The Fourth Circle

by Zoran Zivkovic

  I began to have that same kind of dream, since I saw that the fetus was developing in its own way, quite independently of my expectations and my will, cocooned in an impenetrable spherical womb. The earlier dreams—in which I clearly saw the future and those in which indecent, erotic scenes appeared before my eyes, full of elongated hairy circles and cylindrical insects—have quite disappeared now, giving way to a new and stranger dream vision, of the kind that probably comes only to inexperienced and reluctantly pregnant women.

  I had the monster dream several times, because with the monsoon storms frequently passing over this area, Sri keeps switching me off. Recently, lightning struck a nearby treetop where I had a set of sensors; they burnt up, as did the whole tree in fact, but the fire failed to spread through the jungle because the rain put it out. A large number of small animals and monkeys who had taken refuge in the branches were killed in the blaze; later, I saw their charred bodies strewn around and felt a certain relief at not finding the Little One's corpse among them.

  Not that I would have shed a single tear if he'd been killed. He deserves no better fate, the ruthless blackguard. But why should my child be born an orphan? The dream starts with the actual birth. I'm in a large room, much more spacious than the inside of this temple. Everything around me is white: walls, ceiling, floor, the furniture (which looks like something from a hospital or a kitchen), the surgical table on which I lie, my hospital gown, and the clothes of everybody else present.

  There are about ten persons, but I recognize the faces of only two of them; others have white masks and caps covering their hair so that I see only their eyes.

  The Little One crouches in a corner, obviously repentant and despondent, and so he ought to be; something is trickling down his cheeks but from where I am, I can't decide whether it's tears or sweat because of the great heat.

  There is a sound like a gong, and immediately I am approached by the person who I somehow know is the chief doctor in charge of the delivery. He leans over me and switches on a large circular light above my head and in the sudden brilliance I recognize Buddha, the one whose statue is constantly before my eyes in the temple. Only he's not so big and fat, nor do his eyes range indifferently into the distance. On the contrary, this is a kindly old man with great experience in obstetrics, whose very appearance radiates trustworthiness and kindness to the woman about to give birth.

  He raises his hands in white rubber gloves to the level of his face; since his sleeves are short, parts of his arms are bare, and I see thick hairs through which a tattoo of a circle can be seen on the forearms, but I don't have time to look at it more closely because Buddha lowers his hands and says tersely and calmly, "Let us begin." It sounds more like a suggestion then a doctor's instruction.

  Then most of my field of vision is blocked by the white massif of my swollen stomach, above which I see only the balding top of Buddha's head. A thought crosses my mind: it's because he has so little hair that he's not wearing a cap to keep it in, like everybody else in the room. He has nothing to keep in. He is fully concentrated on his work, which he does well; he even seems to be humming a tune as he works or maybe whistling under his breath, I'm not sure. But he's obviously convinced that the delivery will last only a short time. Two or three times he peers over the curve of my stomach to give me a smile and a reassuring glance. Buddha is undoubtedly poking around inside me, but I don't feel anything despite the lack of anesthetic. This does seem a bit odd, but I don't pay much attention, glad that there is none of the pain I had been fearing so much. From somewhere in the background, a nurse emerges to wipe Buddha's dewy forehead with a piece of gauze, and in a flash I get the impression that the trace left on the white cloth is slightly green.

  But I have no time to concentrate on this oddity because the next moment I hear Buddha's serene voice, "Here he comes." Several associates and nurses gather around him, all suddenly looking extremely busy. They all seem to be holding something, and I see by the movement of their eyes—the only part of their faces that is uncovered—that that "something" is quite bulky.

  My field of vision begins to widen as the swell of my stomach goes down, and I first see the bent heads of Buddha and his assistants, all gazing down at something below my visual range. I get the feeling that something is leaking out from me, something warm and thick, causing a slight stinging between my legs; the flow goes on and on, until my stomach flattens completely, so that I can observe what I couldn't see before.

