Darkness at Noon (3 page)

Rubashov heard the sound of several people marching down the corridor in step. His first thought was: now the beating-up will start. He stopped in the middle of the cell, listening, his chin pushed forward. The marching steps came to a halt before one of the neighbouring cells, a low command was heard, the keys jangled. Then there was silence.

Rubashov stood stiffly between the bed and the bucket, held his breath, and waited for the first scream. He remembered that the first scream, in which terror still predominated over physical pain, was usually the worst; what followed was already more bearable, one got used to it and after a time one could even draw conclusions on the method of torture from the tone and rhythm of the screams. Towards the end, most people behaved in the
same way, however different they were in temperament and voice: the screams became weaker, changed over into whining and choking. Usually the door would slam soon after. The keys would jangle again; and the first scream of the next victim often came even before they had touched him, at the mere sight of the men in the doorway.

Rubashov stood in the middle of his cell and waited for the first scream. He rubbed his glasses on his sleeve and said to himself that he would not scream this time either, whatever happened to him. He repeated this sentence as if praying with a rosary. He stood and waited; the scream still did not come. Then he heard a faint clanging, a voice murmured something, the cell-door slammed. The footsteps moved to the next cell.

Rubashov went to the spy-hole and looked into the corridor. The men stopped nearly opposite his cell, at No. 407. There was the old warder with two orderlies dragging a tub of tea, a third carrying a basket with slices of black bread, and two uniformed officials with pistols. There was not beating-up; they were bringing breakfast….

No. 407 was just being given bread. Rubashov could not see him. No. 407 was presumably standing in the regulation position, a step behind the door; Rubashov could only see his forearms and hands. The arms were bare and very thin; like two parallel sticks, they stuck out of the doorway into the corridor. The palms of the invisible No. 407 were turned upwards, curved in the shape of a bowl. When he had taken the bread, he clasped his hands and withdrew into the darkness of his cell. The door slammed.

Rubashov abandoned the spy-hole and resumed his marching up and down. He ceased rubbing his spectacles on his sleeve, put them in place, breathed deeply and with relief. He whistled a tune and waited for his breakfast. He remembered with a slight feeling of uneasiness those thin arms and the curved hands; they reminded him vaguely of something he could not define. The outlines of those stretched-out hands and even the shadows on them were familiar to him—familiar and yet gone from his memory like an old tune or the smell of a narrow street in a harbour.

The procession had unlocked and slammed a row of doors, but not yet his. Rubashov went back to the judas, to see whether they were coming at last; he was looking forward to the hot tea. The tub had been steaming, and thin slices of lemon had floated on its surface. He took off his pince-nez and pressed his eye to the spy-hole. His range of sight held four of the cells opposite: Nos. 401 to 407. Above the cells ran a narrow iron gallery; behind it were more cells, those on the second floor. The procession was just coming back along the corridor from the right; evidently they first did the odd numbers, then the even. Now they stood at No. 408; Rubashov only saw the backs of the two uniformed men with the revolver belts; the rest of the procession stood outside his view-range. The door slammed; now they all came to No. 406. Rubashov saw again the steaming tub and the orderly with the bread basket in which only a few slices were left.
The door of No. 406 slammed instantly; the cell was uninhabited. The procession approached, passed his door and stopped at No. 402.

Rubashov began to drum on the door with his fists. He saw that the two orderlies with the tub looked at each other and glanced at his door. The warder busied himself with the lock on the door of No. 402 and pretended not to hear. The two men in uniform stood with their backs to Rubashov's spy-hole. Now the bread was being passed in through the door of No. 402; the procession started to move on. Rubashov drummed more loudly. He took a shoe off and banged on the door with it.

The bigger of the two men in uniform turned round, stared expressionlessly at Rubashov's door and turned away again. The warder slammed the door of No. 402. The orderlies with the tub of tea stood about hesitantly. The man in uniform who had turned round said something to the older warder, who shrugged his shoulders and with jangling keys shuffled to Rubashov's door. The orderlies with the tub followed him; the orderly with the bread said something through the spy-hole to No. 402.

