The Duel - Part 3/3

(Part 1 - Part 2)

III

“Pechorin, let me explain” said Grushnitsky as he casually threw the pistol aside. “I am not the man you saw twelve hours ago.”

Pechorin was finding it difficult to grasp any feeling, let alone why Grushnitsky just spared his life. Grushnitsky proceeded to tell Pechorin about his transformation, its stimulus and how he had a new thirst for life. He was gesticulating excitedly as he recounted the events since their last meeting, but Pechorin couldn’t hear anything. He had stopped listening ever since Grushnitsky dropped his pistol.

He was furious that a cretin like his brother had managed to shatter him with such ease. His brother had, without effort, exposed the demon within him. This was an insult he could not endure. The loathing of his brother was now insurmountable. He couldn’t bear the thought that this man had found salvation, whilst he was damned to endure the monster within himself.

He felt betrayed. He thought he was ‘important’, but realised the world kept the reality of his insignificance insignificant. “Is this who I am doomed to be?” thought Pechorin, staring intently at the ancient pistol in his hand. He knew he had a choice, but knew that choice was made for him long before.

Grushnitsky had now reached the end of his plea. “I have gone through much today, and have decided to dedicate the rest of my life to rectifying my mistakes, the first of which will be our brotherhood. Brother, do you forgive me?” Pechorin looked up from the pistol.

“No.”

Grushnitsky’s lip twitched, and his face twisted into genuine bewilderment when Pechorin lifted his arm and pointed the pistol at him.

“My turn.” said Pechorin, already assuming the stance of a professional marksman.

“Sir I must object! We don’t know if this pistol is the faulty one or not! Sir I beg you to forgive your brother and leave this madness behind!” interjected Fyodor.

“No. He wanted a duel. I am a man of my word and shall give him one”

Grushnitsky, paled seeing his brother so bloodthirsty and obliged. He placed his hands by his side, and looked at Pechorin with those eyes which tormented him so much.

“I’m sorry it came to this” said Grushnitsky. Pechorin stared at his brother down the barrel of the pistol. He realised that regardless of which pistol he was holding, faulty or not, it would not have made a difference to the outcome at all. Grushnitsky's forlornly expression showed that he too understood this.

“Sorry? I wish I was too, Grusha” said Pechorin, as he pulled the trigger.

The Duel - Part 2/3

(Part 1 - Part 3)

II

Pechorin had chosen Fyodor, the family butler, as his second. Pechorin took a deep breath and tasted the familiar kerosene acidity which dominated his childhood. He and Grusha would come to the docks, playing hide and seek amongst the crates and cranes. The ships, now undisturbed stood silently in water so still it appeared frozen. It felt staged, surreal. Was this a tragedy or a drama, and did he have a say as its protagonist?

His thoughts were interrupted by a scurried shuffling up ahead. “Finally! They’re here. Typical lateness. Are the pistols ready Fyodor?”

“Yes Sir. I have loaded both as instructed. Are you sure you don’t want to know which one is faulty?”

“I’m no cheat Fyodor”

“Of course not Sir. Both pistols will discharge in an identical fashion but only one of them will successfully fire a bullet.”

Pechorin was surprised at his own composure. His only preparation for the duel was to put it into his diary, as a matter of habit. He wasted no second during the day thinking about it and immersed himself in business. He was disappointed that even now, with the approach of his opponent, his heart beat slow, almost intentionally lackadaisical.

Grushnitsky was accompanied by Alyosha, a young labourer on the docks. Both were short of breath as they stopped in front of Pechorin.

Pechorin was taken aback. Grushnitsky was a transformed man. It wasn’t his clean shaven face or carefully sculpted hair. It wasn’t the healthy glow in his cheeks or the crisp tailored suit. Pechorin only noticed all of this after he looked into Grushnitsky’s eyes. There was an intense shine to them, the crystal clarity of a new-born man.

Pechorin’s heart began to play a faster beat. Seeing his brother so positively changed had awoken in him revulsion and disgust. He could taste the hate in his mouth and any part of him shocked by it was quickly smothered. He didn’t want his feelings to show, so took a short step towards his brother.

“Grushnitsky, I trust you are ready?”

Grushnitsky’s face horrified Pechorin. It was beaming, and featured a smile contoured by dimples.

“Yes Pechorin. I am ready” said Grushnitsky with confidence. Fyodor then gave a pistol to each man.

