A speck of dust settles on my shoes.
“Allow me.”
“Ah, how nice you are!”
The dust disappears from my shoes, the broom, having glided across them, leaves a white wet stripe. Nevertheless, I thank them anyway. I would have thanked them even if they had ended up on my face instead of on my shoes. Though they didn’t manage to wipe a submissive smile off my face.
They tidy up around me not only during the day, but even at night, even when I’m sleeping and dreaming interesting dreams, someone carefully tidies up everything that isn’t in its place, and in the morning, having just wiped my eyes, I thank them. If I could see them at that moment then I would bow down low, really, really low, I’ve already learned to bow down. They’re indifferent to this, everyone bows down to them, they’ve already gotten used to it. They don’t even blink an eye. But for me it’s very pleasant.
Here’s dust! Look how clever it is—it’s hidden in the crack. And you clean it with a broom, with a broom! And don’t hide, don’t try acting so clever! The broom’s not picking you up? Let me use my tongue!... No, no, don’t contradict me, I’ll do it with pleasure! This is fun for me! Here it is on the end of my tongue already. Well, why should you do it with your hands? Your hands are meant for something sophisticated. It’s better to do it with the broom, eh-heh, it’s more comfortable. And for me it’s just pleasure! Not just with the broom, I’d chew that dust up with my teeth.
“Hey, let me get through! Why’d you stop!”
I’m letting you, I’m letting you, what do you think I’m doing? I’m not doing anything. Tidy up. Order is a holy business. Everything that’s not in its place—away with it!
Again they’re carrying something big. This time the doors are closed. They’re closed because someone is sitting there. They’re carrying somebody out, and he’s keeping quiet. If they’d take me out, I’d also keep quiet. And why should you make noise? If they carry you out, that means you’re not needed or harmful. Therefore you should just do everything so they’re satisfied, so the need never arises for them to stick their fists in my nose. Well, then, they’re tidying up all around, working, and I, a naughty boy, allow it to get all pigged up. I get in their way. I get in their way more than that dust. I have to go see their supervisor and tell him about all this. I’ll tell him: I understand you and with all my heart, no, better—with all my soul I’m devoted to you, because I know that order is everything. If you didn’t sweep up here every day and didn’t tidy up, then life would be lost. Of course, it is so important to clean up our society in time from every good-for-nothing who just burdens it. And I, when you remember, even with my tongue... I licked off those bits of dust. I’m not one of those squeamish types. I’ll sacrifice anything for the sake of the common good... I can—and I bow down—become a broom... And I bow down even lower. They should like this... Eh-heh, this is a great honor for me! I can still be a handle and open doors for you so that you don’t tire your hands... I can’t be anything bigger. The way I am right now before you, I’m not needed by anyone, I’m superfluous. The smallest bit of dust has more foundation where it is than I do...
But who is their supervisor?
“I ask you to forgive me... I, destitute and low, had the audacity to disturb you...”
“What do you want? Go away!”
“I want... Who is your supervisor?... I just ask... I don’t want that...”
“We don’t have a supervisor. We’re here on our own.”
“No, I understand... I won’t say a word about this to anyone. I’ll keep this completely confidential. You can trust me. In one respected establishment... do you understand me?... they said that with a resume like I have, I can have pretensions even for the post of first secretary... They just didn’t narrow it down, whether it was a regional or an oblast town... There weren’t any kulaks in my family. We all lived like beggars. My ancestors used to beg by the church. What did they beg for? I don’t know. Apparently it was bread... And the main thing. No one in our family ever lived on occupied land. How did they manage it? I won’t say. But we are born beggars. In French this will be ‘proletarian,’ isn’t that so? Well, that’s it, we’re proletarians. And if you have to unite, then at least I’m ready right now. Just show me with whom... And I need that supervisor of yours…”
“We said: there isn’t any! Go away!”
“I, if you remember, licked up dust with my tongue...”
