The boss was in a somber mood. His thick cheeks were drooping, his sparse teeth were bared in menace, he was breathing heavily through his mouth with a whistling sound, and he glowered at Andrei from under his brows.
“Sit down,” he growled.
Andrei sat down, put his hands on his knees, and stared out the window . . . The window was covered with bars, and the darkness outside it was impenetrable. About eleven o’clock, he thought. I’ve wasted so much time on that slimeball . . .
“How many cases do you have?” asked the boss.
“Eight.”
“How many do you intend to close by the end of the quarter?”
“One.”
“That’s not good.”
Andrei didn’t say anything.
“Your work record’s poor, Voronin. Poor!” the boss said hoarsely, tormented by his shortness of breath.
“I know,” Andrei said humbly. “I just can’t get into the swing of it.”
“Well, it’s about time you did!” said the boss, raising his voice to a whistling hiss. “You’ve been working here all this time and you’ve only closed three pitiful cases. You’re not fulfilling your duty to the Experiment, Voronin. And after all, you have people you can learn from, people you can ask for advice. Look at the way that friend of yours works, for instance, I mean . . . er, er . . . I mean Friedrich . . . er, er . . . He has his shortcomings, of course, but there’s no point in you just adopting his faults. You can adopt his virtues too, Voronin. You came to us together, and he’s already closed eleven cases.”
“I don’t know how to work like that,” Andrei said gloomily.
“Learn. You have to learn. We’re all learning. Your . . . er . . . Friedrich didn’t come here from law school either, but he works, and he works pretty well . . . Just look, he’s already a senior investigator. And some people think it’s time he was made deputy head of the Criminal Sector . . . Yes . . . But they’re not happy with you, Voronin. For instance, what progress are you making on the Building case?”
“None at all,” said Andrei. “That isn’t a case. It’s just nonsense, some kind of mystification.”
“Why is it mystification, when there’s testimony from witnesses? When there are victims? People are disappearing, Voronin!”
“I can’t see how it’s possible to conduct a case based on legends and rumors,” Andrei said morosely.
The boss strained and coughed, wheezing and whistling. “You’ve got to use your brains, Voronin,” he hissed. “Rumors and legends—yes. A mystical atmosphere—yes. But what for? Who needs that? Where did the rumors come from? Who started them? Who’s spreading them? What for? And most important of all—where are the people disappearing to? Do you understand me, Voronin?”
Andrei plucked up his courage and said, “I understand you, boss. But this case isn’t for me. I prefer dealing with simple criminal matters. The City’s swarming with lowlifes—”
“And I prefer growing tomatoes!” said the boss. “I adore tomatoes, and for some reason you can’t get them here for love or money . . . This is your job, Voronin, and no one’s interested in what you prefer. You’ve been given the Building case, so kindly get on with it. I can see for myself that you’re a fumbler. Under different circumstances I wouldn’t have given you the Building case. But under the present circumstances I am giving it to you. Why? Because you are one of us, Voronin. Because you are not just going through the motions, you’re fighting a battle here! Because you didn’t come here for your own sake but for the Experiment! There aren’t many people like that, Voronin. And that’s why I’m going to tell you something that officers of your rank aren’t supposed to know.”
The boss leaned back in his chair and said nothing for a while, with his chest whistling even more loudly and his teeth completely bared in a grin.
“We fight against gangsters, racketeers, and hooligans, everyone knows that. That’s good, it’s necessary. But they aren’t our danger number one, Voronin. First, there’s a natural phenomenon that exists here, it’s called the Anticity. Ever heard of it? No, you haven’t. And you shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have heard of it. And don’t let anyone ever hear of it from you! It’s an official secret with a ‘double 0’ number. The Anticity. We have information that there are settlements of some kind to the north of us: one, two, several—we don’t know. But they know all about us! There could be an invasion, Voronin. It’s very dangerous. The end of our City. The end of the Experiment. Espionage is being committed, sabotage and acts of subversion are being attempted, panicky rumors and calumnies are being spread. Is the situation clear, Voronin? I can see that it is. To continue. Here, in the City itself, there are people living beside us and among us who didn’t come here for the sake of the Experiment but for other, more or less selfish reasons. Nihilists, internal recluses, elements that have lost faith, anarchists. Not many of them are activists, but even the passive ones represent a danger. The erosion of morals, the breakdown of ideals, attempts to set some strata of the population against others, corrosive skepticism. Example: a good friend of yours, a certain Katzman . . .”
