Story One Chapter four
I COULD HEAR WATER SPLASHING ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WALL¡ªTHE
duty camp leader had excused himself and gone out to get washed after I woke him up. He'd been dozing peacefully to the hissing of a trashy Chinese tape recorder. I don't understand how anyone can possibly sleep to the sound of Vysotsky's songs, but I suppose that heap of junk wasn't fit for playing anything else.
There'll be poems and math,
Honors and debts, unequal battle. . .
Today all the little tin soldiers
Are lined up here on the old map.
He should have kept them back in the barracks,
But this is war, like any other war,
And warriors in both armies fall
In equal numbers on each side.
"I'm done, sorry about that. . . " the duty leader said as he came out of the tiny shower room, still wiping his face with a standard-issue cotton waffle-cloth towel. "I was exhausted. "
I nodded understandingly. The tape recorder carried on playing, obligingly making Vysotsky's voice even hoarser than ever:
Perhaps it's the gaps in their upbringing Or the weakness of their education? But neither one of the two sides Can win this long campaign. All these accursed problems of conscience: How not to do wrong in your own eyes? Here and there, the tin soldiers on both sides, How do we decide who ought to win. . .
The duty leader frowned and turned the volume down so low I couldn't make out the words any longer. He held out his hand: "Pyotr. "
"Alisa. "
His grip was as firm as if he were shaking hands with a man. It immediately gave me a sense of distance: a strictly professional relationship . . .
Well, that was fine. I didn't feel particularly inspired by this short, skinny man who looked like a juvenile himself. Naturally, I was intending to take a lover for the period of my vacation, but someone a bit younger and better looking would suit me better. Pyotr must have been at least thirty-five, and even without any Other abilities I could read him like an open book. An exemplary family man¡ªin the sense that he was almost never unfaithful to his wife, and didn't drink or smoke much and devoted the appropriate amount of time to his children¡ªor rather, his only child. A responsible man who loved his work, he could be trusted with a crowd of snot-nosed kids or teenage hooligans without any concern: He would wipe away the kids' snot, have a heart-to-heart talk with the hooligans, take away their bottle of vodka, lecture them on the harmfulness of smoking, and pile on the work, the play, and the morality.
In other words, the perfect embodiment of the Light Ones' dream¡ªnot a living human being at all.
"I'm very pleased to meet you," I said. "I've dreamed about working at Artek for so long. It's a shame it has to be under these circumstances. . . "
Pyotr sighed. "Yes, it's a sad business. We're all very upset for poor Nastenka. . . Are you a friend of hers?"
"No," I said and shook my head. "I was two years behind her in college. To be honest I can't really remember her face. . . "
Pyotr nodded and began looking through my documents. I wasn't worried about meeting Nastya. She would probably remember my face¡ªZabulon is always very thorough about details. If there wasn't a single Other anywhere in Artek, then someone would have come from Yalta or Simferopol, stood close to Nastya for a moment or two. . . and now she would remember me.
"Have you worked as a Pioneer leader before?"
"Yes, but. . . not in Artek, of course. "
"That doesn't matter," Pyotr said with a shrug. "They have a staff of two thousand three hundred here, that's the only difference. "
The tone in which he pronounced these words seemed almost to contradict their meaning. He was proud of Artek, as proud as if he'd founded the camp himself; as if he'd personally fought off the fascists with a machine gun in his hands, built all the buildings and planted the trees.
I smiled in a way that said: "I don't believe that, but I won't say anything out of politeness. "
"Nastya works in the Azure section," Pyotr said. "I'll take you there¡ªit's already time for Nastya to get up anyway. Our bus goes to Simferopol at five. . . how did you get here, Alisa?"
"There were no problems," I said. "I came by car. "
Pyotr frowned. "They ripped you off, I suppose?"
"No, it was okay," I lied.
"In any case, it's a bit risky," Pyotr added. "A beautiful young woman alone in a car at night with a stranger. "
"There were two of them," I said, "and they were absorbed in each other's company. "
Pyotr didn't understand. He sighed and said, "It's not for me to tell you how to behave, Alisa. You're an adult with a mind of your own. But don't forget that anything can happen! Artek is a kingdom of childhood, a realm of love, friendship, and justice. It's the one small thing that we have managed to preserve! But outside the camp. . . there are all sorts of people. "
"Yes, of course there are," I said repentantly. It was amazing how sincerely he pronounced those words full of inspired pathos! And how genuinely he believed in them.
"Well, all right. " Pyotr stood up and picked up my bag with an easy movement. "Let's go, Alisa. "
"I can manage on my own, just show me the way. . . "
"Alisa!" he said with a reproachful shake of his head. "You'll get lost. The grounds here cover two hundred and fifty-eight hectares! Come on, let's go. "
"Yes, even Makar got a bit lost," I agreed.
