Darkness at Noon (9 page)

The room was big, bare, untidy and furnished with that lack of care which made the Party's offices in every town in the world look exactly alike. It was partly a result of poverty, but chiefly of an ascetic and gloomy tradition. The walls were covered with old election posters, political slogans and typed notices. In one corner stood a dusty old duplicator. In another lay a heap of old clothes destined for the families of strikers; next to them piles of yellowing leaflets and brochures. The long table consisted of two parallel planks laid over a couple of trestles. The windows were smeared with paint as in an unfinished building. Over the table a naked electric bulb hung on a cord from the ceiling, and next to it a sticky paper fly-catcher. Round the table sat hunchbacked Little Loewy, ex-wrestler Paul, the writer Bill and three others.

Rubashov spoke for some time. The surroundings were familiar to him; their traditional ugliness made him feel at home. In these surroundings he was again fully convinced of the necessity and utility of his mission and could not understand why, in the noisy pub the night before, he had had that feeling of uneasiness. He explained objectively and not without warmth the real state of things,
without as yet mentioning the practical object for his coming. The world boycott against the aggressor had failed because of the hypocrisy and greed of the European governments. Some of them still kept up an appearance of sticking to the boycott, the others not even that. The aggressor needed petrol. In the past the Country of the Revolution had covered a considerable part of this need. If now it stopped the supplies, other countries would greedily spring into the breach: indeed they asked nothing better than to push the Country of the Revolution from the world markets. Romantic gestures of that sort would only hamper the development of industry Over There, and with it the revolutionary movement all over the world. So the inference was clear.

Paul and the three dock-hands nodded. They were slow thinkers; everything the comrade from Over There was telling them sounded quite convincing; it was only a theoretical discourse, of no immediate consequence to them. They did not see the actual point he was aiming at; none of them thought of the black flotilla which was approaching their harbour. Only Little Loewy and the writer with the twisted face exchanged a quick glance. Rubashov noticed it. He finished a shade more drily, without warmth in his voice:

“That is really all I had to tell you as far as principle is concerned. You are expected to carry out the decisions of the C.C. and to explain the ins and outs of the matter to the politically less developed comrades, if any of them should have any doubts. For the moment I have no more to say.”

There was silence for a minute. Rubashov took his
pince-nez off and lit a cigarette. Little Loewy said in a casual tone of voice:

“We thank the speaker. Does anybody wish to ask any questions?”

Nobody did. After a while one of the three dock workers said awkwardly:

“There is not much to be said to it. The comrades Over There must know what they are about. We, of course, must continue to work for the boycott. You can trust us. In our port nothing will get through for the swine.”

His two colleagues nodded. Wrestler Paul confirmed: “Not here,” made a bellicose grimace and waggled his ears for fun.

For a moment Rubashov believed he was faced by an oppositional faction; he only realized gradually that the others had really not grasped the point. He looked at Little Loewy, in the hope that he would clear up the misunderstanding. But Little Loewy held his eyes lowered and was silent. Suddenly the writer said with a nervous twitch:

“Couldn't you choose another harbour this time for your little transactions? Must it always be us?”

The dockers looked at him in surprise; they did not understand what he meant by “transaction”; the idea of the small black fleet which was approaching their coast through mist and smoke was further than ever from their minds. But Rubashov had expected this question:

“It is both politically and geographically advisable,” he said. “The goods will be conveyed from there by land. We have, of course, no reason to keep anything secret: still, it is more prudent to avoid a sensation which the reactionary Press might exploit.”

The writer again exchanged a glance with Little Loewy. The dock-hands looked at Rubashov uncomprehendingly; one could see them working it out slowly in their heads. Suddenly Paul said in a changed, hoarse voice:

“What, actually, are you talking about?”

They all looked at him. His neck was red, and he was looking at Rubashov with bulging eyes. Little Loewy said with restraint:

“Have you only just noticed?”

