The Librarian (13 page)

Just to check, I picked up the phone—there was no dial tone. And even if there had been, who could I have called? The militia? These people would finish me off before any help could arrive.

I went out onto the balcony. My imagination immediately painted a picture: I cling to the Virginia creeper’s shaggy lianas that look like wild-growing string—the fourth floor, the third, the second—I jump and run to the road, catch a taxi very quickly and drive to the station. And I leave on the first train…

Up on the fifth floor the branches were like a network of thin, weak capillaries on the surface of the wall. They wouldn’t hold my weight. I could clamber across onto the adjacent balcony, to the neighbours, but if they raised a hue and cry, my uncle’s readers would be there before the militia.

“Alexei, finished already?” Lutsis’s voice suddenly asked behind me. “You’ve read it then?”

I told the truth.

“I didn’t finish it. I’ve got a headache.”

“That’s no good. You were warned about the two Conditions. It won’t have any effect without them! Well, that’s it; now you’ll have to read it again,” Lutsis concluded disappointedly.

I didn’t want to tell him that I was less concerned about the Book than about the “satisfaction”, in which I had promised to participate.

Lutsis went off to the kitchen, and I went back into the sitting room and set about the Book for the second time…

If not for the great unknown that lay ahead, I would almost certainly have coped with
The Quiet Grass.
But a feeling of alarm as persistent as toothache drilled into my soul and wouldn’t let me concentrate. My attention evaporated more rapidly with every minute that passed, and my thoughts, like a brainless insect, kept crawling from the page to the window and on farther, spreading their wings and zooming off into the grey skies.

My agitation immediately affected my stomach and every time I shut myself in the toilet I felt desperately afraid that my trumpeting, intestinal terror might be heard in the kitchen. I didn’t take the book with me at those times. Who could tell, perhaps seeing me emerging from the toilet with the Book, the readers might have regarded the act as sacrilege. In any case, the novella had to be started again from the beginning. I moved to the sofa-bed and read lying down until I sank into a sleep as black as a lumber room.

I was woken by a subdued conversation in the hallway. The jangling tones of Margarita Tikhonovna’s voice stood out as she tried unsuccessfully to speak quietly.

“Denis, how’s Alexei? Has he read it?” she asked. “Is he asleep?”

“He seems to be,” Lutsis replied quietly. “I didn’t go in. I thought it was best if he rested. He couldn’t manage it at first, and he started over again. He was in a nervous state…”

“All right, it’s time to wake him up anyway,” Margarita Tikhonovna said categorically. “We’ll go to meet the Kolontaysk comrades now, but don’t you all just sit around doing nothing. We assemble at precisely midnight beside the turn for Kamyshevo…”

The voices hovered for a few more minutes and then footsteps reverberated in the stairwell.

There was purple darkness outside the window. I looked at the clock on the wall. In the dark the phosphorescent drops on the hands looked like grave lights—one almost at the top, the other down at the bottom: half-past ten.

“Better make some coffee. I’ll wake him myself.” The door opened slightly and Tanya appeared in the yellow strip of light.

I pretended to be sleeping. She sat down quietly beside me. The sofa-bed’s springs creaked slightly. I breathed in noisily through my nose and turned over onto my side.

Tanya touched my hand.

“Alexander Vladimirovich…”

I turned my head and blinked as if in drowsy bewilderment.

“Eh? What’s happened?”

“You have to get up,” Tanya whispered. “We’re setting off at eleven…”

“I see…” I said, rubbing my eyes vigorously.

Tanya stood up.

“I’ll just turn on the table lamp, but I’ll turn the shade to the wall, so it won’t be too bright…”

Her touching efforts to render my awakening painless were interrupted by Lutsis’s noisy appearance.

“Awake already? Excellent!” He clicked the switch and the bright light crashed into my eyes.

“Alexei, go into the kitchen,” said Dezhnev, glancing in. “There’s coffee ready for you in there. You could have a bite to eat, but I don’t recommend it; better take a large cognac, but no more than that—otherwise it’ll fuddle you, not brace you… Or should I give
you some activated charcoal? That will fix any problems caused by nerves.”

“No need,” I said, feeling myself blushing. Probably it wasn’t only in the kitchen that I had been heard.

Vadik Provotorov was tinkering with something in the hallway. He had changed into camouflage fatigues. The front door was open. I saw Grisha Vyrin. He was already wearing the shoulder belt with the sapper’s entrenching tools. He greeted me, picked up two bags and carried them downstairs.

Lutsis came out of the bedroom. He was holding something like a miniature steel casket or a case with a chain attached to it. Lying on velvet in one half of it, like a violin in its case, was the Book. Lutsis closed the lid and an internal lock clicked. Denis was very solemn, as if this was a ceremony for the award of some kind of decoration.

