“But this...isn’t mine,” he said, looking at the wallet.
“It’s yours.” The nurse turned around and approached him.
“I had...seventy rubles. Seventy-five.”
“This is your money.”
“It’s someone else’s...” He looked at the wallet. Touched his chest.
She took him by the shoulders.
“Listen, Ural. You don’t really understand what happened to you yet. I’d say — you don’t understand at all. Last night you woke up. But you still haven’t shaken off the sleep. Your life will change direction completely now. We will help you.”
“Who is — we?”
“People. Who’ve awoken.”
“And...what?”
“Nothing.”
“And what will happen to me?”
“Everything that happens to people who’ve awoken.”
Lapin looked at her pretty face with glassy eyes.
“What is — everything?”
“Ural” — her fingers squeezed his bony shoulders — “be patient. You’ve only just gotten out of bed. A bed you’ve been sleeping in for twenty years. You haven’t even taken the first step. So put the wallet in your pocket and follow me.”
She opened the door. Went out into the hallway.
Lapin put on his jacket and stuck the wallet in the inside pocket. He put the keys and his student card in the side pockets. He went out into the hallway.
The nurse walked briskly. He followed her cautiously. He touched the bandage on his chest.
Near reception, the doctor and Mair were waiting for them. Mair wore a dark purple coat with large buttons. She stood with her hands in her pockets. She looked at Lapin just as warmly and affably as earlier. She smiled.
“So then, young man, we have a little crack in the breastbone,” began the doctor.
“I’ve already been told,” muttered Lapin, his eyes glued to Mair.
“Repetition is the mother of instruction,” the doctor continued impassively. “Don’t take the bandage off for ten days. No lifting cinder blocks. No world records, please. No making love to giants. And take this,” he said, holding out two packets of medicine. “Two times a day. And if it hurts — a painkiller. Or seven glasses of vodka. Do I make myself clear?”
“What?” Lapin turned toward the doctor with a heavy gaze.
“It’s a joke. Take this,” said the doctor, handing over the two packets.
Lapin stared at him. He took the packets and put them into different pockets.
“The young man doesn’t understand jokes,” the doctor explained to the women with a smile.
“He understands everything perfectly well. Thank you.” Mair pressed her cheek against the doctor’s cheek.
“Be happy, Ural,” said the nurse in a loud voice.
Lapin turned to her abruptly. He stared at her: pretty, slim, a warm expression. Large glasses. Large lips.
Mair nodded to them. She stepped out into the glass lobby and onto the street. It was overcast. Chilly. Wet bare trees. Leftover snow. Gray grass.
Lapin followed her out. He took careful steps.
Mair walked over to a large dark blue Mercedes. She opened the back door and turned to Lapin. “Take a seat, Ural.”
Lapin stepped in. He sat on the springy seat. Blue leather. Soft music. The pleasant aroma of sandalwood. The blond nape of the driver’s neck.
Mair sat in the front.
“Let me introduce you, Frop. This is Ural.”
The driver turned: 52 years old, a round simple face, small cloudy blue eyes, fleshy hands, and a dark blue suit that matched the car.
“Frop.” He smiled at Lapin.
“Yuri...I mean...Ural.” Lapin grinned awkwardly. Suddenly he laughed.
The driver turned back. He took the wheel and the car set off smoothly. They drove out onto Luzhnetsky Embankment.
Lapin couldn’t stop laughing. He touched his chest with his hand.
“Where do you live?” Mair spoke.
“In Medvedkovo,” Lapin managed to say as he licked his lips.
“In Medvedkovo? We’ll take you home. What street?”
“Near the Metro...around there. I’ll show you....Near the Metro. I’ll get out there.”
“Fine. But before that we’ll drop in somewhere. There you’ll meet three brothers. People your age. They will just say a few words to you. And they’ll help you. You need help now.”
“And...where is it?”
“In the center. On Tsvetnoi Boulevard. It won’t take more than half an hour at the most. Then we’ll drive you home.”
Lapin looked out the window.
