In/Half

by Jasmin B. Frelih

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t really see you.’

  Toto’s wings fluttered in helplessness. Evan stepped around him and walked, depressed, to the station. He waited for the train.

  He missed her. He missed himself. To be missing. That used to seem something very cheap. But then, on the train, in the middle of a half-empty carriage, with no noteworthy features on the people around him, missing rained all over him, and he once again felt a shade better. Nothing evoked it, he couldn’t say that he was looking at a particular form, recognizing a particular fragrance, a particular taste that might spin the wheels of memory and conjure up before his eyes a pile of little fragments that would make him regret their no longer being real. No, he simply abandoned himself to the stream, he opened a valve in his brain and bent his head down to the vapours. Warmth took over. He lay down his shield of offence, a nasty prism that coloured memories with their consequences and took them instead as pieces of a puzzle. The puzzle has no intentions of its own, it is broken up merely so that it can at some time become whole again. The red coat, yes, just a quilted fabric, travelling under the fingers of young seamstresses from unfortunate lands, rocking on a boat, or flying above the clouds, in cardboard boxes, in forklift trucks, on shelves, folding under the nimble hands of saleswomen, emitting its charm into the air so that she could take it, so that he could buy it for her, that evening, before they went to see the show that he had put on – he no longer wanted to fool himself, it had always been that way – just for her. They wanted to take it too far.

  Their highlands had no peak. Just slopes. Sex can be a strange thing.

  Sometimes it has to hurt for you to enjoy it. They didn’t notice when their descent began. And all that drama about the child, then… Evan wanted to leave. Already long before, and afterwards completely. Was that really his life?

  When he, with a lowered chin, looked around, observing his body from above, he saw that it bore no witness to this fact. It could be anyone’s body. Where were those elaborate stories hiding? If he opened up his head and took his brain into his lap, would it look any different from the brains of others? If he pushed his finger into it…would he be able to read it? She didn’t deserve that. No. Nobody deserved that. All the warm afternoons, all the mornings of longing… Hundreds of Saturdays on the slopes. Yes, they went skiing. He smiled. Up. Down. Up. Down. A polar bipolar sport. There is so much of this… He was sitting and moving his hips. Leafing through the moments. He remembered each of her smiles. She bit her lips and nails, sometimes. She hiccupped. She filled rooms with the scent of sex. She stole people’s teeth. He never brought flowers. He fled instead. It seemed easier. Seemed.

  Who says that men never get pregnant? If he didn’t bear her, somewhere inside him, how was it that she was here? Where is she? He put his elbows on his knees and rested his face in his palms. He grew indulgent. All that missing had warmed him into a good person. But the past rose up before his eyes each time anew, he knew that and if the next moment he was again going to wrestle with hatred…what then? Nothing endures and nothing remains. The rift widens. A pair of men in white work-overalls boarded the train.

  Slowly they walked through the carriage, looking up. Evan watched them go by. He was pricked by the acrid smell of glue. They stopped in front of him. In front of him, up there, in two dimensions, trapped open-mouthed under the Plexiglas and blazed through with light. They took out a red square, placed it over his mouth and rolled a paint roller over. They repeated this three times. Then they stood there and marvelled at their work. At the next station they got off, satisfied. Evan went over to see what that was over his mouth.

  CANCELLED

  The fake clouds were shredding under the dome. A strange sun was scattering its rays over wet patches of concrete. Steam from the floor. People placed palms to their foreheads, saluting in vain, shielding their eyes from the glare. Evan staggered out into the street and stopped, out of breath. He had to take off his anorak. It was too hot. He was blocking the path for the people coming from the underground. Someone shoved him.

  He caught sight of Oksana. She was leaning against the wall in front of the entrance to the skyscraper, smoking a cigarette, nervously flicking ash as she jerkily turned her head. She was wearing a red dress. He hid himself behind an advertising panel. Observed her with half a face, with one eye. She took her phone out of her pocket and tapped the screen. She leant it against her ear. Desperate, she opened her mouth – he couldn’t hear, she was probably swearing – and threw the phone to the ground. Apparently she regretted this, since she immediately stooped to pick it up and put it back together. She couldn’t. She straightened up and kicked it over the edge of the pavement, into the street. She put out her cigarette and lit a fresh one. She was going to stay there.

