Сергей Лукьяненко - Day Watch

Translated by Andrew Bromfield

miramax books

This book includes excerpts from songs by

Vladimir Vysotsky, Yury Burkin, Kipelov, the bands

Aria, Voskresenie, and Nautilus Pompilius.

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The entrance did not inspire respect. The coded lock was broken, the floor was littered with the trampled butts of cheap cigarettes. Inside the elevator the walls were covered with graffiti, the word Spartak scrawled as often as the usual crude obscenities. The plastic buttons had been burned through with cigarettes and painstakingly plugged with chewing gum that was now rock-hard.

The door to the apartment on the fourth floor was a good match for the entrance: some kind of hideous old Soviet artificial leather, cheap aluminum numbers barely held on by their crooked screws.

Natasha hesitated for a moment before she pressed the doorbell. She must be insane, hoping for anything from a place like this. If you were so crazy and desperate that you'd decided to try magic, you could just open the newspaper, switch on the TV, or listen to the radio. Legitimate spiritualist salons, experienced mediums with international diplomas… It was all a swindle- that was clear enough . But at least you'd be in pleasant surroundings, with pleasant people-not like this last resort for hopeless losers.

She rang the bell anyway. She didn't want her journey to be a waste of time.

At first it seemed like the apartment was empty. Then she heard hasty footsteps, those typical of someone in a hurry whose worn slippers are falling off their feet as they shuffle along. For a brief instant the tiny spy-hole went dark, then the lock grated and the door opened.

"Oh, Natasha, is it? Come in, come in…"

She had never liked people who spoke too familiarly upon first meeting. There ought to be a little bit more formality.

But the woman who had opened the door was already pulling her into the apartment, clutching her unceremoniously by the hand, and with an expression of such sincere hospitality on her aging, brightly made-up face, that Natasha couldn't bring herself to object.

"My friend told me that you…" Natasha began.

"I don't know, I don't know about that, my dear," said her hostess, waving her hands in the air. "Oh, don't take your shoes off, I was just going to clean the place up… oh, all right then, I'll try to find you a pair of slippers."

Natasha looked around, finding it difficult to conceal her disgust.

The hallway wasn't so very small, but it was crammed full. The light bulb hanging from the ceiling was dull, maybe thirty watts at best, but even that couldn't hide the general squalor. The hallstand was piled high with clothes, including a musquash winter coat that fed the moths. The small open area of the linoleum floor was an indistinct gray color. Natasha's hostess must have been planning her cleaning session for a long time.

"Your name's Natasha, isn't it, my daughter? Mine's Dasha."

Dasha was at least fifteen or twenty years older than her. She could have been Natasha's mother, but with a mother like that you'd want to hang yourself… A pudgy figure, with dirty, dull hair and bright lacquer peeling off her fingernails, wearing a washed-out housecoat and crumbling slippers on her bare feet. Her toenails glittered with bright lacquer too. My God, how vulgar!

"Are you a seer?" Natasha asked. And in her own mind she screamed: "What a fool I am!"

Dasha nodded. She bent down and extracted a pair of rubber slippers from a tangled heap of footwear. The most idiotic slippers ever invented-the kind with all those rubber points sticking out on the inside. A yogi's dream. Some of the rubber prongs had fallen off long ago, but that hadn't made the slippers any more comfortable.

"Put them on!" Dasha suggested joyfully.

As if she were hypnotized, Natasha took off her sandals and put on the slippers. Goodbye, pantyhose. She was bound to get a couple of runs, even in her famous Omsa tights with their famous Lycra. Everything in this world was a swindle invented by cunning fools. And for some reason intelligent people always fell for it.

"Yes, I'm a seer," Dasha declared as she attentively supervised the donning of the slippers. "I got it from my grandma. And my mom too. All of them were seers, they all helped people, it's in our family… Come into the kitchen, Natasha. I haven't tidied up the rooms yet…"

Still cursing herself for being so stupid, Natasha went into the kitchen, which met all her expectations: a heap of dirty dishes in the sink, a filthy table-when they appeared a cockroach crawled lazily off the top and underneath. The windows had obviously not been washed for the spring, and the ceiling was fly-spotted.

"Sit down." Dasha deftly pulled a stool out from under the table and moved it over to the place of honor-between the table and the refrigerator, a convulsively twitching Saratov.

"Thank you, I'll stand." Natasha had made her mind up not to sit down. The stool inspired even less confidence than the table or the floor. "Dasha… That's Darya?"

"Yes, Darya."

"Darya, I really only wanted to find out…"

The woman shrugged. She clicked the switch on the electric kettle-probably the only object in the kitchen that didn't look as if it had been retrieved from a garbage heap. She looked at Natasha. "Find out? There's nothing to find out. Everything's just as clear as day."

For a moment Natasha had an unpleasant, oppressive sensation, as if there weren't enough light in the kitchen. Everything went gray, the agonized rumbling of the refrigerator and the noise of the traffic on the avenue nearby fell silent. She wiped the icy perspiration off her forehead. It was the heat. The summer, the heat, the long journey in the metro, the crush in the trolley… Why hadn't she taken a taxi? She'd sent away the driver with the car-well, she'd been ashamed to give anyone even a hint of where she was going and why… but why hadn't she taken a taxi?

"Your husband's left you, Natashenka," Darya said affectionately. "Two weeks ago. Left all of a sudden, packed, threw his things into a suitcase and just upped and left you. Without any quarrels, without any arguments. He left the apartment, left the car. And he went to your rival, a pretty young bitch with black eyebrows… but you're not old yet, my daughter."

This time Natasha didn't even react to the words "my daughter." She was trying desperately to remember what she'd told her friend and what she hadn't. She didn't think she'd mentioned black eyebrows. Although the girl really did have a dark complexion, and black hair… Natasha was overcome once again by a wild, blind fury.

"And I know why he left, Natashenka… Forgive me for calling you 'my daughter'-you're a strong woman, used to making up your own mind about things, but you're all like my own daughters to me… You didn't have any children, Natasha. Did you?"

"No," Natasha whispered.

"But why not, my dear?" the seer asked, shaking her head reproachfully. "He wants a daughter, right?"

"Yes, a daughter…"

"Then why didn't you have one?" Darya asked with a shrug. "I've got five children. Two of them went into the army-the eldest. One daughter's married-she's nursing her baby now. The other's studying. And the youngest, the wild one…" She waved her hand through the air. "Sit down, why don't you…"

Natasha reluctantly lowered herself onto the stool, holding her purse firmly on her knees. Trying to seize the initiative, she said, "It's just the way life worked out. Well, I would have had a child for him, but you can't ruin your career for that."