by Pavel Kostin
“Son… Don’t you worry,” Mum looks at me with bitterness. “Just don’t you worry. Everything’s going to be OK.”
The way she just looked at me, the sadness in her eyes, only makes me want to get even angrier. Why can’t she just tell me, why?
“I won’t care if you tell me everything. Why don’t you just tell me what I want to know? Is it that hard? I’m not mental, right, mum?”
“No, son, no, of course not. Don’t you worry… Please, Maxim…”
“I’m not worried,” I break into a shout, and I hate myself for it, but I’m shouting and there’s nothing I can do about it. “Mum, I’m not worried! Just! Tell me! What is this ‘again’ all about?! I need an answer! Now!”
“Son…” Tears appear on my mum’s face. “Son, come on, you remember that time you climbed up on the roof. I’m so afraid for you…”
“Mum. I’ll climb up on the roof right now, if you don’t tell me. And jump off. And my brains will be splattered all over the pavement.”
“I, I… Maxim, you know I love you. I’m worried about you. You’re scaring me. You mustn’t get so stressed, son. Let’s do it like this. We’ll have a bit of tea now, and later, we’ll go see Dmitri Alexandrovich, at the hospital. You’ll tell him about everything that worries you, OK? He’ll probably be able to help you…”
I look at her in silence. She is crying and looking at me terrified. Maybe she should? All these questions without answers, all this weirdness… I don’t have to go looking for answers. There they’ll probably help me forget.
No.
I’m not doing this just for myself. Right?
I close the door behind me. I manage to get down a couple of flights of stairs before she runs after me.
“Max, son, stop, please! Son, just don’t do anything! Don’t do anything stupid, OK? You need help right now, you see?”
I walk away in silence.
• • •
The premiere. I’m in Linda’s am-dram play. It’s my entrance soon. I couldn’t care less. I’ve got something else entirely on my mind. My head is swimming. And Linda, in costume, in rouge, is flitting about backstage all excited, twittering away about the performance.
What’s wrong?
Everything in my life is amazing. Objectively speaking. It’s true you know. I don’t need any answers. They’re not necessary for survival. I’ve got a job, friends and a more or less peaceful life. I can just carry on living and not think about anything. The problem, if you look carefully, is not the fact that things are going badly. Things aren’t going badly.
“Hey… What’s your… Mercutio, let’s go!”
Is he talking to me? He is. Romeo’s calling me on stage with him. Funny, I can’t remember his name either. His real name. I look towards the stage. It’s bright there. Right, I’ve got to go. A couple of lines and that’s it.
I hear the door opening.
“Who’s that now?” I hear Romeo’s unhappy voice. “Maxim, wait…”
I can’t believe my ears. My mum has appeared back stage. And with her there’s some big bloke I don’t know.
“Maxim, wait. We need to have a chat… You need help.” The bloke moves towards me slowly.
I turn to face the light. I go on stage. The bright light hits my eyes.
The problem isn’t that things are going badly. Things aren’t going badly. Things are fine. I’m great, if you think about it. I’m healthy. That’s the main thing. And all the rest is somehow kind of alright. So what’s the problem then?
But something’s wrong. Everything’s not alright. Strange things are happening around me. Strange questions are arising. And, perhaps, only perhaps, it’s not because I’ve just lost my mind. Perhaps strange answers exist. People around me start talking. Romeo’s line. It’s mine soon. The light is very bright. There’s absolute darkness in the audience. It’s as if nothing exists but the stage. It reminds me of something, but I can’t remember what.
Strange questions. Strange answers. So what, there’s nothing particularly frightening about that. Lots of people encounter strange things in their lives. And they live fine. Why does it bother me so much? Why? I know what’s going on, right? What’s going on is this: I have a choice.
I could just forget about all this and carry on living. Carry on living my normal, decent life, with no strange questions and no strange replies, without any extraordinary possibilities, without Lady F, without disturbances in the order of things and disturbances in the world around me. Not go outside this bright circle, not go looking for something that doesn’t exist, not try to move off my appointed path.
It’s better that way anyhow. I know that it’s actually better this way. I’d even want it that way. I’m just tired. It’s enough to do nothing. Quietly play your role in life, smile at your mum and follow her. They’ll help me. They’ll help me forget everything. And everything will be fine.
“Hey,” Romeo hisses at me. “Hey, Mercutio!.. ‘Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.’” I turn to face the audience. It’s dark there. We’re all standing in a circle of bright light. Right now nothing exists apart from that. What was before, what was after, doesn’t matter. Outside the circle, there is nothing. And we all know our roles. Just say your lines as directed. Lady F, Lady F, where are you?
Everything’s going to be fine.
“You know what,” I say out loud. “It’s wrong.”
Silence. Not a word.
“You all know it all, right? Everyone knows how it all ends.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Romeo’s mouth, wide open and lopsided in surprise. The audience has disappeared. They’re not there any more, it’s so quiet out there in the opaque blackness.
“We exchange a few lines, and then we go to the ball. And Romeo is destined to meet Juliet, and later he dies alongside his beloved. You know that. Everyone knows. And I’m fated to fight Romeo’s enemies and die even sooner. Everyone knows it all.”
