"Metro 2033" - читать интересную книгу автора (Glukhovsky Dmitry A)

CHAPTER 11. I Don’t Believe It

Artyom decided that there was no sense in pretending any more, and honestly shook his head.

‘At the Watchtower, they will lead you to this, and to much more, and your eyes will be opened to many things,’ proclaimed Brother Timothy. ‘Do you know what Jesus Christ, the Son of God, said to his disciples at Laodicea?’ Seeing Artyom avert his eyes, he shook his head in mild reproach. ‘Jesus said, “I counsel you to buy from me salve to anoint your eyes, that you may see.” But Jesus was not talking about physical illness,’ stressed Brother Timothy, raising his index finger, and his voice shifted to an exalted, intriguing intonation that promised to the inquiring mind an astonishing sequel.

Artyom was quick to express lively interest.

‘Jesus was talking about spiritual blindness which had to be healed,’ said Timothy, in explanation of the riddle. ‘Like you and thousands of other lost souls who are wandering blindly in the dark. But belief in the true God of our Jehovah is that salve for the eyes which opens your eyelids wide, so that you can see the world as it really is; because you can see physically, but spiritually you are blind.’

Artyom thought that eye ointment would have done him good four days ago. Since he didn’t reply, Brother Timothy decided that this complex idea required some further interpretation, and was quiet for a while, to allow what Artyom had heard to sink in.

But after five minutes, a light flickered up ahead, and Brother Timothy interrupted his reflections to report the joyous news:

‘Do you see the light in the distance? That is the Watchtower. We’re here!’ There was no tower at all, and Artyom felt slightly disappointed. It was a regular train standing in a tunnel, whose headlights shone softly in the darkness, illuminating fifteen metres in front of it. When Brother Timothy and Artyom arrived at the train, a chubby man came down from the engineer’s cab to meet them, wearing the same type of robe as Brother Timothy; he embraced Rosy-Cheeks and also called him ‘my beloved brother,’ from which Artyom deduced that this was more a figure of speech than a declaration of love.

‘Who is this young fellow?’ the chubby guy asked in a low voice, smiling tenderly at Artyom.

‘Artyom, our new brother, who wants to walk with us on the path to Truth, to study the Holy Bible, and to renounce the Devil,’ explained rosy-cheeked Timothy.

‘Then permit the Watchtower to welcome you, O my beloved Brother Artyom!’ droned Fatso, and Artyom was again amazed that he too did not seem to notice the unbearable stench that had now permeated his entire being.

‘And now,’ cooed Brother Timothy, as they were making their leisurely way through the first car, ‘before you meet the brothers in the Hall of the Kingdom, you have to clean your body, for Jehovah God is clean and holy, and expects his worshippers to maintain their spiritual, moral, and physical cleanliness, as well as cleanliness of thoughts. We live in an unclean world,’ he said, glancing sadly at Artyom’s clothes, which were certainly in a deplorable condition, ‘and serious efforts are required of us to remain clean in God’s eyes, my brother,’ he concluded, and hustled Artyom into a nook that was decked out with plastic sheets, set up not far from the entrance to the car. Timothy asked him to undress, and then handed him a bar of grey soap with a nauseating smell, and five minutes later ran water for him from a rubber hose.

Artyom tried not to think about what the soap was made out of. At any event, it not only ate up the dirt on his skin, but also destroyed the disgusting smell emanating from his body. After the procedures were complete, Brother Timothy gave Artyom a relatively fresh robe, like his own, and looked disapprovingly at the cartridge case hanging around his neck, perceiving it to be a pagan talisman, but limited himself to a reproachful sigh.

It was also surprising that on this strange train, stuck, who knows when, in the middle of a tunnel, and now serving as a shelter for the brethren, there was water, and it came out under such strong pressure.

But when Artyom asked about the strange water that was coming from the hose and how it was possible to build such a structure, brother Timothy only mysteriously smiled and declared that the aspiration to please Lord Jehovah really moved people to heroic and glorious acts. The explanation was more than a bit foggy but it would have to suffice.

