Ice Trilogy

by Vladimir Sorokin

  “You killed him!” Ig exclaimed.

  But Ig’s heart was still very young compared to ours. We knew that the brother was alive. Blood began to run from his nose. Fer pressed her ear to the flautist’s chest. His heart remained silent.

  “Speak with your heart,” she whispered passionately.

  “Speak with your heart.” I gave his heart a little push.

  “Speak with your heart,” Ig growled.

  And our brother began to speak with his heart.

  “Kta, Kta, Kta.”

  Our exclamations of joy were so loud that Deribas’s secretary knocked on the door.

  Ig shouted out happily.

  Brother Kta moved and let out a moan. He was in pain: the force of the hammer had cracked his chest bone. But his awakened heart beat and spoke, beat and spoke.

  “Kta! Kta! Kta!”

  We cried for joy. Kta moaned. Blood dripped from the wound and flowed down his thin ribs. Ig pressed a kerchief to the wound and, tears pouring out of his eyes, shouted so loud that his face turned purple.

  “Furman, get the doctor!”

  “Yes, sir!” came the answer on the other side of the door.

  I rushed to collect the precious Ice. But my heart suddenly let me know: I should not pick up these pieces; the Ice hammer strikes ONLY one heart. There was the Wisdom of the Light in this. I froze, squatting over the pieces lying on the rug. A louse crawled across one of them. It shook me out of my stupor. Lifting the main piece, I placed it back in the crate, closed the top, and nailed it shut with the handle of a revolver. Ig grabbed the splinters of wood from the stick and pushed them and the red material under the sofa.

  There was a knock at the door. Ig opened it. The doctor entered, followed by the secretary Furman.

  “His sternum is broken,” said Ig, pointing to Kta. “Do what you need to, Semyonov. You are responsible for his life.”

  The doctor touched the chest. Kta cried out.

  “A crack,” muttered the doctor. “We need a soft splint.”

  “Do it...do what you have to! Or I’ll shoot you!” Ig shouted, losing control of himself.

  The doctor turned pale: Deribas had never spoken to him that way.

  I put my hand on his back and nudged him with my heart: “Calm down.”

  Unlike Fer and me, Ig had not yet cried with his heart. And he had not yet discovered the Wisdom of the Light.

  The doctor placed a soft bandage on Kta’s chest and gave him a shot of morphine. Kta fell into a deep sleep. We covered him with a blanket and left him on a sofa in the compartment. The guards carried the crate with the Ice back to the cold space between cars. We sat around Kta as he slept. Night fell. I turned off the light in the compartment. The car rocked. Outside stretched a black, impenetrable forest; occasionally we caught sight of the starry sky. We held hands in the dark. Our hearts beat regularly. They protected our newborn’s sleep.

  The next morning Kta came to. Fear had not yet left his emaciated body. But we did everything to make sure that he understood who we were.

  The next day was spent along the shore of the Baikal, the huge Siberian lake. Suddenly we stopped. Deribas was informed that two trains had collided up ahead. Fixing the rails took four days. Over this time, Kta finally returned to his old self. We saw the design of the Light in this: the trains collided to allow an awakening heart some rest.

  Kta told us about himself: he, Iosif Tseitlin, came from a moderately well-off Jewish family. He graduated from the Moscow Conservatory in flute, played in the Bolshoi Theater orchestra, during the Civil War escaped from the capital to the area beyond the Urals, was captured by the Whites, played the trumpet in a military band, was then imprisoned by the Reds, miraculously escaped execution, lived four years in Chita giving private music lessons, then was arrested as a “former person,” again miraculously escaped the repressions, was exiled from the town, wandered here and there, playing at stations, then for some reason returned to Chita, although the head of the OGPU there, Artyom Babich, had threatened him with the firing squad.

