Ice Trilogy

by Vladimir Sorokin

  “I must,” she whispered.

  Life had acquired meaning again. Instantly her body filled with energy.

  Everything must be thought through. But whom should I escape with? It would be impossible alone...With whom? Who can be trusted? Think, think, my orphan!

  She shuddered. She carefully opened her hand and looked at the key. It was homemade, cut out of a narrow steel plate.

  It was time to return to the Ham. The only thing left was to flush Wolf’s letter down the toilet. She really didn’t want to. She remembered the old man, pretending until the very last to be a cheerful cynic, remembered his story about the boy with the poker, trying in vain to return his father to life, and tears filled her eyes. Old man Wolf had been a terribly lonely man. Since childhood.

  “A father’s...warmth,” she said, and sobbed.

  Crumpling up the letter, she dropped it in the toilet. She stood and pushed the button to flush it down.

  Farewell, Country of Ice!

  We arrived that evening in a large bulletproof car at a building where prominent meat machines of the main city of the Country of Ice were gathered. Brother Obu sat behind the wheel of our car. I sat next to him. Brother Uf sat in the back. Another bulletproof car with the guards stopped behind our car. Brothers Merog, Tryv, Dor, and Bork sat in it with weapons in their pockets. I got out of the car and opened the back door. Brother Uf got out of the car. Brothers Merog, Tryv, Dor, and Bork quickly got out of their car and surrounded brother Uf. Brother Uf entered the building. Merog and I followed him. The other brothers remained outside. In the entryway of the building there were guards; pictures valued by the meat machines hung on the walls: a furry animal who liked to sleep in the winter depicted against the outline of the Country of Ice; a bald meat machine with a mustache and a beard, who carried out a coup in the Country of Ice eighty-eight years ago; an iron hammer crossed with an iron instrument for cutting ripe ears of grain; ripe fruits against the flag of the Country of Ice; a bird of prey with two heads. We passed the guards and walked up the staircase. Meat machines with devices allowing them to capture and multiply images of faces stood on the side of the staircase. They immediately pointed these devices at Uf’s face and furiously began to capture and multiply his image. Several other meat machines began to ask Uf various question connected to the gathering of meat machines and the future of the Country of Ice. Uf shook his head no, and Merog and I pushed away the loud, clamoring meat machines. When he reached the top of the staircase, Uf entered a large room filled with meat machines. At the opposite end of the hall stood a raised wooden platform for meat machines to talk from, and over the raised platform on the wall hung the large word RECONCILIATION and under it, in slightly smaller words, WE’LL SING TOGETHER!

