Discovery

Imperfection is everywhere, but perfection is very rare. Though, to be honest, there are signs of it everywhere. Infinity is perfect. Green is perfect. Beauty is perfect. But people – no. In reality you can’t see any perfection. All around there are blotches and cracks. Complete perfection is unobtainable. Wherever your gaze may fall, whether it be on something natural or something man-made, however much exquisite beauty it contains, you’ll always find some tiny annoying defect that gets you down.

But Lady F, she’s perfect. I think about her and a smile appears on my lips. Perfect… Perfect like the concept of pure colour, like a starry sky, like a subtle note, not one made by some human instrument, but one that sings in the impossible, distant heavenly realms of your dreaming.

I’m on my own. I’m sitting on the roof of an ordinary building in an ordinary part of town. Daytime. The view below me is average. A street, cars and pedestrians hurrying about their business. Nothing special right now really. None of the stuff I love. The stuff everybody loves. No sunsets, no warm starry nights, no rainbows, no storms. But it’s nice all the same.

That’s because I’m on my own, maybe, or because of the memories. Or because of my thoughts. My ordinary, everyday thoughts, not any magical thoughts about the sublime or anything, but just completely ordinary ones. About how the weather’s nice today. Not, you know, like, totally ideal weather, but it’s not cold today and it’s not raining. It’s a little overcast, but that’s quite nice even – not too baking hot. And I’ve got no particular worries, everything’s normal, somehow. I don’t have to go back to work until the day after tomorrow. So basically I can just sit here on the roof for as long as I like, smiling up at the sky, and everything will be fine. If I get hungry, I’ll pop to a shop, I’ll get a bite to eat and I’ll have it right here on the roof. Maybe I’ll get a beer. It doesn’t matter. Whatever I say goes.

She didn’t come today, even though I was waiting. So what, we’ll see each other next time. I still feel good. I don’t know if that’s normal or not. I just smile. My city is there below me.

• • •

“Sometimes it’s a surprise, just like this total surprise,” Linda explains hurriedly, “as if it was on purpose. You’ve figured something out, but really it turns out it wasn’t you… Ach, what am I saying…. Hang on, let me concentrate and I’ll tell you.”

We’re standing at the beaten-up door of the theatre studio where Linda is rehearsing. She was running late after work, and I gave her a lift. Linda’s trying to tell me how inspiration comes to her. She’s also smoking nervily and waving her arms about so that the smoke is flying round in wisps, like clouds of frightened midges.

“So,” she takes a drag and looks into the distance. “So. For example. Something that happened to me. I get invited to this party, some totally random party, that I had no idea about, totally out of the blue. But I go anyway. I meet a guy there who I haven’t seen for like a hundred years. And I never really liked him. But he probably liked me. Because he’s acting like he wants to go back to mine. And I don’t want that to happen. Because he was boring seven years ago, and there’s no cure for that. And of course he’s still single. And despite that he still figures out a way to walk me home. And I can see an absolutely terrible time up ahead, and I’m working out a way to escape. And then – bang! – he says something really interesting about this film he’s seen. And it’s a film that he saw as a kid too, as a kid! He’s saying some interesting stuff. And it doesn’t matter what happens with me and him, the only important thing is the film. Because the next day I find that film and watch it, and as a direct result of what I see I get this amazing idea! A brilliant idea! Not just an idea, but a real, precise answer to a question that’s been bothering me for a week, to do with the staging. And I start thinking how, how, how did this all come together and I realise that you can’t get rid of any of the links in that chain. It’s the only way and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

I watch her with a smile. She stares at me.

“You get it? Come on, do you get it? It’s like it’s fixed! No, you haven’t got it! You haven’t understood a damn thing! I mean that seriously! It really is like it’s fixed! As if it was planned that way…”

She’s totally carried away. I’ve never seen her like this before. She’s deeper than I could have imagined.

“By who?”

“I don’t know… But it’s not an exaggeration. Of course, it’s hard to understand all this with thoughts and ideas. Let’s imagine something material. Shall we? OK, imagine this. You’re at home doing a jigsaw. A really big complicated jigsaw out of a box. You’ve been doing it for ages and you’re nearly finished. And suddenly there’s a piece missing from the box. It’s missing and that’s it. A fault at the factory. It got lost. Or you lost it. Or it was never there, they forgot to put it in, it doesn’t matter!

Linda almost shouts the last phrase and starts waving her hands about again. Not taking her eyes of me, she gets out a second cigarette and lights it from the first.

“For such a little girl you smoke way too much!” I say.

“Ah good…” she waves it away. “Someone else who knows what’s best for me. It comes and goes with me. So anyway! This little piece is missing. So that’s it, you’re on your own. And it’s really bothering you and you’re thinking and you’re looking for this missing piece. And then, you go off to some party. Unexpectedly. And you meet a guy there. Unexpectedly. And he takes you somewhere or maybe you even go to another town. And you meet a friend of yours there. And it turns out it’s her birthday – almost too good to be true, to hell with that, keep listening – it’s her birthday and you have to go to the shop to pick out a cake. And you get it put in a box and you go to her birthday party. You follow?

I smile and nod.

“And you go in and hand over the cake. Everyone’s like ‘yey, yey’ and they open the box and it’s empty.”

She waves her hands about showing how ‘everyone’s’ surprised.

“It’s a scandal! Oh no! There’s no cake. Oh the shame of it! OK, maybe it’s not shame, something else, let’s not go too deep into this. It’s just got to be something that’s not linked… And then there’s this weird thing that’s happened, there’s no cake in the box, which is really weird, and you look in the box, and you find in there this weird little object. What’s this funny little thing? You look and right then your jaw just drops and basically everything just drops because this just can’t have happened, but in this cake box on the birthday of this girl you haven’t seen for like a hundred years, in a different town, in a different situation completely, on a different tram line, there’s that missing piece from that jigsaw of yours.”

Linda holds out her hands and makes her eyes all big. I nod, pursing my lips. I get what she’s on about. That sort of stuff happens. Those sort of coincidences that aren’t coincidences at all.

“Bam!” she shouts. “Bam! Get it? You get it now? That sort of stuff really happens! It’s happened! What’re you going to do about it? What should you even think about that sort of thing? How does it happen? Is it planned? Those sort of accidents don’t happen, they just don’t happen, they can’t just work out by accident like that! However many times you try it, it’s not going to happen! So what do you think now? What is this, some grand plan or something? Who would want this? How can this have all come together? And to all this you can add the question of whether you can really think that it’s not an accident. Because if you start thinking it’s not an accident then that’s enough to drive you insane!

She suddenly slows down and looks sadly to one side. Half her second cigarette has burned down in her slender fingers.

“And it’s good of course, that the jigsaw finally got done. But this means it was no accident it got done. And if it’s not an accident, then that means someone organised all this. And he probably had some sort of plan. But what plan did they have in mind? What for? Why you? And then you start to think about how much work it must have been to organise all that. Just imagine it was your job to organise that scenario. To fix it. To hide that piece. Or to not put it in there in the first place. Then to look for contacts who know the target and talk them round. I’m talking figuratively here. The film was shot forty years ago. And, you know, the film isn’t about the jigsaw, that bit’s mine… And set all this up and set it in motion. So that by some miracle this jigsaw gets done…Ow!”

Linda drops the cigarette which has burned her fingers.

“Ooh… Damn. What do you reckon?”

“Me? I reckon that it’s not about jigsaws.”

She looks up at me with her piercing blue eyes.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No, I’m not making fun… I get it too. It happens.”

I nod and look at her thoughtfully. We don’t know one another. Not just the two of us, me and her. But in general. You can hang out with someone for ten years and not know them. So you won’t learn anything in a month. Or a year.

Linda stamps out the cigarette with her trainer.

• • •

A blank wall. Not completely blank, to be fair. In the bottom right someone’s written “Money can buy you love!” But I try not to look at that.

So, a blank wall. Evening. A quiet city street, far from the noisy main roads. And me. A little nervous.

A blank wall.

I’ve got three cans of paint. Not new. I don’t even remember who I borrowed them from. Or nicked them. I reckon I must’ve got them off Gray, from that evening when we were hanging upside down above the city.

