Opalescence- the Secret of Pripyat

by Amaury Dreher

  There were now many paths open to me. I picked one at random and tried to follow him indefinitely.

  Chapter 9 — Bitterness

  13th days in the Zone.

  I had been walking for several hours while I became exhausted, forcing me to slow down. The nightmares of the day before had diminished me. Moreover, this part of the forest was totally unknown to me. No particular mention had been made of it on the maps I had previously examined. The observation of the sun indicated to me that I had headed north. I explored blindly, captivated by the unexpected nature of my discoveries.

  The woodland ornaments followed one another in a splendid fresco of which I was the witness. The atmosphere was singular, the forest seemed lethargic, almost asleep. The calm was deafening, even my boots didn’t make the snow crunch.

  A fierce cry resounded. My pulse accelerated suddenly. I barely had time to turn around when I was thrown to the ground in a burst of fury. It was him.

  He made a new roar.

  The blows were raining down. I lay at his feet like a wounded game that had to be shot and then displayed like a trophy. Dazed, I got up as best I could, surprised that he allowed me to do this. Maybe he was willing to talk? Were negotiations possible? No, he had other plans for me. He grabbed me violently against a tree trunk, cracking the bark by scratching my flesh. The entire ground vibrated under the impact. His dark eyes were staring at me, threatening and motionless. He didn’t say any words, just fixing me. An infinite sadness was emerging from his face. I assumed that a firm and strong hand would smash my nasal artery any second, but he just let go. I fell backwards, at his feet again. Still on his feet, he suddenly turned on his heels and walked away, his silhouette disappearing through the icy mist.

  I waited a few minutes for my weakness to dissipate before going after him, following his tracks preserved by the snow.

  I thought I had lost him for good when I saw a kind of hut that was similar to his habitat. I had found the Howler, and better still, I had reached his hut.

  It was a legend, a myth that the Stalkers liked to tell when they shared cigarettes. Amanda had told me about it, I was almost certain. Few people had actually observed him and even fewer had met him. According to reports, a journalist from Kiev had approached him one day and convinced him to conduct an interview with him. It would have made the headlines in the tabloid press and would have been relayed around the world via the Internet. This was not the case. If the interview had been completed, it was never published, as the author categorically refused to do so without providing any explanation.

  Like the Babushkas, the Howler lived on agriculture, fruits picking, hunting and fishing. However, unlike them, he had chosen isolation, the real one. Human relations no longer interested him, made no sense to him. Where the Babushkas rejoiced in every social contact and welcomed the walkers with hospitality, he was terribly misanthropic. His autarky was almost total. His life on the margins of all rationality was a mystery that I wanted to conquer.

  Not resentful, I choose to visit him, determined to get to know my aggressor. He opened the door for me before I even had to indicate my presence. Our first meeting seemed not to have taken place as his initial violence contrasted with his sudden cordiality. He had arranged his shack in a fairly comfortable way. Books, many books were there. Randomly and disorderly stacked, they were a kind of warm wall decoration. The place was comforting despite its primary aspect. It was even supplied with electricity.

  ‘It only works for a few hours a day, but it’s more than enough,’ he asked with a faint smile. Coffee, tea?”

  The Howler was stocky and endowed with a penetrating gaze. His shaggy and neglected appearance made him look like an old man. He no longer took care of his appearance. It was useless, no one was supposed to meet him, he had no one to impress. Fact that troubled me, he was almost the same age as my father. Her daughter was born in Pripyat, in the large hospital where my mother worked. The small family then moved to Kharkiv. The Howler told me his misfortunes: his only child had died of rubella, his wife had killed herself the day after the decease. According to her posthumous letter, she had attached herself to a bag full of stones and then jumped into the river. Her body had never been recovered.

  After the death of his daughter and wife, the Howler had fallen into severe depression. His heart had become as hard as a stone. Every material possession, every dream of prosperity became futile and insipid. Only images of his past, of his then happy existence, haunted him. Nostalgia had poisoned him and was slowly attacking him. The abundance of happiness that was exerted around him made him anxious. He wanted to escape the peace of others. He had therefore chosen to return to find the only thing he had left, his native land.

  “My anchoring in this world,” he said.

  Only loneliness helped him to survive. If he hadn’t come home, he’d already be dead.

  “My daily life was all about hesitating between hanging and gunshot suicide. I was laminated. ‘He explained.

  As our discussion progressed, I felt that I was gaining his trust, that he didn’t hate me in particular and that he needed to talk. I made him my friend, there are too few of them in the Zone. I decided to spend several days with him, I wanted to learn, exchange, and above all understand his way of life.

  The Howler’s daily life was structured by simple but essential activities. He would pick blueberries from the undergrowth, sneak into swamps or climb trees to catch the horizon and decipher the stars. His bestial appearance contrasted with his personality of a calm and curious naturalness. He knew everything about the world he lived in, listening to the radio and reading books brought back to him by the military. He knew perfectly well the company he had sought to desert. He frequently travelled through Pripyat, only at night to remain discreet and make the place his own. It was the only remedy against the voracious melancholy that consumed him. Nostalgia was still alive, it was the only emotion that kept him alive. This inexhaustible need to contemplate his past, to relive through memory the glorious hours of his family, his childhood, these happy times.

