METRO 2033 (42 page)

The entire station, insofar as it could be seen by the light of the bonfire, was piled high with an unimaginable variety of junk. The shapes of broken bicycles, automobile tyres, and pieces of furniture and equipment could be made out. There was a mountain of rubbish, out of which the people seated by the fire from time to time pulled a stack of newspapers or books, and threw them into the flames. There was a plaster bust of somebody or other standing right in front of the fire, on the underflooring, and next to it a cat was curled up most comfortably. Not another soul was present.

One of the people seated by the fire was telling the other something, unhurriedly. Drawing close, Artyom began to pick up what was being said.

‘There are rumors going around about the University . . . Absolutely false, by the way. These are just echoes of the ancient myth of an Underground City in the Ramenki District. Which was part of Metro-2. But, of course, you can’t refute anything with one hundred percent certainty. Here, in general, you can’t say anything with one hundred percent certainty. It’s an empire of myths and legend. Metro-2 would have been, of course, the chief myth, the golden one, if more people had known about it. Take, for example, even just the belief in the Unseen Watchers!’

Artyom had approached very close, when the person with his back towards him said:

‘There’s somebody there.’

‘Of course there is,’ nodded the other.

‘You may join us,’ said the first, addressing Artyom, but without turning his head towards him. ‘In any event, you can’t go any farther.’

‘Why not?’ objected Artyom in some agitation. ‘What? Is there somebody there, in that tunnel?’

‘No one, of course,’ the man patiently explained. ‘Who’s going to mess around in there? You can’t go there now, anyway, I’m telling you. So, sit down.’

‘Thank you.’ Artyom took a tentative step forward and sank to the floor across from the bust. They were over forty. One was grey-haired, with square glasses, and the other was thin, with fair hair and a small beard. Both of them were wearing old quilted jackets. They were inhaling smoke through a thin tube rigged up to something like a calabash, from which there issued a head-spinning fragrance.

‘What’s your name?’ asked the fair-haired one.

‘Artyom,’ the young man replied mechanically, busy with studying these strange people.

‘His name is Artyom,’ the fair-haired man said to the other.

‘Well, that’s understood,’ he replied.

‘I am Yevgeny Dmitrievich. And this is Sergei Andreyevich,’ said the fair-haired man.

‘We don’t have to be so formal, do we?’ Sergei Andreyevich said

‘Sergei, as you and I have reached this age, we might as well take advantage of it. It’s a question of status and all that.’

‘OK, and what else?’ Sergei Andreyevich then asked Artyom.

The question sounded very odd, as if he were insisting that they continue something that had not ever started, and Artyom was quite perplexed.

‘So you’re Artyom, but so what? Where do you live, where are you going, what do you believe in, what do you not believe in, who is to blame and what is to be done?’ Sergei Andreyevich explained.

‘Like it used to be, remember?’ Sergei Andreyevich said suddenly, for no apparent reason.

‘Oh, yes!’ laughed Yevgeny Dmitrievich.

‘I live at
VDNKh ...
or at least I did live there,’ Artyom began reluctantly.

‘Just like . . . Who put their jackboot on the control panel?’ the fair-haired man grinned.

‘Yes! Nothing left of America!’ Sergei Andreyevich smirked, taking off his glasses and examining them in the light.

Artyom looked warily at them again. Maybe he should just get out of here, while the going was good. But what they had been talking about before they noticed him, kept him there by the fire.

‘And what’s this about Metro-2? If you’ll excuse me, I overheard a little,’ he admitted.

‘So, you want to find out the main legend of the metro?’ Sergei Andreyevich smiled patronizingly. ‘Just what is it you want to know?’

‘You were talking about an underground city and about some kind of observers . . .’