  Evan merged with a group of businessmen, using their bodies as cover. When they turned the corner, he went into the street and raised a hand. He summoned an old, shoddy taxi. He knocked on the window and waited for the driver to let him in. A dark face peered out at him. Its cheeks were stamped with bundles of black dots. A tiny incision ran above its right eye. A white membrane clouded the eye. The face wore a catlike smile.

  ‘Where to?’ a crackly voice asked.

  Evan had tried to put on a friendly face, but failed. It was hot. Sweat was running down over his eyebrows. When he spoke he had to catch his breath.

  ‘Hello. Can you do me a little favour?’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for,’ the driver replied. ‘Though I don’t know if it’s still a favour when you’re paying for it.’

  Evan removed his wallet from his pocket. It was empty. He’d given everything to Lefkas.

  ‘She’ll pay,’ he said.

  The driver leant back.

  ‘I don’t see anyone.’

  Evan smiled distractedly. He ran his hand over his nose. Took in some air.

  ‘Yes, yes. Here’s the thing. You’ll turn right over there…’ The driver raised his eyebrows. ‘…and you’ll go up to the entrance to Kéki, you know it?’ Evan waited for the driver, who was losing patience, to nod. ‘Well, in front of the entrance there’s a woman standing there in a red dress, her name’s… doesn’t matter, the main thing is that you can’t miss her, tell her that Evan Z—is waiting in MUD, you know it?’ The driver was now eyeing him with suspicion, but nodded. ‘… And drive her over there. She’ll pay you. Remember, Evan Z—, to MUD, it’s all good, can you manage it?’

  The driver was sizing him up. He stuck his head out of the window and stared at the ground. Evan pondered.

  ‘This better not be some kind of scam,’ the driver said.

  ‘No, no,’ said Evan, ‘she’ll pay, don’t worry.’

  ‘Don’t worry…’ the driver repeated, looking him in the eye and grinning.

  ‘Give me your shoes and I’ll drive her for free.’

  ‘Shoes? My shoes?’

  They both stared down at them.

  ‘I like them,’ said the driver. ‘Are they leather?’

  ‘American bison,’ replied Evan proudly, and bit his tongue.

  ‘Bison? What’s that?’

  ‘Some sort of bovine species. You know, like a cow.’

  The driver whistled. They stared at each other. Then Evan shook his head and pulled his heels out of his shoes. In his socks he stepped onto the damp concrete, bent down, picked up the shoes and held them out to the driver.

  ‘Uh, where have you been?’ the driver asked.

  Ribbons of dust hung from the soles. Evan lost it.

  ‘What the hell do you care where I’ve been? Are you going to take them or not?’

  With utter tranquillity the driver grabbed the shoes by the laces and threw them onto the seat next to him. Evan sighed and tried to regain his composure.

  ‘Do you still remember what to say?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Evan Z—. MUD. The woman in red.’

  ‘That’s right. Good. Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the driver, winked
with his blind eye and drove off.

  Evan went to the corner and peeked around. The taxi driver kept his word. He stopped in front of Oksana, who was soon persuaded.

  She probably rushed into the taxi as soon as she heard his name. When they disappeared down the street, Evan felt relief.

  As he walked, the rough concrete jabbed at his soles. He was looking at the pavement and avoiding the litter when a few lines from something he’d once heard, a long time ago, echoed through his head… He stopped. He felt a piercing gaze on the nape of his neck and turned around. A boy was pushing a cart loaded with hazelnuts up a slope. Some old men were bickering around a street lamp. The people looked at the ground. Evan bent his head and wiggled his toes. How did it go again?

