The Other Side

Where are you leading me, my heart? To something good or into the abyss? Is it you that’s forcing me to keep going when there’s just nothing I want anymore?? Or have I dreamed this all up, and I’ve got no heart, but just a lump of meat? Please let me have a heart, please!

It’s you who produces these strange thoughts and it’s you who inspires these absurd desires. Being a human isn’t enough! It’s not enough, not enough, not enough, not enough… Being a human is not enough for me. I want a lot more. I want nothing to be impossible. I want to live a thousand lives. To experience everything. So that all you have to do is start to think something and it’s done. I want there to be no rules. Yet everyone’s still happy. But it doesn’t work like that. When you throw a stone in the air it falls to the ground. And life carries on. And then everyone dies.

But I want it to be different. I want everything forever and I want to feel it all, fully, straightaway. Why? Say someone wants to drink: it’s because he can drink his fill. If he’s in pain, it’s because he needs to take his hand out of the fire. That’s how everything’s set up. If there’s a desire, there’s also a way of fulfilling it, because that’s how nature is set up. How can we carry on living like this? Where does it come from? What should I do about it? Tell me, my heart, answer me, please, heart, tell me…

• • •

“Did you know that dogs can’t see colours?” Gray asks.

“Yeah, I heard that,” Torte replies shrugging.

“Don’t see them at all. From birth. They have no idea what colours are. Vivid emerald. Deep crimson. Can you imagine?”

“No,” Torte says. “They’re dogs.”

“They probably think the same thing about us,” Mutt says. “About smells.”

“You should know,” Torte laughs.

Mutt frowns as he unscrews a bolt on the disc. We’re all working together to change a flat tyre on the Torino. It’s hot. A street outside of town.

“Give it to Gray, he might as well get a bit of practice,” Torte teases.

“I’m perfectly capable of changing a tyre,” Gray replies flatly, and it is this very deliberate calm in his voice which gives away his irritation.

“Well go on then,” Torte continues. “Off you go.”

Mutt doesn’t react to Torte’s wind-ups.

“Listen,” Gray says. “Quit it. It’s not exactly fun for me listening to all that. Yes, I can’t find a job. But there’s no point in you reminding me about it.”

“But I…” Torte gets flustered. “Where are you getting that from…? It wasn’t aimed at you. I was, you know, only joking…”

“Of course. Only joking. But you always manage to find some cash from somewhere. I don’t know how you do it. You’ve always got something turning up for you!”

“I don’t do anything special, don’t get offended!”

“I’m not offended. I’m worried. Yes, I’ve got an art degree. Finding a job isn’t easy for me. I’d love to make some extra cash, like you, but you’re always taking clients off me! I’m not a student anymore! But I haven’t got a normal job, and it doesn’t look like I’m going to get one! You think I’m happy about that? I’m not at all happy about that. Not in the slightest. Not one little bit. I’ve also got a life. I also need money. Everyone needs money.”

“Is that really an artist talking?!” Torte says defensively. “Money, money, money… I don’t do anything special. They come to me all by themselves.”

“Just think about it,” Gray says.

He’s clearly worried that this topic is bothering Torte.

“Think about it! There are certain day-to-day issues. I need to eat. I need to live somewhere. Buy clothes. And cans and caps all cost money. Yep, I need money. I don’t want to think about it. But that’s how it is. I need money! Of course, it’s great being a carefree independent artist, like Ben. But in case you didn’t know, he’s not always shaking the foundations of society. And he doesn’t just do street art. In his spare time from the struggle against the bourgeoisie he does design work. High end stuff. For good money, as well. Of course it’s fine for him to be an independent artist when he can afford it! He’s always had money. And paints and stencils and everything. Right from the beginning. Right at the beginning when Max and Ben were just starting going out bombing…”

“OK, that’s enough,” Mutt says. “Money won’t make you happy.”

“What Max?” I ask.

“A different one,” Gray replies. “You don’t know him.”

He says nothing for a long time.

“It’s just… I’m a grown man already. And I don’t have a normal job, or a family, I’ve had no success… Who knows what’ll happen. What have I got this talent for?”

“Ahahaha!” Torte laughs. “Oh you poor little thing! So unlucky! God gave you a talent and now you don’t know what to do with it!”

