The Dreamtime
THE DREAMTIME
Mstyslav Chernov
A Novel
Translated by
Peter Leonard and Felix Helbing
Boston
2022
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Chernov, Mstyslav, author. | Leonard, Peter, 1978-translator. | Helbing, Felix, translator.
Title: The dreamtime / Mstyslav Chernov; translated by Peter Leonard and Felix Helbing.
Other titles: Chasy snovydin’. English
Description: Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2022.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022024702 (print) | LCCN 2022024703 (ebook) | ISBN 9781644699881 (hardback) | ISBN 9781644699904 (adobe pdf) | ISBN 9781644699911 (epub)
Subjects: LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction). | Novels.
Classification: LCC PG3950.13.H474 C4713 2022 (print) | LCC PG3950.13.H474 (ebook) | DDC 891.7/934--dc23/eng/20220601
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022024702
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022024703
Copyright © 2022, Academic Studies Press
All rights reserved
ISBN 9781644699881 (hardback)
ISBN 9781644699904 (adobe pdf)
ISBN 9781644699911 (epub)
Translated and revised edition
Book design by PHi Business Solutions
Cover by Kateryna Bolshakova
Published by Cherry Orchard Books, an imprint of Academic Studies Press
1577 Beacon St.
Brookline, MA 02446, USA
www.academicstudiespress.com
To A.
Contents
First Wall
Second Wall
Third Wall
FIRST WALL
Chapter 1
The cold muzzle of a Kalashnikov poked into the back of K.’s head.
“Move it scumbag, go!” they shouted, pushing him forward.
They led K. along a trampled lawn through the square in central Donetsk to the twelve-story regional government building. An armoured personnel carrier and an anti-aircraft gun pointing at the top floor were parked on the square. There was detritus everywhere; sharp cobblestones, smoking oil drums, shoddy and empty tents. An old excavator was scraping everything into a single pile.
He could have run. When they got to the building, he could have dashed left, crouched behind a barricade, run around the block, across the street—there was a market there maybe—disappeared among the throngs of people, sat in a taxi, gone into the hotel where the UN crowd stay, run into the conference hall or the restaurant where they eat and . . . then what? The muzzle pressed him forward. K. pulled himself together: to the end, all the way to the end. He quickened his pace. Three soldiers clomped behind him. They walked assuredly, without stopping or explaining.
The pro-Russia demonstrators, the ones who had taken over the government building a few days before, were now being escorted out by separatist militia troops. They walked, eyes to the ground, to the middle of the square, where soldiers took away their weapons and turned out their bags and pockets. A heap of rifles, grenades and cartridge magazines were stacked on dirty newspapers laid out on the ground.
K. was led to the main entrance past the crumbling barricades, a wall of sacks, and tires pinned with posters and cartoons. “Fuck USA” is all K. managed to read before a hunting rifle was poked into his chest. He was being pointed at from all sides now.
“Where are you going?” A man in tracksuit bottoms and a ski mask blocked their way.
The stocky blond man behind K. pushed him aside and came forward.