Crime and Punishment

In my dream. I’m about six years old, and I’m walking with my father. It’s a holiday of some kind, and it’s near evening. We’re on the outskirts of our town, which is all laid out in front of us like a toy-train city, running right off up to the edge of the sky. There are no trees around, for some reason, except for a little black line of the forest along the horizon. That little line frightens me, so I try not to loot at it. I think we are going to visit the cemetery, past the tavern, going to visit my grandmother’s grave. Also the little grave next to hers that holds my younger brother, who died shortly after he was born. I was still an infant myself, so I never really knew him. I only knew that I’d been told about my younger brother, so every time we went to the cemetery, I would make the sign of the cross, very religiously and bow down and kiss the little headstone.

So I’m walking with my father, when we see this crowd of people. Drunk. Singing and laughing and playing balalaikas. And in the middle of the crowd is a heavy old cart, filled with stuff, with a tired old mare strapped into the harness. She’s sitting on the ground, refusing to move. Her master is a big, red-faced young man, who keeps whipping her and saying “Climb in! She’ll pull us, she’s going to pull us if I have to beat her to death!” And he keeps whipping her, around the face, around the eyes, and now she’s bleeding, and everyone is laughing and shouting, “Finish her! Finish the old bitch!” So her masters= takes out a crowbar and says, “She’s mine. She’s my goods, I’ll take care of her.” And he starts to beat her, on her back, on her legs and her face and her head and everywhere. But she won’t die. She tries to pull the cart. But she can’t now, with broken legs and a broken back. And he keeps swinging the crowbar, beating her into the ground. Beating her. Till there’s nothing left. Nothing at all. In my dream. I’m clutching my father’s hand and crying, crying so hard that I can barely see. And I say, “Father! Why did they kill her? Why did they kill the poor old horse?” And he says, “Because they’re drunk, Rodya. Because they’re people.