Andrei started. The boss shot a dark glance at him from between puffy eyelids, paused, and continued.
“Iosif Katzman. A curious individual. We have information that he often sets out and travels in a northerly direction, spends some time there, and then comes back. In so doing, he neglects his own direct responsibilities, but that’s none of our business. To continue. Conversations. This is something you must be aware of.”
Andrei nodded involuntarily but immediately realized what he was doing and put on a stony face.
“To continue. The most important thing for us. He has been spotted in the vicinity of the Building. Twice. Once he was seen emerging from it. I hope I have adduced a good example, successfully linking him with the Building case. You have to get to work on this case, Voronin. This, Voronin, is a case that I can’t hand to anyone else now. There are people no less devoted than you, and with far more sense, but they’re busy. All of them. Every last one. Up to their eyes in work. So you push on with the Building case, Voronin. I’ll try to relieve you of the other cases. Tomorrow at 1600 hours come back to me to report and present your plan. Go.”
Andrei got up.
“Oh yes! A piece of advice. I advise you to pay some attention to the Falling Stars case. Advise you very earnestly. There could be a connection. That case is being handled by Chachua now; drop into his office and familiarize yourself. Consult him.”
Andrei bowed awkwardly and set off toward the door.
“One more thing!” the boss said, and Andrei halted right in front of the door. “Bear in mind that the solicitor general is taking a special interest in the Building case. A special interest! So apart from you, there’s someone else from the Public Prosecutor’s Office, and he’ll still be dealing with it. Try to avoid any lapses arising from your personal inclinations, or the opposite. Go on, Voronin.”
Andrei closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall. He could feel a sort of obscure emptiness inside himself, some kind of indeterminate void. He’d been expecting a severe reprimand, a huge dressing-down from the boss, maybe even the boot or a transfer to the police. Instead of that it seemed like he’d actually been praised, singled out from the others, trusted with a case that was considered a top priority. Only a year ago, when he was still a garbage collector, a bawling-out at work would have cast him into an abyss of woe and despair, and a responsible assignment would have raised him up on high to a peak of exultation and feverish enthusiasm. But now he sensed a kind of indefinite twilight inside himself; he cautiously attempted to figure himself out and at the same time feel out the inevitable complications and inconveniences which were, of course, bound to arise in this new situation.
Izya Katzman . . . A blabbermouth. A windbag. A vicious, venomous tongue. A cynic. And at the same time—there was no way around it—totally unmercenary, kindhearted, absolutely unselfish, even to the point of stupidity
, basically helpless when it came to worldly matters . . . And the Building case. And the Anticity. Damn it all . . . OK, we’ll figure this out . . .
He went back to his office and was rather nonplussed to discover Fritz there. Fritz was sitting at Andrei’s desk, smoking Andrei’s cigarettes, and carefully leafing through Andrei’s cases, extracted from Andrei’s safe. “Well then, did you get the full works?” Fritz asked, looking up at Andrei.
Without answering, Andrei took a cigarette, lit up, and inhaled deeply several times. Then he looked around for somewhere to sit and saw an empty stool. “Listen, where’s that guy?”
“In the slammer,” Fritz replied contemptuously. “I sent him off to the slammer for the night, with orders not to give him anything to eat, drink, or smoke. He coughed up the goods, meek as a lamb, a complete confession, and he named another two we didn’t even know about. But to wrap things up the slimeball has to be taught a lesson. I’ll give you the record of interrogation.” He tossed a few files from one spot to another. “I’ve filed the record, you’ll find it yourself. Tomorrow you can hand it on to the Prosecutor’s Office. It has some curious things he told me in it—they’ll come in handy sometime.”
