METRO 2033 (23 page)

‘But what does that have to do with the tunnel?’ Artyom couldn’t resist asking after a five-minute silence.

‘You know, I have the gift of foresight. I sometimes succeed in seeing into the future, into the past, or sometimes I can transport my mind to other places. Sometimes it’s unclear, it’s hidden from me, like, for example, I don’t know how your journey will end - your future is generally a mystery to me. It’s kind of like looking through dirty water and you can’t make out anything. But when I try to look into what happened here or to understand the nature of this place - there’s only blackness in front of me, and the rays of my thoughts don’t return from the absolute darkness of this tunnel. That’s why I call it the black hole. That’s all I can tell you about it.’ And he went silent, but after a few moments, he added, ‘And that’s why I’m here.’

‘So you don’t know why sometimes this tunnel is completely safe and other times it swallows people? And why it only takes people travelling alone?’

‘I know nothing more about it that you do, even though I’ve been trying for three years to figure out this mystery. So far, in vain.’

Their steps resounded with a distant echo. The air here was transparent, and breathing was surprisingly easy, and the darkness didn’t seem frightening. Khan’s words didn’t put him on his guard or worry him; Artyom thought that his companion was so gloomy not because of the secrets and hazards of the tunnel but because of the futility of his investigations. His preoccupation was self-conscious and even ridiculous in Artyom’s opinion. Here was the passage and there were no threats here, it was straight and empty . . . A boisterous melody even started to play in his head, and apparently it then became external without his noticing, because Khan suddenly looked at him mockingly and asked:

‘So then, isn’t this fun? It’s nice here, right? So quiet, so clean, yes?’

‘Aha!’ Artyom agreed joyfully.

And he felt so light and free in his soul because Khan had understood his mood and was also affected by it . . . He is also walking and smiling and not burdened with heavy thoughts, he also believes that this tunnel is . . .

‘So now, cover your eyes, and I’ll take you by the hand so you won’t stumble . . . Do you see anything?’ Khan asked with interest, softly squeezing Artyom’s wrist.

‘No, I don’t see anything, only a little light from the flashlights through my eyelids,’ Artyom said a little disappointedly, squeezing his eyes closed obediently - and suddenly he quietly yelped.

‘There - you made it!’ Khan noted with satisfaction. ‘It’s beautiful, yes?’

‘Amazing . . . It’s like when . . . There’s no ceiling, and everything is so blue . . . My God, what beauty! And how easy to breathe!’

‘That, my friend, is the sky. It’s curious, no? If you relax and close your eyes in the right mood here, then lots of people see it. It’s strange, of course . . . Even those who have never been to the surface see it. And the feeling is as though you’ve landed at the surface . . . before it all happened.’

‘And you, do you see it?’ Artyom asked blissfully, not wanting to open his eyes.

‘No,’ Khan said darkly. ‘Almost everyone sees it but I don’t. I only see thick, bright darkness around the tunnel, if you know what I mean. Blackness above, below, and on all sides, and only a small thread of light extends into the tunnel, and we follow it when we’re in the labyrinth. Maybe I’m blind. Or maybe everyone else is blind. OK, open your eyes, I’m not a guide dog and I don’t intend to take you by the hand to Kitai Gorod.’ He let go of Artyom’s wrist.

Artyom tried to walk on with his eyes squeezed shut but he stumbled on a cross-tie and almost fell to the ground along with his whole load. After that, he reluctantly lifted his eyelids and stayed silent for a long while afterwards, smiling stupidly.

‘What was it?’ he asked finally.

‘Fantasies. Dreams. A mood. Everything together,’ Khan replied. ‘But it’s very changeable. It’s not your mood or your dreams. There are a lot of us here and so far nothing has happened, but the mood can change totally, and you will feel it. Look there, we are already coming out at Turgenevskaya! We got here fast. But we can’t stop here at any cost, not even for a break. People will probably ask to take a break but not everyone feels the tunnel. The majority of them don’t even feel what is accessible to you. We need to go on, even though now it will be harder.’

