Ice Trilogy

by Vladimir Sorokin

  “That’s not about me,” I interrupted.

  “It’s about you! It’s about you, cunt!” Fedotov growled.

  “Sign it Korobova, don’t play the fool!”

  “I’m not Korobova. My true name is — Khram.”

  I closed my eyes.

  And the amber serpents again crawled over me.

  I came to on a gynecological chair. There was a terrible aroma of smelling salts in the air.

  “She’s a virgin,” came a voice from between my legs.

  The doctor straightened up, began tearing off his rubber gloves. He was large and wore glasses. He was afraid of his mother, of dogs, and of doorbells at night. He loved to tickle his wife until she got hiccups. He loved crabs, billiards, and Stalin.

  “So, what do we do now?” muttered Fedotov just above my ear.

  “I don’t know.” The doctor disappeared.

  “I didn’t ask you!” Fedotov snapped back angrily.

  “Who then? Yourself?” The doctor laughed, clattering his instruments.

  A needle pierced my shoulder. I shifted my eyes: the nurse was giving me a shot.

  My spread legs were bluish-yellow in color. My abrasions were bleeding.

  My eyes filled with moisture. And I felt like sleeping.

  “Well, so?” The doctor let out a big yawn.

  “To the hospital.” Fedotov nodded thoughtfully.

  I lay in the prison hospital for a week.

  There were six other women in the ward. Two had been tortured, four had pneumonia. They talked constantly among themselves about their relatives, food, and medicine.

  I was treated: a perfumed ointment was rubbed into my legs and buttocks.

  The doctors and nurses said almost nothing to the prisoners.

  I looked out the window and at the women. I knew everything about every one. They weren’t interesting to me.

  I remembered OUR PEOPLE.

  And their HEARTS.

  When I got better, they took me back to interrogation.

  The office was the same, but the investigator was new. Sheredenko, Ivan Samsonovich. A slim, well-built thirty-five-year-old with a handsome face. More than anything on earth he feared dreaming of a white tower and dying at work from a heart attack. He loved hunting, fried eggs with lard, and his daughter, Annushka.

  “Varvara Fedotovna, your former investigators were scoundrels. They have already been arrested,” he informed me.

  “That’s not true,” I answered. “Fedotov is having lunch right now in the Lubianka cafeteria, and Revzin’s walking down the street.”

  He looked at me attentively.

  “Varvara Fedotovna, let’s talk as Chekhist to Chekhist.”

  “I never was a Chekhist. I simply wore your uniform.”

  “Don’t be absurd. You worked with Lieutenant Colonel Korobov...”

  “I worked not with him but with his heart. Now it knows all 23 words.”

  “You went on a business trip on the order of the minister of state security, and you visited Camp No. 312/500, where they extract — ”

  “The Ice sent to us from Space, to awake the living.”

  “The director of the camp, Major Semichastnykh, was arrested and gave evidence against Colonel Ivanov, you, and your husband. The three of you beat false testimony out of Lieutenant Voloshin in order to hide the true activities of Abakumov and Vlodzimirsky. This was necessary in order to — ”

  “So that the camp would continue to extract the Divine Ice, which thousands of our brothers and sisters all over the world await. Thousands of Ice hammers will be manufactured from this Ice, they will strike thousands of breasts, thousands of hearts will awaken and speak. And when there are 23,000 of us, our hearts will pronounce the twenty-three heart words 23 times and we will be transformed into Eternal and Primordial Rays of the Light. And your dead world will disintegrate. NOTHING AT ALL will be left of it.”

  He looked at me carefully. Then he pushed a button. An escort entered.

  “Take her away,” said Investigator Sheredenko.

  I was examined by a psychiatrist — a small, round man, with a meaty nose and feminine hands. He was afraid of many things: children, cats, conversations about politics, icicles, his bosses, even old hats, which “stubbornly hint at something.” The only things he truly loved were playing backgammon, sleeping, and writing denunciations.

  In his soft, female voice he asked me to hold my hands out in front of me, to look at his little hammer, count to twenty, answer a bunch of silly questions. Then he tapped his little hammer on my knees and picked up the receiver of a black telephone.

  “Comrade Sheredenko, this is Yurevich. She’s absolutely healthy.”

  After this, Sheredenko spoke with me differently.

