Rodrig Ivanovich was sitting in the easy chair, leaning back slightly, making the chair creak by the pressure of his solid back, with one purplish paw resting on the arm of his chair and the other thrust in the bosom of his frock coat; every once in a while he would jerk his flabby cheeks and his chin, powdered like a Turkish delight, as if freeing them from some viscous and absorbing element.
M’sieur Pierre, seated in the center, poured himself water from a decanter, then ever so carefully placed his hands, on the table, fingers interlaced (an artificial aquamarine flashing on his little finger) and, lowering his long eyelashes for ten seconds or so pondered reverently how he would begin his speech.
“Kind gentlemen,” M’sieur Pierre finally said in a high voice, without raising his eyes, “first of all and before anything else, allow me to outline by means of a few deft strokes what has already been accomplished by me.”
“Proceed, we beg you,” said the director resonantly, making his chair emit a stern creak.
“You gentlemen are of course aware of the reasons for the amusing mystification that is required by the tradition of our craft. After all, how would it be if I had announced myself right at the start and offered my friendship to Cincinnatus C.? This, gentlemen, would have certainly resulted in repelling him, frightening him, antagonizing him—in short, I would have committed a fatal blunder.”
The speaker took a sip from his glass and carefully set it aside.
He went on, batting his eyelashes: “I need not explain how precious to the success of our common undertaking is that atmosphere of warm camaraderie which, with the help of patience and kindness, is gradually created between the sentenced and the executor of the sentence. It is difficult or even impossible to recall without a shudder the barbarity of long-bygone days, when these two, not knowing each other at all, strangers to each other, but bound together by implacable law, met face to face only at the last instant before the sacrament itself. This has all been changed just as the ancient, barbaric wedding ceremony, more closely resembling a human sacrifice—when the submissive virgin was hurled by her parents into the tent of a stranger—has changed with the passing of time.”
(Cincinnatus found in his pocket a piece of tinfoil chocolate wrapper and began kneading it.)
“And so, gentlemen, in order to establish the friendliest possible relations with the condemned, I moved into a gloomy cell like his, in the guise of a prisoner like him, if not more so. My innocent deception could not but succeed and therefore it would be strange for me to feel any remorse; but I do not want the cup of our friendship to be poisoned by the slightest drop of bitterness. In spite of the fact that there are witnesses present, and that I know myself to be absolutely in the right, I ask” (he stretched his hand out to Cincinnatus) “your forgiveness.”
“Yes, that’s real tact for you,” said the director in a low voice, and his inflamed froglike eyes grew damp; he produced a folded handkerchief and was about to dab at his palpitating eyelid, but thought better of it, and instead fixed a severe, expectant gaze on Cincinnatus. The lawyer also glanced, but only in passing, as he silently moved his lips, which had begun to look like his handwriting, that is, without breaking his connection with the line, which had separated from the paper but was ready to resume its course upon it instantly.
“Your hand!” roared the director, and took such a whack at the table that he hurt his thumb.
“No, don’t force him if he does not want to,” M’sieur Pierre said gently. “After all, it is only a formality. Let us continue.”
“Oh, righteous one,” trilled Rodrig Ivanovich, bestowing upon M’sieur Pierre a glance as moist as a kiss.
“Let us continue,” said M’sieur Pierre. “During this time I have succeeded in establishing a close friendship with my neighbor. We passed …”
Cincinnatus looked under the table. M’sieur Pierre for some reason lost countenance, began to fidget and cast a sidelong glance down. The director, lifting a corner of the oilcloth, also looked down and then glanced suspiciously at Cincinnatus. The lawyer, in his turn, made a dive, then looked around at everybody and resumed writing. Cincinnatus straightened up. (Nothing special—he had dropped his little ball of tinfoil.)
“We passed,” M’sieur Pierre went on in a hurt voice, “long evenings together in constant talks, games and various amusements. Like children, we engaged in contests of strength; I, poor, weak little M’sieur Pierre naturally, oh, naturally was no match for my mighty coeval. We discussed everything—such as sex and other lofty subjects, and the hours flew by like minutes, the minutes like hours. Sometimes, in peaceful silence …”
Here Rodrig Ivanovich suddenly tittered. “Impayable, ce ‘naturally,’ ” he whispered, getting the joke a little late.