“It’s funny,” Gray agrees sadly. “But really. What should I do? I can paint. Pretty decently, let’s be honest! Sometimes, even, to be fair, really, really well! But I don’t choose those moments! And I don’t choose what I paint. I can’t specially go and paint something that will amaze everyone who sees it. So what should I do? Work with my hands, like Mutt? You’ve got to have the skill to do that. It’s not like unloading trucks. In a phone shop, like Linda? With my personality I wouldn’t last a day working there. God knows what I should do, God only knows…”

“Don’t stress, bro!” Torte says. “It’ll all work out! Rome wasn’t built in a day!”

“Maybe you should go and unload trucks,” Mutt says, as he gets up. “It’s ready. Max, hold the spanner.”

I put the punctured tyre in the car. The new wheel stands out, a black spot of clean rubber; the others are grey and tired, covered in dust from the roads.

“Everything’s going to be OK, bro!” Torte says. “Everything’s going to be OK!”

• • •

“So is this a date?” Oxana asks playfully.

“Why a date all of a sudden? We’re friends. Are we friends?” I ask.

“Of course, we’re friends!” Oxana says and frowns.

We’re in the Torino. At that moment I notice that Oxana is dressed all fancy, sexy even. Did she really take my wanting to go out today as me asking her out on a date? I wasn’t thinking about her that way today. Or was I?

It seems like I’ve totally confused her. And myself too. But actually I don’t want to think about that at all. I just asked a friend to come and hang out with me. Who happens to be a girl. I know some really lovely places in the city. You’d never have thought there was so much amazing stuff in among the cars and the streets. You’ve just got to know about it. There are many sides to the city.

We’re going to the commercial port. It’s not far from where I work. During the week this place is a hive of activity, trucks constantly moving in and out and workers scurrying around. On the evening at the weekends it’s quiet here. Lots of the moorings are empty.

I park on the embankment by a concrete wharf.

“Let’s go,” I say. “There’s never anyone here, and the view’s incredible!”

Oxana looks around dubiously.

“Come on, let’s go, there are no guards here!”

We go along a narrow iron bridge onto the concrete wharf. There’s a big cement block with iron rings sticking out of it. It’s really comfortable.

“Oh, right,” Oxana says. “I thought we were going to go to a restaurant!”

“Where did you get that idea from?” I’m surprised. “Who needs a restaurant on an evening like this? Look over there.” I point out the view that’s opened up in front of us. It really is beautiful here. At the port the river is lined with harbours, so here it’s twice as wide, as wide as a football pitch. Port buildings and warehouses rise up on the far bank, interspersed with freight cranes. There are several ships at anchor on the roadstead. The water on the river moves in gentle ripples, reflecting the orange light of the fading day, and dozens of gulls fly above the water. I stop for a moment, trying to feel the full beauty of the time and place.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Oxana agrees with no particular enthusiasm. “Beautiful.”

She lays out a plastic bag and carefully takes a seat on the concrete cube. I can tell that she’s not exactly thrilled. I sit next to her. How come? There aren’t many places in the city that are more beautiful than this. You can spend many aimless hours here, it’s so nice and quiet. The harsh beauty of the industrial district.

“Oxana,” I say. “What’s up? Is something getting you down? What’s all this about a restaurant? Has something happened again?”

“Happened…?” she answers reluctantly. “Nothing’s happened. That’s the problem, nothing’s happened. And nothing’s happened for a long time now. And it looks like it’s not going to happen?”

“What’re you on about?”

“I’m not on about anything. There’s a lot you don’t notice, Max,” she says bitterly.

“Like what?” I look at the river. A tour boat sails over from the far side.

“Oh, simple things. I remember you were joking the other day. About me already being twenty five. You get it?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t get it. We were just joking around. You were joking. Are you joking now too?”

“Not now.” I can tell she’s beginning to get angry. “Do you need me to spell it out? Yes, I’m twenty five. I’ve got no kids. No husband. That’s my life. So let me be a bit angry about it. I’ve got every right.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know you were in a bad mood. You should have said so straightaway. This is a good place to be in a bad mood though. It always calms me down. Look around! The space, the freshness, these colours… Isn’t it beautiful…? I’d love to paint it!”