  Tseitlin had also had a strange dream: June 29, 1908, outside of Moscow at the dacha of the pianist Maria Kerzina, there was a musical evening in honor of her husband’s birthday; he was a well-known industrialist, a patron of the musical arts, the chairman of the Moscow Circle of Russian Music Lovers; chamber music was played at the party, Tseitlin also performed, playing with a string quartet; everything ended with a traditional dacha table and a noisy nocturnal swim in the Kliazma River. That evening Iosif drank more than usual and early in the morning he awoke thirsty, with a headache; descending from the attic so as not to bother the sleeping guests, he went out into the small garden, found the well, opened its wooden top. The bucket on the rope had already been lowered, he had only to lift it; Iosif grabbed the iron handle of the drum and began to turn it, pulling up a full bucket. The well was deep, very deep; Iosif turned and turned the iron handle, raising the bucket and thinking about the healing, teeth-chattering cold of the well water; but the bucket wouldn’t appear; tortured by thirst and impatience, Tseitlin looked in the well; it was incredibly deep: you couldn’t see the bottom! The well walls narrowed to a black point over which a small bucket hung — it was still very far away; Iosif began to turn it with all his might; the rope wrapped around the drum, making it fatter and fatter, until it turned into a thick skein; Iosif grew tired and began turning with both hands; they trembled from tension. Finally the bucket appeared, and Iosif looked at it: it was cubic in form; the unexpectedness of this caused him to stop turning and stare at the unusual bucket; the purest well water splashed in it; at this moment the sun rose, and its rays touched the water in the bucket; the surface of the water instantly shone with light and it was as though it had become a light-bearing icon; the picture on this icon was of a blue-eyed, blond youth and a young woman with a large chunk of ice in her hands; from them a new strength arose, and shook Tseitlin so profoundly that he let go of the handle. He woke up on a bed in the dacha’s attic, very thirsty. He went out into the garden, as in his dream, found the well in the same place, and opened it; a full bucket of water stood on the edge of the well chamber; he began to drink greedily from the bucket; having drunk his full, he stepped back, saw his reflection in the water, and understood that someday a young man and a girl with a piece of ice would come for him.

  When Fer and I approached him on the square in front of the train station, he recognized us and cried out because his dream had come true.

  We spoke with Kta.

  Then the train moved.

  The next stop was Irkutsk. We did the same thing as in Chita: sat in a Chekist car and rode around the city. It was more civilized then Chita, here there were not only one- and two-story homes, but we came across fairly beautiful buildings as well. And again we spent the whole day driving through the city, taking a look at busy places. And again no one noticed our heart magnet. Evening fell quickly. Arriving at the station, Fer and I got out of the car. The train station was bigger than in Chita. But the square in front of it was smaller. It was also strewn with cigarette butts, the shells of seeds and pine nuts. We stopped in the middle. But here no one was playing the flute.

  Irkutsk was empty.

  We returned to our train and it departed. After illuminating Irkutsk with our hearts, Fer and I felt an enormous exhaustion: it was as though we had run the gauntlet, like soldiers who had committed some offense in the czarist army. Our hearts had been squeezed and were empty. We didn’t even have the strength to cry. Barely making it to our beds, we collapsed and fell asleep.

  When we awoke, we were already in Krasnoyarsk.

  Here we had to look for Ep and Rubu — and for new brothers and sisters. We were met at the station: the Irkutsk Chekists had informed Krasnoyarsk about Deribas’s train; a car took Ig and me to the municipal directorate of the OGPU. Fer remained in the train with Kta. The first order of business was to drive to our old address. The little house, on whose terrace I had heard the drunken car
ter talk to his horse, was empty. Our brothers had left. The neighbors knew nothing. Returning to the directorate, Ig demanded the operational summaries for the last month. In one of them there was a report about the theft of a truck belonging to the city bakery. Three days later this car had been found abandoned in Kansk. There the thieves got on the train; the ticket seller at the station recognized them. They bought tickets to Khabarovsk. That meant that they were already there! Ep and Rubu were struggling to come to our aid, not knowing that we had already been helped. Now we had to find them in Khabarovsk. Or in some other Siberian town? But we were heading for the Crimea! It was impossible to return: we had taken the Ice westward in order to find and awaken other hearts. Ep and Rubu waited for us somewhere in the east. Russia’s huge distances were oppressive: people could get lost like grains of sand in such expanses. But brothers all the more so. Ig sent a telephonogram to Khabarovsk: to detain the two dangerous criminals alive; anyone who dared to shoot them would be tried. The sinister wheels of the OGPU began to turn: the search for Ep and Rubu took on new life.

