It's Time

by Pavel Kostin

  She says nothing and stares at the blank wall. She’s still smiling, but her smile is becoming thoughtful now. I suddenly start to feel unbearably sorry for her, this enigmatic, impossible creature. Not in the sense that I feel sorry for her because things are difficult for her, but I just want to cuddle her like a kitten. Then I force myself to stop. How dare I? What a stupid, inappropriate thing to want! The stupid, impertinent desire of a despicable animal!

  Lady F must have been concentrating on my question, or she would have noticed my idiotic, ridiculous outbreak of emotion. Who am I to feel sorry for her? To even think about it. Her, who’s so ideal and perfect, her, so magical and flawless. Such a pure colour. Such a pure colour…

  “Tell me, Max,” she suddenly asks, “is this wall perfect?”

  I look at the wall in front of me. I still haven’t managed to take the can to it. The wall is blank.

  “But there’s nothing there,” I reply confused.

  “I can see that for myself, my dear,” she says with a slight hint of annoyance. “And I hope that you can see it too. So I’m asking you: is that wall perfect?”

  “In a way…”

  “Explain!”

  “Well, you’re kind of not asking about the wall as an object. The wall itself, of course, is not perfect. It’s covered in cracks and dirt, and the bricks aren’t straight. You’re asking about the wall as a canvas. And, as a canvas, it is perfect in a way.”

  “In what way?”

  “It can turn into something beautiful. And perfect.”

  “Really?” she laughs. “Are you not flattering yourself a bit?”

  “I meant hypothetically!”

  “And literally?”

  “If we’re talking literally, then, probably, this canvas will inevitably take on all the defects belonging to the world around it. The colours won’t be quite right, the composition won’t be ideal, and even the material on which the painting is done will cause a load of problems.”

  “And the final result won’t be perfect, right?”

  “Yeah, most likely.”

  “Here’s another question for you: do you think you’re the only person who can see that?”

  “I…”

  She’s led me into a dead-end again. I need to think about it. Really think about it.

  “Do you think you’re the only person who possesses these subtle perceptive powers and this flawless understanding of the sublime?”

  “I… No, of course, not. Probably, there’s… yeah, definitely, absolutely definitely, there’s people who see and understand a lot more and a lot better than me! The artists themselves. I know a lot of them personally. Or Viktor, he’s a photographer. He really likes criticising lots of paintings.”

  “Interesting… So do you think they see the same… problems, the same failings that you see?”

  “Erm… probably. I reckon so.”

  “So why then, I wonder, do they carry on painting? If we’re talking about artists. Or taking photos. Creating stuff, basically. Why add more imperfection to this already imperfect world? What’s more, if these people have such a subtle sense of reality, they should probably understand that creating something perfect is practically impossible. In fact you can just leave out ‘practically’. Why do they continue to create?”

  I think. I think for a long time. A heavy summer sunset descends on the city. It’ll be hot for a while still. My wall – I’m already calling it mine – is still blank. The can in my hand has become hot, and my hand has grown tired of holding this unfamiliar object.

  “Don’t rush your answer,” Lady F says.

  “If there even is an answer…”

  “I’ll give you a bit of hope,” Lady F says with a smile. “There is an answer.”

  “Another riddle…” I say with sadness.

  “Another one? Oh, right… I’ve been meaning to ask you – have you abandoned your search? Remember you were looking for something, right? Do you have any new ideas?”

  “Ideas? Ah, well, you know, a friend of mine gave me some really good advice without even knowing it.”

  “Interesting,” she said. “So then, are you going to paint?”

  “I should give it a go…” I reply.

  A blank wall. I shake the can again. I hold it up to the bricks. Any second now a line is going to appear. Right here, just to the side of this creeping shadow. Shadow… While I’ve been waiting, evening has come to the city, and the shadow cast by the roof of the neighbouring building lies across my clear wall. Now it’s really hard to figure out the right colours and the thickness of the line – they’ll look different in the light and the shadow.

