by Pavel Kostin
Be young and happy. Be young and happy. What beautiful words.
“I wasn’t talking about that, Ben.”
“About what then?”
“About how this new freedom… this new trend, yeah, has itself become the norm. It’s become a responsibility in itself. If you move in certain circles and you don’t sign up to this image, it means, you’re lagging behind. It means you’re not successful.”
“Not successful...?” Ben thinks about it. “Well, maybe.”
“So what kind of freedom is it then? It turns out that to be successful you have to be ‘free’ like you described. And what kind of freedom is it if you ‘have to’?”
“Yeah, it’s a contradiction…” Ben laughs. “But those are just words. I’m telling you that on the inside that’s not how you feel it.”
“It’s pretty weird to hear you of all people talking like that…”
“Possibly. But coming from me it’s even more contradictory, which means it sounds even more interesting! Tell me, Max, what is freedom for you?”
“For me? Right now… knowing the truth about myself. And living how I want. I want to be completely independent… free from any fixed mindsets, any convictions, any roles. To be, basically, however banal it may sound, to be myself.”
“So how is that different from what I was saying?”
“Because your ‘freedom’ is still a role.”
“Hey, Max,” Ben laughs and slaps me on the shoulder. “Each to their own, bro. Each to their own.”
• • •
A park. That same one. With the huge trees interlocking above my head. The noise, the ancient noise of the old trees. Like the surf, sounding for centuries. A grey, overcast sky. It’s calm here. A beautiful place.
But something… something’s not right here. There’s something dangerous. I know, I know for sure, what the thing about this place is. I’ve just forgotten.
I look for her, but she’s nowhere to be seen.
I hear a noise. Or is it music? Maybe I’ve imagined it? Trees make a noise, trees make a beautiful noise. I could listen to that music forever.
There’s something over there, past the bend in the path. I know it for sure, but I just can’t remember what exactly it is.
Movement. There’s movement up ahead. Someone is running over there… I stop. I look ahead. Where are you, where are you when I need you so much?
There’s something bright on the ground. I bend over. It’s some flowers. Their colour burns and blinds in this grey, faded, peaceful place.
I see them again. They’re running, running towards me, black dogs, fast, silent, sure of their target. It’s as if my legs are stuck to the ground. I need to run, run away, turn round and run away, but it’s impossible, because I remember what the most terrible, terrible thing is. I can sense it, I can definitely sense it, like an icy beam aimed directly at my back. Behind my back and just to the left. I need to turn round. I need to turn round so that I can understand. I need to turn round. There’s an answer there.
There’s an answer there, Max.
I turn round.
No. No. NO!
I wake up. Black and scary. For a long time I can’t figure out where I am, then I remember. I’m at Ben’s house. I couldn’t risk going back to mine and asked if I could go to his. The black dogs are still floating in front of my eyes. I ran with them. Or from them. And I saw, right? I saw what was behind me. I saw. And it made me wake up. I’ve got to, I’ve got to remember. Whatever it was I saw.
I lie there for a long time, I lie in absolute darkness, I rub my eyes and pinch myself so I don’t fall asleep, I lie there even longer, until the early dawn breaks outside the window, but I still can’t remember what I saw, there in the overcast park, in that beautiful, gloomy park where the black dogs live.
• • •
A new day in my city. Morning. Not too early. The sun has already painted the walls in the colours of a city summer and is glittering in bright stars in the orange windows. The air begins to warm up and cars fill the city, cattle let out of their shed.
“Have you got a shift tomorrow?” Ben asks.
“Uh-huh…” I reply.
I’m suddenly in a good mood. I like this morning. I want to forget everything and hurry off somewhere along with these passers-by and this immediately makes me realise that Ben can’t have known where I work and what I do. I hadn’t told him. An unpleasant chill runs down my spine. The colours immediately fade, and the flashes of sunlight in the orange windows become unpleasantly blinding.
“Ben…” I say.
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t tell you where I work.”
“Really?” Ben asks calmly, not slowing down. “I think you mentioned something. Something about shifts, no?”
“Yeah…”
I fall silent, turning our conversations over in my head. About life, about freedom, about art… Maybe. I really don’t want to get distracted on this gorgeous morning, I really don’t want to get caught up in the gloomy problems and awkward questions, so I quite consciously push these thoughts away. Actually I probably let something slip while we were talking. Said something about working in shifts. Let’s say I did.
“Max..?” Ben says,
“Yes, Ben?”
“Today’s a fantastic day for doing nothing, don’t you reckon?”
I laugh.
“Let’s give it a go..!”
• • •
We’re sitting on a bench in the park, feeding the pigeons. Dozens of birds have gathered for the crumbs from a baguette. There’s not many people here, not much activity. It was two minutes from here that the flying truck nearly killed me. Right now I don’t want to think about that. Scary. Perhaps it’s because I want to live?
What’ll happen next? I haven’t gone back home yet for fear they might be waiting for me there. Now that I’ve run off there’s no limit to what they might be thinking about me. I hope they won’t call the police in to catch me. Detained by the police and confined to a psychiatric hospital. Looks good on the CV, that.