“Well paint it then!” Oxana says angrily.

“I’d love to, but I can’t.”

Oxana covers her face. She pulls at her hair.

“You know what…” Suddenly the way she talks is cold and blunt. “You know what, Max. In actual fact, it’s all wrong. In actual fact…”

She falls silent. Rubs the bridge of her nose.

“What does ‘in actual fact’ mean?” I ask curiously.

“Mmm… Nothing,” she replies, clearly bothered by something. “It’s not my place, of course. It’s nothing. Just try to understand. I don’t want to spend my whole life messing about on these streets and these roofs with your weird friends!”

“What makes them so ‘weird’ all of a sudden?” I reply jokily.

She is joking, right?

“Because… because! I wish so much, Max, that you were an ordinary, normal guy! I wish everything was different somehow, and… There was none of these streets, none of these dodgy artist friends of yours… and all that stuff.”

“What ‘stuff’?”

“Oh… All of this! You see… Let’s be honest with each other, right?” Oxana smooths her hair with her hand. “I just want everything to work out for me. I want everything to be right. I want to be happy in the most ordinary, boring way! Is it really that complicated? Why does it happen for some people! Think about it, Max, this is about you too! Time is passing! And it’s not going to wait for you while you enjoy your magical world of make believe! And there’s no way of getting it back! Am I doing something wrong or something? Is there something wrong with me somehow?”

“No,” I say. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you, you’re great. And beautiful. I like the way you look today.”

“Thanks,” Oxana says.

She clearly enjoys that. She can’t hide her smile.

“It’s great that you want to be happy! It’s the most natural feeling a person can have. But what’ve I got to do with it?”

The smile falls from her face. She glowers.

“Arrgh…” Oxana slaps her forehead. “I don’t know if you’re an idiot or if you’re winding me up! I’m so stupid… You know what, you just sit there. Enjoy yourself the rest of your life. Bye.”

She jumps down on to the wharf and hurries away, her heels clicking. Confused, I watch her go. She walks past the car and keeps going.

I start the engine, catch up with her, and drive alongside with the window down.

“Oxana,” I say. “Come on, what’s going on here?”

She walks on saying nothing, looking at the tarmac.

“It’s a long walk from here,” I point out. “Is it definitely a restaurant you want? Maybe a café would do?”

She says nothing in reply, but I sense that her mood has changed.

“Well,” I say, “let’s go to a café, might as well. Sorry, I thought you’d like it here. Let’s go to a café.”

I go a little in front and open the door. Will she get in?

The clicking of her heels gets closer.

Oxana climbs into the car without looking at me.

“Let’s go!” she says, trying to make her voice sound unhappy.

“Whatever you say,” I say. “Whatever you say.”

• • •

“Hi Mum!”

“Come in, come in… If you’d called I’d have cooked something. I haven’t got anything ready. I’ll make some pasta with cheese.”

“It’s alright. I’m not hungry,” I lie.

“It’ll take five minutes, come in, come in. There’s some sausage, have a sandwich while the water boils… I’ll put the kettle on.”

I go into the kitchen. I sit at my usual place. I don’t know why I decided to come to mum’s. I wasn’t planning on it. It’s just this kind of tiredness overcame me. Tired of all this. Tired of myself. Tired of not understanding myself. Tired of feeling that I’m weird, tired of stress, tired of the constant confusion in my head.

“Yeah, OK, mum…”

I always feel really good here. It’s cosy here at mum’s. Now, as ever, the soft comfort calms my wounded heart, flings away the jagged shards of my thoughts. The darkness inside recedes a little.

“I’ll go start making that pasta with cheese. You always liked it with cheese.”

Mum busies herself in the kitchen, and it’s like she manages to get out the pot, put the water on the hob and grate the cheese simultaneously. She’s not angry, she doesn’t shout at me for coming without calling, she just wants to feed me because I want to eat and she can tell that. Thanks to all these basic, uncomplicated, familiar actions a cosy warmth floods my soul, as if I’ve taken an anaesthetic and my pain is disappearing.

“Do you cook your pasta with cheese at home?”

“Yeah, usually, yeah.”

“Good. What sort of grater have you got, that old one? Or did you buy a new one?”

