It's Time

by Pavel Kostin

Or just say to hell with everything and lie under the big blue sky with other slackers just like you, and laugh, and have girls love you just for who you are and even despite of it and you keep losing and finding and achieving nothing, but never worry or be afraid of anything.

  That’s the question. Probably talent’s something you just have. Not something that you choose, but something that you were given unconditionally.

  “Let’s go dance,” I say. “I’m bored!”

  And we plunge into the colours of the darkness, where people are dancing and loud music is thumping, where we can forget ourselves and dissolve in the rhythm.

  Dissolve…

  In the rhythm. In the rhythm of the past.

  • • •

  The smooth red finish changes colour in the sights of the sun. The glare. A flash, like in the lens of a film camera.

  I walk round the car and the sunshine pours evenly over the red bonnet, glinting on the curve of the windscreen.

  It’s a beautiful car. The smooth lines and finely honed contours of a speedboat. It’s old, and not in great condition, but you can see its old-school style. It looks at home in the middle of the half-deserted forecourt beneath the blinding sun. The clear, penetrating sky, the enormity of the space, the strange hangars in the distance and in the middle of all this – a bright red car. I’m almost blinded. I feel the heat of the tarmac through the soles of my trainers. Right now I feel very close to reality. Right now we’re touching our palms against the thin glass and feeling each other’s warmth.

  I scan for the owner. Two fat little men are chatting in the near distance. The prose of life.

  “Excuse me, please,” I say. “How much does this car cost?”

  One fellow turns round and gives me a hostile look. I know, I don’t exactly look like a potential buyer. I’ve been wandering round the car market and no one has come up to try and sell me a car.

  “It’s there… On the back.”

  I go over to the rear windscreen. There’s a piece of paper there with the price. Eighteen. Not cheap. It’s a great car, but clearly pretty old.

  “How come it’s so expensive?” I ask, trying to hide my surprise. “Condition’s not up too much.”

  “That’s a Ford Torino,” the fellow answers with something like disdain. “A ’72.”

  And he turns back round.

  Eighteen. That’s expensive! And if you think about it from a practical perspective… What if it breaks down? Where do you get a car like this fixed..?

  I look around, hoping to hear some advice.

  “A little stereotypical, no?” she says, and I can hear that she’s smiling.

  I’m a little offended even, but still pretty happy to hear her.

  “I didn’t pick it specially! I just asked… But you know…” I gather my thoughts. “I don’t care!”

  “Don’t care about what?” Lady F asks.

  “Stereotypes. A stereotype is when you want to live up to some idea because it is a stereotype. But if there is something which is wonderful all by itself, then running away from this wonderful thing, no matter what for… I just don’t want that.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. And I want to eat the same tasty simple food as everyone else and buy nice expensive things, fashionable things even, and relax in completely banal ways, but only so I get some pleasure out of it. I mean, I don’t give a toss if it’s suddenly trendy. What should I do? Why should that be my problem, my hassle?”

  “Do you like it?” Lady F asks.

  “I do.”

  “Well then, take it!”

  “I mean… Wait! I forgot to ask! What was all that? Why did it all happen? What should I do? How did I find…”

  Lady F raises her hand to stop me.

  “To start with, you don’t have to do anything. OK?”

  “OK…”

  “Good. And as for how and why, you’ll figure that for yourself in time. Get the car! You said you like it so, why not..?”

  She’s right.

  I go over to the seller.

  “Listen…”

  “What now?” he asks grumpily.

  “I’d like to buy your car.”

  “The Torino. Did you see the price?” the fellow’s face starts to change.

  I want to have a little revenge.

  “Yeah, well, not too expensive for this model. I’m just a bit worried about the condition. The boot. The suspension. I would take it but...”

  I’ve managed to knock him off his stride. The fellow’s face changes completely, he starts swallowing and starts hurriedly justifying and explaining. Really, it’s all the same to me. I’ve already decided. But let him explain a bit. It’ll be easier for him that way.

  After arranging an appointment I walk off on foot. But wait, before we part, let me tell you a little something else about this scorching hot day. About the endless sky above me, about the distant horizon, about the distant buildings melting in the hot air. About the high lace clouds and the smell of the field. About the excitement I feel inside, about this sensation, like you’ve forgotten something endlessly important, but that you’ll definitely remember it, and this premonition alone makes your heart tremble and overflow with magical excitement… Be careful. Nothing cheesy. Just precise definitions.

  The sky. Endlessly large, endlessly high. The expanse of sky, the enormous expanse all the way to the horizon. And all that at once. And what’s going on inside you.

  And all that vastness pours into your heart. Right, right, right into your heart, so that you feel it all so intensely. There is only the inexplicable, irrational but very precise desire to become this space, this sky, these clouds, all this endless open space. Seriously. It probably sounds awful. Or stupid. But that’s really how I feel. Just as precisely as thirst or hunger. Not metaphorically. But a direct, clearly expressed desire coming from special biological receptors designed for this purpose which signal that right now I really need, really want to become the sky, this endless space. To dissolve into them. To feel that I am them.

  How..?

  • • •

  “Awesome…!” Oxana says for the tenth time, patting the seat.

