Ben Stewart - Don't Trust, Don't Fear, Don't Beg

‘Russian nationhood?’

‘Nationhood. Russian, American, whatever.’

‘It’s bullshit. I’m an internationalist.’

‘Well I’m a nationalist, Dimitri. I’m not afraid of those words. Nooooo, I’m not afraid of saying I’m a nationalist, not at all. Not in the least bit. I’m a nationalist, and what you did, what you are doing, is a threat to my nation.’ He lifts his shoulders, as if what he’s saying is the most obvious thing in the world. ‘It’s really that simple. And I think that you’re going to be feeling the wrath of this nation.’ He’s nodding slowly now. ‘Because the nation is…’ He holds his hands out in front of him, like he’s squeezing two invisible oranges, and his face creases as he searches for the words. ‘… the nation is… is the embodiment of the people . And the state is the embodiment of the nation. So you see, the state, me, him’ – his eyes turn to the giant portrait of Putin – ‘are actually no more than the people. It is not me who has put you here, Dimitri. Don’t you see that? It’s not me, it’s not the President. It’s the people. The people have put you here.’

‘The people?’

‘Why yes, of course.’

‘Well, if the people are so wise, why not ask them what they think? You could ask them all on the same day, and you could let them tell you secretly so they can’t be intimidated, and you could let the media say what it wants in the weeks before this day. You could do all of that, and you could call it, I don’t know, a fair election . Why not let them say what they will without censorship, so their wisdom can be appreciated by all of us?’

‘Hmmm.’ Popov stares over Dima’s head into the middle distance. His eyes glaze, like he’s suddenly absent from the conversation, then he blinks and almost to himself he mutters, ‘History has been so unfair to the Gestapo.’

Dima’s mouth drops open. ‘The Gestapo?’

‘Me, I respect your great-grandfather. He was close to Stalin, he knew the benefits of stability. Russia is a vast country, Dimitri. Our borders are hard to defend, our people are diverse, our languages many. Only through the primacy of the nation, embodied by the state, can we retain our place in the global order. But the state must be strong. Yes, the Gestapo…’ he smiles wistfully. ‘We’ve learnt so much from them.’ He makes a fist of his hand, raps his knuckles on the table and leans forward. ‘Those guys knew how to run a prison. They stand as the master practitioners of penitentiary science and related systems. They’re the ones who developed it all. All of it! Masters. Really, we owe everything to the Gestapo.’ He sniffs. ‘You look sceptical, Dimitri.’

Dima’s not sceptical. He’s furious. This guy’s a clown, but he’s also a thug. The Gestapo? The governor is everything that’s wrong with Putin’s Russia.

‘Actually, I’m offended.’

‘Because?’

‘Because I hoped today’s Russia wouldn’t owe a debt to… to the fascists.’

‘Fascists? What the hell kind of word is that? What do you mean, fascists?’

‘Fascists. The Gestapo. They were fascists.’

‘Ah, but Dimitri, what you don’t understand is…’ And here Popov launches into a wider soliloquy on the nature of nationalism while Dima stares at his face, fuming at the man, watching the little moustache dancing on the upper lip, occasional flashes of gold from the capped tooth as the mouth spits out this cod philosophy. And all the time Dima’s thinking, what does this man actually want from me? Why is he doing this? He’s not asking me questions, he’s just pouring all this out and I’m just sitting here cast in the role of student to Popov’s master philosopher.

Eventually the governor runs out of steam. He tried to rationalise the contradiction between his admiration of the Gestapo and the immense pride he takes in the Soviet defeat of Nazism, but after several minutes he found himself in a verbal cul-de-sac before restating his argument with less conviction, and now Popov appears to have given up. The room is quiet but for the sound of a clock ticking. The fist in Dima’s stomach is clenched tight and hard.

Popov breaks the silence.

‘So, they’re going to lock you up for seven years.’

Dima blows out his cheeks. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I hope not.’

‘Of course. Nobody wants to be stuck in prison for seven years. What are you going to do? What are you thinking? Because of course you’re in charge of this situation, it’s up to you. You want to be locked up for a long time? Is that what you want? What do you want, Dimitri?’

‘Well, I’ve been waiting six weeks for you to give me a phone call.’

‘A phone call?’

‘A telephone call.’

‘Who do you want to call?’

‘Who am I gonna… I just want my call.’

‘To speak to who?’

‘I’m going to call my wife, of course. I’m gonna tell her not to wait for me.’

‘What do you mean, not wait?’

‘If it’s seven years I don’t want her to wait. I mean, seven years, it’s too long. She should move on, find someone else.’

At this point Popov’s nostrils flare, he grips the edge of the table and splutters, ‘What? You can’t do that!’

‘Well, I can’t have a woman wait for me for seven years.’

‘No, no, no! The family , Dimitri. The family is the most important thing we have. No, you can’t do that. Come on, they’re going to be letting you out in two weeks’ time, what are you talking about?’ His eyes dart around the room until they fall onto one of the guards. He waves furiously, motioning for the man to step forward. ‘You, yes you, make sure Dimitri sees the psychologist. He’s becoming delusional, these things he’s saying are extraordinary. He’s not feeling well, he’s… he’s not himself.’ He turns back to Dima. ‘It’s okay, you’ll see the psychologist. He’ll help you. Dear oh dear, telling your wife to go with another man. I’m afraid you’re losing your mind, my friend.’

‘I’m not. Really.’

Popov stubs out his cigarette and lights another. He examines Dima’s face for a moment then leans forward and with great reverence he says, ‘Tell me, have you ever read The Red-haired Horse ?’

‘ The Red-haired— ’

‘Oh dear, Dimitri. My dear Dimitri, you have to read The Red-haired Horse .’

‘Okay. It’s a book?’

‘About the Cossacks. True nationalists. Aaaah the Cossacks. I’m actually a Cossack myself.’ He points at the guard. ‘You. Do we have The Red-haired Horse in the library here? We do? Aaaah, very good. Okay, well make sure Dimitri has it in his cell tomorrow.’ He turns back to Dima. ‘You’ve got to read it. It’s a great book.’

‘Okay, yeah, sure.’

‘Good.’

‘Okay then.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Yes.’

‘It really is a great book.’

‘Fantastic.’

Popov nods then takes a deep breath. ‘Well, Dimitri, we can’t chat like this all day. Back to the punishment cell for you.’

‘Yup.’

Popov sucks on his cigarette and shrugs. The guard taps Dima on the shoulder, he gets to his feet and is led out of the office and back down the corridor towards the kartser . The knot in his stomach is tight, his heart is beating fast. This prison is run by a psychopath, he thinks, and I’m not sure if he loves me or hates me.

He’s pushed into the punishment cell, the door closes, and he stands in the silence for a few minutes, confused, scared, alone. Then a key turns and the door opens.

‘Come on, you’re going back to the boss.’

‘What?’

‘He’s not finished with you yet.’

Barely a quarter of an hour after leaving, Dima is sat back in the same chair, across the table from Popov.