It’s so hot Ignatov feels too lazy to answer. Dozing to the monotonous plopping of waterwheels is sweet and languorous. You were right, Bakiev, my friend, Ignatov admits to himself.Oh, this business of nannying a train turned out to be far from simple…
“My grandfather told me there’s nothing on earth prettier than the Angara,” says the sailor, not giving up. “Or more treacherous, either.”
Ignatov barely raises an eyebrow in response… He’ll admit to witnessing the search in Bakiev’s office, too. He’ll tell Bakiev he didn’t doubt for a second that they’d release him soon, that’s why he left then. They’ll laugh about that together and slap each other on the shoulders.
Flattered by the merest attention given by a commander from another place, the sailor abandons what he’s doing and turns to Ignatov, continuing to drive his point home: “The Angara, she’s like… a mother for some, a sister or stepmother. And for others, she’s a downright grave.”
Ignatov rests his chin on his chest. He’ll need a gift for Nastasya, for the long wait. Some kind of headscarf, maybe – or what is it women like, anyway? His head falls to his shoulder; the light rocking lulls him, puts him to sleep.
“My grandfather, he drowned here himself,” says the sailor, winding up his story. “Uh-huh. Didn’t help that he could swim like a pike.”
Lightning cuts the sky open lengthwise, along the whole horizon. Violet clouds rub up against one another, breathing blackness. There’s a low, rumbling peal of thunder but no rain.
The storm seems to have sprung up spontaneously, in an instant. A gust of wind knocks the hat from Ignatov’s head. He wakes, darts after it, and lo and behold – sweet mother! – it’s already all around: the horizon’s rocking, waves are hurling foam, gulls are darting in the air like arrows, and the sailors are rushing around like cats with their tails on fire. You can’t hear the screams over the wind.
“Comrade commander!” A watchman has appeared next to him and is shouting into his ear. “Over there…”
He points a finger at the stern, the dolt, unsure what to say. Ignatov heads toward the stern. The metal door is shaking from being pounded.
“Open it!” they wail inside. “Open it!”
“A rebellion?” says Ignatov with a nervous start. “You want to organize a revolution for me, you bastards?”
He yanks his revolver from its holster. The watchmen are aiming their rifles at the doors.
“Sons of bitches!” carries from the hold. “We’ll drown, open up! You drowning us on purpose? Sons of bitches! Sons of bitches! There’s water in here! Water! Aaaah!”
“You’re playing tricks,” hisses Ignatov. “You won’t fool me. Go on, back, you lowlifes! I’ll shoot!”
The barge’s horn is low and booming, and reverberates across the water. What’s going on? Why are you honking, you devils? Ignatov races to the wheelhouse but it’s hard to run because the deck is jumping under his feet, the boards are cracking, and there’s spray in his face.
There’s nobody in the wheelhouse. The ship’s wheel is spinning like crazy.
“What is this?” Ignatov shouts in the face of a sailor running past him.
“We’re going down!” the other yells back. “Can’t you see?”
Going down? How can that be? So the ones in the hold weren’t lying?
A crate of tools slides off the tilting roof with a loud crash – it cracks but doesn’t spill. Whistling and spinning, it sweeps along the deck past Ignatov and disappears into the water. And then suddenly, falling like rain, like hail, are handles, crowbars, and shovels… Axe blades gleam past (Ignatov just manages to press against the wall – they would have hacked him as they flew!), scythes screech, pitchforks scatter overboard with a thin groan, and nails jingle along the wood. Carts leap into the water, their wheels turning. An entire stockpile of goods is flying, flying, into the Angara, toward all the demons in hell.
The deck is keeling, keeling. The horizon suddenly tips, one end rearing into the sky. The barge’s stern settles, its blunt snout raised into the air.
“Jump!” carries from the bow. “Go! You’ll be dragged down!”
Over there, several sailors and stokers are springing into the Angara, as fast as frogs.
What’s that about? Jump? What about the people in the hold? Ignatov gropes in his pocket for the key and takes it out. He races toward the stern. The watchmen are thudding unsteadily toward him.
“Halt!” shouts Ignatov.
A wall of wind silences him and his shout can’t be heard.
The escort guards hurl their rifles in the water, jump after them, and disappear in the waves. They’ve abandoned their post, the dogs! The final watchman tears a red-and-white life ring from a nail, tosses it in the Angara, lets out a harrowing wail, crosses himself, and plops into the water below.
The deck jerks desperately and Ignatov falls and grabs at some kind of clamp. The key flies out of his hand, drumming along the boards. Ignatov throws his chest on it before it slides away. There it is, the dear thing! He puts it in his mouth: Now I won’t let it go. He continues crawling toward the stern, hanging on with his hands.
Something above him sighs loudly, then slaps violently, booming. Ignatov looks up and sees the tarpaulin is beating at the roof like a giant sail and the ropes are flung up toward the sky, like hands in prayer.
To the hold, to the hold, Ignatov! Let those kulaks out. Let everybody out, and the hell with it! What, did you bring them all this way for nothing?
Through the space between the crew quarters, he notices the pregnant woman on the other side of the deck. She’s gripping a railing with her hands and gawking at Ignatov. She’s too far away; he can’t reach.
“Jump,” he cries at her, pulling the key from his mouth and attempting to yell over the wind. “Jump into the water, you fool! You’ll be dragged under!”
A large wave hangs over the side of the barge and crashes flat on the deck. After flowing back, there’s neither woman, nor railing. Only broken, rusted stubs sticking out.
Crawl further, Ignatov, further! That was one woman. You need to let many go.
As he crawls up to the door of the hold, he notices water gushing into the open ventilation hatches. Someone’s fingers are stretching into the gaps, attempting to catch hold but a wave washes them back inside.
The deck under Ignatov wails with hundreds of voices.
His chest shudders from blows to the boards – someone’s attempting to knock them out.
Groans drift up from below.
Thunder claps. Rain falls in thick sheets and sloshes on the deck. Ignatov crawls toward the door but everything around him is suddenly becoming loose and slippery from the rain. Now, now, you sons of bitches, I’ll let you out, don’t wail.
The moment he seizes one of the door handles, something cracks loudly and ominously, and the barge begins submerging into the water.
Ignatov manages to keep his fingers clenched, holding onto the handle and not dropping the key. The only thing he can’t manage is to take a deeper breath. Water is pouring into his ears, nose, and eyes. Ignatov is descending into the Angara – Clara is dragging him down with her.
Where are you, you damned keyhole? He pokes with the key, looking for the hole in the lock. Chk-chk! He found it, put the key in! But it won’t turn. It’s jammed. He’s desperately turning the key in the lock but the Clara is revolving slowly, plunging deeper.
Come on, Ignatov, come on! Water makes his hair billow, stings his eyes, and gets in his mouth.