Rock Bottom

“Why are you hiding? Are they after you?” It’s me who asks this.

Ben laughs, runs his fingers over the wall, not worried about getting them dirty.

“They’re after me.”

“Because you paint?”

“Nah. Because they know what I paint. How many artists are there in the city? Dozens. They’re all painting. Lots of them are way bigger than me. Not better, but bigger. They’re not after them. Why? Because either they need to catch you in the act or have definite proof. As for my work, everyone knows that it’s mine. So I keep a low profile. And you?”

“Me? I’m going through some temporary difficulties in life. For the mean time I don’t know whether it’s for long, or what it’s going to lead to.”

“Temporary is good.” Ben purses his lips and looks to one side.

We’re sitting on a bridge that’s under construction. It’s the workers’ day off, there’s no one around. Down below people are hurrying about their business. We’re in the part of the city that doesn’t exist.

“Why do you say that? Are you sick of running?”

“Of running..? No, that’s not it. The question is whether I’d stop hiding if they weren’t looking for me.”

“Would you stop?”

“I don’t think so. I’m used to being alone. I like it.”

“So what’s next? Are you going to do this your whole life?”

“What about you?” Ben answers my question with a question.

“Me… Probably not. I like freedom. I really like being free. The routine of work bothers me. But that’s being young. Maturity will come later.”

“And so what then?” Ben looks at me derisively. “What? What’ll that be like?”

“I don’t know. Different somehow.”

“Different how?”

“Well, I don’t know. A family probably. Children. Responsibility.

“Ach, are those your words, Max? Be more specific. Just tell me all about it. Come on. Don’t be shy.”

I gather my thoughts. Cars flash by below. Sometimes they come in such a stream that it’s like they turn into a train.

“You see, Ben, right now I’m faced by a certain choice. Or rather, you could say that I’ve already made my choice. I still have to work it all out, but I reckon that there’s something bigger behind this choice…” I falter, choosing my words carefully.

“Carry on,” Ben says. “Just say what you’re thinking, and we’ll figure it out.”

“Right then. Don’t you think that we… our generation, or something, are too in love with freedom? No, no, freedom’s not the right word…. Or maybe it is right. No one wants to go for the big distant goals. It’s boring and it takes ages. I don’t mean like a journey, of course. I mean like taking part in some important shared project and getting pleasure from that. There are big corporations of course, and people that work in them, I know those kind of people. But they don’t work there out of enthusiasm. Not for fun. They work for the money, for their career. And if a good job turned up in another company they’d happily go and work there. And they wouldn’t see it as a betrayal. I mean, they don’t see themselves as taking part in some meaningful act of creation. Something more meaningful than their own goals…”

“And what’s wrong with their own goals?” Ben interrupts.

Even though he suggested that I explain my thoughts, he still obviously can’t resist voicing his objections.

“Yeah, there’s nothing wrong with goals. But there’s not a lot of good about them either. So, OK, they’ve been saving up for a house, for instance. People used to dream of having a big family, a bunch of kids, a house and so on. But you know that’s not what they’re earning the money for now. Of course, there’s some guys… But the dream is different now. Plus the dream is often for totally successful well-off people. You’ve earned some money. You’ve earned some more. Bought a car, an expensive watch. And bought loads of women too. And gone travelling round the world. Surfing and diving and all that. And, ideally, you’ve got your own business ahead of you. But that’s it. I mean, there’s always an even more expensive car and a million-dollar watch. Where are the kids? Where is the family? Nappies, chores, weekends in the country... can that really compare with white sand, azure waters and tanned bodies?”

Ben’s been dying to get a word in for ages. He’s had enough. Finally, I pause, and he hurriedly butts in.

“Max, Max, Max, wake up! What’re you going on about? These aren’t your words! These aren’t your words, I’m sure of it! This is some hangover from the past, some TV movies from your ignorant Soviet past lingering in your infected subconscious. Yep, everything you said was true. Yep, that’s what we’re like! We want to be free! I don’t want to sit in an office every day of every week, up to my ears in debt. We don’t want that! That’s not stability! It’s serfdom! We’re not talking about everyone right now, but you get who I mean… We want to earn money, but not work. Earn a lot, fast and without any stress. Naturally, no one wants to get caught up in anything dodgy, but no one needs to think too much about whether it’s fair or not. Sure, in the capital wages are three or four times higher. So what? We want money, and we can get it! And, note, I’m not being critical when I say that! I’m young and happy and I know how to spend money to enjoy myself, which means I have to! I do design. In my spare time from this antisocial existence. Through contacts, of course. I’ve made a name for myself. I sometimes get more for a sketch than a factory worker in the provinces gets in year. So what? Should I now be bothered by my conscience gnawing away at me? No way! I’m young and free and I feel good. I’m within my rights! I want to paint. So I paint. I want to enjoy life. So I enjoy it! A family? How was it you described it? Weekends in the country… Nappies… So is that what happiness is then, soup and nappies? And what about love? ‘Love’ – do you know that word?

