A. MOLOTKOV'S
LITERARY PROJECTS

Another Symphony for Drummachine
excerpt

A master of justification, I suppose I still could not quite forgive people for being different from myself, and I would like to have heard the words Olga said to Nancy about me.  To Nancy, who was familiar with Magritte…And now we were in the room together, Olga gone to the concert where she would not be listening to the music but thinking about me, and, as her habit was, constructing her thoughts in the way of a confession addressed to Nancy, Nancy always so nice and always there for her, she herself has barely any personal life, poor thing, maybe that's why always so attentive to Olga's problems, a good piece of advice invariably in store for her, only to be taken out of the purse at the right moment and presented to her like a pill of vitamins over the lunch, lunch being the usual location of such confessions, Nancy herself being at our place at this very moment, when I suddenly asked her:

"Nancy, how come are you not married?"

"I don't know," she shrugged her shoulders.  "It just hasn't happened, that's it."

"I don't understand," I said with utmost sincerity, unaware of the way it must have sounded: "You are such an attractive woman!"

"Thank you," she said.  "Maybe part of the reason is that I myself am not attracted to everyone.  You know, I hate when it gets boring."

"Oh, I know what you mean!”  I exclaimed, stricken by this sign of similarity to my own feelings, or by the sign of something that I mistook for such similarity.  And I was already beginning to feel that there weren't two separate creatures in the room anymore, but a beginning of some form of unity that spread its welcoming warmth over us and invited us to get closer and closer together in its realm.

And it was then that I realized that I could not resist the temptation, and while I was hoping that she wouldn't be able to resist it either, I hoped that she would.  Thus torn apart, I left the dangerous circle and went over to the bar to pour myself another drink, experiencing the unexpected obstacle of an erection as I was doing it.  But after all, what did it matter?  I knew only too well that Olga would not find out and that she would never even think of something like this, Nancy eternally awaiting her at the lunch table of her discontent, Nancy the confident, Nancy the genius of advice, Nancy the best friend!   Nancy the best friend who now took matter in her hands so unobtrusively, who approached me and put her hand on my shoulder and said:

"Don't worry, everything will be okay.  She loves you, don't you know?" Nancy's hand on my shoulder for a somewhat prolonged time, an overextended consolation, her own shoulder so slightly touching my back, I still trying to keep on pouring the drink - do you want one, too?  - no, thanks, I'm fine - fine right behind his back, so that I could swear I felt the roundness of her breast for a second, or maybe it's just my imagination, she's retreating now finally letting me turn around and start walking back toward my chair, checking the stability of the mask on my face, noticing the instability of her own mask, slightly embarrassed by the suspicion of my erect penis being plainly visible underneath the pants; this very same moment I impulsively stretching his arms in her direction, she willingly surrendering to those arms, her lips crushed by his in an outburst of well built up passion, the glass still in my hand, Olga somewhere at the concert, a lunch with her tomorrow, no escape now, the desire too great, she should not have come here in the first place, and as his hands sneak underneath her shirt where there is no bra - oh, yes, oh, yes, she should, she should, she whispering: my god, I haven't had sex in such a long time, the last rational thought, the last excuse as though intended to prove the accomplice more guilty of the crime than herself, the shirt raised to her chin, her breasts looking at him and waiting for him to see, to touch, to evade dull fragments of clothing, to run his hand down her pubes, playing with the hair that's so thick and so smooth, and to feel it go further, one finger entering her vagina, a long-forgotten feeling partially resurrected by vibrators and such, but now again here, alive, his second finger following the first, sliding down the bottom, and to the sides, and then, somehow even sweeter and sharper, massaging the top, everything so unbearably wet by now it feels like snow in the beginning of spring, like hot snow, her hand holding his penis, slowly going up and down, not to make him come, just to feel it's there, unobtrusively as before, a little fire arising inside her, down at the tips of his fingers, and then spreading around, getting bigger and bigger, and then did she moan or not? - she couldn't even tell, but there it was, right in the middle of the room, both of them standing up, his fingers dancing in her vagina, her eyes blind, and it lingered on for a while before she could realize it had happened so fast, and she laughed in joy, and he did too while he pulled his fingers out - she was sorry to part - and started taking her clothes off while she was undressing him.

This must have been around the time when I first saw the man with half a face.  I saw him in the street, in front of the house I lived in.  Other people were passing by paying no attention whatsoever, and I realized that I must have been the only one who knew that the man actually had only half a face.  And that's why I knew that it was I he was after. 

I didn't speak to him that time, just walked by: I was sure he would be back anyway.  And indeed, he was.  He was there every day, on his patient vigil, waiting for me to recognize his presence. 

