The Day Watch (11 page)

In other words, the perfect embodiment of the Light Ones’ dream-not a living human being at all.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” I said. “I’ve dreamed about working at Artek for so long. It’s a shame it has to be under these circumstances…”

Pyotr sighed. “Yes, it’s a sad business. We’re all very upset for poor Nastenka… Are you a friend of hers?”

“No,” I said and shook my head. “I was two years behind her in college. To be honest I can’t really remember her face…”

Pyotr nodded and began looking through my documents. I wasn’t worried about meeting Nastya. She would probably remember my face-Zabulon is always very thorough about details. If there wasn’t a single Other anywhere in Artek, then someone would have come from Yalta or Simferopol, stood close to Nastya for a moment or two… and now she would remember me.

“Have you worked as a Pioneer leader before?”

“Yes, but… not in Artek, of course.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Pyotr said with a shrug. “They have a staff of two thousand three hundred here, that’s the only difference.”

The tone in which he pronounced these words seemed almost to contradict their meaning. He was proud of Artek, as proud as if he’d founded the camp himself; as if he’d personally fought off the fascists with a machine gun in his hands, built all the buildings and planted the trees.

I smiled in a way that said: “I don’t believe that, but I won’t say anything out of politeness.”

“Nastya works in the Azure section,” Pyotr said. “I’ll take you there-it’s already time for Nastya to get up anyway.

Our bus goes to Simferopol at five… how did you get here, Alisa?”

“There were no problems,” I said. “I came by car.”

Pyotr frowned. “They ripped you off, I suppose?”

“No, it was okay,” I lied.

“In any case, it’s a bit risky,” Pyotr added. “A beautiful young woman alone in a car at night with a stranger.”

“There were two of them,” I said, “and they were absorbed in each other’s company.”

Pyotr didn’t understand. He sighed and said, “It’s not for me to tell you how to behave, Alisa. You’re an adult with a mind of your own. But don’t forget that anything can happen! Artek is a kingdom of childhood, a realm of love, friendship, and justice. It’s the one small thing that we have managed to preserve! But outside the camp… there are all sorts of people.”

“Yes, of course there are,” I said repentantly. It was amazing how sincerely he pronounced those words full of inspired pathos! And how genuinely he believed in them.

“Well, all right.” Pyotr stood up and picked up my bag with an easy movement. “Let’s go, Alisa.”

“I can manage on my own, just show me the way…”

“Alisa!” he said with a reproachful shake of his head. “You’ll get lost. The grounds here cover two hundred and fifty-eight hectares! Come on, let’s go.”

“Yes, even Makar got a bit lost,” I agreed.

Pyotr was already in the doorway, but he swung round sharply at that: “Makar? The fifteen-year-old boy? Was he at the gate again?”

I nodded, slightly confused.

“I see…” Pyotr said dryly.

We walked out into the warm summer night. It was already getting light. Pyotr took a flashlight out of his pocket, but he didn’t switch it on. We set off along a path that led down, toward the seashore.

“That Makar’s a real problem,” Pyotr remarked as we walked along.

“Why’s that?”

“He doesn’t need much sleep… that’s the trouble.” Pyotr laughed gloomily. “He’s always running off to the guards at the gate, or to the sea, or even somewhere outside the grounds.”

“I thought he was on some kind of duty at the gate… A Young Pioneer post…” I surmised.

“Alisa!”

Pyotr was wonderful at making objections like that. He could express a whole gamut of emotions just by pronouncing a name.

“Children ought to be asleep at night! Not standing guard duty… at the camp gates, at the eternal flame, or anywhere else… And all normal children do sleep at night-they wear themselves out horsing around before they go to bed. They can have fun here during the day…”

Gravel began crunching beneath his feet as we turned off the paved pathway. I took off my sandals and walked on barefoot. It was a good feeling-the hard, smooth little stones under my feet…

“If I wanted, I could give the guards a dressing-down,” said Pyotr, thinking out loud. “Make them send the kid away. But what then? I can’t tie him to his bed all night. It’s better if he stays with adults, where he can be seen, than swimming alone in the sea at night…”

“But why does he do that?”