A blank wall. I’m a little afraid. Just a little. I mean, I’m a grown man, but I have defence mechanisms. Against fear of failure. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Nothing bad can really happen. On the contrary, if nothing happens, then that’s good. But I’m still a little afraid. Afraid that it won’t work. That the blank wall will be ruined.

What did I want to paint anyway? Do I even need to?

I get a can from the bag. Shake it. I hear the ball bouncing about inside. This action makes sense. Can’t go wrong with this. So I can shake it a bit longer. Just in case. Having a little think.

I lift the can to the wall.

And it’s then, by the way, that it really gets scary. I’m not afraid now that it won’t work or I’ll spoil it or nothing will work. It’s simple. A different, completely ordinary fear, the fear of doing something for the first time.

Is it just me or does it smell of ozone? I look up at the sky. Looks like there’s going to be a storm soon.

It’s hard to take a can to a blank wall for the first time. Because the result is going to stay there. It’s like going through a black door. So what next? You don’t know. But we do know… we don’t want to say it, but we do know that it’s illegal. It’s officially forbidden by law. And you’ve just got to hope that the result is worth breaking the law for. And that people will think it was worth it, and, most important of all, you’ll know that it was. But what if it isn’t? What if it ends up as nothing, and there’s no way of going back. You’ve already made a mess of it. It’s probably the same as what a young surgeon goes through when he’s standing over his first patient, scalpel in hand. I’m not insisting on that comparison. First off, I’m not certain about it, and second, I don’t want to be try-hard. After all, the surgeon is risking the patient’s life. But you’re still scared.

A blank wall.

“Are you planning on standing there long?”

The weight lifts from my heart instantly.

“I don’t know.”

“Looking for inspiration?”

“Yeah… Something like that. Plucking up courage.”

“What’s holding you back?”

She comes over and stands on my right. Her red hair trembles in the breeze, and her smile is thoughtful and sad. I stop and admire the ideal whiteness of her clothes. What an exquisite colour! Sparkling, blinding, shocking in its perfect purity. Better than the best painting.

“How’s life?”

“Pretty quiet. OK. Well… you can see for yourself. I decided to give it a go.”

“Why?”

“I don’t even know… I suddenly got the urge.”

“I’m glad you got that urge… Tell me…” She pauses briefly and looks at me intently.

She has such deep and pure green eyes. Such an exquisite colour… and it’s as if the textured design of her pupils forms mysterious letters, it’s like a whole book is written in her exquisite eyes.

“Tell me, is there anything you want to ask me about?”

“Probably.”

“About what then?”

“Why is there so little perfection in the world, Lady F?”

She looks at me in shock. Then starts to laugh a pure, tinkling laugh. She giggles happily, overcome with such an infectious wave of laughter that I also start laughing.

“Now that’s a question, Max! Now that I understand!”

“Did I say something stupid?”

“No, not at all… That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

“Do you really expect an answer, my dear?”

I shrug.

“You don’t have to reply if you don’t want to. I won’t get annoyed.”

She says nothing and stares at the blank wall. She’s still smiling, but her smile is becoming thoughtful now. I suddenly start to feel unbearably sorry for her, this enigmatic, impossible creature. Not in the sense that I feel sorry for her because things are difficult for her, but I just want to cuddle her like a kitten. Then I force myself to stop. How dare I? What a stupid, inappropriate thing to want! The stupid, impertinent desire of a despicable animal!

Lady F must have been concentrating on my question, or she would have noticed my idiotic, ridiculous outbreak of emotion. Who am I to feel sorry for her? To even think about it. Her, who’s so ideal and perfect, her, so magical and flawless. Such a pure colour. Such a pure colour…

“Tell me, Max,” she suddenly asks, “is this wall perfect?”

I look at the wall in front of me. I still haven’t managed to take the can to it. The wall is blank.

“But there’s nothing there,” I reply confused.

“I can see that for myself, my dear,” she says with a slight hint of annoyance. “And I hope that you can see it too. So I’m asking you: is that wall perfect?”

“In a way…”

“Explain!”

“Well, you’re kind of not asking about the wall as an object. The wall itself, of course, is not perfect. It’s covered in cracks and dirt, and the bricks aren’t straight. You’re asking about the wall as a canvas. And, as a canvas, it is perfect in a way.”

“In what way?”

“It can turn into something beautiful. And perfect.”

“Really?” she laughs. “Are you not flattering yourself a bit?”

“I meant hypothetically!”

“And literally?”

“If we’re talking literally, then, probably, this canvas will inevitably take on all the defects belonging to the world around it. The colours won’t be quite right, the composition won’t be ideal, and even the material on which the painting is done will cause a load of problems.”

“And the final result won’t be perfect, right?”

“Yeah, most likely.”

“Here’s another question for you: do you think you’re the only person who can see that?”

“I…”

She’s led me into a dead-end again. I need to think about it. Really think about it.

“Do you think you’re the only person who possesses these subtle perceptive powers and this flawless understanding of the sublime?”

“I… No, of course, not. Probably, there’s… yeah, definitely, absolutely definitely, there’s people who see and understand a lot more and a lot better than me! The artists themselves. I know a lot of them personally. Or Viktor, he’s a photographer. He really likes criticising lots of paintings.”

“Interesting… So do you think they see the same… problems, the same failings that you see?”

“Erm… probably. I reckon so.”

“So why then, I wonder, do they carry on painting? If we’re talking about artists. Or taking photos. Creating stuff, basically. Why add more imperfection to this already imperfect world? What’s more, if these people have such a subtle sense of reality, they should probably understand that creating something perfect is practically impossible. In fact you can just leave out ‘practically’. Why do they continue to create?”

I think. I think for a long time. A heavy summer sunset descends on the city. It’ll be hot for a while still. My wall – I’m already calling it mine – is still blank. The can in my hand has become hot, and my hand has grown tired of holding this unfamiliar object.

“Don’t rush your answer,” Lady F says.

“If there even is an answer…”

“I’ll give you a bit of hope,” Lady F says with a smile. “There is an answer.”

“Another riddle…” I say with sadness.

“Another one? Oh, right… I’ve been meaning to ask you – have you abandoned your search? Remember you were looking for something, right? Do you have any new ideas?”

“Ideas? Ah, well, you know, a friend of mine gave me some really good advice without even knowing it.”

“Interesting,” she said. “So then, are you going to paint?”

“I should give it a go…” I reply.

A blank wall. I shake the can again. I hold it up to the bricks. Any second now a line is going to appear. Right here, just to the side of this creeping shadow. Shadow… While I’ve been waiting, evening has come to the city, and the shadow cast by the roof of the neighbouring building lies across my clear wall. Now it’s really hard to figure out the right colours and the thickness of the line – they’ll look different in the light and the shadow.

“You know, Lady F, I’m probably going to have to leave it for today,” I say to her jokingly.

She doesn’t reply. I turn round. She’s not there anymore. Well then. Today I’m going to have to leave empty-handed. This probably just wasn’t the right evening. Not today, so it’ll have to be some other time. No big deal. I feel relaxed.

I put the can back. I get my stuff together and head off home. The blank wall remains blank. Not today. My light shadow slips over the orange asphalt.

• • •

“Come on! Just draw what you see!”

“I am drawing it!” Linda speaks up for herself.

“No. You’re not drawing what you see but what you imagine!” Torte says heatedly. “Look at the lines. At the contours, at the silhouette. Just copy precisely what you see! Pretend you’re tracing a photo!”

Evening. A building half in ruins, due to be demolished. There’s a huge hole in one of the walls with bricks sticking out. Torte is next to it trying to teach Linda how to draw a teapot. A completely ordinary china tea pot. In chalk. The original is standing in the hole. So far it’s not really working. The wall is covered in lopsided copies. It’s as if a cartoonist has lost the plot and gone crazy for teapots. Me and Mutt are watching the process.

“What photo?! I’m just drawing the teapot, that’s all!”

“No, that’s not all!” Torte explains excitedly. “You’re drawing it from your head. And it’s right there. Standing there in front of you. Just trace round it mentally. And then draw the line. Don’t draw the teapot, draw the lines.”

