Fancy Shop

by Valeri Stanoevich

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Guarding.’

  ‘What are you guarding?’

  ‘Nature.’

  ‘Who are you guarding it from?’

  The man lifted up his head and looked at me.

  ‘Doctor, you will not let the town in, will you? You will stop it before it comes here, right?’

  ‘Of course I will. Go back to the clinic.’

  I was not sure if he heard my last words. Those slatterns need to be chewed out. How could they not see that a patient was missing? The man had probably been out all night, in this cold weather!

  … I looked up at the wall clock. It was almost midnight. Was it worth paying that much attention to a failed suicide? I closed the notebook, stood up and went down the empty corridor. Suddenly I perceived a faint groan of pain as if it was coming from underground. I drew closer to the stairs. The groans were clearly audible. So, somebody was suffering at that moment. Somebody was in need of help. A door at the end of the corridor was slightly open. I saw the back of the deaf-and-dumb orderly. Sophie was groaning beneath him …

  On a late autumn morning, I happened to pass by the rotunda again. The man was still there buried in leaves. When I drew nearer I saw his beard covered with frost and his gaze arrested at a point above the treetops. I bent down, and then all of a sudden his lips moved and he wheezed:

  ‘Depth … at last.’

  I was sitting at the window and looking out. Should I be the one who is now looking for something hidden beneath the fog outside? Had I become the man whose fate was to live up to someone else’s expectations? Where is the thing that lurks behind all my fears? Is it still far away, or it has already come and is waiting here behind me?

  Fragile, miserable creatures, humbled at my will, innocent as children, afraid they will become lost. It’s late for them, too late. So kind, they reveal their feelings, trust their dreams. Out there, no one will have mercy on them. Well, they will not understand anything. They will not feel it until the last minute. They will look back ... but Sophie, Sophie… I thought I had saved her. So hard I had wrenched her from my heart, to leave her my thoughts. I was hoping that she would continue from where I have to stop. I could watch her from afar. From far, far away. My alter ego could be saved. Cool mind freed from passion and anguish. She would see through my eyes, speak with my words. She was close, so close, but sank into the mud… an ordinary bitch. It all stinks.

  … I hadn’t finished my coffee when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Good morning, doctor.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Suicide!’

  ‘I came to return your book.’

  ‘Did you read it?’

  ‘Of course, with great interest. I am impressed by your therapeutic method. To offer a person afflicted with depression reading matter entitled A Handbook of Suicide is more than ingenious.’

  ‘You have already regained your sense of humour. It is an achievement!’

  He was at the door when I hinted, ‘I can’t understand why Sophie is late. Her leave was over a long time ago.’

  ‘She’ll never come back here.’

  His certainty was troubling.

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘I asked her not to.’

  ‘You? Are you fully aware of what will become of you if she isn’t around?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘She doesn’t deserve your self-sacrifice, because she is trash.’

  ‘You can never touch her soul again.’

  ‘She followed you on my orders.’

  ‘I know. She told me.’

  ‘Then can I give you a piece of advice? The last man in your room who hanged himself used the hook above the lampshade. He succeeded, and he was much heavier than you.’

  ‘I’ll most likely follow your advice. Hope you get cured!’

  At that moment I felt that shapeless, incomprehensible thing that had pushed the notion ‘a hand’ out of my mind a while before starting to come back.

  EQUILIBRIUM

  I open the door and go out. My sneakers stick to the asphalt. I walk between puddles and parked cars. I cross the square and go on to the river. I walk past fences and houses. Here and there, piles of rubble stand out near the flowerbeds. Iron rods, wooden planks and other useful things are propped up against the walls. I stop, put out my hand, and the door in front of me sags open into a narrow corridor. I pass through it and climb the stairs. I press the doorbell by sheer force of habit and then knock. The cough gets nearer and stops at the door. Going back he grows weaker and loses his strength as he reaches the armchair.

  ‘You look fine,’ I say just to encourage him.

  ‘Just fine for my age,’ he says to make it more specific before I go flying over the back of the chair. Dust falls from the worm-eaten wood.

  ‘You should be more careful. You know that the furniture is old.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble to excuse myself.

  ‘Me too,’ he falters.

  ‘I’ll bring a chair tomorrow.’

  ‘Why a chair particularly?’

  ‘Because this one is only good for junk.’

  ‘I don’t think so. It can be put in the corner.’

  I do not try to dissuade him. That is not what I am here for.

  I found myself in that part of the town yesterday. I could see vague outlines of buildings and trees in the fog. It was enveloping the facades with lavish ornament. The pinnacle of a corner tower was wreathed in vapour. Perhaps it was sharp, just right to fix a weathercock to. Two spots of colour in the street eventually grew into silhouettes. When they passed me, the girl with the long light hair was smiling while the other girl’s face seemed oddly familiar. Is it possible to know somebody before you have seen her?

