by Pavel Kostin
“Yes,” I reply honestly. “I like it. Not every time with every thing, but you paint really well and I like that.”
“Well then. But I could get banged up for it.”
“But what for?” I say, surprised. “You’re not… spoiling anything.”
I am genuinely surprised. I can’t say that I approve of all graffiti. I don’t like long black tags smeared on walls. I don’t like political slogans or pointless swearing. But when an artist takes a faceless grey wall and creates a superb drawing, how can you persecute them for that?! Grabbing them, arresting them, slapping a fine on them… It’s just absurd!
“Yep, that’s what they get you for. It’s best not to get caught. No good will come of it.”
After that we say nothing for a long time. Tanya finishes drawing the cat then looks at it, scrutinising her work. I also look at it. The cat is incredible.
“Will you write something on this one?” I ask carefully.
Tanya shakes her head.
“Do you want to go and get a coffee?” I suggest. “There’s a café over there.”
And we go and get a coffee. The cat watches us as we leave. A million years have passed since then.
• • •
At first after my conversation with Lady F, I wandered around frightened and freaked out at anything. I looked around me, constantly waiting to be hit. Like I was by that truck. She hadn’t said anything. Not about what those numbers were, or about why it happened. Just: “Remember the numbers that match.” What was that about? Is there some other threat on my life? From who? What for? Or is ‘what for’ the wrong question?
I wandered around looking for trouble. I looked for numbers everywhere. Number plates, telephone numbers, house numbers. The countdown at traffic lights. Clock faces, calendars, prices, dates, buses, money, even the temperature.
If you carry on like that pretty soon you’ll lose your mind. Or had I already lost mine? Maybe I’d just imagined all this? The numbers and all the rest. But the truck did exist. And Lady F she’s definitely… absolutely definitely real. More real than the world around me. But these numbers… “numbers which match” – that sounds so absurd. And I thought about it a lot, and that thought seemed more and more stupid, and Lady F didn’t visit me at all and eventually I stopped chasing after numbers and stopped feverishly looking everywhere, and finally forgot about it entirely.
Numbers again, by the way! Last time it was two red fives. Now it’s “the number that matches”. The fives match too. Does that mean something?
Numbers suddenly started to surround me on all sides.
But then, at last, I saw them.
I saw them and for the first second I didn’t even understand why I had stopped, but then a chill ran down my spine and I felt frightened and happy at the same time, as always at those moments when you realise that in fact, in actual fact, reality has a second level, however much you have tried to convince yourself of the opposite, until you see it.
Then there was the waft of ozone. Only faint. Just a whiff, but I immediately remembered that time and I always connected the smell of ozone with… with… that. That thing with no name.
They were sevens. A block of flats was being built on my usual route from the bus stop. They’d been building it for ages. Today they’d hung up a sign with a number. An ordinary sign, with the number 77. On the far doorway of the building, the seventh, there was a sign with the numbers of flats on that staircase. The flats started at number 77.
Sevens.
What now? Look around? Run away? What’s going to happen now? I was scared, but at the same time I felt thrilled, even inspired.
Just in case, I moved to one side and waited a bit.
Nothing happened.
After five minutes nothing had happened.
I waited another five minutes and set off. So it was sevens. Or a seven. Or was I hallucinating? What if it was a false sign…?
Or was I supposed to go into this building, look for answers closer to the sign..? I went up to the entrance and pulled the handle. Locked. A dead end. I didn’t know what to do next.
Soon reality itself suggested something.
• • •
I think that that day was also one of the most important. It was then that I first realised what all this could mean for me, what possibilities it was opening up for me. What my life could become. And that something else exists. Something beyond the everyday. That’s the main thing.
I’m walking along the hot street. The middle of summer, a hot evening and the air is melting. The sun flashes on the cars as they turn. My shift at work is behind me, the weekend is ahead. I feel calm and good. Not exactly happy, but… good. No particular worries. Freedom or whatever.
I’m walking along thinking about Oxana. It’s not that I’m dreaming about her exactly. Just thinking. It’s nice to have a summer’s day and something to look forward to. Basically, it’s nice when you’ve got something on. Somewhere to go. When you’ve got a bright future ahead of you, even if it’s only a vague idea. In fact even better that it’s only a vague idea. That’s very important. For me at least.
And so I’m walking along and thinking about Oxana. And Lady F. About how they’re the same, how they’re different. And about girls in general. And I’m thinking that Lady F is class! And Oxana is class too, even though she’s dumb.
And I’m also thinking that I could ask Oxana out somewhere. You know, romantically. Not just go and chat away over a cup of coffee. Of course, maybe there would be a cup of coffee, but so it ended up as a date. Of course, the best dates happen by accident, but I reckon Oxana might be pretty unique when it comes to this sort of thing. With her it’s easy to make friends and hard not to make friends. Although… who knows. I think about Oxana and frown. Who knows about any of them… Though Lady F is not like that! She’s definitely not like that! I’m positive.