  When we entered the hall, a small, middle-aged, but wide and powerful meat machine stood on the platform saying that it was long overdue for all meat machines living in the main city of the Country of Ice to reconcile with one another and not be enemies, since hostility only damaged the Country of Ice, which had so many difficulties anyway. This meat machine reminded them that meat machines with different desires and interests had gathered here, but today was a day of reconciliation, and this reconciliation should occur through songs that the meat machines of the Country of Ice like to sing. According to the meat machine speaking, these songs helped the meat machines of the Country of Ice to live; the grandfathers and great-grandfathers of those standing here were helped by these songs in the difficult years when the meat machines of the Country of Ice fought against the meat machines of the Country of Order and were victorious. To conclude the talk, the stocky meat machine began to sing about the main city of the Country of Ice, about the light in the windows of buildings, about the domestic comfort of meat machines, about the ringing of metal objects that the meat machines have hung in tall buildings in all ages, in order to ring them when everyone needed to gather and pray. Uf walked around the room. Merog and I followed him. Meat machines turned and looked at Uf. Some said hello, but some turned away angrily. Uf found brother Efep in the crowd. He was standing with seventeen of our brothers and sisters, who had been working all the time with Efep in meetings of meat machines responsible for the laws by which the meat machines live. Efep and the rest of the brothers were prepared to abandon today’s meeting of meat machines on Uf’s command. We walked over to him. Uf was restrained. He could not allow himself to show his joy. Walking over to Efep, he made the sign: It’s time! Efep’s heart flared. But he understood that all of them could not leave at one time. He gave the command to the brothers. And they began to leave the hall gradually. Others stood and pretended that they were singing or listening to the speakers. A strapping meat machine with an angry, decisive face climbed the raised platform and began to talk about how it was time for reconciliation, that they had to do away with the internal enemies of the meat machines who are keeping the meat machines of this country from becoming happy. Then this meat machine sang a song from the time of the war between the Country of Ice and the Country of Order; about how the meat machines of the Country of Ice were at war with the Country of Order, and how the meat machines of the Country of Ice wouldn’t waver in the struggle for their country. Most of the meat machines standing in the hall sang along; a few whistled as a sign of protest. Our brothers quietly left the hall. Uf stood and chatted with various meat machines that approached him. When the song was over, the meat machine with the mustache said that today the song should reconcile them all, and in a delicate voice sang about a fuzzy insect flying to a flower, and about the daughter of meat machines who do not have a permanent home, and about the daughter hurrying at nighttime to another meat machine so that they can do pleasant things to each other in the dark. Most of the meat machines in the hall began to sing along with the mustachioed meat machine; a few even began to dance around, but the mustachioed meat machine sang and cried. As soon as the song finished, a large, well-fed meat machine got up on the elevated platform and said loudly that it would be a crime to bury the skin of the bald meat machine in the ground, that for decades the meat machines of the Country of Ice had loved this bald meat machine, who carried out a coup and did so many good things for the Country of Ice; that the skin of the bald meat machine should lie on the main square of the Country of Ice for eternity, so that little meat machines could come to the building and decorate it with flowers. Then this well-fed meat machine began to sing about the meat machine who once traveled far from its home on a four-legged animal, couldn’t find the road back, and slowly froze to death. At this moment Uf gave the sign to leave. And all of us, including brother Efep, headed for the exit. When we walked through the crowd of singing meat machines, some of them spoke angrily to brother Uf, saying that they did not like the songs of the Country of Ice. But Uf walked silently through the crowd. And his heart rejoiced. And I realized that we would never see these meat machines again, that we would never hear their strange songs again. We went outside and got into our iron machines. Brother Efep and other brothers and sisters got into their iron machines. Our iron machines traveled away from the center of the main city of the Country of Ice. A while later we arrived at the place where iron machines capable of flying land and take off. A large white flying machine was waiting for us. This was the last, eleventh flying machine exporting the remaining brothers from the Country of Ice. Ten such machines had already flown off, filled with our brothers and sisters. We entered this machine by a staircase, and Uf was the last to go up. He decided to be the last to leave the Country of Ice. His powerful heart completed everything that had happened to the Brothers and Sisters of the Light in this country. He stopped at the door, and his heart flared. Everyone sitting in the flying machine felt the reason that Uf’s heart flared. His mighty heart was rejoicing and saying farewell. It was rejoicing because all the Brothers and Sisters of the Light down to the very last one had left the Country of Ice, that he, Uf, had lived to see this moment, that the Great Transformation was close at hand. But Uf’s heart was
also saying farewell to the Ice that had been destined to fall in this particular large country, farewell to the Ice that had allowed the dispersed Brotherhood to gather again, to the Ice that no longer was. Tens of thousands of Ice hammers had been shattered against the chests of meat machines in this country, many brothers and sisters had died trying to gather the Brotherhood, many of them reincarnated as those now sitting in this white flying machine. Uf’s heart rejoiced and said farewell. And our hearts rejoiced and said farewell along with his. Casting a last glance at the earth of the Country of Ice, Uf turned away from it and entered the machine. We closed the door after him. Inside the flying machine were the brothers and sisters with the most powerful hearts in the Country of Ice. Their assistants were with them, like myself and Merog, like Tryv and Bork. The hearts of everyone sitting in the flying machine were glad, greeting Uf’s mighty heart. We all knew how much Uf had done for the Brotherhood; we felt his shield, preserved and cared for his mighty heart. The coagulating meat tried constantly to destroy Uf, swallow him, crush and demolish him. But Uf was wise of heart — he slipped away from bullets and from the fury of the meat, deftly going head to head with influential meat machines, deflecting their blind rage so they would direct it against each other to the advantage of the Brotherhood. Uf helped the Brotherhood to acquire colossal wealth in the Country of Ice, arranged things so that millions of meat machines continually and for practically nothing worked for the Brotherhood, bringing the hour of the Great Transformation closer. The flying machine roared and began to take off. It was flown by our brothers as well, there were no meat machines here. Dozens of hands stretched out toward Uf, dozens of hearts shone for him. He walked past and touched everyone, touched us with his hand and his strong heart. The flying machine tore away from the earth. Our hearts flared. Everyone understood that the Great Exodus from the Country of Ice was completed. Everyone knew that dozens of such flying machines would carry the Brothers and Sisters of the Light from dozens of other countries. So that everyone WOULD meet in the Great Last Circle.

