‘And what do they live on here?’ Artyom couldn’t contain himself as he caught up to the old man.
‘What? You don’t know?’ Mikhail Porfirevich said politely but he was surprised. ‘This is Kuznetsky Most! You get the best technicians in the metro here, important masters. They bring all sorts of devices to be fixed here from the Sokolnicheskaya line, even from the Ring itself. They’re flourishing, flourishing. What it would be like to live here!’ He sighed dreamily. ‘But they’re very strict about that . . .’
Artyom hoped in vain that they would also be able to sleep in one of the railroad cars, on a bed. In the middle of the hall stood a row of big tents, the kind that they lived in at VDNKh, and the first one they came to had a stencilled inscription on it that said: HOTEL. Next to it was a whole line of fugitives, but Mikhail Porfirevich, calling one of the organizers to the side, tinkled some copper, and whispered something magical starting with ‘Konstantin Alexeyevich’ and the matter was settled.
‘We’ll go here,’ he said with an inviting gesture, and Vanechka joyfully gurgled.
They even gave them some tea there, and he didn’t have to pay anything extra for it, and the mattresses on the floor were so soft that after you’d fallen on them you really didn’t want to have to get up. Half-reclining, Artyom carefully blew on the mug of tea and attentively listened to the old man, who was telling him something with a burning look, having forgotten about his cup of tea:
‘They have power across the whole branch. And no one will tell you about that, and the Reds will never admit to it, but University is not under their control and everything beyond University too! Yes, yes, The Red Line continues to Sportivnaya. There’s a passage that starts there, you know, which was once the station Leninskye Gory, and then they changed the name but I can only remember the old one . . . But Leninskye Gory, was below a bridge actually. And you see, there was an explosion on the bridge and it collapsed into the river and the station was flooded, so there hasn’t been any communication with University from the very beginning . . .’
Artyom swallowed a little gulp of tea and felt that everything inside was sweetly freezing in place in anticipation of something mysterious, unusual, that something had started back where the broken rails hovered over a precipice on the Red Line, down in the south-west. Vanechka was gnawing on his nails, only stopping sometimes to look with satisfaction at the fruits of his labour and then starting up again. Artyom looked at him almost with sympathy and felt grateful to the boy that he was being quiet.
‘You know, we have a small circle at Barrikadnaya,’ Mikhail Porfirevich smiled embarrassedly. ‘And we get together in the evenings, sometimes people come to us from Ulitsa 1905, and now they chased all the differently thinking people, and Anton Petrovich moved to our station too . . . It’s nonsense of course, these are simple literary gatherings, but we sometimes talk about politics . . . They don’t especially like educated people at Barrikadnaya - either. So we just do it on the quiet. But Yakov Yosifovich was saying that, allegedly, University station didn’t perish. That they managed to block off the tunnel and there’re still people there now. Not just people but . . . You understand, that’s where Moscow University used to be, that’s why the station is called University. And so, allegedly, some of the professoriate were saved at University station, and some students too. There was some kind of bomb-shelter under the university, something constructed by Stalin, and I think they were connected by special tunnels to the metro. And now there’s another kind of intellectual centre there, you know . . . But that’s probably just legend. That there’s educated people in power there, and all the three stations and the shelter are governed by a rector, and each station is headed by a deacon - all elected for a specified term. There, studies aren’t at a standstill - there are still students, you know, post-grads, teachers! And culture hasn’t died out, not like it has here, and they write things and they haven’t forgotten how to conduct research . . . And Anton Petrovich even said that one of his friends, an engineer, told him in secret that they’d even found a way to go to the surface. They created a protective suit, and sometimes their scouts are sent into the metro . . . You’ll agree that it sounds improbable!’ Mikhail Porfirevich added half-questioningly, looking Artyom in the eye and Artyom noticed something sad in his eyes, a timid and tired hope, that made Artyom cough a little and answer as confidently as possible:
‘Why? It sounds completely possible! Take Polis for example. I heard the same about it . . .’
