by Pavel Kostin
“And that’s why don’t you like them?” Viktor asks.
You get the feeling that he really isn’t that interested but we’ve known each other for a long time and basically we can manage a conversation, so Viktor is keeping the chat going.
“Nothing specifically,” I reply. “It’s not that I feel kind of sort of dislike towards people, it’s just I’m odd. I get uncomfortable around people I don’t know.”
“Well that’s fantastic. And there was I thinking that you and me…”
“No, I’m fine with you. It’s with other people that I feel uncomfortable. If I end up with people I don’t know then I never feel comfortable. At the same time I don’t have any specific issues with any of those people. I’m totally willing to admit, I’m convinced even, that all the people around me are kind, wonderful and good. But, maybe, I’m the other way round – not particularly wonderful and not particularly good. And when I’m with these people I feel awkward. I’ll say it again, I’ve got no issue with them. It’s just this biological sensation of discomfort.”
“You feel bad…” Viktor notes lazily.
“Yeah, bad,” I agree. “And when I’m alone, I feel good. And with my friends I feel good. But with people in general, I feel bad.”
“You know, that’s weird!” Viktor states with pleasure. “You feel bad how? You feel sick or something?”
“No, I don’t feel sick… Just, you know, not great. Bored, or something. Like standing in a queue, that sort of feeling.”
“So why are you standing in the queue then? Any reason why you’re doing all this suffering?”
“I am suffering,” again I agree obediently. “But I don’t know what for…”
• • •
Later I would often think about how it happened. In the first days after, and when I was learning to cope with my new talent. All for nothing. However much I analyse it, however much I grasp for some logic or some warning sign, what happened remains a mystery, a fantastic splash in the grey water of existence, a bit of magic.
What I remember best is, without doubt, the ice-cream I dropped. It was white and very tasty-looking even when it had plopped onto the clean asphalt, splatting at my feet. For about five seconds I looked at the little white ball and at the empty stick in my hands; the most annoying thing suddenly turned out to be the sweetness on my sticky fingers, which I could easily forget while still eating the ice-cream, but which was now incredibly annoying.
I wondered whether it was worth swearing, but didn’t. I looked at the white blob down at my feet; it looked like Australia (there was even a little island in the south-east!). I lifted my eyes to the sky and gazed a little at the rustling leaves. My sticky fingers were really annoying me, drawn to each other like little magnets. And if I forced them apart, it seemed even worse.
Then the smell of ozone came. It always appears when it’s starting. Now I know, but I didn’t then. The smell was very strong, fresh and bright, just like during a big storm. I adore it. I always try to take deep breaths and fill my lungs. That smell is one of the most marvellous, most pure sensations I have ever felt. But, as if to spite me, when it’s all passed I can’t remember it even the tiniest bit. I know what it should be like, I know the effect it has on me, how easy it is to breathe, when that smell is inside me. But remembering it, bringing it back, experiencing it again even the slightest bit, is impossible.
But, I’ll say it again: at that time I still didn’t know what it was or where it came from. I was a little surprised, but not very, looking through the leaves searching for the sky, where there was no rain or even any clouds. My gaze came to rest on a large maple tree. On a broken nesting box without a roof. On the smashed lamp in the alley path. On a billboard, on which, beneath a worn-away ad for a shop that closed a long time ago, an address was written in big scarlet letters: “…skaya, 55”. These scarlet letters jumped out at me on this ordinary summer day with its tiresome heat, its rustling leaves and its dropped ice cream, and made me freeze. Two red fives. The fives started to shout at me, to sing, to warn me about something, something that I should know, something I should remember, and the rustling was growing louder and louder all the time, and then it turned into a screech, and then a rumble, as if the fives were flying out to meet me until, deafened, I gave into them, shrugged my shoulders and took a step to the right.
At that moment someone gave me a sharp shove on the left shoulder, knocking me over and throwing me onto the soft grass of the avenue. As I fell, I waved my arms, as if trying to fight off an enemy. It looked really funny, as I saw later on the video, because I didn’t know who had pushed me, and I had been pushed by a seven-ton army truck, which, tumbling from its bonnet on to its roof, flew on another forty metres or so after meeting with me, brought down a birch tree and two small maples before finally coming to a halt with a monstrous clatter against an enormous oak in the depths of the park, breaking one of the lower branches as it did so.
There was shouting from the street and someone came running, but I just lay there and looked at the scarlet fives, and later on the CCTV film (have a look on the internet, it’s there in a compilation of miracle escapes) it looked as if I had been stunned by the fall and had no idea what was going on, but in fact I was just looking and wondering, what happened and what have the fives got to do with this?
Later I read that the truck had been driving along the road by the park with a young soldier at the wheel, and the soldier had fallen asleep. Or fainted, or something like that. The truck wasn’t really going that fast, about fifty miles an hour, but when the driver fell asleep, the truck started veering and first it hit the opposite pavement, and then it was flung towards the park. The truck took down the barrier, which fell beneath its wheels and acted as a trampoline. The truck jumped up and flew off the road into the park, and, as the park was in low-lying ground, it flew down another ten metres or so then landed on its cabin, and then hurtled towards me insanely fast.
