Metro 2035

by Dmitry Glukhovsky

  “You know where you can stick those spoons, you stupid fool.”

  He walked past another two doors, looking back just in case.

  “Pyotr Sergeevich, do you know where I can find him?”

  “Ah, umm … What?”

  “Umbach, Pyotr Sergeevich. The technician. My uncle.”

  “Technician? Uncle? Eh?”

  “A radio operator, I think. Does he live here?”

  “I don’t know any radio operator. Ah, umm! There’s Pyotr Sergeich who works as an engineer in the theater. With the stage, he, er … Well? You know what I mean.”

  “Can you tell me where to find him?

  “Look for him there. That’s the place to ask. Well? The director’s place, God Almighty. Why are you so thickheaded?”

  “Good luck to you.”

  “Bugger off! Can’t do anything for themselves. Fuck it, these young people.”

  In the hall the musicians started tweedling away, warming up. Artyom darted towards the entrance, and the usherette almost bit him on the hand.

  “I can’t go letting everyone in for free! Nothing’s sacred any longer! You lout! This is the BolshoI Theater!”

  He had to run back and buy a ticket, paying with the cartridges that the dead men had lent him. As he bought it, he kept looking round: Somewhere here, somewhere among the promenading public, among the people who had come to the show from Novokuznetsk or wherever else, from all over the Metro, there were two scattered groups of saboteurs. Somewhere there were bombers pretending to be theater lovers. Perhaps somewhere there were even suicide bombers, playing at being fathers of families, for instance, but already wearing explosive belts. When they got the signal that it was time to die for the Reich they’d walk up, sweating, to the Red Line’s border posts and dash into the passages like bats out of hell. And fifteen minutes later the assault teams of the Iron Legion would come bursting in from the two tunnels.

  He looked at his watch.

  And he realized that if he did everything on time, it would be right in the middle of the play. That wasn’t Artyom’s calculation; it was Dietmar’s. So after Artyom had managed not to die up on the surface, everything was going precisely according to Dietmar’s plan.

  But if Artyom didn’t do anything, Homer would hang. And instead of the fascists, the Reds would enter Teatralnaya Station, only tomorrow instead of today. It seemed like one man could change the world, but only just a little bit; the world was as heavy as a Metro train; you couldn’t really shift it too far.

  He dashed back to the female Cerberus at the gate and stuck the ticket in her teeth; and he tipped cartridges into her pocket too. The cartridges made her glasses mist over, and through the mist she didn’t see him sneak into the auditorium first, ahead of the rest of the audience. He walked briskly past the two Red Army posts without looking the soldiers in the eye, so that they wouldn’t remember him. Then he went up onto the stage and stuck his face in through the velvet.

  It was dark behind the curtain: In the shallow space of the stage he could just make out the form of some kind of gazebo, or perhaps a rather vaguely painted ancient temple. Artyom touched it—plywood. He heard voices from behind the plywood, as if it was possible to enter it and live there.

  “Well, believe me, I’d like to put on something different! You don’t think I’m happy with our present repertoire, do you! But you have to understand that in our situation—”

  “I don’t want to understand anything, Arkady. I’m tired of all this balderdash. If there was another theater anywhere in the Metro, in the world, I’d leave here without a second thought! And God knows, I’m absolutely not in the mood to go on today.”

  “Don’t say that! What can I do? I wanted to stage Ionesco’s Rhinoceros. A fine play in every way. And also—an important point—there are no costumes, apart from a rhinoceros’s head, and that can be made out of paper. And then I realized we couldn’t do it! What’s the play about, after all? It’s about normal people turning into animals under the influence of ideology. How can we put on something like that? The Reich will think it’s about them, and so will the Reds. And that will be it. A boycott at the very least. Or something even worse … And then, these people with rhinoceros’s heads … In the Reich they’d be sure to see a parallel with the freaks. They’d think we were mocking their fear of mutations.”

  “Good God, Arkady. That’s paranoia.”

  Artyom took a cautious step forward. Several small rooms appeared: a dressing room, a cubbyhole with stage props, and another one that was locked.

