The Dark Domain

by Stefan Grabinski

  Then he would return to his desk somewhat pacified, only to succumb again to his obsessive thoughts several minutes later … . Finally, he consulted a highly eminent neurologist and began treatment. He went to the seaside several times, he took cold baths, he started going to parties.

  After a while it seemed everything had passed. The stubborn picture of the open door gradually faded – and finally vanished.

  And Odonicz would have been completely satisfied with himself if not for certain manifestations which showed up a couple of months later.

  And they came suddenly, unexpectedly, in a public place, on the street … .

  He was close to the end of Swietojanski Street, nearing the point where it intersects with Polna, when at that corner, almost near the edge of the last tenement, panic seized him. It came from some nook and grabbed him by the throat with its iron claws.

  ‘You won’t go further, my dear sir! Not one step further!’

  Odonicz had originally intended to turn directly onto Polna Street at the point where the tenement ended, when he felt this resistance. He didn’t know why, but suddenly it seemed that the angle of the intersection was too sharp for his nerves. Quite simply, an overwhelming anxiety arose within him that there – ‘beyond the bend,’ ‘around the corner’ – one could meet with ‘a surprise.’

  The corner building, which one had to go around at an almost perfect right angle to turn onto Polna Street, shielded him for the time being from that unpleasant circumstance, hiding with its several-storied front a view of the other side. But eventually the wall would have to end, suddenly revealing, terrifyingly so, what was to the left of the corner. That suddenness, that instant crossing from one street to another as yet almost completely hidden from his eyes, seized him with boundless alarm. Odonicz didn’t dare meet ‘the unknown.’ Therefore, he took the path of compromise, and closing his eyes before the turn, with his hand resting against the wall so as not to fall, he slowly swerved onto the new street.

  In this manner, sliding his fingers along the surface of the wall, he advanced a few steps. When his fingers brushed by the arris of the building, he sensed that the turn had been successfully passed and that he had entered the zone of the next street. Even so, he didn’t dare open his eyes, and he went down Polna Street feeling the walls of its buildings with his hand.

  Only after several minutes, when he had already attained, as it were, the right of citizenship in the new zone, when he finally felt that his presence was known, did he get the courage to open his eyes. Looking ahead, he ascertained with relief that there was nothing suspicious before him. Everything was as ordinary and normal as on any urban street: carriages rushed by, motor-coaches flew like lightning, people were passing each other. Odonicz noticed, however, some empty-headed lout several steps away, who, hands thrust in his pockets, a cigarette dangling from his ugly mouth, was gazing at him quite openly and smiling maliciously.

  Odonicz suddenly became seized with rage and shame. Flushed with emotion, he went up to the impertinent man, and asked harshly:

  ‘Why are you gaping at me with your vacant eyes, you clown?’

  ‘Ha, ha, ha,’ let out the rascal casually, not removing the cigarette from his lips. ‘At first I thought you were blind – but now I think you’re only playing blindman’s buff with yourself. Can you believe it! What an imagination!’ And taking no more heed of Odonicz’s enraged response.he crossed over to the other side of the street, whistling some arietta.

  Thus, a new problem arose on the horizon: ‘turning a corner.’

  From then on Odonicz lost his self-confidence and relinquished his freedom of movement in public places. Unable to go from one street to the next without feeling an unknown anxiety, he adopted methods of circumventing turns by using wide circles. This was, admittedly, highly inconvenient, for he had to go greatly out of his way, but in this manner he avoided sudden turns, softening considerably the angle at which streets broke off. Now he didn’t have to close his eyes at corner tenements anymore.

  Any surprises which could eventually hide around the corner, now had enough time to mask themselves. That indefinite, heterogenous and bizarrely unfamiliar ‘something,’ whose existence on the other side of the turn he felt deeply, could now – not caught unawares by his sudden appearance – hide with relative ease for a while, or, speaking in Odonicz’s expressive style, ‘dive under the surface.’ For by then he didn’t doubt at all that there was something around the corner, something fundamentally different.

