The Dark Domain

by Stefan Grabinski

  The mood for conversation slowly died out. The words fell infrequently, interrupted by the yawning of the engineer’s wife; the lady was apparently sleepy. She tilted her head backward, leaning it against her husband’s shoulder. But the legs that were carelessly stretched out toward the opposite seat didn’t lose contact with her neighbour’s; on the contrary, now in the darkened atmosphere they were considerably more unrestrained. Godziemba felt them continually, as their sweet weight exerted an inert pressure on his shinbone.

  Rastawiecki, wearied by travel, hung his head on his chest. Sinking between the plush cushions, he fell asleep. Shortly, in the quiet of the compartment, one could hear his even, calm breathing. Silence prevailed … .

  Godziemba was not asleep. Stimulated erotically, burning like iron in a fire, he had merely closed his eyelids in pretence. Through his body coursed hot streams of strongly pulsating blood; a delicious lethargy unravelled the elasticity of his limbs; lust took control of his mind.

  He delicately placed his hand on Nuna’s leg and felt her firm flesh with his fingers. A sweet giddiness misted his eyes. He moved his hand higher, imagining the silky touch of her body … .

  Suddenly her hips undulated with a shiver of pleasure; she stretched out her hand and plunged it into his hair. The silent caress lasted but a moment … .

  He raised his head and met the moist glance of her passionate eyes. With her finger she indicated the second half of the compartment, even darker than where they were. He understood. He got up, slid past the sleeping engineer, and, tiptoeing, went to the other half of the compartment. Here, covered by dense obscurity and a partition that reached his chest, he sat down in excited anticipation.

  But the rustling which had occurred despite all caution woke up Rastawiecki. He rubbed his eyes and glanced around. Nuna, nestling down momentarily in the corner of the compartment, pretended to be dozing. The place opposite her was empty.

  The engineer yawned slowly and straightened up.

  ‘Quiet, Mieciek!’ she reprimanded him with a sleepy pout. ‘It’s late.’

  ‘Sorry. Where is that – satyr?’

  ‘What satyr?’

  ‘I dreamt of a satyr with the face of that gentleman who was sitting opposite us.’

  ‘He probably got off somewhere. Now you have the space to stretch out. Get comfortable and go to sleep. I’m tired.’

  ‘Good advice.’

  He yawned again, stretched himself out on the oilcloth cushions, and placed an overcoat under his head.

  ‘Good-night, Nuna.’

  ‘Good-night.’

  Silence fell.

  With bated breath, Godziemba had been crouching behind the partition during this brief scene, waiting for the dangerous moment to pass. From his dark corner, he only saw the engineer’s empty, still boots projecting beyond the edge of the bench, and, on the opposite seat, Nuna’s grey silhouette. Mrs. Rastawiecki remained in the same position as her husband had found her after his awakening. But her open eyes glowed in the semi-darkness hungrily, wildly, provocatively. Thus passed fifteen minutes of travelling.

  Suddenly, against the background of the rattling of the coach, sharp snoring sounds came from the engineer’s open mouth. Rastawiecki was soundly asleep. Then, nimble like a cat, his wife got off the cushions and found herself in Godziemba’s arms. With a silent but powerful kiss they connected their craving lips and became entangled in a long, hungry embrace. Her young, robust breasts pressed burningly against him, and she gave him the fragrant conch of her body … .

  Godziemba took her. He took her like a flame in the swelter of a conflagration that destroys and consumes and burns; he took her like a gale in unbridled, unrestrained frenzy, a savage wind of the steppe. Dormant lust exploded with a red cry and tore at the bit. Pleasure, bridled at first by fear and the affectation of prudence, finally broke out triumphantly in a rich scarlet wave.

  Nuna writhed in passion, she bucked with spasms of boundless love and pain. Her body, bathed in mountain streams, swarthy from the winds of mountain pastures, smelled of herbs thick, raw and giddy. Her young vaulted hips, soft at the buttocks, were opening up like private tufts of a rose, and they drank and sucked in love’s tribute. Freed from its binding clips, her flaxen hair fell smoothly over her shoulders and enclosed him. Sobs shook her chest, her parched lips threw out words and entreaties … .

