We had returned early from the harvest, rather than right at sundown. A good thing, too. We were far too close. If we had been closer he would have taken us with him, I think. But we all looked up at once, and saw him standing in the window, waving at us. It did not occur to me to run. I just looked up. I waved, even, I think. I can’t remember.
He was on the top floor, the fourth floor. So the building collapsed slowly and drunkenly, swaying, weakened, and then down, the third floor, then down again, the second. Really it was much less dramatic than I think he intended for it to be. And less lethal. We avoided the worst of the shrapnel, half a block away, but there was so much dust, a mushroom cloud of it, like a nuke. White, white concrete dust. It wasn’t even as loud as I thought it would be.
We all stood there for a second, mouths open.
And then in the wake of the explosion, a dreamy moment, the kind you dream of as a teenager; V. overwhelmed, half-flattened with shock, lowering his head to my shoulder, placing his arm around my waist. I could have turned by the minutest amount, gone up on my tiptoes, and kissed him square on the mouth. Instead I raised my numb and trembling hand to his pillowy curls, and we stood there a moment, letting warmth bloom between us. And I too let hope bloom: That he feels the same way as I do, that he was seeking something more than comfort and safety in the arms of a friend. My nose was bleeding and ran through his hair, I accidentally anointed the dusty nape of his neck. The droplets spelled out, I thought, words of devotion. I felt ill, and giddily happy, and anticipatory, as if a treat I had been long-promised had suddenly arrived.
And then P. came up behind us both and nuzzled into my shoulder and his, and I thought as I put my arm around her, with a sudden daggerlike sickness deep in my gut: No. They are children looking for mama’s arms.
I’m too old. What was I thinking? I’m forty-five, I’m too old to even think this; they should be with each other.
It only lasted a second, anyway. And then we had to run. The sound had attracted some sentinels, and though we couldn’t see them in the dust, I could hear Their shrill cries to each other, the grunts and growls. Ears ringing, faces buzzing, we ran. I set the pace, for once. I think the others were still in shock.
Not just a death, but a death like that. A death we have not seen in well over a year, and right at our feet.
Later, V. and I left P. sleeping in A.’s flat and gingerly returned to the glowing rubble. I felt callous, scheming, a Shakespearean villainess. V. just seemed numb.
If he left a note, V. said, it’s probably gone now.
I said nothing. And I grow increasingly convinced that it was an accident.
And also: What did he use? How much material did he leave behind? Was it dynamite? Homemade gelignite? Is there enough to make more bombs?
He did not leave enough of himself to even bless and bury. But he must have left something else.
Thoughtfully, quietly, not talking much, we ate the last dried strawberries of summer from our pockets and roamed around the ruins, looking for instruments of death. Instead, it may be that we found the means of a very ill-advised rescue.
Eyes gleamed in the dusk as we left, clambering down over the still-smouldering scraps. Just a minute, said V. Some of those are people.
There’s something wrong with their eyes then, I said. Let’s go.
Run, he said.
We ran.
November 20
Tired. It’s getting very cold out there, but is it cold enough? A few skiffs of snow, frost every night. We had to rush to get all the cabbages in, but I barely notice the weather except as it relates to the river. My entire mind, my entire life, seems to have shrunk to a pinpoint. As if it were an ocean once, and then it was a lake, and now it is barely a puddle.
We scouted all day today, tiring ourselves in our vigilance. But hit the jackpot (am I using that right?): there’s an underground tunnel to the river, leading inadvisably but usefully near the wall of the seminary. (Yes, part of that ‘structural instability,’ I suspect. The soil must have become waterlogged decades ago.) The tunnel is bricked off, but it resembles the ones still open near the canals.
V. and I tapped on the sides, as if we could tell whether it’s filled with water or not, but it doesn’t sound like it is. It sounds hollow, promisingly hollow.
Maybe we could use that instead of the train tracks, which are so exposed.
Maybe instead, we could use the train tracks as a decoy.
I don’t know. We need to plan. If A. is around later I will go ask him. He was an engineer. Is, I suppose. The Them didn’t come here and rip away his certificate, ha ha.
If the river is frozen, we could…
No, I’ll ask A. about it. No sense brainstorming in here.
As we left the seminary, V. and I (delightedly, like naughty children) ducked under the snatching branches of the nearby trees, sacrificing the backs of our jackets and a few scraps of skin from wrist and cheek, and dumped bags of salt at their wretched roots, and splashed them with kerosene and set them on fire. What joy, to watch the trunks wither and writhe!
Take that, V. panted as we sprinted away; the cemetery emptied out at our heels in the lowering dusk.
We just gave ourselves away, I said, even though it had been my idea.
They knew already, he said. They knew we were coming.
November 22
K. wavers. What to do about him? I am sure he must hate the status quo as much as any of us, but he also thinks, clearly, if not out loud: Here is the equality we were promised. The weight of the boot presses us all down evenly. And now we must draw attention, shine light upon ourselves, against an invincible enemy? Why not be equal in the dark?
Yes. We must.
Is he an agent?
Listen. When he disappeared two nights ago, slipping out of the flat and silently closing the door, I was up (no mean feat; we spend all day on our feet on scanty rations, and we sleep like the dead at night) and following him. Unsubtly, clumsy in my eagerness not to lose him. He caught me, and took my elbow, gently, and walked me back to the flat. It’s not safe, he said. Go back inside. Sleep.
Don’t you think I know it’s not safe, I said, approximately. Don’t you think I know what’s out there? Where are you going? Why?
None of your business, he said.
It is my business if you’re endangering all of us, I said. What gives you the right? There are three of us to consider. Not just you.
I’m, he said, and hesitated dramatically, his face shifting. Going to see a… a woman.
Oh really, I said.
Yes, he said. Don’t follow me. I’ll be all right.
I don’t care if you’re all right or not, I said. Don’t ever, ever do it again. Or go find somewhere else to live. Go live with her.
We both know that he is doing nothing of the sort, and I am so angry that he lied to my face as brazenly as that. Like a toddler with his face all jam, denying that he stole it from the fridge. Did he think I would believe him? Did he think I would not be insulted by the lie?
I need to talk to V. If this were another day, another place, we’d run K. through an ordeal. We’d say: Prove that you’re not a witch. Now, I watch his hands, I am paranoid. How do They choose their agents? In times of war, or at least times of siege, humans willing to be slaves for a chance to survive must abound; truly, we’re either slaves or we’re prey. Just prey. Nothing more than that.
How can I find out about K. Maybe he will reveal himself.
Why do I keep asking myself questions that I cannot answer? At least no one will see this book. Unless it is found in the far, far future; but I don’t suppose paper will last that long. Maybe I should start thinking of arrangements for it.