Kolymsky Heights

by Lionel Davidson

  The swine at the other end was a colonel of security, the Administrator of the Buro, who had proved a great pain to the major. On more than one occasion he had reported adversely on the major’s competence. Aspects of the present situation could easily provoke him again; but there was no help for it.

  The matter was so ridiculous he didn’t even know how to explain it. He jotted down a few notes for himself. But even with the notes it was difficult.

  It concerned the naming of a baby. The baby, not yet born, was about to be born, prematurely. When born it would be the grandchild of Stepan Maximovich, the Director’s manservant. Tribal custom among the Evenks required the grandfather to choose a name for the baby.

  The visiting schedule for Stepan Maximovich entitled him to one visit per rotation of Evenks. And he had already had it, two days ago. Because of the baby the Evenks were now demanding a further visit; in fact two. This was because he would need to consult his wife in between. It might even be necessary for him to have a third visit, in case he changed his mind. Grandfathers often changed their minds. If this one changed his it could easily take them into tomorrow. It couldn’t be after tomorrow, because the day after tomorrow Medical Officer Komarova …

  The major tugged at his collar. Rough going.

  … because the day after tomorrow Medical Officer Komarova, who had herself informed them of the imminent baby (brief details of visit), would be coming to the camp again. The Evenks were insistent that by then the baby’s name had to be known. Evenk belief was that a dead baby, even more than a live one, had to have a name in order that God …

  Well, skip God. The colonel would have views on God. But how then to …

  What they had to understand down there was that Evenks were free workers, not conscripts. Could withhold their labour. They were asking that matters be brought to personal attention of Director. Great importance of avoiding Situations. Camp commandant was holding a guard escort available. Speedy approval requested for immediate visit by Stepan Maximovich.

  Well, it was untidy. But it was all there.

  The major tapped out the message and waited, in some trepidation, for the reply.

  In twenty minutes the teleprinter started chattering back.

  He read it, amazed.

  Best wishes to Evenks and best hopes for the safe arrival of their new born. Camp commandant to be congratulated on his tactful handling. Visit of Stepan Maximovich approved. Guard escort to be posted immediately at entrance to Level Three.

  ‘To be congratulated on his tactful … ’ He read it again, goggle-eyed; very far from expecting that.

  The Evenks, in their dormitory, had expected nothing less. They had stopped work and assembled there, having informed the major that they would remain until Stepan Maximovich arrived; which he did within minutes of the major conveying best wishes.

  Down the corridor came two guards, Stepan Maximovich between them, and halted at the dormitory.

  ‘Stepanka!’ They jumped about him and wrung his hand and slapped his back and continued doing so until the two guards, grinning, left the natives to it and departed outside the door.

  The Evenks carefully closed the door.

  ‘By God!’ Stepanka said. He was a merry little fellow, one eye half closed in a permanent wink. ‘I’ve started believing it myself. Is that girl of mine so premature?’

  ‘A little premature – Komarova confirmed it today. But Kolya here says there’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Worry? Why would I worry? All g of my grandchildren were premature. Forward children!’ Stepanka said proudly.

  ‘And not one named by you, you old bastard! Did you bring up something to drink, at least?’

  ‘Not now … But Kolya! I’m glad to know you, Kolya.’ The old Evenk shook hands most warmly. ‘They told me about you, and this poor girl. And I told the Chief the whole story. He knows the father – has him working down there. I don’t know these people myself, you understand. But the Chiefs spoken to him, and he expects the letter. You’ve got it with you?’

  ‘It’s here,’ Kolya said, and took it reverently out of his waist band. It was in a lavender envelope, folded in two, and he smelt it first and put it to his lips before handing it over.

  The old Evenk was greatly touched by the gesture. ‘Kolya, I see right away,’ he said, ‘you’re a good fellow. And you’ll certainly get your reward – in this world or the next. I’ll bring you the reply and you’ll take it to the girl. But tell me – how did the switchover go?’

