by Pavel Kostin
“What would change,” Mutt continues, “if we were walking through an empty tunnel? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. So then… other people are just a source of hassle. I don’t see them and I don’t notice them. I only see people that I’m interested in talking to. Like you. And the other guys.”
I nod. We keep walking. Through two different towns. Me in mine, and Mutt in his. In a city with no one in it.
• • •
If you think of life as a succession of decisions and accidents, then the current moment is like an arrow landing on a tiny spot on a target a mile away, an impossible, miraculous shot. One roll of the dice, followed by a second, then a third, a fifth, a millionth. And only a single outcome from every roll, just one delicate chain of accidental coincidences, could have lead to this present moment, which has now just shot off into past.
If just one event had gone differently, if one die had fallen differently ten years ago – a year, a month, a minute ago – then this moment now would be different. What are the chances that the same sequence of events would be repeated again if you decided to play it over? What are the odds that your life would be the same if you started rolling again? Even if you wanted to reproduce a particular scene, even if you hoped to redo some sequence on a particular model, nothing would ever be the same. One chance look, one gust of wind, a rustle in the grass and the sequence would respond, creating a new dimension of existence, a new chain of events.
Everything is unique, every moment in the Universe exists in one copy only and cannot be repeated. You trace your life in magic runes on silver, carving out your fate forever, and that engraving is your story. The eternal mark of a million coincidences.
My name is Max. This is my fate. Whether it’s good or bad, it’s the only one I have. I’m tall and blonde with blue eyes. I’m good looking, which is, probably, a good thing. I’m weird too, which is, probably, a bad thing. But there’s no other me. You have to accept yourself as you are. Because not accepting yourself is pointless. I can’t change my character, like someone in a computer game. Or if I did manage to, then I wouldn’t be me, but someone else. Here’s the thing. You are you. Your story, your world, your reality. Your runes on the silver. If you give yourself a couple of extra inches with a heel, or put on a curly wig, you are still you. Your moment. Your mark on the target. Your arrow, tearing through the thick fabric of the air, speeding through the years like a fine line, vibrating with your subtle tremble and singing your own personal sound, your arrow which has just plunged into the target.
• • •
“The main thing. The main thing is not what you paint with,” Mutt is saying.
Right now Mutt actually is painting. On a wall. I’m sitting next to him. Watching what he’s doing and listening to his brief explanations. He’s painting with a brush.
“Yeah, I’m not using a spray can. Not because I don’t know how. I know how. I like using a brush more. What you’ve got in your hand doesn’t matter. You’re drawing the line inside yourself. Its reflection on a canvas or a wall is just a projection of the painting inside you.”
Mutt paints landscapes. And fragments of landscapes. The world basically. The sky, the stars, the moon and the sun. Right now a tree is taking shape on the wall.
“Mutt… Why did you suddenly decide to stop seeing people?”
Mutt doesn’t say anything, as if he can’t even hear me. He’s concentrating on drawing leaves. Fine, he doesn’t have to say anything. That’s his right. He’ll tell me some other time. Or he won’t.
“Really you’re painting inside yourself,” Mutt suddenly continues. “It makes no difference to me whether I’ve got a pencil in my hand or a piece of chalk. Or whether it’s on a wall or in a notebook. The best thing is when you get so involved in it that you don’t see anything but the painting and it’s… how can I explain it?… it’s as if… as if it’s flashing and burning in the darkness. And you’re working with it. Not with the canvas, not with paints. With the painting. Directly.”
“Like a chess player?”
Mutt frowns.
“In what way?”
“Like a chess player. I read somewhere that the real masters don’t see the board and the pieces, but abstract silhouettes of events and probabilities. Like that?”
“No… the painting is important. The contour is important. The instrument is not important.”
“OK, I probably won’t ever understand!”
“It’s not that,” Mutt smiles. “Maybe everyone sees it differently. Ask Torte, or Gray. Or Linda, she basically only works with stencils. That is, she’s painting both when she cuts the stencil and when she’s picking the canvas. So for them it’s completely different. Bound to be.”
“And what do your trees mean, Mutt?”
“I don’t understand the question. They don’t mean anything. They just are. I see them and I paint them.”
“And what’s that called?” I point to a tree of a kind that I’ve never seen before and most likely doesn’t exist.
“That? It is what it is. It doesn’t have a name. Not one that you can say out loud.”
“Right…”
I don’t even know what to say. Yeah, Mutt is a bit odd too.
• • •
Me, Torte, Mutt and Linda are all sitting by their white tower. What are we doing? Nothing. Passing the time. Chatting. Everyone’s got the day off. Even me. No need to hurry. Nothing on in particular. It’s hot. But it’s not boring. I don’t know the meaning of the word “boring”. If you’re bored, you’re just not tired enough.
“Who’s this Ben?” I ask everyone and no one.
No one says anything. Linda and Mutt share a look.
“He’s sort of unique,” Linda says, grinning.
“Unique? Even for you guys?”
“Mm-hm.”
“So who is he then? An artist? Does he do graffiti?”
