The Librarian (18 page)

T
HE TEMPORARY CALM
came to an abrupt end on 27 June. During the afternoon the phone rang. I blithely answered it because I was sure it was my father calling, and I was even ready to serve up his next portion of: “The renovations are progressing, it’s a nice town, the people are friendly and food prices aren’t high here.”

“Comrade Vyazintsev?” a man’s voice asked, and I felt the fear flood through my belly like boiling acid.

“Yes,” I replied in a dead voice. That form of address—“Comrade Vyazintsev”—could only mean one thing: the call was for the librarian of the Shironin reading room.

“Alexei Vladimirovich, this is Latokhin here. We met at the meeting…”

The gammy-legged leader of the Kolontaysk reading room. I remembered him.

“Good afternoon, Comrade Latokhin,” I said.

“Alexei Vladimirovich, we are sure that you will not refuse us your fraternal support…”

“Comrade Latokhin…”

“Alexei Vladimirovich,” Latokhin said insistently, “I know you lost four members only recently, but without us the outcome of the satisfaction would have been even more lamentable! And, after all, you did sign a document…”

“Comrade Latokhin,” I said, suddenly realizing that I had offended against etiquette, “do not think that we are refusing. I
only arrived here very recently, you know. It would be best for you to talk with Margarita Tikhonovna…”

“But, after all,
you
are the librarian!” Latokhin exclaimed in astonishment.

“Yes, but that is still a formality. Margarita Tikhonovna decides everything…”

“What childish nonsense!” Latokhin muttered, and hung up.

That evening a council of war was held on Shironin’s Guards Street. Everybody attended except Vyrin. Margarita Tikhonovna came in dark glasses—her left eye was completely covered by the swollen, mutilated eyelid. Sukharev’s hand dangled in a gauze sling like a white claw, with the fingertips poking out of the plaster like potato shoots. Lutsis had almost recovered from his concussion, although he felt sick in the car and he didn’t read the Book, complaining of dizziness and nausea. Anna Vozglyakova’s cracked collarbone had already knitted together, but it still ached.

Unfortunately my hopes of sitting it out as a nominal presence were not realized. After a brief report on the state of affairs, Margarita Tikhonovna dumped the burden of chairmanship on my shoulders.

What had happened was this: our Kolontaysk neighbours were being menaced by a migrant library that had lost all its Books as a result of armed skirmishes and was now trying to collect them back together, like scattered stones.

The nomads’ home territory had once been the town of Aktyubinsk. They used to have three Books of Joy, a Book of Memory, a Book of Endurance and a Book of Fury. The readers called themselves Pavliks, after their first librarian, Pavlik. The Aktyubinskites had been rendered destitute not by Mokhova, but by Lagudov a year before Neverbino, and then marauders had hit them really hard, reducing the substantial group to the size of a small reading room. The Pavliks had left their habitual place of residence to save their lives.

There were twelve of the exiles left, and they had a Book of Fury, capable of plunging anyone into a blind frenzy. This Book didn’t
bring any pleasure, but the aggressive emotion that it imparted was very useful when it came pouring out on the battlefield. It is not clear what the subsequent destiny of the reading room would have been if Semyon Chakhov, a stage designer, had not come across them. He had a stolen list of redistributed books, which showed who had received the books stolen from the Pavlik library. It was the appearance of the list that provided the stimulus for the reading room’s revival. The Pavliks decided to restore justice and take the Books back. The first victim was the Orenburg reading room, which was unfortunate enough to own one of the Books of Joy that had once belonged to the Pavliks. The Pavliks slaughtered the reading room and won back the Book. From there their bloody route ran through Chelyabinsk and Kurgan. The Books of Joy were recovered. Ominous news came from Novosibirsk. The Aktyubinskites had taken back their Book of Endurance.

Naturally, the council kept an eye on the Pavliks, issuing warnings and threatening punitive measures, but with no result. The forces of the council always arrived at the battlefield too late, hypocritically complaining that the enemy was too elusive. It was clear to all right-thinking readers that the only reason for this elusiveness was that a ruinous raid by the Pavliks simply played into the council’s hands—the provincial reading rooms were disappearing.

The next target was the Kolontaysk reading room, which owned a Book of Memory. According to information received from the council, the Pavliks could be expected in Kolontaysk any week now. The council had promised Latokhin reinforcements, but the reading room’s greatest hope was their neighbours. Latokhin was right to be alarmed. The Pavliks had once again become a fully fledged library with a total of up to eighty readers. And apart from everything else, they had a Book of Fury and a Book of Endurance—irreplaceable battle Books; only the extremely rare Book of Strength could be better…

That was what I learned from Margarita Tikhonovna. And then she said:

“I propose that we should hear from our librarian, Alexei Vladimirovich.”