I read about all of this with great interest a week later in a small notice in the local paper, in which they didn’t even mention my miraculous escape, only noting that the driver had died on the spot. Of course, I’d had the chance to give what had happened some serious thought then, and right then I really needed to talk to her. You know who I mean.
• • •
I met Tanya at the seaside. A hundred years ago. A good start, you’d reckon. I was sitting on the sand, looking at the waves, a bit frozen. The day was cold because of the wind and sitting on the sand was cold, but I didn’t want to leave, so I wrapped myself up tighter in my windcheater and put up with it. In front of me on the left were the grey foundations of the promenade, and in front of me to the right were the waves, a lot of waves, the sea, and if you didn’t especially notice anything around you, then you could forget about the cold and merge with the sound of the waves and sit there for a long time and think your own thoughts.
And so I sat. When you get lost in thought like that for a long time, you lose your sense of time and you don’t really know what’s going on around you. So I wasn’t surprised when some girl came onto the beach, slowly laid out some bags and set about painting the concrete wall by the foundations of the promenade. I can’t even remember what it was I first christened her: the Ad Girl?.. the Painter?..
It doesn’t matter. About ten minutes passed, then fifteen, and I started to pull myself out of my numbness. At first I tried to figure out what she was advertising, what product she was selling, but then I stopped and just watched,
A black ear, a black nose. White paws. A huge puppy looking inquisitively at the sea from the wall. A painting about two metres high. Last few tries: an advert for a vet? The girl writes something under the white paw.
“Soap,” I read with amazement.
“It’s White Bim Black Ear! Like in the movie!” one little girl says.
“Why does it say ‘soap
’?” another one asks, surprised.
The artist looks at the girl, none too welcoming.
“Because…”
“Don’t tell her!” I ask.
The girl looks at me in surprise.
“It’s an advert, kids,” I say, “an advert for dog shampoo!”
“There is no such thing as dog shampoo!” announces the little girl.
“Is too!” the other contradicts her.
The kids start to argue. Then they run off to get their parents’ camera.
“Are you from Greenpeace?” I ask.
The girl chucks her spray cans into her bags. Does up the zip.
“No!” she replies fretfully.
I say nothing, watching her gather her things. It’s clear she’s in no mood to chat.
“What’s your name?”
“Tanya,” replies Tanya.
“Mine’s Max.” Not expecting her to say anything else, I introduce myself.
“You paint?” a tiny spark of interest leaps through her green eyes.
I shake my head slowly. I get what she means.
“I see. Nice to meet you,” Tanya says and walks away.
I watch her leave. A small figure stepping quickly over the sand. Waves, wind, sea.
• • •
A black window. I’m in the kitchen of my rented flat. I’ve been renting it for ages. True, I can’t remember how long. It’s strange, there’s a lot I don’t remember. Oh well, there you go. Better that way.
I’m chowing down on some pasta and cheese. I woke up not long ago, and I can’t be bothered to make something proper. I haven’t been too worried about my diet recently. Basically, I don’t want to think about it. I barely ever have any guests. No one for about a month. Well, great. That’s fine by me.
A switched-on laptop sits on the table. I don’t have a TV. I don’t really need one. They never have anything good on there anyway. I can find out the news on the internet. And who needs the news anyway. There’s never anything much good.
Outside the window – the night.
The city is silent.
• • •
“I don’t understand why you need it to be like this exactly!” I say to Viktor again with some irritation.
As far as I can see, I have every right to be a little irritated, as for a solid hour now I’ve been chucking a torch up into the black sky while Viktor tries to photograph it. He wants to get a bright, clean line on a picture of the city at night. That’s how he sees it. I’m already pretty bored of it. The right pic still isn’t coming, and throwing a torch in the air for the hundredth time only bores me.
It is night in the city. We are on some bit of wasteland near the river. From the other side the embankment marks the darkness with multicoloured street lights, and the blocks and the lampposts and the bridge look huge and we seem tiny and insignificant.
“You could draw it on your computer in three minutes,” I whine. “So why do you have to literally photograph it, hmm?”
Viktor does not say anything, not deigning to tear himself away from his camera. I go off towards the river and sit down on a log near the water. It’s a warm night and every now and again the river splashes quietly. The black silhouette of a barge is visible in the distance. The water moves, and I can’t figure out if the barge is moving or not. The signal lights are reflected in the black water like shimmering ribbons. It’s beautiful…
“It’s beautiful,” she says behind me.
I struggle to restrain the urge to turn round. I’m glad, I’d started to miss her even.
“Well, well,” I reply. “I haven’t been able to see you for a long time.”
“Really?” she asks. “A week tops… maybe two.”
I can smell her perfume. The scent makes the evening even more beautiful.
“What was all that?” I ask her straight out. “What happened there?”
She steps over a log.
