When Mikhail Porfirevich paused for a little while, in order to catch his breath, Artyom decided to use the break to turn the conversation in a useful direction. Somehow he had to get through Pushkinskaya and to make the transfer to Chekhovskaya, and from there get to Polis.
‘Are there really real fascists at Pushkinskaya?’ he asked.
‘What’s that you’re saying? Fascists? Ah, yes . . .’ The old man sighed confusedly. ‘Yes, yes, you know, the skinheads with the armbands, they’re just awful. These symbols are hanging at the entrance there and all over the station. You know they used to mean that you couldn’t go there - it’s a black figure in a red circle with a red diagonal line through it. I thought that they had made some kind of mistake and I asked why they were there . . . It means that the dark ones can’t enter. It’s some kind of idiocy, basically.’
Artyom turned to him when he heard the words ‘dark ones.’ He threw a frightened look at Mikhail Porfirovich and asked carefully:
‘Are there dark ones there now too? Don’t tell me they’ve reached there too?’ A carousel of panic turned feverishly in Artyom’s head. How could it be? He’d only been in the tunnel a week and the dark ones were already attacking Pushkinskaya. Had his mission already failed? He hadn’t succeeded, hadn’t come good? It was all for nothing? No, that couldn’t be, there would have been rumours, they would have distorted things but there still would have been rumours, right? But it might be the end to everything . . .
Mikhail Porfirevich cautiously looked at him and, stepping a little to the side, carefully asked:
‘And you, yourself, what ideology do you adhere to?’
‘I? Basically, well, none.’ Artyom hesitated. ‘And?’
‘And how do you feel about other nationalities, about Caucasians, for example?’
‘What do Caucasians have to do with anything?’ Artyom was puzzled. ‘Generally, I don’t know much about nationalities. There used to be the French there, or the Germans, the Americans. But I guess none of them are left . . . And as for the Caucasians, if I’m honest, I don’t really know any,’ he admitted awkwardly.
‘It’s the Caucasians that they call the “dark ones”,’ Mikhail Porfirevich explained, still trying to figure out if Artyom was lying, playing the fool.
‘But Caucasians, if I remember right, are regular people?’ Artyom said. ‘I saw a few of them here today . . .’
‘Completely normal people!’ Mikhail Porfirevich assured him. ‘Completely normal people, but those cutthroats have decided that there’s something different about them and they persecute them. It’s simply inhuman! Can you imagine, they have a ceiling there, right over the pathways, fitted with hooks, and there was a man hanging from one of them, a real man. Vanechka got so excited, that he started to poke it with his finger, to bellow, and then these monsters turned their attention to him.’
At the sound of his name the teenager turned and fixed the old man with a long stare. Artyom had the impression that the boy could hear and could even partly understand what the conversation was about, but when his name wasn’t repeated, he quickly lost interest in Mikhail Porfirevich and turned his attention to the cross-ties.
‘And once we started talking about nations and, by the looks of it, they really worship Germans. It was the Germans after all who invented their ideology, and you, of course, know, what I’m going to tell you,’ Mikhail Porfirovich added quickly and Artyom vaguely nodded even though he didn’t actually know, but he didn’t want to look like an ignoramus. ‘You know, there’s German eagles hanging everywhere, swastikas, which are self-explanatory, and there are various German phrases, quotes from Hitler: about valour, about pride and things in that vein. They have parades and marches. While we were there, and I was trying to persuade them to stop antagonizing Vanechka, they were all marching across the platform and singing songs. Something about the greatness of the spirit and contempt for death. But, generally, you know, the German language was perfectly chosen. German was simply created for such things. I can speak a little of it, you see . . . Here, look, I have something written somewhere here . . .’ And, breaking step, he extracted a dirty notebook from his inside pocket. ‘Wait a second, put your light here, if you don’t mind . . . Where was it? Ah, here it is!’
In the yellow circle of light, Artyom saw some jumping Latin letters, carefully drawn on a page of the notebook and even thoughtfully surrounded with a frame of drawn vine-leaves:Du stirbst. Besitz stirbt.
