Ice Trilogy

by Vladimir Sorokin

  “Absolutely.” The old man smiled. “Experiencing a premonition of its death, our world is producing discordant movements. It is jittery. There was nothing of the like in the nineteenth century. And the twentieth? Two world wars, the atom bomb, Auschwitz, Communism, the division of the world into Reds and Westerners...Humankind somehow got the jitters in the twentieth century, don’t you think? Take any field, science or art: the cloning of sheep, contemporary art, the cinema, contemporary pop music — these are convulsions. The world is going mad before its demise.”

  “How do you know about...contemporary pop music, living here?”

  “From above, Olga, everything comes from above!” The old man stretched his yellow smile even wider. “Each person who ends up here has something new to recount. My picture of the world is quite adequate. The human tendency toward insanity is quite evident. Tomorrow some blue-eyed youth with a fractured chest will arrive here telling us that up above people are already eating nursing infants for breakfast, and presidents are chosen by the size of their genitals. And I won’t be surprised. New manners and new morals emerge, Miss Drobot, on the threshold of the end!”

  Filling the plastic box with strips, Olga sealed it with sticky tape, placed it on the cart, raised her eyes, and met Wolf’s gaze. Smiling, he winked at her, as though he had read her thoughts.

  “You are preoccupied with something, Miss Drobot?” the old man asked, smoothing a strip on the table with his yellowed, slightly trembling hands.

  “You know what it is.”

  “Cease racking your brains. Everything will be as it should be. Wait just a bit — and everything will end. And how — you know. Patience, my child.”

  The old man’s calmly derisive tone had begun to irritate Olga.

  “The sages teach us patience / gray old men, already patients / it’s easy when it won’t be long / before you finally pass on...”

  Wolf laughed. “Wonderful! Who is that?”

  “It’s Papa’s parody of Omar Khayyám. My father translated Arabic poetry.”

  “I’m in full agreement with your late papa.” Wolf slowly placed a strip into the box. “Truly, it won’t be long...But patience, Olga, is what makes us rational people. You can cease being a rational individual and attack the guards. Or stab me with a knife for skinning our dear dogs. Or simply open a carotid artery with those scissors over there. There is always a choice between judiciousness and lunacy.”

  “So, in your opinion, suicide is lunacy?”

  “Not exactly lunacy but a forbidden move. As in chess, you can’t move the king beyond the edge of the board. The king has to play on the board. And man must live.”

  “And if living is unbearable?”

  “Living is unbearable in any event. And therefore necessary!”

  “And if life is...meaningless?”

  “Much of life is meaningless.”

  “And illness...pain, suffering? Cancer, for instance?”

  “Do you have cancer, Miss Drobot?”

  “Not yet!” Olga answered and grinned bitterly.

  “But I — do. Congratulate me!” The old man smiled.

  Olga stared at him silently.

  “I found out yesterday. At the medical checkup. Cancer of the liver, as was to be expected.” The old man nodded.

  Yesterday there had been an obligatory monthly medical checkup, the goal of which was to detect the seriously ill. As a rule, their fate was decided quickly — a few days later the guards would lead them away forever. In the bunker slang this was called “the ascension.” Olga had witnessed three such “ascensions”: an Irishman who had gone mad, a Hungarian woman who had slashed her veins open, and a Canadian with a serious form of asthma.

  “Actually, Miss Drobot, I suspected that something of the sort would happen,” Wolf continued, with unruffled calm, smoothing out yet another strip. “Half a century ago my papa missed, and the ice hammer hit me in the middle of my back. I must admit, the blow was powerful.”

  “And they...they already informed you for sure?”

  “The diagnosis is obvious. It’s time to ascend.”

  “But...when?” Olga asked and then caught herself. “Forgive my stupidity, Mr. Wolf...”

  “Not at all. It was an entirely proper question.” The old man smiled ironically. “Today, before the lights-out bell. As an old-timer they offered me a reprieve of two weeks. But I turned it down.”

  Olga nodded her head in understanding. Suddenly she felt how very much she would miss old Mr. Wolf.