Then they went into the second wagon where long, empty tables were built between rigid lateral benches. Brother Timothy walked up to a man who was conjuring something over a big cauldron from which a seductive steam was rising, and he returned with a big dish of some kind of thin gruel, which turned out to be quite edible even though Artyom couldn’t work out what it was made from.

While he hastily scooped up the hot soup with an old aluminium spoon, Brother Timothy watched affectionately, not missing a chance to proselytize:

‘Don’t think that I don’t trust you, brother, but your answer to my question about belief in our God didn’t sound very solid. Can you really imagine a world in which He doesn’t exist? Surely our world can’t have created itself, not according to His wise will? Could the infinite variety of forms of life, the beauty of the earth,’ he gestured around the dining room with his beard, ‘could all this be just an accident?’

Artyom looked around the wagon attentively but didn’t see any other forms of life in it apart from themselves and the cook. Again, he bent over his bowl and only issued some sceptical rumblings.

Contrary to his expectations, his disagreement didn’t embitter Brother Timothy at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had visibly enlivened, his pink cheeks were lit with a fervent, fighting flush.

‘If this doesn’t convince you of His existence,’ brother Timothy continued energetically, ‘then think about it in a different way. If this world isn’t a display of divine will then it means…’ his voice froze, as if from fright, and only after several long moments, during which Artyom completely lost his appetite, did he finish his thought: ‘Then that means that people are left to their own devices, and there’s no point to our existence, and there’s no point in prolonging it… It means that we are completely alone, and no one cares for us. It means that we are plunged into chaos and there isn’t the slightest hope of a light at the end of the tunnel… And it’s frightening to live in such a world. It’s impossible to live in such a world.’

Artyom didn’t say anything to him in reply, but these words made him think. Until this moment he had in fact viewed his life as total chaos, like a chain of accidents without connection or sense. Though this oppressed him and the temptation to trust any simple truth that might fill his life with meaning was great, he considered it cowardice and through the pain and the doubt, he gained strength in the thought that his life was of no use and that each living thing should resist nonsense and the chaos of life. But he didn’t feel at all like arguing with the gentle Timothy right now.

He felt a satisfied and benevolent feeling, and he felt sincere gratitude to the person who had picked him up, tired, hungry and stinking, and who had spoken warmly to him, who now fed him and had given him clean clothes. He wanted to somehow thank him and so when the man beckoned him to join a meeting of brothers, Artyom stood up readily, showing with his every mannerism, that he would go with pleasure to this meeting and wherever he was led.

The meeting was to take place in the next, that is, the third, carriage. It was full of all sorts of people, mostly dressed in the same overalls. In the middle of the carriage there was a small scaffold and the person standing on it towered over everybody at floor level, almost resting his head on the ceiling.

‘It’s important that you listen to everything,’ Brother Timothy told Artyom instructively, clearing their path with gentle nudges and leading Artyom to the very middle of the crowd.

The orator was rather old, and there was a handsome grey beard falling down his chest, and his deep-set eyes of an indeterminate colour looked down wisely and calmly. His face wasn’t thin or round, it was furrowed with deep wrinkles but it didn’t portray an old man’s weakness or helplessness but rather a wisdom. It radiated an inexplicable force.

‘That’s Elder John,’ Brother Timothy whispered to Artyom in a reverential voice. ‘You are really lucky, Brother Artyom, as soon as the sermon begins you will receive teachings at once.’

The elder raised his hand; the rustlings and whisperings stopped immediately. Then he began in a deep and sonorous voice:

‘My first lesson to you, my beloved brothers, is about how to know what God is asking of you. To do this you must answer three questions. What important information is contained in the Bible? Who is its author? Why should we study it?’

His speech differed from Brother Timothy’s meandering manner. He spoke absolutely simply, plainly navigating short propositions. Artyom was at first surprised by this, but then he looked from side to side and saw that the majority of people there were only able to understand words like this, and the pink-cheeked Timothy had no more effect on them than the walls or the table. Meanwhile, the grey-haired preacher informed them that God’s truth lay in the Bible: who He is and which were His laws. After that he turned to the second question and told them that the Bible was written by about forty different people over 1600 years and they were all inspired by God.

