Red Scribbles

"Where the rain isn't the smokers are." Malinkow said with a small smile. He was aboard a very Soviet train - armored to the teeth but with an engine from the 1880s. He'd creaked one of the windows open to get some fresh air into the cabin, outside it was crisp and dark, he envied it. The pale light of one of the oil lamps made him feel somewhat sick to the stomach, especially because of the way it gently flickered over Stalin's face giving his swarthy apperance a waxy glaze. The dictator seemed completely focused on the list he was studying, he marked little symbols next to the names. One little red squiggle could save or end a life.

"Did you ever hear from that American again?" He asked suddenly. Slowly lifting his head to look up at his protegé. 

"No, I told him I'd reach out once the things he'd prophesized came true - and if they didn't, that he never needed to expect a single word from me again." 

"His name was Alistair Bowmore, right?" 

"Yes, exactly."

"And you found nothing whatsoever on his existence?" Stalin continued, his eyes glowing a bit brighter. He seemed almost amused, and his amusement was backed by his good cheer. As Malinkow talked he reached for his pipe and began to fill it, all the while listening to his intelligence officer rant about Mr. Bowmore. 

"We found nothing at all, no. I even had some undercover comrades in Germany check some files - nothing, not even in the slightest. I really do not think he is German, Koba. He has an accent, but not the kind that's faked. It's like when Ukrainains speak Russian. It sounds right but it's still...different." He sighed and turned to the leader, hands clasped together behind his back. "And when I tried to get information out of my American colleagues, nobody ever heard of him. We found some Bowmores, hell, one of them even resembled the lad, almost looked like he'd be the father, but he was twenty years younger than Mr. Bowmore - simply impossible. Unless time is playing tricks with us as much as the weather is." He smiled his caring and soft smile, one he only let shine around his superiors, and only those who were men. "Either this man is who he is just without documents, or..."

"There's nothing we can do now," Stalin said. He clamped the end of the pipe between his lips and struck a match. It flared up instantly and the little flame danced in his eyes as he drew it near to the pipe. In seconds it was lit and he began to gently puff it. 

Malinkow took a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pockets - Belomorcanal, one of his favourites. He asked Stalin for a match because he was out of them, and the Soviet Dictator gladly handed him the little box. When it came to smoking, Stalin was as generous as any soldier on the front. You smoke differently when you know that every one could be your last. 

"I was reading a play from Chernov last night," Stalin started, "and I felt it was missing something. I think I know what it is now." His eyes lit up and his face broke out into a laugh. Vitia cocked his head to the left and let a small smile play on his lips. Knowing Stalin this could mean anything: it could be a few sentences of somebody asking for a match, it could be the death of one of the main characters, but it could also be a twisted joke where Stalin would continue his idea only to end it with Viktor Malinkow being the one to suffer the fate he'd described. "I really liked what you said; where the rain isn't the smokers are. I'm going to ask him to add that to the beginning, there's a dialogue between a pessimist and an optimist. I think it would do quite well there." 

Malinkow breathed a very loud and obvious sigh of relief. His face then contorted itself into a rather delirious laugh; almost like a madman. He buried his face in his palm and continued to chuckle, his shoulder heaving with every laugh. "Oh God Koba!" He exclaimed. His voice could not sound more cheerfull than it did, and he almost sang the next words; "I thought you were going to have me killed!"

Stalin just continued to puff his pipe, watching the usually calm and collected Russian laugh at the thought of his own doom. "Thank you for not doing that," he added. After speaking the words he ran his hand down the front of his shirt and regained all manner. Only once, a bit later, did he chuckle at the thought again. For a second he'd been close to death, as he'd been many times before, and for the first time ever it had scared him. He gazed down at the smoking paper stub in his hand, the coffin nail, as some people refer to it, and then back up at the Glorious Leader. "These cigarettes are definitely taking their toll on my lungs."

"Don't worry about the health of your organs, Vitia. You're going to die before they fail you." Stalin's dark humor made him chuckle, and Malinkow even smiled too. It wasn't a nice thought but it was true. He was going to die before any unhealthy habits killed him. 

"Let it be the rocks and the earth who buries me, and the rain who washes me away." He agreed, after a second he added; "It's a pleasure we erase everyone who did something bad once, because I'm sure some of them might have been great poets."

"Are you refering to yourself?"

"I haven't been erased, Comrade Stalin." 

"And even if I were to be - enough people have been infected with my words that sometime, somewhere, one of my sentences will end up in a book or a play." He winked at the man and tossed his cigarette into the ash tray, "I'm looking forwards to watching the play where I inspired a line for the pessimist."

"We'll watch it together, Vitia."