Not until tomorrow? Artyom was overcome by burning disappointment and resentment. This was why he came here, risking his own life and that of others? This was why he pressed on, forcing himself to move his feet, even when he had no strength left at all? And wasn’t this an urgent business, to report everything he knew to this so-and-so Melnik, who it turned out couldn’t even find a spare minute for him?
Or was it that Artyom was simply late, and Melnik already knew everything? Or maybe Melnik already knows something that Artyom himself hasn’t a clue about? Maybe he’s so late that his entire mission no longer matters?
‘Not until tomorrow?’ he burst out.
‘The Colonel’s on a mission today. He’ll be back early in the morning,’ explained Ivashov. ‘Get going, and you’ll get some rest besides,’ he said, and saw Artyom out of the guard shack.
Having calmed down, but still nursing a grievance, Artyom put on the glasses and thought they looked good. And they hid the shiner under his eye. The lenses were scratched and, moreover, they distorted objects in the distance, but when he went out onto the platform after having thanked the border guards, he understood that he could not manage without them. The light from the mercury lamps was too bright for him. Besides, it wasn’t just Artyom who couldn’t open his eyes here; many at the station hid their eyes behind dark glasses. They’re probably also strangers, he thought.
It was strange for him to see a fully illuminated metro station. There were absolutely no shadows here. At VDNKh, as well as at all the other stations and substations where he had been up to now, there were few light sources, and they could not illuminate the entire space of what could be seen and they only shed light on parts of it. There always remained places where not a single beam penetrated. Every person cast several shadows: one from a candle, withered and emaciated; a second, from the emergency light; and a third, black and sharply defined, from an electric lantern. They mixed and covered each other and the shadows of others, sometimes coursing for several metres along the floor, startling you, deceiving you, and forcing you to guess and assume. Yet in Polis, every last shadow was eradicated in the ruthless glow of the daylight lamps
Artyom froze in his tracks, looking at Borovitskaya with delight. It remained in surprisingly good condition. Not a trace of soot was evident on the marble walls or white ceiling, and the station was tidy. A woman in light-blue overalls laboured over a time-blackened bronze panel at the end of the station, industriously scraping the bas-relief with a sponge and cleaning solution.
The living accommodation here was arranged in the arches. Only two arches were left open at each end to access the tracks; the rest, bricked in from both sides, had been turned into real apartments. There was a doorway in each, and some even had wooden doors and glazed windows. The sound of music carried from one of them. Mats lay in front of several doors, so that those entering could wipe their feet. This was the first time Artyom has seen anything of the kind. These quarters looked so cosy, so calm, that he felt a tightening in his chest, and a picture from his childhood suddenly appeared before his eyes. But what was most surprising was the chain of bookshelves that stretched along both walls the length of the entire station. They occupied the space between ‘apartments,’ and this gave the entire station a kind of marvellous, strange look, reminding Artyom of descriptions he’d read of medieval libraries in a book by Borges.
The escalators were at the far end of the hall, where the passage to the Arbatskaya station was located. The pressure doors remained open, but a small post was located at the passage. Then again, the guards let anyone who wanted to pass unhindered in both directions, without even checking documents.
At the opposite end of the platform, on the other hand, next to the bronze bas-relief, there was a real military camp. Several green military tents were set up there, with markings drawn on them like the ones tattooed on the temples of the border guards. In the same place was a cart with some unknown weapon mounted on it, revealed by the long barrel with flared muzzle sticking out from under a cover. Nearby, two soldiers in dark-green uniforms, helmets, and body armour were on duty. The camp encircled a passage stairway that ascended over the tracks. Flashing arrows indicated this was an ‘Exit to the city,’ whereupon the established precautions became clear to Artyom. A second stairway led to the same place and was completely blocked off by a wall of huge cement blocks.
People dressed in long, grey robes made of dense cloth sat at stout wooden tables that stood in the middle of the station. Drawing nearer to them, Artyom was surprised to see their temples were tattooed as well, but not with the image of a bird, but with that of an open book on a background of several vertical lines that bore a resemblance to a colonnade. Catching Artyom’s intent look, one of the men seated at the table smiled amiably and asked:
‘Are you a newcomer? Is this your first time here?’
