It's Time

by Pavel Kostin

  Follow the ray of light.

  The Distant Red Tower

  In here? Probably… But it’s kind of weird! Some sort of tower. Confused, I walk round a smallish red brick building, which reminds me of… what was it… a miniature castle. It’s a house, old, German. Either it used to be a tower on some larger building which was later destroyed, or it was a little railway station. Most likely the latter, seeing as the tracks are right there. There can only be about a dozen buildings like this in the whole city. Normally they’re in a terrible state. But not this one. Does he really live here?

  I go up to the door. It’s perfectly ordinary. An ordinary, solid metal door with a peephole. There’s no bell. I knock. No one answers.

  “Mutt..!” I call through the door.

  Silence. I feel pretty stupid. It’s lucky that it’s pretty far from the road and no one can see.

  I go in and find myself in a darkish hallway. It’s dark in here. Did he really do all this himself? Look at this quality, he is so industrious. It’s not that new-style renovation, there’s no plastic or shiny handles: the flat looks really high-quality. Wooden floors. Old hardwood furniture. Looks like it’s been done up, and pretty well too. There’s an inscription on the cupboard in German, and a date, 1854. That must’ve cost a pretty penny. But where’s the master of the house?

  Mutt invited me over yesterday. So I came. Maybe he was only being polite? Don’t think so…

  I take off my shoes and go into the main room. Amazing. It’s not big, but it feels really cosy. Reddish wallpaper, solid cupboards, a huge desk. A big sofa. Lots of antiques. Mutt said he did most of them up himself. Old lamps, figurines, books in foreign languages. He could make a living out of this.

  A dead end. I look round. It seems like there’s only one room on the first floor. In the corner of the corridor next to the cupboard there’s a very steep staircase. You’d need to hold the sides to climb it.

  “Mutt!” I call again.

  Again silence.

  I clamber up, trying not to fall. It’s a tough climb. And coming down will be worse.

  Instead of the second floor there’s a tiny landing with a little window. With iron bars on it. The staircase goes up further. I take a breath and keep on going.

  I end up in a minuscule little room with a high ceiling. It must be the top of the tower. The renovation isn’t finished here. It smells of paint, and there are wooden trestles draped with spattered sheets. I can’t see Mutt anywhere. There are several small closed windows in the narrow walls. It’s very dark, the only light comes from the landing.

  Plucking up courage, I open the windows. It immediately becomes lighter in the tower. The heap of sheets on the trestles starts to move. It’s so unexpected that I let out a shout and jump.

  A sleepy Mutt pokes his head out from under the sheets. He looks at my frightened face and smiles.

  “Hi Max,” he says, “sorry I didn’t come to the door. I was working late last night and only just got to sleep.”

  “Hi,” I say, “it happens. Sorry I barged in and didn’t call.”

  Mutt waves it off (as if to say, don’t be silly, fellow) and comes down. He has been sleeping in his overalls. He runs down the steps dizzyingly fast. It’s like a circus trick – takes your breath away. I follow him as carefully as possible. If I trip, you’ll be picking me off the floor for weeks.

  Mutt goes up to a door by the stairs and opens it. I’d thought it was a cupboard, but it turns out to be a tiny kitchen. Mutt leans down under the table to a small fridge and pulls out a bottle of water.

  “Is there a bathroom?”

  Mutt points towards the main room. I look. I can’t see a door.

  Mutt drinks the water, goes through into the main room and pulls aside a curtain by the wall. There’s another door behind it.

  “A shower. There’s no bath,” Mutt says. “No room. Literally no room, here every metre counts. The toilet’s there too. Had to take it out of this room. No chance in the corridor. Oh well. Sometimes it’s better the other way round.”

  I look inside out of curiosity. Done up really nicely. New shower and so on. But not a lot of room. The whole room must be two metres by two metres, if not smaller. But with a high ceiling. There’s a boiler high on the wall, with a small red light.