Rubashov drew back a step from his door and waited for it to open. The tension inside him gave way suddenly; he did not care any more whether he was given tea or not. The tea in the tub had no longer steamed on the way back and the slices of lemon on the rest of the pale yellow liquid had looked limp and shrunken.

The key was turned in his door, then a staring pupil appeared in the spy-hole and disappeared again. The door flew open. Rubashov had seated himself on the bed and was putting his shoe on again. The warder held the door open for the big man in uniform who entered
the cell. He had a round, clean-shaven skull and expressionless eyes. His stiff uniform creaked; so did his boots; Rubashov thought he could smell the leather of his revolver belt. He stopped next to the bucket and looked round the cell, which seemed to have become smaller through his presence.

“You have not cleaned up your cell,” he said to Rubashov. “You know the regulations, surely.”

“Why was I omitted at breakfast?” said Rubashov, examining the officer through his pince-nez.

“If you want to argue with me, you will have to stand up,” said the officer.

“I haven't got the slightest desire to argue or even to speak to you,” said Rubashov, and laced up his shoe.

“Then don't bang on the door next time, else the usual disciplinary measures will have to be applied to you,” said the officer. He looked round the cell again. “The prisoner has no mop to clean the floor,” he said to the warder.

The warder said something to the bread-orderly, who vanished down the corridor at a trot. The two other orderlies stood in the open doorway and gazed into the cell with curiosity. The second officer had his back turned; he stood in the corridor with his legs straddled and his hands behind his back.

“The prisoner has no eating bowl either,” said Rubashov, still busied with the lacing of his shoe. “I suppose you want to save me the trouble of a hunger-strike. I admire your new methods.”

“You are mistaken,” said the officer, looking at him expressionlessly. He had a broad scar on his shaven skull and wore the ribbon of the Revolutionary Order in
his buttonhole. So he was in the Civil War, after all, thought Rubashov. But that is long ago and makes no difference now….

“You are mistaken. You were left out at breakfast because you had reported yourself sick.”

“Toothache,” said the old warder, who stood leaning against the door. He still wore slippers, his uniform was crumpled and spotted with grease.

“As you like,” said Rubashov. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask whether it was the latest achievement of the régime to treat invalids by compulsory fasting, but he controlled himself. He was sick of the whole scene.

The bread-orderly came running, panting and flapping a dirty rag. The warder took the rag out of his hand and threw it in a corner next to the bucket.

“Have you any more requests?” asked the officer without irony.

“Leave me alone and stop this comedy,” said Rubashov. The officer turned to go, the warder jangled his bunch of keys. Rubashov went to the window, turning his back on them. When the door had slammed he remembered that he had forgotten the chief thing and with a bound he was back at the door.

“Paper and pencil,” he shouted through the spy-hole. He took off his pince-nez and stuck his eye to the hole to see whether they turned round. He had shouted very loudly, but the procession moved down the corridor as if it had heard nothing. The last he saw of it was the back of the officer with the shaven skull and the broad leather belt with the revolver-case attached to it.

Rubashov resumed walking up and down his cell, six and a half steps to the window, six and a half steps back. The scene had stirred him; he recapitulated it in minute detail while rubbing his pince-nez on his sleeve. He tried to hold on to the hatred he had for a few minutes felt for the officer with the scar; he thought it might stiffen him for the coming struggle. Instead, he fell once more under the familiar and fatal constraint to put himself in the position of his opponent, and to see the scene through the other's eyes. There he had sat, this man Rubashov, on the bunk—small, bearded, arrogant—and in an obviously provocative manner, had put his shoe on over the sweaty sock. Of course, this man Rubashov had his merits and a great past; but it was one thing to see him on the platform at a congress and another, on a palliasse in a cell. So that is the legendary Rubashov, thought Rubashov in the name of the officer with the expressionless eyes. Screams for his breakfast like a schoolboy and isn't even ashamed. Cell not cleaned up. Holes in his sock. Querulous intellectual. Conspired against law and order: whether for money or on principle makes no difference. We did not make the revolution for cranks. True, he helped to make it; at that time he was a man; but now he is old and self-righteous, ripe for liquidation. Perhaps he was so even at that time; there were many soap bubbles in the revolution which burst afterwards. If he still had a vestige of self-respect, he would clean his cell.

