Ice Trilogy

by Vladimir Sorokin

  They passed the Teply Stan metro station.

  Then the Konkovo station.

  Crowbar started laughing too.

  Tracks

  22.20, The office of the ICE Corporation, 7 Malaya Ordynka St.

  The lincoln Navigator drove into the gates of the attached courtyard and stopped. Ire, Mer, and Frop got out of the car. Frop and Ire carried a refrigerator case with the Ice. Mer went to the door and press a button. The door was opened by a guard in a dark blue uniform. Mer, Frop, and Ire entered, took an elevator upward, and moved down the hallway. At the far end, two armed guards sat next to a massive door. Catching sight of the group, they stood up from their plastic chairs, grabbed their sawed-off automatics, and stood stiffly next to the door. Mer moved toward the doors, looked straight at the security cameras, and said:

  “Mer.”

  The door opened. The three entered a large office decorated in a high-tech style. In the middle of the office, standing on a large light- blue-and-white rug with a picture of two crossed blue hammers and a flaming crimson heart, were: brother Lavu: 33 years old, tall, blue-eyes, dressed in a dark blue suit; sister Tse: 41 years old, medium height, blue-eyes, dark blonde hair, wearing a black-and-white three-piece suit; and brother Bork: 48, tall, thin, with thinning light- chestnut hair and dark blue eyes, wearing large glasses, an ash-colored sweater, and light trousers.

  As soon as the door closed behind the new arrivals, Frop and Ire placed the case on the rug.

  “Mer!” Tse exclaimed, taking a step to meet her.

  “Tse!” Mer stepped toward her.

  They embraced with a moan, tightly, then swayed and grew still.

  Frop opened the case.

  Lavu and Bork approached, placed their hands on the Ice, and closed their eyes. Ire walked over to the glass bar counter, poured himself some water, and opened the refrigerator. The refrigerator’s transparent doors were full of fresh fruits. Ire took a tomato and a large fig and closed the refrigerator. He drank the water in one gulp and began eating the tomato and fig greedily. Frop sat down on a low, frosted stainless-steel armchair upholstered in black leather, stretched his legs out, and with a sigh of exhaustion leaned back on the headrest.

  Lavu and Bork opened their eyes and sighed deeply.

  “The next to the last,” Frop said, closing his eyes.

  “There’s still another cube?” Lavu asked.

  “Left over from what the meat machines stole, there was another one,” answered Ire, chomping on his food.

  “Who was in charge?”

  “Mer.”

  “Mer...” Ire opened the refrigerator and took out another tomato and fig.

  Lavu glanced at Mer standing immobile with Tse.

  “And who knew?” he asked.

  “Ma and Nu knew. The meat machines don’t have any more Ice. We bought up everything they stole back then in Ust-Ilinsk.”

  “The eighteenth cube.” Lavu closed the case.

  “The eighteenth,” Ire confirmed and plunged his teeth into the fig. “In a couple of weeks the meat machines will bring the last one.”

  “And we’ll close.” Bork said.

  “We’ll close,” Lavu nodded.

  “What should be done with those other meat machines after all this?” Ire asked.

  “We don’t need Dato.” Lavu walked over to the steel table and pressed a button on the control panel. “But Gasan, he’ll come in handy. For covering tracks.”

  “Covering tracks requires calculation.” Bork moved toward the half-closed blinds, glancing at the evening street.

  “This doesn’t need calculation, brother Bork.” Lavu sat down at his desk, opening a folder of documents. “Covering tracks is superficial. All the possibilities are obvious.”

  Bork thought awhile, running his finger down the blinds.

  “That’s right, Lavu,” Ire agreed, eating the last of his tomato. “Superficial tracks don’t require any expenditure. Certainly not the powers of the Mighty. The meat are always ready to kill one another.”

  “But their rage has to be correctly directed, Ire,” said Bork.

  “Bork, this isn’t the first time the brotherhood has used the meat.” Wiping his hands with a handkerchief, Ire went up to Bork. “Their rage is totally predictable.”

  “The meat is unpredictable in one circumstance only,” Lavu interjected, sorting through his papers. “When it coagulates.”

  “Right now the meat is peaceful.” Ire sighed, placing his hand on Bork’s chest. “There’s no reason for the Mighty to help.”

