Ice Trilogy

by Vladimir Sorokin

Bjorn nodded. The old man in glasses pointed in a calming gesture to the observation camera, and moved away. Olga sobbed, her face pressed into Bjorn’s solar plexus. His work clothes smelled of sweat and carrion. The workers glanced sympathetically as the two embraced.

  Calming down a bit, Olga rubbed her eyes with the sleeve of her uniform.

  “You slept two whole days,” said Bjorn, looking down at her.

  He had a small bruise on his cheekbone.

  “Did they beat you?” Olga said, touching the bruise.

  “No. That was the table. When I fell. Are you all right?”

  “Just fine!” Olga looked angrily around her. “What is this?”

  “Come on, I’ll tell you everything.”

  “What are they all doing?” she said, seeing the blood on his gloves. “How disgusting...What is this — a dog-meat plant?”

  “Just about. I’ve been here since yesterday evening.”

  “Why?”

  “I woke up earlier. Insomnia, you know...” He tried to joke and squinted at the observation camera. “Let’s go over to where I work. There are extremely painful penalties for idling.”

  He led Olga to his work station. The corpse of a dog lay on his metal table — a reddish-black mutt, with sharpened, old, yellowed canines, sagging tits, and glassy, half-closed eyes. Judging by the frost coming out on her matted fur and claws, she had been slightly frozen. She emitted a weak smell of dog and dead flesh. The dog’s skin had been slit on her paws and stomach. This was done by a stocky, towheaded fellow. He cut open every corpse this way. Bjorn took up a special electric knife and began to carefully and not very skillfully peel the hide away. The stench of carrion grew stronger.

  “Ugh...” Olga turned away.

  “There’s a mask.” Bjorn pointed.

  Olga took the gas mask off a hook and put it on.

  “How about you?”

  “So far I don’t need it.” Bjorn shook his head. “It’s easier to talk without it.”

  “Where are we?” Olga mumbled through the new Chinese gas mask.

  “I don’t know. They say under the iceberg.”

  “Under the ICE?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who says so?”

  “The others who are here.”

  “And who are they?”

  “They’re the same like us.”

  “They were hammered too?”

  “Yes. And at some point they also found the site of that Michael guy. And then — just what happened to us. They came here to fight against evil. In short, you and I weren’t the only idiots...”

  “But why...” Olga looked at the dog skin, which peeled off the corpse’s leg with a crack. “You...that is...they...why, why, why all this?”

  “What do you mean? Why are we here? I am not the one to ask this question.”

  “Why all this? Why all this nasty stuff?”

  “Why are we skinning these dogs? Because at that end of the workshop the women cut the skin into strips. Which are then used somewhere to tie the ice to the handle. Then they have an ice hammer.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Well, I spent a whole night among our comrades in misfortune.”

  “But...but why did I sleep so long?” Olga took off the gas mask, which got in the way of talking.

  Bjorn spoke seriously, “Here you go, put on these gloves and help me.”

  “I’m not going to do this shit!”

  “They give electric shocks. And don’t let you eat. Or drink.”

  “That’s right,” she remembered, “I’m really thirsty.”

  “There’s a drinking station over there in the corner.”

  Olga looked at the observation camera.

  “And what now?” she asked indignantly. “Bastards! The day after tomorrow I have to be in Philadelphia with a contract! They’ll fire me!”

  Bjorn laughed bitterly. “I think we’ve already been fired. From the living.”

  Olga looked at him attentively.

  “What should we do?” she asked.

  “Skin dogs,” he answered seriously. “And not make any sudden movements.”

  “What?” She squinted furiously. “Sudden movements? I’ll obliterate them, the scum!”

  She shook her fist at the moving observation camera and cried out loud, “Fuck you!”

  The camera focused on Olga immediately. The workers froze. Up above, on a small balcony jutting out from the wall, a door opened silently. A Chinese man in a uniform emerged from it. Two side doors also opened and guards appeared in them as well.

  Olga’s lips trembled from anger. But Bjorn, his hands in gloves covered with dog blood, grabbed her wrists.