Artyom flinched at the word ‘newcomer,’ but pulled himself together and nodded. The man who had spoken was not much older than Artyom and, when he rose to shake Artyom’s hand, working the flat of his hand out from the broad sleeve of the robe, it turned out they were of about the same height. Only the man’s physique was more delicate.
Artyom’s new acquaintance was called Daniel. He was in no hurry to talk about himself, and it was evident that he had decided to talk to Artyom because he was curious about what went on beyond the limits of Polis, about what was new on the Ring, and about any news of the fascists and the reds . . .
In half an hour, they were seated in the spindly Daniel’s home, in one of the ‘apartments’ nestled between arches, and were drinking hot tea, certainly brought here by devious routes from VDNKh. Of the furniture in the room, there was a table piled with books, tall iron shelves that reached to the ceiling, also crammed to the top with thick volumes, and a bed. A weak electric bulb dangled from the ceiling on a wire, illuminating a skilfully executed drawing of an enormous ancient temple that Artyom did not immediately recognize as the Library erected on the surface somewhere above Polis.
After his host had run out of questions, it was Artyom’s turn.
‘Why do people here have tattoos on their heads?’ he asked.
‘What, don’t you know anything about castes?’ said Daniel, surprised. ‘And you’ve never heard of Polis Council?’
Artyom suddenly remembered that someone (no, how could he forget? it was that old man, Mikhail Porfirievich, who had been killed by the fascists) had told him that power in Polis was divided between the soldiers and the librarians because, formerly, the buildings of the Library and some organization related to the army had stood on the surface.
‘I’ve heard of it!’ he nodded. ‘The warriors and librarians. So, then, you’re a librarian?’
Daniel shot him a frightened glance, paled, and began to cough. After a while, he pulled himself together and calmly said:
‘What do you mean “librarian”? Have you so much as seen a living librarian? I wouldn’t recommend it! Librarians sit up above . . . You’ve seen our fortifications down here? Heaven forbid they come down . . . Don’t ever confuse these things. I am not a librarian, I am a guardian. We are also called Brahmins.’
‘What kind of strange name is that?’ asked Artyom, raising his eyebrows.
‘You see, we have something of a caste system here. Like in old India. A caste . . . Well, it’s like a class . . . Didn’t the reds explain that to you? Never mind. There’s a caste of priests, or guardians of knowledge, those who collect books and work with them,’ he explained, while Artyom continued to marvel at how painstakingly he avoided the word ‘librarian’. ‘And there’s a warrior caste, of those who protect and defend. It’s very similar to India, where there was also a caste of merchants and a caste of servants. We have all that, too. And we also use the Hindu names for them among ourselves. The priests are the Brahmins, the soldiers are the kshatriyas, the merchants are the vaishyas, and the servants are the shudras. People become members of a caste once and for the rest of their lives. There
are special rites of passage, especially for kshatriyas and Brahmins. In India, it was a tribal matter, ancestral, but with us, it’s something you choose yourself when you turn eighteen. Here at Borovitskaya, there are more Brahmins; in fact, almost everyone is a Brahmin. Our school is here, our libraries, and cells. There are special conditions at the Library because the Red Line crosses there, and it must be protected, and before the war, there were more of us there. Now they’ve moved to Aleksandrovskiy Sad. Meanwhile, at Arbatskaya, it’s nearly all kshatriyas, because of the General Staff.’
Hearing yet another hissed ancient Indian word, Artyom sighed heavily. It was unlikely he’d remember all these difficult titles right off. However, Daniel did not pay attention to this and continued his narrative:
‘Obviously, only two castes enter into the Council, ours and the kshatriyas, though as a matter of fact, we just call them “war doggies”,’ he said to Artyom, with a wink.
‘So why do they tattoo two-headed birds on themselves?’ asked Artyom. ‘You, at least, have books. That makes sense. But birds?’
