Everything Happens as It Does (7 page)

26.
Big Things

 

A tree had to be found, a Christmas tree or a New Year's tree, it didn't matter, a tree to put ornaments on. Valentin was a little worried. The house the tree was meant for was very particular—Fanny lived in it. A fabulous beast of prey in a woman's shape. She had taken him home after a party and here he was—like little Kai in the Snow Queen's palace. Their first kiss had wiped his memory clean and he had lost his tolerance for his family and little Margarita.

And so a Christmas tree had to be found. He remembered he had a garret, but no tree could get in there, a fir branch or two at the most.

He wanted to go to the cinema, but now he was expected to look for a Christmas tree. That was a fact mandated by Fanny. Well, so what, I'll buy the Christmas tree and get out of there. She could have a hundred boys at the snap of her fingers, and a hundred Christmas trees. And a hundred bagpipes playing for her. He burst into laughter and finally remembered where Christmas trees could be found in abundance. He would get Fanny a Christmas tree.

Meanwhile, Margarita was wrapping small presents in gilded paper. Tied with purple ribbons. She put them in her bag without having decided which one was meant for whom. She was at home, lingering like a useless whiff of smoke. To come up with something was nice, but to actually do it was a different story. Having put the presents in her bag, Margarita felt her work was done. She took out a book from the bag and opened it. An action that was like what she had just done, but in reverse. The book was a manual for a software program in English. The idea of a computer had sprung into her head a while ago, and after having carried the book in her bag for a long time, she had decided she needed one. A computer, with all the accessories and navigation devices. Why not, Maria had replied. No one mentioned the small laptop, as if such a thing had never existed.

For Mr. V. it was already the second hour in a board meeting with the directors of the bank. Watching and listening to them was amusing. Everything seemed unreal, pre-Christmas kind of unreal. He loved this time of year—people would say the wildest things and take the bravest decisions, because acting upon them was delayed until after the holidays. Visions about the bank's future flew across the table like comets, circled back and forth; every now and again he wrote down something in his big notebook. Later that evening there was going to be a party for the board members, their wives and several other people with favorable political positions. Mr. V. did not like such parties, but they were mandatory and, as with all things mandatory, he managed very well. He had one worry, however, and couldn't get rid of the feeling that he was forgetting something, something essential, fateful. If such things really existed.

He would never mention anything like this to anyone, not for the world.

Maria put the baby in a basket in the back seat of the car and drove off on the slippery, unevenly frozen road. She enjoyed driving at this time of year. Almost all traffic was gone and she could leave the city quickly. The highway to Plovdiv was clean and dry, and she hit the accelerator. The car was packed, the weight making it adhere to the road even better. Maria could feel the machine, its engine buzzing, the cars on her right seeming almost stationary. She devoured miles, like an unstoppable wind blowing through the landscape. When she entered Plovdiv, it was already getting dark. She knew the road to Boris's parents' village well; she hoped there would be no need to put on snow chains. The back of the car slid when turning every now and then, but it could be kept under control as long as the danger was anticipated. She loved driving, and especially in the winter. She passed through several villages and took turned onto a small, barely visible lane, at the end of which stood a cluster of houses. The last of these, some distance from the rest, was her destination. The headlights illuminated a line of poplars covered in snow. I hope no one comes the other way, Maria said to herself, but just at that moment saw the lights of a car emerging from behind the snowdrifts. She managed to brake smoothly but the car slid sideways and stopped in the middle of the road. The car in front of her had also stopped; a man emerged. Maria stayed where she was. The man approached, walking like a bear, covered in furs.

I'll pull back, there are about thirty yards to the old folks' house, he roared as she opened her window. Will you be able to turn?

Maria nodded and started the engine. The tires wouldn't grab. The car started to shake—it obviously needed a push. Big snowflakes floated down from the dark sky. The lights of the other car had disappeared behind the bend and now she saw the man walking toward her. She remained behind the wheel, while he went behind her car and literally lifted its back off the ground and placed it parallel to the road. Maria was able to start the car, and after several yards stopped near his jeep by the house. The dim little lamp by the doorway was lit; Maria got out. The bear man stared at her admiringly when she turned toward him. She grabbed his paw with both hands and shook it in gratitude with unexpected force. Then she walked back, took the basket with the baby, and went inside.