  “It’s always better to be prepared,” Bork place his hand on Ire’s chest in reply.

  “The energy of the Mighty isn’t endless.”

  “The energy of the Mighty is needed for the Circle,” Frop spoke up from the armchair.

  “The energy of the Mighty is needed for the Circle,” Lavu nodded.

  The door opened and two guards entered the office; they lifted the case and carried it out. The door closed after them.

  Mer and Tse, who had been frozen in an embrace, shuddered, untwined their arms, and sighed deeply.

  “The energy of the Mighty is needed not only for the Circle,” Mer spoke. “The brotherhood doesn’t hide what is primary from the meat. It’s only the veil that requires secret layers. The energy of the Mighty supports the veil.”

  “Covering tracks can be done by a Lesser Circle as well,” Tse finished the thought.

  The brothers stood still. They were trying to understand this new thought.

  “Covering tracks can be done by a Lesser Circle as well,” Mer repeated, looking into Tse’s eyes. “And afterward, ask for help from the Circle of the Mighty.”

  The brothers understood the new thought. Tse’s heart was stronger than all of theirs. She was able to know. The new thought flowed from her strong heart.

  Mer was the first to shake off the stupor, and she knelt down, holding out her hands. Tse kneeled next to her and took her by the hand. Lavu came around the table, kneeled next to Tse, and squeezed her fingers. Bork kneeled next to Lavu, Ire next to Bork. Frop rose from the armchair and took his place in the circle.

  Everyone’s eyes closed. Their hearts began to speak.

  Peace

  10:02, Office of the Vice President of Tako-Bank, 18 Mosfilmovskaya Street

  The long, narrow space of the office, gray-brown walls, Italian furniture.

  Matvei Vinogradov sat behind a Spanish cherrywood table bent like a wave: 50 years old, small, black-haired, narrow-shouldered, sharp-nosed, thin, a well-tailored suit of lilac-gray silk.

  Borenboim sat opposite.

  “Mot, for heavens’ sake, forgive me for pestering you so early in the morning.” Borenboim stretched. “But you can understand.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Vinogradov, sipping his coffee. He picked up that very same Visa Electron card.

  “69,000, is that right?”

  “69.” Borenboim nodded.

  “And the PIN code is written down. Heavy. This is serious business, Borya. Presents like this smell bad.”

  “Very.”

  “Listen...and no one’s done anything, called you, threatened you, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Vinogradov nodded.

  Sokolova entered with a piece of paper: 24 years old, slim, in a light green suit, unremarkable face. She handed over the piece of paper. Vinogradov took it and began reading.

  “That’s what I thought. You’re free, Natashenka.”

  She left.

  “And...?” Borenboim frowned.

  “They did it the simple way. Completely legal, in accordance with the Central Bank and the Civil Code. Here’s how it goes: the donor applies for the main card using the passport of some front guy, and in the application form indicates he wants to have an additional card issued. In your name. When the cards are received, the primary card in the name of the front guy is confiscated and destroyed. Only yours remains. Finding the front, in your case — Kurbash
akh, Radii Avtandilovich, born August 7, 1953, in the town of Tuimaz — would be almost impossible. Only Allah knows where this Kurbashakh abides at present. All in all, it’s smart. Although...”

  “What?”

  “I would have made it even simpler. There’s a completely anonymous product: Visa Travel Money. There’s no owner’s name at all. Have you used them?”

  “No...” said Borenboim grumpily, averting his eyes.

  “Any Petrov can get one of these cards and give it to Sidorov. I’ve seen it done. One woman sold six apartments in Kiev, and in order to avoid taking the money through Ukrainian customs, she asked for this Visa Travel Money. But there’s one problem: the limit on individual operations in Russian ATMs is three hundred and forty bucks a day. In a nutshell, this woman milked the ATMs like goats for almost five months, and then it all ended when one of them swallowed her card, and she — ”

  “Motya, what should I do?” Borenboim interrupted, impatiently.

  “You know what, Borya” — Vinogradov scratched his forehead with an ivory knife — “you need to talk to Tolyan.”

  “Is he at home?” asked Borenboim, rocking nervously in the armchair.

  “No. He’s swimming right now.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Olympic.”