They stepped into the station. The light marble that coated the walls was barely distinguishable from that which covered the walls at Prospect Mir and Sukharevskaya, but there the walls and ceilings were so smoke-stained and greasy that the stone was almost invisible. Here it was untainted and it was hard not to admire it. People had left this place so long ago that there was no trace of their presence. The station was in surprisingly good condition, as though it had never been flooded, never seen a fire, and if it weren’t for the pitch darkness and the layer of dust on the floor, benches and walls, you could have thought that in a minute a stream of passengers would start flowing into it or, after emitting its melodious signal, a train would arrive. It had hardly changed after all these years. His stepfather had described all this with bewilderment and awe.

There weren’t any columns in Turgenevskaya. Low arches were cut in thick marble at wide intervals. The flashlights of the caravan didn’t have enough power to disperse the dusk of the hall and to light the opposite wall so it looked as though there was absolutely nothing beyond the arches, as though there was the end of the universe.

They passed through the station rather quickly and, contrary to Khan’s fears, no one expressed the desire to stop for a break. People looked perturbed and they started talking more and more about the fact that they needed to go as fast as they could, and get to an inhabited place.

‘Do you feel it, the mood is changing . . .’ Khan observed quietly, raising a finger as though trying to feel the direction of the wind. ‘We do indeed have to go faster, they’ll feel this on their skin no less than I will with my mysticism. But there’s something preventing me from continuing on our route. Wait here for a little while . . .’

He took the map that he called the Guide out of his pocket carefully and, having told everyone to stay still, he extinguished his flashlight and took a few long and soft steps and disappeared into the dark.

When he stepped away, one guy came out from among the group and slowly, as though with effort, made his way over to Artyom. He spoke so timidly that at first Artyom didn’t recognize the thickset bearded man who had threatened him at Sukharevskaya.

‘Listen . . . it isn’t good that we’ve stopped here. Tell him, we’re afraid. There are a lot of us but anything can happen . . . Damn this tunnel, and damn this station. Tell him we have to go. You hear? Tell him . . . please.’ And he looked away and hurried back into the crowd.

This last ‘please’ made Artyom shudder. He was unpleasantly surprised by it. Taking a few steps forward so that he would be closer to the group and could hear the general conversation, he immediately realized that there was nothing left of his previous good mood.

In his head where a small orchestra had just been playing a bravura march, it was now empty and quiet and he could only hear windy echoes despondently sounding in the tunnels that lay before them. Artyom went quiet. His whole being had frozen, tensely waiting for something, sensing an inevitable change in plans. And he was right. After a fraction of an instant it was as if an invisible shadow swooped in above them and it became cold and very uncomfortable, wiping away all the feelings of peace and confidence which had settled upon them when they were walking through the tunnel. Now Artyom remembered Khan’s words about the fact that this wasn’t his mood, not his joy, and that a change in circumstances did not depend on him. He nervously turned his flashlight in a circle around him: an oppressive sensation of premonition had piled on top of him. The dusty white marble flared before him dimly, and the dense black curtain under the arches wouldn’t be pushed backwards in spite of the panicky flashings of his light. This strengthened the illusion that the world ended beyond the arches. Unable to control himself, Artyom almost ran back to the others.

‘Come to us, come, brother,’ someone whose face he’d never seen before said to him. They, apparently, were also trying to save the batteries of their flashlights. ‘Don’t be afraid. You’re a person and we’re people too. When things like this go on, people have to stick together. Don’t you think?’

Artyom willingly acknowledged that there was something in the air. Because he was scared he was unusually chatty, and he started to discuss with the people of the caravan his worries, but his thoughts kept returning to Khan’s whereabouts. The man had disappeared over ten minutes before and there was no sign of him. Indeed he knew himself that you shouldn’t go into this tunnel alone, you should only go together. How could he have gone off like that, how could he have dared to defy the unwritten law of this place? He couldn’t have simply forgotten it, or just decided to trust his wolf’s sense of smell. Artyom couldn’t believe that. After all Khan had spent three years of his life studying this tunnel. And it didn’t take that long to learn the basic rule: never go into the tunnel alone . . .

But Artyom didn’t have time to consider what might have happened to his protector up ahead before the man himself appeared noiselessly at his side, and the people were reanimated.

