Free The People's Act of Love by James Meek Page A

revolution against him ?’
    ‘A revolution without lanterns?’ shouted Bublik. He gaveMutz the thumb-between-the-fingers. ‘You’d be next against the wall, comrade bourgeois.’
    ‘He’s all right, Tomik,’ muttered Racansky.
    ‘In the revolution, nobody is all right,’ said Bublik to the floor.
    Mutz opened his mouth, then closed it. He desired some form of address for these men. To that extent he was still hiding under the ruins of the empire that he had lived in, and which had died. He had a weakness for categories. Most people did. He was the comrade-jew-lieutenant-sir. He knew what a risk it was to hug old categories to you in days of revolution and civil war and new countries, yet could not resist. He opened his mouth again. ‘My …’ Bublik looked up. ‘… co-functionaries.’ Bublik’s eyes narrowed and his whiskers seemed to twist back, like a cat’s ears. He was contemptuous, but he couldn’t help liking the phrase. ‘Did you search him?’
    ‘He has the dirt of a man on him,’ said Bublik.
    ‘He stinks,’ said Racansky. ‘And he’s got lice.’
    ‘We’ll get him cleaned up,’ said Mutz. ‘What did you find?’
    The lantern was guided to a foul rag laid on the floor. On it was a length of metal fashioned into a rough knife, a rolled-up scroll of bark, some lengths of string made from the guts of an animal, and a cardboard wallet.
    ‘Not much, is it,’ said Racansky.
    Mutz opened the wallet and took out the photograph. His guts lurched. ‘This was in his possession? Does he know Anna Petrovna?’
    Bublik and Racansky crowded into the light to see the photograph. ‘We didn’t realise it was her,’ said Racansky. ‘He said he’d found it in the street.’
    Mutz picked up the scroll and unrolled it. On it was scrawled, in slovenly capitals, ‘I AM DYING HERE. K.’ He put the scrolland wallet in his pocket and asked if Samarin had said anything else.
    Bublik put his face close to Mutz’s and grinned. ‘Somebody tried to eat him,’ he said.
    Mutz took the key to the cell and turned it in the lock. ‘I’ll leave it open,’ he said to the soldiers. ‘Watch for trouble.’
    ‘If you lay a hand on him, you’ll have us to answer to,’ said Racansky.
    Mutz entered the cell and closed the door behind him. He looked down at the prisoner, who had fixed the candle to the end of the iron cot and was sitting cross-legged under its light, on the floor, reading an old copy of Czechoslovakian Daily . They were all old by the time they reached Yazyk.
    ‘Do you read Czech?’ asked Mutz, in Russian.
    Samarin looked up. ‘Do you have any cigarettes?’ he said.
    ‘No.’
    Mutz put his hands in his pockets and regarded the prisoner. Samarin’s thin, used face brandished disdain and an impatient, turning mind. His eyes reached out; they could touch, stroke, poke or claw at what they saw.
    ‘I’m sorry we have to lock you up,’ said Mutz. ‘Strange as it may seem to you, we have the jurisdiction here, and since you have no papers, we have to look more closely into your story.’
    ‘It’d be easier to put me on the next train to St Petersburg,’ said Samarin.
    ‘It’s two thousand miles to Petrograd, and they’re shelling the Omsk suburbs,’ said Mutz. ‘You know that, don’t you?’ He crossed the room and sat on the cot. By the light of the candle he saw a tiny movement in Samarin’s hair and he shifted further up the mattress. The straw stuffing wheezed under his weight.
    ‘When I was arrested, it was still called Petersburg,’ said Samarin.
    ‘When was that?’
    ‘In 1914. I was tried and reached the labour camp at the White Garden in 1915. I broke out in January. Nine months ago. I’ve been walking for nine months.’
    ‘There’ll be a hearing of your story tomorrow,’ said Mutz. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions now.’
    ‘Well?’ said Samarin. He coughed, hawked and spat into the corner, put his forearm on his knee, and rested his head on it. Mutz saw