“The old one…”

I like talking to my mum about nothing in particular. About stupid, trivial things that mean nothing, but which can distract me so for a moment I can even forget all the painful, frightening questions in my head. Just take a break from all that. Have a breather. When you talk seriously about insignificant things your life becomes simpler and clearer for a little while.

“Mum, do you believe in angels?”

“Angels? Well… I was baptised, you know that. I don’t think about it. What’s all this all of a sudden?”

“Um, yeah. Just wanted to know. Have you ever talked to an angel?”

“Have I ever talked to one? Come on. No. Never. Max, is everything alright?” Mum looks at me alarmed.

“Everything’s fine, Mum. I just… I was just watching a programme on telly the other day.”

“Oh those programmes…you see all sorts on the telly these days… Son, you…” I can sense that she doesn’t know how best to ask so as not to upset me. “Is there anything bothering you? Any dreams or anything?”

“No, everything’s alright, Mum…”

I don’t want to tell her that I’ve been sleepwalking or what’s been happening to me. She’ll get upset, and then get sad and start worrying. So I’d better not say anything.

She doesn’t believe me, but she’s afraid to ask for some reason. Probably doesn’t want to upset me. Mum, mum…

Mum mixes the cheese into the pasta and puts the steaming plate in front of me.

“Sorry, I’ve not got anything better … Take some sausage.”

“Uh-huh, thanks.”

I launch myself greedily at the food. Sharp pangs of hunger. It seems that I could wolf down a whole bucket. Mum sits down next to me and watches me eat.

“Son… Max… the thing is, if you suddenly feel worried or scared or anything, call me right away, OK? Don’t suffer in silence.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And don’t be embarrassed. I’ll help, I promise. And we’ll make you feel better. OK?”

“Mmhm, mum, fine…”

Mum sighs and pours herself some tea.

“And if you’re too embarrassed to talk to me, we can meet with Dmitri Alexandrovich.”

“OK, fine, that’s enough… Everything’s fine with me.”

I finish the pasta.

“Fine, mum, I’ve got to dash.”

“Just have some tea.”

“Yeah, I need to run. Thanks. Love you.”

I give her a kiss on the cheek.

Mum fusses around, finds some sweets and a roll somewhere and puts them in a bag.

“Take these, you can have them with your tea tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Mum, I’m off.”

I go out the door. The cold blows into my face.

“But if something happens, son, you’ll call me, right?” She shouts after me. “Don’t suffer in silence. You’re always welcome, OK?”

I say nothing and run down the stairs. I run out of the door. Outside it’s dark and cool. I look round. It doesn’t matter where I go. Night outside. Darkness in my heart.

Somewhere in the yard a bunch of drunks are singing out of tune.

• • •

We’re getting comfortable in a city square. Viktor drops a bottle of coke.

“What the… Lucky it’s got a lid.”

“Alright, now this is eating! Yeah, I only got one burger today!” Torte replies even though no one asked. “I’m on a diet. I need to limit myself. Just one burger and that’s it.”

“Is that a diet?” Viktor asks, curious.

He examines Torte’s meal. A hamburger, two fries and a large coke.

“Interesting diet,” he notes without expression.

“It’s a diet,” Torte retorts confidently. “Of course, it’s a diet. Because without the diet do you know how much I eat?... Oooh… I never get less than two burgers. And sometimes I get three. And when I’m really, really hungry it feels like I could eat ten! And that’s when you get a belly.”

Torte slaps his pudgy ‘six pack’.

“But what’re you going to do, that’s the thing?” he continues. “You can’t not eat! When I’m hungry, I can’t think about anything else! I want to eat! If I eat a lot I get fat. If I don’t eat a lot – I wander round hungry the whole time. It’s some kind of mistake of nature! How can I be hungry and still be getting fat the whole time?”

“You need to burn those calories,” Viktor says. “And you don’t burn them. That’s what happens. It all gets stored away.”

“Then why is it always asking for more?”

“It?”