  He stares vacantly through the window. He must be bored. His voice reaches me at the door.

  ‘Don’t go along that street anymore!’

  The first warm days awake the trees. The branches are in blossom until the next whirlwind. The old people who have survived the winter are sitting in the open windows. Before opening the door I look up. The window is closed.

  My fears prove to be unfounded. He looks brisk and younger. The chair is quite familiar to me. The same high back, the same damask ...

  ‘Is that really your old chair?’

  ‘It’s the very chair,’ he confirms. ‘It’s comfortable, isn’t it?’

  ‘It was completely dilapidated before.’

  ‘It was then but it’s quite all right now. I hope that doesn’t upset you.’

  Of course it doesn’t upset me.

  ‘You look well,’ I note in astonishment.

  ‘Perhaps it’s due to the air. I wander about the streets all day long.’

  ‘Don’t walk yourself off your legs.’

  ‘You’d better try it yourself instead of admonishing me. You look pale.’

  ‘You are right. Breathing is very difficult in the archives.’

  ‘What are you looking for there?’

  ‘That feeling.’

  ‘Have you found it?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’ve detected its undertone.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I think so. A transition between F-minor and greyish green.’

  ‘I hope you’re wrong.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because after you meet her again you’ll become aware of her disposition to put on flesh, and her predilection for men with Greek profiles.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘It makes little difference. I don’t want you to suffer.’

  I don’t ask more questions. It’s useless.

  The street lighting is off. I set out in the direction of the wind. At first I only hear my footsteps, then a whirring and sweet sounds.

&nb
sp; ‘How dark it is!’ says the man under the lit window, ‘and all they play is strumming.’

  I don’t see his profile but the tedious tune bores me.

  Farther – again quietness and footsteps. Where do I go, after all? Debris is piled up on both sides. The houses had probably been very old. At the end of the street the lone lamppost throws its light on a half-demolished facade. A tarnished weathercock sticks out of the dust...

  The noise of leaves rustling comes through the window.

  ‘It’s started raining,’ he says, closing it.

  ‘And how about there?’ I point to the door at the back.

  ‘What about there?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to close the windows in the other room?’

  ‘There is no room there.’

  ‘If so, what’s that door?’

  ‘There’s no door. You must have imagined it.’

  I remember something of that kind. It was long ago. There was a locked door at home. Nobody would ever open it. I stayed in front of it for hours on end. The grown-ups smiled at my questions and shrugged. Years later, when all of them had gone, dust started to seep through its cracks. One day, as I pushed down the handle, something clicked inside. I saw that there was nothing behind it but cracked plaster through which penetrated noise and daylight.

  When I raise my head to look over to the little window where the light was coming from, I see with surprise how my shadow, which was invisible until then, lifts up to the ceiling, separates itself from me and flies out to the street, to the quiet afternoon noise.

  ‘That same old moonshine of yours!’ he says and rises from the chair. I watch him step out of the front door. The rain has stopped. His sneakers stick to the asphalt. He walks down the street between puddles and parked cars. And from the armchair I raise my eyes to the flickering reflections on the wall.

  CHOICE

  ‘Yet, it’s good that you’ve come back,’ commented the driver. ‘They all think you’re dead and long gone. But she wouldn’t believe it. She’s still waiting for you.’

  The driver’s cabin was warm and stuck all over with pictures of footballers and girls.

  ‘Is she?’ yawned the other and fixed his eyes on the rain.

  ‘Where have you been all this time?’

  The other kept mum but the driver went on:

  ‘You’re coming to pick her up, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve come to bid her farewell.’

  The truck slowed down and stopped:

  ‘Get down!’

  The door was slammed. The noise died away beyond the hill. He muffled himself up and started walking on the asphalt, past bare trees. Now and then their tops swayed and shook out the rain. The road seemed to get narrower, squeezed by the forest. He was walking slowly. Then the earth tilted and he staggered, looking for support. Everything whirled round him: fast, faster, slower, and then came to a halt. Leaning against the tree he felt the roughness of the bark and saw the scattered clouds through the branches. He rose and carried on walking. The first houses were set in a row down the slope. A man was standing at the threshold of the second house. He met his gaze and moved on. The terrace of the restaurant was covered with leaves. He reached the square. Either everything had been left as it was before, or the twilight was masking the changes. Having passed the bridge, he stopped for a moment, cast a glance backward and set out along the street. He got there, knocked at the door and pushed down the handle. The staircase creaked, and footsteps and a voice were heard.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me.’ He started climbing, striking out in the right direction.

  Her hug nearly toppled him. He leaned against the wall and said, ‘Let’s step into the light!’

  When they were in the lamplight he saw that her face was the same. Only her wrinkled brow gave away her efforts to gain control over herself. He waited for her question and answered:

  ‘I have come to bid you farewell.’