  “Awesome,” I say, “it’s still awesome. You did a good job.”

  Mutt shrugs and laughs. He’s short and dark, but well put together. Sharp, well-defined features, like a Red Indian. How on earth would a Red Indian end up in these parts.

  “Are you an Indian?”

  Mutt looks at me in surprise. Then grins.

  “No precise data is available. But yeah, there’s an old family story.”

  “I’m not surprised. You’re the spit of Moctezuma.”

  “And what did he look like?”

  “I don’t know. But you get it.”

  Mutt laughs again. Then his face becomes serious.

  “Do you want me to show you the secret of this tower? It’s a big secret. You can’t tell anyone.”

  “Yeah, for sure. Tell me: it’s like you’ve moved in. Is that legal?”

  “Yeah, it’s legal. More or less. Forty year lease or something like that. It was in a terrible state. Holes in the roof. The walls were all manky. No electricity or water. But well-made. It’ll be here another hundred years.”

  “Is it expensive?”

  “Nah. You couldn’t use this place for storage – not enough room. Or for a shop, it’s too far from the road. So, you know, I got it for free. Or, rather, through a friend. And with a promise to renovate it. The building belongs to the city. I did it up myself, with my own hands. On paper there’s a whole company doing the renovation here. For big money, public money. I’ve never seen any of that money. But I don’t care. I live here. For free. I don’t even pay for utilities. So that’s my reward. So, shall we have a look at the secret?”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  Mutt goes into the room and moves a chair. Rolls up the rug. It’s hiding a trap door with a handle. Nice one! Mutt opens the door and looks in. Then nods to me, as if to say, follow me, and climbs down.

  I go over to the hole in the floor. A metal staircase leads down. Like a step-ladder. Mutt is already at the bottom. It’s dark down there and I can’t see anything. I bend down. At the bottom I can see Mutt’s silhouette moving around. It’s a long way down. Because of the dark it seems at first as if the staircase goes down a long way, a really long way, as if I’m standing above a huge cave, so huge that Mutt’s three-storey tower is like a chess piece standing on a fish tank. My heart jumps and I try to say something but I can’t get it out. Then my eyes get used to the dark and I realise that it’s an ordinary basement, but with a high ceiling. About three metres. I grin. My heart calms down. But I’m still left disappointed. It would have been great if there really was a cave like that!

  I climb down after Mutt.

  We are in a square basement with a high ceiling. It’s very dark but I gradually start to make out the walls. The ceiling’s empty but there are some drawings on the walls. Mutt stands and looks at me.

  I look at the paintings on the walls. Without a torch you can’t figure out what’s there. Trees or something.

  “What do you see?”

  Mutt squats down and points to something that looks like an iron square in the floor.

  “You see this..?” he asks, whispering all of a sudden.

  “Yeah…” I also start whispering for no evident reason. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know…” Mutt shakes his head. As far as I can tell it hasn’t been opened for a hundred years.”

  “So let’s open it!” I suggest.

  “No.”

  “Why?!”

  “What if suddenly there’s
nothing there? A sewage pipe. The ground. This way we don’t know. It could be anything, an underground passage, or buried treasure. Maybe both. It’s probably a sewage pipe. But what if it’s not? Perhaps best to leave it a secret, what do you say?”

  I hesitate to answer.

  “I see, alright then...”

  • • •

  I like pure colours. Blue. Green. Orange. I like texture and volume. And soft fleece. And big clouds. And light rain. For me the sense organs, impressions, sensations are not just a means of acquiring information. They’re a separate source of communication with the world.

  There’s so much that we don’t notice. The same old clouds. Rain falls from them. That means it’s bad when they appear. But if you look hard at that cloud, it has such depth and gloomy beauty that a lifetime is not enough to admire it. Or a leaf. A little green leaf. There are a million leaves like this on every tree. But if you take it in the palm of your hand and look at it, you can see that there’s a whole Louvre there. Colours, lines, textures.

