The Librarian (26 page)

“I remember Veretenov very well,” I declared. “We stayed at his house… And Latokhin too, of course… I can’t say anything definite about the others…”

“Yes, indeed…” Kruchina said thoughtfully. “A fine little business… And you, Yevgeny, did you know Dzyuba?”

“Not personally,” Ozerov said cheerlessly, “but there was a reader with that name. The best thing you can do is ask Garshenin. He had more or less close contacts with the Kolontaysk reading room. But wait, how can you suspect Dzyuba? He was wounded!”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Anna said dismissively. “Can’t we consider the possibility that the real Dzyuba was killed and buried with everyone else, and someone different came with us?”

“This is just crazy,” said Ozerov, shaking his head. “We haven’t been out of each other’s sight! When could he have let the council know where we are now? It’s absurd… Are we going to ask to see his passport, then?”

“It doesn’t make any difference anyway,” said Anna. “If Dzyuba’s an informer, he’s already done his job. If he isn’t, there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Well, I’m absolutely sure that Dzyuba’s not involved at all,” said Veronika, collecting up the dirty dishes. “He’s a decent guy. He’s calm and he hasn’t got shifty eyes. Traitors don’t behave the way he does. And the council has plenty of spies without him. Maybe someone tailed us on the way and followed us here, Nikolai Tarasovich?”

“I reckon not,” said Ievlev. “I was watching; we didn’t have a tail.”

“Boys and girls,” said Marat Andreyevich, slightly embarrassed. “I already regret that I raised the subject… It’s much too soon to be sure that the council has found out where we are.”

“A council punitive unit wouldn’t beat about the bush; they’d just attack,” Timofei Stepanovich laughed.

“But in that case, who was it that blocked the road?” Svetlana asked. “And what for?”

“We can’t tell,” Marat Andreyevich agreed. “So I suggest we clear the obstruction.”

“And the sooner the better,” Lutsis added.

“Me and Kruchina can do the job in an hour,” Nikolai Tarasovich said briskly. “Especially seeing as we’ve got the Taiga.”

“I wouldn’t recommend you to use the chainsaw,” said Marat Andreyevich. “That rig’s too noisy. Take the bucksaw instead.”

The dogs started howling.

Garshenin ran in, swinging the door wide open and panting hard.

“Panic stations, everyone,” he gasped out. “We’ve got visitors!” We went scurrying over to the long shelves where our armour was laid out. The pikes, Anna Vozglyakova’s flail and Garshenin’s battle scythe were standing in round nests in a low stand.

“What sort of people are they?” I asked quickly, pulling on my heavy armour over my head. The Book of Memory immediately migrated to its case.

“How the hell can we tell, Alexei Vladimirovich?” Garshenin replied, taking hold of his scythe handle reinforced with steel strips. “Five of them. Coming this way. I ran in here the moment we spotted them.”

“Only five?” asked Marat Andreyevich, fastening on his sabre. “Not exactly a lot.”

“Are they armed?”

“Doesn’t look like it. At least, they’re not holding anything suspicious in their hands… One has a coil of cable…”

“Repairmen?”

“How would I know?” Garshenin asked in frustration. “It’s not written on them. But they’re not likely to be repairmen. The best thing they can be is thieves who cut down cables to sell.”

“And the worst thing is council spies,” Igor Valeryevich continued, wrapping his bayonet in newspaper. “How are they dressed?”

“Normally for the weather. Work jackets, tarpaulin boots. Typical collective-farm style.”

“Very suspicious,” said Timofei Stepanovich, shaking his head. “No axes, no spades. As sure as eggs is eggs, they’ve got their little knives tucked away somewhere under their clothes.”

“Where did they come from?” I asked, still questioning Garshenin.

“They came out along the road…”

“Did they notice you and Dzyuba?”

“I don’t know…”

“And where is Dzyuba?”

“He stayed by the gate.”

“We need to close it!” Lutsis exclaimed.

“What for?” asked Anna, dragging her dead mother’s battle flail out of the stand. “Let them come in. We’ll talk to them and work out what they want.”

Nikolai Tarasovich took his sledgehammer down from the shelf.

“If they’re just passing by, I wouldn’t like to frighten them straight away. Or they’ll spread the word afterwards…”

Sukharev thought for a moment and took off his cuirass covered with soldier’s belt buckles.

“That’s right, why go sounding the alarm too soon?”