‘That’s why,’ the elder concluded, ‘the author of the Bible isn’t a person but it is God, living in the heavens. And now, answer me this, brothers, why do we need to study the Bible?’

And, not waiting for the brothers to answer, he explained it himself: ‘Because to know God and to do His will is a pledge of your eternal future. Not everyone will be pleased that you are studying the Bible,’ he warned, ‘but don’t let anyone prevent you!’ He cast a stern look around the congregation.

There was a moment’s silence and then the old man, having taken a sip of water, continued: ‘My second lesson to you, brothers, is about who God is. So, give me an answer to these three questions: Who is the true God and what is His name? What are His most important qualities? What is the right way to worship Him?’

Someone from the crowd had wanted to answer one of the questions but he was thrown furious looks and John indifferently started to answer the questions himself: ‘People worship many things. But in the Bible it says there is only one God. He created everything in heaven and on earth. And since he gave us life, we must worship Him alone. What is the name of the true God?’ cried the aged man after a pause.

‘Jehovah!’ The crowd burst out with one voice.

Artyom looked from side to side warily.

‘The true name of God is Jehovah!’ the preacher confirmed. ‘He has lots of titles but one name. Remember the name of our God and don’t call him by his titles like a coward but straight, by name! Who will tell me now, what is the main quality of our God?’

Artyom thought that he would now see that there was someone vaguely educated in the crowd who could answer such a question. And standing nearby, a serious-looking young man put his hand up to answer but the old man beat him to it.

‘The nature of Jehovah is revealed in the Bible! And His main qualities are love, justice, wisdom and strength. It is said in the Bible that God is merciful, kind, ready to forgive, magnanimous and patient. We, like obedient children, should be like Him in every way.’

What he said caused no objection amongst the congregation, and the aged man, stroking his magnificent beard, asked, ‘So tell me how should we worship our God Jehovah? Jehovah says that we should only worship Him. We must not revere images, pictures, symbols and pray to them! Our God will not share his glory with someone else! Images are powerless to help us!’ the voice rumbled threateningly.

The crowd murmured approvingly and Brother Timothy turned his joyful, radiant face to Artyom and said, ‘Elder John is a great orator, and thanks to him our brotherhood is growing with every day, and the community of followers of the true faith is spreading!’

Artyom smiled bitterly. The ardent speech of Elder John did not have the same fiery effect on him as it had on the rest of them. But maybe it was worth listening some more?

‘For my third lesson I will tell you about Jesus Christ,’ said the old man. ‘And here are three questions: Why is Jesus Christ called the first-born son of God? Why did He come to the earth as a person? What would Jesus do in the near future?’

Then it became clear that Jesus was called the first-born son of God because he was the first creation of God, an embodiment on earth of the holy spirit and he lived in heaven. Artyom was very surprised by this – he’d only seen the sky once before, on that fateful day at the Botanical Gardens. Someone had once told him that there may be life up there in the stars. Was that what the preacher was talking about?

Then Elder John explained: ‘But who among you will tell me why Jesus Christ, the son of God, came to the earth?’ And he paused dramatically.

Now Artyom had started to realize what was going on around him, and it became clear that those present belonged to the ranks of the converted and they had been coming to these lectures for some time. Veterans of these lessons never made attempts to answer the elder’s questions whereas the new initiates were trying to show their knowledge and eagerness, crying out answers and waving their hands but only until the old man explained it all himself.

‘When Adam didn’t follow God’s command, he became the first person to commit what the Bible calls a sin,’ the elder began from afar. ‘Therefore God sentenced Adam to death. And gradually Adam grew old and died, but he transferred his sin to his children and therefore we also get older and become ill and die. And then God sent his first-born son, so he could teach man about God’s truth, and in his pure example, he showed people an example, and he sacrificed his life to free humankind from sin and death.’

