woman turned towards me and looked at me for a second as if she couldn’t figure out where she was or what was going on. She snatched the magazine she’d been reading and flipped it over behind the typewriter so that I couldn’t see it. Then she set down the mug of tea, and without standing up or saying anything, and without expression, she took the white card with the red line from my hand. She looked at it for a moment and then, in a voice that seemed to belong to a ghost, asked:
‘Papers?’
‘Which papers, mine?’ I asked awkwardly, pulling my passport and everything else out of my trouser pocket. She looked at me with a hint of disdain and said, through clenched teeth:
‘Well, certainly not mine.’
I handed over my papers and she put them in a safe. Then she took a form from a shelf and began filling it out. She asked for my name, surname, date and place of birth, home address. Then she moved on to more personal information. After asking for my parents’ details, she said:
‘Have you ever been arrested or had trouble with the law?’
‘Well, I myself have never had trouble with the law, it’s the law that seems to have trouble with me sometimes . . . I’ve been arrested lots of times, I can’t remember how many. And I’ve been in juvenile prison twice.’
She looked up and examined me. Then she tore up the form she’d been filling out and took another, larger one, with a red line running diagonally across it, like that on the card I’d received in the post.
We started again, covering all the personal information, this time including my convictions – article numbers, dates. Then my health: illnesses, vaccinations; she even asked if I consumed alcohol or drugs, if I smoked cigarettes. This went on for an hour . . . I couldn’t remember the exact dates of the convictions, so I made them up on the spot, trying to get at least the month right, or general period.
When we were finished I tried to explain that there must be some mistake, I couldn’t do military service. I had requested and been granted a six-month deferral, assuring them that in the meantime I was going to finish a course of study and then enrol at university. If everything went as planned, I added, I was going to open a physical education school for children, there in Bender.
She listened, without looking me in the eye, which worried me. Then she gave me a piece of paper. It said that from that moment onward I was the property of the Russian government and that my life was protected by law.
I couldn’t understand what all this actually meant.
‘It means that if you try to escape, harm yourself, or commit suicide, you will be prosecuted for damage to government property,’ she told me coldly.
I suddenly felt trapped. Everything around me began to seem more serious and sinister than before.
‘Listen,’ I burst out, ‘I couldn’t give a shit about your law. If I have to go to jail I’ll go, but I will never take up arms for your fucking government . . .’
I was furious, and when I started talking like that I instantly felt powerful, even more powerful than that absurd situation. I was sure, absolutely sure, that I could change this machine that was threatening to regulate my life.
‘Is there a general around, or whatever the fuck you call your authorities? I want to see one, talk to him, since you and I don’t understand each other!’ I raised my voice, and she looked at me with the same expressionless gaze as before.
‘If you want to speak with the colonel, he’s here, but I don’t think that will solve anything. I advise you to keep calm. Don’t make things worse for yourself.’
It was good advice, thinking back on it now. She was telling me something important, I’m sure; she was showing me a better way, but at the time I was blind.
I felt sick. How is it possible, I asked myself, that just this morning I was free, I had my plans for the day, for the future, for the rest of my life, and now, because of a little piece of paper, I was losing my freedom? I wanted to yell and fight with someone, to show how angry I was. I needed to. I cut her off, shouting in her face:
‘For Christ’s sake, Holy Lord on the cross! If I want to talk to someone, I talk to him, period! Where the fuck is this commander of yours, general, whatever the hell he is?’
She rose from her chair and asked me to calm down and wait for ten minutes on the bench. I looked around and I didn’t see any bench. Fucking hell, what is this place? Everyone here is nuts, I thought, as I waited in the dark.
Suddenly a door opened, and a soldier, a middle-aged man, called me by name.
‘Come, Nicolay, the colonel is expecting you!’
I jumped up like a spring and ran over, eager to get out of that disgusting little room as quickly as possible.
We went out into a small courtyard surrounded by buildings all painted white, with propagandist drawings and posters illustrating the exercises that the soldiers had to do to learn to march. We crossed the courtyard and entered a room filled with light, with big windows and lots of flowerpots. In the middle of the flowers there was a bench, and next to the bench a large ashtray.
‘Wait here. The colonel will call you from this door. You can smoke if you like . . .’
The soldier was kind. He spoke to me in a very friendly tone. I’d calmed down and I felt more secure; it seemed that my situation would be cleared up and that someone would finally listen to me.
‘Thanks, sir, but I don’t smoke. Thank you for your kindness.’ I was trying to be as nice as possible myself, to make a good impression.
The soldier bade me goodbye and left me alone. I sat there on the bench, listening to the soldiers who had come onto the courtyard for drills. I looked out the window.
‘Left, left, one, two, three!’ the drill sergeant shouted desperately. He was a young man in an immaculate military uniform, marching along with a platoon of men who didn’t seem to have any desire to march.
‘Nicolay, you can come in, my boy!’ called out a firm male voice. Despite its kind, almost sweet tone, the voice had something off about it, a false note you could hear underneath.
I went up to the door and knocked, asking permission to enter.
‘Come in, son, come in!’ he said, his voice still kindly and brimming with friendliness. He was a big, strong man sitting at an enormous desk.
I went in, closed the door, and took a few steps towards him, then suddenly I halted.
The colonel was about fifty and was very stocky. His head, which was shaven, was marked by two long scars. His green uniform was snug; his neck was so wide that his jacket collar was completely taut, as if it were about to tear open. His hands were so large that you could barely see his nails, they were so deeply set. A split ear suggested he was an experienced wrestler. His face might have been copied from the Soviet military propaganda posters of the Second World War: unrefined features, a straight wide nose, big resolute eyes. On the left side of his chest a dozen medals hung in a row.
Jesus help me, this one’s worse than a cop . . . I could already imagine how our meeting was going to end. I didn’t know where to start; it was like there was no way I would be able to express myself in front of somebody
