Radiant Terminus. Antoine Volodine
smoke over there, did you see it? Kronauer asked.
He pointed toward the faint trail above the trees.
Ilyushenko got up a little to see which way he was pointing.
—A village, he hazarded. Or a fire burning on its own.
—More likely a village, Kronauer said.
—It’s pretty far off, said Ilyushenko.
—I could make it to the forest before nightfall, Kronauer said.
—You’d have to walk fast, Ilyushenko remarked.
—Then, tomorrow morning, I’d go look for help in the village, Kronauer said.
Ilyushenko shrugged.
—Once you’re in the woods, you won’t have anything to point the way. You could get lost, he said.
—I’m not afraid of going into the forest, Kronauer lied. I’ll manage.
—That’s the beginning of the taiga, Ilyushenko countered. It might not be too thick for the first few kilometers, but then it stretches out in all directions. There’s only one chance in ten that you’ll get to a village.
—Have to take the risk, Kronauer said. There’s no other solution.
—We could wait for the convoy to start again, Ilyushenko suggested.
—Sure, and what happens if it doesn’t?
The dying woman let out a groan. She wanted to say something. Kronauer leaned over her, as if to place a kiss on her lips. He looked at her mouth carefully. Sounds came out. He didn’t understand anything.
He kissed her forehead, put out his hand to wipe the damp away once again. His nostrils took in the scent of her deterioration, under his palm he felt the unusual heat of her face.
—Vassia, he whispered. Don’t be afraid. The soldiers haven’t seen us. We’re safe in the plants. I’m going to find water. It’ll get better.
A gust of wind interrupted him. The plants bent, trembled. The wind passed over Vassilissa Marachvili, it calmed Vassilissa Marachvili a little, it caressed Vassilissa Marachvili, it helped her to breathe.
—There’s a village, Kronauer said. I’m going over there. I’ll come back with water.
Vassilissa Marachvili wasn’t trying to talk anymore. She seemed unconscious.
For a good fifteen minutes, Kronauer stayed on his knees by her. He held her hand, he watched her face, which was a beautiful and energetic young girl’s and now dying. Remnants of blood soiled her lips, and cracks had appeared on her cheeks.
It was hard for him to leave her. The three of them all considered themselves already dead, but he feared the worst for her.
• Ilyushenko had picked up the binoculars. He looked at the railroad tracks once again. He stayed half upright for a couple of minutes, his head hidden under a strong bunch of fausse-malmequaire.
—They’re settling down for the night, he finally said. All the cars are open. I can see about twenty of them. Soldiers, prisoners. There’s six or seven of them exploring the ruins of the Red Star. Probably looking for water or something to burn. They’re going to make a campfire.
—All right, well, I’ll go now, Kronauer said.
—Be careful, Ilyushenko said. They’ve positioned a watchman on one of the car roofs. Walk in the valley for now. That way, if he sees you, you’ll be too far away for him to gun you down.
—Why would they want to gun me down? Kronauer asked.
—They’re soldiers, Ilyushenko said. They have to obey the orders they’re given. They know that nobody normal will be in the area. They’ve likely been told to shoot at enemies and deserters.
—Have to admit that makes sense, Kronauer said. If we still had our guns, we’d do the same.
• After having crossed the valley, Kronauer kept a quick pace toward the forest and, although exhaustion was turning his legs to jelly, he didn’t relent. At this point the landscape behind him had changed. The unmoving convoy and the sovkhoz were no longer visible. Nor was the hill on which Ilyushenko and Vassilissa Marachvili were hiding. Aside from the distant black line marking the beginning of the forest, there were no points of reference. The sun had disappeared, and in any case Kronauer didn’t know how to read the sky like a map, he’d never been raised like a farmer or a trapper.
Waist-deep, sometimes shoulder-deep in a verdurous ocean, he pressed ahead rather than save his strength. His body hurt but he refused to accept it. He hadn’t let himself stop during the first two kilometers, assuming that he needed to evade the watchman’s potential gunfire, and after that, he hadn’t let himself stop for more than the ten or twelve seconds needed to catch his breath. He was wholly focused on his goal. He wanted to reach the forest’s edge before nightfall, so he could cross it the next morning at daybreak and go straight through the trees until he emerged and saw a village. It was a simple goal. A clear and simple action. Vassilissa Marachvili’s life depended on his accomplishing it.
From time to time he’d trample through marshes. Then he’d stop to see if there wasn’t a spring or a pool nearby for him to drink and refill his bottle and the one he’d taken from Vassilissa Marachvili’s belt. The ground was wet and sometimes had a muddy consistency, but he never found water in a salvageable form. He’d keep looking one or two minutes, rummaging through argamanche shrubs or bushes of gourgouledes-pauvres, which usually cropped up near water sources. He spread apart the pulpy stalks of lancelottes and grumes-ameres in vain. Then, muttering a quick rosary of curses, he went back on his way.
Plants that obstruct his calves, his knees, his thighs. Plants that rarely snap, except for dame-exquises, regrignelle, deadchive plumes, or folle-en-jouisse. Hard, elastic, violent plants. Plants that give way at the slightest touch, like twistsprouts, fine-brousse, majdahar, souffe-magnifique, caped mudbeaks, or mere-du-lépreux. Plants that feet could never crush. Plants that give off strong and disagreeable scents, such as torchpotils or pugnaise-des-errants, and even pestilential scents, especially the dangue-à-clochettes. Plants that look like thick hedges. Plants that exhale their perfumes with evening’s arrival. Plants with acrid sap. Plants with heady sap, like diaze-lights or dive-diazes. Dark green, emerald green, yellowish green, silvery green like huckster terbabary, bronze green like ravine terbabary. Seeds, dull green, shiny green, ears. No flowers. Plants that don’t resemble anything, besides drabness and absence. Soft, weak plants. Large stretches with fewer insects than in the summer months, but still buzzing with grasshoppers and flies.
The noise of this progress. Its screeching violence. A man pushing at full speed through vegetation that doesn’t welcome him at all. A man crossing the steppes instead of sleeping on the ground. A man breaking the plants’ silence.
The occasional crow high above. Five or six of them, often fewer, flying toward the forest. Always toward the northeast or the east, as if there was only one possible direction. The occasional shrill cry under the sky. As if, out of what little solidarity with other animals remained, or out of respect for a fairy-tale tradition, they were trying to give the lost man a useful direction or a warning. Kronauer didn’t slow down even to watch them go by. He looked up, but he didn’t slow down.
• Kronauer went, his body fixated on the effort, while his thoughts wandered. Several planes of consciousness merged within him, just like when he was falling asleep, and, without any conflict, intermingled. He grew obsessed with the idea of getting to the village at all costs and he saw himself in a rather cinematic sequence, in which the villagers around him heard his pleas and rushed to the Red Star sovkhoz with water and supplies. All the while he kept envisioning Vassilissa Marachvili and Ilyushenko in distress on the hill, doomed to lie in the grasses and keep quiet so as not to be noticed by the soldiers who had bivouacked by the rails. But other images merged with these: moments of loving friendship that had developed among the three over the last weeks, around campfires, along deserted paths, amid ghost towns, after interminable