Death and the Everyday

Chapter 5: Concealment

***

It was supposed to be my last work shift today, so I had to come in order to avoid suspicion. I came in the bloodied clothes and covered them in oil, concealing the evidence. The absence of Stepanych brought whispers to the lips of other men, and some of them spoke in soft whispers about the body found on the rail tracks. Few dared to link it all together. Uncle Lyosha shrugged, saying that he did not give a damn about the fate of the guy, since he was eager to try to cut off his pay for no other reason than out of spite, and he even wanted to extort the other working men when they would do something with their skills for their own benefit – for instance, using the factory machines to craft small pieces that they could sell on the side. I could not blame him. In fact, I understood his feelings better than he knew.

Later during the shift, the director went out of his office to greet a man in a leather jacket and led him into his office. I knew the type of walk, the dress, just as the others did, and the disposition of the director merely confirmed our suspicions. Now everyone was certain of Stepanych’s death. An hour later, during the lunch break, Viktor Vasilievich came and announced that the head of production was dead and that the militia had questions for us. Some wanted to go; some were skeptical about how the questioning would be conducted. As the shift went on, the workers would go to the office and back, each spending a different amount of time there, appearing drained and thoughtful. They would say very little which to me, was an indication that the man who came here was no fool.

Uncle Lyosha went there a few hours later, and I knew that it would soon be my time to walk into that office. I felt the others looking at me. Were they suspecting me? Did they know what I had done? No. How could they? How could they know that I fought that bastard on the rail tracks, that I used his death as fuel for The Masterpiece? No one knew. So the eyes that I felt, the whispers that I heard were not about me. This was just fear.

As soon as I managed to calm my nerves, Uncle Lyosha came back, smiling at me with a tired smile.

“The last day at work isn’t what you expected, huh?”

“You got that right.”

He scratched his big, white beard.

“Look. It’s your turn to go now. He’ll start small, but then will ask some things. Be calm and do not lie. Everything will be okay. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Laying aside the wrench, I walked through the workshop, once again feeling the eyes on me, wondering at the indication of the looks. I could not help but remember my classmate who became a militiaman and used to tell me about his work before moving to a larger city, so I knew what to expect. The man inside the director’s office would try to question me, to find out where I was, what my relations with the victim were like. Of course, he would also know much by now. I was not the first to come to him. And given the fact that I was not warned of what exactly was going on meant that the militia suspected some of the workers. And with the recent conflict, I was probably a suspect.

As I entered the room, I was greeted by a young man with blonde hair and blue eyes, dressed in a white shirt, jeans, and clean, shining black shoes. He stood up and, with a smile, extended his hand.

“Good morning, Anastasia Sergeevna. I’m Lieutenant Pavlenko.”

He seemed kind, but his eyes were cold and hungering for an indication of guilt.

“Hello, Officer.”

“Have a seat, please.”

The chair he indicated was right in front of him. I sat there, letting some of my nerves come to the light for him to see.

“Do not worry. You are not in any trouble. We are just questioning the workers to understand what could have happened to Stepan Stepanych.”

He was piercing me with his look, observing my behavior. I nod and decide to begin with the truth.

“I have never been questioned by a militia officer before.”

“You do not need to worry. I swear on my honor, I will not cause you any discomfort. Can we start with your full name and date of birth?”

My surname. I do not like even speaking it. And yet I must feign…normalcy. I say what he asks of me and banish the thought from my mind. He keeps asking his questions.

“And how long have you been working here?”

“For about two years. Two and a half.”

“Do you intend on staying here long?”

His blue eyes are seemingly gentle. Yet they are staring at me. He knows. And yet he asks this. I am clearly a suspect. The truth is the wise course of action here.

“I decided to leave, actually. These are my last working days.”

“Okay…And why have you decided to leave?”

The truth.

“Because of Stepan Stepanych.”

“Could you elaborate?”

“He was…unkind to me.”