Die Sippen sterben.
Der einzig lebt - wir wissen es
Der Toten Tatenruhm.
Artyom could also read Latin letters. He had studied them in some textbook for schoolchildren that they dug up at the station library. He looked behind him and he pointed his torch at the notebook again. Of course, he couldn’t understand a thing.
‘What is it?’ he asked, again helping Mikhail Porfirovich along, and quickly pushing the notebook into the man’s pocket, and trying to get Vanechka, who was rooted to the spot and growling unhappily, to move forward.
‘It’s a poem,’ the old man replied, and he seemed a bit offended. ‘It’s in memory of those that perished in war. I, of course, am not planning to translate but broadly speaking, it means this: “You will die. All those close to you will die. Your belongings will disappear. But one thing will cross the centuries - glorious death in combat.” But it comes out so pathetically in Russian, doesn’t it? While it just thunders in German! Der Toten Tatenruhm! It just sends a chill through you. Hm, yes . . .’ He stopped short, apparently ashamed by his outburst.
The walked on quietly for a time. It seemed silly to Artyom and it angered him too that they were probably the last ones walking the tunnel and it wasn’t clear what was going on behind their backs - and now the guy was stopping to read poetry. But against his will he was still rolling the last lines of the poem around on his tongue, and for some reason he suddenly recalled Vitalik with whom he went to the Botanical Gardens. Vitalik the Splinter, who the robbers had shot down as they tried to break into the station through the southern tunnel. That tunnel was always considered to be dangerous, and therefore they put Vitalik there. He was eighteen years old, and Artyom was just coming up to his sixteenth year. But that evening they agreed to go to Zhenya’s because there was a weed trader who had brought in some new stuff, some special stuff . . . And he got it right in the head, the little black hole was right in the middle of his forehead and the back of his head was blown off. That was it. ‘You will die . . .’ For some reason the conversation between his stepfather and Hunter came vividly to mind, particularly when Sukhoi said, ‘And what if there’s suddenly nothing there?’ You die and there’s nothing beyond that. Nothing. Nothing remains. Someone might remember you for a little while after but not for long. ‘People close to you will die too’ - or how did it go? Artyom really felt a chill now. When Mikhail Porfirevich finally broke the silence, Artyom was actually glad of it.
‘Will you, by any chance, be going the same way as us? Or are you only going to Pushkinskaya? Do you intend to get out there? I mean, get off the path. I would really really not recommend that you do that, Artyom. You can’t imagine what goes on there. Maybe, you’d like to go with us to Barrakadnaya? I would be most happy to talk to you along the way!’
Artyom again nodded indistinctly and mumbled something noncommital: he couldn’t just discuss the aims of his journey with the first person he met, even if that person was an inoffensive old man. Mikhail Porfirevich went silent, having heard nothing in answer to what he’d asked.
They walked for quite a long time more in the silence. Everything sounded quiet behind them too and Artyom finally relaxed. In the distance, lights were shining, at first weakly, but then brighter and brighter. They were approaching Kuznetsky Most . . .
Artyom knew nothing about the local order of things and so he decided to hide his weapon. After wrapping it up in his vest, he pushed it deep into his rucksack.
Kuznetsky Most was an inhabited station, and about fifty m
etres before the entrance, in the middle of the path, there stood a sturdy checkpoint. It was only one checkpoint but it had a searchlight, though it was turned off at the moment since it wasn’t needed, and it was equipped with a machine-gun position. The machine gun was covered but next to it sat a very fat man in a threadbare green uniform. He was eating some kind of mash from a beaten-up soldier’s bowl. There were yet another couple of people in the same outfit with clumsy-looking army machine guns on their shoulders, who nitpickingly checked the documents of those who were coming out of the tunnel. There was a small line in front of them: all the fugitives who had come from Kitai Gorod, who had overtaken Artyom while he had walked slowly with Mikhail Porfirevich and Vanechka.
