The Geographer's Library

Jon Fasman
of the Lena, where I can fish; I have foreign travel privileges, access to hospitals
for me, my parents, and my children; I have cars and drivers and I live
better than ninety percent of Party officials who technically outrank me. But I
have to live in this misery. Nine months of bone-splitting cold and three
months of mosquitoes.
“Comrade Poet, how many times had you been outdoors since you first
arrived as my guest? No, no: don’t tell me. I know already: you’ve been outside
as often as we let you out. How do your hands smell?”
They smelled, of course, like fish, and I expect they always will. I sniffed,
and I tried to stay expressionless but I must have wrinkled my nose, because
Zhensky laughed.
“I thought so. We never want any of you ever to rid yourselves of that
smell entirely. And we’re increasing production, you know. They’re sending
more and more of you out here: more kike writers, more faggot actors, more
long-haired singers. And we have room and work for all of you.”
Nei and his wife stared sadly at the ground. Zhensky looked over at them,
and instantly their eyes widened, heads bowed, and insincere little smiles
landed like insects between their noses and chins. He told Nei to pour me
some tea and bring my plate of food to me. Zhensky sniffed the meat, exhaled
his disgust, and handed it to me. “I suppose eventually you might get used to
that. I never have. Raw reindeer meat, frozen and sliced thin. Savage. Now,
I prefer the osetra caviar that arrives each month, along with a case each
of vodka and Crimean champagne. Only the best. But here: eat. Try to stay
warm. Then I’d like to show you something, if I may.”
My appetite had vanished, but I didn’t want Zhensky to think he had
upset me, so I ate. When every last piece of meat and bread had gone, I
handed the plate directly to Nei’s wife, nodding in thanks. She beamed back
at me, then glanced at Zhensky and scurried, head down, back to Nei’s side.
“Come outside for a moment,” said Zhensky. “I want you to see something.”
I tried to push myself up from the bed but was frozen. A combination
of the temperature and Zhensky’s bloody reputation made my lower body
useless. “Poet,” he said, leaning his pockmarked face, the color of raw
chicken fat, into mine, “are you frightened of me?”
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