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.