Аndrei, finishing his scrubbing and wringing out mop, remarks with bitter irony: So your work is actually a new edition of a dialectical materialism, isn’t it? Why did they lock you up then, for furthering
Marxism-Leninism?
Bachkov popped in: Finished? Hurry up or you may miss your breakfast.
Andrei: It’s Ok, we haven’t finished our talk yet.
Victor, smiling: You’d better go. A stomach stuffed with oatmeal is better than a head swollen with my ravings.
Andrei: Why so?
Victor: With oatmeal, you only risk spending your time in the toilet, with my ravings – time in a psychiatric hospital.
Andrei: OK, I’m going, just want to remind you that we are already there.
Scene in the mess-hall – amnesia
An empty mess-hall. Andrei, getting his bowl of porridge and a cup of chocolate, sits close to Sasha, who’s already had his meal and is now waiting impatiently for something.
Andrei: Had your breakfast?
Sasha: Uh-huh.
Andrei: Won’t you go to get your medicine?
Sasha: Later. The boys in the kitchen are making chifir (a strong tea brew used as a mild narcotic).
Andrei: I see.
Nodding at Sasha’s forearm: You’ve got a beautiful rose tattooed on your forearm. So simple and so delicate.
Sasha: Yeah, I had a real artist for a cellmate in Smolensk.
Andrei: You were in Smolensk prison? What for?
Sasha: Burglary.
Andrei: Locked in a psychiatric ward?
Sasha: They did it later. I didn’t quite get along with the administration, you know.
Andrei: Refused to snitch?
Sasha: Yes. So they certified me, and put in a ward, with a gorilla for a male-nurse. He was serving his time there for rape and murder. Honest thieves wouldn’t take this job, you know. So as soon as I got there he tried to use me for his bum-boy. I wasn’t a match for him physically, so I knifed him twice in the throat. The bastard survived by a sheer miracle, and I got me another eight years, this time for attempted murder.
Andrei: How old are you?
Sasha: 27.
Andrei: So am I.
Sasha: 27 and half of my life behind the bars. Do you know how it all started? When I was a kid, I stole a loaf of white bread – a fucking loaf of bread – they feed it to pigs here.
Andrei: Oh, now I see why the nurse here was searching the boys leaving the mess-hall. They are rationing bread. I guess Victor, our philosopher, is right: this regime cares more for pigs than for men; besides, the more convicts they have, the cheaper the labor force.
Sasha: Yes, though sometimes he talks such nonsense!
Voronin approaches the counter with his bowl, shouting: I want more porridge!
Bachkov: What you want is an extra shot of aminazine and a kick in the ass! Lay off, you, glutton.
Voronin (sounding threatening): If you kick me in the ass I won’t even know it. If I kick you in the ass, no one would be able to tell your shit from this porridge.
General laughter.
I’m a tiger, I’m a tiger, living in snow-capped mountains… Just mark my words, you, ha-ha-ha (low rasping sound).
(Then extremely sweet, addressing Andrei): Excuse me, could I have a piece of your bread, please?
Andrei: Sure, help yourself.
Voronin: Thank you, buddy. Know the story about a soldier and general? An orderly brings in a newly washed and pressed tunic to his general and asks him «How come you, comrade general, were so careless yesterday evening?»
Sasha: Get lost, you, bastard, or I’ll cram my spoon into your stupid mouth!
Voronin laughs and walks away, singing: «Among untrodden mountain paths there’s one that’s mine…»
Sasha: God, that pesky loony can really drive me mad.
Andrei: Well, I wouldn’t be so positive about his diagnosis. I passed the forensic psychiatry examination during my first term and saw enough nutty guys who, after they were certified, did the coolest things to make a break.
Bachkov: It doesn’t matter much here whether this zany is really mad or not. He’s shot dosages that no man – sane or crazy – could take. Though, what really puzzles me, boys, is that it doesn’t have any noticeable effect on him. The only visible change in those three months since they brought him here is that he has gained some weight. And he has became more garrulous; his mouth won’t shut for hours.
