The Librarian

by Mikhail Elizarov

  “I’m used to this, I’ll manage.”

  The jacket was a little narrow in the shoulders and the tight sleeves barely even covered my wrists, but overall it fitted quite well. Timofei Stepanovich donated his cap with the earflaps to me. Lutsis gave me his knee pads and plastic thigh protectors. Maria Antonovna Vozglyakova gave me a pair of coarse leather gloves and Ievlev attached an arm cover made out of half a steel pipe to my forearm.

  For a weapon I was given a club weighted with a ribbed insert—I think it was some kind of machine part, possibly a gear wheel from some especially large mechanism.

  “That’s great now!” Lutsis exclaimed, delighted by the way I looked. “Like Bohdan Khmelnytsky with his mace.”

  I tensed my jaw—when it was relaxed, my teeth had suddenly started beating out bony drum rolls.

  “Margarita Tikhonovna,” I asked tentatively, licking my lips, which were dry from terror, “how do you know that no one will come out to fight us with guns?”

  “Out of the question. It’s strictly forbidden.”

  “Who forbade it? Tereshnikov?”

  “It was long before him… It’s a rule, an unwritten law.”

  “But what if they cheat?”

  “There are observers and seconds; they make sure everything’s fair,” Lutsis put in. “Don’t worry.”

  “Just think about it,” boomed Ievlev. “You’ve got a pistol and I’ve got a sub-machine-gun. Where’s the satisfaction in that?”

  “That’s just target practice!” Ogloblin joked.

  “But there are a few dodges,” Sukharev summed up. “Take this, for instance…”

  He showed me a ball bearing the size of a tennis ball.

  “That weighs more than a kilogram. If it gets you in the head, you’ll feel it all right.”

  “Perhaps I can just wait for you here?” I muttered quietly, staring down at the ground. “Really, please…”

  Even after all the time that has passed since that moment, I still feel bitterly ashamed of those faltering, cowardly words…

  The Shironinites surrounded me in a tight circle. I couldn’t see the slightest hint of mockery or condemnation in their heartfelt, sympathetic gaze. Only my parents had ever looked at me like that before, when I did something wrong at home or at school, and I stood there in front of them unrepentantly, realizing that any guilt of mine was insignificant in comparison with the love and unconditional forgiveness that these people felt for me.

  “It’s time… Alexei, give the order!” said Margarita Tikhonovna.

  “But what shall I say?” I asked helplessly.

  “It doesn’t matter… ‘Follow me!’ or ‘Forward march!’”

  I cast a brief glance over the detachment, drawn up in a column. The Vozglyakov sisters were clutching spades with exceptionally long, sharpened blades. Maria Antonovna was leaning on the handle of a mighty flail with a spiked head that looked like a marrow.

  Tanya was holding a home-made rapier—a steel rod honed until it shone, with a brass hand guard welded onto it. Provotorov, Pal Palych, Larionov and Ogloblin had long pikes resting on their shoulders. I immediately recognized the festive stylization that deftly disguised a weapon as the fancy tip on the hand staff of the Soviet flag, with a star or a hammer and sickle set inside the steel quill.

  Vyrin adjusted his shoulder belt with the sapper’s entrenching tools; Ievlev folded his hands round the handle of an immense blacksmith’s hammer; Timofei Stepanovich flung his mace over his shoulder like a wandering pilgrim. Kruchina made sure that his bayonet moved easily in its scabbard. Sukharev toyed with a weighty chain wound round his hand, with three heavy padlocks dangling from its links.

  “Right, come on, Alexei,” Margarita Tikhonovna’s voice murmured again. “We’re all waiting for your command.”

  I cleared my throat, plucked up my courage and said:

  “Let’s go, comrades…”

  I suddenly felt as if I had stepped off a cliff. My throat choked on a cold void as I fell, hearing the world spinning round me, or perhaps it was the wings of the black bat of panic fluttering in my head.

  I didn’t know the way. Lutsis and Margarita Tikhonovna led me along, and our entire brigade of thirty-five set off after us. We walked through bushes and a dense plantation of poplars, beyond which lay a boundless open field and a lilac horizon. Fear tore through the poplar trees like a demented squirrel, from branch to branch, from dark foreboding to nightmarish realization. In the grassy expanse it scattered into the air, finding no foothold.