“Don’t act the fool,” Kruchina said harshly. “Just put something on over the top. And take the mace. God helps those who help themselves…”

Vyrin, who had also taken off his jacket, put it back on again and hung the shoulder belt with the sapper’s entrenching tools over the top.

We tumbled out into the yard. One side of the gates was open and Dzyuba was standing beside it with his hammer-pick over his shoulder. He waved to us reassuringly.

I looked at the men approaching the village soviet. They had already noticed us. Our guests certainly did look like typical rural residents. They strode confidently onto the yard and took off their caps. Their leader, dressed in a long tarpaulin raincoat reaching down almost to the ground, stepped forward—a scrawny man who looked about forty years old, with straw-blond hair and eyebrows and a moustache weathered to grey.

“Good health to you,” he said, screwing up his eyes roguishly. “You know, this isn’t the first year we’ve been walking these parts, and there’s been no one living here for a long time, but now it seems there is…” He started and turned round at the bang Dzyuba made as he closed the other half of the gates, using Ogloblin’s heavy cross instead of a bolt.

This action clearly made an unfavourable impression on our visitors. They suddenly started shuffling their feet and glancing round rapidly in alarm.

The light-haired one smiled.

“My, my, why do you use a cross to lock yourself in? You must be serious folks. Not Baptists, are you, by any chance? No?”

Timofei Stepanovich, Sukharev, Tanya and the Vozglyakov sisters moved towards the gates. Nayda sat at Veronika’s feet, growling deep in her chest. Garshenin, Ozerov, Vyrin and Lutsis hemmed our visitors
in from the sides. I stood there, surrounded by Ievlev, Kruchina and Dezhnev. I think we produced an intimidating impression.

“No, we’re not Baptists,” I said.

“A-a-ah,” their leader drawled, as if he was relieved. “That’s good… Although if truth be told, it’s all the same to us. What’s the difference who you are, as long as you’re a good man? Isn’t that right now?”

Inspired by his own words, he blathered about good people for half a minute, but I’d already spotted his avaricious glance, slipping out from under his pale eyebrows and across the case with the Book that was hanging on my chest. I had a bad feeling and my guts tensed up. Marat Andreyevich was standing beside me and I nudged him gently with my elbow. He turned towards me and said silently, with just his lips: “I see it…”

“So, who are you?” I asked the light-haired man. “What brings you to us?”

“That’s… We’re a building team. Do you need any repairs done?”

“So far we’re managing all right on our own…”

“I get you… But we could give you a hand… And for a good price…”

“Here’s a question for you,” I said. “Was it you who blocked the road?”

“The road? No, that wasn’t us…”

“It’s pointless lying!” I exclaimed to startle the stranger into confessing. “We saw you with our own eyes!”

“You did?” he asked, taken aback. “Well, yes, that’s right, we did it.” He shrugged. “It’s a forestry-section requirement. The trees are sick… I just didn’t realize what road you meant.”

“And why did you leave them lying about? No one can get through now.”

“Well, it’s not our job to clear them away. We were only told to cut them down…” The foreman glanced round at the gates. “And another thing,” he said with an obnoxious grin. “You wouldn’t happen to have any hooch to spare, would you?”

“No, we wouldn’t.”

“We’re not asking for it for free. We’d work for it. Don’t be shy now. Think about it. In principle, we can work for chow too, right lad?”

“I’m so hungry that I haven’t got anywhere to spend the night,” Timofei Stepanovich croaked comically.

Nayda suddenly started howling furiously and scrabbling at the stockade with her shaggy paw. I noticed the light-haired man and his companions draw themselves erect.

“Well, then, we’ll be going, since there’s nothing you need. Open the gates, please.”

We looked at Dzyuba. If he tried to pull out the cross acting as a bolt, it meant he was in league with the strangers. I saw Sukharev already preparing to strike with his chain. But Dzyuba completely ignored the request and didn’t budge; his heavy brows simply knitted together above his nose in a frown and his fingers tightened their grip on his hammer-pick.

“Listen, guys, come on now,” the light-haired man said loudly. “We’ve really got to go!”

At that very moment our enemies’ heads and bodies appeared over the stockade. Before the first one could even throw his leg over the logs he was impaled on the blade of Garshenin’s scythe. Dzyuba sank his hammer-pick into the side of the nearest enemy with a crunch.