  “You know, Lady F, I’m probably going to have to leave it for today,” I say to her jokingly.

  She doesn’t reply. I turn round. She’s not there anymore. Well then. Today I’m going to have to leave empty-handed. This probably just wasn’t the right evening. Not today, so it’ll have to be some other time. No big deal. I feel relaxed.

  I put the can back. I get my stuff together and head off home. The blank wall remains blank. Not today. My light shadow slips over the orange asphalt.

  • • •

  “Come on! Just draw what you see!”

  “I am drawing it!” Linda speaks up for herself.

  “No. You’re not drawing what you see but what you imagine!” Torte says heatedly. “Look at the lines. At the contours, at the silhouette. Just copy precisely what you see! Pretend you’re tracing a photo!”

  Evening. A building half in ruins, due to be demolished. There’s a huge hole in one of the walls with bricks sticking out. Torte is next to it trying to teach Linda how to draw a teapot. A completely ordinary china tea pot. In chalk. The original is standing in the hole. So far it’s not really working. The wall is covered in lopsided copies. It’s as if a cartoonist has lost the plot and gone crazy for teapots. Me and Mutt are watching the process.

  “What photo?! I’m just drawing the teapot, that’s all!”

  “No, that’s not all!” Torte explains excitedly. “You’re drawing it from your head. And it’s right there. Standing there in front of you. Just trace round it mentally. And then draw the line. Don’t draw the teapot, draw the lines.”

  Linda carefully draws the outline. It sort of works better. Then she starts to draw the spout. Fail. The spout twists to the side unnaturally, like some kind of MC Escher teapot. Even I can see where she’s gone wrong.

  “Ah no,” I say. “Look.” I take the chalk off her and draw the unfortunate teapot. It kind of works.

  “That’s how you’ve got to do it,” I say. “Just copy the outline. Even I get it.”

  I hand the chalk back. I look at my drawing. Turned out not bad! I would never have thought it was that easy. Linda looks at me enraged. Then at the chalk.

  “Damn!” she snaps. “Damn! Damn! I’ll screw up this interview, I’m going to bloody well screw it up!” She throws the chalk on the floor and stamps on it.

  “Calm down you! So you screw it up. Just think, another screwed up interview…” Torte tries a joke.

  Unsuccessfully. Linda gives him a withering look.

  “I can’t work as a shop assistant forever. I can’t, you get it? Is that what you want? You couldn’t give a damn… But I don’t want to. Is this how my life is going to go? Standing behind a counter in a yellow t-shirt? I’m a talented person. Talented, I know it!”

  “Linda, listen…”

  Torte is already regretting his joke and trying to comfort her. Linda’s almost crying.

  “I’m not listening!” she cries. “I’m sick of that stupid job! I’m sick to death of it! I’m an artist! I’m actress! I’m cut great…

  “Maybe we’ll try some stencils tomorrow?”

  “What stencils?! I’m trying
to be a designer. I need to draw by hand, I’ve got to be able to do it! I’m going to make a fool of myself again… It’s even worse than that… This screwed-up interview, it’s even worse…” Linda whimpers. “When they look at each other afterwards, looking, kind of like, ah well, yeah, right, an artist. And the other one’s like, I knew it. With a look like this. Bastards… Why am I so stupid?... I’m a failure…”

  She starts to cry. Genuinely, in floods of tears.

  “I’m a failure, a failure, a failure, a failure…” she repeats it like a mantra, rocking from side to side and burying her face in her hands.

  Torte stands there completely lost, unsure what to do. His usual jokes won’t work here. Should he hug her or what?

  “Linda, don’t cry,” Mutt says suddenly. “Why have you given up on working as an artist? It’s not for you all of a sudden.”

  “It is for me!” Linda shouts through her tears.

  Mutt sighs.

  “I know you’re great at making clothes. And thinking them up, or whatever you call it. Patterns. Sketches. Stuff like that. I reckon if you had a go at that it would work out really great for you.”