  And then I heard my own footsteps and saw the people escorting me with different eyes, and my heart stopped racing—or I forgot how to hear it and feel it. I suddenly fancied that I had experienced this menacing calm many times before—only then, instead of the terror that had now receded, I was filled with pride for the people walking with me, for the heroic feat of arms they would perform…

  Soon a distinct incline appeared ahead of us and we walked down it to the bottom of a shallow depression about half the size of a football pitch. Our brigade simply disappeared under the ground; walls rising to a height of several metres and tall grass concealed us securely.

  Spectators—about two hundred of them—took up positions on the slopes. The observers—about ten, among whom I recognized Tereshnikov—sat separately, with the guards stationed beside them.

  The enemy had already set out his brigade in chess formation. Most of the Gorelovites had massive clubs that were like baseball bats, except for the spikes screwed into them. Some of them had identical carbonized steel machetes—clearly industrially produced imports. Spears tipped with flat blades rose up out of the formation. Every soldier was wearing an ancient military bulletproof vest and a helmet, so that the Gorelovites looked just like Pushkin’s sea heroes, “all chosen to match”.

  As soon as we completed our descent, a long line of men holding kayak paddles appeared around the top of the depression. From the glittering, sharpened edges of the steel blades it was clear that these items of sports equipment had been adroitly converted into weapons. As if to confirm this, a man with a paddle, apparently limbering up, performed several vigorous strokes, slicing his blades through he air. It was easy to guess what would happen to anyone who took a blow from a paddle like that…

  “Remember, in ancient Rome, the lictors?” Lutsis whispered. “Only they had poleaxes, not paddles…”

  “Lictors?” I asked uneasily, as if this were important.

  “Or seconds. Those guys with the paddles keep order too. They only intervene if the fight isn’t fought according to the rules.”

  Our brigade stretched out in a double line, divided into three groups. In the centre was the Shironin reading room, the ten warriors from Kolontaysk were on the right flank, and Burkin and Simonyan’s people were on the left. I particularly disliked the fact that I was standing in the front row. All eyes seemed to be glued to the casket with the Book.

  “What now?” I anxiously asked Lutsis, who was standing beside me. “Will it start soon?”

  “When everybody realizes that they’re ready,” he said, looking straight ahead, like a man under a spell.

  “Afraid?” Pall Palych suddenly asked from the other side. “That’s because you haven’t read the Book. The meaning of life hasn’t been revealed to you yet. And without meaning you’re always afraid…”

  I had recently heard a similar idea from Margarita Tikhonovna, and now Pal Palych had repeated it in his own manner.

  “Don’t you be afraid. The Gorelov reading room…”—he paused for a moment, pondering how to characterize the enemy—“… is a load of rubbish! They’re mercenaries, and that says it all. You should know that there aren’t any special fighting techniques or fancy little moves… That is, there are, but that’s not the important thing. It’s what’s inside that matters, the guts, the heart…”

  “Your late uncle was a hero to beat them all,” said Timofei Stepanovich. He swung the sack down off his shoulder and the fabric-wrapped sphe
re lay beside his boot. “That means you’re a hero too. Blood’s thicker than water, or vodka. Understand?”

  A man with a Book in his hands mounted the grassy rostrum. He cleared his throat gently and declaimed:

  “The Silver Channel.”

  “Oh, how humane we are this time,” I heard Margarita Tikhonovna’s sarcastic voice say. “Obviously especially for the Gorelov reading room. A gift from Shulga.”

  “The convict’s getting nervous,” Lutsis remarked. “Maybe he’s not sure of his own men.” He looked at me. “Sit down, Alexei, we’ve got at least three hours to spare now. We’re going to listen…”

  “Well, now, thank God,” said Marat Andreyevich, crossing himself. “I’m feeling better already.” He winked at me encouragingly. “The Book of Endurance. We’re alive and kicking, Alexei.”

  “What Book is that? What’s it for?” I asked in relief.

  “It’s something that has to be done…” said Timofei Stepanovich, turning one ear towards the rostrum and holding it with his hand to amplify the sound.

  The reader started at a frantic pace in a staccato gabble, like a sexton in a church: “April began with eddying winds and frost. And then suddenly winter surrendered. Only a few days earlier there was not a patch of earth to be seen in the field, only little bushes showing through the snowdrifts, but suddenly on the south slope tilth appeared, with rooks stalking about on it. When did they arrive?”

