The Librarian Page 12

  I was feeling really rotten. For me the often-repeated phrase “reading room” was associated only with the village “reading-room huts” of the early Soviet days. It turned out that Uncle Maxim was a librarian, that the people surrounding me constituted a reading room in which he was the central figure, and that a scandal had blown up because of that little book that Kolesov had found on my uncle’s shelves.

  Every time Margarita Tikhonovna mentioned the surname that I shared with my uncle, a wave of heat flooded across my face, my palms started sweating and my stomach drew in painfully tight. And when the conversation concerned me directly, my mouth filed up with bitter saliva. I did not want to testify.

  “Alexei Vyazintsev’s visitors showed up in the guise of buyers, after previously writing this letter…” Margarita Tikhonovna took a sheet of paper out of a folder and handed it to Tereshnikov. “You may add it to the minutes… And this is Kolesov’s confession, in which he gives a detailed account of his connections with the Gorelov reading room, the saboteur Shapiro’s activities and the planned murder of Maxim Danilovich…”

  Marchenko surprised me. Despite the fact that everything was shaping up against him and the reaction of the workshop clearly did not express sympathy for the Gorelov group, he remained calm and even smiled, making reassuring signs to his own people.

  Tereshnikov compared Kolesov’s testimony with the letter.

  “Yes, the writing is the same…” he confirmed. He appeared disconcerted. “Carry on, Margarita Tikhonovna.”

  “At about seven o’clock on Friday we ostentatiously withdrew our surveillance of the apartment and pretended to set off to the meeting—that is, we made it appear that the Book was unprotected. Naturally, we merely moved to another spot and continued to observe the building. When it grew dark, the visitors appeared, having been tipped off by Shapiro. There were four of them and two went upstairs. Half an hour later they came down, and one of them was holding the Book of Memory… We know the outcome: three raiders were liquidated and one was taken prisoner. For the moment I have nothing more to add…”

  “Your position is clear,” said Tereshnikov. “Now we will hear Comrade Marchenko. He will have to explain many things to us.”

  Marchenko surveyed the crowd insolently.

  “Well, then… Comrade Selivanova has given a remarkable speech… I don’t know how I can engage your attention now. You probably won’t even want to listen. Why, there is even written evidence! I’m sure you’re expecting me to go down on my knees: forgive me, good people, I repent, on my orders the finest of men was killed—the librarian Vyazintsev! Judge me severely, brothers! It was I, scoundrel that I am, who set those fiends on the Shironin reading room. It was I, reckless and shameless driver that I am, who ran down the reader Yegorov in my truck!”

  “Should we take that as a confession?” Margarita Tikhonovna enquired contemptuously.

  Shouting broke out in the workshop. Insults were thrown at Marchenko. “Dirtbag! Scum!” yelled the people beside us.

  “And now,” Marchenko said bitterly, “I shall begin. Only there’s an epigraph to my story, if you will permit me. A living epigraph…” He gestured with his hand.

  Two observers led out Kolesov, swathed in a sheet. He moved his feet with difficulty, his puffy right eye was almost completely covered by a purple bruise, his lips were split and swollen, and a black lock of hair cut across his pale, tormented forehead. Catching sight of Margarita Tikhonovna, Kolesov staggered back, moaned and covered his face with his hands like a child.

  Marchenko walked up to him.

  “Vadim Leonidovich,” he keened, “hold on, my dear man…” Marchenko carefully removed the sheet and then moved aside, holding it as a torero holds his cape. All that was visible was Kolesov’s battered face and his legs up to the knees.

  “This is how the Shironin reading room questions people!” Marchenko whipped aside the sheet like a genuine conjuror.

  Kolesov’s body was covered with numerous red lacerations and on his stomach and chest he had repulsive crimson blisters from burns that repeated the outline of an iron.

  Marchenko surveyed the meeting with a wrathful gaze.

  “Even in the concentration camps prisoners were not tormented like this! Vadim Leonidovich! Show them your back!”

  Kolesov slowly turned round and Marchenko confirmed what we saw.

  “The Shironin reading room has revived an ancient form of torture: flaying in strips.”

