Andrei: Oh, now I see why the nurse here was searching the boys leaving the mess-hall. They are rationing bread. I guess Victor, our philosopher, is right: this regime cares more for pigs than for men; besides, the more convicts they have, the cheaper the labor force.
Sasha: Yes, though sometimes he talks such nonsense!
Voronin approaches the counter with his bowl, shouting: I want more porridge!
Bachkov: What you want is an extra shot of aminazine and a kick in the ass! Lay off, you, glutton.
Voronin (sounding threatening): If you kick me in the ass I won’t even know it. If I kick you in the ass, no one would be able to tell your shit from this porridge.
General laughter.
I’m a tiger, I’m a tiger, living in snow-capped mountains… Just mark my words, you, ha-ha-ha (low rasping sound).
(Then extremely sweet, addressing Andrei): Excuse me, could I have a piece of your bread, please?
Andrei: Sure, help yourself.
Voronin: Thank you, buddy. Know the story about a soldier and general? An orderly brings in a newly washed and pressed tunic to his general and asks him «How come you, comrade general, were so careless yesterday evening?»
Sasha: Get lost, you, bastard, or I’ll cram my spoon into your stupid mouth!
Voronin laughs and walks away, singing: «Among untrodden mountain paths there’s one that’s mine…»
Sasha: God, that pesky loony can really drive me mad.
Andrei: Well, I wouldn’t be so positive about his diagnosis. I passed the forensic psychiatry examination during my first term and saw enough nutty guys who, after they were certified, did the coolest things to make a break.
Bachkov: It doesn’t matter much here whether this zany is really mad or not. He’s shot dosages that no man – sane or crazy – could take. Though, what really puzzles me, boys, is that it doesn’t have any noticeable effect on him. The only visible change in those three months since they brought him here is that he has gained some weight. And he has became more garrulous; his mouth won’t shut for hours.
Andrei: What did they put him in for?
Bachkov: Amnesia. He was brought by a patrol, found wandering in a nearby closed garrison with a Nikon camera in his attaché-case and an expensive illustrated edition of Pushkin. But no identity papers whatever. According to him, he’s called Valeri Voronin, and he used to live in Petropavlovsk.
Andrei: So what’s the problem? No relatives?
Bachkov: The problem is that there are two Petropavlovsks, one is in Kamchatka peninsular, the other is in
Kazakhstan. Judging by his raving accounts, he seems to know both, but when you start asking about his background, his ravings become too kaleidoscopic to figure out anything. Well, in any case the local shrinks diagnosed him as a friendly, non-violent type who could be kept in our asylum. So, we’ve got to put up with this Winnie the Pooh.
Andrei, with a laugh: He looks like a bear, all right. And I suspect has got his strength, too.
Bachkov: Frankly, boys, it’s none of my business who the hell he is. He plays his part and I play mine. I’ve seen enough to mind my own business, and not to nose in somebody else’s.
Departing, to Andrei: Get your dosage after breakfast and you may enjoy yourself in the garden till dinnertime.