“… Sometimes, in peaceful silence, we would sit side by side, almost with our arms about each other, each thinking his own twilight thoughts, and the thoughts of both of us would flow together like rivers when we opened our lips to speak. I shared with him my experience in romance, taught him the art of chess, entertained him with a timely anecdote. And so the days passed. The results are before you. We grew to love each other, and the structure of Cincinnatus’s soul is as well known to me as the structure of his neck. Thus it will be not an unfamiliar, terrible somebody but a tender friend that will help him mount the crimson steps, and he will surrender himself to me without fear—forever, for all death. Let the will of the public be carried out!” (He got up; the director got up also; the lawyer, engrossed in his writing, only rose slightly.)
“So. Now, Rodrig Ivanovich, I shall ask you to announce my title officially and to introduce me.”
The director hastily put on his glasses, examined a slip of paper, and in a megaphone voice addressed Cincinnatus:
“All right—This is M’sieur Pierre. Bref—the performer of the execution.… I am grateful for the honor,” he added and, with an astonished expression on his face, dropped back into his chair.
“Well, you didn’t manage that too well,” said M’sieur Pierre with displeasure. “After all, there are certain official forms of procedure and they ought to be followed. I am certainly no pedant, but at such an important moment … It’s no use holding your hand to your chest, you botched it, friend. No, no, stay seated, enough. Now let us continue. Roman Vissarionovich, where is the program?”
“I gave it to you,” the lawyer said glibly. “However …” and he began to rummage in his briefcase.
“I found it, don’t bother,” said M’sieur Pierre, “so … the performance is scheduled for the day after tomorrow … In Thriller Square. Couldn’t they have picked a better place … Remarkable!” (Goes on reading, muttering to himself) “Adults will be admitted … Circus subscription stubs will be honored … So, so, so … The performer of the execution, in red pantaloons … now this is nonsense—they’ve overdone it, as usual …” (To Cincinnatus) “Day after tomorrow, then. Did you understand—? And tomorrow, as our glorious custom demands, you and I must go visit the city fathers—I think you have the little list, don’t you, Rodrig Ivanovich?”
Rodrig Ivanovich began to slap at various parts of his cotton-padded body, rolling his eyes and for some reason getting up. At last the list was found.
“All righty,” said M’sieur Pierre. “Add it to your file, Roman Vissarionovich. I think that does it. Now, according to the law, the floor belongs to—”
“Oh, no, c’est vraiment superflu…” Rodrig Ivanovich interrupted hastily. “After all, that’s a very antiquated law.”
“According to the law,” M’sieur Pierre repeated firmly, turning to Cincinnatus, “the floor is yours.”
“Honest one!” said the director in a breaking voice, his jelly jowls shaking.
Silence ensued. The lawyer was writing so quickly that the flashing of his pencil hurt the eyes.
“I shall wait one whole minute,” said M’sieur Pierre, placing a thick watch on the table before him.
The lawyer inhaled jerkily and began gathering up the thickly covered sheets.
The minute passed.
“The conference is concluded,” said M’sieur Pierre. “Let us go, gentlemen. Roman Vissarionovich, you will let me look over the minutes before you have them mimeographed, won’t you? No, a little later—right now my eyes are tired.”
“I must admit,” said the director, “in spite of myself I sometimes regret that we no longer use the sys …” He bent over to M’sieur Pierre’s ear in the doorway.
“What’s that you’re saying, Rodrig Ivanovich?” the lawyer inquired jealously. The director whispered it to him also.
“Yes, you’re right,” agreed the lawyer. “However, the dear little law can be circumvented. For example, if we stretch the chop-chop out to several times …”
“Now, now,” said M’sieur Pierre, “enough of that, you jokers, I never make notches.”
“No, we were just speaking theoretically,” the director smiled ingratiatingly; “only in the old days, when it was legal to use—” The door slammed
