“I’m not hysterical,” I said. “It really is funny.”
“Are you sure?” Olga screwed up her eyes, looking hard at me. Was that really the expression I had when I was trying to look benevolent and doubtful at the same time?
“Absolutely.”
“Then take a look at yourself.”
I went across to the mirror, which was on the same massive scale as everything else in this secret bathroom, and gazed at myself.
The result was strange. As I looked at my new form, I began feeling completely calm. The shock would probably have been worse if I’d been in another man’s body. But this was okay; it just felt like the beginning of a fancy dress party.
“Are you influencing me at all?” I asked. “You or the boss?”
“No.”
“I must have pretty strong nerves then.”
“You’ve smudged your lipstick,” Olga commented. She chuckled. “Do you know how to put lipstick on?”
“Are you crazy? Of course not.”
“I’ll teach you. It’s not that tricky. You’re really lucky, Anton.”
“How’s that?”
“One week later, and I’d have had to teach you to use panty liners.”
CHAPTER 2
AFTER I STEPPED OUT OF THE OFFICE I PAUSED FOR A MOMENT, fighting the temptation to go back in.
I could reject the boss’s plan at any moment. I only had to go back in and say a few words, and Olga and I would be returned to our own bodies. But in half an hour of conversation I’d been told enough to make me accept that switching bodies was the only way to handle this provocation by the Dark Ones.
After all, it doesn’t really make much sense to refuse life-saving treatment because the injections hurt.
I had the keys to Olga’s apartment in my purse, together with her money and credit card in a little billfold, makeup, a little handkerchief, a panty liner—what for, when I wasn’t supposed to need it?—a little box of Tic Tacs, a comb, a layer of small items scattered on the bottom, a mirror, a tiny cell phone . . .
But the empty pockets of the jeans made me feel like I must have lost something. I rummaged in them for a second or two, trying to find at least a forgotten coin, but was soon convinced that Olga carried everything in her purse, the way most women do.
You might have thought I’d just lost things that were a bit more important than the contents of my pockets. But it was a detail that irritated me, so I transferred a few bank notes from the handbag to my pocket and that made me feel a bit more confident.
It was a shame Olga didn’t carry a Walkman, though . . .
“Hi,” said Garik, walking toward me. “Is the boss free?”
“He’s . . . he’s with Anton . . .” I replied.
“What’s happened, Olya?” Garik asked, looking at me closely. I don’t know what it was he’d sensed: a different intonation, hesitant movements, a new aura. But if a field operative that neither Olga nor I had ever spent much time with could sense the swap, I wasn’t doing too well.
And then Garik gave me a timid, uncertain smile. That was entirely unexpected: I’d never noticed Garik trying to flirt with the Watch’s female employees. He even has trouble getting to know human women, he’s so incredibly unlucky when it comes to romance.
“Nothing. We had a bit of an argument.” I turned away without saying goodbye and walked to the staircase.
That was my cover story for the Night Watch—in the highly unlikely event that we had one of the other side’s agents among us. As far as I know, that’s something that’s only happened once or twice in the entire history of the Watch, but you can never tell . . . Might as well let everyone think Boris Ignatievich had a falling-out with his old girlfriend.
There was a plausible reason, a good one. A hundred years of imprisonment in his office, without any chance to assume human form, partial rehabilitation, but with the loss of most of her magical powers. That was more than enough reason to take offense . . . And at least the story relieved me of the need to play the part of the boss’s girlfriend, which would have been going just too far.
I walked down to the third floor, thinking things through as I went. I had to admit that Olga had made things as easy for me as she could. She’d put on jeans today, instead of her usual matching skirt and jacket or dress, and sneakers instead of high-heeled shoes. Even the light perfume she’d used wasn’t overpowering.
I knew what I was supposed to do now; I knew how I was supposed to behave. But even so, it was still hard. I had to turn into the modest, quiet side corridor instead of going toward the door.
And take a plunge into the past.
They say hospitals have their own unforgettable smell. And of course they do. It would be strange if the mixture of bleach and pain, sterilizing unit and wounds, standard issue bed sheets and tasteless food didn’t have some kind of smell.
But tell me, if you can—where do schools and colleges get their smell?
Not all our subjects are taught on the Watch’s own premises. Some things are easier to teach in the morgue, at night—we have our contacts there. Some things are taught out in the field; some things are taught abroad, on tourist trips paid for by the Watch. During my training, I spent time in Haiti, Angola, the USA, and Spain.
But there are still some lectures that can be given only in the Watch’s own building, securely sealed off from its foundations to its roof by magic and protective spells. Thirty years ago, when the first Watch moved into this building, they set up three small halls, each for fifteen trainees. I still don’t know what was most important in that decision—the optimism of my colleagues or the fact that the space was available. Even when I was in training—and that was a very good year—one hall was enough for all of us, and even then it was always half empty.
Right now the Watch was training four Others. And Svetlana was the only one we could be certain would join us and not prefer an ordinary human life.
