Invitation to a Beheading (4 page)

Rodion was singing in his bass-baritone, rolling his eyes, brandishing the empty mug. Marthe used to sing that same dashing song once. Tears gushed from the eyes of Cincinnatus. On a climactic note Rodion sent the mug crashing against the floor and slid off the table. His song went on
in chorus, even though he was alone. Suddenly he raised both arms and went out.

Sitting on the floor, Cincinnatus looked upward through his tears; the shadow of the bars had already moved. He tried—for the hundredth time—to move the table, but, alas, the legs had been bolted down for ages. He ate a pressed fig and began again to walk about the cell.

Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. At twenty-two he was transferred to a kindergarten as a teacher in division F, and at that time he married Marthe. Almost immediately after he had assumed his new duties (consisting of keeping busy little children who were lame, hunchbacked or crosseyed) an important personage made a second-degree complaint against him. Cautiously, in the form of a conjecture, there was expressed the suggestion of Cincinnatus’s basic illegality. Together with this memorandum the city fathers also examined the old complaints that had been made from time to time by the more perceptive of his colleagues at the workshop. The chairman of the education committee and certain other official figures took turns locking themselves up with him and making on him the tests prescribed by law. For several days in a row he was not allowed to sleep, and was compelled to keep up rapid senseless small talk until it bordered on delirium, to write letters to various objects and natural phenomena, enact everyday scenes, and to imitate various animals, trades and maladies. All of this he performed, all of this he passed, because he was young, resourceful, fresh, yearning to live, to live for a while with Marthe. Reluctantly they released him, allowing him to continue working with children of the lowest category, who were expendable, in order to see what would come of it.
He took them for walks, in pairs, while he turned the handle of a small portable music box that looked like a coffee grinder; on holidays he would swing with them at the play-ground—the whole cluster would be still and breathless as it soared and would squeal as it plummeted down. Some of them he taught to read.

Meanwhile Marthe began deceiving him during the very first year of their marriage; anywhere and with anybody. Generally when Cincinnatus came home she would have a certain sated half-smile on her face as she pressed her plump chin against her neck, as if reproaching herself, and, gazing up with her honest hazel eyes, would say in a soft cooing voice, “Little Marthe did it again today.” He would look at her for a few seconds, pressing his palm to his cheek like a woman, and then, whining soundlessly, would go off through all the rooms full of her relatives and lock himself in the bathroom, where he would stamp his feet, let the water run and cough so as to cover up the sound of his weeping. Sometimes, to justify herself, she would explain to him, “You know what a kind creature I am: it’s such a small thing, and it’s such a relief to a man.”

Soon she became pregnant, and not by him. She bore a boy, immediately got pregnant again—again not by him—and bore a girl. The boy was lame and evil-tempered, the girl dull, obese and nearly blind. Because of their defects both children ended up in his kindergarten, and it was odd to see nimble, sleek, rosy Marthe leading home this cripple and this stocky tot. Gradually Cincinnatus stopped watching himself altogether, and one day, at some open meeting in the city park there was a sudden wave of alarm and
someone said in a loud voice, “Citizens, there is among us a—” Here followed a strange, almost forgotten word, and the wind swished through the locust trees, and Cincinnatus found nothing better than to get up and walk away, absent-mindedly picking leaves from bushes bordering the path. And ten days later he was arrested.