  In any case, at least during this period, Odonicz did not wish a meeting with that ‘something’ face to face; on the contrary, he desired to step out of its way and also facilitate its own concealment. The terrible fright which possessed him at the very thought that some revelations could occur, some undesirable manifestations and surprises, merely strengthened his conviction that the danger was indeed real.

  The opinion of people in this matter didn’t concern him at all. He felt that everyone should deal with this unknown presence by themselves – that is, if anyone besides himself was caught up in the same situation.

  Odonicz clearly realized that perhaps he was the only person in the world to have noticed all of this. He even supposed that the majority of his dear fellow creatures would burst out in coarse laughter right in his face if he were bold enough to reveal his anxieties to them. That’s why he was stubbornly silent, struggling alone with ‘the unknown.’

  Only after some time did he understand that the source of his particular phobia was a fear of mystery, that masked presence which has existed for ages and which walks, unseen and unsuspected, among people. But Odonicz, fearful and craving life, did not wish to confront it. That’s why he shunned any sort of meeting and facilitated a mutual avoidance … .

  Since the time of that inner resistance that had so unexpectedly come upon him at the corner of Polna Street, he developed a fundamental aversion for all walls and partitions – and also for temporary ‘covers’ that could offer concealment. He felt that all so-called ‘screens’ were a fatal, even unethical contrivance, for they made the dangerous game of hide-and-seek easier, besides frequently awakening suspicion and anxiety where there might be no trace of strangeness. Why hide things which do not merit concealment? Why unnecessarily arouse suspicion, as if something was there that needed concealing? And if that ‘something’ really existed – why offer it a means of playing hide-and-seek?

  Odonicz became a strong advocate of distant, clear perspectives, wide squares, vast open spaces stretching far, far away, as far as the eye could see. On the other hand, he couldn’t stand the ambiguity of alleys, insidiously hiding within the shadows of arcades, the hypocrisy of urban intersections, and winding dead-ends that seem to always he in wait for the solitary passerby. If it were up to him, he would build cities according to a new plan whose guiding principles would be lots and lots of sun and wide areas of space.

  That’s why he also greatly preferred taking walks beyond the city, along boulevards with sparsely-populated homesteads, or else walks in the late afternoon along suburban pastures that vanished gently into never-ending mists … .

  During this time Odonicz’s house underwent radical changes. In keeping with his new-found principles of simplicity and openness, he got rid of anything that could be considered as a cover or a screen.

  Therefore, old Persian rugs disappeared, along with Bokharas and Sumaks that muffled the echo of footsteps. From walls came down flowing curtains and drapes. He stripped the windows bare of discreet little curtains, he threw out silk screens. Even a screen of green tassels that had been a favourite of Jadwiga’s was no longer allowed to shade with its three-fold wings the interior of the bedroom. Even wardrobes became suspicious pieces of furniture, belonging to the category of hiding-places. Therefore, he had them taken to the attic, making do with ordinary hat-stands and coat-racks.

  And so the transformed house acquired a peculiar simplicity. As can be imagined, his few acquaintances commented on the exaggerat
ed primitiveness of his home, mentioning this and that about a hospital-barracks style, but Odonicz, smiling tolerantly, did hot take their remarks to heart. On the contrary, with every day he grew more partial to his home, which he left with less and less frequency, avoiding in this manner any surprises waiting for him outside. He liked his quiet, simple rooms where he didn’t have to fear any ambush, and where everything was bright and open like the palm of one’s hand.

  Nothing was hiding behind curtains, nor lurking in the shadows of unnecessary furniture. No romantic dimness or low-lighting existed, nor any shadowy hints or secrets. Everything was evident, like a piece of bread on a plate or a cookbook open on a table.

  During the day, the house was bathed in streams of healthy, robust sunlight; after the first hint of evening twilight, electric light-bulbs blazed. The eyes of the master of the house could freely and with impunity travel across the smooth surface of the walls, not over-hung with drapes, though embellished here and there with a couple of cheerful English prints. Nothing could catch him unawares, nothing could crouch behind some corner without being seen.

