Read Online Pavel & I by Dan Vyleta - Free Book Online

Anders stood motionless and undecided, until the fat man, the Colonel, reached over and spread a handkerchief over Pavel’s features. He wiped them as one might wipe a window, or a stain upon the floor.
    â€˜My, my,’ he cooed, and Pavel, in his terrible weakness, buried his face in Fosko’s mink-lined shoulder and sobbed. It rather made up Anders’ mind.
    He made sure to kick open the door as he stormed out. It wouldn’t slam– it was on swings – but the least he could do was to give it a kick. The elevator took an age to come, but he could not locate the stairs. On the way up he paced the cage, then ran out and across the yard. At the gate, the soldiers heckled him about his pallor and the wet that had collected on his own cheeks, and before he was out of sight he turned upon his heel and swung out his arm at something more than a right angle, the elbow stiff and his chin raised high into the wind.
    â€˜
Heil Hitler!
’ he called back at them.
    They only laughed and watched him run away.
    Anders didn’t have far to go. He was looking for Paulchen and his crew. He had some questions for them, about the broken corpse and the fat man. Pavel, he swore, would be sorry about that tear-stained mink.

    Sonia walked on home alone. She knew that there would be no peace for her there. The Colonel would come and find her. He wasn’t done with Pavel for the day, not by a long shot, and would want to reap the fruits of this morning’s harvest; would want his pleasure, too, a lunchtime fuck, and then a smoke, running an absent-minded thumb over his manicure. She recognized herself in this, his cold relentlessness, his love for comfort. Still, if she walked fast she might garner a few minutes to herself, alone at the piano. She would play Beethoven, one of the late sonatas. She tried to focus upon Beethoven, tried to fill her head with his brooding, deaf-man’s rhythms. The music would not come. Boyd White stood in the way: a hulking figure, face broken by expert fists. Boyd had had no time for Beethoven, nor knowledge of him, for that matter. He’d liked Glenn Miller and American lady crooners; had liked Goodman, Basie, and a spot of Chopin when he wanted to sound cultured.
Chopin,
he’d once explained to her as though imparting some great secret,
was Polish. Sounded French, but was, as a matter of fact, Polish.
Sonia had smiled, wide-eyed, and feigned surprise.
    â€˜Polish, eh?’
    â€˜Yeah. Want some champagne, sugar? Thatta girl.’
    The body, it bothered her. She had known he would be killed, and had not cared. And, of course, he had been tortured. She had known this too, had spelled it out to herself even, so there would be no semblance of a lie. Still, the body had got to her – the broken legs, the mutilated fingers, almost black at the tips. She tried to penetrate to the root of her unease. It had to do with the violence, the capacity for inflicting such pain. It took a special sort of courage to do a thing such as that, to deafen one’s ears to another’s pain and set to him with rubber hose and pliers. Courage, and practice. She feared she had neither, and it struck her as weakness.
    Sonia climbed the stairs to her apartment, unlocked her door and closed it behind her, savouring the sound of it, a door falling into itslatch. Then: a jabbering scream, inhuman in pitch. Her body panicked, stomach, guts and rectum curling up into themselves like hedgehogs. She had forgotten about the monkey, straining at its collar and lead, its eyes bulging and black lips distended for a clear view of teeth. It had fouled the rug; had thrown its own filth across the room and against the windowpane where it had stuck and hardened in the cold. Black islands of monkey shit, growing out of the glass like boils.
    Sonia stood at the door, unclenching herself. Thinking that it was funny that fear crawled up your arse like that, shamelessly; thinking, too, that he had