Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [66]
“Watch your language, you,” warned the warden. “A foul heart, a foul tongue.”
“It’s every man for himself,” Gronfein muttered. “I have five small children and a nervous wife.”
“What’s more,” said the Deputy Warden,” we have it in writing that you also tried to bribe him to poison the yardkeeper who saw you attempting to kidnap the boy in the brickyard, and also to pay Marfa Golov not to testify against you. Isn’t that the truth?” he asked Gronfein.
The counterfeiter, sweat trickling from under his hat down his dark lids, nodded once.
“Where would I get the money to pay for those bribes?” Yakov asked.
“The Jewish Nation would supply it,” answered the inspector.
“Get him out of here,” said the old warden. “The Prosecuting Attorney will call you when he needs you,” he said to Gronfein.
“Stool pigeon!” Yakov shouted, “bastard traitor—it’s a filthy lie!”
Gronfein, as though blind, was led out of the room by the Deputy Warden.
“This is the sort of assistance you can expect from your compatriots,” the inspector said to Yakov. “It would be best for you to confess.”
“We won’t have our rules flouted by such as you,” the warden said. “To strict confinement you go, and if you have any more letters to write you’ll write them in your own blood.”
5
He was being boiled alive in the smothering heat of the small solitary cell they had thrust him into, the sweat drenching his back and flowing from his armpits; but on the third night the bolt was shot back, a key grated in the lock, and the door opened.
A guard ordered him downstairs to the warden’s office. “Get a move on, you fuck, you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
The Investigating Magistrate was there, sitting in a chair, fanning himself with a wilted yellow straw hat. He wore a crumpled linen suit and a white silk tie, his pallid face contrasting with his dark short beard as he talked earnestly with the Deputy Warden, an uneasy-eyed man with smelly polished boots, flushed, and self-consciously irritated when Yakov entered. When the prisoner, ghastly gray and close to shock, limped into the room, the two officials momentarily stopped talking. The Deputy Warden, gnawing his lip, remarked, “It’s an irregular procedure if you ask my opinion”; but Bibikov patiently differed. “I’m here in the pursuit of my official duties as Investigating Magistrate, Mr. Deputy Warden, so there is nothing to fear.”
“So you say, but why close to midnight when the warden’s away on vacation and the other officials are sleeping? It’s a strange time to come here on business, if you ask me.”
“It’s a dreadful night after a dreadfully hot day,” the magistrate said huskily, coughing into his fist, “but much cooler at this hour. In fact there’s a veritable breeze off the Dnieper once you are in the street. To be frank, I was already in bed, but the heat in the house was unbearable and the bedsheets perspired more than I did. I tossed and turned, then I thought, it’s useless, I’ll get up. Once I had dressed it occurred to me it would be helpful if I got on with official matters rather than lay around drinking cold drinks that give me gas, and curse the heat. Fortunately, my wife and children are at our dacha on the Black Sea, where I will go to join them in August. Do you know the heat rose to 40.5 in the shade this afternoon, and must now be hovering around 33.8? I assure you it was all but impossible to work in my office today. My assistant complained of nausea and had to be sent home.”
“Go on, then, if you want to,” said the Deputy Warden, “but I have to insist that I stay here as a witness to your questions. The prisoner’s under our jurisdiction, that’s clear enough.”
“May I remind you that your function is custodial and mine investigatory? The suspect has not yet been tried or sentenced. In fact there is no indictment up to now. Nor has he officially been remanded to prison by administrative decree. He is simply here as a material witness. If you will allow me, I am within my rights to question him alone. The time may be inconvenient, but it is so in a formal sense only;