“Where’d you come from?”
“I’m from the sixth,” the smiling fellow answered.
“Well?” the bulldozer driver said, squinting in confusion. “What did you get in the way for? How can I make the turn?”
“Don’t get all steamed up, man. There’s a shitload of other stuff still on the way!”
“So where are we supposed to go?”
“Khokhriakov will tell us everything. Let’s have a smoke.”
“What the hell do I want Khokhriakov for...I still have three trips to make!” the bulldozer driver complained irritably.
“The bosses know best,” said the other guy with a grin, yawning.
“Think they’re so fucking smart...” The bulldozer driver sighed, taking a cigarette.
A truck drove into the courtyard from around the corner of the next building. Workers in yellow overalls holding shovels stood in the back. The truck stopped.
“Come on, guys, quick, quick!” a voice shouted. Two of the workers jumped down immediately and began digging up the courtyard like maniacs. Two women pushing strollers stared at them in bewilderment. From the cabin of the truck a fat little man got out with a gas-powered saw; waddling along on his short legs, he started it up with a roar, rushed over to a linden tree, and the blade’s serrated teeth bit into the trunk. Sawdust began to collect.
“So much for that, goddamnit,” the short man cried out. “Bobrov, Egorych, chop ’em up! Cut down the rest.”
“They’re chopping down trees!” one of the women with a carriage said in horror.
“Hey, what are you doing?” said her friend.
The workers continued without answering. A window on the second floor opened and an old lady stuck her head out. After her a man, chewing and naked to the waist, also looked out.
“Why are they...?”
“Like I said — those bastards will stop at nothing to defend their garages!” the old lady grumbled with defiance.
Two trucks with covered trailers drove into the courtyard. From the cabins two Tajik guys with picks slowly emerged. Spitting on their hands and exchanging a few words, they reluctantly shouldered their picks and began to break up the pavement. Two asphalt crushers drove out of the forest onto the street; their steel tips grabbed the asphalt. In the building the tenants began to look out of open windows. The sawed linden tree swayed and tumbled, its crown demolishing the swings of the playground. The tenants shouted indignantly. The little fat man ran up to an old poplar with his whining saw and furiously set to it. The orange excavator rolled off its base, knocking over giant, overfilled dumpsters. The containers tipped over and the trash fell onto the street. A long-nosed and very unhappy old man in an old BMW drove up to the cement mixers and gave them orders: “Pour it there, where you’re standing!”
Cursing, the drivers climbed into the cabins. The crane’s boom began to turn in between two tin garages, snagging them as it moved; a GAZelle reversed and pushed its way in backward. The vehicle’s cabin held a steel basket with ten Azerbaijanis in red hard hats and protective suits. The crane picked up the basket and began to raise it quickly. The basket swayed, the Azerbaijanis shouted at the crane operator. Concrete flowed from the churning mixers onto the square in front of the building. The crawling excavator hooked two cars, and their alarms rang out. The old poplar swayed, cracked loudly, and began to collapse slowly, its branches catching on telephone and electrical wires, trees and balconies. With tremendous force, its crown hit the glassed-in balcony of the apartment where Merog was hiding. The window frames cracked, the glass shattered. Shouts rang out from open windows.
Observing everything happening around the building, Merog grew pale. Dashing over to the suitcase, he closed it, grabbed it, and ran to the front door. He opened the door and immediately slammed it shut: indignant tenants were running down the staircase. Someone rang the doorbell. Merog froze. Then they knocked. And a woman’s voice sounded: “Nina Vasilevna, they crashed into your balcony! Nina Vasilevna!”
The doorbell rang again.