  “Do you think I’m not searching for material? I search constantly! All the time! But take the classics, Hamlet for instance: Open it and what do you see there?”

  “Me? The question is, what do you see?”

  “The question is what do our spectators from the Red Line see there! A neat little plot: Hamlet learns that his father was killed by his own brother! By Hamlet’s uncle, that is. Doesn’t that remind you of anything?”

  They were arguing in the closed room: But in the cubbyhole beside it an old man with gray hair and a droopy mustache was sitting hunched over a table and soldering something with his eyes watering from the smoke. This was more or less how Artyom had pictured the man called Umbach.

  “I haven’t got a clue.”

  “How about the death of the previous general secretary of the Line? In the prime of life! And how was he related to Moskvin? He was his first cousin! Only a blind idiot could fail to spot the hint! Is that what we want? Listen, Olga, we simply don’t have any right to provoke them! That’s all they’re waiting for. Them and the others!”

  Artyom stood in the opening of the cubbyhole where the man with the droopy mustache was sitting. The man sensed his presence and gave him an inquiring look.

  “Pyotr Sergeevich?”

  Suddenly he heard footsteps drumming fiercely and screeching as the steel tips of the boots scraped the floor—somewhere in the hall. Several men. Not saying anything. Artyom hunkered down and turned one ear so that it could hear through the velvet.

  “You’re simply a coward, Arkasha.”

  “A coward?”

  “Any play is too risky for you, whoever we take on! Remind me, will you, why we can’t even put on the pitiful Seagull. The pitiful, absolutely innocent Seagull. A least a decent role could be found for me in that!”

  “Because it was written by Chekhov! Chekhov! Just like The Cherry Orchard!”

  “So what?”

  “So it’s Chekhov! Chekhov and not Wagner! I’m absolutely certain that our neighbors from Wagner Station would think it was a swipe at them! That we had deliberately chosen Chekhov in order to spite them!”

  The footsteps scattered rapidly round the hall.

  “Two of you watch the hall and four get up on the stage!” someone whispered in Artyom’s ear.” The radio operator must be here!”

  Artyom pressed one finger to his lips imploringly, dropped to the floor, and half crept, half rolled away at random; and by a lucky chance he found a gap under the stage.

  They were looking for the radio operator. And for him. The sentries hadn’t tried to catch him immediately; they’d reported to someone. The security police. If only the old man with the mustache didn’t give him away!

  The two people arguing behind the closed door didn’t hear the footsteps.

  “And A Streetcar Named Desire? I could have played Stella!”

  “The whole storyline in that is based on Blanche feeling ashamed of her appearance and hiding away in a dark room!”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Haven’t you heard about the Führer’s wife?”

  “Idle gossip.”

  “My dear Olenka. Now listen to me. People will come to see you, won’t they? They have come. The tickets are sold out … Can I give you a hug?”

  “You coward. You lout.”

  “We put on a neutral show. Do you understand that? Neutral. A show that can’t hurt anyone’s feelings! Art shouldn�
�t offend anyone! It’s meant to console them! It’s supposed to arouse the very best in them!”

  Artyom’s arms had turned numb; his back was starting to hurt. Slowly and cautiously he moved the wrist with his watch on it towards a slanting beam of light. He looked at the dial: In ten minutes he had to go on air, tell Dietmar the mine had been installed and carry out his next order.

  The woman’s voice jangled.

  “And what do you think I arouse in them? Eh?”

  “I understand what you mean, but after all, in Swan Lake the ballerinas used to go on stage with their legs naked! Ah, if only we could put on Swan Lake … But we’ve been told quite clearly that the people regard Swan Lake as a hint at putsches and coups d’état. The situation is strained enough as it is, we mustn’t irritate either side! And then, your pretty legs … Those pretty legs of yours …”

  “You animal. You rhinoceros.”

  “Just tell me that you’ll go on today. Tell me you will perform. The girls from the corps de ballet will be here any moment.”

  “Are you screwing one of them? Have you been screwing Zinka?”

