“What kind of further examination is it in there? X-ray?”
“Now that’s pushing things a bit too far, an X-ray! Right … Hang on … No, I imagined it. Over on your side. Aha. So far everything’s okay with you. Let me have your stomach … Don’t tense it up, no need.”
The rubber fingers—soft and cold—somehow suddenly reached past the skin and the muscles to touch the liver itself and tickle the frightened intestines.
“Well, I don’t feel anything directly. Let’s inspect the sexual organs. How are you? Still using them?”
“More often than you use yours.”
“Well, you’re a stalker, that’s why I ask. You chose a fine trade, of course. All right. I don’t see any particular abnormalities here. Get up. You should stay in the Metro, dear fellow, like all the other people. But you just have to go and do it. And next time maybe we’ll have to send you for further examination too.”
“And how long … Will they take to examine … Him … That man?”
Artyom couldn’t help listening: What was going on there behind that door on the right? Not a sound.
And what was going on inside him, Artyom? Did it matter to him now if the broker was being X-rayed or not being X-rayed? Not a sound there either.
The important thing now was to grab Homer by the scruff of the neck and drag him out of this place alive. And get to Teatralnaya, before the Reds arrived there. Only one stretch of line. One step to the goal. And Lyokha. He wanted to fight the freaks. First let him prove all about himself. Idiot.
“How long, how long … As long as it requires, that’s how long they’ll take,” the doctor said pensively, writing out an authorization for Artyom.” In this matter, dear fellow, nothing is ever known in advance.”
* * *
Dietmar gazed around proudly.
“Well now, welcome! Darwin Station. The former Tver. Were you ever here before?”
“No, never.”
Artyom had a scratchy tickle in his throat again.
“That’s a pity. The station’s changed beyond recognition.”
And it was true—Artyom couldn’t recognize Tver Station.
Two years ago the low archways were completely covered off with metal grilles, converted into cells. Squatting in those cells in their own shit were non-Russians who had been caught in neighboring stations. Two years ago Artyom had spent the night in one of those cells, counting the minutes until his execution in the morning, trying to breathe and think his fill for the final time.
“There’s been a complete reconstruction!”
The cells had disappeared. No soot on the ceiling from smoking torches, no rusty stains from human fluids that had leaked out onto the floor. Everything scoured off, washed away, disinfected, and forgotten.
And standing there instead of the dungeons were trading kiosks, neat and freshly painted, with numbers. A holiday bazaar. A crowd splashing around in it: happy, peaceful, indolent. Strolling around in families. Little kids sitting on their fathers’ shoulders, dangling their legs. Choosing something from the counters. Music playing.
He felt an urge to rub his eyes.
He looked for the spot where they had tried to hang him … He couldn’t find it.
“You won’t recognize the entire Reich!” said the Unter.” After the general line of the Party was changed … The reforms began. We’re becoming a modern state. Without any excesses.”
Black uniforms were only a drop in the crowd; they didn’t offend the eye. The hand-daubed posters about the superiority of the white race had vanished, the long banners: THE METRO FOR RUSSIANS! had disappeared. And of all the old slogans only one remained: A HEALTHY MIND In A HEALTHY BODY! And so it was: there were all sorts of different faces on all sides, not just with snub-noses, milky-white skin, and freckles. And most importantly of all—the people were all trim and erect, neat and tidy; like at Chekhov-Wagner, where they had been to first. He couldn’t hear the wrenching cough that was a permanent fixture at Exhibition; there was no one with goiter from radiation exposure, and all the kids looked handpicked: two arms, two legs, cheeks like tomatoes from Sebastopol.
“Just like your Polar Dawns,” said Artyom, turning to Homer.
The old man was shuffling his feet behind Artyom, twisting his beard and soaking it all in: for that book of his, what else. The chicken was dangling under his arm; the notepad, screwed up, was jutting out of his back pocket. The Unter had refused to give back anything else yet, including Artyom’s equipment.
