THE CURTAINS WERE red velvet. The soft, overstuffed seats were upholstered in the same color. The walls were paneled in dark, polished walnut, reflecting the warm light of the gleaming brass sconces along them. The floor was parquet, softened with Azerbaijani, Turkmen, and Persian carpets. A reading lamp cast a soft circle of light on the table. A green leather-bound book lay on a white lace doily, the embossed gold letters on its cover catching in the light: A Journey into Mammoth Country: Your Guide to the Ice Age World.
The chamber had been built to evoke a train car—a luxury compartment from the old Trans-Siberian Express, perhaps. One could almost imagine sitting by the window, watching the endless Russian forests flow past in the night as the wash of rail-rhythm soothed the brain.
Almost. The cabin lurched and rocked like a ship in a storm. Strange groans and rattles emanated from behind the wood paneling. Engine moans welled up from under the Bukharan rugs and parquet floor. The chamber tilted. It rose and fell, more like a ship on a stormy sea than a train of any kind.
Vladimir came out of the toilet, steadying himself against the door frame, waiting for a pause in the motion of the cabin before crossing to one of the seats and throwing himself onto it. Behind him, the bathroom door hung open. It drew back and then slammed shut, rattling the amber glass of its illuminator.
Vladimir had washed his face and hands at the sink. He smelled of old-fashioned, scented floral soap and vomit. He smelled as if he had thrown up in someone’s twee garden of lavender and roses.
“I don’t see what the fuck the nineteenth century has to do with the Ice Age, anyway.”
Anthony, his husband, looked at him from across the table.
“Don’t look at me that way, Ant.”
“I’m not looking at you in any way. I’m just looking at you.”
“I’m trying. I am…”
“It’s seasickness,” said Anthony.
“Is that what it is?” Vladimir asked. “Not something I expected to encounter in the middle of the taiga.”
“Not technically the taiga, here. We’ve been climbing for some time. We are about to reach the plateau.”
“The who?”
“The plateau,” Anthony said. “The mammoth steppe. The grassland that is the center of their preserve. You haven’t been doing your homework, Dima.”
Anthony parted the red curtains. With the lights on in their compartment, and no moon outside, there was little to see but his own face reflected back at him—but he caught, a bit behind them and off to the side, the lights of the two other Burlak trucks, bobbing in the darkness.
“Well,” Vladimir said, “the preserve has some spectacularly terrible roads.”
“There are no roads,” answered Anthony. “That’s why we need these beasts, with their low-pressure tires bigger than a man. These are some of the only vehicles that can travel overland out here.”
“I bet you watched a dozen streams about them before we came out.”
“A hundred, probably. They are amphibious as well, you know.”
“They feel amphibious. They’re making me feel amphibious.”
Anthony looked at him again.
“I know that look. I know exactly what you are thinking,” Vladimir said. “Land of my ancestors. I should be experiencing some sense of connection to this place. Some sort of tingly sensation at my return to my roots. I know. And I feel bad that I don’t. Because I want to. When we were walking around Red Square, I was almost forcing myself to feel something—some frisson of connection. But I don’t. And why would I? That’s magical thinking. I never saw this place, Ant. I was born in London. And my grandparents fled Moscow. They were driven out. What did the state label them? Foreign Agents. For what? For running a non-profit organization funded by some Western donors, trying to correct cleft lips and palates. I mean, Christ—correcting cleft palates. How are you going to overturn the state doing that? This place is insane. London hasn’t even had an embassy here for what—twenty years now?”
“Twenty-five.”
“A quarter of a century. More than half my life, Ant.”
“I only wanted—”
“Listen.” Vladimir took Anthony’s hand across the table. “I’m fine. I know this means a lot to you. And it’s really interesting. An adventure. And I know how much it all cost—”
“It’s not the money.”
“No, but it’s an outrageous amount of money to toss away sulking and throwing up in the bathroom, and I want you to know—I’m not sulking. I just feel strange here. In Moscow, especially on the tour, I felt like everyone was looking at us as if we were aliens. Half of them glared at us like they hated us. And the other half looked terrified of us. As if even being near us was like breathing a poisonous gas. And I was reminded of my grandparents. That’s one time I really did feel a connection. I bet that is exactly how they looked, before they managed to get out. Like these people. My grandfather wouldn’t even talk about Russia. He would get up and leave the room if someone brought up the subject.”
“It’s brought up a lot of memories, coming here.”
“Yes—but not my memories. I feel like it’s brought up their memories. I felt, in Moscow, like I was disturbing a grave. It’s better out here, at least.”
“Why is that?”
“Because they were urban people. Muscovites who would never have set foot in a place like this. When I was a stupid little kid with a bunch of fantasies about where I came from, my head filled with onion domes and church bells and sleigh rides through the cedars, I once asked my grandfather if he had seen a bear. Do you know what he said? He said, ‘The only bears I ever saw wore expensive Savile Row tailored suits and ties that cost more than your life. But they were much deadlier than anything you would find in a forest.’”
“God, I wish I had met that man.”
“I’m glad he’s gone, Ant. He would have been furious with you for bringing me here. Absolutely furious.”
The Burlak lurched to a stop. They were on level ground.
“I hear things might be getting better,” said Anthony. “I hear the new president is a bit of a reformer.”
From behind the parted curtains, Vladimir saw flashlights bobbing in the dark. Through the thickened glass he could hear men speaking in Russian. In the pool of the other Burlak’s headlights the steppe grass was gray and metallic, as still as if it had been scratched into the surface of the earth with an etching needle.
Out there, somewhere, were mammoths. Real ones—wild, a part of this landscape again.
“Really?” Vladimir said. “You heard the new guy is a reformer? I heard a rumor that he is the old president. I heard they uploaded his mind before he went mad, and then downloaded it into a new body. A body the Russian government grew in a … in a vat, or something.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, Dima. Who do you talk to?”
“Where did this new president come from? Nobody had ever even heard of this man before. Then all of a sudden there he is, ruling one of the most powerful countries on earth.”
Outside they were shifting the Burlaks into place, moving the other two until the three trucks were parked to form a Greek delta symbol. Circling the wagons. Anthony imagined flaming arrows arcing out of the darkness, and laughed.
“You laugh,” Vladimir said, “but have you really looked at him? He looks like a wax mannequin out of Madame Tussauds. As if a mannequin got up and started walking around.”
“They do, nowadays. But anyway, that’s nonsense. And the old president looked like he was made of wax as well.”
“Exactly!”
“Dima, every politician in the world looks like they are made of wax. You’re being paranoid. Who have you been hanging around with while I am away on business?”
“Ant—there are mammoths out there in the darkness. Mammoths wandering around out there. And God knows what else. We live in a world where anything is possible.”
They stopped, hearing footsteps on their Burlak’s access ladder. Then the rear door to the cabin opened.
The man standing in the door wore a Norwegian hunting jacket and was bare-headed, although the night air that came in with him couldn’t have been more than a few degrees above freezing.
“Good evening, gentlemen. I am Dr. Almas Aslanov. This is my national preserve. I am honored to have you here as my guests.”