The Night Reporter

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

It was a drizzly, though still warm, September day. The forest is floating in the window, beyond that – there are sprawling pastures and white geese near streams. Boys are crawling among the reeds, groping for fish in the water. The landscape is commonplace to the point of tedium, but there’s still nothing to do because I’ve already leafed through the newspaper, which I took with me on the train. I have nothing to do but look out the window, and as soon as I look away, my eyes catch sight of an old lady all in black, still wearing a black kerchief. Maybe she’s going to a funeral or coming from one. Her lips are tightly pursed, her gaze blank; she’s all deeply inside herself. Next to her there’s a traveling salesman with a suitcase stuffed with all sorts of wares, or rather trinkets, with which he goes from door to door and grinds out the same spiel over and over again, because he’s not capable of anything else, and then, upon returning home, makes excuses to his wife for getting buggered again, for spending more for the trip than he earned. A young fat dame with wide hips and an enormous bust sits down next to me. She’s moaning and snoring heavily like a blacksmith’s bellows. Her snoring’s lulling me to sleep, and I feel like closing my eyes and not thinking about anything. From time to time she shudders, looks around timidly, and for some reason straightens out her long skirt and hides back in her shell again. The salesman asks if he can read my newspaper. I say by all means and give it to him. He buries himself in the first page and wags his head sadly. There’s nothing good in the news, that’s for sure.

“September 22, 1938. The Italians continue to fight in Ethiopia,” he reads aloud under his breath for some reason. “Ethiopian guerrilla units are holding off significant forces of the Italian army. Emperor Haile Selassie, who was forced to leave his homeland, delivered a speech in Geneva. That’s good, that’s good,” he shakes his head, “that they’re holding off the Italian army. Hitler can’t take advantage of it fully. On the Yablonovskys, in a part of Lviv densely populated by Germans, the appearance on the street of a young man dressed in shorts and white knee stockings caused a sensation. Aha,” he raises up his finger, “Hitler’s fashion has already come to us. Soon these kinds of young guys will become much more visible, fashion is contagious ... Eh.... In the Community Hall a viche1 was held in support of the autonomy of Transcarpathian Ukraine. Hullo,” he becomes furious, “they’ve been tempted by autonomy. What good comes from autonomy here. Did you hear? They tried to free Bandera2 again. But the police aren’t snoozing, no. ‘Conspiracy Exposed!’ But there’s good news too: ‘Six Jews were beaten at the Foreign Trade Academy, and at the University – two more.’ It’s time to show them their place. Have you heard there’s a government plan to resettle all the Jews in Uganda? What a great idea!”

Without sensing any answer or approval from anyone present, he thoughtfully folded the newspaper and put it on the table. Finally, there’s peace and quiet.

Uganda! Yes, yes, a fashionable topic recently. They’re discussing all the details of the future resettlement really seriously. Our newspaper also has written about it, and I even interviewed a tzaddik3 who was outraged by these rumors and denied that the Jews were waiting to leave for Uganda.

My trip to Stanislaviv is as unexpected as it is secretive. Yesterday I had no idea about what I heard this morning. And it all started with a phone call and someone’s insinuating whisper, asking if I’d like to know how Tomashevych’s career advanced, how he became rich, and now has become the likeliest candidate for the office of president of the city government. Well, to be honest, I could give a damn about all these Tomashevyches, who, like flowers rising up from dung, suddenly blossom lavishly, because the scent of s**t hasn’t dissipated from them, but after the editor grabbed me by the chest and shook me, all the bottles I had downed over the last month when I was in a weightless state began to ring in my head, I was forced to come to my senses. Otherwise, I would have been booted out of the newspaper again. I had to do some digging and write about something that would stir fresh interest in the newspaper. No wonder I was nicknamed the “night reporter,” because in fact I used to hang out in various seedy pubs and dive bars, in casinos, in dens of iniquity and bordellos, got smacked in the chops, and even had my gut sliced with a blade, fell covered in barf in the gutter, because, there was no other way to get something interesting or of a sensational nature than to hang out with the kinds of people I hung out with. Of course, so that they wouldn’t have any suspicions about me, I needed to be like them. I had to speak their language, drink what they were drinking, swear like them, laugh rowdily like them, mingle with prostitutes in pubs, allow them to pat me on the head, and not just my head, kiss me on the ears and neck. I needed to smoke opium in a bordello, so that I could wheedle out something useful, and then, so that it would all not vanish in the wind I’d go to the outhouse and in the dim light of a light bulb jot down key words, the meaning of which no one other than I would have comprehended. And little by little I became so involved that I didn’t have any need for company either. I became my own company – and that was the worst.