  Suddenly Godziemba felt a tangible pain at the back of his head, and almost simultaneously he heard Nuna’s distressful cry. Half-conscious, he turned around and at the same time received a strong blow on his cheek. Blood rushed to his head, fury twisted his lips. Like lightning he countered the next intended punch as his fist smashed his opponent between the eyes. Rastawiecki reeled, but didn’t fall down. A fierce fight commenced in the semi-darkness.

  The engineer was a tall, strong man, yet the frenzy of victory immediately tilted toward Godziemba. In this individual, by all appearances slender and weak, some feverish, pronounced strength had been awakened. An evil, demonic strength raised his frail arms, inflicted blows, neutralized the attack. Wild, blood-shot eyes predatorily watched the enemy’s movements, they read his thoughts, anticipated his actions.

  The two men struggled in the quiet of a night disrupted by the rumble of the train, the noise of their feet, and the quick breathing of overworked lungs. They struggled in silence like two boars fighting over a female, who was cuddled in a corner of the compartment.

  Because of the tight confines, the fight was restricted to an extremely narrow area between the seats, moving from one part of the compartment to the other. Gradually the opponents tired each other out. Big drops of sweat flowed down from exhausted foreheads; hands, weak from punching, were lifted up ever more heavily. Already Godziemba had stumbled onto the cushions from a well-measured push; but in the next second he was up. Gathering his remaining strength, he used his knee to thrust away his opponent; then with enraged momentum he threw him to the opposite corner of the compartment. The engineer staggered like a drunk, the weight of his body broke open the door. Before he got a chance to stand up, Godziemba was shoving him toward the platform. Here was played out the final short and relentless act of the battle.

  The engineer defended himself weakly, parrying with difficulty his opponent’s frenzied fury. Blood was running down his forehead, lips, nose – and pouring over his eyes.

  Suddenly Godziemba rammed him with the full weight of his body. Rastawiecki lost his balance, reeled, and fell under the wheels of the train. His hoarse scream drowned out the groan of the rails and the rumble of the coaches … .

  The victor breathed freely. He drew into his exhausted chest the cool night air, rubbed the sweat from his forehead, and straightened his crumpled clothes. The wind of the rushing train streamed through his hair and cooled his hot blood. He lit up a cigarette. He felt somehow refreshed, happy.

  He calmly opened the door that had slammed shut during the fight, and with a sure step returned to the compartment. As he entered, warm, serpentine arms embraced him. In her eyes glowed the question:

  ‘Where is he? Where is my husband?’

  ‘He will never return,’ he answered indifferently.

  She cuddled against him.

  ‘You will protect me from the world. My beloved!’

  He embraced her strongly.

  ‘I don’t know what is happening to me,’ she whispered, leaning against his chest. ‘I feel such a sweet giddiness in my head. We’ve committed a great sin, but I’m not afraid beside you, my strength. Poor Mieciek! … . You know it’s terrible, but I’m not sorry for him. Why, that’s horrible! He’s my husband!’

  She drew back suddenly, but looking into his eyes, intoxicated with the fire of love, she forgot everything. They started to devise plans for the future. Godziemba was a rich man and of independent means – no occupation tied him down, he could leave the country at any time and take up residence anywhere in the world … . So, they will get off at the nearest station, where the rail lines cross, and
go south. The connection will be excellent – at daybreak the express to Trieste departs. He’ll buy the tickets immediately, and in twelve hours they’ll reach the port. From there, a ship will take them to a land of oranges where a May sun sweetens trees, where the ocean’s deep-blue chest washes golden sand, and flowers adorn pagan temples.

  He spoke in a calm voice, sure of his manly aims, indifferent toward the judgement of people. Full of energy, ready to contend with the world, he lifted her collapsing figure.

  Nuna, who had been listening intently to the sound of his words, appeared to be dreaming some strange, singular fairy tale, some golden, wonderful story … .

  The engine’s loud whistle announced the station. Godziemba trembled.

  ‘It’s time. Let’s get our things together.’

  She got up and took down her travel coat from the overhanging net. He helped her dress.

