by Pavel Kostin
I’m holding a book. Nothing special. Just an old book. I’ve read it before. I weigh it in my hands, feeling its pleasant weight.
Shakespeare, Selected Plays.
I open it. The book opens easily, as if the pages were glued together. The book has lain open for a long time, and it now opens exactly in that place. I look to see what’s printed there. Nothing special. The middle of Richard III: unfamiliar phrases which don’t awake any associations in me. I don’t remember reading it. What can I do? I flick through it.
I don’t see anything special. I try to remember what was happening when I read it last time. Why I stopped. Why it’s so important. Nothing.
I flick through page after page. Black letters on yellowed pages. Words which aren’t there in my memory.
Suddenly there’s a bit of cut-out newspaper.
I pull it out carefully. Strange. A square cut out of the newspaper. An article with the headline cut off. The line of the cut goes right through the middle of the sentences. Sometimes even the words are cut in half. The paper is clearly more recent than the pages in the book. It’s white, not yellowed with age. I try to grasp the meaning.
“…blic utilities, despite increases in rates over the las…” Doesn’t make sense. What’s this doing here? It’s just a badly cut out article.
But then I see that between the letters, in the space between the words, there are strange lines. I hold it up to my eyes. What’s going on?
My heart is already beating, I already see, I already sense something, although I haven’t yet figured out what I can see on the other side of the article. I turn it over.
The world around me disappears. It no longer exists. I keep looking at the photo for a long, long time. My hands are shaking.
I am holding in my hands a portrait of Lady F, cut out of the paper. It’s a photo. Lady F is smiling, looking to the side of the photographer. It’s her, no doubt, her, shining, exquisite, sweet. I turn the paper over in my trembling hands, looking for a date or the name of the paper. No. No…
After a long time, a very long time, I lower my hands. And there, without a pause, without a break, I see that silhouette on the wall in front of me. The woman’s silhouette on the wall of the White Tower echoes the features on the photograph.
In my hand I’m holding a picture of Lady F cut out of the paper. It’s a photo. Lady F smiles and looks to the right of the photographer. It’s her, no doubt, her, radiant, beautiful, sweet. There’s no caption on the photo, no explanation, nothing.
Time passes. The minutes fly by. For a long time I sit there motionless, staring at the outline on the wall, which I’ve seen before dozens of times, not knowing, not remembering that it belongs to her, I sit in silence, although I already know that it’s time to go, because soon one of the guys will arrive and, despite all the questions, despite all the thoughts buzzing in my mind, I don’t want to see anyone, anyone at all. It’s time to go. It’s time to go and discover the truth. This is my path. It’s time. Go, Max. Go.
The Secret of My City
A flowering garden. The cherry trees and the pear trees are blooming. White flowers against a pure blue sky. The smell of spring.
I don’t want to move a muscle, that’s how good I feel.
I know she’s there next to me. But I can’t look. She laughs and says something to me and asks what I think.
Silence. I can’t say anything back. I can’t get out a single word. I don’t even understand what she’s asked.
Who am I?
I don’t remember anything. How did I end up here, who am I, what’s happening to me, why can’t I say anything, why can’t I move, why can’t I laugh back at her, why can’t I even look at her?
The intonation in her voice changes, becomes wary. She’s scared. Maybe I’ve done something wrong?
I fall. Fall onto my back, unable to stop myself; watching, as if from the outside, as the snow-white blossom of the blooming garden disappears from my sight and all that’s left before me is the sky, only the sky, only the pure blue sky from one edge to the other.
• • •
I wake up. Darkness. Night. I’m lying on a bench in the park, covered in newspaper. I sit up and rub my eyes. I get up and wander forward. Nowhere in particular, just forward. My city is all around me. Streets and pavements, avenues and bridges. I’m with you, my city, always with you, whatever happens.
I am alone, my city. You’re all I have. There’s no one I can go to, no one else I can ask what’s going on. There’s only you, you’re the only one I can trust. Will you tell me, will you help? Tell me the truth, not hide anything from me? I trust you, my city, I trust you.
