1001 Nights Cast

Ivan Grudev sat at his very large desk. It was made of new wood, with sharp edges, clean lines, and plastic handles, the type they were making in the West.

He was proud of the progress they were making. Every morning he woke up and walked to the bathroom with its hot and cold running water installed by the united workers. His slippers pit patted over the parquet floor of his apartment towards the bathroom 3.5 metres down the hall, and he felt a small glow of pride spread through him. It was his flat. His slippers on his floor.

And then he reached the bathroom, he looked in the mirror and was pleased. He was not handsome, he had no illusions about that. He was seriously balding, some would even call him bald, his lips protruded somewhat (when he was a child playing in the streets of his village Gorno Orehovo, the children had taunted him, making frog noises and jumping whenever he stepped into the game.) His glasses were increasing in strength as the years passed. His belly was turning into a paunch. He was not tall, and that used to worry him when he was younger and his mates towered above him. But now he was comfortable. When he looked in the mirror, in his white singlet, Ivan Grudev was well pleased. He splashed invigorating cold water over his face, and felt the goodness of plumbing and nature. He knew that there would be another productive, satisfying day ahead of him. He knew all this with a deep certainty that warmed his insides.

Ivan Grudev had gained his position with hard work, determination, skill, and wit. He deserved his luck. His desk was in Office Number 213 on the 2nd floor of Number 6 Positano Street. He had a large black telephone sitting on his large new desk and there were six drawers on the front, three on the left and three on the right. He had a secretary who knocked on the door and called him Comrade Grudev with a sing song inflection and her voice just slightly husky from the cigarettes she smoked behind his back when she should have been working. But she was nicely shaped and so he forgave her this small vice and let her have her packet a day because she ordered his drawers, answered the phone and cleaned his ashtrays. He had not allowed himself any indiscretions with her but once she even adjusted his tie as he was going to a meeting with the Minister for Interior Affairs. On that morning she had noticed that he was sweating and jittery, and she had made him a coffee with three sugars instead of the usual two and had adjusted his tie with particular sweetness. So he let her be late, smoke and file her nails and never raised his voice to her. She was particularly good at sending people away when he did not want to talk to them. She put down the phone mid-sentence without batting an eyelid, and flicked her dyed red hair curtly as she said ‘The Comrade Grudev is away on leave, come back next week’ to visitors who had unwanted pleas to make and unwanted documents to be signed. She did all this with the impeccable FULL STOP which allowed no further discussion thank you.

On this particular day, the Comrade Grudev was sitting behind his desk when the phone call came from the Ministry. A distant acquaintance named K who had been detained for a few months, had to be disposed of, released or moved on. There were too many eyebrows raised and whispers in corridors. Grudev had signed the detention order, authorised by the Interior Ministry, but now the Ministry wanted to wash their hands of him. That signature made him nervous.

The Minister’s assistant made the call. That wasn’t good. And what was worse, he made a sly little joke about whether Grudev wanted to have another holiday by the Black Sea or not? He shifted in his seat. Suddenly he felt his desk close in on him. ‘You’re our man, fix it’ the assistant added in a chummy tone, and hung up. Grudev’s hand felt sweaty on the receiver. He held it for a moment longer and then banged it down.

He felt rage rise in him like a flood. He felt hot. He punched the desk: one short, sharp punch. His secretary knocked on the door and peeked in, looking concerned. ‘Can’t you just leave me in peace!’ he snapped. She shut the door silently.

Then he gathered his wits and made a phone call. K was still in the local prison in a small provincial town. They said that there were no broken bones, he had just been softened up a bit, he could still eat. They wanted to know what to do with him. ‘Keep him another 24 hours’, Grudev said, ‘and then drive him to the Offices in Positano Street, where I will sign a document for his release.’

Then he started to type. He had typed many such statements before. But each time he gave the story a twist. To give it a ring of truth. This time he wrote that K was going to betray the people by conspiring with the decadent West, that he had nurtured those ideas while in Paris, that he had plans to topple the Minister through his connections from within the legal profession. He added dates. He added the names of K’s wife, daughter and closest colleagues, to round off the profile. It was clear, he concluded, that K was a threat to the security of the People and that he must be charged and tried in a court of law.

Suddenly exhausted, Grudev leaned back in his seat. He sighed in profound relief. He had framed the story in his best official language. He felt the world regain its equilibrium. He knew everything would be alright.