The Gray Earth. Galsan Tschinag

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ veers sharply to the left and heads straight toward the house I was in earlier that morning, where my old clothes lie in a corner, rolled into my lawashak. The two boys follow him in lockstep. They continue to hold me as tightly as before, even though I no longer fight or scream but cry with abandon.

      Comrade Arganak’s fox face shows no trace of surprise when he sees us coming or, for that matter, when he sees me in such a state. He must have heard me shout and scream, and he probably watched from his window. Comrade Principal hastily starts to bellow, and then quickly disappears. One word sticks in my ear: shorung, prison. Comrade Arganak and the two boys, who let everything wash over their bowed heads, stay behind with me. The boys finally let go of me but continue to stand at attention, while Comrade Arganak nods toward the little pile that sits in the corner as I left it. His nod and subsequent short hiss reveal contempt and a touch of malicious pleasure. But this is another insight I will gain only later.

      I stand there motionless, thinking about my situation. The man hisses in Tuvan, “Stop standing there like a dummy. Are you expecting others to undress and dress you because the principal is your brother?”

      I start to undress, but his scolding continues: “A worthless dog’s stomach can’t even digest yellow butter, people say.” Why yellow butter, I wonder, while I struggle to free my foot from the narrow boot. Yellow butter is melted butter and therefore has more fat, I conclude, and turn to the other foot.

      I am not the least bit sorry to give up my new clothes. To the contrary, I am relieved. In my old familiar clothes I’ll be able to move again with ease. But I wonder whether to keep the white long underpants. The fox eyes pursue me, and I get caught as I try to throw my lawashak over the underpants.

      “Pants off!” he hisses. And then comes an even more threatening, murderous hiss. For one leg of my underpants is stained with blood.

      “Look at it: beautiful, brand-new underpants and he’s already made a mess of them.”

      The underpants are pushed under the boys’ noses. Both boys start back with anxious disgusted expressions. “This is a matter of state property. I am accountable to the People and the State. And I couldn’t care less who happens to be your brother. I shall report your case and make sure the State gets compensated.”

      With these words Comrade Arganak throws the underpants in my face. I wait a bit before I pick them up off the floor. A little later, assuming I have wrecked them so badly I will have to replace them anyway, I try to put them back on. But they are so brusquely ripped from my hands that I expect a thrashing as well.

      So I button up my lawashak and reach for my belt.

      “Aren’t you going to wear underpants?” the man asks, a bit more gently this time.

      “I don’t have any,” I say quietly.

      “You have no underpants!” the man hisses, craning his thin neck. His skin is wrinkled and flabby. He further screws up his already narrowly slanted eyes. They have a yellowish-green gleam. He tiptoes toward me.

      I remain silent and look at the floor, embarrassed in front of the boys. I hate this man so much that if I had a cup of steaming-hot tea in my hand, I would fling it right in his face.

      The man turns to the boys: “This is the son of Shynykbaj and the grandson of Khylbangbaj, and he is not wearing underpants. Do you know what that shows? It shows miserliness. And it is precisely miserliness that makes a baja and distinguishes him from other people.”

      Turning toward the slighter of the two, he continues: “You’re Tenekesh’s son, aren’t you? I thought so. You have ears like a summer hamster and a bony nose with sunken nostrils like a thirsty goat. That tells me whose child you are. Your grandfather Güsgeldej was one of Khylbangbaj’s many laborers. Ask your father if I’m right. He will tell you. And tell your father that today a grandson of the famous baj has shown up with a bare ass, and that Arganak, the grandson of the have-not Sidikej and the son of the have-not Dojtuk, has given him a pair of underpants.”

      With these words he turns to me and dangles the underpants in front of my nose as if teasing a dog with a bone. His left thumb and index finger seize such a tiny corner that it looks as if he’s about to let go.

      I stand there motionless.

      But when I feel one of the underpants’ legs softly slap my face, I snatch the garment and fling it at the wall as hard as I can.

      Suppressed laughter rings out, lonely sickening laughter. Neither boy joins in. I glimpse nervous curiosity in their faces, which is vaguely comforting. Like a beast of prey facing its hunter, I have a liberating sense of determination.

      The man still will not leave me alone. He inches closer. His size terrifies me, and I hear a voice inside warn me: Watch out and hold tight!

      For now I concentrate and keep my eyes on the crumpled underpants in his bony black fist as he waddles toward me. But the moment he shoves his fist with the underpants in my face and gives me a rough punch on the nose, my jaws snap shut and bite down. Something hard and soft is between my rows of teeth; I taste blood and hear a crunching sound that clearly drags on.

      Again I hear the voice inside: Spit it out!

      I spit. A blubbery dark mass like dog crap shoots at the gaunt old face, which is contorted with fear. It hits the face on the right and turns dark red as it spreads across the man’s eye, nose, and chin.

      Because I can taste the blood more distinctly now, I go to spit again. But before I can, I am throwing up.

      THE PRISONER

      Did I really live through all this? Or was it all a dream?

      I feel as if I have been beaten and crushed, and died and gone to hell. But I have my things on me: my head scarf is in my breast pocket and my bone pipe tucked in my boot. A dead sheep gets its wool plucked, a dead yak its skin flayed. All things are taken from the dead so they may stand naked and bare before Erlikbej. Hence I cannot be dead. That I am in pain is yet another sign that I am alive. My head rings, my ribs hurt, my ears burn. I seem to recall punches and kicks. But I am just a child, and he is a grown man, strong enough to kill a dog, or even a yak.

      Some time ago, I sensed a strong brightness. I must have been outside. Then it turned dark again. Wood squeaked and iron clanked. There were other sounds as well, and there seemed to be other bodies along with something I sensed most distinctly: raw meat. It was no longer fresh and had a pungent smell. And there was no breeze to carry away the sweetish smell of the blood trapped in the meat.

      Beneath me I feel damp cool gravel. A small clump of earth under the gravel is slimy. A musty smell assaults my senses and makes my eyes water. I shouldn’t lie here any longer. I should try to escape. I lift my head slowly, prop myself up on my elbows, and slowly sit up. The darkness around me spins. My mouth feels sticky, and the skin on my face is taut as if covered in glue. When the spinning stops, I decide to explore my environment. Stretching my arms sideways, I bump into a wooden log panel on my right and recognize peeled larch beams stacked on top of each other. I feel my way along the wall and reach a corner where another wall starts, this one cooler and smoother but also made from larch beams.

      So I did land in prison.

      I have heard of prison. Everyone fears it. Prison is where enemies of the People are sent. In the beginning there were many enemies, now not so many. Most of them have been eliminated, a few reeducated.

СКАЧАТЬ