Semmant

by Vadim Babenko

  The experience he gained had convinced him of one thing only: in the market it was impossible to be certain of anything, ever. Having fought and matured, he threw down his sword, after coolly calculating its mathematical worthlessness. He was probably right, but it did not suit me at all. And yet, what could I do? All the programs were reorganized, reshaped; I couldn’t even think of changing something in the code – and anyway, my direct intervention would eviscerate the idea. Moreover, I felt the balance of unseen powers inside his refined brain was most likely absolutely correct. Perhaps in some sense it was even flawless. Yet not all powers had been accounted for; something important was missing.

  Then I took a break – to be honest, there was nothing else left for me to do. I started to go for walks, just wandering aimlessly around the city. My surroundings were coming back to me like a picture developing on photographic paper. It was as if I had surfaced out of an acid ocean, out of a heavy haze, an arduous slumber. The effort of the last months had been excessive; it had gone well beyond normal. The usual means – alcohol, sex – would hardly help me recover. I was ruled not by indiscriminate indifference, but by delicate, sweet sorrow.

  Mollified and meek, I walked the streets, smiling at everyone in turn; and many grinned at me in reply, probably taking me for an idiot. I almost loved them, nonetheless – so dim-witted, insignificant, entirely self-absorbed. I wanted to do something good, and probably my looks were inviting enough. People spoke to me, asked directions; many times I personally guided tourists to well-known Madrid places – the Prado Museum, the flea market, or the Royal Palace. Along the way, I would be polite and kind, diligently keeping up the conversation. I would tell them all I knew about Velasquez and Goya, bullfighting and flamenco, the royal family and seafood paella. This soon wore everybody out, and then I would ask the questions they expected – about their cities, occupations, relatives. This invigorated them, and they talked a lot. But I didn’t get annoyed; I would obediently look at the photos of brides and grooms, husbands, wives, and children – an incredible number of children that they shoved in my face. I just couldn’t get my dander up – this probably seemed strange. Many even cocked their heads in suspicion, thanked me hastily, and quickly ran away.

  I did not take offense; I didn’t care. I forgot each chance encounter the very second it ended and never remembered again. They did not understand the most important part: it wasn’t them I was concerned about. This was just my position – Thomas told me once when he was still a financial guru: the main challenge is to take a position! And here I tried; I knew what the trick was. I wanted to give away selflessly, as if to atone for some kind of sin. No, no, I didn’t think selflessness could help us, Semmant or me. But still – there was a reason for it.

  As always at impasse, in idle times, my Brighton past came into its own. I returned to the leaden waves – with my thought, consciousness, receptors. I imagined I was wandering through the city not with the airheads from the crowd. Instead, I recognized faces – faces of those whom I knew: Mona, the thin beauty, and Kurt, the short-sighted bully, and haughty Mario, and my Little Sonya. Her, more often than the rest.

  Strangely, I almost never thought of Sonya until I found out she was no more. Not about her or our brief fling. There, in Brighton, she had been a prominent figure. Her friends recounted breathlessly her meticulousness and explosive temper, her guttural screams in the night, the Maltese flag in the window in place of drapes. She loved her things with an obsession, laying them lovingly out on the bed and giving them names. She called her electric teapot Steamy; her straw mat was My Dear Friend; the mirror by the door was Dirty Little Girl. Yet I took no notice of her, as if on purpose, though she caught everyone’s eye. And then she picked me herself – for no other reason than the irony of it. She flew upon me like an Asian typhoon – with gently slanting eyes and a round Jewish butt. Her countenance alternately flushed with incredulous savagery, hatred toward the unknown, and… desire, tenacious temptation. Many races were mixed in her, and she was better than any of them taken separately. In looks, in smell, in taste.

