Rapture

by Iliazd

  “Don’t you dare make a move.” Basilisk became upset, recovering his seemingly dried-up eloquence, “The deed and the party await you, you’re obliged. And where do you think you’re going—you have no weapons, the enterprise might end lamentably, and then ours, too…”

  But Basilisk’s eyes were not visible in the night, and he had no power over Laurence. Laurence was already leaving, lost with the wennies in the darkness

  Basilisk remained alone and, walking in circles around a tree, kept on talking to himself: “Fool, you think, ‘They’re my people, it’s my village.’ But I swear, when they thought you were dead and gone, they drank up ten times the quantity of brandy in their joy. You wanted to play at being noble, what a sentimental soul. And this taking a stand for them will end with them selling you out first chance they get. Naïve man, better not butt in. Such a splendid deed lies before you, but this, you can have it: dust, dreams, enthusiastic rapture…”

  The shooting would die down, then pick up, and suddenly went quiet. The east was turning pink, and it was impossible to say whether the village was still burning or had already burned to the ground. But before the sun wheeled up, Laurence returned. He looked satisfied and exhilarated. “Well, finally,” Basilisk shouted, “You, I should point out, are making us wait inordinately, going off after small potatoes, young man. Hurry up, let’s get out of here…” They got going

  On the way, Laurence told how, when he got back to the village, he had gathered the peasantry, rustled up some weapons; and the gendarmes hadn’t finished rioting when they were lured, with their leader, into an ambush near the sawmill and massacred to the last man. “Not bad, right?” quipped Laurence, glancing into Basilisk’s cold eyes. “And without your help…

  “But don’t think I did it just from pride,” he tacked on. “While the administration fusses here, we’ll have less worry taking care of your business”

  The city where Basilisk and Laurence alighted was situated on the slopes of a mountain that first fell off steeply, then descended in terraces toward a pitiful river choked with sand. Over these terraces a net of magnificent quarters was cast so that if you looked at the city from the opposite bank, where its suburb was located and the railway station down whose very steps the gang had descended, the city seemed to lie in the palm of a hand. The city was exceedingly beautiful for its gardens, little houses, shops, but its chief attraction was the endless boulevard, simply called the Grand Boulevard and divided into two unequal parts. The first, long and broad, was accessible to all modes of transport—reckless automobiles, streetcars, buses, carriages, cyclists sped along, concerned only with squeezing by and disappearing in flight. The second part, ridiculously short and narrow, was closed to all hustle and bustle and, reserved for horse-drawn vehicles, not only bore a sign, “at the walk,” but was paved so that any horse that deviated from the rules would immediately slip and fall. People who had skipped along the first part would reverently throng here, eyeing the way the flowers of virtue went driving, back and forth, in open calashes, from morning ’til morning, since driving for display was the chief civic virtue. And since the succeeding virtue was gluttony, the gawkers, in order to pretend that they were party, as they said, at least to this virtue, reared their heads up all day, picking their teeth, although they never ate anything

  At the end of the boulevard was a square, all decked with boutiques, where the treasury building also hulked among the mansions

  Basilisk, after pointing out to Laurence the valuables displayed in the windows, declaimed: “You won’t find riches like these anywhere. And they say there’s no woman in the world more beautiful than your wife. Look, if we pull off the job, you’ll be able to come here and buy everything your heart desires.” And when Laurence gave a mocking and impudent look in reply, he added: “Only no monkey business, especially now; be patient,” and dragged the bandit away from the rings and earrings glittering behind glass

  “Better have a look at that,” the little man went on, striking a pose facing the traffic on the square and along the boulevard. “If you were conversant in the science of economics, if you kissed your belief in spiritual things goodbye once and for all, stopped being so naïve, the meaning of this marketplace, supposedly so sophisticated, when it’s actually simple and instructive, would appear to you right away

  “I will try, nevertheless, to explain a thing or two for you, and if, by chance, you don’t grasp my words, don’t interrupt, just hear me out to the very end, especially because a listener is, for me, the greatest of pleasures