  Red blotches appeared on Margarita Tikhonovna’s cheeks.

  “Comrades, don’t believe…” she looked round helplessly.

  Marchenko, relishing the general confusion, started shrieking.

  “Why, after that kind of torture, any one of us would confess to the murder of Tutankhamun! The testimony beaten out of Kolesov by the Shironin sadists is a gory bluff! Vadim Leonidovich, tell them yourself…”

  “F-forgive me, comrades…” said Kolesov, stammering. “I… I…”

  To my amazement, he started lying.

  “We… we arrived. Selivanova asked me, ‘Where’s the money?’ I gave her the bundle and A-a-lik asked for the Book. Shapiro gave it to him, but it was packaged up. Alik started to unwrap it, and when Selivanova said, ‘You don’t trust us.’ And I said, ‘Better safe than sorry.’ They threatened to take the Book back, and I told them, ‘Then give back the money or we’ll complain to the council.’ And Selivanova said, ‘You’re not going to complain to anyone!’ and stuck an awl through Alik’s neck…” At this point Kolesov broke into sobs. “I repudiate all my testimony! Damned fascists! Vicious brutes!” He jabbed his finger towards our group. “I repudiate it! Fascists! I repudiate it!”

  “These are treacherous lies!” Lutsis shouted in a loud, clear voice. “Look, his wounds are absolutely fresh! The Gorelovites have only just decorated him themselves!” But his words were drowned out by the general hubbub.

  It was clear that Marchenko had won back his lost ground at a stroke.

  “Our reader Kolesov slandered himself under hideous torture. I request that his written testimony be disqualified.”

  “I swear!” said Margarita Tikhonovna, putting her hands to her breast and appealing to the gathering. “Well, perhaps he was thumped in the teeth once or twice, just as a warning! Nobody tortured him!”

  “I am astounded!” said Tereshnikov. “I don’t even know what to say… At least, until I hear Comrade Marchenko’s position.”

  “Dear fellow thinkers,” Marchenko began once the noise had abated slightly. “Yesterday we lost three comrades and one has been maimed. The good name of our reading room has been dragged through the mud… And it all began when the librarian Vyazintsev offered to sell me a Book of Memory that was not registered with the council.”

  “You shameless liar!” Margarita Tikhonovna exclaimed.

  “Selivanova, don’t interrupt,” Tereshnikov intervened. “You were given an attentive hearing. Carry on, Comrade Marchenko.”

  “The part of broker between us was played by the reader Boris Arkadyevich Shapiro. Some parties here have tried to portray him as the evil genius of the Shironin reading room, but I have a different opinion concerning that question. Vyazintsev named a moderate price—ten thousand dollars. Our reading room had expanded rapidly and we needed one more book. Vyazintsev explained his actions by the fact that they had no money to register the book legally with the Council of Libraries. As an advance Vyazintsev received a down payment of five thousand dollars from us. Unfortunately we have no documents, nor indeed could we have. Everything was based on a gentleman’s agreement…”

  “Scoundr-r-rel!”

  “Who, Vyazintsev? Oh, don’t scold him,” Marchenko said with a repulsive smile. “If you can’t speak well of the dead…”

  “You! You scoundrel!” Margarita Tikhonovna exclaimed, seething. “You two-faced snake! You killed Vyazintsev and now you’re trying to slander his good name as well!”

  “If you please!” shouted Tereshnikov, suddenly
furious. “This is your final warning!”

  “Thank you, Comrade Tereshnikov,” Marchenko said with a mocking bow and then continued. “Naturally, we never saw the Book. Shapiro told me that on the day Vyazintsev died he apparently had the money—our advance payment—which disappeared. When we asked them to pay us back, the Shironinites gave us evasive replies about mourning and asked us to wait a little while. Month after month, via Shapiro, they fobbed us off with lame excuses and refused to return the advance payment. All we could do was wait and hope that the Shironin reading room would do the decent thing. We couldn’t risk making a complaint to the council—by agreeing a deal for the Book with Vyazintsev, we ourselves had broken the law. There were no receipts, and if the matter ever came up, the Shironinites would simply have disowned us. In short, we had fallen into a trap… A week ago Shapiro unexpectedly got in touch with us and informed us that the Shironin reading room was willing to sell the Book, but the price had risen to twelve thousand. We had no option; after already paying the advance, we agreed to pay the extra. I sent four of our readers to the meeting. You know what happened to them. Three were killed, one was maimed, and the money—seven thousand dollars—was stolen. It was deliberately planned financial fraud. The victim Kolesov can tell you about it in greater detail…”

