“Thought you were a white man, eh?”
“Come on, give it another try!”
Artyom could only die uselessly here. Nothing else could be done.
He slid down one step lower, then another. He pulled Oleg after him. Oleg was breathing strenuously and trying not to bleed too much, but he was getting paler and paler.
“Listen here, pal, don’t you even think about it, right? How do we get out of this place of yours? There has to be something at TsvetnoI Boulevard … There must be something there, eh, granddad?”
“There was a brothel there,” Homer recalled.
“Right. Where there’s a brothel there can be a doctor. Well, can’t there? We’ll sail that way. Come on. Don’t go to sleep here, you bastard! I’ll give you sleeping … Stay awake!”
But they couldn’t sail to the brothel. Not Olezhek and not anyone. There was nothing to sail on. The banks of the canals running along the edges of the platform were empty.
“Pointless. He’s a goner.” The broker sentenced Olezhek lethargically.
“Wait a moment,” said Artyom.” Wait a moment.”
“I want to die,” Oleg confirmed.” And my egg’s broken. I’m sick and tired of living.”
“You shut your lousy trap! Just find a way to row out of here!” Artyom prodded the motionless broker with his gun barrel.” And you, show me your belly!”
Right then: dirty skin, a hole in the skin, thin fluid pumping out from inside, everything smeared with filth. Homer took a look too and shrugged. Whether he would die or not, only the Almighty knew. He would die, probably.
Lyokha clutched the Christ hanging round his neck like a parachute release handle, roused himself, and set off, slipping and slithering, hunching over, to seek salvation. To look for a way out of this wolf pit.
Whose fault was it? Artyom tried to work it out. It was the fault of the man with the egg. I didn’t shoot at him. When he dies, it will be his own fault.
“By the way, he promised me the chicken if he kicked the bucket,” a stocky woman with sagging breasts and a swollen eye said right into Artyom’s ear.” We had a lot in common.”
“Go away,” Olezhek begged weakly.” Witch.”
“Don’t take a sin on your soul. You won’t need the chicken there. Tell them to give me it. While you still can.”
“Go away. Let me think about God.”
“Leave the chicken to me and then think. Or better, give me it straightaway …”
The chicken closed its eyes under Homer’s hand. It couldn’t care less any longer.
“How can we get out of here, aunty?” Artyom asked the woman with the black eye.
“Why, where would you be going, sweetie? And what for? After all, people live here too. We can keep the chicken together. Olezhek here will kick the bucket … And you and me will work something out!” She winked with the eye that could still wink.
It wasn’t me who killed him, Artyom decided.
“Hey! Hey!”
Artyom heard some kind of singing. It came from a long way away.
A march.
“Hey! Over there!”
“What?”
“There’s someone sailing along! Sailing out of the tunnel!”
Lyokha stood staring in amazement at the Jesus that had worked.
Artyom picked up Olezhek, who, as he dried out, was getting lighter and lighter, and they ran slowly to the canal tracks.
And something actually did appear there. A raft? A raft!
A headlight shone, oars plopped, a discordant choir clamored heartily. They were rowing from the direction of Savyolovo—and moving straight towards TsvetnoI Boulevard.
Artyom hobbled out to meet them, almost tumbling into the canal, along with the wounded man, to drown idiotically at the last moment.
“Stop! Hey! Stop!”
The oars stopped stroking. But Artyom still couldn’t make out what was there. Who was there.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! Take us! To Tsvetnoi! We’ve got money!
The raft crept a bit closer. Bristling with gun barrels. With about five men on it, armed. And—now he could see this—there was room for a few more.
They all gathered at the edge: Artyom with the dying man, Homer with the chicken, and Lyokha with his hand. They were inspected by turns with a broad beam of light.
“Don’t look like freaks!”
“We’ll take you for a clip! Climb on …”
“Glory be …” Artyom didn’t even finish saying it; he felt like singing.
With his heart feeling as if his own brother had been pardoned, he put Olezhek on the raft—unsinkable, lashed together out of thousands of plastic bottles full of emptiness. And flopped down beside him.
