A tearstained, eyeless female face hung under the table and muttered, seeking sympathy:
“Why, tell me why’s it allays rile lires, salastically yuffy for some, and others only get lurdle, glud, and droom, why?”
The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning.
The Buratino had made Denisov drowsy, and he fell asleep.
•
A moonbeam, breaking through a darned patch, stabbed him in the eye. The moonlit tablecloth lay on the parquet floor, a silvery garden stood beyond the window, August ignited stars in the dark. It was as if all the snow from all the mountains were cascading onto the garden, the silence, and the mute paths. Denisov creaked across the floorboards and stood by the window. He hadn’t dreamt about anyone today.
The cock crowed, Bakhtiyarov and his warlocks had vanished, the shades were sleeping, the world was at peace.
And what kind of nonsense was this anyway—to be tormented by memories of nothing at all, to ask forgiveness from a dead man for something you weren’t guilty of in human reckoning, to clutch handfuls of fog? There isn’t any fifth dimension, and no one will keep count of your sins and victories, and there isn’t any punishment or reward at the end of the road, there isn’t even a road, and fame is smoke, and the soul is vapor, and if you crawled under the table, well, pardon me, my dear, but that was your choice, a matter of personal taste, and humanity will not follow after you in a grateful throng, and unseen forces won’t cry out from the everlasting azure: “Good going, Denisov, attaboy! Keep up the good work! We fully approve and support you!”
He walked around the Fairy Tale, pulling on doors, all of which were locked. Well, what a pickle! Now just sit there till morning. Break a window, or what? There’s probably an alarm here. It’s a small village, everything’s out in the open—they’ll whistle, lights will blink, the police will move in; if they don’t catch you in the garden, then they’ll get you on the highway for sure. “The heavens are wondrous and exultant, earth slumbers in a luminous blue glow,” and Denisov is going to rush about among the bushes and watchman’s booths, squat behind trash cans, and rustle in the hawthorn to elude the searchlights. There’s no point in it. A rampart of darkness encircles the world; incorporeal moon sugar will sift from leaf to leaf, trembling and glinting; sugar, snow, dreams, depths, everything has frozen, everything’s dying, growing dull in the senseless beauty, everything’s forgotten, forgiven, and anyway nothing happened, and nothing ever will.
Oh, here’s the phone. Call Lora. I myself have died—help others to help themselves.
Lora sounded congested.
“Oh, Denisov, take a taxi, come over. A horrific accident happened. What do you mean, you’re locked in? In what fairy tale? Have you gone out of your mind, Denisov, I’m in the middle of a nightmare, it’s the problem with Papa, I took him to the country, to an old woman, you don’t know her, old lady Liza, she’s a healer and a wonderful woman. Ruzanna recommended her, to read Papa; how do they do that? Well, they sit you on a stool under an icon, light a candle, the wax drips into a basin, old lady Liza reads prayers, the energy field improves a lot; it’s all calculated to last several sessions; so you can imagine, in the meantime I took off for the village store, they have a good selection there, men’s shirts from Holland, I wanted to get you some, but they were all gone, and I got held up looking at the goods for shareholders, I don’t know what shareholders, some kind of consumer co-op or something. Well, for people who bring in birch sponge mushrooms they have men’s moccasins, white ones, Austrian, exactly what you need, you can get jeans for meat and felt pens for carrots, we don’t need any of that, but the moccasins would be good; so I said to the salesgirls: Girls, I don’t have any birch sponges, maybe you’d sell me a pair anyway? And one of them, really nice, said: Wait for the boss, maybe you can arrange something; I waited and waited, and it was already dark, but no one came, and they said: It’s not likely she’ll come back—her boyfriend from Severomorsk was supposed to visit her, so I went back, and old lady Liza was in a frightful panic. She said he was just sitting, sitting there and he fell asleep, and when he falls asleep, well, you know what he gets like; he fell asleep, jumped up, threw the door open and started running, and it was dark outside, and the area’s completely unfamiliar, and he just ran off, I don’t know what to do, Denisov, I’ve been to the police and they just laugh at me. Anyway, I’m home now, completely wiped out, I mean, Papa doesn’t have a penny on him, he’ll wake up somewhere in the forest, he’ll lose his way, he’ll freeze, he’ll die, he doesn’t know where I took him, he’s lost. Denisov, what have I gone and done!”
