Fandango and Other Stories

by Bryan Karetnyk

  This faint recollection of childhood flickered like a vague, ancient dream, only to be obscured suddenly by Valerian’s dark, bounding back. The image faded away. Sergei clenched his teeth and stared blankly at the wall. And the wall, decked in twilight, looked back at him, silently and sleepily.

  “I feel so dismal,” he thought. “It comes and goes, in waves. It will pass. Then everything will be fine again and I’ll regain my zest for life. In point of fact—what do I have to fear?”

  “Sergei, what do you have to fear?” he said in a hushed voice.

  But his brain gave no reply, nor did it spark any thoughts, and only slowly and ponderously did it roll over the stones of the past. There were all sorts there—big and small, dark and light. The dark ones were wet and slippery; hurriedly they fell back into their resting places, and he was loath to disturb them again.

  He would live. Every day he would see the sky and the empty body of air. The roofs, the dove-gray smoke, the animals. Every day he would eat, drink, and make merry. Breathe, move, talk, and think. Fall asleep while pondering the coming day. Someone else, and not he, would have to go to the appointed spot, pale with dread, and throw a cold, grey box just like this, resembling a soap dish. Throw it and die. But not him; he would live and hear of the death of this other man and what was said about his death.

  In the next room they were taking tea; someone was twisting and turning in a chair, which was groaning heavily. There was a rattle of crockery; the indistinct hum of conversation invaded his ears. The door in the hallway slammed and there came a quiet knock at the door to his room.

  Shaken, Sergei roused himself. “Yes?”

  A woman’s voice on the other side of the door asked:

  “Shall I light your lamp?”

  “Please, Dunya. Come in.”

  The girl entered unhurriedly, and her dark, lively shadow came to a halt. Sergei brightened up a little, as if the sounds of this youthful, sonorous voice were wresting his soul from the talons of limp, meaningless despair.

  “I can’t see a thing in here,” said Dunya as she fumbled in the darkness. “Where’s the lamp?”

  “It’s out of kerosene. Here, take it!”

  Carefully he handed her the cheap lamp in its cast-iron stand, and, as he did so, his fingers came into contact with Dunya’s, slender and warm that they were.

  “I’ll fill it up,” she said. “I won’t be a moment.”

  “Take your time … Say, Dunya, how was your outing yesterday?”

  “We didn’t go,” the girl drawled dejectedly. “There were no boats. They’d all been taken. It was such a disappointment … And our own needs a caulker … I’ll be back in just a moment …”

  She slipped silently into the darkness of the hallway, slamming the door behind her. Sergei began pacing about the room, whistling the old ditty about the tsar and his son, and envisaged the curly head of a hot-tempered little boy drowsily moving his plump lips. Was that what he had looked like? How strange. But already he felt happier and more convinced in his soul, and he wanted a cozy light, some tea, and an interesting book. What Valerian thought belonged to him and others like him; what Sergei thought was his own affair. And that was just it. One shouldn’t let oneself succumb to ideas.

  Like a faint, isolated blemish, the distant specter of the stone city swept over him once more before vanishing, frightened by the footfalls of passers-by. These heavy, uneven steps echoed indistinctly beneath the window and stopped there, having startled the silence.

  VII.

  Dunya came in, and the yellow light leapt into the room, exposing the walls and the furniture, which had been shrouded in darkness. The room looked relaxed and cheerful. The girl placed the lamp on the dresser and turned down the flame ever so slightly.

  “There we are,” she said. “Hmm, what’s that?”

  “I didn’t say a thing.” Sergei smiled as he got to his feet. Thrusting his hands in his trouser pockets, he stopped in front of Dunya.

  “There we are indeed,” he said. “So, how are you?”

  He wanted to talk, to joke and appear as people had always seen him: gentle, attentive, and straightforward. This had never cost him any effort, but to realize his qualities was both pleasant and reassuring.

  The girl stood by the door in a languid, unaffected pose, the hair on her wearily inclining head touching the door post. Sergei observed her strong, slender body with the covetous feeling of a sick man watching street life from the window of a dull, drab ward.

  “What did you get up to today?” he asked, gazing at her dark, shy eyes.