“Over there, round the corner in the old offices we have a hospital. Free, of course. And the entire population is given a medical examination twice a year. The children every three months! Will you go and take a look?”
“No, thank you,” said Artyom.” I’ve just come from the doctor.”
“I understand! All right, then let’s … You know what … This over here!”
Loading cranes jutted up along the edge of the tracks; trolleys had accumulated there. They went over to admire them.
“Darwin is our main trading gateway now!” Dietmar declared proudly.” The volume of trade with Hansa is especially large, and it’s growing all the time. I think that in these difficult, turbulent times all the civilized forces should close ranks!”
Artyom nodded.
What did Dietmar want from him? Why had he spared him the shaving of his head and formation training that the other volunteers had been herded off to? Why had he given way, when Artyom demanded to keep Homer with him? Why would a common volunteer be honored by being led on an excursion round the stations: first round Chekhov, and now here too?
In these difficult. Turbulent.
“Over there is the tunnel to Teatralnaya.”
Drop everything and make a dash for it.
“The most unsettled section of the border. We’re reinforcing our defenses. Preparing, so that not even a mouse can creep through. So I’m sorry, but we won’t go that way now.”
So now what? How could they get to Teatralnaya? Ryaba clucked and started flapping her wings: Homer had obviously squeezed her too tight, almost smothered her. But she didn’t go anywhere. The old man was holding her tight. Artyom felt like a chicken himself. What could he do now?
“And over at that end, take a look: a tallow candle workshop, one of only a few in the Metro, strangely enough, and sitting over there is our team of weavers, a genuine shock brigade! Absolutely magical socks; anyone with rheumatism pays any price at all for them! Right … What else? Let’s go down into the passage! That’s where our accommodation sector is.”
Leading down to the passage to Pushkin-Schiller were two escalators that dived straight into the marble floor of the hall. The group scampered down the ribbed, black steps and emerged into a genuine avenue: The passage had been lined on both sides with little cabin-houses, bronze torch-lamps burning between them, caressing the marble. In one of the gingerbread houses there was even a school; and at the break, with the jangling bell, well-washed, sound, and healthy children came spilling out from inside towards Artyom, running straight into his chest.
“Shall we go in?”
They roused the teacher Ilya Stepanovich from the journal that he was pondering over, and he showed them the classroom: a pencil portrait of the Führer—a severe-looking man with a youthful air and stubbly cheeks, a, map of the Reich, caricatures of the Reds, appeals to do morning exercises.
“Artyom is a fellow thinker, joining the Iron Legion as a volunteer!” Dietmar presented him.” And this is …”
“Homer.”
“What a curious name!” Scrawny Ilya Stepanovich removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose.” Are you Russian?”
“Il-ya Ste-panovich!” Dietmar drawled reproachfully.” Is that really important now?”
“It’s a pseudonym,” said Homer.” Dietmar is probably Dmitry too, isn’t he?”
“I used to be,” the Unter chuckled.” So how did you become Homer?”
“It’s just people’s mockery. I
was trying to write books. A history of our time.”
“You don’t say!” Ilya Stepanovich tugged on his beard.” Would you do me the favor of coming to visit for tea? That would be really interesting. And my wife can give you some dinner, if you’re feeling hungry.”
“We’ll come! We’ll come!” Dietmar was delighted.” And how strong will the tea be?”
“As strong as our love for the Motherland!” Ilya Stepanovich smiled with his yellow horse’s teeth.” We’re right at the end of the passage, opposite the gypsy family.”
“Social housing!” Dietmar raised his finger towards the molded ceiling.” Thanks to the Führer’s concern.”
* * *
The accommodation sector really was like something through the looking glass: The floor was covered with cozy little rugs stretching the entire, infinite length of the corridor; the walls were hung with reproductions of all sorts of solemn old works and calendars with cats and flowers. Along the way they came across women in aprons and men in braces on their bare bodies; a draft wafted out wisps of mushroom-stew steam from someone’s kitchen; and suddenly, screwing up his eyes and laughing, a little toddler on a tricycle trundled out from behind some bend and went hurtling along the avenue.
