It's Time

by Pavel Kostin

  • • •

  I don’t want to be a kidult. But I probably am a kidult. Kidults are a product of the modern world, infantile adults. Somewhere in Japan it’s a subculture. But here it’s like a diagnosis or something. Like, for instance, when someone’s already twenty five and he really wants to be happy. And doesn’t want to get a hold of himself. And everyone knows what it means to be an adult. Force yourself to do something hard that you don’t like and start a family. And so on. Or is that just what kidults think? But actually it’s all different.

  I’m explaining all these thoughts to Oxana. Oxana listens halfheartedly. She’s bored.

  “I think you need a drink, Max,” she says.

  We take some beers and go onto the roof of the neighbouring building.

  From here everything looks small. The air trembles as it cools and the silhouettes of the distant buildings merge into a single angular line, like the huge palace of some cosmic emperor.

  “Kidults-shmidults,” she says. “You’re overcomplicating. People don’t want problems and people want to have fun. Everyone wants to go out on a Friday night and no one wants to babysit snotty kids. I mean, there are some people who want that. Or think they do. But a fact is a fact. Everyone prefers going out. Before it was – bang, you’ve had a baby at nineteen and you spend the best years of your life washing nappies. But now you can go out until you’re thirty. Going out, of course, is more fun.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  It ends up sounding like a reproach. But I hadn’t meant it like that. It’s not for me to decide what’s right.

  “Or look at you blokes. You also want to have fun. Rather than stay at work all day slaving away. You relax all week, doing whatever you fancy at some easy job. Then on Friday you go to a club and pick up some nice girl there. No serious relationships. Right? Do you want that?”

  “No,” I say. “I don’t want that.”

  “Then what? What?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Going out is fun of course. But it makes no difference.”

  “There you go. You don’t know. And, by the way, you’re twenty five already. A grown man. Some people are already saving up for a flat at your age. A career, a family. And kids. And you?”

  I laugh. I find it funny. Oxana’s saying what my mum would say if she decided to give me a talking to.

  “I can do that too,” I reply, doing a silly voice. “Look at you! Twenty five, no change. No family, no kids. No serious relationships. You’ll soon be thirty, by the way. Who’ll want you then?”

  Oxana sighs. More bitterly than I’d counted on, but then she laughs. I laugh too. I feel good. Two losers. It’s more fun together. We sit having a beer, watching the twilight crawl lazily over the city.

  • • •

  Friday, night. I’m sitting on the roof of my factory. I’m “working”, looking out at the outskirts of the city. The port is lit up at night and it’s really pretty. Every now and again, about once an hour, I do a tour of the premises. We don’t have lights everywhere. There’s a lot of darkness. All that’s lit is a small patch by the entrance, and there are street lights here and there along the perimeter fence.

  It’s frightening at night sometimes. So what? It’s night, it’s dark, of course it’s frightening sometimes. All sorts of scary stuff about ghosts and corpses gets into your head. Which is funny: at night it’d make more sense to be afraid of feral dogs. Or alcoholics with knives that might sneak in hoping to get a little something by cutting the night watchman. And you’re afraid of ghosts, it’s dumb.

  This is how I deal with it – I imagine I’m a predator. I imagine that I’m hunting for someone. I carefully make my way through the undergrowth, seeking my victim. I look round vigilantly, making sure no one notices me. It’s not frightening then. If I told the management about this, they’d definitely sack me. A night watchman pretending to be a leopard so that he doesn’t get scared of ghosts. All this during work, I might add. I laugh. In the silence my laughter sounds surprisingly loud.

  From the roof you can clearly see that the city’s sleeping. The water splashes soundlessly, and the coloured streetlights are reflected in the river. Sometimes a barge goes past slowly. But you can still tell that the city’s sleeping. Even in some sleepy suburb in the depths of night, when you’re surrounded on all sides by black buildings with the odd lit window, even then it’s not as obvious.

  It’s dark and quiet and it’s so delicious to sit right on the metal, hunkered down in the very centre of this black night, free from the cares of the day, and think that somewhere in the night planes are flying, and far from here, in the very middle of the sea, a big ship is sailing, and that this quiet night is everywhere. It’s as if I’m here and there simultaneously, everywhere, in every cell of this night, and that all of this is some sweet secret.

  • • •

  “Remember! Come on, remember!” I’m bugging Oxana.

  “Oh, it was some time or other,” she retorts. “They shut down that club a bloody age ago. I don’t even remember a thing. On the right down there maybe…”

  I’m giving her a lift home. I often get asked for lifts now. I don’t complain. It’s nice when you’re needed. But I badger them with questions in return.

  “Come on, rack your brains, Oxana! You’ve got to.”

  “Why are you bothering me with this?”

  “What, is it that hard for you?” My voice is very calm. “Remember about FridayZZ, go on. You said you used to go there. So you must have been able to get there. And then get a taxi back. You know your way about the city a bit, right?”

  “I’m telling you it was like three hundred years ago.”

  The lights are reflected in the red bonnet of the Torino. The streets of the city are empty at night. Driving is a pleasure, freedom. It’s easier to think too.

  “But do you at least remember the area?”