The people were slowly and reluctantly admitted. One guy had been rejected and he was now sitting in dismay, not knowing what to do and trying from time to time to approach the checkpoint guards who pushed him off each time and called up the next person in line. Each of the arriving people was thoroughly searched and they saw for themselves how a man on whom they’d found an undeclared Makarov pistol was thrown out of the line and, when he tried to argue with them, they tied him up and led him away.
Artyom felt a twirling inside, sensing that trouble was ahead. Mikhail Porfirevich was looking at him in surprise and Artyom quietly whispered that he was armed, but the man just nodded reassuringly and promised him that everything would be all right. It wasn’t that Artyom trusted him but thought that it would be very interesting to see how he intended to settle the matter. The old man merely smiled mysteriously.
Slowly, their turn approached. The border guards were now gutting the insides of some fifty-year-old woman’s coat, while she took to accusing them of being tyrants, and expressing surprise that people such as them could exist. Artyom agreed with her but he decided not to voice his solidarity audibly. Digging around, the guard, with a satisfied whistle, took several grenades from her dirty brassiere and looked for an explanation.
Artyom was sure that the woman would now tell a touching story about her grandson who needed these things for his work. You see, he works as a welder, and this is part of his welding equipment. Or she’d say that she had found these grenades along the road and she was, as it happens, rushing to give them to the relevant authorities. But, taking a couple of steps backwards, she hissed a curse and rushed back into the tunnel, hurrying to hide in the darkness. The machine gunner set aside his bowl of food and gripped his unit but one of the two border guards, apparently the older one, stopped him with a gesture. The fat one, sighed in disappointment, and turned back to his porridge, and Mikhail Porfirevich took a step forward, holding his passport at the ready.
It was amazing but the senior guard, without the slightest twinge of conscience, having upturned the whole bag belonging to the completely inoffensive-looking woman, quickly leafed through the old man’s notebook, and he didn’t pay a jot of attention to Vanechka, as though he wasn’t there. It was Artyom’s turn. He readily gave his documents over to the lean moustached guard and the man started meticulously scrutinizing each page of them, and shined his torch on his stamps for an especially long time. The border guard compared Artyom’s physiognomy no less than five times against the photograph, outwardly expressing his doubts, while Artyom gave a friendly smile, trying to portray himself as innocence itself.
‘Why is your passport a Soviet model?’ the guard finally asked with a stern voice, not knowing what else to pick on.
‘I was little, see, when there were still real ones. And then our administration corrected the situation with the first form they could find to fill in.’
‘That’s out of order.’ The man frowned. ‘Open your rucksack.’
If he detects the machine gun, Artyom thought, then he could run back. Otherwise they would confiscate it. He wiped perspiration from his forehead.
Mikhail Porfirevich went up to the guard and stood very close to him, and whispered quickly:
‘Konstantin Alexeyevich, you understand, this young man is my friend. He’s a very very decent youth, I can guarantee it personally.’
The border guard opened Artyom’s bag and pushed his hand inside it. Artyom went cold. Then the guard said dryly:
‘Five,’ and while Artyom figured out what he meant, the old man pulled a fistful of cartridges out of his pocket and, quickly counting out five, he put them into the half-open field bag that was hanging off the guard’s belt.
But Konstantin Alexeyevich’s hand had continued its rummaging in Artyom’s bag and, apparently, the worst had happened, because his face took on a suddenly interested expression.
Artyom felt his heart falling into a precipice and he shut his eyes.
‘Fifteen,’ the guard said impassively.
After nodding, Artyom counted off ten additional cartridges and poured them into the same bag. Not one muscle flickered on the face of the border guard. He simply took a step to the side and the path to Kuznetsky Most was free and clear. With admiration for the man’s iron restraint, Artyom went forward.
The next fifteen minutes were spent squabbling with Mikhail Porfirevich who stubbornly refused to accept five cartridges from Artyom, assuring him that his debt to Artyom was much greater.