  “I must be off to bed soon!” The girl laughed and yawned, covering her mouth with a quick movement of her hand. “Can I really be so tired? All my joints are aching.”

  “Did you go somewhere?”

  “I did … To the woods to look for cones.” Dunya gave another long yawn and stretched out languidly and wearily. “Pine cones for the samovar … I collected a whole bag of them …”

  “Beautiful …” thought Sergei. “She’ll marry a tailor or some shopkeeper. She’ll sew, cook, nurse, sleep a lot, grow fat, and curse, just like Glafira.”

  “And I suppose you’ve been sitting with your books again?” Dunya put in quickly. “If only you’d bring me a novel … I do awfully like reading the interesting ones … And Pushkin too! …”

  “Dunya-a-a! Da-a-amn it!” Glafira shouted from the hallway in her usual angry voice. “Go and see to Sanka! …”

  “Oh, away with you!” the girl said quietly, listening as she watched Sergei. “I’ll be right there!” she shouted in a loud, agitated voice and, slamming the door loudly behind her, flew out of the room, a swift-moving blur of color. In the quiet that followed her departure, the rustle of her calico skirt could still be heard for a time, and in the air, by the doorframe, her pink smile still shimmered.

  Suddenly, as happens in the street when a passer-by stares at someone from behind and the person instinctively turns around, sensing this gaze, Sergei quite unexpectedly, recalling something, turned to the table. The eyeless little metal object that looked like a soap dish was watching him dimly in the gray reflection of its facets. Gathered in its steel walls were the fruits of centuries of thought and sleepless nights, a fiery ball of yet-unborn lightning, with the unsuspecting look of a child and the poisonous body of a rattlesnake—it gleamed with a silent, malevolent reproach, like the look of a woman scorned. Sergei fixed his gaze upon it; it was as if two enemies, lying in wait with bated breath, were gathering their strength. And the man sneered with a sense of malicious triumph.

  “You’re powerless,” he said quietly and mockingly. “You may conceal the terrible, blind power of destruction … The wrath of a dozen generations may be compressed within you. But what’s that to me? You’ll remain silent so long as I please … Here, let me pick you up … I’ll pick you up just as easily and calmly as I would a turnip. Somewhere in the forest, where the human voice cannot be heard, you can bark and shatter the dry, rotten stumps … But you won’t tear off my skin, you won’t burn my eyes, you won’t crush my skull like shattered glass … You won’t char me or make of my body a red pulp …

  He picked it up—it was heavy, cold, and smooth. Then he took a towel, carefully and meticulously wrapped the bomb in it, put on his hat, placed a ball of twine in his pocket, extinguished the lamp, and walked out of the room.

  VIII.

  The night spread itself triumphantly, filled with hush and faint, furtive sounds. Stars set the black expanse ablaze. The earth was lost in darkness, and a pair of feet trod cautiously though wet, unseen grass. A smooth, calm wind was blowing, abating every now and then, whereupon the air would exude a warmth. The hillocks and ditches were hidden and slowly emerged as dark, dormant outlines. On the horizon, like a distant fire, a thin sliver of moon showed red.

  Step by step, carefully advancing, trying not to stumble, Sergei navigated the hummocks and ruts. He came across silent black bushes in dense, uneven rows, and as he drew
nearer to them, narrow, winding passages slowly unveiled themselves, filled with a damp, leafy rustle. They seemed to sleep by day, blinded by the light, and only now awoke to think secret, ancient thoughts. The grass rose up, taller and denser, and his feet trod through it with a gentle, moist squelch. As Sergei parted the bushes with his hands, their branches would stubbornly and quickly straighten again, lashing his face with their cold, wet leaves.

  He felt as though he were sleepwalking, carrying a heavy, fearsome metal in his breast, one that guarded his every step and every palpitation of his body, ready to abduct him and whisk him away, lonely, lost in a sleepy plain replete with mystery and silence. What had gone before this now appeared as a long, endless dream, and everything around him—the night, the darkness, the damp, and the bushes—seemed like a continuation of this same, eternal, alternatingly bright and vague dream.

