Magic and Monkeys

“Explain. I’ll understand, I promise,” Gray says. I sigh heavily. How can I explain it? About the ozone and all the rest. This isn’t the sort of thing you can explain, you can’t just say it and have it all make sense. But I try. He’s pretty smart, this skinny little lad. Smarter than me. We’re sitting by the grey wall of a warehouse. Every now and again trucks drive up to the warehouse. The paint on the wall is dirty and peeling. A couple of tags, but nothing special.

“Basically, there’s this girl. Small. Red hair, green eyes. Normally she’s dressed weirdly.”

“Like Linda?”

“No, not like that. Not like young people’s stuff but… that’s not really the point.”

“OK. What is the point?” Gray watches me carefully. He really does want to understand.

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything that came before. But that’s not the point. That makes no difference. The point is that this girl… she… she tells me what I should do.”

“And you listen to her?”

“Yeah. I listen to her very carefully. She gave me the best advice I’ve ever heard. It really helped me.”

“Alright. But where’s the magic?”

“You see, she…”

I sigh deeply again and give in.

“OK, forget about it. You just can’t explain it.”

Gray laughs. He’s got this strange idea. He looks for magic everywhere. And doesn’t find it. He hasn’t found it yet. He really needs to know that magic exists. He’s been looking for it since he was a kid.

“So then it’s like…”

“Like what?”

“Like magic.”

“How?!”

“Because… that’s often how it manifests itself. You see it and realise precisely that that’s it, it’s right in front of you. And other people don’t see it. And it can be the most ordinary and everyday thing in the world, most often it is. Like… Like, I don’t know, an iron! Or a glass. And you look at it, and something happens to it so that you realise that this is it! You see?”

Gray nods sadly.

“Yeah. It’s hard to express in words. You need to see it. Or better, feel it. Seeing and feeling are very different things. Especially when it comes to magic.”

“Tell me about it.”

Gray holds up his hands.

“I can’t. You can’t just like that…”

We say nothing. Well, we’re not going to do it all in one go. With him I don’t feel like I’m in a queue.

It’s hard to explain, but right now, sitting on the dusty tarmac by this dirty wall feeling the warmth of the stone on my hands, I feel in harmony with the world. And with myself.

• • •

I’m parked at the edge of the bay. It’s hard to get here, you need to know how. I’m alone in my Torino. Sometimes couples come here to be alone. I’m on my own. It happens…

The surface of the water is rippled in the wind. If you look long enough, you forget that it’s water. It looks like the distant landscape of some bizarre planet. It’s very big, you’re just looking at it from far away. And there you are alone, and the rest of the world doesn’t exist. It makes your skin tingle.

I turn the handle back and forth. If the window’s closed, I want fresh air. If it’s open, the chilly evening gets in. It’s hard to find a balance. Like in everything. Maybe there’s no need to look for it? Open the window wide, and freeze, but breathe. Or put up with stuffiness in the warm.

I open the door and go out onto the shore. The wind blows from the bay. Waves and wind. I repeat it to myself. Waves and wind. These words seem to have some magic in them. In their very sound. Waves and wind. When you look out from the edge of the shore, you don’t see the earth around you. It feels like you’re on the very edge and there’s nothing else. In front of you all there is is water, water to the very edge. And the world, and the earth, and humanity, and even you yourself are just the bizarre explanations of unreal things. And all you see now is those waves and nothing else exists or ever existed.

Waves and wind.

• • •

Sometimes it seems to me that there is another world at the very top of the trees. I’m twenty five years old. I’m a grown man. But all the same, looking down from ten floors up at the crowns of the trees, at the highest branches, I can’t help but shudder. It’s like you could clamber in and nest there for years, to hell with what’s going on down on the ground.

That’s a symbol, of course. A metaphor.

Or I’m deceiving myself. I’m always getting very strange ideas. And every time I convince myself that it’s a metaphor. A symbol. Is Lady F a metaphor too? No… I believed her, and it was the best thing I’ve ever done.

“Max,” Gray calls over quietly. “You couldn’t just…?”

He points to a bucket of blue paint, then apologetically to the rope he’s holding in his hands. I nod, and take the bucket over to him.

It’s night outside. We’re working. Or rather, Gray’s working. A typical wall on a typical block of flats is currently being transformed into a work of art. Gray pours buckets of different coloured paints onto the wall. Then he paints cartoon clouds on top of this. It ends up looking like multicoloured rain is pouring from these clouds, covering the grey wall in bright colours. I reckon it looks a bit too childish, but it’s not for me to judge. I’m not an artist. Gray is an artist.

That’s probably why they take me with them so often. I’m useful and don’t have any ambitions of my own. I don’t butt in with any comments. But I keep the conversation going. Like right now me and Gray are talking about magic. We talk about it a lot.

“It’s not…” Gray says passionately, furiously even, “it’s not… I don’t know, how to say it exactly, it’s not make-believe, damn it. It’s not like the moral of some Christmas story when at the end the good doctor saves the starving children. And there it is – the real magic of Christmas. No! NO!”

He catches his breath, looking down carefully. It’s a long way down. He nods to himself. He talks with real emotion, as if he’s arguing with me. It’s obvious this isn’t the first time he’s made this argument to himself.

“So look. I’m just thinking how to put this… Or it’s like when a little puppy is ill and almost dies and some nice little girl picks it up off the street and takes it with her. Now look at this big metre-high Great Dane. Yes, it’s that very same puppy. Hooray. Kindness is the real magic, children. NO! I’m talking about real magic. No pretending. No guesswork. About, you know, that sort of turning water into wine magic. Not like that, of course. The eternal life sort magic. No, I’m not making any damn allusions… Magic-wand magic. Like Harry bloody Potter. And it exists. Definitely. Definitely, I’m telling you.”

“Magic,” I repeat without expression.

“Yeah, of course without those schools for magic and all that crap. It just exists and that’s that. It doesn’t need all that stuff around it in order to exist. That’s not important. But I’d really like to see it. I need it, really need it, like needing a sip of water. That first sip that’s so tasty. And sometimes you get to taste it. But you never get to drink your full.”

“What do you want to see?”

“What...? What is not important. Even if the only existing manifestation of magic in the real world was manifested in some tiny… pebble that’s been lying under a layer of dust forever somewhere in a deep crater on the far side of the moon, that would be enough for me. Just to know about that little pebble. But I never get that. Sometimes I get to see the shadow of the pebble. Or the sound. And even that’s enough to make my heart stop.”

“Cool,” I say. “And what you’re doing now, that’s…”

Gray waves his hands despondently.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no! NO! This is not it. Not it… You’ll see. I’ll show you. Even if I only see it once. I really hope that I’ll see it even once. I really do.”

I subtly bend down behind him and pick up a tiny pebble from the roof. For no reason.

“Gray,” I call softly.

He turns round. I stretch out my hand and open my fist. The pebble is lying there in the palm of my hand. Gray’s eyes widen, he freezes, and I get frightened and wish I hadn’t made the joke. He might take offence. What was I thinking…? But then he smiles and starts to laugh and we both roar with laughter and it’s all OK.

The pebble flies into the night from the roof of the building.

• • •

Sometimes I want to be happy. Just like that, without any complications or hidden catches. Right here and now, once and for all. Don’t I deserve to be happy? What, am I a bad guy or something? Even if I am a bad guy all of a sudden. So what? I want to be happy. I’m no worse than anyone else, give me my happiness! I’m capable of wishing for it, I really need it, that must mean I can handle it. And if I can handle it then give it to me! Give me my happiness!

Another wave of desire comes over me, raging like a storm, filling my whole being. It packs every cell. And there’s no way you can shout it down. Or trick it, or persuade it or reject it. You need to be happy, and all you can do is run about doing something. Something good even, something useful, a lot of it. But I want happiness. And happiness isn’t a piece of cherry chocolate cake. You want happiness and you get cake. And tiredness.

“Lady F, you can make me happy, right?” I ask out loud.

“I don’t know,” she replies thoughtfully.

I open my eyes. She’s standing next to me. I’m at work, on my roof. A huge ship sails along the river. A foreign one.

“Thanks all the same, Lady F,” I say to her. “I think you get me…”

“Perhaps,” she agrees softly.

“Help me, Lady F,” I ask.

“I’m already helping, aren’t I..?”

“Yes, of course, sorry.”

She comes over to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. Her hand is so light and soft, like the clouds on the horizon.

“Listen carefully,” she says, her eyes laughing. “It’s time to get down to business. It’s time to figure out what you and I are here for. And to remember a certain something. So I’m going to tell you this: don’t give in!”

I wait a bit.

“Is that all?” I ask.

“Is that not enough for you? Yes, that’s all.”

I nod seriously. Lady F leans down and puts something on the ledge.

“Well, so long. See you!”

“I really hope so,” I whisper after her.

I lean down and pick up the thing she left. It’s cardboard, about the size of a business card. In the middle there’s a plastic rectangle and a transparent plastic fragment in the shape of a lamp. Strange: the cardboard has ‘FridayZZ!’ written on it. Nothing makes sense.

I turn the card over in my hand and look at the river. A huge ship has stopped on the water.

