“It’s cold. And its stings. Ow.”
“And when they tore your back open like that, didn’t that sting?”
“There … There was no one to complain to there. But here there’s you.”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“You were just asking. Why am I like this? A whore. How did I become one?”
“I’m not asking.”
“Well ask. I’m not ashamed. Do you think you’re the only one like that? Do you know how many there are? Men running wild. Lonely men. Who have no one to complain to. They all feel drawn to me. I draw them like a magnet. Do you understand? Into me. And if I don’t accept them, don’t let them … splash out all that filth and horror of theirs … The rage. And the tenderness. Then they’ll turn into absolute animals. That’s how you men are made. They come to me like that—life has them all jittery. And I calm them down. I give them peace. Do you understand? Peace. I console them. They poke away and poke away … And shout a bit … Get angry … Cry a bit … And quieten down. They zip up their flies. And they can go and live for a little bit longer without a war.”
“You say that … A young girl can’t say that. You’re a young girl. Frail. And elegant. These hands of yours. These little hands …”
“One year counts for ten in a brothel.”
“So we’re the same age, then?”
“Oh, stop that!”
“I need a drink. It helps against the radiation. Have you got anything?’
“I need a drink too.”
* * *
“Move over.”
“Weren’t you going to lie down over there? Not in your own bed?”
“Come on, move over.”
“I can’t just lie here with you, remember. Have you seen yourself in the mirror? You’re very beautiful.”
“Shut up.”
“I can’t shut up.”
“What can you do, old soldier? You should see yourself in the mirror. You shouldn’t be up for anything right now. You’ll have no hair left soon. You’ll look like that Hunter of yours, the way you dreamed.”
“Will you fall in love with me then? I want you to fall in love with me.”
“What for?”
“Well, it would make it easier for me to live and die.”
“Shut up. Turn over. Turn towards me.”
“You … No, wait. I don’t want to do it like that.”
“What?”
“I don’t want you to do it with me out of pity. Out of compassion. Like with all the others. Don’t sleep with me because my hair’s falling out. All right?”
“All right, I won’t. You don’t look that great, to be honest. We’ll give you a shave tomorrow. Good night.”
“Wait. Maybe there could be other reasons?”
“Such as?”
“Well … Because the first time, back then, it was good for you. Because I’m handsome and what else … I don’t know … And brave.”
“I don’t remember too well how it was the first time.”
“Give me another swig. And yes, because there’s no one else like me. I’d like to think I’m the only one like me. Can I think that? At least for an hour?”
“Drink.”
* * *
“That’s it … That’s it … I’m done …”
“You’re just crazy … Again … Can I go again?”
“You’ve got radiation sickness … What more can you do? Eh?”
“I don’t know … I still need you. Maybe my body thinks it’s the last time … Eh?”
“You fool. You’re heavy.”
“It can’t be explained from the medical viewpoint. It’s a miracle. But I can go again …”
“All right. If it’s a miracle.”
* * *
“You’re very beautiful, by the way. Did I tell you that?”
“You did.”
“Especially your eyebrows. And eyelashes. And eyes. And your lips—the little corners there. And here, the kink. And your neck. Your little neck. And those legs … Like matchsticks.”
“A fine compliment.”
“And the hairstyle … Well … The hair.”
“I cropped it myself in front of the mirror.”
“You know, while I was waiting for you here, this afternoon … While you were in there … While they were …”
“That’s enough.”
“I heard so much, all sorts of things.”
“You’d better get up and get out.”
“No, wait. And I want to say so much to you now … That you’re incredible, and it was so good for me with you, and it hasn’t been like that with my wife for a long time, and that I want to take you out of here, and I will, when I can … But someone else has already said all that to you today.”
“And yesterday too.”
“And yesterday as well.”
“So what? Aren’t you going to say any of that to me now?”
“Shall I?”
“Better give me some water. It’s over there.”
* * *
“A cross … Are you a believer?”
“I don’t know. Are you?”
“I didn’t used to believe. I ended up with the Jehovah’s Witnesses once. It was all so stupid and funny. For a long time after that … When I thought about it … Yes. And now … Yes, probably. I pray sometimes. Quite often. Well, I don’t exactly pray, as such … I ask for something. Let’s do it this way, Lord; you give me this, and I’ll give you that.”
“You mean you want to strike a deal with God. Like all men.”
“Again?”
“Ow!”
“And women don’t do that?”
“Not the same way.”
“How then?”
“Like this: If there’s no God, then there’s nothing at all to hold on to here in this Metro. Then everything’s screwed. And He … forgives. He says, Hang on. You have to be patient here, but it’s for a good cause. Yes, people suffer and people die. But it’s not all for nothing. It’s a test. You have to pass it. You’re not getting dirty; you’re being cleansed. Just remember about me—you can always pour your soul out to me. I can’t talk, but I can hear just fine. If you want to apologize—apologize to me. You can get angry at me too. Come on. Hit me. Don’t hold it in. If you want to love someone, love me. I’m your father, and I’m your bridegroom. Come into my arms. I can endure anything. I’ve endured worse than this. Do you understand? A world without God isn’t round, it’s like gravel. Nothing but corners and sharp edges. It’s God that makes it round and smooth.”