‘Yes, it’s a wonderful place Polis - but how can you get there these days? They told me that at the council the power has been taken by the military . . .’
‘Which council?’ Artyom raised his eyebrows.
‘What? Polis is governed by a council of the most authoritative people. And there, you know, authoritative people are either librarians or servicemen. But I don’t really know about Biblioteka Lenina exactly, so there’s no point in talking about it, but the other entrance to Polis is located right behind the Ministry of Defence, as far as I remember, or, in any case it was somewhere nearby, and some of the generals were able to evacuate to it at the time. At the very beginning, the military men took power, and this junta ruled Polis for a sufficiently long time. But the people didn’t really like them ruling, there was disorder - of the blood-spilling kind - but that was a long time ago, a long time before the war with the Reds. Then they came to a compromise and this council was founded. And it happened that within it there were two factions - the librarians and the servicemen. It was a strange combination, of course. You know, the military had probably not met many live librarians in their lives. And here they were, together. And between these factions there was an eternal fight, of course: one would take control, then the other. When the war started with the Reds, defence was more important than culture and the scales tipped to the generals. Then peaceful times began and again the librarians gained influence. And it’s like a pendulum, there. Now I hear that the military people have a stronger position, and they’re imposing discipline there, you know, curfews and all those other joys of life.’ Mikhail Porfirevich quietly smiled. ‘Going through there isn’t any easier than getting to the Emerald City . . . That’s what we call University among ourselves, and the stations surrounding it, for a joke . . . You have to go either through the Red Line or through the Hansa but you can’t just go there, as you yourself understand. Before, before the fascists, you could go through Pushkinskaya to Chekhovskaya and then it’s just one transfer to Borovitskaya. It’s not a good transfer of course, but when I was younger, I made my way through it.’
Artyom asked what was so bad about the transfer he mentioned, and the old man reluctantly answered:
‘You understand, right there in the middle of the tunnel there’s a burnt-out train. I haven’t been there in ages so I don’t know how it is now but before you could see charred human remains sitting in its seats . . . It was just terrible. I don’t know how this happened, and I asked some friends but no one has been able to say exactly. And it’s very hard to get through this train, because the tunnel has started to collapse and dirt has filled in all the spaces around the train. In the train itself, in the carriages, I mean, various bad things are going on and it would be difficult to explain them. I’m an atheist in general, you know, and I don’t believe in all that mystical nonsense . . . and now I don’t believe in anything anymore.’
These words led Artyom to the gloomy memories of the noise in the tunnel on his line, and he couldn’t restrain himself and he told the old man what had happened to his group, and then what happened with Bourbon and, after hesitating a little, he tried to repeat the explanation that Khan had given him.
‘What? What are you talking about? That’s utter rubbish!’ Mikhail Porfirevich brushed him off, sternly knitting his brows. ‘I’ve already heard about such things. You remember I was telling you about Yakov Iosefovich? Well, he’s a physicist and he explained to me that these disruptions to the psyche occur when people are subjected to
the lowest frequencies of sound. They are essentially inaudible. If I’m not mistaken it’s around seven hertz, but then my mind is like a sieve . . . And this sound can come about by itself, as a result of natural processes, for example, from tectonic shifts and things like that. I wasn’t listening very attentively as he told me about it . . . But that it has something to do with souls of the dead? In the pipes? Please . . .’
This old man was interesting. Artyom heard things from him that he had never heard from anyone else. The man saw the metro from a different angle, an old-fashioned one, an amusing one, and everything, apparently, pulled his soul to the surface of the earth. He was clearly very uncomfortable here, as though these were his first days underground. And Artyom, thinking of the argument between Sukhoi and Hunter, asked him:
‘And what do you think . . . ? We . . . people, I mean . . . Will we ever return to the surface? Will we survive and go back?’
And he immediately regretted asking it, because it was as though the question had cut into the old man’s very veins, and he became soft straight away, and said, quietly, with a lifeless voice:
‘I don’t think so. I don’t think so.’
