Free The Matiushin Case by Andrew Bromfield, Oleg Pavlov

his exclamation didn’t make Matiushin get up. ‘Get over here, you weirdo … ’ Konovalov said more simply now in his surprise.
    Everything went quiet and everyone in the lobby turned serious. Only Konovalov dropped his hands helplessly.
    â€˜What’s happening here? Just look at this walking wonder … Come and sit over here to get trimmed, I said.’
    â€˜No, I won’t.’
    â€˜Why, he’s drunk … ’ said the officer, peering at him reluctantly. ‘Look at the drunken face on him …’
    But suddenly the officer started shaking with laughter. And then all the soldiers, and the woman, and Konovalov started laughing, their eyes goggling out so hard that the tears came; they couldn’t stop themselves. And no one noticed that the officer had started gasping for breath, coughing, doubling over, hawking into his fist. Matiushin watched only the officer, mesmerised. It was all happening right there in front of his eyes: the officer broke down, no longer choking on laughter but on his own cough, huddling up into a shuddering bundle, and then he slumped off his stool, face down. The woman was the first to catch on and she rushed to help him up. They picked the officer up and sat him on his stool. He twitched silently as he grew calmer, restrained by the soldiers’ hands. He was still short of air, his gaping mouth a black hole, his scarlet lips drooping, and he was struggling to say something. His lips tensed and went limp as if they were straining, but the words had proved too heavy.
    â€˜That’s it … ’ he managed to squeeze out, struggling to recover his former serious bearing. ‘That’s it … K-ha, k-ha … What do you want? What are you waiting for? Konovalov … K-ha, k-ha … ’ And he nodded. ‘Do this one, get it over with …’
    Matiushin still hadn’t gathered his wits after what he’d seen. But then Konovalov, furious, rushed over and grabbed him by the hair. Matiushin crept along on all fours, naked, crawling away from the pain and seeing everything so clearly that his eyes smarted, even the chips knocked out of the black clay floor, hearing Konovalov’s heavy panting above him. Konovalov dragged him across the lobby and Matiushin suddenly couldn’t care less where he was being lugged off to or what they might want to do with him.
    Afraid that he might escape, break free, Konovalov pressed Matiushin’s head down against the stool as if he were washing it forcibly in a basin. His fist squeezed a metallic clanking out of the clippers and was gradually buried under a clump of hair. The bathhouse attendant surrendered to the languor that had spread through her soul and gazed at Konovalov, admiring the way he froze, motionless, leaning down over his work, and the way his whole body curved, seeming to reveal a hidden inner strength, becoming covered all over with knotty muscles. Matiushin wheezed regularly, gulping at the air, staying down on his knees with his cheek crushed against the stool, running his blank, unseeing gaze over the crowd of half-dressed, half-naked men who were either admiring or frightened by him.
    â€˜Oi, I’ll die laughing! Oi, that’s the way they strip the bristles off a wild boar! Don’t you go and strip the skin off him, Petenka … ’ the woman exclaimed merrily, and her face turned radiant and serene with merriment and excitement.
    â€˜A strapping great boar!’ Konovalov grunted in reply, as if complaining.
    When he heard that, Matiushin felt happy, almost proud of himself, and forgot about everything, no longer aware that he was down on his knees with the clanking clippers tugging out his hair.
    Konovalov finished his work but didn’t let Matiushin go: his blow tossed Matiushin over to the feet of the soldiers, who had been waiting just for this and threw themselves on him. Blunt kicks from boots showered down on Matiushin’s