‘I suppose he’s the one to see.’
The man was looking at him curiously. ‘For driving, or?’
Porter noted again the ‘or’, evidently local style. It hadn’t appeared on the tapes.
‘For driving, sure.’
‘Then it’s him. End of the corridor up there. You’ll tell by the noise.’
Porter sipped his tea, looked around, and shouldered his way to the rosters. There were several of them, listing the teams and what they would be driving. The lists showed three drivers to a truck, two on, one off. He saw that Ponomarenko’s name wasn’t there. There was a large variety of trucks, different models of Tatra, Kama, Ural. He knew about this. They had some hundreds of heavy trucks, almost 1500 drivers and mechanics: close on a million tons of freight to be hauled.
He finished his tea, threw the cup in the bin and walked upstairs. Even at the stairhead he heard the uproar; and as he neared it, a nameplate on the end door confirmed the source: P. G. BUKAROVSKY, ROAD MANAGER. He paused there, uncertain whether to knock or enter, until a girl emerged in a hurry, and left the door for him, and he went in.
A sunken-chested man with a haggard face was shouting into a phone, his feet on a desk. He was doing several things at once: drinking tea, furiously smoking, coughing, pointing out something to a girl hanging over him with a clipboard, and offering advice to an older woman who sat talking on another phone at the other side of the desk. ‘Tell them to rot at Bilibino!’ he told her. ‘With my compliments. Not you,’ he said into the phone. ‘I promised you! Two-three days. When I see fifteen centimetres. Not a minute before! What do you want?’
The last was to Porter, who was standing before him, flashing a smile. He’d hesitated whether or not to take his fur cap off and had decided against; the men below had kept their caps on.
He carried on smiling, waving the manager on with his conversation, and looked around the room as it proceeded. The walls here were also covered with rosters; and with large maps. A phalanx of coloured flag pins was stuck neatly at the bottom of each map. No flags were yet distributed on the maps. He turned as the phone smashed down.
‘What’s your problem?’ the man said.
‘You want a driver?’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Chukotka.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘A favour to Ponomarenko. We met at Batumi. He can’t come for a few weeks.’
‘That bastard will stretch his holiday once too often! What can you drive?’
Porter offered his papers. ‘Whatever you’ve got.’
The phone rang again, and the man picked it up and laid it on the desk, where it angrily chattered. He glanced through the papers.
‘You’re square with the union?’
‘All square.’
‘What trouble are you in at Chukotka?’
‘No trouble … Look,’ Porter said amiably. He hadn’t stopped smiling. ‘I’m doing Ponomarenko a favour. You also. You want me, it’s okay. You don’t — also okay. I’ll go.’
‘Bukarovsky!’ Bukarovsky said into the phone. He continued glaring at Porter. ‘Leave your songsheet here,’ he told him. ‘And go round to the sheds. Not you,’ he said into the phone, between spasms of coughing. ‘Tell Yura to try you on a Kama 50, and to call me back. The 50, right? Hello — Pevek, what the hell is it now? … Here, you — take a bobik,’ he said to Porter.
‘A bobik?’ Porter said. A bobik was a terrier.
‘So now I’m telling you! I’m sick of your problems. I’ve got my own problems,’ the man told the phone. ‘And I’m sick of talking about them!’ He was groping in a tray of keys. He tossed one to Porter. ‘Give him the book,’ he said to the woman across the desk.
Porter looked at the key on its leather tab, and at the book the woman shoved across to him. She pointed where he had to sign. It was against one of a row of numbers. He signed N. D. Khodyan and left as the roaring continued behind him.
Below he threaded his way through the foyer, and at the door asked a man, ‘Where do I get a bobik?’
‘Back of the building, right behind here.’
The number he’d signed was the number on the key, a car key. He went round the building and found the cars, in an open shed. There were four or five pickups and a number of jeeps. There was nobody there. He walked around examining the registration numbers and found his bobik. It was one of the jeeps, a solid enclosed job, very square and ugly like a little tank. The tyres looked half flat. He walked round, kicking them, and saw that all the tyres in the shed were half flat: evidently it was intended.
He got in the car, found the ignition and turned the key. It sparked immediately, a rough throaty snarl. It was dark in the shed and he couldn’t see the display on the dash. He fumbled the gears and got the thing moving, out of cover and into the light. In the light he saw there was no display on the dash, and hardly any dash: a speedo, a switch for the wipers, and that was all. There had to be a switch for the lights but he couldn’t find it. But the thing was powerfully heated, and had a motor that surged at a touch with a satisfying grating bark — evidently accounting for the name. He took to the terrier at once, and got it moving again, to the front of the building. Someone was coming out, and he hailed him out of the window.
‘Hey! Where do I find Yura?’
‘Which Yura?’
‘For a Kama. A Kama 50.’
‘Straight on, half a kilometre, turn up the ramp, you’ll find him.’
He kept on along the line of warehouses, dodging in and out of the path of spinning forklifts, and found the ramp. The whole massive hangar was up on short piles, evidently as air insulation for the permafrost below. Inside, as far as he could see, was an amazing army of trucks, row upon row of them, all lined up, waiting, and bearing the logo of the Kamaz Auto Works: Kama 30s, 40s, 50s. The front line, he saw, had laden trailers already attached, but farther back were just the tall cabs.
He parked the bobik and emerged into a rush of warm air from big blowers spread out over the area. Around the walls work was going on at long benches, and nearby the spit and flash of welding gear. He walked over to the man there.
‘Where’s Yura?’ he yelled in his ear.
The man put his visor up. Who?’ ’
‘Yura.’
‘The boss? In the office — the glass booth at the end.’
He found the booth, and a white-overalled Yura, on the phone, busily scribbling, on an inventory pad. He was a little brawny pug of a man with a shock of grey hair. Porter waited till he’d finished, and flashed his smile.
‘I’m Khodyan — Kolya. Bukarovsky wants me to try a 50.’
The man looked him up and down.
‘Ever driven one before?’
‘Sure.’
At the camp all they’d had was a 40, but he’d been assured it was the same. Sixteen gears; almost identical to a Mack.
‘Where have you driven?’
‘Chukotka, Magadan — that circuit.’
‘Roads.’ The man grunted. ‘None of that here. Here we run soft, low pressure. Better traction, but a heavy wheel. All right, then.’ He opened a tall cupboard. It was neatly laid out with several lines of hooks, keys hanging from them. His scarred hand flitted about the keys and selected one. ‘Let’s see what you’re made of,’ he said. He put a fur cap and leather jacket on and led the way.
An experienced ex-driver, evidently, and an injured one, Porter saw: one leg was shorter than the other. The man limped down a row of cabs, their umbilicals hooked up at the rear, and stopped at one. He went rapidly up an iron ladder, and Porter took the other side. He climbed the six or seven feet and swung himself behind the wheel.