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Mikhail Armalinsky
Muscular Death
Two short stories translated from the Russian edition
Published in "Confrontation" Exile and the Writer, a literary journal of Long Island University Nos. 27-28, 1984
THE DEAL
by Mikhail Armalinsky
to Brian Kvasnik
It was a town in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by endless fields of undistinguished
grain. My only reason for going there was to conduct a business deal with a
man who had the distinction of owning nearly the entire town. His name was Rail,
a veritable lord of the manor who counted among his possessions two banks, impressive
acres of land, and several large warehouses of nonferrous metals.
Though I had known this man more than a year, we had never met face to face;
all our business had taken place over the phone or through the mail. Our last
phone conversation had degenerated into an argument over his refusal to accept
an order of high quality aluminum cast at my factory. This considerable order
had just been loaded for shipping when Rail phoned with the news that it wouldnÕt
pay him to accept such a large amount of metal at that time. When I insisted
that he accept his merchandise, he refused, I lost my temper, and threatened
to drive the load to his home and dump the entire shipment on his doorstep.
Rail hung up at that point, and we hadnÕt spoken for nearly a month.
Now he had unexpectedly called to say he was prepared to accept and pay for
a substantial part of the order. In the same breath, he invited me to come to
his estate and inspect a scrapped wreck of a bomber plane he had acquired.
I found the prospect of further dealings with Rail abhorrent, yet I hadnÕt the
strength to reject business for the sake of catering to personal feelings. Even
as I completed the arrangements for our meeting, I consoled myself with the
thought that I would sell my factory as soon as it was large enough to provide
me with enough money to last the rest of my life. The problem was, I could never
seem to decide what exactly I meant by Òlarge enoughÓ, as no matter how big
it grew, it always looked small to me, as a son does to his mother.
It was evening when I arrived in town and checked into a hotel located in the
standard, artificially cheerful downtown area. I had just signed the register
when the clerk handed me RailÕs message to call him. His eagerness irritated
me, and I decided to take a long, hot bath before making that phone call.
I was undressing when the phone rang. It was Rail.
ÒYouÕve arrived? How are you? Did you get my message? When youÕre ready, IÕll
take you out to dinner and show you the town.Ó
Rail saved me the problem of answering him in a civil tone by not bothering
to wait for my replies. We agreed to meet in an hourÕs time in the lobby.
I got there on time, but it was obvious from his pacing that Rail had been waiting
for me. He was around fifty-five, with a bald spot that made his hair grow in
a horseshoe shape around his head Ñ a configuration which had apparently brought
him luck. From the moment he realized who I was, a smile never left his face.
It also never quite reached his eyes. Still, he managed to radiate an impression
boundless joy, slapping my shoulder in a simulation of friendship of which I
was thoroughly sick.
Shaking my hand, he noticed my ring with a small, but very pure diamond.
ÒOh, what a marvelous ring,Ó he gasped in delight, holding my hand in his and
bringing it up to his eye level to examine the ring more closely. I carefully
freed my hand from his grasping fingers.
As we drove down the main street, my introduction to the town was reduced to
a litany of the following phrase spoken glowingly by Rail:
ÒThatÕs my bank, beautiful building, isnÕt it?Ó
ÒI build those apartment buildings two years ago, and their valueÕs gone up
five times since then!Ó
ÒYou can buy the finest clothing sold in New York in that store. My policy is
that the word ÔprovincialÕ has no place in consumer goods.
The Chinese restaurant in which we ate also belonged to him, and the food was
excellent. He had brought the chef from Hong Kong and found him a local beauty
to marry so that he wouldnÕt be homesick. During the dinner I noticed RailÕs
gaze on my ring several times, and as we were finishing dessert, he expressed
his delight in it once more. I saw that the bargaining was about to begin.
ÒHow much do you want for that ring?Ó The possessive gleam in his eye revealed
the sparkle of my stone.
As I did not want to part with the ring Ñ it held too many associations for
me Ñ I named a sum about quintuple its real value.
Rail smiled politely and dropped the subject, but I sensed that he hadnÕt given
up.
With dinner finally over, Rail next drove me to his mansion. It was cavernous
affair in which he had lived alone for many years, his wife having divorced
him long ago. With no real family, Rail had still managed to turn his castle
into a home of sorts: a home for the stuffed carcasses and soft pelts of a collection
of animals which, had they still lived, would have stocked a small zoo. Rail
had even decorated one room entirely in animal skins. Dark brown and black furs
covered the floor, light tans and beiges were on the walls, and snowy white
ones quilted the ceiling.
From somewhere in his furred abundance, Rail produced an enormous red fox. He
held it out to me, its bushy tail dangling lifelessly, and declared, ÒLetÕs
trade for your ring.Ó
I took the fox from him, enjoying the feel of the soft fur as my fingers tightened
around the inanimate throat. I hefted it for a moment, then handed the fox back:
No. Rail acquiesced meekly, and the fox disappeared.
Though I had no interest in a trade with Rail, I was becoming curious to see
how high a price he would put on his desire.
We moved to another room, this one dominated by the huge form of a bald eagle,
wings outstretched in a frozen moment of flight. The wingspan was easily two
yards. Rail was quick to note my undisguised admiration, and he casually added,
ÒAll right, IÕll throw in the eagle, too.Ó
I shook my head no, still gazing at the magnificent bird, and began unconsciously
rubbing the ring with my hand.
RailÕs watchful eyes caught this motion, and he remarked benignly, ÒDonÕt worry,
IÕll get it by peaceful means.Ó
ÒIs that a threat of military action?Ó I asked in surprise.