  Streaks of the station’s lamplights shone through their window. A protracted shudder once again shook Godziemba.

  The train stopped. They left the compartment and descended to the station platform. They were swept up and absorbed by the multitude, by the tumult of voices and lights.

  Suddenly, Nuna, leaning on his arm, weighed heavily on him like fate. In the twinkling of an eye, somewhere from the corner of his soul, dread crept in, an insane dread, and it made his hair stand on end. A feverishly drawn mouth cried out the danger. Horrible, base fear bared its sharp claws … .

  He was just a murderer and a despicable coward.

  In the midst of the greatest throng, he freed his arm from Nuna’s embrace, stepped away from her without being noticed, and made his way through some dark corridor to the outside of the station. A maddened flight ensued along the back-streets of an unknown city … .

  SATURNIN SEKTOR

  Someone has sought me out! Someone has tracked me down! I live so isolated, so outside the commotion of the world – yet someone is spying on me. And it is precisely because of Duration that this fact has revealed itself, a fact so tied-up with my ‘insane,’ as sensible people have stated, person. Most interesting!

  On July 20th of the so-called ‘current year’ (I’m speaking here in their style), a significant article titled ‘The Evolution of Time’ appeared in one of the leading newspapers. The author signed it with the initials S.S. The treatise was written incisively, forcefully and with confidence, as befits someone who vigorously holds onto ‘life’ and immerses himself up to the neck in ‘reality.’ It has no value for me. The viewpoint is, of course, ‘realistic’ A panegyric praising human intellect and its creations.

  But the article concerns me for other reasons. It is clearly directed against me and my convictions about so-called ‘time.’ The unknown author defends time, while endeavouring to shatter my charges, which he appears to know quite well. But how? At the moment, this is a mystery.

  I haven’t exchanged even one word with anyone on the topic of time and its non-existence; I have not delivered one lecture; I have not put out the thinnest book or pamphlet. No one in the world has read my treatise ‘On the False Conception and Fictitiousness of Time.’ No one knows, no one can know, of the existence of such a work. Not one of my few acquaintances, who have eagerly withdrawn from me since my return from the asylum, even suspects that I ever occupied myself in any way with this problem. The fruit of many years of reflection and study rests quietly inside a black oilcloth portfolio here in my desk, in a secret hiding place on the right, to which no one has access without my knowledge. Absolutely no one. Yet this person definitely knows the content of the manuscript – and he knows it by heart, inside and out. And he’s attempting to shatter my ‘opinion,’ as he terms it. The idiot! – my certainty! Even the arrangement of thoughts is the same, even the counter-arguments are drawn from the same sources. My adversary seizes my expressions, my definitions; he alters to his style values and concepts discovered by me; he shamelessly distorts the laborious investigations of my entire life for his own use. This is peculiar, most, most peculiar!

  Somehow he became aware of me. He read my thoughts from a distance and answered them like an adversary. Some mysterious connection must exist between us then, some spiritual link that makes something like this possible.

  But I do not wish this upon myself at all. I do not like to be spied on, even if unconsciously, even if from afar. This person is a great inconvenience, and I will try to remove him at all cost.

  At the moment I do not know anything about him. I was already at the editorial office of the newspaper which printed the article, and I demanded to know the name of the author. They replied that they did not know. The manuscript had arrived by mail from someone in the locality, but without a signature – just the initials S.S. The article was interesting, it touched on a topical subject, treated it in an excellent and learned fashion, and could not be faulted. Therefore, it was printed.

  Maybe this is true, or maybe that secretive editorial office is lying. But he will not escape me! I will find him sooner or later – if not in the usual manner, then in my own way. I have behind me their help: mysterious, unseen by the eyes of the ‘healthy.’ They visit me almost every day and carry on long, private talks. Their access to me was made easier by my ‘insanity’ … .

  How stupid are ‘healthy,’ ‘normal’ people! How I sincerely feel sorry for them! These morons do not know the wonderful other half of existence. They merely hold onto ‘reality’ with both hands, and they don’t see anything else beyond it. They live their entire lives this way until ‘death’ finally bars them from the other side.

