Nobody knows it’s their last day riding on the train. The wheels thunder and a wicked August sun is heating up the car through the window. Ikonnikov is entertaining Izabella. This is one of those rare moments when something pierces his usual gloominess, something fresh, some sort of boyish mischief, and he becomes quick, lively, even playful. Zuleikha almost likes him in this mood. She doesn’t understand even a fraction of the jokes that make Izabella laugh so heartily and the reticent Konstantin Arnoldovich snort a little bit, but she tries not to miss those moments because it’s nice to be among cheerful, smiling people. She’s quiet and reserved, and the “formers” don’t avoid her.
Lying on Ikonnikov’s open palm is a thin piece of bread he stashed away that morning.
“More!” he says, impatiently wiggling his fingers.
His eyes are tightly blindfolded with someone’s shirt; he’s like a child playing hide-and-seek. Izabella places another piece on the artist’s palm.
“More!” he demands. “Come now, don’t stint on art!”
Konstantin Arnoldovich gives up his piece. Ikonnikov mumbles with satisfaction and begins mashing the bread in his long fingers.
Zuleikha watches with disapproval and sorrow. She wouldn’t give up her piece for anything. It would be different if there were a purpose, but this is just an indulgence. And the crumbs are scattering on the floor so they can’t be picked up.
The bread is softening in Ikonnikov’s flexible fingers. He’s kneading it into a pliant gray mass, mashing, mashing, and – there you go – gradually turning it into… a toy? Someone’s head! Izabella and Konstantin Arnoldovich don’t look away, observing as bushy, arched eyebrows take shape under a mane of hair, an aquiline profile develops, a luxuriant mustache turns up, and a bulging chin swells…
“Mon Dieu,” Izabella says solemnly.
“Unbelievable,” whispers Konstantin Arnoldovich. “It’s simply unbelievable…”
“Well?” Ikonnikov cries victoriously and tears the blindfold from his eyes.
In his hand is a small, absolutely living head: its gaze is penetrating and intent, and there’s a wise half-smile on its lips.
“I received the Order of the Red Banner of Labor not long ago,” sighs Ikonnikov. “Nineteen heads in bronze. Seven in marble. Two in malachite.”
“And one in bread,” adds Konstantin Arnoldovich.
Zuleikha stares at the bready bust and knows she’s seen this intelligent face before somewhere, with its stern yet kind, fatherly gaze. A good person, and the artist molded it skillfully. It’s a pity about the bread, though.
Ikonnikov holds the bust out to her.
“You’re always giving me all your bread,” she says, shaking her head.
“Not you, dear,” says Izabella, her eyes indicating Zuleikha’s protruding belly. “Him.”
“Her,” Zuleikha corrects her. “It’s a girl.”
She takes the bready head and hungrily bites off half, right at the mustache. Konstantin Arnoldovich breaks into a sudden, shrill whistle and turns around. Behind him, Gorelov’s eyes are flashing with curiosity and his nostrils are anxiously twitching. He’s obviously desperate to listen in on the conversation – he’s been completely brutal since the memorable escape, sniffing out, unearthing, and searching everything, so he can report to Ignatov – but he’s missed this.
“Gorelov, you ignorant soul!” Konstantin Arnoldovich’s sharp, narrow little shoulders screen Zuleikha, who’s still chewing. “Are you aware that our Ilya Petrovich created the scenery for the Mariinsky Theater’s ballet The Bolshevik?”
“We don’t go wagging our tails around at the ballet. And you’re not very likely to now, either.”
Gorelov’s hand angrily snatches at Konstantin Arnoldovich’s frail arm, pushing him aside: Here, let’s have a look. It turns out there’s nothing to see, though, just a pregnant peasant woman chewing with a stuffed mouth and picking crumbs out of her palm with her lips. But there was something here, there was, his gut feels it… Disappointed, Gorelov exhales through his nostrils and casts a glance out the window. Floating past are the tall, gray buildings of yet another station with large letters on their brick face.
“Krasnoyarsk,” someone reads aloud.
Apparently they’ll stand for another couple of weeks, no less. It really truly is as if they’re riding to the edge of the earth. The din of the wheels fades. Outside is the overwrought barking of dogs. What is this for? The railroad car door slides open with a drawn-out wail and a loud, sharp voice shouts a command over the barking: “Exit!”
“What?”
“How…?”
“Is that for us?”
“We’re already there?”
“It can’t be…”
“It can, Bella, it can…”
“Gather your things, your things! Faster, Ilya Petrovich – what are you doing, anyway?”
“Professor, help Zuleikha…”
“I’ve never been to Krasnoyarsk…”
“What do you think, will they leave us here or take us further?”
“Where did my book go?”
“Maybe they’re just transferring us to another train?”
The uneasy crowd pours out of the train car down a board that’s thrown from the car to the ground as a gangway. Zuleikha is last to go, grasping at her bundle of things with one hand and at her large belly, which faces sharply up, with the other. In the bustle of gathering their belongings, nobody notices that Izabella’s emerald-colored hat remains lying under the bunks: it’s fairly worn but still bright, its iridescent peacock feathers shining.
They are met by a lot of soldiers and every other one has a large dog that’s quivering with tension and barking hoarsely. The barking is so loud it’s impossible to talk.
Holding his ever-present “Case” folder under his arm, Ignatov observes from a distance as the exiles leave the train. The folder has faded during the long months of the trip, and its government-issued cover is now obscured by dark blue scars from stamps and seals, violet dates, signatures, penciled additions, and squiggles. A distinguished folder, decorated with honors. He will now hand it over – along with the deportees – to some local official. No doubt he’ll still dream of the folder at night and it will throw its maw open, hurling its rudimentary insides in his face: a couple of thin, worn little sheets with dense columns of surnames, four hundred of which have been boldly crossed out with uneven pencil lines. That’s fine; he’ll dream of it for a couple of nights and then stop. Out of sight, out of mind.
How loudly they bark, those dogs…
“You’re greeting them as if they’re criminals being transferred,” Ignatov says to the soldier who’s come running over.
“We greet everybody that way,” he responds with pride. “With music. Welcome to Siberia, as they say!”
He smiles cordially. And the teeth in his mouth are metal, each and every one of them.
THE BARGE
Zinovy Kuznets, senior employee for special assignments at the Krasnoyarsk office of the State Political Administration, outright refuses to accept Ignatov’s charges.
“Here’s a barge for you,” he says. “And there’s the Yenisei River. Take them.”
“It’s in my orders, in black and white – ‘hand over to the authority of the local office of the State Political Administration.’” Ignatov is seething.
“Wake up! Read one line higher: ‘deliver to point of destination.’ First ‘deliver’ and then later ‘hand over.’ Well then, deliver, don’t shirk. Take command of the barge and sail up to the Angara. We’ll meet there in two days and I’ll accept your sorry lot.”