The Benefactor Index: Chapter Eight - The mayor of sidings
Throughout November, I will be participating in National Novel Writing Month, where the aim is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.
As I am treating this as a writing exercise, anything that I produce will be posted on this blog, one chapter a time. The text will have been edited for spelling and coherence but is otherwise a rough first draft, written at speed. There will be no second draft.
Prologue - A Sin of Gold
Chapter One - Pochka
Chapter Two - An arrow made of eagle feathers
Chapter Three - The milking of chickens
Chapter Four - Street without drums
Chapter Five - Swans to the snow
Chapter Six - Further from the eye
Chapter Seven - The nephew of vodka
Chapter Eight - The mayor of sidings
Chapter Nine - The enemy of the good
Chapter Ten - If even just one is absent
Chapter Eleven - The friend of an unlucky man
Chapter Twelve - The riches that are in the heart
Chapter Thirteen - What fell off the cart
Epilogue - New-forgotten old
“I once had to spy on my neighbour, for practise,” said Yury.
The light from the street lamps, shining in through the back windows of the police van, came and went at intervals.
He continued;
“This was when I was with the NKGB. Before I became involved with The State Committee for Cinematography.”
“There is no such thing as 'for practise',” said Garin. “Do you think your superiors shredded the information you passed on to them?”
He was sitting on the right side of the bench seat at the front, a few feet away from Orlov, who was driving.
“There are certain jobs that one should do badly,” said Ibragimov.
“Is that a line from one of your poems, old man?” queried Garin.
“I was young. I was not suited to the life of a security officer,” said Yury.
Orlov continued to manoeuvrer the van gingerly through the snow-covered side-streets.
“Can you see the dog running alongside?” he said to Garin.
The aide stood up slightly in his seat, so that he could see past the driver, out through the left side window.
“He is a good pedigree,” he said, as he resettled himself on the leatherette. “I wonder why he is away from home.”
“He has been with us for three corners,” said Orlov.
“If I let my dog off the leash, he would run too, and never come back,” said Yury. “Why would he stay in this country where it is always cold and the food is often bad?”
“Garin,” said Konev, who was sitting in the semi-darkness, towards the rear of the van. “Gavrilo and I have taken a vote. We have decided that our boring friend should be compelled to take a drink so that he becomes more tolerable company.”
Next to him, Ibragimov sat with his hands semi-interlaced on his lap. His head was bowed and his eyes were closed as if he was lost in thought. A visible tension rooted in his shoulders kept his back straight. A white chicken feather, that he must have picked-up from off the floor of the van, was pinched between the midpoints of two of his fingers. It fluttered in the draught that was entering through the gaps around the backdoors, like something that wanted nothing more than to be free.
Orlov paused at a junction. The main road beyond had been completely cleared of snow. A black and white pedestrian crossing, marking the wet asphalt, was clearly visible. On the opposite side, a white estate car, with a blue police light on the roof, was parked next to a crusty scab of grey, tire-marked ice, as if the officers had been tasked with guarding it.
“Why have we stopped?” enquired Garin.
“I am unfamiliar with this part of the city,” said Orlov. “I am trying to read that street sign over there.”
“It is not clear to you?”
“I am short-sighted, especially at night.”
“You are the spotter for a tank crew and you cannot see from here to the opposite side of the road?” said an incredulous Pestov.
He was sitting with his back resting against an equipment locker, alongside the wire grill that separated drivers seat from the rear compartment of the van.
“I have glasses,” replied Orlov. “This evening, I left them at home. I assumed I would be doing guard duty at a party and not whatever this is.”
“That is why you could not hit any of the pigeons at Muratov's place earlier,” said Pestov. “It is why you shot the bear in the head.”
In the darkness, Ibragimov tightened his already closed eyes. His hands were now fully locked together.
“You killed a bear?” enquired Konev.
Returning his attention to Katin, he said:
“Let us find your absent clothes.”
“I should like to see the list,” said Katin as they moved into the next room.
“We will see,” said Garin.
Behind them, Orlov swiped the nearest bottle from the bar and hid it inside his coat before anyone had noticed.
Alyona was sitting sullenly in her robe, on one of the studded wall couches. She glared at Garin as he passed.
“When will you come back?” she enquired.
Katin looked at Garin who made an open, non-specific gesture.
“It is not clear,” said Katin. “If I am used as a donor, then it maybe several days. In the meantime you should stay here.”
Alyona looked at Garin with imploring eyes.
“Please, don't take him,” she said. “I don't know what they will do to him.”
“He must bring me,” said Katin. “He has no choice in the matter. None of us do. Before I leave, I will make you a drink to calm your nerves.”
Orlov paced the perimeter of the railway clearing. He peered into the gaps between the rolling stock. Twice he saw the silhouette of a rat scurrying across his path. The snow had stopped falling. The skies overhead were clear. After all of the chaos and raised voices, he welcomed this moment of solitude, along with the silence that came with it.
A short distance away, a patch of dirty snow on the roof of a carriage suddenly assumed the shape of a large bird as it took to the air. He watched as it glided soundlessly downward, the tips of the flight feathers on one wing grazing the icy ground, as its extended talons and plucked a dark struggling object from out of the night. An effortless turn and a couple of wingbeats lifted it into the sky where he soon lost sight of it.
“In this scenario, which one am I?” he said to himself quietly.
The stillness had returned to the yard as if predator and prey, and the decisive moment of the final encounter, had never existed.
As I am treating this as a writing exercise, anything that I produce will be posted on this blog, one chapter a time. The text will have been edited for spelling and coherence but is otherwise a rough first draft, written at speed. There will be no second draft.
~
The Benefactor Index
By Sam Redlark
Prologue - A Sin of Gold
Chapter One - Pochka
Chapter Two - An arrow made of eagle feathers
Chapter Three - The milking of chickens
Chapter Four - Street without drums
Chapter Five - Swans to the snow
Chapter Six - Further from the eye
Chapter Seven - The nephew of vodka
Chapter Eight - The mayor of sidings
Chapter Nine - The enemy of the good
Chapter Ten - If even just one is absent
Chapter Eleven - The friend of an unlucky man
Chapter Twelve - The riches that are in the heart
Chapter Thirteen - What fell off the cart
Epilogue - New-forgotten old
~
Chapter Eight – The mayor of sidings
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| image generated by Craiyon |
The light from the street lamps, shining in through the back windows of the police van, came and went at intervals.
