Сергей Лебедев - The Year of the Comet

I don’t know if the others standing there saw what I did. I think that if they didn’t see it in such details of imagination, they sensed it for sure.

Thanks to that flash, that vision of the throat that would be lashed by the noose, the crowd and the victim joined in a familiar closeness, brothers and sisters, parents and children. That boy on the scaffold was so dear to each one that—with an inversion of feeling—he had to be, must be given up to the executioner.

The point of the no-longer just cinematic action, but of existence in general, was that the best had to die, the strongest and purest shoot had to be pruned, so that his death would enter each of the others as their own death, in which everything petty, egoistic, coming from nature, personality, and education will die so that you can be reborn.

The death of one hero gives birth to many his equal, greater than he was, that is the universal law, the only path for the creation of heroes. But the first one must die, and if he does not, the rest will die remaining just as they were without partaking of the seed of inspiring death.

This memory of the boy actor on the scaffold is what convinced me that my conception was correct. I didn’t wonder why the other children did not expose Mister with their deaths, I had a ready answer: not every child can reveal a spy or saboteur; he has to be, for example, the grandson of a watchman, a retired Red Army soldier, or the son of the head of an outpost; heir to their skills and then surpassing his elders. And who, if not I, the grandson of combatant grandfathers, was better for the role? Who had figured out who Mister was?

Of course, I hoped sometimes in my daydreaming that I would stay alive, that Mister would only wound me heavily—there were stories like that in my book, too. Or maybe not even heavily, just in the arm or leg, so I could talk and show where the spy had gone; but then I reproached myself for cowardice and enjoyed the anticipation of fame.

Then fear would come over me, animal fear at the thought that I was wrong about myself, that despite knowing the true nature of Mister, I was just like all the other children, and he would simply kill me the way he had his previous victims.

I needed an advisor, an arbitrator, who would relieve my doubts; Ivan, Ivan, he was the only one capable of understanding that Mister was not a sadistic killer but something more frightening; but if Ivan said that I was wrong and making things up, well then, I’d give up my idea, for after all I didn’t want to die. But if Ivan confirmed my supposition, then the very fact of his support and involvement would save me, give me a chance not to die, for Ivan also was not like everyone else, and maybe he knew something about Mister that I did not. Oh, this secret would make us closer than brothers, closer than friends, despite our ages!

Ivan, Ivan, Ivan!

The next day, as I wondered how to find out if Ivan was home, I walked down the dacha street toward his place. My friends had ceased their siege while the general’s car was in our yard and were in no hurry to resume; I ran into one along the way, and he said “Hi!” as if there was nothing wrong; tireless Grandmother Mara had already told all the neighbors that an MCID general was visiting us, as she did every summer. My friends, naturally, wanted the details.

I had no hostility toward them; I told them everything I had heard from the general, but in a way that would give them no clue about the real nature of Mister.

Ivan’s property was empty.

Back home, I started a casual conversation with Grandmother Mara about Ivan’s family. But my grandmother, who seemingly knew everyone, and everything about them, merely shrugged, almost angry with Ivan’s people for being so secretive. Ivan’s parents worked abroad, as economists or diplomats, they hadn’t been seen at the dachas for many years. His grandfather used to be a big shot in the KGB, but then fell into disgrace, demoted and pensioned off.

Grandmother told me this with a grimace, conveying that she disliked Ivan, disliked his family, disliked my new friendship; she tried to make sure I saw it. But I was thrilled: his grandfather in the KGB, his parents abroad—of course they weren’t economists, they were spies! And that meant I was right about Ivan: like me, he was an heir to intrigue, he would know many things; I was so sorry I had not asked Grandmother earlier, for now I understood Ivan’s aloofness, his reluctance to hang out with the dacha crowd; what a great surprise for him when he would learn that among the ordinary kids there was someone like him, his junior fellow traveler, his student!

Late in the evening I climbed out the window, down the apple tree, crept past the fences and the sleeping lazy dogs toward Ivan’s property and climbed up onto the fence.

A lamp was on on his veranda; it was big, spacious, glassed in on all sides, and Ivan sat in his armchair as if in an aquarium of dim yellow light. It was dark all around, midges flew at the light and bumped into the glass, and I climbed over the fence and stood in the middle of the darkness, unnoticeable by Ivan, even if he were to look in my direction.

Ivan was alone at the dacha; he was drinking fortified wine in a thick green glass, setting it down on a tablecloth of the same green; this was my first look at the interior, I had climbed onto the wood pile by now. It was strange for me, accustomed to our dacha and the fact that a dacha is built out of whatever is at hand, furnished with whatever God sends your way, to see the heavy antique furniture, the big mirror in an ornate frame, and paintings on the walls; we all made do with paper reproductions, while these were real canvases.

No longer aware of what I was doing, unable to resist, I came out of the darkness, walked along the paved path, trying not to step on a crack, stepped up to the porch and knocked, hiding behind the door, the only nontransparent part of the glass veranda.

“Hello,” Ivan said, opening the door. “At last you’ve decided. You were out there, behind that birch, right? I’ve gotten tired of waiting. Come in, come in. Have you ever tried fortified wine? Will you have some? You sneaked out, right? They wouldn’t let you out this late, your parents, yes, I understand. Come in.”

I was suddenly embarrassed by my old, patched trousers, torn T-shirt, and sweater frayed at the elbow, but I also knew that Ivan didn’t care about such things, he was totally indifferent. A sip of the wine, which I had never tried, left a sweet tingle on my tongue, tempting me to confide in him.

Afraid that I wouldn’t have the nerve, I started talking right away—about Mister, the general’s story, how I guessed who Mister really was and the child’s gaze he feared; about my intention to sacrifice my life for the sake of catching Mister, about Ivan who must be thinking about the killer, too.

Ivan listened in silence, sipping the wine.

Then he replied, as if weighing something. “I have to think about it. I was expecting something else. Go home now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He placed his hand on my shoulder in farewell. I walked down the dead street, where someone had marked out a hop-scotch ground, in confusion: What had I just told Ivan? Would he get in the way of my efforts? But the dark night told me: no, he won’t, you’ll be too scared alone, it will remain just a dream and someone else will catch Mister. Ivan will help, Ivan won’t let you be scared. Without him you are weak, he is your strength, your desire, your courage!

The next morning a car honked at the gate; Ivan waved from a beige Volga, as though there had been no conversation the night before.

“Let’s go for a swim?” he said invitingly.

“A swim?” I repeated; it had never occurred to me that Ivan could go swimming. No one had ever seen him at the dacha pond where every adult and child spent time splashing in the water, sunbathed on old towels in the trampled grass, played cards, baked potatoes and caught fish and crayfish. I thought that his skinny body—he never wore shorts, T-shirts, or shirts with short sleeves—was too aristocratic to bear openness, his nature could not stand the democracy and casualness of water that turned everyone into similar amphibians, bringing them closer, while air separated them; bathers are amazingly similar, they form a subspecies of humanity, and the only way I could picture Ivan at the pond was in the role of a natural scientist studying that subspecies.