  And then there’s colour itself. Just a colour. Green, for instance. Or blue. You can look at it forever. It’s absolutely amazing. Pure blue is, just on its own, an unbelievable, fascinating experience. And if you really see it and think about it this one pure colour can become a significant new experience. Like a good book. And this experience will always be with you. You just need to look hard and really feel it.

  The same is true of everything.

  Colours. Clouds. Sky, trees, stones, grass, cold, glass, scarlet, darkness, the noise of cars, kittens, buildings, tarmac, lampposts. The city. We’re surrounded by works of art. You just need to look hard. Stand in the middle of the street and say, “Stop!” Close your eyes. And look at the world anew. Like you were looking at it for the first time. As if you were a guest on this planet. As if you were in this reality for the first time. Stop and take in the world around you. Take in this new world around you, every part of which is an incredible new discovery.

  • • •

  I’m drinking tea at my mum’s. Mum sits opposite me and looks at me smiling. It’s warm, quiet and really cosy. The clock is ticking. Somewhere the radio is muttering away quietly. I can’t see them, but I know that the fringed purple curtains are there behind me. It’s night time already. When it gets dark and the kitchen light is on then you can see the shaggy shadows on the glass.

  “What’re you smiling about?” my mum says.

  “Oh nothing… It’s, you know, tasty!”

  “Have some more!”

  Mum pushes the plate of pies towards me.

  The pies really are tasty. Good. No need to rush off anywhere. It’s always so calm here. A photo of my dad is there behind the glass.

  “How’s things? Going well at work?” my mum asks.

  I know that she doesn’t really care about how I’m doing at work. She doesn’t mind that I’m a night watchman. I think. She just wants to talk to me, about whatever. Sometimes I get tired of this small talk, only sometimes, especially when you’re exhausted, when you need some peace and quiet deep down. Some comfort. Some safety. As if there’s no world beyond that window, and you don’t need one anyway.”

  “It’s OK, mum. Snowy got hurt recently.”

  “What do you mean? Who hurt him?”

  “Some dickheads. I woke up, I hear him whimpering. I go and have a look and there’s blood all down his side. But I reckon it’s passed now, he’s alright, he’s running around.”

  “Oh good, poor dog!”

  “Yeah. I think they crawled through the fence and he woke up and ran over, maybe started barking. And that made me wake up. He barked at them, went running along the fence. He did his duty as a dog. Seems like they lobbed a brick at him or a stick or something and ran off.”

  “Bastards!” My mum gets furious. “Poor dog! Maybe he needs to go to the vet?”

  Mum hadn’t seen Snowy and only knew about him from my stories, but she still really pitied the dog and sympathised with him.

  “Nah, I had a look, reckon it’s gone. He’s already dashing about the place like a headless chicken. You know, he’s pretty solid, he’s licked his wounds and he’s alright now.”

  “Ah, well, good. You can take him a bit of sausage next time. Or some cheap cuts. I had some in the freezer. I’ll go and have a look.”

  “It’s fine, mum, you sit down, I’ll get it later…”

  “Oh great, don’t forget! And how’s Vitya?”

  “Viktor? Yeah, fine. We don’t see much of each other at work. Takes photos of everything.”

  “Not married yet?”

  “No, not married.”

  “Oh well, one day…”

  “That’s for sure,” I laugh.

  “How do you just sit there in your flat on your own, don’t you get hungry?”

  It’s as if my mum specially changes the subject from the topic of relationships. Probably doesn’t want me to be lonely. Not that I am.

  “No I don’t go hungry, obviously.”

  “Probably just eating junk food. Take some of these cutlets with you, you can heat it up later.”

  “No thanks, I eat fine. Cook even.”

  “Really? Have you got something for tomorrow? Then take it. Or stay here. Have you got a shift tomorrow?”