Pyotr was already in the doorway, but he swung round sharply at that: "Makar? The fifteen-year-old boy? Was he at the gate again?"
I nodded, slightly confused.
"I see. . . " Pyotr said dryly.
We walked out into the warm summer night. It was already getting light. Pyotr took a flashlight out of his pocket, but he didn't switch it on. We set off along a path that led down, toward the seashore.
"That Makar's a real problem," Pyotr remarked as we walked along.
"Why's that?"
"He doesn't need much sleep. . . that's the trouble. " Pyotr laughed gloomily. "He's always running off to the guards at the gate, or to the sea, or even somewhere outside the grounds. "
"I thought he was on some kind of duty at the gate. . . A Young Pioneer post. . . " I surmised.
"Alisa!"
Pyotr was wonderful at making objections like that. He could express a whole gamut of emotions just by pronouncing a name.
"Children ought to be asleep at night! Not standing guard duty. . . at the camp gates, at the eternal flame, or anywhere else. . . And all normal children do sleep at night¡ªthey wear themselves out horsing around before they go to bed. They can have fun here during the day. . . "
Gravel began crunching beneath his feet as we turned off the paved pathway. I took off my sandals and walked on barefoot. It was a good feeling¡ªthe hard, smooth little stones under my feet. . .
"If I wanted, I could give the guards a dressing-down," said Pyotr, thinking out loud. "Make them send the kid away. But what then? I can't tie him to his bed all night. It's better if he stays with adults, where he can be seen, than swimming alone in the sea at night. . . "
"But why does he do that?"
"He says he only needs three hours' sleep a day," said Pyotr, with a note of regret and pity in his voice. He was obviously one of those people who are more interesting to talk to on the phone or when it's dark¡ªhis face was boring, without much variety of expression, but the range of intonation in his voice! "And from the way he dashes around all day long, it must be true. But that's not the real problem. . . "
"Then what is?" I asked, realizing that he was expecting a question.
"He doesn't want to miss a moment of this summer, of Artek, of his childhood. " Pyotr's tone was thoughtful now. "His first and last time at Artek, and what else has life ever given him?"
"The first and last time? But the boy told me. . . "
"He's from a children's home," Pyotr exp
lained. "And he's already too old. It's not likely he'll be able to come here again. Nowadays, of course, a child can come to Artek any number of times, but only for money, and the charity sessions. . . "
I actually dropped a step behind him.
"From a children's home? But he was so convincing. . . "
"They're all very convincing," Pyotr replied calmly. "He probably said something really impressive, didn't he? His parents are in business, he comes to Artek three times a year and this fall he's going to Hawaii. . . They want to believe it all, so they fantasize. The little ones do it all the time, the older ones not so often. But I expect he took a liking to you. "
"I wouldn't have said so. "
"At that age they still can't express it when they like someone," Pyotr informed me very seriously. "Love and hate are easy to confuse in any case, and for a child. . . And you know Alisa. . . just one comment. . . "
"Yes?"
"You're a very beautiful girl, but this is a children's camp after all, with quite a few older boys. I'm not asking you not to wear makeup and all that, but. . . Try not to wear that miniskirt. It really is too short. "
"It's not the skirt that's short," I replied innocently. "It's my legs that are long. "
Pyotr squinted sideways at me and shook his head reproachfully.
"Sorry, I was joking," I said quickly. "Of course I won't wear it. I've got jeans, shorts, and even a long skirt. And my swimming costume is very modest!"
We walked on in silence.
I don't know what Pyotr was thinking about. Maybe he was wondering if I was suitable for educational work. Maybe he was feeling sorry about the boy in his care. Maybe he was pondering the imperfection of the world. That would have been like him.
But I smiled, remembering how smartly the kid had fooled me.
He ought to be our future brother-in-arms.
A future Dark One.
But even if he wasn't an Other and he was fated to live a boring human life, people like him were still our foundation and support.
It wasn't even a matter of the trick he'd played, of course. The Light Ones like to joke too. It was what drove the kid to play pranks like that¡ªto lead a stranger into the middle of a park at night and abandon her, to thrust out his skinny chest proudly and pretend to be a kid with no problems from a great family. . . All of that was ours.
Loneliness, dejection, the contempt or pity of people around you¡ªthese are unpleasant feelings. But they are precisely the things that produce genuine Dark Ones. People or Others who are marked out by a sense of their own dignity, endowed with pride and a longing for freedom.
What kind of person would result from a child of well-off parents, one who really did spend every summer by the sea and studied in a good school, who made serious plans for the future and had been taught the rules of etiquette? Despite the widespread opinion to the contrary, he wasn't very likely to turn out close to us. And he wouldn't necessarily go over to the Light Ones either. He'd just bob backward and forward his whole life like a lump of shit in a drain¡ªpetty wrongdoings, minor good deeds, a wife he loves and a mistress he loves, waiting to take his boss's place and promote one of his friends. . . Grayness. Nothing. Not our enemy, but not our ally either. I have to admit that a genuine Light One inspires respect. He may oppose us, his goals may be unattainable and his methods may be absurd, but he is a worthy opponent. Like Semyon or Anton from the Night Watch. . .
