The Fixer (9 page)

  “In the name of His Majesty Nicholas the Second,” said the red-headed colonel, “I arrest you. Resist and you are dead.”

  The fixer readily confessed he was a Jew. Otherwise he was innocent.

  
III

  In a long, high-ceilinged cell under the District Courthouse, a dismal faded stucco structure in the commercial section of the Plossky a few versts from the brickyard in the Lukianovsky, Yakov, in a state of unrelieved distress, could not blot out the sight of himself marching manacled between two tall columns of gendarmes on horses, their sabers drawn and spurs clinking as they hurried him along snowy streets tracked slushy by sledge runners.

  He had begged the colonel to let him walk on the sidewalk to lessen his embarrassment, but was forced into the wet center of the street, and people on their way to work had stopped to watch. They gazed at first quietly, then in deep silence, broken by whispers, muttering and a few jeers. Most seemed to wonder what the parade was about, but then a uniformed schoolboy in a blue cap and silver-buttoned coat, poking his fingers up like horns over his head, danced in the snow behind the prisoner, chanting, “Zhid, Zhid,” and that awoke murmurs, hoots, mockery. A small crowd, including some women, began to follow them, jeering at the fixer, calling him dirty names, “murdering Jew.” He wanted to break and run but didn’t dare. Someone flung a block of wood at him but it struck a horse that broke into a wild gallop, kicking up snow and running two squares before it was controlled. Then the colonel, a huge man in a fur cap, raised his saber and the crowd scattered.

  He delivered the prisoner first to Secret Police Headquarters, a one-story brown building in a side street; then after a long annoyed telephone conversation, fragments of which the frightened prisoner sitting on a bench in an anteroom surrounded by gendarmes, overheard, the colonel escorted Yakov directly to an underground cell in the District Courthouse, leaving behind two gendarmes who patrolled the corridor with naked sabers. Yakov, alone in the cell, wringing his hands, cried out, “My God, what have I done to myself? I’m in the hands of enemies!” He hit his chest with his fist, bewailed his fate, envisioned terrible things happening to him, ending by being torn apart by a mob. Yet there were also moments of sudden hope when he felt that if he only
explained
why he had done what he had done, he would be at once released. He had stupidly pretended to be somebody he wasn’t, hoping it would create “opportunities,” had learned otherwise^—the wrong opportunities—and was paying for learning. If they let him go now he had suffered enough. He blamed also egotism and foolish ambition, considering who he was, and promised himself it would be different in the future. He had learned his lesson—again. Then he jumped up and cried aloud, “What future?” but nobody answered. When an orderly brought in tea and black bread, he could not eat though he had eaten nothing that day. As the day wore on he groaned often, tore his hair with both fists, and knocked his head repeatedly against the wall. A gendarme saw him and strictly forbade it.

  Towards evening, the prisoner, sitting immobile on a thin mattress on the floor, heard footsteps in the corridor other than the measured tread of the armed guard who had replaced the two gendarmes. Yakov scrambled to his feet. A man of medium height carrying a black hat and fur coat hurried along the dimly lit corridor to the dark cell. He ordered the guard to open the cell door, lock him in with the prisoner, and leave. The guard hesitated. The man waited patiently.

  “I was ordered not to leave, if it’s all the same to your honor,” said the guard. “The Prosecuting Attorney said not to let the Jew out of my sight because it’s a most important case. That’s what I was told by his assistant.”

  “I am here on official business and will call you when I need you. Wait outside the corridor door.”

  The guard reluctantly opened the cell, locked the man in with Yakov and left. The man watched till the guard had gone, then took a candle stub out of his coat pocket, lit it and set it in some drops of wet wax in a saucer. He held the saucer in his hand, studying Yakov for a long moment, then put it down on the table in the cell. Seeing his cold breath in the light he drew on his fur coat. “I am subject to lingering colds.” He wore a darkish beard, pince-nez, and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. Facing the fixer, who was standing stiffly at attention, inwardly trembling, he introduced himself in a quiet resonant voice.

