Ice Trilogy

by Vladimir Sorokin

  Kela was sitting on the mattress drinking beer and listening to the band Halloween.

  Lapin sat down next to him. He waited until the song was over.

  “Kel, I have a problem.”

  “What?”

  “Some kind of sect...or maybe order...sort of...hassled me, got right up in my face.”

  “How?”

  “Well, they go on and on, and talk about, like ‘We’re — the awakened people. Brothers. Everyone else is asleep.’ They promise money. Kinda like Masons.”

  Kela turned the music off. He placed the remote on the floor.

  “Remember, once and for all: there’s no such thing as Masons by themselves. There’s only kike Masons. You heard about B’nai B’rith?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The official kike Masonic lodge in Moscow.”

  “Kel, you know, these, the ones that...well, that visited me, they’re not Jews. They’re all blond, like me. Even got blue eyes. That’s right! Hey, listen,” he suddenly remembered, “I only just realized! They’ve all got blue eyes!”

  “Doesn’t matter. All the Masonic lodges are controlled by the kike oligarchy.”

  “They said stuff like, everybody is asleep, like hibernating, and we have to wake up, kinda like being born again, and the whole thing started outside, they came up to me near the student union and asked me for — ”

  Kela interrupted. “Even three hundred years ago all the Masons were either pure kikes or mixed blood. Before that, fuck, I mean the kikes used the Masons like puppets, but now — it’s the politicians. All politicians are whores. Man, fuckin’ bastards. And our kikes” — Kela locked his sinewy fingers together and cracked his knuckles — “they’ve all got a Star of David and 666 tattooed on the end of their pricks.”

  Lapin sighed impatiently.

  “Kel, but I...”

  “Just fuckin’ listen...” Kela stretched out a brawny arm and took a book off the shelf. He opened it at the bookmark.

  “Franz Liszt. A great composer. He writes about the kikes: ‘There will come a moment when all Christian nations in which Jews live will raise the question of whether or not to suffer them further, or to deport them. The significance of this question is as important as the question of whether we want life or death, health or sickness, social peace or continual unrest.’ Get it!”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Genka, open it,” Kela shouted.

  “Why is it...” Gena shuffled angrily toward the door. He opened it.

  A huge guy entered Kela’s room: 23 years old, shaved head, wide shoulders, leather jacket and pants, big hands, on the side of his palm a tattoo: for the airborne forces.

  “Hey! Wazup, my man?” said Kela, getting up from the mattress.

  “Wazup, Kel.”

  They swung their arms back and slapped their right palms together hard.

  “They say the iron’s rusting over here!” The guy smiled, showing strong teeth.

  “Fuckin’ rusting away, man. Over there.” Kela nodded at the weights.

  “Yeah.” The guy went over, took hold of them, and lifted. “Got it.”

  “But only for a coupla weeks, Vitya, max.”

  “No prob.” The guy took the weights in his right hand. Looked at Lapin. At the beer. “Hittin’ the foamy?”

  “Nah.” Kela flopped on the mattress. “Just shootin’ the breeze with the young folks.”

  “You’re a good guy, Kel.” The guy nodded and left with the weights.

  “You heard about the Union of Satan and the Antichrist?” Kela asked Lapin.

  “What’s that?”

  “How about B’nai Moishe?”

  “No.”

  Kela sighed.

  “Jesus fuckin’ Christ. I don’t know what the fuck makes you guys tick.”

  “Compooters,” said Gena, glancing into the room.

  “Fuck compooters.” Kela gave a nod. “Do you know who invented the Internet and where? And what he did it for?”

  “You already said a million times,” said Gena, scratching his cheek. “So what?...So the Jews and Chinese invented everything in the world.”

  “You read My Name Is Legion?” Kela stared at Lapin.

  Someone rang the doorbell.

  “Open it.” Kela nodded at Gena.

  The guy in leather came in again. Holding the weights.

  “Kel, listen, I forgot: Vovan said to come over on Friday. To have a few. You in?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll come by.”

  “Good. Hey, Vityok, these guys ain’t read My Name Is Legion and they don’t do any damn sports.”

  “Each to his own.” The guy smiled, showing his teeth. He held the weights out to Gena. “Hold this a sec, youngster.”

  “Get outta here!” said Gena, laughing. “I have kidney stones.”