  The hurried activity continues, but now somewhere below the level of the operating table, for everybody is bent over. While I don't recognize any trace of urgency in their movements, I am beginning to worry because I still don't hear the baby crying. Then a new sound reaches my ears: a harsh cackle from the corner where the Little One is crouched.

  I look over and see his beaming face, that of the happy father who has just seen his offspring for the first time. It makes me wince, thinking that maybe the worst has happened—that the baby looks like him. Why else would he be so satisfied? Which would mean total defeat: since not only did he rape me, but I have now also given birth to a monkey that is the image of him.

  I want to close my eyes, not to see the baby, but my curiosity and maternal instinct prevail and I raise myself on my elbows a little, just at the moment when Buddha and his assistants are lifting the fruit of my womb above the table. I am prepared for the worst—at least that is what I think; but the thing that finally appears before my eyes fills my throat with a scream of pure horror, a scream that dies somewhere along the way, before reaching my mouth.

  I haven't given birth to a monkey, after all. Buddha smiles as he walks closer to the head of the operating table, carrying, with the help of the nurses, a large transparent bubble in which, curled up like a fetus, lies Sri. Only then do I realize that it did not seem at all strange to me that, of all people, only he was missing from this room until now. He is completely nude, as a newborn should be, and at the place where his still-undealt-with umbilical ought to be, there is a snake that twists and turns as it tries to burrow into his stomach. Sri looks at me helplessly, his eyes open very wide, full of desperation; he is trying to tell me something, but his voice cannot burst through the membrane of the bubble.

  Swaying under the considerable weight of this burden, Buddha and his helpers suddenly drop the bubble only a step or two from me; it begins to fall to the floor, slowly as in a dream. Though the speed is negligible, on impact with the hard surface of the floor the fragile bubble shatters: the membrane bursts and all the dirty, sticky liquid flows out, while Sri opens his mouth and frantically gulps air, like a fish on dry land.

  I look pleadingly at Buddha and the others, the Little One now among them, but they do nothing to protect my child, to help him. They just stand in that filthy liquid from the bubble that has completely stained the surrounding whiteness, arranged in a circle around him, observing Sri's convulsions with malicious smiles on their faces.

  Then the scream finally tears itself from where it had stuck in my throat, echoing all over the big white room. In an instant the room shakes and shatters into nothingness, leaving me alone in the darkness and silence to wait, distraught and sweaty, no longer dreaming, but not yet in reality, either. I wait for Sri to switch me on again so that I can finally wake up.

  This waiting sometimes lasts for quite a while, but that's how it is with men.

  When you're really in trouble, you just can't rely on them.

  8. DELIGHT ENTRANCING

  DARKNESS FELL—BUT not for long.

  A few moments passed before my old eyes, dazzled by the last flaring of the dying candle, accustomed themselves to the deep gloom of the iguman's cellar, and then I saw that the darkness was not complete. At first I thought the lingering afterglow of the glory that had been was mocking my feeble sight, causing it to see ghosts that dwelt only in my confused mind. But when I rubbed my eyes with my withered, bony hands to drive away these delusions and they nonetheless remained, surrounded now by a swar
m of red sparks caused by the painful pressure I had put on my eyeballs, I realized I was not seeing fleeting apparitions, soon to evaporate back into nothingness, but the harbingers of a new miracle, to which I must again bear unwilling witness.

  Where Marya and the Master stood facing each other in total nakedness—ready, as I thought in my unworthiness, to yield to the sin that is greater but more delightful than all others—I now observed two forms outlined by a peculiar bluish glow, as if saintly aureoles emanated from them. This radiance was so slight that a moonbeam, chancing through the narrow window of the dim cellar, or the first ruddy blush of dawn could outshine it. But this was a night of hidden moon and many hours yet ere the monastery's cocks would first crow.

  The figure that was Marya then raised a dark left hand, framed in sparkling blue, to the height of her face. The purpose of this motion I could not discern.

  What mute sign could this be—a call to final, miraculous union, or a late impe-diment to the ultimate profanity? While this question tormented me, crucified as always between the greatest of contradictions, the one for whom the gesture was intended had no doubts at all.