• • •

“A lemming,” Gray says. “I’m a lemming. I don’t control it in any way. Just like a lemming. Something happens in his head, and he gets up, climbs out of his burrow and starts running. And jumps off a cliff. He doesn’t suffer from moral dilemmas. To be or not to be. He started running and jumped. Even if actually he is suffering from his own lemmingy torments, that’s not important. He’ll jump whatever. It’s not him who decides.

“So I’m just like a lemming,” Gray continues. “Something happens, something clicks, and I get up and start running. I wake up at night, I wander round, I paint. I don’t let it bother me. I mean, at first I was nervous, there’s a bit of risk, as you know. But then I realised that it isn’t up to me. I was still looking for some sort of explanation.

Trying to get a handle on it. You know like when people are hypnotised and they’re told to get an umbrella and open it. And the guy goes into the room and opens the umbrella and they ask him why and he starts saying like, ‘Well, I wanted to look at the umbrella, wanted to check it…’ I was like that guy at first, I was looking for some explanation. Then I came to terms with it. It’s inside me. I didn’t choose it. I just got the kick, got up and got going. That’s all.”

“That’s magic too,” I say.

“Noooo,” Gray shakes his head, looking worried. “Noooo. That’s not magic. I’m telling you, that’s all rubbish.”

“Why’s it rubbish?” I object shyly. “It is too. Control over another being without explicable reasons or logical foundation is the most real magic there is.”

“No, no way! It’s just an ordinary part of life! Do you know how many people there are like me? Hundreds! Thousands! It’s the most ordinary thing in the world. Take any person and look at what they do without any logical reason. Just randomly. Look at yourself. That’s all it is. It’s not magic. Magic is when….when you’re painting, painting and then, boom, suddenly, you’re on a different side of the street, on a different roof. And there are seven floors below you. And you didn’t come down from that other building. You sort of flew over somehow. And didn’t notice how.”

“And has that ever happened to you?”

“Well. Almost.”

The roller goes back and forth, bathing the wall in colour. Night. Roofs. Flashes of memories.

• • •

Me and Viktor are going along the long wall by the railway depot. The wall is covered in paint. Graffiti overlaps graffiti, tag jostles against tag. They haven’t painted over the wall for about thirty years and it’s covered in graffiti. Several layers deep. Some of these designs must have appeared here thirty years ago. Whoever drew them is over fifty now. It’s strange to think about it. Street art is for young people. Youth culture. Or does age not matter…?

Viktor is trying to take photos of the graffiti. Not an easy task. How do you set up the composition of a shot, when you don’t know where one design ends and another begins? Viktor is cursing, but it’s clear that he likes this challenge.

It was me who advised him to photograph street art. Viktor waves the camera, trying to take a spontaneous shot. Looking without thinking. It’s called ‘lomography’ and it’s his latest passion. Most of the photos are, if I’m honest, completely useless. Fuzzy splodges of indeterminate content. But some are pretty good. There’s something there. Maybe it’s the same with street art.

“What are you doing on Friday?” Viktor asks.

“Working.”

“At night?”

“Uh huh… By the way. Have you heard of a place called FridayZZ?”

“I don’t get you.” Viktor freezes.

Then he shakes his head, fixes the camera on his shoulder and bends double, trying to photograph the graffiti from below.

“Maybe it’s some kind of business. Or a shop. Or a warehouse. Or something like that, I don’t know.”

“It used to be a sort of café. But now, if I’m not mistaken, it’s closed.”

“And where was it?”

“I don’t remember… Somewhere over on Eastern… Would need to look it up. Anyway, where’s this coming from? Forget about it. Listen, Max, do you think you could put your hood up and stand over there by the wall… Aha. And now look to the side. Like that, good… Put your hands in your pockets.”

Viktor waves the camera from side to side, trying to catch a “random” shot.

“You’re merging into the wall…” he frowns, “you’re all black and you’re sort of blending in with the design, I’m losing the contours…”

I’m merging into the painting. A dark figure on the background of a wall covered in graffiti, a part of the hidden world of the city.

• • •

I often drive alone through the outskirts of town. And through the town too. I’ve got a few favourite places. In the industrial area, by the railway station, on the ring road, by the bay. I don’t need anything from them. And they don’t need anything from me. I get some crisps, some coke, some ice cream and head over.

I don’t know why but the outline of the empty hangars, the general quietness and emptiness of these places inspires a sweet excitement in me. A strange inexplicable nostalgia for a forgotten and uncertain past. Maybe not even for my past. For lost memories.

I don’t do anything in particular there. I don’t take pictures, I don’t look for people, I don’t read poetry. I just drive there, turn off the Torino and tuck into an ice cream. Silence. There’s no one around, an evening in the city. The distant sounds of the city in the evening. And gradually the sweet sorrow of loneliness in the city creeps in to my heart. A fine, pure, distant sound. It’s hard for me to define what instrument it’s like. Somewhere between a flute and a violin. It’s only one note, but it’s so pure and clear that it’s like a gentle ray of light in the distance. A ray of bright pink light, the colour of the sky at the start of a sunset.

• • •

I don’t want to be a kidult. But I probably am a kidult. Kidults are a product of the modern world, infantile adults. Somewhere in Japan it’s a subculture. But here it’s like a diagnosis or something. Like, for instance, when someone’s already twenty five and he really wants to be happy. And doesn’t want to get a hold of himself. And everyone knows what it means to be an adult. Force yourself to do something hard that you don’t like and start a family. And so on. Or is that just what kidults think? But actually it’s all different.

I’m explaining all these thoughts to Oxana. Oxana listens halfheartedly. She’s bored.

“I think you need a drink, Max,” she says.

We take some beers and go onto the roof of the neighbouring building.

From here everything looks small. The air trembles as it cools and the silhouettes of the distant buildings merge into a single angular line, like the huge palace of some cosmic emperor.

“Kidults-shmidults,” she says. “You’re overcomplicating. People don’t want problems and people want to have fun. Everyone wants to go out on a Friday night and no one wants to babysit snotty kids. I mean, there are some people who want that. Or think they do. But a fact is a fact. Everyone prefers going out. Before it was – bang, you’ve had a baby at nineteen and you spend the best years of your life washing nappies. But now you can go out until you’re thirty. Going out, of course, is more fun.”

“Of course,” I say.

It ends up sounding like a reproach. But I hadn’t meant it like that. It’s not for me to decide what’s right.

“Or look at you blokes. You also want to have fun. Rather than stay at work all day slaving away. You relax all week, doing whatever you fancy at some easy job. Then on Friday you go to a club and pick up some nice girl there. No serious relationships. Right? Do you want that?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t want that.”

“Then what? What?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Going out is fun of course. But it makes no difference.”

“There you go. You don’t know. And, by the way, you’re twenty five already. A grown man. Some people are already saving up for a flat at your age. A career, a family. And kids. And you?”

I laugh. I find it funny. Oxana’s saying what my mum would say if she decided to give me a talking to.

“I can do that too,” I reply, doing a silly voice. “Look at you! Twenty five, no change. No family, no kids. No serious relationships. You’ll soon be thirty, by the way. Who’ll want you then?”

Oxana sighs. More bitterly than I’d counted on, but then she laughs. I laugh too. I feel good. Two losers. It’s more fun together. We sit having a beer, watching the twilight crawl lazily over the city.

• • •

Friday, night. I’m sitting on the roof of my factory. I’m “working”, looking out at the outskirts of the city. The port is lit up at night and it’s really pretty. Every now and again, about once an hour, I do a tour of the premises. We don’t have lights everywhere. There’s a lot of darkness. All that’s lit is a small patch by the entrance, and there are street lights here and there along the perimeter fence.

It’s frightening at night sometimes. So what? It’s night, it’s dark, of course it’s frightening sometimes. All sorts of scary stuff about ghosts and corpses gets into your head. Which is funny: at night it’d make more sense to be afraid of feral dogs. Or alcoholics with knives that might sneak in hoping to get a little something by cutting the night watchman. And you’re afraid of ghosts, it’s dumb.

This is how I deal with it – I imagine I’m a predator. I imagine that I’m hunting for someone. I carefully make my way through the undergrowth, seeking my victim. I look round vigilantly, making sure no one notices me. It’s not frightening then. If I told the management about this, they’d definitely sack me. A night watchman pretending to be a leopard so that he doesn’t get scared of ghosts. All this during work, I might add. I laugh. In the silence my laughter sounds surprisingly loud.

From the roof you can clearly see that the city’s sleeping. The water splashes soundlessly, and the coloured streetlights are reflected in the river. Sometimes a barge goes past slowly. But you can still tell that the city’s sleeping. Even in some sleepy suburb in the depths of night, when you’re surrounded on all sides by black buildings with the odd lit window, even then it’s not as obvious.

It’s dark and quiet and it’s so delicious to sit right on the metal, hunkered down in the very centre of this black night, free from the cares of the day, and think that somewhere in the night planes are flying, and far from here, in the very middle of the sea, a big ship is sailing, and that this quiet night is everywhere. It’s as if I’m here and there simultaneously, everywhere, in every cell of this night, and that all of this is some sweet secret.

• • •

“Remember! Come on, remember!” I’m bugging Oxana.

“Oh, it was some time or other,” she retorts. “They shut down that club a bloody age ago. I don’t even remember a thing. On the right down there maybe…”

I’m giving her a lift home. I often get asked for lifts now. I don’t complain. It’s nice when you’re needed. But I badger them with questions in return.

“Come on, rack your brains, Oxana! You’ve got to.”

