Chapter 38 Chapter 16 Printing House (1)

He bowed to the woman.An extremely timid face looked at him from under the stupid hat.The face was freckled and girlish.He detects a fleeting moment of sexual interest, but pulls it back immediately.He should have worn a black tie, or, perhaps, a black Italian-style armband around his arm, and he would stand out here—and to himself as well.He is no longer a whole man: only half.Or, he could have a Nechayev badge on his collar, at least the good half would be more. "I have to go," he said. Nechayev looked at him contemptuously. "Let's go," he said. "Nobody's stopping you," he said to the woman. "He thought I didn't know where he was going."

This nonsense made him angry. "Where do you think I'm going?" "Do you want me to tell you? Isn't this your chance to get revenge on me?" Retaliation: Just when he was about to leave, it was like a pig bladder was thrown in his face.Nechayev's language, Nechayev's world—the world of revenge.What did I do to him?However, it was not without reason that such dirty words were thrown at him.He remembered Nechayev's behavior when he first met him—skirts rubbed against the back of the chair, feet under the table pressed against his.He dressed his body up like that, extremely shameless, extremely stupid.Does this kid have a clear understanding of what he wants?Or does he just want to see, in which direction things are going?He's like me, and I'm like him, he thought to himself—only I don't have his courage.Also: Is this why Pavel followed him: because he had tried to learn to have courage?Was that why Pavel had climbed the bomb tower that night?

One thing is becoming clearer: Nechayev will not let it go until he falls into the hands of the police and suffers from the police.Only then will his courage, his determination, be thoroughly tested.Of course he will get through it, and there is no doubt that he will not surrender.No matter how much he was beaten and starved, he would not give in, not even sick.With all his teeth gone, he still has a bright smile.He would drag his broken leg around and growl, determined as a lion. "Do you want me to retaliate? Do you want me to go out and denounce you? Is that what you want? Is that what all your charades and blindfold games want?"

Nechayev smiled excitedly.He knew they had let go of each other. "Why should I think that?" he said slowly, with a hint of mischief in his voice.He also cast a sidelong glance at the woman, as if trying to draw her into the joke. "I'm not like your son, I'm not a lost young man. If you want to go to the police, just say no. Don't act like you're sorry for me, don't act like you're not my enemy." I know how sad you are. I dare say you've used it on women, on women and little girls." He turned to the girl and said, "You know that kind of thing all too well, don't you? When this kind of man hurts you, tears will follow. They just want to use this to lubricate their conscience and satisfy their own happiness."

How much he had seen at his age!Even more than the women on the street.Because he has his own shrewdness.He understands the world.Pavel could have known more, too.The filthy real life, the shambling old man in his stories—what was his name?Karamzin? —much more than the annoying cocky hero told him.The carnage is coming—a grave mistake. "I have no intention of betraying you," he said exhaustedly. "Go home to your father. If I remember, you have a father somewhere in Ivanovo. Go to him, kneel before him, and ask him to hide you. He will do it. A father will do anything for you unconditionally."

Nechayev burst into a fit of wild laughter, his nose wheezing.He lost his composure and strode across the basement, shoving the children out of the way. "My father! What do you know about my father? I'm not a fool like your stepson! I don't hang my oppressors! I left my father's house when I was sixteen and never went back. You know Why? Because he hit me. I said, 'Hit me one more time and you'll never see me again.' He hit me, so he never saw me again. He wasn't me from that day on Father. Now, I am my own father. I have transferred out, I don't need any father to hide me. If I need to hide, the people will hide me.

"You said that a father would do anything for me unconditionally. Did you know that my father showed all my letters to the police? The letters I wrote to my sister were all copied by him and sent to the police Go there, and they'll pay him for it. That's his condition. How poor the cops are, they'll pay for that stuff just to grab those few straws. They can't prove anything— what!" Take the risk.Desperate to be betrayed, desperate to find a father who betrayed him. "Maybe they really can't prove anything, but they know, you know, I know, you're not innocent. You've done far more than curate a hit list, right? You've got blood on your hands, yes No? I'm not asking you to admit it. I'm just asking, assuming you're sane, why would you do it?"

"Suppose? Because, if you don't kill someone, no one will take you seriously. Only by killing someone can you attract others' attention." "But why do you want other people to value you? How can you not be a carefree young man the best you can be? Wait until a certain age to be valued. Leave aside your weak followers who mistakenly value you Don't talk about it, think about your Finnish friend, what she is going through at this moment as a result of following you." "Stop blah blah blah about my so-called Finnish friend! She's been well taken care of, she hasn't suffered much! Don't tell me I'm not valued until I'm old. I've seen it from you, old What it will be like. I won't be myself when I'm old."