  Upward!

  A vague noise woke Olga up early: people were making a racket, but she really didn’t want to get out of bed. She opened her eyes with difficulty. In the Ham everyone was bustling about, jumping out of bed, running into the hallway. Way down the hall, a dull shot rang out, then another. Then — a shout was abruptly cut off. In underpants and T-shirt, Olga jumped out of bed, glancing at the clock: 4:16. She opened her fist: the key! The key wasn’t there. Then she remembered: over dinner she’d given it to the Russians, told them everything, hoping that they’d help with the escape. She’d trusted those hotheaded Russian guys...

  “What happened?” Meryl asked, hanging over the top bunk.

  “They offed someone!” Sally shouted, hurrying into the hall half naked.

  “They tricked me! They left without me!” Olga realized. Furious, she punched the bed.

  She ran out into the hall with other women: almost the entire population of the bunker was crowded around the open door of the storage room. Everyone was pushing and shoving and swearing. The men were armed with whatever they could find — unscrewed chair legs, pieces of drawers and shelves. Clearly the Russians had spread word of the escape, and the Garage was ready. The Ham wasn’t far behind. Women shouted as they tried to jam their way through the door; Olga noticed that some of them were carrying manicure scissors.

  “It’s like shouting ‘fire’ in a theater,” she thought.

  There were young people and middle-aged people in the crowd, and even an old Ukrainian woman with unbrushed hair elbowing furiously as she clutched a twisted wet towel and shouted, “Outta my way, pushers and shovers!”

  Olga rushed forward in confusion, worming her way through the crowd. She pushed into the dimly lit storeroom, filled with other Friends of Dead Bitches. Hurrying forward, she glimpsed a door into the well-lit guard room on the left. Two uniformed Chinese guards lay on the floor, their heads bashed in. Nearby, the bare legs of one of the Russians could also be seen, apparently the fat guy Lyosha; one smooth, hairless leg in a white unwashed sock jerked convulsively. The smell of blood cut through the smell of people just roused from sleep.

  “It’s begun!” Olga thought, both excited and afraid.

  The storeroom was a meat grinder: people wailed, others swore, others pressed with all their might against the pale blue walls; someone’s nightclothes split and tore, brooms cracked underfoot, a harrowing cry came from a woman who had fallen on the floor.

  “Oh my God...” a male voice sobbed desperately; Olga realized that she would soon be crushed. Close by she could hear curses and prayers in different languages.

  “Oh Mama,” Olga implored, her face pushed against the sweaty nape of a cheery, freckled Swede.

  The Swede’s head shook with strain; something in his body cracked and he farted; behind, people shouted and pushed and shoved. Olga found herself hurled abruptly into a wide corridor, where she landed on the floor with the Swede, a beaky French woman, and a long-haired German. A young man fell on top of her, yelped, and tried to scramble over her like a tree trunk. Shrieking and scratching, Olga clambered across the muscular Swede.

  The French woman was half crushed. She swore, “Oh...salauds, putain!”

  “A-a-a-a No! NO!!!!” someone squealed.