He continued;
“This was when I was with the NKGB. Before I became involved with The State Committee for Cinematography.”
“There is no such thing as 'for practise',” said Garin. “Do you think your superiors shredded the information you passed on to them?”
He was sitting on the right side of the bench seat at the front, a few feet away from Orlov, who was driving.
“There are certain jobs that one should do badly,” said Ibragimov.
“Is that a line from one of your poems, old man?” queried Garin.
“I was young. I was not suited to the life of a security officer,” said Yury.
Orlov continued to manoeuvrer the van gingerly through the snow-covered side-streets.
“Can you see the dog running alongside?” he said to Garin.
The aide stood up slightly in his seat, so that he could see past the driver, out through the left side window.
“He is a good pedigree,” he said, as he resettled himself on the leatherette. “I wonder why he is away from home.”
“He has been with us for three corners,” said Orlov.
“If I let my dog off the leash, he would run too, and never come back,” said Yury. “Why would he stay in this country where it is always cold and the food is often bad?”
“Garin,” said Konev, who was sitting in the semi-darkness, towards the rear of the van. “Gavrilo and I have taken a vote. We have decided that our boring friend should be compelled to take a drink so that he becomes more tolerable company.”
Next to him, Ibragimov sat with his hands semi-interlaced on his lap. His head was bowed and his eyes were closed as if he was lost in thought. A visible tension rooted in his shoulders kept his back straight. A white chicken feather, that he must have picked-up from off the floor of the van, was pinched between the midpoints of two of his fingers. It fluttered in the draught that was entering through the gaps around the backdoors, like something that wanted nothing more than to be free.
Orlov paused at a junction. The main road beyond had been completely cleared of snow. A black and white pedestrian crossing, marking the wet asphalt, was clearly visible. On the opposite side, a white estate car, with a blue police light on the roof, was parked next to a crusty scab of grey, tire-marked ice, as if the officers had been tasked with guarding it.
“Why have we stopped?” enquired Garin.
“I am unfamiliar with this part of the city,” said Orlov. “I am trying to read that street sign over there.”
“It is not clear to you?”
“I am short-sighted, especially at night.”
“You are the spotter for a tank crew and you cannot see from here to the opposite side of the road?” said an incredulous Pestov.
He was sitting with his back resting against an equipment locker, alongside the wire grill that separated drivers seat from the rear compartment of the van.
“I have glasses,” replied Orlov. “This evening, I left them at home. I assumed I would be doing guard duty at a party and not whatever this is.”
“That is why you could not hit any of the pigeons at Muratov's place earlier,” said Pestov. “It is why you shot the bear in the head.”
In the darkness, Ibragimov tightened his already closed eyes. His hands were now fully locked together.
“You killed a bear?” enquired Konev.
“It was a toy. On a bed, in an orphanage,” said Orlov.
“Your reply generates more questions than it answers,” said Konev.
“Ever since, I have tried to make amends,” said Orlov. “The universe will not let me.”
Gently, he depressed the accelerator and took them smoothly across the junction.
“And I did kill one of the birds at the State farm,” he added, watching in the corner of his eye as the dog peeled itself away from the side of the van, opting for a different road.
“By accident,” said Pestov. “You did not even know it until later.”
“These would be the dead birds that are hanging in the open locker, that I am forced to watch swaying back and forth?” enquired Konev.
“May I see?” said Ibragimov.
He raised himself up into a half crouch and leaned across the aisle into Konev's field of vision.
In the darkness, Pestov's hand settled on the gun in his holster.
Ibragimov swayed and fought to maintain his balance as the van juddered with the icy potholes hole in the road. The birds were wire-tied to a jacket rail by their broken necks. He reached out and took hold of one of the swinging feet, examining the brass ring around the scaly ankle, twisting it around on the joint until he could see the full extent of the engraving in the passing glow of the street lights. He did the same with the other pigeon.
“They are for a pie that I plan to have made,” said Orlov, who had been looking back into the van through the rear-view mirror.
In the same mirror, Garin watched Ibragimov's face as the old man returned to his seat.
The headlights of the van, fell upon a pair of flamboyantly-dressed young men who were walking along the edge of a snow covered stretch of waste ground, where a building had once stood. One of the men carried a guitar down by his side, holding it by its neck. A thin silk scarf had been wound tautly around the fretboard.
His companion's long dark hair was mussed into an unruly birds nest around the crown. An electric bass was slung across his front, as if it was a gun.
“Shit, I have left my new rifle behind at the Director's place,” said Orlov.
“How unfortunate for us all,” said Konev. “You will have to return there one evening and lay claim to it.”
The man with the bass flashed a two-fingered victory sign at them as they passed.
“Motherfucker,” said Orlov. “He pulled the van up to the kerb.”
“We don't have time,” said Garin. “Find him later and beat him up on your own time.”
They pulled onto a long boulevard, divided into two lanes by a raised island of snow-covered grass that was lined with small trees along both sides. A pair of children were cross-country skiing down the middle.
“This is not the way to the Palace,” said Konev, peering worriedly through the back window at the skiers as they were swallowed by the darkness.
“We have to gather up Radmilo Katin,” said Garin. “He is Chief of Main Administration for Repairs to Rolling Stock and the Production of Spare Parts. I am told he has based himself in the Pickets.”
“I know Katin,” said Konev. “I have attended parties at his home. I will say, he is a reluctant host. It was forced on him when he moved into the place. I always thought it would break him. So, he has had enough at last and retreated to his train house.”
“He lives in a train?” said Garin.
“Your reply generates more questions than it answers,” said Konev.
“Ever since, I have tried to make amends,” said Orlov. “The universe will not let me.”
Gently, he depressed the accelerator and took them smoothly across the junction.
“And I did kill one of the birds at the State farm,” he added, watching in the corner of his eye as the dog peeled itself away from the side of the van, opting for a different road.
“By accident,” said Pestov. “You did not even know it until later.”