So-called good people are equally distant from us and from the Light Ones.
But solitary wolf cubs like Makar are our foundation and support.
He would grow up knowing for certain that he would have to struggle. That he was on his own against everyone else, that it was pointless to expect any sympathy or help, and equally pointless to waste his own energy on pity and compassion. He wouldn't get any ideas about being a benefactor to the entire world, but he wouldn't play mean, petty tricks on other people either. He would train his own willpower and character. He wouldn't go under. If the kid possessed the natural abilities of an Other, the incredibly rare and unpredictable ability to enter the Twilight, which is all that distinguishes us from ordinary people, then he would come to us. But if he remained a human being, he would unwittingly assist the Day Watch. Like many others.
"This way, Alisa. . . "
We walked up to a small building. A veranda and open windows¡ªwith a faint light in one of them. . .
"This is a summer house," Pyotr told me. "The Azure section has four main dachas and eight summer houses. You know, I think in summer it's a lot more fun living here. "
He seemed to be apologizing for the fact that I and my young charges would be living in the summer accommodation. I couldn't resist asking: "And what about in winter?"
"Nobody lives here in the winter," Pyotr said sternly. "Even though our winters are so warm, the conditions would be inadequate for children to stay here. "
He made the transition to official bureaucratic language very easily too. It was as if he were giving a lecture intended to reassure someone's mom¡ª"the temperature is pleasant, the living conditions are comfortable, the catering provides a balanced diet. "
We stepped onto the terrace, and I felt a slight stirring of excitement.
I thought. . . I thought I could already feel it. . .
Nastya turned out to be small and swarthy-skinned, with features that had something of the Tatar about them. A pretty girl, except that now her face was too sad and tense.
"Hello, Alya. . . " She nodded to me as if I were an old friend. And in a certain sense, I was¡ªthey had obviously given her a false memory. "Look what's happened now. . . "
I stopped looking around at the room¡ªthere was nothing special about it anyway. A little, ordinary camp leader's room: a bed, a cupboard, a table, and a chair. The little Morozko refrigerator and the cheap black-and-white television looked like luxury items here.
But then, I'm not choosy. . .
"Nastya, everything will be all right," I promised her with false sympathy. The girl nodded wearily, the way she must have been doing all day long.
"It's good you were able to fly down so quickly. " She picked up the bag that was already packed, but Pyotr immediately took hold of it. "Have you worked in Artek before?"
"No. "
Nastya frowned. Maybe whoever implanted the false memory had got something confused, but she had no time to worry about that now.
"I'll be in time for the morning flight, Petya," she said. "Is the bus going to Simferopol?"
"In an hour," Pyotr said with a nod.
The former camp leader turned her attention to me again: "I've already said goodbye to the girls. So. . . no one will be surprised. Tell them I love them all very much and I'll definitely. . . I'll try to come back. "
For an instant the tears glinted in her eyes¡ªevidently at the thought of one of the possible reasons for a rapid return.
"Nastya," I said, putting my arm around her shoulders. "Everything's going to be all right, your mom will get better. . . "
Nastya's little face crumpled into a grimace of pain. "She's never been ill!" The words seemed to burst out of her. "Never. "
Pyotr delicately cleared his throat. Nastya lowered her eyes and stopped talking.
Of course, there had been various different ways I could have been sent to work at the Artek camp. But Zabulon always prefers the simplest possible methods. Nastya's mother had suddenly suffered a massive heart attack, so now Nastya was flying back to Moscow, and another student had been sent from the university to replace her. It was elementary.
Most likely Nastya's mother would have suffered a heart attack anyway: maybe a year later, maybe five. Zabulon always calculates the balance of Power very thoroughly. To provoke a heart attack in someone who was perfectly healthy was a fourth-level intervention that automatically gave the Light Ones the right to reply with magic of the same Power.
Nastya's mother would
almost certainly live. Zabulon is not given to senseless cruelty. Why kill the woman when the necessary effect can be produced simply by a serious illness?
And so I could have reassured my predecessor, except that I would have had to tell her too much.
"Here's a notebook I wrote a few things in. . . " Nastya held out a slim school exercise book with a gaily colored cover showing a popular singer grinning moronically on stage. "Just a few details, but it might be useful. A few of the girls need a special approach. . . "
I nodded. Then Nastya suddenly waved her hand through the air and said, "I don't need to tell you all this. You'll manage just fine. "
But she still spent another fifteen minutes introducing me to the subtle details of the camp regime and asked me to pay special attention to some girls who were flirting with the boys too precociously. She advised me not to demand silence after lights out: "Fifteen minutes is long enough for them to talk themselves out, half an hour at the most. . . "
Nastya only stopped talking when Pyotr pointed to his watch. She kissed me on the cheek, then picked up a small bag and cardboard box¡ªmaybe she was taking some fruit to her sick mother?