  We began our search: the black Ford drove through the gates of the OGPU building on Lenin Street. Fer and I were seated in the back. Krasnoyarsk brought us no joy, either: for two days the Black Maria rolled through the city, reminding its inhabitants of nighttime arrests; for two days the doors of the university, the barracks, three dormitories, four schools, and a hospital were opened to us. The faces of people swam past the heart magnet in an endless stream. But there were none of us among them.

  On the third day we left Krasnoyarsk.

  Fer and I became accustomed to our work. We no longer became so exhausted from the heart illumination of whole cities.

  Next was Novosibirsk.

  There we were lucky. We had hardly x-rayed the market when Fer’s sensitive heart began to throb: there was someone. At first I didn’t feel anything. Then — I did feel it, but together with my amazing sister. We circled around the market, but didn’t see our brother, though we could feel him keenly. This continued for more than an hour. Fer began to despair: she screamed and beat her chest, as though trying to force her heart to see more clearly. And suddenly it became clear where the source was: just a little way from the market stood a small church. The Bolsheviks hadn’t touched it, and a service was being held. The doors opened and closed, letting the believers enter and leave. This was precisely what had distracted us. The source was inside. We entered the church. And closed our eyes in rapture: he was leading the service! Tall and stately, about forty-five years old, with a mane of blond hair, a broad beard, a courageous, noble face, and close-set blue eyes, he stood at the gates of the altar wearing the gold-flecked garments of a priest; waving a smoking censer, he called to the believers in a strong, deep voice.

  “Let us pray for the Lord’s world.”

  They prayed, crossing themselves and bowing. Fer grabbed my hand and squeezed it until it cracked. Our hearts rejoiced. The service went on too long. But we were enjoying the anticipation. We understood that this service was our brother’s last. Occasionally he glanced at us, picking us out of the crowd. But his heart was calm. Finally the whole thing was over. Those who took Communion lined up in front of the priest. As soon as he was finished administering the Sacrament, he was arrested and brought to our train. He turned out to be courageous not only on the outside: he resisted, threatened us with the tortures of hell, and began chanting the psalms. The Ice hammer interrupted his singing. He lost consciousness, and when he came to he was already a different man.

  “Oa! Oa! Oa!” his heart said.

  We cried for joy, embracing him.

  Oa brought us happiness: after him in each large city on our route we acquired more brothers. Not only brothers. There was more than one sister. That was how the will of the Light was accomplished.

  In Omsk we found Kti.

  In Chelyabinsk — Edlap.

  In Ufa — Em.

  In Saratov — Ache.

  In Rostov-on-Don — Bidugo.

  It’s possible that there were other brothers in these cities, but when we found one, we could no longer search for others: we didn’t have the strength. The newly acquired were immediately taken to the station, to the train. Then the search would be interrupted and the divine process of awakening would begin. It amazed not only the new brothers, but everyone who held the newly found in their trembling hands, gagged the wailing mouths, swung back, and with all their might struck the chests with the Ice hammer; everyone who greedily listened to the flutter of awakening hearts, and then, sobbing with ecstasy, repeated the sacred names of the brothers in the impoverished language of humans.

  “Kti! Edlap! Em! Ache! Bidugo!”

  After this exertion, we could not get back into a Chekist Black Maria and set off on our search again: our hearts demanded rest. So the train with the red star moved on. The newly acquired were placed in the second car, where there were separate guest compartments. The doctor took care of them. All of them were blue-eyed and blond. Like Fer and me, and Ig. Like Rubu and Ep. And we understood definitively that this was an identifying sign of the Light: the dark-haired and gray-eyed could not be one of us. Our search needed to be only among the blue-eyed and light-haired.