“Are you all set?”

“Almost. I just need to get a wash and have some coffee.”

“The coffee can wait. This is something more important…” Lutsis held out the casket to me. It was slightly bigger than the actual Book and proved to be quite weighty. The sturdy steel chain passed through a ring welded to the end of it, so that the Book could be worn like a pectoral icon.

“Put it on,” said Lutsis, confirming what I was thinking. “It’s your privilege as a librarian and the corresponding badge of rank…”

I asked if I could carry it in my hand for the time being. Denis told me reproachfully that it wasn’t a man-purse. I submissively lowered my head and he hung the Book, as heavy as a convict’s chains, around my neck.

T
HE COFFEE IMMEDIATELY
made me feel nauseous. I took a rapid gulp of cognac from a bottle standing on the table, but it didn’t do much to reinforce my backbone. In the corridor I furtively stopped Marat Andreyevich and asked for the charcoal pills, and in the bathroom I swallowed the whole pack, washing them down with water from the tap. The casket hanging round my neck got in the way, knocking against the washbasin.

The bustle and tension increased. As he moved about, Denis asked again if everybody was ready and then said: “Right then, God be with us…” My heart gave a dull thud, like a stone thrown against a wall.

The familiar RAF was standing outside. Provotorov and Vyrin waited until I walked out of the entrance and got into the vehicle. Igor Valeryevich, Marat Andreyevich, Pal Palych and Tanya were already sitting inside it. Ogloblin was at the wheel with Larionov beside him. I moved up slightly to make space for Lutsis. The floor was stacked with bags full of equipment. The last to climb in were Vyrin and Provotorov.

We drove out onto the ring road, which was almost lifeless, with no cars at all. After we’d gone a few kilometres we exchanged blinks of headlights with a motorcycle that had a sidecar: its motor immediately rattled into life and it followed us. I recognized the Vozglyakov sisters.

We pulled up at a fork in the road with a sign for Kamyshevo. A few minutes later an ancient GAZ bus with a long corrugated
snout, like a truck, came trundling up. I saw Margarita Tikhonovna; she waved to us and we set off after the bus.

Soon the asphalt was replaced by concrete slabs and then by stone chips. After that we were shaken about on a dirt road with centuries-old wheel ruts that were like rails, only inverted into the ossified earth. Barren fields lay on all sides of us. The power-line poles looked like trees gnawed away by some plague, and the porcelain insulators on the cross bars looked like fungal growths. Somewhere in the distance, many kilometres away, the tiny scarlet lights of civilization twinkled.

Eventually we stopped and started hurriedly unloading. As well as our people, more than twenty other people got out of the bus—they were the promised helpers from the Kolontaysk reading room and also the volunteers from Simonyan and Burkin.

People prepared for the “satisfaction” in total silence. Margarita Tikhonovna, the elder Vozglyakov sister, Timofei Stepanovich, Sasha Sukharev and a reader I didn’t know—Nikolai Tarasovich Ievlev—came over to us. Ievlev was a genuine giant: two metres tall with broad shoulders and a neck like a tree stump. His head was shaved and a deep scar, white on its bottom, ran across his forehead and cheek, looking like the slash made by a baker on a French loaf.

Timofei Stepanovich cast an approving glance at the casket with the Book in it and leaned down over a bag. The old man took out a cap with earflaps that was reinforced with metal plates on the outside and stuck it on his head, then he wrapped himself in a sheepskin coat with links from a well chain sewn thickly all over it and hung an awl on his belt. He took out a cast-iron ball that had obviously been sawn off a dumb-bell—the sphere had the number “10” stamped into it—and put it in a canvas bag which he tied round tightly with a cord, so transforming it into something like a mace. Then, to demonstrate his prowess, he tossed it lightly up into the air, swung it round his head and smashed it into the ground—the sphere left an impressive dent.

Tanya hid her face behind a fencing mask. The Vozglyakovs and Margarita Tikhonovna tied on thick headscarves and put simple builder’s helmets over them, while Ogloblin, Vyrin, Pal Palych and Sukharev donned motorcycle helmets; moreover, Vyrin and Ogloblin had replaced the plastic visors with steel ones that had slits for the eyes. Igor Valeryevich Kruchina put on an ancient brass fireman’s helmet. Apparently to intimidate the enemy even more, the mighty Ievlev chose a German army helmet for himself, but Provotorov took a Soviet one, and Lutsis had a pilot’s helmet, for which he took off his glasses. The navigator Larionov pulled on a tank soldier’s leather helmet lined with plastic foam at the back and the traumatologist Marat Andreyevich didn’t cover his head at all, putting his faith in his own agility.

