘I ask you as a brother to forgive me, because I’ve made a mistake. If you want to punish me I’ll let you, but first forgive me!’
It wasn’t as moving as it might sound; it was clear that he was just going through the motions.
I too had to act my part:
‘Accept the humble greetings of a fond and compassionate brother. May the Lord forgive us all.’
It was pure Grandfather Kuzya, that speech. If he’d heard me he would have been proud of me. Poetic tone, Orthodox content, and spoken like a true Siberian.
After my words Plank sat with a contented smile on his face, and Rope looked astonished.
Now it was the other wretch’s turn:
‘Please, forgive me like a brother, for I have committed an injustice and…’
His voice was less resolute than Beard’s; it was clear that he couldn’t remember all his lines, and had shortened them. He threw a helpless glance at Rope, but Rope remained impassive, though his hands involuntarily clenched into fists.
Then I decided to kill them all with my kindness, and after taking a deep breath I reeled off the following sentence:
‘As our glorious Lord Jesus Christ embraces all us sinners in His gentle love, and affectionately impels us towards the way of eternal salvation, so with equal humility and joy I enfold you in brotherly grace.’
Saintly words: my feet were almost lifting off the ground and it seemed as if a hole were going to open up in the ceiling for me.
Plank didn’t stop smiling. Rope said:
‘Forgive us for everything, Kolima. Go home and don’t worry; I’ll sort everything out myself.’
A month later I heard that Vulture had been given a savage beating: they had ‘marked’ his face, giving him a cut that started from his mouth, ran right across his cheek and ended at his ear. Then they had forced him to leave Railway.
One day someone told me he’d moved to Odessa, where he’d joined a gang of boys who stole wallets on trams. People who had no respect for any law, neither that of men nor that of the criminals.
Some time later I heard he’d died, killed by his own cronies, who had thrown him out of a moving tram.
Geka soon recovered; no sign of the fracture remained on him – later he went to university to study medicine.
Fima, to his misfortune, was taken by his family to Israel. I heard that when they tried to get him to board the plane he started to protest, shouting that it was shameful for a sailor to travel by air. He punched a co-pilot and two customs officials. In the end they had to knock him out with a sedative.
Ivan continued to play the violin in the restaurant, and after a while found a way of consoling himself for the absence of his friend: he met a girl and went to live with her. In fact it was rumoured among the girls of the town that Ivan had been endowed by nature with another talent besides his musical one.
Finger lived in our district for a while, then robbed banks with a Siberian gang, and finally settled in Belgium, marrying a woman of that country.
After the trouble in Railway, for a couple of years I would occasionally bump into boys I didn’t know around town, who would greet me and say:
‘I was there that day.’
Some of them showed me the cuts behind their knees and the scars on their thighs, almost with a sense of vanity and pride, saying:
‘Recognize that? It’s your work!’
I remained on friendly terms with many of them. Luckily no one had been killed that day, though I had wounded one boy quite seriously, by stabbing him near the liver.
Grandfather Kuzya, after hearing from Plank how I’d behaved towards Rope’s nephews, congratulated me in his own way. A lopsided smile and a single sentence:
‘Well done, Kolima: a kind tongue cuts and strikes better than any knife.’
I didn’t get any birthday presents that year – my father was angry with me and kept repeating: ‘You can’t keep out of trouble, even on your birthday.’ My mother was offended because I’d kept from her what had happened to me that day, and in the midst of all this mess nobody gave me anything, except Uncle Vitaly, who brought me a genuine leather football, a beautiful one, but my dog tore it to shreds that very same night.
No presents, and above all a nasty wound which encouraged me to reflect on, and to understand better and put into perspective, the life I was leading.
After many thoughts and debates with myself I came to the conclusion that knives and fisticuffs didn’t get you anywhere. So I moved on to guns.
JUVENILE PRISON
One evening I was returning home with Mel; the weather was hot: it was late August. We were coming from the Centre district, and we had almost reached Low River when from a little garden about twenty metres away from us three boys aged about sixteen came out, rolling drunk, with empty bottles in their hands.