by Pavel Kostin
“Well, there you go…” Mutt says.
Gray just says nothing. I reckon I know what he’s feeling. There it is. The thing I’ve been looking for. Like endless flashes of colour in your heart. Silent ecstasy.
“Do you know what that is, Gray?” I ask.
“I do…” he replies.
This doesn’t happen. But it has. And it’s no accident. And it’s for you. I hope you’re lucky enough to feel it at least once.
A car with its headlights on flies forever along the road under an enormous moon, heading into a film noir city night. The night, the moon, the road, the car and the bright headlights are all painted on the wall of an old concrete bus stop at the side of the road.
The Other Side
Where are you leading me, my heart? To something good or into the abyss? Is it you that’s forcing me to keep going when there’s just nothing I want anymore?? Or have I dreamed this all up, and I’ve got no heart, but just a lump of meat? Please let me have a heart, please!
It’s you who produces these strange thoughts and it’s you who inspires these absurd desires. Being a human isn’t enough! It’s not enough, not enough, not enough, not enough… Being a human is not enough for me. I want a lot more. I want nothing to be impossible. I want to live a thousand lives. To experience everything. So that all you have to do is start to think something and it’s done. I want there to be no rules. Yet everyone’s still happy. But it doesn’t work like that. When you throw a stone in the air it falls to the ground. And life carries on. And then everyone dies.
But I want it to be different. I want everything forever and I want to feel it all, fully, straightaway. Why? Say someone wants to drink: it’s because he can drink his fill. If he’s in pain, it’s because he needs to take his hand out of the fire. That’s how everything’s set up. If there’s a desire, there’s also a way of fulfilling it, because that’s how nature is set up. How can we carry on living like this? Where does it come from? What should I do about it? Tell me, my heart, answer me, please, heart, tell me…
• • •
“Did you know that dogs can’t see colours?” Gray asks.
“Yeah, I heard that,” Torte replies shrugging.
“Don’t see them at all. From birth. They have no idea what colours are. Vivid emerald. Deep crimson. Can you imagine?”
“No,” Torte says. “They’re dogs.”
“They probably think the same thing about us,” Mutt says. “About smells.”
“You should know,” Torte laughs.
Mutt frowns as he unscrews a bolt on the disc. We’re all working together to change a flat tyre on the Torino. It’s hot. A street outside of town.
“Give it to Gray, he might as well get a bit of practice,” Torte teases.
“I’m perfectly capable of changing a tyre,” Gray replies flatly, and it is this very deliberate calm in his voice which gives away his irritation.
“Well go on then,” Torte continues. “Off you go.”
Mutt doesn’t react to Torte’s wind-ups.
“Listen,” Gray says. “Quit it. It’s not exactly fun for me listening to all that. Yes, I can’t find a job. But there’s no point in you reminding me about it.”
“But I…” Torte gets flustered. “Where are you getting that from…? It wasn’t aimed at you. I was, you know, only joking…”
“Of course. Only joking. But you always manage to find some cash from somewhere. I don’t know how you do it. You’ve always got something turning up for you!”
“I don’t do anything special, don’t get offended!”
“I’m not offended. I’m worried. Yes, I’ve got an art degree. Finding a job isn’t easy for me. I’d love to make some extra cash, like you, but you’re always taking clients off me! I’m not a student anymore! But I haven’t got a normal job, and it doesn’t look like I’m going to get one! You think I’m happy about that? I’m not at all happy about that. Not in the slightest. Not one little bit. I’ve also got a life. I also need money. Everyone needs money.”
“Is that really an artist talking?!” Torte says defensively. “Money, money, money… I don’t do anything special. They come to me all by themselves.”
“Just think about it,” Gray says.
He’s clearly worried that this topic is bothering Torte.
“Think about it! There are certain day-to-day issues. I need to eat. I need to live somewhere. Buy clothes. And cans and caps all cost money. Yep, I need money. I don’t want to think about it. But that’s how it is. I need money! Of course, it’s great being a carefree independent artist, like Ben. But in case you didn’t know, he’s not always shaking the foundations of society. And he doesn’t just do street art. In his spare time from the struggle against the bourgeoisie he does design work. High end stuff. For good money, as well. Of course it’s fine for him to be an independent artist when he can afford it! He’s always had money. And paints and stencils and everything. Right from the beginning. Right at the beginning when Max and Ben were just starting going out bombing…”
“OK, that’s enough,” Mutt says. “Money won’t make you happy.”
“What Max?” I ask.
“A different one,” Gray replies. “You don’t know him.”
He says nothing for a long time.
“It’s just… I’m a grown man already. And I don’t have a normal job, or a family, I’ve had no success… Who knows what’ll happen. What have I got this talent for?”
“Ahahaha!” Torte laughs. “Oh you poor little thing! So unlucky! God gave you a talent and now you don’t know what to do with it!”