  “Olga!”

  The dead, cold blood turned her to stone.

  “Olga.”

  She turned to look at Bjorn. But her lips were still distorted with hatred.

  “They’ll kill us at the drop of a hat,” Bjorn said. “You’ve got to understand.”

  Her gaze drilled straight through Bjorn.

  “And you’ve got to understand: this is completely serious.”

  She looked at the Chinese. They stared at her, immobile. Bjorn gently wiped her wrists with a paper towel. And began putting new gloves on her hands.

  “Go get a drink. And come back over here to me.”

  A stocky fellow, who sliced the corpses open, winked at Olga and Bjorn sympathetically. He took another corpse off the hook and dropped it with a thud on the table in front of Olga. It was a bitch with matted gray-brown fur. Olga looked at the dog’s frosty tits. She turned her gaze to the conveyor. Only bitches hung from the hooks.

  “But why...are they all females?” she asked distractedly.

  “No one knows,” said the stocky guy, taking off his gas mask and wiping the sweat from his freckled forehead, looking at Olga with a half smile. “Not even the old-timers.”

  It was clear that he liked Olga. Softening, she looked at the frozen dog tits, while Bjorn pulled the gloves on her helpless hands.

  “You know what we call each other?” The stocky guy grinned.

  “No,” Olga mumbled.

  “Friends of Dead Bitches.”

  Seeing All

  The great night has arrived.

  The Earth has fallen asleep. The meat machines are immobile until dawn. They sleep and dream their meat dreams. But the Brotherhood of the Light isn’t sleeping. The Brotherhood has waited a long time for this night. It has traveled a long path to this hour — an entire Earth century. The Brothers and Sisters of the Light moved toward this. They brought the Great Hour nearer. They struggled and were tormented. They perished and were reborn. They suffered and prevailed. They labored and overcame. They tore brothers and sisters away from the world of the meat. They protected the Newly Acquired.

  Iron birds take off into the night air. They serve the Brotherhood. They lift Khram and Gorn into the night air. In the main iron machine Khram and Gorn are lifted into the air. This machine will help them. It was created for this night. It was created for this night alone. For the first and last flight. In order to help Khram and Gorn. The flying machine rises higher and higher. The Earth is farther and farther away. From the flying machine one can see farther and farther. The other flying machines fly close by, guarding them.

  Khram and Gorn sit, embracing, in a glass sphere. Their bodies are naked. Their eyes are closed. Their chests are together. Their hands are intertwined. Their hearts are prepared.

  The glass sphere flies above the sleeping Earth.

  Khram and Gorn are strong. They are capable.

  The Brotherhood is also prepared. All across the Earth, Circles of the Light have formed. Great and Lesser Circles. In different countries. Thousands of brothers and sisters are frozen and still. Their eyes are closed. Their hearts are prepared. They are waiting.

  Khram and Gorn soar over the Earth.

  The night helps them. For it is only at night that the meat machines are immobile. They are all in their own pla
ces. They are all visible.

  The Earth lies in the palms of Khram’s and Gorn’s hands. They hold it like an apple. They are prepared.

  The flying machine rises to the heights. This is its limit. The moment of Beginning has arrived.

  Khram’s and Gorn’s hearts shine cautiously.

  All the Circles of the Light on the Earth below instantly shine in response. They give strength to Khram and Gorn. They offer them support. They guard and hold them.

  The hearts of Khram and of Gorn shine ever stronger. They gather the power of the Light. They prepare themselves. The iron machine soars over the world of meat machines. Its mechanisms are prepared to be of use to the Brotherhood one last time. They are on alert. They depend on Khram and Gorn. The iron head of the flying machine awaits its commands. To remember those whom Khram and Gorn will see. In order to help find them. The Brotherhood controls the complex mechanisms of the flying machine. The brothers grow stock-still.

  The Brotherhood of the Primordial Light grows still.

  Everything is now in the hearts of Khram and of Gorn.

  Everything depends on them.

  Everything rests on them.

  One second passes.

  Another...

  A third...