Unfortunately, the cowardly question that came to my mind was whether there was any elegant pretext under which we could renege on our debt to the Kolontaysk readers. I was too embarrassed to put the question directly and approached the subject obliquely.

“I’m new here… It’s hard for me to judge. Of course, the easiest thing is to regard this as entirely the Kolontaysk reading room’s problem and, after all, the Book of Memory did belong to the Aktyubinsk library…”

I paused, but no one volunteered to complete my train of thought and say, “If that’s the case, we have no business sticking our noses into all this.” On the contrary, they all waited for what would come next.

“We have suffered substantial losses; our own situation is far from easy…”

And again the response was attentive silence.

“Let us honestly consider whether we can refuse the Kolontaysk reading room…”

The Shironinites smiled. My words had been taken for rhetorical irony born of courage—with the bravado of: “Is there powder in the powder horns still?”

“Well, of course we can’t refuse,” Lutsis said merrily.

“It’s as clear as day,” said Sukharev, backing him up. “And anyway, we signed a piece of paper.”

“Lads, joking aside,” Dezhnev put in, “we have to decide how many people we send.”

Margarita Tikhonovna nodded.

“A good question, Marat Andreyevich. The Kolontaysk reading room sacrificed three warriors for us. I think we cannot send fewer than four people.”

“That’s fine,” Timofei Stepanovich declared cheerfully. “I’m always ready.”

Kruchina, Ievlev and Lutsis raised their hands like star pupils and Young Pioneers.

“Denis!” Marat Andreyevich exclaimed. “Where do you think you’re going? What kind of fighter would you make now?… Timofei Stepanovich and Fyodor Alexandrovich will go.” Marat Andreyevich looked at Ogloblin, who nodded eagerly. “Well, and, of course, your humble servant…”

“That’s three people,” Margarita Tikhonovna said quietly. “Who else, Comrade Dezhnev?”

“Let’s say Tanya. Or Svetlana. Or Veronika…”

“Svetlana can stay here,” Lutsis said stubbornly. “Why her? I’m more use in any case.”

“Denis, just think about it,” Ievlev boomed amiably. “Three of the Kolontayskites really did die for us, but that doesn’t mean we have to pay them back in corpses. What we want is a victory… You need to rest and restore your strength. But I don’t agree with Dezhnev either. Why take women?”

“Wait a moment,” Marat Andreyevich sighed. “Let’s think logically. Comrades Ievlev and Kruchina are the backbone of our reading room’s strength. We can’t really count on Sasha and Denis—don’t take offence, lads, but it’s true. Grisha’s position is obvious. Margarita Tikhonovna and Anna are not entirely well. Someone has to protect the Book and Alexei. And our beauties are splendid fighters.”

“I’m against Svetlana being chosen,” Lutsis declared categorically. “Why can’t I go, if I’m well?”

“Denis, you’re a grown man. Be objective about yourself,” Margarita Tikhonovna said sternly.

“Yes, yes, that’s right,” said Svetlana. “I’d be happy to join the men.”

“And I’d be even happier,” Veronika laughed.

“Comrades,” said Tanya, getting up. “Permit me to share my thoughts with you. Much as I hate to remind you… The Vozglyakov family…”—Tanya’s voice trembled—“… lost their dearest member only a month ago…”

When she said that, Svetlana’s lips started trembling, Anna
wiped away a tear and Veronika, the youngest, lowered her face into her hands.

“Tanya,” Sukharev exclaimed reproachfully. “Why say that? It will take Veronika half a day to calm down now…”

“I’m sorry, but it was something that simply had to be said,” Tanya continued resolutely. “Obviously, the death of any reader is an irreparable loss. But a family is something else, after all. Our girls are strong people, but it wouldn’t be right to put them through the unnecessary trauma of more emotional stress. Perhaps they’ve given enough, eh?”

“Tanya, why are you making us look like some kind of egotists?” Anna said in a pained voice. “We’re equal here! We’re all equally precious!”

“What Tanya says is right,” Marat Andreyevich said with nod. “What has egotism got to do with it? You need to recover, to restore you spirits. Am I right, Tanya?”

“Bull’s-eye, Comrade Dezhnev. That’s why I propose that I go and I urge everyone to back me up! Well, after all, Alexei can’t go! Timofei Stepanovich, why don’t you say anything? It will be easier for you with me!”

“Thank you Tanyusha,” Margarita Tikhonovna sighed. “You’ve made everything very clear—clearer than I did. Right then, comrades, let’s vote…”

“And make it a unanimous ‘yes’,” Tanya threatened them jokingly. “Abstainers are my enemies for life!”