On tiptoe, Merog went into the kitchen and with suitcase in hand cautiously looked out the window. Down below, immersed in the din of the asphalt crushers, a growing crowd of tenants followed the machine operators back and forth; someone tried to climb into the cabins with them; cement poured out of the mixers and crawled toward the building; human feet sludged through it; the Tajiks hammered away with their picks, the earth diggers dug, the short guy sawed through the next poplar, shouting angrily. Merog took a close look: the short guy’s face was all red, his head shook, and he was frothing at the mouth. A woman in a dark-blue robe decorated with silver dragons ran up to him, grabbed his reddish, bristling hair, and pulled him off the poplar. Shorty dug his heels in, resisting; the saw in his hands was still roaring. He jerked away with his whole body, drew back, and slashed the woman across the face with the saw. She screamed, grabbed her face, and sat on the ground. The crowd gasped and screamed. The short guy, muttering and pulling his head into his shoulders, stared at the woman with a crazed look. He let out a sob. The men in the crowd rushed at him, shouting. And suddenly that very same long-nosed and extremely unhappy old man, who had arrived in the dusty BMW, stuck his fingers in his mouth and let out a whistle so unexpectedly loud that for a moment it cut through the roar of the machines and the cries of the crowd. The crowd shuddered and froze. As if by command, the machines stopped crunching the asphalt. Everyone stared at the old man. He had obviously not realized his strength: his extraordinarily strong whistle turned out to be too much for his skinny body. Blood spurted from the old man’s large nose, his eyes rolled back; he raised his thin hand, clenched his bony fist, snorted, tottered, and fell flat on his back. Immediately, with furious cries, the people with shovels and the Tajiks attacked the building’s tenants. Picks and shovels flashed above the crowd, the cries of the wounded could be heard. The excavator’s bucket, after smashing a balcony on the second floor, crashed into the window and pushed farther into the apartment. With loud cracking and crunching it scooped household articles onto the lawn in front of the house. The asphalt crushers crawled over to the building, placed their steel tips against the walls, and with a crash began to destroy them. From the next courtyard a red fire engine approached, directing a stream of water at the windows of the building. Firemen in helmets nimbly unrolled the fire hoses. The Tajiks and people with shovels, scattering the crowd, burst into the entryway with their bloody picks and shovels. Simultaneously, the Azerbaijanis used the electric saw to rip the roof to pieces.
Merog’s whole body shuddered; he licked his dry lips. The doorbell kept ringing and fists pounded on the door.
“Nina! Ninochka! Nina! Save us!” a woman’s voice howled.
Merog grabbed the automatic and threw the door open wide. On the other side three women were crowded together. Screaming and wailing, they pushed in through the doorway. Merog fired straight at each of them in succession. Clumps of meat flew into the stairwell, the women fell one by one. Picking up the suitcase in his left hand, Merog ran across their dying bodies and flew up the stairs. Other neighbors were running down the stairs. Some of them were holding axes and knives. Merog began to shoot them, climbing higher and clearing the way. Crashes, cracks, and cries sounded through the building. Merog climbed several flights and saw four Azerbaijanis with pistols entering the building from the roof. They fired at him. Dodging out of the way, he fired his last round. The Azerbaijanis collapsed with cries and groans, but there were others coming in after them. Shots rang out and a bullet hit Merog in the neck. He tossed the empty automatic, held the wound, and rushed downstairs with the suitcase. Another bullet pierced his side. Moaning, he kept on going. The Azerbaijanis didn’t give up. The lower floors of the building shook; cracks snaked across the walls; the firemen’s water spray beat at the windows; the tenants who were still alive screamed. Merog looked down — a crowd of Tajiks with picks in hand was climbing up from the second floor.
“Catch him!” they shoute
d on seeing him. Holding on to the suitcase with both hands, he raced through the first open apartment door and froze: in front of him rose the bucket of a bulldozer, raking out the contents of the apartment. Merog held the suitcase tightly to his chest. The bucket moved forward with a grinding sound. It crumpled some low shelves loaded with dishes, bookshelves cracked, a leather sofa popped open, and a television exploded. The bulldozer’s huge teeth came closer. Merog took a step and rushed back. But the sweaty dark-faced Tajiks were already very close.
They struck his head with a pick and Merog fell. Countless swarthy hands grabbed the blue suitcase. With his last bit of strength Merog fought them. Shrugging him off, the Tajiks opened the suitcase, shaking the boy onto the floor. Merog clutched, clutched, clutched with his bloody hands.
