Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [38]
“I do believe you,” said Bibikov.
Grubeshov, sharply startled, stared at the Investigating Magistrate. Colonel Bodyansky shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Bibikov, as though justifying himself, said, “We found two letters, both identified by the witnesses as written in their hand. One was from Nikolai Maximovitch addressed to Yakov Ivanovitch Dologushev, praising his diligence as an overseer of the Lebedev Brickworks, and the other was from the daughter, Zinaida Nikolaevna, on a sheet of perfumed blue letter paper, inviting the suspect to call on her at her home and expressly stating in the letter that she was writing it with the permission of her father. I have both letters in my files. They were turned over to me by Captain Korimzin of the Kiev City Police, who found them in the office of the brickworks.”
The colonel and Prosecuting Attorney sat like statues.
Again addressing Yakov, the magistrate said, “I gather from the date that the letter from the young lady was written after the incident already described?”
“That’s right, your honor. I was working in the brickworks then.”
“You did not write her as she requested?”
“I didn’t answer the letter. I figured I was born with a lot more trouble than I needed and there was no sense searching for more. If you’re afraid of a flood stay away from the water.”
“Her later remarks to me though of informal nature,” the magistrate said, “affirm your statement. Therefore, considering the circumstances—this does not mean that I admire your behavior, Yakov Bok—I will recommend to the Prosecuting Attorney that you not be charged with attempted sexual assault.”
He turned to his assistant, who, nodding, wrote hastily.
The Prosecuting Attorney, flushing through his side-whiskers, picked up his portfolio, pushed back his chair and got up noisily. Colonel Bodyansky also arose. Bibi-kov reaching for the water glass, knocked it over. Jumping up, he dabbed at the spilled water on the table with his handkerchief, assisted by Ivan Semyonovitch, who in dismay quickly gathered up the papers and began to dry those that had got wet.
Grubeshov and Colonel Bodyansky, neither speaking a word, strode sullenly out of the room.
When he had blotted up the water, the Investigating Magistrate sat down, waited till Ivan Semyonovitch had dried and sorted the papers, and though embarrassed at the incident, picked up his notes, and clearing his throat, once more addressed the fixer in his resonant voice.
“We have laws, Yakov Bok,” he said grimly, “directed against any member of your faith, orthodox or heretic, who assumes or counterfeits a name other than that entered in his official birth records, which is to say for the purpose of one sort of deception or another; but since there are no forged or counterfeited documents involved in this case, and since there is at present no record of similar previous offenses by you, I shall be lenient this time and not press this charge, although I personally feel, as I have already informed you, that your deception was repugnant and it is only by the greatest good fortune that it did not become an even more reprehensible situation—”
“I thank you kindly, your honor—” The fixer wiped his eyes with his fingers.
The magistrate went on. “I shall, however, ask the court to charge you for taking up residence in a district forbidden to Jews, except under certain circumstances which do not in any way appertain in your case. In this regard you have disobeyed the law. It is not a capital crime but you will be charged and sentenced for a misdemeanor.”
“Will I be sent to jail, your honor?”
“I am afraid so.”
“Ach. But how long in jail?”
“Not very long—a month at least, possibly less, depending on the magistrate who sentences you. It will teach you a lesson you are apparently in need of.”
“Will I have to wear prison clothes?”
“You will be treated the same as other prisoners.”
There was a knock on the door and a uniformed messenger entered. He handed an envelope to Ivan Semyon-ovitch,