“It turns out that there is life on Mars,” Artyom remarked.
“You see? And they demonize us.” The Unter smiled at Artyom over his shoulder.
The passage to Schiller ran into a brick dead-end; Dietmar explained that the station was under reconstruction, so there was no way they could visit it today. They wandered around a bit more where possible, counting off every lingering second as they wandered. And the Unter didn’t drop back for a single one of those seconds; he never left them alone together. They had to guess in silence.
And at the arranged time they knocked at their hosts’ door.
On the doorstep they were met by a dark-haired, brown-eyed young woman with a huge round stomach.
“Narine,” she introduced herself.
Dietmar pulled out of his sleeve a champagne bottle, refilled with some kind of enigma, which he had bought at some moment unknown, and gallantly presented it to their hostess.
“A pity you won’t be able to try it!” He winked at her.” I’m willing to bet that it’s a boy in there! My mother had a way of telling: If the stomach is round, it will be a boy. But if it’s a girl, it’s pear-shaped.”
“It would be good if it’s a boy.” She gave a pale smile.” A provider.”
“A defender.” Dietmar laughed.
“Come on in. Ilya will be here in a moment. There, if you want to wash your hands … The toilet.”
And they really did have their own tiny little toilet. Separate, like in the abandoned buildings on the surface. A human toilet bowl instead of a hole in the floor, and a china washbasin on a leg, and a bolt on the wooden door; on one wall there was even a thick rug.
“Splendid!” said Dietmar.
“There’s a very cold draft from there …” their hostess explained in a quiet voice as she handed him a waffle towel.” We insulate ourselves as well as we can.”
It was decided to lock Homer’s chicken in the toilet: They even sprinkled some crumbs for her.
Their host came back from work, darting avid and curious looks at Homer. He invited them into a charming little room, sat them on a folding sofa, rubbing his hands, and poured them all clean little spirit glasses of his special tea with a secret.
“Well, how do you like it here? In the Reich.”
“It’s remarkable,” Homer admitted.
“And people in the greater Metro still frighten their children with us, eh?” Ilya Stepanovich wrinkled up his face funnily and tossed back a little glass.” We’ve seen such great changes here! After the Führer’s New Year speech in particular!” He turned towards a pencil portrait—exactly the same as the one in the school classroom.” It’s all right. Let them come and take a look for themselves. Not even Hansa has a system of social security for its citizens like the Reich’s! And by the way, the program for accepting immigrants is being expanded here! They’re reconstructing Schiller now.”
“Is that for the Iron Legion?”
“And for that too. By the way, you can’t even imagine how many volunteers are arriving from all over the Metro! Many with families. We have two new children in the class just this month alone. I have to admit: The rejection of nationalism was an idea of absolute genius. And such boldness! Can you imagine what boldness is required to admit—in public, at the Party congress, that the political course of all the preceding years, not just years, but an entire century—was mistaken! What courage! To declare something like that to the faces of all the delegates. Do you think the Party consists of spineless puppets? No! Allow me to assure you that it has an opposition, and quite a serious one! Some have been in the Party for even longer than the Führer himself! And then to throw out a challenge like that to those authority figures. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to drink to him.”
“To the Führer!” Dietmar rose smartly to his feet.
Even Narine touched a glass to her lips.
It was awkward not to drink. And Artyom and Homer drank.
“Why pretend about it? Narine and I … It was the Führer who gave us a chance.” Ilya Stepanovich touched his wife’s hand tenderly.” By permitting mixed marriages. And not just a chance. This apartment … Narine used to live at the Pavelets radial-line station. It’s a different world! A completely different world!”