“Watch it now. Don’t you even try to snuff it before Tsvetnoi!” he impressed on Olezhek.
“I won’t go anywhere,” Oleg protested.” Why bother going somewhere. No point.”
“Don’t take him away! Don’t shatter a woman’s heart!” the woman with the black eye wailed.
“You’ll never get him anywhere,” a voice supported her from out of the jungle.” Don’t torment the man. Leave him here. He lived here. He’ll give up the ghost here.”
“Why, you’ll chew him up before he croaks.”
“That’s insulting!”
There wasn’t any time for haggling: it was time to get under way.
“The chicken! Leave the chicken! May you go blind in both eyes!”
* * *
Mendeleev Station sailed away into the past. Ahead lay a voyage along a drainpipe to the far end of the world, from where the beacon of life was twinkling to them.
“And where are you going yourselves, guys?” the broker asked the bottle-raft oarsmen.
“We’re sailing to the Fourth Reich,” they answered him.” As volunteers.”
CHAPTER 7
— TSVETNOI BOULEVARD —
The side of the raft jostled against a drowned man. He was dangling with his hunched back upwards, feeling at the bottom with his hands. He’d lost something there, probably. Artyom felt sorry for him—he’d very nearly managed to swim all the way to Tsvetnoi. Or was it that he hadn’t gotten very far when he bolted from it?
“How are things with the freaks at your place?”
Artyom pretended it wasn’t him they were picking at with the questions. He kept quiet. But they didn’t give up.
“Hey, friend! It’s you I’m talking to! I said, how are things with freaks at Alekseevskaya.”
“Okay.”
“Okay—does that mean there are some or you’ve killed all yours?”
“We haven’t got any freaks.”
“Yes you do. They’re everywhere, my friend. They’re like rats. You’ve got to have some. They lurk, the bastards.”
“I’ll bear it in mind.”
“But they won’t be able to hide forever. We’ll figure out who they are. Every last one of them, the animals, we’ll work it out. Use the ruler and the compasses on all of them. Right, Belyash?”
“Spot on. There’s no place for freaks in the Metro. We’ve got no air to breathe ourselves.
“They don’t just eat mushrooms, they eat our mushrooms. Ours, get it? Mine and yours! There won’t be any room in the Metro for our children, because theirs will take it all up! It’s got to be us or them …”
“Us normal people have got to hold the line, because those animals stick together …”
A hand was placed on Artyom’s shoulder. In comradely fashion.
The first one: puffy, bags under his eyes, a little wedge beard, hands swollen up with excess water. The second one: covered in finely worked gunpowder tattoos, pockmarked face, forehead two finger-breadths high. The third one: a shaven-headed goon with a single fused black eyebrow; he definitely wasn’t an Aryan. The other two melted into the darkness.
“People are like pigs, get it? They’ve got their snouts stuck in the trough, grunting away. As long as someone pours swill in for them, everyone’s
happy. No one wants to think. Know what the Führer hooked me with? He says ‘Think with your own head.’ If there are ready answers for everything, that means someone got them ready for you! You’ve got to ask questions, get it?”
“And have you already been in the Reich before?” asked Artyom.
“I have,” said the pockmarked one.” Passing through. It really got to me. Because everything’s right. It all falls right into place. You think, ‘Fuck it, where have I been until now’?”
“Spot on,” the shaven-headed one confirmed.
“Everyone has to start with himself. With his own station. With some little thing; start with some little thing. Like just running through his neighbors, at least. Heroes aren’t born.”
“And they’re there. They’re everywhere. They have this kind of mafia of their own. They help each other along. Don’t let normal people in.”
“And at Riga you wouldn’t believe it. No matter how hard you struggle, it’s like banging your head against a wall!” Lyokha remarked.” Is that because of them, then? What do they look like, at least?”
“Sometimes, get it, they conceal themselves so well, you can’t tell them from a human being. You have to scratch a bit.”