  The night went on, silently moving in the heavens, and he went on too, tense and alert. Death seemed to vanish for him, while he, Sergei, would live forever, always conscious of himself, his body, and his thoughts. The sun would continue to rise and set; forests would rot and turn to dust; animals and birds would disappear; mountains would crumble; the sea would escape into the bowels of the earth; and he would never die but see eternally the bright blue sky, the gold of the sun, and listen to the nocturnal murk …

  There was a crack and a snap somewhere off to one side, and the faint cheeping of an invisible bird slipped through the bushes like a dreamy lament. The murk ahead rose up like a jagged black maw breathing a chill air. The forest was drawing near; its enormous sleeping body droned mournfully and whispered among the treetops. Another few steps and the trees stretched out ahead, faintly outlined, revealing row upon row of mysterious black corridors. The bushes yielded and then closed ranks behind him.

  Sergei entered under the drooping vaults of conifers. Brushwood snapped underfoot; ahead, like a dark crowd, trees emerged and parted. Up above, something creaked and sighed, as if someone enormous and covered in moss were rolling over, shedding cones that fell to the ground with a distinct, gentle rustle.

  A nervous sense of dread, not unlike the timidity felt by a thief, began to grip him as the twigs snapped, broken by his foot, and the silence seemed to quiver. Everything around was damp, vast, dormant. The fir trees’ shaggy paws hung down, brushing his head, while gnarled stumps stuck up like freakish gnomes out for a stroll. The roots of deadfall wrenched up from the earth loomed black like knotted, crooked shields, behind every one of which lurked some wild being. Somewhere there was a gasp and a groan. From time to time came the fluttering of some nocturnal bird moving noisily to a higher perch before settling down again.

  He found his way out into a clearing where it was even more desolate and somber because of the approaching dark storm clouds. He paused. Having placed his parcel carefully on the ground, he unwrapped the towel and tightly wrapped the twine in a crisscross formation around the metal object. Next, he selected a tree with high dried-out branches and, holding his breath, stood on tiptoe, looping the twine from the bomb around a branch as high up as his arms could reach. Having tied to that same branch the end of another piece of twine, a thicker one, he began to unwind it as he backed away toward the other side of the clearing.

  There was enough twine to cover a distance of about thirty paces. When it came to an end, Sergei lay down behind an enormous, tall stump, where, drawing his head tightly into his shoulders, and paralyzed with anticipation, he slowly tugged on the end. The twine stretched elastically, shaking, and Sergei, having suddenly lost his nerve, let it go, his heart now pounding.

  But the tree stump was reliable and the distance sufficient. So he closed his eyes and, with a chill, pulled with all his might.

  There was a painful ringing in his ears. The silence burst with a colossal, panicked rumble, and the murk leapt up, as the wooded depths were blinded and unveiled by the ringing blaze. The explosion rang with the sound of a thousand bells, a crash and prolonged, cackling screams. The noise danced in a frenzy all around, radiating out in fleeting, fading circles. Its echo began to sigh with a frail, polyphonous lament before dying away in the distance.

  Deafened and blinded by the milk-bright brilliance, Sergei staggered to his feet, his heart beating convulsively. The green corner of the forest, wrested from the murk by the shock of the explosion, still floated in his eyes. His ears ached, while a distinct, modulating ringing fractured inside them. It seemed that another moment would pass, and the secret of the darkness, outraged by this sacrilege, would rush at him with all the terror of the forest’s sly dread.

  He let out a deep sigh and straightened up. Fragments of branches, clods of earth, and sticks were still raining down from above, striking his clothes and hands. Sergei pricked up his ears. But all was quiet, as if nothing had disturbed the solitude.

  He raced over to the spot where only a minute ago a smooth, heavy box had been hanging from a branch. The tree lay there, shattered at the roots, while turf and damp churned-up earth had piled up all around. At the epicenter of the explosion, there was an uneven, elongated pit. He paused there for a moment, composed himself, and set off homeward.

  Once again the avid darkness came after him, dashing on ahead, while his feet now stepped lightly and quickly. Once again trees came rushing to meet him, parting to form narrow, twisting passageways. A silence embraced this space, reaching upward and beckoning with a dark, ambiguous swell.

  IX.

  The distant church bell gently tolled eleven times when, exhausted and overwrought, Sergei opened the gate and slipped under its clattering chain. He did not wish to sleep, and for several seconds he stood by the porch lost in thought, mopping his damp, perspiring forehead with the palm of his hand.