‘Well, Metro-2 was generally a refuge for the gods of the Soviet Pantheon during the time of Ragnarök, if the forces of evil were to prevail,’ began Yevgeny Dmitrievich, gazing at the ceiling and blowing smoke rings. ‘According to the legends, under the city whose dead body lies there, above us, another metro had been built, for the elite. What you see around you is the metro for the common herd. The other one, according to the legends, that’s for the shepherds and their dogs. At the very beginning, when the shepherds had not yet lost their power over the herd, they ruled from there; but then their strength gave out, and the sheep ran off. Gates alone were what connected these two worlds, and, if you believe the legends, these were located right where the map is now sliced in two as if by a blood-red scar - on the Sokolinskaya branch, somewhere behind the Sportivnaya. Later something occurred that closed the entrance to Metro-2 forever. Those who lived here lost any knowledge of what had taken place, and the very existence of Metro-2 became somehow mythical and unreal. But,’ he pointed upwards, ‘despite the fact that the entrance to Metro-2 no longer exists, that does not at all mean that it has ceased to exist. On the contrary, it is all around us. Its tunnels wind around our stations, and its stations could be just a few steps behind our stations’ walls. These two structures are inseparable; they are like the circulatory system and lymphatic vessels of one organism. And those who believe that the shepherds could not have abandoned their herd to the mercy of fate, say that they are present, imperceptibly, in our lives, direct us, follow our every step, but do not reveal themselves and do not let their existence be known. And that is the belief in Unseen Watchers.’

The cat, curling up next to the soot-covered bust, raised her head and, opening her enormous, lustrous green eyes, looked at Artyom with a startlingly clear and intelligent expression. Her stare was nothing like that of an animal, and Artyom could not immediately be sure that someone else was not studying him carefully him through her eyes. But the cat yawned, stretching out her sharp pink tongue, and, burying her muzzle in her bedding, dropped back to sleep, like an illusion that had vanished.

‘But why don’t they want people to know about them?’ Artyom remembered his question.

‘There are two reasons for that. First of all, the sheep are guilty of having rejected their shepherds at their moment of weakness. Second, since the Metro-2 was cut off from our world, the shepherds have developed differently from us, and are no longer human, but beings of a higher order, whose logic is incomprehensible to us and whose thoughts are inaccessible. No one knows what they think of our metro, but they could change everything, even return us to our wonderful, lost world, because they have regained their former power. Because we rebelled against them once and betrayed them, they no longer have anything to do with our fate. However the shepherds are everywhere, and our every breath is known to them, every step, every blow - everything that happens in the metro. They only observe for the present. And only when we atone for our dreadful sin will they turn to us with a gracious gaze and extend a hand to us. And then a renaissance will begin. That is those who believe in the Unseen Watchers say.’ He fell silent, inhaling the aromatic smoke.

‘But how can people atone for their guilt?’ Artyom asked.

‘Nobody knows except the Unseen Watchers themselves. Humans don’t understand it, because they do not know the dispensation of the Watchers.’

‘Then people might never be able to atone for their sin against them?’ Artyom was baffled.

‘Does that bother you?’ Yevgeny Dmitrievich shrugged his shoulders and blew two more big, beautiful smoke rings, one slipping through the second.

There was silence for a time - at first light and limpid, but gradually getting thicker and louder and more palpable. Artyom felt a growing need to break it any way he could, with any senseless phrase, even a meaningless sound. ‘And where are you from?’ he asked.

‘Before, I lived at Smolenskaya, not far from the metro, about five minutes’ walk,’ Yevgeny Dmitrievich replied and Artyom stared at him in surprise: how could he have lived not far from the metro? He must have meant that he lived not far from a metro station, in a tunnel - right? ‘You had to walk past food stalls, we sometimes bought beer there, and there were always prostitutes standing around near the stalls, and the police had . . . uh . . . a headquarters there,’ Yevgeny Dmitrievich continued and Artyom had started to realize that he was talking about the old times, about what had gone on before.

‘Yeah . . . Me too, I also lived not far from there, at Kalinsky, in a high-rise,’ said Sergei Andreyevich. ‘Someone told me about five years ago that he’d heard from a stalker that they had crumbled to dust . . . The House of Books is still there and all the cheap paper-backs were sitting on the tables untouched, can you believe it? And all that was left of the high-rise was a pile of dust and blocks of cement. Strange.’

‘So what was life like back then?’ Artyom was curious. He loved to ask old men this question and they would stop whatever they were doing and describe the old days with such pleasure. Their eyes would assume a dreamy, distant look; their voices would sound totally different; and their faces looked ten years younger. Images of the past, which were brought to life before their minds’ eyes, were nothing like the pictures that Artyom conjured up while they told their stories, but it was nonetheless very enjoyable for all. It was sort of sweet and sort of torturous at the same time and it made the heart ache . . .

