The girl drew back, and sitting down near him on a bench, wordlessly fixed her large, blue, almost watery eyes on him. She looked twenty, at most. Her luxuriant golden-red hair fell down to her shoulders in two thick braids; the top of her hair was parted evenly, like a village beauty’s. The rather good-looking face was disfigured by a lengthy scar that, starting at the middle of the forehead, cut through the left eyebrow. The generously-developed breasts, which she didn’t attempt to cover at all with the border of her blouse, had the hue of pale-yellow marble and were overgrown with a light, golden down. On the right breast was a birthmark shaped like a horseshoe.
He liked her. He reached out his hand for her breasts, which he started to stroke. She didn’t defend herself and sat in silence.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Makryna.’
‘A beautiful name. Is that your father in there?’
And he gestured with his hand toward the closed room where the old man had disappeared.
The girl smiled mysteriously.
‘Who? In there? There’s no one there now.’
‘Come, come! Don’t evade the question. The innkeeper, the owner of this place, that’s who I mean. Are you his daughter or his lover?’
‘Not one or the other!’ she burst out with a deep, hearty laugh.
‘So you’re just a servant girl?’
She clouded up proudly.
‘Humph! So that is what you think! I’m the landlady here.’
Ozarski was astounded.
‘Well, then, he’s your husband?’
Makryna shook with a renewed drawn-out, generous laugh.
‘You haven’t guessed it. I’m no one’s wife.’
‘But you sleep with him, eh? Even though he’s lived long, he’s still strong. He could take care of three like me. And sparks are constantly flying from his eyes. An old wolf.’
A vague smile appeared on Makryna’s crimson lips. She nudged him with her elbow:
‘How curious you are! No – I do not sleep with him; no, I don’t. How could I? After all, it’s from him that I’m –’ She broke off, as if not knowing the appropriate word or as if unable to properly clarify things for him.
All of a sudden, apparently to evade further questions, she slipped free from his already too insistent hands and disappeared into the other room.
‘A strange girl.’
He drank down his fifth cup of vodka and, resting his legs comfortably on the bench, leaned back into the chair. A light languor came over him. The excessive warmth of the heated room, his weariness after a long tramp through the snowstorm, and the strong drink – all disposed him to sleepiness. And he would probably have fallen asleep, if not for the re-entrance of the old man. The innkeeper carried under his arm two bottles of wine, and filling glasses for his guest and himself, he said to Ozarski, smacking his lips loudly:
‘A superior Hungarian vintage. Why don’t you try it? It’s older than I am.’
Ozarski mechanically tossed it down. He felt dizzy. The old man was looking at him warmly, from the corner of his eye:
‘Ah, that’s because you haven’t eaten enough, sir. And it’ll do you good for the night … .’
The engineer didn’t understand.
‘For the night? What do you mean?’
‘Ah, nothing, nothing,’ the other dismissed quickly. ‘My, you’ve got strong legs, sir.’
And he pinched his thigh.
Ozarski abruptly drew back, pushing the chair with him. At the same time he searched in his pocket for the revolver that was constantly with him during long expeditions.
The old man leered slimily with his eyes, and said in a surprised voice:
‘Sir, why do you jump up from your chair? It’s just a simple joke, nothing more. It’s just from great friendliness. I’ve taken a liking to you. Besides, we have a lot of time on our hands.’
And as if to quieten him down, he retreated and leaned his back against the wall.
The engineer composed himself. Wanting to turn the conversation to another, directly opposite track, he asked impudently:
‘Where’s your girl? Why is she hiding behind that door? Hey, instead of these stupid jokes, bring her to me for the night. I won’t pay badly.’
The innkeeper seemed not to understand.
‘Pardon me, sir, but I have no girl, and beyond that door there is no one now.’
Ozarski, already well intoxicated, flew into a rage.
‘Who are you, old bull, to talk such nonsense right to my face? Where is the girl I had on my knees a moment ago? Call Makryna here, and off with you!’
