by Pavel Kostin
“And so I’m trying to find something, to understand something. To find it and understand it. How she feels. What it was really like. And I think and I think and I think and I think and I can’t sleep.”
“Is it really that important?” I can’t resist asking.
Linda looks at me indignantly, as if I’ve said something incredibly stupid. Maybe I have.
“Is what important?”
Actually, yeah, what? What is important? If someone likes doing amateur dramatics, likes feeling like an actress and getting deep inside the experiences of the characters – is that not important? What do we base our criteria on?
It’s obvious, if you think about it, that nothing of any significance can come from a second-rate amateur dramatics troupe putting on a play. She won’t earn any money. She won’t win fame or popularity. Acceptance and respect? Pretty unlikely. A sense of self-worth? Probably not. But it brings her a whole bunch of heartache and worry. And insomnia to boot.
What do people think is important? And why? One guy maybe collects stamps, spends all his time on them, going back over his collection, hoping to find some gem of a stamp. He buys himself an expensive album, knows all the rare types inside out, the history, geography and culture of stamps. Some other guy maybe does eggshell carving. Let’s say. Only he knows which eggs is the best to pick, how best to prepare it, where to make the first cut. Over time he starts to realise which decorations will be nicest to look at, which will look like mistakes, what will make the egg solid, what will break it, and he’ll spend many, many years of his life doing this. And it will be really, really important for him. If you present his passion as ridiculous or useless, or a waste of a good egg, then he’ll either start a heated argument or sulk in silence, but he’ll never abandon it.
Laugh if you will at the poor bugger, but what’s he doing wrong? He’s chosen a hobby he really loves and considers it the centre of his existence. How is eggshell carving any worse than, say, amateur dramatics? Or writing poetry? Or street art?
It’s no worse at all if you think about it from a practical point of view. From a practical point of view, the majority of human activities are pretty useless. We are a biological species after all. Let’s reason it out logically. We’ll get some benefit either from an activity which improves our well-being, or an activity which leads to the multiplication and survival of the species. All the rest is, in theory, useless. All the rest is escapism of varying degrees. It’s true, you know.
Everything beautiful is escapism, it’s done without a practical aim. Beauty is an end in itself.
This is what I’m thinking about while Linda’s clear, piercing eyes interrogate me. A cigarette fumes in her fingers.
But what should I say to her? I’m no better myself. My passion is pretty strange. It hasn’t got a name and it hasn’t got a point. I love to observe the world around me. Can that even be considered a passion?
I don’t know.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Yes, probably. Your play is important. I really like the way your performance is coming together.”
Linda smiles. “Thanks,” she says. “Everything’ll come together really well for you too.”
• • •
Me and Oxana are walking down an avenue in the park. Not saying anything. Our conversation isn’t flowing, even though we’re basically a couple. I like her, I’ve known her a long time, but I don’t always particularly want to talk to her about stuff. What would we say? I’m into street art, she’s not. I don’t like having to think up something to talk about just for the sake of talking. It’s nothing to do with her. That’s just how I am with people. With everyone pretty much.
“Why don’t you like her?”
“Who’s ‘her’?”
“Linda. You’re not jealous now, are you?”
“Over who? You? With her?!” Oxana waves her hand. “Max, don’t talk rubbish. I just don’t like any of them.”
“Why?”
“Because. They’re all loopy. Loopy.”
“They’re not loopy. They’re unusual. That’s not a bad thing.”
“Call it what you will, it doesn’t change anything. They’re all round the twist, and they’re having the same effect on you.” Oxana curls her lip. “And they’ve got stupid nicknames! They’re like animals with those names of theirs!”
“Why do you say that? I reckon they suit them. Torte really is like a… cake. Confident, funny, pink-cheeked. And Gray is grey… mysterious and thoughtful. Mutt really is a Mutt. Or a Wolf even. Doesn’t rush. Calm and taciturn, like a Red Indian. And even Linda is a real Linda.”
“Oh stop it. Linda, Mutt. It’s like nursery school. What, are they kids or something?”
“At heart. And I don’t think that that’s a bad thing. They’re great.”
“And me..?” Oxana purses her lips.
“You’re great as well!”
“As well? But I’m not as great? Go on, carry on like that. I’m great but not as great as them, right?”
“No. You’re not like them. But I like you the way you are. You’re genuine and never hypocritical. And you always say what you’re thinking. You’re your own person! And it’s brilliant being friends with you. But that’s not all… And you’re beautiful! And you have soft lips. And I like you.”
“Alright enough of all that,” Oxana says, as if she were cross, though it’s clear that she’s enjoying it. “They’re only your friends. But I am your girlfriend. Don’t forget that, got it?”
“Got it,” I agree easily. “You’re my girlfriend. Sorry if I offended you.”
“It was that ‘as well’ that offended me! It’s just all you ever talk about is those friends of yours. As if no one else even existed! Like a kid, all you know about is your friends. And they behave like kids. It’s time to grow up. For them and for you.”
“OK. But they’re artists!” I start to get wound up. “I explained…”
“Don’t you shout!” Oxana interrupts.