‘They don’t want to stop here any longer. They’re scared. Let’s go on, quickly,’ Artyom proposed. ‘I also feel something’s not right here . . .’

‘They’re not scared yet,’ Khan assured him, looking behind him, and Artyom suddenly realized that his hard, husky voice was quivering. Khan continued, ‘And you also don’t know fear yet so let’s not waste breath. I am scared. And remember I don’t use words lightly. I am scared because I dipped into the station’s gloom. The Guide wouldn’t let me take another step, otherwise I would have undoubtedly disappeared. We can’t go any further. Something lies ahead . . . But it’s dark there and my vision doesn’t penetrate and I don’t know what exactly is awaiting us there. Look!’ He lifted the map up to their eyes with a quick motion. ‘Do you see? Shine your flashlight on it! Look at the passage from here to Kitai Gorod! Don’t tell me you don’t notice anything?’

Artyom scrutinized the tiny section of the diagram with such urgency that his eyes hurt. He couldn’t make out anything unusual, but he didn’t have the courage to admit it to Khan.

‘Are you blind? You really don’t see anything? It’s all black! It’s death!’ Khan whispered and jerked back the map.

Artyom stared at him cautiously. Khan again seemed like a madman to him. He was remembering the stuff Zhenya had told him about going into the tunnel alone, about the fact that whoever survived the tunnel would go crazy from fright. Could this have happened to Khan?

‘And we can’t turn back either!’ Khan whispered. ‘We managed to get through while there was a benevolent mood in there. But now the darkness is unfurling and a storm is brewing. The only thing we can do now is to go forward but not through this tunnel, but through the parallel one. Maybe it’s clear right now. Hey!’ he shouted at the others. ‘You’re right! We need to move on. But we can’t go along this route. There’s destruction and death that way.’

‘So how are we going to move on?’ asked one of them in puzzlement.

‘We’ll cross the station and go through the parallel tunnel - that’s what we have to do. And as soon as possible!’

‘Oh no!’ someone in the group burst out. ‘Everyone knows that you don’t take the reverse direction tunnel if the one you’re facing is clear - it’s a bad sign, certain death! We won’t go in the left-hand tunnel.’

Several voices agreed. The group shuffled their feet.

‘What’s he talking about?’ Artyom asked Khan.

‘Apparently it’s native folklore,’ he said and frowned. ‘The devil! There is absolutely no time to convince them and I don’t have the strength to either . . . Listen!’ he addressed them. ‘I’m going into the parallel tunnel. Whoever trusts me can come with me. The rest of you, goodbye. Forever . . . Let’s go!’ He nodded at Artyom and picked up his rucksack, which was heavy in his hands, and climbed up onto the edge of the platform.

Artyom was frozen with indecision. On the one hand, Khan knew things about these tunnels and the metro in general that far exceeded human understanding, and you could rely on that. On the other, there was the immutable law of these accursed tunnels that you could only go through them with a certain number of people because that was your only hope for success . . .

‘What’s up there? Too heavy? Give me your hand!’ Khan extended his palm down to him and got onto his knees.

Artyom really didn’t want to meet his gaze at that moment. He was afraid to see that spark of madness he had been so frightened to see flashing in the man’s eyes a few times before. Did Khan understand that he was rejecting the warning calls of not just the people here but of the tunnel itself? Was it enough just to feel the nature of the tunnel? The place on the map, the Guide, at which he’d pointed wasn’t black. Artyom was ready to swear that it was a faded orange colour, like all the other lines. So here was the question: which of them was actually blind?

‘So? What’re you waiting for? You what, don’t understand that a delay will kill us? Your hand! For the devil’s sake give me your hand!’ Khan was yelling but Artyom slowly, with small strides, stepped away from Khan, still staring at the floor, and moved closer to the grumbling group.

‘Come on, brother, come with us, no need to hobnob with that jerk, you’ll be safer here!’ he heard from the crowd.

‘Fool! You’ll perish with them all! If you don’t give a shit about your life then at least think of your mission!’

Artyom summoned the courage to finally lift his head and set his gaze on Khan’s dilated pupils, but there wasn’t the fire of madness in them, only desperation and fatigue.