This idea seemed very strange to Artyom. Why was it necessary to punish all men with death in order to later sacrifice your only son so that everything would be returned to its original state? How could that be if He was omnipotent?

‘Jesus returned to heaven, resurrected. Later God called him king. Soon Jesus will wipe all evil and suffering from the earth!’ the old man promised. ‘But we’ll speak about this after praying, my brothers!’

Obediently inclined heads gathered and joined in the sacrament of prayer. Artyom bathed in the many-voiced buzz from which separate words could not be distinguished, but the general sense made itself clear. After five minutes of prayer, the brothers began to exchange words briskly, apparently worrying about the arrival of the holy spirit.

Something wasn’t sitting right within Artyom. He had a nagging feeling but he decided to stay there for a while because it might be that the most convincing part of the lecture lay ahead.

‘And the fourth lesson I will give to you is about the Devil.’ And looking around him with a gloomy and damning look, the elder warned, ‘Are you all ready for this? Are you brothers strong enough in spirit to know about this?’

Then it was absolutely necessary to answer but Artyom couldn’t get a sound out of himself. How could he know if he was sufficiently strong in spirit if he wasn’t clear what this was all about anyway?

‘And so here are three questions: Where did Satan come from? How does Satan betray people? Why is it necessary for us to resist the Devil?’

Artyom let most of the answer to these questions fly past his ears, distracted by the thought of where he was and how he was going to get out of here. He only heard that the main sin of the Devil was that he wanted people to worship him, which was a privilege for God alone. And he also wondered if it was really true that God was really concerned with each of his followers, and was there one person who is utterly devoted to God?

The language of the aged man now seemed to Artyom frighteningly official and addressed questions that were inappropriate for discussion. From time to time, Brother Timothy looked over at him attentively, searching Artyom’s face for the spark of imminent enlightenment but Artyom was just becoming gloomier and gloomier.

‘Satan deceives people so they will worship him,’ the aged man was saying in the meantime. ‘And there are three ways in which he does this: false religion, spiritism and nationalism. If a religion teaches lies about God, it is serving Satan’s purposes. Adherents of false religions might easily think that they are worshipping the true God but in reality they are worshipping Satan. Spiritism is when people call upon spirits to protect them, to harm others, to predict the future, and to perform miracles. Behind each of these actions is the evil force of the Devil!’ The old man’s voice was shaking from hatred and disgust. ‘And apart from that, Satan deceives people by inciting nationalistic pride within them and inducing them to worship political organizations,’ the elder warned them with an upraised finger. ‘People think that their race or nation is superior to others. But it isn’t true.’

Artyom rubbed the back of his neck, which was still marred by a red welt, and coughed. He couldn’t agree with that last comment.

‘Some people are convinced that political organizations will get rid of mankind’s problems. People who believe that deny the Kingdom of God. But only the Kingdom of Jehovah will solve the problems of mankind. And now I shall tell you, o my brothers, why you must resist the Devil. In order to make you repudiate Jehovah, Satan may resort to persecutions and actions against you. Some of your near and dear ones may become angry with you for studying the Bible. Others might start mocking you. But to whom do you owe your life?!’ asked the elder, and notes of iron rang out in his voice. ‘Satan wants to frighten you! So that you’ll stop finding out about Jehovah! Don’t let him do it! Get! The upper hand! Against Satan!’ John’s voice crashed like rumbling thunder. ‘By resisting the Devil, you will prove to Jehovah that you are in favour of his dominion!’

The crowd roared in ecstasy.

With a wave of his hand, Elder John quelled the general hysteria, in order to end the meeting with a final, fifth lesson.

‘What did God intend for the earth?’ He turned to the audience, spreading his arms. ‘Jehovah created the earth, so that people would live there happily, forever. He wanted a righteous and joyful mankind to inhabit the earth. The earth shall never be destroyed. It shall exist for all eternity!’

Unable to contain himself, Artyom snorted. Angry looks shot in his direction, and Brother Timothy raised a threatening finger.