“I’m not shouting…” We carry on walking in silence.
“Sorry,” I say. “I really like you. Oxana. Forget it. Give me a kiss and let’s forget about it, OK?”
“OK…”
I hug her and kiss her. Oxana smiles and lowers her eyes. Soft lips. Was that an argument just now? No, I don’t think so. Not even a tiff. And it’s a nice day, by the way. Sunshine, the park, a light breeze. Summer, awesome!
“Let’s go,” I say. “Oxana, there’s ice cream!”
“Let’s go!” she replies.
And we go and get some ice cream.
• • •
Oxana clicks the torch. On/off. The beam of light cuts through the darkness, disappearing into the night sky.
“What a load of rubbish,” Oxana says. “What a load of rubbish. I can’t believe I’m hanging out with you guys. All for you, Max.”
“Alright,” I say. “Sorry. It’s just something weird is going on with me at the moment. I reckon… I reckon that I couldn’t see the way in.”
“You couldn’t see a way in?” Oxana glowers. “And you think our eyes are so much better?”
“It’s not that… It’s just… I don’t let myself see, or something. Certain things. I only just realised. In strange circumstances. I told you about it. About the tunnel.” Oxana stares at me with a strange look in her eye.
“Max… Max, maybe we don’t have to do this? How about we just go, eh?”
“We have to. You said yourself… you are always saying that I need to get normal. Come to my senses. That’s exactly what this is. I need to get to the bottom of this. You see?”
She looks away. I can’t figure her out. I can’t work out what she’s thinking.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe this’ll help…. I really hope it helps.”
A bright flash slices the darkness apart, momentarily turning us both into bright white statues.
“Argh!” Oxana cries. “Give us a warning, eh!”
I rub my eyes. A fading spot of light dances in the blackness beneath my eyelids.
“Yep, apologies, apologies,” Viktor mutters, fondling his camera.
“He’s apologising. You’re going to blind me!” Oxana complains.
“There’ll be another one in a second. Shut your eyes, shut them tight…” Viktor says.
I honestly do shut my eyes. Beyond the darkness of my closed eyelids a light flashes on, as if daylight had come for a moment. It fades. Dark.
I open my eyes. Then I’m suddenly hit by another flash. The simple supplies we’ve brought are imprinted on my eyeballs: torches, ropes, tools, all lying on the bonnet of the Torino.
“Ow! Are you doing that on purpose, or what?!” Oxana cries and treats Viktor to a good whack.
He bears it quietly, his eyes fixed on the little screen on his camera. I blink. Damn, he can’t keep doing that…
“Apologies, apologies,” Viktor nods, calmly taking Oxana’s retribution. Night. A quiet harbourside street far from the noisy main roads. There’s three of us: me, Oxana and Viktor. It’s me that’s dragged them here. I had to talk Oxana round. Viktor was happy to accept. I tempted him with an ‘interesting abandonment’ – an old derelict club. FridayZZ. Last time I’d gone there during the day… and simply couldn’t get in. Maybe I just didn’t notice the entrance. Torte told me that he had gone there at night. Perhaps, at that time it’s easier to notice the door or something like that. So I decided to try at night.
I decided not to take any of the artists. Their imaginations would only do them harm. Torte and his cruel jokes would also be less than helpful. But Viktor and Oxana are ideal candidates. Viktor is always distracted by his camera and is only ever thinking about the ideal shot. And a derelict old building is the perfect place for him to go looking for his beloved ‘weird’ shots. He won’t be afraid, he won’t have time.
Oxana is no mystic either. Her cynicism’s what we need. At night in an old abandoned building in which there could be all sorts of mysterious devilish goings on (not to mention the strange sequence of circumstances which brought me here) Oxana’s cynicism is just what the doctor ordered.
It’s not that I’m some bold and fearless captain who’s selected a team to suit him. It’s more the other way round. It’ll be easier for me to continue if I know that no one apart from me is going to… well, get scared.
If we even get into the building. At the end of the day, Torte might have just made a mistake or got the buildings mixed up. The entrance might be bricked up. That’s just the start. There could be a million reasons why there might not be a way in to that building and why we’ll turn round and go home empty handed, loads of things could happen.”
But deep down I know that’s not going to happen.
I can tell that we’re going to get in.
I examine the equipment one more time. A simple selection that everyone can understand. First of all, there’s the torches. Everyone gets one big bright torch about the size of a video camera and one small spare one. The rope is in case there’s a broken staircase somewhere and we have to go up or down a floor. Simple tools – flat nosed pliers, a screwdriver and knives, if we need to open anything or break any wire wrapped round door handles.
Apart from that there’s nothing special. You could say we’re going on a reconnaissance mission, so we haven’t overloaded ourselves with equipment. Viktor will take the photographs.