  Give me…

  He muttered something to himself and tried to remember. That was one of her lines. A long time ago, in another life, they had been friends. He looked at himself in the reflection of a shop window. Once he’d had friends. He smiled bitterly. Friends. What an empty word that is when you’re all alone. He didn’t like to remember his youth. Too much had changed. He fixed his hair. Too much… He’d happily disappeared into love, back then. When the funerals suddenly started to pile up, he was quick to chain Mojca to himself. Be my support, he’d said, although he needed something entirely different. Be my oblivion doesn’t sound so good. When had he lost his friends? Why was he thinking of that now?

  Give me shoes…give me shoes of…

  He pushed the door and stepped onto the cold marble. The receptionist who had given him directions was no longer behind the desk. He’d lent his smile to a new one. Evan nodded slightly at him and smiled when the young man looked at his feet.

  He raised his shoulders. What can you do?

  Give me shoes…so I can…

  He walked over to the lift and gleefully pressed the button. His pocket was weighed down by the little bag of mAk and he was looking forward to the evening. Everything had been ruined. That didn’t bother him. He was just a bit sorry about the show. It wasn’t bad at all. If he hadn’t been so wrapped up in it, if he ever looked at it with sober eyes, he would probably think highly of it. And if it hadn’t been his he’d probably even be envious of the director. But what did it matter? Either way, he knew no eyes were going to see it. So what point was there to the whole thing? To open your mind to strangers, to dance without aim… Now they’ll throw him out of Edo and he’ll go home with a mask of shame cast over his face. He’ll take it off in private and try to pass as peacefully as possible the handful of days that were left to him. Quietly he rose into the air.

  …so I can walk…

  The flat was still dark. He entered, avoided looking at the bed and walked into the bathroom. He took a leak, washed his face, gargled a few ghosts away and spat them down the plughole. He watched them slink off. He took off his socks and threw them in the hamper. His toes reminded him of Toto’s wings. He shook off the image with a cough. He collected the newspaper from the floor, sat at the table and lit the light.

  Give me shoes out of despair…

  A scandal! They’d arrested a network of sponsors who’d been making money with mAk. He laughed loudly. You scoundrel, you, Gordon – all that time he’d taken him for a fool. Friends. At the console he ordered foie gras. It came in an elegant pot, accompanied by a roll. He cut the roll in half. As he read, he smeared it on thickly. Giggling the whole time. Gordon had himself a serious problem. Sponsors were supposed to provide their protégés with mAk for free. He frowned. What kind of a place was Edo then, if the people in it died drugless? He turned to the window. The panes were darkened. He’d been here a whole year but hadn’t lifted the veil a single inch. Blind lives…

  FILLING Performance in Financial Trouble. An Interview with Junichiro Marukama: Mockery and Bluff. Evan felt a touch of anger, which quickly subsided. He didn’t read what was written there. Who cares? All this mess of text to make people feel each other. Words hold no truth. A transparent film over the emptiness. You can beat the drum so it’s heard far and wide, but when you take the skin off the sound disappears. He pressed the button and waited for coffee. He placed the bag of mAk on the table and stared at it. What had Lefkas said? Infatuation? And not love? Absently he turned the page. The plane ticket wafted to the floor. He stepped away from the table, picked it up and flattened it against his chin. He looked at the clock. A little before six. The flight was at eight. But where to? And who’d left it here? He didn’t want to worry himself with that. He would leave when they told him to leave. He put it down and looked away.

  A new serial killer on the prowl. He pulled the cup that had appeared in the wall a little closer. He tore a piece off the newspaper, folded it and shook a bit of dust into it. There was no spoon. They never gave him one. He licked the knife. He sprinkled the dust into the coffee and used the blade to mix it in. As he stirred, his gaze rested on the photo-robot. His hand stopped. That smile. The cut eye. The constellation of black dots on the cheeks. He stood up abruptly, tipping over the cup. The coffee spread over the table, staining the newspaper. He was horrified. Oksana. He ran to the door, knife in hand, and stopped. What to do? He went back to the console and pressed the first-aid button. Who should he call? The icons were all wrong. He pushed the button for back, back, back… He remembered the line. The coffee stain had stretched its tentacles over his ticket.