  THEIR HEARTS HAVE FLARED!

  It has come to pass!

  Khram and Gorn have seen.

  Their hearts see EVERYONE.

  All 23,000. Including Khram and Gorn, 23,000 brothers and sisters on the planet Earth.

  All the brothers and sisters, Khram and Gorn see all of them, down to the very last one. Gorn sees: 22,437 are on Earth; 563 are now in the air.

  Khram’s and Gorn’s hearts shine. Their bodies tremble in the glass sphere. It is hard for bodies to withstand the power of the Light. It will tear the meat bodies into 23,000 pieces, they will fall apart on account of the Primordial Power. They won’t be able withstand the Force of Unearthly Light. But the Circles of Light on the Earth shine in reply. The brothers and sisters stand. They hold them like a shield. They help with support. They contain them.

  The complex mechanisms of the flying machine have come to life. Its iron head begins to work. It receives commands from Khram and Gorn. They issue from the embracing bodies of Khram and Gorn. They flow into the head of the flying machine. The machine sees along with Khram and Gorn. But not with heart vision, with its own iron vision. It sees everyone that Khram and Gorn see. It determines the place, commits it to memory, finds through the machines of the Earth the names of the sleeping brothers and sisters. New names flow into the iron machine. They join with glittering flares. They are collected in order. They are conveyed to hundreds of other irons machines that serve the Brotherhood. The machines remember the new names, they find out their new addresses, they find earthly ways of acquiring these brothers and sisters.

  The iron machine flies across the night sky, chasing the night. It flies west. During the night it must circle the entire planet Earth, manage to do it in one night. All the brothers and sisters are sleeping now. While they are immobile. While they are visible. While millions of meat machines are asleep. While millions of meat machines are immobilized. While they can be picked out.

  Shining are two hearts above; shining are thousands below.

  Khram and Gorn see.

  They see EVERYONE.

  They recognize each one.

  The head of the flying machine works. It remembers. The machine flies west. The countries of meat machines float under it. And the hearts of sleeping brothers and sisters flare like points of fire. Those who have remained in the violent and ruthless world of the Earth. Whose hearts are sleeping. Who must still be saved, torn out of the meat of earthly life. Returned to the world of Eternal Light. Acquired for the Great Transformation. For the Great Victory. For the Great Return to the Primordial Light.

  The iron machine flies through the night sky. It flies around the entire Earth from east to west. It hurries after the night. It carries a glass sphere across the sky. The Earth of meat machines sleeps. And knows not what awaits it.

  Work Day Done

  Olga’s workmate cut the 1,128th strap from dog hide with crude iron scissors. It slid across the metal table and Olga caught it, used her left hand to press the rib spur down, and began to clean off the black fur stuck to the skin. Her co-worker, a blue-eyed, broad-shouldered Norwegian named Kristina, stole a glance at the clock.

  “It’s already five of.”

  Olga didn’t want to look at the clock: after a week of work in the Friends of Dead Bitches Society, she had lost any sense of time. In her head time either stretched out and crawled like a snail along the stone banister of Mama’s house in Newark, or raced ahead like the train from Newark to New York, where Olga had first gotten her degree in economics, then an MBA, then lived in NoHo in a small loft near the university, a cozy loft with two windows facing south and two facing north, a loft on the sixth floor, a loft where there were books, little statues, knickknacks, Papa’s Arab and European pictures, Mama’s music collection, a large stuffed tiger she slept with, and the parrot Fima who could say “lo-co-mo-tive,” and whom she would never, ever hear again...

  “Begone!”

  Having cleaned the strap, she swept the fur into a garbage bag and placed the finished strips in a transparent box. Each box like this could hold five hundred strips. In one day she and her co-worker were supposed to fill two of these boxes. For two days now Olga and Kristina had exceeded the quota, for which they were to receive a bonus. Having finished cutting the strips, Kristina placed the dog hide in a special bag and set about wiping the scissors, which were crusty with dog blood, with a rag. Olga sealed the transparent box of strips, walked over to the wall, and pressed a button; a white niche opened up. Olga put the box in it and pressed the button again. The niche closed. Returning to her work station, Olga took off the canvas apron and hung it on a hook. She sprayed disinfectant on the metal table and began wiping it clean with a paper towel.

