The Kukotsky Enigma: A Novel

10

FOR A WHILE THE PROFESSOR DISPLAYED A CERTAIN acquiescence and stopped battering Skinhead with questions. He tried talking with Newling: she just looked at him wide-eyed and benevolent, incapable of giving an intelligible answer to any of his questions. He deliberated at length how best to approach Skinhead so as not to lose face yet achieve some degree of clarity. This strange journey was dragging on, yet at the same time—the Professor sensed—his desire to find an explanation for it all was waning: an inkling had crept into his head, but he kept driving it away. What was more, a strange apathy had overcome him. The campfire had a twofold effect on him: it calmed him, but also dulled his mind . . .

One time the Professor sat down next to Skinhead at the campfire and addressed him with respectful courtesy.

“Could you tell me, please, whether you have any means of contacting my family, my wife, that is? I am certain that she is very worried . . .”

“In principle, I do. What exactly would you like me to communicate to her?”

“Well, first of all, that I’m alive and well. You see, we’ve been married almost forty-two years and have never been separated for any length of time. If for some reason I cannot be returned to my former position,” here the Professor inserted a pregnant pause so that Skinhead would appreciate the full extent of his, the Professor’s, discretion, “might she be sent to join me?”

Skinhead scratched behind his ear with his thick finger. “Hmm . . . Could you tell me whether or not your wife believes in God?”

The Professor was indignant: “Excuse me! Well, we’re atheists, of course. I am a philosopher, a Marxist, and I teach Marxist-Leninist aesthetics. My wife is a party member . . .”

“I see, I see,” Skinhead interjected. “Are there any people of faith in your family at all?”

“No, of course not. My mother-in-law was an ignorant village woman, but she died—rest her soul—in 1951 . . .”

“Well that’s of no significance whatsoever.” Skinhead seemed to want to calm him.

“I’m sorry. What’s of no significance?”

“That she’s dead . . . In principle, we can get in touch with her. Only, you know, I would advise you to limit yourself to a brief message, on the order of, say, ‘Everything is all right. Don’t worry . . .’ How can you invite her here if you yourself don’t have a very good idea of where it is you are?”

“Clever bastard. He’s hinting that the place is classified,” the Professor seethed, but his position was so tenuous that he could hardly make demands or insist. And clashing with this Skinhead was dangerous: he was obviously not high up on the pecking order, but how to get to someone higher up? There was no one to complain to . . . For that reason the Professor merely affirmed: “Yes. I really don’t have a very good idea what this place is, and for a long time I’ve been wanting to obtain some information from you . . .”

Skinhead chuckled.

“I’m not too sure myself . . .”

“Well, fine, but maybe you know at least approximately how long I’m going to be held here and when I can go back home?”

Skinhead sighed—empathetically, it seemed to the Professor.

“I can’t really say anything about your term either. As far as home goes . . . I’m afraid you won’t be returning home ever again . . .”

The Professor gasped with indignation, but kept his calm and asked almost frigidly: “On what grounds?”

At this juncture Skinhead stood up and ran his hand over the fire. The flame went out, as if sucked up into this hand.

“We’ll have occasion to return to that conversation. For the time being let’s leave it at that your wife will be informed that you’re all right, Professor . . .” The Professor imagined that there was a certain malice to the way Skinhead had pronounced his academic title . . .