  The blood rushed to Igor Valeryevich Kruchina’s bald patch and face. Timofei Stepanovich tore at the collar of his shirt. The Vozglyakov sisters started whispering about something, and their mother, Maria Antonovna, sighed and knitted her brows. Tanya’s lips turned white. Ogloblin, Larionov and Pal Palych exchanged glances.

  “Just look how he’s twisted things round…” Sukharev exclaimed in furious admiration.

  Lutsis rubbed his temple:

  “I suspected from the very beginning that everything would turn out like this…”

  “Comrade Marchenko,” Tereshnikov protested nervously. “For God’s sake, wait. The reader Kolesov cannot testify as a witness in his own right just yet. I am more interested in Shapiro’s testimony. Comrade Selivanova, bring him here; we need to slice through this Gordian knot!”

  “Oh, yes,” said Marchenko, baring his teeth. “They’ll bring him this very moment!”

  Margarita Tikhonovna had already mastered her bewilderment.

  “Unfortunately we cannot call Shapiro.”

  “You cannot?” said Tereshnikov, raising one eyebrow rapidly in surprise. “Why not?”

  “He disappeared. Escaped. Yesterday. And, of course, he notified his masters. Now Comrade Marchenko can slander people to his heart’s content.”

  “I protest!” Marchenko responded vigorously. “Comrade Selivanova is the one who is slandering here. I am telling the honest truth!”

  “There is absolutely no logic in your villainous ravings. Most of those present here knew Maxim Danilovich well. He would never have concealed a Book, let alone sold it.”

  “Well I, for instance, do not know what our deceased librarian could have done and could not have done,” Marchenko parried.

  “Very well, why do you not accept that if we did have a second Book of Memory we would have legally registered it ourselves?”

  “The tax on registration is rather high, and your reading room is small. You only need one copy, so why wouldn’t you sell it to wealthier colleagues on the quiet? Let them have the expense. Why pretend otherwise? That is what many people do, and the council closes its eyes to these tricks. But on this occasion it is not a matter of loopholes in the law.” Marchenko assumed a more severe expression. “Naturally, we were prepared to cover the fine and pay the tax for purchasing and registration… But we don’t have the Book, the money has been stolen, three of our readers have been killed and one maimed… I demand justice!”

  “Lies, all lies, from the first word to the last!”

  “I’m very sorry, Comrade Selivanova,” Tereshnikov stated drily after a brief pause. “It is my job to be objective. You must understand. I have no right to discriminate against Comrade Marchenko’s version of events… And then there is your trap and the planting of the Book, which is the genuine and only one. Unfortunately, without Shapiro’s testimony, for you the situation is a stalemate, with a distinctly negative bias.”

  “I request that you hear our witness, Alexei Vladimirovich Vyazintsev.”

  My heart stopped beating, but Tereshnikov dismissed the suggestion.

  “Comrade Selivanova! Shapiro, who has fled, is the only person who could prove you right. And a blood relative of Vyazintsev’s is an interested party. I have no doubt that he will tell us what he is supposed to tell us… I wish to appeal immediately to both reading rooms: is there any possibility of resolving the issue of our meeting peacefully? Comrade Marchenko? Can the Shironinites in some way compensate you for the death of your readers? For instance, pay the sum of twelve thousand dollars that has been mentioned?”

  “A wonderful idea!” Margarita Tikhonovna exclaimed ironically. “I see the council is irked by our Neverbino privileges! They can’t legally hack any tax out of us! They can’t turn us into a branch library! But they want their rake-off from the Shironinites. By hook or by crook. Only we paid for our status in lives!”

  “I do not understand you, Comrade Selivanova!” Tereshnikov exclaimed, drawing himself up and stiffening.

