The Fourth Circle

by Zoran Zivkovic

  Not a spiral, nor those more complex forms on which I had squandered years. No, the simplest, most basic form, on which I had worked in my youth, the fundamental circle from which all else is derived. The Great Secret lay revealed to me in all its glory.

  Gripped by this enlightenment, I did not realize that Kiane had bent down to collect the coins. She already held several of them in her hand when I threw myself on the ground to stop her, but it was too late. Of the form that had appeared on the tablet before the threshold, only a fragment remained, incapable of inspiring any further vision.

  Although I did not utter a word, I must have worn an expression of infinite wrath since Kiane edged away from me, her eyes welling with easy tears, mumbling that she had told me the coins would all fall on the same side but that she would never again show me anything if I took it so hard that she had proved to know better.

  I opened my mouth to pronounce a curse on her knowledge and her coins but gained sufficient control of myself to just wave a hand and move several paces away from the entrance to try to repeat, on the sandy part of the street in front of my house, the form that Kiane had so idiotically ruined while it was still living before my eyes. I looked around and found a stick to draw with in the sand, but when I picked it up, Kiane gave a startled exclamation and hurried off down the street, afraid perhaps that I would use it on her.

  That saved her life, but not from me. For hardly had she scuttled around the corner and I begun to draw circles in the dust in the futile hope of renewed enlightenment, when the first company of Romans bent on murder poured in from the other end of the street, having breached the defenses of the city. Despite their raucous advance, I became aware of them only when they appeared before me.

  They could hardly avoid me, standing as I was, alone in the middle of the street. I stared at them dully for several moments, not knowing what to say and wishing only that they would pass, but they did not, taking my attitude for one of provocative insolence, as so indeed it must have appeared to them. They formed a circle around me, undecided themselves at first what to do. We stood there for a while like statues, I with my stick still in the sand, eager to complete the drawing of the form I had begun, they out of breath, obviously thirsting to levy a reward of blood for their triumphant endeavors.

  This equilibrium could not last long: I broke it first, completing the circular line in the dust, the only reasonable action that occurred to me, which made the leader of the detachment contemptuously scuff the lines of my drawing. The sight of his dusty sandals with their worn leather thongs sending my drawing back into the nothingness from which it had only just emerged rekindled my anger.

  Shouting at him not to touch my circles, I fell upon him with my feeble hands and so rushed to my fate, which no order of Marcellus could now alter.

  Although acute, the pain lasted only for a short time—long enough for me to understand that I was dying, but not long enough to make me afraid. Just as I experienced no fear, so I experienced no surprise, either, when I saw myself with new eyes from a little height, lying in blood where I had drawn the form in the sand, while the unruly company of Roman soldiers moved on in search of new prey.

  I experienced only sadness that I had not on the threshold of death succeeded in fully mastering the Great Secret revealed briefly to me as it had been to the honorable Pythagoras. The thought of death, however, filled me with unexpected serenity, for all at once it was clear to me that now, at least, I had abundant time and that freed from the blunders of old age and never again to be disturbed by Roman barbarians or Kiane's follies—although I would sorely miss her wonderful cooking—I would be able to devote myself properly to the endeavor of the mind that is the noblest of them all.

  4. UNWANTED PREGNANCY

  I'M PREGNANT.

  Everything else is going badly, too. Sri switches me off from time to time, but the dreams are of no use now. The Little One is hovering around, wanting to come to me, damn him, but he never gets the chance because Sri hardly ever leaves the temple. Outside it's raining cats and dogs, so my perimeter sensors keep short-circuiting or sending me garbled data. Besides, I'm getting darts of pain like rheumatism from all the damp. I have occasional bouts of nausea too, but that's probably natural, due to my condition.

  I could hardly wait for Sri to switch me off that first time after we arrived in the jungle, believing that dreams would bring me relief. So many puzzling things had happened at once that I really needed to peek into the future. But the dreams brought no relief—not because there weren't any dreams or because they foretold a dark future, but simply because I didn't understand them at all.

  Things used to be so simple. I'd just dream what would happen, and it would be like watching a documentary about the future. The first time I did this, I was a bit alarmed, but I couldn't confess to Sri, who would have taken any mention of dreaming, let alone prophetic dreaming, as a sure sign I was going out of my mind—and what man wants to have a crazy woman around?—so there was nothing for it but to get used to the whole thing, which, after all, did me no harm.

  In fact it did me only good, especially as far as Sri was concerned. I knew exactly how he would react, which decisions he would make, what he would expect, and adjusted my behavior accordingly. There isn't a man who doesn't like a woman to gratify his whims; if in the process he concludes she can read his thoughts, then he starts believing that perhaps there are ideal members of my sex.

  In Sri's case, this pleasure must have been even greater because I'm his creation; so he must certainly have admired his own excellent work as a programmer.

  He was not much disturbed by the fact that it never was his intention to make me the ideal woman. But there you are—men are like children: they only begin to worry when things start going wrong. While they're going well, they take everything for granted.

  Well, now Sri will have reason to worry because I'll no longer be able to foresee his desires. My dreams don't refer to the future any more, at least not in the documentary way they did before—unless what I see is some sort of metaphorical allusion to what will happen. If it is, then the results are the same as having no dreams at all, because I can't find my way through all these metaphors and symbols.