“Why did you become the way you are, Ben?”
“What do you mean ‘the way I am’?
“You know. Do you know Mutt?”
“Of course. We know each other well.”
“You know what he thinks about people. That he doesn’t need anyone and so on. Is that what you think too? Is that your influence?”
“Not quite. I agree with him in part. It’s pretty much the same as what we’ve been talking about. What do you need other people for? If you get some pleasure from hanging out with friends, then great. But what do you need other people for? In most cases, they’re only going to bring you new problems. They’re going to want you to play some part in their life. They’re going to want your help. What do you want that for?”
“It’s better on your own?”
“Yeah! It’s better on your own. I can get whatever I need when I need it. Conversation, pleasure, sex, if I want it. Without the problems, which, as a rule, come with other people. Plus, they don’t, as a rule, understand me. They don’t understand my way of life, or my art, or my solitude. And they don’t understand the most important thing: that they’ve got nothing to offer me! I just don’t need them. And whatever I do need I can get myself.”
“Sounds pretty dark.”
“And what about the paintings?”
“So what… what about the paintings?”
“Whatever happens, everyone sees them. And whatever happens, it’s well… it’s still illegal.”
Ben nods. A bitter smile twists his lips. He bends over deliberately slowly and picks up the heel of the bread which the birds couldn’t peck apart. He breaks it into small bits and crumbles it. The pigeons crowd round, clambering over each other
and cooing wildly.
“Yeah, everyone sees my paintings,” Ben says. “But it’s not that I want everyone to see them… But I don’t want the opposite either…”
He sits in silence, kneading the bread in his fingers. He doesn’t say anything for five minutes, then ten. We sit together in silence. It’s nice in the park.
• • •
Roof. Summer. Day. A heat wave in the city. Warmth rises from the roofing felt on the top of the five-storey building. The hot air swirls and wavers. Me and Ben are drinking warm beer and watching the city at work. Ben is telling me about his schooldays, constantly getting sidetracked.
“At first I drew on desks. I was a vandal. It’s a petty, stupid thing to do, of course. Desks look so ugly when they’re covered in writing. When it’s all like jumbled up. And walls look ugly too when everything’s all jumbled up. That’s vandalism too. You know there was this campaign in New York. When the city authorities began to really crack down on graffiti. To clean the trains, clean the walls. And the crime rate fell. It was a sort of experiment. The idea being that if a person is standing next to a wall covered in graffiti he’s more likely to chuck some rubbish on the pavement. And if the wall is clean, he’ll go and look for a bin. And so on, and the same sort of thing with crime. Because I realise that it’s all very controversial. But there’s nothing I can do about it. I am who I am. I paint. On the other hand, when the work is good, then it doesn’t look like rubbish on the wall. It’s a canvas and a beautiful picture. Which makes people stop and smile. Or, more rarely, to stop in amazement. Or even more rarely it makes them think. Although… of course, that’s not why I paint.”
“Then why?”
“To be honest I don’t completely know,” Ben replies eventually. “I’ve been asked that question so many times. So I often quote this passage….
Ben thinks.
“Right… ‘Art must no longer inhabit only the storerooms and sheds of human genius – the palaces, galleries, salons, libraries and theatres. On behalf of the great advance of cultural equality for all, we demand that the Free Word of the creative individual be written on the intersections of walls, on the fences, roofs and streets of our cities and villages and on the spines of the automobiles, carriages and trams and on the clothes of all citizens. May paintings leap from building to building on our streets and squares like jewelled rainbows, delighting and ennobling the eye of passers-by. Artists and writers must immediately take the pots of paint and brushes from their studios and paint the sides, foreheads and chests of all our cities, stations and endlessly running flocks of railway carriages. From this day forward, may the citizens on our streets at all times enjoy the depth of thought of their great contemporaries, observe the bright and luscious beauty of the joy of today and everywhere hear the music – the melodies, the rumble, the noise – of wonderful composers. May the streets become a celebration of art for all!’”
Ben falls silent and looks at me expectantly.
“Awesome, right?” he asks.
“Totally,” I laugh. “What is that?”
“It’s Mayakovsky. A Futurist manifesto. About us. But actually wanting to paint is most often not a conscious choice, but just… just a genuine desire. And I get pleasure from it. When I’m painting… it’s like I’m a victorious sportsman feeling his own strength.”
“It’s a sport?”
“No. But it’s the same as sport is for someone who loves it. It’s a way of life. But listen…” Ben takes a swig from a bottle. “We’re getting a bit deep here, no? So, when I was studying, these paintings of mine weren’t very important for me. It happened gradually. At first I just painted, then I looked and saw – it’s working. I started to take an interest in the technical side. Then I got into graffiti. Gave it a go. I don’t even remember when it happened.”
I wait for him to continue, but there’s a long pause and I fear he won’t continue.
“And then what?”