“Why are you bothering me with this?”

“What, is it that hard for you?” My voice is very calm. “Remember about FridayZZ, go on. You said you used to go there. So you must have been able to get there. And then get a taxi back. You know your way about the city a bit, right?”

“I’m telling you it was like three hundred years ago.”

The lights are reflected in the red bonnet of the Torino. The streets of the city are empty at night. Driving is a pleasure, freedom. It’s easier to think too.

“But do you at least remember the area?”

“I don’t remember anything…”

“Listen. You have to say something. Rack your brains! I’ll find out anyway.”

Oxana stalls. Wrinkles her forehead. Rubs her face with her hand.

“It’s by the port. In the building of the old workers’ club. I think. But they’ve definitely shut it down. So forget about it, Max. Why does it matter so much? You’re better off going to another club. Stop here, no need to go closer.”

“Why’s that? Will your mum tell you off?”

“Agh, give it a rest… I mean, thanks!”

Oxana gives me a loud kiss on the cheek and leaves. I watch her run to the entrance and I smile. Why am I smiling, I wonder? Where was she coming from? I don’t even want to know. She’s dumb anyway. But it’s nice.

• • •

Well hello there, my beloved city. I love your streets, your squares, your little lanes. Your dark courtyards, your bright roads. I remember your parks and your tree-lined avenues, I remember the skies and the lakes. Do you love me? Do you remember me? Or am I lost in the winding streets of your memory, have I disappeared among the crowds as they run about their daily business, mourning the mundanity of their lives?

Who are you looking at now, my city, my love? Who are you smiling at, who fills your thoughts? Who are you striding to so purposefully, my beloved city? I’m here, here I am, I’m waiting, my love, don’t forget me. Be my comfort when I weep, be the colour in my grey existence, let me quench my thirst, give me some respite from this misery.

I am a part of you. A cell inside you, a particle of you. And you are a part of me. Wherever I may be, be it on boundless plains or in the throng of people, I will remember your features, wherever I go I will cherish your memory in my heart, I will always dream of my return.

Hey, city! Look at me, I’m smiling at you. Smile back at me! And I will run down your roads, the soles of my feet will caress your squares and I will lie on the soft grass, looking up at your sky. Hey, my city, my love, hey! Don’t forget about me! Don’t forget about me…

• • •

Me and Gray are surrounded by mundane everyday life. We’re having lunch in a cheap little café. Glass, plastic, metal chairs. All around us people are constantly walking, buying, eating, meeting, talking on their phones, and at first this is wearying, but soon you stop noticing your surroundings and they become the blurry background on a photo, and then just evaporate completely.

“So what are you looking for?” I ask.

“I’ve told you a hundred times,” Gray replies. “Magic. Magic!”

“No, I’m not asking about that. What are you looking for in art? What do you paint? What for?”

“Didn’t I tell you about the lemmings?” Gray looks out the window.

“You did. But there’s, you know, some kind of overarching vision. You must have something which unites everything. The fundamental idea behind your work.”

“You sound like a journalist at a local newspaper.”

“And you sound like a snob. You get the idea. Don’t be difficult.”

“I gather together fragments.”

“Fragments of what?”

“Let me think. You asked and that was the first thought that came into my head. Basically it’s hard to explain…”

“Good, good!” I already know that hard to explain is the most interesting of all.

“So, right… When I’m painting, it’s like I’m healing some wound of mine. Or a memory. Or the opposite – I’m remembering something. It’s like something hurts, and when I paint it gets a bit better. Or not even better, just not so annoying. That said, what I paint can be completely unconnected from my life.”

Gray falls silent and looks out the window. He’s sad.

“Gray!” I say. I just had this thought. A really obvious kind of thought. The most obvious. Have you ever thought that your search for magic and your work might be linked. Maybe they’re the same thing.”

“I haven’t,” Gray says. “That’s not it. Magic is…”

Then he falls silent again. He says nothing for a long time and looks out the window, thinking.

• • •

Sometimes I want to run away. For no particular reason. Get out and keep going. Despite all the important stuff you’ve got on. Even better if you’ve got important stuff on. That way you’ll feel it even more. Like, say, you’re planning on going for lunch with your workmates. And after lunch there’s a meeting for the whole factory and they’re going to take a register. And then there’s your pay and you need to fill in some form too. And do the rounds of the buildings. And you’ve already agreed with your workmates where you’re going for lunch, to some café. And you’ve even put all your money in together.

And everyone’s already going out past through the main gate, getting ready to go, and you’re like “I’m just going to pop to the toilet!”

You go into the toilet. And it’s done. For no reason. It’s over. The end. The point of no return.

You close the door and carefully and quietly open the window. You crawl out, slowly and silently. And as soon as you’re outside you feel the fresh air, and it’s so loud and light and bright compared to the gloomy corridors. You clamber down the wall onto the tarmac. You’re still on factory premises. But you can’t go out the main gate. That’s where your colleagues are. And you can’t go out the other exit either. They might see you. But it’s already done. You’re already gone.

You creep between the sheds, sneakily, like a spy on a mission, you run to the fence and climb over it, getting your clothes all dirty. And for a moment you think someone’s spotted you. And you really hope no one’s spotted you because you have to disappear unnoticed. Invisible. As if you’d never even existed. You run away from the fence and that thought keeps bothering you; but then relief comes – what difference does it make? You’re never going to see any of them again.

You get to the car park, sit in your car and drive, drive, drive out of town. You smile as you chuck your phone out of the window and it splinters on the speeding tarmac, flying apart into tiny pieces, and you drive, drive, drive again, turning down strange bumpy little roads until finally you reach some far-off place, God knows where, where you far can see into the distance, and you’re surrounded by endless fields.

And you stop the car, and you get out, leaving everything behind, and you run off, off into the field, into the blurry distance, you run fast, as fast as you can, as hard as you can, you run to exhaust yourself but you still keep running, and your mouth is filled with thick spittle and your legs are so tired they won’t listen, but you still keep moving them and moving them, still, still, so you destroy every last drop of strength and finally you collapse completely broken, an empty glass, drained and dried, and you collapse in the middle of this field surrounded by nothingness. So there’s nothing left. Nothing. Nothing. No past, no future, no world, nothing important, no reality around you, nothing. So there’s nothing left of you. So that you are no more. So there’s just the earth, the sky and freedom.

The earth, the sky and freedom.

And wheezy, deafening, crazy breathing. In, out. In, out. In and out through your silent laughter.

Freedom…

• • •

“Max! Max, you’ve got to help me!”

Oxana is crying down the line. Her voice is breaking up. I realise that it’s serious.

“Get me out of here! Please, come and get me. Come get me, Max, I’m begging you.”

“Calm down. It’s going to be OK. Where are you?”

Through her tears she mentions an address. I can hear banging in the background. Someone’s battering on the door. A loud voice is shouting something. Swearing. It’s hard to make out what it is, but it’s clearly pretty vicious.

“Please, Max...!” Oxana starts to sob.

“I’m already on my way. Is your phone dying?”

“What…?” She doesn’t understand the question.

“Your phone. Your mobile. Has it got enough battery? It’s not going to die any time soon is it?”

“Er… Don’t think so.” I hear her take it from her ear. “No, it’s not dying.”

“Good. I’m coming, hold on!”

I sprint out of my house and start up the Torino. Sorry, darling, we’re not going to get a warm up today.

I fly through the city at night. The car roars. Thoughts flow surprisingly calmly. Smoothly even. Tomorrow or the day after I’ve got to get out, find this FridayZZ place finally. It’s all got to mean something. Lady F wouldn’t just give me that business card for nothing. It has to be some kind of answer or hint. If I can just manage to pick up Oxana and stay alive. I’ll stay alive, of course, whatever’s going on there.

Is there going to be a storm or something? The air is so fresh… Wait...!

“What, are you nervous?” she asks.

Lady F is next to me on the passenger seat. She looks, as ever, amazing. The lights of the city shine through her hair and it blazes like a flame in the darkness.

“You look gorgeous!” I say.

“Thank you!” she replies happily. “But now to business. Listen to me carefully, Max. Watch out…”” She puts both hands on the dashboard.

I slam on the brakes and the cat manages to jump off the road, flashing its eyes angrily in the dark.

“… so,” Lady F continues as if nothing had happened. “Listen to me carefully. Give the lighter. Close the latch. A little shove. Have you memorised that?”

I’m already having fun. I start to feel the adrenaline leaping in my blood. I don’t understand a word she’s saying, but knowing Lady F, I get the feeling it’s going to get interesting.

“By the way, did you figure out the card?”

“Almost.”

“Shame. Oh well. Don’t miss the turning here…!”

I brake and go down the drive she pointed out. An ordinary yard, packed full of cars. Ordinary blocks of flats. I get out of the car and I’m immediately enveloped in peace and quiet. It’s dark and quiet. No people. The courtyard is empty and here it’s so quiet, so awesome, that I want to stay longer. I even stop for a minute. But it’s time to go, Oxana’s having a tough time up there.

The cold slap of memory. The lighter. Lady F mentioned a lighter. It’s important. I had one. Yesterday I was tidying up the car a bit and put it in my pocket for some reason. I start feverishly feeling my pockets. Someone’s steps behind the door. Quicker, quicker! There’s no lighter. It’s all gone wrong. It’s all gone wrong.

