shop or storefront. For some reason, the notion of a cobbler's workshop came to mind—an echo, perhaps, of one queerly affecting story among the thousands about the
Rattenkrieg
at Stalingrad. Most of these were pure fiction, but the tale of the shoemaker's son turned spy was sufficiently quirky and human-scale that it might actually have happened. And true or not, it would have appealed to Puak.
So it was with no small delight that Butler stepped over a freshly swept threshold into a room that looters had cleared of everything except a long workbench bearing a couple of decades' worth of small hammer marks and the dull black sheen of shoe wax. A man who looked like a Lower East Side cop sat at one end of the bench, calmly twirling an old-fashioned billy club like the ones the Tsar's police had wielded against factory workers on the streets of St. Petersburg. Here, in a town where you could pick up automatic firearms off the sidewalk, this object seemed wonderfully quaint, until Butler looked more closely at the thick, blond-haired man whose narrowed eyes and taut shoulders suggested a readiness to demonstrate the weapon's efficacy on your skull.
“Excuse me, comrade,” Butler said politely. “I hope I'm not disturbing you. I was looking for—”
The blond man pointed a thumb toward a doorway at the rear of the shop.
“Thank you, comrade.”
Butler ducked, as he often needed to do in these Eastern towns, and stepped through to a dim, low-ceilinged chamber that must have served as the old cobbler's living quarters. A small tile stove in one corner gave off a cozy warmth. A paraffin lamp burned yellow-white beneath its muslin shade, casting a glow of evening over scrubbed wooden walls, wide floorboards, lace curtains and a single scarlet geranium blooming in a rusty jar whose scrollwork proclaimed a fine brand of Finnish sweets, a treat someone must have fetched home long ago, before the Revolution, from a trip abroad.
The small, wraithlike man sitting alone in the room had chosen the largest chair in the darkest corner, as though to further diminish himself.
Butler had to step around the small table bearing the lamp to get a look at him, and even then his form remained indistinct.
Puak was fine-boned and amber-skinned, with Asiatic features. He looked physically weak but morally fierce. If someone had told you his real name was Khan, as in Genghis, you would have believed it. Or, just as readily, you would have believed he was a first cousin of Sri Aurobindo, the Indian mystic. There was an unworldliness about him, yet those dark eyes could belong only to a man who has seen the world down to its writhing, molten core. He sat in perfect stillness, as if this visitor were not fully present or real to him.
Butler never knew how to start. He turned his head, soaking up the room's homey, proletarian charm. “Nice place you've found here,” he said, playing the oblivious American. “Pretty flowers. You could forget there's a war on.”
“Oh, no,” said Puak quickly. His voice was musical and perhaps, just detectably, effeminate. “I'm afraid nothing could ever make me do that.” He motioned to a chair near the lamp.
Butler sat down but kept his posture erect. It was much too early to relax.
“And how are things at the front?” Puak said mildly.
A maddening question, in that it could be pointless small talk or a booby trap. “The front has been static the past few weeks,” Butler replied guardedly, “since the summer offensive. Straightening out the line, bringing up supplies. Sending reconnaissance teams over. Grabbing sentries to interrogate. Building up for the next push, which ought to carry us right across the old prewar border.”
“Carry
us,”
Puak said, his tone neutral, academic. “Have you lost your journalistic objectivity?”
Butler felt more at ease now, settling into the dialectic. “Perfect objectivity is an ideal,” he said, “like perfect justice. We strive for it.
Rattenkrieg
at Stalingrad. Most of these were pure fiction, but the tale of the shoemaker's son turned spy was sufficiently quirky and human-scale that it might actually have happened. And true or not, it would have appealed to Puak.
So it was with no small delight that Butler stepped over a freshly swept threshold into a room that looters had cleared of everything except a long workbench bearing a couple of decades' worth of small hammer marks and the dull black sheen of shoe wax. A man who looked like a Lower East Side cop sat at one end of the bench, calmly twirling an old-fashioned billy club like the ones the Tsar's police had wielded against factory workers on the streets of St. Petersburg. Here, in a town where you could pick up automatic firearms off the sidewalk, this object seemed wonderfully quaint, until Butler looked more closely at the thick, blond-haired man whose narrowed eyes and taut shoulders suggested a readiness to demonstrate the weapon's efficacy on your skull.
“Excuse me, comrade,” Butler said politely. “I hope I'm not disturbing you. I was looking for—”
The blond man pointed a thumb toward a doorway at the rear of the shop.
“Thank you, comrade.”
Butler ducked, as he often needed to do in these Eastern towns, and stepped through to a dim, low-ceilinged chamber that must have served as the old cobbler's living quarters. A small tile stove in one corner gave off a cozy warmth. A paraffin lamp burned yellow-white beneath its muslin shade, casting a glow of evening over scrubbed wooden walls, wide floorboards, lace curtains and a single scarlet geranium blooming in a rusty jar whose scrollwork proclaimed a fine brand of Finnish sweets, a treat someone must have fetched home long ago, before the Revolution, from a trip abroad.
The small, wraithlike man sitting alone in the room had chosen the largest chair in the darkest corner, as though to further diminish himself.
Butler had to step around the small table bearing the lamp to get a look at him, and even then his form remained indistinct.
Puak was fine-boned and amber-skinned, with Asiatic features. He looked physically weak but morally fierce. If someone had told you his real name was Khan, as in Genghis, you would have believed it. Or, just as readily, you would have believed he was a first cousin of Sri Aurobindo, the Indian mystic. There was an unworldliness about him, yet those dark eyes could belong only to a man who has seen the world down to its writhing, molten core. He sat in perfect stillness, as if this visitor were not fully present or real to him.
Butler never knew how to start. He turned his head, soaking up the room's homey, proletarian charm. “Nice place you've found here,” he said, playing the oblivious American. “Pretty flowers. You could forget there's a war on.”
“Oh, no,” said Puak quickly. His voice was musical and perhaps, just detectably, effeminate. “I'm afraid nothing could ever make me do that.” He motioned to a chair near the lamp.
Butler sat down but kept his posture erect. It was much too early to relax.
“And how are things at the front?” Puak said mildly.
A maddening question, in that it could be pointless small talk or a booby trap. “The front has been static the past few weeks,” Butler replied guardedly, “since the summer offensive. Straightening out the line, bringing up supplies. Sending reconnaissance teams over. Grabbing sentries to interrogate. Building up for the next push, which ought to carry us right across the old prewar border.”
“Carry
us,”
Puak said, his tone neutral, academic. “Have you lost your journalistic objectivity?”
Butler felt more at ease now, settling into the dialectic. “Perfect objectivity is an ideal,” he said, “like perfect justice. We strive for it.
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