To settle everyone’s mind, Professor Potashinsky at last consented to a long interview. The camera framed him with Chinghis Karataev’s recently opened monument in the background: it is a light aluminum structure, featuring two swan-like red Puma bags with crisscrossed straps, and, soaring over them, as though suspended in the air, a sandglass, reminding future generations about this brave man who gave birth to a new form of science at the expense of his own life.
—Why a corridor? asked Potashinsky, a gawky, shriveled-up giant with an enormous shock of gray hair (sitting in a wheelchair: the consequences of the old explosion bother him more and more often, these days). “You know, the so-called ‘anthropic principle’ in contemporary cosmology helped me to understand this. Why is the universe around us exactly as it is, and not different? Why are we living on this strange globe half-covered with water? It is because, my friends, that if our universe was some other universe and did not contain this strange, wet globe, we ourselves wouldn’t be here either, asking this very question. The world is what it is because we are in it. And if it was different, we would not be us, and it’s not certain that any such question would ever come into anyone’s head—or whatever they’d have instead of heads. So: why does Friedmann space look like it does? There can only be one answer: because it does! We can’t know what’s there in reality. But for some reason we see it precisely as we do—in the form of a half-darkened corridor.
—You don’t have any idea at all? begs the interviewer. Not even the slightest guess?
Potashinsky sighs and smiles.
—Possibly. The problem is that, from the quantum point of view, the question itself determines the result of the experiment. The first name given to our project was “The Green Corridor.” They ask me every day: Professor, what’s there, around the corner? As a scientist I can only give one reply—from the scientific point of view such a question doesn’t make any sense in the first place…
—It is, certainly, he continued, difficult to come to terms with the now scientifically proven fact that all multifaceted creative activities of all the individuals populating the summit of the human pyramid is simply an illusion of relativity, and that, in fact, the consciousness of every one of these individuals is nothing more than a static peephole, peering into the dimness of a corridor leading who knows where.
—Most likely, it is precisely our psychological repugnance to such a thought (or else the resulting intensification of our struggles for power) that stands behind the rumor so persistently spread by the tabloids: that a simple computer error led to the telemetry received from our lucrenauts getting mixed up with the input from the security camera in the secondary boiler room of the Metropol Hotel (under which, as is well known, the secret FSS computer center was located). Well, we can all believe what we like.
—One only hopes that new expeditions beyond the Schwarzenegger threshold—which our civilization, lost in the unimaginable stretches of the universe, anticipates with baited breath—will help to clarify this question once and for all.
TRANSLATED FROM RUSSIAN BY ANASTASIA LAKHTIKOVA
[SERBIA]
DAVID ALBAHARI
The Basilica in Lyon
1.
The story begins in Lyon, but it could end anywhere. There are four men in the story, two policemen, five women, a couple of cameras, a bicycle (not visible), and an old soccer ball. The story has ten parts of differing lengths. The longest stretch of the story, covering more than one part, takes place in front of a basilica; the shortest part passes in almost total silence; all the parts are figments of the imagination. At one moment, even before it began, the story was out on the edge of town. It stood there for a while, until rain began to fall. It brushed away the drops that were coursing down its face and stuck out its thumb. Two women were in the car that stopped. Both were chewing gum. “You can sit in the back,” said the woman who wasn’t driving, “or here between us, as you like.” She shrugged and blew a bubble. The story thought it would be sad sitting alone in the back so it sat between the two women. The woman who was not driving slammed the door shut and the car pulled away. “Where were you headed?” asked the story. “Anywhere,” answered the woman who was driving. Good, thought the story, I started in Lyon and I could end anywhere. She smiled first at one of the women, then at the other, then she closed her eyes and dropped off to sleep.
2.
She dreamed of ants crawling around on her, but when she opened her eyes she saw it was the fingers of the woman who wasn’t driving. The woman had unbuttoned her blouse and was touching her skin with the tips of her fingers. The girl pushed the woman’s hand away with disgust and buttoned up her blouse.
“What’s wrong?” said the woman. “All I wanted was to see what your skin is like. You have nice skin,” she continued, “but you already knew that, I’m sure.”
The girl said nothing. She went on buttoning up her blouse and then she tucked it into her pants. Lucky thing I didn’t wear a skirt, she thought. That morning she had spent nearly two hours deciding between a skirt and jeans, and though she’d been angry at herself at the time, now she was glad. She turned to check whether her backpack was still on the backseat: there it was, perhaps a little shoved to the side, but the lock, as far as she could tell, hadn’t been tampered with. The girl then looked out through the windshield and saw it wasn’t cloudy outside, as she had thought it was when she first woke up, but that it was actually just getting dark. Headlights were illuminating the road, but when the girl looked to the left and right, she saw no other lights. Who knows how far they had gotten from Lyon, she thought, and told herself that she mustn’t ask them to stop. Then she heard herself say, “Stop, I want to get out.”
The woman who wasn’t driving began to whimper.
“For God’s sake,” blurted out the other woman, “will you shut up?”