 

27.
Small Matter

 

Doing any kind of job had its challenges. Where to begin, and how to begin? Valentin unloaded the ten-foot tall Christmas tree in Fanny's living room and rubbed his hands to warm them up. A white box full of ornaments and garlands lay ready by his feet. He lacked only the gentle little fingers willing and able to decorate the tree. But the tree was so pretty and exuded such a sweet scent of resin that he felt it should stay the way it was. Valentin stood motionless for a moment, wistful, wondering if he shouldn't leave. The sound of a phone ringing sent an echo through the ice-cold rooms, and suddenly he thought of calling Margarita. He searched for the machine, realizing that every single room, except the living room, had a phone in it.

Typically, he never called Margarita for the simple reason that she never answered, but his despair at the prospect of decorating the tree alone was so overwhelming that he decided to give it a try. To his great relief, Margarita not only answered the phone, but also noted down the address and said that she would be on her way. Naturally, one never knew with her, but he had no choice except to wait.

Valentin walked through the icy vastness of the apartment. He lingered in the library, furnished like a real English library, countryside mansion-style complete with wood paneling, a fireplace, and shelves with books from floor to ceiling. The fireplace, unused, was bright and clean. No surprise. Fanny appeared somehow incompatible with fire. He climbed a small folding ladder and tried to read the titles on the shelves in front of him. It was a series of medical books in Latin. He wondered how these could have ended up in Fanny's house, and for the first time felt curious about her family. That is, if it was not just money, just for show, as it had seemed to him at first. But maybe there was more to Fanny than one imagined. He walked by the shelves, his hands in his coat pockets. It was too cold to pick up and browse through a book. He admired the leather-bound volumes of Dickens's and Oscar Wilde's complete works. But then he got angry—what was the point of having such treasures in this awful cold? It almost seemed like the cold was artificially maintained by who knows what kind of demonic contraption. He started looking for possible indications of its existence and stumbled upon the kitchen, whose size and whiteness simply dazzled him. On top of everything, the windowpanes were covered with frost. The heavy rectangular table in the middle of the kitchen was the only dark, alien spot. You could stuff chickens and legs of lamb on it, you could cut cabbage, knead dough, and who knows what else. But why did Fanny need this kitchen, where everything sparkled in its pristine condition? Another mystery. And her bedroom, what could it reveal? Were there any traces of life there?

Just then he heard the thin crystalline tone of the doorbell. Someone was coming. Valentin headed for the door, and before opening it to see who it was, he was ready to swear it could not be Margarita. But it was Margarita, without her giant bag.

 

28.
Other Secrets

 

The father of the twins, Margarita and Valentin, was a pathologist; back when Maria still talked, she often asked him about his work. Then, somehow imperceptibly, she stopped. The same thing had happened to their relationship—it had disintegrated into thin air before he noticed any of it. He woke up one day realizing that he had become useless to his own wife and children. Anything he set out to do got done before he could finish it. Anything he tried to say—a suggestion, a conclusion of any sort—was already a matter of common knowledge. The children shyly slipped out of his arms whenever he wanted to take them out somewhere. Maria had taken them there already. No one asked him any questions, and when he asked a question, the answer stood obvious before him, or no one seemed to understand what he was saying. Of course, it didn't happen overnight, but the process had been treacherous precisely in its slowness. He hadn't been able to put his finger on anything in particular that he could have tried to change or complain about. Simply whatever he thought of doing was somehow already done.

And whatever he undertook in the house, repainting the walls for instance, an occasion he distinctly remembered, inevitably failed because it had been his initiative.

It was then that he started drinking. No one understood what was happening. Like a desperate man staring down the edge of a precipice, he made scenes. Maria dealt with these in her way, too; could you beat your head against a wall that was continuously retreating? He could no longer recognize the world he lived in. When he screamed through tears that his wife didn't love him, she seemed unable to understand what he meant. When he accused her of wanting to see the end of him, she merely smiled. He asked her repeatedly what she wanted from him, and while asking, he began to believe in his own imaginary answer. He knew that he was instinctively holding onto it as his only chance of survival. But no other answer was offered. He inhabited a world of deaf people, or a world of strangers, isolated like a benign tumor rejected by a body's immune system. He spent an indefinite amount of time in a state of silent torpor, then tried to liven up by going out, with people who were truly trying to help him. But the house with his children and his wife in it was still there—all around him, but also inside him, and he could not reconcile these two contradictory feelings.