•
. . . So he ran away, he broke out and ran away. He knew, he knew the road all along! The forgotten roused themselves, the shades lifted their heads, transparent apparitions pricked up their ears, listening: he’s running, they’ve released him, go and meet him, go out on patrol, wave flags, light beacons! The sleepwalker is running along impassable paths, his eyelids closed, his arms outstretched, a quiet smile on his lips, as though he sees what the seeing cannot, as though he knows what they have forgotten, as though at night he grasps what is lost during the day. He runs over the dewy grass, through patches of moonlight and deep black shadows, over mushrooms and pale nocturnal bluebells, tiny baby frogs. He flies up hills, runs down hills, pure and bright, and under the bright moon, the heather lashes his fleet legs, night blows in his sleeping face, his white hair flutters in the wind, the forest parts, the maples blossom, light begins to appear.
Surely he’ll keep running till he meets the light?
Translated by Jamey Gambrell
SERAFIM
GO AWAY! Go awaaay, you lousy beast!”
Someone’s dog—white, matted, disgusting—not only jumped into the elevator after Serafim and whimpered, its paws pacing the dim, clunking box racing up toward the sixteenth floor, but dared to rush to the apartment, scratching insistently at the padding of the door while Serafim struggled with the keys on the landing.
“Get out of here!”
Serafim was squeamish about nudging the warm brute with his clean foot. The dog was possessed by a frightful impatience: it drummed at the door, quickly wedged its nose to the crack and snuffed the air, drummed again, insisted, would not be dissuaded.
Serafim stamped his foot and yelled—useless. He tried to trick the animal by swiftly pushing his way into the apartment, but, shuddering and wriggling like a furry snake, the filthy cur slithered in with hideous speed, rubbing against Serafim’s legs in the process, and ran around the dark room, its claws clicking. Serafim squealed, grabbed a mop, overtook the dog, struck it, struck again, kicked it out, slammed the door, and with a pounding heart collapsed against the frame. The fiend of hell quietly fluttered about on the landing, circling and rustling. It left.
His legs could still feel the revolting sensation of dog flesh slinking by. He felt nauseous.
Serafim lay against the door, calming himself. Better now? Almost.
Leave me alone. What do you all want from me? I don’t want anyone. I am separate. Higher. I descended from the starry fields to this filth, and when I’ve completed my earthly circle, I’ll go back from whence I came. Don’t touch me.
Serafim took off his coat, drank a glass of cold, clean water, lit two candles, sat down in front of the mirror, and took a look at himself. Handsome. He narrowed his eyes appraisingly, threw back his head, observed from the side—excellent! That’s me. Uncommonly fine! That’s—me! Mind your own business, all of you. He remembered the dog. Disgusting beast. He jumped up in horror and glanced at his trousers. Just as he thought—fur. Get rid of it immediately. A hot shower. He sat down at the mirror again.
. . . What a vile world. Women, children, old people, dogs . . . Yellow, heaving swill. Flesh is nauseating. The flesh of others is revolting. Only what’s mine is ravishing, pure, transparent. I am fleshless and sexless. I don’t play your games. Get your muck out of here.
Serafim looked into the dark mirror. On
both sides of the glass was a pure, living flame. Heavenly countenance. Candles. Heavenly countenance. But only I am permitted to admire this marvelous, inhuman sight. Turn your nasty faces away from me.
To go to work Serafim was obliged to ride the bus. He tried not to look at the swinish snouts, the camellike muzzles, the hippopotamus cheeks. People are all vile! And all of them, base, revolting, are staring at Serafim with bug eyes, grinning their grins. Yes, I am magnificent. Yes, my face shines with an un-worldly light. Yes, golden curls. Snow-white wings. Angelic eyes. Part, crowd. Stand aside—Serafim goes here!
He looked in the mirror once more. Serafim’s countenance swam up from the dark depths, wavering in the warm flame. A rosy glow, the reflected light of white wings behind his back. To gaze forever . . . Who are you, my beauty? Serafim sank into the divine reflection. Time to go to bed. Tomorrow would be a hard day. He blew out the flames, folded his wings together, and hung in the soft twilight.