“Yes. Without Him there simply isn’t anything to hold on to. That’s it.”
“You just have to forgive Him for what he’s done to people, for the war, for the ruined planet, for everyone who was killed.”
“That wasn’t Him. That was us. He held His hand out to us again afterwards, to pull us out of the pit. But we bit that hand. He’s the one who has to forgive us. I don’t know if He will. I wouldn’t forgive if I was Him. God the Father doesn’t forgive anyone; the entire Old Testament is nothing but wars and covert operations. But Jesus, on the contrary, forgave everyone.”
“I haven’t read it. The Bible is for people who don’t believe. In order to convince them. But if you simply believe, and that’s it, then all those stories aren’t for you. All right. It’s late.”
“And what if it isn’t all ruined? The planet?”
“Good night.”
* * *
“Are you asleep?”
“Not much chance with neighbors like you.”
“What if I tell that not all the planet was ruined after all? If not everything’s polluted?”
“Did you dream that or something?”
“Really. I know. I heard it from someone. And it’s not far away; it’s right here, near Moscow. They’re reclaiming the surface. Without telling anyone about it. In Balashikha. That’s less than an hour away from here on the map. They’re building something. An outpost on the surface
. That means the land there allows them—”
“How long did you spend on the surface without a suit? And what happened to you? Think.”
“And the most important thing is that they’re building this outpost next to a radio station. What does that tell us? That they’re in contact with someone. Maybe they’re getting ready to evacuate? Imagine it: the return to the surface! I just have to get to Balashikha.”
“Who told you all that?”
“A man. What difference does it make?”
“There are lots of men here who tell stories about all sorts of things. Ordinary men and not so ordinary. You can’t believe everything. You can’t believe anything.”
“Come with me, eh? To Balashikha?”
“No.”
“Do you think there’s nothing there? Do you think we’re the only ones too? That I’m wrong to go trudging off up there? That I’m a useless idiot? That I’ll have freaks for children? And it will all be for nothing?”
“I just don’t want you to die. For some reason, just at this moment, I really don’t want that.”
“And I’m not planning to. But I’ll go there anyway. I’ll just get my strength back, and be on my way.”
“Hug me.”
* * *
“Deeper! Deeper! Stop acting like you’d never had your cherry popped!”
“Ow … That hurts!”
“Shut your gob, you slut. Want me to tie you up?”
“No, don’t. Please don’t.”
“You all act hard-to-get. All you bitches. Think I’m going to believe you’re some pure little girl? You’re a filthy, filthy bitch. And you like it, don’t you, when someone does this to you … When they do this to you … When they shaft you good and hard?”
“That hurts!”
“How about that? Does that hurt too? Take that! And that!”
“You bastard … If you—”
“Who are you? Who the hell are you? Eh? What the fuck are you?”
“You scumbag! Scumbag! Filthy bastard. I’ll slaughter you.”
“Help! Murder! Guards! Help! Mu-urde-e-e-e-er …”
* * *
“You can’t stay tonight. He’ll come this evening.”
“Who’s ‘he’? This master?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“That scar there, on your stomach. The cigarette burn. Did he do that?”
“No, not him.”
“You’re lying, right? Look, I’ve got burns too, here. They’re from that night. That night when the two of us … When we were introduced. That man who found me in the corridor. I was crawling along, drunk. He picked me up and brought me to you. He was the one who gave you to me. Is he your master?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Did he burn you with a cigarette? Why do you put up with things like that? And what did he burn me for? There on my arm, that’s my Order tattoo. It was.”
“I know what was there, Artyom. I read it. I remember that night.”
“Why did he burn it out, your master? Why did he torture you?”
“It wasn’t him Artyom. He didn’t burn me. He had nothing to do with it.”
“Who then?’
“I did it. I burned myself.”
“You did? What for? That’s insane. And who burned me? Who burned out my tattoo? You?”
“You did it, Artyom.”
“What? Why? What the hell for?”
“You really do need to get ready and go. If you don’t remember anything, that’s the best way. Honestly.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re protecting him. What kind of man is he?”
“You can sleep at my friend Kristina’s place today. I’ve arranged it. And don’t come here. I don’t want you to come here. Or tomorrow either.”
“Why?”
“You only make me feel worse. I want to burn myself again.”
* * *
“How are you? How are you feeling?”
“I don’t know. Alive.”
“I thought … What you told me about Balashikha. I have a … an admirer. He’s a stalker too. Freelance.”
“Has he been there?”
“No. He has a car. Hidden on the surface somewhere. I can ask him to … to take you. To go there with you. He’s making a trip today.”
“Is he one of your clients?”
“Yes, he’s one of my clients.”
“I don’t want to. I’d rather walk there.”