The door opens. I get the lighter from my back pocket. I’m faced by a very drunk bloke with an unfortunate-looking red face, who looks at me blankly. His eyes gradually focus on me while he tries to figure out what’s going on. I hand him the lighter. He looks at it for a second.

“Oh… yeah, that’s right…!” he holds out his arms and doesn’t say another word, but disappears into the depths of the dark rooms.

I go in. I go left. A bathroom and toilet. A drunken idiot in dirty black jeans is giving the bathroom door a furious pummelling with his fists, paying no attention to me. There’s a catch on the toilet door. The latch…? I go over to the toilet door and close it. At that second, as if some unknown person was waiting for me inside, someone starts beating on the door and swearing. What language.

The drunken idiot in black jeans finally notices me, stops banging on the door and stares at my shoes.

“Who are you... who the hell are you…?” he asks in surprise.

Without replying, I give him a little shove towards the kitchen. He takes several steps backwards, not taking his surprised eyes off me and trips on a stool and his legs in his black jeans come shooting up surprisingly high, and he comes down on his back with a loud crash, overturning the stool.

I knock quietly on the bathroom door. I hope she’s not too hysterical. It’ll be better if she’s not.

“Oxana. It’s Max. Open up. Quickly.”

The lock clicks. The door opens a bit. Behind it is Oxana’s terrified, tear-stained face. There’s make-up smeared all over it. But she’s all in one piece. I take her by the hand and drag her to the door. It’s lucky it’s summer, or we’d have to try and find her jacket and all that.

We run quickly down the stairs. Behind us upstairs there is some commotion and shouting. Suddenly there’s the sound of broken glass. Sod it, we’ve got to get out of here as quickly as possible.

As we drive out of the courtyard, Oxana starts crying again.

I ask her how and why, but she doesn’t reply, just cries very, very bitterly. My heart freezes. She sobs the whole way home.

• • •

“Are you a good artist, Gray?” I ask.

Tactless? No.

“I don’t know,” Gray replies. “Sometimes.”

“How did you become one?”

We are leaning against a big wall. The wall’s down an alley and miraculously untouched. A blank canvas. Not a single painting or even any tags. Even though it was painted ages ago. It was Viktor who told me about this wall, because he’d photographed it, and I told Gray about it and he dashed here straightaway. Like it was on fire. I barely kept up with him. As he ran he was talking about an idea he had had, saying it was the best idea he’d had all year, and that it was a new, a fundamentally new idea, with some really deep meaning.

We ran like madmen. Chucked down the bags with the cans in.

And when we got there, it turned out that Gray had completely forgotten his idea. He stood there with a stunned look on his face and started to whisper that “what, it was so important, I can’t have forgotten, I can’t have, come on now, I’m bound to remember…”

He kept repeating that for about five minutes, that he’d remember any minute now, that this never happens, that it was a real flash of inspiration. Then he nestled his forehead against the empty wall, screwed his eyes shut and fell silent. Then he started to walk back and forth along the wall.

He was a pitiful sight. White as a sheet. It looked like he was about to burst into tears.

So I tried to take his mind off it. Sometimes to remember something which is hiding in your head you just need someone to take your mind off it. And it’ll come to you.

“How did you become one?”

“I didn’t. I didn’t become anything special. Have I told you about the lemmings?”

“Many times.”

“Aha. Right. At first I painted something on a wall. Something simple. A little plane, or something, flying upside down over the city. And then it started. It gets hold of you and doesn’t let you go until you paint something. Ach, if only I could remember…”

Gray suddenly grabs hold of his head with both hands and bends over, as if he’s been hit. Maybe he remembered? No, he’s groaning, as if he’s been hurt.

“Nearly, nearly, nearly, nearly…” Gray whispers, “Was just nearly there. Almost. I almost remembered.”

“And a style? Do you have your own style?”

“Not a style exactly. I work with the paint in a certain way. My tones aren’t absolutely pure.” Gray is distracted from the forgotten idea that was bugging him.

“And what do you think, could I do street art?” I ask.

He shrugs.

“Who knows. Maybe it’ll be street art that does you…” Gray replies thoughtfully.

And then his eyes widen. He starts madly unzipping his bag. He shakes a can and runs over to the wall. He traces a long wavy white line. I watch him with interest.

“Listen, Max,” Gray says guiltily. “Right now I can’t have someone watching. You know, normally it’s all fine, but right now I just can’t.”

“OK, don’t even mention it,” I reply cheerfully. “Bye, see you!”

I wave and leave. Gray immediately forgets about me and returns to his canvas. To the wall, that is. He’s an artist, come what may. I’m not offended at all. You can see that it matters to this guy. And it matters when something matters to you. It’s serious.

• • •

The situation: me, a pack of cards, the roof of my factory. The weekend, quiet, no one around. I’m doing something strange: I’m chucking cards face down and calling them out loud.

“Seven of clubs!” I announce for all to hear.

I turn the card over. Jack of clubs. Almost. I guessed the suit. Next one.

“Queen of diamonds.”

It turns out to be the two of hearts. It’s red...

“Ten of spades!”

Jack of diamonds. And we just had the queen. Funny coincidence.

This is my strange way of trying to fulfil Gray’s strange idea – searching for magic in the real world. So far it’s not particularly working. In half an hour I’ve guessed one card, and for that one I peeked a bit.

I chuck cards for another ten minutes or so, but then I get bored. What else...? I look for a motorboat on the river. Aha. So now I’m going to close my eyes and it’ll disappear. I screw my eyes shut. Come on now! Disappear boat! God, what am I doing…? This is completely childish. I’m not ten years old. Maybe I’m mentally retarded…?

“Magic…” I laugh.

“Are you trying to discover your superpowers?” Lady F asks with a smile.

“It’s not about that,” I reply. “Hi. Good to see you…!”

“Likewise. Then what is it about? Guessing cards – what’s that? Clairvoyance? And moving ships with your mind… Telekinesis!”

“Nah, I just hooked on this idea of Gray’s. An artist I know. I didn’t really get hooked on it. Just got interested. I really want it too.”

“What?”

“I want magic to exist. I want magic to really exist. I want there to be more than this.”

“What’s this?”

“Oof… Real life or something. Work, relationships, friendships, the daily grind. It probably sounds cynical. Or maybe the opposite, maybe it sounds childish. But it’s not enough for me. Just not enough. I want more.”

“More what?”

“I want more… More than there is. I want to know that something else exists on the other side of reality. Outside the laws of science, our social ties, the patterns of life. Something like… I don’t really know if I’m honest… The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”

“Sometimes, Max, sometimes… it’s hardest for people to see magic when it’s right in front of their noses!” Lady F notes.

I smile.

“I get the irony, Lady F. Or the joke…? I realise your advice also goes beyond the… the everyday. Is it magic?”

“Decide for yourself,” Lady F says. “You’ll decide for yourself.”

“I’ll try! Are you going to tell me… are you going to tell me anything else?”

“Mmm? Ah… OK, well give me three cards!”

I give them to her. The cards lie face down. Nothing happens yet.

“What next?”

In reply there is silence. I turn round. She’s already gone.

I turn over the cards. AAA. Three aces. A clever trick. Did she not touch the pack? Or did she? I shuffle, thinking about her.

In the distance a white motorboat sails away.

• • •

Sometimes I feel that there is such a thing as happiness. It exists somewhere. It’s waiting, burning red like coal, shining in the sky. For some reason I feel this best when there’s rain or slush. I’m feeling it now.

I’m sitting under the roof of the doorway to some block of flats I’ve never seen before. Rain. Just what I wanted. I drove and drove, watching the city through the windscreen, then parked the Torino and sat in the nearest doorway.

The rain water flows down in streams. All around there is water and dampness and the sky is gloomy, but I feel brightness inside.

I feel surprisingly good. That blessed sense of peace which is so hard to capture. Like the waves. Not when the sea is becalmed, but the ordinary surf by the shore, wave after wave. It’s so relaxing when you really look at it. It’s not about the sound of the waves. But the fact that after one wave there always comes another, and then a third. And so on forever. Infinitely. That word always calms me down. Infinity. What do my problems mean next to that word? Next to the infinite waves of the sea.

It’s strange. Logically speaking the infinity of space and the immensity of time should get you down. For me it’s the other way round: they make me feel happy and calm. We’re so tiny. All our problems, our disasters, our hopes mean nothing. We are nothing. Which is good. Whatever happens it’s really not that important. That thought always makes me feel good.

I watch a thread of drips. The eternal water cycle. The same rain as yesterday. As a year ago. A million years ago.

• • •

“Gray,” I ask, “tell me. Emptiness in your heart – is it a good thing? When there’s nothing there but calm.”

“It’s not great. But it’s comfortable.” Gray’s hair is standing on end, as if he’s had an electric shock.

In fact the reason is we’re hanging upside down off the bridge. On ropes tied to lampposts. Beneath us is the river. Above us – the noise of the city. The sounds seem strange. Maybe because they’re bouncing off the river, or maybe because we’re upside down. Gray’s painting and I’m handing him the cans. He’s hurrying a bit – you can’t hang upside down for long.

“But why isn’t emptiness good?”

“Because emptiness doesn’t make you do the impossible. It doesn’t make you keep going forward, paying no attention to anything. It doesn’t give you inspiration. All that can destroy you… but emptiness can destroy you too, and it can’t inspire you.”

