I realize freedom is a philosophical concept. That doesn’t interest me. Slaves, after all, don’t care about philosophy. Go where you want: that’s freedom!
Churilin interrupted him again, ‘Head’s not in good shape? Didn’t you have enough sense to steal? Your papers say you’re in for grand larceny. So tell us, what did you swipe?’
The prisoner pretended to brush the question aside, ‘Oh, nothing much… A tractor…’
‘A whole tractor?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How did you pull it off?’
‘Very simple. At a plant that casts reinforced concrete. I used psychology.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I walked into the plant, climbed into a tractor – I’d hooked an empty oil drum on behind – and headed for the guard post. The metal drum made a racket so a guard came out: “Where are you going with that drum?” “On personnal business,” I said. “Got the papers?” “No.” “Then unhook it, goddam it!” I unhooked the drum and drove on. All in all, the psychology worked. Later we disassembled the tractor for parts…’
Theoretically I could have killed or at least wounded him. (…) Instead I made a move in his direction. Good breeding had gotten in my way even back in my boxing days.
What could I say to him? What can you say to a guard whose only use for aftershave lotion is internal?
‘What brains! Now that’s what I call brains! With brains like that you could, in theory, get by without working at all.’
Sergey Donatovitch Dovlatov (1941-90) The Officer’s Belt.
Este conto é uma frincha de janela que nos permite ver um flash de vida da União Soviética. Um jovem oficial que tendo sido chamado para a tropa é destacado para guarda de um campo prisional. Ele tem uma atitude de alguma distância perante uma realidade sem nexo e surreal em que a diferença entre guardas e prisioneiros é ténue. O conto é escrito com um estilo também ele algo distante e aparentemente leve - pouco russo no sentido em que eu estou habituada: frases curtas, linguagem crua e um humor seco, que ajudam ao ambiente de falta de sentido e propósito em que as personagens parecem ser marionetas obrigadas a uma coreografia previamente estabelecida em que pouco pensam e em que ser esperto é não fazer nada. Os excertos que destaquei já permitem perceber a loucura quieta do conto. Belíssimo.