“These would be the dead birds that are hanging in the open locker, that I am forced to watch swaying back and forth?” enquired Konev.
“May I see?” said Ibragimov.
He raised himself up into a half crouch and leaned across the aisle into Konev's field of vision.
In the darkness, Pestov's hand settled on the gun in his holster.
Ibragimov swayed and fought to maintain his balance as the van juddered with the icy potholes hole in the road. The birds were wire-tied to a jacket rail by their broken necks. He reached out and took hold of one of the swinging feet, examining the brass ring around the scaly ankle, twisting it around on the joint until he could see the full extent of the engraving in the passing glow of the street lights. He did the same with the other pigeon.
“They are for a pie that I plan to have made,” said Orlov, who had been looking back into the van through the rear-view mirror.
In the same mirror, Garin watched Ibragimov's face as the old man returned to his seat.
The headlights of the van, fell upon a pair of flamboyantly-dressed young men who were walking along the edge of a snow covered stretch of waste ground, where a building had once stood. One of the men carried a guitar down by his side, holding it by its neck. A thin silk scarf had been wound tautly around the fretboard.
His companion's long dark hair was mussed into an unruly birds nest around the crown. An electric bass was slung across his front, as if it was a gun.
“Shit, I have left my new rifle behind at the Director's place,” said Orlov.
“How unfortunate for us all,” said Konev. “You will have to return there one evening and lay claim to it.”
The man with the bass flashed a two-fingered victory sign at them as they passed.
“Motherfucker,” said Orlov. “He pulled the van up to the kerb.”
“We don't have time,” said Garin. “Find him later and beat him up on your own time.”
They pulled onto a long boulevard, divided into two lanes by a raised island of snow-covered grass that was lined with small trees along both sides. A pair of children were cross-country skiing down the middle.
“This is not the way to the Palace,” said Konev, peering worriedly through the back window at the skiers as they were swallowed by the darkness.
“We have to gather up Radmilo Katin,” said Garin. “He is Chief of Main Administration for Repairs to Rolling Stock and the Production of Spare Parts. I am told he has based himself in the Pickets.”
“I know Katin,” said Konev. “I have attended parties at his home. I will say, he is a reluctant host. It was forced on him when he moved into the place. I always thought it would break him. So, he has had enough at last and retreated to his train house.”
“He lives in a train?” said Garin.
“I have visited him there. I will show you,” said Konev. “I don't know how you will find it otherwise.”
Orlov stopped at a T-junction. A small truck with orange and white bodywork passed in front of them, pulling a pair of open-sided bus shells behind it. Inside the passengers were huddled together on bench seats. The floors of the conjoined buses dragged a few inches above the ground under their collective weight.
“Crocodile,” he murmured.
“You missed the turn. You will have to go through the bus station,” said Garin.
The road widened considerably. Various models of buses were parked in short, broken columns in the middle of the slush-covered carriageway. A line of white tower blocks crowded the distant horizon at different depths. Ahead, the fragmented walls of buses became what appeared to be an impassable barrier.
As the van crawled closer to it, various ways through became apparent.
“Why do they park all the way across?” said Orlov.
It was only after they had passed through a narrow gap between a pair of buses, that it became obvious that what Orlov had mistaken for a wall was in fact a labyrinth. By that time it was too late to turn around.
“I wondered why people are looking at me like I am an idiot,” he said. “Now I know.”
“Do not be so quick to jump to conclusions. There may be other reasons,” advised Pestov, from the other side of the grill.
Orlov began the tentatively guide the van through the narrow network of trenches that had been formed by the parked buses. Small groups of people trailed in front of him. He cleared them from out of his path with abrupt blasts of the siren. The labouring van's exhaust fumes rose up around them like a fog.”
The door on Garin's side was opened by a elderly woman who had mistaken the creeping vehicle for a bus.
“Police, get lost,” he said, reaching over and pulling the door closed.
“Fuck this shit,”hissed Orlov , under his breath, after his second failed attempt to get the nose of the van around a particularly tight corner.
“Another bite of the apple should do it,” counselled Garin.
A man who was leaning indifferently against the front of the obstructing bus, was roused by the sight of the police van nosing its way around. He ambled on ahead in a cloud of cigarette smoke, and was soon lost among the other buses.
From behind the steamed-up windows of a long coach, children's faces gazed down blearily as the van crept past. The heads of those who had remained asleep lolled against the glass in their crocheted hats. A trio of boys at the back, who had crowded around the same window were pointing and laughing.
“A few years from now, they will be in the army,” said Orlov. “If they come to the 147th, I will make their lives seem like hell on earth.”
Soon after, they emerged into an area of the station that was reserved for the local public transport. A spread-out fleet of filthy orange buses were herded along one side of the main terminal, as if they had been suddenly paused in mid-journey. The building was a long pillared shelter with a flaring corrugated iron roof that gave it the appearance of a Japanese temple. A round clock that was mounted in the centre of a spoked frame, rose from the low peak of the roof on a small pole. Under the ceiling, at the open end of the shelter, giant letters suspended from descending rods spelled out the word:
The spotlights under the roof had been switched off and the benches that loosely circled each slender pillar were mostly empty. The windows of the enclosed section of the terminal where the ticket office is based were darkened.
“I thought that it would remain open for the night workers,” said Orlov.
“It closes for about an hour every night,” said Garin. “I used to get marooned here sometimes when a shift went long. They put up a cardboard clock in the window to tell you when the service will resume. If they go over the time, the passengers will bang on the doors and windows to wake them up.”
At the other end of the terminal, pages of the latest newspapers had been framed behind reinforced glass along a row of stilted boards. Spotlights shone down on the newsprint from above. A few passengers were standing with their hands buried in the pockets of their coats reading the latest stories.
“The day workers and the night workers hardly see each other Moscow,” said Ibragimov, as the passengers and the newspaper boards shrank in the rear windows of the van. “It is a city divided by labour.”
“The government is the same for both halves,” said Garin. “Similar must happen in Prague.”
“How can you be certain that, when you are asleep, a man just like you doesn't rise from his bed to perform your duties in your absence,” enquired the poet. Behind his gravitas, there was a playful tone.