I don’t need anything tying me down! And if that suits some girl too, why not? But I can love my freedom, love it with all my heart, live through my emotions, not counting debts and comparing prices… If I like expensive toys… why not? If I want a different girl every weekend… why not? I want to be happy here, today, now, and fast! And not ‘maybe’, wiping away tears, in ten years’ time, after miles of nappies, standing on top of some mighty triumphant construction project that’s united the nation and all that. Happiness is pleasure without regret, remember, like Tolstoy said? And you know what we’ve done? We’ve got rid of regret! To hell with regret! We feel fantastic without it! To hell with regret, to hell with responsibility! Yeah, this is our generation, the generation of instant happiness. And I’m glad I belong to it. Isn’t that what freedom is?”

“Uh-huh. Freedom… I also want to be free. But that freedom that you described… ‘Earn money fast, spend it, expensive toys, do what I want…’ Isn’t that the same society of consumption that people like you have been fighting against for twenty years?”

Ben looks at me dumfounded.

“Society of consumption...? No way! The expensive toys aren’t important in themselves. What’s important is that I want to be happy and free. And people get to be happy and free when they do whatever crosses their mind and get whatever they want. It sounds dodgy… from the outside, I realise. To someone on the outside. But from the inside… from the inside, when you say it about yourself it’s full of meaning. Because after that there’s no one else you’re going to ask about it. After that you won’t need an answer from anyone about why your life has passed you by. It’s better to be young and healthy… and happy and free. Free from everything. From responsibility, from regret, from difficult thoughts and unknown goals in the fogs of the future. To hell with it. Don’t sweat it, Max. Be young and happy.”

Be young and happy. Be young and happy. What beautiful words.

“I wasn’t talking about that, Ben.”

“About what then?”

“About how this new freedom… this new trend, yeah, has itself become the norm. It’s become a responsibility in itself. If you move in certain circles and you don’t sign up to this image, it means, you’re lagging behind. It means you’re not successful.”

“Not successful...?” Ben thinks about it. “Well, maybe.”

“So what kind of freedom is it then? It turns out that to be successful you have to be ‘free’ like you described. And what kind of freedom is it if you ‘have to’?”

“Yeah, it’s a contradiction…” Ben laughs. “But those are just words. I’m telling you that on the inside that’s not how you feel it.”

“It’s pretty weird to hear you of all people talking like that…”

“Possibly. But coming from me it’s even more contradictory, which means it sounds even more interesting! Tell me, Max, what is freedom for you?”

“For me? Right now… knowing the truth about myself. And living how I want. I want to be completely independent… free from any fixed mindsets, any convictions, any roles. To be, basically, however banal it may sound, to be myself.”

“So how is that different from what I was saying?”

“Because your ‘freedom’ is still a role.”

“Hey, Max,” Ben laughs and slaps me on the shoulder. “Each to their own, bro. Each to their own.”

• • •

A park. That same one. With the huge trees interlocking above my head. The noise, the ancient noise of the old trees. Like the surf, sounding for centuries. A grey, overcast sky. It’s calm here. A beautiful place.

But something… something’s not right here. There’s something dangerous. I know, I know for sure, what the thing about this place is. I’ve just forgotten.

I look for her, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

I hear a noise. Or is it music? Maybe I’ve imagined it? Trees make a noise, trees make a beautiful noise. I could listen to that music forever.

There’s something over there, past the bend in the path. I know it for sure, but I just can’t remember what exactly it is.

Movement. There’s movement up ahead. Someone is running over there… I stop. I look ahead. Where are you, where are you when I need you so much?

There’s something bright on the ground. I bend over. It’s some flowers. Their colour burns and blinds in this grey, faded, peaceful place.

I see them again. They’re running, running towards me, black dogs, fast, silent, sure of their target. It’s as if my legs are stuck to the ground. I need to run, run away, turn round and run away, but it’s impossible, because I remember what the most terrible, terrible thing is. I can sense it, I can definitely sense it, like an icy beam aimed directly at my back. Behind my back and just to the left. I need to turn round. I need to turn round so that I can understand. I need to turn round. There’s an answer there.

There’s an answer there, Max.

I turn round.

No. No. NO!

I wake up. Black and scary. For a long time I can’t figure out where I am, then I remember. I’m at Ben’s house. I couldn’t risk going back to mine and asked if I could go to his. The black dogs are still floating in front of my eyes. I ran with them. Or from them. And I saw, right? I saw what was behind me. I saw. And it made me wake up. I’ve got to, I’ve got to remember. Whatever it was I saw.

I lie there for a long time, I lie in absolute darkness, I rub my eyes and pinch myself so I don’t fall asleep, I lie there even longer, until the early dawn breaks outside the window, but I still can’t remember what I saw, there in the overcast park, in that beautiful, gloomy park where the black dogs live.

