Amaury Dreher - Opalescence - The Secret of Pripyat

I headed downtown. Bands of teenagers wandered the streets, armed with portable speakers, cigarettes and foot ball. On Kontrakova Square, the Ferris wheel split the sky to the sound of quite boisterous pop music. Many onlookers were outside, some were walking their dogs, others, like me, were wandering the streets at random. The shops were shutting down. The atmosphere was serene and joyful, in contrast to the bloody conflict in the east. The people of Kiev did not live the same life as the rest of the country. Of course, by western standards, they were very poor; however, they did not risk their lives, they did not experience the daily horror of an imminent bombardment. The torments of war affected them, but did not threaten them directly. Here and there proudly held the Ukrainian flag, often alongside that of the European Union as a sign of its attachment. I remained pensive about these intentions and symbols deployed.

I finally choose to go up rue Saint-André. It was beautiful and winding, it looked like a staircase to Olympus. I walked quietly through it, admiring the various coloured facades before noticing a rather flashy bar. It had a striking appearance.

I pushed the door, determined to quench my thirst. The interior was less flashy than the frontage. The bar was very dark and a musty smell scattered throughout the area. I felt uncomfortable, ready to turn around. But the hop appeal was too strong. I sat down at the counter and ordered a Chernigovsky. American punk from the ’90s was ringing in the bar’s speakers. To my left, a bunch of jerks were sitting at the table and playing cards loudly. As my drink arrived, a tall fellow patted me on the back and sat next to me. He shook my hand and introduced himself soberly.

“Oleksandr, nice to meet you.”

The man was strong. His poorly shaved and grayish beard suggested that he was in his forties. This feeling was reinforced by the presence of many wrinkles on his forehead. His skin betrayed a tired and afflicted soul. His steel blue eyes were severe. That was the kind of gaze that dark-minded men have. Probably because he was caught up in remorse. His eyes must have seen all kinds of things, testifying to a life of hardship and renunciation.

He started the conversation and told me about him. He often came here after work, he knew anecdotes about every customer from the bar to the boss.

Oleksandr’s behaviour was somewhat bipolar. He would easily pass from small friendly patting on the shoulder to dark looks and cold taciturn lines. We were speaking English. I didn’t want to tell him my Ukrainian origins. Our discussion diverged from my trip to Ukraine. I informed Oleksandr of my intentions to visit the Zone. He listened to me without blinking, almost religiously. He never tried to interrupt me. He just stared at me while drinking his beer silently. He didn’t seem surprised by my approach.

I asked him for advice.

—I can take you there,” he said soberly.

—Seriously? When?

—Tomorrow if you want.

—It’s that simple? Can we really get there?

—Yes.

—When will we leave?

—We’ll go at dawn. The roads are in poor condition, it will take us time to get there.

—What do I need?

—Nothing at all. Your shoes will do the job. I’ll provide the rest.

—Do we need a special authorisation? And how much does it cost?

—No. No. We’ll enter illegally, you won’t have to pay anything. I know how to do it.

—But… have you ever been?

—Yes, many times. I know the Zone perfectly well.

He had responded in a destabilising way as if my question did not deserve to be asked because the solution was so obvious. My mind was lost in an opaque mist, I tried to imagine what would happen next day. Oleksandr slapped my shoulder and approached to stab his eyes into mine.

He whispered:

—One last thing. Are you afraid?

—No. No. I stammered.

—Um… All right… it’s better.

He stared at me for a few more seconds without speaking, which had the ability to embarrass me. He seemed surprised, but satisfied. The features of his face formed an insoluble mystery.

“Be in Maidan Square at 6:00 tomorrow morning. Don’t take too much stuff with you. And above all, don’t tell anyone about our little plan.”

He smiled at me and then walked out of the bar slamming the door. A little unsettled by his sudden disappearance, I paid for our drinks and also set off to my hotel. Tomorrow, the expedition would begin.

The night turned out to be short and difficult. I didn’t know if my restless sleep was paralysed by fear or euphoria. Probably both. I was going to revisit the place of my childhood. A radioactive space condemned for eternity, a space that had seen me born and from which I will be bound until my last breath. Images of Pripyat were already floating in my mind. A lost city, alabaster and perilous territories. The promise of a unique experience was on the horizon.

Sleep was elusive. Around 4:00 a.m., I finally slumbered as the first lights of the day began to dawn.

The alarm clock rang suddenly. I got up in a flash and without any effort. Carried by the excitement, I was prepared for everything that would come my way.

It was in a scrupulous way that I finished my bag, silently and with a very solemn slowness. Oleksandr had asked me to bring the bare minimum. I had to honour his trust, he who was taking risks for me. I weighed the package one last time. Perfect. I was ready.

I walked out of the building and closed the door slowly, with a little smile on my face. A shiver of excitement ran through me as I walked down the snow-covered alleyway.

The adventure looked beautiful and scary. I rushed into it without fear or restraint.

This book would not have been possible without the precious advice and sweet personality of Vika, my Ukrainian guide, whom I am now sure has not revealed all the secrets of Pripyat to me.

In addition to a visit on site, many musical influences helped me to develop this story. In particular, I must thank Steve Reich and Alessandro Cortini, whose sound layers have always inspired me throughout the writing process. It would also be selfish to end these lines without mentioning Vanessa, Maliia, Tomek, Ingrid and many others who advised me, supported me or only knew me during the writing of this book. Finally, I thank my mother for her patient and wise review.

For anyone who would like to comment, criticise this novel or simply exchange opinions about the Zone , it is possible to contact the author directly through emails: amaury.dreher@gmail.com

Legal Deposit: March 2019

Copyright © 2019 Amaury Dreher

All rights reserved.

ISBN 9781713414117