They were moving across an undeveloped expanse of waste ground where the unofficial taxis congregated. A motley assortment of boxy cars, in an array of different colours were parked here and there. Men in coats and fur hats gathered around the feeble engines that tremored inside open bonnets. A few feet above a carapace of compacted snow and ice, exhaust pipes seeded the air with low clouds.
Three of the drivers were sitting on a backless blue bench that had been fashioned from logs. One of the men was dressed in winter camouflage. he sat hunched over with his chin resting on his hand. A vaguely amused expression could be inferred from behind his loosely-curled knuckles. The man in the centre the group watched the van as it went past, though a pair of oversized spectacles. He raised a small bottle of an amber liquid in a toast. The man on the far end – a bearded ruddy-faced individual who resembled a vagrant - snatched the bottle away before its owner could bring it to his lips. He began to carelessly gulp down the contents, the overspill running off his hairy chin.
Under Garin's direction, Orlov took the van onto a road that became a bridge, overlooking a bulge in the rail network where several railway converged. The entirety of the trackbed was occupied by the frosty roofs of static train carriages, stretching for what seemed like miles into the floodlit darkness.
“Those are the pickets,” he said
Ibragimov had risen from the bench seat and was attempting to angle himself so he could catch a glimpse of the stationary rolling stock through the back window of the van.
“The trains have really been on strike for eight years?” he queried.
“It is not the whole network,” said Konev. “Only this part where there is a deadlock between committees.”
“And that is where this Katin has chosen to live. In one of the non-operational trains?”
“So it would seem,” said Garin.
“I have been there. It is a very nice train,” said Konev.
Garin caught sight of what looked like a set of descending metal stairs on the side of the bridge.
“Park here, at the side of the road,”he said.
Orlov did as he was instructed.
“You expect us to come too?” queried Yury, as Pestov herded the passengers out of the back of the van.
“I cannot very well leave you here,” said Garin.
The staircase was obstructed by a gated metal cage. Garin lifted the padlock in the palm of one glove.
“Smash it,” he said to Orlov. “The time for niceties is over.”
The soldier nodded. Drawing his pistol he struck the lock with the corner of the butt. The shackle gave out after the second blow.
They descended in a zigzaging column, towards the trackbed, over a hundred feet below – a hazy procession of human silhouettes, blasted by the occasional flurry of snow that had been blow off the underlying superstructure of the bridge.Ibragimov slipped on one of the grated metal slats, but was caught and held upright by Pestov before he could tumble down the remaining stairs.
“Thank you,” he said, recovering his balance.
A couple of flights from the bottom when Garin, who had been leading the way, brought them all to a halt. He stood beside the guardrail, looking out over the leviathanic trains that were shoaled silently together in the brightly-spotlit gloom.
“You know where to go?” he said, talking through the fog of his own breath.
“It is sort of over there,” said Konev. He pointed into the darkness. There are some old decommissioned carriages where Katin has made a second home for himself. You can't see it from here .”
“So these are the notorious Pickets?” said Ibragimov. “Where are the striking workers? Is there a camp somewhere?”
“On paper it is the trains that are on strike,” said Konev. “Every locomotive and piece of rolling stock is registered to a committee whose members have voted to take industrial action. The only condition is that they have to keep them in working order.”
“And the money for this maintenance comes from?” enquired Ibragimov.
“From the State, of course. From where else would it come?”
“And this has been going for eight years,” said Ibragimov. “Madness.”
“The pair of you can discuss this afterwards,” said Garin.
To Konev, he said:
“When we are at ground level, will you be able to find a way through?”
“It is simpler than it looks,” replied the cinematographer. “There is a lot of going this way and that way.”
“Just remember, I can make things hard for you with Chendev,” warned Garin.
They descended the final two flights of stairs.
“Keep your guns ready,” said Garin to Orlov and Pestov.
“Radmilo is a pussycat,” said Konev. “He will give you no trouble.”
They crunched across frozen, snow-covered soil towards a gap between the silver-grey carriages.
“There is our way in,” said Konev.
The orderly constellations of spotlights lining the cable scaffolds cast a blinding glare that diffused across the ridged roofs of the carriages, Disparate white clouds of freezing vapour drifted through the air like ghosts, settling on the ranks of unlit windows as skins of ice. Garin watched one get drawn into a vent as if it had been ambushed by a lurking predator.
They filed back and forth along track-side alleyways between adjacent trains. The fierce overhead lighting transformed the group into to crisply-defined silhouettes – shadows of men who had risen up to occupy three-dimensional space. The snow had not settled here as deeply as it had on the fringes of the sidings. The cloddy frozen earth that occupied the strips of land between the sets of rails was a disorientating scramble of black and white.
As they filtered one by one through another gap between the rolling stock, Garin glanced up towards the floodlit bridge. It was hard to tell exactly, but he estimated that they were around the halfway mark.
“Is it much further?” he asked.
“It feels almost like we have gone too far,” answered Konev. “I will be honest with you. This is the first time I have made the journey sober.”
Noting the concern in Garin's expression, he added:
“Oh, don't worry, you can't miss it. There is no other way to go. There is a consignment of lumber nearby. That I do remember. That is when you will know you are close.”
Their next pass in the opposite direction took them beside a column of flatbed trucks where bails of neatly sawn logs were cradled between serrated metal uprights.
“How long have these been here, I wonder?” said Orlov.
“It will be eight years,” replied Yury. “Everything has been here for eight years.”
“They should have let them remain as trees,” mused Orlov.
“It is through the next gap,” said Konev. The confidence had returned to his voice.
One by one they squeezed sideways, between the buffer stops of two carriages that did not quite meet.
Beyond there was a snowy clearing where the rails parted. Some rusted sections of disembodied track accommodated vintage rail stock. Light was shining from behind the drawn curtains of a ribbed carriage painted a washed-out green. A set of metal steps ascended to a doorway at one end.
Nearby, on a separate section of rail, a single light shone from the window of an older emerald green carriage that was made from riveted metal panels. A grey leaded roof curved over the sides above the windows. At the nearest end, an ornate ironwork gate, painted gold, had been pulled closed, sealing off the lower half of the door. An overlapping procession of icy bootprints filed between the two cars.