Andrei: What did they put him in for?
Bachkov: Amnesia. He was brought by a patrol, found wandering in a nearby closed garrison with a Nikon camera in his attaché-case and an expensive illustrated edition of Pushkin. But no identity papers whatever. According to him, he’s called Valeri Voronin, and he used to live in Petropavlovsk.
Andrei: So what’s the problem? No relatives?
Bachkov: The problem is that there are two Petropavlovsks, one is in Kamchatka peninsular, the other is in
Kazakhstan. Judging by his raving accounts, he seems to know both, but when you start asking about his background, his ravings become too kaleidoscopic to figure out anything. Well, in any case the local shrinks diagnosed him as a friendly, non-violent type who could be kept in our asylum. So, we’ve got to put up with this Winnie the Pooh.
Andrei, with a laugh: He looks like a bear, all right. And I suspect has got his strength, too.
Bachkov: Frankly, boys, it’s none of my business who the hell he is. He plays his part and I play mine. I’ve seen enough to mind my own business, and not to nose in somebody else’s.
Departing, to Andrei: Get your dosage after breakfast and you may enjoy yourself in the garden till dinnertime.
Scene in the yard – Dialectics
Sound of chirping birds.
Out in the yard, Andrei notices a young man stripped to the waist working out with a dumb-bell not far from the porch. He approaches him and asks: Twenty?
Tsvetochkin: What?
Andrei: Twenty kilos?
Tsvetochkin: Yep.
Andrei: Do they allow it?
Tsvetochkin put the dumb-bell on the ground: Of course, not, well, not officially, anyway. The boys brought it so we could exercise on the sly. We hide it in the lilac bushes afterwards. Want to try?
Andrei: Sure.
Tsvetochkin commenting on Andrei’s vigorous jerks: Well, boy, you are in good shape. Unfortunately, I can’t use full force, my ribs are still aching.
Andrei: Why?
Tsvetochkin: Cops broke three of my ribs.
Andrei: Did you get here in the festival sweep too?
Tsvetochkin: No, I had problems with our local police inspector.
Andrei: Where are you from?
Tsvetochkin: Do you know the 37th kilometer commune?
Andrei: Yes.
Tsvetochkin proudly: Have you ever heard the name of Tsvetochkin?
Andrei: Harry Tsvetochkin?
Tsvetochkin: Yes.
Andrei: Never heard it, but I did see it. This name is sprayed in large letters on a wall of a shed near the railroad. Whenever I go by in a commuter train I see: Harry Tsvetochkin. Did you spray it?
Tsvetochkin: No. Boys did it. You see we used to work out there with the dumb-bells. As I proved to be the local strongman, the boys sprayed my name in red letters on the wall.
Andrei: And what was the problem with your local inspector?
Tsvetochkin: Well, his daughter began frequenting our shed.
Andrei with a laugh: Got interested in the sport too?
Tsvetochkin: Yes, if you call sex a sport. Her daddy tried to disband us a couple of times, and threatened to tear off my head and everything beneath. I told him to bugger off because no one was dragging his precious babe there by force. Well, a week later they picked me up at my work place, put in a car and drove to the police department for what they call «questioning».
Somebody had stolen the wheels off somebody’s car, so they said it was me, and punched me in the teeth to facilitate, as they put it, a «Gorbachev’s consensus» – to make me confess, I mean. I countered the bastard who hit me with my right, in the teeth too. He went down like a log, hitting the keys with the back of his head, they had the keys stuck in their safe. Well, in short, he got his head fractured and the whole mob went mad and started punching and kicking me, breaking three of my ribs, then they threw me in solitary where I developed lung edema, and the pleura became detached from the beating.
Well, they got scared I would die on their hands, so they offered me money: Take it, they said, and keep your mouth shut, or else; we’ll take you to a hospital as a mugging victim we picked up in the street.
Andrei: So what did you do?