  “I don’t remember anything…”

  “Listen. You have to say something. Rack your brains! I’ll find out anyway.”

  Oxana stalls. Wrinkles her forehead. Rubs her face with her hand.

  “It’s by the port. In the building of the old workers’ club. I think. But they’ve definitely shut it down. So forget about it, Max. Why does it matter so much? You’re better off going to another club. Stop here, no need to go closer.”

  “Why’s that? Will your mum tell you off?”

  “Agh, give it a rest… I mean, thanks!”

  Oxana gives me a loud kiss on the cheek and leaves. I watch her run to the entrance and I smile. Why am I smiling, I wonder? Where was she coming from? I don’t even want to know. She’s dumb anyway. But it’s nice.

  • • •

  Well hello there, my beloved city. I love your streets, your squares, your little lanes. Your dark courtyards, your bright roads. I remember your parks and your tree-lined avenues, I remember the skies and the lakes. Do you love me? Do you remember me? Or am I lost in the winding streets of your memory, have I disappeared among the crowds as they run about their daily business, mourning the mundanity of their lives?

  Who are you looking at now, my city, my love? Who are you smiling at, who fills your thoughts? Who are you striding to so purposefully, my beloved city? I’m here, here I am, I’m waiting, my love, don’t forget me. Be my comfort when I weep, be the colour in my grey existence, let me quench my thirst, give me some respite from this misery.

  I am a part of you. A cell inside you, a particle of you. And you are a part of me. Wherever I may be, be it on boundless plains or in the throng of people, I will remember your features, wherever I go I will cherish your memory in my heart, I will always dream of my return.

  Hey, city! Look at me, I’m smiling at you. Smile back at me! And I will run down your roads, the soles of my feet will caress your squares and I will lie on t
he soft grass, looking up at your sky. Hey, my city, my love, hey! Don’t forget about me! Don’t forget about me…

  • • •

  Me and Gray are surrounded by mundane everyday life. We’re having lunch in a cheap little café. Glass, plastic, metal chairs. All around us people are constantly walking, buying, eating, meeting, talking on their phones, and at first this is wearying, but soon you stop noticing your surroundings and they become the blurry background on a photo, and then just evaporate completely.

  “So what are you looking for?” I ask.

  “I’ve told you a hundred times,” Gray replies. “Magic. Magic!”

  “No, I’m not asking about that. What are you looking for in art? What do you paint? What for?”

  “Didn’t I tell you about the lemmings?” Gray looks out the window.

  “You did. But there’s, you know, some kind of overarching vision. You must have something which unites everything. The fundamental idea behind your work.”

  “You sound like a journalist at a local newspaper.”

  “And you sound like a snob. You get the idea. Don’t be difficult.”

  “I gather together fragments.”

  “Fragments of what?”

  “Let me think. You asked and that was the first thought that came into my head. Basically it’s hard to explain…”

  “Good, good!” I already know that hard to explain is the most interesting of all.

  “So, right… When I’m painting, it’s like I’m healing some wound of mine. Or a memory. Or the opposite – I’m remembering something. It’s like something hurts, and when I paint it gets a bit better. Or not even better, just not so annoying. That said, what I paint can be completely unconnected from my life.”

  Gray falls silent and looks out the window. He’s sad.

  “Gray!” I say. I just had this thought. A really obvious kind of thought. The most obvious. Have you ever thought that your search for magic and your work might be linked. Maybe they’re the same thing.”

  “I haven’t,” Gray says. “That’s not it. Magic is…”

  Then he falls silent again. He says nothing for a long time and looks out the window, thinking.

  • • •

  Sometimes I want to run away. For no particular reason. Get out and keep going. Despite all the important stuff you’ve got on. Even better if you’ve got important stuff on. That way you’ll feel it even more. Like, say, you’re planning on going for lunch with your workmates. And after lunch there’s a meeting for the whole factory and they’re going to take a register. And then there’s your pay and you need to fill in some form too. And do the rounds of the buildings. And you’ve already agreed with your workmates where you’re going for lunch, to some café. And you’ve even put all your money in together.

  And everyone’s already going out past through the main gate, getting ready to go, and you’re like “I’m just going to pop to the toilet!”

  You go into the toilet. And it’s done. For no reason. It’s over. The end. The point of no return.

  You close the door and carefully and quietly open the window. You crawl out, slowly and silently. And as soon as you’re outside you feel the fresh air, and it’s so loud and light and bright compared to the gloomy corridors. You clamber down the wall onto the tarmac. You’re still on factory premises. But you can’t go out the main gate. That’s where your colleagues are. And you can’t go out the other exit either. They might see you. But it’s already done. You’re already gone.

  You creep between the sheds, sneakily, like a spy on a mission, you run to the fence and climb over it, getting your clothes all dirty. And for a moment you think someone’s spotted you. And you really hope no one’s spotted you because you have to disappear unnoticed. Invisible. As if you’d never even existed. You run away from the fence and that thought keeps bothering you; but then relief comes – what difference does it make? You’re never going to see any of them again.