  “I am B. A. Bibikov, Investigating Magistrate for Cases of Extraordinary Importance. Please kindly identify yourself.”

  “Yakov Shepsovitch Bok, your honor, though there’s nothing extraordinary about my foolish mistakes.”

  “You are not Yakov Ivanovitch Dologushev?”

  “That was a stupid deception. I admit it at once.”

  Bibikov adjusted his glasses and looked at him in silence. He lifted the candle to light a cigarette, then changed his mind, set it down, and thrust the cigarette into his pocket.

  “Tell me truly,” said the Investigating Magistrate in a severe voice, “did you murder that unfortunate child?”

  A fog of blackness rose before Yakov’s eyes.

  “Never! Never!” he cried hoarsely. “Why would I kill an innocent child? How could I have done it? For years I wanted a child but my luck was bad and my wife couldn’t have one. If in no other way at least in my heart I’m a father. And if that’s so how could I kill an innocent child? I couldn’t think of such a thing, I’d rather be dead.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Five years going on six, though I’m not really married now because my wife left me.”

  “Is that so? Why did she leave you?”

  “To make it short and simple she was unfaithful. She ran off with an unknown party and that’s why I’m in jail now. If she hadn’t done that I would have stayed where I belonged, which means where I was born. This very minute I’d be sitting down to supper, such as it was, but it could have been worse. “When the sun went down, whether I had earned a kopek or not, I headed straight for my hut. It wasn’t such a bad place to be, now that I think of it.”

  “You’re not from Kiev?”

  “Not the city, the province. I left my village a few months after my wife left me and I’ve been here since November. I was ashamed to stay on there with things as they were. There were other reasons but that was what bothered me most.”

  “What other reasons?”

  “I was fed up with my work—no work at all. And I hoped, with a bit of luck, to get myself a little education. They say in America there are schools where a grown man can study at night.”

  “You were thinking of emigrating to America?”

  “It was one of my thoughts, your honor, though I’ve had many such and they’ve all come to nothing. Still in all, I’m a loyal subject of the Tsar.”

  The Investigating Magistrate found the cigarette in his pocket and lit it. He smoked silently, standing on the other side of the table, still studying Yakov’s tormented face in the candlelight.

  “I saw among your possessions when you were arrested a few books, among others a volume of selected chapters from the work of the philosopher Spinoza.”

  “That’s right, your honor. Could I get them back? I’m also worried about my tools.”

  “In due course, if you are not indicted. Are you familiar with his writings?”

  “Only in a way of speaking,” said the fixer, worried by the question. “Although I’ve read the book I don’t understand it all.”

  “What is its appeal to you? First let me ask you what brought you to Spinoza? Is it that he was a Jew?”

  “No, your honor. I didn’t know who or what he was when I first came across the book—they don’t exactly love him in the synagogue, if you’ve read the story of his life. I found it in a junkyard in a nearby town, paid a kopek and left cursing myself for wasting money hard to come by. Later I read through a few pages and kept on going as though there were a whirlwind at my back. As I say, I didn’t understand every word but when you’re dealing with such ideas you feel as though you were taking a witch’s ride. After that I wasn’t the same man. That’s in a manner of speaking of course, because I’ve changed little since my youth.”

  Though he had answered freely, talking about a book with a Russian official frightened the fixer. He’s testing me, he thought. Still when all’s said and done, better questions about a book than a murdered child. I’ll tell the truth but speak slowly.

  “Would you mind explaining what you think Spinoza’s work means? In other words if it’s a philosophy what does it state?”

  “That’s not so easy to say,” Yakov answered apologetically. “The truth is I’m a half-ignorant man. The other half is half-educated. There’s a lot I miss even when 1 pay the strictest attention.”

  “I will tell you why I ask. I ask because Spinoza is among my favorite philosophers and I am interested in his effect on others.”

  “In that case,” said the fixer, partly relieved, “I’ll tell you that the book means different things according to the subject of the chapters, though it’s all united underneath. But what I think it means is that he was out to make a free man out of himself—as much as one can according to his philosophy, if you understand my meaning—by thinking things through and connecting everything up, if you’ll go along with that, your honor.”