ÒNo, no, you misunderstand me,Ó Rail assured me.
We continued to tour RailÕs house, but he no longer mentioned anything about
a trade. His restraint did not fool me. In his own discreet way, Rail was keeping
careful note of the effect of his various treasures on me, and I knew plainly
that he hadnÕt given up.
The next day, Rail took me to the enormous warehouse where he had stored the
remains of the plane. Its stark metal framework, so skeletal in appearance,
reminded me vaguely of last nightÕs silent menagerie. I was glad I had only
to finish the business at hand and go home.
As I looked over the plane, I noticed a whispered conference between Rail and
a workman. Rail looked at my car; the workman nodded and walked away.
Rail waited patiently as I completed my inspection of the wreck. When I had
seen enough, we went to RailÕs office and spent the better part of an hour coming
to terms on the price. It was only then, when were shaking hands on the completed
deal, that I thought I saw the possessive gleam of the night before in RailÕs
eye. When I looked again, though, he was only smiling at me. Had I imagined
it? Or had the sparkle of me diamond somehow been reflected in his eyes?
It was time to leave. We walked back to the warehouse where IÕd parked my car.
I was expecting a final assault on my ring, but Rail remained strangely aloof.
We stood for awhile by the car, exchanging the last few required pleasantries
and a farewell handshake. I reached out to open my car door and abruptly recoiled
without opening it. There, nonchalantly perched on my front seat, was a luminous
white human skeleton, its skull turned toward the driver, the left hand hanging
familiarly on the back of the driverÕs seat.
I looked in dismay at my car, then at Rail, then back at the car. Rail was enjoying
my predicament. Patting me reassuringly on the back he said, ÒNothing to be
frightened of Ñ sheÕs completely harmless.Ó He smiled and continued, ÒI thought
you might get lonely on your long trip, so I took the liberty of arranging a
traveling companion.Ó
I continued to stare in disbelief. The intrusion of the skeleton had imbued
my familiar auto with the appeal of a coffin.
ÒMan or woman?Ó I asked, while trying to think of some way to evict this mass
of bones from my front seat.
ÒA woman, of course,Ó he answered. ÒLook at her Ñ see how wide the pelvis is?Ó
I stared at this fleshless apparition, trying to imagine a human female somehow
draped around those bones.
ÒIÕm glad itÕs a woman,Ó I said at last. ÒI like them thin.Ó
The attempt at humor came hard. What I really wanted to say was, All right,
youÕve had your fun, now get this damned thing out of my car! I didnÕt want
Rail to know how badly he had startled me, though, and I became determined to
play his little charade to the end.
I opened the door and got in. I paused a beat before putting the key in the
ignition, certain that at any moment Rail would blessedly call to one of his
workmen to remove the skeleton form my car. Rail, however, did nothing but bend
down to my window and cheerfully wave me goodbye. There was nothing left for
me to do but start the car, turn around, and drive off.
I was driving through the warehouse exit when I saw the workman Rail had spoken
to earlier, the one who had, I was certain, taken care of the skeleton. He wore
jeans, one leg dark blue, the other light blue. He waved to me without smiling,
and I watched him for a moment in the rearview mirror before I turned onto the
road.
At least the isnÕt carrying a scythe, I thought darkly to myself, though that
omission did nothing to relieve my uneasiness.
The road was in poor repair, and my otherwise silent partner signaled her presence
by jangling constantly in response to every bump and jolt. She listed violently
towards me on a particularly nasty pothole, and I instinctively put my hand
out to catch her. I struck the cold hard bone of her empty hips. It was then
that I noticed the connective tissues of the joints had all been replaced by
thin wires, neatly joining one bone to another. The intricacy of the finger
joints particularly caught my eye.
Cars that passed me slowed down while everyone inside, waved, and tried through
gestures to ask, ÒWell, whatÕs it like driving around with a skeleton?Ó I smiled
tolerantly and indicated ÔOKÕ with the familiar thumb to forefinger circle.
They invariably laughed in response, and sped away.
My companion had no need of food, but I was getting hungry. I pulled up to a
roadside restaurant just as an elderly couple was leaving. When they recognized
what was seated beside me they reeled. I saw the fear in their eyes as they
hurried away, crossing themselves. I locked the car, just in case.
Seated in the restaurant, I heard the brief wail of a police siren outside,
which I forgot about as the waitress returned with my order.
I felt almost refreshed as I left the restaurant, only to walk squarely into
the flashing glare of police car lights. My car was surrounded by a small milling
crowd, through which two darkly uniformed police officers showed like grease
spots. I noticed the elderly couple, describing something to the officers in
an agitated manner.
The police were interested in my driverÕs license and in my companion. I told
them it was a gift form Rail. Though they recognized the name, they still wanted
confirmation, and I willingly supplied them with RailÕs phone number. Luck was
with me; Rail was still in his office and confirmed that the skeleton was his
property, on loan to me. The intervention of the police had at least supplied
me with one bit of information on my boney ÔfriendÕ Ñ she was no gift.
The police said goodbye pleasantly enough, though they left me with a stern
warning not to frighten any more people. I promised to go straight home and
lock her in the bedroom in case, heaven forbid, she should try to escape. The
laughter of the crowd was more a sigh of relief, and they scattered quickly,
leaving me alone once more with my companion.
ÒWell, Mary,Ó I remarked conversationally as we pulled away from the restaurant,
ÒWe reminded the temporary living of death, didnÕt we?Ó The sudden jolt of a
pothole jogged her lower jaw open, and for an instant I thought she would answer
me. The instant passed, and I noticed the tow rows of small, white even teeth.