“It’s a shame not everyone catches on!” the puffy-faced, shaven-headed one supported him.” I’ve started figuring out who the freaks are at our station … Basically, not all the people are ready yet.” He rubbed his jaw.” Some even interbreed with them. How’s that for filth?”
“The main thing is to remember them all. All of them who have raised their hand against our folk. Who have strangled our kind. The time will come.”
“I say, Come along with us!” The pock-marked one just wouldn’t take his hand off Artyom’s shoulder.” As a volunteer! Join the Iron Legion! You’re one of us! You are one of us, aren’t you?”
“No, guys. We’re dummies when it comes to politics. We’re going to the whorehouse.”
Artyom really felt like he was choking. And that hand was burning through his turtleneck sweater; any moment now there’d be a whiff of scorched wool. He wanted to wriggle out from under that hand like an adder. But where to?
“Now isn’t that a shame? He’s invited to save the Metro, and he sticks his snout back in his trough. Have you even thought about the reason why we’ve ended up in this situation? Have you thought at all about how we human beings are going to survive at all? With your own head? Of course you fucking haven’t. Just want to visit the whores. You’re interested in harlots, but the future of the nation doesn’t bother you.”
“Get that, Armor-Plate, to hell with it! Maybe he’ll shaft a freak there? Yu-u-uck. Eh?”
“Hey granddad, maybe you at least? In your old age it’s time to think about your soul. You should be normal! Or have you got a little spot of cancer? They say the Führer equated—”
“No bother. They’ll get the Iron Legion together, and then … For now we’ll do a bit of training … And then we’ll come back and remind all these … animals. We’ll take a trek through the Metro again. On the march.”
“What’s this Iron Legion, then?” Lyokha couldn’t resist asking.
“A volunteer force. For our own kind. Them as are trodden down by the freaks.”
“That’s me.”
“Oh! There it is … Quiet … We’ve arrived, look at that.”
At TsvetnoI Boulevard they were greeted by a searchlight, so they had to approach the station with their eyes screwed up, almost moving blind. Instead of sentries there were hefty bruisers. They weren’t interested in visas or passports, only cartridges: Have you come here to spend money or just drool?
“We need a doctor! Is there a doctor?” They had barely put in to the platform before Artyom scrambled out and jerked the broker up by the scruff of the neck.
Olezhek had already given in and wasn’t raving any longer. There were red bubbles coming out of his mouth. The faithful chicken had dozed off on his punctured stomach, so that Olezhek’s soul couldn’t evaporate through the hole.
“A doctor or a nurse?” cackled a mangled guard: a flattened nose and two cauliflower ears.
“Come on, a man’s dying.”
“We can even find you angels here too.”
But he showed Artyom the way, after all: Okay, down that way to the doctor.
“Of course, she deals with social diseases here. So no promises about the bullet, but she’ll diagnose clap as quick as a shot.”
“Grab hold,” Artyom ordered the broker.
“The last time,” Lyokha warned him.” It wasn’t me that shot him, after all.”
“Nobody needs you,” Homer told the unconscious Olezhek, taking a grip on one leg.” Only the chicken.”
“Yes, by the way! The chicken!” said Lyokha.
They set off through the station. According to Homer’s calculations, it ought to lie even deeper than Mendeleev; however, there was exactly enough water here to turn the tracks into canals, and the platform itself remained dry. In response to Homer’s amazement at why this was, Lyokha explained, “Well, shit doesn’t sink, does it?”
What TsvetnoI Boulevard had been like before, there was no way of telling anymore. One single great den of vice had been set up here now. Broken up into little cubicles, rooms, and halls separated off by plywood, chipboard, sheets of cardboard, folding screens, blinds, curtains—TsvetnoI Boulevard had been transformed into an impassable labyrinth, in which all the dimensions were violated. At this station there was no floor and no ceiling. In some places they had managed to squeeze in two stories under the roof and in other places three. Odd little doors led from narrow, winding corridors into rooms the size of a bed, and other doors exactly like them led into spaces under the platform that were as big as a whole station; and where some of the others led to was anybody’s guess.