The giant didn’t change his calm position by the wall, but smiling playfully, looked with interest at the irritated man:
‘Ah, Makryna, so we’re called Makryna today.’
And then ignoring his angry guest, he left with a heavy step to the neighbouring room where the girl had disappeared. Ozarski rushed after him, wanting to force his way inside, but at that moment he saw Makryna coming out.
She was dressed only in her shirt. Her golden-red hair fell in a cascade over her shoulders, a reddish-brassy colour flickering in the light.
In her hands she was holding three baskets full of freshly-kneaded bread. Placing them on a bench nearby, she reached for a pair of tongs and started removing the glowing embers from the oven. Leaning toward the black opening, her figure curved with a strong, firm arch, emphasizing her healthy, maiden shape.
Ozarski forgot himself. He grabbed her in that half-bent position and, raising her shirt, started to cover her flushed body with scorching kisses.
Makryna, laughing, did not interfere. Meanwhile, removing the smouldering firebrands, she carelessly left the rest of the glowing embers along the edges, after which, with the help of a brush, she cleared away the strewn ashes. But the passionate embraces of her guest apparently hindered her too much, for, freeing herself from his arms, she grabbed a shovel and jokingly threatened him with it. Ozarski yielded momentarily, waiting until she would finish with the bread. She proceeded to toss out all the loaves from the basket one right after the other, and sprinkling them one more time with flour, she placed them in the oven. Then she grabbed the oven cover hanging on a string beside her and closed the opening.
The engineer trembled with impatience. Seeing that the work was finished, he advanced predatorily and, pulling her toward the bed, tried to tear off her shirt. But the girl defended herself.
‘Not now. It’s too early. Later, in about an hour, near midnight, I’ll come to take out the bread. Then you will have me. Well, let go now, let go! If I say I’ll come, I’ll come. I won’t let myself be taken by force.’
And with a deft, cat-like movement, she escaped his arms, flitted passed the oven, closed the vent, and disappeared into the neighbouring room. He wanted to force his way inside, but the quickly bolted door wouldn’t budge.
‘Bitch!’ he breathlessly hissed through his teeth. ‘But I won’t forget about midnight. You have to come out for the loaves. You won’t leave them there for the entire night.’
Somewhat calmed by this certainty, he began to undress. He assumed that he wouldn’t fall asleep, and so preferred to wait in bed. He put out the lamp and lay down.
The bed was unexpectedly comfortable. He stretched out with delight on the soft bedding, put his hands under his head and surrendered to that particular state before sleep when the mind, wearied from a day’s work, half-dreams, floating like a boat entrusted to the waters by a tired oarsman who lets down his hands.
Outside the wind stormed, slashing the windows with snow; farther on, from the woods and fields, and smothered by the sound of the wild wind, came the howl of wolves. Inside, it was warm. The darkness of the interior was brightened only by the weakly glowing embers left behind by Makryna along the sides of the oven. Through the gaps between the cover and the edges of the aperture, the ruby eyes of coals were visible, capturing his attention … . The engineer stared at the dying redness, and dozed. Time lengthen
ed terribly. Every moment he raised his heavy eyelids and, overcoming sleepiness, fixed his eyes at the roving glimmer in the abyss. In his confused thoughts the figures of the lascivious old man and Makryna alternated, by the law of psychic relationship flowing into some strange whole, into some chimerical alloy, brought about by their mutual lasciviousness; their words, odd expressions, their successive appearances unreeled chaotically in a manifest, though not reasonable, arrangement. From covered thickets emerged previously hatched questions, now indolently seeking explanation. Everything loitered about, got entangled along the road, everything jostled sluggishly, sleepily and absurdly … .
An overwhelming stuffiness took possession of his mind, it prevailed in his throat and chest. A dim nightmare managed to slip in … . His impulsively outstretched hand wanted to hold back the enemy, but fettered, it fell back. A stagnant darkness followed … .
At some time during the night Ozarski awoke. He rubbed his eyes lazily, raised his heavy head, and began to listen. He thought he had heard a noise coming from the region of the oven. Indeed, after a moment, a distinct rustling issued from there, like soot giving way in a chimney. He tried to focus his eyes on its cause, but the complete darkness prevented him from doing so.