“This doesn’t concern us.”
Ye-es, I wasn’t lucky. Can it really be true they don’t have a supervisor? But maybe, might this simply be some kind of very important secret? They don’t trust me, and they’re right—if they were to trust everyone this way... Then I’d stop respecting them myself, if they were to trust just at someone’s word. And it’s so good, that they chattered with me at least for a while. In their place, they’d better scold me well, meaning, why am I getting in the way? They’re cleaning up here, tidying up, and I...
It seems, if you get to the bottom of things, I’m an enemy of the people. Because I’m tearing them away from their work. I’m sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong. I’m interested in various details. I’m tearing them away from important work for the state. They are forced to waste their valuable time on stupid chit-chat with me, they have to avoid me, because I get in their way.
“Allow me... Why have you stood mostly right here? You see—they’re carrying things out.”
Yes, yes, I’ll make way, I’ll open a path for you. God forbid that I’d do something, I didn’t do anything... Here, if you wish, I’ll offer my back... I deem it an honor...
Again they’re banging a hefty dresser. And something is banging in there, it’s banging with fists and screaming. It’s a woman’s voice! Evidently, even among women you come across the kind who stand in the way. Women are especially dangerous, because they raise children. And if such a woman has views that go against the grain and the central politics of the regime, then it is quite likely that the child will become a dissident. And this is already an extraordinary blow. But, while it’s small, it’s impossible to arrest it, the state is forced to waste money on its enemy, it not only gives him the possibility of growing up, but also of becoming a convinced and even an irate militant revolutionary. It turns out that the state is placed in a terrible situation: for years it has been forced to raise its murderer! And only then when he becomes grown up can you approach him and provoke him to some kind of action. And this again is leisure time. The enemy can be so clever that he doesn’t allow himself to be provoked.
Oh, I’m a lousy philosopher! I should be working in one of the ministries. At least for a week. My talent is wasted. I’m living without a goal. I’m superfluous here. There’s so much work around here, and I’m standing like a tree stump...
Here they’ve made off with someone else. This one’s not creating a scandal yet, but he’s crying. Well, crying, of course, is purifying and so forth. And in general, everyone should have their own place.
“Make way! You blind? Can’t you see we’re carrying something? What a gawking fool! Get lost!”
Right away—right away, sorry...
Who is standing by the wall? He’s standing motionlessly and looking. He’s wearing eyeglasses, with a book beneath his arm. He surely is the most intelligent of all of them.
“Tell me, be so kind...”
Oh, he turned his head. “Well?”
“Tell me, what is the order?”
He looks at me with derision. Looks at me for a minute, another minute. He takes the book and picks up the pages. What a big book it is! He’s very, very intelligent, if he’s reading such big books. Finally he closes it and says:
“Well, okay, I can tell you even without the book...”
Ah, how intelligent he is! Without the book!
“Order? What is order?”
“Eh-heh, tell me what order is.”
“Order is everything.”
Oh... He’s so clever! He spoke so har
shly! Ah, you, my God, I would never have figured that out.
In our great building work constantly bustles. How patient you have to be to reconcile yourself with my presence. All this already has lasted for so long that they notice me only when I stand in their way. It turns out that I, in order to somehow justify my existence, am forced to get in their way. Then they and I get convinced that I really am. In truth I’ve gone since long ago.
“Make way!”
No, I’m still a bastard. Have you been able to tolerate my insipidness till now?... Perhaps I should ask for forgiveness?... If so, they’ll set aside some place. Any place, just so I’d know that it was mine, that no one’d take it.
“Mister! Kind sir! You are so intelligent... Even without a book! You’ve said that... that...”
“Get out! I’m fed up with you!...” He squeezed through his teeth and his eyes glistened.
No-no, I’m an impossible person. I stick myself everywhere. I get on everybody’s nerves. And from the dresser which they’re carrying out past me, a child’s crying echoes... What kind of child is this there?... Whose child is it? In which language is he crying?