  ‘Just as in an open field,’ Odonicz frequently thought, taking in the plain surroundings. ‘My house is definitely not suitable terrain for any game of hide-and-seek.’

  It seemed that these preventive measures achieved their desired result. Odonicz became considerably pacified and even felt relatively happy. And nothing would have spoiled this calm if not for certain funny, as it were, little peculiarities … .

  One evening Odonicz was struggling for several uninterrupted hours to finish a major scholarly work, which he intended to publish in the near future. The work, which dealt with the natural sciences, criticised certain new biological hypotheses, demonstrating their helplessness before phenomena observed in the life of creatures inhabiting a region between the animal and plant kingdoms.

  Wearied by long exertions of thought, Odonicz put aside his pen, lit up a cigarette, after which, straightening his head onto the back of the chair, he placed his right hand on the desk, stretching out his stiff fingers … .

  Suddenly, he gave a start, for he felt under them something soft and pliant. He drew back his hand involuntarily and glanced attentively at the right part of his desk where a heavy porphyry paperweight usually lay. He discovered, to his amazement, a dry sponge instead of the stone.

  He rubbed his eyes and touched the object. It was a sponge! A typical, pale-yellow sponge – spongia vulgaris … .

  ‘What the devil?’ he muttered, turning the object round. ‘How did this get here? I don’t even use a sponge. Anyway, it’s too small to be of any use. Hmm, peculiar … . But where, confound it, is that paperweight? It’s been in the same place for years.’

  And he began to search about the desk, looking in drawers, underneath the table – in vain; the stone had vanished without a trace. In its place lay a sponge, a simple, common sponge … . Was not this an hallucination?

  He rose from the table and started to nervously walk about the room.

  ‘Why a sponge?’ he asked, perturbed. ‘Why exactly a sponge? It could just as well have been a lump of iron or a piece of wood from a fence.’

  ‘With your permission, my dear sir,’ suddenly responded some unwelcome inner voice, ‘this isn’t the same thing. Even such occurrences as these are related. You forget that for several hours you’ve been dwelling almost exclusively in the world of hydras, sponges, Actiniaria, and Coelenterata. And it was precisely the life of a sponge that most interested you. You won’t deny this?’

  Odonicz stopped in the middle of the room, struck by this reasoning.

  ‘Hmm, yes,’ he muttered, ‘sponges did occupy my thoughts for several hours. But so what, damn it?’ he suddenly yelled out. ‘This still doesn’t make sense!’

  And he glanced at the desk. But now, to his dumbfounded amazement, he saw, instead of the sponge, the missing paperweight. It was lying quietly and peacefully in its appointed, permanent place, as if nothing had happened. Odonicz swept a hand across his forehead, rubbed his eyes a second time, and convinced himself that he wasn’t dreaming: on the desk was lying the paperweight, the porphyritic paperweight with the smooth, rounded knob in its centre. No sign of the sponge – as if it had never been there.

  ‘A delusion,’ he declared. ‘An hallucination caused by overwork.’

  And he returned to his desk. But he couldn’t manage to hammer out even one more sentence that night; the ‘delusion’ gave him no peace, and despite all his efforts, he wasn’t able to concentrate on his work … .

  The episode of the sponge was a prelude to other similar manifestations, which from then on began persecuting him with greater frequency. Before long he noticed that other objects in the room would disappear, only to reappear at their familiar place after a while. Conversely, he often discovered on his desk the most varied things that had never been there before.

  Yet the most fascinating aspect of this entire situation was that these phenomena arrived concurrently with an interest he had in these objects before their disappearance or emergence. As a general rule he had been thinking intensely about them beforehand.

  It was enough for him to think, with a certain dose of inner conviction, that, for example, he had lost some book, to find, a moment later, that it was indeed missing from his library shelf. Similarly, whenever he would clearly imagine the existence of some object on the table, it would soon be there in front of his eyes as if he had summoned it.