“Well…When it became more than just something I was into. When it became the most important thing. When I myself became part of it. For me it’s something more than just a hobby. It’s life. For other people it’s just something they’re into. Like collecting stamps. And some people just laugh at it. Like you, when you were studying, at first you looked down on these paintings…”
A second. One second, during which I turn to him in confusion. When I was at uni? How could he know that? And is he really scared? Or just unsure of himself? Or does he think he’s blurted out something he shouldn’t have?
“…probably,” Ben completes his sentence.
“What was that?” I ask and I already know how stupid it sounds…
“What was that when?” Ben asks confused.
“Just now. You know where I was at uni? How come?”
Ben frowns.
“No. I don’t know. What’s going on, Max? Why are you acting so… so suspicious? About work, studying. What’s going on? I thought I was paranoid.” He laughs. “Maybe you’d like to talk about it?”
I say nothing and look at the city. For some reason you always feel special on the roof. Here everything’s different. It’s as if that scurrying, gleaming, inconstant city below you doesn’t exist. Up here is part of that invisible city where Mutt lives. It’s like you’re on some high and silent cliff and below you a storm is raging. Up here it’s calm, quiet, slow, smooth; it’s like you are a solitary eager soaring high on the breeze, the wind caressing your feathers.
“I’ll try and tell you,” I begin.
For a long time I say nothing. After all I don’t even really understand myself what’s going on.
“Basically it’s like this, Ben. I’ve got problems with my memory. Something strange is happening to me. I’ve forgotten, you see?”
“What have you forgotten?”
“I’ve forgotten everything. I’ve forgotten who I am, where I studied, what happened to me before. I remember my friends, I remember my mum. I remember my name. But up until a certain moment in my life… there’s just this fog. As if there was nothing there. As if at that moment I was born with all my memories and knowledge, but before that there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“Uh-huh. And have you tried to talk to anyone about this? To your parents?”
“I’m talking to you. I mentioned it to my Mum. She decided that I’d gone mental, judging by everything that’s happened. Instead of talking to me about it, she called the doctor. And now I’m staying at yours. Because I’m afraid to go home. They’ll put me in the nuthouse. That’s where you really do go paranoid.”
“But maybe… Don’t get me wrong. But maybe you really do need some help?”
“I’m not offended. It’s a reasonable question. I’ve already thought about it, Ben. The thing about this is… you see, until recently I wasn’t worried about the fact that I don’t remember anything. I knew, I definitely knew, but I just wasn’t worried. It seemed normal to me. Although it’s clearly not normal.”
“So when did you start to worry?”
“When… I... when me and some friends went to this abandoned club.”
His pupils widen. I saw that. I definitely saw that.
“Do you know something? Tell me, Ben.”
“Max. Calm down. Just tell me. You’re being weird, to be honest.”
“Possibly… So. I’m starting to suspect that something unusual happened to me. As if there’s something strange in my past. Something strange happened to me. Or to the city. Or to the world. I’m trying to figure out who I am, what happened in my past, why I forgot about it. To find out if this past even existed…”
“Cool,” Ben says.
“I get it,” I say bitterly. “I get it… I sound just like some ranting madman! But it’s really like that. That’s why I want to find out who I am. That’s why I want to figure out what’s goi
ng on. That’s why I’m not rushing over to them saying ‘take me to the loonie bin.’ There you go, that’s my story, Ben.”
“Awesome, Max. It really is awesome,” Ben says,
Then he says nothing for ages.
“You know what, Max,” he says. “I believe you. Seriously. Look for your answers. I’m sure you’ll find them. Just look after yourself. You never know what answers you might stumble upon. They might turn out to be more dangerous than the questions.”
“Thanks,” I nod. “Thanks, Ben.”
“One more thing, Max. Don’t think that I’m running away from you, but I have to go. I’ll give you one more bit of advice. I don’t know if what I’m doing is a good idea or not. Or whether it’s right. I really don’t know. But this is what I’d do in your position: try and recall the last point you remember. Maybe that’ll help you?”
• • •
The beach. The waves roll in. It’s already evening, but the sky on the sea is as blindingly bright as it is in the afternoon. The cool sand. I take it in my hand, and billions of tiny stones slip through my fingers in cold streams. Did you know there are roughly as many stars in the known universe as there are grains of sand on the Earth? A funny coincidence.
Behind me is the enormous concrete promenade.
The sound of the surf measures out the minutes.
I feel good.
White foam seethes and dances on the crests of the waves. One wave replaces another, and yet another always follows after that. Infinity. Infinity is beautiful. The sea is a symbol of silence. A symbol of peace. A stormy sea? A squall? Everything passes. Everything disappears. Always. All that’s left is peace and the measured sound of the waves.
I like thinking about this. Nothing means anything. In the end everything will calm down, everything will be worn down into the smooth mirror of the endless expanse of peaceful water.
It’ll be sunset soon. The sun is just about to touch the edge of the horizon.
Behind me I hear a girl laughing in the distance. Or is she right behind me? There it is again.