Linda carefully draws the outline. It sort of works better. Then she starts to draw the spout. Fail. The spout twists to the side unnaturally, like some kind of MC Escher teapot. Even I can see where she’s gone wrong.

“Ah no,” I say. “Look.” I take the chalk off her and draw the unfortunate teapot. It kind of works.

“That’s how you’ve got to do it,” I say. “Just copy the outline. Even I get it.”

I hand the chalk back. I look at my drawing. Turned out not bad! I would never have thought it was that easy. Linda looks at me enraged. Then at the chalk.

“Damn!” she snaps. “Damn! Damn! I’ll screw up this interview, I’m going to bloody well screw it up!” She throws the chalk on the floor and stamps on it.

“Calm down you! So you screw it up. Just think, another screwed up interview…” Torte tries a joke.

Unsuccessfully. Linda gives him a withering look.

“I can’t work as a shop assistant forever. I can’t, you get it? Is that what you want? You couldn’t give a damn… But I don’t want to. Is this how my life is going to go? Standing behind a counter in a yellow t-shirt? I’m a talented person. Talented, I know it!”

“Linda, listen…”

Torte is already regretting his joke and trying to comfort her. Linda’s almost crying.

“I’m not listening!” she cries. “I’m sick of that stupid job! I’m sick to death of it! I’m an artist! I’m actress! I’m cut great…

“Maybe we’ll try some stencils tomorrow?”

“What stencils?! I’m trying to be a designer. I need to draw by hand, I’ve got to be able to do it! I’m going to make a fool of myself again… It’s even worse than that… This screwed-up interview, it’s even worse…” Linda whimpers. “When they look at each other afterwards, looking, kind of like, ah well, yeah, right, an artist. And the other one’s like, I knew it. With a look like this. Bastards… Why am I so stupid?... I’m a failure…”

She starts to cry. Genuinely, in floods of tears.

“I’m a failure, a failure, a failure, a failure…” she repeats it like a mantra, rocking from side to side and burying her face in her hands.

Torte stands there completely lost, unsure what to do. His usual jokes won’t work here. Should he hug her or what?

“Linda, don’t cry,” Mutt says suddenly. “Why have you given up on working as an artist? It’s not for you all of a sudden.”

“It is for me!” Linda shouts through her tears.

Mutt sighs.

“I know you’re great at making clothes. And thinking them up, or whatever you call it. Patterns. Sketches. Stuff like that. I reckon if you had a go at that it would work out really great for you.”

“Make clothes?! Clothes?!” Linda fumes. “I’m not a damn seamstress! I’m an artist!”

“And I’m an artist too,” Mutt says calmly. “And, so what, I do renovations. People like it. It really helps them. I don’t see anything bad about making clothes. Even more so if you’ve got the talent and the inclination.”

“Talent and inclination,” Linda grumbles. “It’s not how I imagined it. Not like this. Bloody teapots…”

She wipes away her tears and looks at the ill-fated teapot with something akin to hatred. Then with a sharp and precise movement she kicks it. It flies to the ground and smashes to pieces.

“Let’s go,” Linda says.

There are tracks from her tears on her cheeks. She doesn’t wait any longer, turns round and walks away. We hurry after her.

• • •

Oh, this is fun!

“Shall we have another glass of champagne?” Oxana says.

“Go on then!” I say.

“I don’t normally like this rubbish,” she says. “All bubbly and sweet. Bitter lemonade. But I want some now for some reason.”

“Likewise,” I agree.

We’re in a club. It’s noisy in here, there’s music and a ton of people and it’s really-really fun! There were four of us to start with. No, five! We were drinking wine on the concrete steps. It was me, Oxana, Mutt, Gray and Linda. Then Linda left because she had to go to work early in the morning. Oh well, we kept going until it got dark. Chatting away to our heart’s content. It was really romantic!

Then it got dark and cold. And we didn’t want the evening to end. So we decided to go and have a drink somewhere. And a dance. It’s just Mutt and Gray said no. Mutt’s never liked places like this, and Gray said he didn’t have any money. I offered to lend him some, but he refused. So in the end me and Oxana went just the two of us. That’s alright. It’s still fun!

“Hey!” I shout. “Hey! There are people here!”

The bloody waiters are always swanning about in the other half of the room. It’s like they’re doing it on purpose. And if you put your hand up it’s like they deliberately look away.

”Hello-o-o….” I wave my arms. “Emergency! Emergency! We’ve got a catastrophic champagne shortage over here!”

The waiter takes the order with a gloomy expression and disappears.

“Tell me, Max,” Oxana says. “Have you known me long?”

“A thousand years. Give or take.”

“And what do you think of me? The truth only.”

I pretend to think hard.

“I think you’re a dreadful liar and a nasty piece of work.”

“Max… I’m being serious,” she whines.

“Well if you’re being serious, then I think you’re alright. You’re great. And brilliant.”

“And kind?”

“And kind.”

“And pretty?”

“And pretty.”

“And clever?”

“And stupid.”

“Max!”

“Why do you ask stupid questions then if you’re so clever?!”

“Pff…” She waves it off. “My mum really made my day yesterday.”

Oxana tries to knock back her glass and discovers that it’s empty. She’s already tipsy. And me too! The bright flashes fuse into a mass of colour. My head is buzzing. Great! To hell with everything. Nothing means anything.

“So what happened?”

“Another lecture. Two hours long, ending in hysterics. Mine, obviously. About how there’s something wrong with me. How I’m leading my life all wrong. And about how all my classmates are already married. Some of them twice even. So, you see, I’m the only old maid left. And all because there’s something wrong with me.”

“Ach,” I say. “Don’t pay any attention to her. It’s a load of rubbish. It’s just inertia that makes her go on like that. But I’m sure her heart’s in the right place.

“I don’t know what she’s going on about!” Oxana says, offended. “She really does my head in. It’s like there’s something really wrong with me. And she always wants to remind me of it. It’s time, it’s time, it’s time, it’s time. And it’s always her version of things. Either I’m not behaving properly. Or I go out too much. Or I’m not presenting myself right. Do you know what she announced to me yesterday?”

“What?”

“That I don’t know how to kiss! And like ‘cos of that no one’s going to go for me.”

“Jeez! How would she know? Forget it, she just said it for the sake of it.”

“Easy for you to say. I don’t know how to kiss. She’s probably forgotten herself! I’m a great kisser. Never had any complaints! Do you think I don’t know how to kiss?!”

“I don’t know,” I laugh. “I’ve never tested it!”

“Do you want to?” Suddenly she sounds serious.

I look at her. Oxana watches me carefully. There’s a cautious smile on her lips. Sparks in her eyes. She’s a little drunk…but not wasted. I feel a tingle of fear and excitement in my heart. She’s not joking. If I want to, she will. A kiss? Why not? A kiss is just a kiss. It’s been a fun evening, why not make it even more interesting?

The waiter brings the champagne. We stare at each other, through his carefully trained movements. Open the bottle. Place the bottle on the table. Put the bottle on a tray. Pour a couple of glasses. His arms flash between us, reflecting the coloured patches of the disco lights.

Then he leaves.

I go and sit next to her. Now she’s right next to me. Her smiling eyes seem so big. I can smell her perfume.

“Let’s have some champagne,” she says in a whisper.

I nod.

The cold bubbles tickle my palate. A bitter taste in my mouth.

Her lips are sweet and cool from the champagne.

But her hands are hot.

• • •

“Great, let’s go again! Just lift your arm up, your arm! And less of all these emotions, less of all this shouting and less of this trying to look like a prima ballerina… I’ve only got one request: lift up your arm! Can you do that?”

“I can,” I reply calmly.

“That’s brilliant,” the director calms down. “Again from the top.”

We start again. Linda has dragged me along to rehearsals for her amateur dramatics group. They’ve even given me a small role. Mercutio. Yep, we’re doing Romeo and Juliet. I didn’t want to be in it, but that’s how it worked out. Now I’ve got a not very realistic looking green costume and twenty lines in the whole play. It’s a classical staging, nothing avant-garde. Everyone goes out on to the stage in turn. Priests, balconies, balls, duels. At the end Romeo and Juliet die. Gloom, misery, and a heap of corpses. It’s Shakespeare after all. I’ve got his collected plays at home. An old Soviet edition. I remember there was a time when I’d reread them pretty regularly.