“It’s funny,” Gray agrees sadly. “But really. What should I do? I can paint. Pretty decently, let’s be honest! Sometimes, even, to be fair, really, really well! But I don’t choose those moments! And I don’t choose what I paint. I can’t specially go and paint something that will amaze everyone who sees it. So what should I do? Work with my hands, like Mutt? You’ve got to have the skill to do that. It’s not like unloading trucks. In a phone shop, like Linda? With my personality I wouldn’t last a day working there. God knows what I should do, God only knows…”
“Don’t stress, bro!” Torte says. “It’ll all work out! Rome wasn’t built in a day!”
“Maybe you should go and unload trucks,” Mutt says, as he gets up. “It’s ready. Max, hold the spanner.”
I put the punctured tyre in the car. The new wheel stands out, a black spot of clean rubber; the others are grey and tired, covered in dust from the roads.
“Everything’s going to be OK, bro!” Torte says. “Everything’s going to be OK!”
• • •
“So is this a date?” Oxana asks playfully.
“Why a date all of a sudden? We’re friends. Are we friends?” I ask.
“Of course, we’re friends!” Oxana says and frowns.
We’re in the Torino. At that moment I notice that Oxana is dressed all fancy, sexy even. Did she really take my wanting to go out today as me asking her out on a date? I wasn’t thinking about her that way today. Or was I?
It seems like I’ve totally confused her. And myself too. But actually I don’t want to think about that at all. I just asked a friend to come and hang out with me. Who happens to be a girl. I know some really lovely places in the city. You’d never have thought there was so much amazing stuff in among the cars and the streets. You’ve just got to know about it. There are many sides to the city.
We’re going to the commercial port. It’s not far from where I work. During the week this place is a hive of activity, trucks constantly moving in and out and workers scurrying around. On the evening at the weekends it’s quiet here. Lots of the moorings are empty.
I park on the embankment by a concrete wharf.
“Let’s go,” I say. “There’s never
anyone here, and the view’s incredible!”
Oxana looks around dubiously.
“Come on, let’s go, there are no guards here!”
We go along a narrow iron bridge onto the concrete wharf. There’s a big cement block with iron rings sticking out of it. It’s really comfortable.
“Oh, right,” Oxana says. “I thought we were going to go to a restaurant!”
“Where did you get that idea from?” I’m surprised. “Who needs a restaurant on an evening like this? Look over there.” I point out the view that’s opened up in front of us. It really is beautiful here. At the port the river is lined with harbours, so here it’s twice as wide, as wide as a football pitch. Port buildings and warehouses rise up on the far bank, interspersed with freight cranes. There are several ships at anchor on the roadstead. The water on the river moves in gentle ripples, reflecting the orange light of the fading day, and dozens of gulls fly above the water. I stop for a moment, trying to feel the full beauty of the time and place.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Oxana agrees with no particular enthusiasm. “Beautiful.”
She lays out a plastic bag and carefully takes a seat on the concrete cube. I can tell that she’s not exactly thrilled. I sit next to her. How come? There aren’t many places in the city that are more beautiful than this. You can spend many aimless hours here, it’s so nice and quiet. The harsh beauty of the industrial district.
“Oxana,” I say. “What’s up? Is something getting you down? What’s all this about a restaurant? Has something happened again?”
“Happened…?” she answers reluctantly. “Nothing’s happened. That’s the problem, nothing’s happened. And nothing’s happened for a long time now. And it looks like it’s not going to happen?”
“What’re you on about?”
“I’m not on about anything. There’s a lot you don’t notice, Max,” she says bitterly.
“Like what?” I look at the river. A tour boat sails over from the far side.
“Oh, simple things. I remember you were joking the other day. About me already being twenty five. You get it?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t get it. We were just joking around. You were joking. Are you joking now too?”
“Not now.” I can tell she’s beginning to get angry. “Do you need me to spell it out? Yes, I’m twenty five. I’ve got no kids. No husband. That’s my life. So let me be a bit angry about it. I’ve got every right.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know you were in a bad mood. You should have said so straightaway. This is a good place to be in a bad mood though. It always calms me down. Look around! The space, the freshness, these colours… Isn’t it beautiful…? I’d love to paint it!”
“Well paint it then!” Oxana says angrily.
“I’d love to, but I can’t.”
Oxana covers her face. She pulls at her hair.
“You know what…” Suddenly the way she talks is cold and blunt. “You know what, Max. In actual fact, it’s all wrong. In actual fact…”
She falls silent. Rubs the bridge of her nose.
“What does ‘in actual fact’ mean?” I ask curiously.
“Mmm… Nothing,” she replies, clearly bothered by something. “It’s not my place, of course. It’s nothing. Just try to understand. I don’t want to spend my whole life messing about on these streets and these roofs with your weird friends!”
“What makes them so ‘weird’ all of a sudden?” I reply jokily.
She is joking, right?
“Because… because! I wish so much, Max, that you were an ordinary, normal guy! I wish everything was different somehow, and… There was none of these streets, none of these dodgy artist friends of yours… and all that stuff.”
“What ‘stuff’?”