I reflected on this, and mused that my traveling companion had ended her life
young, and if young, why not beautiful as well?
I didnÕt arrive home until late in the evening. I welcomed the cover of darkness
and carried the skeleton, bride-like, into the house through the connecting
garage. I brought her to the guest room, where I tried unsuccessfully to stand
her on her feet. She collapsed with alarming speed, and I caught her at the
last moment before she crashed to the floor. I looked around, and finally decided
the only thing to do was lay her out on the bed.
That night I had many dreams; dreaming rarely happens with me. I awoke with
a headache.
My throat was dry, and when I got up to go to the kitchen, the room swayed dizzily.
I downed a glass of water and headed back for my bedroom, but felt suddenly
so weak that I stumbled into the nearest room. It was the guest room. About
to fall, I sank onto the bed next to the skeleton and shut my eyes. My heart
was pounding as if I had been running. I dimly felt the touch of a cool shinbone
of my side.
The telephone rang abominably loud. I reached it with difficulty on the third
ring, and it took me a full minute to recognize the voice of my secretary, asking
questions about my trip and wanting to know when IÕd be back at the office.
I told her I had a fever and wouldnÕt be in that day.
ÒWould you like me to come over and take care of you?Ó she asked in a tone of
voice which reminded me we were lovers.
ÒNo,Ó I answered after a momentÕs hesitation, ÒIÕm fine. Just take care of your
business.Ó
ÒIÕll come by after work then, all right?Ó
ÒIf you want. But I already have one here.Ó
ÒWhat do you mean?Ó she asked anxiously.
ÒYouÕll see when you get here,Ó I said.
ÒAre you trying to tell me you have a woman there?Ó
ÒWellÉÓ I thought a moment. ÒLetÕs say a former one.Ó
ÒI donÕt understand what youÕre saying,Ó she answered irritably.
ÒI told you, youÕll see when you get here. Excuse me now, IÕm very tired,Ó I
said, and hung up. I fell quickly into a deep sleep.
I was awakened by a scream. It was my secretary, Mary, standing over the bed,
shocked and confused. I forced a smile as she gestured vaguely towards the skeleton
on the bed and asked, ÒWhatÕs this?Ó in a trembling voice. ÒWhat time is it?Ó
I finally asked.
ÒOne oÕclock. Afternoon.Ó she answered, looking at her watch.
ÒI thought you were planning to come after work.Ó
ÒWhat is this?Ó she asked again.
ÒNot what,Ó I corrected her, ÒWho. This is also Mary.Ó
ÒWhere did you get it,Ó she demanded.
ÒA gift.Ó I was tired of explaining. ÒMake me some strong tea, please.Ó
Her mood changed instantly to solicitous concern. She placed her hand on my
brow.
ÒKeep it there,Ó I said, closing my eyes. Then I asked her again to make some
tea. She gave one last backward glance as she left the bedroom.
My head swam sickeningly each time I tried to open my eyes, but I could keep
them shut only for a moment, then the spinning sensation forced me to open them.
The live Mary returned with steaming tea on a tray.
The tea was excellent, strong and hot, with a perfect touch of lemon she had
thought to add. I felt my strength returning, and as I drank, I reflected that
one of the things I liked about Mary was the way she would ask a question, and,
not getting an immediate answer, would stop asking and simply wait for me to
tell her myself.
When I had finished my tea, I told her of my boney companion. Mary listened
indifferently, then asked, ÒWhat are you going to do with her now?Ó
ÒLove,Ó I said with a laugh.
ÒWell, itÕs a good choice,Ó she said slowly. ÒI may as well tell you now Ñ IÕm
moving to Florida.Ó
I decided to keep discipline. ÒI wish you luck. Is it John?Ó
John was her beloved, with whom she had lived four yours and then left to come
here, get a job with me, and unselfishly become my mistress. I had nothing against
this, as my affairs with my employees did not affect our working relationship.
ÒYes, itÕs John,Ó she answered.
ÒGive him my regards.Ó I turned to face the skeleton. ÒYouÕll have to excuse
me now, I must get back to my bed.Ó
ÒAll right.Ó She got up to leave.
ÒHow long will you be working?Ó I asked as she was almost out the door.
ÒI can stay two weeks, but IÕd rather leave sooner.Ó
ÒYou can leave in a week.Ó
She thanked me and left. I listened to her footsteps, and the final soft closing
of the front door. I stared for quite a while into MaryÕs skull. She didnÕt
stir, and her teeth without lips to cover them seemed bared in a constant smile.
She was so close to my eyes that her contours blurred and undulated. I put my
hand on her ribcage, and the weight of it made them creak. I withdrew my hand,
afraid of breaking her, and smiled to myself at the thought of the damage a
simple embrace might do.
I pressed my forehead against her cold, dry collarbone. ÔYou wonÕt go away to
any John,Õ I thought sleepily. ÔThe men who slept with you have no power nowÉyouÕve
no memory of them, no fleshÉeverything you have left belongs to meÉÕ I drifted
into the living oblivion of sleep, where I remained until late in the evening.
The room was dark when I awoke, and my hand had found its way onto her empty
stomach, where it lay pressed into her clumsy backbone. I tucked my hand under
the blanket and went back to sleep.
I was awakened in the morning by the birds singing outside my window. The fever
was gone. I shook my head to test, and felt no pain. My body surged with joy
at being cured. The skeleton still lay at my side, and to my refreshed mind
this seemed a little strange. Overcoming the lingering weakness in my body,
I got up and went to the bathroom where I sat in the tub for my shower, still
unable to stay on my feet. In spite of my weak condition, I knew I had to go
to the office. My responsibilities there rapidly turned into an unbearable weight
around my neck if I let them to go, even for a day.
