The Matiushin Case by Andrew Bromfield, Oleg Pavlov
Authors: Andrew Bromfield, Oleg Pavlov
Tags: Drama, Contemporary Fiction, translation, Literary Fiction, Novel, Comedy, Russia, Translated fiction, prison camp, dark humour, Soviet army, conscription, Russian Booker Prize, Solzhenitsyn Prize, Russian fiction, Oleg Pavlov, Solzhenitsyn, Captain of the Steppe, Павлов, Олег Олегович, Récits des derniers jours, Tales of the Last Days, Andrew Bromfield
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slept right through the day, he seemed to sense that the night had come and the anticipation of a call slipped into his mind and was driven home firmly. Drowsily preparing to jump to his feet, he woke up, unaware that he was lying in an infirmary instead of a barracks.
Everyone in the infirmary had to work, attending to their own needs and those of the army doctors. Matiushin was issued a pair of crutches and ordered to get up. His legs were bandaged up to the knees, as if theyâd put a pair of white felt boots on him. He found it hard to stand on the crutches. The first thing they told him to do was provide a sample of urine. The male nurse gave him a little mayonnaise jar with no lid. Matiushin stuck it in the pocket of his dressing grown and tottered off to the privy. He made a real effort to manage the jar, but he just couldnât do it. All he could do was pull down his underpants, but when it came to setting the jar in place, his hands couldnât cope, the crutches kept slipping out from under his arms. He put the jar on the windowsill and hobbled over to the metal urinal â after all this hassle, he couldnât hold out any longer. A downtrodden-looking guy with his head shaved in crude steps, as if in deliberate mockery, ran into the privy to relieve himself. Holding the jar in his hand like a stone, Matiushin barked out hoarsely:
âListen, brother, youâre not infectious, help me out with these samples â¦â
The downtrodden guy docilely did everything required â and disappeared. That was a load off Matiushinâs mind. Now he had to carry this strangerâs urine to the male nurse, but it spilled in his pocket while he was hopping and dragging himself along, and the male nurse wasnât slow to speak up when he saw the wet patch on Matiushinâs side.
âWhatâs up, bro, not pissed yourself, have you?â
The folks in the infirmary lined up in the little garden; the infirmary sergeant-major, a haughty soldier with a moustache who wasnât sick with anything â in fact he was the plumpest, best-fed, healthiest of them all â gave the orders, striding up and down in front of the line. Some called him the âbossâ and some the âforemanâ, like on a building site. He handed out work to everyone and, not bothering at all that Matiushin was on crutches, he told him to sweep the paths in the garden. Matiushin refused to do it, right there in the line-up. He thought the foreman was making fun of him. The foreman walked up and lashed him across first one cheek and then the other, with his open hand; Matiushin couldnât even raise his hands, he couldnât lift them off the crutches even to protect himself. And the foreman carried on lashing him across the cheeks until the lad next to Matiushin intervened â he shielded Matiushin with his body and persuaded the foreman to let him take on the job instead.
Next day the foreman ordered Matiushin to sweep the paths again â this time Matiushin kept his mouth shut.
The day after that Matiushin saw what happened when someone was discharged from the infirmary. They discharged a Kazakh â heâd been there for a long time, working as a dishwasher. He was striking to look at and belligerent, the kind that people here said was âon the makeâ, like in the prison camps. Heâd fed himself up around the kitchen cauldrons all right and got free and easy, but when the foreman hissed that the army surgeon had ordered him to pack up his bits and pieces and leg it back to his company, he dissolved into a pitiful, shapeless lump in front of everyoneâs eyes. At lunch they could still see his puffy, crimson face in the serving window, but the foreman didnât like that â the fact that he hadnât left yet. The foreman finished his lunch calmly and let the others finish theirs, then he went into the snug, dark little room where the cook and the dishwasher worked
Everyone in the infirmary had to work, attending to their own needs and those of the army doctors. Matiushin was issued a pair of crutches and ordered to get up. His legs were bandaged up to the knees, as if theyâd put a pair of white felt boots on him. He found it hard to stand on the crutches. The first thing they told him to do was provide a sample of urine. The male nurse gave him a little mayonnaise jar with no lid. Matiushin stuck it in the pocket of his dressing grown and tottered off to the privy. He made a real effort to manage the jar, but he just couldnât do it. All he could do was pull down his underpants, but when it came to setting the jar in place, his hands couldnât cope, the crutches kept slipping out from under his arms. He put the jar on the windowsill and hobbled over to the metal urinal â after all this hassle, he couldnât hold out any longer. A downtrodden-looking guy with his head shaved in crude steps, as if in deliberate mockery, ran into the privy to relieve himself. Holding the jar in his hand like a stone, Matiushin barked out hoarsely:
âListen, brother, youâre not infectious, help me out with these samples â¦â
The downtrodden guy docilely did everything required â and disappeared. That was a load off Matiushinâs mind. Now he had to carry this strangerâs urine to the male nurse, but it spilled in his pocket while he was hopping and dragging himself along, and the male nurse wasnât slow to speak up when he saw the wet patch on Matiushinâs side.
âWhatâs up, bro, not pissed yourself, have you?â
The folks in the infirmary lined up in the little garden; the infirmary sergeant-major, a haughty soldier with a moustache who wasnât sick with anything â in fact he was the plumpest, best-fed, healthiest of them all â gave the orders, striding up and down in front of the line. Some called him the âbossâ and some the âforemanâ, like on a building site. He handed out work to everyone and, not bothering at all that Matiushin was on crutches, he told him to sweep the paths in the garden. Matiushin refused to do it, right there in the line-up. He thought the foreman was making fun of him. The foreman walked up and lashed him across first one cheek and then the other, with his open hand; Matiushin couldnât even raise his hands, he couldnât lift them off the crutches even to protect himself. And the foreman carried on lashing him across the cheeks until the lad next to Matiushin intervened â he shielded Matiushin with his body and persuaded the foreman to let him take on the job instead.
Next day the foreman ordered Matiushin to sweep the paths again â this time Matiushin kept his mouth shut.
The day after that Matiushin saw what happened when someone was discharged from the infirmary. They discharged a Kazakh â heâd been there for a long time, working as a dishwasher. He was striking to look at and belligerent, the kind that people here said was âon the makeâ, like in the prison camps. Heâd fed himself up around the kitchen cauldrons all right and got free and easy, but when the foreman hissed that the army surgeon had ordered him to pack up his bits and pieces and leg it back to his company, he dissolved into a pitiful, shapeless lump in front of everyoneâs eyes. At lunch they could still see his puffy, crimson face in the serving window, but the foreman didnât like that â the fact that he hadnât left yet. The foreman finished his lunch calmly and let the others finish theirs, then he went into the snug, dark little room where the cook and the dishwasher worked
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