And the former SokolnikI Line, slicing the Metro in half, had long ago become the Red Line. It wasn’t called that for its color, but for its creed. A unique experiment: building communism on one Metro line. The formula was the same—Soviet power plus the electrification of the entire line. Plus, of course, the other variables of this equation, which are not actually variables at all, no matter how much time may have passed.
Some kinds of corpses can be sprightlier than the living.
“I can’t go to the Reich.” Artyom shook his head.” No way. Cross out Chekhov.”
Homer gave him a quizzical look.
“It’s the shortest route, after all. From Chekhov to Tver, and then the next station’s Teatralnaya.”
“Cross it out! I’ve got problems there.”
“You’re Russian, right? White.”
“That’s not it. When I was there …” Artyom beckoned the girl, who was prancing in desperation.” Go and have some soup. On me. Don’t hang around here.”
Somehow he just couldn’t speak openly after the conversations in Hansa. He kept imagining he saw sweaters everywhere.
“It’s not important what it is. I won’t go through the Reich. You know, those stinking rats, I’d … On the raft, on the way here … I could hardly stay on my seat. If there hadn’t been five of them … Five makes things … A bit tricky. And that hopeless case of ours too … With the egg …”
“An idiotic situation.” Homer stroked the chicken dozing on his knees.” I feel sorry for the guy.”
“Today’s been a long old day.” Artyom wiped his mouth.” Hey! Hey! Waiter!”
“Eh?” The waiter was elderly, grubby and indifferent.
“What have you got? Got any moonshine?”
“Mushroom. Forty-eight percent.”
“Yes. Have some, granddad?”
“Only fifty grams no more than that. And some sausage. Or I’ll get squiffy.”
“And a hundred grams for me.”
The moonshine arrived.
“An endless kind of day. How about we drink to that idiot? To Olezhek. May he live. May he not haunt my dreams with his egg.”
“Okay. An absolutely idiotic business. Grotesque.”
“And I came close to getting clipped, didn’t I. You know, you don’t feel anything. Zi-ip. But now I’m thinking: it could all have been over already. And there are worse ways to go. It would have suited you, for your book? Bang! And what a neat little ending, eh? A stray bullet.”
“Do you really think you could have been killed back there?”
“Maybe it would have been for the best, eh?”
“Three stations from Teatralnaya?”
“Three stations …” Artyom swigged again; he looked round at the dancer, immersed in her soup, at the sour waiter.” Is he really there, this radio operator, eh, granddad? Where am I going, anyway? What for?”
“He’s there. Pyotr. Umbach, I think his name was. Pyotr Sergeevich. We got to know each other. My age.”
“Umbach? Is that an alias? Sounds like he fled from the Reich. From those stinking rats.”
“Would you like another?”
“No. No-no. Well, okay then. Thanks. I don’t think he’s from the Reich. It’s just …”
“They almost strung me up there once, granddad.”
“Eh? But you’re not … Or are you?”
“I shot one of their officers. It just happened. And then after that … To keep it short. I was snatched down off the gallows.”
“Could I? Only this much. Enough, enough! And so they snatched you down, eh? You know, I’ve been thinking … About the way people die. Who gets where in life. I mean, of course, I’m a romantic old fool, but … After all, you didn’t die today, or then. Maybe it wasn’t your destiny? Your time hadn’t come yet?”
“What about it? What about those guys, the lads that we … The ones I held the bunker against the Reds with … The guys from the Order. Out of my unit Letyaga was the only one left. And he just barely made it. But how many of them lost their lives? Ullman, Shlyapa, Number Ten … What about them, for instance? Why were they told to die then? had they been misbehaving?”
“Oh, Good Lord, no!”
“Right. Right, granddad. Hey, pal! Bring us some more of your rotgut! Come on, work, work!”
“Is this … is this the business you mentioned in Svinolup’s office?” Homer asked cautiously, after waiting for their drinks to be poured and the waiter to move away.” It’s about Korbut, right? The Reds’ head of counterintelligence? He threw all his fighting men against Miller … Right. Without any authorization from the Party leadership?”