Garin surveyed the area. There seemed to be a few avenues of escape though who could tell where any of them led. He could see the bridge perhaps half a mile away and the lights of Moscow beyond. They might as well have been miles away for all that it mattered. The empty trains around him glittered sedately under their coverings of ice, like ancient ocean-dwelling animals in a prolonged state of hibernation on a barren sea bed. A faint silhouette that passed across three of the windows in the newer carriage, brought him out of his reverie.
Orlov stopped at a T-junction. A small truck with orange and white bodywork passed in front of them, pulling a pair of open-sided bus shells behind it. Inside the passengers were huddled together on bench seats. The floors of the conjoined buses dragged a few inches above the ground under their collective weight.
“Crocodile,” he murmured.
“You missed the turn. You will have to go through the bus station,” said Garin.
The road widened considerably. Various models of buses were parked in short, broken columns in the middle of the slush-covered carriageway. A line of white tower blocks crowded the distant horizon at different depths. Ahead, the fragmented walls of buses became what appeared to be an impassable barrier.
As the van crawled closer to it, various ways through became apparent.
“Why do they park all the way across?” said Orlov.
It was only after they had passed through a narrow gap between a pair of buses, that it became obvious that what Orlov had mistaken for a wall was in fact a labyrinth. By that time it was too late to turn around.
“I wondered why people are looking at me like I am an idiot,” he said. “Now I know.”
“Do not be so quick to jump to conclusions. There may be other reasons,” advised Pestov, from the other side of the grill.
Orlov began the tentatively guide the van through the narrow network of trenches that had been formed by the parked buses. Small groups of people trailed in front of him. He cleared them from out of his path with abrupt blasts of the siren. The labouring van's exhaust fumes rose up around them like a fog.”
The door on Garin's side was opened by a elderly woman who had mistaken the creeping vehicle for a bus.
“Police, get lost,” he said, reaching over and pulling the door closed.
“Fuck this shit,”hissed Orlov , under his breath, after his second failed attempt to get the nose of the van around a particularly tight corner.
“Another bite of the apple should do it,” counselled Garin.
A man who was leaning indifferently against the front of the obstructing bus, was roused by the sight of the police van nosing its way around. He ambled on ahead in a cloud of cigarette smoke, and was soon lost among the other buses.
From behind the steamed-up windows of a long coach, children's faces gazed down blearily as the van crept past. The heads of those who had remained asleep lolled against the glass in their crocheted hats. A trio of boys at the back, who had crowded around the same window were pointing and laughing.
“A few years from now, they will be in the army,” said Orlov. “If they come to the 147th, I will make their lives seem like hell on earth.”
Soon after, they emerged into an area of the station that was reserved for the local public transport. A spread-out fleet of filthy orange buses were herded along one side of the main terminal, as if they had been suddenly paused in mid-journey. The building was a long pillared shelter with a flaring corrugated iron roof that gave it the appearance of a Japanese temple. A round clock that was mounted in the centre of a spoked frame, rose from the low peak of the roof on a small pole. Under the ceiling, at the open end of the shelter, giant letters suspended from descending rods spelled out the word:
автобус
(Autobus)
The spotlights under the roof had been switched off and the benches that loosely circled each slender pillar were mostly empty. The windows of the enclosed section of the terminal where the ticket office is based were darkened.
“I thought that it would remain open for the night workers,” said Orlov.
“It closes for about an hour every night,” said Garin. “I used to get marooned here sometimes when a shift went long. They put up a cardboard clock in the window to tell you when the service will resume. If they go over the time, the passengers will bang on the doors and windows to wake them up.”
At the other end of the terminal, pages of the latest newspapers had been framed behind reinforced glass along a row of stilted boards. Spotlights shone down on the newsprint from above. A few passengers were standing with their hands buried in the pockets of their coats reading the latest stories.
“The day workers and the night workers hardly see each other Moscow,” said Ibragimov, as the passengers and the newspaper boards shrank in the rear windows of the van. “It is a city divided by labour.”
“The government is the same for both halves,” said Garin. “Similar must happen in Prague.”
“How can you be certain that, when you are asleep, a man just like you doesn't rise from his bed to perform your duties in your absence,” enquired the poet. Behind his gravitas, there was a playful tone.
They were moving across an undeveloped expanse of waste ground where the unofficial taxis congregated. A motley assortment of boxy cars, in an array of different colours were parked here and there. Men in coats and fur hats gathered around the feeble engines that tremored inside open bonnets. A few feet above a carapace of compacted snow and ice, exhaust pipes seeded the air with low clouds.
Three of the drivers were sitting on a backless blue bench that had been fashioned from logs. One of the men was dressed in winter camouflage. he sat hunched over with his chin resting on his hand. A vaguely amused expression could be inferred from behind his loosely-curled knuckles. The man in the centre the group watched the van as it went past, though a pair of oversized spectacles. He raised a small bottle of an amber liquid in a toast. The man on the far end – a bearded ruddy-faced individual who resembled a vagrant - snatched the bottle away before its owner could bring it to his lips. He began to carelessly gulp down the contents, the overspill running off his hairy chin.
Under Garin's direction, Orlov took the van onto a road that became a bridge, overlooking a bulge in the rail network where several railway converged. The entirety of the trackbed was occupied by the frosty roofs of static train carriages, stretching for what seemed like miles into the floodlit darkness.
“Those are the pickets,” he said
Ibragimov had risen from the bench seat and was attempting to angle himself so he could catch a glimpse of the stationary rolling stock through the back window of the van.
“The trains have really been on strike for eight years?” he queried.
“It is not the whole network,” said Konev. “Only this part where there is a deadlock between committees.”
“And that is where this Katin has chosen to live. In one of the non-operational trains?”
“So it would seem,” said Garin.
“I have been there. It is a very nice train,” said Konev.
Garin caught sight of what looked like a set of descending metal stairs on the side of the bridge.
“Park here, at the side of the road,”he said.
Orlov did as he was instructed.
“You expect us to come too?” queried Yury, as Pestov herded the passengers out of the back of the van.
