The Matiushin Case by Andrew Bromfield, Oleg Pavlov Page B
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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sucking at his insides. Then the little Uzbek pulled on his cookâs outfit over his skinny little snakeâs body and shepherded Matiushin out with him â it was time to take the trolley and push it over to the regimental mess for the rations.
Walking outside the infirmary fence felt as strange to him as being in the streets of an unfamiliar town. On all sides, no matter which way his eyes turned, there were barracks standing blankly on guard, asphalted paths stretching out to make mysterious connections, identical little trees growing. They didnât meet anyone until they were approaching the mess, when they ran into a crowd of soldiers. The little Uzbek drew himself up and stuck out his chest and started shouting, to goad him on. The cast-iron trolley turned stiffly on its three wheels. Matiushin was dragging it from the front, so that he looked more like a dumb animal than anything else. The food cans clattered against each other with a dull chiming sound, and the crowd stared at them in a way that made Matiushin uneasy. The cook ran up and thumped him hard on the back with his fist. The soldier lads hooted approvingly. They started shouting: âGo hang yourself! Go hang yourself!â
In the immense chefâs kitchen, which could have swallowed up a dozen of their catering blocks, there were three boiling cauldrons that looked like wells and everyone who was hanging around near the mess gathered to take a look at the quarantine soldier. Every last one of them looked like Matiushinâs little Uzbek, so Matiushin lost sight of him. Matiushin dragged over the large food cans with noodles, and soup from one of the wells was poured into them by their downtrodden lackey, perched up on a stool in soldierâs fatigues so dirty that they were brown. The lackey bustled like a little cockroach, delighted to be right there with Matiushin in full sight of everyone. He gave Matiushin orders in their language, and the Uzbek cooks standing around laughed. No one said a single word to Matiushin in Russian, and the fun of it all was that he didnât understand what they were shouting at him, in fact he did just the opposite of what they wanted. When they were getting the bread, the breadcutter, a big, strapping Uzbek with a bull neck, asked what his name was, and when he heard it was Vasilii, he was delighted: his name was Vahid, which was kind of the same. He was so pleased, he said, that he was making him, Vahid-Vasilii, his little brother, and from now on he would help Matiushin in the regiment, and Matiushin could call him brother: he demonstrated with a rumbling laugh how a brother and his little brother should embrace each other when they met.
The little Uzbek withdrew into his shell when his assistant and the regimental breadcutter became brothers right there in front of him. The two of them took the loaded trolley back to the infirmary without a word. The noodles were kept ready on the stove until supper and, after supper, Matiushin set to work again. The little Uzbek was in a nasty mood, he smoked and didnât do anything, but Matiushin worked like heâd never worked in his life before. It had already got dark outside, the infirmary was sinking into sleep, but Matiushin had to take a container of the dayâs waste to the mess on that same trolley. The little Uzbek, staggering about with his big knife in the silent, empty catering block, smiled with a drunken smile that had appeared out of nowhere â¦
Following the route that he scarcely remembered and could barely make out in the dark, Matiushin trundled the trolley to the mess, where there were soldiers on fatigue tinkering drowsily with something. These soldiers, who had probably been herded here on the sly to do some kind of dirty work, swarmed round him from all sides; they wanted to make him do the work for them. They kicked and mauled him until some powerful man appeared out of the night: a single glance from him sent them creeping
Walking outside the infirmary fence felt as strange to him as being in the streets of an unfamiliar town. On all sides, no matter which way his eyes turned, there were barracks standing blankly on guard, asphalted paths stretching out to make mysterious connections, identical little trees growing. They didnât meet anyone until they were approaching the mess, when they ran into a crowd of soldiers. The little Uzbek drew himself up and stuck out his chest and started shouting, to goad him on. The cast-iron trolley turned stiffly on its three wheels. Matiushin was dragging it from the front, so that he looked more like a dumb animal than anything else. The food cans clattered against each other with a dull chiming sound, and the crowd stared at them in a way that made Matiushin uneasy. The cook ran up and thumped him hard on the back with his fist. The soldier lads hooted approvingly. They started shouting: âGo hang yourself! Go hang yourself!â
In the immense chefâs kitchen, which could have swallowed up a dozen of their catering blocks, there were three boiling cauldrons that looked like wells and everyone who was hanging around near the mess gathered to take a look at the quarantine soldier. Every last one of them looked like Matiushinâs little Uzbek, so Matiushin lost sight of him. Matiushin dragged over the large food cans with noodles, and soup from one of the wells was poured into them by their downtrodden lackey, perched up on a stool in soldierâs fatigues so dirty that they were brown. The lackey bustled like a little cockroach, delighted to be right there with Matiushin in full sight of everyone. He gave Matiushin orders in their language, and the Uzbek cooks standing around laughed. No one said a single word to Matiushin in Russian, and the fun of it all was that he didnât understand what they were shouting at him, in fact he did just the opposite of what they wanted. When they were getting the bread, the breadcutter, a big, strapping Uzbek with a bull neck, asked what his name was, and when he heard it was Vasilii, he was delighted: his name was Vahid, which was kind of the same. He was so pleased, he said, that he was making him, Vahid-Vasilii, his little brother, and from now on he would help Matiushin in the regiment, and Matiushin could call him brother: he demonstrated with a rumbling laugh how a brother and his little brother should embrace each other when they met.
The little Uzbek withdrew into his shell when his assistant and the regimental breadcutter became brothers right there in front of him. The two of them took the loaded trolley back to the infirmary without a word. The noodles were kept ready on the stove until supper and, after supper, Matiushin set to work again. The little Uzbek was in a nasty mood, he smoked and didnât do anything, but Matiushin worked like heâd never worked in his life before. It had already got dark outside, the infirmary was sinking into sleep, but Matiushin had to take a container of the dayâs waste to the mess on that same trolley. The little Uzbek, staggering about with his big knife in the silent, empty catering block, smiled with a drunken smile that had appeared out of nowhere â¦
Following the route that he scarcely remembered and could barely make out in the dark, Matiushin trundled the trolley to the mess, where there were soldiers on fatigue tinkering drowsily with something. These soldiers, who had probably been herded here on the sly to do some kind of dirty work, swarmed round him from all sides; they wanted to make him do the work for them. They kicked and mauled him until some powerful man appeared out of the night: a single glance from him sent them creeping
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