Linda’s playing Juliet, which she’s very proud of. She’s stressing out, and doesn’t hide her excitement, her pursuit of inspiration or her quest for her creative essence. It really matters to her. The other person who it all matters to is the director. A guy who is, in theory, pretty young, just a bit older than me. Pudgy and hairy. He runs along the stage, consulting his sheaf of notes and bellowing at the actors. When he’s happy with everything, he gives a benevolent nod, waving his arms smoothly like a conductor developing a musical theme. If something’s going wrong, the director gets nervous, starts making noises and swearing inventively. Sometimes he jumps up on to the stage and shows the awkward Romeo how it should be done. If we’re honest, I reckon that all that swearing and the ‘horror at the hidden spider’s web of performance’ (that’s a quote) is all a bit of a show.

You get the feeling that both the director and Linda are actually, as they play Romeo and Juliet, not playing the actual characters themselves, but playing the parts of well-known and talented people starring in a proper big staging of the play in a famous theatre. They are basically playing at theatre. For them it’s less important to stage the key scenes correctly than to fit the right image. So that they believe in it themselves. And no one spares a thought for the audience.

Everyone else in the scene couldn’t care less. It seems to me that for the most part the local actors see amateur theatre like an activities club. You know, the sort of club where it’s not really important what you’re doing, as long as you get the chance to hang out regularly and meeting new people. Get to know each other, spend some time together, meet someone new. Normal stuff, basically. Romeo, I reckon, has got a crush on Juliet. On Linda, that is. So now he keeps looking at her with these sad, soulful eyes, as if he was rehearsing the part. In short, it’s a laugh here.

After five minutes Linda is smoking again. I don’t understand how she can fit so much hot smoke in that flimsy little body of hers. By the end of the day she could just float off like a balloon.

“And so I’m trying to find something, to understand something. To find it and understand it. How she feels. What it was really like. And I think and I think and I think and I think and I can’t sleep.”

“Is it really that important?” I can’t resist asking.

Linda looks at me indignantly, as if I’ve said something incredibly stupid. Maybe I have.

“Is what important?”

Actually, yeah, what? What is important? If someone likes doing amateur dramatics, likes feeling like an actress and getting deep inside the experiences of the characters – is that not important? What do we base our criteria on?

It’s obvious, if you think about it, that nothing of any significance can come from a second-rate amateur dramatics troupe putting on a play. She won’t earn any money. She won’t win fame or popularity. Acceptance and respect? Pretty unlikely. A sense of self-worth? Probably not. But it brings her a whole bunch of heartache and worry. And insomnia to boot.

What do people think is important? And why? One guy maybe collects stamps, spends all his time on them, going back over his collection, hoping to find some gem of a stamp. He buys himself an expensive album, knows all the rare types inside out, the history, geography and culture of stamps. Some other guy maybe does eggshell carving. Let’s say. Only he knows which eggs is the best to pick, how best to prepare it, where to make the first cut. Over time he starts to realise which decorations will be nicest to look at, which will look like mistakes, what will make the egg solid, what will break it, and he’ll spend many, many years of his life doing this. And it will be really, really important for him. If you present his passion as ridiculous or useless, or a waste of a good egg, then he’ll either start a heated argument or sulk in silence, but he’ll never abandon it.

Laugh if you will at the poor bugger, but what’s he doing wrong? He’s chosen a hobby he really loves and considers it the centre of his existence. How is eggshell carving any worse than, say, amateur dramatics? Or writing poetry? Or street art?

It’s no worse at all if you think about it from a practical point of view. From a practical point of view, the majority of human activities are pretty useless. We are a biological species after all. Let’s reason it out logically. We’ll get some benefit either from an activity which improves our well-being, or an activity which leads to the multiplication and survival of the species. All the rest is, in theory, useless. All the rest is escapism of varying degrees. It’s true, you know.

Everything beautiful is escapism, it’s done without a practical aim. Beauty is an end in itself.

This is what I’m thinking about while Linda’s clear, piercing eyes interrogate me. A cigarette fumes in her fingers.

But what should I say to her? I’m no better myself. My passion is pretty strange. It hasn’t got a name and it hasn’t got a point. I love to observe the world around me. Can that even be considered a passion?

I don’t know.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Yes, probably. Your play is important. I really like the way your performance is coming together.”

Linda smiles. “Thanks,” she says. “Everything’ll come together really well for you too.”

• • •

Me and Oxana are walking down an avenue in the park. Not saying anything. Our conversation isn’t flowing, even though we’re basically a couple. I like her, I’ve known her a long time, but I don’t always particularly want to talk to her about stuff. What would we say? I’m into street art, she’s not. I don’t like having to think up something to talk about just for the sake of talking. It’s nothing to do with her. That’s just how I am with people. With everyone pretty much.

“Why don’t you like her?”

“Who’s ‘her’?”

“Linda. You’re not jealous now, are you?”

“Over who? You? With her?!” Oxana waves her hand. “Max, don’t talk rubbish. I just don’t like any of them.”

“Why?”

“Because. They’re all loopy. Loopy.”

“They’re not loopy. They’re unusual. That’s not a bad thing.”

“Call it what you will, it doesn’t change anything. They’re all round the twist, and they’re having the same effect on you.” Oxana curls her lip. “And they’ve got stupid nicknames! They’re like animals with those names of theirs!”

“Why do you say that? I reckon they suit them. Torte really is like a… cake. Confident, funny, pink-cheeked. And Gray is grey… mysterious and thoughtful. Mutt really is a Mutt. Or a Wolf even. Doesn’t rush. Calm and taciturn, like a Red Indian. And even Linda is a real Linda.”

“Oh stop it. Linda, Mutt. It’s like nursery school. What, are they kids or something?”

“At heart. And I don’t think that that’s a bad thing. They’re great.”

“And me..?” Oxana purses her lips.

“You’re great as well!”

“As well? But I’m not as great? Go on, carry on like that. I’m great but not as great as them, right?”

“No. You’re not like them. But I like you the way you are. You’re genuine and never hypocritical. And you always say what you’re thinking. You’re your own person! And it’s brilliant being friends with you. But that’s not all… And you’re beautiful! And you have soft lips. And I like you.”

“Alright enough of all that,” Oxana says, as if she were cross, though it’s clear that she’s enjoying it. “They’re only your friends. But I am your girlfriend. Don’t forget that, got it?”

“Got it,” I agree easily. “You’re my girlfriend. Sorry if I offended you.”

“It was that ‘as well’ that offended me! It’s just all you ever talk about is those friends of yours. As if no one else even existed! Like a kid, all you know about is your friends. And they behave like kids. It’s time to grow up. For them and for you.”

“OK. But they’re artists!” I start to get wound up. “I explained…”

“Don’t you shout!” Oxana interrupts.

“I’m not shouting…” We carry on walking in silence.

“Sorry,” I say. “I really like you. Oxana. Forget it. Give me a kiss and let’s forget about it, OK?”

“OK…”

I hug her and kiss her. Oxana smiles and lowers her eyes. Soft lips. Was that an argument just now? No, I don’t think so. Not even a tiff. And it’s a nice day, by the way. Sunshine, the park, a light breeze. Summer, awesome!

“Let’s go,” I say. “Oxana, there’s ice cream!”

“Let’s go!” she replies.

And we go and get some ice cream.

• • •

Oxana clicks the torch. On/off. The beam of light cuts through the darkness, disappearing into the night sky.

“What a load of rubbish,” Oxana says. “What a load of rubbish. I can’t believe I’m hanging out with you guys. All for you, Max.”

“Alright,” I say. “Sorry. It’s just something weird is going on with me at the moment. I reckon… I reckon that I couldn’t see the way in.”

“You couldn’t see a way in?” Oxana glowers. “And you think our eyes are so much better?”

“It’s not that… It’s just… I don’t let myself see, or something. Certain things. I only just realised. In strange circumstances. I told you about it. About the tunnel.” Oxana stares at me with a strange look in her eye.