I walk forward, smiling at the dark night. Either my memory has disappeared forever in the whirlpool of oblivion or I have.
I walk out of the park. The city streets are deserted. There’s not a single person. I walk a couple of blocks before I realise that this is totally weird.
There are no people in this city.
I’m completely alone. I’m wandering down empty streets, examining deserted pavements in surprise.
Maybe I’ve died? Died a long time ago and this whole thing was just a prelude to the purity and peace of life after death. It’s very peaceful here. The city is clean and not derelict, but there’s not a single living soul in it. Now, without people, the city is like a huge sculpture. The silhouettes of the houses, the lines of streets, the bends and breaks in the walls. Here’s an interesting question: if the city is a sculpture then what does it depict? If the city is a monument then who does it commemorate? As we go along the same old routes every day, crossing the same streets, we stop noticing the world around us. If you change that journey or put up a big bright barrier on that usual route, then people will stop in surprise and examine this new element in the familiar surroundings. They’ll look round the whole street, which they’ve walked down every morning, walked down a thousand times, and only then will they see it for the first time. You only notice new things. But isn’t the huge familiar world also worthy of our attention, just as much as some tiny detail that disturbs the established order of things? The world is surprising and beautiful all by itself. It doesn’t need some barrier, it doesn’t need to be shaken up to be magical. It’s people that need that barrier. Every one of us could at any moment of our lives stop in our tracks, look round, and see the world afresh. And be amazed at how many sensations accompany every moment. Pay attention to the world around you. And the city deserves that attention just as much as any other point in reality.
A beep. A car horn. I jump back.
A car roars past a metre away from me. A million sounds hit my ears. I look around in amazement. I’m in the city centre and there are dozens of people all around. They’re hurrying about their business, passing right by me. Nothing special has happened. I just saw the city how Mutt sees it. The city with no one in it.
• • •
I’m walking along the street. I don’t know where to or where from. I’m completely lost. Sometimes I stop and look at the sky for a long time. Sometimes I get out the photo of Lady F and look at her eyes. She’s smiling. If I look for a long time, it’s like she’s next to me. It’s a black and white photo but I know the exact shade of her skin and the colour of her soft lips, I know how those green eyes smile. I know exactly what she looks like and how she moves when she turns to me and laughs.
All the answers are inside me. I’m like a character who’s forgotten his lines, but can’t help but play his part. If you could just remember, remember everything as it really is, then you could get past this supporting role with its inevitable tragic finale, escape the circle of light and start living how you want, free from the fixed bonds of predetermination.
What if I’m just a character in a play? In a film in which I’m not even the lead. I’ve got every right to think this, don’t I? My every ac
tion is already written, decided from the beginning and I can’t change anything. I’m fated not to remember my life before the beginning of the play and to die when the curtain comes down. The circle of light, the circle of my fate is limited by this predetermined role which I can’t change in any way. The character’s spiritual turmoil doesn’t change the lines that have been prepared for him because they’re just a part of the role he’s fated to play. I stop at a shop window. I lean my hands on the black surface, looking at my reflection.
Who knows what’s really going on with mirrors… Maybe thousands of curious viewers are watching us through them, from outside the circle of light. The people for whom we’re playing our parts.
“Hey,” I say, bringing my face up to the reflective surface of the glass. “Can you hear me? I want to know the truth. I need to. Can you tell me? You, my silent viewers. If you exist. I don’t want to play a part. I want to escape the circle of light. I want to be with you guys, living a real life, a full-blooded, fully legitimate life, just like you. Do you hear me?”
The dark window stays silent.
