Something large, soft, and light-colored scuds past his head with a lively hoot, fanning his face with its wings. Ignatov’s stomach shudders with an unpleasant chill and he holds his breath. An owl, he understands with belated relief; he quickens his pace. Some sort of chirring, high screeches, and urgent snuffling carry from a thicket. There’s a low, velvety roar somewhere far away.
So, where’s the site? It feels like it should appear any minute if he just peers between the trees. Spruce, spruce, spruce… And suddenly the crazy thought flashes that he’ll come out on the familiar shore but nobody will be there. Not one person; they’re dead, every one. What if all of them – green-eyed Zuleikha and the pathetic Leningraders and the bootlicking Gorelov – drowned there, in the middle of the Angara along with the barge? And only he, Ignatov, is left among the living? And only he was abandoned here on the deserted shore?
He breaks into a run. There’s a deafening crack underfoot and then something gets into his eyes, hitting his cheeks. One foot lands in a hole, the other catches a dead branch. He nearly falls but stays on his feet. He runs faster. He thrusts his elbows forward to protect his face from branches. The grouse are suddenly getting heavy and large, as if they’ve been swelling along the way.
Finally there’s an orange flame flickering between the tree trunks. Ignatov bounds forward a couple of times and runs out to the clearing by the river. He’s panting and his heart is pounding, either from fear or from running so fast. And there they are, the people; they haven’t gone anywhere. Some are finishing building a shelter under the branches of a huge, sprawling spruce and others are swarming around the fire. He slows his pace and calms his labored breathing. Without hurrying, he approaches the women crouched by the fire and casually flings the grouse, which are still warm, at their feet.
As the women busy themselves with supper, Ignatov decides to finish up an unpleasant but necessary task. It concerns the shabby gray “Case” folder mottled at the top with muddy-purplish rectangular stamps and seals, which contains within its gaunt depths all the bitter history of their long journey. He needs to cross out all the departed.
He takes the folder and sits by the fire. He imagines flinging it into the flames and it flaring up instantly, flapping its pages as if it were alive, writhing, blackening, and shrinking, dissolving in the hot yellow tongues and disappearing in the black sky as light smoke. Leaving no smell, no trace at all.
He can’t. He’s the commandant here, so he has to keep order. Which means having a precise list on hand with the names of all the camp’s residents. Or is it more correct to call them prisoners? But what kind of prisoners are they if their only guard is a commandant in wet jodhpurs with a single revolver? He decides to stick with what he’s accustomed to. The exiles.
He uses a stick to remove a couple of burning embers from the fire. He waits for them to cool. Then he grasps the end of the longer, sturdier piece – it feels greasy to the touch. He takes a breath and decisively opens the folder. In Ignatov’s gray, tong-like fingers, covered with brownish spots and blotches, are four wrinkled sheets, yellowed by time. The paper is rough in places, where water and snow dropped on it, and the corners are tattered and torn. The fifth sheet, underneath, and in better condition, lists the Leningrad remainders. Some eight hundred names in total, scattered in slightly crooked columns that dance recklessly across the pages. Black pencil lines run just as cheerily, diagonally crossing out more than half the surnames. In the semidarkness by the fire, the sheets are reminiscent of a finely embroidered towel.
He begins with the easiest, the Leningraders. He crossed off a couple of the fifteen or so names long ago, while they were still on the road; the rest won’t need to be because they’re all here. Those “remainders” foisted on him at the beginning of the journey have turned out to be surprisingly hardy. You’d expect that with the social degenerates, Gorelov being the sort who can adapt anywhere, change his colors to any hue, switch sides to whomever he needs, latch on, gnaw through a couple of throats, and survive. But the intelligentsia! Polite to the point of leaving a bitter taste, sometimes cheeky when speaking, but also timid, listless, and submissive in their actions. Pathetic. And alive – unlike many peasants, who hadn’t withstood illness and hunger. So there are your “remainders.” Kuznets was taken in by their pale look, too, and selected them for his launch as the most emaciated, infirm, and incapable of escape. Basically, Leningrad was lucky.
Ignatov’s gaze runs through the surnames, checking them with the faces around him.
Ikonnikov, Ilya Petrovich. There he is, dragging a gnarled, nearly bare spruce branch. (Where’re you carrying that, you blockhead? A branch like that isn’t fit for a shelter. It won’t protect from the rain.) He’s obviously clueless, unaccustomed and unsuited to labor, weak of body, and spineless. Someone like this won’t go on the run or incite rebellion; he’s not dangerous. Gorelov reported that Ikonnikov is a famous artist, drew Lenin for posters. That’s something; he drew revolutionary posters but ended up here. There must be a reason why.
Sumlinsky, Konstantin Arnoldovich. A quiet little old man, good-natured. He’s fussing by one of the shelters, waving his arms around. He’s trying (nice job, Gramps) even though he’s a scholar, either a geographer or an agronomist. Of course there won’t be much use for him but his zeal pleases Ignatov for some reason; it warms his heart. This one’s not dangerous, either.
Brzhostovskaya-Sumlinskaya, Izabella Leopoldovna (her papa bestowed quite the surname and patronymic here!) is his wife. She’s sitting by the fire next to Ignatov, attempting to pluck a bird. Her slender fingers – dry, translucent skin stretched over bones – grasp helplessly at resilient grouse feathers that are apparently extremely stubborn. You’ll croak from hunger before you can deal with it, you old bag. This haughty personage has pretension in every gesture and her tongue is intemperate. Gorelov complained that she berates the authorities, but he can’t communicate the exact words because the criticism’s in French. Sneaky, clever. But this decrepit cobra has nothing beyond cleverness and a sharp tongue. So she’s not dangerous.
Gorelov, Vasily Kuzmich. He’s found himself a long stick and is swinging it as if it were a baton, simultaneously taking command of the building sites for all three shelters. He’s strolling from site to site, poking with his stick, shouting so loudly it makes the ears ring. The rascal appointed himself boss. Everything’s obvious about this one. A most repugnant and loathsome character, the sort Ignatov would have gladly crushed in his normal life. Here, though, he needs to associate with him. On the road, Ignatov constantly summoned the minders from the railroad cars to see him, questioning them about the mood, and Gorelov was the fiercest, most obsequious speaker of all. Whoever’s strongest is the master for this dog. He’ll lick your hand and wag his tail as long as you’re in power and have a revolver, but he’ll bite or even tear out your throat if you ease up for a minute. This one’s dangerous.
And so Ignatov gradually reaches the end of the Leningrad list. Several of them are either school teachers or university instructors, and there’s a print shop worker, a bank employee, a couple of factory engineers or mechanics, a housewife, and a couple of people lacking specific occupations (social parasites, ulcers on the body of society), and goodness knows how a milliner wormed her way into this society. Basically, odds and ends, moth-eaten old folks who’ve been stored away, history’s dust. Other than Gorelov, not one is dangerous.