have to say anything to him – he could hear my thoughts before they were formulated in words.
In the corridor I walked past Zabulon, and couldn't help shuddering when he gave me an encouraging slap on the shoulder.
Zabulon didn't take offence. He just said:
'Good luck, Anton! We're counting on you!'
The passengers were sitting quietly in their compartments. The chief conductor was the only one who watched me go, with a glassy stare, as he made an announcement into a microphone.
I opened the door into the lobby at the end of the carriage, lowered the step and jumped down onto the platform. Everything was moving fast somehow. Too fast . . .
There was the usual bustle in the station. A noisy group tumbled out of the next carriage, and one of them bellowed: 'Now, where are all those grannies with our favourite stuff?'
The 'grannies' – aged from twenty to seventy – were already hurrying to answer the call. Now there'd be vodka, beer, roast chicken legs and pies with dubious fillings.
'Anton!'
I swung round. Las was standing beside me with his bag thrown over his shoulder. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth and an expression of blissful relief on his face.
'Are you getting off too?' he asked. 'Maybe I can give you a lift somewhere? I've got a car waiting.'
'A good car?' I asked.
'I think it's a Volkswagen.' Las frowned. 'Is that good enough? Or do you insist on a Cadillac?'
I turned my head to look at the windows of the chief conductor's carriage. Gesar, Zabulon and Edgar were watching me.
'That's fine,' I said glumly. 'Right . . . I'm sorry. I'm in a serious hurry and I need a car. I turn you towards . . .'
'Well, let's get going, why are we standing here, if you're in such a hurry?' Las asked, interrupting the standard formula for recruiting volunteers.
He slipped into the crowd so smartly that I had no choice but to follow.
We forced our way through the mindless, jostling throng in the station and out to the square. I caught up with Las and tapped him on the shoulder:
'I turn you . . .'
'I see it, I see it!' Las said, ignoring me. 'Hi, Roman!'
The man who came up to us was quite tall, with a well-fed look, almost like a plump baby. He had a small mouth with thin lips and narrow, inexpressive eyes that looked bored behind his spectacles.
'Hello, Alexander,' the gentleman said formally, holding his hand out smoothly to Las.
'This is Anton, my friend, can we give him a lift?'
'Why shouldn't we give him a lift?' Roman agreed sadly. 'The wheels go round, it's a smooth road.' Then he turned and walked towards a brand-new Volkswagen Bora.
We followed him and got into the car. I impudently slipped into the front passenger seat. Las cleared his throat loudly, but climbed meekly into the back. Roman switched on the ignition and asked:
'Where do you want to go, Anton?'
His speech was as smooth and streamlined as if he wasn't speaking, but writing the words in the air.
'The airport, it's urgent,' I said sombrely.
'Where?' Roman asked in genuine amazement. He looked at Las: 'Perhaps your friend ought to find a taxi?'
Las gave me an embarrassed look. Then he gave Roman an equally embarrassed one.
'All right,' I said. 'I turn you towards the Light. Reject the Dark, defend the Light. I grant you the vision to distinguish Good from Evil. I grant you the faith to follow the Light. I grant you the courage to battle the Dark.'
Las giggled. And then immediately fell silent.
It's not a matter of words, of course. Words can't change anything, not even if you emphasise every last one of them as if they were spelt with a capital letter. It's like the witches' spells – a mnemonic formula, a template implanted in my memory. I can simply compel someone to obey me, but this way . . . this way's more correct. It brings an old, tried and tested mechanism into play.
Roman straightened up and his cheeks even seemed to lose some of their plumpness. A moment ago the person beside me had been an overgrown, capricious infant, but now he was a man. A warrior.
'The Light be with you!' I concluded.
'To the airport!' Roman declared in delight.
The engine roared and we tore off, squeezing every last ounce of power out of the small German car. I'm sure that sports sedan had never really shown what it could do before.