For the Montgolfier brothers’ jubilee, the district was planning a mass flight of thirty kilometers. Serafim was also participating. He had to collect various papers: a bilirubin blood test, a general urine analysis, and a certificate of residency. I’ll fly higher than all of them, thought Serafim while the nurse drew his delicate blue blood through a tube. Higher than the crowd, higher than the human throng, higher than their base passions. I, a child of the ether, will spread my blinding, silky, snow-white wings like a million white hummingbirds. Oh, how magnificent my triumphant flight will be!
He strolled leisurely along the drying spring path, carrying his curly golden head high. The quacking word ZHEK—the housing office—squatted on a brown plaque. Get the residency certificate.
He pushed open the door and entered. Two old ladies were asleep in a room without curtains, furnished with rows of chairs. A middle-aged lecturer slowly read from a notebook covered with oilcloth:
“According to the absolutely apocryphal legend, god-the-father, who doesn’t exist, supposedly fertilized the so-called virgin Mary by way of the nonexistent holy spirit; the result of this fraudulent conception, according to the mendacious allegations of the clergymen, was the mythical figure of Christ, who is totally alien to us. These unfounded fabrications . . .”
The old ladies woke up.
“Come in, come in, Serafim!” cried the lecturer. “Today we’re having an anti-Easter lecture on the evil of the so-called immaculate conception. Have a seat, it’ll do you good to listen.”
Serafim looked at him coldly, slammed the door, and left. I’m against any kind of conception. Fight, lecturer. Fight. Eradicate. I’m above human beings, above their fables about vulgar gods giving birth to idiot infants in dirty cow sheds. I am pure spirit, I am Serafim!
At the store Woodland Gifts they had pigeons. Serafim took a pair. Simmer in a covered pot for up to an hour and a half.
The pigeons bubbled in the pot. The doorbell rang. So. It’s Magda, his neighbor. She wants to get married. She visits Serafim under various pretexts, the redheaded scourge! Serafim folded his arms and began looking out the window, began to heat up. Magda sat down on the edge of the chair, her legs under it; she never knows where to put her hands. She likes Serafim. Vile thing! “Khhem . . .”
She’s thinking about how to start. She glances around the kitchen.
“You’re boiling a chicken?”
“Yes.”
“Khhem.”
Silence.
“I bought some pork, too, you know, a fairly large piece, well, I mean, about three pounds, I kept looking at it, thinking, should I take it or shouldn’t I, but I did; I thought I’d bake it or something, I stood in line a long time; when I got home and unwrapped it—all fat. All fat!”
Fat is nauseating muck. The whole world of flesh—is fat. Fatty, sticky children, fatty old ladies, fatty redheaded Magda.
“Ahem. I thought, maybe, I could do some washing for you, dirty sheets or whatever. You live alone.”
Go away, you nauseating creature. Go away, don’t soil my clean, clear, mountain spirit with your swinish hands. Go away.
She went away.
Serafim threw out the pigeons, drank a cup of clear broth. A pure, lean bird.
There. Get the results of the blood test; one last humiliation—and upward! To the stars! Serafim knew the results beforehand: no traces of filth, nothing lowly, denigrating, or shameful would be detected. Not like these others.
Serafim got on the bus. People pressed in. Careful there, those are wings!
“You should take taxis,” said a woman. But she looked at Serafim’s luminous face—and smiled. Get away, you base thing!
He made his way to the middle. Someone touched one wing with a finger. Stung, he turned around. A small boy, hideous-looking—glasses, crossed eyes, no front teeth—was looking at Serafim’s luxurious, swanlike feathering. His whole body winced: the snotty freak . . . with dirty hands!
Yes and here’s the result of the blood test: aqua distillata [sic!]. What did you think it would be? . . . Swine!
The day was ending. The sweaty din, sticky dirt, stench, the human swarm—everything was loaded onto wagons and carted away. The deep blue evening, brandishing a broom, nodded to Serafim as it advanced from the east. A gentle silvery sheen set in on high. On the emptying streets each black silhouette was individually underlined. Piggish faces dared to smile at Serafim, to look into his face. Annihilate them all, thought Serafim. Incinerate every one of them. Yes, my face shines. Not for you! How dare you look!