  We are hurtling along the main road, and the Torino is purring happily, measuring the tarmac with its wheels. Really grips. It’s like it senses the road and then doesn’t let it out of its grasp.

  “No, well, of course I’d never have gone for this one,” she chirps away, “I’d have gone for a new one. A little one, on warranty. But this is just awesome! Wow! What a beauty!”

  I grin. I hadn’t really lost out on the car. Now I needed to sell my old one. And there’d still be a bit of money left over.

  “Are you going to go racing in it?”

  What do cars do to girls?! It’s kind of annoying.

  “I don’t know. Do I look like a boy racer?”

  “Now you do!” Oxana announces and… did I really hear a flirtatious tone in her voice…?

  “Are you teasing me?” I laugh.

  “Maybe!” Oxana giggles. “Just make sure you take me out! Come on let’s go round the ring road one more time!”

  “OK,” I reply.

  Her easy excitement is infectious and wraps bright cloth around my happy concentration. I look at her dark glasses and for a second see the world through her eyes. A colourful, flashing, transparent world, flying past me and disappearing in a second. Oxana takes of the sunglasses and laughs.

  Summer, heat, the road. Everything feels as if its warmth comes from the inside. Everything’s glowing. The trees and bushes on the side of the road fly by, disappearing for ever into the past.

  The road leads off far into the distance, hiding behind the horizon. And right now I don’t really care where it goes.

 
I could drive like this forever.

  • • •

  I drive along looking around as I go. I’ve started driving a lot more. I feel something like pride now. It’s dumb. A good car doesn’t make you better. But it’s nice all the same. Feels good inside. Improves your sense of well-being.

  I’m looking for Oxana. She asked me to pick her up in one of these alleys and without thinking about it I agreed. Now I can’t find the right place. I don’t know this area well, the side streets here are all small and look the same. I go round in circles, looking out the window. The streets are narrow, and pretty much entirely covered by the shade of the blocks of flats. At sea, or in any other place where there is a lot of sky, darkness comes later. Here it’s the other way around – twilight comes an hour early. A special time zone.

  The fences are covered in graffiti, the tags of street gangs that call themselves crews and squads. Sometimes they’re done terribly and look horrible; sometimes you can look at them for ages. Tags swarm on top of each other, fighting it out on the concrete battle field. A symbol of competition for a limited, and none too pleasant, living space.

  I turn the corner and immediately see Oxana with some friends of hers. I drive up closer and feel a chill in my chest. These are no friends. She’s always ending up in situations. There are four of them. One has got Oxana up against a wall and is grabbing her neck. She’s holding his arm and trying to break free. A big guy. Two others are digging about in her bag. One more is standing a bit to the side and laughing and looking round. He fixes his gaze on my car for a second and says something nervously to the big guy. He looks at me and shrugs. So it’s like that, is it. Well, we’ll see. I start to feel scared and happy. I put my foot down. Let’s go for a ride. Oh, we’re going to go for a ride now, my friend.

  The car picks up speed quickly. A million thoughts go through my head, but I’m not confused. Right, that one standing to one side, I’ll knock him down. Will I kill him? Is it worth risking my life for this freak. Or screw this…? So what should I do now? I’ll stop. What then..? What?

  And then I inhale the scent of ozone, like a soft pressure, like the precise presentiment of a storm, a refreshing pause in the heat of the baking July streets. It’s exact. Much more exact than before.

  I turn my head. There, next to me on the passenger seat, is Lady F. She looks at me and smiles.

  “Weren’t you expecting me?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “This is already pointless. It’s a hallucination.”

  “OK,” she says, mimicking my tone. “If you call me a hallucination one more time, you’ll never see me again! I’m different. I’m just different. Get it? You’re going to have to accept that. No other option. Or we’ll go our separate ways and say goodbye forever. Got it?”

  She sits there, leaning slightly forward, her hands under her knees, and looks at me very seriously.

  “Got it. I won’t do it any more,” I reply honestly. “I’ll really try.”

  “Scared?”

  “No.”

  “Worried?”

  “A little.”

  “Everything’s going to be OK, right?”

  “Right, I nod and laugh nervously”

  The situation – a fragile little girl in a white tunic comforting a pretty big guy – seems very funny. I’ll probably feel bad later.

  “That’s good,” Lady F smiles. “Now listen. If you hit the brakes, then go right. Door out. Lean forward at the smile. And keep an eye on the feet! Memorised that?”

  “I’ve memorised it,” I say, trembling. “But I didn’t understand a word!”

  “No need. Just memorise it. Here we go. Look ahead!”

  I look ahead. Going pretty fast! A couple of dozen metres to go. I’m about to smash into them!

  I hit the brakes. And then it all happens very quickly.

  Brakes. That means – wheel to the right. The car bonnet crouches down to the ground, like a cat preparing to jump, the wheels screech, I’m thrown forward against my seatbelt. How did Lady F…?

  We are hurled to the right. The car goes on about another metre sideways, giving a deafening squeal of tyres. A dull thump. The guy that was standing closest flies back and flops down onto his back. The two who were searching through the bag start to panic. One of them starts jerkily dashing back and forth, as if he’s afraid the car’s going to go another ten metres, although it’s stopped completely. Hopping from side to side like a monkey, he jumps toward the car.