  “In connection with my ‘ascension’ today, would you allow me to invite you to a farewell dinner? The last supper, so to speak...”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s marvelous. We’ll talk over dinner.”

  Wolf lowered his eyes and returned to his work.

  “Cancer,” Olga thought, glancing at his hands in their rubber gloves. “Tomorrow he won’t exist anymore. But I’ll still be here. Rotting alive...”

  Wolf said nothing new to Olga over dinner. She talked a great deal and asked him a lot of questions, trying as before to understand and process what had happened to her. Wolf spoke little, repeating what he had said long ago, not responding, chewing the simple food for a long time, savoring pieces of fish and vegetables as though saying farewell to them. When he finished his dinner, he drank his lukewarm green tea quietly. Then he began to speak.

  “Olga, last night I remembered something. To tell you the truth, I hadn’t ever forgotten it. But I haven’t told you this yet. You will remember that I said I grew up in the villa of my father, a high-ranking member of the Brotherhood. The brothers often gathered at this villa. And one time when they gathered, I spied on them. Actually, they weren’t really hiding...That evening there were quite a number of them, about fifty people. In the main parlor of the house they undressed to their waists, sat in a circle, and held hands. And then they froze stock-still. In fact, my father and some of the brothers had done this before, they’d embraced naked and stayed absolutely still for a long time. I even think they stopped breathing. For me, a boy, it was rather frightening to see this. But then I became accustomed to it. And when they made this circle, held hands, closed their eyes, and froze, I stood on the stairs of the second floor and watched. The servants were also their own; the cook, the gardener, three guards, and both governesses were sitting in the circle. In the entire house there was only me and my sister, who was asleep in her room. Previously, spying on someone embracing my father, I would hide. That time I suddenly realized that there was no one to hide from — no one would notice me! So I descended from the second floor. The door to the room was locked from the inside. But I went around to the porch, opened a narrow window, and climbed into the room. The curtains were drawn. Only the fire was lit; the chandelier was extinguished. And so I went in and stood in the room. Fifty men and women, naked to the waist, sat with closed eyes, holding hands. They were completely immobile, as though they were petrified. The flames in the fireplace illuminated their bodies. I stood there awhile, then walked around them, examining each of them. It was so strange! I knew that my father lived a strange life, that something very strange was happening around my sister and me, even something frightening. Father was cold with me, we almost never talked about anything except my responsibilities. I socialized more with the tutors, but they too were rather strange, as if they were thinking about something else all the time, and pretending, even when they joked and laughed. School was the only release for me. There I had fun, had friends, played, it was interesting, even the mathematics lessons that everyone found boring made me happy. But at home I was almost alone. After the strange death of my mother, who was hit by a car in Berlin, the only person in my life I was close to was my sister. But Renata was still a little girl, I could only play with her. So that is how I lived. In short, when I walked around that circle of immobile people, at first I felt scared. It was as if these people had died. But I knew that they were alive! And my fear was unexpectedly replaced by anger. What
they were doing made me feel so bitter, so sick to my stomach, so unpleasant! I realized that they were violating something, something very important! But I didn’t understand...what, exactly. I simply began to shake with anger and I burst into tears from a feeling of helplessness. An unexpected feeling! Crying, I ran around the circle and began to hit and slap these people on their backs to make them come to, to wake them up. But they kept on sitting there immobile. I ran around the entire circle. I was very scared. Fear literally choked, squeezed, and threw me down on the floor. I started sobbing out loud. My crying filled the room. I sobbed and heard my own voice. Next to me sat the living dead. Finally I cried myself out. I lay on the rug, whimpering. I had never felt such loneliness as I did in those minutes. That is something I will never forget. And then, lying on the rug, I suddenly noticed through my drying tears that a poker was lying in the fireplace. The bent end of it lay in the coals, glowing red. And suddenly, unexpectedly for myself, I stood up and took this poker, approached my father, and touched his back with the red-hot end of the poker. The skin on his back hissed. There was a smell of burning and a bluish-gray smoke rose. But my father didn’t even flinch. That smoke, that smell of burned flesh, that hissing in the absolute silence somehow calmed me down. I understood something. I realized that these people in the circle...were not people. I, my sister, the pupils in my school, passersby in the street — these were humans. This discovery calmed me deeply. I hung the poker in its usual location, next to the fireplace. Then I crawled through the window again, walked up the stairs to my room, and fell asleep. I slept deeply and calmly. And in the morning, as usual, my sister and I had breakfast with our father. Father was a vegetarian and ate only fruits, vegetables, and germinating seeds. I realized that he hadn’t even noticed the burn on his back. And everything in our family continued as before. For a while...So that is the story, Miss Drobot.”