“Are you cold?” I ask. “And it’s dirty this log…”
I take off my windcheater and lay it out next to me so that Lady F can take a seat. She thanks me and sits down next to me. I wait patiently.
“So I should just explain everything straight out?” Lady F asks tenderly.
“Well, you don’t have to, not everything… But basically it would be alright. I still haven’t recovered.”
“I’m not surprised!” she nods. “Who would enjoy that!?”
“Was it you who did it?”
“Considering that…”
“The truck! And if I hadn’t got out of the way..? And don’t you feel sorry for the driver?”
“I’ve got nothing to do with the truck. I’m sorry for the driver, really sorry. He fell asleep at the wheel. And getting out of the way or not – that was your choice, not mine.”
“You had absolutely nothing to do with it?”
“Yep. Absolutely nothing. It’s true.”
“So what was all that anyway? How come? Who are you? How do you explain all that?”
She laughs.
“Ah, Max, Max, Max… Very often all the most interesting and most wonderful things are absolutely inexplicable. And if you push yourself a bit and explain it all the same… from a scientific point of view, then it stops being wonderful. Don’t you think?
I shrug.
“You’re dodging the question!” I joke.
“How come? Here! Look at this river, at this night, at those street lights and even at you and me right now… Why are the colours so bright? Why are the sounds so soft and the air so amazingly fresh? Why is being with me so much fun?”
I raise a hand in protest, laugh, but she asks straight out:
“Is it not fun?”
“Very fun!” I agree.
“Isn’t it great?! It’s wonderful to feel everything at once, to soak it up inside, to feel every nuance, catch every sensation, like some nocturnal animal, stock still on the branch of a huge tree. And you know why..? Because that’s how you can become part of the night. If you start to analyse, to contemplate, to evaluate why colours are like that, why the air is so fresh, how come I’m here then the magic starts to fade, and the shiver inside you, in the best case scenario, slowly starts to die away…
“Die away…” I repeat quietly.
But maybe…
“Listen, Lady F,” I say softly.
“Do you remember about the beam of light?” she interrupts me in a businesslike manner, before I can make a suggestion.
“I remember,” I say, making a private note of this businesslike tone. “Look out for the beam of light. So… Is that what Viktor’s doing? The beam of light?”
“No, not that beam of light. But it’s good you remember! Here’s another thing to keep in mind: remember the numbers that match!”
“The numbers?” I ask. “What’s this, the same thing all over again…?”
“It worked!” There is a shout behind me and I shudder.
Viktor is waving his hand, staring at the screen of the camera.
“Look, you shouldn’t scare people like that,” I mutter angrily.
“Guess what,” Viktor says, “I threw it myself and took the picture too? And it ended up exactly how I needed it, pretty much entirely by accident! But it looks like the torch broke. Shame, it was a good torch.”
He pokes me in the face with the little screen of the camera. On the screen there is a bright white stripe.
“And will you be able to see the city?” I ask, and immediately regret it.
“Yeah, I’ll be able to fix up the city in the edit,” Viktor brushes it aside. He’s no longer interested in anything but the photograph he’s taken.
I turn towards the river. Lady F is no longer there. The lights on the opp
osite shore glint softly.
• • •
Fog changes the city. It becomes bigger and more frightening. The streets lose their regular features and danger lurks everywhere. It’s always the way: the less you see, the bigger the world seems. It’s a general rule. And it works the other way. If you know a city well, it’s all yours.
I’d been past that wall a thousand times, but this time there was fog. It made the cat’s emergence seem magical. It floated gradually out of the white haze; it hadn’t been there yesterday.
I stopped at the concrete wall by the bridge and looked at the cat. It was huge, about two metres high. She sat and looked back at me attentively. Clean lines, black paint. The fog surrounded us and turned a place I’d seen a hundred times into a new world.
The cat was wounded. It only had one back leg. But all the same I recognised it and knew who its owner was.
That evening I went back to the cat, sat a little way off and started waiting. In the rays of the evening sun it seemed like the cat was alive. The light stroked its back. That evening no one came.
The next day I go back again. Half an hour later Tanya comes. She unpacks her bag, gets out her spray can, looks round and starts to draw a leg for the cat. I stand up and go over to her.
“Hi Tanya,” I say.
She turns round and looks at me suspiciously.
“Hi,” she replies, unsure. “Erm, erm, Max?”
“That’s right,” I laugh, “Max. You’ve got a good memory.”
She grins and goes back to work.
“Are you studying somewhere?” I ask.
“Studied.”
“Studied well!”
“Thanks.”
“You’re not too chatty, are you?” I laugh.
She looks at me and smiles.
I sit down next to her and watch her as she paints. The cat’s paw grows in front of my eyes, and gets happier all the time. Tanya turns round often and looks about. Is she actually nervous?
“I am not… making you nervous, am I?” I ask politely.
Tanya thinks about it.
“You’re not.” She understood my question. “But not everyone is a fan of this sort of art. Do you like it?”