  “Sorry, my dear,” I whisper, pulling the handle and kicking the door with both feet. I hit his knees. He gives out a loud shriek and falls over, rolling around and grabbing his legs. Must hurt. I automatically apologise in a quiet voice, then curse myself for doing so.

  I leap out of the car. The other one who had the bag totally jumps on me, from above, swinging his fist. On his fist there is a metal ring with a skull on it. The symbol of death. He bares his teeth and his face is crooked: you could imagine he was smiling.

  I lean forward. He punches the bonnet with all his strength. I get round him carefully, heading to the big guy who still hasn’t let Oxana go.

  He winks and turns to face me. What now? What was next? Keep an eye on the feet. I look at his feet. Then at mine.

  The big guy sees me looking at his feet and looks at mine. The next moment he steps forward and trips over his feet. He falls to the ground, throwing his hands out.

  Oxana stands there and looks at all of this completely impassionately.

  I grab her arm and whisper hoarsely: “Let’s go…”

  We sit in the car, I press the pedal, spin the wheel, throwing up clouds of dust, and we fly off to the sound of shouts and swearing. They try to catch us up, and it sounds like a bottle smashes somewhere behind us.

  Oxana doesn’t say anything. My heart is pounding. Probably like never before.

  • • •

  Beneath the silver vaults of the clouds, amongst the dusky shadows of the buildings to the sound of rolls of coming thunder, we hurry along the darkening street. The smell of ozone: a storm. The first drops dampen the urban heat. The wind whips up the dust and the rubbish on the streets, cleaning the streets. The city has frozen. There’s no one on the streets.

  “Come with me,” she says. “I want to introduce you to them.”

  She leads me by the hand. The sky splashes down in abundant rain, washing the dirt from the walls and alleyways.

  “They’re there now, I’m sure,” she whispers, “over there, round the corner.”

  I follow her obediently.

  “Stop…” she says.

  I look at her. She presses me against the wall, under the overhanging roof of some building, behind the fragile curtain of water flowing from the sky, and kisses my lips. She has strong, soft lips.

  The rain cools the summer air, and a chill runs down my spine.

  She steps back a bit and looks at me. It turns out she has quite a smile. With laughing eyes. She doesn’t open up to many people, but now I know everything about her.

  She takes me by the hand and we turn round the corner, going along the corridor between the concrete and the flashing drops of the summer storm. In front of us there is a tall tower made of white bricks. A black stripe cuts it in half from top to bottom. I don’t ask any questions and we go towards the tower.

  By the tower I see four figures in the dark, stock still by the white brick wall beneath an angular conglomeration of broken lines. Their faces are hidden. They aren’t moving. It’s like they’re literally fused to the wall. The rain envelops them, like statues, pouring from the rods sticking out of the wall. It’s like they are waiting, but calmly, without worry or excitement.

  We go closer and one of them, dark, gloomy, large, lifts his head and looks at us with calm curiosity.

  “Hi,” one of them says and his
voice is like the sound of the rain around us.

  “Hi everyone,” I say. “I’m Max.”

  A guy gets up and walks over to me. He’s wearing a baseball cap and a hooded jacket. He suddenly smiles broadly, and that smile changes his dark, furtive look so much that I smile back automatically. An ordinary fair-haired guy. Just in a cap and jacket.

  “Nice to meet you, Max,” he says welcomingly.

  I return his greeting. One after another they come up to me and shake hands. Torte, fair-haired and ripped. Gray, dark, short with an intense scrutinizing gaze. Shy little Linda, with hair so fair it seems white. Big, swarthy Mutt, with the face of a Red Indian.

  “And there’s Ben too,” Torte adds.

  I look around. There’s no one else. Just us five. The features of a woman’s face are drawn on the wall opposite.

  “Whose face is that?” I ask, pointing at the girl’s silhouette.

  They look round, but say nothing.

  “And where’s Ben?” I ask. “Maybe Ben’s this tower?...”

  “I don’t know,” Torte shrugs.

  “No one knows where Ben is,” Mutt adds and laughs.

  I laugh back, then look at the tower. Now I can see the drawing better. A thick black line runs from the very top down to the foot of the tower, cutting through a net of fine lines. Like a map or a network of veins.

  “Nice,” I say, although I don’t understand this painting. “What is it?”

  Gray squints.

  “Have you heard of Karabekian?”

  “Not that I remember…”

  “It’s… it’s this light.”

  I cast my eyes over the painting again. A black stripe. A network of lines.

  And then I’m filled with understanding and the precise, fresh scent of ozone fills my chest. There it is. Right there. Thank you. Thank you, Lady F. Follow the ray of light, Max. Follow the ray of light. It’s not a stripe, it’s a ray. A bright, penetrating, pure ray of light beating down from the heavens. And the black net is the city. A network of black streets and boring roads lit, through the rain and the gloom, through the impenetrable clouds and the mundane darkness, by a clear bright light, made by a graffiti artist.