“My body… I’m always on diets! So, now I’m on a diet, right…” Torte bites off a juicy chunk of hamburger, and barely chewing, continues. “Although quit them the whole time, of course. I can’t last more than a week. You think you’d eat your next door neighbour, you get so hungry. Like last month. I spent a whole month eating only meat. And what happened? In the end, I nearly went mad, went and bought a whole baguette and guzzled it. Can you imagine? A whole baguette just like that. It was just an ordinary baguette, but it was so goddamn tasty! It was bliss…”

Torte rolls his eyes in a reverie.

“You know that’s totally dangerous.”

“Oh it’s dangerous!” Torte agrees readily. “But what’re you going to do? Going hungry is dangerous too. What if I fainted from hunger in the middle of the road?”

“Faint from hunger,” Viktor repeats sceptically, watching Torte devouring his fries.

“Mmhm.”

“Interesting,” Viktor says, “but aren’t you an artist? Street art, graffiti, social protest.”

“Yeah,” Torte says with a full mouth. “So what?!”

“I’ve seen it so many times. It’s a really popular theme in your circles – protesting against fast food. Sort of like, the masses are pigs eating the swill that’s given to them. The nation is enslaved by fast food. Multinational corporations have taken over the whole world and, you know, loads of stuff like that. But really half of them, if not all of them, are constantly shovelling down that exact same fast food. Burgers and coke.”

“Ah come off it,” Torte shakes his head. “Take Linda, she basically, I think, never eats anything at all. Or Max. He’s basically a vegetarian. Max, you’re a vegetarian, right?”

“Nah,” I say. “Where’d you get that from?”

“I just sort of remembered something… So, basically, it’s only me who’s like this. There’s nothing I can do about the way I am. That’s just how my body works. Mm-hm. Hey, have you known Max a long time?”

“A long time,” Viktor says. “About ten years at least.”

“Seriously?” I say. “Who’d have thought it? Ten years! You know what, I don’t even remember. I wish I could remember…”

Strange. I know I’ve known him for a long time. I can’t for the life of me remember how long. I don’t remember us being friends before. When was it?

“For some reason I can’t remember anything,” I say. “Something doesn’t make sense!”

“Did you watch the football yesterday?” Torte asks. “Last night.”

“What football?” Viktor asks with interest.

“You know, the football. Ireland-Andorra. I think. Are you into football, Viktor?”

“Not particularly.”

“What are you into?”

“Well… I’m into photography. I collect old equipment. Lenses.”

“Cool, nice one…”

Tort says nothing, wipes his brow and looks at me.

“You know what,” he says. “Who cares about diets? Come with me, I’m going to get some more. It’s always the way. Let’s go. I’ll get you some ice cream!

Viktor grins. We head off to get seconds.

• • •

A huge park.

Tall trees reaching up into the sky. Hundreds of trees. They’re enormous, with broad, spreading crowns. There are so many trees, and their crowns are so big, that here and there they merge together, forming a thick, heavy canopy over the park.

It’s early, very early in the morning. Wind. It’s overcast and a little misty. The trees, full of luscious wet leaves, rustle in the gusts of wind, and there are so many leaves, and the crowns are so dense, that the sound reminds me of the surf or the thundering of a waterfall.

I’m walking down a narrow avenue, enjoying looking around and breathing in the fresh morning air. The sun’s not too strong. The light struggles to break through the clouds. It’s not bright, but it’s warm. Something’s getting in the way of looking properly, something unusual, but I can’t figure out what it is.

“Hi!” says Lady F.

“Hi,” I reply.

I’m not surprised and I’m pleased to see her.

“How are you?” she asks.

“Great!”

“And what about this place?”

“It’s even better!”

“Really?” Lady F looks surprised.

Her eyelashes tremble. She looks ahead thoughtfully. I stare at her in admiration – as ever she is exquisite and gracious in her white robes. It’s fresh in the park, but she doesn’t seem at all cold.

“Yeah, of course!” I reply. “It’s so… peaceful here.”

“You don’t feel any danger here?”

“Danger?” I look around in surprise. “Erm…”

The avenue we’re walking down goes round the corner. We are surrounded on all sides by trees and sloping hills, you can’t see the horizon. The perspective is strange here… Or is there something up with my eyes? But I’m not scared. Quite the opposite, I feel calm here. I could stay here forever.

“Possibly… There is some danger here,” I say, “but that danger… is only a natural part of this place.”

