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Authors: Warren Adler
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It meant “beautiful.” His fist clenched, as a wave of pain shot through his deformed spine. The train was bucking like a horse. Not a single moment of his life had passed during the past thirty years without the feel, the sound, the detestable click of train wheels continually present in his mind.
Scratching his chin, he pondered again the seventeen-minute stop-over in Krasnoyarsk. He had estimated that the third car from the end, a hard class, would stop at the exact position at the end of the station where the station manager’s office was located. According to Platinov, the office would be a small whitewashed room, with one desk and a chair, charts and timetables on the wall, two wooden benches facing the desk. He had forced it all from Platinov, innocent foolish Platinov, who had stared wide-eyed and dull-faced, his nose running in the cold Moscow afternoon, as the two of them sat on a hillock overlooking the Lenin stadium.
“I knew it was Shmiot instantly,” Platinov had said, “even before I saw his name on a little plaque outside the office.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“Shmiot?”
“Who else, you ass?” Godorov calmed himself down. He must not betray his single-mindedness, he thought, fighting back the hatred that had festered inside of him for twenty years. Could Platinov know he had searched every face that had crossed his path since his release, seeking Shmiot? Every time he thought of that name, he rubbed the small of his back, digging his fingers into his pain, which condemned him never to be able to stay in one position for more than ten minutes at a time.
“But are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” He jabbed Godorov in the hard muscles of his stomach. “Do you think any one of us could forget him?” He had actually smiled as he said it, as if it no longer mattered.
“He is, of course, older,” Platinov continued. “Still very tall with that thick bull neck and those hamlike hands. It was very odd seeing him looking so respectable in his railway uniform.” Platinov paused to rub the snot off his sleeve. “It was odd seeing him out of a convict’s uniform, and the hair has grown back on his head. But the eyes are still ice cold, as cruel as ever.”
“And you are certain? Repeat it, please, Platinov.”
“He is the train manager at the Krasnoyarsk station. I saw him. I spoke to him.”
“You spoke to him?
“Yes. I asked him if there was a Moscow train on Thursday morning.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“No.”
Not to be recognized. That would be the final blow. He must be recognized, Godorov thought. That was essential. He had gone over it in his mind a thousand times. The confrontation. The instant recognition, the sound of his own name: “Godorov! You!” Then he would grasp Shmiot simultaneously by the windpipe and the testicles and draw his body into a kneeling position.
“You remember me, Shmiot?”
Of course he would remember and the terror that would come with recognition would be the sweetest moment of Godorov’s life, the one flicker of light in the bleak landscape of all those wasted years.
“There is no mistaking it, Platinov?”
He had grasped the poor man by the collar of his coat, shaking him. It was only then that Platinov had realized what Godorov planned, and his pale eyes opened wide.
“You’re crazy,” he hissed. “You’re crazy, Ivan Vasilyevich.” He wrenched himself free of Godorov’s grasp. “It’s over. What can it matter now?”
But it had never been over. Not if a person was reminded of it every moment of his life by the perpetual gnawing of the raw nerves, the hot flashes of pain. Platinov knew. Why else had he sought out Godorov immediately on his return, the very day that the train had pulled into the Sverdlovsk station? He pretended to be innocent, but Platinov understood. Why else had he noticed all the little details? How could he have dredged them up, if he had merely observed them casually? He had been a
Scratching his chin, he pondered again the seventeen-minute stop-over in Krasnoyarsk. He had estimated that the third car from the end, a hard class, would stop at the exact position at the end of the station where the station manager’s office was located. According to Platinov, the office would be a small whitewashed room, with one desk and a chair, charts and timetables on the wall, two wooden benches facing the desk. He had forced it all from Platinov, innocent foolish Platinov, who had stared wide-eyed and dull-faced, his nose running in the cold Moscow afternoon, as the two of them sat on a hillock overlooking the Lenin stadium.
“I knew it was Shmiot instantly,” Platinov had said, “even before I saw his name on a little plaque outside the office.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“Shmiot?”
“Who else, you ass?” Godorov calmed himself down. He must not betray his single-mindedness, he thought, fighting back the hatred that had festered inside of him for twenty years. Could Platinov know he had searched every face that had crossed his path since his release, seeking Shmiot? Every time he thought of that name, he rubbed the small of his back, digging his fingers into his pain, which condemned him never to be able to stay in one position for more than ten minutes at a time.
“But are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” He jabbed Godorov in the hard muscles of his stomach. “Do you think any one of us could forget him?” He had actually smiled as he said it, as if it no longer mattered.
“He is, of course, older,” Platinov continued. “Still very tall with that thick bull neck and those hamlike hands. It was very odd seeing him looking so respectable in his railway uniform.” Platinov paused to rub the snot off his sleeve. “It was odd seeing him out of a convict’s uniform, and the hair has grown back on his head. But the eyes are still ice cold, as cruel as ever.”
“And you are certain? Repeat it, please, Platinov.”
“He is the train manager at the Krasnoyarsk station. I saw him. I spoke to him.”
“You spoke to him?
“Yes. I asked him if there was a Moscow train on Thursday morning.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“No.”
Not to be recognized. That would be the final blow. He must be recognized, Godorov thought. That was essential. He had gone over it in his mind a thousand times. The confrontation. The instant recognition, the sound of his own name: “Godorov! You!” Then he would grasp Shmiot simultaneously by the windpipe and the testicles and draw his body into a kneeling position.
“You remember me, Shmiot?”
Of course he would remember and the terror that would come with recognition would be the sweetest moment of Godorov’s life, the one flicker of light in the bleak landscape of all those wasted years.
“There is no mistaking it, Platinov?”
He had grasped the poor man by the collar of his coat, shaking him. It was only then that Platinov had realized what Godorov planned, and his pale eyes opened wide.
“You’re crazy,” he hissed. “You’re crazy, Ivan Vasilyevich.” He wrenched himself free of Godorov’s grasp. “It’s over. What can it matter now?”
But it had never been over. Not if a person was reminded of it every moment of his life by the perpetual gnawing of the raw nerves, the hot flashes of pain. Platinov knew. Why else had he sought out Godorov immediately on his return, the very day that the train had pulled into the Sverdlovsk station? He pretended to be innocent, but Platinov understood. Why else had he noticed all the little details? How could he have dredged them up, if he had merely observed them casually? He had been a
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