“And if it doesn’t destroy you? You said yourself, it’s comfortable.”

“It’s good, if it doesn’t destroy you. Then you gradually get used to it. You can even take pleasure in life. Find happiness in simple pleasures.”

“Well great. What more do you need?”

Gray concentrates on drawing a line.

“Each to their own. Anyway, it’s not fair for me to preach about this. I don’t make any decisions myself. I’ve told you about it hundreds of time, Max. I got the kick, I got up and I set off. I don’t ever worry about whether there’s emptiness or not…”

“So you got this kick,” I continue explaining, “but you still make some decisions for yourself? You could not go and paint. Or you could do the opposite and paint every day, not just when you want to.”

Gray stops painting and looks at me stunned. The wind shakes his hair. We swing slowly above the abyss.

“There’s something you’re really not getting, Max,” Gray says to me. “If I didn’t go and paint it’d be like not drinking when I got thirsty. Yeah, I could only cope up to a point then. Nothing bad’s going to happen for now. But why torture yourself? And if I did what you said and painted every day, then I wouldn’t be painting but just applying paint to concrete. And there’d be no painting at the end. You see?”

“I see,” I say. “What you’re saying makes sense. It works out nicely for you. You don’t decide anything yourself. But what about aims, achievements, aspirations? Creative heights and new horizons?”

“What have heights got to do with it? Say you just apply paint to concrete every day. That process isn’t going to create any new artistic heights. But anyway, to hell with heights. You could talk about this for ages, I’m telling you…”

Gray kicks his legs, does a somersault and spins round, leaning back on the bridge support. I try to repeat his manoeuvre, and kick. The world starts turning and I lose sense of where’s up and where’s down, basically where reality is. I don’t manage to spin round and I’m left hanging with my legs in the air again, swinging above the river and looking grumpily at Gray. Gray’s upside down. Although really it’s me who’s upside down.

“So, look, this is what I reckon,” Gray continues. “If you’re going to specially apply paint to concrete and still keep thinking about the artistic heights which you can hope to achieve thanks to this process, then, for sure, you won’t manage to paint a single thing.”

“But what about being single-minded, sticking to it, working hard?”

I make several unsuccessful attempts to do a somersault, and, finally, nearly banging my head, turn the right way up.

“But what does working hard mean?” Gray watches my attempts to get to grips with the rope with wry amusement. “Working hard means not being lazy when the time comes. And banging your head against a wall isn’t work.”

“And how do you tell the difference between working and banging your head against a wall?”

Now I’ve got him. Gray is about to open his mouth with some confident reply, but instead he says nothing and thinks. Then he closes his mouth and thinks again.

“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head and laughing. “You just know. Take me: I know. Or you believe. In your self. And you keep painting.”

“So how is that different from banging your head against the wall?”

“Because… Well, because… because you’re doing what you’re doing not ‘for something’ but ‘because of something’. You see?”

I freeze in amazement.

“Yes. I see. Tell me, Gray, who did you hear that from, that stuff about ‘for something’ and ‘because of something’”?

“Not from anyone. I thought it up myself. Just now. Or maybe I thought about it before, I don’t remember. I’m surprised you understood, if you did understand. I barely understand it myself.”

“Nothing surprising about that, Gray.”

• • •

Night, silence, the outskirts of the city.

We’re breaking the law.

“Why do you have to do this? Why?!” Oxana whines. “Max, I only dragged myself here ‘cos of you!”

“Patience, my dear!” Linda says with a grin, not turning round. “And point the torch up a bit.”

“Quiet you two…” Torte says. “But, yeah, point the torch up a bit.”

Stop ordering me around,” Oxana snaps, but raises the torch.

We’re down a side street. Gray’s with us too. The guys are painting. Me and Oxana are sitting to on side watching.

They’re ‘bombing’ a wall, painting a huge piece together. It’s illegal. If they catch us, there’ll be serious problems.

“If you were painting, I wouldn’t be giving orders,” Linda retorts, “but since you can’t, you hold the torch. When’s Max going to start painting again…?”

“Shut up!” Oxana suddenly shouts; I look at her in surprise.

“What’re you on about?” I tell them softly, “I’ve never been able to paint.”

“What do you need the torch for?! You can only do it with a stencil. You can do that in the dark. Put it up by touch and then paint it.”

Torte giggles, still holding up his can. Gray mumbles something unhappily under his breath.

“Listen, you,” Linda spins round. “What can you do anyway? You can’t even paint!”

“Oh I really, really want to!” Oxana announces. “Though I could ask you the same question by the way!”

“Please, shut up!” Gray mutters tensely.

It’s like he’s trying to hug the wall, wanting to concentrate on his piece while the girls’ pointless argument is really distracting him. Torte’s laughing. You get the feeling he’s enjoying the bust up.

“That’s my style,” Linda says furiously. “I can paint!”

“Of course!” Oxana says lazily. “And that’s why you work in a phone shop. ‘How can I help you?’ ‘We have some great deals today!’ ‘Dear customers…’”

“Stop it!” Gray hisses.

“What do you know about it?!” Linda jams her arms into her sides. “Who are you anyway?! That’s my style, got it? Can’t you understand that? You do know the word ‘style’, don’t you, hmm? I’m an artist! And an actress! I’m an artist! And you’re not!”

“Oh I’m so jealous!” Oxana replies lazily, waving the torch. “All artists are psychos!”

“Shut up!” Gray throws the can to his feet and shouts, unable to stop himself. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up, you dumb, stupid girls.”

“You see,” Oxana says flatly.

Torte laughs, bending double and holding his sides with his hands. The wall is forgotten for now.

A bright light at the end of the road blinds us. A car.

“It’s…” Torte peers at the light. “Cops! Scram!”

The car turns on its flashing lights and moves towards us.

We run for it. The Torino’s round the corner, we need to get to it.

Oxana whispers plaintively, “Wait for me, wait for me!” She takes off her shoes and runs barefoot.

“Leg it!” Linda yells at her as she runs by.

Linda’s in trainers. We run through the night. We leave shouts and sirens somewhere behind us. A cool breeze on my face and a smile on my lips.

• • •

I’m walking along the harbour road, turning round every minute. I’m looking for FridayZZ. Big distances, big dimensions. A little lane, far from the noisy central streets, but there are lots of big, like, huge warehouses, factories, industrial buildings. In the distance are the colossal giants of the shipyards, so huge you can’t make sense of their size, so they seem smaller and closer than they are. You can only feel their true size with the parallax effect as you move, when all the scales shift and your head starts spinning.

The street is quiet and empty. Cars go past only occasionally. In the day it’s way busier here, but now it’s all shut. Only the night watchmen are left in the factories, guys like me. Some garages and tyre shops work through the night, but there’s no one else around. It’s like the city’s frozen, making it all seem creepy.

In the middle of this frozen, uninhabited world it’s impossible to imagine that ten minutes’ drive from here life is seething: huge traffic jams, car horns, streams of people and the neon of the shops. Here it’s silent and the colours are muted. You can hear the quiet waves on the river. Big ships stop still in the water. There are no shadows because there’s no bright lights.

The sound of my steps echoes, bouncing off the stone. Right now this street is like a dream. But it’s not a dream, it’s just a city evening on a street in the industrial zone.

Oxana had told me that FridayZZ was in the building of the old workers’ club. I remember roughly where that was but don’t know the precise address. I parked the Torino at the end of the street and carried on on foot.

Some gang is coming the other way. I cross the street. I’m not planning on getting caught up in some kind of situation here. But it turns out there’s no real danger. Just ordinary teenagers, not even drunk. The gang passes by.

A familiar landmark! On the right, a rusted water tower thrusts into the sky. They haven’t painted it in a long time and it’s been rusting uselessly for years under the gloomy sky of the industrial zone.

The next building should be the old workers’ club.

The fence changes colour. Must be somewhere round here. There’s barbed wire on top. Looks like the club was shut down ages ago. I don’t think that should stop me. I don’t care if it’s working or not. I just need to get inside to find out what all this stuff is with the FridayZZ card.

I go along the fence. Not a single door, not a single gap. I get to the corner. There’s an alleyway here. Looks like there’s no access to the harbour road from the closed premises. I turn, following the fence. Maybe there’s somewhere I can climb over? The barbed wire’s in the way. Yeah, maybe it’s best to figure out what there is at the entrance.

The fence still hasn’t ended. One big grey line.

I go to the next corner. The third wall. Looks like I can see a way in up ahead. I speed up. The wall is still pristine and featureless. There’s almost no graffiti. That’s strange, how come?

I go closer to the entrance, but a couple of metres away I realise that in the dusk I’d mistaken a shadow on the fence for a gate. There’s no gate. Just the black patch from the rusted water tower.

I walk mechanically to the next turn, already knowing what I’ll see there.

Blank concrete. I have returned to my point of departure. A closed square. Not a crack, not a single gap. What’s that about? Is that normal? It’s strange and creepy. It’s like some horror film. But what if inside…? For a moment, the blood thunders into my temples, I suddenly think that I’m inside, that there’s no way out, and that however much I follow this wall I won’t get back, I’ll never get back and my life is over and I never even had one, and I’m… I’m… I think I can smell burning. Where’s the fire? My head is spinning.