  They told him how the switchover had gone, and soon all of them were slapping backs again in another burst of hilarity.

  It went on so long that the guards, thumping on the door, called out that they were on escort duty only until lunch time, and to hurry it up. And Stepanka announced he was ready, and left; this time winking with both eyes.

  He was back before time, at four; for they had expected him at night. And this time he was not cheerful, but serious, even mystified.

  He had brought an envelope with him, concealed in his felt boots, and when the guards had left he produced it. It was not from the father, he said. It was for Kolya’s eyes alone. He was to see that only Kolya read it.

  The Chukchee separated himself and opened the envelope.

  A single short note was inside, and he read it twice. Then he looked at Stepanka with his mouth open.

  ‘You know what’s here?’ he said.

  ‘The father wants to see you himself.’

  ‘But how is it possible for –’

  ‘I don’t know how. It tells you how. The Chief wrote it. You are to read it until you understand it, and then tell me either yes or no, and burn it. This is all he told me.’

  The Chukchee muttered to himself, ‘What should I do?’

  He saw that all the Evenks were staring at him.

  ‘Kolya, is it a dangerous thing?’ one of them asked.

  ‘I don’t know … Maybe.’

  ‘Then listen, you’ve done enough. You came to bring a letter and to get one. Why does the father want to see you?’

  Kolya looked at the note again.

  ‘ “He does nothing but weep”,’ he read out. There was nothing about weeping in the note. ‘I don’t know … I’ve come so far,’ he said.

  ‘Well, whatever you decide,’ Stepanka told him, ‘decide now, and burn it.’ He was looking round at the door. Two of the Evenks were standing against the spy hole of the door.

  ‘Well.’ He licked his lips. ‘Say yes. Tell him yes,’ he said, and flicked his lighter and burnt the note, and then he burnt the envelope too.

  The main corridor of Level Two was under constant patrol during the day, and all doors had to be kept open: this was to prevent smoking in the service rooms, and also drinking, for illicit drink had been known to turn up in the stores. At night the patrols were reduced to two an hour, and although all doors were now bolted each one was methodically checked. An ingenious Evenk had once hidden in a workshop and had managed to introduce industrial alcohol into the dormitory.

  At 10.55 Kolya Khodyan slipped out of his bunk in the locked dormitory. He was fully dressed, even to his deerskin hat. The room was faintly aglow with the blue lighting that burned all night – a convenience for the guards checking the spy hole. He quickly pulled on the felt boots worn in the dormitory, and padded softly to the washroom; and before closing the door looked round once to the watching Evenks and raised a hand.

  The washroom had an exterior door to the corridor, for the use of the Evenks during the day. The guards had already passed – they had heard them try the door – but he did nothing, waiting as instructed, listening for the scrape of the bolt. He counted out the full five minutes on his watch, but there was no sound from the bolt. Had the job already been done? He tried the handle and gently pulled the door. It opened easily.

  He took a look out, up and down the long length of the corridor; brightly lit, totally empty. The ceiling was studded with smoke alarms, and the walls with bulkhead light
ing. At the far end he could see the barrier with an illuminated sign of some kind over it. Just round the corner there, at the locked entrance to Level Three, was a guard post, and he could hear a faint rumble of laughter from the sentry detail. The shorter length of corridor, to the right, contained only the laundry, and ended in a blank wall with a bulkhead light in it.

  He waited a few seconds more, watching the guards’ end. Nothing, no movement, not even a shadow. He stepped out into the corridor, closed the door behind him, quietly bolted it top and bottom, and turned to the right. This was what the note had told him to do. It was all it had told him. Obviously it had to be the laundry, there was nothing else there. The laundry had big double doors but no bolts, only a keyhole; locked. He ran his hands over both doors, and lightly tapped, not knowing what else to do, before noticing that the end wall of the corridor had suddenly opened. The thing had swung inwards, about a foot, and he hurried swiftly to it and slid himself inside.