“I cannot very well leave you here,” said Garin.
The staircase was obstructed by a gated metal cage. Garin lifted the padlock in the palm of one glove.
“Smash it,” he said to Orlov. “The time for niceties is over.”
The soldier nodded. Drawing his pistol he struck the lock with the corner of the butt. The shackle gave out after the second blow.
They descended in a zigzaging column, towards the trackbed, over a hundred feet below – a hazy procession of human silhouettes, blasted by the occasional flurry of snow that had been blow off the underlying superstructure of the bridge.Ibragimov slipped on one of the grated metal slats, but was caught and held upright by Pestov before he could tumble down the remaining stairs.
“Thank you,” he said, recovering his balance.
A couple of flights from the bottom when Garin, who had been leading the way, brought them all to a halt. He stood beside the guardrail, looking out over the leviathanic trains that were shoaled silently together in the brightly-spotlit gloom.
“You know where to go?” he said, talking through the fog of his own breath.
“It is sort of over there,” said Konev. He pointed into the darkness. There are some old decommissioned carriages where Katin has made a second home for himself. You can't see it from here .”
“So these are the notorious Pickets?” said Ibragimov. “Where are the striking workers? Is there a camp somewhere?”
“On paper it is the trains that are on strike,” said Konev. “Every locomotive and piece of rolling stock is registered to a committee whose members have voted to take industrial action. The only condition is that they have to keep them in working order.”
“And the money for this maintenance comes from?” enquired Ibragimov.
“From the State, of course. From where else would it come?”
“And this has been going for eight years,” said Ibragimov. “Madness.”
“The pair of you can discuss this afterwards,” said Garin.
To Konev, he said:
“When we are at ground level, will you be able to find a way through?”
“It is simpler than it looks,” replied the cinematographer. “There is a lot of going this way and that way.”
“Just remember, I can make things hard for you with Chendev,” warned Garin.
They descended the final two flights of stairs.
“Keep your guns ready,” said Garin to Orlov and Pestov.
“Radmilo is a pussycat,” said Konev. “He will give you no trouble.”
They crunched across frozen, snow-covered soil towards a gap between the silver-grey carriages.
“There is our way in,” said Konev.
The orderly constellations of spotlights lining the cable scaffolds cast a blinding glare that diffused across the ridged roofs of the carriages, Disparate white clouds of freezing vapour drifted through the air like ghosts, settling on the ranks of unlit windows as skins of ice. Garin watched one get drawn into a vent as if it had been ambushed by a lurking predator.
They filed back and forth along track-side alleyways between adjacent trains. The fierce overhead lighting transformed the group into to crisply-defined silhouettes – shadows of men who had risen up to occupy three-dimensional space. The snow had not settled here as deeply as it had on the fringes of the sidings. The cloddy frozen earth that occupied the strips of land between the sets of rails was a disorientating scramble of black and white.
As they filtered one by one through another gap between the rolling stock, Garin glanced up towards the floodlit bridge. It was hard to tell exactly, but he estimated that they were around the halfway mark.
“Is it much further?” he asked.
“It feels almost like we have gone too far,” answered Konev. “I will be honest with you. This is the first time I have made the journey sober.”
Noting the concern in Garin's expression, he added:
“Oh, don't worry, you can't miss it. There is no other way to go. There is a consignment of lumber nearby. That I do remember. That is when you will know you are close.”
Their next pass in the opposite direction took them beside a column of flatbed trucks where bails of neatly sawn logs were cradled between serrated metal uprights.
“How long have these been here, I wonder?” said Orlov.
“It will be eight years,” replied Yury. “Everything has been here for eight years.”
“They should have let them remain as trees,” mused Orlov.
“It is through the next gap,” said Konev. The confidence had returned to his voice.
One by one they squeezed sideways, between the buffer stops of two carriages that did not quite meet.
Beyond there was a snowy clearing where the rails parted. Some rusted sections of disembodied track accommodated vintage rail stock. Light was shining from behind the drawn curtains of a ribbed carriage painted a washed-out green. A set of metal steps ascended to a doorway at one end.
Nearby, on a separate section of rail, a single light shone from the window of an older emerald green carriage that was made from riveted metal panels. A grey leaded roof curved over the sides above the windows. At the nearest end, an ornate ironwork gate, painted gold, had been pulled closed, sealing off the lower half of the door. An overlapping procession of icy bootprints filed between the two cars.
Garin surveyed the area. There seemed to be a few avenues of escape though who could tell where any of them led. He could see the bridge perhaps half a mile away and the lights of Moscow beyond. They might as well have been miles away for all that it mattered. The empty trains around him glittered sedately under their coverings of ice, like ancient ocean-dwelling animals in a prolonged state of hibernation on a barren sea bed. A faint silhouette that passed across three of the windows in the newer carriage, brought him out of his reverie.
“Take that one,” he said to Orlov, indicating the vintage stock.
“You wait here with the others,” he said to Pestov. “Cover the exits.”
He unholstered his gun.
Stealthily he climbed the metal staircase. At the top he tried the door, turning the handle slowly. He opened it just enough to allow himself through, then closed it quickly to prevent the cold from following him inside. The interior was wood panelled. Metallic-green velvet drapes were drawn across the windows. Various cushion-less sofas and armchairs, upholstered in the same fabric as the curtains, lined the walls. On one of these seats the grain of the velvet had been disturbed, as if somebody had recently rested there. A multi-toned wood floor made from short sections of plank, that were evidently sourced from different species of tree, stretched beyond a patterned rug to a short wooden bar with a small selection of bottles lining the shelf behind it. Alongside the bar a narrow doorway opened onto another room.
Cautiously, he advanced along the corridor between the empty chairs. As he neared the end of the carriage, he detected a shadow on the floor of the room beyond. He could see a glimpse of a studded couch, upholstered in the same metallic green velvet as the other chairs. This one appeared to be built into the wall. At the end of the short room that was another doorway, partly concealed by green drapes that had been casually tied back. A female forearm, emerging from the thin sleeve of a blue velvet robe, placed a hairbrush on the oval surface of a small wooden table in the centre.
Garin moved into the door frame, with his pistol pointing ahead of him, down by his waist.