I look at the sky. Heavy grey clouds seethe and flash with colour, which somehow contradicts how heavy they seem.

“So where are we?” The obvious question suddenly comes to mind.

Lady F smiles, confused.

“You don’t know?”

“No…”

“Look carefully!” Lady F says. She tilts her head back and looks up at the grey sky with a strange smile on her face. Her slender neck seems to shine from the inside.

“Is this another riddle, Lady F?” I ask. “Is this a hint?”

“A hint...? I don’t even know. The rules are different here.”

“Here?”

I look around. I start to realise something, but can’t yet figure out what’s going on. It’s like there’s something stopping me seeing properly, stopping me seeing something important.

“Is it bothering you?” Lady F asks with a smile.

“Yeah… I reckon so.”

“Then take it off!” she says.

Confused, I study her face. She’s strange today. I try to follow her suggestion literally: I lift my hand to my eyes and suddenly come across something unusual… something alien. That’s not part of me! Is it some hat or something? Or a mask? I feel it, squeeze it with the palm of my hand and pull it from my face. There in my hand is a strange white mask. Very white.

“Really, it’s white?” Lady F asks. “It’s been well cleaned. Don’t be frightened, it’s just a mask. And your head is safe. ” She laughs.

I smile back at her awkwardly.

It’s like the trees get denser. It starts slowly and barely perceptibly getting darker.

Getting darker? But it’s early in the morning… I go over to one of the trees and put my hand on the bark. It’s rough and moist. I run my palm down it and the bark suddenly starts to change under my fingers, starting to flow, mimicking the contours of my fingers.

What’s going on…? I look inquisitively at Lady F. She looks at me tenderly and sadly.

I inspect carefully the park again.

“Is this your world?” I ask.

“No,” Lady F shakes her head. “It’s your world.”

I start to figure out what’s going on, but I don’t want to believe it.

“Is this a dream?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“And this… this place doesn’t exist?” I don’t care about the answer, I’m just dragging out the time before I have to ask the most terrifying question.

“Well, that is indeed the question…”

“And you? Are you just a dream?”

Dark shadows appear far off in the centre of the avenue. They’re moving towards us. They’re not people. I look questioningly at Lady F. But she’s not there. I turn and look around. She’s not there. She’s gone.

“Lady F?” I cry. “Lady F?!”

I’m overcome with despair. As if to spite me, here in this gloomy, beautiful park, in the fragile material of the dream, I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not; what happened a decade ago and what I’ve only just seen. The shadows are getting closer, I can see them better. They’re black dogs. Big black dogs, but they’re running on their hind legs. A nightmare. It’s just a nightmare. They’ll tear me apart, they’ll kill me, but that’s not important, it’s not at all important, because the most terrifying thing that could happen, that could possibly take place, the most horrific thing, the end of my world, is the fact that I’ve imagined her, that I just saw her in a dream, a second ago, and she won’t exist and she’ll never have existed and nothing will exist…. And I… and I…

“Lady F!” I cry. “Lady F!!!”

The dogs are closer now, I can see their jaws, their yellow teeth, the muscles beneath their fur.

Lady F…. Lady F…

“Wake up…” she whispers tenderly in my ear.

The dream is still alive, still dancing in my mind, but everything’s shifted, I’m forgetting its logic, its feel, it seems distant and insane. I think I was still running with those dogs, travelling somewhere far off, seeing the heavens and emerald walls, in those tiny moments of waking; stupid, stupid rubbish! The most important, the most powerful, the most vital thing for me is that tender ‘wake up’ which I can still hear, clear and real, as if she keeps saying it to me again and again.

Was she a dream?

For now I’m afraid to think, afraid to know the answer to that question, but warmth and joy are already filling me from the inside and horror is stepping back into the shadows.

Time to get up… I’m about to have a delicious stretch and get up when suddenly a last powerful wave of sadness rolls over me, sadness at the magical dream world I’ve lost, the impossible reality of that phantom park. That lost world where anything could happen and Lady F was with me.

• • •

Perfection… What is perfection? Where is the source? How do we know what perfection is? Because the source of this knowledge is not reality. No, no, of course not. Look: you have some ideal picture in your head. Say, that exact same park in autumn, overcast; gentle, very gentle rain, almost a fog. The cawing of the crows and the huge trees reaching up into the sky, the leaves rustling and falling. Thousands, thousands of leaves.