The light-haired man threw open the flaps of his raincoat and pulled two blunt-nosed butcher’s cleavers. His three comrades took out the hatchets and knives that were hidden under their work jackets and threw themselves into the skirmish. However, they lacked the skill to back up their fervour. An abrupt bayonet thrust from Kruchina pierced the belly of one attacker, who collapsed, howling, with his legs pulled up. Nayda growled and clamped her jaws on the fallen man’s throat. Dezhnev’s sabre flashed and a hand holding an axe dropped onto the sand; the stump flung out a long spray of blood, as if someone had tossed the leftover tea
out of a glass. The wounded man was immediately run through by Tanya’s rapier and Ozerov’s pike.

More and more fighters kept tumbling over the wall. Dzyuba crushed fingers that clung to the top of the stockade with his hammer-pick and the enemies dropped away, howling, on the other side. Two hung there on top of the logs, lifeless, with their arms flung out like shirts on a washing line, and a third, whose trunk had toppled inside, had slipped almost to the ground, but the tops of his boot had got caught on the stockade’s points. Nikolai had already run up and was finishing someone off with swings of his sledgehammer.

I had to fight two opponents at once. I swung the hammer, trying not to let the dangerous hatchets get too close. In the heat of the moment it seemed as if the two of them were only parrying my blows. This cowardly tactic maddened me completely, dispelling the final remnants of caution. Eventually my hammer struck an enemy’s head with a dull ceramic sound. His contorted face was instantly covered in blood. But the euphoria of the third killing in my life was short-lived. The other man immediately swarmed into me and knocked me off my feet, but instead of hacking me to death, he started trying to pull the Book off me. He panted hoarse obscenities, strangling me with the chain of the steel case. I sank my teeth into his arm and tried to crush his prickly Adam’s apple, but the slippy cartilage wouldn’t break. My mouth was flooded with blood, as salty as old brine from pickled cucumbers, and I choked on it. Everything went hazy. My enemy suddenly jerked his hand free and hit me in the face several times so hard that I almost lost consciousness. The Book was dragged off me, tearing out a bunch of hair on its way, and I was released. Choking, I pushed a soft piece of flesh out of my mouth and wave of terror swept over me at the thought that I had bitten of my own tongue. I shouted, but instead of words there were only pink bubbles.

The man who had taken the Book from me was lying on the ground, with Sukharev raising his chain with the bunches of
padlocks dangling from it and crashing it down on the body that was shuddering in agony.

Down on my hands and knees, I feverishly ran my fingers round my mouth, trying to feel my tongue. My numb, insensitive fingers were immediately smeared with blood and I couldn’t understand a thing. Horrified, I wiped the bitten-off piece of flesh on my sleeve. It looked as if it wasn’t a tongue after all, but a bite taken out of a wrist. I was racked by a nauseous, retching cough and spat up blood—either my own or someone else’s—for a minute. Then Garshenin and Dzyuba ran over to me and lifted me up. Sukharev handed me the box with the Book in it, and I hung it round my neck again.

No more new fighters were climbing in, and the final enemy succumbed in uneven battle on two fronts with Anna and Marat Andreyevich, taking a blow from the head of the flail.

From the side where the yard was enclosed by a brick wall, fresh forces suddenly broke in. The only one left alive at the gates was the light-haired leader himself. He was no longer trying to break through to bolt, but skilfully dodging the Vozglyakovs’ spades and Kruchina’s bayonet as he retreated along the stockade. “Fuck it, will get you get a move on!” he called hoarsely to his accomplices.

Lutsis, Vyrin and Ozerov dashed to intercept the reinforcements, with Timofei Stepanovich struggling to keep up with them.

The light-haired man launched a desperate counterattack. Svetlana’s spade broke under a crushing blow from a cleaver and it was a miracle that she wasn’t killed herself. The second cleaver caught Kruchina. I heard Igor Valeryevich give a wild roar, pressing his hand to the spot on his temple where only a second ago he had an ear. Veronika’s spade sank into the enemy leader’s breastbone with a crunch. He roared. Veronika leaned on the handle with her full weight, pinning her adversary to the stockade. The light-haired man went limp and dangled on the spade like a puppet whose strings have all snapped at once.

Their leader’s death did nothing to stiffen the attackers’ courage. One of the six immediately fell victim to Vyrin’s entrenching tool and Timofei Stepanovich’s mace crushed another one’s skull. Ozerov’s pike transfixed the ribs of a third. A ball bearing precisely flung by Lutsis hit a fleeing enemy on the back of the neck. The man howled, clutched his head and fell, and Nikolai Tarasovich stamped his boot down on the man’s shattered neck vertebrae.