  “Make clothes?! Clothes?!” Linda fumes. “I’m not a damn seamstress! I’m an artist!”

  “And I’m an artist too,” Mutt says calmly. “And, so what, I do renovations. People like it. It really helps them. I don’t see anything bad about making clothes. Even more so if you’ve got the talent and the inclination.”

  “Talent and inclination,” Linda grumbles. “It’s not how I imagined it. Not like this. Bloody teapots…”

  She wipes away her tears and looks at the ill-fated teapot with something akin to hatred. Then with a sharp and precise movement she kicks it. It flies to the ground and smashes to pieces.

  “Let’s go,” Linda says.

  There are tracks from her tears on her cheeks. She doesn’t wait any longer, turns round and walks away. We hurry after her.

  • • •

  Oh, this is fun!

  “Shall we have another glass of champagne?” Oxana says.

  “Go on then!” I say.

  “I don’t normally like this rubbish,” she says. “All bubbly and sweet. Bitter lemonade. But I want some now for some reason.”

  “Likewise,” I agree.

  We’re in a club. It’s noisy in here, there’s music and a ton of people and it’s really-really fun! There were four of us to start with. No, five! We were drinking wine on the concrete steps. It was me, Oxana, Mutt, Gray and Linda. Then Linda left because she had to go to work early in the morning. Oh well, we kept going until it got dark. Chatting away to our heart’s content. It was really romantic!

  Then it got dark and cold. And we didn’t want the evening to end. So we decided to go and have a drink somewhere. And a dance. It’s just Mutt and Gray said no. Mutt’s never liked places like this, and Gray said he didn’t have any money. I offered to lend him some, but he refused. So in the end me and Oxana went just the two of us. That’s alright. It’s still fun!

  “Hey!” I shout. “Hey! There are people here!”

  The bloody waiters are always swanning about in the other half of the room. It’s like they’re doing it on purpose. And if you put your hand up it’s like they deliberately look away.

  ”Hello-o-o….” I wave my arms. “Emergency! Emergency! We’ve got a catastrophic champagne shortage over here!”

  The waiter takes the order with a gloomy expression and disappears.

  “Tell me, Max,” Oxana says. “Have you known me long?”

  “A thousand years. Give or take.”

  “And what do you think of me? The truth only.”

  I pretend to think hard.

  “I think you’re a dreadful liar and a nasty piece of work.”

  “Max… I’m being serious,” she whines.

  “Well if you’re being serious, then I think you’re alright. You’re great. And brilliant.”

  “And kind?”

  “And kind.”

  “And pretty?”

  “And pretty.”

  “And clever?”

  “And stupid.”

  “Max!”

  “Why do you ask stupid questions then if you’re so clever?!”

  “Pff…” She waves it off. “My mum really made my day yesterday.”

  Oxana tries to knock back her glass and discovers that it’s empty. She’s already tipsy. And me too! The bright flashes fuse into a mass of colour. My head is buzzing. Great! To hell with everything. Nothing means anything.

  “So what happened?”

  “Another lecture. Two hours long, ending in hysterics. Mine, obviously. About how there’s something wrong with me. How I’m leading my life all wrong. And about how all my classmates are already married. Some of them twice even. So, you see, I’m the only old maid left. And all because there’s something wrong with me.”

  “Ach,” I say. “Don’t pay any attention to her. It’s a load of rubbish. It’s just inertia that makes her go on like that. But I’m sure her heart’s in the right place.

  “I don’t know what she’s going on about!” Oxana says, offended. “She really does my head in. It’s like there’s something really wrong with me. And she always wants to remind me of it. It’s time, it’s time, it’s time, it’s time. And it’s always her version of things. Either I’m not behaving properly. Or I go out too much. Or I’m not presenting myself right. Do you know what she announced to me yesterday?”

  “What?”

  “That I don’t know how to kiss! And like ‘cos of that no one’s going to go for me.”

  “Jeez! How would she know? Forget it, she just said it for the sake of it.”