“The most important thing for you now — is to try not to be surprised by anything,” Mair spoke up. “Don’t be scared. We aren’t a totalitarian sect. We’re simply free people.”
“Free?” Lapin muttered.
“Free.”
“Why?”
“Because we’ve awoken. And those who have awoken — are free.”
Lapin looked at her ear.
“It hurt me.”
“Yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“That’s natural.”
“Why?”
Mair turned to him.
“Because you were born anew. And birth — is always painful. For the woman giving birth, and for the newborn. When your mother pushed you out of her uterus, bloody and blue, don’t you think it was painful for you? What did you do then? You started crying.”
Lapin looked into her blue eyes, which seemed to squint because of slightly puffy eyelids. Around the edges of the pupil a haze of yellow-green was barely observable.
“So that means I...that yesterday I was born again?”
“Yes. We say: you awoke.”
Lapin looked at her carefully cut dark blond hair. The ends trembled slightly. In time with the movement of the car.
“I awoke.”
“Yes.”
“And...who is sleeping?”
“Ninety-nine percent of humanity.”
“Why?”
“It’s hard to explain in a few words.”
“And who...isn’t sleeping?”
“You, me, Frop, Kharo. The brothers who wakened you yesterday.”
They turned onto the Garden Ring Road. Ahead of them was a huge traffic jam.
“There you go,” sighed the driver. “Soon the only way to get around the center will be on foot...”
A dirty, Russian-made car, a Zero Nine hatchback, was driving next to the Mercedes. There was a fat guy at the wheel, eating a cheeseburger. The paper wrapper grazed his flat nose.
“What about the one...who stayed there?” Lapin asked.
“Where?”
“I mean...yesterday...what about him? Did he wake up too?”
“No. He died.”
“Why?”
“Because he was empty. Like a nutshell.”
“What...but he wasn’t a human being?”
“He was a human being. But empty. Sleeping.”
“And I’m....not empty?”
“You are not empty.” Mair pulled a pack of gum out of her purse, opened it, and took a piece. She offered some to the driver. He shook his head. She offered it to Lapin.
He took the gum automatically. Unwrapped it. He looked at the pink rectangle. He touched it to his lower lip.
“I...um...”
“What is it, Ural?”
“I...I’ll go now.”
“As you like.” Mair nodded to the driver.
The Mercedes braked. Lapin yawned nervously. He touched the smooth, cool handle of the lock. He pulled on it. He opened the door with difficulty and climbed out. He walked between the cars.
The driver and Mair watched him for a long time.
“Why do they all run away at first?” asked the driver. “I did, too.”
“It’s a normal reaction,” said Mair, chewing again. “I thought he’d try earlier.”
“A patient one...Where to now?”
“At the office?”
“Yes.” She glanced back at the backseat.
On the smooth dark blue leather lay the dull pink rectangle of gum, folded in half.
Swiss Cheese
Lapin walked along. Then, with effort, he started to run. He could hardly lift his legs. He grimaced, pressing his hand to his chest. He crossed the street.
All of a sudden.
Pain.
His chest.
Like an electric shock.
He screamed. He felt it in his elbow, his ribs, his temples. He moaned and bent over. He fell on his knees:
“Son of a bitch...”
A well-dressed man stopped.
“What’s wrong?”
“Bitch...” Lapin repeated.
“Life, you mean? That’s for sure.”
Lapin barely managed to stand up. He hobbled toward Patriarch Ponds. There hadn’t been any snow here for a long time. Wet sidewalks. The city mud of spring around the pond.
He wandered down Bolshaya Bronnaya Street and turned onto the boulevard. He sat on a bench, leaning on its damp hard back.
“Fuckin’...nonsense...”
A grimy old woman rambled over. She looked in the trash can and moved on.
Lapin got out his wallet. He extracted the dollars and counted: 900.
He counted the rubles: 4,500. Plus his own seventy. And a five-ruble coin.
He looked around. People walked by at a clip. Others were in no hurry. A guy and a girl drank beer as they walked.
“That’s the right idea...” Lapin took out a five-hundred ruble note, put the wallet back.