  You get to the car park, sit in your car and drive, drive, drive out of town. You smile as you chuck your phone out of the window and it splinters on the speeding tarmac, flying apart into tiny pieces, and you drive, drive, drive again, turning down strange bumpy little roads until finally you reach some far-off place, God knows where, where you far can see into the distance, and you’re surrounded by endless fields.

  And you stop the car, and you get out, leaving everything behind, and you run off, off into the field, into the blurry distance, you run fast, as fast as you can, as hard as you can, you run to exhaust yourself but you still keep running, and your mouth is filled with thick spittle and your legs are so tired they won’t listen, but you still keep moving them and moving them, still, still, so you destroy every last drop of strength and finally you collapse completely broken, an empty glass, drained and dried, and you collapse in the middle of this field surrounded by nothingness. So there’s nothing left. Nothing. Nothing. No past, no future, no world, nothing important, no reality around you, nothing. So there’s nothing left of you. So that you are no more. So there’s just the earth, the sky and freedom.

  The earth, the sky and freedom.

  And wheezy, deafening, crazy breathing. In, out. In, out. In and out through your silent laughter.

  Freedom…

  • • •

  “Max! Max, you’ve got to help me!”

  Oxana is crying down the line. Her voice is breaking up. I realise that it’s serious.

  “Get me out of here! Please, come and get me. Come get me, Max, I’m begging you.”

  “Calm down. It’s going to be OK. Where are you?”

  Through her tears she mentions an address. I can hear banging in the background. Someone’s battering on the door. A loud voice is shouting something. Swearing. It’s hard to make out what it is, but it’s clearly pretty vicious.

  “Please, Max...!” Oxana starts to sob.

  “I’m already on my way. Is your phone dying?”

  “What…?” She doesn’t understand the question.

  “Your phone. Your mobile. Has it got enough battery? It’s not going to die any time soon is it?”

  “Er… Don’t think so.” I hear her take it from her ear. “No, it’s not dying.”

  “Good. I’m coming, hold on!”

  I sprint out of my house and start up the Torino. Sorry, darling, we’re not going to get a warm up today.

  I fly through the city at night. The car roars. Thoughts flow surprisingly calmly. Smoothly even. Tomorrow or the day after I’ve got to get out, find this FridayZZ place finally. It’s all got to mean something. Lady F wouldn’t just give me that business card for nothing. It has to be some kind of answer or hint. If I can just manage to pick up Oxana and stay alive. I’ll stay alive, of course, whatever’s going on there.

  Is there going to be a storm or something? The air is so fresh… Wait...!

  “What, are you nervous?” she asks.

  Lady F is next to me on the passenger seat. She looks, as ever, amazing. The lights of the city shine through her hair and it blazes like a flame in the darkness.

  “You look gorgeous!” I say.

  “Thank you!” she replies happily. “But now to business. Listen to me carefully, Max. Watch out…”” She puts both hands on the dashboard.

  I slam on the brakes and the cat manages to jump off the road, flashing its eyes angrily in the dark.

  “… so,” Lady F continues as if nothing had happened. “Listen to me carefully. Give the lighter. Close the latch. A little shove. Have you memorised that?”

  I’m already having fun. I start to feel the adrenaline leaping in my blood. I don’t understand a word she’s saying, but knowing Lady F, I get the feeling it’s going to get interesting.

  “By the way, did you figure out the card?”

  “Alm
ost.”

  “Shame. Oh well. Don’t miss the turning here…!”

  I brake and go down the drive she pointed out. An ordinary yard, packed full of cars. Ordinary blocks of flats. I get out of the car and I’m immediately enveloped in peace and quiet. It’s dark and quiet. No people. The courtyard is empty and here it’s so quiet, so awesome, that I want to stay longer. I even stop for a minute. But it’s time to go, Oxana’s having a tough time up there.

  The cold slap of memory. The lighter. Lady F mentioned a lighter. It’s important. I had one. Yesterday I was tidying up the car a bit and put it in my pocket for some reason. I start feverishly feeling my pockets. Someone’s steps behind the door. Quicker, quicker! There’s no lighter. It’s all gone wrong. It’s all gone wrong.

  The door opens. I get the lighter from my back pocket. I’m faced by a very drunk bloke with an unfortunate-looking red face, who looks at me blankly. His eyes gradually focus on me while he tries to figure out what’s going on. I hand him the lighter. He looks at it for a second.

  “Oh… yeah, that’s right…!” he holds out his arms and doesn’t say another word, but disappears into the depths of the dark rooms.

  I go in. I go left. A bathroom and toilet. A drunken idiot in dirty black jeans is giving the bathroom door a furious pummelling with his fists, paying no attention to me. There’s a catch on the toilet door. The latch…? I go over to the toilet door and close it. At that second, as if some unknown person was waiting for me inside, someone starts beating on the door and swearing. What language.

  The drunken idiot in black jeans finally notices me, stops banging on the door and stares at my shoes.

  “Who are you... who the hell are you…?” he asks in surprise.

  Without replying, I give him a little shove towards the kitchen. He takes several steps backwards, not taking his surprised eyes off me and trips on a stool and his legs in his black jeans come shooting up surprisingly high, and he comes down on his back with a loud crash, overturning the stool.