Kuznetsky Most was no different from most of the other stations that Artyom had managed to see on his journey so far. It had the same marble on the walls and granite on the floors, but the arches here were unusually high and wide, creating an unusual sensation of spaciousness.
But the most surprising thing was that on each of the tracks stood entire trains that were incredibly long and so enormous that they took up almost all the room at the station. The windows were lit up with a warm light that shone through variously coloured curtains, and the doors were welcomingly open . . .
Artyom had not seen anything like it. Yes, he had half-erased memories of swiftly moving and hooting trains with bright squares of windows. The memories were from his early childhood, but they were diffuse, ephemeral, like the other thoughts about what had gone before: as soon as he tried to remember any details, to focus on something small, then the elusive image dissolved right away, and flowed like water through his fingers, and there was nothing left . . . But since he’d grown up he had only seen the train that had got stuck in the tunnel entrance at Rizhskaya, and some wagons at Kitai Gorod and Prospect Mir.
Artyom froze on the spot, captivated, looking at the train, counting the carriages that melted into the haze of the other end of the platform, near the entrance to the Red Line. There, a red calico banner hung down from the ceiling, snatched from the darkness by a distinct circle of electric light, and underneath it stood two machine gunners, in identical green uniforms and peak caps, who seemed small from far away and amusingly reminiscent of toy soldiers.
Artyom had three toy soldiers like them when he lived with his mother: one was the commander with a tiny pistol pulled out of its holster. He was yelling something, looking backwards - he was probably ordering his group to follow him into battle. The other two stood straight, holding their machine guns. The little soldiers were probably from different collections and there was no way to play with them: the commander was throwing himself into battle, and despite his valiant cries, the other two were standing in place, just like the border guards of the Red Line, and they weren’t particularly heading for battle. It was strange, he remembered these soldiers so well, and yet he couldn’t remember his mother’s face . . .
Kuznetsky Most was relatively orderly. The light here, like at VDNKh, came from emergency lights that were strung along the length of the ceiling on some kind of mysterious metal construction that had perhaps once illuminated the station itself. Apart from the trains, there was absolutely nothing remarkable about the station.
‘I’ve heard so often that there are so many amazingly beautiful places in the metro but from what I can see they’re almost all identical.’ Artyom shared his disappointment with Mikhail Porfirevich.
‘Come now, young man! There are such beautiful pl
aces, you wouldn’t believe! There’s Komsomolskaya on the Ring, a veritable palace!’ The old man heatedly took to persuading him. ‘There’s an enormous panel there, you know, on the ceiling. It has Lenin on it and other rubbish, it’s true . . . Oh, what am I saying.’ He stopped short and, with a whisper, said to Artyom, ‘This station is full of secret agents from the Sokolnicheskaya line, that’s to say the Red Line, sorry, I call things by their old names . . . So you have to be quiet here. The local leadership looks like it’s independent but they don’t want to quarrel with the Reds so if they ask them to hand someone over, then they can just hand you over. Not to mention the murders,’ he added very quietly, looking timidly from side to side. ‘Come on, let’s find somewhere to rest. To be honest, I’m terribly tired, and indeed you, in my opinion, are only barely managing to stay on your feet. Let’s spend the night here, and then we’ll go on.’
Artyom nodded. This day had indeed seemed to be endless and stressful, and rest was absolutely necessary.
Enviously sighing and not taking his eyes off the train, Artyom followed Mikhail Porfirevich. There was joyful laughter and conversation coming from the carriages, and they passed a man standing in the doorway. He looked tired after a day’s work and was smoking a cigarette with his neighbour, calmly discussing the events of the day. Gathered around a table, old ladies were drinking tea under a small lamp that was hanging from a wire, and children were running wild. This seemed unusual to Artyom: at VDNKh, the conditions were always very tense and people were ready for anything to happen. Yes, people got together in the evenings to sit quietly with friends in someone’s tent, but there was nothing like this where doors were open, in full view, and people were visiting each other so easily, children everywhere . . . This station was just too happy.
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