The woman who was driving looked at the girl. “And you, what did you say you wanted?”
“I want to get out,” said the girl.
“Here?” said the woman who was driving, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am,” answered the girl. Actually, she had never been so unsure.
The woman who was driving put her foot on the brake. “I won’t be coming back for you,” she said to the girl, “is that clear?”
“Yes,” said the girl. She turned and reached for her backpack.
The woman who was driving touched her hand. “The backpack stays,” she said.
The girl couldn’t believe her ears. “What do you mean it stays? All my things are in it.”
“Exactly,” said the woman.
Then the woman who wasn’t driving started whimpering again. She whimpered louder than she had before, and with each intake of breath the whimpering got louder still.
“Okay,” shouted the other woman, “Okay, let her take her fucking backpack, who cares!”
The girl dragged her backpack over the back of the seat with effort. She waited for the woman who wasn’t driving to get out of the car, then she got out after her. “Thanks,” she said to her, and extended her hand. The woman who wasn’t driving stared at her hand and whimpered even more loudly.
“Come on,” shouted the woman sitting in the driver’s seat, “get back in already!”
The car started up before the woman who wasn’t driving had had a chance to sit back down. The girl watched the car move off into the distance, saw its lights get smaller and smaller, and then, when they vanished altogether, she turned in the opposite direction, put her backpack back on her back, and set off with a sure step, as if she knew where she was going.
3.
She woke up, huddled, on damp grass, in a ditch by the road. She didn’t know how she had gotten there. She remembered the fear that had gripped her more and more as her steps rang out in the dark. She’d have given anything, she thought, to be back there between those two women, a little touching never hurt, but it was too late to change her mind. She could only walk and hope that a car would pass by, whic
h she had begun to doubt, while meanwhile she had to get used to the sounds of the night, which she heard all around. For a while she was convinced that someone was walking along the other side of the road, then she heard some branches snap right next to her and she stopped, frantic with fear. The branches continued snapping for a while longer, but she persuaded herself that the sound was moving away and she kept on walking. An assortment of night birds could be heard, but she couldn’t tell them apart. They were all owls to her, though as for the creature that flew right in front of her face, she quite decided, quite correctly, that it was a bat, not a bird. If only she could be a bat, she moaned, and so find her way in the dark. Her exhaustion draped over her like a ragged dress and she probably stumbled over something at that point, sat down beside the road, and fell asleep. She stood up and looked around. It was early yet, a mist slid over the fields, the leaves on the trees shuddered, the road was damp. She didn’t dare imagine what her hair was like, and her makeup was probably smeared, she must look horrifying. Then she heard the sound of a motor and saw a car. She raised both her arms high, felt her blouse pulling out of her jeans, and wondered whether this was some sort of sign, but by then the car had stopped and out of it peered a middle-aged man, graying hair, gray moustache.
“We’re out early this morning, aren’t we,” said the man.
“It’s a long story,” said the girl.
“Will it take us all the way to Lyon?” asked the man. “Or at least to the city limits?”
“No problem,” said the girl, “it can take even longer than that. My stories are always entirely under my control.”
“Fine,” said the man, and only then did he look her up and down. He told her to put her backpack in the back, he waited for her to sit beside him and fasten her seat belt, and then he drove off. He drove courteously, perhaps even slower than necessary, because at first the fog was extremely dense. Later, when it thinned and then lifted, he drove faster, but still cautiously, avoiding every risky traffic situation, so the girl felt her eyes closing. If I fall asleep, she thought, will he unbutton my blouse? She imagined his palm on her stomach and it didn’t really bother her, but she didn’t want to test him or herself.
“How are you?” asked the man. “Have we woken up at last? A night spent in the woods can definitely throw off one’s mental and physical rhythms.”
The girl rubbed her eyes. The facades of houses were moving past them and she realized that she had, indeed, dropped off to sleep. She looked down at her blouse, but not a single button was undone. She checked the buckle on her belt, though she immediately felt that was overdoing it a bit. She yawned once, twice, and asked where they were.
“In Lyon,” said the man, “where else would we be?” He looked over at the girl. “You asked to go to Lyon, I hope I didn’t get that wrong?”
“Oh, no,” answered the girl, “I mean, oh, yes, sure I wanted to come to Lyon, you weren’t wrong.”
The man smiled and said, “Where should I leave you?”
“Leave me?” asked the girl. “Why?”
“Well, presumably you’re going somewhere,” said the man, “and I thought I would take you there.”
The girl caught sight of a little cluster of white tents. Colorful flags were hanging on many of them. Some of the tents were open and there were people gathered out in front. “Here,” said the girl, “this is where I was going.”
The man didn’t say anything. He slowed down, then he stopped, he waited for the girl to get out and then he handed her the backpack. He took out his wallet, found a business card and gave it to the girl. “I work in a museum,” he said, “if you’re done before lunch with whatever you came to do, come and find me, perhaps we could have lunch together.” He watched the girl studying the business card and smiled. “The museum isn’t far from here,” he said, “everyone will be able to show you the way.”