Someone was knocking regularly against the other side of the plywood wall—with the headboard of the bed or their own head—growing more and more ardent, moaning louder and louder.
They said nothing for a while, listened, goggled and winked at each other. Leaning down across the dwarf table, Artyom gasped out, “Counterintelligence … He was chairman of the KGB. Of the Red Line. And with approval or without it … Just think about it: the chairman. Anyway, I was in that bunker together with the guys. The entire Order. How many of us were there? Fifty? Against a battalion. And no ordinary battalion. And if the Reds had got their hands on the bunker … There was a depot in there.”
“I heard something. Either tinned food or medicines.”
“Tins, uh-huh. But the kind that if you open them up … Do you think the Reds want chow? They’d always lived without it and they would have carried on that way. Chemical weapons. Tinned food! We fought them off. Took your tinned food up out onto the surface. Buried half of our men. That’s the whole story. Once again, without clinking glasses.”
“Without clinking.”
“And Miller … You’ve already seen him in a wheelchair. But did you ever meet him before that?”
“Yes. But even in a wheelchair … He’s so pugnacious …”
“He’s the man who put the Order together—on his own! Collected the men one at a time. The best. Twenty years. And then, in one day … I only served a year with him … And it was like my family. But for him? And he’s an invalid. One arm—his right arm!—missing. Can’t move his legs. Imagine it. He’s in a wheelchair!”
“And as I understand it, you served in the Order from the time when the Dark Ones were hit by the missiles … You and Miller found those missiles, isn’t that right? And if you hadn’t found them, the Dark Ones would have devoured the entire Metro. And after that he took you into the Order. As a hero. Right?”
“Let’s have another right now, granddad.”
On the other side of the wall someone cried out so loudly that even the chicken woke up. The drowsy film slid off the little berries of Ryaba’s eyes, and she tried to take wing.
“Your sou-oul flew up to heaven,” said Artyom, grabbing at the chicken with a drunken hand.” And here’s the interesting thing. The route’s the same. Look. Where can we go now from here? Only to Trubnaya. And from there to Sretensky Boulevard. Sorry, but I really don’t want to go to the Red Line either. That’s the kind of traveling companion you’ve got. So then it turns out there’s only one way. To Turgenev. And then along our branch—to Kitai-Gorod. There used to be a deadly tunnel there … Evil. And to Tretyakov. Two years ago I walked along the same route … Dammit. So much crammed into just two years. And from Tretyakov—to Teatralnaya. That time, of course, I was on my way to Polis …”
“Is that the quest I heard about? That time with the Dark Ones?”
“That time with the Dark Ones. Listen, playmate, why don’t you go and have some more soup. Really. I’m married. I think.”
“No-no … I don’t need anything, either, thank you … But what … Why? Miller’s daughter … She’s your wife, isn’t she?”
“She is. My wife used to be a sniper. Her daddy trained her. But now these here mushrooms … Where did I put it now … The mushroom …”
“And Miller? Why did he take a dislike to you?”
“Becau
se she took a liking to me … Granddad, why don’t you tell me something instead … What’s this business all about? With you and the blondes?”
“I … Don’t understand.”
“You talked about some girl or other. You had something going on. You keep asking me questions, grilling me. Let me ask one.”
“There wasn’t anything going on. Nothing … She’s … Like a daughter to me. Last year. I don’t have any children of my own. And … this young girl. I got attached to her. Like her father or her grandfather, really … Not as … And she was killed.”
“What was her name?”
“Sasha. Her name was Sasha. Alexandra. The station … was flooded. And everyone. Okay. Why don’t we … Without clinking again.”
“Pal! Hey! Another one and some sausage!”
“The sausage is finished. We’ve got marinated worms. But they give you … You have to know what you’re doing with them.”
“And can we stay here? For the night?”
“The room’s only rented out with the woman.”