  Our hearts made us wise. So that his assistant and the local Chekists didn’t start asking questions about our not quite ordinary search, Ig told them that we were looking for a secret spy network along the Trans-Siberian, organized by a certain religious sect. This story dismissed all questions. The Chekist doctor Semyonov had stopped caring long ago whom he treated and for what. The guard and Deribas’s assistant, hearing cries and blows from the compartment of the boss, were certain that we were torturing the arrested.

  We were awakening them from a dead dream.

  But we understood that soon we would not have the means to do this: after Saratov the weather warmed considerably, the outside thermometer showed ten degrees Celsius. The Ice in the crates began to melt. We had to do something. Ig and Fer and I made a decision: to leave the crates of Ice in Rostov-on-Don, placing them in special refrigerators. In 1928 the only place in town where there were large industrial freezers was at the sausage factory. The Ice was placed in iron crates, closed with locks, and put in the freezer. By Deribas’s decree, the director of the refrigeration guild had personal responsibility for them.

  We decided to continue the search, but without the Ice. Ig proposed simply arresting our brothers and keeping them in the same prison car where Fer and I had been kept on the way to Khabarovsk.

  But after we parted with the Ice, luck turned its back on us: our magnet found no one in either dusty, fruit-filled Simferopol or in the seaside city of Sevastopol. Emptied by our hearts and distressed, Fer and I fell into a deep sleep.

  When we awoke we were already in a car: we were being driven along a serpentine mountainous road. Between us sat Ig, who had changed into a white tunic without any marks of rank and white trousers. His face shone with joy, he held us by the hand. We raised our heads and looked outside: it was a sunny, warm autumn day in the Crimea; mountains of yellow and red vegetation floated past us. I looked around. There was another car behind us: four of our newly acquired brothers rode in it — Oa, Kta, Kti, and Bidugo. Ig had directed that the rest be placed in the Simferopol military hospital. In the early-morning Crimean air, just in front of us, was a splash of bright red — the automobile in which the local bosses rode: the secretary of the Crimean oblast Party committee, Veger, had decided to personally accompany the legendary Deribas to the RKKA sanatorium. They had known each other well since the Civil War.

  Passing through Yalta, that most beautiful Crimean city, we arrived at the sanatorium, drowning in yellowed chestnut trees and acacia. There we stopped. What we had long expected happened to brother Ig here. First, the director of the sanatorium descended the marble staircase — a smiling, fat Georgian with Stalinist mustaches, dressed in the same white tunic Ig was wearing and greasy gray trousers.

  “To your health, de
ar guests!” He threw his pudgy hands up and with a clap placed them on his chest, bowing to the new arrivals.

  “Hello there, Georgy,” said the ugly, large-faced secretary of the obkom, extending him a hand. “Just look who I’ve brought you.” Veger nodded at Ig, who was getting out of the car.

  “Comraid Deribass!” The fat Georgian minced along to our car. “We’re worn out waiting for you, I swear on my honest, is autumn already, the warmth, he is going, and you all the time are not coming and not coming! Vy you don’t have enough respect for your health, you don’t take care, I swear on my honest, please, Comrade Stalin is standing on you!”

  The secretary laughed. Ig smiled, as Deribas was meant to, and shook hands with the large man. They were acquainted.

  “Good. We traveled and traveled, and now we’ve arrived. Haven’t been here for two years, is that right?”

  “That’s very bad, very bad, Comraid Deribass, I swear on my honest!”

  “But this time — I’ve come with relatives! How are things here with you? Can we rest?”

  The fat man pressed his pudgy palms to his pudgy chest.

  “Comraid Deribass, I always sed, that Red commanders rest with their heart.”

  Ig grew pale.

  “What’s that...you said?”

  “With their heart! With their very heart, I swear on my honest!” said the director, patting himself on the chest.

  Ig’s heart shuddered. And Fer and I understood what would happen now. With a sob, Ig drew air into his lungs, threw his head back, and began to fall backward. We caught him.

  “Epilepsy!” I told everyone.

  In truth it was Ig’s heart crying. And he cried along with it.

  There was a lot of hustle and bustle, the doctor on call ran over. Ig sobbed and beat himself. He was carried off to the ward and given an injection of morphine. Our room was nearby, in the next ward.