I remembered MaryÕs announcement that she was quitting my company Ñ and my life.
Both departures saddened me, though sadness had become a familiar feeling to
me because of all the separations I had endured in my life. Mary was an exceptional
secretary and mistress, and she had brought definite convenience to my self-contained
life.
At the office I sorted through the stacks of mail and phone messages, wrote
replies, and generally did everything I could to make up for lost time. I felt
weak, but in response to polite of obsequious questions about my health, I responded
with the same standard ÒIÕm fine.Ó
I went home in the afternoon, locking my eyes briefly with Mary on my way out.
She was much cooler toward me now that she had made her decision to leave, but
she didnÕt try to avoid me.
The house seemed unusually big when I got home. It was big, of course, but in
the past it had always secretly pleased me to think of all space I wasnÕt using.
Space that was always there, waiting for me. Today that space reminded me only
of another space Ñ the empty space defined by the thin bones of a skeleton.
That space awaited me as well.
I entered the bedroom. She lay on the bed, with her legs of bone spread wide
apart, with her eternally grinning skull. I envisioned her with muscle and flesh
and blood around the white framework, building a woman upon it in my mind, and
then mentally tearing her down, undressing her to this final, fragile diagram.
ÒYou know, IÕm as lonely as your bones are for their meat,Ó I said, and the
sound of my voice echoed hollowly from the walls. I studied the bedspread through
her breasts would have been, slowly letting my fingers fall through the empty
slots between her ribs. I then took my hand and placed it inside her ribcage,
my fingers reaching and closing around the spot where I knew her heart should
have been. But there was no heart, and my fist closed only on empty air.
Still, her heartlessness was no disappointment. It was her silence and openness
I felt drawn towards. With her I was calm Ñ as I was with everyone I didnÕt
love. I sat down next to her on the bed and stroked her skull, its fine smooth
coldness contrasted nicely with the other more porous bones of her body. A coldness
and hardness that had known life and death. ÔYouÕll listen to me,Õ I thought,
ÔyouÕll be with me, experienced, knowingÉmaybe IÕll even come to love you for
your natural devotionÉÕ
The sound of the doorbell intruded on the silence. I donÕt like uninvited guests,
and I couldnÕt think of anyone I would be happy to see. I flung the door open
irritably. Before me stood a man in jeans and a jacket.
ÒGood evening, excuse me for the intrusion,Ó he said in a gentle voice which
seemed incongruous coming from this rough face that seemed oddly familiar. ÒThe
boss sent me for the skeleton.Ó
It was then that I noticed his jeans were made with two differently colored
legs, and I recognized the workman from RailÕs estate.
I was stunned. I stared at him stupidly for a moment, then asked, ÒWhat did
you say?Ó
ÒThe Boss sent me for the skeleton,Ó he repeated, more slowly this time.
ÒI thought it was a gift,Ó I said wanly.
He shrugged his shoulders inside the loose fitting jacket and fixed me with
a steady gaze.
At a loss, I invited him into the living room, where he followed me after removing
his shoes. I offered him a drink, but he refused. I grabbed a bottle and poured
something into a glass, gulping it down quickly.
ÒWhere is it? Let me get it,Ó he said.
ÒWait a minute. I want to buy it. Her. How much does Rail want?Ó
A strangely familiar look flickered in the workmanÕs eyes. ÒThe Boss sayÕs itÕs
not for sale. But heÕll trade.Ó
ÒFor what?Ó
ÒThe ring.Ó
Relief flooded my body as if a wave had washed me from head to toe. With weak
fingers I slipped the ring from my hand and dropped it into the workmanÕs outstretched
palm. His fingers closed around the ring, making a tight fist.
ÒWait,Ó I said, stopping him at the door. I almost smiled at the look of surprise
on his face.
ÒGive me a receipt.Ó
Publilshed in Mid-American Review, a literary journal of Bowling Green State University, Volume VI, Number 2, 1986
HERO
by Mikhail Armalinsky
They decided to call the baby Hero. Such an unusual name showed the despairing
ambition of the parents, who used the birth of a son as a generally accepted
pretext for giving up on their own lives and transferring all of their unfulfilled
hope to the child. When Hero was old enough to understand the meaning of his
name, he began to feel that people constantly expected him to provide some justification
of this meaning. And since he provided no justification, the name elicited laughter
at first and then derision. At school, for instance, he tried to distinguish
himself in gymnastics classes, but neither strength nor agility was in his movements,
and after the last in a sequence of failed exercises the instructorÕs voice
often thundered: ÒYou there, Hero!Ó In an attempt to elude ridicule, Hero called
himself Harold among his peers. But they soon found out somehow or other that
he was not Harold but Hero. The older he grew the more hopelessly convinced
he became that he could not fulfill the obligations imposed on him by his name;
and by the time he entered technical college to become an engineer he was a
stoop-shouldered young man with a stomach ulcer. Although he considered himself
a writer and wrote poetry instead of taking notes at lectures, here again he
was deficient in that heroism which in art is called Òtalent.Ó In his love life
also something essential was lacking, and since women guessing this, paid him
no particular attention, he developed in himself what is known as a lofty attitude,
which allowed him to avoid taking any sort of initiative.
One day the customary exchange of amorous experience was taking place in HeroÕs
peer group, and each boy discussed in detail the sensations felt and exhibited
by his partners in love. Following the end of one lurid story, everyone turned
to Hero, since it was his turn to talk. With a disdainful expression on his
face Hero recited the following:
ÒBetter drink gallons of gin and lavoris
then loll with you tongue on a stinking clitoris.Ó
Under cover of the general laughter, someone countered this poetic extemporization
with remark, ÒWe know that you couldnÕt perform either of these heroic feats.Ó
And in fact Hero never drank hard liquor, for fear of irritation his ulcer.