Romeo says something to me in an agitated whisper, but I don’t hear him. There’s a commotion backstage.
“But I don’t want that,” I say loudly. “I don’t want that. Yes, I know my part. Entrance, line, action. It’s all written down for me. Just follow your part. Like following some rails. It’s that easy. But I just don’t want that. I don’t even know myself what it is. Whether it’s something serious and important that I want or if it’s just a whim. But I know I don’t want this. I just want to be who I am. Who I really am. And I want to be free. And so... And so, you know, Romeo, this is all I’ve got to say… Be careful. Don’t just do what’s written. Don’t listen to anyone. You know what’s going to happen, so try to save her! Try and change something! You can do it. You’re the lead! You, Benvolio, help him! There’s no need for any more bloodshed. You’re smart guys. You’ve got to figure something out, find a way…” I start moving towards the audience. Towards the edge of the bright circle. I hear voices backstage. Right now. It’s coming.
“I’m going to end up in a duel somewhere at the beginning of act three. That’s life. But you know what? I don’t want that. Yeah, I know that’s how the part is written, but get this, I don’t want to die at all. So… I’m leaving. Sorry!”
And they run at me from the wings. I can’t see, but I hear loud footsteps and shouting. But I’m not planning on staying here. I’ve made my choice.
“So long! I’ve got to go! My life is waiting for me!”
I jump out of the white circle and find myself in darkness. Down off the stage. Onwards, towards the exit from the auditorium. It’s not so dark when you get here. I have time to look around. I leave the stage behind. Human figures are caught in the beams of the stage lights. Romeo and Benvolio, hands at their sides, are looking at each other in dismay. The bloke who came with my mum is staring into the darkness of the auditorium. He looks bl
atantly out of place on the stage.
“Lights, turn up the lights!” he shouts.
I run past the audience. They look at me in surprise. Some people make a tired attempt at applause, watching me with unbelieving eyes. Most people don’t even realise what’s going on. No one tries to stop me.
I fling open the door and run out into the street.
• • •
A blank wall. I raise the can in my hand. I draw a line.
I’m trying to find answers.
The silhouette ends up looking strange. I don’t even know what I’m drawing. I’m just following the lines. They are directing me, not the other way around.
A question is when you don’t know the truth. An answer is a truth you didn’t know before. I need to keep moving. And I’ll know everything sooner or later.
The painting starts to take shape. It’s not ideal, but I know for sure I’m doing the right thing. Her… She’s not with me right now, but I remember that question of hers very clearly.
Why do people continue to create if perfection is unobtainable?
Because they hope that they might get even one step closer. Just one little step. And once you’ve taken a step it’s already a journey.
Another line, then another.
“Interesting,” someone says behind me.
The voice is flat and unfamiliar. I turn round so sharply I nearly lose balance. A man is sitting behind me. I can’t see his face. He’s in a hood which casts a dark shadow.
“Who are you?” I ask looking round.
The man says nothing for a long time. Then he gets up.
“My name is Ben,” he says.
“Yeah...? Mine’s Max…” I reply, bemused.
“I know. Nice to meet you,” Ben sniffs. “This bit here – I don’t think it’s finished.”
He points out a last line. He’s right. A final stroke. I complete the painting.
“Shall we go?” Ben says. “You’re not going to stay here are you? Holding that can.”
“Let’s go,” I say.
We leave. The painting is left there behind us on the city canvas. The blank wall is no longer blank.
Rock Bottom
“Why are you hiding? Are they after you?” It’s me who asks this.
Ben laughs, runs his fingers over the wall, not worried about getting them dirty.
“They’re after me.”
“Because you paint?”
“Nah. Because they know what I paint. How many artists are there in the city? Dozens. They’re all painting. Lots of them are way bigger than me. Not better, but bigger. They’re not after them. Why? Because either they need to catch you in the act or have definite proof. As for my work, everyone knows that it’s mine. So I keep a low profile. And you?”
“Me? I’m going through some temporary difficulties in life. For the mean time I don’t know whether it’s for long, or what it’s going to lead to.”
“Temporary is good.” Ben purses his lips and looks to one side.
We’re sitting on a bridge that’s under construction. It’s the workers’ day off, there’s no one around. Down below people are hurrying about their business. We’re in the part of the city that doesn’t exist.
“Why do you say that? Are you sick of running?”
“Of running..? No, that’s not it. The question is whether I’d stop hiding if they weren’t looking for me.”
“Would you stop?”
“I don’t think so. I’m used to being alone. I like it.”
“So what’s next? Are you going to do this your whole life?”
“What about you?” Ben answers my question with a question.
“Me… Probably not. I like freedom. I really like being free. The routine of work bothers me. But that’s being young. Maturity will come later.”
“And so what then?” Ben looks at me derisively. “What? What’ll that be like?”
“I don’t know. Different somehow.”
“Different how?”
“Well, I don’t know. A family probably. Children. Responsibility.