“Heads or Tails?”

“Heads” said Pechorin, his beady eyes not leaving Grushnitsky for an instant. Fyodor flipped a coin, and saw that it was Tails. Neither opponent flinched, both intently looking at each other. Pechorin grew increasingly unsettled by Grushnitsky’s innocent, persisting smile.

“The rules are as follows. You are to stand 10 paces away from each other. Mr. Grushnitsky will take the first shot, Mr. Pechorin the second. You are allowed to inspect the weapon if you wish Mr. Grushnitsky.”

“There is no need.” said Grushnitsky. Fyodor shrugged his shoulders, and counted 10 paces between the men. Pechorin couldn’t take it any longer. Shooting a drunken vagabond was one thing, but this? He wanted an explanation for this betrayal, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask for it. Grushnitsky raised his pistol and aimed it with a steady hand at Pechorin.

This didn’t happen as he had hoped. Pechorin lifted his trembling hand, the open hand oscillating in synch with his racing heart. He suddenly realised that death is a contradiction; acting as the ultimate wake-up call in its capacity as eternal sleep.

Grushnitsky’s smile turned into a grin. With one smooth movement, he raised his arm into the air, pointed the pistol at the sky and fired.

The Duel - Part 1/3

(This story is heavily influenced by "A Hero of Our Time", "The Brothers Karamazov" and the movie "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford")

(Part 2 - Part 3)

I

Pechorin sat in his study, reclined in a chair and stared at the ceiling. He could still hear them downstairs, his father’s wake now in full swing. “How many eulogies does a dead man need?” muttered Pechorin. His guilt laden heart responded with heaviness. He loved his father, more so than his siblings. It was he who cared for him when he was diagnosed with cancer whilst his siblings squabbled over potential inheritance.

It was for this that his father had given him the entire shipping company upon his death. Pechorin held his breath as he heard a speech finish below, only to be replaced by another. “Where were these parasites when he needed them?” exclaimed Pechorin, the carvings in the ceiling blurred as his eyes pooled.

“You’re the parasite” hissed a shadow by the door. Pechorin closed his eyes, carefully wiping the resultant tear tracks. His movements were intentionally slow, and the silence accompanying them had almost muted time. Now sitting up, Pechorin looked at the sulking shadow and forced a smile.

“Grushnitsky! My brother! What a pleasure.” said Pechorin.

“The pleasure is certainly not mine.” growled Grushnitsky. He was visibly more drunk than usual; his dishevelled beard complemented his fraying suit. Pechorin stayed silent, trying to decipher the drunkard and his scheme.

Grushnitsky wobbled into the study and planted himself in front of Pechorin. He slowly bowed, until his face was level with his brother’s, their eyes locked. Pechorin held his breath; the stench of alcohol laced with vomit was one he wasn't familiar with. Grushnitsky’s eyes were black, soulless, their emptiness made Pechorin uneasy.

“I demand satisfaction.” said Grushnitsky, an inappropriate pause pervaded each syllable.

“What?”

Grushnitsky, without flinching lifted his finger and pointed at a pair of pistols, the pride of their father, which hung above the fireplace. His lifeless eyes remained fixed on Pechorin’s.

“You want a duel?!” gasped Pechorin.

“Yes.”

“This is the 21^st century Grusha. If you have issue with me you see my solicitor.” said Pechorin, calmly. Grushnitsky’s face warped into a terrifying grin.

“Just like Dad you are. You are a coward.”

Pechorin was immediately up on his feet, his face betraying his anger. His pride was his Achilles heel, and Grushnitsky knew this all too well. Pechorin could feel the adrenaline poisoning him. He could see that his brother wasn't joking.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“I’ve done nothing to deserve this. You’re drunk Grusha.”

Grushnitsky vocalised his grin, a cackling laugh ensued.

“I despise you Pechorin. I despise that you have what I have not. I despise the fact you are alive. It would have been a wonderful day if both you and father were in that coffin.” slurred Grushnitsky. His words had visibly shaken Pechorin, who at this point had succumbed to his dented pride.

“You know one of the pistols can’t fire.” muttered Pechorin.

“Ah! So you’re considering it! Wonderful!” said Grushnitsky, his face epitomised malice as he began to pace the room. “That’s the maaa-aagic of it. One of us gets the faulty pistol. We proceed with the duel. Fate will decide the rest.”   