He very much enjoyed walking in solitude through the city, admiring unusual
buildings and marvelling at the interesting thoughts that came into his head.
However, when he returned and sat down at the table to write them down, Hero
would suddenly discover that all his thoughts were forgotten beyond recall,
and he began to think that perhaps he had only imagined them.
On finishing technical college, he married for love. His sweetheart agreed to
marry him reluctantly. She had never had a proposal, and her mother was nudging
her onto the main traveled road of matrimony Ñ itÕs high time, she said Ñ and,
for that matter, the girl herself was tired of waiting and afraid to let an
opportunity slip by. And Hero was obviously in love.
And so they were married. At the wedding the new bride already held the reins
of government and handed out orders to Hero; but still, these were uttered in
a soft and tender voice and sounded to the guests, who found everything touching,
like billing and cooing. The bride had had Hero grow out his beard for the wedding
ceremony Ñ she had always liked a strong willed chin, and Hero had no chin at
all. At the wifeÕs behest they danced, something which Hero never permitted
himself, due to his lack of any sense of rhythm. He shifted from leg to leg,
a weak, good natured smile shone through his thick beard, and his wife looked
at his happy eyes and thought cheerfully: ÒYou know, heÕs really not so bad.Ó
After a year a son was born to them, and the wife bestowed on him all her feelings
of affection, something which Hero was unable to evoke in her. Thus only contemptuous
indifference remained for his portion. Hero also began to feel indifference,
discovering with amazement that his love had irretrievably fled. In his student
days, while pontificating on love, he had asserted that one must sever relations
immediately upon the vanishing of love, and hurl oneself right away into the
search for a new one. However, now, looking at his chile, toward whom he also
felt no love and in whom he saw only a new lifelong responsibility, Hero discovered
reality for himself, and likewise his own helplessness in it. Once after a particularly
noisy fight with his wife he went away to his motherÕs and spent the night there.
The thought of divorce awoke horror in him, since he saw in divorce not freedom
but the necessity for the actions and efforts required for this procedure. Besides,
he had a dread of solitude, to which he had simply grown unaccustomed. Hence
after work he returned home as if nothing had happened. His wife cursed him
out, which even had become a melancholy norm in their relationship, and Hero
pretended to ignore her. He comforted himself with the idea that he gave in
to her on trifles, but in serious matters held his own. In the depths of his
soul he knew this for a lie, and so felt bitter, cast out into the street to
wander around with his son.
He remembered the time just after his wedding, when the long kisses of his wife
had awakened him mornings. At that time she had been subject to morning passion,
and she used to wake up earlier than Hero. He would feel her hungry mouth, redolent
of recently applied toothpaste. For his part, he tried not to open his mouth
and only stuck his tongue out between clenched teeth, while she traveled over
him, he still half asleep. After a couple of months she gave up brushing her
teeth before starting to kiss him in the morning, and he no longer bothered
to hide his smell; and so by the end of the first year, they had completely
forgotten how to be ashamed in front of each other and were able to release
gas audibly in bed, which became a place of slumber rather than of love.
Gradually Hero exhausted all interest in his wifeÕs body, and she no longer
woke earlier than he in the mornings. Often, with burning cold in his heart,
he would look at her wan sleeping face with imperfectly washed-off makeup on
its eyes and was horrified at the strangeness of this person. During sleep his
wife would lay her hand on the pillow beside her head; and her thumbnail, which
she chewed constantly, nauseated him. During her menstrual period, which in
his wife lasted a depressingly long time, Hero always felt a burning shame among
friends or in a public place Ñ it seemed to him that everyone was aware of the
stench emanation form his wife, so strong that she could not hide it by any
means, or, what was likelier, didnÕt even try.
When a little drunk in the company of friends, HeroÕs wife liked to allude transparently
to his sexual indifference toward her. The friends would understand and titter,
and he would condescendingly smile as if the conversation were about something
else. At such moments he had a great desire to take a lover, but somehow the
occasion never arose, and he forgot again about his desires.
Hero often put the question to himself of whether or not his wife was deceiving
him, and after analyzing her behavior he could arrive at the desired answer
Ñ ÒNo.Ó This question raised itself again and again, and finally Hero stopped
trying to find the answer, and merely regarded the question with a sidelong
look, until his energy for questioning ran dry out of indifference to the identity
of her lover.
The only thing which shakily bound him to his wife was his son, but he had grown
into a malicious beast, and Hero was unable to approach him.
Hero considered himself a talented poet, but he had no time for work in which
he might show off his powers. His everyday business obligations amounted to
mere hackwork, in which he was either unable or unwilling to find a place for
creativity. Goaded by the constant reproaches of his wife concerning his meagre
salary, from time to time he pretended that he was looking for an additional
job. But whenever any such opportunity materialized, he did his best to ensure
that it remained unused.
Hero painstakingly conserved his free time. He partitioned it into time for
books, time for movies, time for television. He was always glad of a chance
to talk about something he had seen or read, but in his speech there were neither
color nor subtlety; and only from the fact that he usually noticed individual
felicitous details would it have been possible to guess that unexpressed depths
lay in his soul. HeroÕs fondest dream was to shoot film; before his eyes stood
technicians, who jolted the audience with his and their significance and well-wrought
work. Perhaps it goes without saying that Hero made not the slightest effort
to realize his dream.
Thus life went on.