  “Well then. In the monetary system, of which this marketplace is the exponent, everything is defined by two actions: buying and selling. In so far as the desire to own, otherwise known as demand, equals the desire to provide, that is, supply, the monetary system exists in a state of stable equilibrium, and it’s not for you or for us to cause it any harm at all. But gradually the thirst for selling, and therefore also for selling oneself, outstrips the hunger for acquiring—the system starts rotting and voilà, in the end a certain effort suffices to send it all to hell

  “That everything here is for sale won’t be news to you. But you should understand that every person here is possessed by a passion to be for sale. We won’t even speak of woman, an outmoded phenomenon. But take young folks, they no longer seek out merchandise to sell, they offer themselves, usually to men, occasionally to women. Then the age arrives when you can’t sell your front or backside even at a loss, and the bourgeois marries or acquires a friend so that he can trade his wife or friend. Those are the calashes where husbands offer their wives. See those two women, one older, one younger; the older satisfies her needs by trading her little friend. The time comes when you can’t even trade your wife at a loss—you can move on to your children. That’s the reason people here raise children. That said, those being sold get up to all kinds of tricks trying to turn the tables on their sellers and frequently pull it off

  “You’ll say: That means something’s still being bought? Obviously! But only to be resold. And even if there’s a limited number of utterly crazy people who don’t sell anything and don’t aspire to sell, they’re branded as parasites and exterminated by any available means…

  “Do you understand now why the boulevard is so honored while other parts of the city are deserted? Why the treasury has been sited precisely here?

  “This system is corrupt unto abomination and we will destroy it. But behold, just when everything’s ready to fall apart, by the ultimate contradiction, in place of a human being dying of thirst to be sold, a prodigal dying with the desire to squander arrives. You, Laurence, imagine you’re a peacock from the highland thieves’ nests, and that’s all, but you’re the monetary system’s fledgling—you, dying with the desire to spend as lavishly as you can. Therefore, you’re money’s greatest foe and our fellow traveler. And I hurried after you into the mountains, convinced—what you will accomplish no one else can do”

  Was the highlander listening to him? Rapt by the scent of perfume that had filtered from the shops onto the street and mixed with the scent of feminine sweat, Laurence narrowed his eyes, sank into sweet languor, and the deeper he sank, the more authentically Ivlita grew before him. And no matter how alluring was the luster of carriages, this scent he had never before experienced took the upper hand, and Laurence didn’t just shut his eyes, he covered his face with his hands

  “We’re leaving, Laurence,” Basilisk unexpectedly announced. “You’ve seen enough. It’s time to get down to business”

  Dusk was already manuring the earth, but the boulevard, once it was lit, did not permit keeping tabs on the sky as it dimmed above the houses and trees. The young man maintained his silence. Basilisk’s blabbing wasn’t conducive to conversation. Desires swelled and pressed on his heart. Once again, Basilisk was right. Laurence didn’t know what he’d do if all this belonged to him. But he really did want it all, and what he’d do next didn’t matter any more. A short time ago, he’d been inclined to blame Ivlita f
or his need to rob. But now, the desire for seizing and snatching ruled in its own right, unrestrained and inexplicable. It was just a few hours since they’d arrived, but it already felt, to Laurence, like the rigmarole here was the same as at the seashore. And he hurried Basilisk along

  They hadn’t crossed more than a few streets when the fancy houses gave way to shacks and the avenues to incredible back alleys and dead ends. Now and again, they had to swerve around a stiff cat or dog or a pair of brawling, drunken women. In the light of the streetlamps, the bandit surveyed the locals with revulsion. Emaciated, hunchbacked, reeking of urine, pustular, with putrefied faces, the inhabitants sat in their doorways, scurried from gate to gate, or defecated by the walls. Surprised that Basilisk wasn’t talking, Laurence demanded clarification. But the little man no longer chattered, just answered quietly and concisely: “This is death. It’s for sale here at every step, presenting itself in the form of bottles of rotgut, card games, skirts, and rats, urging people to steal, poison themselves, commit crimes. Granted, I can see all this is artifice, the horror purposely maintained for the sake of the very same selling, but it makes me a little uneasy that the masters of the situation are so relaxed about trading in death

