Tales of Mystery and Truth Page 7

  The blind man from up the street grasped Pavko’s arm and led him around the building. They past a newspaper stand that offered hundreds of different publications where only one had been available under the Regime. The blind man released Pavko’s arm, opened a door, and nodded.

  Pavko hesitated, still with the lingering fear that to be there and go inside, to be a part of the bookstore at all was only serving the Regime. Yet his certainty of finding Milada inside urged him forward. He thanked the old man and stepped through the door.

  And so it happened that sometime during the seventh month, or perhaps the seventh year—he could not be certain—he found himself standing inside The Beggars of Azure in search, not of a book, but of a woman, of a living.

  For a moment everything seemed unfamiliar. The store seemed as cramped as his flat. The stacks came nearly to the door, leaving no room for patrons to get acclimated inside, no indications of where to find anything, no obvious place to even make a purchase. Only after he realized he was standing in the back of the bookstore did he begin to feel confident.

  There were many unusual elements to the interior, things he had not remembered from his past visits. More noticeable was the multitude of languages he heard, a veritable babble. He wondered if the speakers were all come to study at the university, or simply to relax in an inexpensive and fledgling country that would certainly welcome all the foreign interest it could get.

  People milled around, casually, as if time had no power over them. A woman greeted him with a smile and a hello as he strolled by her. He paused and asked if she had seen Milada. She stared at him incomprehensibly until he repeated the question in clumsy English. She politely shook her head and returned to her glossy magazine. Just at the end of an aisle stood a man engrossed in a book that lay open in his hands. Pavko approached him and watched him for a moment. The man was intent upon reading, sheltered within the covers of the book from the outside world around him. Gently Pavko reached out and touched the man’s elbow. The man looked up, startled.

  “Milada Krizova?” asked Pavko.

  The man stared from the corners of his eyes at Pavko, as if wondering why this deranged person had mistaken him for another. Then his eyes widened, and he turned full face to Pavko. With a nod of comprehension and a wave of his hand, the man walked two aisles over and three sections down and pointed. There in front of him was The Toaster Who Wanted to Be a Lifeguard, by Milada Krizova.

  “Very entertaining,” said the man, and with another approving nod he departed from the aisle.

  Pavko ran his finger across the spine, remembering the pride Milada had displayed upon completing the novel. It had survived the censors, but that was certainly no condemnation of it. He knew there was nothing inside which the Regime had been able to use as propaganda. But the moment he noticed the book beside hers, written by Donald Krocker, his joy and confidence were crushed. The books of Pavko and Milada would never be together again. The Regime had separated them forever.

  The sound of laughter bounced down the aisle, entering his ear and piercing his heart. He followed that sound like an aural trail leading him out of the wilderness of books. Into a clearing at the end of the aisle he emerged and glanced back and forth. To his left was an open area with a wooden counter where purchases might be made, although he saw no cash box or clerk in attendance. To his right, tucked into the corner, was a café the likes of which might be seen on any street in Vienna. People were arrayed in gay splendor, and contentment, and rapture. A few people were resting at these tables, drinking coffee or flipping through magazines or studying. One table had its chairs turned over on its top, either ready for the end of the night, or neglected all day. Then the laugh came again, clear and penetrating, from a group of people gathered in the center of the café. Seven people sat around two large tables pushed together, nudging one another and emptying bottles of beer. They smoked and laughed, with books and chess pieces and empty glasses spread out in front of them. Revolutionaries they definitely were not. Then one of the people stood and walked away, and Pavko could see the three who sat facing him. Between two men sat a young woman, and it was from her that another of the same laughs was emitted. The laugh Pavko knew so well. And when she looked up and saw him, the laugh faded away. But the smile on her face remained, changed subtly from one of gaiety to one of serenity.

  Though she bore no resemblance to the photograph in her legend, and Pavko did not ever remember seeing her, he recognized her immediately. In a strange time, and a strange land, and a strange woman, Pavko at last had found what he had lost.