He stood up carefully. The pain had receded.
He limped over to a kiosk and bought a bottle of Baltic. He asked for it to be opened, drank half straight down, and took a breather. He wiped away the tears that came to his eyes and headed for the Metro. Pushkin Square was crowded. He finished off the beer and placed the bottle carefully on the marble parapet. He started down the stairs, then stopped: “What the fuck?”
He turned back. Standing on Tverskaya Street, he stuck out his hand. Two cars stopped right away: a dirty red one and a green one that was cleaner.
“Chertanovo,” Lapin said to the driver of the dirty red car.
“And...”
“And what?”
“A hundred fifty, that’s what!”
Lapin nodded. He sat down in the seat next to the driver.
“Where exactly?”
“Sumskoi Passage.”
The driver’s mustache nodded sullenly. He turned on some music: lousy, but loud.
After an hour of heavy traffic the car pulled up to Lapin’s seven-story building. Lapin paid and got out. He rode up to the fifth floor, unlocked the door, and entered a crowded foyer. The apartment smelled like cats and fried onion.
“Ahhhh...the appearance of Christ to the people,” said his father, glancing out of the kitchen, chewing.
“Goodness!” His mother looked out. “And here we were already hoping that you’d moved in with Golovastik.”
“Hi,” Lapin barked. He took off his jacket. Touched the bandage: Could you see it through the T-shirt? He looked in the oval mirror: you could see it. He went into his room.
“We already ate everything, don’t hurry!” his mother shouted. She and his father laughed.
Lapin kicked open a door with a sign FUCK OFF FOREVER! The room was dark: bookshelves, a table with a computer, a stereo set, a mountain of CDs. There were posters on the wall: The Matrix, Lara Croft naked with two pistols, Marilyn Manson as Christ rotting on the cross. An unmade bed. The Siamese cat Nero dozed on a pillow.
Three shirts hung on the back of a chair. Lapin took the black one. He put it on over the T-shirt and lay down gingerly on the bed. He yawned, then cried out, “Aaah — ooooh — shiiiiit!”
Nero rose reluctantly and sauntered over to him. Lapin blew in his ear. Nero turned away. He jumped down onto the old carpet and left the room.
Lapin looked at Lara Croft’s large lips. He remembered the nurse.
Khar...Khara? Lara. Klara.
He grinned. He shook his head, exhaling sharply through crooked teeth.
Lapin’s mother looked in the half-open door: 43 years old, plump, chestnut hair, a young face, tight gray pants, a black-and-white sweater, a cigarette.
“Are you really full?”
“I’ll eat.” Lapin buttoned up his shirt.
“Tied one on yesterday?”
“Uh-huh...”
“Too much trouble to make a phone call?”
“Yeah.” Lapin nodded seriously.
“Jerk.” His mother left.
Lapin lay there looking at the ceiling. He fidgeted with the steel tip of his belt.
“I’m not heating things up twice!” his mother yelled from the kitchen.
“Who cares...” he said, brushing her off. Then he got up. He winced. With difficulty, he pushed himself off the bed, stood up, and shuffled into the kitchen. His mother was washing dishes.
A plate with a piece of fried chicken was on the table. And boiled potatoes. A bowl of sauerkraut stood nearby. A plate of pickles, too.
Lapin gobbled down the chicken. He didn’t finish the potatoes. He washed it all down with water.
He went into the living room. He picked up the phone and dialed a number.
“Kela, hi. It’s Yurka Lapin. Can I talk to Genka? Gen? It’s me. Listen, I need...ummm...to talk to you. No, nothing...Just advice. No, it’s not that. It’s...uhhh. Something else. Now? Sure. Okay.”
He replaced the receiver and went to the foyer. He started to pull on his jacket — and almost screamed with pain.
“Oy...shhhiii...”
“What, you’re going out again?” his mother asked, clattering the dishes.
“I’m going over to Genka’s, not for long...”
“Will you buy bread?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Need money?”
“I have some.”
“You mean you didn’t drink everything up?”
“Not everything.”
