The Geographer's Library

Jon Fasman
fellow in’—nothing like that. A full, honest, and detailed account, and you’ll
get to keep the fruits of your labor. Fair enough? Good.
“Now, your second task. Let’s see . . . Ah, this way.” He beckoned me
over to the fallen tree. It lay in the center of a slurry of ice, snow, wood chips,
and black Siberian dirt.
He took a pinch of pinkish snuff from the box, poured the rest out, and
guided me to the center of the patch of dirt. “Breathe.” My breath fell in tiny
hailstones onto the already frozen earth. “Perfect. Now, what poem do you
wish to read?”
“Pardon me?”
“Which poem? What’s your favorite one? Here, here, maybe you don’t
remember. Maybe you just remember omul now. Take a look.” He sat down
on the tree trunk at my feet and lit a cigarette.
“This one,” I said. It was called “The Fruitseller’s Lament.” I composed
it during my first married summer in Kurgja, while making love to my wife
and listening to a currant lady chanting in the square downstairs.
He signaled for me to begin. As I read the poem, he got down on his
hands and knees and with a buck knife scraped up the earth onto which my
breath fell and placed it in the box. When I finished, he sealed the box and
bowed. “There we are. Now, whenever I wish to remember the illustrious
poet in my charge, all I have to do is open this box in warm weather.
“As for you, here is some paper, and here are two pens. Don’t lose these.
Start writing—everything, mind you, up to and including this conversation—
and I’ll be back in two days to check on your progress. Once I’m completely
satisfied (as I’m sure I will be), I shall process your release papers and send
you home.
“You look surprised. You shouldn’t. We’re not all monsters, you know. No,
Nei and I, we’ve just figured out how to work the system to our advantage. He
gets what he wants, I get what I want, and the only people who get hurt are
criminals, reprobates, and enemies of the state who would have been caught
anyway. Even the worst escapee gets to taste a few hours of freedom first, eh? A
few hours munching reindeer jerky in the company of these pie-faced women
who stink of reindeer fat. Better than nothing. Better than fish guts and snoring
criminals. A worthwhile bargain, don’t you think? Sleep well, Comrade Poet.”
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