But then I came to my senses. I sat in front of the mirror, looked at the unshaven face of a thirty-six-year-old man who had never achieved anything decent in his life, but who found so many problems on his ass and got in so many pickles in a short period of time that another person would never be able to get in this many pickles in a lifetime. I looked into the mirror and sighed heavily: “Marko, you have to fight your way out of this swamp you’ve dragged yourself into. You have to!”

Just the day before, the editor ordered everyone to prepare materials for the election and dig up as much dirt as deeply as possible on everyone, regardless of personal preferences. At the same time, he looked sympathetically at my mug wearied by life, because I hadn’t yet made a foray into politics. My sphere of interest was narrowed to clients from beneath a dark star. It was easier for me with them. Among them I could be myself. Even when they battered my ugly mug, the next day they slapped down a bottle of booze on the table, hugged me, and said: “You Matska,4 just don’t be angry! ‘kay? Yes, ‘kay, cause why not, ‘kay?”

Well, it just happened that I immediately took an interest in Tomashevych, although if it hadn’t been for that call, I wouldn’t give a damn. Though his rapid ascent surprised more than a few journalists and forced them to try to solve this mystery, they did so without success. An unknown person offered to meet in Jesuit Park.5 I was supposed to take a stroll, and he would approach me. That’s perfect. I shaved, sprayed on some cologne from a little left at the bottom of a bottle, put on a clean, though haphazardly ironed light blue shirt, a dark blue jacket over it, polished my black lace-up boots, and looked in the mirror again. Hey! A really handsome man was looking at me, who always had wild success with women until his breath began to reek so badly that it would scare away crows. Just a week without alcohol – and here’s the result for you! I’m the same again as I used to be.

The morning was sloppy and the park deserted. Water was dripping from the trees. Muddy mirrors of puddles lay underfoot and reflected the gloomy sky. There were thick crowns of trees and doused lanterns. I walked back and forth with my hands behind my back, when suddenly I heard the same insinuating whisper behind me:

“Don’t look back, Pan6 Krylovych.” Walk slowly ahead. So, if you’re interested in Tomashevych, you have to find out where his shady deals began. The notary Yosyp Martyniuk, who knows a lot, will help you with this, because he actually witnessed Tomashevych suddenly becoming rich. And he continues to get richer, but thanks to this.... Take it.” Here I felt that something like a folder was placed into my hand. “Don’t look back. Count to twenty and then you can look back.”

In the puddle I saw a dark figure in a raincoat with a raised collar and a hat. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man. He was holding his left hand in his raincoat pocket with his thumb sticking out. He, too, apparently must have noticed his reflection, though it was not as clear nor as murky as the puddle itself, and turned sharply, making his way out of the park. I opened the folder and saw intimate photographs of an elderly gentleman hugging half-naked girls in a bordello. The gentleman’s face was scratched over so that there was no way to recognize him. What did these photographs mean? As he said: “... continues to get rich, but thanks to this…?” So, is this about blackmail? Is Tomashevych blackmailing this gentleman? To whom were these photographs sent with a ransom offer? But this wasn’t the man whose reflection I saw in the puddle, because he’s thin and tall, while the gentleman in the pictures is fat....

I looked around: the park was deserted again.