Vasily hunkered beside him, a comforting hand on his back, not speaking, respecting equally the privacy of his friend and the sanctity of the setting.
Later, when the manoeuvres had ended and they drank by the fireside and celebrated their symbolic victory with their comrades, and Bykov walked around his men, congratulating them, praising their strength, Vasily and Grigory marked themselves with ravens, both of them heating a needle, burning through the skin, and running ink into the crevices, remembering those who couldn’t endure what they’d been through.
The intensity of military life eased for them then.
They bribed an administrator, who sent them together to a military hospital in eastern Siberia. They worked as nurses and porters and cooks, observing whatever medical procedures passed their way, and on summer weekends they lived out their fishing fantasies, hiring a small boat and heading out into the Velikaya estuary, where they spent whole days casting out into the crisp waters for pollack, caring but not caring if they caught anything, doing it for the pleasure of the task, languishing in the rhythmic lap of the water, casting their lines towards the horizon. There they caught snailfish sometimes, a strange gelatinous fish that had the texture and shape of a large roasted red pepper. The thing looked prehistoric, as if no one had told it about the requirements of natural selection, and they speculated intermittently as to the origin of its name, so that it became a running gag between them, to drop the question in at random moments, so that the very wording of the question became funny, then boring, then funny again, going through its own comedic evolution.
Sometimes beluga whales swept near their boat. Calm white presences, skimming through the water. From a distance, they would see the vertical spout of water from a blowhole and they would place their rods aside and watch. Occasionally an anchor-shaped tail would flip up and crash back onto the surface announcing a whale’s presence. One simple action that never failed to be breathtaking.
IN THE SHADOW of the reactor Grigory looks over to Vasily. The helicopter is being readied, loaded for the drop.
“I’m thinking about the Manpupuner rocks. About that night.”
“Yes,” Vasily replies. “I’ve thought about that too. There’s something about the scale of this place.”
They turn their attention again to the column of smoke.
“And the whales at Anadyr.”
“Yes. We’ve seen some things.”
“Yes, we have.”
They’re dressed in rubber suits, rubber boots, rubber gloves, gas masks, all in white. They’re guided to the machine and strapped facedown on the floor. They would view the reactor below from small holes in the lead sheeting. This has been decided on as the safest option. There’s no readily available way of releasing themselves from the strapping and they wear no parachutes, the flight being too low for them to have any effect. They turn their faces to each other, fear drawing a taut line between the whites of their eyes, connecting them.
Two boys from Kostroma, how their lives had ushered them to this moment.
Then Vasily says, “I feel like one of our fish, slapping around at the bottom of the boat.”
And Grigory smiles wryly at this; it’s a good thing to say, here, right now, in the situation they’ve found themselves in, confirming their friendship, their history, providing reassurance to them both.
The engines kick in and every vibration from the machine passes straight into their bodies, boring into their cores. After a couple of seconds of slow rising, they can make out the grass beneath them and then the surface blends into streaks as they ascend and spiral. The noise of the machine feels as though it originates inside their heads. There’s no separation between themselves and noise; they are at one with the machine, as much a fixed addition to the thing as the steel bolts that stud its inside. They can make out the blur of concrete underneath them, and then the craft steadies itself and the sight gradually comes into focus. Another wonder that their eyes have set upon, another image to remind them of their insignificance, another marker in their friendship.
Below them they see the disfigured roof, a gaping mouth, its limits obscured by the fumes it exhales. They watch the parcels feather downwards, the packages of chemicals exploding into powder, chutes flaring into flame as they descend. The two friends lying prostrate before it. Such power. Radiation ripping through their cells.
Chapter 7
The town of Pripyat unfurls, going slowly through its Sunday morning motions. Almost nobody has to work today. Couples have blurry, half-awake sex, keeping it surreptitious, aware of their kids moving about, playing in adjoining rooms. Most have woken in the early morning to the throb of helicopters skimming above them; many had fallen back asleep. There is an awareness of the accident, mainly since yesterday evening, everyone knows someone who has been sent to the hospital. There has been plenty of talk about the fire, people are unnerved by it, but of course it’s under control, of course the management have plans to deal with these kinds of incidents.
May Day is next week and the schools have given the children weekend assignments, getting them to make bunting, to fold paper into shapes and chains, and on dozens of living room floors, scattered throughout the apartment complexes, there are kids furiously working scissors, matting the carpet with runny glue. They talk about the situation, the couples in their beds, and the men who know something feign ignorance—what good could come from speculation?—and the men who know nothing wonder if they will get some paid leave, a chance to catch up and do things they often planned to do when not monopolized by the demands of work: paint the bathroom, put fresh shelves into the kitchen cupboards.
The early risers are walking their dogs, soaking in the morning sun, and feeling fresh and healthy and energized and somewhat self-satisfied in their choice of Sunday morning activity.
The town goes about the business of being the town, but it’s soon to become a memory of the town, a once inhabited place, wistful, forlorn.