By the time he approached his building, it was completely dark. A temptingly empty bench. I’ll have a breath of fresh air. And tomorrow—the flight.
He spread his wings, looked upward. The starry wheel turns slowly, slowly. Berenice’s Hair, Virgo, the Herdsman, the Hunting Dogs—clean, cold, April diamonds. That was the place for Serafim. A sexless, shining body, he would glide in silvery raiment through the resonant heights, let the streaming cold of the constellations run between his fingers, dive into ethereal currents. Dling! Dling!—the starry threads jingled like the strings of a harp. He would drink his fill of the clean, sparkling bubbles of the twenty-star Cup. . . . And burn up the filthy earth. He’d pluck out the double, transfusing star from the Hunting Dogs constellation—the Heart of Charles . . . And he’d scorch the earth with fire.
Behind the bench, in the thick, bare bushes, something rustled, crackled, yapped—the white dog ran out, spun around, waved its tail, jumped on Serafim’s lap—joyfully, joyfully, as if it had found a long-lost friend. It jumped about noisily, trying to lick his face.
Serafim fell from the sky, jerked away, screamed, thrust out his arms. The dog jumped back, sat on its hind legs, tilted its head, and looked straight at Serafim endearingly. The sight of the affectionate muzzle and dark dog eyes caused something hot and dirty to rise in Serafim’s chest, fill his throat. Silently, gritting his teeth, trembling, hating, Serafim moved toward the dog. It didn’t understand and was overjoyed, wagged its tail, grinned, and ran to meet him. Serafim kicked at the dog’s eyes with his heel, lost his footing, kicked, kicked, kicked! There we go.
He stood for a while. The dog lay stretched out. Quiet. The stars dripped. A woman’s voice called:
“Sha-arik, Sharik, Sharik! . . . Sha-aaaarinka, Sharinka, Sharinka! . . .”
The same for you, thought Serafim. Stamp out everyone. Trying not to make any noise with his wings, he quickly moved toward the building.
He slept badly that night. His jawbones ached. He awoke at dawn, and felt his alarmingly changed palate with his tongue. Something was wrong. He yawned—and had difficulty opening his mouth. Everything had somehow become different. Something’s in the way. It had gotten colder. He wiped his face with his hand and looked—blood: he’d cut his palm on the end of his nose. The mirror! From the white morning murk, from the oval frame, someone was looking out at Serafim: a red, horny beak; a low forehead covered with blue-gray scales; from the mouth, the edges of a narrow slit, two large, long milk-white fangs.
Serafim looked coldly into the frame. He ran the split tongue along the fangs. They’re strong. He looked at the clock: Off to the dentist. The private doctor. There’s time before the flight.
Tap tap tap went his claws on the asphalt. Faster—tap, tap tap tap tap . . .
“The monster Serpent Gorynych!” shouted some boys. “Look there’s Serpent Gorynych!”
Serafim tucked his coat tight around him, grabbed his wide black wings, and took off at a run—the bus had already rounded the corner.
Translated by Jamey Gambrell
THE MOON CAME OUT
SHE WAS born some fifty years ago. They called her Natasha. The name promised large gray eyes, soft lips, a delicate silhouette, perky hair with highlights. But what came out was a fat, porous face, an eggplant nose, a dejected chest, and short, bulging bicycle calves.
In childhood she was whisked from under the gloomy arches of gray Liteiny Prospect to a dacha outside Leningrad: where exactly—had been forgotten. The name had faded, crumbled, scattered to the winds like a dry leaf; sometimes at night it thrashed against the glass, its shadow rustled—a long, long, Finnish word stretched out in the middle.
The name was lost, the days were long gone, her curly-headed little girlfriends had melted along the way—in dreams only the whisper of their feet could be heard, only the dim, distant laughter, transparent like a drawing on the air.
On lonely nights memories of gigantic trees, roads of boundless breadth, and cupolas soaring into ceiling heights came to Natasha in dreamy gusts, like a shadow sliding by. Everything had slipped away, disappeared into thin air, vanished without a trace. Long ago in that now disintegrated world, they played the most delightful games on green lawns, and an ominous significance haunted the dark, immutable incantations that resounded like alarm bells:
White Walls Page 23