  “For real?”

  “For real!” Kela answered for Gena. “How ya fuckin’ like that, Vitya? The kid’s only twenty — and he’s got kidney stones!”

  “Wooow...” The guy leaned against the doorjamb, still holding the weights. “I ain’t heard of that. So young. Stones. We used to...uhhh. In our battalion the sergeant cured a first lieutenant. He couldn’t sleep in the cold.”

  “How come?”

  “Kidney stones. He got him soused, on beer. Four liters. Then he says, ‘Let’s go take a leak.’ So they get up. The first lieutenant’s pissing. And the sergeant whacks him on the side of the kidneys — wham-bam! He’s like — oooowwww, shit! His piss is all bloody. But all the stones came out. So there you go. Field medicine.”

  The guy turned around and left.

  The phone rang. Kela picked it up.

  “Yeah. Hey, my man. Ah! Fucking shit man, what’s the story with you? That’s fuckin’ it! I’m going to pick it up tomorrow. Tell me about it! Today I’m walking down the street thinking — am I really gonna trade in that rotten ’04 for a normal fuckin’ set of wheels? Uh-huh! Yeah...yeah...That’s for fuckin’ sure. Uh-huh!”

  “Are you buying a new car?” asked Lapin.

  “Not new. A ’93 Golf.” Gena yawned.

  “Got rich?”

  “The folks laid a coupla thou on us.”

  “Great.”

  “Let’s go to a chat and bullshit. There’re lots of film buffs.”

  “I wanted to talk over stuff with Kela.”

  “That’s Voronin. It’s gonna be a long one. Come on, let’s go.”

  “All right...”

  They returned to Gena’s room. They sat down side by side at the computer. Gena quickly entered a chat room under the name KillaBee :/).

  Zkhus /:

  I bought argento’s “Phantom of the Opera” yesterday, too. I was counting on Julian Sands, who’s not usually in shitty films. I think he’s the coolest actor since Mickey Rourke. Fanfuckintastic flick!!! —

  De Scriptor /:

  Yeah and “Darkness” is crapola.

  Natasha /:

  Julian Sands sucks. He was only good in “Black Book 2,” but “Phantom of the Opera” is total bullshit.

  KillaBee /:

  Ur all floppy-dicked cuntsuckers! And Julian Sands is Filipp Kirkorov’s nephew :)

  Old As A Mammoth /:

  Scuzzy! Where the DZTVZ are u coming from?

  KillaBee /:

  A mammoth’s cunt, Fuzzy Wuzzy. How come u r jacking off on Sands when there’s Chuuuuulpan Kamyyyytovaaaaa and Keanu Reeves!!! Guys, I’m in love with them!

  De Scriptor /:

  Dumbfuckism is incurable :/( . But it can be used for peaceful causes.

  Mole /:

  that wet slit will piss on everything again.

  KillaBee /:

  Definitely, boys :/ —

  Zkhus /:

  Here’s a suggestion — fuck off to your own chain link.

  Old As A Mammoth /:

  killabeeby, can it, will ya. Check out: www.clas.ru. u can order rare films. Home delivery. I got my favorite, Cronenberg :)))

&n
bsp; Mole /:

  anyone seen Argento’s “Demons”?

  Vino /:

  Argento didn’t make “Demons.” It was either G. Romero or Lucio Fulci. RenTV showed “Phenomena” by your vapid Argento — what trash. With a heavy metal soundtrack.

  KillaBee /:

  Woooow, look who’s here! The vin-o-dictive nightingale is singing sweetly. r u still hard? I’m always ready, motherfucker!!!! :/)

  Vino /:

  KillaBee, if you want someone to screw you till you’re blue in the clit, then....///!

  “Gen, I’m going home.” Lapin got up. Touched his chest.

  “What’s wrong, Lap? Let’s write something. Come on, something cool, no kids’ stuff.”

  “Yeah, well...to hell with it. I wanted to talk to Kela, but he got onto his kikes again.”

  “Why’d the fuck you work him up? You shoulda talked about something else. Freemasons, Masonic lodges...That’s all he’s gonna talk about now. I never bring up ethnic stuff with him anymore. He drives me fucking crazy.”

  Lapin waved his hand. He stood there a minute.

  “Gen.”

  “What?” said Gena, typing.