“How so?”

I let out a heavy breath, remembering the various situations that occurred in these last months.

“He would insult me, question my work, try to…No. Forget it.”

“Go on. He tried to do something to you?”

“He is dead. It is not right. The others never witnessed it, so…”

“I see. And what about the men? Was he in good relations with them?”

“Every guy wanted to beat his ass, but none did.”

“Why? Was he strong? Or was it because of his position?”

“Because he would go and whine to you. And no one wanted to waste their time instead of working.”

The man in the leather jacket looks me over, making notes in his little notebook. He writes small letters, and fast. He is not some layman. The lieutenant knows his job. He rotates the pen in his fingers, looking into his little book. It takes some time. He stares at the small letters in his notebook. Is he really reading it all, or is he thinking? Or maybe he seeks to unnerve me? If the latter is the case, then it is working. Thankfully, a minute later, he focuses his attention on me again.

“Hm. Is it possible that someone went out and decided to talk to him for you?”

He wants me to place blame, to “name names”. But this is still a game that he plays very well. He tests me, wanting to make certain that I am innocent. I must choose truth yet again.

“Why would anyone bother? I was fired. It didn’t matter anymore. If there was a reason for someone to do this, they would have done it before, no?”

“Interesting point. Tell me, how do you usually get here? Do you have a car, or a friend from work who would give you a ride?”

He must have found out my routine. He had the time and the chance to ask. And even if he did not, he eventually will. Foolish man, you cannot outplay the artist. Armed with imagination, I WILL ALWAYS WIN.

“I take the bus, or walk by the railroad.”

“You mean the railroad where the victim died?”

“I don’t know where he died. This morning the men talked about a body found by the railroad.”

“And what were they talking about exactly?”

“That the found body was in pieces.”

“Hm. So you had no desire to kill Stepan Stepanych, even after all that occurred between you two?”

“I hoped that he would get fired, but nothing beyond that.”

“Nothing else?”

“Why would there be anything else?”

“Perhaps you felt cheated. That he was to stay, and you were forced to go. Wouldn’t you want the roles to be reversed?”

I never said that I was forced…

“Life is full of injustices. You know that better than I, Lieutenant Pavlenko.”

He takes a second to respond.

“That I do. Still. Didn’t you want to do anything? Anything at all?”

“To be honest, I just didn’t have the strength for conflict. My main concern remains earning money in order to eat food and pay my rent. And the director, being the kind person that he is, allowed me to stay for a while, but that time expires today.”

“What about Alexey Alexeevich? Your partner at the workplace. He seems to care for you. Why didn’t you ask him to do something? The thought had surely crossed your mind.”

I take a moment. No. Not the whole truth. If he even catches wind of my perception of this place…

“I don’t know. I don’t think that I would ask anything like that of him. Yes, he cares for me, but that is because he is a kind man. And he has a warm heart.”

“Is he a drinker?”

“He drinks, but who really doesn’t these days?”

“Do you drink?”

“Sometimes. I try not to, but there are moments, you know?”

The man nodded slowly and was reading passages from his notebook. Or merely pretending to do so. Time felt slow, and now I was certain that this was another tactical move, to see if I would get nervous. So I breathed, with exaggeration, and put one leg over the other, as well as hands on my chest. Then I looked at the window, where the production was going. That fool Stepanych was dead, and yet nothing seemed to have changed. He was not a good man, nor was he a respected leader, so why did anyone care that he was gone? Why do people always care for the lives of such useless trash?! All the workers and the director and that man in front of me: “Oh Stepanych! Poor Stepanych! Who could have killed him? What monster did so? He was such a good man!” THE FOOLS! HE WAS THE MONSTER – an alcoholic and despot, a tyrant to his own family! The sack of meat that tried to…HE DESERVED HIS FATE. TO BE TORN APART. TO BE FORGOTTEN. I feel my face contorting, and then I hear the man again.

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