Early morning, in the same autumn that had arrived just a couple of weeks ago. Despite the meteorological service promising an Indian summer, the rain is lashing down without mercy. The wind seems to have entered into a conspiracy with the stupid leaden clouds: it accelerates the drops to tremendous speed and loudly smashes them against the dense surface of a transparent polyethylene raincoat. I do not envy those oddballs who came to today’s event relying only on umbrellas.
I once read somewhere that you should never begin a story with a description of the weather. Thinking about it, I laughed at myself. Yes, it is a good joke to put people of my profession and the word “read” side by side. But it is a fact: sometimes I do read, and not only highly specialized literature. Well then. Here, there is simply no way around describing the weather. It would be like coming to a theater performance: the curtain rises and there is emptiness on the stage, or perhaps a single chair standing on a worn wooden floor. I do not like performances like that. Hey, director! Knock-knock-knock! Are you planning to show a post-apocalyptic story or what? Of course, I understand — the search for new forms of expression and all that — but spending two hours staring at a drama unfolding against miserable scenery? No, thank you! I get enough of that at work. Though sometimes the special effects there are something else entirely: there are occasions when even experienced employees fail to keep their digestive systems under control.
And yet theater is a great form of art, capable of inspiring people and even changing their consciousness. Sometimes you leave the auditorium after a performance feeling as though you’ve been hit over the head: completely unable to understand how you lived without it before.
Of course, now it is a completely different time: it is difficult to compete with the abundance of visual entertainment provided through the Internet. On the other hand, nothing can replace live human interaction. Try conducting an intensive interrogation through a webcam: absolutely nothing will come of it.
Now you might ask: “Why does he keep going on about his theater?” Simply because a performance I saw almost forty years ago truly changed my life. I remember every smallest detail, as if it happened yesterday. Imagine it. In the background, against a light azure curtain, a huge cardboard sun shines. In front of it stands a pale-colored structure depicting the silhouette of a city flooded with sunlight. To the left and right, at the edges of the stage, are decorations of old buildings. Signs above them read: “Bakery,” “Department Store,” “Laundry,” “Pharmacy.” To the soundtrack of some unbelievably life-affirming march, life is bustling on one of the capital’s avenues. Antique prop trucks and passenger cars scurry back and forth across the asphalt. On the sidewalks, puppet marionettes jerk about as though shocked by electricity, portraying citizens hurrying about their business.
And then, from behind the curtain on the right, he appears — a tall man, a real living human being, wearing a long greatcoat the color of marengo, belted with a brown leather Sam Browne belt with a holster hanging at his side. On the actor’s head sits an enormous cap matching the color of his coat, exaggerated in size, with a red band and a golden cockade. Compared to the puppet-theater scenery, and even more so to the marionettes themselves, he looks like a giant.
The music falls silent. The cloth characters controlled from behind the screen begin reciting a little poem one after another. Meanwhile, the protagonist, striking every step as though on parade with his creaking polished boots, reaches the center of the stage. Turning toward us, the audience, the giant raises his outstretched right hand, fingertips touching his head, and then smiles, flashing a white-toothed grin. Behind him shines the yellow cardboard circle of the painted sun, while the puppet city and its inhabitants stand frozen in servile ecstasy.
And then some boy with a red neckerchief and an old-fashioned flat cap announces the giant’s name. After the protagonist has been introduced to the young audience, the main action begins, describing the life path and exploits of the man in uniform.
A little boy at the time, I was struck by how easily and effortlessly this cheerful guardian of law and order carried out his work. Everyone loved him, everyone admired him. He was first not only in service: despite certain inconveniences connected with his height, the giant’s life was also on the rise.
The moment the curtain fell on the stage and the lights under the ceiling came on in the auditorium, my envy turned into a dream, and that dream determined the choice of my future profession. Later, I watched countless films and read books romanticizing the profession of crime fighters. But that play—that very play—became both the blessing and the curse of my life.
And so it is now: if I do not describe the weather, which is an inseparable part of the scenery for today’s performance, the whole production will seem far less convincing. And who knows, perhaps today’s spectacle will become a turning point in someone’s fate.
So then. Autumn. Rain pouring down in torrents. The setting is one of the capital’s prestigious cemeteries. To find your final resting place here, you would need to mortgage your soul to the devil several times while still alive—or, failing that, earn the love of the entire nation. Yet even that cannot guarantee a vacant plot in the decidedly expensive soil of the country’s principal city.
There is still plenty of time before the first act begins, yet near the main entrance, on the square with its impressively sized church, accompanied by the cawing of the local crows, the cast is already gathering. For now, mostly extras.
It all began yesterday, when the leadership assembled the employees of our department in order to personally announce the start of the operation. Although no one has yet disclosed all the details, the event must be something grand. Normally, the brass communicates its will in written form, by means of orders tucked into small plexiglass holders on the notice board designated for those very orders.