  “Just think, Laurence, to be death’s votary, to kill whenever you feel like it—your most cherished dream—this is an excellent thing. But here they make people kill not just in war or when they’re putting down a rebellion. No, husbands are obliged to shoot their wives so the papers have something to write about, carriages run people over so there’s something happening, poor people are obliged to be criminals and provide a chance to exercise false justice. And all just because death is an item for sale like everything else. And even though I know the cause of it all is, yet again, that very same monetary system (may it be cursed countless times), I can’t help wincing when I think how monstrous today’s overproduction of death is”

  Basilisk stopped, cleared his throat, and continued sarcastically:

  “Laurence, from your tale of how you massacred the police in the village, I grasped that you were insulted by my revelations about the party’s help. You don’t want to be guided. It’s beneath your dignity. But, alas, don’t be misled, don’t imagine you’re free. No, even your splendid death-dealing capacity is a fruit of the overall arrangement of things. You killed Brother Mocius because the plains perverted you, and the plains are perverted by the boulevards. And the clump of deaths keeps growing because death is what you sell, ’cause you, without noticing it, are not death’s votary, you’re a merchant of death. Might the party purchase of you several deaths for a suitable remuneration?”

  The hotel they entered, fetid to a rare degree, was sunk in near-total darkness. When they had finally surmounted the stairway, on which two could not pass, the little man left Laurence standing in a corner and went into a room lit by a single candle where several bearded men were gathered around a table; their faces, already indistinguishable, were obscured by glasses and hats. Basilisk took a seat without greeting them and rapped out: “Everything’s cleared up. The deed will take place day after tomorrow and, consequently, tomorrow will have to be spent in idleness. Since the police suspect something’s up, I’ve taken measures so some of the comrades will let themselves be arrested tomorrow in possession of the tools of the crime, which will finally untie our hands. Martinian will do the throwing, no one besides him will be on the spot. The meeting is adjourned.” He stood up, went out into the corridor, took Laurence by the arm and purposefully led him outside. Those who remained conversed for a long time and finally parted ways. One of the attendees first took one route, then turned around and walked back to a house where the chief of police was waiting for him

  The following twenty-four hours passed for Laurence in a tiresome ramble around the city with Basilisk, all the more annoying because both had to be transformed, to glue on beards, squeeze into tight clothing and collars and carry a cane Laurence didn’t know how to handle. Then Basilisk talked a lot more than he needed to and the prim highlander decided, whenever he got the chance, to show the little man that he was not always right

  Basilisk made Laurence carry out such tasks that now and then the latter was ready to lash out. But Galaction’s exhortations had not been vain and there was no need to argue. First the companions stopped by some kind of rooms where women, for the most part, were sitting and drinking tea, then they loitered around some stores, buying all kinds of rubbish and asking to have it delivered to houses that didn’t exist, or rode from one end of the city to the other. From time to time, Basilisk noticed a familiar face, quickly turned away and pulled the young man after him. After a dinner at which Basilisk didn’t allow Laurence to eat anything (explaining that Laurence didn’t know how to handle a knife and fork) and ordered the waiters to give him only a shot glass of some kind of medicine, assuring them that his companion had already eaten, the comrades wound up in a new eatery, where people were dancing among the tables, but in a somehow peculiar way, and the music was vertiginous. Nothing resonated with Laurence, he had seen too much, it tired him and was monotonous to the point of nausea. In the evening they went somewhere beyond the city limits, to a garden where the music was real, his own kind, everyone was carousing, singing and drinking, naked women rolled their bellies and shook their breasts, and Laurence was ready to drink and go off to make use of one or two, but Basilisk again prevented him. What slavery! Then again, presumably this is expedient coercion