“Max… Max, maybe we don’t have to do this? How about we just go, eh?”

“We have to. You said yourself… you are always saying that I need to get normal. Come to my senses. That’s exactly what this is. I need to get to the bottom of this. You see?”

She looks away. I can’t figure her out. I can’t work out what she’s thinking.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe this’ll help…. I really hope it helps.”

A bright flash slices the darkness apart, momentarily turning us both into bright white statues.

“Argh!” Oxana cries. “Give us a warning, eh!”

I rub my eyes. A fading spot of light dances in the blackness beneath my eyelids.

“Yep, apologies, apologies,” Viktor mutters, fondling his camera.

“He’s apologising. You’re going to blind me!” Oxana complains.

“There’ll be another one in a second. Shut your eyes, shut them tight…” Viktor says.

I honestly do shut my eyes. Beyond the darkness of my closed eyelids a light flashes on, as if daylight had come for a moment. It fades. Dark.

I open my eyes. Then I’m suddenly hit by another flash. The simple supplies we’ve brought are imprinted on my eyeballs: torches, ropes, tools, all lying on the bonnet of the Torino.

“Ow! Are you doing that on purpose, or what?!” Oxana cries and treats Viktor to a good whack.

He bears it quietly, his eyes fixed on the little screen on his camera. I blink. Damn, he can’t keep doing that…

“Apologies, apologies,” Viktor nods, calmly taking Oxana’s retribution. Night. A quiet harbourside street far from the noisy main roads. There’s three of us: me, Oxana and Viktor. It’s me that’s dragged them here. I had to talk Oxana round. Viktor was happy to accept. I tempted him with an ‘interesting abandonment’ – an old derelict club. FridayZZ. Last time I’d gone there during the day… and simply couldn’t get in. Maybe I just didn’t notice the entrance. Torte told me that he had gone there at night. Perhaps, at that time it’s easier to notice the door or something like that. So I decided to try at night.

I decided not to take any of the artists. Their imaginations would only do them harm. Torte and his cruel jokes would also be less than helpful. But Viktor and Oxana are ideal candidates. Viktor is always distracted by his camera and is only ever thinking about the ideal shot. And a derelict old building is the perfect place for him to go looking for his beloved ‘weird’ shots. He won’t be afraid, he won’t have time.

Oxana is no mystic either. Her cynicism’s what we need. At night in an old abandoned building in which there could be all sorts of mysterious devilish goings on (not to mention the strange sequence of circumstances which brought me here) Oxana’s cynicism is just what the doctor ordered.

It’s not that I’m some bold and fearless captain who’s selected a team to suit him. It’s more the other way round. It’ll be easier for me to continue if I know that no one apart from me is going to… well, get scared.

If we even get into the building. At the end of the day, Torte might have just made a mistake or got the buildings mixed up. The entrance might be bricked up. That’s just the start. There could be a million reasons why there might not be a way in to that building and why we’ll turn round and go home empty handed, loads of things could happen.”

But deep down I know that’s not going to happen.

I can tell that we’re going to get in.

I examine the equipment one more time. A simple selection that everyone can understand. First of all, there’s the torches. Everyone gets one big bright torch about the size of a video camera and one small spare one. The rope is in case there’s a broken staircase somewhere and we have to go up or down a floor. Simple tools – flat nosed pliers, a screwdriver and knives, if we need to open anything or break any wire wrapped round door handles.

Apart from that there’s nothing special. You could say we’re going on a reconnaissance mission, so we haven’t overloaded ourselves with equipment. Viktor will take the photographs.

An easy little expedition. I’m not worried. Every city has derelict sites like this. Former factories, warehouses, old military bases. There are buildings like these in almost every square kilometre of urban space. You can use their interiors to shoot science fiction movies or horror movies without having to build a set. And, of course, they’re surrounded by loads of legends. There’s a lot more of these sorts of buildings than the uninitiated would think. There’s even this hobby where people organise expeditions to derelict old buildings, so called ‘abandonments’. Urban exploration. They take pictures, they look around, and collect historical artefacts and legends connected with these buildings. It’s an interesting, terrifying and often dangerous occupation. Not, of course, because the cellars of these buildings are full of mysterious toxic substances or ghosts. It’s just the buildings are old, often half in ruins, and it’s really easy to fall down some hole and break your leg or crack your head open. And your main hope when that happens is that your phone hasn’t stopped working. Because no one is going to come to this building to help you. Not ever.

I’m not a tourist. I have a particular interest. There, in the depths of that building, on one of its black and empty floors, I’m going to find an answer. An answer which explains my life, which explains Lady F’s riddles, which explains me. And that’s why I’m going there. And that’s why I’ve got some friends together, hoping they’ll help me.

“So what, are we just going to stand here?” Oxana asks, looking at us disgruntledly. Viktor looks at me.

“Let’s go,” I say quickly.

We go along my old route. Along the walls, looking around. The street is badly lit and you’d need to really look properly to notice a door. Sometimes the darkness is illuminated by bright flashes. Viktor takes pictures of the wall, approaching it at weird angles. It looks like he’s doing some sort of weird mime show where he’s bent over photographing the wall with its tracery of cracks, pointing the lens into the black sky.

The first turn.

The wall goes off into the depths of the night. There are no streetlights here. The wall goes off into the darkness and so seems endless. The common denominator of all walls, the abstract rendering of perspective without a horizon. The world is split into two: on the right, an endless wall leading off to some unknown point beyond the edge of darkness; on the left, us.

Flash. I notice three perfectly black shadows on the uneven surface on the wall and my heart even manages to leap up in my chest before I realise that these are our shadows.

Oxana swears under her breath. I can hear her fussing about in her bag but I don’t slow down. A bright beam cuts through the darkness. She’s turned on her torch. A white circle of light slips along the wall and the tarmac, sprinting off into the darkness, ensnaring alien objects on the other side: wires, posts, broken metalwork sticking out of concrete blocks.

“Nice little place you’ve brought us to,” Oxana grumbles, running the beam of light from side to side. “It’s so much fun here you just want to laugh yourself silly.”

Flash.

“Listen, OK, that’s enough!” Oxana says nervously to Viktor.

He smiles, but says nothing in reply. It’s pointless asking him not to take photos. He might even promise not to, but he’ll have forgotten that promise a minute later.

The second turn.

Here there’s another streetlight. Its yellowish glow divides this side of the wall into two parts, which makes it seem longer. Its dull light barely reaches the beginning and end of the wall, but it’s still better than complete darkness. At least you can see where you’re going. But Oxana doesn’t turn off her torch. I understand. When you’re holding a bright light in the darkness, when you’re in charge of what you see and where you look, then you feel a lot more sure of yourself.

We’ve walked half the length of the third side. So far nothing. And what if we don’t find anything? What then? We’ll just go back. Probably. And there’ll be no answer, no solution to the riddles, no unveiling of secrets. Right now, in the darkness flickering beneath the streetlight, I start to think that that might be for the best. Who knows what could be hiding in that building. It’s all so strange. It’s all so very strange. What, in the end, can I find out inside? What’s the mystery? The terrible secret of my birth? What rubbish… The light above us goes out.

Oxana lets out a scream and, caught by surprise, I shudder quickly and violently. The torch beam slips over us. Oxana examines me and Viktor uncertainly. Everyone’s completely fine. It’s just dark. I say nothing for a few seconds while my heart calms down so my voice doesn’t give me a way. I look up. The thin, fading filament is still just glowing in the huge lamp, dissolving in the darkness.

“What is all this nonsense?” Oxana asks no one in particular in frustration.

“Everything’s alright,” I reply merrily, hoping that my voice isn’t trembling. “They just switched the lights off. It’s just a coincidence.”

“A coincidence…” She replies sarcastically. “Funny that.”

I nod, smile and turn my back to them so I can continue on my way. Unwittingly, I walk faster. Any second now we’re going to have walked round all four sides of this bloody fence, exactly like I did last time, and we’ll set off home. And everything will be fine. Right, I should turn on my torch…

“Hey…” Oxana says suddenly, and then cuts herself off, and I can tell by her voice, by this new tense tone in her voice, that that’s it. There’s no way back. Here it is, here it is: we’ve found it….

