When Passport arrived, having delayed while looking for his buddies, the bag was empty.
“I was preparing a half for you, but more’s the pity! They took it all,” Artiom told him. “At least take the bag. Maybe you can sew yourself a dress from it.”
Passport looked at him silently, his jaw muscles rippling. His lower lip hung down thoughtfully at the same time, barely moving.
They announced the evening inspection and the loud and drunk voice of Curly was heard. Burtsev walked through the ranks. He had a stiletto in his hand. He was swinging it.
“Zagib Ivanovich will come to you at night,” said Passport. “Are you going to wait up? Or maybe you’ll just hang yourself right now.”
“Why hang myself?” Artiom asked. “I’ll wait.”
Afanasiev sat on his bunk and watched all of it without saying a w