• • •

A new day in my city. Morning. Not too early. The sun has already painted the walls in the colours of a city summer and is glittering in bright stars in the orange windows. The air begins to warm up and cars fill the city, cattle let out of their shed.

“Have you got a shift tomorrow?” Ben asks.

“Uh-huh…” I reply.

I’m suddenly in a good mood. I like this morning. I want to forget everything and hurry off somewhere along with these passers-by and this immediately makes me realise that Ben can’t have known where I work and what I do. I hadn’t told him. An unpleasant chill runs down my spine. The colours immediately fade, and the flashes of sunlight in the orange windows become unpleasantly blinding.

“Ben…” I say.

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t tell you where I work.”

“Really?” Ben asks calmly, not slowing down. “I think you mentioned something. Something about shifts, no?”

“Yeah…”

I fall silent, turning our conversations over in my head. About life, about freedom, about art… Maybe. I really don’t want to get distracted on this gorgeous morning, I really don’t want to get caught up in the gloomy problems and awkward questions, so I quite consciously push these thoughts away. Actually I probably let something slip while we were talking. Said something about working in shifts. Let’s say I did.

“Max..?” Ben says,

“Yes, Ben?”

“Today’s a fantastic day for doing nothing, don’t you reckon?”

I laugh.

“Let’s give it a go..!”

• • •

We’re sitting on a bench in the park, feeding the pigeons. Dozens of birds have gathered for the crumbs from a baguette. There’s not many people here, not much activity. It was two minutes from here that the flying truck nearly killed me. Right now I don’t want to think about that. Scary. Perhaps it’s because I want to live?

What’ll happen next? I haven’t gone back home yet for fear they might be waiting for me there. Now that I’ve run off there’s no limit to what they might be thinking about me. I hope they won’t call the police in to catch me. Detained by the police and confined to a psychiatric hospital. Looks good on the CV, that.

“Why did you become the way you are, Ben?”

“What do you mean ‘the way I am’?

“You know. Do you know Mutt?”

“Of course. We know each other well.”

“You know what he thinks about people. That he doesn’t need anyone and so on. Is that what you think too? Is that your influence?”

“Not quite. I agree with him in part. It’s pretty much the same as what we’ve been talking about. What do you need other people for? If you get some pleasure from hanging out with friends, then great. But what do you need other people for? In most cases, they’re only going to bring you new problems. They’re going to want you to play some part in their life. They’re going to want your help. What do you want that for?”

“It’s better on your own?”

“Yeah! It’s better on your own. I can get whatever I need when I need it. Conversation, pleasure, sex, if I want it. Without the problems, which, as a rule, come with other people. Plus, they don’t, as a rule, understand me. They don’t understand my way of life, or my art, or my solitude. And they don’t understand the most important thing: that they’ve got nothing to offer me! I just don’t need them. And whatever I do need I can get myself.”

“Sounds pretty dark.”

“And what about the paintings?”

“So what… what about the paintings?”

“Whatever happens, everyone sees them. And whatever happens, it’s well… it’s still illegal.”

Ben nods. A bitter smile twists his lips. He bends over deliberately slowly and picks up the heel of the bread which the birds couldn’t peck apart. He breaks it into small bits and crumbles it. The pigeons crowd round, clambering over each other and cooing wildly.

“Yeah, everyone sees my paintings,” Ben says. “But it’s not that I want everyone to see them… But I don’t want the opposite either…”

He sits in silence, kneading the bread in his fingers. He doesn’t say anything for five minutes, then ten. We sit together in silence. It’s nice in the park.

• • •

Roof. Summer. Day. A heat wave in the city. Warmth rises from the roofing felt on the top of the five-storey building. The hot air swirls and wavers. Me and Ben are drinking warm beer and watching the city at work. Ben is telling me about his schooldays, constantly getting sidetracked.

“At first I drew on desks. I was a vandal. It’s a petty, stupid thing to do, of course. Desks look so ugly when they’re covered in writing. When it’s all like jumbled up. And walls look ugly too when everything’s all jumbled up. That’s vandalism too. You know there was this campaign in New York. When the city authorities began to really crack down on graffiti. To clean the trains, clean the walls. And the crime rate fell. It was a sort of experiment. The idea being that if a person is standing next to a wall covered in graffiti he’s more likely to chuck some rubbish on the pavement. And if the wall is clean, he’ll go and look for a bin. And so on, and the same sort of thing with crime. Because I realise that it’s all very controversial. But there’s nothing I can do about it. I am who I am. I paint. On the other hand, when the work is good, then it doesn’t look like rubbish on the wall. It’s a canvas and a beautiful picture. Which makes people stop and smile. Or, more rarely, to stop in amazement. Or even more rarely it makes them think. Although… of course, that’s not why I paint.”

“Then why?”

“To be honest I don’t completely know,” Ben replies eventually. “I’ve been asked that question so many times. So I often quote this passage….

Ben thinks.