  “Easy for you to say. I don’t know how to kiss. She’s probably forgotten herself! I’m a great kisser. Never had any complaints! Do you think I don’t know how to kiss?!”

  “I don’t know,” I laugh. “I’ve never tested it!”

  “Do you want to?” Suddenly she sounds serious.

  I look at her. Oxana watches me carefully. There’s a cautious smile on her lips. Sparks in her eyes. She’s a little drunk…but not wasted. I feel a tingle of fear and excitement in my heart. She’s not joking. If I want to, she will. A kiss? Why not? A kiss is just a kiss. It’s been a fun evening, why not make it even more interesting?

  The waiter brings the champagne. We stare at each other, through his carefully trained movements. Open the bottle. Place the bottle on the table. Put the bottle on a tray. Pour a couple of glasses. His arms flash between us, reflecting the coloured patches of the disco lights.

  Then he leaves.

  I go and sit next to her. Now she’s right next to me. Her smiling eyes seem so big. I can smell her perfume.

  “Let’s have some champagne,” she says in a whisper.

  I nod.

  The cold bubbles tickle my palate. A bitter taste in my mouth.

  Her lips are sweet and cool from the champagne.

  But her hands are hot.

  • • •

  “Great, let’s go again! Just lift your arm up, your arm! And less of all these emotions, less of all this shouting and less of this trying to look like a prima ballerina… I’ve only got one request: lift up your arm! Can you do that?”

  “I can,” I reply calmly.

  “That’s brilliant,” the director calms down. “Again from the top.”

  We start again. Linda has dragged me along to rehearsals for her amateur dramatics group. They’ve even given me a small role. Mercutio. Yep, we’re doing Romeo and Juliet. I didn’t want to be in it, but that’s how it worked out. Now I’ve got a not very realistic looking green costume and twenty lines in the whole play. It’s a classical staging, nothing avant-garde. Everyone goes out o
n to the stage in turn. Priests, balconies, balls, duels. At the end Romeo and Juliet die. Gloom, misery, and a heap of corpses. It’s Shakespeare after all. I’ve got his collected plays at home. An old Soviet edition. I remember there was a time when I’d reread them pretty regularly.

  Linda’s playing Juliet, which she’s very proud of. She’s stressing out, and doesn’t hide her excitement, her pursuit of inspiration or her quest for her creative essence. It really matters to her. The other person who it all matters to is the director. A guy who is, in theory, pretty young, just a bit older than me. Pudgy and hairy. He runs along the stage, consulting his sheaf of notes and bellowing at the actors. When he’s happy with everything, he gives a benevolent nod, waving his arms smoothly like a conductor developing a musical theme. If something’s going wrong, the director gets nervous, starts making noises and swearing inventively. Sometimes he jumps up on to the stage and shows the awkward Romeo how it should be done. If we’re honest, I reckon that all that swearing and the ‘horror at the hidden spider’s web of performance’ (that’s a quote) is all a bit of a show.

  You get the feeling that both the director and Linda are actually, as they play Romeo and Juliet, not playing the actual characters themselves, but playing the parts of well-known and talented people starring in a proper big staging of the play in a famous theatre. They are basically playing at theatre. For them it’s less important to stage the key scenes correctly than to fit the right image. So that they believe in it themselves. And no one spares a thought for the audience.

  Everyone else in the scene couldn’t care less. It seems to me that for the most part the local actors see amateur theatre like an activities club. You know, the sort of club where it’s not really important what you’re doing, as long as you get the chance to hang out regularly and meeting new people. Get to know each other, spend some time together, meet someone new. Normal stuff, basically. Romeo, I reckon, has got a crush on Juliet. On Linda, that is. So now he keeps looking at her with these sad, soulful eyes, as if he was rehearsing the part. In short, it’s a laugh here.

  After five minutes Linda is smoking again. I don’t understand how she can fit so much hot smoke in that flimsy little body of hers. By the end of the day she could just float off like a balloon.