  “Let’s grab a beer.”

  “Where?” asked Gena, turning around in surprise.

  “Anywhere. I have...that is...I’ve got tons of money.”

  “From where?”

  “Thin air.”

  Kela came in with a new bottle of beer.

  “And I’ll tell you what else, Genka. I’m gonna say it for the last goddamned time: you keep on sucking that hash — I’ll send you to the progenitors. Go smoke that fucking shit there, in the can.”

  “I haven’t had a toke for ages, what do you mean?”

  “The day before yesterday? Huh? When I brought in the smokes. And your gang of assholes was here? Don’t tell me you weren’t.”

  “What’re you talking about? Kel? We were listening to the new Air Force CD.”

  “Don’t bullshit the boss. Fuckin’ idiots. You don’t understand shit.” He took a swig from the bottle. “You know what dead Chechens’ brains look like? Swiss cheese. With holes. This big. From what? From hashish. Got it?”

  “You already told me.” Gena popped a piece of gum in his mouth. “Kel, you know beer makes the liver get all covered in fat.”

  “Just fuckin’ think about it. I warned you. For the last time.”

  Kela left.

  “Jeez, shit...” Gena sighed. “I’m so sick of this. Christ, why are they so psyched about pumping iron? Vityok, Shpala, Bomber — they’re dunces, it figures — they’ve only got a few gray cells to start, why not pump? But Kela — he’s smart. He’s read more books than all of them put together. And it’s the same thing — a healthy body, shit, a healthy spirit. And every morning he sticks those lousy friggin’ dumbbells in my bed! Think about it. I’m sleeping, and he goes and sticks those fuckin’ dumbbells under my ass! What a loony bin...”

  Lapin looked at the screen. Got up. “I’m off.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve still got something to do...”

  “Lap, why are you so...today?”

  “So what?”

  “Well, kind of...beat up?”

  Lapin looked at him and laughed out loud. A sudden attack of hysterical laughter forced him to bend over.

  “What’s with you?” Gena said, confused.

  Lapin laughed. Gena looked at him.

  Lapin had a hard time calming down. He wiped away the tears that had come to his eyes. Sighed deeply.

  “That’s it...I’m off.”

  “What about the beer?”

  “What beer?”

  “You were the one who wanted to have a beer, no?”

  “I was joking.”

  “Some kinda joke, leetle boy...”

  Lapin left.

  It had grown dark outside and was beginning to freeze. The puddles cracked underfoot.

  Lapin limped to his door and walked in. He pressed the elevator button, looked at the wall. He saw the familiar graffiti. Two tags — acid orthodox and destruction-97 — were Lapin’s work. He noticed a new inscription: ural, don’t be afraid of awakening.

  Black marker. Neat handwriting.

  Diar

  07:08, The Kiev Highway, Kilometer 12

  A white Volga automobile turned onto a forest road. Drove about three hundred meters. Turned again. Stopped in the glade.

  A birch grove. Leftover snow. Morning sun.

  Two people got out of the car.

  Botvin: 39 years old, heavy, blond, blue eyes, a kind face, a blue-green athletic jacket, blue-green pants with a white stripe, black sneakers.

  Neilands: 25, tall, thin, blond, decisively stern, blue eyes, sharp facial features, a brown raincoat.

  They opened the trunk.

  Nikolaeva lay inside: 22, a cute blond, blue eyes, a short fox-fur coat, high black suede boots, her mouth taped with a white bandage, handcuffs.

  They pulled Nikolaeva out of the trunk. She kicked and whined.

  Neilands took out a knife. He sliced through the back of the coat. And the sleeves. The coat fell to the ground. Under the coat was a red dress. Neilands cut it. He cut the bra.

  Medium-size breasts. Small nipples.

  They led her to a birch tree and began tying her to it.

  Nikolaeva let out a muffled wail. She struggled. Her neck and face turned red.

  “Not tight. Let her breathe freely.” Botvin pressed her writhing shoulders against the birch.

  “I don’t make it tight.” Neilands worked with intense concentration.

  They finished. Botvin took a longish white refrigerator case out of the car. He opened it. Inside lay the ice hammer: the neat weighty head, the wooden handle, the rawhide straps.

  Neilands pulled a one-ruble coin out of this pocket.

  “Heads.”

  “Tails,” said Botvin, trying out the hammer.

