Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [51]
She fervently crossed herself.
“Marfa Vladimirovna, please tell us what else you were told by the two boys,” Grubeshov said to her.
“I was told they had seen a bottle of blood on the Jew’s table.”
The army general gasped and the officials looked at each other in horror. Yakov stared whitely at Marfa, his lips working in agitation. “There was no bottle of blood on my table,” he cried out. “If there was anything it was a jar of strawberry jam. Jam is not blood. Blood is not jam.”
“Be quiet!” Grubeshov ordered. “We will inform you when it is your time to speak.”
One of the gendarmes pointed his revolver at Yakov.
“Put that foolish gun away,” Bibikov said. “The man is chained and manacled.”
“Did you personally see ‘the bottle of blood’?” he asked Marfa.
“No, but both of the boys did, and they told me about it. They could hardly talk. Their faces were green.”
“Then why didn’t you report that to the police? It was your duty to, as well as the other incidents you just enumerated, as for instance the suspect chasing your son with a knife. That is a criminal act. This is a civilized society. Such things must be reported to the police.”
She answered at once: “Because I’ve had my fill of the police, if you won’t mind me saying so, your honor, and with apologies to those of them present that never bothered me. I once complained to them that Yuri Shiskov-sky, for reasons that will be kept to myself, struck me on the head with a block of wood, and all morning they kept me in the police station answering personal questions while they filled out long forms, as if I myself were the criminal and not that madman who they let go, although I had a bloody gash in my scalp, and even an idiot would know who had hit who. I can’t afford to lose my time like that. I have to earn a living and that’s why I didn’t report what the boys told me.”
“Which is understandable enough,” said Grubeshov —turning to the general, who nodded—”although I agree with the Investigating Magistrate that such things should be reported at once. Now finish your story, Marfa Vladimirovna.”
“I have finished, there’s no more to tell.”
“In that case,” said the Prosecuting Attorney, addressing the officials, “it’s best to move on.”
He pulled a thin gold watch from his yellow waistcoat pocket and consulted it closely.
“Vladislav Grigorievitch,” Bibikov said, “I must insist on my prerogative to question the witness.”
Marfa’s intent gaze at him changed from fear to anger.
“What have I done to you?” she cried out.
“Neither of us has done anything to the other, that’s not the point. Marfa Golov, I would like to ask you a question or two. Please, Vladislav Grigorievitch, I insist. Unfortunately, I can’t go into certain things just now, but one or two questions I insist on asking and I would like them answered honestly and directly. Is it true, for instance, Marfa Golov, that you receive stolen goods from a gang of thieves, one of whom is or was your lover who often visits this house?”
“You needn’t bother to answer that,” Grubeshov said, flushing. “It’s irrelevant to the matter at issue.”
“I insist it is not so irrelevant, Vladislav Grigorievitch.”
“No, I don’t receive such goods,” said Marfa, white-lipped, her eyes darkening. “That’s a filthy rumor spread by my enemies.”
“Is that your response?”
“Of course it is.”
“Very well, then. Is it true that a year ago last January you threw the contents of a phial of carbolic acid into the eyes of your lover and blinded him for life, a man whom you have since become reconciled with?”
“Is he the one who reported me?” she asked, enraged.
“Reported you?”
“Told you these filthy lies?”
“Boris Alexandrovitch, as your superior in rank, I forbid these questions,” Grubeshov said, irritated. “If you have anything of that nature to ask, please do so in my office tomorrow morning, though I personally don’t see how such irrelevancies can matter. They do not change the weight of the significant evidence. We must absolutely get on now.