This incident faintly reminded me of something that had already happened in my life, or was going to happen in the so-called future.  But I could not put my finger on it, it seemed really close, as though I was only a second away from remembering - and then it was gone, and I could spend hours wondering about it.  It might have been a simple case of deja vu, nothing more.  Or it could be not.  I knew the way memory loved to play weird tricks on me, and gradually I gave up any attempts to capture the elusive reminiscence attached to the man with half a face.

I didn't have any idea why the man was there, and whether or not he had any message to deliver.  Or was he just a reminder, a cure for excessive confidence?  I started working on his portrait, just a copy, a photograph, something to remember him by.  No artistic value was attached to this piece of work: for me anything that was but a copy of reality became deprived of real importance.  Just like my landscapes that I never brought back from my house on the lake. 

Very soon I discovered something strange about the portrait: it turned out that I was unable to paint just half a face.  Whatever I tried failed, and the face that looked at me from the canvas was that of an ordinary full-faced man, a somewhat tired and indifferent expression on it.  Somehow I could not keep my concentration, and each time I got distracted I leveled out the difference between the two sides of the painting.  After a while, I realized that it could not be just an accident, a mild case of amnesia that showed itself only in forgetting to keep left and right parts of the face disparate.  Apparently, the man did not want his portrait done, at least not the way he looked to me.  And this also reminded me of something, although I could not remember what.  Maybe my amnesia was not so mild after all, and I would be able to pass for one of those characters in silly old movies described by Salinger, and meet a charming young girl who would fall deeply in love with me? 

Once I had a dream.  I was in a room, and the man with half a face was there too.  There was a painting on the wall.  My painting.  The only difference was that on this copy the half-face structure was fulfilled, bringing the image to what I had been striving for - photographic resemblance to the original.  It felt as though two versions of the same person were there in the room with me. 

"What is it you want from me?" I asked.

"I can't explain it to you now," said the man.  "But you will know later, when the time comes.  Let's say I've been sent to watch over you, to protect you."

"Who sent you?" I asked.

"I can't tell you this either.  You wouldn't understand anyway.  Not now, that is.  But in a little while it will all become clear to you."

"Whom are you protecting me from?" I asked.

"From yourself," was the answer.

I looked around.  There was nothing special about the room, so that its nondescript appearance struck the eye as somewhat exaggerated.  It seemed that a conversation like this could be taking place in a more unusual frame.  But after all, don't we always pay too much attention to the superficial details, seeking harmony in everything, even in the meals we eat?

"Why can't I paint your portrait?" I asked.

"You already have," he said pointing at the picture on the wall.  "You just haven't realized it yet."

 I woke up, and I was in my bedroom again, Olga by my side, or someone else: I didn't bother to check.  I went on with my life.  The man with half a face didn't shadow me anymore: he had already spoken to me in my dream, and now he could rest.  I saw him on several occasions, but only accidentally, and he didn't show any sign confirming that he knew me.  I even thought for a second that it was a different person: in spite of my profession, I've always had a bad memory for faces, especially for half-faces.

Somebody has stolen my little koala.  I left him on the beach, where sand is so soft underneath your feet, where the tide is high, where fish come out of the sea at night to lie down and relax, and talk about the eternal aquamarine sadness of life.  I left him there, and when I came back in the morning, he was gone.  I've been looking for him ever since, but could not find a trace.  Not even a trace. 

On nights like this, when the Moon is so bright, and the wind so soft like sand on the beach, and the air so transparent, and your vision acquires such profound clarity, I can't sleep.  I get out of bed and walk around the house thinking about my missing koala.  When I can't stand it anymore, I put my robe on and walk out onto the beach.  The fish, annoyed by my arrival, lazily rise from the sand and walk back toward the ocean.  When they dive into the water, I hear light splashes, light as the sound of an ice cube dropped into a drink.  There are many of these splashes, as though a big crowd at a big reception is making itself a drink. 

My koala was gray, like most koalas, and very little.  I used to take him wherever I went.  At first he would run along with me, but finally he would get tired - he was a very small koala - and I would have to put him in the bag and carry him.  His head would be sticking out of the bag, ever turning around in excitement and anticipation.  He would look around and reflect on what he saw, and then share it with me.  As long as I live, I'll never be able to perceive the reality the way my koala did, or even pretend to perceive it that way.

When we first met, I did not realize there was anything special about him.  We met at a bar.  The koala was looking out of someone else's bag, and when I saw him I could not help starting a conversation.  It didn't take me too long to realize he was unhappy.  Apparently, the person he was with had gradually grown tired of carrying him all over.   Maybe this person was ashamed to show up in public places with a koala's head sticking out of the bag.  People kept asking questions, and to some of them it was quite hard to find an answer.

