Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [67]
“At least I ought to know what you’re going to ask him about in case the warden wants to know when he gets back. If it’s about his treatment in this prison, I warn you flatly the warden will be annoyed if you ask about that. The Jew hasn’t been made any exception of. If he follows the rules and regulations he gets the same treatment as everybody else. If he doesn’t he’s in for trouble.”
“My questions will not refer to his prison treatment, although I hope it is always humane. You may tell Warden Grizitskoy that I was checking some testimony of the accused made before me at a previous date. If he would like more precise information, let him telephone me.”
The Deputy Warden withdrew, casting a sullen glance at the prisoner.
Bibikov, after sitting a minute with two fingers pressed to his lips, moved quickly to the door, listened intently, then carried his chair and one for Yakov to the windowless far corner of the office, and motioned him to sit down.
“My friend,” he said hurriedly in a low voice, “I can see from your appearance what you have been through, and I beg you not to think me remiss or without feeling if I do not comment on it. I have promised the Deputy Warden to confine myself to other matters, and besides our time is short and I have much to say.”
“That’s fine with me, your honor,” muttered Yakov, struggling with his emotions, “but I would like to know if you could get me a different pair of shoes. The nails in these hurt my feet though nobody believes me. Either let them give me a different pair or lend me a hammer and pliers so I can fix them myself.”
He sucked in his breath and wiped an eye with his sleeve. “Excuse me for being out of order, your honor.”
“I see we’re wearing similar linen garments,” Bibikov joked, fanning himself slowly with his limp hat. He remarked in an undertone, “Tell me your size and I’ll send you a pair of shoes.”
“Maybe it’s better not to,” Yakov whispered, “or the Deputy Warden would know I complained to you.”
“You understand it wasn’t I but the Prosecuting Attorney who ordered your imprisonment?”
The fixer nodded.
“Would you care for a cigarette? You know my Turkish beauties?”
He lit one for him but after a few puffs Yakov had to put it out. “Excuse me for wasting it,” he coughed, “but it’s hard to breathe in this heat.”
The magistrate put away his cigarette box. He reached into his breast pocket for his pince-nez, blew on them, and settled the glasses on his perspiring nose. “I would like you to know, Yakov Shepsovitch—if I may— that your case holds an extraordinary interest for me, and only last week I returned in a beastly stuffy, crowded train from St. Petersburg, where I had consulted the Minister of Justice, Count Odoevsky.”
He leaned forward and said quietly, “I went there to submit the evidence I had already gathered, and to request that the charge against you be limited, as I had already suggested to the Prosecuting Attorney, strictly to the matter of your residing illegally in the Lukianovsky District, or perhaps even dropped altogether if you left Kiev and returned to your native village. Instead I was expressly directed to continue my investigation beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt. I will tell you in the strictest confidence what most troubled me is that although the Minister of Justice listened courteously and with obvious interest, I left with the unmistakable impression that he expects the evidence to confirm your guilt.”
“Vey iz mir.”
“This was not stated so specifically, you must understand—it was an impression and I may possibly be misinterpreting, although I don’t think so. Frankly, the matter seemed to revolve around an imprecise use of language, further confused by hints, hesitations, odd questions I did not fully understand, shadowy remarks, and so forth. Nothing—even now—is said absolutely directly, yet I am under pressure, as it were, to uncover evidence close to the prevailing belief. The Minister of Interior also has been telephoning me regularly.