Here’s an open window... On which floor am I? The twenty-fourth or the twenty-fifth? He said: get lost... get lost... get lost...
Who’s this window open for? Who’s it waiting for?... For me?...
I should step aside so that I stop making other people’s eyes toil; so that I stop being interested in those dressers that are filled with people as if with clothes... I have to go away... And here I lean over the windowsill... I lean over... ah, how easy, how joyful to fly down... I’ve never flown before... flying down—in fact is flying up... I’m an angel... a gray angel... an everyday angel... an angel for everyone... greet me... just one thing disturbs me—it’s the fact that they’ll have to clean up my broken body... it would’ve been better to drown in the ri...
The Flowerbed in the Kilim
Translated by Mark Andryczyk
A multi-colored kilim was hanging on the wall in the living room, on which a flowerbed was woven, behind the flowerbed a little orchard, and in the orchard — a small house under a red cherry tree. The little house was so charming that, every time I looked at it, I was struck with a strange and insurmountable sadness. I wanted to find out who lived in that little house and whose flowerbed it was. The flowers that grew there were truly remarkable — even Auntie’s flowerbed didn’t have these kinds of flowers, neither did her straw hat.
When I put my ear to the kilim I heard the rattling of moths and the buzzing of bumblebees, while my nose caught the intoxicating scent of flowers, dew and honey. But, no matter how often I gazed at the little house, I was never able to see a living soul there. But somebody had to live there because, looking at the flowers, it was obvious that someone was diligently taking care of them, weeding and watering them.
Sometimes, when I pressed my ear right up against the little house, I was just barely able to hear the clamor of human voices; I wasn’t, however, able to make out exactly what it was they were saying.
The strangest thing was that the seasons would change on the kilim as they would in nature. In autumn, flowers would break off and leaves would fall, leaving the branches bare. Every now and then rain would shower down, and the colors on the kilim would fade. The little house would lose its elegant and fabulous appearance, and the sky above it would spill down like gray lead. In the winter, snow would fall and solidly cover the orchard, weighing down heavily on its branches. And then tiny footprints could occasionally be seen along the snow. Smoke rose from the chimney and the scent of resin would take wing. And, at night, a light would shine in the window, and a dark shadow would spread along the curtains.
I really wanted to end up in that little orchard in the kilim and peek into the little house, but, no matter how much I tried to fulfill my dream, the kilim remained just a kilim and would not let me enter it.
A large wall-clock was hanging right beside the kilim in a wooden case and behind glass. The wall-clock would always stand still and I never-ever heard it tick. Its hands were always stuck in one spot, displaying five minutes before twelve o’clock. The wooden case was locked and I didn’t know where the key was, otherwise I would have tried to set the correct time long ago.
I would have never noticed any connection between the kilim and the wall-clock if it hadn’t been for a certain, strange incident. One time, having opened the door to the living room without warning, I saw a male mannequin frozen in an unusual position by the kilim. He stood, bending over and extending his arm as if he wanted to pick a flower. But as I got closer, I saw that he was not trying to pick a flower, but, instead, was trying to pick up a key from inside the flowerbed. I had never noticed any key on the kilim before. And now, it seemed, somebody had lost it.
I pretended that I hadn’t noticed anything and walked out of the living room. After some time, I re-entered the living room and saw that the mannequin was in his usual position and that the key had disappeared. You didn’t have to have an especially wild imagination to figure out where it was.
I bravely walked up to the mannequin and pulled the key out of the pocket of his suit jacket. He ferociously blinked his eyes but didn’t dare to budge.
Now there was only one thing left to do: put the key in the wooden case and see if I’d guessed correctly. But as soon as I attempted to do this, there was a loud squeak. The mannequins turned their heads toward me and popped open their eyes in fright. I saw they were afraid of me.