Everything must be organized to the highest standard, without the slightest flaw. So we are doing our best. Though, as it will later turn out, despite all the careful planning, the main character will still end up running a little late—because of the traffic jams arranged so that the higher-ranking officials could get here on time and in comfort.
A few officers from other precincts and I are responsible for the security and privacy of the event. Today the cemetery is closed to visitors, and there must not be a single civilian here, let alone any journalists—only us, the grey wolves. And although the color of our uniforms has been completely different for several years now, that changes very little.
Barely had dawn begun to break when the best officers, proven in battles against old ladies and students at demonstrations, cordoned off the perimeter and spread out across the necropolis.
The section assigned to my group lies in the northern part of the cemetery, far from the central avenues. That is where the climax of today’s performance is supposed to take place. That is exactly where I am heading now, to check on my personnel and provide additional instructions regarding the operation.
The rain seems to have eased off a little, while the sky, on the contrary, has grown even more sullen. I stop and light a cigarette beneath the gazes of stone effigies of heroes and antiheroes of the past. Then I continue on. Who are you? I recognize the portrait features on busts and full-length statues, read familiar names engraved on the granite pedestals of monuments, yet time has mixed everything together so thoroughly that it is now impossible to understand what role this or that person played in life, or what they were truly like.
As if reading my thoughts, the wind returns with renewed force: it tears loose half-dead leaves and throws them to steep in puddles on the wrinkled asphalt of the old cemetery avenues. I glance back. Of course there is no one else around, and the movement is purely instinctive, a way to reassure my subconscious. Wow! I have wandered deep into the city of the dead. And yet it seems only moments ago I was walking along the neat, freshly laid paving stones of the central gallery.
Strange though it is, for all our aversion to death, it is impossible to walk through a cemetery simply looking ahead. One always wants to study the faces on the gravestones, read the surnames and given names, the dates of their lives. A strange sort of curiosity. Perhaps it is some form of arrogance? Look at you—you are gone, while I, I am alive! Though, truth be told, they no longer care. They are not troubled by the fact that they have lost everything, and a place here in this elite graveyard means nothing to them either.
Before the visitor’s eyes flash the grand monuments of crime bosses, public figures, cultural personalities, and officials, all standing side by side, mixed together after departing into the same impenetrable infinity. Among them are modest graves of ordinary people who died back when the cemetery was not so overcrowded and a plot here did not cost as much as a respectable apartment in a central district of the capital.
Funny—someone has erected a metal structure with chain-link walls over several graves. I wonder whether the improvised crypt is protection from the pompous inhabitants of the necropolis, or whether those resting inside the thoroughly rusted iron structure still pose a danger to the living even after death.
And am I not ashamed to joke about such things? Not in the slightest. In a place like this, irony is indispensable. Although I am not yet so old that I have forgotten how many years I have lived in this world, it is still obvious even to a hedgehog that sooner or later all of us will end up below the horizon line, buried at one distance or another from the center of our vast homeland, and some even beyond its borders.
On the other hand, it is foolish to wish oneself a long life. I would rather disappear at an age when I have not yet had time to wear out those around me with my grumbling. Yes, those around me—because family and friends have either already departed forever into eternity or become lost somewhere along the way. It is difficult to live with a person balancing between ideals and reality, trying to seal the cracks between those parallel worlds with alcohol.
There I go again, drawing all the attention to myself, while my colleagues and I are merely extras, ants compared to the figure of the main character. Speaking of whom—there they are: gathered in little clusters, smoking away the time while waiting for their appearance in someone else’s benefit performance.
I nod to them, and they respond just as silently. For several minutes I conduct a briefing, explaining what needs to be done and who should be where when it all begins. We have little else to talk about, and I move on. I’ll go check the next post and at the same time take a walk along the quiet paths in this part of the cemetery.
If one were to count the number of officers gathered here today—those standing in the perimeter cordon as well as those patrolling the surrounding blocks—an obvious question would arise:
Who is keeping order on the city streets? Who stands guard over law and justice?
But who really cares about any of that? The only thing that matters in our line of work is the orders of our superiors. Everything else is merely words in textbooks and regulations.
“And what about the citizens?” you might ask. What about them? Countless films and books have accustomed people to the idea that justice always prevails—if not here and now, then at least somewhere—and because of that they have stopped wanting it for themselves. Washing themselves clean with formal replies, citizens soothe themselves with what they consider “reasonable” arguments and thoughts hammered into their subconscious that the world is not perfect.
After swallowing yet another insult and drawing their brows into a little house shape, the average person exclaims, “Oh well, it could have been worse!” and inevitably points toward yet another example of outrageous impunity and criminal inaction on the part of the authorities. And indeed, it can always be worse—tolerance of small things leads to far more monstrous allowances.