An easy little expedition. I’m not worried. Every city has derelict sites like this. Former factories, warehouses, old military bases. There are buildings like these in almost every square kilometre of urban space. You can use their interiors to shoot science fiction movies or horror movies without having to build a set. And, of course, they’re surrounded by loads of legends. There’s a lot more of these sorts of buildings than the uninitiated would think. There’s even this hobby where people organise expeditions to derelict old buildings, so called ‘abandonments’. Urban exploration. They take pictures, they look around, and collect historical artefacts and legends connected with these buildings. It’s an interesting, terrifying and often dangerous occupation. Not, of course, because the cellars of these buildings are full of mysterious toxic substances or ghosts. It’s just the buildings are old, often half in ruins, and it’s really easy to fall down some hole and break your leg or crack your head open. And your main hope when that happens is that your phone hasn’t stopped working. Because no one is going to come to this building to help you. Not ever.
I’m not a tourist. I have a particular interest. There, in the depths of that building, on one of its black and empty floors, I’m going to find an answer. An answer which explains my life, which explains Lady F’s riddles, which explains me. And that’s why I’m going there. And that’s why I’ve got some friends together, hoping they’ll help me.
“So what, are we just going to stand here?” Oxana asks, looking at us disgruntledly. Viktor looks at me.
“Let’s go,” I say quickly.
We go along my old route. Along the walls, looking around. The street is badly lit and you’d need to really look properly to notice a door. Sometimes the darkness is illuminated by bright flashes. Viktor takes pictures of the wall, approaching it at weird angles. It looks like he’s doing some sort of weird mime show where he’s bent over photographing the wall with its tracery of cracks, pointing the lens into the black sky.
The first turn.
The wall goes off into the depths of the night. There are no streetlights here. The wall goes off into the darkness and so seems endless. The common denominator of all walls, the abstract rendering of perspective without a horizon. The world is split into two: on the right, an endless wall leading off to some unknown point beyond the edge of darkness; on the left, us.
Flash. I notice three perfectly black shadows on the uneven surface on the wall and my heart even manages to leap up in my chest before I realise that these are our shadows.
Oxana swears under her breath. I can hear her fussing about in her bag but I don’t slow down. A bright beam cuts through the darkness. She’s turned on her torch. A white circle of light slips along the wall and the tarmac, sprinting off into the darkness, ensnaring alien objects on the other side: wires, posts, broken metalwork sticking out of concrete blocks.
“Nice little place you’ve brought us to,” Oxana grumbles, running the beam of light from side to side. “It’s so much fun here you just want to laugh yourself silly.”
Flash.
“Listen, OK, that’s enough!” Oxana says nervously to Viktor.
He smiles, but says nothing in reply. It’s pointless asking him not to take photos. He might even promise not to, but he’ll have forgotten that promise a minute later.
The second turn.
Here there’s another streetlight. Its yellowish glow divides this side of the wall into two parts, which makes it seem longer. Its dull light barely reaches the beginning and end of the wall, but it’s still better than complete darkness. At least you can see where you’re going. But Oxana doesn’t turn off her torch. I understand. When you’re holding a bright light in the darkness, when you’re in charge of what you see and where you look, then you feel a lot more sure of yourself.
We’ve walked half the length of the third side. So far nothing. And what if we don’t find anything? What then? We’ll just go back. Probably. And there’ll be no answer, no solution to the riddles, no unveiling of secrets. Right now, in the darkness flickering beneath the streetlight, I start to think that that might be for the best. Who knows what could be hiding in that building. It’s all so strange. It’s all so very strange. What, in the end, can I find out inside? What’s the mystery? The terrible secret of my birth?
What rubbish… The light above us goes out.
Oxana lets out a scream and, caught by surprise, I shudder quickly and violently. The torch beam slips over us. Oxana examines me and Viktor uncertainly. Everyone’s completely fine. It’s just dark. I say nothing for a few seconds while my heart calms down so my voice doesn’t give me a way. I look up. The thin, fading filament is still just glowing in the huge lamp, dissolving in the darkness.
“What is all this nonsense?” Oxana asks no one in particular in frustration.
“Everything’s alright,” I reply merrily, hoping that my voice isn’t trembling. “They just switched the lights off. It’s just a coincidence.”
“A coincidence…” She replies sarcastically. “Funny that.”
I nod, smile and turn my back to them so I can continue on my way. Unwittingly, I walk faster. Any second now we’re going to have walked round all four sides of this bloody fence, exactly like I did last time, and we’ll set off home. And everything will be fine. Right, I should turn on my torch…
“Hey…” Oxana says suddenly, and then cuts herself off, and I can tell by her voice, by this new tense tone in her voice, that that’s it. There’s no way back. Here it is, here it is: we’ve found it….
“It’s strange they didn’t shut it,” Viktor says.
I look at both of them. That sounded somehow… bad.
“And why should they’ve shut it?” I ask.
Viktor doesn’t reply. Eyes on the floor.
“I reckon this club’s been deserted for ages,” he says.
“So let’s check!” I say.
There is an iron door in the wall. It’s not closed, but there’s wire wound round the hinges. And another strange thing… both the door and the doorframe are covered in some sort of… substance. I can’t work out what in the darkness.
I go up closer, touch the door. My fingers are immediately stained black. I hold my hand under the torch. Oh, it’s just soot. Just ordinary ash. Something must have been burning here or someone set fire to the door. Maybe just ordinary hooligans?