When his state evolved into a conviction that someone could read his mind and did everything he himself meant to do, his brother took him to see a psychiatrist. As soon as he said that his wife had taken his place and now lived
his
life, the psychiatrist decided to have him admitted for treatment. The medication calmed him down and dissipated his panicky urge to search for a way out. After long months of conversation and interaction with the hospital staff and the other patients, who were disappearing one after the other, Maria's husband learned two things: first, that it was better to be separated from his wife and children and, second, that for some inexplicable reason, inside him, a problem had engendered itself, and from now on he had to live with it.

 

29.
What Will We Do with Each Other

 

The gentleman Mr. V. had grown to be inseparable from his name
.
Everyone called him Mr. V.; everyone was also oblivious to the fact that he sometimes wrote poetry. And he took his pursuit of poetry so seriously that he never talked to anyone about it. His wife was duly informed, of course, but she was the last person on earth to think of spreading this kind of information. She didn't have anything against it. But until he became as good at writing poetry as he was at making money, there was no need to reveal his secret. It was simply a question of self-respect. All the same, there was a tiny problem—money was something you could count and count on, but verse? Who could tell if or when a poem was good? Madame V. was about fifty-seven or fifty-eight years old; she had the heavy build of a German and a healthy look. She inspired unspoken jealousy among her female acquaintances for a variety of reasons: she was the wife of Mr. V.; she was an artist and she managed to sell her paintings; she seemed to know everything and was invited to every party. On top of that, she was obviously under no obligation to accept every invitation. When she didn't go, her husband did, and it had the same effect. The two of them were having a good time and seemed to be a perfect match for each other. He was sophisticated, yet timid, and she was self-assured and sociable, bursting with physical vitality.

It was Christmas Eve and Mr. V. was in torment. Fanny was expected to come, but he knew she wouldn't, and that was a problem. He could almost hear his soul crumpling like parchment with worry, but decided to make one last attempt. The car stopped in front of Fanny's place and he ran up the stairs to the third floor, hoping that his legs would prove faster than his dread. The bells echoed on the other side and the door opened. A handsome dark-haired boy appeared. How strange, he looked familiar. Had he seen him somewhere? Good evening, I'd like to speak to Fanny. The boy walked away and came back to show him in. And there—wonder of wonders! In the middle of the living room shone a magnificent Christmas tree. They kept walking toward the library. And there—Mr. V. could hardly believe his eyes—the open fire was lit, and sitting in front of it was Fanny, disheveled, engaged in conversation with another boy, who looked very much like the first one. No, it wasn't a boy, it was a girl, sitting with her back to the door. Mr. V. froze, but Fanny jumped to her feet, took his hand and pulled him down to the floor by the fire, where the first boy was already comfortably seated. No, not the first boy, the boy. After a few awkward words, Fanny introduced him to the twins and thrust a cup with a warm drink into his hand. Thank goodness, it wasn't tea, or was only half tea—praise be to God for grog. Mr. V. pulled his legs close to his body and stared at the twins. He had a perplexing sensation of déjà-vu. The boy's eyes were alert and solemn, and the girl, the girl had something unfathomable about her that drew him like a magnet. But the strangest of all three was Fanny. There was no trace of her Snow Queen air, her cheeks had a rosy after-skiing kind of glow, she was babbling happily. The fire was crackling to the rhythm of unheard music. Mr. V. was overcome by a feeling of bliss. Here was oblivion. Outside, the sky was dark already and time galloped on. But here—he was sitting on his behind as if it were the first time he had ever done so, he was sipping his grog, comfortable on the woolen carpet, marveling at the droplets evaporating from the tops of his shoes. At some point other people came in, a noisy crowd that gathered and then dispersed through the house. One could feel their presence. The house was just awakening with life. After his third drink someone propped a soft pillow under his head and Mr. V. dozed off, content by the fire.