A young, dark-haired woman with large brown eyes, stared back at him. Her robe, which was loosely tied around her hips, had come apart slightly, revealing a sleek tuft of dark pubic hair that appeared to have been recently combed downward.
She screamed.
A middle-aged man dressed in a paisley robe burst into the room from the opposite end. He was wearing round glasses. The dark island at the centre of his receding hairline reminded Garin of the woman's groin.
“Radmilo Katin?” he said.
The man nodded.
“I am Pavel Garin. I am Secretarial Aide to the Minister of Communication.”
“I know who you are,” said Katin in a level tone. “You are that insane police who refused to lie down and die like any normal person would have under the same circumstances.”
Behind Garin there was a commotion accompanied by a blast of cold air, as Pestov entered the train, herding the others with him.
“You wait here with the others,” he said to Pestov. “Cover the exits.”
He unholstered his gun.
Stealthily he climbed the metal staircase. At the top he tried the door, turning the handle slowly. He opened it just enough to allow himself through, then closed it quickly to prevent the cold from following him inside. The interior was wood panelled. Metallic-green velvet drapes were drawn across the windows. Various cushion-less sofas and armchairs, upholstered in the same fabric as the curtains, lined the walls. On one of these seats the grain of the velvet had been disturbed, as if somebody had recently rested there. A multi-toned wood floor made from short sections of plank, that were evidently sourced from different species of tree, stretched beyond a patterned rug to a short wooden bar with a small selection of bottles lining the shelf behind it. Alongside the bar a narrow doorway opened onto another room.
Cautiously, he advanced along the corridor between the empty chairs. As he neared the end of the carriage, he detected a shadow on the floor of the room beyond. He could see a glimpse of a studded couch, upholstered in the same metallic green velvet as the other chairs. This one appeared to be built into the wall. At the end of the short room that was another doorway, partly concealed by green drapes that had been casually tied back. A female forearm, emerging from the thin sleeve of a blue velvet robe, placed a hairbrush on the oval surface of a small wooden table in the centre.
Garin moved into the door frame, with his pistol pointing ahead of him, down by his waist.
A young, dark-haired woman with large brown eyes, stared back at him. Her robe, which was loosely tied around her hips, had come apart slightly, revealing a sleek tuft of dark pubic hair that appeared to have been recently combed downward.
She screamed.
A middle-aged man dressed in a paisley robe burst into the room from the opposite end. He was wearing round glasses. The dark island at the centre of his receding hairline reminded Garin of the woman's groin.
“Radmilo Katin?” he said.
The man nodded.
“I am Pavel Garin. I am Secretarial Aide to the Minister of Communication.”
“I know who you are,” said Katin in a level tone. “You are that insane police who refused to lie down and die like any normal person would have under the same circumstances.”
Behind Garin there was a commotion accompanied by a blast of cold air, as Pestov entered the train, herding the others with him.
“There is a matter of some urgency,” said Garin. “I am here to escort you to the Spring Palace. I will explain the details to you on the journey.
A second gust of cold air, followed by the sound of the door slamming, heralded the arrival of Orlov.
“It is all just bedrooms and bathrooms in the other carriage,” he called.
“If you would both come through to the bar area where there is more room,” said Garin.
He began to back away through the doorway behind him.
Katin walked slowly towards him, with his hands up, maintaining a distance of several feet. The woman readjusted her robe, then followed after, muttering under her breath.
In the bar, Garin motioned them both to sit down.
“I would prefer to remain standing,” said Katin.
He stared at the assembled visitors with the bewilderment of a man who has recently awoken from a lucid dream and who fully suspects that he may still be dreaming.
“Radmilo, you ran from your own party,” said Konev with a hint of disappointment. “We have been sent to bring you back.”
“You need to get rid of the girl,” said Ibragimov.
“She was here when I arrived,” replied Katin, defensively.
Garin turned around and pointed towards the poet.
“I am running this operation. You are a sightseer,” he said.
“I overstepped,” said Ibragimov, raising his hands.
“This is my friend, the poet Gavrilo Ibragimov,” said Konev. “He is visiting from Czechoslovakia. Possibly now he is regretting his decision to come.”
Katin raised one dark eyebrow.
“A poet, really?” he said “Another time maybe you will recite some of your poetry to us.”
“It is better when read quietly to oneself,” answered Ibragimov.
“You are familiar with Ladislav, of course,” said Konev.
“What is this?” enquired Katin. “You creep in here with guns drawn. You terrify Alyona, unnecessarily, so it seems.”
He reached behind his back to where the woman was sitting. Their hands found each other. He gave hers a squeeze.
“Sherstov is unwell,” said Garin. “He may require one of your kidneys.”
“Sherstov!” said Alyona, dismissively rolling her eyes. “Radmilo has already moved once to be away from him and his cronies. Why can't you just leave him alone to do his job?”
Katin turned to face her. Taking her tenderly by both hands, he said:
“Put on some clothes. We will resolve this sensibly.”
“All the time they take from you,” she said in a tremoring, pleading voice. “Now they want to take a piece of you and give it to someone else. But all of your belongs to me; you have said.”
“I know,” he answered. “But I have to give what they ask of me. “It is part of the deal. It is what enables us to have this. Our little oasis in the heart of Moscow.”
“But we do not have this,” she whined. “We had to run away and hide ourselves here where nobody would come.”
Katin's lips mouthed the words:“I know.”
They swayed together for a moment in the sketch of a dance, until he let go of her fingers.
Alyona glared fiercely at Garin.
“If Sherstov wants a kidney, there is a dead dog spoiling by one of the coal trucks,” she said.
She whirled around and stormed deeper into the train.
“Cover the door,” said Garin to Orlov. “We have already had enough surprises for one night.”
Orlov moved past the men and took up station at door to the next room. With one eye he studied the bottles behind the bar weighing up which would be the most convenient for him to take.
Katin returned his attention to Orlov.
“I am the only donor match?” he said.
“He has a list of names, but he will not let me see it,” said Konev.
“You are on there?”
“Apparently.”
“Who else?”
“I think I heard the name Muratov mentioned,” said Ibragimov.
“I do not know the man,” said Katin after a pause. “He is not here with you?”