‘That’s their totem,’ said Brahmin Daniel, and shrugged. ‘I think that formerly it was a guardian spirit of the radiological defence forces. An eagle, I believe. After all, they believe in some strange thing of their own. Generally speaking, the castes around here don’t get along particularly well. There was a time they even feuded.’
Through the blinds, they could see that the station lights had been dimmed. Local night was falling. Artyom started to gather his things.
‘Is there a hotel here where I can spend the night? Because I have a meeting tomorrow at nine at Arbatskaya, and I’ve nowhere to stay.’
‘If you want, stay here,’ said Daniel, shrugging. ‘I’ll sleep on the floor, I’m used to it. I was just about to prepare dinner. Stay and you’ll tell me what else you’ve seen along the road. Because, you know, I don’t ever get away from this place. The guardian vows do not allow us to travel further than one station.’
After thinking about it, Artyom nodded. It was comfortable and warm in the room, and Artyom had taken a liking to his host from the very beginning. They had something in common. In fifteen minutes, he was already cleaning mushrooms, while Daniel was cutting salt pork into small slices.
‘Have you ever seen the Library even once with your own eyes?’ asked Artyom, his mouth full. They were eating stewed pork with mushrooms from aluminium mess dishes.
‘You mean the Great Library?’ asked the Brahmin, dourly.
‘I mean the one up there . . . It’s still there, right?’ said Artyom, pointing his fork at the ceiling.
‘Only our elders go up into to the Great Library. And the stalkers, too, who work for the Brahmins,’ answered Daniel.
‘So, they’re the ones who bring books down from above? From the Library? I mean, from the Great Library,’ Artyom said, hurriedly correcting himself as he saw his host scowl once more.
‘They do, but only by order of the caste elders. It is not within our power to do so ourselves, so we must use mercenaries,’ the Brahmin explained grudgingly. ‘According to the Testament, we should have been doing that, preserving knowledge and imparting it to seekers. But in order for knowledge to be imparted, it must first be obtained. Yet who among us will dare to go in there?’ he said, lifting his eyes upward with a sigh.
‘Because of the radiation?’ said Artyom, comprehending.
‘That too. But mainly because of the librarians,’ said Daniel in a subdued voice.
‘But aren’t you the librarians? Or, at least, the descendants of the librarians? That’s what I’ve heard.’
‘You know? Let’s not talk about this at the table. In fact, let someone else explain it to you. I don’t like to talk about this subject, really.’
Daniel started to clear the table and then, after thinking for a moment, moved some books from a shelf off to the side, revealing a gap between the volumes standing in the back row, in which a round-bellied bottle of moonshine gleamed. Table glasses were found among the dishware.
After some time, Artyom, who had been examining the shelves with delight, decided to break the silence.
‘Wow, you sure do have a lot of books,’ he said. ‘Over where we are, at VDNKh, I don’t think you could collect as many in the whole library. I finished reading them all a long time ago. It’s rare that something good shows up. Only my stepfather brings anything worth reading, and the itinerant merchants bring nothing but miscellaneous rubbish in their suitcases, all sorts of detective novels. Half the time, you can’t tell what’s going on in them anyway. That was another reason I dreamed of entering Polis, because of the Great Library. I just can’t imagine how many there must be up there if they built such a huge place to keep them,’ and he nodded towards the drawing over the table.
The eyes of both of them were shining already. Daniel, flattered by Artyom’s words, leaned over the table and said, with great gravity:
‘They don’t mean a thing, all those books. And the Great Library was not built for them. And it’s not books that are stored there.’
Artyom looked at him with surprise. The Brahmin opened his mouth to continue, but suddenly rose from his chair, went to the door, cracked it open and listened. Then he quietly closed the door, sat back down and whispered the rest of what he wanted to say:
‘The entire Great Library was built for the one-and-only Book. And it alone is hidden there. The rest are needed to help hide it. In reality, it is this book that is being sought. And it is being guarded,’ he added, and squirmed.