  “Korobova, two questions: Why didn’t you and your husband have sexual relations? And what were you and your husband doing so often at General Vlodzimirsky’s dacha?”

  “Adr and I didn’t need sexual relations. We had heart relations. At Kha’s dacha we would engage in conversations of the heart.”

  “Enough playing the madwoman!” he said, slapping his palm on the table. “When did Vlodzimirsky recruit you and your husband? What were you supposed to do?”

  “To awaken brothers and sisters.”

  “Awaken?” he asked nastily. “I see, you don’t want to do this the good way. All right then. We’ll awaken you, too.”

  He picked up the telephone receiver.

  “Savelev, bring the fruits and vegetables.”

  Escort guards appeared. I was taken out into the courtyard. Sheredenko walked after me.

  Cars stood in the courtyard, and the sun warmed us.

  I was taken to a dark green van with a sign reading FRESH FRUITS AND VEGETABLES. The escorts and I sat in the back of the van; Sheredenko sat in the front seat with the driver. The van took off. Inside it was dark; light penetrated only through a few cracks.

  We drove for a short time, then stopped. The doors opened and the guards took me out. They immediately led me downstairs into a cellar. Sheredenko followed.

  We arrived at a metal door with a peephole; the guard knocked on it. The door opened. It smelled of cold. We were met by a mustached overseer wearing a floor-length sheepskin coat. He turned and walked off. We followed him. He opened yet another door. I was pushed into a small, square, empty room. The door slammed shut, the lock clanked. Sheredenko said through the door: “If you get smarter, give us a knock.”

  The cell was lit by a dim lightbulb. One of the walls of the cell was metallic. A coating of hoarfrost covered it in white.

  I sat down in a corner.

  In the metallic wall something hummed faintly. Barely audible, it gurgled.

  I suddenly realized: a refrigerator.

  I closed my eyes.

  The cold grew slowly. I didn’t resist it.

  If the red serpents of my beating had crawled over the surface of my body, the cold made its way inside. It took away my body in parts: the legs, shoulder, back. The last to yield were my hands and fingertips.

  All that remained was my heart. It beat more slowly.

  I felt that it was the last bastion.

  I really wanted to fall into a deep, long, white dream. But something was in the way. Something was bothering me. I couldn’t go to sleep. And so I entered a waking reverie. My heart-sight became even sharper. I saw the corridors of the cellar with its guards. Another eight people were sitting in other refrigerators. They were in bad shape because they resisted the cold. Two of them wailed incessantly. Three others danced around on their last legs. The rest simply lay on the floor in an embryonic position.

  Time ceased to exist.

  There was only the cold. Around my heart.

  Sometimes the door opened. And the mustached guard asked me something. I opened my eyes, looked at him. And closed them again.

  One time he put a cup of boiling water next to me. He placed a piece of bread nearby. Steam rose from the cup. Then he stopped coming.
>
  The prisoners in the cells changed: meat machines couldn’t withstand the cold. They admitted to everything the investigator demanded from them. They were carried out of the cells like frozen chickens.

  New ones were herded into the refrigerators. They jumped up and down and wailed.

  My heart beat evenly. It existed. On its own. But in order to keep from stopping, it needed work.

  And I helped it work.

  I constantly surveyed the environs with my heart: I saw the frost, the iron wall, the hallway, the cells, the walls, the rats on the garbage heap, the trolleys, the meat machines going to and from work, the pickpocket stealing an old lady’s wallet, a drunk falling on the sidewalk, troublemakers with guitars in doorways, a fire at a factory that manufactured irons, a meeting of the Party committee of the automobile-highway institute, sexual acts in a woman’s dormitory, a dog run over by a tram, newlyweds leaving the marriage office, a line for noodles, a soccer game, young people strolling in the park, a surgeon sewing up warm skin, the robbery of a food kiosk, a flock of doves, a conductor chewing a sandwich of smoked sausage, invalids at the train station, the streets, the iron wall, the frost.

  The city surrounded me on all sides.

  The city of meat machines.

  And in this dead mixture, like red embers, burn the hearts of OUR PEOPLE.

  Kha.

  Adr.

  Shro.

  Zu.

  Mir.

  Pa.

  Umi.

  All of those who remained in Moscow.

  I saw them. And spoke with them. Of the Kingdom of Light.