“Tomorrow, probably,” said Cincinnatus as he slowly walked about the cell. “Tomorrow, probably,” said Cincinnatus and sat down on the cot, kneading his forehead with the palm of his hand. A sunset ray was repeating effects that were already familiar. “Tomorrow, probably,” said Cincinnatus with a sigh. “It was too quiet today, so tomorrow, bright and early …”

For a while they were all silent—the earthenware pitcher with water at the bottom that had offered drink to all the prisoners of the world; the walls, with their arms around each other’s shoulders like a foursome discussing a square secret in inaudible whispers; the velvet spider, somehow resembling Marthe; the large black books on the table…

“What a misunderstanding” said Cincinnatus and suddenly burst out laughing. He stood up and took off the dressing gown, the skullcap, the slippers. He took off the linen trousers and shirt. He took off his head like a toupee, took off his collarbones like shoulder straps, took off his rib cage like a hauberk. He took off his hips and his legs, he took off his arms like gauntlets and threw them in a corner. What was left of him gradually dissolved, hardly coloring the air. At first Cincinnatus simply reveled in the coolness; then, fully immersed in his secret medium, he began freely and happily to …

The iron thunderclap of the bolt resounded, and Cincinnatus
instantly grew all that he had cast off, the skullcap included. Rodion the jailer brought a dozen yellow plums in a round basket lined with grape leaves, a present from the director’s wife.

Cincinnatus, your criminal exercise has refreshed you.

Cincinnatus was awakened by the doomlike din of voices mounting in the corridor.

Even though the day before he had prepared for such an awakening, still he could not cope with his breathing and the beating of his heart. Folding the dressing gown over his heart so that it would not see—be quiet, it is nothing (as one says to a child at the moment of an incredible disaster)—covering his heart and raising himself slightly, Cincinnatus listened. There was the shuffling of many feet, at various levels of audibility; there were voices, also at various depths; one surged up, with a question; another, closer, responded. Hastening from afar, someone whizzed by and started to slide over the stone as over ice. In the midst of the hubbub
the director’s bass uttered several words, indistinct but definitely imperative. The most frightening thing was that all this bustle was pierced by a child’s voice—the director had a small daughter. Cincinnatus distinguished both the whining tenor of his lawyer and the muttering of Rodion … And again somebody on the run asked a booming question, and somebody boomingly answered. A huffing, a crackling, a clattering, as if someone were probing with a stick under a bench. “Couldn’t find it?” the director inquired distinctly. Footsteps ran past. Footsteps ran past. Ran past and returned. Cincinnatus could not bear it any longer; he lowered his feet to the floor: they had not let him see Marthe after all.… Should I begin dressing, or will they come to costume me? Oh, have done with it, come in …

However, they tortured him for another two minutes or so. Suddenly the door opened, and, gliding, his lawyer rushed in.

He was ruffled and sweaty. He was fiddling with his left cuff and his eyes were wandering around.

“I lost a cuff link,” he exclaimed, panting rapidly like a dog. “Must have—rushed against some—when I was with sweet little Emmie—she’s always so full of mischief—by the coattails—everytime I drop in—and the point is that I heard something—but I didn’t pay any—look, the chain must have—I was very fond of—well, it’s too late now—maybe I can still—I promised all the guards—it’s a pity, though—”

“A foolish, sleepy error,” said Cincinnatus quietly. “I misinterpreted the fuss. This sort of thing is not good for the heart.”

“Oh, thanks, don’t worry about it, it’s nothing,” absentmindedly
muttered the lawyer. And with his eyes he literally scoured the corners of the cell. It was plain that he was upset by the loss of that precious object. It was plain. The loss of the object upset him. The object was precious. He was upset by the loss of the object.

With a soft groan Cincinnatus went back to bed. The other sat down at the foot of the cot.

“As I was coming to see you,” said the lawyer, “I was so spry and cheerful … But now this trifle has distressed me—for, after all, it is a trifle, you will agree; there are more important things. Well, how are you feeling?”

“In the mood for a confidential chat,” replied Cincinnatus with eyes closed. “I want to share with you some conclusions I have reached. I am surrounded by some sort of wretched specters, not by people. They torment me as can torment only senseless visions, bad dreams, dregs of delirium, the drivel of nightmares and everything that passes down here for real life. In theory one would wish to wake up. But wake up I cannot without outside help, and yet I fear this help terribly, and my very soul has grown lazy and accustomed to its snug swaddling clothes. Of all the specters that surround me, you, Roman Vissarionovich, are probably the most wretched, but on the other hand—in view of your logical position in our invented habitus—you are in a manner of speaking, an adviser, a defender …”

“At your service,” said the lawyer, glad that Cincinnatus had at last become talkative.