  Then he hastily uttered everything appropriate in that instance. Sentiments wear away just like everything else. Reminiscences fade. In no way did he differ from the rest.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she moaned. ‘You are lying! If you were like the others you wouldn’t come back.’

  ‘I came for the bracelet. It’s an heirloom, isn’t it? She’s found out about it and wants it. I have to give it to her. I don’t want her to leave me.’

  She took it off and handed it to him: ‘Farewell!’

  It was cold outside. Here and there light was shining from the windows. The bracelet glittered and sank into the shaft of the sewer. How long was there left to him? A month or two, a year? He went out into the street. The smell of snow wafted on the wind. ‘I can wait for a long time. I have enough memories left,’ she said once, long ago. May she forget ...

  In front of him the trees were merging into a wall of darkness. He was walking alone towards the night train at the station, its glimmering lights ready to see him on his way.

  ANGEL IN THE LIBRARY

  I saw his face in the light. His hand rested on the lit surface. Reflections reached the ceiling, crossing his sight.

  ‘It’s as if he has grown younger,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the librarian, ‘but there are only a few who get to that age.’

  I was flipping through a guidebook of some sort, but the lines were merging. The man by the window was sunk in shadow. I put down the book. It was closing time. We went outside. When he walked further away, he looked like a tramp. Perhaps he was a tramp.

  This town has a single wide street and plenty of narrow ones. Some of them divide yards and buildings. Others have disappeared under shrubs and grass. Wandering around is calming, it brings the unexpected. This is how I found the library. In front of the entrance, in the desolate yard, a man was sorting out some papers. A stone staircase led to the second floor. Through the open door was a shelf, full of books.

  ‘Is this the reading room?’

  ‘We don’t have a reading room.’

  It seemed as if it was a joke. Then I understood – nobody read there. So, it was a library. He was sitting up there at the back of the room, next to the window.

  ‘Come in!’ the librarian invited me. ‘The two of you will be together.’

  In the morning I had met him in the street.

  ‘Mr Librarian,’ I nodded to greet him.

  ‘I am not a librarian.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘I am a postman in the mornings.’

  He didn’t carry a bag. Letters are rarely sent there.

  I fill my time with rummaging around. I find things that no one is looking for and nobody needs. Once I noticed a book with an old German font, an anatomical atlas. It was on the shelf behind the librarian. He pulled it out of my hands. It didn’t belong here, so he had to take it down to the basement, next to the other ones. There was the risk it might be damaged. Whereas the basement, according to him, had proper conditions. No mice or humidity. In order to dispel my doubts, he produced another one.

  This book is a guide to show how our town, although small, has its beauties and even more notable people, to whom it owes its current status … His home is proof of the flair of the owner, how he brings what he has seen outside to us … The library is in the most secluded corner of the north wing … He is a merchant, but he doesn’t distance himself from science. After two semesters of medicine spent abroad …

  The widower has lived in this home. He had a son. When he wasn’t travelling, he was sitting in the library. Once he came back with a woman. Too young a woman for him, according to those who would have seen them. After a while he vanished. Missing. Then the woman went mad. The son sold the house and left.

  ‘A few days before the old chap disappeared, my dad met him on the street,’ added the librarian. ‘He came closer and noticed the
fob watch between his fingers; when the lid lifted, sounds floated out. The melody finished, the man put the watch back in his pocket and passed by, and my dad stayed like that – in short trousers and feet planted in the dust.

  I often lose orientation. Especially at night. Doesn’t the same path lead over to the square in the daytime? One of the discoveries about wandering the streets of this town is that unconsciously I find signs of things seen in different places. But this recognition is pure, due to the rigorousness of the view, and only conceals its principle.

  I found him kneeling by the window, his arms crossed in front of his breast. He looked like an angel. An angel in the library. He lifted up his head when I approached. The residue of his expression was sunk into the lines on his face.

  ‘An angel in the library?’ the librarian mused. ‘I’m afraid you are wrong.’

  ‘What are you looking for?’ I once asked the man by the window.

  I met his gaze and deep there … Probably I am completely wrong.

  An angel in the library – a phenomenon, inexplicably pointing to a long-wanted book. Fig.: A sudden meeting with the unrealized or realized object of attraction.

  I have seen how the inhabitants sit or clean around their homes with tentative steps, as if they are afraid to move away. Should I be here?

  Before walking on the foreign streets turned into a habit, came the time to close the suitcase.

  I took the disappearance of that building a day before my departure as natural. In the afternoon the rubble of the part above the ground was removed. The excavator was already biting the floor of the basement when one of the onlookers threw himself into the trench.

  ‘Do not disturb his peace!’ he shouted while they were pulling him back.

  Then he collapsed into a ragged heap:

  ‘Father! Forgive me, Father! She shouldn’t have asked for this!’

  It seemed as if he was taken seriously because the metal jaw deposited its contents into the hopper. One of the workers went up into the back of the dumper truck and grubbed around in the soil for a long time.