Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [132]
“You don’t say? What is it?”
“Something in myself has changed. I’m not the same man I was. I fear less and hate more.”
Before daylight Zhenia came to him with his punctured face and bleeding chest and begged for the return of his life. Yakov laid both hands on the boy and tried to raise him from the dead but it wouldn’t work.
In the morning the fixer was still alive. He had wakened in astonishment, his mood mixed, anticipation with depression. It was the end of October, two and a half years after his arrest in Nikolai Maximovitch’s brickyard. Kogin told him the date when he came in with the prisoner’s breakfast. This morning the gruel was boiled rice in hot milk, eight ounces of black bread, a yellow piece of butter, and an enamel pot of sweet-smelling tea, with a chunk of lemon and two lumps of sugar. There was also a cucumber and a small onion to chew on to strengthen his teeth and reduce the swelling of his legs. Kogin wasn’t feeling well. His hands trembled when he put down the food. He looked flushed and said he wanted to get home to bed but the warden had ordered him to stay on till the prisoner had left for the courthouse.
“Full security regulations, the warden said.”
Yakov did not touch the food.
“You’d better eat it,” Kogin said.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat anyway, it’ll be a long day in court.”
“I’m too nervous. If I ate now I’d vomit.”
Berezhinsky entered the cell. He seemed uneasy, not knowing whether to smile or mourn. He smiled uneasily.
“Well, your day has come. Here’s the trial now.”
“What about my clothes?” Yakov asked. “Will I have to wear the prison ones or can I have my own?”
He wondered whether they were going to hand him a silken caftan and a round Hasidic fur hat.
“You’ll find out about that,” said Berezhinsky.
Both guards accompanied the prisoner to the bathhouse. He undressed and was allowed to soap and wash himself from a bucket of warm water. The warmth of the water brought secret tears to his eyes. He washed slowly with handfuls of water from the bucket. He washed the smells and dirt away.
Yakov was given a comb and carefully combed his long hair and beard, but then the prison barber appeared and said he must shave his head.
“No,” the fixer shouted. “Why should I look like a prisoner now when I didn’t before?”
“Because you are a prisoner,” said Berezhinsky. “The gate’s not open yet.”
“Why now and not before?”
“Orders,” said the prison barber, “so sit still and keep your mouth shut.”
“Why does he cut my hair?” Yakov, angered, asked Kogin. He felt, then, the pangs of hunger.
“Orders must be obeyed,” said the guard. “It’s to show you had no special privileges and were treated like the others.”
“I was treated worse than the others.”
“If you know all the answers, then don’t ask any questions,” Kogin said in irritation.
“That’s right,” said Berezhinsky. “Keep your mouth shut.”
When the hair clipping was done, Kogin went out and returned with the fixer’s own clothes and told him to put them on.
Yakov got dressed in the bathhouse. He blessed his clothes though they hung on his bony body loosely and limply. The baggy pants were held up by a thin cord. The dank sheepskin coat hung almost to his knees. But the boots, though stiff, were comfortable.
Back in the cell, strangely lit in the light of two lamps, Kogin said, “Listen, Bok, I advise you to eat. I give you my word there’s nothing to be afraid of in that food. You better eat.”
“That’s right,” said Berezhinsky. “Do what you’re told.”
“I don’t want to eat,” said the fixer, “I want to fast.”
“What the hell for?” said Kogin.
“For God’s world.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in God.”
“I don’t.”
“The hell with you,” said Kogin.
“Well, good luck and no hard feelings,” Berezhinsky said uneasily. “Duty is duty. The prisoner’s the prisoner, the guard’s the guard.”
From the window came the sound of a troop of horses clattering into the prison yard.
“It’s the Cossacks,” said Berezhinsky.
“Will I have to walk in the middle of the street?”
“You’ll find that out. The warden’s waiting so hurry up or it will