I turned the key and the case—creaking and screeching—flung wide open. Then I lifted the lever and the clock moved. The room filled with new sounds, and it seemed like they gave life to all the objects in the room, because they also immediately began making sounds, each in its own way, and, just like that, the whole living room was abuzz. The faces of the mannequins cheered up, anger disappeared from their eyes, and the corners of their mouths were smoothed out.
And not only did the living room come to life, but the kilim, too, seemed to have woken up from its winter slumber — I saw how leaves on trees shook from the wind, how petals shivered, and how the scent of flowers rose up into the air. Everything now looked like it was on a movie screen. I tried brushing my hand along the flowers, but all my fingers could feel was the thick wool of the kilim.
And then, suddenly, everything changed. The wall-clock let out a heavy groan, something clanged, grinded, and the first stroke of the clock sounded. At that instant my hand forcefully broke through to the flowerbed. Without stopping to think, I jumped into the kilim and ran along the path that leads to the little house as fast as I could. Behind me I once again heard that sound.
Right on the third stroke I ended up by the door and turned the doorknob, but it was locked. I ran up to the window and looked inside. The house was cloaked in twilight, but I was immediately able to recognize several things that were familiar to me since birth. There, on the table, was the bowl that I had once broken accidentally, and there was Grandma’s vase with its peculiar rhododendron — it had dried up after Grandma died, so Mom threw it out. And there was our cat lying on the pillow, a cat that, also, had died long ago. There was the bench, on which Grandma used to love to sit. And the eyeglass case with her glasses, and her embroidery… And all the walls here were decorated with various embroideries. One of them was of me, as a little boy, playing with a kitten.
And the clock behind struck two more times.
I couldn’t pull myself away from the window, recognizing one object after another, and, most peculiar, was the fact that every one of these objects was connected, in some way or another, with Granny.
Well then , where is she?
I ran behind the house and saw that a yard stretched from behind the bushes all the way down to a narrow, little river, where ducks were quacking. From the little river, up the hill, a path climbed, cutting through the yard, and along this path a hunched-over figure carrying buckets was ascending. I recognized this person immediately and, shoutin
g in turn with the menacing grumbling of the wall-clock, I yelled:
“Gra-a-an-dma-a-a!”
At first she thought she was just hearing things and she even stopped to look around her. Then she put down her buckets and, after I yelled again, raised her head.
Initially, her face lit up with joy, but then it immediately was overcome with horror. She waved her hands and screamed:
“Run away! Run away at once!”
The clock now struck for the eight time. I don’t know why I was counting these rings.
“Grandma!” I yelled. “I ‘m coming to you!”
She became even more horrified and started running up the hill, repeatedly imploring me:
“Run away! Go back! Before it’s too late!”
I looked back and saw the frightened mannequins, who were also waving there arms at me, surrounding the kilim.
“BONNGGGG!” The ninth ring sounded.
But I didn’t want to leave my Grandma and this delightful orchard! Nevertheless, I saw something in her face that convinced me and, when “ten” sounded, I finally moved and dashed home. I ran as tears flooded my eyes and I could hear Grandma’s voice behind me:
“Faster! Faster!”
“BONNGGGG.” “Eleven.”
I tripped over a rock and flew, headfirst, into the flowerbed — the flowers crunched beneath my feet and squirted dew in my face.
“O Lord!” Grandma screams.
Gathering my strength, I’m barely able to push myself off the ground and thrust my body forward. The wall-clock, with a certain despair and groan, strikes “twelve” just as the strong hands of the mannequins caught me and laid me down on the floor.
I looked at the kilim and saw a familiar scene. Everything is as it was before. Except that the flowers are a bit squashed. But Grandma will tie them up, straighten them out, sprinkle them with fresh water and, God willing, Auntie won’t notice anything.
I once again immobilized the wall-clock, returning the big hand to five minutes before twelve; I closed the wooden case and placed the little key in the mannequin’s pocket.
The Fantastic Worlds of Yuri Vynnychuk Page 13