“That’s him, the fucking bastard!” a woman’s voice screamed in English, and through the Tajiks’ filthy hands, a pretty hand with a gold-plated Browning stretched, stretched, and stuck the barrel to the pale, rosy, defenseless chest of the sleeping boy and pulled the trigger.
“Noooooo!!!” Merog screamed wildly, jerked forward, and sunk his teeth into someone’s stinking foot in a worn-out sneaker.
“Filthy dog!” came a roar from above, and the sharp end of a pickax entered Merog’s temple with a crunch.
Merog opened his eyes.
The Mercedes was still driving along the MKAD.
And the boy was still asleep next to Merog in the open suitcase. Merog exhaled with a heavy moan and shook himself. He leaned over and pressed his head to the boy’s body.
“What is it?” said Tryv, looking back from the front seat. “I can see: your heart is uneasy.”
“I’m losing the border between worlds,” Merog answered. “Meat dreams are crawling in.”
“That’s only natural, brother Merog. Meat dreams crawl in when the meat begins to clot.”
“The meat is pressing on all worlds,” added Obu as he moved into the left lane. “Your heart is young, Merog. Place yourself on the Ice. Those meat dreams will fall away.”
Suddenly the Mercedes swayed. A flat tire knocked softly.
Obu moved into the right lane and pulled onto the shoulder.
Everyone sitting in the car looked back and forth tensely. Merog closed the suitcase, pulled out a pistol with a silencer from a sports bag. Tryv reached under the seat, picked up a short-barreled automatic, and released the safety.
Obu looked out the window.
“Both tires on the right. That’s no coincidence.”
“Are there two spares?” Merog asked.
“There are, thank the Light,” Obu answered, taking the automatic from Tryv. “Change the tires.”
And immediately got in touch with Dor.
“We’ve stopped. Two flats. It’s no accident. We need brothers.”
“I’m coming,” Dor answered.
“No! It’s dangerous. Your rear fender is bashed in.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“You’ll attract the meat.”
“I believe the heart, Obu. I’m coming to you.”
“Dor, we need brothers! The meat machines are coagulating. I know this.”
“I’m calling the shield.”
“It’s dangerous! The meat senses them. We need regular brothers!”
“I’ll call them.”
Tryv got out and set about changing the first tire. A Lincoln Navigator with a damaged fender passed and stopped about ten meters ahead. Obu lowered the tinted window. A white highway police Toyota with a blinking light and a siren drove up to the Mercedes. An overweight lieutenant with a puffy, unhappy face and an unlit cigarette in his plump hand saluted them.
“Now that’s the good life.”
Continuing to turn the jack, Tryv lifted his head.
“Hello.”
“Two at the same time? Wow! As they say, shit happens, even to a Mercedes. Need some help?”
“We’ll manage on our own, Lieutenant,” replied Merog instead of Tryv, lowering the dark window and holding his gun at the ready. “We have to deal with a shitload of this stuff nowadays!”
Obu, Merog, and Tryv laughed.
“You got that right.” The lieutenant grinned; patting his pockets, he yawned nervously. “Damn, where did I put it...in the car as usual...”
He turned to shout to his partner, but Merog held a lighter out the window.
“Officer...”
“Uh-huh.” The lieutenant leaned over and lit his cigarette. “Thanks. Well then, good luck.”
“You too.”
The lieutenant, puffing on his cigarette, got into the Toyota and drove off.
Merog closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled with relief.
“I have to rely on the Ice.”
“The Ice — is our altar. It provides balance. And the Light provides energy,” Obu spoke out.
“The Light provides energy,” Merog repeated, and closed his eyes again.
Tryv changed the tires.
The Mercedes drove on. Merog again opened the suitcase and carefully held the hand of the sleeping boy.
“The meat is strong. But there are limits to its strength. Meat is dangerous, brother Merog. But it doesn’t have any altar,” said Obu.
“Meat only craves and coagulates,” Tryv added, wiping his hands with a damp cloth.
