among men. We all have to be reasonable or what’s bad gets worse.”
“Well, that’s at least a beginning,” the magistrate said quietly. “You must read and reflect further.”
“I will just as soon as I get out of here.”
Bibikov seemed embarrassed. The fixer felt as though he had disappointed him, although he was not sure why. Probably too much inexact talk. It’s hard to make sense when you’re in trouble, considering also your other natural disadvantages.
The magistrate after a while absently asked, “How did you bruise your head?”
“In the dark, in desperation.”
Bibikov reached into his pocket and offered the fixer his cigarette box. “Have one, they’re Turkish.”
Yakov smoked in order not to affront the man, though he could not taste the cigarette.
Taking a folded paper and pencil stub out of his suit coat pocket the magistrate placed them on the table, saying, “I leave this questionnaire with you. We will have to know more biographical details since you have no police record. When you have answered each question and signed your name, call the guard and give him the paper. Be accurate in everything you say. I’ll leave the candle with you.”
Yakov stared at the paper.
“I have to hurry now. My boy has a fever. My wife gets frantic.” The Investigating Magistrate buttoned his fur coat and put on a wide-brimmed black fedora that looked large for his head.
Nodding to the prisoner, he said quietly, “Whatever happens you must have fortitude.”
“My God, what can happen? I’m an innocent man.”
Bibikov shrugged. “It’s a touchy thing.”
“Have mercy, your honor; I’ve had little in my life.”
“Mercy is for God, I depend on the law. The law will protect you.”
He called the guard and left the cell. As the door was being locked he hurried away in the dimly lit corridor.
The fixer felt at once a sense of intense loss.
“When will you come back?” he shouted after him.
“Tomorrow.” A distant door shut. The footsteps were gone.
“It’s a long tomorrow,” said the guard.
2
The next morning a new guard unlocked the cell, searched Yakov thoroughly for the third time since he had awakened, manacled him tightly with heavy handcuffs attached by a short thick chain, and in the presence of two other armed guards, one of whom cursed the prisoner and prodded him with his pistol, escorted Yakov, about as dead as he was alive, up two flights of narrow booming wooden stairs into the Investigating Magistrate’s office. In the large anteroom some clerks in uniform sat at long tables scratching on paper with wet pens. They gazed at him with intense interest, then looked at each other. Yakov was led into a brown-walled smaller office. Bibikov was standing at an open window, waving his hand back and forth to thin out the cigarette smoke. As Yakov entered he quickly shut the window and seated himself in a chair at the head of a long table. The room contained a bulky desk, several shelves of thick books, two large green shaded lamps, and a small ikon in the corner; on the wall hung a large sepia portrait of Tsar Nicholas II, bemedaled and immaculately barbered, staring critically at the fixer. The picture added to his discomfort.
The only other person in the room was Bibikov’s assistant, a pimply-faced man in his thirties, with a thin beard through which his small chin was visible. He was sitting next to the magistrate at the short end of the table, and Yakov was told to take his seat at the other end. The three escorting guards at the magistrate’s request waited in the antechamber. He, after barely glancing at the prisoner—almost distastefully the fixer thought—fished among some official documents in a pile before him and drew forth a thick one whose pages he thumbed through. He whispered something to the assistant, who filled a heavy fountain pen from a large bottle of black
“Well, that’s at least a beginning,” the magistrate said quietly. “You must read and reflect further.”
“I will just as soon as I get out of here.”
Bibikov seemed embarrassed. The fixer felt as though he had disappointed him, although he was not sure why. Probably too much inexact talk. It’s hard to make sense when you’re in trouble, considering also your other natural disadvantages.
The magistrate after a while absently asked, “How did you bruise your head?”
“In the dark, in desperation.”
Bibikov reached into his pocket and offered the fixer his cigarette box. “Have one, they’re Turkish.”
Yakov smoked in order not to affront the man, though he could not taste the cigarette.
Taking a folded paper and pencil stub out of his suit coat pocket the magistrate placed them on the table, saying, “I leave this questionnaire with you. We will have to know more biographical details since you have no police record. When you have answered each question and signed your name, call the guard and give him the paper. Be accurate in everything you say. I’ll leave the candle with you.”
Yakov stared at the paper.
“I have to hurry now. My boy has a fever. My wife gets frantic.” The Investigating Magistrate buttoned his fur coat and put on a wide-brimmed black fedora that looked large for his head.
Nodding to the prisoner, he said quietly, “Whatever happens you must have fortitude.”
“My God, what can happen? I’m an innocent man.”
Bibikov shrugged. “It’s a touchy thing.”
“Have mercy, your honor; I’ve had little in my life.”
“Mercy is for God, I depend on the law. The law will protect you.”
He called the guard and left the cell. As the door was being locked he hurried away in the dimly lit corridor.
The fixer felt at once a sense of intense loss.
“When will you come back?” he shouted after him.
“Tomorrow.” A distant door shut. The footsteps were gone.
“It’s a long tomorrow,” said the guard.
2
The next morning a new guard unlocked the cell, searched Yakov thoroughly for the third time since he had awakened, manacled him tightly with heavy handcuffs attached by a short thick chain, and in the presence of two other armed guards, one of whom cursed the prisoner and prodded him with his pistol, escorted Yakov, about as dead as he was alive, up two flights of narrow booming wooden stairs into the Investigating Magistrate’s office. In the large anteroom some clerks in uniform sat at long tables scratching on paper with wet pens. They gazed at him with intense interest, then looked at each other. Yakov was led into a brown-walled smaller office. Bibikov was standing at an open window, waving his hand back and forth to thin out the cigarette smoke. As Yakov entered he quickly shut the window and seated himself in a chair at the head of a long table. The room contained a bulky desk, several shelves of thick books, two large green shaded lamps, and a small ikon in the corner; on the wall hung a large sepia portrait of Tsar Nicholas II, bemedaled and immaculately barbered, staring critically at the fixer. The picture added to his discomfort.
The only other person in the room was Bibikov’s assistant, a pimply-faced man in his thirties, with a thin beard through which his small chin was visible. He was sitting next to the magistrate at the short end of the table, and Yakov was told to take his seat at the other end. The three escorting guards at the magistrate’s request waited in the antechamber. He, after barely glancing at the prisoner—almost distastefully the fixer thought—fished among some official documents in a pile before him and drew forth a thick one whose pages he thumbed through. He whispered something to the assistant, who filled a heavy fountain pen from a large bottle of black
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