Even in childhood he had experienced immense internal revulsion at waking up
in the morning when the alarm clock rang or his mother shook him by the shoulder.
It was necessary to turn on the radio loudly, shout in his ear, douse him with
cold water, to get him out of bed. When he was a little older he trained himself
to overcome his hostility toward forced waking and to get up right away when
the alarm clock started to ring, but still he continued to think about this
hostility. His thinking arrived, for the time being, at no conclusions, but
the effort of thinking used up all the energy which was roused every morning
after the hated awakening. He ironically referred to himself as the ÒSleeping
Ugly,Ó remembering the time when the morning kissed of his wife had made his
awakening happy. Even on his days off Hero did not manage to wake up of his
own accord Ñ either his son would be making noise, or his wife would be clattering
around in the kitchen, or else she could simply wake him, irritatingly reminding
him that he had to do some household chore or other.
He experienced the greatest satisfaction in life from waking up naturally, in
the first moments, when there is no memory yet, and everything in front of you
is unrecognizable, and only after several seconds you remember where your are,
and who you are, and what sort of life you have. This sensation was especially
beautiful in summer, when tree branches moved by the wind would peep in at the
window, and the sunÕs rays, shining through the leaves, were transmuted on the
wall into muddy wavering shadows which mingled with the botanical drawings of
the old wallpaper. Behind the window birds could be heard talking and vying
with one another. Sometimes a loud dung beetle would fly in, and would fly around
the room in a frenzy until, finally, if flew out the window, leaving behind
it the silence of awakening. Thoughts at such a time were characterized be a
great mobility, which more than compensated for their lack of depth. In the
body a state of peace and joy fluttered like a flag, as if one were happily
returning home after a long journey.
Hero had not experienced this state for a long time and sharply yearned for
it every time he found himself unceremoniously awakened by the life which it
was his fate to live. And the sharper this yearning became the more Hero thought
about its essence.
No other single outrage against human nature is so widespread, and therefore
can be perceived as so natural, as awakening by force. Hundreds of millions
of people are awakened by the bell of an alarm clock, by a trumpet signal, by
a cry or a blow. And sleep Ñ thought Hero Ñ is the quintessence of such spiritual
life as is possible in a material world. The body continues to perform the minimum
of necessary physiological functions, to remain as an unburned bridge between
that world to which the soul is sent, and this world. But the nocturnal travels
of the soul, with their unknown but extremely important purpose, are offhandedly
interrupted under any plausible pretext. Daily work, loathed by the majority
of people, is considered the most publicly acceptable pretext, and consequently
the most natural one for forced awakening. People masochistically set the alarm
for the time allotted to sleep or else ask someone to wake them up. What is
more, on awakening they will put their bodies under cold water, set them in
motion Ñ in other words, do everything possible to drive out sleep from their
bodies. In this way people live as willing slaves, who for their obedience and
self-control are called Òfree.Ó Thus thinking, Hero dreamed of rebellion.
Sometimes he imagined that by the force of his young life his son would be able
to lead him out to some new dimensions of being. And he clumsily tried to establish
contact with his son by taking charge of his upbringing. But if Hero refused
him something in a threatening voice, the son would run to his mother and get
what he wanted either right away or after a tantrum, which would stop the moment
he got what he demanded. Throughout the process of his sonÕs howling, the wife
would scream that she would kill him, enumerating dastardly methods, such as
ÒIÕll cut off your head!Ó Ñ but soon she would relent and kiss him with a passion
that had found no better use. If Hero became indignant that his wife was permitting
his son what he had just forbidden, his wife would hurl her always copious irritation
at him, calling him a Òswine,Ó a Òblank,Ó a Ònothing,Ó or sometimes something
altogether different, depending on what seemed to her at a given moment to be
the most insulting. The son, clinging to his motherÕs skirt, would stare triumphantly
at his father. Hero, eyes flashing, walked off into his room with the despairing
conviction in his heart that someday he would find a way out of this situation
by some extraordinary method not requiring the strength for divorce and the
start of a new life.
One day he was sitting with his son watching television. The son madly loved
a series of monster movies, but at the same time he was horribly afraid when
the monsters appeared on the screen. So when he watched these movies he demanded
that one of the grownups sit beside him and hold his hand. This preserved his
feeling of safe reality. Hero sat on an armchair a little behind his son, who
was positioned nearer to the television. The movie had just started, and the
monsters had not appeared yet. After a few minutes they crawled out into the
screen, and the son, without turning his head, stretched out his hand behind
him, expecting his father to take it in his own. But Hero unexpectedly had become
interested in the movie himself and did not notice his sonÕs extended hand.
And then the son, without moving his eyes from the screen, said impatiently,
ÒTake my hand, you swine!Ó Hero startled and obeyed automatically. After a second
he was seized with laughter at this word of his wifeÕs that so cozily settled
into his sonÕs head. Then he felt fury and shouted: ÒHow dare you talk to your
father like that?Ó The son said: ÒDonÕt bug me, IÕm watching TV.Ó Hero repeated
his rhetorical question and then he heard the door opening Ñ his wife had come
in. The son turned in tears to his mother, and his fatherÕs anger ceased to
be frightening. After this incident Hero clearly understood that his son was
out of his reach and would recede form him further and further each year.
At work, which swallowed a significant chunk of HeroÕs life, he had no friends.
