Philip felt the sobs rise in his own throat and covered Rallie’s head with his hand, pulling her against his shoulder as if trying to hide her. Or to hide himself. He had never been so close to another person.
You’re not allowed to sit here, a voice in a white uniform said by his side.
The voice shook him out of the dream he had sunk into together with Rallie.
We’ll leave.
Philip lifted the now sleeping girl, took her in his arms, and carried her to the car. He was no longer scared of the substances she had taken, whatever they were.
When he parked in front of his apartment building, he saw that the lights in his place were lit. He locked the car on his side, opened the passenger door and lifted Rallie again. No one saw them.
He put her on his bed, took off both their shoes, made a little tent out of blankets, and wrapped his arms around her. Rallie’s breath became regular and soon Philip fell asleep.
38. On the Road
Early the next morning, Maria left the house wrapped down to her knees in a black woolen scarf. The baby was still asleep in its basket, and in any case, there was someone to take care of him when he woke up. The old man and the old woman were already awake and moving about, the fire was lit.
Fine snowflakes descended through the air. Maria’s car lay dormant under a thick layer of snow, but she never even glanced at it. She walked through the flurry of stars, and her shape soon melted into the whiteness.
She marched up the hill, toward the chapel where Boris had been baptized that hot summer the neighbor’s boy had died. Her padded suede boots sank in the snow. The old couple had not tried to talk her out of it; they knew they couldn’t. Climbing through the heavy snow was not for everyone, but if Maria had decided to do it, she would, no matter what.
She entered the white forest, the wintry silence. Her feet sank almost to her knees. She soon found out, however, how to exert the least possible effort and started moving much faster. She simply had to lift her knees to her chest as if wading through water. She walked quickly, in tiny steps, like a little black crow hopping in the snow.
A strange narrow path unwound behind her and the snow was beginning to cover it again. It looked intimate and personal, of no use to anyone else.
Having found her rhythm, Maria advanced with the lightness of a bird. The distance grew behind her and she started to laugh. First she smiled, not the eerie smile that made everyone suddenly chilly and silent. Her smile was real, showing a nice row of little white teeth, a child’s smile. She walked and smiled, walked and laughed, until she heard her own voice ringing, a sound foreign to her, the voice of Maria walking through the snow. A voice meant for no one. A voice that had nothing to do with the commanding intonations Mr. V. had heard. When she remembered Mr. V. she laughed even louder. She had never met anyone so sweet and funny. He was a man from a family with a history. Or simply a family man. The word “family” made her laugh even more.
What would Mr. V. do without his family history?
As a matter of principle Maria did not permit herself such thoughts. No analyses of any kind. A snapshot was sufficient for her. Analysis made one weak. It interfered with one’s goals. People who believed they achieved anything by analyzing the situation deluded themselves. They never achieved what they wanted, instead achieving something else. Who knows what exactly, something they would describe with arbitrary words. Most often, words that simply come to mind. Laughter swept through the white forest, accompanying Maria along the way.
Usually things happen very quickly, just like that. What people fail to understand is that things have already happened. Their senses are only sharp enough to put them on the alert. Those more sensitive can perceive that something or other is beginning. Then they believe themselves clear-sighted and quick because they have been able to see a beginning, or whatever word they choose for it, and they start to think. Laughter rang through the forest, scattering through the snow.
Other people needed to think. Maria simply knew things. Thinking made the years of one’s life feel like a burden. But Maria was hopping lightly; her breath came out in laughs, carrying her forward.
Poor man. She never meant to shock him. Or at least not as much. She didn’t want to think about him. What a strange thing, she was thinking. He was so funny and so kind, he deserved… Who knows really? Maria burst into laughter again and fell in the snow.
She remained lying in the soft thickness. She rolled over on her back and spread her arms. Down there the tree branches were black. Black on white. Or black under white. Or white over black.
And the snow was falling and falling. She imagined closing her eyes and white snowflakes covering her black scarf and her black hair and her black velvety boots.
She felt tempted like never before. The unspeakable tenderness of the snow. Black underneath the white. The world can be described. Maria knew this. Or rather, the world allows descriptions. And resists thought. Maria turned sideways onto her elbow and propped her head on her hand. As if she was on a bed. A bed as wide as a forest. The snow descended like a winding sheet. The world accepts you if you don’t try to think about it. Maria was not thinking about it, she was watching it. She was watching the world, and it was watching her. How marvelous. She never thought about other people, but now she suddenly remembered Boris. His word for this was “communication.”
She turned again and got up on all fours. She took a few steps like this and started laughing again. She felt the urge to get up and walk.
She raised her head a little like a turtle and saw the chapel in front of her. She was here, and it was there — waiting for her.
Here I come.
She started slowly, her scarf, held between her fingers, trailed behind her. For a moment she stood motionless in front of the chapel. Looking back down the forest, with its black strokes against the white, she considered the path she had walked. It was part of her now, filling her with that familiar onslaught of force.
She touched the door with the bare tips of her fingers, which protruded from the unfinished, black-knit gloves.
She only touched it.
The door recognized her and opened itself.
Then it closed behind her.
39. Aldehydes and Ketones
Christmas morning in the city. Valentin was watching from the window of his garret. The white roofs stretched under him like a rolling sea.
He had sneaked out of Fanny’s with excessive politeness, even though the party had been dying down anyway. His last memory of it was Margarita sitting at the piano and her music. It was real music, wholly separate from any possible imperfections of the performance.
That Margarita had gathered enough courage to play in front of an audience was a miracle. It had never happened before. She played at home, he knew she also played at their father’s place, but that was all. How many times they had begged her to play. Something had changed.
Valentin could not tell if it was good or bad that Margarita had played the piano. He wanted to believe it was good.
In the same train of thought he remembered Raya and realized that he had neither seen her, nor spoken to her for more than a week.
He grabbed his coat and rushed down the stairs. The telephone booths by the university looked deserted. For a fraction of a second he considered going back home, to Maria’s. Her white house, impossible to miss, was only a couple of stops by tram, on the corner of Stambolijski Boulevard and Samuil Street. No, he decided to go there later. Now he wanted to hear Raya’s voice.
The little Ralitsa, his five-year-old daughter, answered the phone. He told her he had presents for her and they agreed that he would come over to bring them.