“Because it senses that the end is near.”
“Because it feels that its end is near,” added Merog, carefully squeezing the boy’s senseless, cool fingers.
The Mercedes turned onto Kiev Highway toward Vnukovo Airport.
The Lesser Circle of Hope
My heart feels the presence of brothers.
And I leave my dream. Which I see constantly in recent years. A dream that helps me to sleep on the planet Earth. My shining dream. The dream that is always with me:
We are finally together, all, all, all of us down to the very last, we are nearing the Place, it’s already quite close, I see it, it emerges from the fog, it’s inevitable, it is so desired and unavoidable that I’m afraid I’ll lose consciousness at the last moment, and I hold, hold, hold on to the brothers and sisters, my arms embrace them, I am among them, in their dear, intimate crowd, I press close to them, I touch their bodies, which will soon dissolve into the Light, very soon; which will dissolve together with me, dissolve forever. I look into their faces, dear, close faces that have surrounded me all these decades, helping us to keep moving toward our goal; I hear the beating of their hearts, the last blows of these meat motors hiding the Light, the Light intrinsic to us, the Light that we will all soon become, the Primordial Light. The Light that does not allow us to perish on the frightful planet Earth, the Light that is very, very, very close.
Brother Mokho’s hand touches my face. I recognize and recall. And my body wakes up. I open my eyes. Brother Mokho and sister Tbo are standing at the head of my bed. They are excited. And I immediately understand why. They don’t have to speak any wretched, pitiful, Earth words: their hearts are shining with joy. My heart quivers with the expectation of joy. I listen to their hearts. My heart and I understand just what kind of joy. It is much older and stronger than the hearts of the brothers. But it hasn’t lost its ability to quiver innocently with expectation. My heart trembles. Just as it did back then, in the Alps, when I was a young girl. My chest bled. The Ice hammer shook it and awakened my young heart. The old man Bro touched my heart. He touched it so that it began to tremble with the sweet expectation of the Light.
I move my fingers. And lift my thin arms. I stretch them out to the brothers. My hands shake. Leaning over, Mokho and Tbo clasp my palms. And place them on their chests.
My heart greets their hearts.
Mokho and Tbo take the blanket off my body. It is woven from mountain grasses that extend the life of the flesh. My old body meets the air of Earth. This air is bitter and destructive.
Brothers Mef and Por, who help me every morning, enter. Their bodies are young and muscular. They exude strength and calm.
The brothers’ strong hands lift my body. It is gaunt from earthly life. Withered from heart knowledge. Drained by the absence of the Gift of Search. A gift that only Bro and Fer possessed. A gift that allows all to be found at once. A gift that would not reveal itself to just me for these sixty years. Which I so agonizingly craved all my true life. For which my heart prayed incessantly. For which my brain raged. For which my blood boiled. For which my bones throbbed.
The brothers’ hands carry me into a spacious stone room. A blue basin awaits me. The brothers carefully place my feeble body in the warm basin. It fills with fresh cow’s milk. The milk gurgles and foams. It swallows my body. The brothers’ voices sound in the room. Each of them says something quietly. And each of them remembers my heart. Dozens, hundreds of voices join in an invisible din under the marble cupola. They are always with me. I listen to them. The voices ring. Every morning begins with this music for me.
I close my eyes.
And hang in space.
And see all of ours.
At this moment there are 21,368.
Including me — 21,369.
In the world of meat machines the remaining 1,631 are being found. Their voices can’t be heard in the choir. I cannot see their hearts. They still await their awakening. They await their encounter with the Ice hammer. They wait for us.
Quickly giving me its warmth, the fresh milk leaves the basin. Mef and Por lift me. They wrap me in a sheet woven from choice linen. They sit down on two blue stones. The brothers’ fingers help my weak body rid itself of the reprocessed food of Earth. Then they wash me under an icy stream of mountain water. The crystal stream wakes me up. It retains the memory of the calm mountains.
And I begin to live.
Ice Trilogy Page 55