  The Master's bluish outline responded with the selfsame gesture: his right hand rose until it faced Marya's, not touching and yet communing with the other, for the sparks shimmering between them mingled, leaping from hand to hand and back, as if their palms were exchanging countless tiny bolts of lightning.

  Although I stood a few steps away from them in the thick gloom no whit diminished by the feeble blue glow, I suddenly felt gooseflesh on the exposed parts of my skin, as if the proximity of one sparking hand to the other had caused an invisible breeze to rise and touch me. I felt this more strongly the next moment, when their remaining hands moved to the same height to also exchange, without quite touching, the blue, dancing lightning. The whole cellar seemed at once to grow brighter from this new sparkling, for I could again see their cast-off robes where they lay about their feet, forming two rings of strange exactitude, as if someone had carefully drawn two circles on the dusty earthen floor so that they might touch at just one chosen point.

  Besides the gooseflesh on my wrinkled skin, caused not by cold but by the blue fire burning stronger between Marya and my Master, I also felt my gray, curly hair rise, as if unreasoning fear had taken hold of me, though no misgiving troubled me, only shameless, insatiable curiosity. Another emotion filled me, too, but one so unreal and unsuited to my age that I at first deemed it a mere illusion and rebuked myself for such a shameful thought. It had been a decade or more since my loins had felt the stirring of that vigorous, sinful swelling that so long had held sway over me, bringing naught save dreadful calamity.

  The illusion did not depart, for when a few moments later their bright blue fusion took another course, there remained no doubt: this was the flame of old, once extinguished and now brought back to life by some miracle no less remarkable than those that had gone before, pumping into my aged veins the warm vigor of life, as if I were once again a lad just come of age who has no choice about when he must give vent to his rising manhood.

  A man of my advanced age—a man no longer—would normally accept this chance favor gladly, without looking the gift horse in the mouth, but I was overcome with shame, which filled my withered cheeks with a youthful blush. I feared that the visible sign of such tumult, sinful beyond measure, would show through my thin linen robe, exposing my shame to the gaze of Marya and the Master.

  This was but vain, unavailing apprehension, for the cellar's darkness concealed me; besides, the two of them, who had eyes only for each other, were in thrall to their blazing, sinful deed and now seeming to increase in ardor.

  Not only their hands but also their outstretched arms now approached one another, still without touching—so much was clear—but closely intertwined with the blue, madly dancing lightning, which caused long strands of their hair to fill with sparks of starlight and broke the silence of the night with crackling, explosive sounds. In the increased light from this new coupling, I saw that their heads were thrown back as speechless joy streamed from their faces, visible in its powerful radiance, but inaudible as their open mouths uttered no sound.

  The fiery bliss that overcame them must have reached me too, by the same miracle as earlier, when it had made me shiver; at once I felt myriad thorns of flaming roses, such as blossom only in the gardens of Paradise, leaving a prickling, angelic trail down the back of my head and sinewy neck, making me, too, throw back my head in sudden spasm. The quick movement almost wrenched a croaking exclamation from my throat; I was borne aloft by a torrent of gladness and pain, but at the last moment restrained my voice, fearing that I would reveal my unseemly, spying presence, thus bringing shame upon myself.

  But there was no opportunity for such repentant meditation because their wondrous mating, begun before my prying eyes, was swiftly rising to its climax.

  Their shoulders now also met in untouching union, a host of blue flashes sparkling anew, then naked chest and waist. And a pillar of brightness rose before me, the muted shine of which did not reach far but was strong enough to make my poor form visible in the gloom.

  Although now in plain view and with the hardening sign of my uninvited complicity prominent under my thin linen robe, I cast off all my earlier shame with the ease of the accomplished sinner. It seemed that with the dispersal of darkness the countenance of mine that had displayed Christian modesty and chastity had been banished and that another had been summoned in its place, one lecherous and furtive, overjoyed at its participation in this act of greatest blasphemy, giving vent to its own carnality with a deep, hoarse sigh. Likely Sotona alone accompanies his most prodigious lust with such a sound.