Lapin left the apartment, slamming the door. He walked to the elevator, then stopped. He stood there. He turned around and walked down the stairs to the fourth floor. On the landing, he stopped and squatted. He began to cry. Tears ran down his cheeks. At first he cried silently. His shoulders shook. He pressed his thin hands to his face. Then he began to whine. Grudging sobs broke from his mouth and nose. He began to sob out loud. He wept a long time.
He had a hard time calming down. He rummaged in his jacket pockets. No handkerchief. He blew his nose on the broken, yellowish-brown floor tile. He wiped his hand on the wall next to the words VITYA IS A SHITHEAD.
He started to laugh. He wiped away the tears.
“Mair, Mair, Mair...Mair, Mair, Mair...”
He began sobbing again. His finger picked at the blue wall. He touched his breastbone.
Gradually he calmed down.
He stood up, walked down the stairs, and went out on the street. He walked past three buildings, entered the fourth. He climbed to the second floor and rang the bell of apartment 47.
The green steel door opened almost immediately.
Kela stood at the threshold: 28 years old, medium height, stocky, muscular, a flat face, reddish mustache, a small shaved head.
“Hey.” Kela turned on his heel and left.
Lapin entered the hallway of a two-room apartment: four tires, a box of audio equipment, a coat stand with clothing, mountain skis, and boots.
The sound of loud music came from Kela’s room. Lapin went in to Gena’s room: boxes with videotapes, a bed, a chest of drawers with a hutch, photographs.
Gena was sitting at the computer: 21 years old, disheveled; he looked like Kela, but was heavier.
“Greetings.” Lapin stood behind him.
“Hi,” Gena said without turning around. “Where’d you disap-pear to?”
“Everywhere.”
/> “Mean you dissolved?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I dug up this cool site yesterday. Take a look...”
He typed in www.stalin.ru. A pale photograph with Stalin’s image appeared. Under it was the caption COLLECT STONE BOUQUET FOR COMRADE STALIN!
Under the caption were seven stone flowers. Gena moved the cursor over one of them. Clicked. A picture came up: a cow, tattooed with Stalin’s picture, grazing in a meadow of stone flowers. A slogan floated over the cow: FIGHT THE UNCONSCIOUS, EVERYBODY!
“Cool, huh?” Gena poked him in the thigh with his chubby elbow, directed the cursor to another of the flowers, and clicked.
A picture came up: two Stalins pointing threateningly at each other. The slogan floating over them read GOT A MAN?GOT A PROBLEM; GET RID OF A MAN, GET RID OF A PROBLEM!
“Way to go, someone’s having a blast!” Gena grinned.
“Listen, Gen. You know anything about secret sects?”
“Which ones? Aum Shinrikyo?”
“No, well...others...like an order...”
“Like the Freemasons?”
“Sort of. Can you dig up something on the Web?”
“You can dig up anything you want. What do you need Masons for?”
“I need the ones we have here.”
“Kela’s up on that stuff. All he does is go on about Freemasons, Masonic lodges...”
“Kela...” said Lapin, touching his chest. “He’s obsessed with black asses. And Jews.”
“So? He knows about all different kinds. What do you care?”
“Some assholes attacked me. A fuckin’ brotherhood. Of ‘awakened’ people.”
“Awakened?”
“Yeah.”
“And what do they want?” Gena moved the mouse around quickly, looking at the screen.
“I don’t know.”
“Then to hell with them...Hey, look! Cool, huh? They’re really into that Stalin!”
“I need to talk to someone. Someone who knows who they are.”
“So go and ask him. He knows everything.”
Lapin went into Kela’s room: wood shelving with books, a large stereo with huge speakers, a small television, portraits of Alfred Rosenberg, Pyotr Stolypin, a Russian National Unity poster: SUPPORT THE NEW RUSSIAN ORDER!, three sets of nunchaku, laced boots with thick soles, sixty-kilo weights, three-kilo dumbbells, twelve-kilo dumbbells, two baseball bats, a mattress, and a brown bearskin on the floor.
Ice Trilogy Page 29