But in reality itself you’ll never get that amazing, unique moment, you won’t be able to experience that impression fully, one hundred per cent. Either the wind’ll be too strong and you’re cold, or there’ll be some alcoholics hanging about shouting, or it’ll be too dirty and slushy, and the next day all the leaves will have dropped. And however close you get to the ideal picture you want, there’ll always be two or three per cent of irritating imperfection, some annoying and inevitable missing of the target.

Why? Because reality is in no hurry to act out the play you’ve written, because reality lives according to its own clunking, clumsy laws for the existence of physical objects, and because you yourself are part of that real world– the animal called ‘human’ – and you’ll never be able to fully absorb and enjoy the charm of the ideal, largely due to hopeless imperfection of your own senses, or even your own physical imperfection.

But I still want it! I still want it! I want to wander by emerald walls in shining palaces, to laugh forever and thrill at the blinding endless sky with all my huge, pure soul, to be ideal, flawless and impeccable, and to smile brightly and sincerely at the equally ideal, perfect creatures around me. Where can this place be, where can it be? Where does this desire come from? Not from reality. This is just a dream! Is this just a dream?

Reality.

I open my eyes.

Darkness. I can’t see anything. Have I gone blind? I blink. No, it’s just very dark here.

Where am I?

I don’t remember anything. I can hear the gurgling of water. It’s some sort of tunnel. It’s dark here and damp and it smells bad.

It was a dream. Only a dream. Right?

I don’t remember how I got here. This is serious. Maybe I got drunk? No, I don’t think so. I can remember yesterday well. And the day before. Me and Mutt and Gray went out into the country. Then I had work. Then home, and then I went to bed. No particular excitements… If you don’t count that dream.

I try to take a look around me. It’s dark. There’s the sound of running water. It’s like an underground chamber. It’s not clear where I should go. Panic builds. What’s happening? Maybe I got hit on the head? I feel for a bump. I seem to be in one piece. No bruises, no blood. My clothes are ripped, that’s all. I can’t think properly in the dark.

I need to get out of here.

My eyes gradually get used to the dark. The stream, if it is a stream, is shackled in concrete banks. I wander downstream.

I rack my brains trying to figure out how I ended up here. Nothing. I check the rest. I’m Max. I’m twenty five. Lady F. Oxana. Viktor. Mum. Seems like I remember everything. Everything apart from how I ended up here.

There’s a cement roof above me. It’s definitely underground. Or… yeah, it’s a sewer. What the hell is this? No one’ll believe me when I tell them. Maybe it’s better not to tell?

Five minutes pass. Nothing changes. The same murky stream, leading off into the darkness, a cement roof covered in mould, and the impenetrable gloom. Fear starts to grip my heart. I chase it away. I just need to go straight ahead. Just go straight ahead and everything will work out fine.

What if I’m stuck here forever? Or I’ve always been here. And there’s never been anything else. What if I imagined everything? Everything. I’ve got problems with my memory. I don’t know what’s outside this chamber. Or whether anything else even exists. Maybe not. You could imagine that this is all a play. And I’m an actor in it, and it’s scene three, right after the denouement and before the death of some secondary character. I’m in total darkness. I can’t see the dusty set upstage, or the eyes of the audience, or the prompt’s box. All that exists for me is the small circle that I can see and the noise coming from the darkness. And what is real for me? No, that’s the wrong question… I don’t want to get all philosophical about it! Let’s put it this way: how can I tell the difference between what is real and what isn’t? Like now – I’m making my way through a dark underground chamber, or I’m in a play on a dark stage, or I’m just asleep… The only difference between imagination and reality are the thoughts in my head. And what if I stop thinking for a second? Or just… forget? Or maybe I’ve already forgotten?