“Mm-hm. Maybe you’ve seen it. Yeah, I’m sure you’ll have seen it. He stylises to the max. Makes it look like ordinary bits of street furniture. Like billboards, signs, or adverts. Just in reverse. Done smart. You don’t realise at first that it’s done on a different surface, but when you get it – it hits you deep. It’s not quite graffiti. But it’s definitely street art. I should show you somehow, you can’t explain this stuff.”
“But have you at least seen him for real?”
“You what? Everyone’s seen him.”
“Will you introduce us?”
They say nothing.
“I don’t know,” Mutt replies for all of them. “No one knows where he lives. Or how to find him even. He doesn’t really need company. If he wants to, he’ll introduce himself. That’s what he’s like. So, sorry.”
“No problem. I don’t need company often either. My whole life’s just set up like that. Haven’t got a lot of friends. I work on my own. But it’s not a problem. It’s nice even. I like it that way. So, I understand.”
“So what do you do?” Linda asks.
“I’m… In the security industry. Oh, OK. I am a guard. Well, basically a night watchman, if I’m honest,” I laugh.
“A night watchman, seriously? At a car park? With a beard and a bottle of vodka?” Linda really likes my job.
“Hahaha, pretty much! Just the nice sort of night watchman. No beard, no bottle of vodka. At a good firm. And you?”
“Me?” Linda asks, faltering slightly. The smile falls from her face. “Well I, little star that I am, I work in an ordinary shop. In the most ordinary of ordinary mobile phone shops. Yellow t-shirt and all the rest. It’s very nice. Creative work, oh yeah. ‘Hello, how may I help you today?’ Ha-ha.”
She’s clearly ashamed of her job. Doesn’t like talking about it. But there’s no reason, I reckon. A job is a job. You need to make a living somehow. I couldn’t do what she does
though. Talking to people all day, on your feet the whole time. And you don’t exist for your bosses because there’s a crazily high turnover of staff, and there’ll be someone new tomorrow, and every customer fancies having a go at you. Because he is always right. And you’re never right. Nope, no way I could do that.
“Torte, there, he does custom car painting,” Linda quickly changes the conversation.
“Really?” I say, curious.
“Something like that,” Torte smiles, pleased. “I do paint a bit.”
“And how is it?”
“Yeah, alright. Not bad. Not very stable though. Sometimes there’s orders, sometimes not. Sometimes you get a rubbish client that desperately wants something but cannot explain what it is he wants. But they do pay pretty well sometimes. Not as much as they pay Mutt, of course, but not bad.”
I look at Mutt, intrigued.
“I do renovations,” Mutt replies to the implied question. “Freelance. Dachas mostly. I did one for a friend, he told someone, and so it somehow happened by itself. I go out to their dacha, live there for a couple of months, completely redo it. If the client likes it, he’ll tell someone else. Strange thing, it’s always dachas. When they recommend it, they specify that it was a dacha I did. Though I could easily do a flat. Sometimes they pay pretty well, yeah. It’s quiet work. Sometimes I don’t see anyone for a month or so. Especially if it’s late autumn or winter. You stock up on food, and live outside of town in the dacha village. Quietly renovating a place. It’s good… Although sometimes you get nasty clients. But I don’t get mad. They pay. And they’re not as bad as the ones Torte gets.”
“Yeah,” Torte agrees. “Because half the time the people that want their cars done are deranged. And they don’t know anything about design, that’s the one common feature. You say to them that, you know, on this car, using this colour, a panther won’t look good. Or some kind of explosion or something. But they keep insisting, and start shouting at every opportunity. Then you give them what they want and they don’t like it, and refuse to pay, even though they ‘ve been warned. Happens all the time. It’s a tricky business. Although every now and then, you get good ones. They give you total freedom to design something original. The client brings their car and says, ‘Here’s the motor, here’s the colour, you have a look and choose what’s best.’ I love jobs like that. I try and give them a discount, even though in theory creative work should cost more. Do you want me to do something for your car?”
“I don’t know. It looks good as it is.”
“For sure,” Torte notes knowingly. “You can’t do an all-over design. So, if anything, only a small element. One that fits with the red. You need either something simple in bright white, like a white line, or the opposite basically, something dark, even black, and really detailed, like a two-headed eagle. It’ll really stand out! I really like designs that stand out.”
“Interesting…” I say.
“So then, shall we do it?”
“We’ll see. Depends. What do you want to do?”
Torte nods and looks somewhere into the distance and smiles.
“Or do some more bits in white. Sort of retro style.”
I realise that he’s not talking to me anymore. He’s talking to himself. Cooking something up. They’re funny, these artists. Sometimes you don’t know whether they’re talking to you or have already drifted off into the distance.
• • •
Already, at a distance, as soon as I turn off the road, I discover to my horror that they’ve taken down the top of Mutt’s red tower. It’s as if there’s just no roof, as if they’ve demolished it. Did some problems come up? Or maybe they cancelled the lease. Nice that. A guy fixes up a place with his own money and they take it off him. Plus they stole God knows how much from the city budget.