Rubashov looked from one to the other, and then said quietly:

“I omitted to tell you the details. The five cargo boats of the Commissariat for Foreign Trade are expected to arrive tomorrow morning, weather permitting.”

Even now it took several minutes before they had all understood. Nobody said a word. They all looked at Rubashov. Then Paul stood up slowly, flung his cap to the ground, and left the room. Two of his colleagues turned their heads after him. Nobody spoke. Then Little Loewy cleared his throat and said:

“The Comrade speaker has just explained to us the reasons for this business: if they do not deliver the supplies, others will. Who else wishes to speak?”

The docker who had already spoken shifted on his chair and said:

“We know that tune. In a strike there are always people who say: if I don't do the work, someone else will take it. We've heard enough of that. That's how blacklegs talk.”

Again there was a pause. One heard outside the front door being slammed by Paul. Then Rubashov said:

“Comrades, the interests of our industrial development Over There come before everything else. Sentimentality does not get us any further. Think that over.”

The docker shoved his chin forward and said:

“We have already thought it over. We've heard enough of it. You Over There must give the example. The whole world looks to you for it. You talk of solidarity and sacrifice and discipline, and at the same time you use your fleet for plain blacklegging.

At that Little Loewy lifted his head suddenly; he was pale; he saluted Rubashov with his pipe and said low and very quickly:

“What the comrade said is also my opinion. Has anyone anything further to say? The meeting is closed.”

Rubashov limped out of the room on his crutches. Events followed their prescribed and inevitable course. While the little old-fashioned fleet was entering the harbour, Rubashov exchanged a few telegrams with the competent authorities Over There. Three days later the leaders of the dockers' section were expelled from the Party and Little Loewy was denounced in the official Party organ as an
agent provocateur.
Another three days later Little Loewy had hanged himself.

The night was even worse. Rubashov could not sleep until dawn. Shivers ran over him at regular intervals; his tooth was throbbing. He had the sensation that all the association centres of his brain were sore and inflamed; yet he lay under the painful compulsion to conjure up pictures
and voices. He thought of young Richard in the black Sunday suit, with his inflamed eyes: “But you can't throw me to the wolves, comrade….” He thought of little deformed Loewy: “Who else wishes to speak?” There were so many who did wish to speak. For the movement was without scruples; she rolled towards her goal unconcernedly and deposed the corpses of the drowned in the windings of her course. Her course had many twists and windings; such was the law of her being. And whosoever could not follow her crooked course was washed on to the bank, for such was her law. The motives of the individual did not matter to her. His conscience did not matter to her, neither did she care what went on in his head and his heart. The Party knew only one crime: to swerve from the course laid out; and only one punishment: death. Death was no mystery in the movement; there was nothing exalted about it: it was the logical solution to political divergences.

Not before the early hours of the morning did Rubashov, exhausted, fall asleep on his bunk. He was woken again by the bugle blast which heralded a new day; shortly afterwards he was fetched by the old warder and two officials in uniform, to be conducted to the doctor.

Rubashov had hoped to be able to read the name-cards on the cell-doors of Hare-lip and of No. 402, but he was taken in the opposite direction. The cell to his right was empty. It was one of the last cells of that end of the corridor; the wing of isolation cells was shut off by a heavy concrete door, which the old man opened with much fumbling. They now passed through a long gallery, Rubashov with the old warder in front, the two men in uniform behind. Here all the cards on the cell-doors
bore several names; they heard talking, laughter and even singing coming from the cells; Rubashov knew at once that they were in the section for petty criminals. They passed the barber's shop, of which the door stood open; a prisoner with the sharp bird's face of the old convict was just being shaved; two peasants were having their heads shorn: all three turned their heads curiously as Rubashov and his escort marched past. They came to a door with a red cross painted on it. The warder knocked respectfully, and he and Rubashov went in; the two uniformed men waited outside.