“I’ve been there,” Artyom muttered, replying awkwardly to his ardent gaze.” The hermetic doors are broken there, right? All sorts of garbage used to creep in from the surface, I remember. And … there were a lot of sick people … Because of the radiation …”
“We. Never. had. Any. Sick. People,” little Narine said harshly, with surprising malice.” You’re talking nonsense.”
Artyom was taken aback. He shut up.
“And so history is changing before our very eyes!” Ilya Stepanovich exclaimed in a voice resounding with joy, stroking his wife’s hand soothingly.” And you’re damned right to decide to write precisely now! You know, I myself … Well, after all, I teach my pupils the story of the Reich. From Hitler’s Germany down to our days. And the idea keeps niggling at me that I should start writing a textbook. Why not write about all of our Metro? And now here’s the competition.” He laughed.” Shall we drink, colleague? To all those fools who ask why do we need to write a history textbook! For all those fools who mock us! And whose children will find out how everything was from our books!”
Homer blinked, but he agreed to drink.
But Artyom kept glancing surreptitiously at Narine. She wasn’t eating; she wasn’t listening to the conversation. Her arms were embracing and protecting the large, round stomach in which a little boy compounded of two bloods was sitting.
“Really, why shouldn’t you write it, Ilya Stepanovich?” Dietmar exclaimed, infected by the teacher’s enthusiasm.” Would you like me to have a word with my superiors? After all, we have a printing press, don’t we? We publish the army’s Iron Fist, so why not a book?”
“Are you serious?” The teacher blushed bright red.
“Of course! Educating the children is a supremely important task!”
“Supremely important!”
“And it’s very important what is presented to them and how, right?”
“Fundamentally so. Fundamentally important!”
“For instance, take our confrontation with the Reds. You know, their propaganda accuses us of all the deadly sins … You’ve had a chance to see for yourself now.” Dietmar turned towards Homer.” But you know, there are quite a lot of people who believe it! They believe it and they’re afraid even to stick their noses in here.”
“But just imagine!” Ilya Stepanovich continued.” Just imagine setting out to write about the Reich, without ever having been here! What could you have told posterity about us? Some terrible poppycock! Nothing but stupid nonsense.”
“And what will you tell them?” Homer couldn’t resist asking.
“The truth! The truth, naturally!”
“But surely everyone has their own truth, don’t they?” the old man enquired.” Even the Reds, probably. If so many people believe it …”
“For the Reds truth is advantageously displaced by propaganda!” Dietmar intervened.” This egalitarian leveling-down … I tell you, the freaks have secretly seized power there, and they’re brainwashing the normal people! They incite them and stir them up against us. They’re preparing for war! Where’s the truth in that?”
“Hungry, poor people! Just how hard do you think it is to make them believe anything at all? Do you think they’ll even try to distinguish the truth from the lies, to separate the wheat from the chaff?” Ilya Stepanovich put in.” They can’t admit that here, in the Reich, a social model has been created that has no equal in the entire Metro, can they? No! They’ll try to scare you with concentration camps and ovens and such rubbish!”
Narine put her hand over her mouth, as if afraid that some forbidden word or other would slip out, then stood up and walked out hastily. Ilya Stepanovich didn’t even notice, but Artyom did.
“And what will you write about the freaks in your textbook?” Homer asked.
“What is there to write about them?”
“Well … if I understand correctly, aren’t they now … ? They’re the ones the Reich is fighting against now, isn’t that so? Instead of …”
“Yes, they’re the ones,” Ilya Stepanovich confirmed.
“But how? How is it fighting?”
“Remorselessly!” Dietmar prompted.
“But what do you do with them? The ones that you find?”
“What difference does that make? Well, they’re sent off to perform corrective labor.” The teacher frowned.
“You mean that deformities can be corrected by this labor? What about cancer?”
“What?”
“Cancer. From what I’ve heard, the Führer has equated cancer to genetic deformity. I wonder what sort of work that is?”
METRO 2035. English language edition.: The finale of the Metro 2033 trilogy. (METRO by Dmitry Glukhovsky) Page 16