Paper starts falling.
Pastel-coloured paper falling from the sky.
Small sheets drop like giant confetti upon the landscape. It takes a moment for this to register. The dog walkers notice it at eye level and are confused. The sound of a helicopter engine blares overhead and they fail to connect these two oddities and then they look up and see the deluge of coloured paper winding and twisting down towards them in the gentle breeze. A confection of colour. The sheer expanse of the sight makes it impossible to focus on a particular aspect: they take it all in at once in simple delight, the scene all the more pleasing in its unexpectedness. It occurs to several of them that this may be a practice run for the national celebrations. Perhaps they would be more outlandish this year.
A seven-year-old boy looks out from the window of his living room and smiles, pleased that his teacher has delivered the extra paper she had promised the class.
A man spoons yogurt into his mouth and freezes in his action, mouth open, spoon suspended.
Rectangles of colour on the pavement, a free-form cubist work. Green pages falling on the grass, each shade intensifying the other. Yellow pages on blue cars, blue pages on yellow cars. Paper catching on telephone wires, a kaleidoscopic clothesline. Kids streaming out of doorways now, rolling on the paper. One kid eating it because it looks so good. Dogs leaping and yelping, twisting on their hind legs, feeding off the excitement.
A woman in her fifties picks up a page. There is text in bold, clear letters. They have three hours to evacuate their homes. Each person can bring one case. Extra luggage will be confiscated. They are to position themselves outside their buildings at 12:00 p.m. They will receive further instructions at that time. Anyone not abiding by the guidelines will be separated from their families and arrested. She runs home to her husband, waving the paper in the air, shouting to all around that the pages are a directive. Her dog ambles after her, in charge of his own leash.
And word spreads quickly. Neighbours tell neighbours, who tell neighbours, the most ancient and re
liable of communication systems.
THE FIRST HELICOPTERS to reach Artyom’s village pass in the midmorning. Artyom is on his way to his friend Iosif’s to work on their motorbike. A few months ago one of the kolkhoz managers had come across them looking at a car manual, talking about horsepower and torque, and told them to come over to his place that evening, where his old Dnepr MT-9 was lying in a shed around the back.
“It’s a piece of shit. If you get it out of my way, you can have it.”
So they walked to the man’s home, five kilometres away, and walked back, pushing it along. They stopped every few dozen metres to survey their new acquisition. Since then, every Sunday, they have been working on the machine. Neither of them knows what they are doing, but they have taken apart every piece in turn and cleaned them all and put them back together again. They still don’t have a manual, but from time to time one of their neighbours comes over and offers some advice and they do as suggested, but the thing still doesn’t work. They don’t care, though. It is their bike, their possession, and they both know it will break into a roar, someday.
Artyom hears a rumbling in the distance, getting louder, nearer, eventually surrounding him. The hedgerows are too high and thick for him to see over them, so he doesn’t understand what’s happening until the undercarriage of the aircraft passes over his head.
He stands amazed. The only loud sounds he has ever heard are from farm machinery, but they don’t dominate the landscape like this, enveloping everything with their roar.
Artyom runs to his friend, the echo in his ears so strong that he can’t hear his feet thudding on the earthen track. When he rounds the blackthorn bush at the end of Iosif’s lane, he sees Iosif and his mother standing outside their gate, looking upwards. Nothing mechanical ever moves through this sky. They have never even seen a passenger plane up there. More helicopters. The leaves in nearby trees shudder with the shock.
They cup their hands over their ears.
“What’s happening?” Artyom asks. But he realizes his voice is being consumed. A loose sheet of tin flaps on their roof.
Iosif’s mother draws her boy to her. Iosif doesn’t resist. Even though he’s too old to accept such mothering, it seems irrelevant to wonder what his friend will think. When the aircraft have passed Iosif’s mother asks, “What are you doing here, Artyom?”
He’s confused. He comes here every Sunday. He stutters his answer.
“The bike.”
He points towards the shed where they keep their chopped wood, which doubles as the boys’ workshop.
“To work on the bike.”
“Bashuk took it. Didn’t your father tell you?”
Bashuk is Iosif’s father.
Artyom wonders if maybe the helicopter has shuffled his brain around. How could Iosif’s father use it? It’s broken. That’s why they’re always working on it. And how could his father not have told him?
Artyom looks at Iosif, not understanding. Iosif hunches his shoulders, displays his palms. Iosif’s mother goes inside while Iosif explains.
“Your father came over yesterday. They both fixed it together. Apparently it was something pretty simple.”
He is almost shouting, even though the noise has passed.
“They were trying not to laugh in front of me. They knew what the problem was all along, they just wanted us to figure it out for ourselves.”
Artyom doesn’t respond for a few moments. He knows that the men don’t regard him as an equal, even if he’s allowed to shoot with them. But it’s a blow to realize that they still see him as a boy, someone to be toyed with.