  In the garden, some flower girl whom Basilisk called Anna revealed that the arrests hadn’t taken place and the police knew the attempt was set for tomorrow. Basilisk gave a self-satisfied smirk and bought the most wilted bouquet; then they went back to the city. The house they now entered, extraordinarily magnificent, decorated throughout with gilt, marble, and paintings, was the most respectable house of assignation in the city. In a huge hall, with a fountain and plants, dozens of naked women were sitting. Laurence flushed, ready to pounce, but Basilisk detained him and chose one of the women, informing the madam they would share one. They quarreled for a long time. When they were led off to a room with a bed for six, the woman did not lie down, but recited a whole speech, whose meaning wasn’t entirely clear, but which concluded with some indications about the following day. Laurence was no longer surprised, just confused. He wanted to sleep, he was tired of the whole thing. If Basilisk tormented him any longer, Laurence wouldn’t be good for anything. They left, drove to the train station, bought tickets, took their seats on a train, but immediately got out and went to the nearest hotel. There, in one of the rooms, the comrade who had been the night before with the chief of police was waiting for Basilisk. The little man greeted him with a smile. Laurence, as soon as he saw a cot, crashed without waiting for an invitation or undressing

  When Basilisk woke him, it was still night. Yesterday’s comrade was lying next to him. “Don’t wake him, he’s dead,” Basilisk snapped. “I suffocated him during the night. I’ll tell you why later.” They crawled out the window onto the neighboring roof, then dropped from there down into the yard and went out into the street. After a short trip down some alleys they knocked at a closed beer hall, where they were offered a room for the night. But Laurence could no longer sleep in the company of Basilisk, who took the liberty of killing his friends in their beds. More than once, the bandit felt like leaping on his companion, who also lay sleepless in his own corner. Day seeped into the room at a revoltingly slow pace. Finally, every object could be distinguished, and so Basilisk’s unblinking eyes were also visible

  What if the episode with Galaction was repeating? And Laurence determined not to do anything hotheaded so things wouldn’t fall apart a second time. His stomach churned most of all because of the changes in Basilisk, because he had lost the magician’s outwardly carefree attitude, he talked less and was smirking, letting the silence soak up his malice and pique. Now, genuine hatred flashed in the little man’s eyes, and Laurence could not detect the reason for it

  The hours
of waiting were disrupted by a knock at the door. Someone entered the room. “Here’s Martinian,” Basilisk spoke through his teeth. Laurence turned around and couldn’t keep from exclaiming

  How old was this person who came in? No older than himself. The same height, same oval face, tender, the beard untouched by a blade. But his mien, the set of his head? Laurence saw it was his own mien, his own qualities, but not as they were now. Now, without a doubt, he had molted, become fleshless, become effeminate. This fellow was headed for certain death without hesitation or doubts, while he, Laurence, was scheming, cautious, and only faintheartedly postponing his finale. And suddenly the bandit had made up his mind to search out the exact year, month, and day he ceased being Martinian. But, God knows from where, a previously unfamiliar resolution surged over him: it wasn’t worth finding out; and then exhaustion, unexpected and insuperable. And Laurence obediently gave in, no longer thinking, just watching, enraptured, and keeping an eye on the way Martinian walked catlike around the room, made broad gestures, spoke in a whisper, and his speech dripped, accentuating the silence. Only when Basilisk began shaking Laurence and shouting: “It’s time to wake up, what’s wrong with you, what are you doing, sleeping?” did Laurence shake off the enchantment. He got up, went out, without speaking, to the street, where he found a waiting calash. He got in and set off across the entire boulevard toward the spot

  What was this mysterious attack of sentimentality? Now, Laurence was already recalling his childhood—he saw his parents’ house, his first playmates, their pranks, antics, games. But he, Laurence, wasn’t taking part in them, it was he, Martinian, Laurence before…Before what, exactly? But “it’s not worth it” resurfaced, and then a thousand dear details flashed by—the stocky oaks he climbed, looking for squirrels; the ruins of the fortress where he hunted smooth snakes; the well with water not fit for drinking, but full of frogs; and in the copse, the horned owl’s indispensable cry: “Snooze, snooze.” The bumblebees’ nest under the balcony and the nightingales in the jasmine. Nest wrecker. Laurence, by rights, deserved the nickname. How often had it been left to him to shinny up tall poplars in order to take newly hatched jackdaw chicks from their nests