Julia Gousseva - Gray Shadows - Russian Historical Thriller

A tall man in scuffed-up boots and a thick winter coat, handmade woolen scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, came up to them. He was thin and looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties. “I’ll catch your bags,” he said. “Where to? I’ll drive you.” He pointed to his snow-covered rusty Lada. “Not fancy, but the heater is working. My name’s Oleg.”

“The main square,” Nikolai answered, each word accompanied by thick white vapor. Brushing the snowflakes off her face, Natalya stood shivering next to him. Her eyes were watering from the cold and her nose running.

“First time here? Jump into the car. You’re lucky it’s a warm spell. Much easier to get used to this place if you’re not hit with the real cold right away,” Oleg said, rubbing his red weathered hands together and stomping his feet.

Nikolai wondered what the real cold felt like as he watched their fellow passengers, all dressed in bulky coats and boots, scurry around the ramshackle airport building, load their suitcases and bags into rusty cars, and venture into the icy and snowy twilight of Upper Luzinsk.

Oleg threw the bags in the trunk. “Luzinsk Oil, right?”

“How did you know where we are going?” Natalya asked Oleg when they were inside the car.

“Not too hard to guess. Luzinsk Oil has been hiring a lot of people lately. And that’s the only real oil company in town. There’s also Luna Oil and Gas, but they are a much smaller operation. There was talk of expanding and new hires, but not much movement in that direction so far.” Oleg steered the car out of the small parking lot and onto the only road to town.

“Who owns Luna Oil?” Nikolai asked.

“I don’t know,” Oleg said. “They’ve been bought and sold so many times, it’s hard to keep track. And they don’t have nearly as many computers as Luzinsk Oil. As I said, it’s a much smaller operation.”

“How do you know how many computers they have?” Nikolai said.

“I do a little bit of computer work for both companies.”

“And you drive, too?” Nikolai said.

“Sure. I run errands for anybody who’s willing to pay me. I’m not too proud to make money any way I can. We need it now that my wife can’t work anymore.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Natalya asked. “Is she sick?”

“No, no,” Oleg said. “She’s pregnant. I can’t wait to become a dad. And when I make enough money, I want to buy a small place down south, maybe even on the Black Sea. Young kids should not live in this harsh climate.”

Nobody should live in this harsh climate , thought Nikolai.

The narrow road leading from the airport into town was surrounded by vast open space from horizon to colorless horizon. Low rays of the hazy sun lit up a greyish-white sky. Vegetation was sparse: lining the road were dwarf pine trees barely visible behind snowdrifts, as if nature itself objected to being here, in this unforgiving climate that offered nothing to any living creatures. The only reason anybody would ever move to this desolate area was the allure of the wealth promised by the oil field. Some got that wealth and moved away, but most stayed and kept working, insufficient income or other life circumstances prohibiting them from finding a more hospitable place to live.

Along the edge of the road, electric posts were stuck in the ground at random angles. Not a single one pointed straight up. Many almost crossed each other, and from a distance created an image of a gigantic surreal cemetery peppered with misshapen crosses.

“These posts are so crooked,” Natalya said.

“It’s the permafrost,” Oleg said. “When the top layer melts, the trees and posts lose their grounding and lean. When it freezes again, they freeze, too, right where they’ve leaned.”

“I’ve never seen that before,” Natalya said.

“You’ll see lots of things here you’ve never seen before,” Oleg said. His Lada turned the corner, but the white and desolate landscape around them did not change. “Just a few more minutes till the main square. You’ll be working for a very good company, by the way. Pyotr Alekseevich is great.”

“Pyotr Alekseevich?” Nikolai asked.

“He’s the new director. Everyone in town knows him and loves him. He used to be the mayor but left that job to head Luzinsk Oil.”

“More money?” Nikolai asked. “The so-called public service doesn’t pay much?”

Oleg shook his head. “Nothing like that. He didn’t even want to head the company, but was left with no choice.”

“No choice? Why is that?” Nikolai asked.

“He was the only one who could save the company. Things are still not quite settled, but I hear the deal is in the making. It should be signed at the board meeting in a week or so. The whole town will be partying when that happens.”

“You know a lot about the company,” Nikolai said.

“Everyone here does,” Oleg said. “Oil and gas is our only industry, and it defines how we all live. The previous director did not last long, and we were all relieved when he left.”

“Who was the previous director?” Nikolai asked.

“Some bureaucrat from Moscow who only cared about money and his own profit. He didn’t even pay corporate taxes, and that’s what started this whole mess. Anyway, you’ll hear plenty from Pyotr Alekseevich. It’s on everyone’s mind now.”

Nikolai turned to the window. The main road, open to the brutal Arctic gale, created a sort of a wind tunnel, and Nikolai could hear the wind whistling around them.

The landscape changed suddenly, replacing the white emptiness with block buildings that varied in height from two to about ten stories. They were definitely in the urban area now. In the dim light of the Arctic morning, Nikolai glimpsed a typical two-story school structure inside a cluster of apartment buildings, probably placed there to provide the children some protection from the scything wind. Like many hastily built towns, Upper Luzinsk had no suburban areas, no villages surrounding it. Just the tundra and the center of town in the middle of it, if it could even be called a town. Nikolai did not see a single restaurant, cafe, sports club, or a church around. A place without a soul.

Oleg slowed down at a small intersection to let a middle-aged couple, holding on to each other, cross the street. The couple were the first people Nikolai saw in this town. It was not surprising: not many would want to venture outside in this cold weather. Small streets crossed the main road and disappeared into the sparse tundra and the white hills behind it. The center of town was within walking distance from its furthest edge.

“How old is this town?” Nikolai asked.

“Construction started in the 1960’s and 1970’s when major oil reserves were found. The climate here is not suitable for living, and neither are most of these buildings. The construction was quick and sloppy.”

Nikolai nodded. He didn’t want to offend Oleg but the town looked drab and depressing. Unlike older towns that grew out of people’s desire to live in them because of their mild climate, proximity to ports, or other attractive natural features, the construction of Upper Luzinsk was mandated by the government for the sole purpose of oil production, a purpose that was clearly stated in enormous letters above the tallest building, a six-story apartment block, “Let’s produce more oil for the motherland.”

The only other architectural addition to the soulless architecture were huge red, pink, and yellow triangles painted on all apartment buildings. The single attraction in this vast frozen area was oil, and it was obviously strong enough to build a town around it.

“These buildings look ugly,” Natalya said.