The din here was ferocious: Every room made its own kind of sound, and there were a thousand rooms. In some they wept, in some they laughed, in some they tried to drown out the screams with lively music, in some they bellowed drunken songs, and in some they howled in terror. That was how TsvetnoI Boulevard’s collective voice sounded: like a devils’ choir.
Well, and the women too, of course.
Whorish angels, and stern ones in epaulettes, and femmes fatales in stockings full of holes, and nurses with naked asses; and simply vulgar sluts without any make-believe—an entire division. As many as could be fitted in—that was exactly how many had been fitted in. All shouting, calling out, exaggerating their charms, trying to lasso your glance; every one of them short of time: just enough for one snake strike while someone walks past her, just this short half-meter. If she hasn’t broken the skin, hasn’t squirted the love poison into the scratch—that’s it, he’s gone.
He who does not work shall not eat.
Lyokha’s pain was relieved instantly, as if his wound had actually started healing up. But Homer felt ill at ease here; only right at the very beginning, when they dived into a twisting and endless corridor, he suddenly jerked his bony neck round farther back than it could possibly be wrenched—and after that kept looking round, looking back over his shoulder.
“What is it, granddad?” Artyom asked him.
“I keep thinking … All the time I keep thinking … Everywhere … All the time …” Homer replied.” This girl … One I … Who …”
Olezhek’s naked leg started slipping away from Homer.
“Good for granddad, eh?” Lyokha panted.
“Get a better grip. There. That door there!”
They carried the dying man inside. There was a queue of violated souls and itching bodies. All women. The doctor came out—a woman in thick glasses, with a roll-up cigarette, hoarse-voiced and mannish.
“He’s a goner!” the broker informed her just to be on the safe side.
So that Olezhek wouldn’t stain the reception area with his final trickle of blood, they agreed to take him in hand immediately. They laid him out on a splayed gynecological chair, took a clip of cartri
dges in advance, in case he croaked anyway, and told the others not to wait.
They gave Lyokha alcohol to feed to the mouth in his hand, but he was still left in the queue anyway.
“Here they sit like people, not like professionals,” he explained to Artyom, nodding at the sad ladies.” Maybe I’ll meet the right one for me?”
“Maybe. Well, let’s say goodbye.”
Whatever I could do, I did do, Artyom explained to himself. This time I did everything I could.
Job done: footloose and fancy-free.
“Right then: either this way or that way.”
They were sitting in a little cubbyhole of a room. Close beside them a plain and underfed girl about fourteen years old was bending and twisting on a pole: she had no breasts at all, and her ribs protruded pitifully, stretching her washed-out body-stocking. She kept thrusting her bones into Artyom’s bowl of soup, and he felt afraid of offending her by driving her away completely, because she didn’t have any other clients, and he simply pretended that the pole wasn’t there, or the young girl either. Or was that even more offensive to her? Where was a prostitute’s pride, in what part of her? He didn’t know. The soup was cheap, though, and he needed to watch his money at this stage. The cartridges had disappeared rapidly—and on nothing.
Hanging on the wall was a map of the Metro. That was what they were talking about.
From TsvetnoI Boulevard there were two routes leading onward. One—the line straight on to Chekhov. The other—through a connecting passage to Trubnaya Square Station and from there to Sretensky Boulevard. If the map could be believed, you could get to Teatralnaya by the first way or by the second way. But Artyom couldn’t get there either way. The map had been drawn a long time ago.
The transfer hub consisting of three stations—Chekhov-Pushkin-Tver—was now known by a different name: the Fourth Reich, which was supposedly heir to the Third. Perhaps the will had been forged, or perhaps the Reich really had been reincarnated.
A regime can be killed, empires become decrepit and die, but ideas are like plague bacilli. They’ll dry up and lie dormant in the corpses that they have killed and wait there for as long as five centuries. If you dig a tunnel and run into a plague cemetery … Touch the old bones … And it doesn’t matter what language you used to speak, what you used to believe in. It’s all good grist for the plague bacillus mill.
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