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Authors: R. N. Morris
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exasperation.
Salytov seemed momentarily thrown by this, which gave Tolya the advantage. However, his smirk at the lieutenant’s discomfiture was a mistake. ‘Get out here now!’ barked Salytov.
Tolya groaned and began to move with resistant lethargy.
‘Now!’
If Tolya hurried his step, it was done only in a token way, and perhaps even sarcastically. When at last he was out from behind the glass counter, Salytov approached him ominously, regarded him for a moment, like a gymnast poised before a manoeuvre, then threw back his hand and slapped the boy square in the face. Tolya’s head was twisted round under the force, and shock, of the blow. A red imprint showed on his cheek when he turned his head back to look at Salytov. His eyes stood out from his face more than ever. With some satisfaction, Salytov noticed these eyes glisten moistly as tears welled in them.
‘You are the one they call Tolya?’
‘Yes.’
‘Full name.’
‘Anatoly Denisovich Masloboyev.’
‘You associate with scoundrels, Anatoly Denisovich. Isn’t that so?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Do you want another slap, boy?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then answer the question.’
‘I . . . what was the question, sir?’
‘Do you associate with scoundrels?’
‘No, sir.’
Without warning, Salytov planted another smack on the same side of the youth’s face.
‘Try again.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I have seen your friends and they looked like scoundrels to me. Are they scoundrels?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are you a scoundrel, Anatoly Denisovich?’
‘No, sir!’
‘You look like a scoundrel to me.’
‘No, sir! It’s not true.’
‘You have the eyes of a scoundrel. Stop blubbering, boy. It will not help you.’
Tolya wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his coat and sniffed loudly.
‘Where are you from, Anatoly Denisovich?’
‘The village of Ulyanka, Your Honour.’
‘Ulyanka?’ Salytov’s eyes narrowed coldly. ‘We all know what Ulyanka is famous for. The house at the eleventh verst.’
‘I was never in that place,’ said the boy quickly, emphatically.
Salytov looked at Tolya assessingly. He did not seem to like what he saw. His lip curled almost cruelly. ‘You’re lying.’
‘No, sir, Your Honour. Never. Never set foot in it!’
‘Your passport?’
‘I do not have it with me, Your Honour. It is at my lodgings.’
‘No passport? It is all the more likely that you are a refugee from the house at the eleventh verst then.’
‘I do have a passport, as I explained, Your Honour. I do not have it on me, that’s all. And, believe me, I was never in that place. Not on my own account. It was my mother -’
‘Your mother is a lunatic?’
‘No, sir, there were lies told about her. My father’s family was cruel. She is dead now, Your Honour. They drove her to it.’
‘A suicide?’
‘They drove her to it!’
‘Let me see your hands.’ The suddenness of Salytov’s request took Tolya off guard. He held out his arms. His hands were surprisingly clean. Salytov slipped the handcuffs on him with the practised deftness of a conjuror. He grasped Tolya firmly under the arm. ‘A suicide and a lunatic for a mother. No passport. These are sufficient grounds for taking you in. Now you,’ Salytov addressed the German woman, ‘get your master out here now. I wish to speak to the owner of this place.’
She disappeared back into the workshop, shaking her head and shouting in German.
While he waited, Salytov turned to look at the young man in the window, who had stopped reading his newspaper and was watching events unfold with some trepidation. ‘As for you - you finish your coffee and leave. This place is closing until further notice.’
A moment later, Salytov was sharing this information with the proprietor of Ballet’s, whose agitated
Salytov seemed momentarily thrown by this, which gave Tolya the advantage. However, his smirk at the lieutenant’s discomfiture was a mistake. ‘Get out here now!’ barked Salytov.
Tolya groaned and began to move with resistant lethargy.
‘Now!’
If Tolya hurried his step, it was done only in a token way, and perhaps even sarcastically. When at last he was out from behind the glass counter, Salytov approached him ominously, regarded him for a moment, like a gymnast poised before a manoeuvre, then threw back his hand and slapped the boy square in the face. Tolya’s head was twisted round under the force, and shock, of the blow. A red imprint showed on his cheek when he turned his head back to look at Salytov. His eyes stood out from his face more than ever. With some satisfaction, Salytov noticed these eyes glisten moistly as tears welled in them.
‘You are the one they call Tolya?’
‘Yes.’
‘Full name.’
‘Anatoly Denisovich Masloboyev.’
‘You associate with scoundrels, Anatoly Denisovich. Isn’t that so?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Do you want another slap, boy?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then answer the question.’
‘I . . . what was the question, sir?’
‘Do you associate with scoundrels?’
‘No, sir.’
Without warning, Salytov planted another smack on the same side of the youth’s face.
‘Try again.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I have seen your friends and they looked like scoundrels to me. Are they scoundrels?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are you a scoundrel, Anatoly Denisovich?’
‘No, sir!’
‘You look like a scoundrel to me.’
‘No, sir! It’s not true.’
‘You have the eyes of a scoundrel. Stop blubbering, boy. It will not help you.’
Tolya wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his coat and sniffed loudly.
‘Where are you from, Anatoly Denisovich?’
‘The village of Ulyanka, Your Honour.’
‘Ulyanka?’ Salytov’s eyes narrowed coldly. ‘We all know what Ulyanka is famous for. The house at the eleventh verst.’
‘I was never in that place,’ said the boy quickly, emphatically.
Salytov looked at Tolya assessingly. He did not seem to like what he saw. His lip curled almost cruelly. ‘You’re lying.’
‘No, sir, Your Honour. Never. Never set foot in it!’
‘Your passport?’
‘I do not have it with me, Your Honour. It is at my lodgings.’
‘No passport? It is all the more likely that you are a refugee from the house at the eleventh verst then.’
‘I do have a passport, as I explained, Your Honour. I do not have it on me, that’s all. And, believe me, I was never in that place. Not on my own account. It was my mother -’
‘Your mother is a lunatic?’
‘No, sir, there were lies told about her. My father’s family was cruel. She is dead now, Your Honour. They drove her to it.’
‘A suicide?’
‘They drove her to it!’
‘Let me see your hands.’ The suddenness of Salytov’s request took Tolya off guard. He held out his arms. His hands were surprisingly clean. Salytov slipped the handcuffs on him with the practised deftness of a conjuror. He grasped Tolya firmly under the arm. ‘A suicide and a lunatic for a mother. No passport. These are sufficient grounds for taking you in. Now you,’ Salytov addressed the German woman, ‘get your master out here now. I wish to speak to the owner of this place.’
She disappeared back into the workshop, shaking her head and shouting in German.
While he waited, Salytov turned to look at the young man in the window, who had stopped reading his newspaper and was watching events unfold with some trepidation. ‘As for you - you finish your coffee and leave. This place is closing until further notice.’
A moment later, Salytov was sharing this information with the proprietor of Ballet’s, whose agitated
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