‘But after all, there were other metro systems, in Petersburg, in Minsk, and in Novgorod.’ Artyom listed the names he had learnt by heart. They had always been empty shells of words.
‘Ah! What a beautiful city - Petersburg!’ Mikhail Porfirevich didn’t answer him but sadly sighed. ‘You know, Isaak’s . . . Or Admiralteistvo, the spire there . . . What grace, what grace! And evenings on Nevsky Prospect - people, noise, crowds, laughter, children with ice cream, pretty girls . . . Music playing . . . In summer especially. It’s rarely good weather in the summer there but when it happens . . . the sun, the sky is clear, azure . . . And then, you know, it’s just easy to breathe again . . .’
His eyes fixed on Artyom but his gaze was going right through the young man and dissolved in the ethereal distance, where translucent, majestic silhouettes of the dusty buildings rose from the dusky smoke, giving Artyom the impression that he could have turned around and seen it for himself. The old man went quiet, heaved a deep sign, and Artyom decided not to interrupt his reminiscing.
‘Yes, there were indeed other metro systems apart from Moscow’s. Maybe people took refuge there and saved themselves . . . But think about it, young man!’ Mikhail Porfirevich raised a knotty finger in the air. ‘How many years have gone by, and nothing . . . Surely they would have found us after all these years if they had been looking for us? No,’ he dropped his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
And then, after five minutes of silence, almost inaudibly, the old man sighed and said, more to himself than to Artyom:
‘Lord, what a splendid world we ruined . . .’
A heavy silence hung in the tent. Vanechka, lulled by their quiet conversation, was sleeping, with his mouth slightly open and snuffling quietly, sometimes whining a little, like a dog. Mikhail Porfirevich didn’t say another word, and though Artyom was sure that he wasn’t yet sleeping, he didn’t want to disturb him, so he closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep.
He was thinking that, after everything that had happened to him over the course of that endless day, sleep would come instantly, but time stretched out slowly, slowly. The mattress which had seemed so soft not long ago, now seemed lumpy and he had to turn over many times before he could find a comfortable position. The old man’s sad words were knocking and knocking around in his ears. No. I don’t think so. There will be no return to the sparkling avenues, the grandiose architectural constructions, the light, refreshing breezes of a warm summer evening, running through your hair and caressing your face. No more sky, it will never be like the old man described again. Now, the sky was receding upwards, enmeshed in the decayed wires of the tunnel ceiling and so it would remain forever. But before it was - what did he say? Azure? Clear? . . . This sky was strange, just like the one that Artyom saw at the Botanical Gardens that time, covered in stars, but instead of being velvet-blue, it was light blue, shimmering, joyful . . . And the buildings were really enormous, but they didn’t press down with their mass. No, they were light, easy, as though they were woven out of sweet air. They soared, almost leaving the earth, their contours washed in the endless height of the sky. And how many people there were! Artyom had never seen so many people at once, only perhaps at Kitai Gorod, but here there were even more of them; the space in between of these great buildings was full of people. They scurried around and there were a great deal of children among them, and they were eating something, probably real ice cream. Artyom had even wanted to ask one of them if he could try some, he’d never eaten real ice cream. When he was little, he’d really wanted to try some. But there had been nowhere to get any, the confectionery factory had long since produced only mould and rats, rats and mould. But these little children, licking the delicacy, were running away from him and laughing, deftly dodging him, and he didn’t even get the chance to look into any of their faces. Artyom didn’t know anymore what he was trying to do: take a bite of ice cream or just to look one of the children in the face, to understand if the children did actually have faces . . . and he got scared.