  “Early morning? Good for him.”

  “Unlike you and me, Tolya does everything right.” Vinogradov laughed. “He swims in the morning, works during the day, snorts and screws in the evening, and sleeps at night. And I do everything the other way around! Go on over there. You won’t be able to find him during the day. No way.”

  “I don’t know...whether it’s okay. I’ve met him a couple of times. But we aren’t very well acquainted.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s a businesslike guy. Mention my name if you want, or Savka.”

  “You think?”

  “Go on, go right this minute. Don’t lose any time. Your FSB agents don’t know shit. And he’ll explain the whole thing.”

  Borenboim got up suddenly, frowned, and clutched his chest.

  “What’s wrong?” Vinogradov’s handsome eyebrows knit in a frown.

  “Oh...it’s just something...like arthritis,” said Borenboim, straightening his thin shoulders.

  “You need to swim, Borya,” Vinogradov advised seriously. “At least two times a week. I used to be falling apart. And now I’ve even stopped smoking.”

  “You’re strong.”

  “Not stronger than you.” Vinogradov stood up, stretched out his hand. “Give me a call afterward, okay?”

  “Of course.” Borenboim shook Vinogradov’s thin, firm fingers.

  “And anyway, Bor, how come we hardly ever see each other? It’s like we’re some kind of hard-hearted workaholics.”

  “What?” Borenboim asked cautiously.

  “We never drink together, Bor. You and I’ve become totally heartless!”

  Borenboim paled abruptly. His lips began to tremble. He clutched at his chest.

  “No. I...have...a heart,” he enunciated firmly. And burst out sobbing.

  “Borya, Bor...” Vinogradov rose halfway.

  “I...h-have...a...a...a...h-h-heart!” Sobbing, Borenboim got the words out and then collapsed on his knees. “I haaaave...I haa...aaa...aaaa...veeee...aaaa!!”

  Sobs wracked his body, tears sprang from his eyes. He bent over. Fell on the rug. Thrashed about in hysterics.

  Vinogradov pressed a button on his phone.

  “Tanya, quick, come here! Quick!”

  Walking around the ornate table, Vinogradov leaned over Borenboim.

  “Borka, hey pal, what’s going on...come on, we’ll find these assholes, don’t be afraid...”

  Borenboim sobbed. Intermittent sobs merged into a hoarse wail. His face turned crimson. His legs jerked.

  The secretary entered.

  “Give me some water!” Vinogradov shouted at her.

  She ran out. She returned with a bottle of mineral water. Vinogradov swigged a mouthful and sprayed it on the wailing Borenboim, who continued to wail.

  “Do we have any tranquilizers?” Vinogradov held Borenboim’s head.

  “Just aspirin,” muttered the secretary.

  “No valerian drops?”

  “No, Matvei Anatolich.”

  “You don’t have anything...” Vinogradov wet a handkerchief and tried to place it on Borenboim’s forehead.

  Borenboim howled and writhed.

  “Jesus fucking...what the hell is this...?” Bewildered, Vinogradov smacked his lips, got down on his knees.

  He began to pour the water from the bottle onto Borenboim’s red face.

  It didn’t help. Convulsions shook the thin body.

  “Something’s wrong here,” said Vinogradov, shaking his head.

  “Did something bad happen to him?”

  “Yeah, something real bad. He got sixty-nine thousand dollars transferred to him, and he doesn’t know who did it! A big disaster, shit!” said Vinogradov, smiling bitterly, losing his patience. “Borka! Come on, that’s enough, really! Enough!! Borya!! Stop! Quiet!!”

  He began to slap Borenboim on the cheeks. Borenboim wailed even louder.

  “Jeez, what the hell’s going on here?” Vinogradov stood up and stuck his hands in his pockets.

  “Maybe some cognac?” the secretary proposed.

  “Damn, everyone’s gonna come running now! Tanya, call an ambulance right now. They’ll give him a shot of something in the ass...I can’t stand this. I can’t listen anymore!”

  He sat on the edge of the desk. He looked around, searching for a cigarette. Then remembered that he quit. He shook his hands in the air.

  “What a way to begin the fuckin’ day...”

  The secretary picked up the receiver. “What should I say, Matvei Anatolich?”