That's how it happened that I took the koala home.  The other person didn't even notice his disappearance, and so we went on leaving the empty bag behind us.

We found it very easy to get along, and had a lot of fun together.  We played on the beach, on the edge of sand that absorbed the oncoming waves.  We would run away from the water, and as it caught us, we would cease to resist and savor the soft touch of warm wet hands.  Soft as the wind on nights like this.  When we got tired, we would go back to the house, and dry out, and listen to music.  At night we'd listen to the classics: I liked Bach, and the koala admired Paganini.  During the daytime we played jazz. 

Then I met Jennifer.  Or was it Olga?  I fell in love.  Or did it only seem to me that I fell in love?  I spent hours thinking about her (and now I'm not even sure who she was).  I could not be as openhearted with my koala anymore.  He grew sad, and as hard as I tried, I couldn't persuade him not to take offense.  He required undivided attention, and when I became unable to provide it, he could not forgive me my betrayal.

And then one night we were playing on the beach, chasing the retreating waves, trying to get fish to talk to us, observing the Moon dancing in the sky.  And then the telephone rang in the house, and I thought it could be Olga - or was it Jennifer?  - and I ran in to pick it up and told the koala I'd be right back.  And we talked for a while - maybe we were having a fight, maybe something entirely opposite - and as I was hanging up, I felt so tired that I just went to the bedroom and fell asleep.  I forgot about my koala.

In the morning, when I came back, he was gone.  Someone must have stolen him.  You can't really call it a theft: I'm sure that the koala let the stranger take him away.  He could not forgive me my betrayal.

When I go to the city and spend time in crowded places, I still look around to see a koala's head sticking out of a bag.  I don't think he would ever come back to me, not after all this time, but at least I could say I'm sorry. 

At nights like this I can't sleep.  I just lie there, thinking about my koala.  He had such soft fur.  Soft as the touch of warm hands of water on the edge of sand.

We didn't have much time: Olga could be back soon - but I felt so lazy to move, to do anything, to ask Nancy to leave, to resort to the shield of clothes again.  For a second I even thought I was falling asleep, and the thought scared me, so I made myself sit up in bed.  Nancy was so naked by my side, but now all I could feel was slight pity for her and even for myself: in a few minutes she would get up, and dress, and get ready to go, and we would exchange some unnecessary words, and I would see her to the door, and soon Olga would be home, and I'd manage to deal with my mask so as not to reveal anything: I'd have already changed the sheets on the bed, and exiled the smell of the alien perfume into the straw basket in the bathroom closet, and washed the second glass; or maybe even not, maybe even: Nancy stopped by, you know, we had a drink - Olga would never suspect anything, she and Nancy meeting at lunch tomorrow, Nancy always so nice to her, listening to her sad stories all so much alike, poor thing has no personal life of her own, especially since she broke up with Peter, and he was such a jerk anyway.  And so, Nancy would be gone, leaving no trace, not even a glass she was drinking from - or maybe just the glass, a very temporary trace.  And I would go on knowing, and she would too, and maybe someday this could happen again, but hardly so: too much risk involved, too much lying on both sides, and he detested lying.

"You have to go," he finally said, and she replied:

"I know," and he kissed her lightly, and said: it was great, I'm sorry we can't really do it often, if ever at all; and it sounded plain and banal as any words would have sounded under the circumstances, and she said: yes, I liked it too, I liked it too much, but I feel really strange right now, I don't think I should have done it to Olga, or even to myself, and he said:

"It's my fault.  Don't worry about it.  I'm sorry I didn't stop myself in time." And then added: "Although I really did like it a lot," and smiled, and she smiled too, and suddenly the tension was broken, and they knew it probably would happen again, and again, and even if not, it was all right to think about it without remorse.

Once he was elsewhere, and met a young woman.  Her name was Ada.  She was an artist, she was an artist…Something he had been looking for for so long.  Someone to share his overwhelming hunger.  Someone to understand why only creative work mattered after all (just the way Hemingway had referred to it).  To understand that it was the best cure, and the best drug, an indispensable source of joy, a means to transform despair into excitement, anguish into wisdom.  But they spent only a couple of hours together, it was getting late, and finally she had to go home, and she felt like inviting him in, and he felt like being invited, but it would have been too simple and too down-to-earth, like in those marital ads in newspapers.  So she did not invite him, and he did not ask.  They exchanged phone numbers, and he even called her the next day, but she didn't come to the phone, and he just went on with his former plans.  It was his last day elsewhere, and later that day (or later that night) he took a plane back to where he lived.  Concerned with obeying the rules and regulations of mask-wearing, he forgot about Ada for a while.  Anyway, she was not there for him, and neither was Jennifer, and neither were millions of other women.  There was one, however, that had been maintaining the being there for quality for quite some time, and it worked once again. 

