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Authors: Harry Bingham
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fifteen, or as good as.’
‘But the change came four months ago, didn’t it, Antonina Kirylovna?’
Tonya swallowed. Rodyon was creeping around to the real subject and she felt her mouth go strangely dry. Though she wanted to blame it on other things – the endless day outside, the light glittering from the city’s roofs and cupolas, the heat of the stove – she knew it was none of those things.
‘Maybe,’ she admitted.
‘Mikhail Ivanovich Malevich. Son of Ivan Ilyich Malevich. Ivan Ilyich was one of the country’s richest men. Not in the top fifty perhaps, but not so far outside either. Coal mines. Iron works. Land.’
‘They have none of that now.’
‘No.’
Rodyon stopped as though he’d finished. He finished his tea and pushed his cup away from him.
‘More?’ said Tonya.
‘Please.’
‘The sugar doesn’t come from father’s coal-stealing. It comes from Misha. The soup things too. He trades his family’s last few possessions. He is generous.’
‘Bourgeois sugar, eh?’
‘That’s one way to put it.’
‘Then I’ll have another spoonful.’
Tonya poured the tea and pushed it back at Rodyon. Her movement contained an ounce or two of anger and tea slopped over the rim of the cup. He ignored both the anger and the spillage.
‘His family’s last few possessions. What a piteous-sounding phrase!’
‘There’s no pity. It’s a simple fact.’
‘Is it? Really? That’s another insight of Marx’s. Facts aren’t necessarily simple, even the simplest ones. His father accumulated possessions by exploiting his workers. Each year, every year, men died underground in his coal mines. Others were cut to pieces in industrial accidents at his iron works. And he reaped the profit.’
‘He employed them. I don’t suppose conditions in his mines were worse than elsewhere.’
‘He gave them the lowest wage he could possibly pay them, you mean. Yes. And that wage wasn’t always enough to give his workers enough food, fuel, medicine or housing. Look at this rat-hole you live in. You have always counted yourself lucky to have it. How does it compare with Kuletsky Prospekt, eh? How does it compare with that? So: you say his family’s last few possessions, but if he stole the labour that allowed him to acquire them, then to whom, really, do those things belong?’
Tonya shrugged. ‘Who cares? In a few months, they’ll have nothing.’
Rodyon nodded, as though he agreed. He stood up. All at once, the lean tigerishness of his energy seemed to come rushing back. When before he had looked tired, now again, as usual, his face radiated an intense, challenging handsomeness, spoiled and completed by his broken nose. He paced the tiny apartment as though he felt cooped up in it. He leaned out of the open window, traced a line on a cupboard with the tip of his finger as though to check for dust, then came over to the stove and felt it for heat.
‘Good soup.’
‘Yes.’
‘The smell is almost the best part.’
‘Maybe.’
‘A meat bone?’
‘Beef.’
‘You’re lucky.’
‘If it’s luck that we’ve been talking about, then yes.’
‘Hmm.’
Rodyon paced again. Back to the window, behind Kiryl’s armchair, which he rocked to and fro on its back legs, then to the table and the carrot ends and onion skins left over from Tonya’s cooking. He took some carrot ends and began to munch.
‘Babba Varvara’s all right, is she?’
‘She’s fine. No different from ever.’
‘No. You do well with her. If she weren’t your responsibility she would be mine. Thank you.’
Tonya shrugged. Then he turned abruptly around, and faced Tonya. She found herself fixed in the sudden glare of his intensity.
‘Listen, Antonina, this boy of yours, Mikhail Ivanovich. He is a danger to you. You must stop seeing him.’
Tonya opened her mouth to protest. The anxiety that she’d felt since Rodyon’s entry had been pointing all along to this one inevitable moment. She felt fiercely, passionately
‘But the change came four months ago, didn’t it, Antonina Kirylovna?’
Tonya swallowed. Rodyon was creeping around to the real subject and she felt her mouth go strangely dry. Though she wanted to blame it on other things – the endless day outside, the light glittering from the city’s roofs and cupolas, the heat of the stove – she knew it was none of those things.
‘Maybe,’ she admitted.
‘Mikhail Ivanovich Malevich. Son of Ivan Ilyich Malevich. Ivan Ilyich was one of the country’s richest men. Not in the top fifty perhaps, but not so far outside either. Coal mines. Iron works. Land.’
‘They have none of that now.’
‘No.’
Rodyon stopped as though he’d finished. He finished his tea and pushed his cup away from him.
‘More?’ said Tonya.
‘Please.’
‘The sugar doesn’t come from father’s coal-stealing. It comes from Misha. The soup things too. He trades his family’s last few possessions. He is generous.’
‘Bourgeois sugar, eh?’
‘That’s one way to put it.’
‘Then I’ll have another spoonful.’
Tonya poured the tea and pushed it back at Rodyon. Her movement contained an ounce or two of anger and tea slopped over the rim of the cup. He ignored both the anger and the spillage.
‘His family’s last few possessions. What a piteous-sounding phrase!’
‘There’s no pity. It’s a simple fact.’
‘Is it? Really? That’s another insight of Marx’s. Facts aren’t necessarily simple, even the simplest ones. His father accumulated possessions by exploiting his workers. Each year, every year, men died underground in his coal mines. Others were cut to pieces in industrial accidents at his iron works. And he reaped the profit.’
‘He employed them. I don’t suppose conditions in his mines were worse than elsewhere.’
‘He gave them the lowest wage he could possibly pay them, you mean. Yes. And that wage wasn’t always enough to give his workers enough food, fuel, medicine or housing. Look at this rat-hole you live in. You have always counted yourself lucky to have it. How does it compare with Kuletsky Prospekt, eh? How does it compare with that? So: you say his family’s last few possessions, but if he stole the labour that allowed him to acquire them, then to whom, really, do those things belong?’
Tonya shrugged. ‘Who cares? In a few months, they’ll have nothing.’
Rodyon nodded, as though he agreed. He stood up. All at once, the lean tigerishness of his energy seemed to come rushing back. When before he had looked tired, now again, as usual, his face radiated an intense, challenging handsomeness, spoiled and completed by his broken nose. He paced the tiny apartment as though he felt cooped up in it. He leaned out of the open window, traced a line on a cupboard with the tip of his finger as though to check for dust, then came over to the stove and felt it for heat.
‘Good soup.’
‘Yes.’
‘The smell is almost the best part.’
‘Maybe.’
‘A meat bone?’
‘Beef.’
‘You’re lucky.’
‘If it’s luck that we’ve been talking about, then yes.’
‘Hmm.’
Rodyon paced again. Back to the window, behind Kiryl’s armchair, which he rocked to and fro on its back legs, then to the table and the carrot ends and onion skins left over from Tonya’s cooking. He took some carrot ends and began to munch.
‘Babba Varvara’s all right, is she?’
‘She’s fine. No different from ever.’
‘No. You do well with her. If she weren’t your responsibility she would be mine. Thank you.’
Tonya shrugged. Then he turned abruptly around, and faced Tonya. She found herself fixed in the sudden glare of his intensity.
‘Listen, Antonina, this boy of yours, Mikhail Ivanovich. He is a danger to you. You must stop seeing him.’
Tonya opened her mouth to protest. The anxiety that she’d felt since Rodyon’s entry had been pointing all along to this one inevitable moment. She felt fiercely, passionately
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