I turn round and speed up, I get out of this place. I want to run, but I restrain myself, as if there’s some terrifying, predatory beast that’s going to jump out, start running and chase me down, drawn forward by some animal instinct.

It’s only in the Torino that I catch my breath. My heart is hammering like crazy. The car seems like a little fortress. I head home, trying to get on to the busy streets as quickly as possible.

• • •

Sometimes I think I’m not going to cope. That I won’t be able cope. With life. Like with an exam. Life is like an exam. It’s so stupid. But there you go. You get that feeling from somewhere. That you can lose. And that you need to fight. But with who? And for what? And what can you lose?

Let’s have a think: what’s the worst thing that could happen. For instance, I get in a crash in my Torino. A big crash. Fatal. Is that really a defeat? I don’t think so. It’s a tragedy. Poor lad, so young, so talented, we had such high hopes for him… Even though, we note, it’s not really that important if they really did have such high hopes. Louis de Funès didn’t get his first big role until he was 44. Maybe I’ll still be working away as a night watchman at the factory, and then suddenly, it all turns around. I find my inspiration. Or some hidden talents, hitherto dormant, are awoken in me. You know, no one’s insured against the sudden emergence of hidden talents.

Or another option. I crash the Torino, but not fatally. I’m left paralysed. Also a tragedy! My life would doubtless be miserable and awful. But no one would judge me for that. The lad was unlucky. And how could life have turned out like this!... And so on in that vein.

Let’s keep going. If I really don’t deal with it. If I’ll still be working as a night watchman at a factory until I’m forty five, I won’t have a career, I won’t get married, I won’t have kids. And I basically achieve nothing. I’ll drink in the evenings, start to turn into a drunk. There you go, there’s a failure for you. Feel ashamed in front of my old friends, avoid meeting my schoolmates, hate questions like, “Hey mate! What’re you up to now?’ or ‘So, buddy have you got married at last?” Smile bitterly, make a joke of it, staring at the floor.

But why’s that a failure? Why should I be embarrassed anyway? Or feel guilty? What, did I make them some sort of promise? Who are they anyway? Who are they that I should feel guilty for my personal lack of success? And why isn’t it success? So I didn’t get married, didn’t have a career. But, I’m alive, I’m healthy, I haven’t been to prison, haven’t ruined anyone’s life. Where did this need to become socially successful come from? I didn’t sign up for any obligations, didn’t sign some contract when I left uni. Did I take it in with my mother’s milk or something? Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish… But it really does exist, there’s this subconscious sense of obligation! And the burden of it, this fear of failure, is the same as the weight of failure itself. And this burden can spoil your life pretty nicely. It weighs you down. But what if you could achieve something great, if you weren’t afraid to take a risk and lose…?

Fine. Let’s keep going. What if I do have a normal career, as, let’s say, the head of the logistics department (images flash through my mind: a bald patch, a belly, a tie). I marry a nice, pretty girl. A couple of kids. A car. A flat or even a house in a suburb. Basically all those things that you can slowly and methodically tell old school friends about with a smile when you meet them.

But for all that, I won’t be happy. I won’t be and that’s it.

And what then?

Of course, you won’t be ashamed when you bump into your school friends. With your career and your two kids. But what about how you feel about yourself? Or is that another disaster? And what if you couldn’t be happy. You never could. If for you to be happy you need to be able to fly, let’s say. Or you needed to be born in the twenty second century. Or you need something impossible, it doesn’t matter what. The main thing is that it is precisely this thing, and only this thing, that you need to be happy, and it doesn’t exist or it’s impossible to get. What then?

Have Faith / Believe

Is there really an acceptable choice? Or, like Gray says, am I just a lemming who might get lucky? I mean, if you’re very tenacious and very lucky, then, maybe, you can guarantee a pain-free existence for yourself and a successful family life, but there are no guarantees for happiness. You can spend your whole life not giving in, trying, fighting, believing, but you’ll still not be happy.

Who is responsible for that?

Again – why do I have to be happy? I don’t have to. I don’t have to be happy. I don’t have to be happy…!

I don’t have to be happy.

• • •

Me and Gray are walking along an endless wall covered in graffiti. There’s all sorts here. Tags, logos, emblems, throw-ups and even real pictures, next to which I can’t help but slow down. Gray doesn’t even think about stopping. He’s busy rating and commenting.

“Amateurish. Unsteady hand, bad lines.”

“Careless. Rushed.”

“Too tidy. Too many stencils.”

“Poor colour, ran out of paint here.”

“And this one is just a mess, no sense of colour at all.”

“Good job here, very talented. I envy this guy.”

I’m looking at the last painting he’s rated. The outline of a bird spreading its wings. The bird is drawn with one fine white line. It’s hard for me to follow all the aspects of Gray’s artistic vision.

The back story: we’d started talking about street art and I was foolish enough to announce that street art is a completely subjective phenomenon and there can be no overall rules. Gray reprimanded me severely. I would even say he ‘took me down a peg or two’. In his opinion, any street graffiti, whether it’s a portrait or a logo, is still a painting, like a vase on an artist’s canvas, and the same laws apply. You can’t draw a gherkin with arms and legs on the walls of the station and declare that this is great art.

“How come?” I object. “But what if you draw that little guy everywhere? So he becomes a sort of symbol of the city? Then that becomes street art too. Then art becomes art not in technique but in the unity of the image and the city.”

“Ok,” Gray laughed. “Let’s go out onto the street and I’ll show you what’s street art and what’s trash.”

And so we went. Gray’s judgments are rapid, laconic and uncompromising.

“The can was running out here, they had to stretch the paint.”

“This was repainted, they didn’t get it right the first time.”

“Too angular. Sharp angles with no stylistic motivation.”

“They drew this in the twilight. Shame, it could’ve been nice.”

And so on. Gray is merciless.

“Stop, enough!” I can’t bear it. “How can you be so categorical about it? How come you know it all anyway?!”

“I have an art education. Yeah, and I have a sense of style. So I like to believe.”

“But what if you’re wrong? What if everything you say, everything you see even, is a mistake? What if everything is actually different? And you’re not just wrong, but you’re aggressively wrong and you criticise other people! What if your judgment is incorrect or too hasty?”

Gray is calm and unperturbed.

“I believe in my abilities. And, as far as I can see, I can evaluate street art more or less objectively. And give an objective opinion.”

“An objective opinion? An objective opinion about street art? What on earth is that? Look at that rose three metres high, which you calmly labelled as ‘blossomed before birth’, which I actually really liked. I’ve seen it somewhere before, definitely. It’s really familiar! And I reckon that paleness is actually really interesting. I reckon the artist wanted to show how fleeting our memories are!”

And this logo?! Yeah, this one, this one, the one you called ‘too symmetrical’. But did you notice that the symmetry’s not only in the design, but is repeated in the colour, in the edges of the letters and the serifs?”

Gray shrugs his shoulders.

“It’s not about the serifs. It’s about the impression it makes.”

“Of course, it’s about the impression. But everyone’s impression is different. Maybe you don’t like something. But I like it. And an artist can weep at his own painting, because it cost him half his life.”

I’ve shaken his faith in his own infallibility, but, after a bit of a think, Gray still shakes his head.

“You know, it’s a never-ending argument. Does a masterpiece become a masterpiece at the moment of creation or in the eyes of the beholder? But this argument doesn’t mean that there aren’t people that just paint indisputably badly. With no talent. Amateurishly.”

“And you’ve assumed the role of the undisputed arbiter?”

“I haven’t assumed it. I can just see.”

“You can see? Alright…!”

To my surprise I’m starting to get angry. Maybe because if I suddenly decided to paint something that was important for me then Gray would immediately call it trash, tacking on a couple of comments about “colour blindness” and “a weak hand”.

“So then, Gray, imagine some indisputable masterpiece, the Mona Lisa or the Birth of Venus! And this masterpiece is, like you said once, lying at the bottom of a crater on the far side of the moon, under a mile of space dust. Can you see it lying there?”

“Yeah!” Gray nods, provoked, looking at me with interest.

“And so what? No one will ever see it again. Not one single person. No one will ever admire it. In some ways it really doesn’t exist any more. In a physical sense it’s nothing more than a fragment of dead material. A myriad of atoms brought together to make something boring, something not one iota more interesting than any other immobile chunk of moon rock. Right now the masterpiece is in no way different from the next rock in the dust. And so what? Where’s your objectivity now?”

“It’s not about where…” Gray begins but I don’t let him finish.

“And now let’s take that logo you slagged off and show it to a certain person. One particular person. Me, say. And this person, me, for instance, looks and says, ‘It’s fantastic. I really like it. It’s perfect!’ Thus, the audience of this bit of graffiti has without exception expressed the unanimous opinion that they are looking at a masterpiece. What then? Where’s the line? What are the criteria?”

“It’s not about the number of viewers. It’s not about where the work is…” Gray is about to start explaining, but then waves his hand, cutting himself off midsentence. “The criteria are in me. In me! You see?”

“I see,” I reply quietly, smiling. “And in me too.”

Gray looks at me for a few seconds, curious, but then, starts to laugh and slaps me on the shoulder.

“Fine. You’re right. You’re right! Let’s go. To hell with that rose of yours. You can like it if you want. Let’s go and have a beer!”

So we go and have a beer, sitting by the paint-covered wall. The day is moving towards sunset. The city is painted in the tones of evening. Pink ripens into scarlet.

