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: 2008-06-12 06:44 pm (UTC)His skin still tingled from where Lasha had touched him, but eventually that faded, like the memory of pain. He could almost doubt it had been real, almost.
Now that Barshov had explained who he was, Taras did understand something about him. The athlete's build. The flexibility, apparent in the way he sat, leg bent up with negligent, supple ease. A dancer. Taras had thought they were sissies, but apparently not, if they could dance through a lake of their own blood. He respected that.
Eventually, Taras nodded.
"It's good to work with a professional," he said.
It was. Taras preferred it. He took no pleasure from the ones that cried and whined like children.
He glanced down, and started to unbutton his jacket. The buttons of his uniform were real metal, solid and substantial under his fingers. He liked that MVD uniforms weren't cheap. Too nice to get messy. Taras slipped the jacket off his shoulders and set it on the table.
"You know, it's funny, how some people don't use words right. Like they think they know what the word means, but they really don't, and they don't look it up, so they end up using it wrong."
Taras paused, looking up again, meeting Barshov's cautious gaze.
"Like the word butcher."
He shrugged, and unknotted his tie.
"You hear people use that all the time, but like it means someone who does sloppy work, like, 'he butchered that guy.' Like he made a mess of it, or something. But when you go to the butcher shop, and you get a cut of meat, you expect a nice even cut, and that's what you get. Real butchers know every part of the animal and how to cut it right, which part to make into chops, or steaks, or shanks. And they do it neat and clean, like art. And that's what people don't seem to remember, when they go to use that word."
His tie joined the jacket, then his shirt as well, until he stood before the dancer in his grey uniform pants and white undershirt. His tattoos were a faded, dusty blue, almost grey, drawn across his bare arms and shoulders like purposefully cultivated bruises. The top of the tiger's head was just visible on his chest, above his undershirt collar.
Taras turned toward Barshov again, stepping closer, looking down.
His blood sang with anticipation, and he remembered how it had felt, to have Lasha's lips on his ear.
"Do you understand, comrade?"
He murmured it, low.
"The State has all kinds of artistic servants."