There was nothing for him to discuss with his colleagues, since general topics,
which are the basis of conversation, were repulsive to him, and of secret things
he did not like to speak with anyone. His job required no effort for its accomplishment
and fascinated him with its monotony. After work he would go home and have dinner
with his wife and son. The meal, cooked by his wife, was always unpalatable,
but he had grown used to this too. During dinner his wife would tell him how
her working day had gone, how her boss praised her again, and she could interrupt
this story with kisses she lavished on her son. ÒHow IÕve missed you!Ó she would
exclaim, clasping him to her, and then, in the same breath: ÒDonÕt eat with
your hands, use your fork Ñ listen to me or IÕll kill you this minute!Ó
Hero no longer paid any attention to this, just as those who live by the sea
no longer notice the sound of the waves. The dinner conversation, as a rule,
was essentially always the same: HeroÕs wife would reproach him for his meagre
salary and momentously conclude that he was fit for nothing. Angry or worn out,
Hero would reply: ÒShut up!,Ó get up from the table Ñ which was well-timed,
as dinner had ended at that very moment Ñ and hide himself in his room. Earlier
he had tried to write, but soon he became more interested in reading, and lately
he was unable to tear himself away from the television set. In days gone by
he had spoken with contempt of those who watched television for hours every
night. But now he convinced himself easily that there were some really informative
programs on television which might replace books. But even when a program was
uninteresting he was unable to make himself turn off the television, and watched
it until late at night, when sleep glazed his eyes.
It was becoming harder every day for Hero to be awakened by the alarm clock.
All the protest he was accumulating against the life that he knew splashed out
in anger against this infernal machine. One morning he became so savage that
he dashed the alarm clock against the floor. His wife fell on him, curses mingled
with her putrid morning breath.
That day, at work, while automatically performing endless calculations, he noticed
in himself an unhealed sense of outrage forced awakening. Never before had this
been so strong. Gradually his excitement waned, but his thoughts would not turn
away form the dream of freedom in waking up. It seemed to Hero that if he could
but attain his freedom, he would also become free in all other respects. And
really he asked so little: nine hours of sleep, but not timed to a required
waking-up time Ñ and thus obliging him to go to sleep at ten in the evening
if he needed to get up at seven in the morning Ñ but always at his own disposal
at any time of day. Every morning, each awakening seemed to him a whole new
birth into the world. And continuing the analogy between awakening and birth,
he imagined premature awakening as akin to premature birth. Nine hours of sleep
Ñ nine months of pregnancy. A premature baby Ñ a sleep of seven hours Ñ may
grow up into a healthy child (a day worth living), but only if it is cared for
with special love. In the same way the day following a seven-hour sleep might
turn out all right, if the two unslept hours were compensated for by love for
a woman or for oneÕs work. But if sleep is limited to two or three hours, then
awakening after such sleep is like abortion. And there will be no new life for
you until you make up this deficit at a later time.
In the course of the day copulation occurs between body and soul, so that conception
takes place toward evening. Sleep brings you forth for a new life, and every
morning you are born anew, a new person, wiser for the experience of the preceding
day Ñ the previous life. Sleep is the mother of whom you are born, and on how
she is permitted to bring you forth depends on your life Ñ the life of the next
day.
Now Hero waited for days off and holidays with a special feeling, not so that
he could sleep late, but so that he could wake up by himself. Voluntary awakening
had become something sacred for him; and when his wife rudely shook him awake
on one of his Sundays, demanding that he start doing some household chore, he
hit her in the face with his full strength. His wife was extremely frightened,
since he had never even raised his hand against her before. He had enjoyed cultivating
in himself a feeling of tormented pride because he had never hit a woman. Now,
however, after the first slap in the face, Hero enjoyed the loss of this burdensome
innocence; and for the first time his wife did not begin a quarrel, but, seeing
that that her husband did not respond to the test stone she threw, again went
into the same old routine of insults and shrieks, and only voluntary awakening
on days off remained inviolate.
Having gained his first victory over the external world, Hero began to think
intently of his weekdays. The sweeter his free awakenings on Sundays became,
the more humiliating and intolerable became the forced awakening on weekdays.
His work seemed to him a sharp implement with the help of which society intruded
upon his spiritual life. Only in time of illness did society agree to give a
person the freedom to fall asleep and awaken as his soul required Ñ and then
only for the mercenary reason that sleep at such time will serve as medicine,
and consequently will return the person to the ranks of the able-bodied.
Hero remembered how sometimes he had wanted to wake up at a particular hour.
It had been this way on the morning when he had wanted to meet his wife at the
airport after her week-long business trip in the second month of their marriage.
He had set the alarm for five a.m., but woke up of his own accord at one minute
before five. And thus it always happened when his soul made an effort to participate
in his physical life. And only a soulless life was making his awakening forced.
In order to justify a disdainful attitude toward sleep, people reduce it to
the supposedly elementary repose of the body form righteous labors. But in reality,
sleep is the necessary ÒreposeÓ of the soul from the unbearable materialism
of the world. The body Ñ the heart, for example Ñ has demonstrated that it can
work without any repose whatever in the course of its entire life.
How funny would seem the rebellion of a person who did not want to wake up on
command and did not respond to efforts to awaken him. But if we suppose that
all people might decide to wake up of their own accord, we will have to rebuild
the whole system of interrelationships in human society, since society will
henceforth be founded on spiritual relations. This means that there will be
a sorting of people into those who put their souls onto work which interests
them and those whose soul is not in the work which has been foisted on them.
Once this last group of people has resolved on voluntary awakening, their souls
will not allow their lives to be squandered in work alien to them Ñ the soul
will put the body to sleep at the most natural time, the time allotted for this
uncongenial work; or the soul will delay its return to the body when hated work
demands attention. Then it will be discovered that the great majority of people
would not wish to wake up, were no one to awaken them.