  These phenomena upset him greatly, giving rise to grave suspicions. Who knew whether this wasn’t some new trap? At times he had the feeling that this was yet another attack of ‘the unknown,’ only from a different side and in a different form. Slowly, certain suggestions and views imposed themselves on him with relentless obsessiveness.

  ‘Does the world which encompasses me exist at all? And if it indeed exists, is it not created by thoughts? Maybe everything is only a fiction of some deeply meditating ego? Somewhere out there in the beyond, someone is constantly, from time immemorial, thinking – and the entire world, and with it the poor little human race, is a product of this perpetual reverie.’

  At other times Odonicz fell into an egocentric frenzy and had doubts about the existence of anything but himself. It was only he who continually thought, only he, Dr. Thomas Odonicz, and everything he looked at and perceived was a creation of his mind. Ha! ha! ha! How extraordinary! The world as a product of an individual’s thoughts, a mental creation of an insane ego!

  The first time he arrived at this conclusion, it weighed heavily on him. Suddenly, in a chill of eerie dread, Odonicz had felt terribly alone.

  ‘And if, indeed, there is nothing beyond the corner? Who can affirm if beyond so-called “reality” anything exists at all? Beyond a reality that I have probably created? As long as I’m steeped in this reality up to my neck, as long as it is sufficient for me – everything is tolerable. But what would happen if I wanted one day to lean out of my safe environment and glance beyond its borders?’

  At this point he felt a sharp, deeply piercing chill, a sort of freezing polar atmosphere of eternal night. Before his widening pupils appeared a bloodcurdling vision of a bottomless and boundless emptiness … .

  Alone he was, completely alone with his thoughts … .

  One day, shaving before a large hand-held mirror, Odonicz had a strange experience: it suddenly seemed that a part of the room behind him, that part he could see in the mirror, looked somehow different.

  He put aside his razor and began to diligently study the reflection of the rear portion of his bedroom. Indeed, for a moment everything behind him looked different. But what that change consisted of, he wasn’t able to clearly state. Some specific modification, some strange shift in proportion – something of this sort.

  Curious, he put the mirror down on the table and looked around to verify the reality of the situation. But he didn’t find anything suspicious: everything was as it used to be.

  Calmed, he again looked int
o the mirror. Now the room seemed normal again; whatever it was had completely disappeared.

  ‘Hyperesthesia of the visual centre, nothing more,’ he quietened himself down with the hastily put-together term.

  But there were after-effects. From then on Odonicz began to fear what was behind him. And that’s why he stopped looking around. If someone were to call out his name on the street, he wouldn’t turn around for all the money in the world. Now he also returned home by circuitous ways and never used the same street he initially took. When it was necessary to turn around, he did it with extreme caution and in the slowest possible manner, fearing that by a sudden change in direction he would face that unknown presence. Through slow and gradual movement, he wanted to give it enough time to withdraw or to return to its former innocent posture.

  Finally, he pushed this cautiousness to such a degree that whenever he intended looking around, he ‘gave prior warning.’ Every time he had to leave his desk to go to the back of the room, he first stood up with a noticeably noisy movement of his chair, after which he said in a raised voice, so that he would be clearly heard from behind:

  ‘I am now turning around.’

  Only after this announcement, and then waiting a moment more, would he turn in the intended direction.

  Life under these conditions soon became torturous. Odonicz, hampered at every step by a thousand fears, every moment potent with danger, led a miserable existence …

  Yet he became accustomed even to this. Yes, after a while this constant state of strained nerves became second nature to him. The feeling of being surrounded at every moment by mystery, albeit a menacing and dangerous one, cast a gloomy fascination on the grey trial of his life. He gradually grew fond of this game of hide-and-seek; in any event, it seemed more interesting than the banality of people’s ordinary experiences. He even developed an appetite for seeking out any sign of strangeness, and it would have been difficult for him to do without the world of enigmas.