METRO 2033 (43 page)

‘This morning alone, you’ve talked your way into several centuries in hell,’ observed Sergei Andreyevich.

‘That means you’ll have someone to talk with there,’ Yevgeniy Dmitrievich told his companion.

‘On the other hand, many interesting acquaintances may be made there,’ said Sergei Andreyevich.

‘For example, among the upper hierarchy of the Catholic Church.’

‘Yes, they are surely there. Yet strictly speaking, so are ours . . .’

Both of Artyom’s companions clearly didn’t much believe that there would someday be a reckoning for everything said now. But Yevgeniy Dmitrievich’s words, about how what has happened to humanity is just an interesting story, led Artyom to a new thought.

‘Now, I’ve read a good many different books,’ he said, ‘and I’m always amazed that they’re nothing like real life. I mean, look, events in books are arranged in a nice straight line, everything is tied to everything else, causes have effects, and nothing doesn’t “just happen”. But in reality, everything’s completely otherwise! I mean, life is just full of senseless events that happen to us randomly, and there’s no such thing as everything happening in a logical sequence. What’s more, books, for example, come to an end just where the logical chain breaks off; there’s a beginning, a development, then a peak, and an end.’

‘A climax, not a peak,’ Sergei Andreyevich corrected him, listening to Artyom’s observations with a bored look.

Yevgeniy Dmitrievich also did not evince any particular interest. He moved the smoking apparatus closer to himself, inhaled some aromatic smoke, and held his breath.

‘OK, climax,’ continued Artyom, slightly discouraged. ‘But in life, everything’s different. First, a logical chain might not come to an end, and second, even if it does, nothing comes to a close because of it.’

‘You mean to say that life has no plot?’ asked Sergei Andreyevich, helping Artyom formulate his words.

Artyom thought for a minute, then nodded.

‘But do you believe in fate?’ asked Sergei Andreyevich, inclining his head to the side and examining Artyom studiously, while Yevgeniy Dmitrievich turned away from the hookah with interest.

‘No,’ said Artyom decisively. ‘There is no fate, just random events that happen to us, and then we make things up on our own later.’

‘Too bad, too bad . . .’ sighed Sergei Andreyevich disappointedly, austerely looking at Artyom over his eyeglasses. ‘Now, I’m going to present a little theory of mine to you, and you see for yourself if it matches your life or not. It seems to me that life, of course, is an empty joke, and that there’s no purpose to it at all, and that there’s no fate, which is to say anything explicit and definite, along the lines of you’re born and you already know that you’re going to be a cosmonaut or a ballerina, or that you’ll die in your infancy . . . No, not like that. While you’re living your allotted time . . . how do I explain this . . . It may happen that something happens to you that forces you to perform specific actions and make specific decisions, keeping in mind you have free will, and can do this or that. But if you make the right decision, then the things that happen to you subsequently are no longer just random, to use your word, events. They are caused by the choices that you made. I don’t intend to say that if you decided to live on the Red Line before it went communist that you’d be stuck there and that corresponding events would happen to you. I’m talking of more subtle matters. But if you again were to find yourself at the crossroads and once more made the needed decision, then later you will be faced with a choice that will no longer seem random to you if, of course, you realize and can understand it. And your life will gradually stop being just a collection of random events; it will turn into . . . a plot, I suppose, where everything is connected by some logical, though not necessarily straight, links. And that will be your fate. At a certain stage, if you have travelled sufficiently far along your way, your life will have turned into a plot to the extent that strange things will occur that are unexplainable from the point of view of naked rationalism or your theory of random events. Yet they will fit very well into the logic of the plot line that your life has by then turned into. I think fate doesn’t just happen, you need to arrive at it, and if the events in your life come together and start to arrange themselves into a plot, then it may cast you quite far . . . It is most interesting that a person may not even suspect that this is happening to him, or may conceive what has happened based on a false premise, by attempting to systematize events to match his own world view. But fate has its own logic.’

This strange theory, which at first seemed to Artyom to be complete mumbo-jumbo, suddenly forced him to look at everything that had happened to him from the very beginning, when he had agreed to Hunter’s proposal to leave for Polis, from a new point of view.

Now all of his adventures, all his travels, which he had previously viewed as unsuccessful and desperate attempts to achieve the goal of his quest, which he pursued wherever it led him, appeared before him in a different light, and it seemed to him to be an elaborately organized system that formed an ornate, yet well-thought-out structure.

Because if one considered Artyom’s acceptance of Hunter’s proposal as the first step along the way, as Sergei Andreyevich had said, then all subsequent events - including the expedition to Rizhskaya, and the fact that Bourbon approached him at Rizhskaya and that Artyom didn’t recoil from him - constituted the next step, and that Khan came to meet him, although he could have remained at Sukharevskaya . . . Yet this could be explained some other way as well; at any rate, Khan himself cited completely different reasons for his actions. Then Artyom was taken prisoner by the fascists, at Tverskaya, and should have been hanged, but circumstances so arranged themselves that the International Brigade decided to attack Tverskaya precisely on that day. Had the revolutionaries shown up a day earlier or a day later, Artyom’s death would have been unavoidable, and then his quest would be ended.

Could it actually be that the persistence with which he pursued his path influenced future events? Could it be that the determination, rage, and desperation that drove him to take every next step created, in some unknown way, a reality that wove a set of chaotic events and someone’s thoughts and actions into an ordered system, thereby turning an ordinary life into a plot, as Sergei Andreyevich had said?