  A psychiatrist might help me, but how do you find a good shrink in the middle of a rain forest? Sri certainly doesn't fit the part, because even if he could live with the fact that he's constructed a female program that dreams—and what's more, sees the future in her dreams—he would be driven wild by the thought that his creation now has nightmares full of symbols from the stockin-trade of psy-choanalysis. In the end, he'd need a shrink himself.

  The apparitions I saw in the dreams were totally batty. First, swarms of circles that started off by being regular, like the one that got the Little One so agitated; soon they become distorted, elongated, their edges chipped and apparently hairy; a thick, sticky liquid with a heavy smell oozed from them, attracting some strange sort of insects, about the size of a bird, with cylindrical bodies, round swollen heads and two spherical wings, flapping busily, which were attached not to the front of their bodies but to the very end.

  The wriggling insects dug eagerly into the wet, gaping mouths of the circles, and each time this happened, the chipped edges would flash brilliantly in evident pleasure, emitting a shriek similar to that of a jungle predator greeting his first prey at the beginning of the night. The sound would surely have sent shivers up Sri's spine, but I must admit I quite enjoyed it. He would certainly despise me for it, probably say I was kinky. I don't know why he prefers women who don't easily get excited.

  Soon after, the cylindrical insects flew back out of the elongated circles, looking somehow drained and limp, their bodies soft and shrunken and the spherical wings smaller, as if the marrow from them had leaked inside, although in fact only the wings had remained outside the circles. That same heavy smell that had previously attracted the insects now repelled them, and they quickly crawled away, leaving behind a whitish, slimy trail.
<
br />   At that point I would wake up, all flustered, seeming sweaty and disheveled even to myself, aware that I was waking up because Sri had switched me on, which meant that he was somewhere in the vicinity. Then I was afraid that because I was acting upset or the monitor was flushed that he'd notice something was wrong, but Sri is so naive—like most men, in fact—that he never saw a thing.

  He had ample opportunity, though, because the same dream came now with minor variations every time I was switched off. All this had to have some meaning, be connected in some way to the future, but I hadn't the remotest idea what it was all about. This made me anxious and uneasy, so that I grew irritable and nervous and snapped a lot at Sri, but he paid no attention. Even if it bothered him, it was only at the program level: he probably wondered where an error might have crept into one of the programming lines. Men—they never know what's going on in a woman's mind.

  Then something much more serious happened. When the first hints of pregnancy began to appear, I did what any woman does who thinks this simply can't happen to her by accident: I refused to accept the obvious. Soon, though, there was no way around it.

  Luckily, the nausea didn't make me want to vomit, and Sri will certainly not notice the fact that I've started to consume more energy than usual— to gobble it up actually—because the amount is still negligible, about the same as it takes to burn a medium-strength light bulb. It'd be a lot more serious if I were having twins or, even worse, triplets. But with only one child in my womb, my increased appetite and constant hunger won't make Sri suspicious.

  It was essential that he not suspect before I discovered the answer to the inevitable question that every honest woman must ask herself in a case like this: who is the father of my child?

  Fortunately, the choice was reduced to only two persons. So: Sri or the Little One? That is the question. I examined my memory feverishly, trying to establish when conception could have taken place. Sri of course wouldn't call it that; he'd reach into that empty, heartless computer vocabulary of his and summon up all the power of loops, routines, and subprograms, but I don't care; to me it remains a noble deed, not to be sullied by any dumb male wisecracking.

  The only sure thing was that this did not happen with my consent. I would never have agreed to anything of the kind because, for a start, I still feel too young to be a mother. So conception must have taken place either deliberately without my knowledge or by pure accident. If the first is true, the father must be Sri; the Little One is far too stupid to know even the basics of computer science, so he definitely couldn't have intentionally carried out a complicated piece of work like insemination. But I don't think that's very likely. It's true Sri had the opportunity to inseminate me while I was asleep, but he'd never do such a thing—primarily because of his own interests. He simply isn't the fatherly type, and I think he'll end his days without ever having offspring. He's too self-centered to be able to take care of anyone else, and besides, he's too immature for the part. No, as far as I know Sri (and I know him like I know myself), he couldn't have done it, especially not in this monsoon period, when he spends all day sitting dejectedly at the entrance to the temple, meditating and staring at the rain pouring boringly down; he's not exactly been in the mood for making children. So, the Little One then. If only he weren't so ugly! The whole thing must have happened entirely by chance while he was hysterically banging about on the keyboard after that diabolical circle got him so excited. I know conception from that is very unlikely, but still, it's not impossible. I was totally rattled knowing Sri was on his way here, so for a while he did just what he liked, without any surveillance from me. That's got to be how it happened. There was no other opportunity.

  In fact, it could be said that he raped me, the ape! But how am I going to explain it to Sri? He'll never believe that the thing took place without my consent.

  He'll be blind jealous. I won't be able to hide my pregnancy from him for much longer. Who knows what he might do? When he loses his temper, he forgets Nirvana and all the rest of it. Somebody is going to get hurt.