Andrei smoked, looking at that long, well-groomed face and those keen, watery eyes, and he couldn’t help admiring the confident movements of those large, genuinely manly hands. Fritz had grown recently. There was almost nothing left in him of the pompous young noncommissioned officer. The rather blunt insolence had been replaced by focused confidence; he no longer took offense at jokes; he didn’t put on a stony face and didn’t play the jackass at all. At one point he had become a frequent visitor to Selma’s place, and then they’d had some kind of bust-up, and Andrei had had a few words with him as well. And Fritz had calmly withdrawn.
“What are you gawping at me like that for?” Fritz inquired with benign curiosity. “Still can’t pull yourself together after the shellacking? Never mind, old buddy, a shellacking from the boss is a subordinate’s holiday of the heart!”
“Hey, listen,” said Andrei. “What did you act out that little operetta for? Himmler, the Gestapo . . . What sort of innovative investigative practice is that?”
“Operetta?” said Fritz, jerking up his right eyebrow. “That, my old buddy, works like a shot from a gun!” He slammed shut an open case file and got up from the desk. “I’m surprised you haven’t figured that out for yourself. I assure you, if you’d told him you used to work in the Cheka or the GPU and clicked a pair of manicure scissors under his nose, you’d have had him kissing your boots . . . You know, I’ve picked out a few of your cases—with the heap you have here, you’ll never plow through them in a year . . . So I’ll take them off your hands, and we can settle up somehow later.”
Andrei gave him a grateful look and Fritz gave him a friendly wink in reply. A helpful kind of guy, Fritz. And a sound comrade. So maybe that was the way the work should be done? Why the hell bother using kid gloves on this garbage? And it was true, everyone over there in the West had been frightened half to death with talk of the Cheka’s basement rooms, and when it came to filthy carrion like that Tailbone, any means were good.
“Well, any questions?” asked Fritz. “No? Then I’ll be going.”
He tucked the case files under his arm and stepped out from behind the desk. “Oh yes!” said Andrei, suddenly remembering. “You haven’t taken the Building case, by any chance, have you? Leave that one!”
“The Building case? My dear man, my altruism doesn’t extend that far. You can figure out the Building case yourself somehow.”
“Uh-huh,” Andrei said with morose determination. “Myself . . . By the way,” he said, remembering something else. “Falling Stars—what sort of case is that? I know the name all right, but what it’s all about, what sort of stars they are, I don’t recall . . .”
Fritz wrinkled up his forehead and gave Andrei a curious glance. “There is a case by that name,” he said. “They haven’t really handed it off to you, have they? Then you’re a goner. Chachua’s got it. A desperate case, absolutely hopeless.”
“No,” Andrei said with a sigh. “No one’s handed it to me. It’s just that the boss suggested I should familiarize myself with it. A series of some kind of ritual killings, isn’t it? Or is it?”
“No, it’s not exactly that. Although maybe it is that. That case, my friend, has been dragging on for years. Every now and then they find people smashed to smithereens at the foot of the Wall. They’ve obviously fallen off the Wall, from a great height . . .”
“What do you mean, off the Wall?” Andrei asked in amazement. “Is it really possible to climb up it? It’s smooth . . . And what for? You can’t even see the top of it.”
“That’s the point! At first some thought there was a city like ours up there too, on top, and they were throwing these people down to us over their Cliff, you know, the way we can throw things into our Abyss. But then they managed to identify a couple of the bodies: they were ours, all right, local residents . . . No one has the slightest idea how they managed to clamber up there. So far we can only assume that they’re some kind of desperado rock climbers who were trying to get out of the City by the upward route . . . But on the other hand . . . Anyway, it’s a pretty dismal case. A dead case, if you want my opinion. Well, OK, time I was going.”
“Thanks. Cheers,” Andrei said, and Fritz left.
Andrei moved across into his own chair, put away all the files except the Building case in the safe, and sat there for a while with his head propped on his hands. Then he picked up the phone, dialed a number, and started waiting. As usual, no one answered the phone for a long time, then someone picked up the receiver and a low male voice, clearly not sober, inquired, “Heeello?” Andrei said nothing, pressing the receiver hard against his ear: “Hello! Hellooo?” the drunken voice growled, then fell silent, and all that could be heard was heavy breathing and Selma’s voice in the distance, crooning a heartrending song that Uncle Yura had brought to the City:
Get up, Katya, get up,
The ships at anchor ride!