And at that moment I come across two huge sevens. It’s graffiti. A massive logo has been painted in angular letters on the big, dirty-white wall of a warehouse by a stream: ApCity-77. I go up to the logo. It’s enormous, way taller than me. Blue letters, white outlines. It’s drawn with technical skill, by someone with a steady hand and a good eye. The broken kerning is right, the serifs are done with different thicknesses, but there’s a place for improvisation – the sevens have the right asymmetry, mimicking the shape of the “Ap”, which means there was more overall symmetry.
I look at the sevens and turn round again. What to do now?
I see sevens again. This time they’re small – two faded blue sevens on a rusted white plate marking the number of a heating main or something like that. The plate is sticking out on the river bank. There are some pipes coming out beneath it and going over the river. No more clues.
I go over to the pipes and look where they go. On one side there’s a blank brick wall, some kind of factory. No way of even getting close. The pipes go into a big hole. They’re about forty centimetres across, in pairs. Beneath them is the stream. It’s summer and the stream has dried up a bit and doesn’t smell great, but there’s a big drop. About ten metres to the water. Three storeys. Not really that high if you think about it. Confusing. Very confusing. I can’t be meant to climb along these pipes.
And then I notice something strange on the other side... some object in the hole which the pipes go into. Right then – the smell of ozone and a chill runs over my skin again. This is it, I realise immediately. This is why I’ve been brought here. Or did I come here myself..?
I look around. Should I really, really climb across this stream right now? But, you know, it’s dangerous! I look down, at the black expanse of water. There are rocks down there and logs buried in the mud. Frightening.
But it’s not even a choice any more, I know that. It stopped being a choice the moment I sensed the mystery, the riddle, the sign,
the hint, that there it was, that there was some secret lying there, smiling and waiting for me. And here, on this side, there is an ordinary life in which everything is predictable and makes sense, and there, one small step further on, there is something mysterious and enigmatic which, perhaps, will turn my whole life upside down, and, maybe, the whole world too. Who could walk away at that moment? No one. It’s not a choice any more. It’s a vector.
I clamber on to the pipes. I go forward, trying not to look down. In theory there’s nothing to it. Two pipes, next each other, both forty centimetres wide. If I step along them nice and carefully there shouldn’t be any problems. I go on a few metres, look down, and my heart skips. It’s high… Fine, let’s keep going. Don’t turn back. Not now! I move forward step by step, but suddenly there is a sharp cry, a whistle, everything inside me sinks and my foot slips towards the gap.
For a few depressing seconds, I try to regain my balance. I put my foot back down. I squat down. Who was shouting at me? I scan for him. A fairly shabby-looking guy is running after a bus and waving his arms. The bus isn’t stopping and in the window there’s a small boy watching me with interest. I wink at him, although, of course, from this distance, he won’t see anything.
Fine. I need to stand up and keep moving. Not far to go. But I don’t want to. Really don’t want to. But I stand up and walk on.
About ten steps from my goal, I realise that there is a big bag in the hole. There really is something inside. It’s very hard to spot, it’s hidden deep inside and covered in branches. With my heart beating, I approach the wall and lean my palms against it. The bricks are warm, which is nice. They are very firm and solid. My legs are shaking slightly. I relax for a minute and go down into a squat.
It’s a leather bag. More like a holdall. It’s immediately obvious that it has been lying there for a very long time. Mould has grown over nearly the entire surface and it’s covered in rotting leaves. Must have been lying there for more than a year. Maybe longer. There’s a nasty smell too. Maybe from the bag, maybe from the river down below. The locks on the bag have rusted up. Oh-ho-ho. I still feel a bit rough, but there’s no way I can go now without opening it. I chuck the branches and leaves to one side. There’s worms and woodlice or something, all that crap. I feel sick.
I try to open the bag. The rusty locks don’t want to give. I search my pockets for my keys, nearly losing my balance. I jam the big fat garage key under the lock and press with all my might. The lock gives in and makes a dull clicking sound. Seems like it broke. Oh well.
I take a branch and open the bag.
Nothing terrible happens. OK, at least it’s not a bomb.
I look inside. Inside is a swollen yellow newspaper from the seventh of July 2007. 07/07/07. Hello. Three years already? How come it stayed here that whole time? I take out the paper. Underneath it there’s a small package wrapped in wax-paper.
And inside the paper there are two thick wads of cash. I flick through the money. Hundred dollar bills; a random assortment, some new, some crumpled. In total twenty thousand or so. “I need to have a think, I need to decide what to do,” a voice inside me whispers, but I just casually tear off the outer bills and shove the money into the pockets of my jeans, then go down on all-fours and crawl back. Wouldn’t want to come crashing down. Not now.
• • •
People are animals. I’m an animal. The city is my habitat. In the winter, when it’s cold and nasty, that slush is inside me as well. The smell of spring doesn’t just make the flowers bloom, but the human heart too. When a storm is coming, I can feel the tension inside me. Before I thought that I felt the city like a fish feels the water, its movement and temperature. Now it turns out that I didn’t know anything about the water around me.
