“May I see?” asked my companion, picking up the paper. I scrutinized his face as he slowly perused it. An amused smile flickered round his crooked mouth, one end of which jutted up into his cheek. “A very nice passport indeed,” he said, finally, looking with peculiar care at the signatures. “It will be a long time before you land in the cells of No. 2 Goróhovaya if you continue like this.”
He turned the paper over. Fortunately the regulation had not yet been published rendering all “documents of identification” invalid unless stamped by one’s house committee, showing the full address. So there was nothing on the back.
“You are a pupil of Melnikoff, that is clear,” he said, laying the paper down on the desk. “By the way, I have something to tell you about Melnikoff. But finish your writing first.”
I soon inscribed my occupation of clerk in an office of the Extraordinary Commission, adding also “six” to the age to conform with my other papers. As I traced the letters I tried to sum up the situation. Melnikoff, I hoped, would now soon be free, but misgivings began to arise regarding my own position, which I had a disquieting suspicion had in some way become jeopardized as a result of the disclosures I had had to make that evening to Zorinsky.
When I had finished I folded the exemption certificate and put it with my passport in my pocket.
“Well, what is the news of Melnikoff?” I said.
Zorinsky was engrossed in Pravda, the official Press organ of the Communist Party. “I beg your pardon? Oh, yes—Melnikoff. I have no doubt he will be released, but the investigator wants the whole 60,000 roubles first.”
“That is strange,” I observed, surprised. “You told me he would only want the second half after Melnikoff’s release.”
“True. But I suppose now he fears he won’t have time to get it, since he also will have to quit.”
“And meanwhile what guarantee have I—have we—that the investigator will fulfil his pledge?”