  He looked at it. His eyes were opened wide.

  ‘Give me shoes out of despair, so I can walk upon it.’

  The sound of his voice filled the room. He turned a button and made the window transparent. The sun

  the sun had sharpened the edges of all objects the table the bed the bulbs in the lights the frames the chairs the bristle of the carpet the handles the ropes the cupboards the overturned cups and plates the knife of her skin was sticking out of the dress exploding with every pore into an impossible sharpness he sensed the pupils dilating like the arms of scissors they will flay the rawest of things he staggered to her to her legs to her arms to her chest to her he unhooked her from the embrace of the bed he took her away pressed her against him it wasn’t on purpose he wanted to say it wasn’t on purpose he wanted to hear it wasn’t wasn’t it it wasn’t on purpose he wanted to hear she wasn’t cold like ice like a machine like ice she was a machine wasn’t she he wanted to hear only a machine and that it isn’t so bad wasn’t it and he wanted to say that it wasn’t on purpose and on her face on her nose on her chin cold like ice and became mad became rough he didn’t want to hear on purpose on her neck on her stomach the tightness of her stomach in the rosy sun pale and cold and screamed and became mad and got rough only a machine not a grave but a landfill he wanted to hear that it wasn’t so bad that it wasn’t on purpose that she didn’t know what she was doing that she didn’t want to that it wasn’t on purpose that she didn’t want to press so hard that she just wanted to enjoy herself that she didn’t know he didn’t get mad got rough on purpose why did she do that why so cold why a machine presses the heart does not press with the heart does not press does a machine have to without a heart on purpose the heart does not press the heart does not press the heart does not press this much on purpose

  He sat on Koito’s back, rocking and releasing voices. He was holding the knife in his hands. He slid the edge under a shoulder blade and made a shallow incision. A rusty drop swelled. Blood? He wiped it with his finger and raised it to his tongue. The oily taste of oil. He exhaled the air from his lungs and threw himself on his back. He was relieved. Just a machine. She was just a machine. On purpose. A machine has no choice. Nothing gets lost. He felt mad. He got up and pulled her by her legs. He opened the balcony door. The skin on his back felt brambly. There was a blunt sound when her head slid to the floor. He dragged her out, under the sun. A red parrot was squatting on the railing, cleaning its wings with its beak. When it saw him, it calmly moved away. Evan grabbed Koito under the arms and lifted her to the edge. She was heavy, much heavier than he thought she would be. He gathered all his s
trength. Barely.

  ‘Did you think it would be so simple?’

  He yelled and stretched out his arms. She was consumed by desire.

  ABRAHAM!

  A lattice of smoke. Skin, cracked in a webbed pattern. Crosses and crossroads. Curried leather. A cough.

  ‘What?’

  The general stands at the window and stares out across the field. A cigar clenched between his teeth. The honey smell of tobacco reminds Kras of the brick oven of his childhood. The fields are windswept and bare. When he exhales, mists ascend. A bee slams into the window, three times, and, dejected, flies off. It mistook the aide’s red beret for a flower.

  ‘Wolf, Wolf, Wolf,’ chimes the general.

  Kras looks at the aide. His face is expressionless. Kras ponders whether to mark him down as violent or daft. Perhaps he is both. Staring through the walls, to the end of the universe, straight into the back of his head. He came just so he’d be here. The general shakes the ash from his cigar onto the windowsill. He waits for the ash to cool and brushes it off. They’re in Kras’s study. Surrounded by wood.

  Kras waits and sees. He knows the military theatre well. The aura of violence that hangs in the air and soaks through into skin like smoke into fabric. Though he’s not afraid, he’s nevertheless thankful for his lack of a tail. It might have crept between his legs. You know, just in case. His rage has subsided. He has nothing to be ashamed of. In this society they tolerate pathological outbursts from grown men. Only Grace would follow up on her threats. The rest just looked away. He threw the axe to the ground and calmly invited the guests in. Nobody let anything unprofitable linger in the air.