  At the moment when their naked loins touched by means of darting tongues of fire, the purest white suddenly inundated the flickering blue, as if an angelic pearl had begun to burn between their legs in chaste frenzy. From the burning pillar of their bodies streamed a milky light that reached into the farthest corners of the cellar, as if the noonday sun in all its splendor had descended into this forecourt of the underworld to chase off all feigned concealment or professed shame.

  And I indeed, past resisting, not only tore off my linen robe in one resolute movement, but also turned my eyes to the narrow window of the cellar, the only place where a trace of the previous gloom remained—not out of fear that I would see the frightened face of some monach lured here by this unseemly blaze but rather because I had indeed a perverse wish that it should be so, that I should observe him and shoot him a look both defiant and vindictive.

  It flashed through my mind that this arrogant attitude was not proper to my peaceable, reserved nature and that another spiteful voice spoke for me in its own obscene tongue. But I had no time to entertain this fresh doubt because in the next moment came cries of ecstasy from the pillar of light, signifying the inevitable approach of supreme bliss. These voices of delight caused the fire of pleasure, already burning strong in my loins, to leap in branching flames up my bent spine, culminating just under the back of my head in a divine explosion, so that my whole body stiffened in a mighty paroxysm, the like of which I had long since forgotten.

  Though heavenly, that spasm was as nothing to that which possessed Marya and the Master at that same moment. When their touch became complete, no longer divided by untamed lightning, the two circles under their feet melted into one, and from it a shining pillar enveloped them in brightness, streaming with blinding whiteness like the very appearance of the Lord Himself.

  Whether because of the divine glow or because of the blissful paroxysm that drained the life juices from the dry wells of my withered body, I closed my eyes.

  Even then, the shining trail did not diminish until the last drop of warm seed was expelled from me and I, quite faint, collapsed to my knees to struggle for breath.

  When I opened my eyes again, the powerful, entrancing blaze seemed still to fill the cellar with its potency, but this illusion did not last long. It began quickly
to fade, to break up first into circles and white dots, then into ghostly, colorless spots until finally I realized I was in complete darkness.

  No other, more appropriate thought passed through my confused mind than that of my total shameful nudity, and I began to grope in the dark around me for the robe, which I myself had cast off so immodestly a few moments or an eternity ago—I could not tell which.

  But the senselessness of this repentant gesture came to my notice before I found the discarded garment. Even if there had been someone with me in the cellar, no mortal eyes could have seen my untimely nudity in what was now complete darkness. But there was no one there, neither Marya nor my Master.

  Only I remained, alone to find meaning in the miracles I had unwillingly undergone and to expiate my countless sins.

  9. BREAKING ON THE WHEEL

  I MUSTN'T WIN again, but I must keep on playing!

  The damned wheel is bribing me to leave it alone, putting piles of money in my way to prevent me from finally cracking its secret, now that I'm so close. As if I cared for money at this point, even if I haven't paid the rent for the past three months and have pawned my books just to rid myself of this obsession. Back in Smiljan they'd despise me if they got to hear about it, but those simple folk don't know what trouble is....

  Maybe the wheel is not trying to buy me off but to point me out—the rat—so that the management, believing I've discovered a surefire method of breaking the bank, will bar me from ever entering the casino again. They banned that balding, stooped mathematician from the casino in Vienna last fall. He was forever scrib-bling calculations with a short, stubby pencil chewed at one end, fumbling in his simplistic way with probabilities and statistics, but winning all the same: small amounts, but constantly, for months.

  Rumor has it that the poor fellow subsequently committed suicide, believing himself the victim of a tremendous injustice but nonetheless proud of his achievement. They shouldn't have interfered with him at all; he achieved nothing—his winning was simple luck, which would have abandoned him soon enough. If only it would abandon me, so I could stop winning! But mere chance has no power over the wheel in my case, as I well know, so there's nothing to be hoped for there.