  Landscape With the Fall of Icarus

  Daedalus, with his son Icarus, was imprisoned within a labyrinth of his own deceits. The inventor, full of pride and ego, set his mind at work upon unknown arts—to change the laws of nature, and fly to freedom. Icarus gathered the feathers of mourning doves, which Daedalus fastened together with twine and wax. Arranged short to long, like rustic pan-pipes, he bent them in a gentle curve until they appeared as real wings.

  With wings affixed, Daedalus took flight like a bird leading forth a fledgling from the nest into the unsubstantial air. Icarus, though agreed to follow the path of his father, relished the feeling that they were gods who could fly. Deserting his leader, following his desire, Icarus set his course on a greater height.

  The starlings were shocked to see such a strange creature sharing the air. Daedalus was distraught, fearful his son had lost his sense. On Dolichi, a plowman, shepherd, and angler paused in their toils to witness the triumph over God and nature.

  Icarus marveled at the plushy sea below, and wondered at the tinyness of the men on earth. As if in love for the first time, buoyed by balmy winds, he lost all reason. He knew his flight could not long last, and so he seized the moment. In pursuit of his fatal rapture, he flew higher than any man or bird had ever flown. On his neck he felt the heat of the sky’s bright eye, but he was blind to danger. Daedalus could only stare helpless as Icarus soared extravagantly, and was swallowed by the sun.

  Even as the fragrant wax that held his wings melted, Icarus knew nothing but the sheer exhilaration of living. His sensible father flew to safety. The plowman, shepherd, and angler all ceased watching. The sun reclined on the horizon. All the while, despite the failings of fathers and feathers, Icarus tunneled through the sky in a glorious fall toward the dark blue sea, his short life suddenly forgotten.

  * * *

  The painting was discovered behind a faded tapestry. At first glance, it was mistaken for the original. Given the peculiarities of the previous owner, the possibility was not ridiculous. But the Musée des Beaux Arts still possessed Bruegel’s masterpiece of genre and myth, Landscape With the Fall of Icarus. This piece of art was unknown.

  Individual brushstrokes were apparent, but they lacked texture. The support was flexible like canvas, but smooth like glass. The painting looked to be framed and mounted on wood that was not hung but firmly attached to the wall. When a switch was flipped, a light that previously shone on only a portion of the tapestry now illuminated this entire work of art.

  Upon earth, sea, and sky, the setting sun dominated the unchanging scene: a brilliant glow against the clouds; golden ripples on the blue-green sea; mellow hues awash the bucolic countryside. In the left foreground, the plowman, bright in his red shirt, led his horse and guided his plow with ease, turning over the soil in the last section of his field. In the middle center, a shepherd leaned on his staff and, with faithful hound by his side, dreamed at the skyline, while his sheep grazed along the cliffs. In the middle of the sea, a man-of-war headed west as several crewmen scrambled among the rigging to unfurl their sails and catch the fat wind. In the right foreground, an angler cast his line into the churning water. Mystery shrouded the background of obscure mountains and cloudy city.

  Like a Nabokovian dream, the painting begins to move. In complete harmony with its formerly static state, the scene comes to life. With far more sophistication than mere animation, appears the living tale
of Bruegel’s vision.

  A pair of pink legs wiggle briefly, splashing, and then disappear beneath the water. Three feathers ride the tiny ripples. The angler, thinking the fish are biting, flexes his tremulous rod. The ship picks up speed as it sails away. The shepherd reaches down to pet his panting hound. The plowman trods lightly on his furrows, intent on completing his labor before dark. None care that Icarus has fallen. Alone, a partridge, fearful of high places, claps its wings in approval.

  The sun melts into the sea. The ship disappears over the horizon. The angler hauls in his catch; the shepherd gathers his flock; the plowman unharnesses his horse; and all pass from the window of the painting, heading for the security of home at the finish of another day. Icarus never emerges on the surface, to swim away, and try in vain to reform his wings and fly once more. Nor does he ever become a corpse neglected in the bushes. His passing goes quite unnoticed; but because he flew without fear and full of imagination, concerned only with the triumph of unknown arts, he will never be forgotten.

