“It’s better not to remember those times. Before, I was a man. Before, I walked. Before, I drove the car. Now instead, I’m not here or there. There must be something. I don’t think that I sinned that much before God, but… I don’t know… normal I think. It’s a nightmare.”
Chalk moon in a clear blue sky.
Outdoor seats at the Culture Cafe. White cream swirls in hot brown coffee. A deep slice of honey cake.
New families feeding carp in the cooling ponds.
Heavy headed tulips in the breeze.
Stained glass mural red yellow blue. An angel.
Steel dock cranes on the river bank. Three metal monsters.
Children outnumber adults. Laughter and squeals of delight. Small shoes slapping concrete. Dogs chased around in circles.
Stalls selling jars of chilled apple kvass.
Bumblebees.
Trains pulling into the station. Grandparents embraced, gifts exchanged.
Cars gleaming silver sun.
Games of chess under the maple trees. Sport on the radio. Beer froths in tall glasses.
A man sips coffee. His wife and son join him at the table.
‘Father. Can we go to the amusement park now?’
‘It won’t open until next week, have patience.’
‘And then can we go on the big wheel?’
‘Of course,’
His wife eats a slice of cake with a fork. Sweet raspberry jam bleeds from the side of her mouth.
“It hurts to remember. It’s better not to. The sun shines, that’s beautiful. If you remember, it’s all a nightmare. It’s better not to remember. It happened so long ago and it’s not real… Man is finished, that’s all.”
A figure sits skeletonised on an armchair, in a farm cottage deep within a pine forest. The old woman had died the morning before the accident, and had been abandoned during the subsequent evacuation. Her television remained on during the long years since, loudly broadcasting Channel 1 to a captive audience.
This morning, a documentary. Two gaunt men in wheelchairs huddle round a bedridden third. All wear hospital gowns in eggshell green. One of the men in a wheelchair has the face of a handsome boy, with paper skin and a long handlebar moustache. Just before he speaks, he is introduced with yellow subtitles:
SERGEANT ANATOLI DAVYDENKO, 6TH PARAMILITARY FIRE & RESCUE UNIT
I had been dreaming. My wife lay on the ground after swallowing a large snake. It was blue and yellow. She was suffocating. The snake poked and prodded from inside her chest, her back, her throat. All the time she was choking. Saliva frothed from her mouth. The snake had shifted her skin out of position and was stretched a transparent lilac, tight across her mouth. She tore it open so that the snake could leave, pulling desperately at it with both hands, until at last it came out.
The camera focuses on the second man in a wheelchair, who resembles a friendly bear.
DRIVER KYRYLO “KOLKA” KOLBA, 6TH PARAMILITARY FIRE & RESCUE UNIT
The station alarm rang at 0126, waking all five of us; myself, Lieutenant Prav, comrades Anatoli, Vas and young Leo, the new boy.
As we dressed, Chief Prav informed us that an explosion had been reported at the power plant, in the main building, between blocks 3 and 4. He passed around masks, surgical masks, for us to wear. I asked him what had happened.
“An incident. A possible electrical fire on the roofs of blocks 3 and 4. That’s all we know,” he said.
It’s a long straight drive to the power plant. Scotch pine trees line the road, the whole way. There is a sign that we have passed by hundreds of times. I never took much notice of it, but it chose to reveal itself to us then.
A fire truck speeds down a road at night. Sirens strike black trees an electric blue. A road sign is lit up briefly by passing headlights:
GOOD LUCK ON THE ROAD!
KOLKA
I joked to the other men, “We’ll be lucky to be alive in the morning.” Nobody laughed. Everyone was quiet, so gloomy. I put the radio on.
A song plays on the truck radio and is amplified through the television. Gypsy folk music bleeds from the speakers. A shrill, sexless, voice laments cursed love, singing to them individually, alone now in cages of thought. Waves of sweeping violins contaminate the organ. All the time the double bass kindles the strength and soul of the music. More strings are added, spreading tempo. A flute dances in and out of the melody, which in itself is dancing in and around the men. The beat reaches an unbearable climax, before slowing down, fading softly, into nothing.
In the hospital, the camera centres on the bed. A thin man lies on his back, speaking softly, as if to the ceiling.