‘What kind of book is it?’ asked Artyom, also lowering his voice.
‘An ancient folio. A book of pages, black as anthracite, where all of History is recorded in gold letters. To the end.’
‘So why are people searching for it?’ whispered Artyom.
‘You really don’t understand?’ said the Brahmin, with a shake of his head. ‘ “To the end” means to the very end. And there’s still some way to go before then . . . So whoever has this knowledge . . .’
A translucent shadow flashed behind the blinds, and Artyom, even though he was looking Daniel in the eye, noticed it and gave him a sign. Interrupting his tale in mid-sentence, Daniel jumped from his seat and darted to the door. Artyom bolted after him.
There was nobody on the platform, but retreating footsteps could be heard from the direction of the passage. The sentries slept peacefully on chairs on both sides of the escalator.
When they returned to the room, Artyom waited for the Brahmin to continue his story, but the latter had sobered up and only glumly shook his head.
‘We’re forbidden to relate this,’ he snapped. ‘That part of the Testament is only for the initiated. The alcohol loosened my tongue,’ he said, wincing fretfully. ‘And don’t even think of telling anyone what you heard. If it gets out to anyone that you know about the Book, then there’ll be no end of trouble for you. And for me, too.’
And then Artyom suddenly understood why his palms had started sweating when the Brahmin had told him about the Book. He remembered.
‘But aren’t there several of these books?’ he asked, his heart coming to a standstill.
Daniel cautiously looked him in the eyes.
‘What do you mean?
‘Fear the truths hidden in ancient folios . . . in which the words are lettered in gold and the viper-black paper does not rot,’ he recited, while Bourbon’s expressionless face loomed in a foggy haze before his eyes, mechanically uttering alien and incomprehensible words.
The Brahmin stared at him fixedly in amazement.
‘How do you know that?’
‘A revelation. There’s not just one Book . . . What’s in the others?’ asked Artyom, looking at the drawing of the Library as if under a spell.
‘Only one is left. There were three folios,’ said Daniel, surrendering finally. ‘The Past, the Present, and the Future. The Past and the Present disappeared irrevocably centuries ago. Only the last and most important one remains.’
/>
‘And where is it?’
‘Lost somewhere in the Main Stack Archives. There are more than forty million volumes there. One of them - a completely ordinary book by all appearances, in a standard binding - is It. To recognize It, you have to open the book and skim through it. According to legend, the pages of the folio actually are black. But you’d have to spend seventy years of your life without sleep or rest to skim through all the books in the Main Stack Archive. Yet people can’t stay there for more than a day, and second, nobody will let you stand around quietly and look through all the books that are stored there. And that’s enough about that.’
He laid some bedding on the floor, lit a candle on the table, and turned off the light. Artyom lay down unwillingly. For some reason, he didn’t want to sleep at all, although he could not remember the last time that he managed to get some rest.
‘I wonder, can you see the Kremlin when you go up to the Library?’ he asked the emptiness, because Daniel had begun to fall asleep.
‘Of course you can see it. Only, you can’t look at it. It draws you in,’ he muttered.
‘What do you mean “it draws you in”?’
Daniel lifted himself onto his elbows, and his face, knitted in displeasure, was illuminated by the yellow spot of light.
‘The stalkers say that you can’t look at the Kremlin when you go out, especially not at the stars on the towers. As soon as you look, you can’t tear your eyes away. And if your gaze lingers for a while, the Kremlin starts to draw you inside. There’s a reason all the gates stand wide open. That’s why stalkers never go up into the Great Library by themselves. If one happens to glance at the Kremlin, the other will snap him out of it immediately.’
‘What’s inside the Kremlin?’ whispered Artyom, swallowing hard.
‘Nobody knows, because nobody who’s ever gone in has ever come out again. Up there on the shelf, if you like, there’s a book with an interesting history of stars and swastikas, including the ones on the Kremlin towers.’ He got up, groped the book from the shelf, opened it to the correct page, and got back under his blanket.