“With the woman … With that one, is it? I’ll take her. Hey. Take the day off. Go on. Go away.”
“And well … I tell myself she was killed. That she’s gone. But I still see her everywhere anyway. I meet her. I confused her with that appalling hussy … How could I? She … Sasha … Was so gentle … Such a radiant girl. And she’d only just got out of her station … Her entire life, can you imagine? At the same station. Sitting there on that same kind of bicycle with no wheels … For the electricity. Imagining something to herself. And she had this little packet that used to have tea in it. With a picture. Some mountains or other … Green. China, I suppose. Like a crude old woodcut. And that was her whole world, imagine it, that little packet was the whole world for her. But tell me … Tell me, who’s this Zhenya?”
“Who’s Zhenya?”
“Yes, who is he? This Zhenka, when you wander off, you start talking to him.”
“A friend of mine. A childhood friend.”
“And what about him? Where is he? Is he always with you? Does he hear you?”
“Where? The same place as that Sasha of yours. There’s no other way to talk to him.”
“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“I’m the one who didn’t mean to. Letting anyone and everyone hear. I won’t say anymore. I understand everything: Zh-zhenya’s gone, Artyom. Full stop.”
“Will you forgive me?”
“No more, fuck Zhenya. We’re finished with him. Wai-aiter! You’ve persuaded me. Let us have this worm of yours. Only slice it … As fine as you can. So I can’t tell. I’m sorry about your Sashka.”
“Sashenka.”
“Maybe she ought to have stayed at her station? Maybe all of us ought to have just stayed at our stations, eh? Ever thought that? I sometimes think that … Stay at home and don’t go anywhere. Grow mushrooms. Although … Zhenka stayed, and what came of that?”
“I. What I say is this … I used to be an engine driver. In the Metro. A genuine Metro engine driver, yes, yes. And … I have this theory … A kind of simile, if you like. That life is like a branch … Like the tracks. There are points on them that switch those tracks. And an end of the line—not just one, but a number of them. Some people simply go from here to there, and that’s it. Some go to the depot to their final rest. Some go through a secret connecting tunnel and skip across to another branch. That is … There can be lots of ends of the line. But! Each of us has only one destination! And it’s his own! And you have to set all the points on the tracks correctly to end up at precisely your destination. To do what you were actually born into this world to do. Am I expressing myself clearly? And so, as I started saying, maybe I’m an old fool, and this is all stupid romantic nonsense … But to die from a stray bullet … Or not to get anywhere at all … All that’s not for you, Artyom. That’s what I think. That’s not your point of destination. You’ve got a different one. Somewhere.”
“That sounds good, all right.” Artyom let out his breath.” And which line did you work on? Where was your point?”
“Me?” Homer downed another shot.” I was on the Circle Line.”
Artyom pulled a wry face. He winked at the old man.
“That’s funny. But the worm’s not too bad. If you don’t know what it’s
called … Eh?”
“I won’t have any.”
“But I will. I’ll tell you what, granddad: I’ve met people before who spoke to me about life and fate … About destiny. Bullshit. Garbage. Got that? There isn’t anything. Just empty tunnels. And the wind blowing through them. That’s all!”
He scooped the remains of the worm into his stomach and got up on airy-light, unsteady legs.
“I’ll g-go and take a pi-iss.”
He fell out of one little box of a room into another—behind the plywood—and everything changed. Before there was a bar with a pole and a poor wretch in a body stocking, a ceiling two meters high, and now there was a walk-through space, a corridor, with mattresses scattered about in it, and naked people fumbling about on the mattresses, some taking their time, some frenziedly, bumping against each other, trying to find a foothold, thrusting out their bare heels, groping for firm ground with them; walls papered with pages out of porn magazines, faded and stale. A ceiling too low to straighten up. He staggered on …
A huge belly covered in curly hairs, but no hair at all left on the head, striped suspenders, sitting on a sagging sofa, with a nymph on each knee, and walls covered in this snug, cozy wallpaper, like there is up on the surface in the abandoned apartments … He’s stroking the girls’ bare backs; they arch them like cats … One of them kisses the other. The fat shudders and shakes … He grabs one of them by the back of the neck, in a different way, crudely. The light goes out … Grope on.