I hurry up. Maybe there’s no reason to worry? At the end of the day, who’d bother demolishing the tower? At the end of the day, Mutt’s doing the renovation himself. And last time he was doing something right at the top. Maybe he took it down himself. To change the roof. Tiles and all that.
I go up closer and start to think there’s something up with my eyesight. Am I dizzy or something? The air above the top of the tower is swimming and morphing, swirling like the air above a fire. The colours seem unnatural. But what’s this? As I near the foot of the tower I look up, unable to tear my eyes away. The air is all balled up, transformed into a strip of scrumpled reality.
Then I get it. You see? He’d painted the roof and the top of the tower to look the same as the view when you look from the road. The roof of the tower hadn’t disappeared. It had blended into the background. I step back trying to get back the magical feeling. It doesn’t work. Now the secret’s uncovered, my eye sees the darkish colours, the fuzziness of the painting and the contours of the tower hidden beneath the painted sky.
Mutt himself is inside. Working on the third floor.
“Hi!” I say. “What’s that about?”
“Well, you know,” Mutt says. “Why not?”
“I’m not arguing. It’s amazing! But very unusual. Is that kind of like the same as… not noticing people?”
“Maybe,” Mutt says.
He doesn’t break off from work. Seems like he doesn’t really like this topic of conversation.
Someday I ought to get him to talk.
• • •
I’m on the roof of my factory. I’ve called it mine for a long time. Though it’s far from being mine. I come up here a lot. Every time I’m at work I spend at least an hour up here. Either I watch the sunset or grab a thermos and some sandwiches and have something to eat. Though now they’ve gone and taken away the metal stairs which used to lead up here. They were all rusted over, so they’re going to put some new ones in. Now you have to go up the fire escape to get here. But I still climb up.
It’s evening, almost night. The sun’s already set, and the purple west is the only reminder of the recent sunset. It’s unusually quiet today. You can even hear your own thoughts. And if you say something out loud then a second later an echo, ever so quiet, returns.
“Am I alone?” I ask.
“Depends what you mean by that,” replies Lady F.
“Let me think about it. It doesn’t mean I’m lonely. Although that is the logical conclusion. I’m not lonely now, right? I’ve got friends.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Because I’m really asking about something else. I want to know if there is someone else… some other person who will understand me. No, that’s not right. There’s a lot of smart people. A lot of people who are smarter and more talented than me. And even people who might fancy me. But is there somebody who’ll be close to me. Who I’ll need for me to understand myself better.”
“It’s not me you should be asking that,” Lady F replies quietly. “But you’ve got me interested. Do you know the answer to that question yourself?”
“I don’t know. I can find people interesting. I can like them, even think they’re amazing. But I don’t need them. They’re not essential. And often I’m comfortable on my own. Even more comfortable than with someone else, which is bad…”
“Why ‘bad’?” Lady F says. “Being alone is normal. All adults need to be alone for a bit sometimes.”
“Being alone is normal,” I repeat after her. “Sounds kind of strange. Is that normal for you?”
“Yes,” Lady F thinks without considering it too much. “I’m often on my own. And that’s normal for me. Do you ever have problems with this sort of thing?”
“No. But it’s not that I have no problems. I have problems with other people. I prefer it on my own. Most times. And that worries me.”
“How is it for you with me?”
“With you it’s just amazing!” I smile. “You’re the best. Definitely. That’s not just a comp
liment. You’re brilliant and I find it really easy to be with you. But with anyone else… Even with my friends. You see, even with my friends…”
“Maybe they just don’t suit you? Or there’s something wrong?”
“That’s not it. They’re great.”
“Really? You’re just flattering me. So how then are they any different from me? Why are you comfortable with me, and sometimes not with them?”
“Because…” I hesitate. “Because…”
“Go on, say. I promise I won’t be offended. Not right now at least.”
“Because you’re magic!”
“There you go. Magic. Maybe you wanted to say – because I’m not real?”
“Oh, no, of course not.”
“Look here, Max…”
Lady F comes over and takes me by the hand. The palm of her hand is small and cold. It’s so nice… Thousands of little golden streams run through my skin. It’s incredibly enjoyable and very, very tasty. Sounds odd, but there is no other way to put it. It’s like cold lemonade on a hot day. Just in a touch. I exhale quietly, afraid to frighten away this amazing feeling.
And then she pinches me. Quite painfully.
“Ow!” I cry. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because,” she laughs. “I’m magic. Well… maybe. Just be more careful. With what you say.”
“OK…”
I rub my hand. So there won’t be a bruise!
“And about your question… are you alone. You’re not alone. For sure. But you might prefer being on your own. There’s nothing terrible about that. I’m not, of course, the ultimate authority… that’s just my opinion.”
“Thanks, Lady F.”
“It’s nothing.”
And she leaves. I’m left on my own again. And once again, despite all my chat about how happy I am on my own, I quickly start to miss her.
Right. I need to get down. I start to run down the stairs, and suddenly I fall, endlessly long, endlessly far, I fall for ever. What is this, a dream? I’m falling and I’m about to hit the ground. My armpits hurt. It’s a dream. Is this a dream? No. They took the staircase away. And I forgot. They took away the damn stairs and I forgot.