“So this is what I want to ask you: on what grounds do they refuse to tell me the exact execution date? Wait a minute, I am not finished yet. The so-called director avoids a straight answer, and refers to the fact that—wait a minute!
I want to know, in the first place, who has the authority to appoint the day. I want to know, in the second place, how to get some sense out of that institution, or individual, or group of individuals …”

The lawyer, who had just been impatient to speak, now for some reason was silent. His made-up face with its dark blue eyebrows and long harelip revealed no particular mental activity.

“Leave your cuff alone,” said Cincinnatus, “and try to concentrate.”

Roman Vissarionovich jerkily changed the position of his body and clasped his restless fingers. In a plaintive voice he said, “It is exactly for that tone.…”

“That I am being executed,” said Cincinnatus. “I know that. Go on!”

“Let’s change the subject, I implore you,” cried Roman Vissarionovich. “Can’t you even now remain within legitimate limits? This is really awful. It is beyond my endurance. I dropped in merely to ask if you didn’t have some legitimate wishes … for instance” (here his face lit up), “perhaps you should like to have printed copies of the speeches made at the trial? In case of such desire you must immediately submit the necessary petition, which you and I could prepare right now, with detailed specifications as to just how many copies of the speeches you require and for what purpose. I happen to have a free hour—Oh, please, please let’s do this! I have even brought a special envelope.”

“Just out of curiosity …” said Cincinnatus, “but first … Then, there is really no chance of getting an answer?”

“A special envelope,” repeated the lawyer to tempt him.

“All right, let’s have it,” said Cincinnatus, and tore the thick, stuffed envelope into crimpy scraps.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” cried the lawyer, on the verge of tears. “You shouldn’t have done that at all. You don’t even realize what you have done. Perhaps there was a pardon in there. It won’t be possible to get another!”

Cincinnatus picked up a handful of scraps and tried to reconstruct at least one coherent sentence, but everything was mixed up, distorted, disjointed.

“This is the sort of thing you always do,” whined the lawyer, clutching his temples and pacing across the cell. “Perhaps your salvation was right in your very hands, and you … It’s horrible! Well, what shall I do with you? It’s lost and gone now … And I was so pleased! I was preparing you so carefully!”

“May I?” said the director in a distended voice as he opened the door ajar. “I shan’t disturb you?”

“Please come in, Rodrig Ivanovich, please come in,” said the lawyer. “Please come in, dear Rodrig Ivanovich. Only it is not very cheerful in here …”

“Well, and how is our doomed friend today?” quipped the elegant, dignified director, compressing in his meaty purple paws the cold little hand of Cincinnatus. “Is everything all right? No aches or pains? Still gossiping with our indefatigable Roman Vissarionovich? Oh, by the way, dear Roman Vissarionovich, I have some good news for you— my little romp just found your cuff link on the stairs.
Là voici
. This is French gold, isn’t it? Very, very dainty. I usually do not make compliments, but I must say.…”

They both walked over to a corner, pretending to examine the charming trinket, discuss its history and value, marvel
at it. Cincinnatus took this opportunity to take up from under the cot, and, with a high, purling sound, which became hesitant at the end, to …

“Yes, indeed, in excellent taste, excellent,” the director was repeating as he walked back from the corner with the lawyer. “So you are feeling well, young man,” he meaninglessly addressed Cincinnatus, who was climbing back into bed. “However you must not be childish. The public, and all of us, as representatives of the public, are interested only in your welfare—that must be obvious by now. We are ready to make things easier for you by relieving your loneliness. In a few days a new prisoner will be moving in to one of our deluxe cells. You will become acquainted, and that will entertain you.”