“Where’s the john here?”
“Farther along!”
A grand piano tinkling, a genuine grand! And right there on the lid they’ve laid out a corpulent lady, one hindquarter to the right, the other to the left. The lady is squealing shrilly, a man in a denim jacket is beavering away diligently; a lean backside with dimples, submerged in the meaty opulence … The ceiling’s swaying … What’s that drawn on the ceiling? No … Got to move on.
Three men in black uniforms that they say were made for railway workers in the old world, but which have found owners in the new world too; three-legged spiders on the sleeves, black in a white circle: the triumvirate of Chekhov, Tver and … Pushkin. Precisely. This place is only one stretch of track away from them. They come here every day, probably … Every night. Right there, standing, he’s hiked up her skirt, dropped his trousers … She’s biting her lip, enduring it … Another two in the queue, getting ready. Discipline. The piano can still be heard here, and this man in black seems to be following the rhythm … Two ways out at once: to the right and to the left.
“Where …”
And then back to basics without any frills again: zero décor, bodies lined up side by side, like a ditch full of people who’ve been shot, and stirring as feebly as the ones who weren’t finished off. Dope fumes eddying in the air, creeping through the cracks from a room to tickle people’s nostrils next door. The fumes get into his eyes, his lungs, his head, his heart. On farther and farther … Where has he come from, this Artyom? How is he going to get back there?
Straight ahead or left?
There’s a devil with his backside flogged raw, and look at that broad-shouldered wench working him over. Where do they get that underwear from, my God? Take it off the corpses up on the surface, do they? Really good-quality underwear, imported …
A boy dressed as a girl moving towards Artyom, wiping his lips with the hem of his dress, but he’s got a mustache, like in a circus freak show—the bearded woman. There used to be a circus here, didn’t there, directly above this station? The famous old circus on TsvetnoI Boulevard …
And yet another door. Maybe it’s here. They must have one somewhere here,
after all.
Some kind of feast. In carnival masks. That is, they wanted them to be carnival masks … Did they draw them themselves, then? Could it be the place that girl-boy escaped from?
A girl gets up to meet him, frail and elegant and completely … Only hiding something with her hand … Something in her hand … Reaching for her throat … Feeling at something there …
“Sit down. Sit down. Don’t go away. Stay a while.”
“I’ve got … A mushroom. Anya …” He fumbled for the mushroom in his pocket and clutched it like an amulet.
“You’re funny.”
“Where’s your … ? I’ve got to go … Got to!”
“Over there. That way. And then come back to me. Please.”
But no, he didn’t go back there: He got lost.
And then he feels tired, and there’s some kind of table, and men round the table, and girls under the table. And he feels sick, and doesn’t have the strength to walk any farther. He sits down. The ceiling’s spinning, spinning, a proof that the entire universe spins around the Earth. They bring one out. She’s naked, and they lash her across her bound arms. The others exchange glances and clap.
“Don’t you! Dare!” Artyom got halfway up, as far as he could.
“Who are you? Eh?”
“Don’t dare! Humiliate her!” He dashed to beat his way past, but they caught him and held him.
“She wants to! Who’s forcing her? We feed her!”
“Dimwit!”—that’s the girl shouting.” Get lost! I’m working.”
“Give it to her hard!”
“Come on, no pity!” she begs: that’s her, begging them.
“And you … Don’t you dare! You! Don’t!”
“You don’t want to! She doesn’t want to! She just hasn’t got any choice! Where else can she go?”
“Smartass! And all of us—where can we go? Lash away, lash away! And now across the tits!”
“Aaaagh!”
“Give! Me! It! I’ve got a better aim.”
“Sit down! Sit down, have a drink! Have a drink with us? A stalker? You a stalker?”
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