The infirmary was small and the air stuffy; it smelled of carbolic and tobacco. A bucket and two pans were filled to the brim with cotton-wool swabs and dirty bandages. The doctor sat at a table with his back to them, reading the newspaper and chewing bread and dripping. The newspaper lay on a heap of instruments, pincers and syringes. When the warder had shut the door, the doctor turned slowly round. He was bald and had an unusually small skull, covered with white fluff, which reminded Rubashov of an ostrich.

“He says he's got toothache,” said the old man.

“Toothache?” said the doctor, looking past Rubashov. “Open your mouth, and be quick about it.”

Rubashov looked at him through his glasses.

“I beg to point out,” he said quietly, “that I am a political prisoner and entitled to correct treatment.”

The doctor turned his head to the warder:

“Who is this bird?”

The warder gave Rubashov's name. For a second Rubashov felt the round ostrich eyes rest on him. Then the doctor said:

“Your cheek is swollen. Open your mouth.”

Rubashov's tooth was not aching at the moment. He opened his mouth.

“You have no teeth left at all in the left side of your upper jaw,” said the doctor, probing with his finger in Rubashov's mouth. Suddenly Rubashov became pale and had to lean against the wall.

“There it is!” said the doctor. “The root of the right eye-tooth is broken off and has remained in the jaw.”

Rubashov breathed deeply several times. The pain was throbbing from his jaw to his eye and right to the back of his head. He felt each pulsation of the blood singly, at regularly intervals. The doctor had sat down again and spread out his newspaper. “If you like I can extract the root for you,” he said and took a mouthful of bread and dripping. “We have, of course, no anæsthetics here. The operation takes anything from half an hour to an hour.

Rubashov heard the doctor's voice through a mist. He leant against the wall and breathed deeply. “Thank you,” he said. “Not now.” He thought of Hare-lip and the “steambath” and of the ridiculous gesture yesterday, when he had stubbed out the cigarette on the back of his hand. Things will go badly, he thought.

When he was back in his cell, he let himself drop on the bunk and fell asleep at once.

At noon, when the soup came, he was no longer omitted; from then on he received his rations regularly. The toothache lessened and remained within bearable limits. Rubashov hoped the abscess in the root had opened by itself.

Three days later he was brought up for examination for the first time.

It was eleven o'clock in the morning when they came to fetch him. By the warder's solemn expression, Rubashov guessed at once where they were going. He followed the warder, with the serene nonchalance which had always come to him in moments of danger, as an unexpected gift of mercy.

They went the same way as three days ago when going to the doctor. The concrete door again opened and crashed shut; strange, thought Rubashov, how quickly one grows used to an intense environment; he felt as if he had been breathing the air of this corridor for years, as if the stale atmosphere of all the prisons he had known had been stored away here.

They passed the barber's shop and the doctor's door which was shut; three prisoners stood outside, guarded by a sleepy warder, waiting their turn.

Beyond the doctor's door was new ground for Rubashov. They passed a spiral staircase leading down into the depths. What was down there—store-rooms, punishment cells? Rubashov tried to guess, with the interest of the expert. He did not like the look of that staircase.

They crossed a narrow, windowless courtyard; it was a blind shaft, rather dark, but over it hung the open sky. On the other side of the courtyard the corridors were brighter; the doors were no longer of concrete, but of painted wood, with brass handles; busy officials
passed them; behind a door a wireless was playing; behind another one heard a typewriter. They were in the administrative department.

They stopped at the last door, at the end of the corridor; the warder knocked. Inside someone was telephoning; a quiet voice called out: “A minute, please,” and went on patiently saying “Yes” and “Quite” into the receiver. The voice seemed familiar to Rubashov, but he could not place it. It was an agreeably masculine voice, slightly husky; he had certainly heard it somewhere before. “Come in,” said the voice; the warder opened the door and shut it immediately behind Rubashov. Rubashov saw a desk; behind it sat his old college friend and former battalion commander, Ivanov; he was looking at him smilingly while putting back the receiver. “So here we are again,” said Ivanov.