  And then—there's the baby. How am I to raise it here in the jungle? And what will it be like? If it takes after its father, I might just as well kill myself here and now. If it at least had my intelligence.... When I remember how I used to dream, when I was still very young, of having Sri's son, handsome like him, intelligent like me—though he surely wouldn't gladly accept that division of inheritance. Ah well, that's the end of that.

  And then they tell you—don't be a feminist.

  5. NUDITY DIVINE

  THE MASTER'S EYES opened.

  And I, struck dumb with amazement, was filled with joy, as if watching with my unworthy eyes the raising of Lazar from the dead by the divine hand of Hrist.

  This was the purpose of Marya's coming, to raise my Master and not, as I in my ignorance had thought, to guide his soul to the portals of Paradise, counter to the will of the Lord.

  Then I rebuked myself and this mind grown old and dim for the blasphemous thought that Marya would raise the dead Master against the will of the Almighty, even if she had a special fondness for the one who had immortalized her on the walls of countless monasteries. Within the heavenly family must exist a perfect harmony that is not to be disturbed for any earthly, vainglorious reasons. For in what sort of human order, justice, or virtue can we trust if that which is above us be not utterly perfect and immaculate?

  Perceiving my sinful error of doubting that supreme harmony that Heaven grants as a faultless example to us all, I started again to go humbly down on my knees, however hard this modest courtesy was for me. The dampness of the iguman's cellar was already biting into my old man's bones to which the blessed warmth of the summer sun would have been far more pleasing. But before my knees touched the earthen floor, a new thought, even more wayward than the previous one, passed through my faithless head, as if the Unclean One himself now dwelt there to stir it up with his monstrous heresies. All things wrought by the Lord must needs shine with His infinite wisdom; therefore His judgments cannot be revoked, above all His supreme judgment of calling someone to Himself. Did He not return even Lazar to the dead soon after His son had raised him, his second sojourn among the living having but that single purpose of sustaining the immense power of Hrist's righteous faith?

  Would this raising of the Master then be just as brief because it served another purpose, however justified? Or had perhaps the Almighty, may He forgive me, altered His earlier decision, for reasons beyond my ken, perceiving after all that He had called my Master, steeped in sin, prematurely to the Final Judgment?

  So the mighty joy that I had just felt because of his return from the kingdom of the dead was replaced by new alarm. If the Master's resurrection were to be brief, I must prepare again to grieve over his second death. But this thought I could not endure, having wrestled with the many woes that had befallen my miserable self in just one day.

  And if the Master's second life was the result of a sudden change of mind on the part of the Almighty, then a blasphemous suspicion must needs be sown in me, contrary to my soul's boundless faith in the perfect harmony that graces the Courts of Heaven. For if even the Almighty can make imperfect decisions, though He later amend them by the use of His divine powers, in what steadfast citadel can we miserable creatures trust?

  Perplexed by these twofold thoughts that so swiftly dispelled my spirit's new-found joy, my poor knees at last reached the cold floor, and I shivered with the icy chill that crept thence up into my decrepit body. Since I could reach no understanding by my own scanty wits, I felt that the virtue of patience would serve me best, for surely the reason for the Master's miraculous resurrection would become apparent within the next few moments.

  And truly, events began immediately to happen, but such that I, though prepared for all marvels, could not have imagined even had I the perverse imagination of Sotona himself, who invents the blackest punishments of Hell.

  My Master rose from his insensibility into a sitting positio
n before Marya, but not in a manner humble and restrained as one should be before the Mother of God, but with light, agile movements as if he had not lain for hours on damp, cold planks. Everything about him was tense and swollen, as if he were a man prepared for battle, or—as my experience from long-gone times told me—a lad who expects soon to encounter his beloved. His gaze withal seemed to burn with the same heat of lust, although directed at the woman who, among all others, should least kindle such desire in men, for even the Lord did not endanger her chastity when He filled her with the gift of His only Son.

  I thought at first that all this must be a delusion, that the heat of Marya's hands, ablaze until a few moments ago with a white flame, must have lingered in my eyes so that now, in the feeble light of our almost burnt-out candle I did not see what was truly there but what my sinful mind produced from its darkest corners. But these doubts, which for a moment filled me with great shame and caused a blush under the gray, bristling beard on my withered cheeks, disappeared the next moment when Marya moved likewise, swiftly bringing her outstretched hands back to her thin neck, where lay the cord that held the robe about her body.

  I did not see the motion because she stood with her back turned to me, but quick, skillful, and experienced it must have been when, in an instant, the robe slid with a slight rustle down to the earthen floor and pooled around her bare feet. The bareness of her feet was not all that I saw in that moment before I thought to cover my eyes with my hands so as not to lose my mind completely before that impossible sight.

  I did not raise my hands or close my eyes but stared unblinkingly, lasciviously, at her complete exposure, ready at that moment to repent, since punishment most dire must surely follow such sacrilege. I even felt a sudden defiance against that part of my two-faced soul that called in a weak, unconvincing voice for modesty and the fear of God, as if the Unclean One had split me into two and taken full control over half my spirit—the half that was much stronger than the other, unconquered half.