  “No, sorry, I can’t. I’ve got stuff on, Mum. Sorry.”

  “OK, look after yourself,” Mum sighs. “Take care…”

  The lamp shines through the coloured shade. Peace and quiet. Late in the evening. Somewhere there, far off, beyond the black expanse of the night, Snowy is in his kennel, snorting in his sleep.

  • • •

  I didn’t always know that Mutt can’t see other people. It came out almost by accident. It went like this. We’re crossing the road. Mutt a bit in front, me behind. Winding our way through the passers-by. Mutt bumps into an elderly woman but doesn’t even turn around to say sorry. I decided that he just hadn’t noticed. But she noticed. She was furious about it. And about the way Mutt looked.

  But he couldn’t care less. Doesn’t notice. Carries on on his way. And I think, he’s got the nerve. . . good for him. He must know what it’s about.

  We keep going.

  “Good lad,” I say. “Mutt, respect. No shortage of cool there.”

  “What are you on about?” he says, curious.

  “You know… the woman at the crossing. I’m not being sarcastic.”

  “A woman?” Mutt asks and falls silent.

  I wait for about a minute for him to say something, but he doesn’t. I start getting interested. I can tell there’s something going on here.

  “Yeah, that woman,” I say. “You bumped into her by mistake, and she yelled at you. Went on about your clothes. About your hoodie. Good you didn’t start bickering. Not worth the stress.”

  Mutt has a think.

  “You see, Max…” he starts to talk but then breaks off.

  “Go on, say..!” I can’t bear it. Mutt laughs.

  “Alright. Basically it’s like this. I can’t see other people.”

  That’s it. The whole explanation. Intriguing. But not exactly clear.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly that. I can’t see them and that’s all.”

  “You mean... Just like some can see dead people? And you... well...the opposite?”A chill runs down my spine. I remember the cellar. And suddenly… But no. Everyone can see Mutt. Linda, Gray and all the rest.

  “Not quite,” Mutt replies. “It’s just… I decided not to.”

  “Meaning…?»

  “It’s like this: what do you need other people for?”

  “Me?”

  “Of course. Go on.”

  “Well, what for? What do I need you for? Conversation. O
r if you buy something in a shop. You need to talk to them.”

  “OK. Now answer me this. How many people do you have a conversation with in a day?”

  “Oof…” I think about it. “It’s not an easy question. On average, probably, about a dozen…”

  “Don’t bother with on average. Tell me straight out. Count them up. For today.”

  I think even harder about it. The result is unexpected.

  “Turns out just you, if I don’t count that old woman.”

  “Very well, so today it’s just me, not counting that old woman. What about yesterday?” I start counting again, this time it’s a bit better.

  “Three. My mum, Oxana and a shop assistant. If I should count that.”

  “Count it. Without that you couldn’t buy what you need. And it’s like that every day. Only very, very rarely do you talk to even a dozen people in a day. A dozen. Maximum. And how many people do you see. Dozens. Hundreds. They’re everywhere. On the bus, in shops, on the streets. Like at the crossing. So you’re left with the question, do you need them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do know. I don’t need them. What do I get from all those strangers? I don’t want to see them and I don’t want them to see me. And so I don’t see them.”

  “But how does that work…?”

  “It’s simple. Whether I see them or not, nothing will change. So, they just don’t exist.”

  There’s something to this. I try and get my head round the concept.

  “So, Mutt… Do you literally not see them? Is it that you just don’t notice them or do you just look right through them?”

  “Pretty much right through them. At first I just ignored them. I forced myself to act as if there was no one. Over time I really did stop seeing them.”

  “How?”

  “It’s normal. As I said, nothing’s changed. Here we are going along, chatting. A busy street. Could you tell me who walked past three minutes ago? Ten seconds ago?”

  I don’t say anything back. I’m still sorting all this out in my head. Does he really not see anyone? Did he see me when she brought me to meet them?”