They walk inside the house. Iosif’s mother stands by their table, her palms spread flat on top of the wood, her shoulders hunched, the muscles in them so tight that it looks as though she is trying to push the legs through the wooden floor. She is breathing heavily. Iosif approaches her but doesn’t know what to do. Sometimes his mother acts in ways he can’t understand. Sometimes she cries while eating dinner but still pretends she’s not crying. Sometimes his father hits her and, instead of hitting back, she does nothing, or says sorry, and Iosif doesn’t know what to think. Iosif hovers his hand over his mother and looks at Artyom, and Artyom encourages him with a tilt of his head and so he places a hand on his mother’s back and she softens, her elbows bend, she speaks breathlessly.
“I have some leftover martsovka. Would you boys like some?”
They sit quietly and she brings the food on two plates and they eat. The sound of their forks tinkling against their plates. No one speaks for a few minutes. The boys don’t ask questions; they wait to hear if Iosif’s mother will offer some information. But, of course, she doesn’t.
“How did they fix it?”
Iosif lifts his head and looks at Artyom.
“The bike. Did they say what was wrong with it?”
“They said it was the distributor. They said they’ll show us when they get back.”
More silence. Iosif’s mother is looking out of the window. The boys don’t feel that they should stand up and leave yet. But it’s difficult to sit still. Artyom straightens the fork on his plate.
“Something bad is happening.”
He says this as a statement, but it’s a question too. A gentle request for Iosif’s mother to reveal a little of what she knows.
“Yes.”
“Is it to do with yesterday morning?”
Iosif’s mother turns sharply in his direction. “What about yesterday morning?”
“Nothing.”
Artyom wants to ask Iosif’s mother why the helicopters are passing. He wants to ask if there’s a military base nearby that no one has told them about. He knows there’s a Komsomol barracks in Mogilev; one of their classmates, Leonid, was invited there to receive a Young Pioneers award. But he knows never to ask about local history or geography. He can ask about far-off places. Any adult will talk to him about a trip to a city, their journey to Moscow or Leningrad many years before. In the school of two rooms that serves his and four other surrounding villages, the teachers hold lessons on lakes and forests, the animals of the tundra, the feeding habits of a heron. He knows that the main industry of Togliatti is the Zhiguli car factory and Volgograd is a major centre of shipbuilding. He knows that during the tenth Five-Year Plan, 4 million square metres of housing were built in Minsk and that it was his fellow Belarusians who invented ice cream (when peasants licked the frozen sap of the birch trees) and potash fertilizer. He knows that one quarter of all Belarusians died in the Great Patriotic War. He has begun to draw conclusions about how his village came into being, but there’s nothing written about it in the four shelves of books that sit behind his teacher’s desk and he knows not to ask.
The people here don’t look the same as each other. Some are darker; others have the same wide faces as the Tartars he sees sometimes in copies of old newspapers. They don’t speak about race or about the generations that preceded them. In this village, they’re a collection of people from nowhere. They came here, one after another, when the war ended, when records were lost or destroyed and there were few facts floating above the ravaged plains for administrators to seize upon. In those few short years you could build a life for yourself that wasn’t defined by fear. In other places they still sent people to the gulags for arriving to work two minutes late, for taking home a pencil in their breast pocket, for not having a particular stamp on a particular document on a particular day. But this didn’t happen in communities the authorities didn’t know existed.
When they came back from battle, the soldiers didn’t return to their families or their loved ones: they knew there was nothing left. In their retreat from the Germans, four years before, they’d burned the villages of their relatives, eviscerating all life in the area, so that when the war turned and they crossed back into these places they were shocked at the extent of their own destruction: all these areas that meant so much to them were recognizable only by a stray sign or the black skeleton of a barn or grain silo. They knew
the roads their trucks drove upon were made from the bones of their own people, that the bodies were so thick on the ground that the enemy hurled them together into long rows with great earthmoving machines, the battlefields long since stripped of trees.
These were roads they refused to walk on. They headed for fields, for areas of woodland, discernible in the distance. They simply walked away from their posts, ran away from documentation, from reentry into the system. So when they reached an isolated spot and they stumbled across an iron stove, or the charred remains of a wall, they cut branches and started a fire and sheltered in the shadow of the stones. They burrowed into the ground for warmth while they built the more permanent shelters. Gradually they rebuilt the izbas, first with stone, then wood. They dug wells, drove cows and sheep from markets that were a two-day walk away. Women came and were welcomed and were never asked where they were from. They changed their names and never asked each other about the past. And they loved and bore children, and when uniformed men arrived and insisted the burgeoning farms be formed once again into collectives, the men had their new documentation ready and agreed to what was required of them, but kept some extra land for their own use, a reward for their years of work. And no objections were raised.
They don’t ask about soldiers here. They don’t talk about the military here. Even those men who have just come back from service avoid the subject when they sit together in groups in the long evenings.
All That Is Solid Melts into Air Page 9