  I listened inattentively, more absorbed in my own feelings. At first the reader’s monotonous, hurrying voice irritated me, but then it lulled me, like the steady beat of the wheels in a railway carriage.

  The Silver Channel was a turgid, opaque lyrical narrative. Two characters sleepwalked through the text, from spring to spring: a forester in love with nature and his little son, to whom the poetic beauties of his native parts were gradually revealed. Along the way father and son encountered various people, simple Soviet toilers, and each one had a story for the boy. The culmination of the novella was a long, dreary scene in which children helped old people to build a haystack: how the stooks were driven up, how they stacked them up, topped them off the stack, adjusted them with rakes, pressed them together with poles…

  The reader closed the Book and I suddenly saw that the night had turned bright, with a milky moon and white stars that looked like scars.

  Our people got to their feet. Timofei Stepanovich stealthily pricked his flabby wrist with his awl and nodded in satisfaction, licking away the drop of blood that oozed out.

  Margarita Tikhonovna tugged on my sleeve.

  “Alexei, everyone will go running forward, but you stay here. They’ll remember you, and if anything happens they won’t abandon you. Here…” She glanced round, choosing. “Annushka will guard you. No need to be afraid with her.” She beckoned to her. “Anyuta, will you keep an eye on Alexei? All right?”

  Anna Vozglyakova shielded me with her mighty shoulder and I felt a little more confident.

  Meanwhile on the left flank Margarita Tikhonovna was already conferring with Simonyan’s Garshenin; he agreed with what she said, stroking the metal-bound handle of his scythe.

  “Alexei,” the traumatologist Dezhnev whispered in my ear, “what Margarita Tikhonovna told you is quite right…” He hesitated. “But if the situation does get a bit tricky, for God’s sake, don’t just stand there waiting for the wedding… Move about, dodge! If you hit out—don’t follow through after the blow. Whether you hit the target or not, it doesn’t matter. The important thing is to keep moving all the time.” He drew his sabre. “I’ll try not to let you out of my sight.”

  Anna, clutching the handle of her spade in her thick, coarse fingers, suddenly spoke to me.

  “I wanted to ask…” she said in a voice that proved to be very thick and low. “You studied in an institute, didn’t you? Did you have that subject—psychology? You did? Oh! Explain this situation to me. A long time ago, in fifth year, I planted a birch tree in the school garden. Then suddenly this boy there wanted a thin stick, maybe for a cane to play at horses. Well, he started breaking it off my birch tree, and the tree was no more than a cane anyway, so he snapped almost all of it off. And I shouted at him: ‘Hey, you, get off that!’ And he said to me: ‘Big deal! One little branch… It won’t do your birch tree any harm.’ I said to him: ‘And what if everyone goes breaking off a branch? What then?’ The little boy suddenly started crying and ran away…” Anna wrinkled up her forehead and her fingers tightened their grip on the spade handle. “The thing is, why did he start crying, eh? I didn’t hurt him. I didn’t hit him. Maybe you know why?”

  In my previous life I would certainly have mocked this simple-mindedness in my heart of hearts, while outwardly passing some slimy comment like: “I wish I had your problems, darling…”

  I understood why Anna had started telling me about the broken birch tree. In her own way she had been impressed by the reading of the Book of Endurance, with its endless descriptions of nature. Anna just wanted to talk about some lofty theme, and there was nothing loftier than Gromov. The story of the birch tree seemed to her a perfectly valid pass to those empyrean regions where brainy people like me probably philosophized about something noble and exalted.

  While I was still assembling the circumspect phrase “I rather neglected psychology”, it all began.

  THE SATISFACTION

  THE GAP BETWEEN US and the Gorelov reading room closed implacably. If only our enemies had shouted something like “hurrah”, it wouldn’t have looked so terrifying. But they ran without a word, with a rumble of boots in the silence of noisy breathing. Lutsis, Sukharev, Vyrin, Larionov, Ogloblin and Provotorov flung heavy ball bearings at the attackers. The steel spheres hit home, and several of the Gorelov warriors tumbled over as if they had slipped on a wet floor, felled by a direct hit.

  Our side rushed forward. I prudently stayed apart, backing away rapidly and moving as far away as possible from the fighting.