“Right… ‘Art must no longer inhabit only the storerooms and sheds of human genius – the palaces, galleries, salons, libraries and theatres. On behalf of the great advance of cultural equality for all, we demand that the Free Word of the creative individual be written on the intersections of walls, on the fences, roofs and streets of our cities and villages and on the spines of the automobiles, carriages and trams and on the clothes of all citizens. May paintings leap from building to building on our streets and squares like jewelled rainbows, delighting and ennobling the eye of passers-by. Artists and writers must immediately take the pots of paint and brushes from their studios and paint the sides, foreheads and chests of all our cities, stations and endlessly running flocks of railway carriages. From this day forward, may the citizens on our streets at all times enjoy the depth of thought of their great contemporaries, observe the bright and luscious beauty of the joy of today and everywhere hear the music – the melodies, the rumble, the noise – of wonderful composers. May the streets become a celebration of art for all!’”

Ben falls silent and looks at me expectantly.

“Awesome, right?” he asks.

“Totally,” I laugh. “What is that?”

“It’s Mayakovsky. A Futurist manifesto. About us. But actually wanting to paint is most often not a conscious choice, but just… just a genuine desire. And I get pleasure from it. When I’m painting… it’s like I’m a victorious sportsman feeling his own strength.”

“It’s a sport?”

“No. But it’s the same as sport is for someone who loves it. It’s a way of life. But listen…” Ben takes a swig from a bottle. “We’re getting a bit deep here, no? So, when I was studying, these paintings of mine weren’t very important for me. It happened gradually. At first I just painted, then I looked and saw – it’s working. I started to take an interest in the technical side. Then I got into graffiti. Gave it a go. I don’t even remember when it happened.”

I wait for him to continue, but there’s a long pause and I fear he won’t continue.

“And then what?”

“Well…When it became more than just something I was into. When it became the most important thing. When I myself became part of it. For me it’s something more than just a hobby. It’s life. For other people it’s just something they’re into. Like collecting stamps. And some people just laugh at it. Like you, when you were studying, at first you looked down on these paintings…”

A second. One second, during which I turn to him in confusion. When I was at uni? How could he know that? And is he really scared? Or just unsure of himself? Or does he think he’s blurted out something he shouldn’t have?

“…probably,” Ben completes his sentence.

“What was that?” I ask and I already know how stupid it sounds…

“What was that when?” Ben asks confused.

“Just now. You know where I was at uni? How come?”

Ben frowns.

“No. I don’t know. What’s going on, Max? Why are you acting so… so suspicious? About work, studying. What’s going on? I thought I was paranoid.” He laughs. “Maybe you’d like to talk about it?”

I say nothing and look at the city. For some reason you always feel special on the roof. Here everything’s different. It’s as if that scurrying, gleaming, inconstant city below you doesn’t exist. Up here is part of that invisible city where Mutt lives. It’s like you’re on some high and silent cliff and below you a storm is raging. Up here it’s calm, quiet, slow, smooth; it’s like you are a solitary eager soaring high on the breeze, the wind caressing your feathers.

“I’ll try and tell you,” I begin.

For a long time I say nothing. After all I don’t even really understand myself what’s going on.

“Basically it’s like this, Ben. I’ve got problems with my memory. Something strange is happening to me. I’ve forgotten, you see?”

“What have you forgotten?”

“I’ve forgotten everything. I’ve forgotten who I am, where I studied, what happened to me before. I remember my friends, I remember my mum. I remember my name. But up until a certain moment in my life… there’s just this fog. As if there was nothing there. As if at that moment I was born with all my memories and knowledge, but before that there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Uh-huh. And have you tried to talk to anyone about this? To your parents?”

“I’m talking to you. I mentioned it to my Mum. She decided that I’d gone mental, judging by everything that’s happened. Instead of talking to me about it, she called the doctor. And now I’m staying at yours. Because I’m afraid to go home. They’ll put me in the nuthouse. That’s where you really do go paranoid.”

“But maybe… Don’t get me wrong. But maybe you really do need some help?”

“I’m not offended. It’s a reasonable question. I’ve already thought about it, Ben. The thing about this is… you see, until recently I wasn’t worried about the fact that I don’t remember anything. I knew, I definitely knew, but I just wasn’t worried. It seemed normal to me. Although it’s clearly not normal.”

“So when did you start to worry?”

“When… I... when me and some friends went to this abandoned club.”

His pupils widen. I saw that. I definitely saw that.

“Do you know something? Tell me, Ben.”

“Max. Calm down. Just tell me. You’re being weird, to be honest.”

“Possibly… So. I’m starting to suspect that something unusual happened to me. As if there’s something strange in my past. Something strange happened to me. Or to the city. Or to the world. I’m trying to figure out who I am, what happened in my past, why I forgot about it. To find out if this past even existed…”

“Cool,” Ben says.

“I get it,” I say bitterly. “I get it… I sound just like some ranting madman! But it’s really like that. That’s why I want to find out who I am. That’s why I want to figure out what’s going on. That’s why I’m not rushing over to them saying ‘take me to the loonie bin.’ There you go, that’s my story, Ben.”