• • •

I’m going home in the Torino. I’m coming back from work, from a typical shift, not a twenty-four hour one. But I’m still tired. Nothing suggests that there are going to be any surprises. My head is full of calm, detailed plans about having a wash, having a bit to eat, watching a movie. Nice regular little plans. And I can also have a think about what to have for dinner, so that it’ll be tastier and I’ll enjoy it more.

I turn left at the lights. The arrow lights up, it’s me. But the cars keep coming in the opposite direction. It’s amber already, but no one gives way. I crawl a wheel-length closer, then half a wheel. Red! And they’re still streaming ahead, not caring about the risk of a crash! Bastards!

Behind me they start beeping. I look in the mirror – a blue jeep. What are you beeping for, can’t you see that they’re still coming?

Finally I squeeze my way across the junction and hit the gas. After about another hundred metres there’s another left turn at the crossroads, but no lights this time. Again there’s a stream of traffic in the opposite direction, and no one even thinks about letting me out.

The blue jeep behind me starts beeping. One beep after another, slow and obnoxious. I start to get irritated. What a jerk! The stream of traffic in the other lane doesn’t get any smaller. The guy in the jeep leans on the horn, a long, droning, deafening honk. What’s going on! I’m devoured by anger, this is so stupid, what the hell is going on!

The smell of ozone.

I turn my head. And, of course, there she is alongside me.

“Hi, Max!”

“Hi, Lady F. Take a look at what’s happening here. Can you help?”

“You don’t need help. The main thing is – chill out! I came to, well, to remind you of something. Be more careful. Take a look around. OK?”

Thanks, Lady F!

“No worries…”

The colours become vivid and the horn blares in my ears again. Whatever, mate.

I switch off the engine and switch on my hazards. Whatever, mate, whatever. Let him swear away to himself. I’ve got nowhere to hurry off to. Tik-tak, tik-tak…

The driver of the blue jeep goes crazy. In his fury he pulls out alongside me in the middle of the road. He’s in there shouting something and waving his arms, as he tries to join the traffic going the other way.

A minibus coming the other way beeps loudly and, not having time to break, takes off half the jeep’s face The screech of brakes. A loud smash. The honking stops. Silence. The other cars behind them brake desperately. Both drivers look at each other in numb surprise. The traffic coming the other way is completely blocked off.

I start up the Torino. I slowly and carefully move out onto the junction and drive round the accident. I pass the hapless boy racers, turn left and head for home. Sometimes it really is a good idea to calm down. It really is.

I laugh to myself, imagining the anger and the bile that must be coming from the driver of the jeep. It’s not good of course. On the other hand, he got himself in trouble. It’s obvious that to start honking like that you’d have to be a complete…

AAA. In front of me there’s a black Honda with the number plate A, numbers, AA. Three As. Three aces. I hurriedly hit the accelerator and the Torino lurches forward reproachfully.

Maybe there’s more to this? Although how many cars can there be in the city with that number plate? A thousand. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.

But maybe not.

I step on the gas and follow the car. At the next junction it stops in the middle lane. It’s going straight ahead. I’ve got to go right here.

I line up behind the Honda. What to do now? Tail a stranger’s car? Honk my horn and push him onto the hard shoulder? Both would look insane. What am I doing?!

I swear at myself, but don’t stop following the car. It’s going somewhere out of the city. At the next junction I stop in the neighbouring lane, trying to get a look at the driver.

And then, completely on its own, without any involvement on my part, even against my strict intentions, a smile blossoms on my lips. I knew it. Thank you, Lady F. There is more to this. You see, it’s important. Not so important what the result is, but that all this is not a coincidence. Not all for nothing.

I overtake the Honda and start to beep, trying to gently push it towards the hard shoulder. The Honda’s driver looks nervously through the window. He doesn’t want to stop, but I move right up next to him, not slowing down. Finally, he recognises my car.

The Honda stops by the side of the road. I stop next it. I get out of my car and go over to it.

Mutt climbs out of the Honda and looks at me in surprise. I can’t tell yet whether he’s pleased to see me, or annoyed that I made him stop.

“Max? Hi! What’s up? Are you alright?”

I go over to him and he gives me a firm handshake, looking me warily in the eye.

“I’m more than alright, Mutt. Sorry that I made you stop or if I scared you. I want to go with you.”

“You didn’t scare me… What?! Come with me? How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That I’m going to the country for a festival. Did Gray tell you?”

I don’t want to disappoint him, even though the fact that I have access to mysterious magical knowledge (am I too talkative, Lady F?) is burning away inside me. I want to tell him, to show him my special gift, and enjoy the secret power of very occasionally letting slip, with some tiny gesture, some subtle change of inflection, that I’m special. That secret pathways are open to me.

“Something like that,” I smile broadly at him. “So then, are we going?”

“Let’s go… But I’ve still got to pick up Gray too!”

“Great. And go to some shopping centre or something, I need to stock up for the journey. Are we going for long?”

“I don’t know. For a couple of days for sure.”

Damn… I’ll have to call off sick from work. Oh well. I’m obviously supposed to go. My path lies in this direction and I should stick to it.

“Wait a sec, I need to park the car…”

I pull the Torino into the nearest courtyard. I leave it in a quiet spot, out of anyone’s way. I jump in Mutt’s Honda. It’s dark in there, but comfy. Someone else’s car is like someone else’s house or someone else’s character. If it’s good, then fine. At first everything seems unusual. But you need to get used to it, and then you start to notice how nice and cosy it is.

I strap myself in.

“So then, are we off?”

“We’re off!” Mutt nods cheerfully.

I feel good. Fate is leading me by the hand, and right now I’m in love: with Lady F, and with myself, and with speed, and with Mutt, and with all these guys, and with the bright warm street, and with the warm summer air, and with the trembling of the green leaves, and with everyone in the city, and with the distant horizon, and even with the blue sky and the dim silhouettes of the high-rises with their windows gleaming like sparks far far far in the distance.

• • •

The day moves towards evening. There’s three of us: me, Gray and Mutt. We’re driving out of town. Mutt’s at the wheel, I’m in the front, Gray’s in the back. We pass a sign with the name of the city crossed out and everything starts to change. The lights, the colours, the world becomes different. The city has its own unique atmosphere. Not good or bad. Some people like it, some don’t. But it’s unique.

“What do you think of her?” Gray asks.

We keep going. They’re talking about Oxana. It was me who introduced them to her, by the way. I’d be really pleased if she got some normal friends. But she didn’t show any interest, she’s still mucking about with God knows who. Then I have to go and drag her out of some flat in the middle of the night. Just what I need.

“I don’t know,” Mutt says. “Don’t you go falling in love with her, Gray.”

“Where do you get that from, that I’m planning on falling in love?” Gray asks surprised.

But, hang on, he’s a little too surprised! Interesting. Mutt doesn’t say much. He doesn’t comment on what Gray says. His sharp Indian features are unmoved.

“What do you reckon, Max?” Gray asks. “Do you think it’s worth me falling in love?”

“It’s not worth it, Gray,” I reply.

“Why?!” Now Gray really is interested.

“She’s got her own unique way with men. The ones she goes for. Always has, always will.”

Mutt flashes a rapid, inquiring glance at me.

“Tell us!” Gray demands.

“I’m not going to…” I shake my head. “It just is what it is, believe me.”

Gray leans up against the window, offended.

We keep going. Beyond the window there are wide open spaces. My beloved infinity. The sky, the distant clouds, fields up to the horizon. The road goes through a huge plain, to the left and right there are vast expanses, no fences. The road cuts the world in two like a beam of light. There are no edges, there is just one side and the other.

The sky is so high, with magical gradients of colour, blue and pink; light, clear clouds float at the very top, making it seem like we are tiny and we are travelling along the bottom of some huge building, like a cathedral. Twilight thickens and the world fades and shrinks, but the shimmering colours keep getting brighter and brighter, and in your heart you start to feel that familiar mix of excitement, nostalgia and sadness for hidden memories, for a forgotten miracle…

It takes a long time to get dark. The blackness thickens around us on the unlit road. By Mutt’s calculations we should be there after midnight. The headlights slice the darkness and reality is bunched into a bright rhombus in front of us stretched out over the canvas of the road.

We keep going. The hours pass slowly. Me and Gray are tired, but Mutt, I reckon, is doubly tired, though he doesn’t show it. My back and legs are unbelievably numb. My body is overtaken by a passionate desire to stretch out to my full length, move my arms and legs so that the blood flows eagerly through all my veins, arteries and blood vessels and floods my cells with oxygen.

Finally Gray can’t bear it any longer

“Mutt, maybe we could take a break somewhere? Aren’t you tired?”

“I am, yeah,” Mutt says.

I’m glad to hear it. I’d also like to stretch my legs, but I don’t want to complain.

“We don’t have too far to go now,” Mutt continues, “we can stop for half an hour and get a drink. I’m thirsty.”

We’re all agreed without objections. We eagerly await the next village. The dark contours of solitary houses and even trees seem like villages from a distance. But no, no.

Finally we see a streetlight in the distance and immediately recognise it – hurray, a shop! Me and Gray both hurry to point it out, but Mutt’s already noticed it for himself. He expresses no joy, but presses the accelerator and the Honda flies full steam ahead up to the little shop.