“He says he only needs three hours’ sleep a day,” said Pyotr, with a note of regret and pity in his voice. He was obviously one of those people who are more interesting to talk to on the phone or when it’s dark-his face was boring, without much variety of expression, but the range of intonation in his voice! “And from the way he dashes around all day long, it must be true. But that’s not the real problem…”

“Then what is?” I asked, realizing that he was expecting a question.

“He doesn’t want to miss a moment of this summer, of Artek, of his childhood.” Pyotr’s tone was thoughtful now.

“His first and last time at Artek, and what else has life ever given him?”

“The first and last time? But the boy told me…”

“He’s from a children’s home,” Pyotr explained. “And he’s already too old. It’s not likely he’ll be able to come here again. Nowadays, of course, a child can come to Artek any number of times, but only for money, and the charity sessions…”

I actually dropped a step behind him.

“From a children’s home? But he was so convincing…”

“They’re all very convincing,” Pyotr replied calmly. “He probably said something really impressive, didn’t he? His parents are in business, he comes to Artek three times a year and this fall he’s going to Hawaii… They want to believe it all, so they fantasize. The little ones do it all the time, the older ones not so often. But I expect he took a liking to you.”

“I wouldn’t have said so.”

“At that age they still can’t express it when they like someone,” Pyotr informed me very seriously. “Love and hate are easy to confuse in any case, and for a child… And you know Alisa… just one comment…”

“Yes?”

“You’re a very beautiful girl, but this is a children’s camp after all, with quite a few older boys. I’m not asking you not to wear makeup and all that, but… Try not to wear that miniskirt. It really is too short.”

“It’s not the skirt that’s short,” I replied innocently. “It’s my legs that are long.”

Pyotr squinted sideways at me and shook his head reproachfully.

“Sorry, I was joking,” I said quickly. “Of course I won’t wear it. I’ve got jeans, shorts, and even a long skirt. And my swimming costume is very modest!”

We walked on in silence.

I don’t know what Pyotr was thinking about. Maybe he was wondering if I was suitable for educational work.

Maybe he was feeling sorry about the boy in his care. Maybe he was pondering the imperfection of the world.

That would have been like him.

But I smiled, remembering how smartly the kid had fooled me.

He ought to be our future brother-in-arms.

A future Dark One.

But even if he wasn’t an Other and he was fated to live a boring human life, people like him were still our foundation and support.

It wasn’t even a matter of the trick he’d played, of course. The Light Ones like to joke too. It was what drove the kid to play pranks like that-to lead a stranger into the middle of a park at night and abandon her, to thrust out his skinny chest proudly and pretend to be a kid with no problems from a great family… All of that was ours.

Loneliness, dejection, the contempt or pity of people around you-these are unpleasant feelings. But they are precisely the things that produce genuine Dark Ones. People or Others who are marked out by a sense of their own dignity, endowed with pride and a longing for freedom.

What kind of person would result from a child of well-off parents, one who really did spend every summer by the sea and studied in a good school, who made serious plans for the future and had been taught the rules of

etiquette? Despite the widespread opinion to the contrary, he wasn’t very likely to turn out close to us. And he wouldn’t necessarily go over to the Light Ones either. He’d just bob backward and forward his whole life like a lump of shit in a drain-petty wrongdoings, minor good deeds, a wife he loves and a mistress he loves, waiting to take his boss’s place and promote one of his friends… Grayness. Nothing. Not our enemy, but not our ally either.

I have to admit that a genuine Light One inspires respect. He may oppose us, his goals may be unattainable and his methods may be absurd, but he is a worthy opponent. Like Semyon or Anton from the Night Watch…

So-called good people are equally distant from us and from the Light Ones.

But solitary wolf cubs like Makar are our foundation and support.

He would grow up knowing for certain that he would have to struggle. That he was on his own against everyone else, that it was pointless to expect any sympathy or help, and equally pointless to waste his own energy on pity and compassion. He wouldn’t get any ideas about being a benefactor to the entire world, but he wouldn’t play mean, petty tricks on other people either. He would train his own willpower and character. He wouldn’t go under. If the kid possessed the natural abilities of an Other, the incredibly rare and unpredictable ability to enter the Twilight, which is all that distinguishes us from ordinary people, then he would come to us. But if he remained a human being, he would unwittingly assist the Day Watch. Like many others.