I felt a strange new feeling. Something like a pang of conscience. The voting came to an end, the others all went home, and the uncomfortable feeling swelled up inside me, so that by the evening my soul’s former timid shell felt as tight as a shoe one size too small…

In an attempt to smother this condition, I picked up the Book. This time everything was much simpler; the text didn’t slither about, and in two hours I had read the Book of Memory for the first time…

I
WON’T REPEAT
the experience of my false visions. The childhood tossed to me could easily have been mine. But that’s not the most important thing. More thrilling even than the activation of the false memory was its aftertaste. The Book seemed to have opened up an artesian well, and a torrent of forgotten words, sounds, colours, voices, domestic details, inscriptions, labels and stickers came pouring out of it… On the airwaves: the Pioneer dawn, knowledge is a hard nut, but even so, giving up is not our way, at the airport he was met by Comrades Chernenko, Zaykov, Slyunkov, Vorotnikov, Vladislav Tretyak, Oleg Blokhin, Irina Rodnina is written with a capital letter, Artek, Tarkhun, Baikal, fruit and berry ices for 7 copecks, a choc ice on a stick for 28 copecks, a mug of kvass for 6 copecks, milk in triangular packets, kefir in a glass bottle with a green top, chewing gum is pineapple or mint, you can chew Czech erasers too, the Soyuzpechat kiosk sells transfers as thin as a film of oil, the best spray gun is made out of an empty blueing bottle, the best smoke bomb out of the two halves of a ping pong ball, the best crossbow with a wooden clothes peg, keys to the apartment are carried on a cord, mittens on elastic, a pen of woven wire, a little figure made of plastic tubing, table football, our squad, our motto: not a single step back, not a single step on the spot, only forward and only all together, remember down the ages, down the years, those who will never come again, the Young Pioneer heroes Volodya Dubinin, Marat Kazei, Lenya Golikov, Valya Kotik, Zina Portnova, Oleg Popov, Lelek and Bolek,
Rubik’s Cube, shifting-picture calendar cards, the planetarium, film strips on a projector, the magazines
Jolly Pictures,
Murzilka
and
Young Technician
with clever tricks on the cover, Orlenok, Salyut and Desna bicycles, on weekdays
The Adventures of Electronic
and
Girl from the Future,
on Fridays
Visiting a Fairytale,
on Saturdays
ABCDEing,
on Sunday
Alarm Clock,
a week is two pages in a diary…

I stood on the balcony. A stormy purple sky extended above the world as evening advanced. The wind flung handfuls of the first drops of rain into my face, cooling it pleasantly. I had already understood everything and thought it through. Once I had calmed down a bit, I went back into the room. I took the motorcycle helmet out of the wardrobe. My uncle’s weapon was in there too—I fancied it was a very old geologist’s hammer. The long handle ended in a leather loop. The iron claw was rather larger than on a normal claw hammer, and the other side looked like a sharpened four-faceted beak, curved slightly downward, like a combat pick.

Then I phoned Margarita Tikhonovna and told her in a restrained voice that I was going to Kolontaysk.

Margarita Tikhonovna asked:

“Alexei, have you read the Book?”

I don’t know why, but I felt too shy to tell her the truth. I mumbled something unintelligible and said goodbye until tomorrow.

It wasn’t only the Book that had made me take this step. I’d remembered my terrible twenty-seventh birthday. Anticipating disaster, two weeks in advance I phoned my old CJI colleagues and schoolmates. They responded feebly to the call, promising to come. We were still in touch, although not very close, and if we met in town we used to sit on a bench, have a beer and crack jokes. My friends thanked me and made excuses, saying they were very busy with family and children. I took fright at this human void and invited lots of people I wasn’t at all close to—people from work whom I barely even knew.

My birthday arrived. In the morning my parents presented me with a woolly sweater and drove me out into the country—the
dacha-plot harvest was just beginning. Then Vovka dropped round for an hour with my nephew Ivan and a chocolate cake. She kissed me and apologized because Slavik couldn’t come—he was at home with Ilya, who was ill, but he sent his best wishes and gave me a CD player. Vovka helped to lay the table and whipped my mother’s half-finished delicacies into shape. In the evening I waited for my guests…

No one came. Exhausted by a three-hour wait, I gathered up the plates and glasses from the table, put all the chairs back in their rooms, packed the celebratory food into the fridge, grabbed a bottle of vodka and set off for the edge of town as if it were the world’s end. I bounced about in the bus all the way to the final stop, hobbled along a deserted earth road and scrambled through brittle wild grass until I reached a cliff. My town was visible in the distance, like a collapsed New Year tree.