  The Howler had a boat, a kind of raft with an old engine and oars that allowed him to go up the Pripyat River. From time to time, the desire took him to walk through the Zone. He roamed the river alone, having no course but the desire to drift. The engine was broken, but the paddles were fine.

  —The soldiers leave you alone? I asked.

  —Oh yes, the relationships are even quite friendly when we meet. But they hardly pass through anymore. They have enough to worry about with the protection of the Zone and the surveillance of the Stalkers. And then there’s this damn war in the east.

  —And the tourists? Any of them make it this far?

  —One of them came to my hut once. He wanted to take pictures of me from different angles. I threw his camera in the river. He didn’t dare to get it back.

  —Are you planning to stay around until the end?

  —The Babushkas are all old, in 5 or 6 years I will be the last here and I intend to be the last native of Pripyat to die in the Zone. That’s where I belong, next to my daughter.

  —And the danger? I asked him.

  —What danger? What danger? Cold, hunger, loneliness. That is the real danger. The Babushkas of the cities live in concrete hutches. Here, they are free, queens in their own lands. You know that the post-traumatic stress of evacuations had consequences as serious as the disaster itself. No, no and no. I’m much better off here.

  As the hours passed, I felt that the Howler appreciated me, in contrast to the circumstances of our meeting. I decided to launch the subject of the treasure:

  —Is it true what they say? A treasure would be buried somewhere in the Zone?

  He ruminated and sighed.

  —You know, I’ve seen others. Not so long ago, a man came all the way here to meet me about it. He was rather imposing and looked dark. He seemed tormented as if a shadow of a curse was hanging over him. If you ask me, your obsession
will defeat you all.

  —That’s not why I came here. The subject just arouses my curiosity, that’s all.

  —Nonsense, they all say that. They actually have only one concern: to find the damn treasure. I’d shoot them one by one if I could.

  He moved:

  —Let them enjoy their miserable lives instead of trying hard here! There is nothing for them. Death awaits them and will take them like all the others. You know, I got the fortune. Prosperity, family success, all these components of happiness were mine.

  The desolation that animated his face seemed irreversible to me. The hope once present in his eyes seemed to have evaporated forever. He was condemned to live with this loneliness, which he himself had chosen. No one had imposed his painful exile on him. I still had the impression that living as a hermit softened his suffering. He told me how looters had ransacked his daughter’s grave. Without shame, they had exhumed the body in search of clues that could lead to Pripyat’s treasure. Furious at having failed, after desecrating the tomb they had abandoned it in the forest, like a common rubbish.

  “I only caught one. The kid begged and begged for forgiveness. I didn’t think about it. I took my axe and split his skull from top to bottom. I dumped what was left of his body in the river. Most of his friends had already fled. Others attended the scene. They swore they’d kill me sooner or later. I expect them almost as much as death.”

  The Howler frowned as he prepared his hook. He performed his gesture with great precision and was not distracted by any external element. The movements were mastered, the choreography perfect. He took a few steps forward and dipped his fishing rod into the water before sitting on the ground.

  —Some fish are huge, you’ll see.

  —Are they really bigger since the accident?

  —It’s hard to say. Probably. Anyway, they’re much better. The river is less polluted than in the past. I suppose they are in excellent health. In the past, people used to throw away a whole lot of dirt. No one cared about water quality.

  —Are you angry?

  —Against whom?

  I pointed the power plant away.

  —The people who built this.

  —No. No. We needed it. I have no particular resentment against the government of the day. I hate both the whole world and myself.

  The Howler pulled his fishing rod and then threw it to the ground with an angry look. Apparently the fish didn’t bite the hook. He gave up.

  “Never mind, I’m going swimming. Are you coming?”

  I nodded. The water must have been just over 0 °C, not to mention its radioactive nature. The Howler undressed and dived totally naked. He walked away nonchalantly, dabbling through the nascent mist. As for me, I decided to go back to his shack. Entering it without its owner gave me the impression of rediscovering it. The place was usually impregnable. He was strongly defended by the Howler who hardly let anyone in. I was favoured, I had won his trust. Did I deserve it?

  I pushed the door, my heart pounding, and rushed into the hut. It was warm and silent. There was a chaos of warmth. I was contemplating his library. The Howler had all kinds of books: biology textbooks, political essays or even epistemology books; he did not spare himself any discipline. A manuscript bound with cords caught my attention. It was a collection of letters with no date or signature on them. The calligraphy seemed shaky and I had trouble deciphering it. In addition, the paper was damaged, some lines were missing and made the story particularly frustrating:

  “The situation is very tense. The magma has pierced the concrete slab that separates the core from the reactor that melts with the water. According to Nesterenko, there is a risk of a 4-megaton nuclear explosion. (Unreadable…) Workers were hastily requisitioned. I had no choice. But I do what I’m told. (Unreadable…) The guys are all pretty young. Most of them are kids. The oldest of them is 32 years old. There are nearly 10,000 of them working in shifts all the time. Some are from Donbass, others from Tula in Russia. They were promised a reward. A lot of them would have gone there without it. Probably they don’t know what they’re risking. I myself don’t have much information about it. Some workers work without protection. Not all of them have adequate masks or clothing. I even saw some in shorts and bare shirts. The heat is extreme down there. We were not able to install any ventilation ducts through the underground. Temperatures reach 50 degrees. (Unreadable…) I just carry out the orders.”