This thought stupefied Hero. He suddenly saw sleep as a hopeful refuge from
life, which was often so unappealing. But the feeling of protest no sooner arose
in him that HeroÕs brain quickly analyzed and destroyed its power. And the only
occasion on which the brain had not managed to attend had been during half-sleep,
when he had struck his wife because she had awakened him. ÒThat means that I
can find strength in feelings from the realm of sleep, and it means that the
domain of sleep is inaccessible to the destructive work of the brain. And if
I were able not to react either to noise or pain during sleep, and to wake only
at the wish of my soul Ñ it would be the most serious step of my life,Ó Hero
thought.
When on coming home from work he did not turn on the television, his wife asked
tauntingly whether he wasnÕt sick. Hero gave no answer and went into the bedroom.
He undressed, lay down in bed and lay for a long time, mulling over his pleasant
resolution, which did not weaken, as his resolutions always did, but only grew
stronger.
He heard his wife putting their son to bed. This was a nightly ritual of weeping,
threats, storytelling, more weeping and more threats, which occupied no less
than an hour. The son demanded a light burning in his room Ñ he was afraid to
go to sleep in dark Ñ and he always insisted on having his own way. HeroÕs wife
could not endure the hysterical crying of her son and returned to turn on the
light.
ÒTo fall asleep so that not even his screaming could wake me Ñ Ó thought Hero.
His wife came in, undressed and lay down, the air current from her act of lying
down carried smell of sweat to him. He lay with his back to her and pretended
to be asleep.
ÒWhat, sleeping already?Ó asked his wife, but Hero made no reply. Lately this
question exhausted their relations in bed. But now Hero was thinking of only
one thing Ñ how to enter into sleep. He heard his wife open the drawer of the
night-table, fish out the vibrator and set it to her favorite speed. The drone
of the vibrator sank Hero into his longed-for sleep.
When he woke up he saw the face of a man bending over him. The man was dressed
in a business suit, and a stethoscope hung around his neck. At his side appeared
the frightened face of HeroÕs wife.
ÒHow do you feel?Ó asked the man, and Hero understood that he was a doctor but
still could not understand why he was there.
The doctor shook Hero by shoulder and repeated his question.
ÒGreat,Ó replied Hero and sat up in bed, Òbut what exactly is the matter?Ó
The doctor was about to open his mouth, but the wife interrupted him:
ÒI couldnÕt wake you up, you were sleeping like the dead.Ó
ÒFor how long?Ó asked Hero.
ÒItÕs three in the afternoon,Ó replied the doctor.
Hero smiled triumphantly. His dream was coming true Ñ he was becoming invulnerable.
ÒWhat are you smiling about?Ó The worry on his wifeÕs face was quickly replaced
by irritation. ÒYouÕve already overslept for work. I shook you, poured water
on you, pinched you Ñ nothing helped.Ó
ÒDaddy, are you alive?Ó asked son, opening the door to the bedroom half way.
ÒAsk your mother,Ó said Hero.
Meanwhile the doctor had finished taking his pulse. Then he began to examine
HeroÕs eyes, listened to his heart and finally announced thoughtfully that he
would like to examine him more thoroughly in the hospital. In conclusion he
assured them that cases of lethargic sleep were extremely rare, and that such
a deep sleep as HeroÕs might be accounted for by nervous exhaustion. The doctor
left with ill-concealed bewilderment on his face.
But the joy of victory bubbled up in HeroÕs heart. He felt an unprecedented
strength in himself. ÒThis is why deep sleep is called heroic in fairy tales,Ó
thought Hero. He was impatient to test once again the strength of his soul,
which had so successfully withstood the pressure of an alien world. The doctorÕs
visit had given him the status of an invalid, despite the diagnosis of complete
health, so Hero decided not to get out of bed. He took down a book, but was
unable to read and laid it down beside him. He looked at the window, in which
an ancient tree was swaying.
ÒAre you going to lie around all day?Ó asked his wife as she entered the room.
ÒI missed work today too, because of you.Ó
ÒI want to sleep,Ó said Hero, looking at the tree as before.
ÒYouÕll sleep long enough when youÕre dead,Ó replied his wife. She was going
to add something else, but their son screamed, and the wife ran out of the room.
He looked at the tree and thought about how indifferent he was to people and
how indifferent people were to him. Here they are born, pass through all the
stages of life, and this seems so natural to you, and other peopleÕs feelings
do not touch you. And when they die, you simply transfer your gaze to others,
still young, and life continues uninterruptedly for the observer. But at some
point you understand that you are not an observer but a participant, and this
means that death will come for you, too, and somebody else will just as easily
transfer his gaze from you to someone else, And no one will understand your
dying feelings until he dies himself, but then it will already be too late for
him, so much the more so for you. Thus, by lack of understanding of one another,
people are protected from premature knowledge of death.
Hero started so drift off into sleep, and relished his soft but overpowering
sensation. He fell asleep in the early evening and heard neither the sound of
the television, nor his sonÕs sobbing, nor his wifeÕs screaming. He felt only
the growing depth of the peace which was filling him.
In the morning HeroÕs wife discovered that his body was cold. The doctor was
called out to confirm death. The wife, frightened and distraught, wept without
sobbing and was tormented by the blasphemous feeling of relief which she recognized
among her sensations of bitterness, horror and helplessness. Her mother arrived
and after a fleeting glance at her unloved son-in-law took her grandson away
from her. When, in answer to the boyÕs question Òwhat happened to Daddy,Ó HeroÕs
mother-in-law-replied, ÒHe died,Ó the boy flew to the telephone.
ÒWho are you calling?Ó asked the mother-in-law in surprise.
ÒI want to say goodbye to Daddy,Ó the son explained.