  Don’t think that I remember her only because of the first sex of youth. And, in any case, don’t oversimplify. I felt her orgasms on my tongue one after the other; it was with her I first learned what a woman smelled like in unbridled passion; and yet the essence was in something else. When time had passed, I caught myself thinking I was glad she wasn’t with me, that I had been freed, had slipped away. She possessed an inherent sense of chaos, an impetuous emotion of devastation – by carrying this in herself, she was sparing others from it. Having her by your side was not easy. Maybe something similar hides in each of us – and that’s why we have been disinclined to communicate with each other…

  Of course, Little Sonya had more serene talents. She knew how to extract from reality everything that broadens it. That makes it better, I could add, though this would be a bit of a lie. Words came to her of their own accord. She did not play at them and seemed not to notice. The most common expressions became filled with surprising meaning – and gave birth to novelty; with Sonya, all was new. You wouldn’t trade this for any orgasm – the ordinary receded, cast down from the throne, though its servants hastened from all directions to restore the familiar status quo. They hastened and were left with nothing.

  Here, on the streets of Madrid, I remembered her as an accomplice in some secret matter – though the idea of Semmant would hardly have appealed to Sonya. But she would have said something – and I would have dug deeper! She saw things from the most acute angle and, interpreting them in the strangest of ways, might seriously wound, even draw blood. But she could also heal – like the most lighthearted doctor. Even just remembering, through the features of insignificant strangers, I already felt as though I were cured. So why should I not do something for her now?

  Or Mario… I could say a lot about Mario, another accomplice – also in secret, and, indeed, quite in shame. He wanted to be a woman and became Mariana; but this, it seems, did not change him much. Thanks to him I learned a lot – including about myself. Never again did I have such an enemy. Nobody wrote me such wrathful letters or cursed me with so much hatred – even when we had nothing to share anymore. Years later, all his reflections had disappeared from my life, but I could not get rid of him no matter how I tried.

  I caught his name on posters in European capitals, where he was wildly adored. When I could, I bought the best tickets – and sat and listened, almost not breathing. She was gorgeous, Mariana, with her famous cello, though I knew what was hidden beneath her dress, beneath her skin, in that delightfully indifferent heart, in her icy, hard soul. And perhaps, to spite her – no, him, to spite Mario – I whispered a mantra to myself: “Perfection is unattainable,” believing and not believing, probably hoping more than ever. And now I recognize: he’s one of the links. He also made a contribution – and a big one – to what happened later. Thanks to him, I developed a passion for music – and this helped me to get over the deadlock.

  It was music that brought me to the Auditorio Nacional, where that evening, by coincidence, the Spanish queen had attended. No, I was not introduced to the queen herself, but her presence played an important role. I met the Countess de Vega – during the third week of my forced “vacation.”

  At the Auditorio they were performing “Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 1.” Playing the grand piano was one of those whose name I would spell in capital letters – he’s one of “us,” though not from the School. The performance was the same as always – magnificent. I sat in the amphitheater, where the clearest sound could be found, just three rows higher than Queen Sofia. Around her swarmed the usual commotion – bodyguards, a handful of relatives, members of wealthy families who had not come for Chopin at all. When all had ended and the applause abated, the group with the Crown quickly abandoned the hall. They passed very close by me – and I caught a whiff of something imperceptibly sad.

  “We note how time marches on by how the queen grows older,�
�� I muttered aloud; and a woman standing in front of me turned around and looked in surprise. I would say her glance was frightened and timid, which did not fit her haughty bearing. She quickly composed herself, though, stepped to one side, and disappeared. But later, in the foyer, her companion stopped me.

  “Anna Pilar María Cortez, née Countess de Vega, invites you to dine with us,” he said with elaborate courtesy, and I just shrugged my shoulders, not knowing how to refuse. Afterward, in the restaurant, she and I talked for several hours – like old, long-lost friends.