We clamber out of the car, and the first thing I do is stretch up, as hard as I can, towards the night sky, towards the stars, towards the slender moon, so that my bones click and my muscles twitch. It’s nice… And a little sore. Sore, but nice.

We go inside. A typical village shop. There’s nothing there. Bottles of spirits and packs of crisps which have been there for donkey’s years. I wouldn’t want to risk buying chocolates here. The sleepy shop assistant grumpily fetches us some mineral water. There’s no change. We have to get some crisps instead. Fine, to hell with her.

My mood lifts a bit. Another hour and we’ll be there! They promised they’d sort us out. I hope it’ll all get sorted without too many excitements. Then sleep. Oh yeah, sleep! If I were at home right now at this time I wouldn’t even be asleep but it seems like here I’ll be out like a light as soon as I put my head to the pillow.

We go outside and my heart sinks immediately. We’re met by a mob of local lads. It’s amazing how many of them there are. More than ten. Some of them are still just kids, but some of them are my age. I wouldn’t have reckoned that there were that many people in the whole village.

“Oi, we gonna go for a ride then…?” One of them spits.

Leaving aside the details. We run into the dark as branches whip us in the face. We run in silence, focused. Mutt is in front of me and I can hear Gray behind me. It seems as if they’re chasing after us. Shouting and whistling.

Then they’re gone. Mutt stops by the trunk of a fallen tree and listens. I stand next to him, my hands on my knees. Now I definitely don’t have enough oxygen. Gray just collapses on the ground.

“Bastards,” I say. “Is everyone alive more or less?”

Gray nods silently. Mutt shows us the torn sleeve of his coat. No other damage.

“Just in time. Those guys would’ve given us a good kicking. Just hope they don’t smash the windscreen. They might.”

“Did you lock it?” I ask.

“I did,” Mutt replies. “It’s automatic.”

Gray gets up, breathing loudly, and coughs.

“Who wants something to drink?” he says hoarsely.

He shows us the mineral water. I suddenly start to find the whole thing funny. The adrenalin probably. Oh well, who cares. It’s still funny.

“Did you really…” I ask, and already start giggling, “did you really carry that with you the whole way?”

“Er… yeah,” Gray replies and smiles to himself.

I start to laugh. It’s insanely funny!

“So you ran with it like this?!”

I act out how Gray ran through the woods, waving the bottle. I can’t stop the laughter now; I cackle like a freak, slapping the fallen tree. Gray laughs too. Even Mutt giggles, looking at us.

We laugh for a long time, using up all the adrenalin and nervous tension, laughing to the point of tears. Finally, we calm down a bit.

“What next then?” Gray asks. “We can’t spend the night here.”

“Why would we spend the night?” Mutt says. “Let’s quietly circle our way round back to the car.”

We look round. It’s very dark and we’re surrounded by trees. Suddenly we start to hear the myriad of rustles, noises and sounds of the night. After all, we are in the woods at night. There’s not a living soul around, only us. It starts getting creepy…

We make our way through to some open ground, constantly looking round. We can see the banks on the side of the road from here, but not the car. We ran about three hundred, four hundred metres through the clearing, maybe more. The road should be behind that hill in front of us. Between us and the hill there are some thickets, trees and bushes. On the top of the hill there is a little light.

“Let’s get to the road and then carefully on to the car,” Mutt suggests.

We agree. We head for the little light. It’s not that far to go, but it’s very hard going. In the dark it’s hard to figure out where the ground is flat and where it’s covered in broken branches. We need to constantly look under our feet, keep our eyes peeled and scramble through bushes. Branches scratch us and get caught on our clothes. And sometimes our path is blocked by a ditch.

In the darkness it’s hard to estimate distance. It’s practically a moonless night, all there is against the black sky is the thin strip of the new moon and a scattering of stars. It’s dark. The light on the hill keeps twinkling and twinkling away in the distance, but never gets any closer.

“Listen, don’t we have to go out to the right somehow?” Gray asks unsure. “That streetlight… or sort of camp fire thing was on the left.”

I try to figure out what he’s on about. The curve of the hill in the distance is perfectly visible, but it’s still far away. A thicket blocks the way.

“Possibly,” Mutt nods. “Let’s head straight for the light.”

We enter the little wood. The light flickers through the trees. The black trunks of the trees surround us on all sides. Fear suddenly starts to rise up inside me. But what is there to be afraid of? You’re a grown man. You should be afraid of people. People, not unknown terrors in the night. Those local yobs demonstrated that pretty convincingly half an hour ago. But it’s still scary. Irrationally scary. Something animal. I try not to lose sight of Mutt and Gray.

We go straight on through the wood. More bushes and some ditches. Then another thicket. We go through it. The light is still glittering in the distance. The curve of the hill is still very visible. Strange. We’ve already come a long way. An hour for sure. What’s the average speed of someone walking? Three and a half miles an hour. Let’s say two and half because of the difficult terrain. How long were we running away for? Five-ten minutes. Fifteen maximum. Could we have run a mile in ten minutes? Hardly. What’s going on then?

“We seem to have been going a long time, no?” Gray asks, trying not to show his fear, but I hear it in his voice and feel myself suddenly overcome with fear.

Mutt shrugs his shoulders casually. He’s also nervous.

We go faster, picking up our stride. My breathing is erratic and I can hear Gray’s uneven breathing next to me too. Something weird is definitely happening. Something stupid. How many people had got lost here ? Where are they now? But that’s too much. I want to stop, but can’t. All sorts of nonsense starts getting in to my head. Maybe they lured us here? And my travelling companions… Gray and Mutt… Maybe it’s no coincidence they’ve got those scary names?

They look at me. I’m filled with horror, and I want to vent this fear somehow, get rid of it, so I go quicker and quicker until I start running and they’re running too and I don’t know if they’re running with me or after me.

The light still twinkles in the distance. Twinkles and twinkles. The sooner you’re here the better, little light. Or I’m there. How much longer have I got to run for? Thoughts come thick and fast, get mixed up. Keep going, keep going, faster, before they catch you…!

The smell of ozone.

Where is she, where? Is she really…?

“Where are you hurrying off to?” she asks with a smile.

I stop, want to catch my breath. I’m not afraid of her. I’m very pleased to see her. My thoughts start to come together a bit.

“I’m checking out… the local area… I’m so pleased to see you!”

“That’s nice,” Lady F smiles. “I see you’re a real fan of nature walks.”

“Mmhmm. Yeah, I do love a stroll. The night air is so fresh! Especially in the woods! It’s good for your health.”

My head is sorting itself out. Calm down. Why are you running around aimlessly? First you’ve got to realise where and why, right?

It’s like Lady F can read my thoughts.

“So where are we running to?”

“Er, yeah, basically…” I say.

“Right then,” she shrugs. “Just don’t forget that you’re a predator, OK?”

I look at her blinking. A predator…? Me? Right now?!

“OK.”

“Righty-ho,” she nods, looking me in the eye. “By the way, I thought you needed to go that way!”

She points in the opposite direction from the light, at a tiny cone of light, but at that moment, despite the distance and the dark, I distinctly recognise Mutt’s Honda and realise that the cone of light is the glowing headlights of the car.

“Thanks!” I whisper. “Thanks, yet again…”

The wood returns. I’m a predator. I’m a hunter. I need to lay low and not give myself away so I don’t frighten my prey. My head clears up instantly. It’s nice even. I wait until Mutt catches up with me.

“Mutt!” I point. “Over there!”

Mutt shouts out and stops, stumbling. He falls to the floor. He braces himself on his hands and looks at me upside down, dumbfounded. Then he looks to where the car is just visible. It comes to him slowly. He stands up, smiling. Gray catches up with us, looking suspiciously at our happy faces.

“Damn,” Mutt says. “We were running the wrong way the whole time.”

I grin, then start to giggle, and for the second time that crazy night we start to howl with laughter in the darkness, looking at each other with blank but happy expressions.

When we’ve laughed enough, we run towards the car which gets slowly but noticeably closer. Sometimes we walk to take a break.

“Let’s hope the battery’s not gone flat,” Mutt says worriedly.

The problem’s moved to a practical level. There’s no more fear. And I don’t want to remember that there ever was any.

We turn away from the strange light which no longer seems so terrifying. Maybe it was a strange star, or maybe a distant beacon. Or something else. I don’t want to think about it. It will be there forever. We won’t be its victims any more. We stopped being that the moment Lady F showed me the way.

The Honda gets closer. And then I start to notice something strange about its contours. A softness in its lines. Matt on the bodywork instead of black gloss. In the weak light of the slender moon it looks transparent. What’s going on? Maybe I’m seeing things? I slow down for a minute, moving to a walk, and notice that the others have spotted it too.

We stand and in silence look at the car with its headlights on.

“Well, there you go…” Mutt says.

Gray just says nothing. I reckon I know what he’s feeling. There it is. The thing I’ve been looking for. Like endless flashes of colour in your heart. Silent ecstasy.

“Do you know what that is, Gray?” I ask.

“I do…” he replies.

This doesn’t happen. But it has. And it’s no accident. And it’s for you. I hope you’re lucky enough to feel it at least once.

A car with its headlights on flies forever along the road under an enormous moon, heading into a film noir city night. The night, the moon, the road, the car and the bright headlights are all painted on the wall of an old concrete bus stop at the side of the road.