  Wolf fell silent and slowly, smacking his lips, drank the rest of his cold tea.

  Olga sat quietly, struck by what she had heard. The crying boy with the red-hot poker stood right before her eyes. The old man rose from the chair, and stretched out his yellow hand.

  “Dear Miss Drobot, I wish you good luck.”

  Olga realized that he was saying goodbye. After such a long, intimate story, this was rather sudden. She reached her hand out to Wolf, meaning to say that he shouldn’t hurry to say goodbye, but she suddenly felt something in the old man’s hand. He put a piece of paper in her palm.

  “Mister Wolf — ” Olga said, but he interrupted her.

  “The very best to you, Miss Drobot.”

  The old man turned and walked into the Garage. But he hadn’t yet entered the hall leading to the male half when the white door marked SECURITY opened and two Chinese in uniforms stood in front of him. One pointed at the door with his club. The old man walked obediently toward the bright opening. He stopped. Looked back. His eyes found Olga. He looked at her. He wasn’t smiling as usual, he didn’t wink. His face was calm and serious. Olga jumped up, raised her hand, and waved to him.

  The guards grabbed the old man under the arms and dragged him inside. The white door closed.

  Tears welled up in Olga’s eyes. Squeezing the piece of paper in her hand, she went to the Ham, laid down on her bed, and sobbed into her pillow. People tried to console her but she waved them away. Crying her fill, she fell asleep quickly. And awoke from a gentle touch: Liz was cautiously kissing her on the neck. Olga opened her eyes. It was dark in the Ham. The electronic clock showed 23:12.

  “What’s wrong?” Liz asked. “You’re sleeping in your clothes. Are you tired?”

  “Yes,” Olga muttered as she sat up on the bed.

  “Do you want some water?”

  “I do.” Olga wanted to run her palm down her face, but she felt the piece of paper in her fist.

  She remembered Wolf, his story, the white door...She squeezed the paper in her fist more tightly. Liz returned with a plastic cup and handed it to her. Olga drank. The ice-cold water was pleasantly refreshing.

  “Want to come to my bed?” Liz proposed in a whisper. “Rosemary went to her Scottish girl, and now you and I have a spacious bed...”

  “You know, Liz, I’m kind of tired,” Olga answered, placing the cup on the shelf and sliding off the bed.

  “Well, I’ll give you some energy, sweetie pie.” Liz gently held Olga’s breasts from behind. “You hurt your little finger? Sweetie pie’s finger hurts? Let me kiss that little finger.”

  “Liz, not today, all right?”

  “What, do you have your period?”

  “No, I’m just really tired and want to sleep.”

  “You sure?” Liz embraced Olga’s waist.

  “Absolutely!” Olga grinned and yawned.

  “Well, all right then. Go ahead and sleep, honey.” Liz kissed Olga on the cheek, turned, and went back to her bed.

  As she undressed, Olga watched Liz go. There was nothing between Liz and Olga but gentleness. It happened somehow naturally, though Liz had taken the initiative. She’d had women before Olga. Before Liz, Olga had been deeply in love with Leonora, her contemporary-history teacher, a tall, portly, kind, very calm woman. Olga fell in love quickly and deeply. Before that there had been the guy who made a woman of her; the affair lasted almost a year and then they drifted apart without hard feelings. Then there was another guy, for a very short time. But Olga had fallen hard for Leonora. It ended in disaster — Leonora didn’t understand or accept it. Olga stopped going to her lectures, but passed history just the same...Olga didn’t meet anyone else while she was in college. Then over six years she’d had two affairs. The last had been with a man whom she liked a great deal, but he was married and decided to stick with his family. And after that...after that there was only the ice hammer.