“It’s strange they didn’t shut it,” Viktor says.

I look at both of them. That sounded somehow… bad.

“And why should they’ve shut it?” I ask.

Viktor doesn’t reply. Eyes on the floor.

“I reckon this club’s been deserted for ages,” he says.

“So let’s check!” I say.

There is an iron door in the wall. It’s not closed, but there’s wire wound round the hinges. And another strange thing… both the door and the doorframe are covered in some sort of… substance. I can’t work out what in the darkness.

I go up closer, touch the door. My fingers are immediately stained black. I hold my hand under the torch. Oh, it’s just soot. Just ordinary ash. Something must have been burning here or someone set fire to the door. Maybe just ordinary hooligans?

Or maybe not. Maybe someone wanted to burn down whatever is inside.

Alright, enough. We’re grown ups.

I get out the pliers. I start working the wire free.

“Maybe we shouldn’t?” Oxana suddenly asks plaintively.

I say nothing in reply and continue to silently and methodically unhook the wire. The wire isn’t giving in, it doesn’t want to come out of the hinges. I keep stubbornly bending it from side to side. At last the metal breaks. I gleefully throw away the bent pieces. I grab the door handle, feeling the cinders eat into my palm. So what. I look at Viktor and Oxana. They’re waiting in silence. Waiting for my decision.

I pull the door. It gives way with a dull screech.

It’s dark inside. The smell of burning hits my nose.

I feel strange, really strange. My head is spinning. Is there smoke in here? A lot of smoke. I’m going to suffocate, I’m going to suffocate. Calm down. You need to calm down, remember. There isn’t any smoke. Just that hideous burning smell.

I go into the darkness. There is absolutely no light in here at all. I feel for my torch and turn it on. For a moment at first the light blinds me; I screw up my eyes as if in pain. I manage to spot some benches, candelabras, tables. But it’s all strange somehow, like in a black and white movie. And there’s something else. Something strange on the walls which I can’t figure out. I need to open my eyes. Open my eyes and look.

“Max, are you alright?” Oxana asks quietly.

“Absolutely,” I reply loudly. “Why should I not be alright?”

Not alright. I know that I am not alright. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to. There’s something wrong.

I open my eyes.

Nothing special. Darkness. The white circle of light from my torch. . In this circle – a bench. A nice bench too, upholstered. Very strange for an abandoned building. Why had everything seemed black and white? I move the beam to one side. I shudder and take a step backwards. The edge of the bench is black, charred. And everything else, everything, is black, burned, broken, destroyed. Crumpled metal, lumps of burned wood. My head is spinning. So weird. I feel so weird.

Flash.

A lake. A calm, quiet lake, just before morning. In the summer it gets light early. A lake. On June nights, when the night has already thickened over the woods, it’s only especially light above large bodies of water – the sea or lakes. It’s so lovely standing on the jetty looking up at that clear light! And it’s not at all frightening. It’s strange even, why should anyone be afraid at night…? I’m not, that’s for sure!

I’m a little chilly. I’ve just been swimming. The water’s not cold at all! In the summer over the course of a day the water in the lakes heats up so much that it’s warm, and at night it’s intoxicating to swim on your back, looking up at the enormous sky above your head with a carefree smile, at the shimmering scatters of pinprick stars, and enjoy listening to the lazy splashing of your hands against the water being carried far above the silent mirror of the water. It’s warm in the water, but when you get out, the droplets on your goosebumped skin become unexpectedly cold and with a comic shiver you sense one of them, quick and icy, making a sudden dash down your back.

A big fluffy towel is draped over your shoulders. Warm… We’re standing on the jetty, looking at the, calm, quiet lake on a night in June. Soon it will be dawn.

“Perhaps we should get some sleep now?” she asks, yawning.

It’s dark. Darkness. What just happened to me? I get off my knees, holding my head… I’m being lifted up. By Oxana and Viktor.

“Max, how are you doing?” I hear her voice.

“Alright,” I reply automatically.

But really I’m not alright. Not at all. Something important. I can’t remember something important. Right now I’m in a club. At night, in a derelict building, with my friends. And I started feeling bad. That happened just now. I can’t understand at all. I’ve forgotten something. My head is still spinning. Where are we? This strange place. I am no longer myself.

I flash the torch around. Walls; I saw something strange. I lift the torch.

And I see it. Writing. Lots of bits of writing. Hundreds, thousands of words. Unconnected letters, numbers, names. Words, overlapping, crawling on top of each other. What is this? My head is spinning. I feel bad. They’re inside me, it’s like those words are inside me. Step back, take a step back, you mustn’t look at this. It’s dark, very dark – but I turned on the torch, I remember definitely turning the torch on. What has it turned me into, this place?

A lake. A lake in the summer. I am standing on a jetty. A fluffy towel round my shoulders. There’s someone behind me. I can’t turn round. I can’t. I try with all my might but I can’t. All I see is the shining lake in front of me. Who am I?

I open my eyes. A bright blue star burns above me. So huge it takes up half the sky. I’m lying on my back. My head really hurts.

“Who are you?” I ask quietly.

“Shhh, Max… Everything’s OK!”

Oxana is leaning over me, blocking out the star. I blink. Consciousness is gradually returning. I’m lying on the tarmac beneath a street light. The tarmac is cold. I lift my hands in front of my eyes. My hands are black, covered in soot. The left one hurts. It’s got a big graze on it.

“Where am I? What happened?” I hear my own voice.

“Everything’s OK, Max!” Oxana says.

I see Viktor next to her. He’s looking at me worriedly.

“You went out cold inside,” Oxana says. “You started babbling away… At first you started wobbling, then you fell down. You lost consciousness. We brought you outside. We’re sitting with you now. We need to get to the car. How are you doing? Can you walk?”

I try to come round. I get up. I lean against the wall. My head is spinning and I feel a bit sick. But I’m alive, more or less. What a load of nonsense. What was that about? What’s up with me? I lost consciousness. It’s like I’ve woken up after a long sleep, except I’m not rested at all. But that’s not important. That’s not what’s important. It’s something else. I know something. I became different. That place made me different. Who am I? There’s some kind of riddle, some important question.

We hobble towards the car. Oxana and Viktor hold me up on both sides. How stupid. From the outside I probably look drunk. Oh well. It’s not important, this. But what is important? I figured something out. Something important. I need to remember, I really need to remember.

I’m leaning against the black bonnet of the Torino. The lacquered bodywork calms me down, its gleams caress me.

A lake. A bright lake on a summer evening.

It happened… It really happened…

A memory.

One of the memories I don’t have. I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything, that’s what’s going on. Who I am, where I studied, where I’m from, there’s none of that.

“Why can’t I remember anything?” I ask Viktor and Oxana out loud. They look at me uncomprehendingly.

“I don’t remember anything,” I tell them. “I don’t remember anything! What happened a year ago, what happened before that. My memories… they’re not there. They just break off. Quite recently…”

“Max, shhh,” Oxana whispers, frightened. “Calm down, please.”

“Listen, maybe he should go to hospital?” Viktor says confused. “He probably banged his head.”

“Max…” Oxana begins.

“No,” I say firmly. “Everything’s OK. I just don’t remember. And I didn’t remember before today either. I just didn’t think about it.

They share a glance.

“Get in the car,” I say. “It’s late already.”

We drive through the city at night. The gleams of the reflected streetlights slide over the car like flashes of electricity. No one says a word.

• • •

Work. The roof of my factory. The river is empty, and the hot evening air ripples in a mirage above the flat water.

What’s happening to me?

Even before I had noticed… I had noticed that my memory simply lacks a ‘before’. It’s as if I started on a blank page in the middle of the year, and before that moment nothing happened. Nothing existed.

Stop, stop… Be logical. I am a logical person, am I not? I just need look from a different angle.

I give up. Too much strange stuff has been happening recently. Maybe it’s connected?

Let’s leave mysticism to one side for now, let’s still try and be logical. Let’s go through the options.