  On another page:

  “Now the gallery is 150 metres long and has been completed. The mission is accomplished. The guys are relieved. But we remain cautious, the worst is still to be avoided.” (Unreadable…)’ The situation in Moscow is critical. I’ve heard some pretty serious things. Hospital number 6 is overcrowded. I’ve been described horrible scenes. Western journalists are being kept out of the picture. No one must know. (Unreadable…) But miners are not the only heroes. Successive helicopter pilots are facing an extremely difficult situation. We have 80 aircraft that take turns to contain the radioactive fumes from the reactor. They were brought from Siberia, 4,000 km from Chernobyl. The guys are doing a fabulous job, but not everything is going as we would like. Yesterday because of the heat and radiation one of the pilots fainted in the middle of the flight. Fortunately, the helicopter was rescued by the first officer. Others were less fortunate. We’re trying to keep it a secret, but an MI -8 crashed during operations. Of course there are no survivors. I look forward to returning to Kopyliv.”

  Many pages awaited me, but I heard the Howler returning. His heavy step and hoarse voice seemed very close. With my heart pounding, I closed the manuscript. It probably contained other exciting stories. I decided to steal the document by hiding it under my jacket.

  —Guess who I saw…

  —Who is it? I replied in a candid voice.

  — Oleksandr. I saw him in the distance.

  —What’s he doing around here?

  —I have no idea. If he had come near me, I swear on my head I would have strangled him.

  —Why do you hate yourself so much?

  —Old quarrels… But you have to know that Oleksandr is a little disturbed. And then… he’s a coward. He fears himself. He can be very impulsive. In fact, he has already fought in the Zone with Egor, another vagrant. It is said that the violence was such that they had to be beaten down with their fists to calm them down. They really had a hard time separating them.

  —Who are they?

  —Other troubled spirits you didn’t know.

  He moaned in his beard.

  —All crazy, they’re all crazy. I don’t understand why you’re staying here.

  —You yourself have remained, I objected.

  He grumbled, saying a few incomprehensible words. I watched him walk away to his room in his characteristic gait, the staggering gait of a learned and bruised old man.

  I left the hut to settle on the steps. The promontory, where I was, offered a sparkling horizon. Winter was coming to an end. The Chernobyl plains would soon be covered with flowers and dazzling lights. Green and golden hues would follow the implacable whiteness of the cold nights that raged here. Przewalski’s horses would gallop through the vast depopulated areas, where they would encounter lynx, foxes and wolves also enjoying a habitat deserted by man. Europe’s first ecosystem would shine brightly and I would no longer be there to contemplate it. Why should I leave?

  Chapter 10 — Jupiter

  21st day in the Zone.

  I arrived at the Jupiter factory, a vast tangle of steel structures, dilapidated buildings and abandoned trucks. Like Duga, the place had a secret aura. Officially, the main activity of the manufactory was to manufacture video recorders and radio components. Rather, its unofficial use was to provide the Soviet army with strategic equipment. Components necessary for submarines or the space industry were assembled here. It was still possible to observe a satellite dish on the roof of the complex. Some even thought that the plant was producing electronic components embedded in th
e USSR’s nuclear missiles.

  The factory was the second largest employer in the exclusion zone after the nuclear power plant. It had continued to operate after the disaster and was only abandoned years later. The site had been converted into a radiation monitoring and decontamination process management centre. In particular, the robots used to manufacture the temporary enclosure around the reactor were tested. It was one of the largest buildings in the Zone. However, it was not on the guided tour program, due to its poor condition and the risk of roof collapse. Thus, the general public was relatively unaware of its existence. On the other hand, the Stalkers were very familiar with the Jupiter factory. For my part, it was the first time I had been there. Also, I was animated by a little thrill of excitement, the same one that had accompanied me when I entered the Azure pool.

  The complex was not so difficult to reach, the plant was located southeast of Yanov and was easily accessible without means of transport. All you had to do was follow Zavodska Street on the outskirts of Pripyat. I was convinced that I knew the path even though I had never taken it. The surroundings seemed familiar to me. In front of the entrance of the complex were still completely rusty and out of order minibuses. Some rested on their sides as if an invisible force had tipped them over to prevent their use.

  The plant was only abandoned in 1996. It was full of industrial equipment and scientific furniture that had to be moved. Inside, the machines had been dismantled and the spare parts sold elsewhere. Many spaces had been converted into living spaces. Thus, one could find sofas, books and flowerpots scattered all over the place in an almost charming disorder. The main building had a cellar that aroused strong curiosity among the stalkers, similar to the hospital in Pripyat. Nevertheless, I did not venture to explore the basement of the plant because of its recent flooding. Who knows what kind of horrors could thrive there? So I limited myself to walking around the ground floor and the upper floors.