The Chair - A Short Story.

 The Chair

A battle of expressions; character, will, courage, determination and life experiences completely different. On one hand stood a free man whereas on another, one sentenced. But who amongst the 2 was really free? 

“Acting too nice? What the hell kind of a complaint is that?” was Chief Jailer of the Lubyanka Vladimir Vladimirovich’s remark to the complaint which had just come to him. 

“Too nice is as easily curable as cancer with a bullet. Ever had that cancer? I cured 6 Patients in the cell 508 by a dose of Iron Chromite. A very affective cure. See Mr Nice, arrangements can be made for you too.” 

Opposite to him stood in cuffs Nabokov Nabokovich, a smiling man whose expressions were of the sort to put one’s guard up as to why the smiling man had none of his up.
Vladimir ordered his guards to come in. 

 

“Imagine I have a white garb on and a cap with a plus. No, not the red cross, A doctor. I am the doctor and here we have our newest patient to cure”.

Looking at Nabokov and his ubiquitous facial expression, it was hard to figure where it was coming from. Pure acceptance of one’s fate? A ploy of his that had worked? Amusement at the situation? or a smile of complete utter insanity? it made no difference to the officer anyhow.

“Take him back to his playground” the officer sat down and twirled, in his fabled Chair of Judgement, Flag of the USSR tapered on it with red leather. Leather with so much foam on it that whoever sat on it would automatically recollect memories of jumping and playing on foam. No one was allowed to sit of course, even Sokolov, his most favored guard. The chair was certainly his favorite place to think at.

Nabokov was taken back to his prison cell by the guards. His room was a dark one, built fairly recently but already showing signs of wearing out due to an apparent neglect. Rusted Prison bars of which’s 3 corners had spider webbings. Dirt Chalking on each side, the worst of which were ordered to be covered by prisoners’ posters had they any, and Infestation. The only thing clean to be found were the bunkbeds. 1x2 patina rail for a namesake panjareh, and a floor side with broken concrete out of which a little of the Earth protruded.

Nabokov shared his cell with 4 other people who were also some of the luckiest since they had him as cellmate. The crime for which Nabokov had just been to the chief jailers office was no more than not eating his share of food and giving it to the ill Sokolov. The carefully packaged out rations were divided in equity for everyone, and not eating was looked at as a crime, ill will against the Motherland that oriented resources for its very enemies. Sokolov had hid his illness from all but one cellmate, what other option did he have though. The only kind of doctor to be found in the Lubyanka was not of the doctorly kind. 

Vladimir, as if actions ran with names, was not one with mercy to spare. Courtesy of the young man’s niceness, for the next few days the only food Nabokov got to eat were leftovers from previous days; dried raisins, rotted meat and whatever was of disposal. This went on for about 8 days. Summoned at Vladimirs office, Nabokov although now with a face paler, his smile shined as brightly as before if not more. “How’s our scoundrel doing? He gets the best food of all out of us, imbued with the spirit of every inmate he’s trying to preserve. The ultimate preservative hah!”. His personal guards also broke into laughter, which they did sometimes genuinely, and sometimes to boost his ego. Upon Nabokov’s arrival at the cell, He saw his condition, still as bright as before. “Shining as ever, aren’t you?” vehemently spitting upon the floor and having Nabokov forcibly find his face in it. “We have more fun to have with you.”

Vladimir, as Chief Jailer, had a real busy life, from the Magistrate Affairs, Documentations, fabrications and official lies that needed be told to such a facility, coordination within and outbound with other state prisons kept him busy, For him prisoners were but a release. Something he thoroughly enjoyed and which’s stories he told personally to Comrade Stalin Himself. Of the “Newly Reformed Citizens” whom he had rehabilitated and made ready for society again through the “Re-Educate, Re-Formate Program”; Rehabilitation for a better future. 

