Chapter 2 Chapter One

Around six o'clock.As twilight fell and the air in the room became heavy, I was reading Chekhov's humorous novels to my subject in a stammering voice, but I could hardly distinguish the lines; but I dared not Turn on the lights: these brothers have a strange thrift that no child should have, a hideous domestic instinct; whether it's sausage, butter, electricity, or every style of car, they know the exact price.When I read "Double Bass Romance" aloud, trying in vain to amuse them, and being ashamed of myself and of the poor author, I knew they were aware of my connection with the blurred twilight. struggling, and waiting grimly to see if I would hold out until the first light came on in the house across the street to set an example.I succeeded, and the lights were my reward.

I was about to add some color to my voice (the story was at its most lively), when the phone in the hall suddenly rang.There were only the three of us in the whole house, and the two brothers jumped up suddenly, scrambling to run towards the tinkling bell.I sat without moving, with the book spread out on my lap, smiling faintly at the unfinished line.It turned out to be my phone.I sat down on a creaky wicker chair and held the receiver to my ear.My students stood by, one left and one right, looking at me calmly. "I'm on my way," said a man's voice. "You'll be home, I hope?"

"Your hopes will not be disappointed," I said cheerfully, "but who are you?" "You can't tell who I am? That's better—I'll surprise you then," said the voice. "But I'd like to know who was talking," I said with a relentless smile. (I later recalled my naughty tone with horror and shame.) "We'll know when the time comes." The voice said bluntly. At this moment, I really had fun. "But why? Why?" I asked. "That's interesting..." Realizing I was speaking into a vacuum, I shrugged and hung up. We are back in the living room.I said, "Hey, where did we just read?" Then I found the place and continued to read.

However, I have a strange feeling of uneasiness.I read aloud mechanically, wondering who this visitor might be.A guy who just came from Russia?I went through the familiar faces and voices one by one - alas, there are not many - for some reason, I stopped when I passed a college student named Ushakov.I recalled my only one year of university in Russia, where I was lonely, and cherished this Ushakov like a treasure.In the middle of the conversation, if I show a tacit dreamy expression and mention the beaming song "Then Let's Be Happy" and my reckless student days, it means that I think of Ushakov , although, God knows, I only had two or three small talk with him (whether it was about politics or something trivial, I forget).However, it was unlikely that he appeared so mysterious on the phone.I was fascinated by my guesses, alternately thinking of a Communist spy and an eccentric millionaire in need of a secretary.

Doorbell rang.The two brothers stormed into the hallway again.I put down the book and followed slowly.Joyfully and deftly, they tugged at the small iron latch, fiddled twice with some additional mechanism, and the door swung open. A strange memory...Even now, even though many things have changed, every time I recall that strange memory, my heart sinks, like a dangerous criminal coming out of a cell.In that moment, one of the walls of my life collapsed, silently, like in a silent film.I know that a catastrophe is coming, but no doubt I still have a smile on my face, if I am not wrong, it is a flattering smile; and when I stretch out my hand, what I encounter is destined to be nothing, although I have already expected that. It was nothing but an effort to get the gesture done (resounding in my mind with the phrase "basic politeness").

"Hands down." The guest said so at the beginning, and looked at my hand that I offered to extend—but it had already begun to sink into an abyss. No wonder I didn't recognize his voice just now.A certain raw quality that distorts a familiar timbre that comes out of the phone is actually an uncharacteristic rage, a roughness I've never heard in a human voice for the first time.That scene stays in my memory like a shape: the brightly lit hallway; I don't know what to do with my rejected hand; I; the visitor myself, in an olive-green raincoat with stylish epaulettes, pale as if paralyzed by a photographer's flash--bulging eyes, distended nostrils, a neatly trimmed mustache like a black equilateral triangle, The lower lip was filled with venom.Then there was an almost imperceptible movement: a click as the lips parted, followed by a slight twitch of the thick black cane in my hand; I couldn't take my eyes off the cane anymore.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "What's the matter? There must be a misunderstanding... sure, there was a misunderstanding..." At that moment, I found a hand for my still missing, still promising hand. Where it was both embarrassing and uncomfortable, I put my hand on a student's shoulder in a trance to maintain my dignity; the child gave it a sideways look. "Hey, my good brother," blurted the visitor, "get out of the way. I won't hurt them, and you don't have to protect them. I need a little bit, because I'm going to fix you up."

