As every night, he firmly closed the door behind him. The darkness of the corridor had frustrated him in the beginning, but now that he had gotten used to it, the void became one of his pleasures. Blindly wondering through the hallway, touching the walls, the furniture, the ends and beginnings of doors, he maneuvered towards the end, his heartbeat increasing with every step. If he had made it without falling, or even tripping, disappointment would fill his soul, the empty achievement of trivia replacing his anxious pleasure. Tonight was the same as always.

Once inside the room, he lit just one candle, near the arching windows that looked, angrily, towards the winterwonderland across the street. A black kettle he quickly placed upon the stove and, waiting for the water, he rested in the velvet chair his uncle had given him. Its original navy colour had gone bleek, the rough snow, rain and dirt from his army jacket had created wounds in the gentle fabric.

Slowly taking off his jacket, he listened to the joyful sound of water bursting out of the kettle’s top, dripping onto the hot surface beneath it and sizzling like mad. Sometimes, Mlle Yeliseva and Mlle Masha would come over, but usually not on Mondays. They knew he liked to have his solitude on those post days, especially in the winters. When the water had found peace, his jacket still lingered upon his body.

A large jar was placed on the coffee table, almost too fat to hold its contents in. Next to it, he put a Danish teapot filled with extraordinary water and flavours, and to the other side a bloc of paper. He hadn’t written anything since he returned home, but each night he told himself that tonight would be the night. Yet every time he had some flair of inspiration, the thought of wasting expensive Finnish paper and abusing the Peterburg ink would overrule it.

He knew in advance that he would fall asleep, so he put a little pillow in his back, and a blanket, bought somewhere in the Jew, he lay over his legs. Not that he was cold though, considering the room was heated by piping from the downstairs restaurant, but to keep the ability to walk his legs were covered.

Held back a bit, a small sigh escaped his mouth, as he looked across the quiet room. The buzzing sounds of the vivid city, the sound of steam haunting through the pipes, the soft quarreling of birds living upstairs, had all left his conscious mind and he now had forgotten all about the noises which irritated him so much in the beginning. All he could hear was the sound of his heart beating, slow and unrhythmic. Sometimes he could hear the purr coming from the kitchen as well, but not this night.

The busiest time of the day, when the streets filled with gail friends, leaving the winterwonderland, would always pass him by. The lights, orchestrated to the jolly ending music, danced on his sleeping face, a look of dissatisfaction and cold rested upon it. Bouncing of his nature were the sounds of laughter and boozing happiness, travelling from the streets up to the angry windows.

He woke up to complete darkness. The candle had faded sooner than regular, and all the city lights, even the moving patterns of people in windows, were dimmed. A soft purr could be heard from his lap, exciting his senses. He tried to focus his eyes, gazing into the dark, searching for a point of light. At once, when a beam of sunlight, reflecting off the clear Moon, entered the room and fixed upon the mirror, his eyes took hold of it.

The dread of the day came hard down on him when he realized, while folding clothes, that he could not remember one memorable thing about it. Elga, tripping over a homeless man in Maryina Roshcha, had enlightened his soul for a few seconds, and the old school friend he saw near the grand parc had been somewhat entertaining, but it wasn’t enough to paint a smile in his mind. He looked at all the clothing, washed, fresh and neat, and found a depressing truth in them.

A soft music came from downstairs, the enchanting bumblebee of Nicolai Andreyevich quickly filled the room. He looked at the clock, 11 and 32, and wondered what was going on. In his mind many explanations took form, but before he could make it up, the loud stomp of Countess Lenora woke him up and the music died down with it. Unusual, he could hear two voices argue, dimming and growing louder with the swaying pace of the sources. A door abruptly ended the fight and complete silence returned.

For the last time that night he poured himself some tea, the haunting flavoury smell enveloping his air. He sat down in the chair, holding the cup close to his face, the steam creating little watery clouds on his smooth skin. Staring at the cup, he found himself in the position fixed for several minutes. A tremble in his hand interrupted the gaze and he became aware again. With big gulps he emptied the cup and placed it next to the teapot on the coffee table. The stuffed jar opened with a pop, air sucking into the jar and between the chocolate-covered cookies. Crumbling in his firm hands, spotted with dark blotches, the cookies were eaten, and soon many of them had left the seeable Earth atmosphere.

Suddenly he jumped up, as if he had remembered the Apocalypse was near and he had forgotten to pack. He stept outside of his room, lingered for a moment in the doorway, and then transcended downstairs, after having successfully juggled through the darkness, a new scar to prove. Near the door he searched and looked around for something, and then ducked under a table to discover a parcel. His face lit up when he read the name written on it, in dark-red ink, with curls and fancy stripes.

On the dining table lay a golden paper knife, the initials A.I. engraved on the right side. With one smooth movement, as if theatre, he released the letters bound into the parcel, all falling on the table and spreading on their own initiative. He sat down at the table, the chair beneath him crunching the wood, and started reading. His initial delight faded with every word of every letter he read. The jocund tellings of parties, careers, children and adventures became a trial to read for him, but he finished every one, with the knowing thought each one following would be yet another dagger, drawn to his heart.

Squeaking sounds came from the cabinet that stood in the back. He parted the documents in it down the middle of the top drawer, and quickly put the freshly-wrapt parcel into it. While closing the drawer, he heard the documents falling on top of the parcel, overpowering their memory and extinguishing their impish glee. Walking back to the chair, slightly purple from the light of the coloured candle, he thought about the day to come. For a moment he paused, then sat down so forcefully that his bones made sounds unknown to youth. A sigh danced around his lips, and while the purr returned to his lap, he closed his eyes and slumbered into quiet existence.

FIN. AIS

“Александр” by Remy L. Overkempe