The Suitcase by Sergei Dovlatov Read Free Book Online Page A

bed. Before you’re fully awake, you mutter, “That’s it! I’m through! For ever! Not another drop ever again!”
    And suddenly you find a thick gauze bandage around your head. You want to touch it, but your left arm is in a cast. And so on.
    This all happened to me in the summer of ’63 in the south of the Komi Republic.
    I had been drafted a year earlier. I was put in the camp guards, and attended a twenty-day course for supervisors. Even earlier I had boxed for two years. I took part in countrywide competitions. However, I can’t recall a single time that the trainer said, “OK. That’s it. I’m not worried any more.”
    But I did hear it from our instructor, Toroptsev, at the prison-supervisor school, after only three weeks. And even though I was going to face recidivist criminals, not boxers.
    I tried looking around. Sunspots shone yellow on the linoleum floor. The night table was covered with medicine bottles. A newspaper hung on the wall by the door – Lenin and Health .
    There was a smell of smoke and, strangely enough, of seaweed. I was in the camp medical unit.
    My tightly bandaged head hurt. I could feel a deep wound over my eyebrow. My left arm did not function.
    My uniform shirt hung on the back of the bed. There should have been a few cigarettes in there. I used a jar with an inky mixture in it for an ashtray. I had to hold the matchbox in my teeth.
    Now I could recall yesterday’s events.
    I had been crossed off the convoy list in the morning. I went to the sergeant. “What’s happened? Am I really getting a day off?”
    “Sort of,” the sergeant said. “Congratulations… An inmate went crazy in barracks fourteen. Barking, crowing… Bit Auntie Shura, the cook… So you’re taking him to the psych ward in Iosser, and then you’re free for the rest of the day. Sort of a day off.”
    “When do I have to go?”
    “Now, if you like.”
    “Alone?”
    “Who said anything about alone? Two of you, as required. Take Churilin or Gayenko…”
    I found Churilin in the tool shop. He was working with a soldering iron. Something was crackling on the workbench, emanating an odour of rosin.
    “I’m doing a bit of welding,” Churilin said. “Very fine work, take a look.”
    I saw the brass buckle with its embossed star. The inside was filled with tin. A belt with a loaded buckle like that was an awesome weapon.
    That was the style then — our enforcers all wanted leather officer’s belts. They filled the buckle with a layer of tin and went to dances. If there was a fight, the brass buckles flashed over the mêlée.
    I said, “Get ready.”
    “What’s up?”

    “We’re taking a psycho to Iosser. Some inmate flipped out in barracks fourteen. He bit Auntie Shura.”
    “Good for him,” said Churilin. “He obviously wanted some grub. That Shura sneaks butter from the kitchen. I’ve seen her.”
    “Let’s go,” I said.
    Churilin cooled the buckle under running water and put on the belt. “Let’s roll.”
    We were issued with weapons and reported to the watch room. About two minutes later the controller brought in a fat, unshaven prisoner. He was resisting and shouting, “I want a pretty girl, an athlete! Give me an athlete! How long am I supposed to wait?”
    The controller replied mildly, “A minimum of six years. And that’s if you get an early release. After all, you were charged with conspiracy.”
    The prisoner paid no attention and went on shouting, “Bastards, give me an athletic broad!”
    Churilin took a good look at him and poked me with his elbow. “Listen, he’s no nut! He’s perfectly normal. First he wanted to eat and now he wants a broad. An athlete… A man with taste. I wouldn’t mind one, either.”
    The controller handed me the papers. We went out onto the porch. Churilin asked, “What’s your name?”
    “Doremifasol,” the prisoner replied.
    So I said, “If you’re really crazy, fine. If you’re pretending, that’s fine, too. I’m not a doctor. My job is