Two ships of a dark blue,
One bright blue as the sky . . .
Andrei hung up, croaked and grunted, rubbing his cheeks, then muttered bitterly, “Lousy tramp, she’s irredeemable . . .” and opened the case file.
The Building case had been opened during the time when Andrei was still a garbage collector and knew nothing at all about the murky backstage life of the City. In the sixteenth, eighteenth, and thirty-second districts, people had suddenly started disappearing on a regular basis. They disappeared absolutely without a trace, and there was absolutely no system, no sense, and no logic to the disappearances. Ole Svensson, forty-three years of age, a laborer at the paper mill, went out one evening to get bread and didn’t come back, and he never showed up at the bread shop. Stepan Cibulski, twenty-five years of age, a policeman, disappeared at night from his post, his shoulder belt was found on the corner of Main Street and Diamond Avenue—and that was all; there were no other traces. Monica Lehrer, fifty-five years of age, a seamstress, took her spitz out for walk before bed; the spitz returned home cheerful and in good health, but the seamstress had disappeared. And so on, and so on—more than forty disappearances in all.
Fairly soon witnesses turned up who claimed that shortly before the missing people disappeared, they had entered a certain Building—from the descriptions it seemed like the same one, but the strange thing was that different witnesses provided different locations for the Building. Josef Humboldt, sixty-three years of age, a hairdresser, walked into a three-story redbrick building on the corner of Second Right Street and Graystone Lane in full view of Leo Paltus, who knew him personally, and since that time no one had seen Josef Humboldt again. A certain Theodore Buch testified that Semyon Zahodko, thirty-two years of age, a farmer, who subsequently disappeared, had entered a building of precisely the same description, but this time on Third Left Street, not far from the Catholic church. David Mkrtchan related h
ow he had met an old acquaintance from work, Ray Dodd, forty-one years of age, a cesspool cleaner, in Wattle and Daub Lane—they stood there for a while, chatting about the harvest, family matters, and other neutral subjects, and then Ray Dodd said, “Hang on a moment, I’ve just got to drop into this place, I’ll try to make it quick, but if I’m not back out in five minutes, you go on, it means I’ve been delayed.” He went into some kind of redbrick building with windows that were whitewashed over. Mkrtchan waited a quarter of an hour for him, then gave up and went on his way, and as for Ray Dodd, he disappeared without a trace forever.
The redbrick building figured in the testimony of all the witnesses. Some asserted that it was three stories high, others said it had four floors. Some noticed windows that were whitewashed over, others mentioned windows that were covered with metal gratings. And no two witnesses gave exactly the same spot as its location.
Rumors started rippling through the City. In the lines to buy milk, in the hairdressing salons, in the restaurants, it was passed on by word of mouth in an ominous whisper—the bright, shiny, brand-new legend of the appalling Red Building that wandered around the City of its own volition, settling in somewhere between the ordinary buildings, opening the ghastly jaws of its doors and lying in wait there for the incautious. Then people appeared claiming to be friends of relatives of acquaintances who had managed to escape, tearing themselves out of the grip of that insatiable brick maw. These acquaintances had told terrifying stories, presenting by way of proof scars and fractures earned by jumping from the second, third, and even fourth floor. According to all these rumors and legends, the building was empty inside—there were no robbers or sadistic maniacs waiting for you in there, no shaggy-haired, bloodsucking beasts. But the stone bowels of the corridors suddenly contracted, straining to squash their victim; the black chasms of manholes gaped open underfoot, breathing out an icy graveyard stench; mysterious forces drove men along the black, constantly narrowing passages and tunnels until they got stuck, trying to force their way through the final stony crack—and in the empty rooms with tattered wallpaper, among slabs of plaster that had fallen from the ceilings, the crushed bones decayed, projecting ghoulishly from rags that were crusted hard with blood . . .