  As soon as he was in, in darkness, the wall closed again and a torchlight came on. Stepanka was standing there. Stepanka wasn’t looking at him, but at a periscope. The periscope was looking along the corridor, evidently through the bulkhead lamp on the other side of the wall. Kolya looked himself, and saw the whole well-lighted length of it, deserted, everything securely locked. Stepanka was looking frightened when he turned to him, and he had a hand to his lips. He fiddled with the knob of a combination lock, checking it with a piece of paper in his hand, and then beckoned him to follow, waving the torch.

  They were in a small room, a cement room – walls, floor, ceiling, all of cement; bare, windowless.

  Stepanka opened a door and they stepped on to a landing – also cement, unfinished, very stark and cold, with a descending flight of stairs ahead; and he closed the door behind them and let out a breath.

  ‘By God!’ he said. ‘I never was here before! I never saw this.’ He was holding his heart. ‘Come, Kolya.’

  He kept the light pointing downwards at the stairs, two steep flights of them, and they came to the bottom and a short corridor ending in a blank wall. A rail was set in the wall, and Stepanka pressed it and pushed the wall in, and a slant of light came out. He hurried Kolya inside, immediately pushing the wall to. The combination knob inside was hidden in a decorative grille, and he hastily reset it, studying the paper.

  Kolya was studying the room.

  It was a most spectacular room.

  It was at least seventy feet long, at least twenty high; chandeliered, galleried, and with a library set all round the gallery. It was full of works of art. There were paintings on the walls − magnificent paintings, of all periods: Gauguin, Picasso, Rembrandt, Mondrian. The room was full of colour. And sculptures. And flowering shrubs and trees – trees in great tubs on castors, evidently for moving in and out. The chandeliers were not lit but they sparkled softly in the light of lamps spaced out on small tables along the walls. There was a long coffee table – a great slab of black basalt – with comfortable couches around it, and club chairs.

  Stepanka saw him staring all about and at the ceiling.

  ‘It’s two levels high here,’ he said. ‘Level Three and Four, both. This is his library, he sleeps the night sometimes … I find him here. Now Kolya!’ He was holding his heart again. ‘You stay here. I have to go and tell him. He will get the father for you. I can’t do it myself.’

  He went through a door, leaving it very slightly ajar. And presently there was the sound of tapping on another door and Stepanka’s voice speaking softly in Russian. And then silence; and Kolya waited in it, looking about the room.

  At each end was a spiral staircase to the gallery; and in a shadowy corner a huge television set and a globe and a drinks trolley. Also a cage. Something moved in the cage, and he walked slowly towards it; but the cage was only a lift, and it was his own image moving there in the mirror that backed it, and he turned sharply round to the door again listening.

  Another door had closed somewhere and he heard a click as it was locked. And then an odd whining sound, and the door nudged open and a wheelchair drove smoothly in.

  ‘Well!’ Rogachev said. His hand was outstretched, a great smile on his face. ‘I have waited for you, my friend. I have waited so eagerly.’

  Six

  THE RING AND THE BOOK

  41

  And now what am I to say to you? It was a lifetime ago we met. And now I am an old man, and will not get much older. I will show you what I have to show, and you will take back what I have to give. It’s all done now, everything complete.

  That you are here, I know, and you will tell me how it happened. That you would come I never doubted. It was not light-hearted, that discussion of ours those years ago. My own part I kept immediately and I know you took advantage of it – although I saw no result. As you see, I have followed your career …

  As to my own …

  My own is so bound up with the events of this land, it cannot be separated. Over seventy years the Soviet Union lasted – a mighty structure, solid as rock. Now, like an optical illusion, all gone.

  Only two things of value, I believe, ever came out of it, and of these one would have happened elsewhere. The other could only have happened here.

  ‘I will have two things to show you,’ Rogachev said.

  They had spoken for a few minutes but Porter still stared at him, trying to recollect the man. The red hair had gone. All the hair had gone. The skin had gone, too – just great blotches left on scalp, face, hands. And the big body, once so robust, was shrunken away, wrapped in a shawl.