Suddenly a strip of moonlight penetrated the frosted windows, and cutting the middle of the room with a bright streak, its greenish glow illuminated part of the kitchen.
The engineer instinctively directed his eyes upward, in the direction of the oven, and to his amazement saw a pair of naked, muscular calves dangling from the hood and over the stove. Not changing his position, Ozarski waited with bated breath. Meanwhile, amid the continual noise of falling soot, powerful shanks emerged from the smoke-hole, to be slowly followed by wide, sinewy loins, then a woman’s abdomen with strong, expansive lines. Finally, with one jerk, the entire figure came out of the opening and dropped onto the floor. Not far from Ozarski, a huge, horrible hag stood in the moonlight … .
She was completely naked, with loosened long white hair falling below her shoulders. Even though, judging by the colour of her hair, she seemed an old woman, her body possessed a strange compactness and flexibility. Entranced, the engineer let his eyes wander along big breasts, firm like a girl’s, along strong, solid hips and supple thighs. The hag, as if wanting him to get a more thorough look at her, stood motionless for a long time in the moonlight. After a while she silently advanced toward the bed, pausing in the middle of the room. Now he could clearly see her previously shadow-covered face. He was met by the fiery glance of big black eyes, wildly brilliant against wrinkled eyelids. But he was most amazed by the expression on the face. That old countenance, furrowed by a system of folds and hollows, seemed doubled up. Ozarski sensed in it a familiar physiognomy, but for the present it escaped his mind. Suddenly, realizing where he was, he unraveled the tangled enigma: the hag was looking at him with a double face – the innkeeper’s and Makryna’s. The repugnant warts spread all over her, the hawk-like nose, the demonic eyes, and the age – belonged to the lecherous old man; on the other hand, the sex (unquestionably a woman’s), the white scar from the middle of the forehead to the eyebrow, and especially the birthmark on the right breast – betrayed Makryna.
Shocked by this discovery, he didn’t lower his gaze from the hag’s magnetic eyes.
Meanwhile, she advanced right up to the bed, and placing one leg along its edge, with the other she rested her big toe on his lips. This happened so unexpectedly that he didn’t even have time to avoid the heavy, overpowering foot. He was gripped by a strange fear. In his burdened chest a nervous heart pounded; his lips, pressed down by the toe of the hag, couldn’t utter a cry. Thus lasted a long, silent moment.
Slowly the shrew, not changing the position of her legs, removed the quilt and started to take off his underclothes. At first Ozarski attempted to defend himself, but feeling her pressure on him, and his will fettered by the fire of her lustful eyes, he surrendered with some kind of terrible joy.
The hag, noticing the change which had overcome him, removed the foot crushing his lips and, sitting on the bed, began a wild, debauched fondling of his body. After several minutes she gained complete control: he quivered from pleasure. An unleashed heat – animalistic, insatiable, primitive – rocked their bodies and entangled them in a titanic embrace. The lustful female threw herself under his body, and humbly, like a young maiden, drew him into her with a craving movement of her thighs.
Ozarski satisfied her. Then she went crazy. She encircled his middle with her strong arms, ensnared his loins with her muscular legs, and began to squeeze him in a terrific hug. He felt a pain at the small of his back and in his chest.
‘Let go! You’re strangling me!’
The terrible embrace didn’t ease up. He thought she would crush his ribs, shatter his chest. Half-conscious, he laid a free hand on a glittering knife lying on the nearby table, pushed it under her arm, and plunged it in.
A hellish double-cry tore apart the quiet of the night: the savage, animalistic roar of a man – and the sharp, piercing wail of a woman. And then silence, absolute silence … .
He felt relief; the snake-like tangles of a noctuid loosened, relaxed; a smooth viper seemed to slide down along the length of his body, eagerly slipping to the ground. He saw nothing, for the moon had hidden itself behind a cloud. His head weighed terribly, his temples pounded loudly … .