  The warm, starry sky exuded a calm, and in its black abyss the undulating clusters of trees in the garden grew still, like a chain of storm clouds that had come down to earth. Fading amid the silence, the sound of footfalls rang out; they seemed to be engendered by the dark, empty air itself. The watchman’s stick rattled with a gentle wooden vibration. The grass rustled faintly underfoot. Sergei entered the garden, which was enveloped by the spicy, aromatic sultriness of the floral grounds. The leaves were silent, as though cast in iron, and suddenly, coming to life with a soft, sorrowful sigh, they rustled with a quivering, lilting ripple. And it seemed to Sergei as if the curly, leafy waves were closing in all around in a dark embrace, trying to enfold his weary, exhausted body. In the trees’ black depths, the lighted windows of a neighboring house formed a red pattern, like hot coals smoldering among ashes.

  Somewhere, it must have been in the yard, there was a faint sound, a door creaking. Sergei automatically pricked up his ears; he thought he could hear the sound of footsteps. Perhaps it was Dunya. But everything was quiet, and the lights were all out. His thoughts ran to the daughter of the house, to the room where she was probably now sleeping, tossing and turning her white, lithe body in a hot bed. Thus he mused unconsciously and therefore pleasantly. The next moment, however, he felt an urge to speak and reveal the hidden seething of his soul, which was agitated and somehow both dolorous and happy. Damp, heavy perfumes emanated from the earth, swirling about his head like an intoxicating vapor. There was a smell of bird cherry, apple blossom, caraway, and damp, rotten tree stumps.

  The bushes rustled and, with a faint elastic snap, fell silent again. Someone alive and breathing was standing in the darkness, obscured by the garden’s black shadows. Alert now, Sergei started.

  “Who is it?!” he ventured quietly, straining his eyes.

  “Who’s there?!” a thin, frightened cry quivered in response.

  Sergei recognized it and smiled.

  “Dunya, is that you? Why aren’t you asleep?” he drawled encouragingly. “Surely you’ve collected enough pine cones for one day? You must be exhausted!”

  “Oh, Lord! You gave me such a fright just then, my heart’s pounding! … I don’t have to explain to you why I wasn’t asleep, you aren�
��t my keeper.” The girl had calmed down, and already a note of mockery was clear in her voice. “And what are you doing up at this hour? Hunting for buried treasure?”

  She broke into a quiet, quivering laugh. And it struck Sergei that here, probably, shrouded in darkness, she felt more assured and freer than when she came in with the lamp or swept the floor, awkwardly drawing out fragments of conversation.

  “I can’t sleep …” he said. “I’m not tired. I’m just taking a walk and thinking. It’s so lovely here in your little garden.”

  “I ought to be asleep,” the girl answered languidly, “but somehow I don’t quite feel like it …”

  She paused for a moment and, as she sat down on the ground, inquired suddenly:

  “You’re an educated man … Why do people sleep? …”

  “Because sleep restores the strength you lose during the day,” Sergei said in his habitual didactic tone of voice. “It’s essential …”

  “I see-e-e …” Dunya drawled thoughtfully. “I’m not sleepy. So my head must be as empty as a pail … I’ll just sit here until sleep comes …”

  Sergei drew nearer to the girl. He could hear her breathing—long and uneven—amid the darkness.

  “Shall I bring you some Pushkin?” he asked, lowering himself onto the grass beside her. His hand brushed her recoiling foot and sent a shiver through his body. “Why do you want Pushkin in particular, anyway?”

  “He writes poetry,” the girl sighed. “I do love a good poem … Don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” Sergei said distractedly.

  A silence fell. And the longer it continued, the more intense became the sweet, aching excitement in Sergei’s soul, constricting his breath and thought. The blood flowed slowly to his head. In the darkness he could see only the hazy white of her face and her hands resting on her knees. Dunya sat with her head slightly raised. The silence grew, and it felt both luscious and chilling to break it.

  “Dunya!” Sergei barked all of a sudden; his voice, constrained and faltering, sounded alien to him. His anxious dread had grown into a hot, languorous agitation that made his body feel light and his breathing heavy and quick.