The light outlines of the buildings started to slowly darken and, after some time, they were hanging over him threateningly, and then they started to move closer and closer. Artyom was still chasing the children, and it seemed to him that the children weren’t laughing joyfully but evilly, and then he gathered all his strength and grabbed one of the little boys by the sleeve. The boy pulled away and scratched him like a devil, but squeezing the boy’s throat with an iron grip, Artyom managed to look him in the face. It was Vanechka. Roaring and baring his teeth, he shook his head and tried to seize Artyom’s hand. In panic, Artyom flung him away, and the boy, jumping up from his knees, suddenly lifted his head and let out that same terrible howl which made Artyom run back at VDNKh ... And the children, randomly rushing around, started to slow down, and slowly to look at him from the side, getting closer, and the black bulky buildings towered right over them, drawing closer . . . And the children were filling the decreasing spaces between the buildings, and they took up Vanechka’s struggle, full of savage malice and icy sadness, and finally they turned to Artyom. They didn’t have faces, only black leather masks with mouths painted on them, and eyes, without whites or pupils.
And suddenly there was a voice that Artyom couldn’t place. It was quiet and the vicious battle was drowning it, but the voice repeated itself insistently and, listening closely, trying not to pay attention to the children who were getting closer and closer, Artyom finally figured out what it was saying. ‘You have to go.’ And it said it again. And again. And Artyom recognized the voice. It was Hunter’s.
He opened his eyes and threw off his covers. It was dark in the tent and very muggy, his head was filled with lead weight, his thoughts turned over lazily and heavily. Artyom couldn’t seem to come to his senses, to figure out how long he’d slept and whether it was time to get up and get on the road or whether he should just turn over and try to have a better dream.
Then the tent flaps were pulled aside and through it poked the head of the border guard who had let them into Kuznetsky Most. Konstantin . . . What was his second name?
‘Mikhail Porfirevich! Mikhail Porfirevich! Get up now! Mikhail Porfirevich! Has he died or what?’ And not paying any attention to Artyom, who was staring at him in fright, he climbed into the tent and started to shake the sleeping old man.
Vanechka woke up first and started to bellow badly. The guard didn’t pay him any attention, and when Vanechka tried to pull on his arm, he boxed him on the ear. And then the old man woke up.
‘Mikhail Porfirevich! Get up quickly!’ the border guard whispered urgently. ‘You have to go! The Reds are asking for you to be handed over as a slanderer and enemy propagandist. I’ve been telling you and telling you: while you’re here, while you’re at our lousy station, don’t start with your University talk! Did you listen to me?’
> ‘Please, Konstantin Alexeyevich, what is all this?’ The old man’s head turned in confusion, rising from his cot. ‘I didn’t say anything, no propaganda. Perish the thought. I was only telling the young man about it, but very quietly, and there were no witnesses . . .’
‘Well, take the young man with you! You know what kind of station this is. On Lublyanka they’ll gut you and string you up on a stick, and your friend here will be put against the wall straight away so that he doesn’t go talking again! Come on, be quick, why are you hanging around? They’re coming for you right now! They’re just conferring for a moment to decide what to ask the Reds for in exchange - so hurry up!’
Artyom had stood up and had his rucksack on his back. He didn’t know whether to get out his weapon or not. The old man was also fussing but a minute later they were already on the road, walking quickly, whereupon Konstantin Alexeyevich himself pressed a hand over Vanechka’s mouth with a martyred expression, and the old man looked over at him anxiously, afraid that the frontier guard might twist the boy’s neck.
The tunnel leading to Pushkinskaya was better defended than the other had been. Here they passed two cordons, at one hundred and at two hundred metres from the entrance. At the first one there was concrete reinforcements, a parapet that cut across the way and forced people along a narrow path by the wall. And to the left of it was a telephone and its wire led right into the centre of the station, probably to the headquarters. At the second cordon there were the usual sandbags, the machine gun and the searchlights, like at the other side. There were duty officers at both posts but Konstantin Alexeyevich led them through both cordons to the border.
‘Let’s go. I’ll walk with you for five minutes. I’m afraid that you can’t come here again, Mikhail Porfirevich,’ he said as they walked slowly toward Pushkinskaya. ‘They haven’t yet forgiven you for your old sins, and you’ve done it again. I heard that comrade Moskvin is personally interested, you hear? Well, OK, we’ll try to think of something. Be careful as you go through Pushkinskaya!’ he said as they carried on through the darkness. ‘Go through it quickly! We’re afraid of them, you see! So, be off and be well!’