  Petsuchoi

  The man walked out of the store with parcels under his arm and anticipation on his face. A well-dressed student asked him for a moment of his time to answer a few questions. He had no time, and yet somehow he felt as if he had all the time in the world, that everything was beginning now.

  He held the bouquet close to his face and inhaled deeply. He loved the smell of the flowers. They reminded him of her, of her smell. They reminded him of the first time he leaned close to kiss her. For five crazed months he had paused to savor every moment with her. At last, it was as if all those moments he had saved, he had not wildly spent, had finally and miraculously accumulated. They would have all weekend—three full days—entirely to themselves.

  He imagined her standing in front of the mirror, trying to make herself look as beautiful as she could for him. Trying to get her curls to fall around her face just the right way so that he would not be able to resist. He would stand in the doorway as she draped her arm around him and kissed him into their weekend getaway, and then with a flourish he would produce the flowers from behind his back, seeming almost to her as if he had produced them from his sleeve. Their love was a sort of magic, a conjuring of things, a fantasy that would never end, as long as he could maintain the illusion.

  He followed the wide corridor, smiling at one shopkeeper who tried to entice him inside. He noticed that people walking toward him gave him a wide berth, frowning, scampering into the nearest stores. One turned and went back hastily the way he had come. Some who were walking in front of him looked over their shoulders and increased their pace. Then he slowed to a stop and demanded of one woman what the matter was.

  She opened her mouth but no sound came forth.

  He saw the pity in her eyes. The child beside her stared in terror.

  He turned around, as if finally understanding that what they were retreating from was not him, but something behind him.

  He turned and saw only a flash of crocodile-headed beasts before the heavy butt of a rifle smashed against the side of his head. He fell, and his parcels skidded across the shiny floor. His cheek landed atop the roses. His sight was distorted and rolling. He heard screams and shouting and rapid footsteps. And he heard the towering blackened figures who assaulted him, commanded him, accused him, threatened him, and taunted him in some guttural language he could not comprehend. Seven—or maybe ten—of them kept pounding him, and shoving him, and spinning him round as if they were playing some schoolyard game. He felt his arms being crushed, and his legs being yanked, and his neck being held immobile against some cold scaly leather thing. He could barely see from between his attackers, and then noticed the mall drifting away from him. He was being dragged away somewhere, and no one came to his aid. The last thing he recognized before blacking out was the bouquet of roses, crushed and trampled, stray petals like blood splattered across the shiny floor.

  * * *

  Darkness surrounded him. When he knew for certain he was awake but in a room without light, he became aware of the pain. His lungs burned, his head pounded, his muscles cramped, and his neck ached. He was too weak to move. He felt the pangs of hunger, his stomach demanding food. Then all at once he was sick.

  He rolled away from the vomit, moaning. He propped himself up against something and looked around, moving only his eyes. He could see nothing. He could see not even one faint glimmer of light. Even after a few minutes, he had been plunged into such total darkness that his eyes, once adjusted, still could not bring in any light. For a moment he wondered if he were in a hospital, but then realized he would be surrounded by machines, or nurses, or there would at least be some indication of this. He was certainly in a sealed room somewhere, because he could feel the stone wall, and the air felt regulated, neither cold, nor warm, and no breeze, but with a hint of stale. He was not in a well, because there was no earth, or damp, or water, or echo.

  He had no idea where he was.

  Apparently it seemed as if he had been kidnapped. For what reason he could not conclude, or to what end. He wanted to explore the room, but it would require a step by step search with his hands, being so dark, and at this point he did not have the energy to move any more than required. He could only wait, and heal, and then later, if he was still here, he would investigate.