"All the best, Alisa. . . "
And at last I was left alone.
There was a pile of clean linen lying on the bed. The electric bulb glowed feebly under its simple glass shade. Pyotr and Nastya's steps and their simple conversation quickly faded away.
I was alone.
But not absolutely alone. On the other side of two thin walls, just five steps along the corridor, eighteen little girls aged ten or eleven were sleeping.
I suddenly started trembling¡ªa rapid, nervous trembling, as if I were an apprentice again, trying for the first time to extract someone else's Power. Nabokov's character Humbert Humbert would probably have trembled the same way in my place.
But then, compared to what I was going to do now, his passion for nymphets was nothing but childish naughtiness. . .
I switched off the light and tiptoed out into the corridor. How I missed my Other powers!
I would just have to make do with the human powers I had left. . .
The corridor was long and the floorboards squeaked. The threadbare carpet runner was no help¡ªmy steps could easily be heard. I could only hope that at this early hour the girls were still sleeping and dreaming. . .
Simple, straightforward, uncomplicated children's dreams.
I opened the door and went into the dormitory. For some reason I'd been expecting some kind of state institution, halfway between a children's home and a hospital¡ªiron bedsteads, the dull glow of a night lamp, depressing curtains, and children sleeping as if they were standing at attention. . .
But in fact it was all very nice. The only light came from the lantern on the pillar outside. The shadows swayed gently, a fresh sea breeze blew in at the open windows and I could smell the scent of wildflowers. The screen of the switched-off television glowed dully in the corner, and the walls were covered with drawings in colored pencil and watercolor paintings that looked bright and cheerful even in the semi-darkness.
The little girls were sleeping, sprawled out across their beds or tucked underneath the blankets, with all their things neatly arranged on their bedside lockers or scattered untidily on the headboards and the backs of the chairs¡ªswimming costumes that were still wet, skirts, little pairs of jeans and socks. A good psychologist could have walked through that dormitory at night and composed a full character portrait of those girls. . .
But I didn't need one.
I walked slowly between the beds, adjusting blankets that had slid off, lifting up arms and legs that had slipped down to touch the floor. The girls were sleeping soundly. Soundly and with no dreams. . .
I only got lucky with the seventh girl. She was about eleven years old, plump with light hair. An ordinary little girl whimpering quietly in her sleep. Because she was having a bad dream. . .
I knelt down beside her bed, reached out my hand, and touched her forehead. Gently, with just the tips of my fingers.
I felt Power.
As I was now, without any Other powers, I couldn't have read an ordinary dream. But sensing the opportunity to nourish yourself is a different matter. It all takes place at the level of animal reactions, like an infant's sucking reflex.
And I saw it. . .
It was a bad dream. The girl was dreaming that she was going home¡ªtheir session wasn't over yet, but she was being taken away because her mother had fallen ill and her gloomy, frowning father was dragging her toward the bus. She hadn't even had time to say goodbye to her friends, she hadn't had any time to take a last dip in the sea and take some little stones that were very important. . . and she was struggling and asking her father to wait, but he was just getting more and more angry. . . and saying something about disgraceful behavior, about how girls her age shouldn't have to be beaten, but since she was behaving like this, she could forget about his promise not to punish her with his belt anymore. . .
It was a really bad dream. Nastya's departure had affected the little girl very badly. . .
And anybody would have tried to help the child at that moment.
A human being would have stroked her hair and said something affectionate in a gentle voice, maybe sung a lullaby. . . anything to interrupt the dream.
A Light Other would have used his Power to turn the dream inside out, so that the father would laugh and say the little girl's mother was well again and go running to the sea with her. . . He would have replaced the cruel but realistic dream with a sweet lie.
But I'm a Dark Other.
And I did what I could. I drank her Power. Sucked it into myself¡ªthe gloomy father, and the sick mother, and the little friends lost forever, and the sea stones left behind, and the shameful beating. . .
The little girl gave a quiet squeak, like a mouse caught under something heavy. And then she began breathing calmly and regularly. There's not a lot of Power in children's dreams. It's not like the ritual killing that we had threatened the Light Ones with and which provides a truly monstrous discharge of energy. These were dreams, just dreams. . .
Light nourishing broth for an ailing witch. . .
I got up off my knees, feeling slightly dizzy. No, I hadn't recovered my lost powers yet. It would take a dozen dreams like that to fill the yawning gap.
But those dreams would happen. And I would do my best to encourage them.
None of the other little girls were dreaming. Well, one was, but her dream was no use to me, a stupid little girl's dream about the freckle-faced boy who had given her yet another of those stupid stones with a hole in them¡ªwhat they called "chicken gods. " I suppose chickens must have their own gods.