“Awesome, Max. It really is awesome,” Ben says,

Then he says nothing for ages.

“You know what, Max,” he says. “I believe you. Seriously. Look for your answers. I’m sure you’ll find them. Just look after yourself. You never know what answers you might stumble upon. They might turn out to be more dangerous than the questions.”

“Thanks,” I nod. “Thanks, Ben.”

“One more thing, Max. Don’t think that I’m running away from you, but I have to go. I’ll give you one more bit of advice. I don’t know if what I’m doing is a good idea or not. Or whether it’s right. I really don’t know. But this is what I’d do in your position: try and recall the last point you remember. Maybe that’ll help you?”

• • •

The beach. The waves roll in. It’s already evening, but the sky on the sea is as blindingly bright as it is in the afternoon. The cool sand. I take it in my hand, and billions of tiny stones slip through my fingers in cold streams. Did you know there are roughly as many stars in the known universe as there are grains of sand on the Earth? A funny coincidence.

Behind me is the enormous concrete promenade.

The sound of the surf measures out the minutes.

I feel good.

White foam seethes and dances on the crests of the waves. One wave replaces another, and yet another always follows after that. Infinity. Infinity is beautiful. The sea is a symbol of silence. A symbol of peace. A stormy sea? A squall? Everything passes. Everything disappears. Always. All that’s left is peace and the measured sound of the waves.

I like thinking about this. Nothing means anything. In the end everything will calm down, everything will be worn down into the smooth mirror of the endless expanse of peaceful water.

It’ll be sunset soon. The sun is just about to touch the edge of the horizon.

Behind me I hear a girl laughing in the distance. Or is she right behind me? There it is again.

It’s…

I smile, I want to turn round. But nothing happens. How come, I don’t get it… I try with all my might, but my whole body is tied down, fixed, pinned by strange bonds.

She’s laughing behind me.

I look at myself. I’m covered in sand. So covered that I can’t move. I try with all my might but nothing happens. How come? How come?

The sun touches the sea.

At that moment the whole sky burns red. The sunset blazes above the endless horizon. The clouds flow by, constantly changing, gleaming with streaks of crimson. The sun is huge. It’s swallowing the sea. The world is going wrong. The world is turning hostile. Out in the distance, at the very edge, something big is moving towards the seashore.

“What is that? What is it, Max?” I hear her voice.

I want to say that everything’s fine, everything’s going to sort itself out, but I’ve got no voice. I can see that a huge scarlet wave is building above the sea.

It’s moving towards us. Fast. Unstoppable. Run, we’ve got to run. I need to say something to her, to warn her, but I can’t say even a single word. Get up, move. Not a flicker of movement. I have to move, but I can’t. I can’t even waggle a finger, and even the attempt makes my muscles burn with pain. Move. Move, that’s what I need to do now more than anything. But I can’t. I can’t!

The wave gets closer all the time. It is fire, the crimson fire of the sun, but an icy wind is blowing from it. I start to get covered in ice. I turn to stone. I want to scream, but my throat is filled with cold sand.

I wake up.

I have tears in my eyes. Cold. I’m lying on the roof. It’s night already. I need to get going, I need to move, or I’ll freeze and get ill. I tell myself this again and again, but for a long time, a very long time, I lie there on the deserted rooftop, shivering from the cold and looking up at the huge starry sky.

• • •

Morning again. All night I wandered through the city. I was looking at graffiti. Sometimes I think I see something really familiar. Then I stop and take a long look at the painting. But it doesn’t help me remember where I’ve seen it. Cold. I hope I haven’t got ill. It’s overcast today. The scurrying clouds are reflected in the black glass. It seems as if the clouds are scurrying over from the other side, as if every window is a huge TV transmitting static from another world.

I’ve come to a familiar place. My legs just brought me here. I’ve been here before, haven’t I? I look up.

I’m at my job. Why? Of course. Because I’ve got a shift today. Can I work? I don’t know. I’ve barely slept? Could they be waiting for me here? Hardly. Not in the morning.

I go inside. Say hello. Reply politely to concerned questions about how I’m feeling. Sign in. Watch the last workers leave through the main gate. They can barely put one leg in front of the other. Time is flying by in bursts. Sometimes imperceptibly, sometimes slowly, thick like treacle.

I’m alone again.

I go up to my section. The steps ring with a metallic jangle. They’ve put the staircase in, nice one. Could have painted it.

I’m at the top. Now I can relax. It’s going to be a warm day today. I lie down right there on the roof. I can fall asleep. But there’s something else important. I’ve got to remember. Something important. What Ben said. What did he say?

I have to figure out what’s the last moment I remember in my life.

That’s easy. Let’s have a think.

So, yesterday I spent the whole day chilling with Ben. It was a good day. A lot of sun and sky and summer in the city. My eyes are closed, but I’m smiling.

And what was before that?