  But until that time he would have to wait. And then he realized he had no idea how much time had already passed since his assault. He had guessed only a few hours, or perhaps a day. But conceivably it might have been all weekend, or all week, or even longer perhaps. He might have been drugged for a time. He felt stubble on his chin, but that was his only indication.

  His thoughts jumped to his girlfriend, waiting, becoming anxious when he was not a few minutes early, then wondering what had delayed him, then becoming angry when he was obviously late, and eventually beginning to worry when he didn’t show. Her weekend would have been spoiled, and then she would have been struck cold with fear. And what could she do? Could she call the police and report his disappearance? Of course not. They would ask questions which she would not be able to answer. Could she call his house? Of course not, for what if someone else answered? She couldn’t ask where he was, say she was waiting for him, say they were supposed to go away together. It was a secret. It was their secret. And now he was gone from her, without any explanation of his disappearance, and she could do nothing but sit and agonize and wait and despair and feel guilty for feeling so helpless. He hated the anguish his attackers had caused her.

  Or perhaps she knew better than he where he was. Perhaps someone had kidnapped him and informed her, demanded a ransom. Perhaps she was at this very moment collecting the money, or talking to police—but then she wouldn’t talk to police. She would get the money, some how, some way, and she would pay. She would just want him back, without care or concern to see the perpetrators caught and punished. She would just want him back safe in her arms. Then, of course, when she was sure he was safe, she would want to see punishment. She would demand justice. But it would be too late. The police could not be involved at all, at any time. And he hoped if this were the case, they did not know his kidnappers, because, if they did, he was sure his girlfriend would seek revenge on them.

  Then his mind turned to his wife. He prayed it was not her. He prayed she had not found out and hired someone to kidnap him. He prayed he could get out of this alive and return home and live quietly and peacefully and appreciatively of what life had given him.

  The Book of Zambullo

  The uniformed guard held out his large hand and, in a tone that matched his posture in stiffness, said, “Your card.”

  The bespectacled man handed his identification card to the guard and glanced at his watch with a frown. To the young woman queued behind him, these apparently random verification checks were never as random as they seemed to the man. She nervously fumbled for her own card, and was suddenly shoved against the counter.

  “In the name of the People,” said the guard, “I am placing
you under arrest.”

  The guard ratcheted two iron cuffs to the man’s wrists.

  “On what charges?” pleaded the man.

  The guard seized the books the man had hoped to purchase. “Intent to possess subversive propaganda.”

  Two more guards hustled to the scene and took custody of the man and books. They escorted the man for a few steps before dragging him against his resistance.

  “The charges are false!” the man shouted over his shoulder.

  The young woman watched, along with the other patrons, in silence as the three men clamored their way toward the rear of the bookstore. No one seemed to know the exact fate of such people; but she had heard that once a person was taken out the back door, the person was never seen again.

  The guard at the counter straightened his uniform and posture. He held out his large hand to the young woman and said, “Your card.”

  With great trepidation, the young woman focused on his hand as she placed her identification card there. She would not look up to meet his gaze, but glanced down at her own feet. He verified her authorization to make purchases—she was one of the few, elders mostly, approved in fiction categories.

  “Ja, I remember you, Fräulein,” he said, a little less stiffly.

  She raised her eyes up to his muscled soldier’s chest and stopped. His acknowledgment seemed remarkable, yet it also made her uncomfortable. She preferred to remain anonymous, to make no impression on people. Any notice could imperil her safe existence within an unsafe Regime.

  She did not move until the guard held her card forward, and then she retrieved it quickly, her eyes returned to her feet. When the guard moved down the queue to the next person, the ancient bookseller Callimachus placed the young woman’s book on a brass scale to determine her bill. She glanced cautiously at his fatherly countenance. His eyebrows moved up and down as if on march, while his lips twittered in accompaniment. She knew from experience he had no interest outside his books, and so she felt safe in watching him. His skin appeared wrinkled by the millions of lines he had read. She could easily imagine he had never set foot outside his shop, had experienced the world through the window of written words, and she admired his life of complete dedication.