• • •
Sunset thickens over the city. The world is painted in shades of scarlet. My legs are screaming. I’ve walked the roads for miles today and climbed over dozens of roofs. I didn’t go home. I haven’t slept much and eaten practically nothing in the last couple of days. I’m free probably. Right now, at this moment. What do I need this freedom for? How can I use it, if I can’t see what path I should take? I’ve been down every road, searched every corner of myself, but I haven’t found any leads, every time I hit this thick grey fog. I’m lying on a roof, not moving, enjoying the way the sun slowly hides behind the horizon. She said that sunsets suit her. She’s right, I remember. The orange urban sunlight always turns the heap of grey buildings into a magical city of the sun. It’s a magical transformation. I’d like to watch it forever, to dissolve in it and become part of that magic.
I’ve been all over and I’ve come back with nothing. I’ve spent day after day turning over the memories of the past days and weeks in reverse order until I get to that silent grey emptiness, but I can’t see any dark little corners or even the edge of some maze that I’ve forgotten to look in. Sometimes my memory throws up strange, indecipherable pictures from the unknown, distant past that’s gone forever. Phantom visions in which I can’t tell what is really my memory and what I’ve just imagined, what’s just flared up in the beams of the bright kaleidoscope of imagination.
I see the shore of a sea on which the waves have frozen and an instant of the sunset descending from the heavens and rays of orange light glittering on the foam, a raspberry road on the fluctuating surface of the water. She’s there next to me, I feel her hand on my shoulder, and I don’t want to move in case I accidentally dislodge it, and I can still feel a small stone under my right foot but it’s not hurting me, quite the opposite, I like squeezing it under my bare foot and feeling how it rolls around pushing small ticklish indentations into my sensitive skin.
I remember the golden-orange city before us. Down below, beneath the bridge, our long, long shadows – it’s as if huge giants with long arms and legs have gone to look down on the city from up high. The flashes of distant windows, too far away to see. They’re so far away that they look like black dots, and the buildings they’ve been drawn on are no bigger than matchboxes. “Put out your hand,” I say. “Look you’ve got a house in the palm of your hand.” The sunset is behind us; we don’t see, but we can feel the sun slipping down, and one by one the black dots turn into tiny, bright sparks as the orange wave of light engulfs them. I remember the darkness, the endless world of closed eyes, in which there’s nothing out of place, not a single fault, not a single crack, only the living perfection of her soft lips, the warmth of her hands and the quiet beating of her true heart, her trust, her tenderness, her love.
I remember the blossoming garden in which millions of little flowers tremble in the slightest movement of the nonexistent wind. The magical scent of spring and that feeling inside that you are so big that you don’t even fit inside your own body, that you’ve got it all ahead of you, that everything will definitely work out. I squeeze her hand and I realise that I can’t express it, that there’s nothing I can say because there are no words strong enough to get it across, to get even one step closer to the real sensation, and I can only hope and wish and believe that she feels the same.
I remember the bright lake before dawn. The lonely jetty on the dark water, the black silhouettes of the trees making jagged lines in the distance. Silence, magical silence. The bright peace of a summer night and a tiny little hand in mine. I can’t turn round to look, but I know that she’s there alongside me: it intoxicates me, fills my heart with magic. There’s so much in my heart, so much of everything, that I don’t understand how one heart can contain so much excitement, tenderness, peace and wonder at the same time.
She’s in all of these memories. When did they appear? When did they come back? Maybe they’ve always been there… And at the moment a memory comes to me, penetrating, burning like an icy ray. A real, fresh memory, a cold, calculated thought. They weren’t always there. My mind hurries and before I can even get to the chain of cause and effect, I already know everything, remember everything.
I stand up above the city, my arms crossed on my chest. The sun has gone over the horizon, but darkness has not yet thickened above the city, not yet covered it in the black blanket of night. I stand with my arms crossed. Alone. I have to go alone. I won’t be frightened. I know where my answers are waiting for me.
• • •
A rusty metal door weakly lit by a solitary torch. Electric light paints a dull circle on the tarmac. My shadow is washed out, its contours torn apart in the night by the conflicting lights. My torch flashes and my shadow disappears completely. The door to FridayZZ is shut again, but even from here I notice the smell of burning coming from the club.
I’m alone.