  “Say that...the man has lost...”

  “What?”

  “His peace of mind!” Vinogradov shouted irritably.

  Boy Is Crying

  14:55, Central Moscow, Mokhovaya Street

  Lapin strolled from the Lenin Library metro station to the old Moscow University building. A backpack hung on his shoulder. Fine-grained snow sifted down from an overcast sky.

  Lapin entered the cast-iron gates, looked in the direction of the “psychodrome” — a small square near the monument to Lomonosov. A group of students with bottles of beer stood there.

  Skinny, stooping Tvorogov and small, long-haired Filshtein noticed Lapin.

  “Lapa, come over here!” Filshtein waved.

  Lapin walked over.

  “How come you’re so early?” asked Tvorogov.

  Filshtein laughed. “Lapa lives on New York time! Mr. Radlov was asking about you.”

  “Yeah. Like: Where does my pet hang out?” Tvorogov butted in.

  “What?” Lapin asked in a gloomy voice.

  “Got a hangover, Lap? Bring your paper? Gonna hand it in?”

  “No.”

  “We didn’t either!”

  Filshtein and Tvorogov laughed.

  “Gimme a swig.” Lapin took Tvorogov’s bottle and drank. “Is Rudik here?”

  “Don’t know,” said Tvorogov, lighting a cigarette.

  “Take a look in ‘Santa Barbara.’”[1]

  “Listen, is it true that his ancestors were in some kind of sect?”

  “Hari Krishnas, I think,” said Tvorogov, blowing out smoke.

  “No, not Hari Krishnas.” Filshtein shook his curly head. “Brahma Kumaris.”

  “What’s that?” Lapin returned the bottle to Tvorogov.

  “Brahma is one of the gods of the Hindu pantheon,” Filshtein explained. “You can ask Rudik what Kumaris is. They go to the Himalayas every year.”

  “Him too?”

  “Are you nuts?! He’s not into that stuff. He gets off on heavy metal. Hangs out with Spider. Why? You interested?”

  “Just a little.”

  “What were you up to yesterday, Lap, you get drunk or get laid?”
/>
  “I shot up too.” Lapin headed for the entrance.

  He entered. Went up to the second floor. Walked through the empty smoking room. Walked through the open door of the men’s toilet. It was empty except for a hunchbacked cleaning woman of uncertain age. An overturned urn lay on the dirty floor in a puddle of urine. Cigarette butts, cans of beer, and other garbage were piled up nearby. The cleaning woman was moving the trash toward the trash bin with her mop. Lapin clucked in dissatisfaction. Noticing him, the hunchbacked woman shook her head accusingly.

  “A lot of pigs. Trash and trash. No heart in you.”

  Lapin winced. The hand that held the strap of the backpack unclenched. The backpack slipped from his shoulder and fell on the floor. Lapin let out a sob. His eyes quickly filled with tears.

  “No!” he hissed.

  He opened his mouth and let out a long, plaintive cry that rang in the empty toilet and burst into the hallway. Lapin’s legs gave way. He clutched his chest and fell backward.

  “Ooooo! Oooo! Oooooo!” He gave a drawn-out wail.

  The cleaning woman stared at him angrily. She set her mop in the corner. She walked around Lapin and limped into the hallway. Three students were heading for the bathroom, drawn by the cries.

  “Granny, what’s going on?” asked one.

  “Another drug addict!” The cleaning woman looked at them indignantly. “Who studies here these days? Fairies and drug addicts!”

  The students stepped over Lapin. He moaned and sobbed, and every so often let out a lengthy scream.

  “Shit, man. Typical withdrawal,” one of the students concluded. “Vova, call 03.”

  “Forgot my cell.” Another was chewing gum. “Hey, who has a cell around here?”

  “Oy, what’s wrong with him?” squealed a girl who had just come out of the women’s room and looked in.

  “You got a cell phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dial 03, he’s in withdrawal.”

  “Zhenia, maybe we shouldn’t?” One of the students began to doubt.

  “Call, you idiot, he’ll croak here!” the cleaning lady screamed.

  “Go fuck yourself...” The girl dialed 03. “What should I say?”

  The student spit out his gum.

  “Like in the song. Say: ‘Boy is crying’...”