I stood beside this girl's bed¡ªshe was probably the most physically advanced of them all. She even had the first beginnings of breasts. I touched her forehead several times, trying to find at least something, but there was nothing. Sea, sun, and sand, water splashing, and that freckle-faced boy. Not a drop of anger, envy, or sadness. A Light magician could have drawn Power from her by drinking in her dream and then gone away satisfied. But I was wasting my time here.
Never mind. There would be another evening and another night. And my plump donor's dream would come back to her¡ª I had drawn out all of her fear, but not its causes. Her nightmare would return, and I would help her again. The important thing was not to try too hard, not to push the girl into a genuine nervous breakdown¡ªI had no right to do that. That would smack of serious magical intervention, and if the Light Ones had even a single observer in the camp, or even¡ªwho knows what tricks the Darkness might play¡ªif there was an Other there from the Inquisition, then I would be in serious trouble.
And I wasn't about to let Zabulon down again.
Never!
It was amazing that he had forgiven me for what had happened the previous summer. But he wouldn't forgive me a second time.
&n
bsp; At ten o'clock in the morning I went to breakfast with my charges.
Nastya had been right¡ªI was managing just fine.
When the girls had woken up, they had been a bit cautious at first. How could they not have been, when the leader they had already come to love had gone away in the middle of the night to see her sick mother, and another young woman had come into the dormitory instead of her¡ªa stranger, an unknown quantity, someone quite unlike Nastya? I had immediately felt the unfriendly wary gaze of eighteen pairs of eyes on me¡ªthey were all together and I was isolated.
The situation was saved by the fact that the girls were still little and I am beautiful.
If boys of the same age had been in their place, my appearance wouldn't have made the slightest difference. Ten-year-old boys are far more interested in the ugliest of puppies than the most beautiful of girls. And if my charges had been two or three years older, my appearance would have only irritated them. But for ten-year-old girls, a beautiful woman is an object of admiration. They are already beginning to develop the desire to flirt and to please, but they still don't understand that not everybody can grow up beautiful. I know, I was the same myself, and I used to gape wide-eyed at my tutor, the witch Irina Alexandrovna. . .
So I soon established contact with the girls.
I sat on Olechka's bed because the notes in the exercise book suggested that she was the most quiet and timid of them. I
talked to the girls about Nastya, about how bad it is when your mother is unwell, and told them they mustn't be offended with Nastya. . . she had really wanted to stay with them, but your mother is the most important person in your life!
When I finished, Olechka began sniveling and pressed herself against me. And the eyes of all the others were looking moist and weepy too.
Then I told them about my dad and his heart attack, and I said that nowadays they knew how to cure people's hearts, and Nastya's mother was going to be perfectly all right too. I helped the swarthy-skinned little cossack girl Gulnara to weave her braids¡ªshe had magnificent hair, but as Nastya had noted, she was a bit slow. I argued with Tanya from St. Petersburg about what was the most interesting way to come to Artek, by train or by plane, and, of course, I finally admitted that she was right¡ªit was much more fun on the train. I promised Anya from Rostov that by the evening she would be swimming and not just floundering about in the shallow water. We discussed the solar eclipse that was expected in three days' time and regretted that it would be just a tiny bit less than total in the Crimea.
We arrived at breakfast as a united and cheerful group. Only Olga, who was "not Olechka, but always Olga," and her friend Ludmila were still sulky. But that was not surprising since they had obviously been Nastya's favorites.
Never mind. . . in another three days' time they would come to love me too.
Our surroundings were genuinely lovely. August in the Crimea is just fantastic. The sea was glittering at the bottom of the slope, the air was saturated with the scent of salt water and flowers. The girls squealed and ran about all over the place, bumping into each other. The marching rhymes in the old Pioneer camps were obviously invented for good reason¡ªyou can't do much squealing if your mouth's busy trying to sing.
But I don't know any marching rhymes, and I don't know how to march in line anyway.
I'm a Dark One.
In the dining hall I simply followed my little charges' lead¡ª they knew where we were supposed to sit. We were surrounded by five hundred children creating a huge din who somehow managed to eat at the same time. I sat there quietly with my little band of girls, trying to assess the situation. After all, I had to spend an entire month here.
There were twenty-five leaders who had come to breakfast with their brigades. My facile pride in how skillfully I was managing my charges rapidly evaporated. These young men and women were more like the boys' and girls' older brothers and sisters. Sometimes they were stern, sometimes they were affectionate; their word was law and they were also loved.
Where did they find people like that?
My mood began to deteriorate. I prodded feebly at the "liver pancakes" that we had been given for breakfast, with our buckwheat and cocoa, and thought wearily about the unenviable plight of a spy in enemy territory. I was surrounded by too many expressions of delight, smiles, and innocent pranks. This was a pasture for Light Ones to tend their charges and raise human children in the spirit of love and goodness, not a feeding ground for a Dark One like me.