  I belong to a chosen few who are freely allowed to cross from one side to the other. Thanks to my ‘insanity’ I stand on the border between two worlds. Maybe it is precisely because of this that I am liberated from the superstitions and ‘reasonings’ of the mind. The mind’s prejudices are alien to me and put me under no obligation. The idea of time does not exist for me.

  Yet I am still somewhat hampered. I cannot free myself from that strong, commanding voice which speaks to me, or from that mysterious power which pushes aside objects, contemptuous of their size; I am still wearied by endless, monotonous roads that lead nowhere. That is why I am not a perfect spirit, only an ‘insane person,’ someone who arouses in normal people pity, contempt or fear. But I do not complain. Even like this, I am better off than those of healthy mind.

  Distant, misty lands unfold before me, enchanting precipices, unknown worlds with gloomy depths. I am visited by the dead, by processions of strange creatures and capricious elemental beings. One appears, the other leaves – ethereal, beautiful, dangerous … .

  * * *

  One of the waves of Duration has cast on the threshold of my home a new figure – as yet I do not know if he is ‘real’ or from that other side.

  He comes in the evening; it is unknown how or from where. He stands close by and stares at me for hours without saying a word.

  He has the look of antiquity about him. His face is Roman, shaved, without a trace of growth – a face swarthy, almost grey. His age is indeterminate: sometimes he looks fifty years old, sometimes a hundred or more; his features change most oddly. Yet I feel that he must be a very old man.

  In his right hand he holds a scythe, in his left, an hourglass that he raises to the light from time to time, examining the position of the sand.

  In the beginning he was stubbornly silent and did not answer any of my questions. Only after his tenth visit did he allow himself to be drawn into a conversation. From the start it went ploddingly and hard, for my guest is evidently taciturn and does not possess the appropriate verbal skills.

  ‘Put aside that scythe,’ I urged him by way of greeting. ‘You have carried it needlessly for so many years. Today it doesn’t make the right impression – it has become a lifeless reminder of the past.’

  My visitor’s face twisted itself into a malicious grimace. For the first time a voice issued forth from his lips, a voice wooden, without resonance:

  ‘You think
so? I think otherwise. I am Tempus.’

  ‘So I guessed. Greetings, Saturn! To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’

  ‘You have been looking for me for some time. So here I am.’

  ‘You … do not exist. You are an illusion.’

  ‘I have materialized, as you can see. For too long people have spoken of me – therefore I’ve assumed this body. I have been lured out of non-existence.’

  ‘Maybe. But this get-up? It’s a little old-fashioned. You’re out of date, my dear sir.’

  ‘No matter. A typical rigidity of a thrombotic allegory. Besides, mankind can clothe me in new garments. It’s even high time that they did. I am already sick of these rags. They make me look like an anachronism.’

  He contemptuously tugged at the flaps of the heavily-frayed toga.

  ‘So you see, my friend, I was right.’

  ‘In part, yes, as far as the attire is concerned. But you apparently do not acknowledge my existence at all.’

  ‘Naturally. You are a fiction of the mind. If I concern myself with the question of your costume, then I act only from the point of view of the “healthy.” You have apparently passed through an evolution, eh? So, at least, I’ve read.’

  Saturn’s mask brightened up in a triumphant smile:

  ‘Ah! So you read the article? Wasn’t it beautifully written? Yes, yes, I have developed. I am already not conceived of today as I once was in the ancient world. I’ve become a changed value, independent, which knowledge attempts to introduce everywhere. I have been divided into minutes, seconds; I influence every moment. I’ve become precise, refined … .’

  ‘Oh, certainly! You’ve become devilishly lean! To the dimensions of the hands of a clock. You’ve desecrated the sacred mystery of Duration, you’ve marred the wonderful fluidity of the waves – you despoiler of life!’ Crying this out, I sprang up from my seat.

  My visitor was already at the threshold.

  ‘I am stronger than you,’ I heard his measured voice say, calm like the movement of a pendulum. ‘For behind me is reality and people who are healthy and practical. And I am indispensable. Farewell! You will find me in the city in a somewhat more modern form.’