It was deserted here, deserted and quiet. I walked slowly along the corridor, glancing into the empty teaching rooms, which would have been the envy of even the best-equipped and most prosperous university. A laptop computer on every desk, a huge TV projector in each room, shelves crammed with books . . . If only a historian could have seen those books—a real historian, that is, not some historical pimp.
But historians never would see them.
Some of the books contained too much truth. Other contained too many lies. People couldn’t be allowed to read them, for the sake of their own peace of mind. Let them keep living with the history they were used to.
The corridor terminated in a huge mirror that covered the entire end wall. When I glanced into it casually I saw a beautiful young woman swaying her hips as she strode along the corridor.
I staggered and almost fell over: Olga had done everything possible to make things easy for me, but even she couldn’t change her own center of gravity. As long as I forgot the way I looked, everything was more or less normal; the motor reflexes took over. But the moment I took a look at myself from the outside, things slipped out of sync. Even my breathing changed, and the air felt different as it entered my lungs.
I walked up to the last door, a glass one, and glanced through it cautiously.
The class was just finishing.
Today they’d been studying everyday magic, I knew that the moment I saw Polina Vasilievna standing by the demonstration stand. She’s one of the oldest members of the Watch—to look at, that is, not by her actual age. She’d been discovered and initiated when she was already sixty-three years old. Who could have guessed than an old woman who earned her living by telling fortunes with cards during those wild years after the war actually possessed genuine powers? Quite strong powers too, although only in a narrow field.
“And now, if you need to spruce up your clothes in a hurry, you can do it in a moment. Only don’t forget to check first how much strength you have. Otherwise the result might be embarrassing.”
“And when the clock strikes t
welve, your carriage will turn into a pumpkin,” the young guy sitting beside Svetlana said in a loud voice. I didn’t know him; this was only his second or third day of training, but already I didn’t like him.
“Precisely,” Polina exclaimed delightedly, even though she heard the same witticism from every group of trainees. “Fairy tales lie just as much as statistics do, but sometimes you can find a grain of truth in them.”
She picked a neatly ironed tuxedo up off the desk. It was spruce and elegant, a little old-fashioned. James Bond must have worn one like it.
“When will it turn back to rags again?” Svetlana asked in a practical tone of voice.
“After two hours,” Polina told her briskly. She put the jacket on a hanger and hung it on the stand. “I didn’t make a great effort.”
“And what’s the longest you can you keep it looking good?”
“About twenty-four hours.”
Svetlana nodded and suddenly looked in my direction—she’d sensed my presence. She smiled and waved. Now everyone had noticed me.
“Please come in,” said Polina, bowing her head. “This is a great honor for us.”
Yes, she knew something about Olga that I didn’t. All of us knew no more than one part of the truth about her; probably only the boss knew everything.
I went in, trying desperately to make my walk a bit less provocative. It did no good. The young guy sitting next to Svetlana, and the fifteen-year-old kid who’d been stuck in the preliminary class for six months, and the tall, skinny Korean, who could have been thirty or forty—they all watched me.
With very definite interest. The atmosphere of mystery that surrounded Olga, all the rumors and unspoken reservations, and above all the fact that she was the boss’s lover from way far back—it all provoked a very noticeable response from the male section of the Watch.
“Hello,” I said. “I hope I’m not interrupting?”
I was trying so hard to get my phrasing right, I forgot to control my tone of voice, and my banal question came out sounding languidly mysterious, addressed to every single person there. The spotty-faced kid couldn’t take his eyes off me, the young guy gulped, and only the Korean maintained some semblance of composure.
“Olga, did you have some announcement to make to the students?” Polina inquired.
“I need to have a word with Sveta.”
“Then class dismissed,” the old woman declared. “Olga, please do come in sometime during class! My lectures can’t take the place of your experience.”
“Certainly,” I promised generously. “In three or four days.”
Olga could make good on my promises. I had to take the hits for her carefully cultivated sex appeal.
Svetlana and I walked toward the door. I could feel three pairs of greedy eyes drilling into my back—well, not exactly my back.
I knew that Olga and Svetlana were on close terms. I’d known since that night when Olga and I had explained to her the truth about the world and the Others, the Light Ones and the Dark Ones, about the Watches and the Twilight, since that dawn when she had held our hands and walked through the closed door into the field headquarters of the Night Watch. Sure, Svetlana and I were closely linked by a mystical thread. Destiny held us together in its firm grip, but only for the time being. Svetlana and Olga were just friends. It wasn’t destiny that had brought them together. They were free.
“Olya, I have to wait for Anton,” said Svetlana, taking hold of my hand. It wasn’t the gesture of a younger sister clutching her elder sister’s hand, looking for support and reassurance. It was the gesture of an equal. And if Olga allowed Svetlana to behave like her equal, then she really did have a great future ahead of her.
“Don’t bother, Sveta,” I said. “Don’t bother.”
Again there was something not quite right in the phrase or the tone. Svetlana gave me a puzzled look, and it was exactly like Garik’s had been.