For a few seconds Rubashov wondered whether he should really scrub the tiles. He stood hesitantly in the
middle of the cell, then put his pince-nez on again and propped himself at the window.

The yard was now in daylight, a greyish light tinged with yellow, not unfriendly, promising more snow. It was about eight—only three hours had passed since he first entered the cell. The walls surrounding the yard looked like those of barracks; iron gates were in front of all the windows, the cells behind them were too dark for one to see into them. It was impossible even to see whether anyone stood directly behind his window, looking down, like him, at the snow in the yard. It was nice snow, slightly frozen; it would crackle if one walked on it. On both sides of the path which ran round the yard at a distance of ten paces from the walls, a hilly parapet of snow had been shovelled up. On the rampart opposite the sentinel was pacing up and down. Once, when turning, he spat in a wide arc into the snow; then leant over the ramp to see where it had fallen and frozen.

The old disease, thought Rubashov. Revolutionaries should not think through other people's minds.

Or, perhaps they should? Or even ought to?

How can one change the world if one identifies oneself with everybody?

How else can one change it?

He who understands and forgives—where would he find a motive to act?

Where would he not?

They will shoot me, thought Rubashov. My motives will be of no interest to them. He leaned his forehead on the window pane. The yard lay white and still.

So he stood a while, without thinking, feeling the cool glass on his forehead. Gradually, he became conscious
of a small but persistent ticking sound in his cell.

He turned round listening. The knocking was so quiet that at first he could not distinguish from which wall it came. While he was listening, it stopped. He started tapping himself, first on the wall over the bucket, in the direction of No. 406, but got no answer. He tried the other wall, which separated him from No. 402, next to his bed. Here he got an answer. Rubashov sat down comfortably on the bunk, from where he could keep an eye on the spy-hole, his heart beating. The first contact was always very exciting.

No. 402 was now tapping regularly; three times with short intervals, then a pause, then again three times, then again a pause, then again three times. Rubashov repeated the same series to indicate that he heard. He was anxious to find out whether the other knew the “quadratic alphabet”—otherwise there would be a lot of fumbling until he had taught it to him. The wall was thick, with poor resonance; he had to put his head close to it to hear clearly and at the same time he had to watch the spy-hole. No. 402 had obviously had a lot of practice; he tapped distinctly and unhurriedly, probably with some hard object such as a pencil. While Rubashov was memorizing the numbers, he tried, being out of practice to visualize the square of letters with the 25 compartments—five horizontal rows with five letters in each. No. 402 first tapped five times—accordingly the fifth row: V to Z; then twice; so it was the second letter of the row: W. Then a pause; then two taps—the second row, F-J; then three taps—the third letter of the row: H. Then three times and then five times; so fifth letter of the third row: O. He stopped.

WHO?

A practical person, thought Rubashov; he wants to know at once whom he has to deal with. According to the revolutionary etiquette, he should have started with a political tag; then given the news; then talked of food and tobacco; much later only, days later, if at all, did one introduce oneself. However, Rubashov's experience had been so far confined to countries in which the Party was persecuted, not persecutor, and the members of the Party, for conspiratorial reasons, knew each other only by their Christian names—and changed even these so often that a name lost all meaning. Here, evidently, it was different. Rubashov hesitated as to whether he should give his name. No. 402 became impatient; he knocked again: WHO?

Well, why not? thought Rubashov. He tapped out his full name: NICOLAS SALMANOVITCH RUBASHOV, and waited for the result.

For a long time there was no answer. Rubashov smiled; he could appreciate the shock it had given his neighbour. He waited a full minute and then another; finally, he shrugged his shoulders and stood up from the bunk. He resumed his walk through the cell, but at every turn he stopped, listening to the wall. The wall remained mute. He rubbed his pince-nez on his sleeve, went slowly, with tired steps, to the door and looked through the spy-hole into the corridor.