Suddenly he jumped up from the bedding and feverishly looked for some matches. He found them, tore them open, and lit a taper. A faint light brightened up the room; no one was there.
He leaned over the bed. The bedding was spread with soot, full of signs of the bodies that had rolled over it; on the pillow there were several large blood stains. Then he saw that his left hand was tightened about a knife spattered with gore up to the handle.
He was seized by a dull dizziness. Staggering, he rushed to the window and opened it; a freezing gust of winter morning air came in and hit him in the face. Out of the room escaped a trail of lethal gas … .
He regained consciousness, he remembered the cry. Automatically, half-clothed, he dashed with the lit taper toward the inner room. Standing at the threshold, he glanced inside, and bridled up.
On a filthy plank-bed lay two naked corpses – the gigantic old man’s and Makryna’s – steeped profusely in blood. Both had the same fatal wound, near the left armpit, above the heart … .
THE MOTION DEMON
The express Continental from Paris to Madrid rushed with all the force its pistons could muster. It was already the middle of the night; the weather was showery. The beating rain lashed the brightly lit windows and was scattered on the glass in rolling drops. Bathed in the downpour, the coaches glittered under roadside lampposts like wet armour. A hollow groan issued forth into space from their black bodies, a confused chatter of wheels, jostling buffers, mercilessly trampled rails. The frenzied chain of coaches awakened sleeping echoes in the quiet night, drew out dead voices in the forests, revived slumbering ponds. Some type of heavy, drowsy eyelids were raised, some large eyes opened in consternation, and so they remained in momentary fright. And the train sped on in a strong wind, in a dance of autumn leaves, pulling after it an extended swirling funnel of startled air, while smoke and soot lazily clung to its rear; the train rushed breathlessly on, hurling behind it the blood-red memory of sparks and coal refuse … .
In one of the first-class compartments, squeezed in the corner, dozed a man in his forties, of strong, Herculean build. The subdued lamplight that filtered with difficulty through the drawn shade lit up his long, carefully shaved face and revealed his firmly set, thin lips.
He was alone; no one interrupted his sleepy reveries. The quiet of the closed interior was disturbed only by the knocking of wheels under the floor or the flickering of gas in the gas-bracket. The red colour of the plush cushions imbued a stuffy, sultry tone which acted soporifically like a narcotic. The soft, yielding material muffled sounds, deadened the rattle of the rails, and surrendered
in a submissive wave to any pressure. The compartment appeared to be plunged into deep sleep: the curtains drawn on ringlets lay dormant, the green net spread under the ceiling swung lethargically. Rocked by the car’s steady motion, the traveller leaned his weary head on the headrest and slept. The book that had been in his hands slipped from his knees to the floor. On its binding of delicate, dark-saffron vellum the title was visible: Crooked Lines; near that, impressed with a stamp, the name of the book’s owner: Tadeusz Szygon.
At some moment the sleeper stirred; he opened his eyes and swept them about his surroundings. For a second an expression of amazement was reflected on his face. It seemed as if he couldn’t understand where he was and why he found himself there. But almost immediately a wry smile of resignation came to his lips. He raised his large, powerful hand in a gesture of surrender, and then an expression of dejection and contemptuous disdain passed over his face. He fell back into a half-sleepy state … .
Someone’s steps were heard in the corridor; the door was pulled back and a conductor entered the compartment:
‘Ticket, please.’
Szygon didn’t stir. Assuming he was asleep, the conductor came up and grasped him by the shoulder:
‘Pardon me, sir; ticket, please.’
With a faraway look in his eyes, Szygon glanced at the intruder:
‘Ticket?’ he yawned out casually. ‘I don’t have one yet.’
‘Why didn’t you buy it at the station?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re going to have to pay a fine.’
‘F-fine? Yes,’ he added, ‘I’ll pay it.’
‘Where did you get on? Paris?’
‘I don’t know.’
The conductor became indignant.
‘What do you mean you don’t know? You’re making fun of me, sir. Who else should know?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Let’s assume that I got on at Paris.’
The Dark Domain Page 2