Vladimir sent Nabokov back to his cell and asked Kazanovich. one of his three stooge-like personal guards to come forward, “Go through all of his possessions and his files too. Bring them to Me” 3 were allowed to be kept for each prisoner, And Nabokov’s were about to go through the standard procedure. “Sir, The Bible, His personal Diary and an Engraved timepiece he was adamant to keep.”. “The cogs which fuels the lever, Bring them to me”, with a devilish grin. “His Diary, Burn it. As for the bible, let him have it but drench it in something vile, no, I see he might find it more precious. leave it here, I’ll see to it. As for the time piece we’ll handle that right now”. Cell 224B Inmates: Sokolov, Nabokov, Pushkinovic, and Drago. “Step forward Mr. Nabokov”. And, looking him directly in his eyes waiting for the exact moment which he was as sure as could be would change the smile that was on this man’s face, waited for it to break, the smile that lingered in back of Vladimirs Head, A viral infection that needed somehow be cured, an ache that served a constant reminder to him in places where it should not have been a bother. But he burned the photo within the time piece and had the time pieces fragments destroyed. No emotions changed on the smiling man’s face. 

“You’re as maniacal as they come, you’re as maniacal as me”, to which Nabokov answered, “No, I only accept”. he smiled at Vladimir, and then to the guards, to his fellow inmates and then to the one broken mirror that hanged in his cell, only to go back to the corner where he usually sat; by the motherly earth looking at the shell of an outside opening, the bars from which a fragment of the whole sky could be seen. Vladimir, stumped, could only head back to his office.

Several days had passed this incident. It became an intense bother for the chief jailer for a night, the first night only. It kept him up shocked and amused. He had never seen such sort of a thing before. Faith? Was it faith? He took to the Bible. Nabokov’s Bible which he had brought with him with a vileness and a devilish disgust. Vladimir took to it to make the bible not be understood at all, not have it taken away but hand it back unrecognizable. Intentionally decimating pages out in the most abysmal way possible that the text was not to be understood at all, whitening in between, crossing out the word “god”, completely ripping to shreds something that once looked like it made sense. He made the whole thing an extreme trouble to go through really, the sort of trouble which upon looking would only bring anguish to the hopeful. And then he slept. So well in fact, the incident did not bother him at all for the remainder of his carriage of the duties for the week. 

Next Monday he ordered Nabokov to come to his office and had him handed his Bible which had been so joyously desecrated. “Acceptance You Said” and had him sent away to his cell. Nabokov only smiled. His case had started to linger in the strickeneds’ heart. 

“How much of a sentence does he have remaining?” 

“12 more years sir...?” 

“His Charge?”  

“Charge sheet for Treason sir, ill Conspiring against the State, Access to Anti state Materials, Proliferation of Anti-State Propaganda. Involvement in treacherous gatherings”.

“An Enemy of the state ought to have no comfort.” As Vladimir recalled Nabokov’s ghast expression. “His Kind…”. But no matter his motivation, there is no escape from biology.” Eureka, as his look glanced upon his noble, righteous chair.

“Hah, Take from him the luxury I enjoy the most, sitting. Tie him up in the “тоска” and have him beg for chair. Then to break his smile, I’ll present to him my own”. “Straight to the solitary” in a loud tone. “Ill handle his papers and see to the necessary adjustments”. 

Kazanovich, assigned Nabokov’s transfer to the solitary showed crack in his usual act sternness, “You know you could avoid all this. Theres no need to keep up your act. Comrade Vladimir is not like this to all the prisoners. Break the act and you’ll be alright”. 

But to his mistake it was no act. Nabokov warmly complied with him with his bright smile. One that’d drive even a witch to compassion, something not to be easily forgotten. 

Days passed and Nabokov was being fed properly now, even a bit extra per the delightful command of the Vladimir in his joyous excision if power. He could not sit or stand and was timed completely in the isolatory. This remained the way for 5 weeks. Each week once and sometimes twice, Vlad would but check on the pet project of his, often inquiring about his condition and if the prisoner had submitted yet. Would he have submitted, what was he submitting to and what for really? Whatever “It” was, it did not happen in the 2 months of solitary that Nabokov lived out. 