The theatre. The circle of light. Did that really happen? It happened. I took an important decision and ran right off the stage. I remember Linda’s fair hair, her hand holding a cigarette and her bright eyes. The jigsaw which was made especially for you. The missing piece which has been hidden and which you have to find. What else? Club FridayZZ. Night, torches, the frightened faces of Oxana and Viktor. Confusion and heaviness in my head. A flash. That’s when I realised that I had problems with my memory. And I… I didn’t go inside. They pulled me out. Viktor and Oxana pulled me out. Why? What was in there?

Night. Black dogs. The road lit with flaming torches leading off into the wood. The silent masks surrounding me. Running through the wood at night. The strange light on the hill. The evil, drunk faces of the guys we had to run away from to save ourselves. Walks through the city. Gray hanging upside down and smiling. Talking to Lady F… right here on this roof and the three aces looking up. A teary Oxana. I dragged her out of some stupid situation at some guy’s flat.

Mutt. The invisible tower. The dog that attacked Linda. Flowers and cats on a brick wall. My knees shaking because I’ve nearly fallen off the roof at work. It’s a long way down. About eight storeys. I’d probably have been smashed to pieces. Did that really happen? Of course it happened, I remember it very clearly and precisely. You can go up the stairs, go out onto the roof, onto the warm rooftop and look down. Then I fell for some reason. Ah, they were doing up the staircase. It’s good I don’t have to use it any more. And before that, what was before that?

Before that there were the guys. Mutt, Linda, Gray and Torte. A beam of light and an enormous butterfly on the wall. The silhouette of a woman’s face. The outline of a girl. And running dogs. No, that was before. The guys. The artists. Tanya. The car. The money. The sevens.

A bright ray of light crawling across the wall.

“Imagine,” Dmitri Alexandrovich says to me softly, “that you’ve got a friend Misha. Have you imagined that?”

“No, Dmitrii Alexandrovich,” I say. “Ben is me. You’ve got it all confused.”

“What about the roof, Ben?”

“What about it, Dmitri Alexandrovich?”

“Turn round, Ben. But be careful! It’s a long way down!”

I look down. It really is a long way. And my mum is shouting. Wouldn’t want to come crashing down from up here! But it’s warm here, up on the roof. Just baking. Mum, stop shouting! It’s all OK. I’m just joking about, Mum.

“Hi!” she says.

She is behind me.

“Hi!” I greet her cheerily.

I want to look at her so badly, so badly. But I can’t turn round. My darling, my darling Lady F! I can’t turn round. And that noise too. What came after that? What’s next? I can’t figure it out.

Nothing. A grey fog. There’s nothing more. There’s no way to get deeper. Just noise.

It’s the noise of the trees. Big, huge, towering trees, reaching right up to the sky. Far above their crowns intertwine, forming a dome which the sun can never break through. Ahead of me there is an avenue which goes round a corner. I remember that it’s dangerous here. It can get scary here. But I can just not think about it and then everything will be fine.

There’s something in my hand. It’s a photo. I can’t see it, but I know it’s a photo. Cold. A cold spot on my back. From behind me and to the left, I feel this penetrating cold, like there’s an icy ray drilling through me. Turn round. I can’t turn round. I have to turn round. The wind flutters the photo in my hand. I want to look, but… Up ahead something’s moving. It’s the black dogs. No. I look carefully. There, beyond the trees, I see a road. Cars are going along it, one after another. It’s just an ordinary road. You can go along it to get the park. I’ve just been along it to get here. Scary.

There’s a photo in my hand. I want to look at it. But I can’t. I can’t. This tiny, insubstantial object in my hand suddenly becomes heavier than iron, heavier than a boulder, heavier than me. The photo falls out of my hands and disappears in the ground, its enormous weight driving it down.

I’m overcome with terror. Powerlessness. A nightmare. Shaking hands. I have to turn round, I want to look at her.

But I can’t.

I open my eyes. I feel good. My head is clear. I’m lying on the roof of the factory. I just had a nightmare, that’s all. Why did I wake up?

I crawl over to the edge. There’s a guy standing on the other side of the factory gate, looking at the fence. Then he climbs over it. I see Snowy lifting his head. Even from eight storeys up I recognise him immediately. He was already after me then, in the theatre. Time to go.

I don’t get up but move over to the staircase crouched over. I go down carefully, not lifting my head. Then a yelp. You wouldn’t say that Snowy is much of a fighting dog. He’s good at sensing strangers. And the night watchman has to take it from there. But right now the night watchman is stealthily making his way towards the fence on the opposite side from the entrance. He climbs over and sprints away.

Farewell, my job. They’ll have to find another night watchman. I hope they’ll remember me fondly. And I thank you. Thank you for leading me to my strange dream and to this discovery on the top of an eight-storey factory. I understood three things. Number one: the last thing I remember is the roof of the building where I sat swinging my legs. Number two: the gloomy park under the tall trees where the black dogs live is real. It’s somewhere in my city. I don’t remember where. I don’t even remember vaguely, but I know for sure that I’ve been there before. And finally: the photo. The photo in my hand, the light photo that’s heavier than a rock. I remember it. I think I remember.