Sheer hypocrisy on every side. As false as gilded and varnished iron!
Of course, I consoled myself, if I could have looked around with the eyes of an Other, many things might have changed, and among all these nice people I might find villains, perverts, individuals who were malicious or indifferent. . .
But that wasn't definite. It could well be that I wouldn't find any. That they were all sincere¡ªto the extent that that is possible. That they sincerely loved the children, the camp, and each other with a love that was pure. That this place really was a reservation for idiots, the kind of place the Light Ones dreamed of turning the whole world into.
But that would mean there was at least some basis for the way the Light Ones acted.
"Hello. . . "
I looked around at the boy walking past. Aha, my first acquaintance in Artek.
"Good morning, Makar. " I squinted at his skinned knee. "So where's the iodine?"
"It's nothing. It'll heal on its own," the boy muttered. He gave me a slightly alarmed look¡ªevidently he was trying to figure out if I'd found out anything about him already or not.
"Better run, or you won't have time to eat anything. . . " I smiled. "Maybe you only need three hours' sleep, but food's a different matter. The food here's institutional too, but it's good. "
He strode off quickly along the line of tables. Now he knew that I was in the know¡ªabout his nocturnal wanderings and his genuine social status. If I'd been in better shape I could have drawn in a lot of Power. . .
"Alisa, how do you know him?" Olechka whispered loudly.
I put on a mysterious face. "I know everything about everybody. . . "
"Why?" Olechka asked curiously.
"Because I'm a witch!" I told her in a hollow, ghostly voice.
The little girl laughed happily.
Oh yes, it's very funny. . . especially because it's the absolute truth. . . I patted her on the head and called attention to her full plate with my eyes.
I still had to go through the official part of the proceedings¡ª the introduction to the head of the Azure section. And then, the beach and the sea that my little girls were already twittering about.
And to be quite honest, I realized I was looking forward to it with just as much delight as the night ahead. I might be a Dark One but, contrary to common ignorant opinion, even vampires love the sea and the sunshine.
The year before, at the end of summer, I'd managed to get away to Jurmala. I don't know why I went there¡ªI must have wanted to be somewhere uncomfortable. If so, I was lucky: August turned out rainy, cold, and miserable. The stiff Latvian waiters immediately started speaking Russian as soon as they'd added up the price of my order. The service in the hotel was primitive and Soviet-style, despite its pretentious four-star rating. I wandered all around Jurmala, sat for ages in a little beer hall in Majori, strolled on the wet sand of the deserted beach, and in the evenings I escaped to Riga. There were two attempts to rob me, and one to rape me. I enjoyed myself as best I could. . . I had my Other powers then, and no human being in the world could cause me any harm. My heart was weary and empty, but I had all the Power I needed and more.
And then I suddenly felt sick of it all. All at once, in a single day. Maybe it was because of the two Night Watch agents who detained me in Dzintari for ages while they tried to frame me for some unsolved crime involving third-level magic. They were irreproachably polite and absolutely adamant. That was probably what the
Latvian Red Riflemen were like, and then the Forest Brothers later. The Latvians are a very thorough, consistent people¡ªonce they take a job on, they see it right through to the end. . .
I managed to refute the charges¡ªthey were genuinely groundless in any case. But the very next morning I took a plane to Moscow. Without having swum in the sea even once all summer.
But now it was payback time for me.
Everything was going along all right, everything was normal. I met the woman in charge of the Azure section¡ªa very nice woman, brisk and pleasantly businesslike, who spoke briefly and to the point in a good way. I felt we had parted entirely satisfied with each other.
Maybe it was because today I'd put on my light summer jeans, and not the provocative miniskirt?
At last I had done a bit of sunbathing and been in the sea. The beach at Artek was wonderful, except that there was too much howling from the kids. But that was an inevitable evil, no matter which way I looked at things. My little girls turned themselves over in the sun in a highly professional manner, trying to get a nice even tan. Almost half of them had suntan lotion and after-tan lotion, which they shared generously with each other, so there was no prospect of problems in the evening with burnt shoulders and backs.
If only I didn't still have to keep an eye on the girls. . . I imagined myself swimming out a kilometer or two, or even three, throwing my arms out and lying on the water. . . looking up into the transparent sky, swaying on the gentle waves, not thinking about anything or hearing anything. . .
But no. I had to watch them. I had to teach Anya to swim and prevent Verochka, with her grade-one swimming diploma, from trying to swim off too far. I had to herd the girls into the shade¡ª they might have suntan lotion, but rules were still rules. . . Basically, along with the wonderful sea, I had been given another eighteen capricious, noisy, fidgety little presents. The only thing that kept me smiling was the thought of the night ahead, when the time would come for me to get even with the most bothersome ones¡ªI'd already decided it would be Verochka, Olga, and Ludmila! That night I wasn't going to gather chance scraps of Power. I was going to sow the seeds that would sprout in their dreams.