  ‘What the hell happened to you – the explosion?’ he said.

  ‘The satellite saw the ruins, did it?’

  Porter told him what it had seen, what both satellites had seen, and the scarred forehead wrinkled.

  ‘The rollcall, eh? And the bandages. Not bad. Still, it’s nothing, nothing at all, the earliest subjects. But now we have to move. There’s a lot to do.’

  He was steering towards the gallery.

  ‘My electric chair,’ he said, ‘once my predecessor’s, who gave a name to the device. You won’t know of him.’

  ‘Zhelikov? Sure I know of him,’ Porter said.

  ‘You do?’ Rogachev glanced at him. ‘Well, you’re going to learn more,’ he said.

  He was opening a door under the gallery. A small cloakroom led off it, all its surfaces insulated with padding. Fur coats hung from the hooks. Rogachev carefully bolted the door behind them.

  ‘Help me up,’ he said. ‘We are going somewhere cold, and must clothe ourselves.’

  Porter helped the old man into a coat, also a fur hat and gloves, and did the same for himself.

  ‘You’ll find goggles in a pocket. Maybe you don’t need them

  – I can’t stand the cold any more.’ He strapped a pair round his own head, and opened a door in the far wall. A blast of icy air emerged. Beyond the door a line of strip lights had come on, revealing a long ramp descending into a tunnel. The wheelchair hummed softly down the ramp and Porter held on to the back. Frost glittered everywhere; abnormal frost, huge multi-coloured wafers, delicate and glassy, that clung trembling to the walls and fell in tinkling showers as they passed.

  ‘I accustom in a minute or two,’ Rogachev said, his voice muffled. He was holding a glove over his mouth and nose. ‘But I can’t stay below more than ten minutes, anyway.’

  They were going evidently into permafrost, unchanging, unthawing, so that the frost had vitrified. At the bottom, the tunnel levelled out into a wide chamber. Here the lighting was not only on the roof but also set into the tube-like walls; the whole place brilliantly illuminated, sparkling with crystal.

  A block of ice stood in the middle and Rogachev steered towards it.

  Except that it wasn’t ice, Porter saw. Some kind of plastic; its upper section hollow. A coating of frost wafers had fallen on it, and Rogachev took a little spatula from his coat and carefully removed them. A transparent case was beneath, embedded with a network
of fine hairlines.

  ‘A temperature control,’ he said, ‘to prevent shrivelling.’

  Porter couldn’t at first be sure, but it looked to him as if a girl was in the case.

  ‘It opens quite easily – a silicon seal. Just give me a hand to hold it,’ Rogachev said, and raised the lid.

  A girl was in the case.

  She was on her back, eyes closed, very pale. A white sheet covered her from abdomen to knees but she was otherwise naked. Blonde braids of hair were draped at either side of her breasts, and her closed eyes, slightly slanted, were set above high cheekbones, the lips a little open as if breathing. Her wrists were crossed on the sheet, right over left. She was tall, shapely, very handsome.

  Porter looked from her to Rogachev’s goggles.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said.

  ‘A young woman, perhaps seventeen. We had to carry out some operations on her, as far as possible from the back. But also a Caesarean section – she was eight months pregnant. Hold the lid.’

  He leaned over and very carefully drew down the sheet, exposing a row of sutures above fair pubic hair; there was no reddening of the skin and the neat stitching looked new. ‘The scar couldn’t heal, of course. But the baby was there, perfectly formed. As you see, the girl is fair. Her eyes are grey. In life her colour would be better, but that’s how we found her so we kept her the same shade.’ He drew the sheet back in position.

  ‘Who is she?’ Porter said.

  ‘We call her Sibir, after the country. This is how I found her.

  She had died instantly and was preserved instantly – quick frozen. Don’t be afraid, you can touch her. She’s well embalmed now.’

  He reached forward himself and raised the upper wrist. The hand came up quite flexibly. It was a broad hand, the fingers long but square, the nails short and ragged.