4.
The girl waved to him as he pulled away, then she turned toward the tents. She had no idea what was going on here. The tents gleamed in the morning sun, somewhere there was sad music playing, pebbles rolled around her sneakers, it occurred to her that she didn’t even know what she looked like and she ran her fingers through her hair, then she passed by some security people and wandered from tent to tent. A different country was represented by each tent and the girl soon picked something up to read explaining that this was a consular exhibition, that all the countries were displaying their economic and cultural achievements, including folk art, music, and dance. The girl put down the brochure and continued her stroll among the tents. She tried to distinguish some sort of pattern in which tents were open to the air and which tents were closed, she tried seeing this pattern as related to national traits, but soon she saw that there couldn’t be any such pattern. The Croatian and Serbian tents, for instance, were open, while the Bulgarian and Greek tents were closed, though they all belonged, if she was not mistaken, to the same Balkan region. She went into the Serbian tent and studied reproductions of medieval frescoes. A young man who was sitting at one of the tables coughed softly, which was a sign that he was available to answer her questions, if, of course, she had any.
“I don’t have any questions,” said the girl.
She spoke over her shoulder, in a half-turn, so the young man didn’t hear her properly. He got up and went over to her. “If I understood you correctly,” said the young man, “you had some questions?”
The girl turned and saw that the young man had the same eyes as one of the angels in a fresco. “No,” she answered, “I said I don’t have any questions.”
The young man shrugged and smiled. “Sorry,” he said, “it’s the music.”
Sure enough, one of the tents across the way had music blaring. The girl didn’t know what sort of music it was. She thought of China, of Korea, of Indonesia, and later, when the music ended, she no longer thought of anything. She turned and saw that the boy had sat down again by the table. She went over to him, quickly, as if she didn’t plan to stop, and he looked up at her with his angel eyes. “I do have one question after all,” said the girl. “Where is this museum?” She took out the business card and handed it to the young man.
“Oh,” said the young man, “it isn’t far, you can walk there from here.” He turned to look around him. “I should have a map of Lyon here somewhere,” he said, “I’ll show you.”
“If it’s so nearby,” asked the girl, “couldn’t you take me there yourself?”
The young man stopped shuffling through the things on the table. He stared at his hands for a minute, as if he was expecting an answer from them, then he drew a mobile phone from his pocket and dialed someone’s number. While he spoke in a language she didn’t understand, the girl leafed through books about the monasteries in Serbia. The young man finished the conversation and stretched. “As soon as she comes,” he said, as if the girl knew whom he was talking about, “we can leave. You’ll see, it really is nearby,” he continued, “but if you aren’t sure, no point in risking it. People get lost in Lyon easily and disappear without a trace.”
5.
The young man headed back as soon as they got to the museum. He said he had to hurry, that the secretary of the consulate could only stand in for him for half an hour, that the consuls of Japan, Canada, and Australia had made appointments to visit the Serbian tent, and that the girl had only to cross the courtyard and she’d find herself at the museum entrance. The girl wanted to ask about something else, but he was already hurrying away and disappeared among the passersby. She took out the business card and then, while the ticket seller at the cash register called the man the girl wanted to see, she sat on a chair in the corner to wait.
The man who appeared ten minutes later, who went over to the ticket seller at the cash register and then, when the ticket seller gestured toward the girl with her chin, came over to her and asked how he might help her, was not the man who had driven her to Lyon that morning. The girl took out the business card again and gave it to the man.
“Yes,” said the man, “that’s me.”
“No,” said the girl, “that’s not you.”
The room was silent.
“I think I know who I am,” said the man. His voice had grown inflexible and hard.
“Then how,” asked the girl, “did I get your business card?”
“I’d like to know that myself,” said the man. He turned to the ticket seller and shouted: “She doesn’t even know where she got the business card!” The ticket seller nodded in sympathy.
“I got it from a man who drove me here to Lyon this morning,” answered the girl.
“You only arrived in Lyon this morning?” exclaimed the man, surprised. “Why that’s incredible!” He turned to the ticket seller again and shouted: “Can you believe it, she only arrived in Lyon this morning!” The ticket seller nodded again in sympathy.
“What’s so strange,” asked the girl, “about me only getting to Lyon this morning?”
“You got here this morning,” said the man, “yet you’re talking just like a native. That’s unbelievable. Would you allow us to test you?”
“No,” said the girl, “I’ve got to go.”
“She has to go,” shouted the man to the ticket seller. The ticket seller only blinked and picked up her phone.
The girl suddenly realized where all this might be going. She stood up abruptly, shoved the man away from her with all her strength, and as he tumbled across an armchair, she ran outside. There was no one in the yard, full of greenery and shadows; the only thing on a bench by the entrance was an old soccer ball. The girl didn’t stop; she kept going, out into the street, she turned right, away from where the young man from the Serbian consulate had gone, then she turned into the first street on the left, then again to the right, then again to the left, until she felt she was lost. Then she came out into a little square and thought she’d like to sit down.
Best European Fiction 2010 Page 29