And the human brain will find an excuse for absolutely anything, even the wildest nonsense: “It’s only this one time—you can’t stay a lieutenant your whole life. After that, no more, after that I’ll become a terror of the criminal world again and not even a fly will slip through.”
Yet without noticing it, you accumulate a whole pile of such excuses, which one fine day, like an avalanche breaking loose from a mountain peak, will bury beneath them all your righteous principles and good intentions.
Of course, many people climb out perfectly well. Fortunately, colleagues are always ready to lend a helping hand, and afterward they continue gliding serenely across the smooth white surface of unscrupulousness in the distance of a sleeping conscience. Some—the most practical and cunning—consciously avoid dangerous slopes while still managing to secure advantageous positions and advance through the ranks at lightning speed. The rest remain lying there, embracing the shattered remains of their dream beneath the weight of guilt.
This is all sounding rather bleak, isn’t it? Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m slandering everyone. How about we play a game?
Name three words you associate with the police.
Don’t rush. Think about it. I’ll light another cigarette in the meantime.
Well? Thought of anything?
Protection, reliability, honesty?
Oh, come on!
Even I can’t bring myself to say something like that. Maybe only on our professional holiday, and even then just for show, in front of the bosses.
Well?
I’m waiting!
Although, it’s probably best if you never say what you really think. Otherwise, I or one of my comrades will surely come for you and carry you off by your side.
Just kidding!
Still, be careful and don’t tempt fate.
Suddenly, the radio hidden in the side pocket of my tunic crackled. Cursing through a cigarette already clenched between my teeth, I rustled the stiff plastic of my raincoat and, after a couple of profanities, finally pulled out the communication device.
“Watcher-One, this is Beelzebub. What’s happened over there? Over.”
“Beelzebub, this is Watcher-One. The client is approaching. I repeat: the client will arrive shortly. Proceeding to phase two of the operation. Over,” replied a voice mangled by the speaker.
“Watcher-One, this is Beelzebub. Copy that. Out.”
Well, here we go.
Enough chitchat—it’s time to get to work.
I order the groups under my command to form up over the radio and hurry almost at a run toward the main entrance.
By the time I arrive, a black, completely tinted van has already pulled up to the steps of the high porch of the enormous cemetery church.
And now six particularly large officers, gathered around the rear double doors of the minibus, are already receiving a tremendously long box—nearly three meters in length—hastily upholstered in burgundy velvet.
What is that, a rocket?
Of course, I have a pretty good idea who is inside.
Only in common jokes are law-enforcement officers considered slow-witted.
But it is hard to believe.
My brain flatly refuses to accept the obvious fact.
I figured it out when I was about eight years old—that he wasn’t real at all, just like Santa Claus and all the other fairy-tale nonsense.
And now here you have it!
The giant turned out to be quite real and…
I was about to say “alive.”
The irony.
If everyone’s attention were not fixed on the reason for today’s gathering, someone would surely notice the idiotic smile that was entirely inappropriate for the occasion.
I should pull myself together a little.
Easier said than done.
How do you rein in the storm raging inside your mind, the frantic pounding of your heart, the tremor running through your entire body?
I glance at my colleagues. They seem completely indifferent, standing there with stern expressions prepared in advance for situations like this, flawlessly playing their roles.
Are you serious?
Didn’t anyone’s heart skip a beat?
Meanwhile, the body placed inside the improvised coffin has already disappeared into the towering entrance of the church. If only I could get in there—to catch even a single glimpse of the legend. But those who have not risen to the highest officer ranks are not allowed inside. Our place is in the gallery.
Well, perhaps I’ll get lucky when they bury him.
It’s a good thing that, as the officer responsible for personnel, I am not required to stand in formation myself. So, after waiting a few more minutes, I take off and head at a brisk pace toward the old section of the cemetery to secure a spot with a good view of the final scene.
I follow the now-familiar route.
This time, however, the statues and monuments hardly concern me. All the way there, scenes from the old play spin endlessly through my head. Then the quatrains from a children’s book turn into a screenplay and, together with the illustrated characters brought to life, become a cartoon.
My heart beats harder and harder.
My legs break into a run of their own accord.
And suddenly, the sound of raindrops rustling through leaves, the cries of crows, and the distant hum of the city beyond the high fence all vanish. The animated illustrations transform into a documentary film.
In the imaginary time-lapse of an entire lifetime, an ordinary beat cop becomes a daring investigator. The years fly by, and with them hundreds of solved crimes: banal ones, primitive ones, senselessly cruel ones, and occasionally ingenious and sophisticated ones.
A little more time passes, and the seasoned crime fighter turns into a heavyset, mustachioed general.
My lungs begin to fail me, but gathering my strength, I make one final push.
I have to watch my little film to the end.
Then comes retirement.
The years race by at superluminal speed.