  Sheredenko came in.

  He talked and shouted. He stamped his heels on the frozen floor. He shook some papers. Blew his nose. I looked at his dead heart. It worked like a pump. It pumped dead blood. Which moved the dead body of Investigator Sheredenko.

  I closed my eyes. He disappeared.

  Then I saw OUR PEOPLE again. Their hearts shone. And they swam around me. There were more and more of them. I reached out to more and more new ones, to ones that were far, far away. And finally, I saw the hearts of ALL OUR PEOPLE on this gloomy planet. My square refrigerator glided in space. Around it, their hearts swam like constellations. There were 459 in all. So few! Nevertheless, they shone for me and spoke to me in OUR language.

  And I was happy.

  My cheeks were painfully cauterized.

  I woke up. I was in a hospital ward. The ceiling had six lights. A nurse was putting something on my face. A towel dipped in warm water. The smell of alcohol. The trace of a shot in the crook of my elbow.

  Some colonel came in quietly. The nurse and the towel disappeared.

  A chair squeaked. And boots.

  “How do you feel?”

  I closed my eyes. Seeing the world with my heart was so much more pleasant to me.

  “Can you talk?”

  “About what?” I said with great difficulty. “About the fact that you are afraid of drowning? You almost drowned twice, isn’t that so?”

  “How do you know?” he smiled awkwardly.

  “The first time was in the Urals. You swam out with three boys, fell behind, and at the bridge you got caught in an undertow. Some soldier saved you. He pulled you by the hand and kept saying, ‘Hold on, you horse’s prick, hold on, you horse’s prick...’ The second time you almost drowned was in the Black Sea. You dove off the piers. Swam up to the shore, as usual. You never swam out to sea from the shore. But a homeless dog dove in after you, the beach favorite. She could feel that you were afraid of drowning, and she swam nearby, barking, trying to help. This caused you to panic. You thrashed your arms about in the water and rushed toward the shore. The dog barked and swam nearby. Fear paralyzed you. You were certain that she wanted to drown you. And you began to choke. You saw your family — your wife in a chaise lounge and your daughter with a ball. They were right nearby. You swallowed salt water, let out bubbles. And suddenly your feet touched bottom. You stood up. Breathing heavily and coughing, you screamed at the dog: ‘Get the fuck out of here, you mutt!’ You splashed water on her. She came ashore, shook herself off, and ran toward the stand where one-armed Ashot was grilling shish kebab. You stood waist-high in water and spat.”

  He stiffened. Horror filled his gray-green eyes. He swallowed. Inhaled. Exhaled.

  “You need to — ”

  “What?”

  “Eat.”

  And he left quickly.

  For the first time I remembered about food. In the cell and the hospital they pushed bowls with something brown at me. But I didn’t eat. I was used to eating only fruits and vegetables. I hadn’t eaten bread since ’43.

  Bread — is a mockery of grain.

  What could be worse than bread? Only meat.

  Then, I think, for the first time in these two weeks I wanted to eat. I called the nurse.

  “I can’t eat kasha or bread. But I would eat some unground grain. Do you have any?”

  She left without a word, to tell the colonel. Through the thickness of the brick walls I saw him, slouched over and gloomy, pick up the telephone receiver in his office.

  “Grain? Well...give it to her if she asks. Only that? Give her oats.”

  They brought me oats.

  I lay there and chewed.

  Then I slept.

  That night the colonel came to see me. He closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I didn’t introduce myself earlier,” he said quietly.

  “There’s no need. You are Viktor Nikolaevich Lapitsky.”

  “I understand, I understand...” He waved his hand. “You know everything about me. And...about everyone, most likely.”

  I looked at him. He unbuttoned the collar of his tunic, sighed convulsively, and whispered, “Don’t be afraid, there aren’t any listening devices here. You...can you say whether they’ll arrest me or not?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered honestly.

  He was silent a moment, then he glanced to the side and whispered hurriedly, “I haven’t slept for eight days. Eight! I can’t fall asleep. If I take barbital I fall asleep for an hour and then jump up like a madman. There are big changes going on. Arrests being made. They are sweeping away everyone who worked with Beria and Abakumov. But who didn’t work with them? You also worked with them?”

  “I worked for us.”