SQUAD COMMANDER VASIKO MASLAK, 6TH PARAMILITARY FIRE & RESCUE UNIT
Of course we were apprehensive but we were duty bound. Who else was going to do it? There wasn’t time to stop and appreciate the danger. If there’s a fire, it must be put out. Our squad tackled the fire at Block 4. We doused the roof with water from below but it was clear that we had to get closer. It felt like being on another planet. It was all we could do to admire the spectacle of it. A shaft of blueish light-
ANATOLI
Ultraviolet-
KOLKA
A laser beam-
VAS
-Anyway, this light- ionised air- came from Block 4 and went all the way up, to infinity. It was-
ANATOLI / KOLKA / VAS
Beautiful.
ANATOLI
We had never fought fires like it. The air was thick with milky grey dust. It was as if… it was as if we were in a cauldron stirred by weird sisters. I can still taste the metal.
KOLKA
Pins and needles on your face. Comrade Leo was vomiting, losing consciousness, he had to stay in the truck. We never saw him again… He was nineteen years old.
VAS
Blocks of glowing amber were falling from the sky-
KOLKA
Red-hot graphite.
VAS
-yes, one of the blocks fell onto the roof of the machine hall, starting another fire. It was pandemonium. Eventually, we joined Chief Prav up on the roof, it was much worse there. Our bodies were weak and we were coughing all the time. All our faces had turned a deep brown.
ANATOLI
Even our teeth hurt. Chief Prav had it worst. He had spent all night supervising the squad and battling fires on the roof. He was closest to the reactor. When he seen us coming up the ladder, I looked into his eyes and noticed they had turned blue- bright blue!
KOLKA
He always had big brown eyes, like deer. And you know, we didn’t have the heart to tell him. Chief Prav was up there the longest. A great man. And now he’s gone. Gone to where we’re headed. Anatoli and I have it in the thyroid, Vas is blind, it’s all over. None of us can walk.
The camera zooms slowly in on the face of Anatoli Davydenko, who leans forward to speak. He looks into the camera directly, his eyes shining wet.
ANATOLI
We were up on the roof until after 0500. The fire had raged red and blue but we managed to contain it. The laser light was gone. There was something mystical about the whole experience. I remember looking down from the roof, into the cauldron, at the smouldering core. It had a majesty. Raspberry steam bled from its ruby heart, into the air, into us.
The screen fades out and text appears on the television:
In memory of:
LIEUTENANT IVAN PRAVIK
SERGEANT ANATOLI DAVYDENKO
SQUAD COMMANDER VASIKO MASLAK
DRIVER KYRYLO “KOLKA” KOLBA
FIREFIGHTER LEONID BOYKO
(6TH PARAMILITARY FIRE & RESCUE UNIT)
“I would like to ask, if there is someone overseas that may want, I don’t know… to help me find a car. Even if used, any type of car. Only to be able to go out in nature. Like this, without nature it’s difficult. It’s a nightmare. I want it so much. I know it’s a dream, probably unattainable. But…”
Chalk moon in a clear blue sky.
A tree grows up from the floor of the Culture Cafe. Ivy smothers the broken window. Shards of yellow and blue glass.
A white-tailed eagle nests in a wooden fire tower.
Wolves howl. Ravens call. Wild boar scrabble about in the undergrowth.
Moose bones. The smell of fresh dirt.
Rusted ships beached at the port. A red fox crosses the river, over the tracks of the railway bridge.
Trees smother the big wheel.
Catfish gobble carp in the cooling ponds.
The kindergarten long empty, floors covered with gas masks and severed doll’s heads.
A forest carpeted with leaves that don’t rot. A team of wild horses, the Przewalski.
Mushrooms cover concrete cooling towers.
Beavers fell trees, expanding the marshland. Five male wolf pups nest in the shadow of an uprooted tree.
A herd of adult bison mourn a lifeless calf. They huddle round, protecting the corpse from prowling wolves. Long pink tongues lick a still warm body. Heavy horned heads inhale its scent. Guttural groans from ancient beasts.
Raspberry steam from a silent heart.
February 2017
Mighty Gozu 