Vasya
by Nicholas
Fox
Tomorrow we’ll talk of our good
fortune. Never mind that I can’t hear a word or that He stands an
insignificant smudge against the cascading red banners that almost
entirely absorb His tiny grey form. And never mind the years it took to
get here, grovelling my way through door after door in power mad
corridors, spending night after night drinking in wood paneled offices
superstitiously eyeing His portrait. Never mind any of that. Tomorrow,
we’ll drink to our luck, Uncle Vasya and I.
As promised, he is beside me, his
prodigious frame offering reassurance. It was he who gave me the four
heavy wax discs in their immaculate white jackets, the first seven sides
the speech itself, the last, nothing but the steady crackle of applause.
“Listen and practice,” he said. “I know you’re nervous, but we’ve all been
there. And never forget, I’m proud of you,” he said as he took the bottle
from his desk. His eyes were soft, his uniform swelled under satisfied
rolls of fat.
“Make sure you sit upright, like
this.” The leather creaked as
he pushed himself to the edge of his chair. “Keep your hands on your knees
but don’t fold your arms. That can be mistaken for boredom, and you don’t
want to be singled out early on. They notice these things, you know. And
the moment He finishes speaking, make sure you’re on your feet fast. After
that, just keep clapping.”
Vasya was a puzzling character,
the details of his life shrouded in rumour. He had spent the fifties as a
bagman in a remote camp, sent to clean up some mess or another. No one
knows exactly what the work entailed, but word had it that he lived more
like a zek than a guard, or somewhere between the two. Either way, the
speech was nothing compared to living out there. No wonder he wasn’t
nervous. Even so, it wasn’t until our fourth or fifth glass that I said
anything about his time in the gulags. And all I could muster was a single
awkward question. “What did it teach you?” I asked
clumsily.
“Tattoos,” he answered
cryptically. He unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the bluish ink. “You know,
they make the ink from soot and piss. Crazy, huh? But I considered it
insurance. A portrait of Him over your heart will save your life.
Guaranteed.” Despite the tongue-loosening alcohol, I had no idea how to
even begin to respond.
Soon, the guards appear. At this
point it’s the details that matter. Slouching will get you noticed.
Slowing applause is another early sign of weakness. They are marauding up
and down the flanks and aisles, beginning to single out those most likely
to succumb.
The problem is I hadn’t figured
for the heat. I’d done the practice but forgot the Great Hall was an
airless vault. My head is light, my hands damp. I focus on Him, but the
air is heavy, like swallowing sand. It’s not long before nausea wrings my
stomach, and I’m clenching my teeth to keep the vomit down. I glance over
at Vasya and almost panic when I notice he’s hunched over. Looking along
the perfect row of bodies, his head is hanging forward, and I can see a
dark figure to the side pause, can feel eyes settle on us.
I swallow the warm watery bile
that washes over my tongue, but it only seems to draw more from my
stomach. Its sourness burns. Sweat oozes from my brow. I’m about to give
in when I notice Vasya calmly stop applauding and step into the aisle. The
guards immediately seize him. The applause fades; the gray speck in the
distance leaves the stage. A low murmur sweeps through the hall. Someone’s stopped. Poor bastard. It’s
the firing squad for him. Heads turn surreptitiously, looking for the
commotion, the fear of the condemned man. But Vasya is calm, so calm one
could overlook him being led away. His face is pink and robust, the
picture of well-fed contentment. I follow. Vasya sees me and as he turns,
manages to break one arm free. I expect him to struggle against the
guards’ hold, but instead he nods, smirks, and calmly pats his chest. I
smile, suddenly remembering the tattoo. His image. No firing squad will
shoot it. Tomorrow we’ll drink to Him.