“This way, Alisa…”

We walked up to a small building. A veranda and open windows-with a faint light in one of them…

“This is a summer house,” Pyotr told me. “The Azure section has four main dachas and eight summer houses.

You know, I think in summer it’s a lot more fun living here.”

He seemed to be apologizing for the fact that I and my young charges would be living in the summer accommodation. I couldn’t resist asking: “And what about in winter?”

“Nobody lives here in the winter,” Pyotr said sternly. “Even though our winters are so warm, the conditions would be inadequate for children to stay here.”

He made the transition to official bureaucratic language very easily too. It was as if he were giving a lecture intended to reassure someone’s mom-“the temperature is pleasant, the living conditions are comfortable, the catering provides a balanced diet.”

We stepped onto the terrace, and I felt a slight stirring of excitement.

I thought… I thought I could already feel it…

Nastya turned out to be small and swarthy-skinned, with features that had something of the Tatar about them. A pretty girl, except that now her face was too sad and tense.

“Hello, Alya…” She nodded to me as if I were an old friend. And in a certain sense, I was-they had obviously given her a false memory. “Look what’s happened now…”

I stopped looking around at the room-there was nothing special about it anyway. A little, ordinary camp leader’s room: a bed, a cupboard, a table, and a chair. The little Morozko refrigerator and the cheap black-and-white television looked like luxury items here.

But then, I’m not choosy…

“Nastya, everything will be all right,” I promised her with false sympathy. The girl nodded wearily, the way she must have been doing all day long.

“It’s good you were able to fly down so quickly.” She picked up the bag that was already packed, but Pyotr immediately took hold of it. “Have you worked in Artek before?”

“No.”

Nastya frowned. Maybe whoever implanted the false memory had got something confused, but she had no time to worry about that now.

“I’ll be in time for the morning flight, Petya,” she said. “Is the bus going to Simferopol?”

“In an hour,” Pyotr said with a nod.

The former camp leader turned her attention to me again: “I’ve already said goodbye to the girls. So… no one will be surprised. Tell them I love them all very much and I’ll definitely… I’ll try to come back.”

For an instant the tears glinted in her eyes-evidently at the thought of one of the possible reasons for a rapid return.

“Nastya,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulders. “Everything’s going to be all right, your mom will get better…”

Nastya’s little face crumpled into a grimace of pain. “She’s never been ill!” The words seemed to burst out of her.

“Never.”

Pyotr delicately cleared his throat. Nastya lowered her eyes and stopped talking.

Of course, there had been various different ways I could have been sent to work at the Artek camp. But Zabulon

always prefers the simplest possible methods. Nastya’s mother had suddenly suffered a massive heart attack, so now Nastya was flying back to Moscow, and another student had been sent from the university to replace her. It was elementary.

Most likely Nastya’s mother would have suffered a heart attack anyway: maybe a year later, maybe five. Zabulon always calculates the balance of Power very thoroughly. To provoke a heart attack in someone who was perfectly healthy was a fourth-level intervention that automatically gave the Light Ones the right to reply with magic of the same Power.

Nastya’s mother would almost certainly live. Zabulon is not given to senseless cruelty. Why kill the woman when the necessary effect can be produced simply by a serious illness?

And so I could have reassured my predecessor, except that I would have had to tell her too much.

“Here’s a notebook I wrote a few things in…” Nastya held out a slim school exercise book with a gaily colored cover showing a popular singer grinning moronically on stage. “Just a few details, but it might be useful. A few of the girls need a special approach…”

I nodded. Then Nastya suddenly waved her hand through the air and said, “I don’t need to tell you all this. You’ll manage just fine.”

But she still spent another fifteen minutes introducing me to the subtle details of the camp regime and asked me to pay special attention to some girls who were flirting with the boys too precociously. She advised me not to demand silence after lights out: “Fifteen minutes is long enough for them to talk themselves out, half an hour at the most…”