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
Ads: Link
Someone said they should drink more water, and the men dashed to drink not water but vodka, moonshine; they werenât interested in enjoying themselves, they just wanted to get blasted. That night fights broke out. In their drunkenness they smashed the windows in their carriage â to get some air. A bloody brawl started up, but the captain didnât interfere, he remained stoic and said nothing. Clumping together for a smoke in the vestibule, three or four men who were still on their feet and had lost sight of sleep marvelled at the captainâs good nature. Why did he put up with it? Why didnât he take any notice? He only went once to the conductor who was selling the booze and he couldnât even frighten him. Heâd made up his bed early and was lying there, sleeping. But would he report everything when they reached the unit? They could court-martial you for drunkenness now, couldnât they, but could they court-martial everybody?
And then Matiushin suddenly realised with relief that the recruiting officer was calmly getting a good nightâs sleep because their destination was already close. With that thought he dragged himself back to his berth and lay down on his bunk, although he didnât feel sleepy. But he did drop off, just for a moment â and woke up when men were already jostling in the passage and the berth with all their things, and the train was moving slower and slower. Shouts tore through the carriage, chasing each other along:
âTashkent! Tashkent!â
It was cool, almost cold, the sun wasnât even on the rise yet, and a breeze as delicate as frothing cream quivered in the fresh-milk-steamy air. Matiushinâs bag seemed empty without any food and he left it in the carriage, although his razor, toothbrush, soap and a lot of things that seemed worthless just then were still inside it. Solitary trees with dusty grey skin like an elephantâs. And standing at a distance, white and gauzy: the station.
People drifting by, indifferent ⦠Only an hour later they were being driven along in a covered army truck through smooth, even heat, as pure as breathing.
They offloaded somewhere in the backstreets â in a corner formed by whitewashed fences with bulging coils of barbed wire along the top and bitty little buildings with no windows that looked like storehouses crowding in from the sides, as squat as if they had been hammered into the dried-up earth blow by blow. The small open space was scorching in the hot sun. They stood in a crowd beside the truck. Fresh, neat officers flitted in and out of sight, questioning the captain, who looked at them respectfully, no doubt waiting to be dismissed. Soon about ten sergeants were herded into the space from somewhere else and began standing guard, and the moment the officers went away, dirty little streams of soldiers started trickling through the sergeantsâ sparse line of security. Armour-clad faces, sunburned black, stared insolently, only it wasnât the Russians they were sizing up, but what they were wearing. There werenât enough officers to impose order. Theyâd hidden from the blazing sun in the patch of shade on the other side of the barracks, where little green trees stood like sentries and the parade ground, scorched to desert whiteness, began. There behind the barracks huts, a semi-naked, half-wild crowd had come running and gathered on the parade ground, and the officers allowed it to gape at the new arrivals and bawl and yell on the small, sweltering-hot islets of asphalt. From the parade ground the crowd could see what the officers had hidden away from on that side of the barracks: soldiers menacing the guards and working away furtively once they got in behind them, not wasting a moment to grab their booty, accosting the recruits who were better-dressed, intimidating them more and more brazenly by raising their fists and each snatching what he could.
And still the soldiers kept on
And then Matiushin suddenly realised with relief that the recruiting officer was calmly getting a good nightâs sleep because their destination was already close. With that thought he dragged himself back to his berth and lay down on his bunk, although he didnât feel sleepy. But he did drop off, just for a moment â and woke up when men were already jostling in the passage and the berth with all their things, and the train was moving slower and slower. Shouts tore through the carriage, chasing each other along:
âTashkent! Tashkent!â
It was cool, almost cold, the sun wasnât even on the rise yet, and a breeze as delicate as frothing cream quivered in the fresh-milk-steamy air. Matiushinâs bag seemed empty without any food and he left it in the carriage, although his razor, toothbrush, soap and a lot of things that seemed worthless just then were still inside it. Solitary trees with dusty grey skin like an elephantâs. And standing at a distance, white and gauzy: the station.
People drifting by, indifferent ⦠Only an hour later they were being driven along in a covered army truck through smooth, even heat, as pure as breathing.
They offloaded somewhere in the backstreets â in a corner formed by whitewashed fences with bulging coils of barbed wire along the top and bitty little buildings with no windows that looked like storehouses crowding in from the sides, as squat as if they had been hammered into the dried-up earth blow by blow. The small open space was scorching in the hot sun. They stood in a crowd beside the truck. Fresh, neat officers flitted in and out of sight, questioning the captain, who looked at them respectfully, no doubt waiting to be dismissed. Soon about ten sergeants were herded into the space from somewhere else and began standing guard, and the moment the officers went away, dirty little streams of soldiers started trickling through the sergeantsâ sparse line of security. Armour-clad faces, sunburned black, stared insolently, only it wasnât the Russians they were sizing up, but what they were wearing. There werenât enough officers to impose order. Theyâd hidden from the blazing sun in the patch of shade on the other side of the barracks, where little green trees stood like sentries and the parade ground, scorched to desert whiteness, began. There behind the barracks huts, a semi-naked, half-wild crowd had come running and gathered on the parade ground, and the officers allowed it to gape at the new arrivals and bawl and yell on the small, sweltering-hot islets of asphalt. From the parade ground the crowd could see what the officers had hidden away from on that side of the barracks: soldiers menacing the guards and working away furtively once they got in behind them, not wasting a moment to grab their booty, accosting the recruits who were better-dressed, intimidating them more and more brazenly by raising their fists and each snatching what he could.
And still the soldiers kept on
Similar Books
