Virus: The Day of Resurrection (48 page)

Somebody has to do it, so
reluctantly
, I’ll do it.

The four men and those who would deliver them all knew that they were not going to die as heroes. Does someone who jumps into freezing water to save a drowning child do so because of some idea that they are trying to fulfill their duty? Do they do it for glory? Because they’re trying to be a hero? The exaggerated glory of players who join teams to great fanfare—heroes—don’t they make clowns out of those who go down to the grave? Antarctica was the scientists’ republic. The soldiers as well had lost the nations to which they had pledged loyalty, and by living with the scientists for four years, had broken free of those amusing concepts of military duty and responsibility, which were nothing more than mere rulekeeping. What the deaths of their comrades and life amid the ice irresistibly created in people was a clarity they could do nothing to change, as of the classical philosophy outlined in the heart of that old man.

And so they were not fearful of death, and it therefore followed that they didn’t try to stir up emotions in order to face the task ahead. They simply furrowed their brows, clucked their tongues, and went off to die. In a time when courage had ceased to be a virtue that some had and most did not, it appeared in its original, rough-hewn, true form. Somebody had to perform this task, and if no one had refused to be chosen, who would sing of the bravery of the ones who were chosen?

The common, indeed only, emotions shared by those that were chosen and the ones who saw them off were those of sorrow and of directionless anger. The sorrow of those who stayed behind—that their comrades should have to lose their lives on such a strange errand; and the sorrow of those on their way to death—that they should have to die for such a bizarre reason. And then there was that inexpressible anger toward the foolish, barbaric “world” which was carried by both those who were going and those who were staying behind—anger that even after the destruction, such an awful thing was being forced on Antarctica.

2. On the Last Night of Winter

“Departure is in twenty-four hours,” Admiral Conway said as he walked into the room. He seemed downhearted and old this week, which was most unlike him. The three members of the Supreme Council who would be taking over for him also appeared gaunt and haggard.

“Is there anything you’d like to have done?” he asked.

“No special treatment, please,” Major Carter said laughing. “Calling this an ‘operation’ is overdoing it. Now that I think about it, even a child could do this. We pull right up into the neighborhood in the submarine, swim to shore, and go push a button. It’d be a lot harder if you just told us to go outside in the middle of a blizzard.”

“You can say that,” murmured Dr. la Rochelle. “But Moscow is going to be very difficult.”

“It’ll be fine,” said Captain Nevski. “Captain Zoshchenko knows the course through the canals very well.”

“We’ll be in constant radio contact,” Admiral Conway said, turning to the side. “Come what may, do your job well.”

“How are things coming along with scattering the stations near the Ross Ice Shelf?” Yoshizumi asked.

“We’ve moved the small facilities, and the mamas and the children. But the American expedition’s facilities are concentrated there,” Admiral Conway said, still turned away as he trailed off. “Do you really think the earthquake is going to happen early?”

“I do. I redid the calculations, but with incomplete historical data—”

“At the time, it couldn’t be helped. We’ll just have to pray that the Soviet missiles are few in number and high in precision. At least precise enough that they won’t hit other stations—”

“That won’t happen,” said Captain Nevski. “After a twenty thousand kilometer flight, they are precise to a radius of one and a half kilometers from the target point.”

“We eat in the big cafeteria in one hour,” said Barnes, captain of the British team. “The cook was in tears for lack of ingredients, so please manage your expectations. At any rate, it’ll likely be fur seal, penguin, and whale meat again.”

“That’s fine with me,” said Marius. “It’ll be the last time I have to eat penguin.”

“And after that …” said Admiral Conway, trailing off. With his face turned away, he softly set four keys down on the desk. “These are the keys for your quarters tonight. Take whichever you like.”

After he had spoken thus, the three men turned their backs toward the door.

“Well, well, you’re going to let us have private rooms tonight?” said Marius, casually picking up one of the four keys and playing with it in his big hand. “Now that you mention it, this station building has private bedrooms for exactly four high-ranking officers. I wonder if that means the bigwigs are sleeping in bunks tonight.”

The important thing was that the meal everyone ate together was a quiet and simple affair. Only the liquor, contributed from the best each station had to offer, was luxurious and plentiful. Everyone got reasonably drunk and ate a reasonable amount. There were the occasional toasts: “To Antarctica!” and “To the firemen!” After dinner, Marius played the piano. He had an unexpectedly sure touch, and everyone was surprised to hear him playing César Franck and Darius Milhaud. When they asked him, he said that he had attended the Conservatoire in Paris and, a lifetime ago, had debuted as an up-and-coming musician. But then he’d gotten his heart broken, drowned himself in alcohol, and volunteered for the navy.

“Ancient history,” Marius said, laughing. “Paris, youth, art, romance. It was a nice world, wasn’t it?”

The thought that that was already forever lost sank heavily into the hearts of them all. When Marius sang “Retourné a Paris” in a low tone to his own accompaniment, it was Admiral Conway who broke into silent tears. Carter nudged Marius to make him stop, but the admiral looked up, the deep wrinkles in his face wet with tears, and stopped him. “It’s all right. Please play some more—all kinds of songs. Just don’t sing. If we all start remembering the songs we were on the verge of forgetting, we’ll still be singing them when it’s time to head out tomorrow.”