Option one. Yesterday night, there in FridayZZ, I banged my head. Or got gas poisoning. Basically, something bad happened, as a result of which my brain was harmed, causing amnesia. That happens. Probably. Now it seems like I’ve never remembered anything, although until yesterday evening I was absolutely fine and felt fantastic. Did I feel fantastic? Yeah, good, more or less. That’s a ‘pro’. A nice theory. Unfortunately it’s definitely wrong. I recall that I’d been running into problems with my memory long before yesterday evening. Not once, and not twice. It’s just they hadn’t worried me for some reason. But recalling problems with your memory is, however strange it may sound, still recalling something. I might have forgotten something, but I can’t have had false memories! Or could I..? OK, let’s leave it.

Option two. The mystical one. I am not me. I’ve felt strange recently. As if I’ve fallen out of my usual crowd. I’ve got new friends suddenly, new hobbies. Something strange is happening to me. What do all those signs I keep seeing mean? What is Lady F trying to tell me? Who is she?

Too many questions… That’s not even a theory, that’s a fairy tale! But there are still questions! The third option. My city. Everything around me is strange. Very strange. Could I have ended up in an unfamiliar place and not even realise it? Strange things are happening here, stuff for which there is no explanation. I’m surrounded by strange events that go way beyond the normal. What does all this mean?

It’s awful, just awful… It’s madness… Maybe I’m just losing my mind. Maybe there’s no point in looking any more. And everything will be OK. Lady F, Lady F, where are you when I need you so badly? I cover my face with my hands. The wind strokes my arms, ruffling the hairs. I feel the freshness of the river.

• • •

“I don’t want to see any of those guys again!” Oxana tells me.

Notes of capriciousness skip through her voice. We’re arguing right on the street. Our everyday romantic life.

“But they’re my friends!” I say. “I thought they were yours too!”

“What the hell do I need them for? What kind of people are they? They’re all a bit crazy… They’ve all got their own special thing wrong with them. Are you collecting them or something?”

“Don’t talk like that!”

The paths in the park are full of people. Mums with buggies keep coming at you the whole time and you need to dodge back and forth to avoid a crash.

“What should I say then? You’re with them the whole time. And God knows what you get up to. At night and all those walls and whatever. Which is illegal, by the way! And what if you get caught? Or what if you fall from up high somewhere?”

“They won’t catch me,” I say. “And I won’t fall.”

“How do you know? And what if?” She stops and looks at me as if she were challenging me. “It’s time to forget all that! It’s time to think about something else, Max! About something serious and real!”

“Like what, for instance?”

“There’s a whole range of things! Take your pick. What do you do for a living? You’re a night watchman?”

“A security guard,” I correct her jokingly, but somehow even I don’t find it funny.

“And so? Are you planning on spending your whole life like that? Wandering about by the fence and feeding the dog? What a future! A brilliant career, you must agree.”

“That didn’t particularly bother you before,” I note acidly. I didn’t expect she’d be able to offend me. I’d never have thought it. I understand all about my job and my future perfectly fine.

“Before I wasn’t particularly bothered about you either!” she parries. “No, seriously. Even Viktor works in an office. Maybe he could take you on. He could ask in the office there…”

“Oxana,” I say. “Listen, I don’t particularly like this conversation. Are you in a bad mood?”

“Are you in a good mood? What even makes you happy anyway?”

She looks at me unhappily. The sun shines through her fair hair. It’s beautiful and I admire it unwittingly, forgetting about this unpleasant conversation. A gaggle of little girls goes past, eyeing us curiously. I can see them whispering about something. They’re probably imagining how they’ll grow up and dissect their boyfriends’ lives for them.

“Hey, Max,” Oxana says with irritation. “You’ve got to understand me. I’m not asking for anything special, you know! I just want everything to be OK for us. I just want everything to be normal! Like it is for everyone else. Or at least not any worse. I’m hoping for some sort of future, I’m hoping that you take our relationship seriously, I’m hoping that everything’s going to be OK, I’m hoping, hoping, hoping…”

“Everything’s going to be OK,” I tell her.

I don’t sound too sure, to be honest. She grins bitterly.

“Oxana, sweetie,” I say, “there’s no need for all this. You take things too much to heart. Everything’s going to be OK. Everything’s going to be normal, just wait a little while. And don’t put so much pressure on, OK?” She says nothing for a long time and looks away.

“Alright,” she replies snappily. “Sorry.”

We keep going. A whole horde of schoolchildren runs at us. They almost knock us off our feet. They shouldn’t charge around like that, I’m telling you.

• • •

I could just leave it. Come on you’re not a little boy anymore. You’re a grown man now. But I just hope that things will get a bit easier for me. Like always. I just need a bit of familiar comfort. A little bit of peace in my heart. There’s nothing terrible about that. I’m standing in front of the brown, boring door. On the right is the doorbell. A small convex white button which I have to press. I press it.

Mum opens the door a minute later. Her tired face immediately changes when she sees me.

“Oh son, come in!”

She flings up her arms and kisses me, and then looks me in the eye.

“Son, are you alright? You look dreadful.”

I wave it off. I don’t know how to reply to that sort of thing. It’s probably all written on my face. Mum looks alarmed, but heads off into the kitchen to prepare something to eat. And put the kettle on probably.

I slowly take off my shoes. I don’t feel right. I can’t imagine how I’m about to tell her about all this. She’ll worry about me. Can I really treat her like this? On the other hand, she did always say so herself. I just need to talk.

“Mum, I’ve come for a chat…”

A pause and then silence. The noise in the kitchen subsides. I’m sure she’s heard me and this silence irritates me. Something’s wrong. But after a few seconds the jangling and knocking starts up again.

“Yes, dear, of course! What were you after?”

I go into the kitchen, sit on a stool.

“Mum, I’ve got a little problem.”

“What is it?” she asks.

I watch her face carefully. She’s tense. She’s worried and is trying not to show it. As if everything’s fine. But she knows. Does she know? Or do I just think that? How long have I known her? I reckon my whole life. But my whole life – how long is that?

“Mum, there’s something I can’t remember…”

“Which is what?”

Maybe she’s not tense. Maybe I just dreamed it all. Maybe I can just ask and that’ll be it.

“Everything. I don’t remember anything… It seems like I’ve forgotten everything. What happened before this year. I… I’m not even sure that it even happened. And I feel really weird. I’m surrounded by weird things. And something strange is happening.

She throws down the knife and sits down opposite me, looking closely at me with alarm in her eyes.

“Max, son, dearest… Maybe it’s happening again...? No, of course not, no, what am I saying…? I mean, not again… Listen, do you feel OK?”

“I feel… fine, in theory. But, like I just said, I don’t remember anything. And I don’t know why. Why did you say ‘again’? What does ‘again’ mean?”

“Not again, I mean. This is what I think, Maxim. Please don’t be get stressed… I’ll always listen.”

“I’m not stressed, what does ‘again’ mean?”

“Well… you know. Wait a sec. Let’s have some tea and talk everything over, OK?”

“I don’t want tea! I just want the truth! Is it that hard?” I shout loudly, and then stop when I see her frightened face.

There you go. There you go, you’ve gone and frightened your mum. Idiot. Fool. Twenty five years old and you’re behaving like a scared child. I force myself to keep quiet. Don’t get stressed, Max. Don’t get stressed. Everything’s OK. Mum looks at me frightened.

“Sorry, mum. I lost it there for some reason.”

I feel kind of better, but I can’t calm down completely. Nothing works. The cold snake of fury lies coiled around my heart. I heard that ‘again’. Why isn’t she saying anything? What’s up with me? Why isn’t she saying anything?”

“Mum, sorry I lost it. I’ve just been feeling weird recently for some reason. It’s like there’s something up with my memory. With everything basically. And you just said right now, don’t forget, ‘maybe it’s happening again?’ Tell me, mum, honestly. What’s happening ‘again’?”

“Son… Don’t you worry,” Mum looks at me with bitterness. “Just don’t you worry. Everything’s going to be OK.”

The way she just looked at me, the sadness in her eyes, only makes me want to get even angrier. Why can’t she just tell me, why?

“I won’t care if you tell me everything. Why don’t you just tell me what I want to know? Is it that hard? I’m not mental, right, mum?”