‘The first human beings, Adam and Eve, sinned, deliberately violating God’s law,’ continued the orator. ‘Therefore Jehovah expelled them from paradise, and paradise was lost. But Jehovah did not forget the purpose for which he had created the earth. He promised to transform it into a paradise, in which people would live forever. How did God fulfil his plan?’ The elder posed the question to himself.

A lengthy pause indicated that the key moment of the sermon was about to arrive. Artyom was all ears.

‘Before the earth could become a paradise, the evil people would have to be eliminated.’ John pronounced the words forebodingly. ‘It was promised to our forefathers that a cleansing would take place through Armageddon – a divine war for the annihilation of evil. And then Satan would be enfettered for a thousand years. There would be nobody left to harm the earth. Only God’s people would remain alive! And King Jesus Christ will rule the earth for a thousand years!’ The elder turned his burning gaze to the front ranks of the people who were taking in his words. ‘Do you understand what this means? The divine war for the annihilation of evil has already ended! What happened to this sinful earth was Armageddon! Evil was incinerated! According to what was prophesied, only God’s people would survive. We who live in the metro are the people of God! We survived Armageddon! The Kingdom of God is at hand! Soon there will be neither old age, nor illness, nor death! The sick shall be freed of their ailments, and the old shall become young again! In the thousand-year reign of Jesus, the people who are faithful to God shall turn the earth into a paradise, and God shall resurrect millions of the dead!’

Artyom recalled Sukhoi’s conversation with Hunter about how the level of radiation on the surface would not drop for at least fifty years, and that mankind was doomed, and other biological species were on the rise… The elder did not explain exactly how the surface of the earth would turn into a flowering paradise.

Artyom wanted to ask him what weird kind of plants were going to bloom in that burned-out paradise, and what kind of people would dare to go up above and settle it, and if his parents had been children of Satan, and if that were why they had perished in the war to annihilate evil. But he didn’t say anything. He was filled with such bitterness and such mistrust, that his eyes burned, and he was ashamed to feel a tear run down his cheek. Mustering his strength, he said just one thing:

‘Tell me, what does Jehovah, our true God, say about headless mutants?’ The question hung in the air. Elder John did not deign even to glance at Artyom, but those standing next to him looked around with fright and repulsion, and they moved away from him, as if he had let out a foul smell. Brother Timothy tried to take him by the hand, but Artyom tore away and, pushing aside the brethren who were crowded around, began to make his way to the exit.

He made it out of the Hall of the Kingdom and went through the dining carriage. There were a lot of people at the tables now, with empty aluminium bowls in front of them. Something interesting was going on in the middle of the room, and all eyes were turned in that direction.

‘Before we partake of this repast, my brethren,’ a skinny, homely fellow with a crooked nose was saying, ‘let us listen to little David and his story. This will fill out the sermon we heard today about violence.’

He moved aside, his place being taken by a chubby, snub-nosed boy with carefully combed, whitish hair.

‘He was mad at me and wanted to give me a drubbing,’ David began, speaking with the intonation children use when reciting verses they have learned by heart. ‘Probably only because I was short. I backed away from him and cried out: “Stop! Wait! Don’t beat me! I haven’t done anything to you. What did I do to offend you? You’d better tell me what happened!” ’ A well-rehearsed expression of exaltation came over David’s face.

‘And what did that awful bully say to you?’ the skinny fellow jumped in excitedly.

‘It turned out that somebody had stolen his breakfast, and he was only taking out his annoyance on the first person he ran into,’ David explained, but something in his voice made it seem doubtful that he himself understood very well what he had just said.

‘And what did you do?’ asked the thin man, stoking the tension.

‘I just said to him, “If you beat me, it won’t bring your breakfast back,” and I suggested to him instead, to go to Brother Chef and tell him what had happened. We asked for another breakfast for him. After that he shook my hand and was always friendly to me.’

‘Is the man who offended little David present in this room?’ asked the skinny fellow in the voice of a prosecutor.