I go up to the door. There’s no wire on it, no lock. No one has come here since the three of us were here last time. I put my hand on the doorknob and the soot immediately crawls onto my skin, smearing my fingers black. Oh well. I pull the door and it gives way, opens with a gloomy iron creak to reveal a black crack before me.
I go inside, into the darkness.
No one. Silence and darkness. The numbing smell of burning. My head is spinning, but I keep myself together. I put one leg in front of the other cautiously moving into the black depths.
Bright lines dance in the dark. My eyes gradually start to adapt. I’ve got my torch in my pocket and I clasp it in my damp hand, but I don’t want to turn it on. Soon I’ll be able to make out the corners and surfaces of the walls. Tiny quanta of light penetrate my pupils and draw the ghostly world of the vanished club. My knee hits something soft. I freeze. I’m not scared.
I squat down and lower my hand. It’s the leather cushion of a bench. It’s torn and covered in soot. I remember this cushion. I remember. My head is spinning.
I open my eyes. I see the night sky. There’s something disgusting in my throat. Shouts, people are shouting somewhere nearby. Crying. Lots of people are crying. “Help!” People are desperately yelling all around. “Help me!” Something bad has happened, something really bad. I try to remember, try as hard as I can, and I want to get up, but neither my memory nor my body wants to do what I say.
I whisper something but my cotton-wool lips refuse to talk. I really want to sleep, but something very important is stopping me, something very important and very bad.
Someone is leaning over me. I know him. Of course I know him. It’s Ben. He says something to me, and I even hear the words, I hear my name, my real name, but I can’t figure out what he’s saying. My head is spinning. There are glints of orange on Ben’s clothes. He shouts furiously at me, asking me something, but I don’t understand him. “Sorry,” I whisper to him. “Sor
ry. Sorry. Sorry.” Not a single sound. Nothing. I can’t say anything, I can’t move, and even my lips won’t obey me.
I come to my senses. Blackness. Bright lines in my eyes. Looks like I lost consciousness. I’m alone in the darkness, in FridayZZ, the empty abandoned club. I need to keep going. I start to remember. Terror forms a lump in my throat. I don’t understand how this could have happened to us. Reality refuses to enter my mind. It’s me who won’t let it in, just as I haven’t let it in before now. But I still want to remember. I have to remember.
One step and then another. I know there is a wall up ahead. Words and phrases come to the surface, meaningless webs of letters written on walls which I can’t link together. Now I know that there’s something to them, that they mean something, but for now I won’t let it through to my conscious mind. Because these words conceal a secret, keep the answers to the questions which have tormented me all this time, and these answers are worse than I want to know. It’s all too terrible. But I have to remember.
I stop by the wall. I lift my hand. I touch the greasy, charred surface. I can’t see them but I can feel scratches in the scorched walls. I can’t read with my hands. I drag my fingers down, it’s a struggle, I press my hand against the burned surface. I feel pain. I know that I feel pain. The whole world is swallowed by pain. I’m swallowed by pain. It’s loud. It’s so loud.
Trees. It’s trees making the noise. Huge trees, reaching up to the sky, that are making this noise like the endless surf of the endless ocean. I don’t want to think. I want to dissolve in that sound, so that I don’t exist anymore. And everything’s gone. It’s like everything’s red. It’s like I see everything through a red fog.
An ancient park. Huge trees reaching up to the sky, so huge that the crowns have intertwined, blocking out the sun. They’ve blocked out the sun forever. It’s so difficult. I’d like to say how difficult but I’ve got no one to tell and no reason to tell them. All I want, all I’ll ever want is to dissolve in that noise forever, so that everything disappears, so that I don’t exist anymore, and there is only this noise, the endless breathing of eternity, and silence and peace and blackness and nothingness. But it’s still hard, the pain doesn’t go, and there’s no escape, there’s no freedom, there’s only this endless black weight, which has already crushed me, and all that’s left is for me to hate myself, my disgusting body, my pitiful nerves and my stupid brain for this unwanted ability to feel and experience, for the fact that I exist even though everything should have been different.