Free Faithful Ruslan by Georgi Vladimov Page A
Authors: Georgi Vladimov
it around his mouth in a spiral. Biting the mouthpiece greedily with his small, even teeth, he squinted down at the tip as he lit it, drew in a lungful of smoke and then blew out a smoke ring while he held the cigarette between the extended fingers of his outstretched hand.
“He’s a problem, you see,” he said to the Shabby Man, nodding toward Ruslan. “Nobody would take him even if you paid them. And now these fine dogs are just running around on the loose.”
“Yes, say what you like, it’s a pity,” the Shabby Man replied. “When we were behind the wire we used to wish all those beasts dead, yet now I feel sorry for them. It would be better if they’d all been put down, instead of leaving them like this.”
“That’s just the trouble. Everyone’s full of pity, I notice, but as for shooting the dogs—no thank you, someone else can do that.”
“I suppose
someone
was ordered to do it?”
“So what if they were? The man who gave the order has already put his epaulets in mothballs and by now he’s trying on his civilian suit. Why should I dirty my hands? Not me, if I can help it. But you can see what pity does, can’t you? The end result’s the worst of all.”
As Ruslan understood, his master was still feeling upset at that stupid woman, and he pushed his nose into Master’s hand, resting on his knee, The hand was raised reluctantly and placed on Ruslan’s forehead. Although neither very fond of a show of affection nor accustomed to receiving it, he still appreciated this gesture on the rare occasions when it was made. This time, however, Ruslan did not like the feel of Master’s hand. It was limp, indecisive and for some reason it was trembling; worse still, it stank of the filth in the decanter.
“Don’t worry, Ruslan old boy, you’ll find your feet,” said Master. “And when the call comes, you can go back to the Service. Haven’t forgotten about the Service, have you? Still dream about it at night? Ah, yellow eyes! Shut your eyes, they’re terrible to look at.”
Slowly the hand slid across Ruslan’s closed eyes, and as it passed over his jaw it was suddenly closed in a harsh grip. Forced together with a loud snap, Ruslan’s teeth pinched his lips, and the pain caused tears to spurt up beneath hiseyelids. Worse than the pain, though, was the feeling of resentment. One of the masters’ more unpleasant habits was to make a sudden grab with the hand; if they were doing it to a dog, they would snatch at the muzzle—if to a man, they went for his face. When they said it in words, the gesture meant, “Talk to me like that and I’ll bash you into pulp.” The action itself, though, was much quicker; neither dog nor man ever had time to step back or dodge. And it was a long time before they recovered. One day his master had done it to a prisoner who had been arguing with him and would not step back into line. Afterward the prisoner simply stood there as though stunned, with a pale, sweating face. His glasses had fallen from his nose. The man was very fond of his glasses, because he would frequently breathe on them and wipe them with a cloth; now he did not even bend down, although Master reminded him, “Pick up your specs!” and kicked them toward him with the toe of his boot. So
this
was what that prisoner had felt on his face when he had stumbled back into the ranks like a blind man, and then screamed and started running across the field—the same prisoner whom the unfortunate Rex had failed to catch!
“Don’t squeeze him like that,” said the Shabby Man. “That devil will bite you if you don’t look out—and I wouldn’t blame him!”
“Shows how much you know about him,” Master grinned, “Ruslan and I have been welded together by the Service, haven’t we, Ruslan?”
Freeing himself from the detested grip, with a painful turn of the head and a sullen glare from under his high forehead, Ruslan slowly looked around at the other people sitting in the restaurant and raised
“He’s a problem, you see,” he said to the Shabby Man, nodding toward Ruslan. “Nobody would take him even if you paid them. And now these fine dogs are just running around on the loose.”
“Yes, say what you like, it’s a pity,” the Shabby Man replied. “When we were behind the wire we used to wish all those beasts dead, yet now I feel sorry for them. It would be better if they’d all been put down, instead of leaving them like this.”
“That’s just the trouble. Everyone’s full of pity, I notice, but as for shooting the dogs—no thank you, someone else can do that.”
“I suppose
someone
was ordered to do it?”
“So what if they were? The man who gave the order has already put his epaulets in mothballs and by now he’s trying on his civilian suit. Why should I dirty my hands? Not me, if I can help it. But you can see what pity does, can’t you? The end result’s the worst of all.”
As Ruslan understood, his master was still feeling upset at that stupid woman, and he pushed his nose into Master’s hand, resting on his knee, The hand was raised reluctantly and placed on Ruslan’s forehead. Although neither very fond of a show of affection nor accustomed to receiving it, he still appreciated this gesture on the rare occasions when it was made. This time, however, Ruslan did not like the feel of Master’s hand. It was limp, indecisive and for some reason it was trembling; worse still, it stank of the filth in the decanter.
“Don’t worry, Ruslan old boy, you’ll find your feet,” said Master. “And when the call comes, you can go back to the Service. Haven’t forgotten about the Service, have you? Still dream about it at night? Ah, yellow eyes! Shut your eyes, they’re terrible to look at.”
Slowly the hand slid across Ruslan’s closed eyes, and as it passed over his jaw it was suddenly closed in a harsh grip. Forced together with a loud snap, Ruslan’s teeth pinched his lips, and the pain caused tears to spurt up beneath hiseyelids. Worse than the pain, though, was the feeling of resentment. One of the masters’ more unpleasant habits was to make a sudden grab with the hand; if they were doing it to a dog, they would snatch at the muzzle—if to a man, they went for his face. When they said it in words, the gesture meant, “Talk to me like that and I’ll bash you into pulp.” The action itself, though, was much quicker; neither dog nor man ever had time to step back or dodge. And it was a long time before they recovered. One day his master had done it to a prisoner who had been arguing with him and would not step back into line. Afterward the prisoner simply stood there as though stunned, with a pale, sweating face. His glasses had fallen from his nose. The man was very fond of his glasses, because he would frequently breathe on them and wipe them with a cloth; now he did not even bend down, although Master reminded him, “Pick up your specs!” and kicked them toward him with the toe of his boot. So
this
was what that prisoner had felt on his face when he had stumbled back into the ranks like a blind man, and then screamed and started running across the field—the same prisoner whom the unfortunate Rex had failed to catch!
“Don’t squeeze him like that,” said the Shabby Man. “That devil will bite you if you don’t look out—and I wouldn’t blame him!”
“Shows how much you know about him,” Master grinned, “Ruslan and I have been welded together by the Service, haven’t we, Ruslan?”
Freeing himself from the detested grip, with a painful turn of the head and a sullen glare from under his high forehead, Ruslan slowly looked around at the other people sitting in the restaurant and raised