Interrogation
Jun. 9th, 2008 01:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taras_oleksei"I don't get it," Taras said.
He was frowning as they walked, using the time to think. He actually lagged behind Isaev a little.
Ilarion never hurried anywhere, though today he strode down the hall, bootheels ringing with a clarity of purpose. Only Taras wasn't clear.
They passed a window. Outside, it was still foggy, a thick white mist that enclosed the MVD building like mountains of snow, insulating and isolating, as if they were in some remote place up north, not in civilized Leningrad. Taras didn't like not being able to see across the street.
He looked away, turning back to Isaev.
"This guy is under suspicion of..."
A secretary approached, clutching a stack of files to her chest. She stepped aside to let them pass, squeezing so close to the wall it seemed like she was afraid they would knock her aside. She murmured something as they walked by.
Taras glanced behind them, to make sure she was out of earshot, though he wasn't sure why.
"...muzhelostvo. And some other political shit."
Their destination loomed. The doors to the interrogation rooms were simple, marked with numbers, but nothing else. Almost benign.
Taras stopped at the first door, then imposed himself physically between it and Ilarion, putting his hand on the frame to block Isaev's entry. Ilarion looked at him as if he had finally noticed Taras was there. His eyes were narrow, slivers of ice. Taras stared back.
"This isn't a violent crime, Isaev. So what gives?"
He was frowning as they walked, using the time to think. He actually lagged behind Isaev a little.
Ilarion never hurried anywhere, though today he strode down the hall, bootheels ringing with a clarity of purpose. Only Taras wasn't clear.
They passed a window. Outside, it was still foggy, a thick white mist that enclosed the MVD building like mountains of snow, insulating and isolating, as if they were in some remote place up north, not in civilized Leningrad. Taras didn't like not being able to see across the street.
He looked away, turning back to Isaev.
"This guy is under suspicion of..."
A secretary approached, clutching a stack of files to her chest. She stepped aside to let them pass, squeezing so close to the wall it seemed like she was afraid they would knock her aside. She murmured something as they walked by.
Taras glanced behind them, to make sure she was out of earshot, though he wasn't sure why.
"...muzhelostvo. And some other political shit."
Their destination loomed. The doors to the interrogation rooms were simple, marked with numbers, but nothing else. Almost benign.
Taras stopped at the first door, then imposed himself physically between it and Ilarion, putting his hand on the frame to block Isaev's entry. Ilarion looked at him as if he had finally noticed Taras was there. His eyes were narrow, slivers of ice. Taras stared back.
"This isn't a violent crime, Isaev. So what gives?"
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Date: 2008-06-11 08:35 am (UTC)As if he had missed the strike of Oleksei's knuckles, dusting the vaulted sconce of Barshov's cheek.
"I don't lie to him," said Barshov, softly.
Lasha thought he heard Taras snort, caustic, like a bull with acid in his veins.
Gathering his veneer, Ilarion did his job, or rather, did Nika's job, now that there was no Nika.
"You've been accused of many things, comrade, in these papers. Some, I am sure are not true. Why would you be harboring fugitives, for instance?"
"I am not," said the dancer, eyes hesitating, but raising once more the one who had boxed him menacingly. A taste of possibilities, that had been.
He had not liked the flavor of this man's bones knocking his own.
Not in that way.
Lasha paused, looking over his shoulder. His gaze was oblique, cast downward.
"This paper says you are a seditionist," he said, softly.
"Njiet," replied the dancer, in cadence. "I am only a faithful artistic servant to our common Mother, no more."
Ilarion's mouth flash-froze into a lightning-colored smile.
"Our common Mother," he echoed, with staggered confusion.
Barshov seemed to have realized what he said, because he lowered his head and laid it gently in his hand.
"Forgive me, kommissar."
Isaev's visage had already re-minted from softened gold, bearing unforeseen nicks, to implacable silver, which things slid, harmless, down the sheer face of.
"An innocent man need make no apology," he said, automatically.
"Then, I make none," Barshov said, more forcefully. "Not for these false implications," he added softly. "But for thoughtless words."
Lasha's fist clenched and he slipped it smoothly into his pocket.
"You are suspected by my associates...of muzhelostvo. Are you guilty?"
The dancer's eyes betrayed little, but he raised his head, almost a statue's bearing in his neck and chest.
"No more than you."
His voice was evenly produced, lightly declarative.
Ilarion's eyes narrowed.
"Answer less roundly, comrade."
"No," Barshov replied, at once. Then turned his gaze to Oleksei. "Nye pidaryi."
Lasha felt a sense of black irony overtake him, and could not repress a smile, dark as rye.
"If you lie, Captain Oleksei will hammer out the truth manually."
Barshov sighed, leaning back.
"I am not guilty. I do not know what brought me here. Perhaps someone's vendetta."