“Artyom. You won’t get anywhere on foot. Look at your leg. And … I asked the doctor about it. If the radiation sickness isn’t treated … You might have only three weeks left. But how can you get it treated here? Where?”
“You just want to get me out, right? So this master of yours and I don’t lock horns?”
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“You just don’t know what to do with me. Any place will do, just as long as I’m not here this evening when your master comes.”
“The trip’s today, Artyom. Will you go?”
“Yes, I’ll go.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Right then … bend down.”
“What for?”
“You can wear it for the time being. So you’ll have something to hold on to. When you come back, I’ll take it back.”
* * *
“Hi. Sashun, I’m a bit tired today, so can we just have some tea and get some sleep, eh? Let’s go into my office.”
“All right.”
“Those cretins, would you believe it, they blew up the passage to Kuznetsky Most, and all Pushkin collapsed. They’ve got nowhere left to go now, and the Reds don’t want to listen to any talk. A total damn mess. I’m exhausted. They foul everything up, and I have to sort it out.”
“I understand.”
“What are you doing here? Eh? Eavesdropping, are you? Who are you?”
“I—”
“He’s with me. He came for a consultation. So to speak. He’s got the consulting hours confused. I’ll take him away … I’ll take him away!”
“I got confused. Sorry. Wrong time, wrong place.”
“Is he tanked up, or what?”
“Of course he is. Totally shit-wasted, can’t you see? Come on, let’s go, you great hero.”
“Who’s there? What is it?”
“It’s nothing, AlexeI Felixovich. A false alarm.”
“Falshsh. Alaaaarm.”
CHAPTER 15
— ENTHUSIASTS’ HIGHWAY —
They went up from Trubnaya Station. There turned out to be an exit there, as well as an entrance. And you could get in there without any ID documents: You just had to know who to talk to, who to talk in front of, and what words to use.
“You don’t know how to deal with people, you fool,” Lyokha told Artyom.
But Lyokha knew how. And he was an impeccable first apostle.
“I’ll go with you,” he said rather indefinitely. “Firstly, I didn’t see anything so almighty scary up on that surface of yours. Secondly, a stalker’s earnings are as good as anyone’s, and it might even pay better. And thirdly, my balls are swelling up anyway. One roentgen more or less isn’t going to make much difference. Let’s go. Whatever we find, a third of it’s mine.”
“You’re a greenhorn,” objected the stalker who had agreed to take Artyom to Balashikha. “You owe me for the lesson and for the suit. So whatever you find, half of it will be mine, and you get damn all out of what I find. All right?”
Lyokha thought for a moment.
“Well, that’s something at least,” he sighed. “Just make the lesson a good one!”
The stalker was called Savelii. Savelii’s wrinkles didn’t run like normal people’s did, but any which way: vertically across his forehead and down from his mouth, and crisscross around his eyes, and where his eyebrows should be. The folds from Savelii’s nose to the corners of his mouth had been carved with a penknife, and just
below his forehead a deep notch had been carved in with a fretsaw, so that his nose seemed to hang there all on its own. His hair all seemed to be in the right place, but it was sparse; and his cranium, which was also wrinkly, could be seen through it quite clearly. And Savelii’s fangs were forged out of steel: Not all of them, though—some were simply missing. He was getting on for fifty years old, so he must be a good stalker.
It was painful for Artyom to walk with the acute, shooting pain from his knee. And at every step his lacerated back felt agonizing, as if the skin was about to burst and roll up into a tight tube, leaving the brown, baked flesh exposed.
They crossed the boulevards, steering clear of the creeping roots, and walked past the ruined shopping center beside the circus. The circus was closed. The shopping center had been devoured by some kind of malevolent mold. They walked round it and went down into the car park. Savelii’s car was standing there.
“As if I’d just driven in to take a stroll round the shops,” the stalker confided to them in a nasal voice. “A good feeling.”
Artyom didn’t like this. He didn’t like the random wrinkles either, or the steel teeth, or the squinty eyes. Or the fact that this man came to see Sasha whenever he wanted and used those eyes and teeth on her. He didn’t want to picture that to himself, but he couldn’t help it.
And the worst thing was that SaveliI only came up to Artyom’s shoulder. How could she possibly do it with someone like that?
“Are you shagging Sasha too?” SaveliI asked him straight out. “Glad to meet you. A fine girl. Although she could be my daughter. But I don’t have a daughter, so my conscience isn’t bothered by that.”
“You go to hell,” Artyom told him for saying that; he’d been going to do it anyway.
“I get it,” the stalker said with a wink and didn’t take offense. “I’d fall for her too, if I was a bit younger. But when I was a bit younger, I had different Sashkas.”
And Artyom didn’t like that at all.
Savelii’s car was a station wagon. Under its cover it was silvery, pampered and well-oiled; its windows gleamed like mirrors, and the whisker of the radio aerial was about one and a half meters long. And, in particular, the driving wheel was on the right. Artyom took a look at himself in the black glass: The helmet on his head, the one Savelii had given him, was idiotic, but the gun was good, with a silencer. The gun was more important.
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