There was also an immense variety of armour. Lutsis had made small pockets in all his clothes and stuffed protective metal plates into them. The Vozglyakovs had steel strips inserted into the padding of their quilted trousers and work jackets. Igor Valeryevich donned a genuine cuirass, which made him look like a samovar. Vyrin’s leather jacket was covered with Soviet roubles, like fish scales—there must have been at least five hundred coins. Spotting my interested glance, Grisha explained: “I’d been saving up for a motorbike since I was ten, but then the Union fell apart and the money became worthless, so now at least I get some kind of value out of it…”

Pal Palych’s suit of armour consisted of parquet flooring blocks, artfully connected together with wire or cords. Marat Andreyevich had crafted a long carapace, down to his knees, out of linoleum. The giant Ievlev wore an arrangement that was rather reminiscent of a musketeer’s cloak, made of thick leather, as stiff as wood. Sukharev clad himself in a tarpaulin overall with starry soldier’s belt buckles sewn closely all over it, and Larionov had reinforced his fleecy greatcoat with coarse boot soles. In the world outside, Ogloblin worked as a trainer of working dogs and so he had brought special protective overalls, padded mittens and trousers
that a crocodile couldn’t have bitten through. Tanya was wearing a jacket of felt, fulled to the toughness of a felt boot. Margarita Tikhonovna put on a short sheepskin coat, rendered stouter by thick hemp rope glued all over it.

All the Kolontaysk readers, without exception, kitted themselves out in ice-hockey gear, with gloves, knee pads and guards on their hips and shins, but they all had goalkeepers’ helmets with white plastic visors.

Beside the Kolontayskites the battle attire of the Shironinites looked like the topsy-turvy outfits of Tweedledum and Tweedledee from the far side of the looking glass, with the difference that the sight was anything but funny.

Garshenin, who had been praised so highly the day before, came over to us. His appearance was not in the least heroic; he was thin and tall, with a large nose that made him look like a cock. The resemblance was emphasized by the long spikes, as sharp as beaks, protruding from the front and the rear of his boots. Several of his warriors had also equipped themselves with similar beaked footwear. The volunteers were armed with scythes, hay forks on long handles and firefighting gaffs that had been transformed into bear spears with long pointed ends and hooks. Many of them had little shields made of wood or woven out of bast, like Russian peasant shoes.

I observed all this with the curiosity of the damned, until Margarita Tikhonovna turned to me.

“Alexei, why aren’t you dressed yet? We’re going into action any minute now!”

It emerged that my uncle’s motorbike helmet and sections of tyre—I realized what they were intended for now—had been left behind in the cupboard.

“Boys, I’m absolutely speechless… Denis, you got Alexei ready, didn’t you?”

“I’m asked him and he said he was all set, and I thought…”

“Hmm, we have little mix-up here,” said Margarita Tikhonovna, shaking her head. “We can’t let Alexei go out there like this.”

I shuddered as hope suddenly surged through me.

“Maybe I can just wait for you here, eh?” I stammered.

A look of amazement flitted across the readers’ faces.

“Alexei, don’t you distress yourself,” Lutsis said guiltily. “I’ll give you mine…”

“Wait, Denis,” Igor Valeryevich butted in. “Your chainmail won’t fit Alexei. It’s too small.”

“Oh, boys and girls, there’s never dull moment with you. We’ll think of something now…” Margarita Tikhonovna went over to the people beside us. “Comrades, my dears, I’m sorry, but we have a problem. Alexei Vyazintsev doesn’t have a weapon or any protective clothing with him. Please help us out…”

I heard the Kolontaysk hockey players grumble, pointing out that this was no game for little children. How could anyone forget such absolutely essential things? Was it his first time or what? Margarita Tikhonovna replied curtly: “Yes, precisely, the first time.”

The Kolontayskites found a fabric builder’s helmet with a lining that had a sour smell and two canvas bags, into which they inserted small baking trays. The handles of the bags were long enough for this primitive armour to be hung round my neck.

When he saw the baking trays, Vyrin pulled off his jacket upholstered with roubles.

“Take this, Alexei. It’s almost your size.”

I declined, hoping that my cowardice might resemble nobility, at least slightly.

“Grisha, what will you do then? You need it more than I do!”

But the implacable Vyrin virtually forced me to put on the heavy armour, saying:

“I’m used to this, I’ll manage.”

