... in which student Petrov demonstrates dissent and experiences the full force of the repressive apparatus
The interdistrict police station was quiet and practically deserted. A dim yellowish light filtered through the window bars and fell on a potted dieffenbachia with large dusty leaves. Further from the window, another permanent occupant of the duty room had settled down—a chubby major named Zakharchuk. Having faithfully served in law enforcement, he received his rank upon reaching the required years of service, practically never leaving the chair he was sitting on now.
Major Zakharchuk stoically accepted the hardships of his service, which manifested as paperwork and organizational work. Now, however, he was much more concerned that without electricity, he could not turn on his small television to enjoy yet another rerun of another season of another series about cops. Zakharchuk sighed, hung his tunic over the back of the chair, put on his convex glasses, and was about to return to solving a crossword puzzle when he was distracted by a hammering metallic sound.
"What do you want, protester?"—the major loudly asked, looking out from the duty room into the empty corridor.
"I'm thirsty," came a somewhat sharp and high-pitched voice of a young man in response.
Zakharchuk reluctantly got up, put on his tunic, took a bottle of mineral water from the leaking refrigerator, and shuffled down the corridor toward the "dog kennel." There, in the barred semi-darkness, stretched out his long legs in torn jeans and scuffed sneakers, sat the detainee from three days ago, student Petrov.
"Here you go..."—Zakharchuk shoved the bottle between the bars, and it immediately disappeared inside.
There was a crackle of crushed plastic and loud gulps, then Petrov's disheveled head appeared from the darkness.
"Will there be lunch today?"
"The feeding of detainees is scheduled for 7 pm."
"I'll write that you used hunger torture on me," Petrov threatened, handing back the bottle.
"Where? Are you going to write on Telegram or something?"—asked the duty officer, generally pleased that some kind of conversation had started.—"There's no connection..."
"I'll write it on paper later," the student confidently replied, again taking his place on the bunk, huddled up in his short biker jacket like a frozen sparrow.
"You're literate, aren't you?" Zakharchuk smirked.—"Well, go ahead and write, protester..."
"We had a momentary protest!" Petrov objected, having obviously tried to avoid words containing the letter "r" until now, and then added.—"They set up a GULAG here..."
"What?"
"They set up Stalin's dungeons, I mean..."
"What?"
"You're really smart, aren't you? Are you studying to be a lawyer or something?" the major asked.
"I'm studying history."
"So you're really smart? You're studying history, huh?" Zakharchuk clarified.
"You went to the Analniy`s rally, didn't you, Petrov?"—Zakharchuk asked.
"Yes, I did."
"Was it unauthorized?"
"Yes," Petrov answered less confidently this time.
"Well,"—the duty officer concluded with undisguised satisfaction—"that means everything was within the legal framework. I can detain you for 72 hours even without any rally. And your Joseph Vissarionovich, when he rebelled with his Bolshevik friends, spent even longer in prison. Nothing! He didn't complain. You've become weak... revolutionaries, damn it..."
"Oh, come on..." Petrov waved his hand dismissively.—"You'd have arrested me anyway just for show. I know you!"
"I'd have planted a speech therapist's phone number for you..." Zakharchuk shook his head.
"You keep making fun of me! It doesn't matter to me!"
The major sighed sadly, cast one more disapproving glance at the young man through thick glasses, and shuffled back to his duty room. There, under the refrigerator, a decent puddle had already formed. Muttering something under his breath about irresponsible electricians and operatives who were "always wandering around somewhere," Zakharchuk took a mop with a rag wrapped around it from behind the door and wiped up the water on the floor.
On the wall, Chinese battery-powered clocks ticked steadily. With each click of the plastic gears, this lonely shift seemed increasingly strange to the major. First everyone was awakened by some incomprehensible alarm, then the electricity and communication were cut off, and now nobody comes to work... And what am I supposed to do? Sit here waiting, without information or instructions. Zakharchuk raised his nearsighted eyes to the clock face and, silently moving his lips, reached into the finally thawed refrigerator. Taking out a lone plastic container from the top shelf, the duty officer opened it, thought for a moment, and with a spoon transferred a lump of clumped pasta and one sausage onto a disposable plate. He stuck another spoon into the remaining pasta in the container and, carrying all this simple dinner, shuffled back down the corridor.
"Would you like pasta with sausage?" the major asked, approaching the cell.
"No, I'm vegan," Petrov replied from the darkness.
"You're also vegan..." Zakharchuk said disappointedly, shaking his head with such a tone that this new fact could only be regarded as an aggravating circumstance, but nevertheless repeated his offer.—"Do you think there's meat in there or something? Here, eat..."
"I'll take the pasta," the student agreed, taking the plastic bowl through the cage's window.
Fumbling with keys in the office door further down the corridor, the major threw it wide open, adding some illumination. Then he took someone's rickety chair from there, sat down opposite Petrov, and began eating himself.
"It must be boring sitting here, right? Without a phone and internet? You're always scrolling through social media these days," the major asked the detainee.—"No," the student replied reluctantly.—"I usually listen to audiobooks."
"Why so? Can't you read?" the duty officer smirked.—"I said you were literate."
"That's more convenient."
"I'm kidding, don't get upset..." Zakharchuk softened.—"What are you listening to?"
"The 'Crime and Punishment.'"
"That's right," the major nodded approvingly, chewing on a sausage.—"Study it. You need to know the classics."
For a while, both remained silent again. The ticking of the wall clock in the duty room echoed loudly throughout the corridor, repeatedly reflecting off the cold walls painted with oil paint.
"Hey, Petrov," Zakharchuk suddenly asked, finishing his meal,—"do you know who is Rus?"
"What?" the student didn't understand.
"What? Just a joke..."
"What kind of joke?"
"You're so wooden, Petrov! Shut up! And you're a historian too... You probably watch only Analniy Live on YouTube."
He wanted to add a few more biting remarks about the student, but at that moment the metal door leading outside slammed shut. A second door slammed shortly after, and a man in black armored gear, helmet, and two assault rifles on his shoulder burst into the station.