He should have imagined Pavel would have this idea, not heard it from Nechayev.What a waste! "I wish," he began, "I can still hear you with Pavel." What he didn't say was: like two swords, two bare swords. What a clever Nechayev, who forewarned him not to be upset!But sadness was exactly what he felt most: he felt sorry for a child.The child is alone, struggling in the sea, gradually being submerged in the water.Is he wrong?Under Nechayev's gloomy and thoughtful gaze, he felt that Nechayev was somewhat deliberate—even worse than deliberate, actually cunning?How long will those words, those words, which are passed from heart to heart with such conviction, last?People of this age are at the age of acting and acting, at the age of disguise.Pavel is too childish, too old-fashioned, to believe it.Pavel's heroes and heroines talk to each other in that comically stammering and archaic language. "I think... I think..."—"You can...you can..." But Pavel can at least throw himself into the arms of others, and put Sergei Nechaye It is too impossible for the husband to imagine himself as a writer.A selfish person is even worse.They are indeed a poor couple.No emotion, no empathy.That kind of emotion is immature and hesitant, like a dwarf who can't grow up.That was a man of the future, of the next century, with nothing but a big head and a big appetite.Alone, alone!The best place for him to be is the throne in the empty room, the throne of the mind.Giants of thought, stupid minds.God save these believers, God save the ruled people!

His thoughts were interrupted by a click on the stairs.Nechayev ran to the door, listened, and went out.There was a subdued quarrel outside, the sound of a key unlocking the lock, and then it was quiet again. The woman, still wearing the little white hat, sat on the edge of the bed and took the youngest child into her arms.She blushed when she met his gaze, but then lifted her chin defiantly. "Mr. Ishukin said you could help us," she said. "Mr. Ishukin?" "Mr. Ishukin. Your friend." "Why would he say that? He knows my situation." "We're worrying about the rent. I paid this month's rent, but there's no money for the rest. Too much."

The baby stopped sucking and writhed in its mother's arms.She puts down the baby.The child slid crookedly down her legs and left the room.They heard the sound of the child peeing down the stairs, and he was moaning softly as usual. "He's been sick for weeks," she complained. "Show me your tits." She quickly undid the second button, exposing a pair of breasts.Both nipples became hard in the cold.She cupped her breasts with her fingers, moved gently and skillfully, and expressed a drop of milk. He had only five rubles, which he had borrowed from Anna Sergeyevna.He gave her two.Without a word she took the coins and wrapped them in her handkerchief. Nechayev is back. "So Sonia told you about her troubles," he said, "and I think your landlady has helped them. She's a very generous woman, isn't she? That's what Isaev said. " "There is no doubt about it. How can I bring—" That girl—is her name really Sonia? ——turned away embarrassingly.Her clothes were made of cheap calico, not suitable for winter at all.The buttons on her dress were hanging down in front all the time.She was already shivering with cold. "We'll talk about that later," Nechayev said. "I want to show you the printing press." "I'm not interested in your printing press." Nechayev was already taking him by the arm, half dragging him to the door.Once again he marvels at his obedience, as if in a state of moral freeze.What would Pavel think of seeing him being so used by his own killer?Or was Pavel leading him to do so? He saw the printing press right away.It was an old Birmingham-type printing press, on which his brother had printed leaflets and advertisements.Printing a few thousand copies should be no problem—about two hundred an hour. "The source of every writer's strength," Nechayev said, patting the machine with his palm. "Your statement can be distributed to households tonight and on the streets tomorrow. Or, if you prefer, we can wait for you to cross the border before sending it out. If someone collects taxes from you, you say It's a forgery. It doesn't matter then—your statement will stand." There was another man in the room, older than Nechayev—thinning hair, sallow face, dull eyes, sprawled over the composing table with his chin dropped to his hands.He did not notice them at all, and Nechayev did not introduce him. "My statement?" "Yes, your statement. Whatever statement you make. You can write it right away, which saves time." "What if I choose to tell the truth?" "Whatever you write, we'll send. I promise you." "I am going to tell facts that cannot be told by a manual printing press." "Leave me alone for a while," said another voice from inside the room.He didn't look up, and kept looking at the text in front of him. "He's a writer, he doesn't write like that." "How should he write it?" "Writers have their own rules. They won't be on par with the people." "Then they should learn new rules. Personal things are luxuries we can give up. The people don't need personal things." Now that Nechayev had an audience, he went back to his old ways.As for him, he was tired of these childish provocations. "I have to go," he said again. "If you don't write it, we'll write it for you." "What did you say? Write it for me?" "yes." "Sign my name?" "Just sign your name. We have no other choice." "No one will agree. No one will believe you." "Students will believe—you have a following among students, I told you. Especially when they have to read big books for inspiration. Students will believe anything." "Come on, Sergei Gennadevich!" said another, very seriously.The man had layers of bags under his eyes.Now, he lit a cigarette and smoked anxiously. "What do you get against books? What do you get against students?" "What can't be said on a page is not worth talking about. Also, why can some people sit comfortably and read while others can't read at all? The students babble too much. They sit and argue and waste their energy. University is the place where you are taught that arguments never work. It's like the Jews cut off the hair of Samson the wrestler. Arguments are just a trap. They think they can change the world by arguing Better. They don't understand that the world is already bad before they improve."