We decided to go to the meeting-place anyway, under the old bridge.
‘But to be on the safe side, Gagarin,’ I said, ‘maybe it’s better if we don’t all go. A group of three would be best, don’t you think? And better go on foot, so we can split up if there’s any trouble…’
Gagarin agreed:
‘Okay, but one of those three has to be me.’
‘Better not,’ said Mel. ‘You were appointed by the elders; you’re the leader of the mission. If anything happens to you the situation will only get worse.’
After a brief discussion we decided that Mel, Besa and I would go, and the others would wait nearby, ready to spring into action if necessary.
While we were in the car we made a plan: I would walk to the middle of the meeting place, under the old bridge, and watch the area in front and to the left, Mel would walk on the right and look to that side (after all, he only had a right eye), and Besa would bring up the rear and bend down occasionally to do up his shoelaces, to check the situation behind us.
We parked in a narrow street near the bridge; the others stayed in the car to wait for us. We spread out as we had agreed and walked slowly down towards the bridge, pretending to be just out for a stroll.
We had deliberately arrived ten minutes late, to keep the guys who were waiting for us guessing.
But when we reached the bridge there was no one there. We walked around the area, then went back to the cars.
Now we really would have to go and see the Guardian of Centre and say the things Uncle Fedya had recommended we say. It was obvious that his two assistants had done something really stupid, and that that was why they had played this trick on us.
We were flying towards Centre like a squadron of bombers. Furious and grim-faced, we already imagined the trouble there would be in town when our mission was completed. Mel and I even discussed the destiny of the Guardian, as if it were in our hands.
‘They’ll kill him for sure,’ said Mel. ‘He can’t go unpunished after this demonstration of weakness. Being tricked by your assistants is worse than being a rat yourself.’
‘I reckon they’ll only lower him,’ I said. ‘They’ll make him move to Bam, where he’ll rot until the day some bastard kills him for his golden chain.’
It’s not very normal for two teenagers to speculate about the future of an experienced Authorities.
In the criminal world it’s preferable to avoid getting into this kind of situation; even if everything around you is wrong and you’re sure you’re right, before turning your decisions into actions it’s as well to ‘cross yourself thirty times’, as my grandfather used to say.
To be sitting on the crest of the highest wave in the sea is very nice, but how long can such a wave last? And what happens when that brute you’re riding smashes you like a tiny parasite?
I always ask myself questions like that when I feel the need to jump on a large and violent wave.
Some criminals, when they sense that the ground is crumbling beneath their feet, forget all the splendid, equitable laws of nature, and then the lead starts to fly and you can’t be sure of anything.
I warned the others that we were going into an area controlled by a man who didn’t have the slightest respect for us, since according to his rules under-age teenagers counted for nothing. But what might happen if those same teenagers caused him to lose his power? He wouldn’t just let us go home in peace after humiliating him. He might declare an all-out war, turning us from hunters into quarry. We might seem – and even be – as tough as we liked, but if the ten of us had to fight a whole district whose Guardian had gone crazy and hated us, we’d be slaughtered like pigs on New Year’s Day.
When we reached Centre, we found an enormous number of cars parked outside the bar we had visited at the start of our tour. So they were all there, perhaps waiting for us, perhaps discussing the situation. I sensed from the way the wind was blowing, from the breeze in our faces, that we were already riding the wave.
I looked at Gagarin as I climbed out of the car. I was worried about his state of mind, since he was going to have to talk on our behalf, and it was on his word, and the way he said it, that our future depended.
He seemed relaxed, and his sly smile told me he had a plan.
We didn’t say anything to each other, so as not to seem indecisive in front of the others, who were now looking at us as we entered the bar.
All the people of Centre were sitting round a table eating and drinking, with Pavel the Guardian in the middle. He had a furious expression on his face, and was violently attacking a pork chop, spraying fat all over the place. Next to him was the troublemaker who had insulted us on our previous visit. As soon as he saw us he got up and started shouting wildly: ‘What the hell do you want?’, and throwing various insults at us.
We stood still, and the thug came towards us; now and then he turned back towards the table to see his master’s face, to assess whether he approved of his behaviour. Pavel seemed indifferent; he went on eating, as if we didn’t exist.
When the guy reached Gagarin and started shouting right in his face, Gagarin’s left hand shot out and grabbed him by the neck – which was long and thin, like a turkey’s – while his right hand slowly extracted his Tokarev from his pocket.
With one hand round the neck of this guy – who was trying to punch him but couldn’t reach him and looked like a insect impaled on a needle – and the other holding his gun, Gagarin didn’t take his eyes off Pavel. Then he raised his right hand and held it in that position for a moment: the fool started squealing like a wounded animal, trying to turn his face as far away as possible from the probable trajectory of Gagarin’s right hand. But in vain. Suddenly that hand started hitting him in the face with the gun with terrible force and speed. The blows rained down.
The guy’s face became one big wound. He passed out and his legs fell limp, but Gagarin still held him up by the neck and kept hitting him over and over again in the same place. Then, as suddenly as he had started, he stopped hitting him and dropped him on the floor like a sack. Ten seconds later he started kicking him. It was a massacre.
When Gagarin had finished, he went over to the table where Pavel was sitting, with a face like thunder. At this point, I realized that we all had our guns in our hands.
Gagarin hooked a seat towards himself with his foot, sat down on it, and without giving the people of Centre time to get over their confusion at his mauling of the thug, started insulting Pavel. He used very offensive words. He spoke to him as you speak to a person whose fate is sealed.
It was very risky, but if the terror tactics worked, if we succeeded in creating a division among Pavel’s people, we would be all right. No self-respecting criminal will support a Guardian who because of his own mistakes is on the brink of ruin, so we were deliberately separating him from his people.
The decision Gagarin had taken was an extreme one, and it was a good thing he hadn’t told us about it in advance, because we would certainly have opposed it. But now that he’d started we were going to have to give him our full support, or we’d be in a real mess.
The essence of what Gagarin was saying to Pavel was simple: he was rebuking him for incompetence, but above all he was insulting him, to humiliate him in the eyes of his companions.
His approach was working: the expression on Pavel’s face had changed, he had gone very pale and his posture had altered too: he had been sitting with his shoulders erect and his chest puffed out, but now his shoulders had fallen, his chest had caved in and his whole body seemed shrunken. Only his eyes continued to glare with the same anger and contempt as before.
Gagarin told him he had been rude to us from the outset simply because we weren’t adults, ignoring the fact that we had come as representatives of our district and of the entire Siberian community, and ignoring the fact that our mission was trying to resolve a situation which all the communities worthy to be called criminal considered extremely serious.