A hand shot up, and a strapping twenty-year-old with a doltish and malevolent-looking face began to make his way toward the improvised stage, to tell about the miraculous effect of little David’s words upon him. It wasn’t easy. The boy was obviously more adept at memorizing words whose meaning he didn’t understand. When the presentation was over, and little David and the repentant thug left the stage to the approving sound of applause, the stringy fellow took their place again and addressed the seated audience in an impassioned voice:

‘Yes, the words of the meek possess enormous power! As it says in Proverbs, the words of the meek break bones. Softness and meekness are not weakness, o my beloved brethren, for softness conceals an enormous strength of will! And examples from the Holy Bible give us proof…’ Flipping through the well-thumbed book for the page he wanted, he began to read aloud some story, in tones of rapture.

Artyom moved ahead, followed by surprised looks, and finally made it into the lead car. Nobody stopped him there, and he was about to go out onto the tracks, but Bashni the senior guard, that amiable and unflappable hulk of a man, greeted him cordially at the door, now blocking the way with his torso and, knitting his thick brows, sternly asked if Artyom had permission to exit. There was no way to get around him.

Waiting half a minute for an explanation, the guard kneaded his enormous fists with a dry crackle, and moved towards Artyom. Looking around in all directions, trapped, Artyom remembered little David’s story. Maybe, instead of hurling himself against the elephantine guard, it would be worth finding out if maybe somebody stole his breakfast.

Fortunately, just then Brother Timothy caught up with him. Looking at the security man tenderly, he said, ‘This young man may pass. We don’t hold anybody here against their will.’ The guard, looking at him in surprise, obediently stepped aside.

‘But allow me to accompany you even just a little way, o my beloved Brother Artyom,’ Brother Timothy sang out, and Artyom, unable to resist the magic of his voice, nodded. ‘Perhaps the way we live here was something unaccustomed for you, the first time,’ Timothy said in soothing tones, ‘but now the divine seed has been implanted in you as well, and it is clear to my eyes, that it has fallen into favoured soil. I only want to tell you how you should not act, now that the Kingdom of God is near as never before, lest you be turned away. You must learn to hate evil and to avoid the things which God abhors: fornication, which means infidelity, sodomy, incest and homosexuality, gambling, lying, thievery, fits of rage, violence, sorcery, spiritualism, drunkenness.’ Brother Timothy reeled them off in a rush of words, nervously looking Artyom in the eye. ‘If you love God and wish to please Him, free yourself from those sins! Your more mature friends will be able to help you,’ he added, evidently alluding to himself. ‘Honour the name of God, preach the Kingdom of God, take no part in the affairs of this evil world, abjure people who tell you otherwise, for Satan speaks through their mouths,’ he muttered, but Artyom didn’t hear anything. He was walking faster and faster, and Brother Timothy couldn’t keep up. ‘Tell me, where shall I be able to find you next time?’ he called out from quite a distance, panting, and almost lost in the semi-darkness.

Artyom remained silent, and broke into a run. From behind, out of the darkness, a desperate cry reached him:

‘Give the cassock back…!’

Artyom ran on ahead, stumbling, unable to see anything in front of him. Several times he fell down, scraping his palms on the concrete floor and skinning his knees, but there was no stopping. He had too clear an image of the black pedestal-mounted machine gun, and now he didn’t much believe that the brethren would prefer a meek word to violence, if they could catch up to him.

He was a step nearer to his goal, being not far away at all from Polis. It was on the same line, and only two stations away. The main thing was to go forward, not deviating one step from his route, and then…

Artyom entered Serphukhovskaya. He didn’t pause for a second, only checked his direction, and then dived back into the black hole of the tunnel leading ahead.

But, at this point, something unexpected happened to him.

The feeling of terror of the tunnel, which he had already forgotten, came crashing back down upon him, pressing him to the ground, making it difficult for him to walk, or think, or even breathe. It had seemed to him that, by now, he had formed some habits, and that, after all his wanderings, the horror would leave him and would not dare to bother him again. He had felt neither fear nor alarm when moving from Kitai Gorod to Pushkinskaya, nor when riding from Tverskaya to Paveletskaya, nor even as he trudged, completely alone, from Paveletskaya to Dobryninskaya. But now it had returned.