  “Two of my friends from the third section have been arrested. Maslennikov committed suicide. Maslennikov! You understand? Khrushchev’s broom is sweeping clean...Hmm...”

  I said nothing. My heart knew what he wanted. He broke into a sweat.

  “I’ve lived through two purges — in ’37 and in ’48. It was a downright miracle that I didn’t fall under the wheel. I just don’t have the strength to live through another one. You know, I haven’t slept for eight days. Eight!”

  “You said that.”

  “That’s right, yes.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I...I want...I know — that you are a real spy. A real agent. For whom — I don’t know. I think it must be the Americans. But — you’re a real, genuine intelligence agent! Not like those fake ones that our strongmen are breaking by the hundreds in order to hand in their cases. I’m offering you a contract: I’ll get you out of here, and you help me to go abroad.”

  “Agreed,” I answered quickly.

  He was surprised. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he whispered, “No, you have to understand, this isn’t some cheap provocation and it’s not...not the fantasy of some sleep-deprived Chekhist. I am really proposing this.”

  “I understand. I told you — I agree.”

  Lapitsky stared hard at me. Some reason appeared in his feverish eyes.

  “I was sure!” he whispered with delight. “I don’t know...I don’t understand...why, but I was sure!”

  I looked at the ceiling. “I was also certain that I would get out of here.”

  And it was true.

  Colonel Lapitsky took me out o
f the investigatory isolation unit at Lefortovo on August 18, 1953.

  A fine rain was falling. We drove to Kazan Station in the colonel’s official car, which he abandoned there forever. Then we got on the commuter train and rode to the Moscow suburb of Bykovo. There, in a dacha belonging to relatives of Yus’s sister, lived Shro and Zu.

  They greeted me with excitement, but not as someone who had died and been reincarnated: their hearts knew that I was alive.

  Having strangled Colonel Lapitsky, we spent two days in heart conversation. My pining heart was unquenchable. I drank and drank my brothers. To the point of exhaustion.

  After burying Lapitsky’s corpse at nighttime, the next morning we left Moscow.

  Three days later at the station in Krasnoyarsk we were met by Aub, Nom, and Re. Adr and I had awakened all of them in the cellar of the Great House.

  Thus, I ended up in Siberia.

  One dark December morning my heart shuddered from pain twice: in far-off Moscow Kha and Adr were executed. The meat machines had stopped their strong, warm hearts forever.

  And we were unable to prevent this.

  Six years passed.

  I returned to Moscow.

  Three brothers had died of natural causes. The old lady Yus had died as well. The Primordial Light, shining in them, was reincarnated in other bodies that had only just appeared on earth. And we were faced with having to find them once again.

  The camp that mined the Ice has been disbanded. The professors who substantiated the importance of studying the “Tungus ice phenomenon” were posthumously dubbed pseudoscientists, and the secret project “Ice” was liquidated. The sharashka where they prepared the Ice hammers was liquidated as well.

  Nonetheless, the brotherhood strengthened and grew. The stores of Ice mined during Stalin’s time were sufficient for all. In 1959 we were grateful to the prisoners of Camp No. 312/500. With their bricks they laid the foundations necessary for an ice base. Cubometers of Ice slept in refrigerators and underground storehouses, awaiting their hour. Part of the Ice was sent abroad through the old MGB channels. From the remainder of the Ice we made Ice hammers.

  They were rarely used, since the search for OUR PEOPLE was narrowed. It became more local. Now, without the support of the MGB, we searched for others of us cautiously, meticulously preparing for the hammering. Train stations, movie theaters, restaurants, concert halls, and stores were the main places we searched. We followed people with fair hair and blue eyes, kidnapped them, and hammered them. But more than anywhere else, for some reason, we had luck in libraries. Thousands of meat machines were always sitting there, engaged in silent madness: they attentively leafed through sheets of paper covered with letters. This gave them particular pleasure, comparable to nothing else. These thick, worn books were written by long-dead meat machines whose portraits hung ceremoniously on the walls of the libraries. There were millions of books. They were constantly increasing in number, supporting a collective madness that made millions of corpses lean devoutly over sheets of dead paper. After reading they became even deader. But amid these petrified figures were some of us as well. In the huge Lenin Library we found eight. We found three in the Library of Foreign Literature. And four in the History Library.