Marius continued playing—many nostalgic songs of the world that had been destroyed. Folk songs, love songs, songs about daily living, songs of youth. Songs of every nation, songs of every people. As the music continued, the lost human world and its fragile way of life seemed to rise up, ghostlike, from beyond the melodies. The blue sea and mountains of the Mediterranean coast, polkas on snowy Alpine nights, lovers forever holding one another on the banks of the Seine, the crowds and the noise of New York’s Fifth Avenue, the beaches of Waikiki, Tokyo at night, London soirees, the songs of farmers ringing over the fields of Russia, the voices of the gauchos singing as they crossed the pampas of South America, méringues sung at Caribbean festivals, the days and nights of the towns, villages, and cities with all their pleasures. Parents and friends and cheerful drunks, the twilight glow that lent an extra degree of gentleness to people’s faces, the floods of neon, the roller coasters, the pastoral rondo of a carousel …

“Why did that gentle old world have to be destroyed, Carter?” The elderly Admiral Conway was an old New Dealer who had participated in the Second World War and lived to tell the tale. Now he looked like a positively aged man, and even his body appeared much smaller. Like a lonely old man who had outlived all his relatives, he was sniffling and crying. “And why … why did we have to live through it? Even after our world was lost?”

Carter quietly approached the old man and gave Marius a knowing glance. “Come on, I think it’s time for bed now,” Carter said gently. “It’s late already.”

“One more toast before we go,” the old man said, wiping his tears and picking up his glass. “To the world that was destroyed, to Antarctica that survived, and to you who are going to die for our sake.”

Everyone picked up their glasses, but Conway, still holding his, didn’t drink. He was looking toward the window intently.

“Look,” said the admiral with a nod of his chin. “They’re especially magnificent tonight.”

Outside the dirty window glass amid the freezing cold, huge multicolored curtains were fluttering all across a spectacularly clear Antarctic night sky. Red and blue and pink …

When Yoshizumi opened the bedroom door, the light was on inside and someone was lying in his bed. Surprised, he quickly tried to shut the door, but then a voice called out from the covers. “It’s all right. Come in.”

In a panic, he tried to get outside. But when he checked his key, he saw that there was no mistake.

“What’s the matter with you? This is your room.” It was the voice of a drowsy-sounding woman. “Hurry up and come in. Close the door and lock it. You’ll catch cold.”

While Yoshizumi was getting over his surprise, he did as he was told. He pushed aside the covers of the rough bed, and found a fat, considerably advanced-in-age, golden-haired woman—completely naked.

“What’s the matter?” the woman asked, laughing at the dumbstruck Yoshizumi.

When she laughed, many wrinkles appeared around the outer edges of her eyes and mouth. There were large bags under her eyes and the skin on her throat also hung rather loosely. Her sagging breasts swayed back and forth, and there were three creases in her stomach.

“I’m Irma Auric. You disappointed to get an old auntie like me? Couldn’t be helped, though; seven of the ‘mamas’ are pregnant now, and five are nursing. There are some young, good-looking ones here too, but we had to draw straws; you got me, so deal with it.”

Yoshizumi smiled, not knowing what else to do. Irma gave him a slap on the shoulder.

“Well, go warm up in the tub first.”

The temperature was starting to drop, and it was four degrees Centigrade in the timeworn bathroom. Shivering, Yoshizumi got into the tub without the benefit of a heater. When he came out, Irma had turned down the lights, sat down on the bed, and was holding her head in her hands firmly. The lines of this obese middle-aged woman’s body rose up in silhouette. When Irma looked at him, a tired little smile appeared on her face.

“Well,” said Irma in a thick voice. “Come on over, Mr. Handsome. What did you put your on boxers for?”

Standing there in the entrance to the bathroom, Yoshizumi suddenly felt a desire for
something
blazing up inside him. It was something that was very nice to have when one couldn’t relax—something absolutely necessary in embarrassing situations—it took him two full minutes to realize that what he wanted was a cigarette. More than a year and a half had already passed since the last of the tobacco had disappeared from Antarctica. Grimacing, Yoshizumi sat down in a chair. The room was stuffy and hot. Irma got up from the bed and came over. Holding Yoshizumi’s shoulders with her powerful fingers, she gave him a perfunctory kiss. The white woman’s strong body odor was cloying, and a faint odor of cheese was coming from her mouth. After that, she pulled away immediately and plopped back down on the bed, arms and legs open. After which there was a silence that continued for quite some time.

“What’s the matter?” said Irma. “Not coming?”

Yoshizumi said nothing. Irma slid off the bed. “What, you impotent or something? Or—this isn’t your first time, is it?”

“No!” said Yoshizumi, frowning. “I’m thirty-five already.”

“Were you married?”

“No.”

“Thirty-five—you don’t look it. Japanese people look young, don’t they?” Irma sighed as she spoke. “You don’t want to? Because I’m over the hill?”

“It isn’t that—please understand,” Yoshizumi muttered.

“You’re a funny one. All this time, and you’ve never had a woman? You’ve never slept with one of the mamas?”

“No.”

“The white men always just about break down and cry. I may be past my prime and I may be ugly as sin, but a veteran knows more about how to treat a man than some young chickadee. So I get good word of mouth with the young guys. You really don’t wanna do it with a woman? Even after doing without for four or five years? Maybe you think a doll would be better? They say they make some good ones in Japan.”

“Is that so?”

Suddenly, Irma drew herself up and spoke deeply, from her diaphragm. “Look over here.”

Yoshizumi looked at Irma. Irma’s face, limned by the diagonal backlight, was majestically beautiful. She had long years of experience as a woman and probably as a mother. It was a face suffused with dignity.

“You’re leaving tomorrow—and not coming back, right?” Irma murmured in a slightly muffled voice.