  “My God, what stupid nonsense! I talk to her about art, and she … Why fritter away my time on petty little whores when I’m in love with the prima?”

  “And why are you jabbering to me about art, eh, you lousy rhinoceros? Tell me the truth!”

  “You know how sick and tired I am of this, of this neutrality, of the fact that art … Blah-blah-blah … At this stage I’d like the boss to get shafted by … Do you understand me? One or the other of them.”

  “Don’t start that now. There’s not enough time left.”

  “It could be the Reds, or it could be the Browns, but at least let it be one of them.”

  “I understand you. There’s no need for that.”

  “Yes there is.”

  “There’s not enough time.”

  There was a hiss right above Artyom’s ear, and someone clumsy shuffled his feet and grunted. Whoever it might be and whoever he might have come for, he was standing right outside the closed door and eavesdropping intently. There were six minutes left to radio contact.

  “Yes there is … Let it be one or the other of them. My God, whose idea was it that art should be independent?”

  “You’re tickling my ear, Arkasha.”

  “Whose idea was it that an artist should go hungry? Some idiot or other.”

  “I agree. And you know, I’d like more clarity too. No ambiguity. A firm basis. That’s what I’d like.”

  “You understand me, then? Let them support us, but let them give us a firm set of rules. Let them appoint a censor, but let it be just one of them. Then, for instance, we could put on Streetcar and Seagull … Or, on the contrary, Hamlet and—”

  “Oh yes! Yes …”

  “A consolation, you understand? Art for us … You and me …”

  “Hush … Like that …”

  A knock at the door.

  “Good evening! Arkady Pavlovich!” The voice was hoarse and low—and strangely familiar to Artyom.

  “Who is it? Who’s there?”

  “My God …”

  “Oh, and Olga Konstantinovna is there too. Will you open up?”

  “Ah … Oh! Comrade Major! Gleb Ivanich! What brings you here? One moment … One moment. To what do we owe the honor? We were just making up Olga Konstantinovna here. Before the performance. I’m opening the door now.”

  Artyom could see through a crack: four pairs of steel-tipped high boots and a pair of low boots with laces. The door opened.

  “Oh … What’s going on? Surely you don’t have the right to be here with armed men … Gleb Ivanich! This is a neutral station. Naturally, we’re always glad to see you as a guest … But what’s going on?”

  “In exceptional cases. And this is definitely an exceptional case. We received a warning message. There’s a spy in hiding at this station. Here’s the document. It’s all official, from the Committee of State Security. We know that he’s in illegal radio contact with the enemy and planning an act of sabotage.”

  Artyom completely stopped breathing. For some reason it occurred to him that none of the stalkers who’d been shot on the surface had a radio with him. He had found a mine, but the radio set had disappeared.

  “Do you have anyone here who owns radio equipment?”

  “Where are you going? Halt! Your documents!” a voice rumbled in the next room.” Hold him!”

  “Who’s that in there?”

  “One of our colleagues. A technician. Pyotr Sergeevich.”

  “Where are you going, Pyotr Sergeevich?”

  There was a crash and a groan. The crack showed Umbach, flung down on his knees: One outstretched wing of his drooping mustache was pinned down by a lace-up boot. Artyom prayed that Umbach wouldn’t look down into the darkness under the stage. That in his fear Umbach would forget to sell Artyom to the boots and buy his own life with the proceeds.

  “Right then, lads, take a look at what kind of junk he has heaped up in there.”

  “That … That’s professional equipment. I’m an engineer.”

  “We know who you are. We got a tip-off about you. Been planning terrorist attacks?”

  “God forbid! I’m an engineer! A technician! In the theater!”

  “Take this mumbling idiot along. He’ll go in the Lubyanka.”

  “I protest.” Arkady’s determination gave his voice a squeaky note.