  Neilands tossed the coin. It landed upright on its edge in the snow.

  “Well how do you like that?” Botvin laughed. “So what do we do, try it again?”

  “Go ahead and hit,” Neilands said with a wave of his hand.

  Botvin stood in front of Nikolaeva.

  “Now listen, sweetheart. We aren’t robbers or sadists. Not even rapists. Relax. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  Nikolaeva whimpered. Tears ran from her eyes. So did her mascara.

  Botvin swung back.

  “Speak!”

  The hammer struck her sternum.

  Nikolaeva grunted.

  “That’s not it, hon,” said Botvin, shaking his head.

  He drew back. The sun sparkled on the side of the hammer.

  “Speak!”

  Another blow. The half-naked body shuddered.

  Botvin and Neilands listened.

  Nikolaeva’s shoulders and head trembled. She hiccuped rapidly.

  “Close, but no cigar.” Neilands frowned.

  “Let the Light’s Will be done, Dor.”

  “You said it, Ycha.”

  Two birds called each other in the forest.

  Botvin slowly drew the hammer to one side.

  “Come on, luv...spea-ea-k!”

  The powerful blow shook Nikolaeva. She lost consciousness. Her head hung limp. Her long blond hair covered her breast.

  Botvin and Neilands listened.

  A sound awoke in the bruised chest. A faint rasp. Once. Twice. A third time.

  “Speak with the heart!” Botvin said. He held his breath.

  “Speak with the heart!” Neilands whispered.

  The sound broke off.

  “It was definitely there...Lift her head,” said Botvin, raising the hammer.

  “One hundred percent...” Neilands moved behind the birch. He lifted Nikolaeva’s head and pressed it to the rough, cold trunk. “Just — take it easy, now...”

  “You bet...” Botvin drew back. “Speeeak!”

  The hammer smashed into the chest. A sp
ray of ice splinters flew out in all directions.

  Botvin pressed his ear to the chest. Neilands looked out from behind the birch.

  “Khor, khor, khor...” could be heard from the breastbone.

  “We’ve got it!” Botvin shouted, tossing the hammer aside. “Speak, little sister, speak with the heart, talk to us!”

  “Speak with the heart, speak with the heart, speak with the heart!” muttered Neilands. He began hurriedly searching in his pockets: “Where is it? Where? Where did I...where is it?”

  “Wait a sec...” Botvin patted all his pockets.

  “Jeez, damn...it’s in the car! In the glove compartment!”

  “Damnit...”

  Botvin lunged toward the Volga. He slipped on the wet snow and fell — onto the dirty brown grass. He crawled quickly to the car, opened the door, and pulled a stethoscope from the glove compartment.

  The sound didn’t stop.

  “Hurry!” Neilands cried in a falsetto.

  “Damnit all...” Botvin ran back. He stretched out a dirty hand holding a stethoscope.

  Neilands stuck the ends in his ears. He held the stethoscope to the violet-colored chest.

  Both of them froze. An airplane flew by in the distance. Birds called to each other. The sun went behind a cloud.

  There was a raspy sputtering sound in Nikolaeva’s chest — faint but regular.

  “Di...ro...aro...ara...” whispered Neilands.

  “Don’t be in such a hurry!” said Botvin, exhaling.

  “Di...di...ar. Diar. Diar. Diar!” Neilands sighed in relief. He took the stethoscope off and handed it to Botvin.

  Botvin put it clumsily in his ears. His plump, dirty hand pressed the black circle to the chest.

  “Di...et...di...ero....Diar. Diar. Diar. Diar.”

  “Diar!” Neilands nodded his narrow head.

  “Diar.” Botvin smiled. He wiped his face with his muddied hand. He laughed. “Diar!”

  “Diar!” said Neilands, slapping him on the shoulder.

  “Diar!” Botvin replied, tapping on his chest.

  They embraced, swayed, pushed away from each other. Neilands began to cut the rope. Botvin tossed the hammer in the case. He took off his jacket.

  They freed the unconscious Nikolaeva from the ropes and handcuffs. They wrapped her in the jacket and lifted her. They carried her to the car.

  “Don’t forget the hammer,” wheezed Botvin.

  They laid Nikolaeva on the backseat.

  Neilands grabbed the case with the hammer. He tossed it in the trunk.