The scenery flickers in the background.
One era has already faded into oblivion, giving way to a new age.
Grandchildren grow up. Great-grandchildren appear, and they too grow up.
And the aging giant sits motionless against the changing backdrop, staring directly at me with an indifferent, empty gaze.
One more moment.
And then the picture cuts out.
I stand there gasping for breath, streaming with mucus and saliva.
I have neither the will nor the physical strength left to run.
But there is no need anymore.
I am standing beside a freshly dug trench three meters long, staring at the packed earth at its bottom.
The lowest point is only some two meters below, yet it feels as though an entire abyss has opened beneath my feet, terrifying and at the same time mesmerizing in its emptiness.
And if you ever end up down there, at the bottom, it is forever.
The crackle of the radio once again pulls me back to reality: the religious ceremony is over, and the funeral convoy is already on its way. The climax is near. Personnel from all corners of the cemetery are gathering around the grave. We hastily form ranks on both sides of the alley and obediently await the arrival of the main character.
After about a minute of idle standing, a black funeral van finally appears. The next hour is an endless succession of speeches delivered before the open casket containing a giant now indifferent to everything. The lack of sincerity today is compensated for by an abundance of decorative wreaths and piles of fresh flowers. Every now and then I rise onto my tiptoes to get a better look at the finale of the performance. Though in essence there is nothing new—a collection of the same words about achievements, eternal memory, and other pathetic nonsense, arranged in random order. Camera flashes from well-fed journalists, who will scatter everything they hear across media channels, once again mixing up the words. Off to one side, the relatives stand forlornly apart; it seems no one cares about them at all.
After the tedious parade of pompous speeches, the climax inevitably arrives. Blank shots burst into the sky like a flock of black crows. And now the main character, finally packaged for good, leaves the stage forever, lowered below the horizon line.
And that’s it. Curtain.
The giant’s final appearance seemed somehow insignificant and faded to me, more like a cameo by a long-forgotten star. In fact, even the announcement of the performance had been louder and more intriguing. But nothing can be done about it: such is the fate of all heroes who, for one reason or another, have ceased to be relevant.
The cemetery workers have not yet even managed to throw a mound of earth onto the grave when the entire leadership, as if by the wave of a magic wand, instantly disappears. My colleagues, no longer needed here, absentmindedly leave the scene to disperse to different parts of the gray, thoroughly rain-soaked metropolis. I still stand apart, not daring to approach the place that, in theory, should have become my new shrine. I look at the mound of earth lost among the old graves, resembling a medium-sized garden bed, and at the wooden cross planted beside it. I do not think he was a believer, though who knows? What transformations might have taken place in the mind of an aging servant of the law at the end of his life?
I think: “When did everything change for us, the champions of justice?” Perhaps when we were ordered to replace our whistles with batons? That was when everyone looked away and snapped to attention. At that very moment we became guard dogs, leaving behind our honorable duty of protecting the weak. Of course, times are different now: old women no longer wash their laundry on ice floes, and some have even dared to rise up against those who pay our salaries. School bullies nowadays are certainly not occupied with riding on tram footboards. Of course, people are still polite and friendly to us face to face, but everyone—both us and them—understands perfectly well that law enforcement officers no longer protect the peace of ordinary citizens, and that fighting crime these days is little more than manipulating statistics. Ordinary people exist in a reality parallel to ours and try not to cross paths with us, even in moments of extreme necessity.
I pulled out a cigarette and, after flicking the wheel of my stubborn lighter several times—my miniature prayer wheel—finally managed to light it. I took a drag and released part of my life into the damp, hopeless autumn air together with the tobacco smoke. Usually this ritual calms me down, but this time the Zen magic did not work, and the giant old man with the mustache appeared before my eyes again.
Like an ancient idol, he helplessly gazes down upon what all of us have become. And somewhere offstage, a schoolboy from the performance recites in a clear voice a kind little poem about a brave servant of the law, but it feels as though the boy is simply mocking us. Perhaps it is the ghost of some actress who used to voice boys in old cartoons? I glance around—there is no one there. Yet the lines about noble service and the peace of the citizens still continue to echo from some invisible distance without end.
Perhaps, of course, after fighting my conscience every day without even realizing it, I have finally lost my mind completely, and today’s performance merely brought everything to the surface. Perhaps. But I will survive that as well somehow. I just need to think about something else, something pleasant—for example, money. Better yet, I should leave this place as soon as possible. Walk away indifferently, as I always do.
Right, giant?
Let him lie where they buried him. The time of men like him is gone forever.
With a sharp movement practiced to the point of automation, I turned on my heels toward the main entrance and headed with quick steps into the uncomfortable gray city. It would have been better if they had returned the old colors to us. Who knows—perhaps during the next reform we will once again be dressed in gray, so that we can blend into the indifferent, damp streets.