Tsvetochkin: Refused, of course. I won’t look at this scum, much less make deals with them. Too bad I didn’t kill that bastard.
Andrei: Well, I’m afraid you’re too harsh on them. They didn’t cheat you with the hospital, anyway. They mistook emergency for psychiatry, though; but you can’t expect police to know who treats heads and who treats, say, asses.
Tsvetochkin smiles: How can they, indeed, if you can’t tell their heads from their asses?
Andrei: How did you survive, incidentally? Lung edema is a serious thing. Did they treat you here?
Tsvetochkin: They did, with aminazine, just like everyone here. I survived because I heal easily like a dog.
Andrei: I see; I’m pretty much a survivor too. Where shall I put this dumb-bell?
Tsvetochkin: Over there, in the bushes behind the bench. Would you like to play chess or dominos?
Andrei: Naah, any brain use is strictly proscribed for me by the authorities. I’d much rather sun-bathe in the bushes.
Tsvetochkin: OK, then.
Andrei, approaching a bench among lilac bushes on which Victor Vasilyevich, stripped to the waist, is sunbathing: May I?
Victor: Sure, enjoy yourself, if labor therapy is not for you.
Andrei: I’m not inclined to work for the communists, besides they won’t risk letting me out. Frankly, I’m surprised they let me out in the garden.
Victor: They let everyone out in the garden here. Unless you are strapped to your bunk, of course.
Andrei: Well, that’s a comfort. By the way, I’ve thought of your new and the Hegelian old dialectics. How do they exactly differ? You’ve said you just added maxims there…
Victor: Caught a philosophic fever in the nuthouse?
Andrei: No, I was just wondering: If you really created a universal methodology, it would actually mean a revolution of our minds, because methodology is a kind of a universal key used for deciphering, the key which could change our whole outlook. Isn’t that so?
Victor: Yes, though I’d compare it to a grammar, a syntax: If you do not know its rules, you won’t understand the language, even if you know the meaning of every word. That’s one thing; the other is that, more importantly, having changed our world outlook, this methodology will change out attitude toward the world.
As for differences, it differs from the old one not so much by a greater number of new notions and maxims as by a newer and more detailed interpretation of the old ones, ranging from conditionality and relativity of all notions and maxims, like: the unity and struggle of the opposites; a shift of quantity into quality and negation of negation – all this may be true under certain conditions with certain points of reference, and not true in others.
The old dialectics has none of this, nor has it a universal measure for various processes and phenomena.
Andrei: Wait a minute, how can there be a universal measure in this extremely diverse material world?
Victor: There can be and is! We are simply attracted and confused by the superficial visible diversity of the world, the variety of its forms. Prying into its content, its essence, is boring and unattractive. Nonetheless, this world has one feature in common which serves both as a reference point and a universal measure: it’s
Time.
Andrei: Time?
Victor: Sure. As you know, everything in this world changes, everything flows. Therefore, the only universal measure there can possibly be is Time.
The fact that the old dialectics explain the developments and processes by the struggle of opposites which have a common root; the fact that this struggle is perceived, first, as a quantitative change, growth, then as a qualitative shift; that during this struggle a negation of negation takes place, and contradictions are eliminated – all this shows that we are dealing not with a methodology, but a universal description, because there is no universal measure in it.
Appropriately, the practical value of such description is rather limited, actually close to nil. Because the world description is nothing but a sketch, a diagram, whereas methodology is a map which has its scale, points of reference, or cardinal points, and its set of signs.
With such a map in your hand, you can find your position in space by aligning the cardinal points and finding a match between the signs on the map and the actual objects in the field. The ability to take measurements means that you can answer the crucial questions: not just what direction do we go in, but where exactly do we go? What do we have yet to pass, and when? What obstacles do we have to overcome, and how long will it take us? No draft, no universal description, would answer those questions.
Andrei: Well, I understand your analogy. But it applies to space, it’s hard to comprehend how Time can be the universal measure in such a case.