  The brigades clashed head on. Garshenin’s team, outrunning the others, ran through the line running at them with their sickles and tridents. Some were impaled on steel immediately. I saw a long fan shape of blood spurt out of a pierced throat. The brunt of the Gorelov warriors’ frontal thrust was borne by the Shironinites. Burkin’s volunteers and the Kolontayskites, armed with miners’ pickaxes, struck from the flanks—the appalling steel beaks rose up above the crowd and fell, embedding themselves in the human strata.

  The human mass seethed as it intermingled in confusion. It was as if, following the invitation to dance, everyone had gone dashing to find themselves a partner, to start this elaborate swirling, while those who had not found a partner were filled with fury and started breaking up other pairs.

  A Gorelovite stunned by a ball bearing and crawling on all fours was hammered into the ground by a terrible blow from Maria Antonovna Vozglyakova, who did not seem to notice the knife that was thrust into her side, burying the full length of its narrow blade in her padded work jacket.

  Igor Valeryevich arched over in a rapid lunge, driving his bayonet into his foe’s defenceless lower belly. Veronika Vozglyakova’s spade sliced open the face of a Gorelovite pressing forward.

  Timofei Stepanovich, despite his age, doughtily held three enemies at bay. Squatting down, he shattered one attacker’s knee with a sweep of his dumb-bell mace, and then helped arrived in the persons of Lutsis and Larionov.

  Sasha Sukharev bounded out of the crowd, pursued by a berserk Gorelovite. Sukharev’s right hand had been transformed into a limp rag; he ran off a few steps, took out a ball bearing, flung it with his left hand, missed and pulled out a long screwdriver. The adversaries clashed together and fell…

  A baseball smashed into Grisha Vyrin’s unprotected back, but the Gorelovite who had crept up on him lived only for one more moment before Marat Andreyevich’s sabre flashed.

  Vadik Provotorov ran by with an axe and flung himself at a Gorelovite armed with a machete. A flurry of backs hid them from sight.

 
; A crushing, spiked blow to the face felled Pal Palych. Larionov, grabbing up a sapper’s entrenching tool, fervently pulverized a fallen foe until a knife was thrust into his back up to the hilt.

  The swingeing blows of Ievlev’s hammer tossed into the air fragments of helmets and pink lumps that looked like boiled beetroot.

  One of Burkin’s volunteers sat down in the grass and started busily binding up the stump of his arm, which was spurting blood like a guillotined chicken. Garshenin jerked convulsively on the handle of his scythe, but the blade had buried itself too deeply in a dead body. Garshenin kicked the body with his boot, but the sharp spur got stuck instead of helping him pull free. Someone brought a club down on his arms, breaking the bones as well as the scythe handle, but Svetlana Vozglyakova laid out the Gorelovite with a precise bayonet thrust just below the collar.

  A Kolontaysk ice-hockey player abandoned the fighting and staggered towards me, as if seeking help, then collapsed on his knees and dropped his miner’s pickaxe. Slow, thick blood oozed out through the eye slits of the white goalkeeper’s mask. A Gorelovite ran up and impaled the man who was already dead, then swung round and impaled himself on Tanya Miroshnikova’s swift rapier.

  Lutsis finished off a fallen adversary, looked round for another, and missed an attack—the club struck the plastic of his helmet with a resonant thud. As he fell, Denis struck out with his axe, slicing through his enemy’s jaw. Ogloblin dashed at the enemy, ran him through with his fork and moved on with the stride of advancing infantry, and the spiked man could barely move his feet fast enough, as if it were some kind of dance…

  If someone had said to me that the battle had been going on for no more than three minutes, I wouldn’t have believed them.

  Suddenly I saw the Gorelovite librarian, Marchenko. I recognized him from his flaming crimson birthmark. The most frightening thing was that Marchenko was dashing straight at me. He had no helmet and his slashed upper lip bounced up and down in time with his running feet.

  Marchenko was belatedly noticed by our fighters too. Anna, who had been set to guard me, flung the charging Gorelovite back with the handle of her spade, but someone who had not been finished off grabbed her leg and Anna stretched her full length on the trampled grass. With a swift flourish of his sabre, Marat Andreyevich cleared himself a path through the halved body of a Gorelovite, but it was clear that he would be too late.