  “That isn’t a bad approach,” said Bibikov, “through the man rather than the work. But you ought to explain the philosophy a little.”

  “Who knows if I can,” the fixer said. “Maybe it’s that God and Nature are one and the same, and so is man, or some such thing, whether he’s poor or rich. If you understand that a man’s mind is part of God, then you understand it as well as I. In that way you’re free, if you’re in the mind of God. If you’re there you know it. At the same time the trouble is that you are bound down by Nature, though that’s not true for God who is Nature anyway. There’s also something called Necessity, which is always there though nobody wants it, that one has to push against. In the shtetl God goes running around with the Law in both hands, but this other God, though he fills up more space, has less to do altogether. Whoever you end up believing in, nothing has changed much in the world if you’re without work. So much for Necessity. I also figure it means that life is life and there’s no sense kicking it into the grave. Either that or I don’t understand it as well as it’s said.”

  “If a man is bound to Necessity where does freedom come from?”

  “That’s in your thought, your honor, if your thought is in God. That’s if you believe in this kind of God; that’s if you reason it out. It’s as though a man flies over his own head on the wings of reason, or some such thing. You join the universe and forget your worries.”

  “Do you believe that one can be free that way?”

  “Up to a point,” Yakov sighed. “It sounds fine but my experience is limited. I haven’t lived much outside the small towns.”

  The magistrate smiled.

  Yakov snickered but caught himself and stopped.

  “Is such a thing as you describe it, true freedom, would you say, or cannot one be free without being politically free?”

  Here’s where I’d better watch my step, the fixer thought. Politics is politics. No use fanning up hot coals when you have to walk across them.

  “I wouldn’t know for sure, your honor. It’s partly one and partly the other.”

  “True enough. One might say there is more than one conception of freedom in Spinoza’s mind—in Necessity, philosophically speaking; and practically, in the state, that is to say within the realm of politics and political action. Spinoza conceded a certain freedom of political choice, similar to the freedom of electing to think, if it were possible to make these choices. At least it is possible to think them. He perhaps felt that the purpose of the state—the government—was the security and comparative freedom of rational man. This was to permit man to think as best he could. He also thought man was freer when he participated in the life of society than when he lived in solitude as he himself did. He thought that a free man in society had a positive interest in promoting the happiness and intellectual emancipation of his neighbors.”

  “I guess that’s true, your honor, if you say so,” said Yakov, “but as far as I myself am concerned what you said is something to think about, though if you’re poor your time is taken up with other things that I don’t have to mention. You let those who can, worry about the ins and outs of politics.”

  “Ah,” Bibikov sighed. He puffed on his cigarette without speaking. For a moment there was no sound in the cell.

  Did I say something wrong? Yakov thought wildly. There are times it doesn’t pay to open your mouth.

  When the magistrate spoke again he sounded once more like an investigating official, his tone dry, objective.

  “Have you ever heard the expression ‘historical necessity?”

  “Not that I remember. I don’t think so though maybe I could guess what it means.”

  “Are you sure? You’ve not read Hegel?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  “Or Karl Marx? He too was a Jew, though not exactly happy to be one.”

  “Not him either.”

  “Would you say you have a ‘philosophy’ of your own? If so what is it?”

  “If I have it’s all skin and bones. I’ve only just come to a little reading, your honor,” he apologized. “If I have any philosophy, if you don’t mind me saying so, it’s that life could be better than it is.”

  “Yet how can it be made better if not in politics or through it?”

  That’s a sure trap, Yakov thought. “Maybe by more jobs and work,” he faltered. “Not to forget good will among men. We all have to be reasonable or what’s bad gets worse.”

  “Well, that’s at least a beginning,” the magistrate said quietly. “You must read and reflect further.”

  “I will just as soon as I get out of here.”

  Bibikov seemed embarrassed. The fixer felt as though he had disappointed him, although he was not sure why. Probably too much inexact talk. It’s hard to make sense when you’re in trouble, considering also your other natural disadvantages.

  The magistrate after a while absently asked, “How did you bruise your head?”