No. 407 was just being given bread.
Rubashov could not see him.
No. 407 was presumably standing in the regulation position, a step behind the door; Rubashov could only see his forearms and hands. The arms were bare and very thin; like two parallel sticks, they stuck out of the doorway into the corridor.
The palms of the invisible No. 407 were turned upwards, curved in the shape of a bowl.
When he had taken the bread, he clasped his hands and withdrew into the darkness of his cell.
The door slammed.
Rubashov abandoned the spy-hole and resumed his marching up and down.
He ceased rubbing his spectacles on his sleeve, put them in place, breathed deeply and with relief. He whistled a tune and waited for his breakfast. He remembered with a slight feeling of uneasiness those thin arms and the curved hands; they reminded him vaguely of something he could not define.
The outlines of those stretched-out hands and even the shadows on them were familiar to him—familiar and yet gone from his memory like an old tune or the smell of a narrow street in a harbour.
7
The procession had unlocked and slammed a row of doors, but not yet his.
Rubashov went back to the Judas, to see whether they were coming at last; he was looking forward to the hot tea.
The tub had been steaming, and thin slices of lemon had floated on its surface.
He took off his pince-nez and pressed his eye to the spy-hole.
His range of sight held four of the cells opposite: Nos. 401 to 407.
Above the cells ran a narrow iron gallery; behind it were more cells, those on the second floor.
The procession was just coming back along the corridor from the right; evidently they first did the odd numbers, then the even.
Now they stood at No. 408; Rubashov only saw the backs of the two uniformed men with the revolver belts; the rest of the procession stood outside his view-range.
The door slammed; now they all came to No. 406.
Rubashov saw again the steaming tub and the orderly with the bread basket in which only a few slices were left.
The door of No. 406 slammed instantly; the cell was uninhabited. The procession approached, passed his door and stopped at No. 402.
Rubashov began to drum on the door with his fists.
He saw that the two orderlies with the tub looked at each other and glanced at his door.
The warder busied himself with the lock on the door of No. 402 and pretended not to hear.
The two men in uniform stood with their backs to Rubashov’s spy-hole.
Now the bread was being passed in through the door of No. 402; the procession started to move on.
Rubashov drummed more loudly. He took a shoe off and banged on the door with it.
The bigger of the two men in uniform turned round, stared expressionlessly at Rubashov’s door and turned away again.
The warder slammed the door of No. 402.
The orderlies with the tub of tea stood about hesitantly.
The man in uniform who had turned round said something to the older warder, who shrugged his shoulders and with jangling keys shuffled to Rubashov’s door.
The orderlies with the tub followed him; the orderly with the bread said something through the spy-hole to No. 402.
Rubashov drew back a step from his door and waited for it to open. The tension inside him gave way suddenly; he did not care any more whether he was given tea or not.
The tea in the tub had no longer steamed on the way back and the slices of lemon on the rest of the pale yellow liquid had looked limp and shrunken.
The key was turned in his door, then a staring pupil appeared in the spy-hole and disappeared again.
The door flew open.
Rubashov had seated himself on the bed and was putting his shoe on again.
The warder held the door open for the big man in uniform who entered the cell.
He had a round, clean-shaven skull and expressionless eyes.
His stiff uniform creaked; so did his boots; Rubashov thought he could smell the leather of his revolver belt.
He stopped next to the bucket and looked round the cell, which seemed to have become smaller through his presence.
“You have not cleaned up your cell,” he said to Rubashov. “You know the regulations, surely.”
“Why was I omitted at breakfast?” said Rubashov, examining the officer through his pince-nez.
“If you want to argue with me, you will have to stand up,” said the officer.
“I haven’t got the slightest desire to argue or even to speak to you,” said Rubashov, and laced up his shoe.
“Then don’t bang on the door next time, else the usual disciplinary measures will have to be applied to you,” said the officer.
He looked round the cell again.
“The prisoner has no mop to clean the floor,” he said to the warder.
The warder said something to the bread-orderly, who vanished down the corridor at a trot.
The two other orderlies stood in the open doorway and gazed into the cell with curiosity.