  Some two months later I also met her husband – a dwarf with a womanly face, whose genes had already decayed from boredom several generations back. However, she was not spending that evening with him, but with the family’s secretary, her lover David, a very tall male specimen with the jaw line of a boxer, tiger eyes, and a shock of black hair. He was a regular Adonis indeed. Herds of Spanish girls flocked to him from all corners, stamping their hooves and swishing their tails. But David loved Anna faithfully, and she possessed him, like a piece of furniture or an automobile, keeping him on a short leash and patting her fan on his hand, gazing absently, almost through him, and only occasionally darting him the wild look of a willful, incorrigible proprietress. Yet this glance wasn’t so simple. The sensuality of despair or something even less innocent emerged from behind the looking glass. And it was obvious, if you got a good view: there was no joking around with that.

  She had her oddities, the countess: the natural sciences excited her more than anything in the world – of course, in their popularized form. At least, she wasn’t like the majority – here I immediately gave her due credit. I felt at ease and entertained her until midnight with tales of chromosomes and stem cells. She listened to me as though to a preacher – with sparkling eyes, becoming all the more beautiful, clearly getting seriously turned on. David merely flexed his jaw muscles and looked at her, without interfering. I think later she kept him up all night.

  I was also excited after the music and drank more wine than usual. Soon my speech was not so crisp, and my cheeks were on fire.

  “My tongue is all tied up. Am I drunk?” I asked her in the middle of dinner.

  “No, no, now I understand you better than ever!” she exclaimed, gazing in admiration that was almost genuine.

  And I understood she was shrewder than I – by right of nobility cultivated over the centuries – and I came to trust her, to confide in her my doubts and beliefs. Later, she aided me more than once, but that’s beside the point here. Neither the Countess de Vega nor her lover David ever learned what happened the following morning. Though it was with them in particular that the main part of the whole story began.

  Chapter 9

  Here’s what happened: I wrote a poem. Twenty lines without rhyme, a spasmodic shout into emptiness and obscurity.

  It was Saturday. Rain drizzled; the month of December was beginning. The countess from yesterday, I thought, didn’t I dream of her? I felt a pang in my chest – love of others sprang up before my eyes, as if only to dismay my heart.

  On the screen was Magritte’s familiar painting. My friend in black stood, wings unfurled, behind a powerful lion. The embankment was reminiscent of something – for a moment, at half strength, only teasing. The lion had known me once but made no attempt to recall it. The weight of his solitude was immeasurable.

  Then, for the first time in recent years, I shuddered in self-pity. I shuddered and began to seek shelter. I bared my teeth and grabbed a sheet of paper.

  I met a certain man today.

  On his back were wings attached.

  He cared about them, covered them from bad weather,

  Cleaned their dark feathers with a special brush.

  I bit my lip and scooted the chair forward. My head spun from drinking the night before; I felt like sitting and leaning on my elbow. Of course, the picture was just an excuse. To tell the truth, I was blaming it for no reason. Yes, in it was parting, and no hope, but each parting is unavoidable in its own way, and the burden of the indifference of others is unbearable at all times. Unbearable, but you carry it. Semmant was not responsible for this, much less Magritte.

  At first we laughed, but not for long, alas.

  Our talk went amiss – of its own volition.

  He took out his flute, played a tune.

  I recall no music colder than this.

  Even the walls got icy; hair silvered with frost.

  I could not move, could not leave: locked in a cage, as it were.

  Like an army of others confined before me.

  The shade of Mario flashed before my eyes, the shade of Mariana the heartless witch. I was sorry for myself even more, perhaps out of envy for new acquaintances who would not wake in solitude this morning. I was wistful at every thought, repulsed by myself. I knew what I wanted – I wanted a woman; but could anyone hear me at all? Pretentious cuties, empty-hearted babes, they were just putting on airs, trying to show off. They were all vacuous sluts, false, touch-me-nots!

  “Where are you, Gela?” I whispered in an unruly tongue.

  “Where are you, Gela, you red-headed bitch?

  Look how much I suffer, while the words burn –

  And oblivion devours all hated truths.”