“I’ll explain everything,” I said. “But not right here and now. At your place.”
The new defenses at her apartment were the best that could possibly be set up—the Watch had invested too much energy in its new member to lose her now. The boss hadn’t even argued about whether I could confide in Svetlana; he’d insisted on only one thing—it had to happen at her place.
“All right.” The surprise was still there in Svetlana’s eyes, but she nodded in agreement. “Are you sure it’s not worth waiting for Anton?”
“Absolutely,” I said, quite sincerely. “Shall we take a car?”
“Aren’t you driving today?”
Fool!
I’d completely forgotten that Olga’s favorite mode of transport was the sports car the boss had given her as a present.
“That’s what I meant—shall we drive?” I asked, realizing I looked like a complete idiot.
Olga nodded. That puzzled look in her eyes was getting stronger and stronger.
At least I knew how to drive. I’d never been tempted by the dubious pleasure of owning a car in a megalopolis with lousy roads, but our training had included all sorts of things. Some things had been taught the ordinary way; some things had been beaten into our heads by magic. I’d been taught how to drive like a simple human being, but if I suddenly happened to find myself in the cabin of a helicopter or a plane, then reflex responses I couldn’t even remember in an ordinary state would kick in. At least, in theory they ought to kick in.
I found the car keys in the purse. The orange sports car was standing in the parking lot in front of the building, under the watchful eye of the security guards. The car’s doors were locked, but since the top was down that was fairly ridiculous.
“Will you drive?” asked Svetlana.
I nodded without saying anything, then got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I remembered that Olga always took off like a bullet, but I didn’t know how to do that.
“Olga, there’s something wrong with you,” said Svetlana, finally deciding to say what was on her mind. I nodded as I drove out onto Leningrad Prospect.
“Sveta, we’ll talk when we get to your place.”
I’m no hotshot driver. We were driving a long time, a lot longer than we ought to have been. But Svetlana didn’t ask any more questions; she sat there, leaning back in her seat and looking straight ahead. Maybe she was meditating, or maybe she was trying to look through the Twilight. Several times in the traffic jams, guys tried to hit on us from their cars—always the most expensive models, though. Apparently the way we looked and the car we were in drew attention. Windows were wound down; heads with crew cuts were stuck out, sometimes with a hand clutching a cell phone, as a universal badge of status. At first I just found it annoying. Then it started to seem funny. By the end I wasn’t reacting to any of it any longer, just like Svetlana.
I wondered if Olga found these attempts to get to know her amusing . . .
She probably did. After spending decades in non-human form, after being imprisoned in a glass showcase . . .
“Olya, why did you bring me away? Why didn’t you want me to wait for Anton?”
I shrugged. I was sorely tempted to answer: “Because he’s sitting right here beside you.” The chances were pretty slim that we were being observed. The car was protected by spells too; I could sense some of them, some of them went beyond the level of my powers.
But I restrained myself.
Svetlana hadn’t taken the course on information security yet; it comes three months into the training. I think it would make good sense to put it in earlier, but a specific program has to be designed for each individual Other, and that takes time.
Once Svetlana had been through the fiery crucible of that ordeal, she’d know when to keep quiet and when to speak. They just start feeding you information, strictly measured, in a specific sequence. Some of what you hear is true, and some of it’s false. They tell you some of it quite freely and openly, and some of it under a terrible oath of secrecy. And some of it you find out “accidentally,” by eavesdropping or s
pying.
And then everything you’ve learned starts to ferment inside you, making you feel pain and fear, pushing and straining so hard to break out you think your heart’s going to burst, demanding some immediate, irrational reaction. In the lectures they tell you all sorts of nonsense you don’t really need to know to live as an Other, while the most important training and testing is taking place in your soul.
It’s rare for anyone to have a serious breakdown. It’s only training, after all, not a test. And the height set for every individual is no higher than he can jump—provided he calls on every last ounce of his strength, leaving scraps of blood-stained skin behind on the razor wire along the top of the barrier.
But when the people in the course matter to you, or even if you simply like them, it starts getting to you, tearing you apart. You catch a strange glance cast in your direction and start wondering what your friend has just learned in the course. What truths? What lies?
And what the student is learning about himself or herself, about the world around him, his parents and friends . . .
And you have a terrible, unbearable yearning to help. To explain, to hint, to prompt.
But no one who’s been through the course will ever give way to that desire. Because that’s what they’re learning through their own pain and suffering—what to say and when.
Generally speaking, we can and should say everything. We just have to choose the right time, otherwise the truth can be worse than a lie.
“Olya?”
“You’ll understand soon,” I said. “Just wait a while.”
I glanced through the Twilight and hurled the car forward, flitting neatly between a clumsy jeep and a military truck. The mirror cracked as it folded back after clipping the edge of the truck—I didn’t care. Our car was first across the intersection, tearing out onto the Highway of Enthusiasts.
“Does he love me?” Svetlana suddenly asked. “Does he, yes or no? You must know, don’t you?”