You have to use your skin to listen to what’s going on around you. To stop in the middle of the street, breathe in, listen closely, and try and feel the rhythm of the city. All your successes and defeats don’t mean anything if you can’t feel what’s around you, because that’s what life is. Reality. Reality surrounds you on the street, in the open space of the city squares, it soaks out of the city air into your skin. Every minute. All you need to do is stop and listen.
I hurry home along the cooling pavements. I swim along the swift river of the city and breathe in the smell of the summer evening. Today it is with me, and I am inside it. It’s so difficult to make yourself really listen to the familiar things around you. If you imagine the volume of visible space that exists, all that enormous expanse of branches, buildings, windows, tarmac, sky, then it’ll be enormous, huge, ridiculously big. If you flattened it out on some enormous square then it would take your whole life to walk along it and study the succession of images flashing past your pupils every second. The same thing that’s just an ordinary, familiar and tediously flat picture when you don’t look at it properly.
All you have to do is take a look… All you have to do is really see and you might freeze forever in admiration, in awe at the bottomless depths of the endless space in the average city block, like the one I’m standing on now.
• • •
Flashes of colour at the edge of my vision. Sometimes a coloured beam of light goes through the glass on the table and it’s suddenly aflame with incredible iridescent light. It’s nice to watch. My eye rejoices in the opalescent splashes of pure light.
Chillout. They don’t play the music too loud in here. That’s lucky. I can’t stand things that assault your senses at the wrong time: too loud a noise, too bright a light, too much heat, too much cold. A loud note at the right time makes your whole being tremble. But if you turn it up without thinking about it, then all that comes through your receiver into your brain is this hideous, terrifying rattling.
Oxana comes back from the dance floor and flops down in the chair opposite. Viktor carries on checking out the girls. The nightclub, the modern idyll of today’s successful youth.
The chair vibrates. Is the bass really that strong? Damn, my phone! I suddenly remember and reach into my pocket, but the call’s already gone, I’ve missed it. Tanya! I call back, but I can already see her coming into the room, cautiously, looking around.
I go over to meet her, turning away from the people dancing.
She notices me and I wave. Tanya follows me.
I bring up a chair and invite her to sit with us.
“This is Tanya,” I say. “An artist. She does graffiti. Really great graffiti art.”
Oxana smiles and nods. It’s all the same to her, I think. Viktor’s interested. He starts asking her questions.
“So what sort of stuff do you paint?” he says.
She’s probably pretty bored of this question, but Tanya thinks for a bit and replies.
“The same stuff as all artists. Where you paint doesn’t really make any difference. On a canvas or on a wall down a back alley. An artist isn’t defined by where they paint or on what.” For the laconic Tanya this is a whole tirade.
“And what do all artists paint?”
“Themselves. The world. The interrelation between the self and the world.”
“Interesting…” Viktor drags out the word.
“Viktor’s a photographer!” I interject.
“So what do you photograph then?” Tanya laughs.
I am slightly stung by jealousy. I get a hold of myself. Jealousy? About what?! Alright, alright, none of that. You’d do better to just listen carefully to two smart people having a conversation. Viktor repeats her lines.
“The same thing as all photographers.”
Darkness, bright flashes, beautiful girls. It’s summer now, hot, and the girls are barely dressed. That’s what he sees. Or maybe something completely different? He’s a photographer. How can you know...? Maybe he sees the composition or the play of the light, the silhouetted bodies, the contours of the space… I have a go at seeing what he s
ees. The bright kaleidoscope of the club sliced through by the black line of the doorway. The dark contours of the dancers flashing in the light of the strobe, looking like flat cartoon characters. And the movement. Everything trembles, throbs, dances. It must be so difficult to capture all this in one shot – is it even possible?
“Impressions,” Viktor says. “I photograph impressions. So that someone could look at the photo afterwards and feel exactly what I saw. And sometimes, if I’m very lucky, they feel something that I didn’t see. Or something which doesn’t even exist.”
“Does it work?”
“Hardly ever…”
“Hardly ever is pretty often,” Tanya says. “Because ‘usually’ is never.”
Talented people. I’m envious. I’ve always envied talented people. For them everything’s different. It’s a gift. They’ve been given a gift. At birth. Like being tall or pretty. Someone, perhaps, can paint. Never studied it particularly and then suddenly, he can just do it. And he can paint something from the real world. Or create a miniaturized version of reality in a painting. It’s like being born an aristocrat. Talented people are today’s aristocracy.
But what is talent? Painting – definitely. Singing. Being able to hear music and make it – that too. But apart from that? Thinking up stories? Acting? What else? Living, can you have a talent for living? What does it mean to lead ‘a talented life’?
What else can I do? What can I do now? Why did Lady F give me this gift? What am I supposed to do now?
“She’ll tell me,” I smile to myself. “I’m sure she’ll tell me!”
To lead a talented life. Go to nursery, then school, get top marks, then a first at university, a job you love, a family, kids, and you have time for everything and you’re successful and achieve everything you want. And you pass away with pride, leaving behind four kids and your own business and the love and respect of your friends and colleagues.