  No one’s calls can reach her. Indifferent she remains.

  The day came to an end; centuries passed, down through the ages.

  My companion’s fervor was gradually spent.

  The words dried up, his feathers have grown dull.

  So it happens often. Finally, he is gone.

  I am free now – but will this last forever?

  No one will let me know – indifferent are they all.

  Wait, you wait for the answer, read it on the backs of cards…

  Here the twilight has come. No one appeared next.

  So, this means they forgot. I’m not that important.

  “Mario, my foe, we deserve each other,” I murmured, staring at the screen. Some kind of melody was rattling in my head – cruelly-gently-hatefully. Indestructibly. I knew I would adapt to it.

  The lion gazed back in reply, without blinking. He, with his wings, no face, stood, unmoving as before. Unlike me, he had nothing to say. Then I understood: the pity was not for me. Surely, I’m stronger – even though I’m hopelessly weak.

  Seems to me, their act has not gone quite right.

  I just wanted to ask them how to become immortal,

  And discuss some other trifles as well.

  No, they shouldn’t try with such grueling effort.

  Even more so since I did not care!

  Laughing at the frost in one’s hair is nothing new.

  My evening is now quite fine, besides.

  Snowfall outside the window, and Gela is right with me.

  Drunk, redheaded, smelling of sin and vodka.

  See those huge eyes with their whorish squint?

  I could easily endure the ages here with her.

  Ages, centuries… Give me time. I’ll figure this out.

  I finished and exclaimed, “Bravo!” Then I bent over the keyboard and typed in what I had just composed. Let’s save it for the future to drive weakness away. Who, who would become my Gela? Would she know the taste of blood, as I occasionally imagine? It, I think, is even on my tongue sometimes.

  All day afterward I was impressed with myself – that is, with my morning verse. Though the poem, I realize now, turned out so-so, rather feeble. However, I felt sorry for it – the same as I had been sorry for myself that morning. Its fate was oblivion, and there was no hope. Whether it was brilliant or bad made no difference. The lion knew this, no doubt. And the one with the wings knew even better.

  Then, on Sunday, I remembered it, took a quick look, and liked it even more. As I was reading through the lines for the tenth time, my friend Antonio Daniel called. He was verbose and wasteful with syllables – just like his name. The reason for the call turned out to be petty: A.D. was just asking for money. I really wanted to re
ad him the poem – because there was no one else. I sensed, however, that this would appear exceedingly foolish.

  After hanging up, I turned away from the screen. I paced about the room a bit, sighed, and got to work. A new week was beginning; I had to prepare a short news summary.

  With disgust and boredom I ran my eyes over the headlines. The world, regrettably, was not changing. Its way of life would suit colonies of the simplest creatures, possessing only mouths and reproductive organs. In every place imaginable, not stopping for a moment, a secret war was being waged without rules. Giant corporations battled each other, tearing out pieces – in yellow, black, and red waters, in Africa, Oceania, the jungles of the Amazon. Big money devoured little money; some stocks became fashionable and soared upward, then plunged, falling out of favor, helplessly getting flattened at the bottom. Billions changed hands in the meaningless, eternal race. The players, it seemed, were just killing time with this, to distract their thoughts and not reflect on the worst. There was no intrigue: just the stamping of feet, a rattling of chairs, and some commotion at the exit. Squabbling and a line at the cloakroom. Mixed up tickets and coats.

  Screwing up my face and pursing my lips, I picked at the facts that stood out. I selected the most significant figures and a few of the closest dates. Then I devised a message in special language – this did not take much time.

  The result was the usual data set – a mass of symbols and strange-looking words. I was about to send it to Semmant, but suddenly, obeying some inscrutable impulse, I opened my verses again, looked them over, and added them – right at the end of the file, which had not been designed for any lyrics. This was just a joke, the whim of the moment. A weak echo of yesterday’s revolt, if you will.