“Oh… All of this! You see… Let’s be honest with each other, right?” Oxana smooths her hair with her hand. “I just want everything to work out for me. I want everything to be right. I want to be happy in the most ordinary, boring way! Is it really that complicated? Why does it happen for some people! Think about it, Max, this is about you too! Time is passing! And it’s not going to wait for you while you enjoy your magical world of make believe! And there’s no way of getting it back! Am I doing something wrong or something? Is there something wrong with me somehow?”
“No,” I say. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you, you’re great. And beautiful. I like the way you look today.”
“Thanks,” Oxana says.
She clearly enjoys that. She can’t hide her smile.
“It’s great that you want to be happy! It’s the most natural feeling a person can have. But what’ve I got to do with it?”
The smile falls from her face. She glowers.
“Arrgh…” Oxana slaps her forehead. “I don’t know if you’re an idiot or if you’re winding me up! I’m so stupid… You know what, you just sit there. Enjoy yourself the rest of your life. Bye.”
She jumps down on to the wharf and hurries away, her heels clicking. Confused, I watch her go. She walks past the car and keeps going.
I start the engine, catch up with her, and drive alongside with the window down.
“Oxana,” I say. “Come on, what’s going on here?”
She walks on saying nothing, looking at the tarmac.
“It’s a long walk from here,” I point out. “Is it definitely a restaurant you want? Maybe a café would do?”
She says nothing in reply, but I sense that her mood has changed.
“Well,” I say, “let’s go to a café, might as well. Sorry, I thought you’d like it here. Let’s go to a café.”
I go a little in front and open the door. Will she get in?
The clicking of her heels gets closer.
Oxana climbs into the car without looking at me.
“Let’s go!” she says, trying to make her voice sound unhappy.
“Whatever you say,” I say. “Whatever you say.”
• • •
“Hi Mum!”
“Come in, come in… If you’d called I’d have cooked something. I haven’t got anything ready. I’ll make some pasta with cheese.”
“It’s alright. I’m not hungry,” I lie.
“It’ll take five minutes, come in, come in. There’s some sausage, have a sandwich while the water boils… I’ll put the kettle on.”
I go into the kitchen. I sit at my usual place. I don’t know why I decided to come to mum’s. I wasn’t planning on it. It’s just this kind of tiredness overcame me. Tired of all this. Tired of myself. Tired of not understanding myself. Tired of feeling that I’m weird, tired of stress, tired of the constant confusion in my head.
“Yeah, OK, mum…”
I always feel really good here. It’s cosy here at mum’s. Now, as ever, the soft comfort calms my wounded heart, flings away the jagged shards of my thoughts. The darkness inside recedes a little.
“I’ll go start making that pasta with cheese. You always liked it with cheese.”
Mum busies herself in the kitchen, and it’s like she manages to get out the pot, put the water on the hob and grate the cheese simultaneously. She’s not angry, she doesn’t shout at me for coming without calling, she just wants to feed me because I want to eat and she can tell that. Thanks to all these basic, uncomplicated, familiar actions a cosy warmth floods my soul, as if I’ve taken an anaesthetic and my pain is disappearing.
“Do you cook your pasta with cheese at home?”
“Yeah, usually, yeah.”
“Good. What sort of grater have you got, that old one? Or did you buy a new one?”
“The old one…”
I like talking to my mum about nothing in particular. About stupid, trivial things that mean nothing, but w
hich can distract me so for a moment I can even forget all the painful, frightening questions in my head. Just take a break from all that. Have a breather. When you talk seriously about insignificant things your life becomes simpler and clearer for a little while.
“Mum, do you believe in angels?”
“Angels? Well… I was baptised, you know that. I don’t think about it. What’s all this all of a sudden?”
“Um, yeah. Just wanted to know. Have you ever talked to an angel?”
“Have I ever talked to one? Come on. No. Never. Max, is everything alright?” Mum looks at me alarmed.
“Everything’s fine, Mum. I just… I was just watching a programme on telly the other day.”
“Oh those programmes…you see all sorts on the telly these days… Son, you…” I can sense that she doesn’t know how best to ask so as not to upset me. “Is there anything bothering you? Any dreams or anything?”
“No, everything’s alright, Mum…”
I don’t want to tell her that I’ve been sleepwalking or what’s been happening to me. She’ll get upset, and then get sad and start worrying. So I’d better not say anything.
She doesn’t believe me, but she’s afraid to ask for some reason. Probably doesn’t want to upset me. Mum, mum…
Mum mixes the cheese into the pasta and puts the steaming plate in front of me.
“Sorry, I’ve not got anything better … Take some sausage.”
“Uh-huh, thanks.”
I launch myself greedily at the food. Sharp pangs of hunger. It seems that I could wolf down a whole bucket. Mum sits down next to me and watches me eat.
“Son… Max… the thing is, if you suddenly feel worried or scared or anything, call me right away, OK? Don’t suffer in silence.”
“Mmhmm.”
“And don’t be embarrassed. I’ll help, I promise. And we’ll make you feel better. OK?”
“Mmhm, mum, fine…”
Mum sighs and pours herself some tea.
“And if you’re too embarrassed to talk to me, we can meet with Dmitri Alexandrovich.”