Chapter 3 Chapter 2 Cemetery

They meet at the ferry.He was a little unhappy when he saw the flowers in Matrona's hand.Those little white flowers are so ordinary.He didn't know Pavel's preference for flower varieties, but the flowers dedicated to him should at least be roses, bright red roses, no matter how expensive roses are in October. "I think we can plant it," said the woman, as if reading his thoughts. "I have a small shovel with me. Bird's claw flower: it blooms longer." He can see clearly now: the base of the flower is wrapped in a damp cloth. They took the little ferry to Elagin Island, where he had not been for many years.Apart from them, the only passengers on board were two old ladies in black.It was foggy and cold that day.A scrawny greyhound on the pier whined eagerly and jumped up and down as the ferry approached.The ferryman swung the hooked pole at it, and it retreated to a safe distance.Isle of Dogs, he thought: Are there packs of wild dogs hiding in the woods, digging up the dirt as soon as the mourners are gone?

He waited outside while Anna Sergeyevna, who still seemed to him the landlady, went into the caretaker's cottage for interrogation.After inquiring, they walked through the passage of the dead.He began to cry.Why are you crying now?He was angry with himself just thinking about it.But the tears at this time were also a good thing, covering his eyes like a layer of soft tulle, preventing him from seeing the outside world. "Here it is, mother!" cried Matrona. They came to one of the many mounds in the cemetery with cross stakes and numbered plaques on them.His mind was trying to avoid a number, his number, and when he saw those numbers of 7 and 4, he thought: I will bet from now on, and I will never bet on 7 again.

It is said that at this time he should throw himself on the grave.But all of this came too suddenly, and the loess in front of him was too strange, and he couldn't feel any emotion in his heart.Besides, while he was still in Dresden, his son, as ignorant as a sheep, must have been tossed limb by limb by a succession of indifferent hands, about which he was not at ease.From the jumping child in his memory, to the name on the death certificate, and then to the serial number on the stake, the process seemed doomed, and he was unprepared for it, and it was difficult for him to accept it.Temporary, he thought: there is no final number, everything is temporary, otherwise the game is over.After a while, the wheel will spin again, the numbers will move again, and everything will be fine again.

The mound is the size and even shape of a reclining human being.In fact, it was fresh soil dug up for a coffin containing a tall young man.Here's something he's brushing off and can't bear to think about.Troubling memories ensued: what was he doing in Dresden when storage, numbering, coffining, transport, burial, etc. were indifferently going on here in Petersburg?Was there not the slightest premonition in Dresden?Must a large number of people die before the earth can be shaken? One of the images he recalls is of himself trimming his beard in front of a mirror in the bathroom of his Latzenstrasse apartment.The brass tap of the washbasin gleamed, and the rapt face in the mirror was completely different from before.I'm getting old, he thought.The verdict has been delivered; the verdict is being passed to me verbatim, I just don't know it yet.The verdict read: The joys of your life are over.

The landlady dug a small hole at the foot of the mound. "Excuse me," he said, gesturing, and she stepped aside. He unbuttoned his overcoat and jacket, knelt down, then threw his hands over his head and fell forward awkwardly onto the mound.He wailed and burst into tears.His face scraped against the wet dirt, arching into it. When he stood up, his beard, hair and eyebrows were covered with dirt.The little girl he had been ignoring stared at him in surprise.He wiped his face, blew his nose, and buttoned his clothes.What a Jewish custom!he thought.But let her see it!Let her see that people are not wood or stone after all!Show her that affection has no limits!

There was a twinkle in his eye, as if something had been shot at her; she turned her head in panic, and was next to her mother.Back to the nest.A terrible malice surged out of him, directed at all living people, especially at living children.He thought that if there was a newborn baby nearby at this time, he would snatch the baby from its mother's arms and throw it hard against a rock.He thought: Now I understand what Herod did.Let birth end! He ignored the mother and daughter and walked away on his own.Before long, he had left the newer plot of the cemetery behind and was wandering among the old headstones, among the long dead.

When he came back, the bird's claw had already been planted. "Who's going to look after it?" he asked sullenly. She shrugged.It was not for her to answer the question.Now it's his turn, and it's up to him to say: I'll take care of it every day; or: God will take care of it; or someone else says: No one will take care of it, it will die, let it die. The little white flowers swayed happily in the breeze. He squeezed the woman's arm. "He's not here, he's not dead," he yelled, his voice changing. "Of course, of course he is not dead, Fyodor Mikhailovitch," she reassured him matter-of-factly.Not only that, but now she had a motherly affection, not only for her own daughter, but for Pavel as well.

Her hands are small, with thin fingers like a child's, but her body is plump.Ridiculously, he wanted to lay his head on her breast and let those fingers run through his hair. The innocence of the hand is always new.One more thing came to his mind: the touch of hands, intimacy in the dark.Whose hand is it?A hand that appeared like a beast in broad daylight, without shame, without memory. "I've got to get the number down," he said, avoiding her eyes. "I've written it down." Where did his desire come from?The desire burned like fire: he would grab the woman by the arm, drag her behind the caretaker's cabin, undress her, and fuck her.

He thought of the feast and drink that the undertakers would have afterward.There is a kind of ecstasy in it, a demonstration against the god of death: you can't do anything to us! They go back to the pier.The greyhound slid up to them.Matrona tried to pet it, but her mother stopped her.There was something wrong with the dog: a sore was inflamed from the base of the tail to the back.It whimpered incessantly, or sat down suddenly on the ground, biting the sore with its teeth. I'll come back tomorrow, he promised: I'll come alone, you and I can talk.He thought of coming here again, crossing the river, finding his son's tomb, being alone with his son in the swirling mist, and there was a hint of adventure in it.