‘Well, you see, it was a wonderful time. Back then . . . ah . . . we were on fire,’ Yevgeny Dmitrievich replied, drawing out his answer.

Here, Artyom definitely did not imagine what the grey-haired man had in mind, and when the other old man realized that, he quickly elucidated.

‘We were very lively, we had good times.’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. We were on fire,’ Yevgeny Dmitrievich confirmed.

‘I had a green Moskvich-2141 and I’d spent my whole salary to buy it, to give it a sound system, to change the oil. Once, like a fool, I even had the carburettor replaced with a sports car model and then I used nitrous oxide.’ He had clearly transported himself to those good old days, when you could so easily get an old sports car carburettor to put in your car. And his face took on that same dreamy expression that Artyom so loved. It was a shame that Artyom understood little of what he was saying though.

‘Artyom probably doesn’t even know what a Moskvich is, never mind what a carburettor is.’ Sergei Andreyevich interrupted his friend’s sweet reminiscences.

‘What do you mean he doesn’t know?’ The thin man threw Artyom an angry look. Artyom took to studying the ceiling, gathering his thoughts.

‘So why are you burning books?’ He changed the subject as a counteroffensive tactic.

‘We’ve already read ’em,’ Yevgeny Dmitrievich responded.

‘There’s no truth in books!’ Sergei Andreyevich added in explanation.

‘Anyway, perhaps you should tell us something about how you’re dressed - are you a member of a cult or what?’ Yevgeny Dmitrievich delivered a decisive blow.

‘No, no, of course not,’ Artyom hurried to explain. ‘But they did pick me up and help me when I was in trouble.’ He explained in broad strokes in what poor shape he’d been but didn’t go as far as explaining quite how bad it was.

‘Yes, yes, that’s exactly how they work. I recognize the tactics. Orphaned and wretched . . . ah . . . or something in that vein,’ nodded Yevgeny Dmitrievich.

‘You know, I was at one of their meetings, and they say very strange things,’ said Artyom. ‘I stood around for a while and listened, but couldn’t stand it very long. For example, that Satan’s principal wickedness was that he wanted glory and adoration for himself, too . . . Before, I thought it had been a lot more serious, but it just turned out to be jealousy. Is the world really so simple, and does everything revolve around the fact that someone didn’t want to share glory and worshippers?’

‘The world is not that simple,’ Sergei Andreyevich assured him, taking the hookah from the fair-haired smoker and inhaling.

‘And one more thing . . . They say that God’s principal qualities are his mercy, kindness, and willingness to forgive, and that he’s a God of love, and that he’s all-powerful. At the same time, the first time man disobeyed Him, he was kicked out of paradise and made mortal. So then a whole lot of people die - not scary - and in the end, God sends His son to save everyone. And then His son dies a horrible death, and calls out to God before he dies, asking why God had forsaken him. And all this is for what? To purge, with his blood, the sin of the first human, who God had Himself provoked and punished, and so that people could return to paradise and again discover immortality. It’s some kind of pointless baloney, because He could have just not punished everyone so severely to begin with for stuff they didn’t do. Or he could have discontinued the punishment because the offence had taken place so long ago. But why sacrifice your beloved son, and even betray him? What kind of love is that? What kind of willingness to forgive? Where’s the omnipotence?’

‘Roughly and bluntly stated, but correct, in general terms,’ said Sergei Andreyevich approvingly, passing the hookah to his companion.

‘Here’s what I can say on the subject,’ said Yevgeny Dmitrievich, filling his lungs with smoke and smiling blithely. He paused for a minute, and then continued, ‘So, if their God indeed has some qualities or distinguishing aspects, they certainly don’t include love, or justice, or forgiveness. Judging from what’s happened on earth from the time it was . . . uh . . . created, only one kind of love has been unique to God: He loves interesting stories. First He sets up an interesting situation and then He stands back to see what happens. If the result is a little flat, He adds a little pepper. So old man Shakespeare was right, all the world’s a stage. Just not the one he was hinting at,’ he concluded.