He lay down again, smoking, and looked at the ceiling.
The cell door opened; the warder brought a bottle of brandy and a glass.
This time it was not the old man, but a lean youth in uniform, with steel-rimmed spectacles.
He saluted Ivanov, handed the brandy and glass over to him and shut the door from outside.
One heard his steps receding down the corridor.
Ivanov, sat down on the edge of Rubashov’s bunk and filled the glass.
“Drink,” he said.
Rubashov emptied the glass.
The mistiness in his head cleared, events and persons—his first and second imprisonment, Arlova, Bogrov, Ivanov—arranged themselves in time and space.
“Are you in pain?” asked Ivanov.
“No,” said Rubashov.
The only thing he did not yet understand was what Ivanov was doing in his cell.
“Your cheek is badly swollen.
Probably you also have a temperature.”
Rubashov stood up from the bunk, looked through the spy-hole into the corridor, which was empty, and walked up and down the cell once or twice until his head became quite clear.
Then he stopped in front of Ivanov, who was sitting on the end of the bunk, patiently blowing smoke-rings.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I want to talk to you,” Ivanov said.
“Lie down again and drink some more brandy.”
Rubashov blinked at him ironically through his pince-nez.
“Until now,” he said, “I was tempted to believe you were acting in good faith.
Now I see that you are a swine.
Get out of here.”
Ivanov did not move.
“Be good enough to give the reasons for this assertion,” he said.
Rubashov leaned his back against the wall of No. 406 and looked down at Ivanov.
Ivanov, was smoking with equanimity.
“Point one,” said Rubashov.
“You knew of my friendship with Bogrov.
Therefore you take care that Bogrov—or what was left of him—is taken past my cell on his last journey, as a reminder.
To make sure that I do not miss this scene, Bogrov’s execution is discreetly announced beforehand, on the assumption that this news will be tapped through to me by my neighbours, which, in fact, happens.
A further finesse of the producer’s is to inform Bogrov of my presence here, just before he is dragged off—on the further assumption that this final shock will draw from him some audible manifestation; which also happens.
The whole thing is calculated to put me into a state of depression.
In this darkest hour, Comrade Ivanov appears as a saviour, with a bottle of brandy under his arm.
Follows a touching scene of reconciliation, we fall into each other’s arms, exchange moving war memories and incidentally sign the statement with my confession.
Whereupon the prisoner sinks into a gentle slumber; Comrade Ivanov leaves on the tip of his toes with the statement in his pocket, and is promoted a few days later. ...
Now have the goodness to get out of here.”
Ivanov did not move.
He blew smoke into the air, smiled and showed his gold teeth.
“Do you really think I have such a primitive mind?” he asked.
“Or, to be more exact: do you really believe I am such a bad psychologist?”
Rubashov shrugged “Your tricks disgust me,” he said.
“I cannot throw you out.
If you have a trace of decency left in you, you will now leave me alone.
You can’t imagine how you all disgust me.” Ivanov lifted the glass from the floor, filled it and drank it.
“I propose the following agreement,” he said.
“You let me speak for five minutes without interrupting me, and listen with a clear head to what I am saying.
If after that you still insist on my going—I will go.”
“I’m listening,” said Rubashov. He stood leaning against the wall opposite Ivanov and glanced at his watch.
“In the first place,” said Ivanov, “in order to remove any possible doubts or illusions you may have: Bogrov has in fact been shot.