Had Ivanov not promised in that night to have him fetched the very next day?
Rubashov’s impatience became more and more feverish; in the third night after his conversation with Ivanov, he could not sleep.
He lay in the dark on the bunk, listening to the faint, stifled sounds in the building, threw himself from one side to another, and for the first time since his arrest wished for the presence of a warm female body.
He tried breathing regularly to help himself fall asleep, but became more and more on edge. He fought for a long time against the desire to start a conversation with No. 402, who since the question “What is decency?” had not been heard of again.
About midnight, when he had been lying awake for three hours, staring at the newspaper stuck to the broken windowpane, he could no longer hold out, and tapped against the wall with his knuckles.
He waited eagerly; the wall remained silent.
He tapped again and waited, feeling a hot wave of humiliation mounting in his head.
No. 402 still did not answer. And yet certainly he was lying awake on the other side of the wall, killing time by chewing the cad of old adventures; he had confessed to Rubashov that he could never get to sleep before one or two o’clock in the morning, and that he had returned to the habits of his boyhood.
Rubashov lay on his back and stared into the dark.
The mattress under him was pressed flat; the blanket was too warm and drew an unpleasant dampness from the skin, yet he shivered when he threw it off.
He was smoking the seventh or eighth cigarette of a chain; the stumps lay scattered round the bed on the stone floor.
The slightest sound had died out; time stood still; it had resolved itself into shapeless darkness. Rubashov shut his eyes and imagined Arlova lying beside him, the familiar curve of her breast raised against the darkness.
He forgot that she had been dragged over the corridor like Bogrov; the silence became so intense that it seemed to hum and sway.
What were the two thousand men doing who were walled into the cells of this bee-hive?
The silence was inflated by their inaudible breath, their invisible dreams, the stifled gasping of their fears and desires.
If history were a matter of calculation, how much did the sum of two thousand nightmares weigh, the pressure of a two-thousand-fold helpless craving?
Now he really felt the sisterly scent of Arlova; his body under the woolen blanket was covered with sweat. ...
The cell-door was torn open janglingly; the light from the corridor stabbed into his eyes.
He saw enter two uniformed officials with revolver-belts, as yet unknown to him.
One of the two men approached the bunk; he was tall, had a brutal face and a hoarse voice which seemed very loud to Rubashov.
He ordered Rubashov to follow him, without explaining where to.
Rubashov felt for his pince-nez under the blanket, put them on, and got up from the bunk.
He felt leadenly tired as he walked along the corridor beside the uniformed giant, who towered a head above him. The other man followed behind them.
Rubashov looked at his watch; it was two o’clock in the morning, so he must have slept, after all.
They went the way which led towards the barber’s shop—the same way as Bogrov had been taken.
The second official remained three paces behind Rubashov.
Rubashov felt the impulse to turn his head round as an itching in the back of his neck, but controlled it.
After all, they can’t bump me oft so completely without ceremony, he thought, without being entirely convinced.
At the moment it did not matter to him much; he only wished to get it over quickly.
He tried to find out whether he was afraid or not, but was aware only of the physical discomfort caused by the strain of not turning hit head round towards the man behind him.
When they turned the corner beyond the barber’s shop, the narrow cellar staircase came into view.
Rubashov watched the giant at his side to see whether he would slacken his pace.
He still felt no fear, only curiosity and uneasiness; but when they had passed the staircase, he noticed to his surprise that his legs felt shaky, so that he had to pull himself together.
At the same time he caught himself mechanically rubbing his spectacles on his sleeve; apparently, he must have taken them off before reaching the barber’s shop without noticing it.
It is all swindle, he thought.
Above, it is possible to kid oneself, but below, from the stomach downwards, one knows.
If they beat me now, I will sign anything they like; but tomorrow I will recall it. ... A few steps further on, the “theory of relative maturity” came to his mind again, and the fact that he had already decided to give in and to sign his submission. A great relief came over him; but at the same time he asked himself in astonishment how it was possible that he should have so completely forgotten his decisions of the last few days.
The giant stopped, opened a door and stood aside.
Rubashov saw a room before him similar to Ivanov’s, but with unpleasantly bright lighting, which stabbed his eyes.
Opposite the door, behind the desk, sat Gletkin.
The door shut behind Rubashov and Gletkin looked up from his pile of documents.
“Please sit down,” he said in that dry, colourless tone which Rubashov remembered from that first scene in his cell. He also recognized the broad scar on Gletkin’s skull; his face was in shadow, as the only light in the room came from a tall metal standing lamp behind Gletkin’s armchair.
The sharp white light which streamed from the exceptionally strong bulb blinded Rubashov, so that it was only after a few seconds that he became aware of a third person—a secretary sitting behind a screen at a small table, with her back to the room.
Rubashov sat down opposite Gletkin, in front of the desk, on the only chair. It was an uncomfortable chair, without arms.
“I am commissioned to examine you during the absence of Commissar Ivanov,” said Gletkin.
The light of the lamp hurt Rubashov’s eyes; but if he turned his profile to Gletkin, the effect of the light in the corner of his eye was nearly as unpleasant.
Besides, to talk with averted head seemed absurd and embarrassing.
“I prefer to be examined by Ivanov,” said Rubashov.
“The examining magistrate is appointed by the authorities,” said Gletkin.
“You have the right to make a statement or to refuse.