What if my thoughts are just part of the play? It doesn’t matter… The main thing is that right now all three protagonists exist at the same time and have equal rights... Somewhere there is one Max making his way through a very real underground chamber, a second is walking across a dark stage, listening to the sounds coming from the unseen wings, and a third is actually just sleeping. And all three are different only in the thoughts in their heads, and if I stopped thinking for an instant or lost concentration, all these people would instantly stop being different, they would become a unified whole, they would get mixed up, and they’d forget who was who…

That’s enough. Enough, Max. It’s just that ceiling, the heavy cement ceiling pressing down on you. Although the set isn’t important. The set is just a convention. At any moment in your life you can think… that somewhere there is a person who is exactly the same as you, who has at that moment ended up on the same set… and the only difference between you is the most illusory thing of all – the thoughts in your head. All you have to do is close your eyes… And you don’t know who you’ll be when you open them.

Light. There’s a light up ahead of me. Or is it just me? But it is a bit lighter there. I walk forward. Almost running. The way out is nearby. The way out has to be nearby. I can’t wander round in here forever, in the dark. I want to wake up. Or get out.

If there even is a way out. It has to exist, it has to. Why did she leave me, why, why?

I come up against a wall. Dead end.

It’s lighter here. It’s light enough here to see my hands, my clothes, the murky water. The stream disappears. There’s no way out here. I don’t see it. It’s closed off from me. I can’t see it. What’s going on? Dead end, dead end.

I search the wall, feeling my way. I suddenly get a wave of déjà vu. Like I’ve been here before. Right here. And it was bad, and cold, and there were tears. I don’t understand. How could that be? I go along the wall. I was in a bad way. They were looking for me. Shouting. My mum’s voice.

My eyes come up against some scratches on the wall. At first I don’t believe what I’m seeing. It must be a hallucination. It’s really dark here. Again. Careful. Max, turn round and have another look.

‘My Lady F’ is scratched on the wall. Is that my handwriting? I don’t know. Probably. Have I been here before? I don’t know. Probably. I squat down by the wall. A hideous painting jumps out at me. An inhuman, terrifying form surrounded by lots of strange symbols all mixed together: strokes, silhouettes and hieroglyphs covering some secret motto, some arcane wisdom. Did I paint that too? I can’t figure out what the painting is hiding, but I can’t tear my eyes off it.

“And now I’m going to be stuck here. Forever.” The thought flashes through my mind, and I don’t have time to hide from it. Followed by, “And I want to be stuck here!”

So stupid. Where’s this coming from? It’s cold here. Oh well. It’s still nice. It’s quiet and nice. I don’t want to know what’s outside.

Outside. I can get out. Ozone.

“Max. Are you sick?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Is this what you call fine? Take a look at yourself!”

“Lady F, why is your name on the wall?”

“I don’t know. What difference does it make?! You know my name so you wrote it up there. Tell me, what you are doing right now?”

“I don’t know. I’m doing fine here.”

“Incorrect. You’re not doing fine here. It’s time to get out of here, Max.”

“Outside there’s… there’s something there outside…”

“Max! Max, listen to me!” She leans over me and I can feel her hair tickle my neck. “You’re going to get up right now and go over to the wall. The water goes out through a grate. You’ll see it. On the right there’s a door. You’re going to go through it and never come back here again. OK?”

“I don’t know.”

“Max. Don’t let me down! Get up and go. OK?”

Silence. I want to say “I don’t want to, I don’t want to, I don’t want to leave, I want to curl up in a tiny warm ball and stay here forever, in this dark, gloomy, empty chamber. Because here… because here… here it’s quiet. And you don’t have to think about anything. About what’s outside. Here nothing matters. I want to grow into the wall forever until I don’t exist anymore.”

Instead I say:

“Yes, Lady F. I’ll do what you say.”

I stand up and go over to the wall. The water really does go through a grate. A few minutes ago I was standing in this very spot. But I hadn’t seen this grate. On the right there actually is a door. I was standing two metres away from it. But I didn’t notice it.

I push the door and it opens. The way out was right in front of me.

Outside it’s already evening. Soon it’ll be totally dark. It’s lucky I didn’t stay there overnight. My clothes are dirty. I had been sleeping right on the dirty ground. I still can’t remember how I got into the sewer or why.

A thought, heavy and unpleasant, is tumbling through my brain: I was standing two steps from the door and I didn’t see it. Something’s wrong with me. Something’s very wrong and I need to deal with it.

I walk away, leaving the hideous painting behind me.