  “Take him, take him. Come here, Arkady Pavlovich. Just for a second.” The voices moved farther away across the stage, but the quietly hissed words were very clear.” Listen, you piece of scum. Who’s this you’ve been sheltering here? Do you think it would be any bother for us to grab you at the same time? You could take a ride to the far end of the Red Line, and no one here would ever miss you. And Olenka … Your Olenka … Touch her again and I’ll cut your dick off. And your balls. Myself. I know how. You fucking juvenile lead. Go screw your corps de ballet, and don’t even dare look at Olga. Have you got that? Do you understand me, you shit?”

  “I’ve g-g—”

  “Say ‘Yes sir, Comrade Major! ”

  “Yes sir. G-gleb Ivanich.”

  “All right. Go. Take a walk.”

  “Where to?”

  “Anywhere you like. Move it!”

  The stage creaked above Artyom’s head: forlorn, lost footsteps. Arkady Pavlovich didn’t know where to go. Then he jumped down onto the ground, swore, and shuffled away miserably. It turned quiet: They had already got Umbach to his feet and led him away, and the steel-tipped boots had all galloped out of Artyom’s field of view.

  And what was more, he had missed the time to contact Dietmar.

  Another knock at the door. A different knock this time: crude and masterful, without any pretense.

  “Olga.”

  “Ah … Gleb. Gleb, I’m so glad …”

  “I was standing outside the door. And she’s glad, the bitch.”

  “Oh, Gleb. He blackmails me. Doesn’t give me any decent parts. First one thing, then another … He keeps me on a short leash and fobs me off with promises!”

  “Shut up. Come here.”

  They slurped loudly and lusciously, then pulled themselves apart with an audible effort.

  “Right then. I’ll come tonight. I’ve got executions this evening. We’re going to top a few traitors. And after that business … I always fancy something sweet. So badly, it sets my teeth on edge. Make sure you’re here waiting for me. All right? And wearing a tutu.”

  “I understand. I’ll be here.”

  “And make sure no one else is here. Not that Arkasha of yours or—”

  “Of course, Gleb, of course … But what … What kind of traitors are they?”

  “We caught a priest. He was preaching. And the others are defectors. The mushrooms on the Line are all ruined. Some kind of plague. So the wimps have started running. They remember being bloated with hunger last year. Never mind. They won’t run far. We’ll top a few
of them as an example, and the rest will soon settle down. All right, as a woman, that’s none of your concern. You just give yourself a good douching and don’t ask any questions. And don’t forget the tutu.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The major gave her a fruity slap on the backside, thundered across the stage with his heels, jumped down heavily onto the granite, and disappeared into nowhere: into the same abyss that had belched him out.

  Artyom went on lying there, waiting. Would she cry? Would she have hysterics or a fit of convulsions? Would she call her Arkady back?

  She started singing.

  “To-re-a-dor … en garde … allons, allons …”

  * * *

  “Ladies and gentlemen! And now! Permit me! To present to you! The superstar! Of the BolshoI Theeee-aaaatre … Olga Aizenberg!”

  Some kind of wind instrument struck a sad, beautiful note, and Olga Aizenberg, with her long legs that were absolutely unsuited to life in the catacombs walked out onto the stage and across to a pole. He couldn’t see her face from backstage, only a shadowy outline in China ink, but even the shadow was incredible.

  She made her entry in a long dress, and the first thing she did, before throwing her glorious legs round the pole, was to take the dress off.

  Artyom laid out the segments of his aerial on the floor and arranged it to point towards where he imagined Tver Station ought to be. He pulled on the headphones and clicked the switch. He didn’t have the time or the courage to go pushing his way through the jam-packed hall with the radio set on his shoulders, arguing with the sentries and crawling up the escalator. He just hoped the signal would reach Tver-Darwin Station along the tunnel. Let it get there.

  “Come in … Come in …”

  There was a rustling, choking sound in his head, and then mercy was granted.

  “Oh! Stalker? And here we are already measuring up your old man for a necktie. You’re late.”

  “Cancel the operation! Come in! They’re not planning to take Teatralnaya! Come in! They’ve got famine … On their line. They’re putting up … those checkpoints … to catch defectors …”

  Dietmar made an indistinct sort of sound: Either hawking something up or grunting.