And then I saw Igor.
No, I didn't know what he was called then. I simply looked around as I was lying on the warm sand and noticed a well-built young man the same age as myself. He was messing about in the water with his little squirts¡ªa gang of ten- or eleven-year-old boys¡ªthrowing them into the water, offering them his shoulders as a diving board, just having a really good time. He wasn't tanned at all, but that seemed to suit him somehow¡ªin the middle of the crowd of swarthy children's bodies he stood out like. . . like a white elephant moving condescendingly through a crowd of dark-skinned Indians. . .
A handsome young man.
I felt a sweet ache somewhere below my stomach. We haven't really moved all that far away from people. I understood well enough that there's an immense gulf between Others and human beings, that this young guy was not my equal and we couldn't have any kind of lasting relationship, but even so. . .
I just like men like that: with strong muscles, light brown hair, and intelligent faces. There's nothing to be done about it.
And what would be the point of doing anything? I'd been intending to find myself a friend for the summer anyway. . .
"Olechka, do you know what that camp leader's called?" I asked the little girl pressing herself against me. Olechka clearly felt fond of me because I'd singled her out from the crowd just a little bit, and now she was staying close to me, trying to build on her success. People are funny, especially children. They all want care and attention.
Olechka looked and shook her head. "That's brigade number four, only they used to have a different leader before. "
A look of alarm appeared in the girl's eyes¡ªas if she were afraid that I would be disappointed with her for not knowing the answer. She probably really was afraid. . . "Do you want me to find out?" Olechka asked. "I know some boys in that brigade. . . "
"All right," I said with a nod.
The little girl jumped up, scattering sand around her, and ran toward the water. I turned away, hiding a smile.
So now I already had my first informer. A nervous, skinny little girl desperately seeking my attention.
"He's called Igor," Natasha suddenly said out of the blue. She was sitting beside me. This was the same girl who had been dreaming about a boy the night before. She didn't sunbathe like a child either¡ªshe sat up on the sand with her legs stretched out and her head thrown back, with her hands propping her up from behind. She must have seen the pose in some fashion magazine or a movie. Or perhaps she'd simply realized that in that position her new little breasts were clearly outlined under her swimming costume. She would go a long way. . .
"Thank you, Natasha," I said. "I thought I'd met him somewhere before. "
The girl squinted at me and smiled. She said dreamily, "And he's handsome. . . "
Whatever are young people coming to nowadays!
"But he's too old, right?" I said, trying to tease her.
"No, he's still not too bad. " And then she totally amazed me by declaring: "He's reliable, though, isn't he?"
"Why do you think so?"
Natasha pondered for a moment and replied lazily. "I don't know. I just think so. My mom says the most important thing in a man is reliability. They don't have to be handsome, let alone intelligent. "
"That depends on what you have in mind. . . " I wasn't going to be bested by an eleven-year-old smarty-pants.
"Yes," Natasha agreed readily. "There have to be handsome ones too. But I wasn't talking about that sort of nonsense. "
How delightful! I thought that if this girl turned out to be an Other, I would definitely take her on as an apprentice. There wasn't much of a chance, of course, but just maybe. . .
A moment later, shedding all her precocious wisdom in an instant, Natasha jumped up and went dashing off along the beach after some kid who had splashed water on her. I wondered if the concept of reliability included daily dousings on the beach.
I looked at the young guy again. He'd already stopped messing about in the water and was driving his charges out onto the beach. What a remarkable figure! And the form of his skull was very regular. Maybe it's funny but apart from a good figure there are two things I like in men¡ªa beautifully shaped head and well-tended toes. Maybe it's some kind of fetishism?
I couldn't see his toes, of course. But so far I liked everything else I'd seen.
My little spy came back to report. Wet, excited, and happy. She plumped down on the sand beside me and started whispering, nervously winding a lock of hair around her finger.
"His name's Igor Dmitrievich. He's good fun and he only came yesterday. He plays songs on the guitar and tells interesting stories. The leader of the fourth brigade went away¡ªhis wife had a little boy. He thought it was going to be a month later, but it happened now. "
"Well, wasn't that lucky," I said, thinking mostly of my own interests. Bearing in mind that I had no powers at all and I couldn't make the young guy fall in love with me, a coincidence like that was very useful. He'd just arrived, he hadn't had a chance to form any romantic attachments. . . He surely wasn't planning to spend his entire session just practicing his educational skills, was he? He was there for the taking. . .
Olechka giggled happily and added in a very quiet voice: "And he's not married either. "
What on earth can you do with them?
"Thank you, Olechka. " I smiled. "Shall we go in for a swim?"