At first glance, nothing of the sort could happen. But if you thought about it . . . How else did one explain the meeting with Mark, who offered Artyom the single possible way of getting into the Hansa territory? And the main thing, the very main thing, is that while he was accepting his lot, cleaning out toilets, fate, it would seem, turned away from him, but when he took the bit between his teeth, without even trying to understand his actions, the impossible happened: the guard who was supposed to stay at his post disappeared somewhere, and there wasn’t even any pursuit. So when he returned from the diverging crooked path back onto his way, acting in harmony with the narrative pattern of his life, at the stage where he was now, this could already have resulted in a serious warping of reality, repairing it in such a way that the main line of Artyom’s fate could develop further without hindrance?

Then this must mean that, should he deviate from his goal or step off his path, fate would immediately abandon him and its invisible shield, which currently safeguarded Artyom from being killed, would directly crumble into pieces, and the thread of Ariadne that he was so carefully following would break, and he would be left face-to-face with a turbulent reality that had been infuriated with his impudent intrusions into the chaotic substance of reality . . . Might it be that whoever once attempted to deceive fate and was flippant enough to continue to persevere even after dire clouds had gathered overhead couldn’t just simply step off the path? From then on his life would turn into something completely commonplace and grey, and nothing else would ever happen that was unusual, magical, or unexplainable because the plot had been be interrupted, and he’d put paid to the hero business . . .

Did this mean that Artyom not only hadn’t the right, but couldn’t deviate from his path? That was his fate? The fate in which he did not believe? And in which he did not believe because he didn’t know to interpret what had happened to him, didn’t know how to read the signs posted along his road, and continued to naively believe that the road that led to far horizons and which had been constructed just for him was a jumbled tangle of abandoned pathways that led in different directions?

It seemed that he was proceeding along his path, and that the events of his life formed a harmonious plot that held sway over human will and reason, so that his enemies were blinded while his friends saw the light and were able to help him in time. It was a plot that so controlled reality that the immutable laws of probability obediently changed their shape, like putty, in response to the growing power of an invisible hand that moved him over the chessboard of life . . . And if it were actually so, then the question ‘What’s the point of all this?’, which previously could be answered only with sullen silence and gritted teeth, went away. Now, the courage with which he professed to himself (and stubbornly maintained to others) that there was no Providence or any higher plan, that there was no law and no justice in the world, turned out to be unnecessary, because that plan could be divined . . . He did not want to resist this thought. It was too seductive to turn away from it with the same die-hard stubbornness with which he had rejected the explanations offered by religions and ideologies.

As a whole, this meant only one thing.

‘I can’t stay here any longer,’ said Artyom, and got up, feeling as if his muscles were filling with a new, buzzing strength. ‘I can’t stay here any longer,’ he repeated, listening attentively to his own voice. ‘I have to go. I must.’

No longer constantly twisting his head around and having forgotten all the fears that drove him to this small fire, he jumped onto the tracks and moved ahead, into the darkness. Artyom’s doubts released him, making room for perfect peace and the confidence that he was finally doing everything right. It was as if, having been driven off course, he nevertheless was able to recover his feet on the shining rails of his fate. The ties on which he walked now almost passed under his feet by themselves, requiring no effort on his part. In an instant, he disappeared completely into the darkness.

‘It’s a beautiful theory, isn’t it?’ said Sergei Andreyevich, inhaling.

‘One would almost think that you believe it,’ replied Yevgeny Dmitrievich cantankerously, scratching the cat behind the ear.

 

 

 

Only one tunnel remained. Only one tunnel, and the goal given to him by Hunter, towards which Artyom stubbornly and recklessly went, would be reached. There were two, maybe three kilometres left to go along a dry and quiet section, and he’d be there. An echoing silence prevailed in Artyom’s head, a silence almost like that in the tunnel, but he no longer asked questions of himself. In another forty minutes, he’d be there. Forty minutes, and his trek would be over.

He wasn’t even aware that he was walking in impenetrable darkness. His legs continued to steadily mark off the ties. It was as if he had forgotten about all the dangers that threatened him, that he was unarmed, and that he had no identity papers, no flashlight, and no weapons, that he was dressed in an odd-looking set of loose overalls, and that, finally, he knew nothing about either this tunnel or the dangers that lay in wait for travellers through it.

His conviction that nothing posed a threat to him as long as he was following his path filled him. Where had the seemingly inescapable fear of the tunnels gone? What had happened to his fatigue and lack of faith?

The echo spoiled everything.

Because this tunnel was so empty, the sound of his steps carried both ahead and behind. Reflected from the walls, they rumbled and gradually receded and passed into a rustle, and then echoed shortly after, so that it seemed Artyom was not walking in the tunnel alone. After some time, this perception become so acute, that Artyom wanted to stop and listen and find out if the echo of his steps had a life of its own.

He continued to struggle with temptation for several minutes. His pace became slower and quieter, and he listened to hear if this affected the loudness of the echo. Finally, Artyom stopped completely. He stood like that in the impenetrable darkness and waited, afraid to take a deep breath, lest the sound of air entering his lungs interfered with the perception of the slightest murmurs in the distance.

Silence.

Now that he had stopped moving, his perception of the reality of space again vanished. While he was walking, it was as if he was grasping that reality by the soles of his boots. When he stopped in the middle of the ink-black darkness of the tunnel, Artyom suddenly no longer understood where he was.

And it seemed to him, when he again began to move, that the barely perceptible echo of his steps reached his ears before his own foot managed to step down onto the concrete floor.

His heart began to beat more acutely. But, in an instant, he was able to convince himself that paying attention to every rustle in the tunnels was silly and served no purpose. For some time, Artyom tried not to listen to the echo at all. Then, when it seemed to him that the most recent of the fading echoes were drawing closer, he covered his ears and continued to move forward. But even this didn’t work for long.

Removing his palms from his ears after a couple of minutes and continuing to walk, he heard - to his horror - the echo of his steps getting louder in front of him, as if they were approaching. But all he had to do was stop and so would the sounds in front of him, after a delay of some fraction of a second.