  Beneath Olga, the Swede was groaning, and the young man on her back began to yowl. She braced her legs, bellowed, and with all her might pushed up and freed herself from the jumble of bodies. Stumbling, she ran down the corridor with the crowd. The hall was long, well lit, and fairly wide, wider than the one in the bunker. Here and there were doors: on one, a red cross, on another, a picture of a dog’s head, on a third, the number 7.

  Down the hallway Olga ran, her bare feet slapping against the warm linoleum. Others ran alongside, bumping each other and cursing. Just ahead the hall forked: people huddled in confusion, feverishly trying to make up their minds which way to go. Someone muttered “Elevator” and waved to the right; a group ran off in that direction. Suddenly Olga noticed drops of blood on the floor. They led to the left.

  “The Russians!” she thought. “The wounded one! The guards shot him...”

  For some reason she felt sure that the Russians knew the way out, and she rushed to the left. This hall was just like the last, but without doors, and it stretched on before forking again. There was someone running behind Olga and someone just ahead. Again, the red drops led left. Olga followed them and ran smack into a group of escapees who were beating two Chinese women in white coats. The women didn’t even try to resist. Nearby, on the floor, lay an overturned cart with cups, thermoses, and plastic jars.

  “Here are the elevators!” Sergei’s shout sounded ahead. “This way!”

  Through a muddle of backs, hands, and faces, Olga saw the three stainless steel elevator doors, each decorated with an image of a red heart flanked by two Ice hammers. Abandoning the lifeless Chinese women, everyone ran to the elevators. Sergei, limping and holding a captured gun, was one of the first. Olga rushed toward him. Suddenly the doors opened, revealing two rows of guards with automatics, one standing, one kneeling. There was a shout in Chinese, and the guns roared into action. Olga froze in her tracks as the bullets literally cut the people ahead of her into pieces. Light-haired, blue-eyed people, riddled with bullets, fell to the floor. Bullets whizzed everywhere, ricocheting off the walls, scattering blood and shredded flesh. Still, Olga hadn’t been hit.

  “That’s it...” she thought. “Now it’s my turn.”

  Cold with fear, Olga turned wildly to the right, her whole body braced in expectation of being shot. She saw the open door from which the two unlucky Chinese women had probably emerged with their cart. Exhausted, stumbling, falling, certain that she wouldn’t make it — the air was so thick with bullets — Olga grabbed the doorjamb with one hand while her feet struggled for traction on the floor. Then someone kneed her in the back, hurtling her through the door, before slamming into her and knocking her flat.r />
  Olga rolled across the smooth floor.

  The door slammed shut. The room was almost quiet. The only thing to be heard was black-haired, brown-eyed people killing blue-eyed, light-haired ones. Olga rose onto her hands and knees and looked around. By the door, in all his heroic height, stood Bjorn. Pale, his mouth hanging open with terror, he leaned back against the door.

  “Lyktstolpen!” Olga laughed hysterically, jumping up. “Mamochka, oh my God...”

  Bjorn looked all around:

  “An elevator! Another elevator!”

  Olga turned. As far as she could tell they were in a large room adjacent to the workshop where they’d cut the strips of dog hide: long metal tables, low metal cabinets, a large glass cabinet, and on top of it a plastic dog head, a full meter high, the dog’s crimson tongue hanging out happily. There were stickers on the cabinet beneath that featured red-and-gold Chinese characters followed by exclamation marks. The square door of a large freight elevator was inset in the wall.

  “That way!” Olga shouted, rushing toward the lift.

  As if on automatic pilot, Bjorn pushed himself away from the door and ran behind Olga, overtaking her in two leaps. His huge palms, spattered with blood, slammed against the elevator’s black call button. The thick doors opened immediately, as if awaiting his touch. The inside of the elevator was spacious.

  “Amazing!” Olga gasped, jumping in front of Bjorn.

  Muttering in Swedish, he followed. On the left was a panel with a red button on top and a black one below. On the right, covering the entire wall, was a poster displaying the same happy dog with lolling tongue. Next to the dog were the same exclamatory Chinese characters they’d just seen, as well as a small picture of a very happy Chinese family whose smiling pater familias held out a flask.

  Olga pressed the red button.

  The elevator moved smoothly upward.