  The bell signaling the end of the working day sounded.

  Olga glanced over at the other end of the shop: Bjorn was wiping his table and talking to his neighbor. Both were smiling.

  “He has the energy for humor.” Olga sighed, and tossed the paper towel into the trash.

  Kristina put the scissors and knife away in the table’s metal drawer, rose, and, taking off her gloves, stretched and groaned with relief.

  “Blessed Virgin...that’s it!”

  “The end of a rotten business,” Olga muttered, throwing her gloves into the bin.

  “The day is over, thank God,” a plump Danish peasant girl with a fabulous blond braid who worked at the next table said to them with a tired smile.

  “Yeah, yeah,” yawned her co-worker, a rough, masculine Polish woman. “If only all their damned ice would melt tomorrow...melt!”

  “Do you mean the company or the ice?” Olga asked, as she rubbed her neck.

  “The one the other!” the Polish woman answered in her awkward English.

  They all laughed in exhaustion and strolled toward the women’s showers, while the men, talking to one another, wandered off to shower too. The guards let them all stream out into the hallway, opened the doors to the showers, admitted them, and locked the doors behind them. One hundred and eighty-nine people worked in the Friends of Dead Bitches Society. There were more women — a hundred and four. As an old-timer of the bunker, the Australian, Sally, explained to Olga, this was because after the blows from the ice hammers women survived more often than men. Sally was number 8. She had spent four years in the bunker and was the senior female. The head of the men was the stooped Horst, who wore glasses and had been abducted by the Brotherhood back in East Berlin. He had been brought to the bunker six years ago. According to him, nine people worked there at the time.

  Olga found her hook with the number 189, the last in the long dressing room, took off her clothes, which smelled of dog, pulled off her socks and underwear, and walked across the warm tiles to enter t
he showers with the crowd of naked women. A light steam filled the room, and ten lines formed around ten showers. Everyone took a turn under the shower. Olga got in line behind a small, plain girl with dark-blond, tousled hair. The girl stood, her lackluster, slightly bulging blue eyes vacantly staring at the nape of the woman ahead of her who was laughing, telling a joke to two other women in an unknown language.

  “Albanian? Moldavian?” Olga thought without energy. “Are there really three of them? There aren’t any Russian women here at all. Nine Americans. Fourteen Germans. Ten French, it seemed. Swedes — twenty-five in all. I’m the only Jew. Russians and Jews the weakest women? Forgotten how to survive? It’s strange...”

  On the other hand, in the men’s section, there were seven Russians. And they were all fairly nice guys. One of them was a former athlete, another a chef, the third a professional thief, the fourth some kind of bureaucrat. And all of them cheerful. Olga thought of them with warmth: she liked to sit with these guys after her shower and talk in the forgotten language of her childhood.

  “Dozhdik dozhdik, kap, kap, kap.” Rain, rain, drip drop, drip drop, she muttered in Russian, and licked her lips nervously: she really wanted to smoke. But that was possible only in the bunker.

  “Are you American?” the woman standing behind her asked in an unusually muffled voice.

  “Why, do I look like one?” Olga turned around and saw a swarthy, svelte woman of about forty-five with a terribly deformed chest.

  An intricate purple-white cavity yawned in the area of her breastbone; the right breast was missing; the collarbone, broken in two place, had grown back bent into a half circle. Nevertheless, the woman was truly beautiful: a well-proportioned, stately figure, Indian cheekbones, light-chestnut hair with gold highlights, and dark-blue, deep-set eyes.

  “Wow! They really gave it to you.” Olga stared at the cavity.

  “Nineteen blows,” the woman said in a flat voice.

  Her breathing was fast and shallow, and her narrow nostrils flared. The cavity moved in time with her breath, as though she were breathing in the humid steam of the shower room.

  “Liz Cunnigan, Memphis,” said the woman, holding out her dark hand.