Sometimes beluga whales swept near their boat. Calm white presences, skimming through the water. From a distance, they would see the vertical spout of water from a blowhole and they would place their rods aside and watch. Occasionally an anchor-shaped tail would flip up and crash back onto the surface announcing a whale’s presence. One simple action that never failed to be breathtaking.
IN THE SHADOW of the reactor Grigory looks over to Vasily. The helicopter is being readied, loaded for the drop.
“I’m thinking about the Manpupuner rocks. About that night.”
“Yes,” Vasily replies. “I’ve thought about that too. There’s something about the scale of this place.”
They turn their attention again to the column of smoke.
“And the whales at Anadyr.”
“Yes. We’ve seen some things.”
“Yes, we have.”
They’re dressed in rubber suits, rubber boots, rubber gloves, gas masks, all in white. They’re guided to the machine and strapped facedown on the floor. They would view the reactor below from small holes in the lead sheeting. This has been decided on as the safest option. There’s no readily available way of releasing themselves from the strapping and they wear no parachutes, the flight being too low for them to have any effect. They turn their faces to each other, fear drawing a taut line between the whites of their eyes, connecting them.
Two boys from Kostroma, how their lives had ushered them to this moment.
Then Vasily says, “I feel like one of our fish, slapping around at the bottom of the boat.”
And Grigory smiles wryly at this; it’s a good thing to say, here, right now, in the situation they’ve found themselves in, confirming their friendship, their history, providing reassurance to them both.
The engines kick in and every vibration from the machine passes straight into their bodies, boring into their cores. After a couple of seconds of slow rising, they can make out the grass beneath them and then the surface blends into streaks as they ascend and spiral. The noise of the machine feels as though it originates inside their heads. There’s no separation between themselves and noise; they are at one with the machine, as much a fixed addition to the thing as the steel bolts that stud its inside. They can make out the blur of concrete underneath them, and then the craft steadies itself and the sight gradually comes into focus. Another wonder that their eyes have set upon, another image to remind them of their insignificance, another marker in their friendship.
Below them they see the disfigured roof, a gaping mouth, its limits obscured by the fumes it exhales. They watch the parcels feather downwards, the packages of chemicals exploding into powder, chutes flaring into flame as they descend. The two friends lying prostrate before it. Such power. Radiation ripping through their cells.
Chapter 7
The town of Pripyat unfurls, going slowly through its Sunday morning motions. Almost nobody has to work today. Couples have blurry, half-awake sex, keeping it surreptitious, aware of their kids moving about, playing in adjoining rooms. Most have woken in the early morning to the throb of helicopters skimming above them; many had fallen back asleep. There is an awareness of the accident, mainly since yesterday evening, everyone knows someone who has been sent to the hospital. There has been plenty of talk about the fire, people are unnerved by it, but of course it’s under control, of course the management have plans to deal with these kinds of incidents.
May Day is next week and the schools have given the children weekend assignments, getting them to make bunting, to fold paper into shapes and chains, and on dozens of living room floors, scattered throughout the apartment complexes, there are kids furiously working scissors, matting the carpet with runny glue. They talk about the situation, the couples in their beds, and the men who know something feign ignorance—what good could come from speculation?—and the men who know nothing wonder if they will get some paid leave, a chance to catch up and do things they often planned to do when not monopolized by the demands of work: paint the bathroom, put fresh shelves into the kitchen cupboards.
The early risers are walking their dogs, soaking in the morning sun, and feeling fresh and healthy and energized and somewhat self-satisfied in their choice of Sunday morning activity.
The town goes about the business of being the town, but it’s soon to become a memory of the town, a once inhabited place, wistful, forlorn.
Paper starts falling.
Pastel-coloured paper falling from the sky.
Small sheets drop like giant confetti upon the landscape. It takes a moment for this to register. The dog walkers notice it at eye level and are confused. The sound of a helicopter engine blares overhead and they fail to connect these two oddities and then they look up and see the deluge of coloured paper winding and twisting down towards them in the gentle breeze. A confection of colour. The sheer expanse of the sight makes it impossible to focus on a particular aspect: they take it all in at once in simple delight, the scene all the more pleasing in its unexpectedness. It occurs to several of them that this may be a practice run for the national celebrations. Perhaps they would be more outlandish this year.
A seven-year-old boy looks out from the window of his living room and smiles, pleased that his teacher has delivered the extra paper she had promised the class.
A man spoons yogurt into his mouth and freezes in his action, mouth open, spoon suspended.
Rectangles of colour on the pavement, a free-form cubist work. Green pages falling on the grass, each shade intensifying the other. Yellow pages on blue cars, blue pages on yellow cars. Paper catching on telephone wires, a kaleidoscopic clothesline. Kids streaming out of doorways now, rolling on the paper. One kid eating it because it looks so good. Dogs leaping and yelping, twisting on their hind legs, feeding off the excitement.
A woman in her fifties picks up a page. There is text in bold, clear letters. They have three hours to evacuate their homes. Each person can bring one case. Extra luggage will be confiscated. They are to position themselves outside their buildings at 12:00 p.m. They will receive further instructions at that time. Anyone not abiding by the guidelines will be separated from their families and arrested. She runs home to her husband, waving the paper in the air, shouting to all around that the pages are a directive. Her dog ambles after her, in charge of his own leash.
And word spreads quickly. Neighbours tell neighbours, who tell neighbours, the most ancient and reliable of communication systems.
THE FIRST HELICOPTERS to reach Artyom’s village pass in the midmorning. Artyom is on his way to his friend Iosif’s to work on their motorbike. A few months ago one of the kolkhoz managers had come across them looking at a car manual, talking about horsepower and torque, and told them to come over to his place that evening, where his old Dnepr MT-9 was lying in a shed around the back.
“It’s a piece of shit. If you get it out of my way, you can have it.”
So they walked to the man’s home, five kilometres away, and walked back, pushing it along. They stopped every few dozen metres to survey their new acquisition. Since then, every Sunday, they have been working on the machine. Neither of them knows what they are doing, but they have taken apart every piece in turn and cleaned them all and put them back together again. They still don’t have a manual, but from time to time one of their neighbours comes over and offers some advice and they do as suggested, but the thing still doesn’t work. They don’t care, though. It is their bike, their possession, and they both know it will break into a roar, someday.