Garin ignored his question.
“You have to get dressed as well,” he said. “We cannot waste time.”
Katin studied the reconstruction of Garin's face with the interest of a designer who is attempting to reverse engineer a project.
“What about Alyona? Does she have to be involved?” he asked. “This is ugly Party business, It is no place for a sensitive girl like her.”
“What is she to you?” asked Garin.
Katin sighed heavily.
“She is my wife. We were married at a church in the countryside. Nobody knows anything about her.”
“Somebody always knows,” muttered Yury.
“Will she talk?” said Garin.
“I will give her something to calm her nerves. She will be safe enough here on her own. I will tell her not to go anywhere or speak to anyone.”
Garin turned to Orlov.
“Go outside and check around,” he ordered. “Make sure the way is clear for us.”
A second gust of cold air, followed by the sound of the door slamming, heralded the arrival of Orlov.
“It is all just bedrooms and bathrooms in the other carriage,” he called.
“If you would both come through to the bar area where there is more room,” said Garin.
He began to back away through the doorway behind him.
Katin walked slowly towards him, with his hands up, maintaining a distance of several feet. The woman readjusted her robe, then followed after, muttering under her breath.
In the bar, Garin motioned them both to sit down.
“I would prefer to remain standing,” said Katin.
He stared at the assembled visitors with the bewilderment of a man who has recently awoken from a lucid dream and who fully suspects that he may still be dreaming.
“Radmilo, you ran from your own party,” said Konev with a hint of disappointment. “We have been sent to bring you back.”
“You need to get rid of the girl,” said Ibragimov.
“She was here when I arrived,” replied Katin, defensively.
Garin turned around and pointed towards the poet.
“I am running this operation. You are a sightseer,” he said.
“I overstepped,” said Ibragimov, raising his hands.
“This is my friend, the poet Gavrilo Ibragimov,” said Konev. “He is visiting from Czechoslovakia. Possibly now he is regretting his decision to come.”
Katin raised one dark eyebrow.
“A poet, really?” he said “Another time maybe you will recite some of your poetry to us.”
“It is better when read quietly to oneself,” answered Ibragimov.
“You are familiar with Ladislav, of course,” said Konev.
“What is this?” enquired Katin. “You creep in here with guns drawn. You terrify Alyona, unnecessarily, so it seems.”
He reached behind his back to where the woman was sitting. Their hands found each other. He gave hers a squeeze.
“Sherstov is unwell,” said Garin. “He may require one of your kidneys.”
“Sherstov!” said Alyona, dismissively rolling her eyes. “Radmilo has already moved once to be away from him and his cronies. Why can't you just leave him alone to do his job?”
Katin turned to face her. Taking her tenderly by both hands, he said:
“Put on some clothes. We will resolve this sensibly.”
“All the time they take from you,” she said in a tremoring, pleading voice. “Now they want to take a piece of you and give it to someone else. But all of your belongs to me; you have said.”
“I know,” he answered. “But I have to give what they ask of me. “It is part of the deal. It is what enables us to have this. Our little oasis in the heart of Moscow.”
“But we do not have this,” she whined. “We had to run away and hide ourselves here where nobody would come.”
Katin's lips mouthed the words:“I know.”
They swayed together for a moment in the sketch of a dance, until he let go of her fingers.
Alyona glared fiercely at Garin.
“If Sherstov wants a kidney, there is a dead dog spoiling by one of the coal trucks,” she said.
She whirled around and stormed deeper into the train.
“Cover the door,” said Garin to Orlov. “We have already had enough surprises for one night.”
Orlov moved past the men and took up station at door to the next room. With one eye he studied the bottles behind the bar weighing up which would be the most convenient for him to take.
Katin returned his attention to Orlov.
“I am the only donor match?” he said.
“He has a list of names, but he will not let me see it,” said Konev.
“You are on there?”
“Apparently.”
“Who else?”
“I think I heard the name Muratov mentioned,” said Ibragimov.
“I do not know the man,” said Katin after a pause. “He is not here with you?”
Garin ignored his question.
“You have to get dressed as well,” he said. “We cannot waste time.”
Katin studied the reconstruction of Garin's face with the interest of a designer who is attempting to reverse engineer a project.
“What about Alyona? Does she have to be involved?” he asked. “This is ugly Party business, It is no place for a sensitive girl like her.”
“What is she to you?” asked Garin.
Katin sighed heavily.
“She is my wife. We were married at a church in the countryside. Nobody knows anything about her.”
“Somebody always knows,” muttered Yury.
“Will she talk?” said Garin.
“I will give her something to calm her nerves. She will be safe enough here on her own. I will tell her not to go anywhere or speak to anyone.”
Garin turned to Orlov.
“Go outside and check around,” he ordered. “Make sure the way is clear for us.”
Returning his attention to Katin, he said:
“Let us find your absent clothes.”
“I should like to see the list,” said Katin as they moved into the next room.
“We will see,” said Garin.
Behind them, Orlov swiped the nearest bottle from the bar and hid it inside his coat before anyone had noticed.
Alyona was sitting sullenly in her robe, on one of the studded wall couches. She glared at Garin as he passed.
“When will you come back?” she enquired.
Katin looked at Garin who made an open, non-specific gesture.
“It is not clear,” said Katin. “If I am used as a donor, then it maybe several days. In the meantime you should stay here.”
Alyona looked at Garin with imploring eyes.
“Please, don't take him,” she said. “I don't know what they will do to him.”
“He must bring me,” said Katin. “He has no choice in the matter. None of us do. Before I leave, I will make you a drink to calm your nerves.”
~
A short distance away, a patch of dirty snow on the roof of a carriage suddenly assumed the shape of a large bird as it took to the air. He watched as it glided soundlessly downward, the tips of the flight feathers on one wing grazing the icy ground, as its extended talons and plucked a dark struggling object from out of the night. An effortless turn and a couple of wingbeats lifted it into the sky where he soon lost sight of it.
“In this scenario, which one am I?” he said to himself quietly.
The stillness had returned to the yard as if predator and prey, and the decisive moment of the final encounter, had never existed.
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| image generated by Craiyon |
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