“Ach, are those your words, Max? Be more specific. Just tell me all about it. Come on. Don’t be shy.”
I gather my thoughts. Cars flash by below. Sometimes they come in such a stream that it’s like they turn into a train.
“You see, Ben, right now I’m faced by a certain choice. Or rather, you could say that I’ve already made my choice. I still have to work it all out, but I reckon that there’s something bigger behind this choice…” I falter, choosing my words carefully.
“Carry on,” Ben says. “Just say what you’re thinking, and we’ll figure it out.”
“Right then. Don’t you think that we… our generation, or something, are too in love with freedom? No, no, freedom’s not the right word…. Or maybe it is right. No one wants to go for the big distant goals. It’s boring and it takes ages. I don’t mean like a journey, of course. I mean like taking part in some important shared project and getting pleasure from that. There are big corporations of course, and people that work in them, I know those kind of people. But they don’t work there out of enthusiasm. Not for fun. They work for the money, for their career. And if a good job turned up in another company they’d happily go and work there. And they wouldn’t see it as a betrayal. I mean, they don’t see themselves as taking part in some meaningful act of creation. Something more meaningful than their own goals…”
“And what’s wrong with their own goals?” Ben interrupts.
Even though he suggested that I explain my thoughts, he still obviously can’t resist voicing his objections.
“Yeah, there’s nothing wrong with goals. But there’s not a lot of good about them either. So, OK, they’ve been saving up for a house, for instance. People used to dream of having a big family, a bunch of kids, a house and so on. But you know that’s not what they’re earning the money for now. Of course, there’s some guys… But the dream is different now. Plus the dream is often for totally successful well-off people. You’ve earned some money. You’ve earned some more. Bought a car, an expensive watch. And bought loads of women too. And gone travelling round the world. Surfing and diving and all that. And, ideally, you’ve got your own business ahead of you. But that’s it. I mean, there’s always an even more expensive car and a million-dollar watch. Where are the kids? Where is the family? Nappies, chores, weekends in the country... can that really compare with white sand, azure waters and tanned bodies?”
Ben’s been dying to get a word in for ages. He’s had enough. Finally, I pause, and he hurriedly butts in.
“Max, Max, Max, wake up! What’re you going on about? These aren’t your words! These aren’t your words, I’m sure of it! This is some hangover from the past, some TV movies from your ignorant Soviet past lingering in your infected subconscious. Yep, everything you said was true. Yep, that’s what we’re like! We want to be free! I don’t want to sit in an office every day of every week, up to my ears in debt. We don’t want that! That’s not stability! It’s serfdom! We’re not talking about everyone right now, but you get who I mean… We want to earn money, but not work. Earn a lot, fast and without any stress. Naturally, no one wants to get caught up in anything dodgy, but no one needs to think too much about whether it’s fair or not. Sure, in the capital wages are three or four times higher. So what? We want money, and we can get it! And, note, I’m not being critical when I say that! I’m young and happy and I know how to spend money to enjoy myself, which means I have to! I do design. In my spare time from this antisocial existence. Through contacts, of course. I’ve made a name for myself. I sometimes get more for a sketch than a factory worker in the provinces gets in year. So what? Should I now be bothered by my conscience gnawing away at me? No way! I’m young and free and I feel good. I’m within my rights! I
want to paint. So I paint. I want to enjoy life. So I enjoy it! A family? How was it you described it? Weekends in the country… Nappies… So is that what happiness is then, soup and nappies? And what about love? ‘Love’ – do you know that word?
I don’t need anything tying me down! And if that suits some girl too, why not? But I can love my freedom, love it with all my heart, live through my emotions, not counting debts and comparing prices… If I like expensive toys… why not? If I want a different girl every weekend… why not? I want to be happy here, today, now, and fast! And not ‘maybe’, wiping away tears, in ten years’ time, after miles of nappies, standing on top of some mighty triumphant construction project that’s united the nation and all that. Happiness is pleasure without regret, remember, like Tolstoy said? And you know what we’ve done? We’ve got rid of regret! To hell with regret! We feel fantastic without it! To hell with regret, to hell with responsibility! Yeah, this is our generation, the generation of instant happiness. And I’m glad I belong to it. Isn’t that what freedom is?”
“Uh-huh. Freedom… I also want to be free. But that freedom that you described… ‘Earn money fast, spend it, expensive toys, do what I want…’ Isn’t that the same society of consumption that people like you have been fighting against for twenty years?”
Ben looks at me dumfounded.
“Society of consumption...? No way! The expensive toys aren’t important in themselves. What’s important is that I want to be happy and free. And people get to be happy and free when they do whatever crosses their mind and get whatever they want. It sounds dodgy… from the outside, I realise. To someone on the outside. But from the inside… from the inside, when you say it about yourself it’s full of meaning. Because after that there’s no one else you’re going to ask about it. After that you won’t need an answer from anyone about why your life has passed you by. It’s better to be young and healthy… and happy and free. Free from everything. From responsibility, from regret, from difficult thoughts and unknown goals in the fogs of the future. To hell with it. Don’t sweat it, Max. Be young and happy.”