• • •

A call. Somewhere nearby a phone is ringing. I don’t understand. The melody is really close by, but there’s no one around. I realise with surprise that it’s coming from my pocket. It’s my mobile. Have I finally lost the plot? It’s not my ringtone. For sure. How come? I get out my phone, look at the screen.

“Sweetheart”. Who’s that then?

“Hello?”

Then it hits me – last time round Oxana got into my phone, and changed my contacts, and changed my ringtone too.

“Hi Max, is that you?” she says hurriedly. “Where are you? Where’ve you disappeared off to? Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s alright,” I reply. “More or less.”

I hear her breathing excitedly down the line.

“Max, let’s meet up!”

“What for?”

“What do you mean what for?! We’re going out! I need you. I’m worried about you. What’s up with you? What’s happening?”

“Everything’s fine. I’m just looking for answers. Certain answers to certain questions. Questions that are important to me.”

“Max, let’s meet up. Please.”

“Will you come alone?”

“Yes, fine…”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

We meet half an hour later on our usual bench in the park.

She looks at me for a long time, hugs me, kisses me.

“Maxim, what’s up with you? You’re scaring me.

“I’m looking for answers, Oxana. Answers that are very important to me.”

“What answers, why?”

“My past. What happened to me before.”

“It’s… Max, what do you need all that for? You’re only hurting yourself. There wasn’t anything important. Stop it. Everything’s going to be fine, remember? Do you believe me?”

“I don’t know…”

“Max. Listen to me,” she clasps my head in her hands and looks me in the eye, seriously and intently. “Max. Listen. Everything’s good with us. Remember? You’ve got me. We’re a couple. We’ve got a future. Maybe we’ve got at a long relationship ahead of us. Maybe even more. Who knows? Right now you’re destroying everything. You’re hurting yourself, destroying yourself. Stop it. Just forget all this. I’m begging you, forget it. Whatever there was in your past, real or imagined, doesn’t matter now.”

I don’t say anything back. It’s hard for me to look her in the eye. She looks full of worry. Real worry, on my behalf. How can I explain to her…

“Max…” she says despondently.

“It matters,” I reply gloomily. “It matters to me.”

“Stop it!” she cries with tears in her eyes. “Stop this! Please! When are you going to stop? I don’t want this. We shouldn’t have come here. We shouldn’t have… Forget it, just forget it, I’m begging you! It’s all in the past. Now there’s just you and me! There’s no past, there’s only the future. It’s all those artist friends of yours. It’s all them. Sad mental cases. Max. Come with me, eh? Just come with me. Let’s just have everything be like it was before. We were good together, right?”

“Oxana,” I say. “Don’t… I have to remember. I have to.”

“Max,” she says, her hands squeezing against my head. “Max, listen here. Right now you’re going to go with me. And all the bad stuff is going to stay in the past. It’s going to stay in the past forever. All your memories, your mental friends, your crazy street art, all your pain, everything bad. Everything. And ahead of you there’s only good. That’s where there’s you and me. And our happiness. We’ll live together, then we’ll get married, and we’ll have kids, and everything will be OK. OK?”

She waits. She’s probably right. Is it worth it? I think about it. She sees the doubt in my eyes; her eyes burn with crazy hope.

For a second, for one tiny second, I agree in my head. But then everything comes back. Too late. It’s too late to stop.

She realises even before I reply. She cries without a sound. Tears pour out of her eyes.

I gently free myself from her hands.

“Sorry, Oxana. I can’t. My path is different, you see?”

“What, what different path have you got? What’re you on about?!” she cries angrily.

“I don’t know. I need to work that out myself.”

“Yourself. Yourself! And did you ever think about me?!”

She starts crying, smearing the mascara round her eyes.

“Again… Again, what is it with me? What is it with me… I’m not right. I’m just not right…”

She covers her face and sobs violently. I stand next to her, not knowing what to say.

“Oxana. You’ll be great. I know for sure. But I’ve got to go. Sorry, I’ve got to go.”

She doesn’t reply, just sobs violently, her head buried in her hands. Her fragile shoulders tremble.

I walk away. I feel bad inside. But I need to keep going. Oxana distracted me, but that photo… I know it’s in my flat. Hidden in one of the books. I put it there ages ago. I need to keep going. There’s not a lot of time.

• • •

The half-gloom of the corridor. I turn the key carefully. The lock still clicks, however much I try to be silent.

A pause. I wait. If there’s someone there, I’ll be giving myself up for sure.

Nothing. I open the door carefully. Inside there are a few signs of someone else’s presence. The empty teapot with the lid off. The open bathroom door. They’ve definitely been waiting for me here, hoping that I’d come home. Maybe even mum too. Only she has a key. She’s unlikely to have given it to someone. There’s half a sandwich on the table. Looks like she left in a hurry. Someone probably called her.