Pechorin’s mind was hard at work. His conscience was unusually silent, and his long suppressed hatred of his brother materialised in an overwhelming wave of anger. He knew his brother did not stand a chance; Pechorin was a highly skilled marksman whilst his brother would most certainly be too drunk to hold his bladder, let alone fire a weapon. At worst he would intentionally wound his brother, maybe in the shoulder, as a warning.

“Meet me at the docks at midnight. Bring your second.” said Pechorin solemnly.

Grushnitsky forcibly grasped his brother’s hand. Pechorin felt his brother’s soiled hand rub against his soft palm. Grushnitsky winked at his brother, spun around and ran out of the study.

For the next few minutes, Pechorin stood in the same spot, his eyes staring at the pistols and his mind trying to make sense of it all.  

I'm Sorry, but I'm not Sorry

I’m tired of cringing every time I read the news.  I grit my teeth before I open the BBC news website, or secretly pray before I pick up a paper.  Yet there it always is; ‘Islamist takeover of schools, pupils unprotected’, ‘Pregnant, Christian, Sudanese doctor to be hanged for apostasy’, ‘Halal meat sold by Pizza Express’, ‘British Muslims fight with Syria extremists’, ‘Muslim paedophile gang caught’, ‘Abu Hamza extradited, sentenced’, ‘ ‘Honour killer sentenced’. When will these intolerant, bigoted murderers become extinct? When will I stop seeing Islam portrayed so badly in the media, and when will the media stop poaching all it knows about Islam from a raving, lunatic minority? When is the government going to stop finding even more ways to push their ‘Islamist’ agenda?

Last week I was sitting with my work colleagues, watching the news. I was the only Muslim in the room. They begin to cover the approaching capital punishment of Meriam, a Sudanese lady who renounced her Muslim faith and became a Christian. She was due to be killed, by ‘law’, for apostasy. I started to cringe again. I wondered, should I speak out about this, clarify that this is not what my religion is about? After all I am a Muslim, and this lady was scheduled to be killed in the name of my faith. One of my colleagues commented about how awful this was, and I latched on to her comments, nodding along as I assented, echoing her words. I quickly quipped that I didn't feel this represented Islam.

This didn’t make me feel better. On the contrary, I was suddenly immersed in even more shame. I felt like I had just betrayed someone. Truth is, I had betrayed more than just ‘someone’ and I knew it there and then. With my quasi-apology, I had betrayed my faith. Why did I feel this urge to apologise for an undertaking which I am vehemently against, of which I have no input and relation to? Shouldn’t I be proud of my faith as it is, proud enough not to feel responsible for the madness exuded by other ‘Muslims’? This was the root of the problem. I couldn’t explain the source of this collective ‘responsibility’ for the actions of all Muslims. It’s not like the average Christian on the street is in need of apologising for child abuse in the church.

This ‘guilt’ comes as a result of an aggressive media presence of ‘Muslim’ scum and their actions, an unquenching thirst of the media for more of their material, and the government pushing an unprecedented alienation of Muslims. 10 years ago, it would suffice to say I was a Muslim. Now, thanks to all this unwanted attention, people (Muslim or Non-Muslim) want to know if you’re Shia or Sunni, believe in stunning animals before violently slaughtering them (whilst singing random Arabic incantations), believe it’s ok to kill someone because they leave Islam, believe in ‘Sharia’ law or think girls can’t do PE unless dressed in cloaks.

They’ve won. Once there was a time where collective responsibility was possible, where you felt you could speak out for your fellow Muslims. Now, Muslims are so radically split in their beliefs and practice that some factions will refuse to acknowledge others as Muslim. As a ‘moderate’, you have to explain yourself, wear a badge saying ‘I’m one of the good guys!’, otherwise people will think you aspire to have a hook for a hand. This need to explain yourself, to separate yourself from those dangerous, puritanical and beastly extremists insinuates that there is disunity in Islam, when the reality is there was no unity to begin with (with the extremists that is). It gives the impression that Islam, moderate and evolving Islam, is crumbling whilst the truth is those bad eggs crumbled away ages ago. We have nothing to apologise or feel guilty for. Any semblance of guilt and we are caving in to pressure from both extremists and government.

So I’m sorry, I will not apologise, dear work colleague, for the actions of the Sudanese government. I will instead join you in their condemnation.