  Waiting for Liz to settle down, Olga went to the bathroom. After the lights-out bell it was the only place that remained illuminated. She entered, washed her face, and glanced at the observation cameras: one in the left corner, another in the right. Six stalls open at the top so that everything could be seen. Which should she choose? Where could she hide from the cameras? Rinsing out her mouth, she realized — in the fourth stall from the entrance. The bottom of the stall couldn’t possibly be seen...

  Olga entered the fourth stall, pulled down her underpants, and sat on the toilet. She exerted herself and squeezed out a stream of urine. And slowly opened her fist. On her palm lay a thin, almost transparent piece of tracing paper, covered with minute handwriting. Olga unfolded it carefully and began to decode Wolf’s microscopic handwriting.

  I won’t address you by name for safety reasons.

  From our lengthy conversations, you, as a sincere and impulsive person, have most likely already come to a premature conclusion about my misanthropic cynicism and apostasy. I assure you, my child, that it is not so. Happily, even after everything that has occurred, I have not become a misanthrope. Even now, at the edge of death, I still feel that I am that very same boy with the red-hot poker in his hand, trying in vain to revive half-people. But they cannot be revived, for they are the enemies of everything living. I have hated my father and his Brotherhood my entire life. And I continue to hate them now, as I await a forced death at the hands of the Brothers of the Light. Alas, my child, they won’t let me die of cancer! I am a patient man and I look on death stoically. But I do not at all desire that you should die by the will of 23,000 living dead. And with you, the entire Earth and her inhabitants. I confess that I am fond of you — as a thinking reed, and a woman. For that reason I am giving you the opportunity to defend your life and that of five billion Homo sapiens. The chance is extremely small, but theoretically possible. It was no accident that I told you the story about the poker. As an observant person, you should understand my idea. The end of the Earth will be the Prime Circle, in which the entire Brotherhood, all 23,000, will gather. I don’t know where the preparations for this event are being made, in what corner of our planet the launchpad for the Children of the
Light is situated, but I am certain of one thing — no simple mortals will be there when it takes off. There will only be brothers and sisters of my now departed father, who never gave my sister and me any paternal warmth. When the last Circle gathers, when they grasp one another’s hands, begin talking in their language in anticipation of the beginning, they will cease hearing or feeling anything, just as those in the parlor of our house did back then. At this time you will be free to do with them whatever you like. The main thing is to find the launchpad. This is strategy. Now about tactics. I am certain that you are reading my farewell missive in the toilet. I am more than certain that you, a person with a quick Jewish mind, easily found the only safe stall for reading — the fourth from the entrance. If you will now lower your right hand and feel the edge of the toilet, you will find a key there. This is the key to the door in the hallway between the Ham and the Garage, from which, as you recall, the cleaning man and woman emerge once a week, in order to clean up our — forgive me, now it’s your — temporary dwelling. Behind that door are auxiliary premises, more simply put, the altar of the underground guards of cleanliness. This space, as far as I know, is connected with the guards’ room, where two guards are constantly on duty. At night, as far as I know, these two are the only guards in the bunker. Four others, on duty during the day upstairs in the workshop, leave the bunker at nighttime.

  I wish you luck!

  I am not signing this for the same reasons of safety.

  P.S. Forgive me that for the possible salvation of the Earth it was necessary to sit on your toilet. By the way, do not forget to flush this letter down.

  Olga folded the note and lowered her right hand, feeling around the edge of the toilet. The key had been stuck there with chewing gum. She took the key and clutched it in her fist. Her heart thumped: Aha! With the letter in her left hand and the key in her right, Olga froze. The possibility of escaping overwhelmed her.

  “It’s possible! So — it’s possible. It’s possible to try!” thudded in her head.