Vladimir kept hearing only a negative response to his inquiries, a response primed as failure in his capacity to change the state that buzzed him off, so much so that even he himself could not smile anymore at the absurd irony of the situation. It was beyond him now. “Why don’t you just shoot him?” said Mikhailovich, one of the 3 guards. “Shoot him no that’ll ruin all the fun” “But It shall absolve you of this problem that you have on your hands sir”

“Problem no not really, but an itch that has existed too long. I was initially fascinated by him, his case, extremely tempted to break him, but the more this draws out the more it has become an annoyance.” 

“Then just let him live sir and forget about him” 

“No. He’s left far too much an impression on me to just forget about him. I detest him in all his existence, what virility of Christ drives him I am not sure, what sort of marred acceptance. Is it Family which drives him? Or a sense for a coming freedom maybe? The sky which he looks at from his cell… The hope to live still lingers on in him, but shooting him is no fun, no. I’ll end it, but not in this way.” 

And after a long pause in grin,

“Taking and giving, I shall take and give. We deprived him of comfort, lets now kill him by it. By a chair Yes, by a chair” and he laughed maniacally, he laughed and laughed for minutes straight. “By… By a chair Sir?” “Yes, by a chair” and he continued laughing in his devious smile.    

“Build me a chair 30 ft. long”. Vladimir did serve in the engineering wing of the military of course, and read he was widely. “Build. Be it a chair 45 ft. long and a rung every 4 cm.” The endeavor shall be taken care of by the state. Paid double for its cost, to be sent to me as soon as its done.

3 weeks for it to be delivered and Nabokov was still in “тоска” within his confines. The chair arrived as a package. A wide base with extra close rungs, and a top narrow enough to only sit. Made upon special order and paid for personally by Vladimir, It arrived in the Lubyanka as a marvel, a herald to witness for a purpose unknown. Anyone who took a glance at it instantly knew of its potential, but their minds wouldn’t let them think that way. Vladimir corrected Nabokov’s record and added to his punishment “The Supreme Measure” “For Misconduct”. His sentence was announced to him the same night. And he was to be executed the following day. The Executor, Vladimir himself. 

Nabokov only looked at the sky for the whole of that night and next morning. At exactly 5pm, Nabokov was escorted to the prison yard by Kazanovich and upon the orders of the State, was “to sit on his chair”. His expressions had not much changed from when Kazanovich had told him of his sentence. A bewildering smile that protruded as much relaxation as warmth. As he was being courted to his sentence, Vladimir and Nabokov had an eye-to-eye. No words were said. Only an exchange of smiles, eager anticipation against contentment. No words were exchanged. As Nabokov climbed his chair he was pointed at from guns from below. If he were to fall, he was to be shot. If he was to attempt to come down, he was to be shop. The guards of course were only ordered to aim, not shoot. 

And Nabokov climbed… climbed with dexterity he had never felt before. 30 ft. he was at the very sky which had meant freedom for him in all his imprisonment. He made it to the top of the chair and eternalized freedom for all of the prison to watch until his death. 

And on the first September Friday of 1926, underneath the golden sky blanket, at 6:45, a few minutes before his death, Nabokov smiled the biggest most brightest smile of his life. 

And then took a fall in тоска.

75 years have passed this tragedy. And now the times have changed. The imperial government is no more, and the area of the world has seen much progress. The Lubyanka, it continued to run 15 more years after the incident. After the revolution, old prisons were either given to religious communities as “make-up” for state sacrileges or turned into functional orphanages and nursing homes. The Lubyanka was turned into the latter. “Daycare Nabokov”, was now run by son of a former prison guard Kazanovich who used to work there, Nabokov Kazanovich. The nursing home was built around central greens trees which gave the nursing home its peaceful look. The greens which grew from the protrusion of the earth where Nabokov was once captive. The entire facility was revamped, and the cells were now renovated to be rooms. 224B was now a community room for social get-togethers and gatherings. 

Some versions of the story of the chair passed down the generations, subject to the truth/fiction debate along with other gruesome stories from before the revolution. The chair was dismantled the very day after its one and only execution. What survives and lives today of the story is only in the form of goodness, faith, hope, and trees. 

<---------- The End ---------->