The jacket was a little narrow in the shoulders and the tight sleeves barely even covered my wrists, but overall it fitted quite well. Timofei Stepanovich donated his cap with the earflaps to me. Lutsis gave me his knee pads and plastic thigh protectors. Maria Antonovna Vozglyakova gave me a pair of coarse leather
gloves and Ievlev attached an arm cover made out of half a steel pipe to my forearm.

For a weapon I was given a club weighted with a ribbed insert—I think it was some kind of machine part, possibly a gear wheel from some especially large mechanism.

“That’s great now!” Lutsis exclaimed, delighted by the way I looked. “Like Bohdan Khmelnytsky with his mace.”

I tensed my jaw—when it was relaxed, my teeth had suddenly started beating out bony drum rolls.

“Margarita Tikhonovna,” I asked tentatively, licking my lips, which were dry from terror, “how do you know that no one will come out to fight us with guns?”

“Out of the question. It’s strictly forbidden.”

“Who forbade it? Tereshnikov?”

“It was long before him… It’s a rule, an unwritten law.”

“But what if they cheat?”

“There are observers and seconds; they make sure everything’s fair,” Lutsis put in. “Don’t worry.”

“Just think about it,” boomed Ievlev. “You’ve got a pistol and I’ve got a sub-machine-gun. Where’s the satisfaction in that?”

“That’s just target practice!” Ogloblin joked.

“But there are a few dodges,” Sukharev summed up. “Take this, for instance…”

He showed me a ball bearing the size of a tennis ball.

“That weighs more than a kilogram. If it gets you in the head, you’ll feel it all right.”

“Perhaps I can just wait for you here?” I muttered quietly, staring down at the ground. “Really, please…”

Even after all the time that has passed since that moment, I still feel bitterly ashamed of those faltering, cowardly words…

The Shironinites surrounded me in a tight circle. I couldn’t see the slightest hint of mockery or condemnation in their heartfelt, sympathetic gaze. Only my parents had ever looked at me like that before, when I did something wrong at home or at school, and
I stood there in front of them unrepentantly, realizing that any guilt of mine was insignificant in comparison with the love and unconditional forgiveness that these people felt for me.

“It’s time… Alexei, give the order!” said Margarita Tikhonovna.

“But what shall I say?” I asked helplessly.

“It doesn’t matter… ‘Follow me!’ or ‘Forward march!’”

I cast a brief glance over the detachment, drawn up in a column. The Vozglyakov sisters were clutching spades with exceptionally long, sharpened blades. Maria Antonovna was leaning on the handle of a mighty flail with a spiked head that looked like a marrow.

Tanya was holding a home-made rapier—a steel rod honed until it shone, with a brass hand guard welded onto it. Provotorov, Pal Palych, Larionov and Ogloblin had long pikes resting on their shoulders. I immediately recognized the festive stylization that deftly disguised a weapon as the fancy tip on the hand staff of the Soviet flag, with a star or a hammer and sickle set inside the steel quill.

Vyrin adjusted his shoulder belt with the sapper’s entrenching tools; Ievlev folded his hands round the handle of an immense blacksmith’s hammer; Timofei Stepanovich flung his mace over his shoulder like a wandering pilgrim. Kruchina made sure that his bayonet moved easily in its scabbard. Sukharev toyed with a weighty chain wound round his hand, with three heavy padlocks dangling from its links.

“Right, come on, Alexei,” Margarita Tikhonovna’s voice murmured again. “We’re all waiting for your command.”

I cleared my throat, plucked up my courage and said:

“Let’s go, comrades…”

I suddenly felt as if I had stepped off a cliff. My throat choked on a cold void as I fell, hearing the world spinning round me, or perhaps it was the wings of the black bat of panic fluttering in my head.

I didn’t know the way. Lutsis and Margarita Tikhonovna led me along, and our entire brigade of thirty-five set off after us. We walked through bushes and a dense plantation of poplars, beyond
which lay a boundless open field and a lilac horizon. Fear tore through the poplar trees like a demented squirrel, from branch to branch, from dark foreboding to nightmarish realization. In the grassy expanse it scattered into the air, finding no foothold.

And then I heard my own footsteps and saw the people escorting me with different eyes, and my heart stopped racing—or I forgot how to hear it and feel it. I suddenly fancied that I had experienced this menacing calm many times before—only then, instead of the terror that had now receded, I was filled with pride for the people walking with me, for the heroic feat of arms they would perform…

Soon a distinct incline appeared ahead of us and we walked down it to the bottom of a shallow depression about half the size of a football pitch. Our brigade simply disappeared under the ground; walls rising to a height of several metres and tall grass concealed us securely.

Spectators—about two hundred of them—took up positions on the slopes. The observers—about ten, among whom I recognized Tereshnikov—sat separately, with the guards stationed beside them.