Free Kolyma Tales by Varlan Shalanov Page A

the most peaceful of smiles. The entire prospecting group liked Frisorger – even Paramonov, for whom Frisorger spent half a year making a writing-desk.
    Our cots were next to each other, and we frequently engaged in conversations. Frisorger would wave his arms in childlike amazement whenever he encountered in me a familiarity with any of the popular Gospel tales that he, in his simplicity, thought were known only to a narrow circle of religious believers. Giggling delightedly whenever I revealed any such knowledge, he would grow excited and begin to tell me Gospel stories that I either vaguely remembered or had never known at all. He very much enjoyed these discussions.
    Once, while reciting the names of the twelve apostles, Frisorger made a mistake. He called the Apostle Paul the true founder of the Christian religion, its most important theoretician. I knew a little of the biography of this apostle and could not pass up the opportunity to correct Frisorger.
    ‘No, no,’ Frisorger said, laughing. ‘You just don’t know.’ And he began to count on his fingers: ‘Petrus, Paulus, Markus…’
    I told him everything I knew about the Apostle Paul. He listened to me closely without speaking. It was already late and time to sleep. I woke up that night in the flickering smoky light of the kerosene lantern and saw that Frisorger’s eyes were open. He was whispering: ‘God, help me! Petrus, Paulus, Markus…’ He did not sleep until dawn. He left early that morning for work and returned late, when I was already asleep. I was awakened by quiet sobbing – like that of an old man. Frisorger was praying on his knees.
    ‘Is something the matter?’ I asked when he had finished praying.
    Frisorger found my hand and squeezed it.
    ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Paul wasn’t one of the twelve apostles. I forgot about Bartholomew.’ I said nothing.
    ‘Do my tears surprise you?’ he asked. ‘Those are tears of shame. How could I forget such things? I, Adam Frisorger, need a stranger to point out my unforgivable mistake. No, no, you’re not to blame. It’s my sin, mine. But it’s good that you corrected me. Everything will be all right.’
    I barely managed to calm him down, and after that (just before I sprained my ankle), we became even closer friends.
    Once when there was no one in the workshop, Frisorger took a soiled cloth wallet from his pocket and gestured to me to come over to the window.
    ‘Here,’ he said, handing me a tiny, rumpled photograph of a young woman with the inconsequential expression that one often sees in snapshots. The yellow, cracked photograph was lovingly framed with a piece of colored paper.
    ‘That’s my daughter,’ Frisorger said proudly. ‘My only daughter. My wife died a long time ago. My daughter doesn’t write to me; I guess she doesn’t know my address. I write to her a lot. Only to her. I never show this photograph to anyone. I took it from home. I took it from the chest of drawers six years ago.’
    Paramonov had walked silently into the workshop.
    ‘Your daughter?’ he asked, glancing at the photograph.
    ‘Yes, sir, it’s my daughter,’ Frisorger answered with a smile.
    ‘Does she write?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘How could she forget her old man? Write up a request for an address search, and I’ll forward it. How’s your leg?’
    ‘I’m still limping, sir,’ I answered.
    ‘OK. Keep at it.’ Paramonov left.
    From then on, making no further attempt to conceal it from me, Frisorger would lie down on his cot after the evening prayer, take out his daughter’s photograph, and stroke the colored border.
    We had lived about a half-year together when one day the mail came. Paramonov was off on a trip, and the mail was being handled by his secretary, the convict Riazanov. Riazanov had turned out to be not an agronomist but an Esperantist, but that didn’t hinder him from expertly skinning dead horses, bending thick iron pipes and filling them with hot sand heated in the campfire,