“No, son, no, of course not. Don’t you worry… Please, Maxim…”

“I’m not worried,” I break into a shout, and I hate myself for it, but I’m shouting and there’s nothing I can do about it. “Mum, I’m not worried! Just! Tell me! What is this ‘again’ all about?! I need an answer! Now!”

“Son…” Tears appear on my mum’s face. “Son, come on, you remember that time you climbed up on the roof. I’m so afraid for you…”

“Mum. I’ll climb up on the roof right now, if you don’t tell me. And jump off. And my brains will be splattered all over the pavement.”

“I, I… Maxim, you know I love you. I’m worried about you. You’re scaring me. You mustn’t get so stressed, son. Let’s do it like this. We’ll have a bit of tea now, and later, we’ll go see Dmitri Alexandrovich, at the hospital. You’ll tell him about everything that worries you, OK? He’ll probably be able to help you…”

I look at her in silence. She is crying and looking at me terrified. Maybe she should? All these questions without answers, all this weirdness… I don’t have to go looking for answers. There they’ll probably help me forget.

No.

I’m not doing this just for myself. Right?

I close the door behind me. I manage to get down a couple of flights of stairs before she runs after me.

“Max, son, stop, please! Son, just don’t do anything! Don’t do anything stupid, OK? You need help right now, you see?”

I walk away in silence.

• • •

The premiere. I’m in Linda’s am-dram play. It’s my entrance soon. I couldn’t care less. I’ve got something else entirely on my mind. My head is swimming. And Linda, in costume, in rouge, is flitting about backstage all excited, twittering away about the performance.

What’s wrong?

Everything in my life is amazing. Objectively speaking. It’s true you know. I don’t need any answers. They’re not necessary for survival. I’ve got a job, friends and a more or less peaceful life. I can just carry on living and not think about anything. The problem, if you look carefully, is not the fact that things are going badly. Things aren’t going badly.

“Hey… What’s your… Mercutio, let’s go!”

Is he talking to me? He is. Romeo’s calling me on stage with him. Funny, I can’t remember his name either. His real name. I look towards the stage. It’s bright there. Right, I’ve got to go. A couple of lines and that’s it.

I hear the door opening.

“Who’s that now?” I hear Romeo’s unhappy voice. “Maxim, wait…”

I can’t believe my ears. My mum has appeared back stage. And with her there’s some big bloke I don’t know.

“Maxim, wait. We need to have a chat… You need help.” The bloke moves towards me slowly.

I turn to face the light. I go on stage. The bright light hits my eyes.

The problem isn’t that things are going badly. Things aren’t going badly. Things are fine. I’m great, if you think about it. I’m healthy. That’s the main thing. And all the rest is somehow kind of alright. So what’s the problem then?

But something’s wrong. Everything’s not alright. Strange things are happening around me. Strange questions are arising. And, perhaps, only perhaps, it’s not because I’ve just lost my mind. Perhaps strange answers exist. People around me start talking. Romeo’s line. It’s mine soon. The light is very bright. There’s absolute darkness in the audience. It’s as if nothing exists but the stage. It reminds me of something, but I can’t remember what.

Strange questions. Strange answers. So what, there’s nothing particularly frightening about that. Lots of people encounter strange things in their lives. And they live fine. Why does it bother me so much? Why? I know what’s going on, right? What’s going on is this: I have a choice.

I could just forget about all this and carry on living. Carry on living my normal, decent life, with no strange questions and no strange replies, without any extraordinary possibilities, without Lady F, without disturbances in the order of things and disturbances in the world around me. Not go outside this bright circle, not go looking for something that doesn’t exist, not try to move off my appointed path.

It’s better that way anyhow. I know that it’s actually better this way. I’d even want it that way. I’m just tired. It’s enough to do nothing. Quietly play your role in life, smile at your mum and follow her. They’ll help me. They’ll help me forget everything. And everything will be fine.

“Hey,” Romeo hisses at me. “Hey, Mercutio!.. ‘Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.’” I turn to face the audience. It’s dark there. We’re all standing in a circle of bright light. Right now nothing exists apart from that. What was before, what was after, doesn’t matter. Outside the circle, there is nothing. And we all know our roles. Just say your lines as directed. Lady F, Lady F, where are you?

Everything’s going to be fine.

“You know what,” I say out loud. “It’s wrong.”

Silence. Not a word.

“You all know it all, right? Everyone knows how it all ends.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see Romeo’s mouth, wide open and lopsided in surprise. The audience has disappeared. They’re not there any more, it’s so quiet out there in the opaque blackness.

“We exchange a few lines, and then we go to the ball. And Romeo is destined to meet Juliet, and later he dies alongside his beloved. You know that. Everyone knows. And I’m fated to fight Romeo’s enemies and die even sooner. Everyone knows it all.”

Romeo says something to me in an agitated whisper, but I don’t hear him. There’s a commotion backstage.

“But I don’t want that,” I say loudly. “I don’t want that. Yes, I know my part. Entrance, line, action. It’s all written down for me. Just follow your part. Like following some rails. It’s that easy. But I just don’t want that. I don’t even know myself what it is. Whether it’s something serious and important that I want or if it’s just a whim. But I know I don’t want this. I just want to be who I am. Who I really am. And I want to be free. And so... And so, you know, Romeo, this is all I’ve got to say… Be careful. Don’t just do what’s written. Don’t listen to anyone. You know what’s going to happen, so try to save her! Try and change something! You can do it. You’re the lead! You, Benvolio, help him! There’s no need for any more bloodshed. You’re smart guys. You’ve got to figure something out, find a way…” I start moving towards the audience. Towards the edge of the bright circle. I hear voices backstage. Right now. It’s coming.

“I’m going to end up in a duel somewhere at the beginning of act three. That’s life. But you know what? I don’t want that. Yeah, I know that’s how the part is written, but get this, I don’t want to die at all. So… I’m leaving. Sorry!”

And they run at me from the wings. I can’t see, but I hear loud footsteps and shouting. But I’m not planning on staying here. I’ve made my choice.

“So long! I’ve got to go! My life is waiting for me!”

I jump out of the white circle and find myself in darkness. Down off the stage. Onwards, towards the exit from the auditorium. It’s not so dark when you get here. I have time to look around. I leave the stage behind. Human figures are caught in the beams of the stage lights. Romeo and Benvolio, hands at their sides, are looking at each other in dismay. The bloke who came with my mum is staring into the darkness of the auditorium. He looks blatantly out of place on the stage.

“Lights, turn up the lights!” he shouts.

I run past the audience. They look at me in surprise. Some people make a tired attempt at applause, watching me with unbelieving eyes. Most people don’t even realise what’s going on. No one tries to stop me.

I fling open the door and run out into the street.

• • •

A blank wall. I raise the can in my hand. I draw a line.

I’m trying to find answers.

The silhouette ends up looking strange. I don’t even know what I’m drawing. I’m just following the lines. They are directing me, not the other way around.

A question is when you don’t know the truth. An answer is a truth you didn’t know before. I need to keep moving. And I’ll know everything sooner or later.

The painting starts to take shape. It’s not ideal, but I know for sure I’m doing the right thing. Her… She’s not with me right now, but I remember that question of hers very clearly.

Why do people continue to create if perfection is unobtainable?

Because they hope that they might get even one step closer. Just one little step. And once you’ve taken a step it’s already a journey.

Another line, then another.

“Interesting,” someone says behind me.

The voice is flat and unfamiliar. I turn round so sharply I nearly lose balance. A man is sitting behind me. I can’t see his face. He’s in a hood which casts a dark shadow.

“Who are you?” I ask looking round.

The man says nothing for a long time. Then he gets up.

“My name is Ben,” he says.

“Yeah...? Mine’s Max…” I reply, bemused.

“I know. Nice to meet you,” Ben sniffs. “This bit here – I don’t think it’s finished.”

He points out a last line. He’s right. A final stroke. I complete the painting.

“Shall we go?” Ben says. “You’re not going to stay here are you? Holding that can.”

“Let’s go,” I say.

We leave. The painting is left there behind us on the city canvas. The blank wall is no longer blank.