"Uh-huh. . . "
I picked up the little girl, who squealed with delight, and ran into the water. It was clear that in the evening the favorite topic of conversation would be the new camp leader and my interest in him.
But that was okay.
In a couple of days I'd be able to make them forget anything I wanted them to.
The day rushe
d by like a film played at high speed.
The comparison was all the more appropriate because I'd arrived in Artek during the sixth session, when a children's film festival was traditionally held there. Two days later there was going to be a grand opening, and film directors and actors were already giving talks in some of the camps. I didn't have the slightest desire to watch any old or new children's films, but the festival promised to give me a short break from keeping an eye on the girls. And I already felt like taking a break¡ªI was as exhausted as after a long, tense spell of duty on the streets of Moscow.
After the afternoon snack, which consisted of apple juice and rolls with the romantic name Azure, I couldn't hold out any longer and I phoned Zabulon. His satellite phone worked anywhere in the world, but there was no answer, which could only mean one thing¡ªthe chief was not in our world, but somewhere in the Twilight.
Well, he was a very busy man.
And sometimes his business wasn't very pleasant. Traveling through the lower levels of the Twilight, where all parallels with the human world completely disappeared, was quite an ordeal. I'd never been down there myself; it required absolutely immense powers. Except, that is, for that one time, after my stupid stunt, when I was caught gathering energy from people illegally. . .
I can hardly remember anything about what happened. Zabulon rendered me unconscious, punishing me for my misdemeanor and protecting me against the deep levels of the Twilight at the same time. But sometimes I do recall something. As if there was one moment of clear awareness in the blank grayness.
It's like a dream or a delirious vision. Maybe I was delirious? Zabulon, in the form of a demon, carrying me, thrown across his shoulder. His scaly hand squeezing my legs and my head dangling above the ground, above that shimmering, rainbow-colored sand. I look up and I see a glowing sky. A sky made entirely of blinding light. With big, black stars scattered across it. And between me and the sky there are two arches rising up to an immense height. Dull gray, as if they are made out of mist. . . there's nothing frightening about them, but for some reason I am struck with terror. And the rustling¡ªa dry, menacing rustling sound on all sides, as if the grains of sand are trembling and rubbing against each other, or there is a cloud of insects hovering somewhere outside my field of vision. . .
I was probably delirious after all.
Maybe now, when everything had been put right between us, I could risk asking Zabulon what was down there in the depths of the Twilight?
But the day rolled on, and now it was rapidly approaching evening. I got Olga and Ludmila to make up after they quarrelled. We went to the beach again and Anya swam a few meters for the first time without any help. She beat the palms of her hands against the surface of the water, with her eyes staring wildly, but she still swam. . .
This was hard labor, not a vacation! This was for the Light
Ones; they'd be only too happy to spend all their time on educational work. My only consolation was that night was approaching. The sun was already getting low in the sky and even the indefatigable children had begun to get tired.
After fish, pancakes, and potatoes for supper¡ªI wondered where they put it all¡ªI was ready for action. Now I only had to amuse the girls for another two hours until the second supper (anyone would have had to agree that all the kids who came were severely undernourished), and then it would be time to sleep.
It probably showed in my face.
Galina, the leader of the seventh brigade, came up to me. I'd got to know her that afternoon, more in order to keep up my cover than out of any real interest. She was an ordinary human girl, a standard product of the Light Ones' tedious moralizing¡ª kind, calm, and reasonable. She had a tougher job than me¡ªher brigade was made up of girls who were twelve to thirteen years old, and that meant they were constantly falling in love, getting hysterical, and crying into their pillows. But even so Galina was positively on fire with the desire to help me.
"Tired?" she asked in a low voice, smiling as she looked at my girls.
I just nodded.
"The first session's always like that," said Galina. "Last year, after I'd worked here for a month, I swore I'd never come back again. And then I realized I couldn't live without Artek. "
"Like a drug," I prompted her.
"Yes. " Galina didn't even notice my irony. "Everything here's in color, if you know what I mean. And the colors are all so pure and bright. Haven't you felt that yet?"
I managed a forced smile.
Galina took hold of my hand and, glancing mysteriously at the girls, she whispered, "Do you know what? The fourth brigade is going to build a bonfire now. They've invited us to the bonfire, and I'm inviting you! You'll get two hours' rest and your girls will be amused without you having to do anything. "
"Is it convenient?" I asked quickly, although I didn't have the slightest desire to refuse. Not only because it was a chance to be free of work for two hours, but also because of the attractive camp leader, Igor.
"Of course it is!" said Galina, looking at me in surprise. "Igor comes to Artek every year. He's one of our best leaders. You ought to get to know him too. He's a nice guy, isn't he?"
Her voice had a warm ring to it. It wasn't surprising. I'm not the only one who likes the combination of firm muscles and an intelligent face.
"We'll definitely come," I agreed. "And right away. "