A few months later, going through the pile of notes and letters in his drawer, he ran across the note she had given him.  There was just the name on it, and a phone number.  Driven by an irresistible impulse, he reached for the phone and dialed the number, and the operator's voice informed him that it had been disconnected. 

So, there he was, sitting by his desk, a tiny piece of paper in front of him - just a name that he already knew and did not need to have written down and a phone number that was no longer valid.  There must have been some way to trace a person by a former phone number, but it didn't seem worthwhile.  After all, she had his number too, and she could have called if she wanted to.  The momentary desire to pursue the matter was overcome by the lack of energy and the lack of willingness to undertake something absolutely irrational - something that seemed absolutely irrational, at any rate.  A sudden glimpse of an improvisational urge gave way to patient acceptance of the destiny's power over life, the power that was very dangerous and even somewhat ridiculous to doubt and to resist.

And so, all he had left was a note and a little box with a couple of hours worth of memories that he had not opened since the very moment he obtained it.  And he put the box aside, and put the note into the box, and went on with his life, ready to be at least partially there for those who were there for him, not strong enough to launch new ventures of his own.

Now that Nancy was gone, he took yet another look at his watch realizing that he probably still had about half an hour to deal with the fragments of the mask, which at times like this were liable to behave in the most unexpected ways.  And after all, what a dumb name: Nancy, I thought suddenly, even slightly annoyed by the lack of harmony in it.  Sometimes it seemed it would be more reasonable if people had numbers instead of names, as they often do in apocalyptic science fiction.   At least everyone would have his or her own, a very personal number.  But is it really what the human race is after?  Maximum individuality?  It doesn’t seem so…

And now he did start feeling a slight remorse, although only a little while ago he was sure it would not happen.  Did he have to commit this one, yet another betrayal?  He could no longer convince himself that a single occurrence of casual sex did not amount to a betrayal.  He knew it did for Olga, and therefore for him too.

It was the same thing that always happened when he went away, to that other city where there was plenty of time packed in huge boxes, and all he had to do was to open them one by one and to wait for Jennifer to show up, to ignite the ancient passion that was still partially alive, to let it burn for a reasonably safe time, to put it out again and to say good-bye.  Yes, it was the same thing, only now even more pointless, brought to a level of total absurdity by the circumstances that accompanied it.  I was slightly curious to find out how Nancy felt about what had just happened, but I knew that her real thoughts would never be revealed to me, even if I asked her about them.  And then I realized that however absurd the incident seemed to me, I was not at all indifferent to Nancy's perception of it.  I would prefer her to have taken it very seriously, even though I could not, and didn't want to, share the seriousness of the attitude.  This was the essential point: to gain more power and more independence in each round of life by maintaining other people's love and affection, by taming them and attaching them to yourself while staying as indifferent as possible.  The worst part of it was that he didn't really want to be this way, he detested himself for it, and each time he became attached to anyone himself he expected to pay the price, and sometimes he did pay it, maybe even because of his very inclination and readiness to pay.

He knew that Olga was on her way home now; soon she'd be here, and he would not tell her anything, unlike most other times when he did, sometimes even perversely proud of his honesty.  But in this particular case there was too much to be broken, and he could not do it to anybody, even to Olga whom he sometimes perceived as a jailer of his life, especially to Olga, who was always there for him like a guarding angel.  No, he could not do this: let them have lunch tomorrow, let them chat about how bad he was, how wrongfully he treated Olga: oh, boy, what is she going to do with him, I wish there were something I could do, and Nancy would nod her head: yes, it's really hard, sometimes I'm even glad I don't have anybody right now, unable to suppress a tiny flash of forbidden joy in her eyes as she is saying this - a flash unnoticeable to Olga, Nancy being such a good friend and all, maybe I should introduce her to some of Goombeldt's friends, she is quite attractive, I wonder why she has so little luck with men, but after all do I have much more myself?  - anyway, let's tell her another story and hear her say once again: sometimes I'm even glad I don't have anybody - yes, let them have that ritual lunch, and talk about him, and discuss the degradation of his personality, the morbid lack of moral values so characteristic of him.  It felt as though a vicious and malignant artificial alter ego of his would be present there, at the table in the restaurant, ready and willing to be examined, evaluated and sentenced.  Or could this vicious alter ego really be what he was, and wasn't his own perception creating an alter ego of this alter ego just to prevent him from seeing the truth about himself?

He heard the sound of the door unlocked: Olga was home, and he was prepared, and everything was back in place.