I drank the vodka in tiny sips and scalding, drunken tears coursed down my cheeks. “How could this happen, eh?” I asked helplessly. “What have I done to offend you, Life? Wasn’t it you who swore in that sweet-voiced quartet all those years ago from the screen of a black-and-white Record TV that it was time-time-time to delight me with jolly friends, a lucky blade and Alice so fine? I sang along with you, Life! I believed you! How cruelly you have mocked me! My third decade is already coming to an end and I have no faithful friends and never will. My weak hand will never know a sword hilt, and my Alice has never gone astray on the next street. Alice so fine is a blond hybrid of Milady and Constance. She never existed, she was a mirage, an acoustic illusion, a spilled “chalice of wine”, a puddle of cheap fortified port on a slashed oilcloth tablecloth…”

And suddenly life had settled up with me, admittedly belatedly, and given me back what it had promised, only it had done it too unexpectedly, sneakily, from round a corner, so that I had failed to recognize my happiness and feared it blindly for almost a month.

The reading room received my unexpected decision without any exultant comments, as something to be taken for granted, but I
realized that I had passed the examination for the post of librarian with honour.

Timofei Stepanovich said in passing:

“I told you, Alexei, blood’s thicker than water!”

The Book had roused my conscience, but it had not made me reckless. I realized that I was a worthless fighter. Especially for me Ogloblin constructed a sturdy and comfortable protective tunic in the style of an Old Russian
kalantar
out of the slabs of Belaz truck tyres that I had found in the cupboard—two halves connected together at the top by a flexible shoulder piece. Attached to the waist was a skirt made of lighter Kamaz truck tyres. Worn over Vyrin’s jacket, the tunic didn’t restrict the movements of my arms at all. The motorcycle helmet, reinforced with similar tyre slabs, securely protected my neck and ears. I was also hastily taught a few extremely simple but effective moves with my uncle’s pick.

I spent many hours at Margarita Tikhonovna’s place. She put on her favourite records and, to the accompaniment of 1970s variety music, we discussed exalted, non-Gromovian subjects…

Thanks to the Book of Memory, on one of those evenings I experienced an acoustic revelation that really boosted my spirits… A fanfare sounded in the speakers and the drums rattled out a gallows roll. Soaring above them, fluttering like a banner, was a high boy’s voice: “The house was left behind a veil of steppe mist; I shall not soon return to it. Please just stay with me, Comrade Truth, Comrade Truth…”

In my childhood years that song was played quite often on the radio. I can’t say that it had made any special impression on me before; I grew used to it and noticed neither the words nor the music. But now the cotton-wool plugs and filters definitely all fell away, revealing a quite different high-frequency range.

It wasn’t just the voice of a boy soloist in a children’s choir, it was a child skald glorifying heroism and death. The descant in no way diminished the valour of the youthful voice; on the contrary, it filled it with a pure, unclouded resonance, and grandiose pictures
of a Soviet Valhalla arose before my eyes. Death was simultaneously a parade on Red Square and an eternal battle at Dubosekovo Junction, in bronze, marble and flame. For a brief moment I saw or remembered my own glorified or forgotten future death. It was glorious because it was immortal. I was engulfed by gratitude and exultation.

Unable to contain myself, I shared my feelings with Margarita Tikhonovna.

“That’s right,” she said. “There are sacred icons and there are sacred Books, like ours. Read it often, and fear will lose its hold over you for ever…”

And so the infantile arsenal of false memory was reinforced with an acoustic equivalent of the Soviet eternity, which repeatedly brought me succour in difficult moments. Later, images reminiscent of blurred and grainy frames from a black-and-white news chronicle accrued around the sound.

In short, when Latokhin called again on 6 July and set a meeting, I was prepared for a battle with the Pavliks. The day before we left I gave Margarita Tikhonovna the Book for safekeeping. Then the entire reading room gathered. There was another reason for that—we were celebrating Marat Andreyevich’s birthday.

It seemed as if I was the only one with his heart pierced by the rusty nail of dread. The others weren’t showing any signs, as if there were no battle ahead. Yet again I was astounded by the Shironinites’ simple courage. These people with nerves of steel could joke, smile and praise Tanya’s salads or Margarita Tikhonovna’s cake to the skies. Only the singing round the table betrayed their secret agitation, when we all launched into a song about a comrade flying to a distant land.

I tried as hard as I could to pull a veil over tomorrow, drank a large glass of vodka to Marat Andreyevich’s health and fitted my voice in with the chorus as best I could: “The beloved city can sleep in peace and dream, adrift in springtime greenery.”