I smell food and immediately realise how hungry I am. I throw the remains of the sandwich into my mouth on the walk. A missing sandwich will tell them for sure that I was here. To hell with that. Making a sandwich to mask the fact that you’ve been in your own flat – that really is madness. But I feel OK. Of sound mind and memory. And I’ve got a job to do here.

I go into my room and up to the bookshelves. It should be here somewhere. I run my finger along the spines. The first shelf, the second, the third.

The book’s nowhere to be seen. This can’t be. I check again.

I look over the shelves one more time, then go round the flat. I look in the drawers in the table and behind the sofa. “This can’t be… this can’t be…” I whisper to myself, and, I must believe it because once I’ve stopped looking everywhere possible, including looking in the bathroom and the kitchen, I suddenly completely unexpectedly remember something, remember it precisely and exactly, dragging it from the hidden depths of my memory, from somewhere there beyond the terrible grey fog, I remember that the book I’m looking for is definitely lying on the top shelf. It’s lying there half-hidden, its scratched cover facing up, lying on top of the other books so you can’t see it from down below, so I wouldn’t have found it however much I looked from down here, and I put it there myself. I put it there a long time ago, when I stopped reading one of the plays half-way through, I just stopped reading and left it.

Trembling, I stand on the desk and look on the top shelf. The smell of dust hits my head.

The book is lying there. It’s lying there exactly how I, or someone else, whoever I was before, left it there sometime long ago, maybe a month, maybe a year, or maybe three years ago. I look at it. I dig through my memory, hoping to find something else not far away. There’s not much else, not even a single little bird of a thought, not one memory can break through the grey fog which hides my past.

“That’s it, Max,” I whisper to myself. “Time’s up!”

I can’t stay here long. My mum could come back at any moment. Not now, when I’m so close, I can’t, I definitely can’t accept ignorance now.

I get the book, close it, clasp it in my hand.

Time to go. Away, away. I carefully climb off the desk. I open the door. For a moment I think of stocking up on supplies, but I reject it immediately. There’s no time. I walk away, not looking back. Away, away. Now the only direction is forward.

• • •

I’m at the White Tower. None of the guys are here, I’m alone. A warm summer day. You can’t make out the ray of light and the butterfly in the sun. There’s the outline of a woman’s face on the wall opposite. I’ve seen it all a million times.

I’m holding a book. Nothing special. Just an old book. I’ve read it before. I weigh it in my hands, feeling its pleasant weight.

Shakespeare, Selected Plays.

I open it. The book opens easily, as if the pages were glued together. The book has lain open for a long time, and it now opens exactly in that place. I look to see what’s printed there. Nothing special. The middle of Richard III: unfamiliar phrases which don’t awake any associations in me. I don’t remember reading it. What can I do? I flick through it.

I don’t see anything special. I try to remember what was happening when I read it last time. Why I stopped. Why it’s so important. Nothing.

I flick through page after page. Black letters on yellowed pages. Words which aren’t there in my memory.

Suddenly there’s a bit of cut-out newspaper.

I pull it out carefully. Strange. A square cut out of the newspaper. An article with the headline cut off. The line of the cut goes right through the middle of the sentences. Sometimes even the words are cut in half. The paper is clearly more recent than the pages in the book. It’s white, not yellowed with age. I try to grasp the meaning.

“…blic utilities, despite increases in rates over the las…” Doesn’t make sense. What’s this doing here? It’s just a badly cut out article.

But then I see that between the letters, in the space between the words, there are strange lines. I hold it up to my eyes. What’s going on?

My heart is already beating, I already see, I already sense something, although I haven’t yet figured out what I can see on the other side of the article. I turn it over.

The world around me disappears. It no longer exists. I keep looking at the photo for a long, long time. My hands are shaking.

I am holding in my hands a portrait of Lady F, cut out of the paper. It’s a photo. Lady F is smiling, looking to the side of the photographer. It’s her, no doubt, her, shining, exquisite, sweet. I turn the paper over in my trembling hands, looking for a date or the name of the paper. No. No…

After a long time, a very long time, I lower my hands. And there, without a pause, without a break, I see that silhouette on the wall in front of me. The woman’s silhouette on the wall of the White Tower echoes the features on the photograph.

In my hand I’m holding a picture of Lady F cut out of the paper. It’s a photo. Lady F smiles and looks to the right of the photographer. It’s her, no doubt, her, radiant, beautiful, sweet. There’s no caption on the photo, no explanation, nothing.

Time passes. The minutes fly by. For a long time I sit there motionless, staring at the outline on the wall, which I’ve seen before dozens of times, not knowing, not remembering that it belongs to her, I sit in silence, although I already know that it’s time to go, because soon one of the guys will arrive and, despite all the questions, despite all the thoughts buzzing in my mind, I don’t want to see anyone, anyone at all. It’s time to go. It’s time to go and discover the truth. This is my path. It’s time. Go, Max. Go.