With each step forward, the feeling assailed him more and more. He wanted to turn around immediately and plunge headlong back to the station, where there was at least a little bit of light, and some people, and where his back would not be constantly tickled by the sensation of an intent and malevolent gaze.

He had been interacting with people so much, that he had stopped feeling what had rushed over him when he first left Alekseevskaya. But now, once again, he was engulfed by the understanding that the metro was not merely a transportation facility, built at a certain point in time, that it was not merely an atomic bomb shelter, or home to some tens of thousands of people… Rather, somebody had breathed into it their own, mysterious, incomparable life, and it possessed a certain extraordinary kind of reason, which a human being could not fathom, and a consciousness that was alien to him.

This sensation was so precise and clear, that it seemed to Artyom as if the terror of the tunnel, which people wrongly took to be their ultimate place of refuge, were simply the hostility of this huge being towards the petty creatures who were burrowing into its body. And now, it did not want Artyom to go forward. Against his drive to reach the end of his path, to reach his goal, it was pitting its ancient, powerful will. And its resistance was growing, with every metre Artyom advanced.

Now he was walking through impenetrable darkness, unable to see his own hands, even if he lifted them right up to his face. It was as if he had fallen out of space and out of the currents of time, and it seemed to him as if his body had ceased to exist. It was as if he were not stepping his way through the tunnel, but soaring as a substance of pure reason in an unknown dimension.

Artyom could not see the walls receding behind him, so it appeared as if he were standing still, not moving forward a single step, and that the goal of his journey were just as unattainable as it had been five or ten minutes earlier. Yes, his feet were picking their way through the cross-ties, which could have told him that he was changing his spatial position. On the other hand, the signal which advised his brain of each new cross-tie, onto which his foot stepped, was absolutely uniform. Recorded once and for all, now it was repeating to infinity. That also made him doubt the reality of his motion. Was he nearing his goal by moving? Suddenly he remembered his vision, which provided an answer to the question tormenting him.

And then, whether from terror of the unknown, evil, hostile thing that was bearing down on him from behind, or in order to prove to himself that he really was still moving, Artyom rushed ahead with triple the force. And he barely managed to stop, guessing by some sixth sense that an obstacle lay ahead, and miraculously he avoided crashing into it.

Carefully probing with his hands along the cold, rusted metal, and then fragments of glass sticking out from rubber gaskets, and steel pancakes which were wheels, he recognized that the mysterious obstacle was a train. This train had been abandoned, apparently. In any case, there was only silence around it. Remembering Mikhail Porfiryevich’s horrible story, Artyom made no attempt to climb into it, but rather skirted the chain of subway cars, keeping close to the tunnel wall. Getting past the train at last, he breathed a sigh of relief and hurried onward, again breaking into a run.

In the darkness this was really difficult, but his legs caught on, and he ran, until there appeared ahead, and slightly to one side, the reddish glow of a bonfire.

It brought indescribable relief to know that he was in the real world, and that there were real people nearby. It didn’t matter how they would relate to him. They could be murderers or thieves, sectarians or revolutionaries – it didn’t matter. The main thing was that they were creatures of flesh and blood, like him. He did not doubt for one second that he would be able to find refuge with these people and to hide from that invisible, huge being which wanted to suffocate him. Or, was he seeking refuge from his own deranged mind?

Such a strange picture came into view that he could not say for certain if he had returned to the real world, or was still roaming the nooks and crannies of his own subconscious.

At Polyanka station, only a single small bonfire was burning, but the absence of any other source of light here made it seem brighter than all the electric lights of Paveletskaya. Two people were sitting by the bonfire, one with his back turned toward Artyom and one facing him, but neither of them noticed or heard him. It was as if they were separated from him by an invisible wall that cut them off from the outside world.

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.

‘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.