Люциус Шепард: Eternity and Other Stories

“Viktor!” Nicolai was staring at him with concern. “Are you all right? Sit down, man. I know this is fucked up, but we’ve got some things to talk about.”

Unable to think of an acceptable alternative, Chemayev sagged into the chair opposite, but he did not lean back and he rested the pistol on his knee. Overwhelmed with guilt and regret, he had the urge to apologize, to beg forgiveness, but recognized the inadequacy of such gestures. His heart seemed to constrict into a dark nugget of self-loathing.

“You know it’s me now, right?” Nicolai asked. “You don’t have any doubts?”

Called upon to speak, Chemayev was unable to repress his urge for apology, and emitted a sobbing, incoherent string of phrases that, reduced to their essence, translated into an admission of responsibility and a denial of the same on the grounds that he’d had no choice, if he hadn’t followed Polutin’s orders, Polutin would have killed him, his family… The shame of the act never left him, but what else could he have done?

Nicolai shifted lower in his chair, reached down to the floor and stubbed out his cigarette. He watched the embers fade. “I never expected to last long in Moscow,” he said gloomily. “That’s one of the differences between us. You always thought you were going to win the game. Me, I knew it was only a matter of time before I lost.” He tapped out another cigarette. “I can’t help how you feel. And believe me, I know. I saw your face when you pulled the trigger. I see your face now. You’re not hard to read.” He lit up again. “You’ll never forgive yourself, no matter what I tell you. So why don’t we put the subject aside for now. We’ve more important things to discuss.”

Once again Chemayev could think of nothing to say other than to abase himself, to offer further apology. Tears streamed from his eyes, and though the tears were validation of a kind, evidence that his spirit, albeit tarnished, was still capable of normal reactions, they also infused him with shame. He struggled to control himself. “I don’t understand,” he said. “How is this possible? How can you be here?”

“With Yuri all things are possible,” said Nicolai; then his glum mood lifted. “You know those American jokes? The ones with the punch lines that go, ‘I’ve got good news, and I’ve got bad news’? It’s like that. I’ve got good news, and I’ve got bad news. Which do you want first?”

This was the old Nicolai, always joking, trying to make light of things. Chemayev relaxed by a degree from his rigid posture.

“Come on!” Nicolai said. “Which do you want?”

“Good.”

“Okay. The good news is there is an afterlife. The bad news is”—Nicolai made a sweeping gesture that, for all Chemayev knew, might have been intended to include the apartment, Russia, the universe—“this is it!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“This place.” Nicolai gave a sardonic laugh. “This fucking night club. Eternity.”

There must be, Chemayev thought, more to the joke.

“You still don’t get it, huh? Christ!” Nicolai leaned forward and gave Chemayev a rap on the knee, like a teacher scolding—fondly—a favorite pupil. “For such a genius you’re not too quick on the uptake.”

“Eternity?” said Chemayev, incredulous. “Yuri Lebedev’s Eternity… that’s the afterlife? You’re not serious?”

“Serious? What the fuck’s that? Is Moscow serious? Starving people camped in the subways. Generals selling tanks on the black market. That old fart in the Kremlin swilling down a quart a day and promising us the capitalist paradise. It’s no less serious than that.” Nicolai wriggled in his chair like a kid with an itch. “Yuri, man… he’s…” He gave his head a shake, as if to signify awe. “You don’t have to hang around the party long before you learn things about him.”

“You mean that horseshit about he’s a fucking wizard? A Master of the Mystic East?”

“They’re things a guy like you might not be able to swallow. But for a guy like me, with what I’ve been through, I don’t have any choice.”

Chemayev looked down at his hands.

“Have you ever met anyone who knew Yuri?” Nicolai asked. “Any of his friends, his associates. Not just someone who used to work for him.”

After giving this due consideration Chemayev said he had not.

“That’s because they’re dead. Grenkov, Zereva, Ashkenazy. All those guys. They’re all dead and they’re all at the party. Man, you wouldn’t believe who’s here! It’s the goddamn Communist Hall of Fame. Yuri’s a big fan of those power-mad old bastards. Lots of generals and shit. Not many poets, though. Yuri was never much of a reader.”

“Oh. So it’s the party that’s the afterlife!” Chemayev gave a scornful laugh. “This is bullshit!”

Nicolai’s face hardened. “Bullshit? Well, maybe you’ll think this is bullshit too! When you shot me, I went out. One second I was staring at you. At your dumbass face! It looked like you were going to start whimpering. I had time to say to myself, ‘Oh, fuck… yeah… of course…’ I figured things out, you understand. The way you were pouting—I knew it meant you’d scrambled over whatever pissy little moral hurdle the job had posed. And then”—he snapped his fingers—“I wasn’t there anymore.” He allowed Chemayev time to react and when no reaction was forthcoming he went on, “I don’t remember much afterward. But at some point I began to hear a voice. I can’t tell you what kind of voice. It was all around me… this enormous sound. As if I was inside the mouth that was speaking. Sometimes it seems I can almost repeat the words it was saying—they’re on the tip of my tongue. But I can’t spit them out.” He made a frustrated noise. “The next thing I remember for certain, I’m walking down a dingy corridor toward a door. Toward the party. I’m wearing nice clothes. Cologne. It’s like I just got out of the shower and I’m ready for a night on the town.”

Nicolai took a hit of his cigarette and let smoke leak out between his lips, as if too enervated to exhale properly. “I suppose it does sound like bullshit. I can’t explain it. Everybody says that while Yuri was building the club he was hanging out with some strange people. Experts on the Kabbala. Computer scientists. He even brought in a shaman from up near Archangel. They say he went through some drastic changes, and I believe it. Whatever he was like before, I’ll bet it wasn’t much like he is now.”

“You’ve met him?”

Nicolai coughed, grimaced, butted his cigarette. “You don’t meet Yuri. You experience him.”

“You experience him.” Chemayev gave a sarcastic laugh. “So you’re saying he’s like a sunset or something.”

“A sunset…” Nicolai looked as if he was mulling it over. “It’s not a totally inappropriate analogy. But for sure he’s not a guy you sit down and have a chat with. The fact is, I don’t think he’s a guy at all. Not anymore. The things he got into when he was building the club, they transformed him. The club, Yuri, the party… they’re all the same somehow.” Nicolai smiled crookedly. “That’s pretty weak, isn’t it? Maybe the best I can do is tell you what it’s like being here all the time.” He gestured at one of the walls. “Take a look around.”

Chemayev had not paid much attention to the room when he had entered, but he was fairly certain the walls had not been covered, as they were now, with a faded earth-toned mural like those found on the walls of factories during the Communist era: determined-looking, square-jawed men and broad-shouldered women with motherly bosoms engaged in the noble state-approved pursuit of dump-truck-assembly, faces aglow with the joy of communal effort, their sinewy arms seemingly imbued with the same iron strength as the mighty girders and grimly functional machinery that framed them. Other than their two chairs, the room was empty of furniture. The krushova dwellers and Beria were gone, and the noise of the party had abated, replaced by a faint roaring, like the sound of blood heard when you put a seashell close to your ear. Chemayev thought he had become inured to apparitions, but a chill spiked in his chest.