  “Your pretence makes me feel sick! It’s quite obvious to any right-thinking individual that the Gorelov reading room is Shulga’s project! It’s not Marchenko who wants compensation—he’s merely an obedient puppet—but Shulga, that is, the council!”

  “Margarita Tikhonovna!” Tereshnikov yelled. “You forget yourself! As it happens I too-oo…”—he wagged a finger as soft as if it had been boiled—“…was at Neverbino!”

  Margarita Tikhonovna had already calmed down.

  “Where would we get that kind of money from? Perhaps I could take it out of my pension? Or Timofei Stepanovich could? Or Tatyana Miroshnikova could pay out of her schoolteacher’s salary. Or Igor Valeryevich—everyone knows that our foundry workers are secret millionaires!”

  “Don’t you complain, Comrade Selivanova,” said Tereshnikov. “Life is hard for the whole country! The late Vyazintsev had an apartment. Sell that…”

  I was struck by the wild idea that this entire farce had been played out by a good hundred actors in order to take my apartment away from me.

  “Denis,” I whispered to Lutsis, “tell Margarita Tikhonovna that I agree.”

  “Alexei?” he said, looking at me in amazement. “What are you talking about?”

  “We don’t want money!” Marchenko exclaimed with dignity. “The only thing that will satisfy us is the dissolution of the Shironin reading room. And in compensation for the death of our readers we demand the Book of Memory.”

  “You can have this, scumbag!” said Timofei Stepanovich, weaving his fingers into an obscene sign and symbolically spitting on it for good measure. “Up yours.”

  “I couldn’t put it better,” Margarita Tikhonovna said with a satisfied nod. “Up yours, Comrade Marchenko!”

  “Did you hear that?” Marchenko asked furiously. “You won’t get away with that! Comrade Tereshnikov! Our reading room demands satisfaction!”

  “And you’ll get it, have no doubt about that!” Margarita Tikhonovna replied.

  Lagudov’s invited observers all got up at the same time and moved towards the exit.

  Tereshnikov cleared his throat.

  “I am no lover of violent solutions, but if there is no other option… Ultimately it’s not up to me… Thank you for your attention and participation. The meeting is over. The time and place of the satisfaction will be agreed subsequently. The standard limit: forty people on each side. The defeated reading room will be disbanded and its Book will go to the Council of Libraries. I know that opinions in the region are divided. I request those who wish to support the reading rooms in the dispute to draw up their applications and submit them by tomorrow. All participations will be informed by our seconds… What else? I requi
re the signatures of the librarians. Margarita Tikhonovna, are you still the acting librarian? Or is it the young man beside you? How do they put it, from generation to generation, right? Is the younger Vyazintsev now your librarian?”

  “Not yet, but I think he soon will be.”

  “Fill out the documents for him and send them in, they take these matters very seriously now…” Tereshnikov gave a slight bow and walked across to Marchenko.

  We were surrounded by the people near us.

  “Well, you Shironinites?” asked Burkin. “Will you cope?”

  “We’ll have to, Vasily Andreyevich!” Lutsis replied cheerfully. “Our reading room’s like a Guards regiment!”

  “It’s not the first time!” Timofei Stepanovich added.

  “We’ll give you as much help as we can,” said Simonyan. “We have five volunteers. And that’s not all. There’s good news— Garshenin will be with us.”

  “Thank you, Zhannochka Grigoryevna. Thank you, my dear, we never doubted your solidarity with us,” said Margarita Tikhonovna, hugging her gratefully. “Every soldier is precious. And Dmitry Olegovich is a genuine Ilya of Murom.”

  Burkin beamed with his marshal’s face.

  “Garshenin? How’s he feeling?”

  “Excellent. The bones have knitted together and he has completely recovered the use of his arm. He claims that it’s even better than before…”

  Burkin pointed to me.

  “And what about him?”

  “I think he’ll go with us,” Margarita Tikhonovna replied. “Right, Alexei? You are with us, aren’t you?”

  For some reason I took that to mean I could suddenly be handed on to someone else, like a thing, perhaps to this Burkin.

  “I’m with you, Margarita Tikhonovna,” I said cautiously.

  Burkin sighed.