"This isn't your home," I said. "You have no right to mess around. I don't know what you want me to do..." He beat me.He aimed at my shoulder and slapped it loudly and hard. After eating this, I staggered to the side, and the rattan chair jumped away like a living thing.He grinned his teeth and pretended to do it again.The rod landed right on my raised arm.At this point, I had to retreat and hide in the living room.He was in hot pursuit.Another odd detail: I yelled at the top of my lungs, calling him by his first and last name, and asked him how I had offended him.He caught up with me again, and I tried to protect myself with a pad I grabbed while running, but he knocked it out of my hand. "It's a disgrace," I shouted, "I'm unarmed. I've been slandered. You'll have to pay for it..." I hid behind a desk, as before, and for a moment everything froze into a static modeling.There he was baring his teeth and holding his cane, and behind him stood a boy on either side of the door: maybe my memory is a bit formulaic on this point, but for God's sake, I do believe that a man stood with his arms folded against the wall , the other sat on the arm of a chair, and the two brothers watched me being punished quietly.Presently everything was in motion again, and all four of us ran into the next room; the part of his blow shifted viciously, and my hands formed a humble fig-leaf; On my face, it blackened my eyes.It's so strange, how come I never beat people by myself, no matter how badly they offended me, but now, I was beaten so badly by his heavy cane, not only can I not fight back (I'm not proficient in Kong Wu's skills), even In a moment of pain and humiliation, I can't imagine myself raising my hand to resist a fellow, especially when that fellow appears angry and strong; A revolver—well, just to scare ghosts.

The thoughtful inaction of my two students, their frozen mural-like poses at the top of a room or that, their empathetic attitude of turning on the lights as soon as I retreated into the darkened dining room ——All these things must be a kind of cognitive illusion——I have given meaning and permanent impression to dismemberment, and it is as random as a politician’s raised knees caught by the camera. He is not jumping. To dance is just to step over a puddle. In fact, they seemed to have been absent throughout my punishment; at one point, concerned about my parents' furniture, they logically started calling the police (an attempt was interrupted by a thunderclap from the man), Yet I don't know when to put this moment—at the beginning, or at the climax of pain, terror, at the end when I collapse limply on the floor, my rounded back exposed to his feet. Kicking and punching, I begged repeatedly in a hoarse voice: "Okay, okay, my heart is not good... okay, my heart is not good..." My heart, let me interject, has been functioning very well.

A minute later, it's all over.He lit a cigarette, wheezed heavily, and rattled the matchbox with his hands; he walked around for a while, taking stock of the situation, and then said a few words about "a little lesson." " and so on, put on the hat and hurried away.I immediately got up from the floor and went straight to my room.The brothers ran after me.One also tried to grab the door.I gave him a bump with my elbow, and I knew it hurt.I locked the door and rinsed my face, and when I touched the water, my wounds were so painful that I almost cried, and then I dragged the suitcase from under the bed and started packing.It's a tough job - my back hurts and my left hand doesn't work the way I do.

I was wearing a coat and carrying a heavy suitcase. When I entered the hall, the two brothers showed up again.I didn't even glance at them.As I descended the stairs, I felt them leaning over the banister and watching me from above.Just a little down the road, I ran into their music teacher; Tuesday happened to be the day she had lessons.She was a shy Russian girl with glasses and bowed legs.Instead of saying hello to her, I turned my swollen face to the side, spurred by her startled silence, and rushed out into the street. Before committing suicide, I wanted to write a few traditional letters and sit safe and sound for at least five minutes.So I called a taxi and went to my original place of residence.Fortunately, my familiar room was empty, and the little old lady from the landlady made my bed right away—wasted effort.I waited impatiently for her to leave, but she fumbled for a long time, filled the cans, filled the bottles, drew the curtains, yanked a jammed cord or something, and looked up , with a black mouth open.Finally, I murmured "goodbye" and finally left. A wretched, trembling, vulgar little man in a bowler hat stood in the middle of the room rubbing his hands for some reason.That was the glimpse of myself I had seen in the mirror.Then I hurriedly opened the suitcase, took out the letter envelope, took out a pitiful pencil end in my pocket, and sat down at the table.But it turned out that I didn't have anyone to write to.I knew very few people, and loved none at all.So the idea of ​​writing the letter was dismissed, and everything else followed; and I had vague notions that I must get my things in order, put on clean shirts and trousers, and put all my money—twenty Mark—in an envelope with a note saying who should receive it.Now I realize that all this was decided not today, but at a different time long ago, when I was casually imagining how people would go about shooting themselves.So, an old resident of the city unexpectedly receives an invitation from a country friend to get a flat bottle and a pair of sturdy boots first, not because of a real need for these things, but unconsciously, some kind of previously unknown The result of proven consideration: I always think that rural areas have to walk long roads through forests and mountains.But in the countryside, there are neither forests nor mountains, but flat farmland, and no one wants to run on the road in hot weather.Just as one sees a real turnip field instead of postcard glens and glades, I now see how pedantic my earlier ideas about pre-suicide activity were; mundane affairs, and sitting down to write a will would be as absurd as giving yourself a form at that time, because the world is gone with this person; The legacy of nonexistent offspring fades away like a puff of smoke. One thing I had long suspected—that the world is absurd—had become obvious to me.I suddenly felt unbelievably free, and freedom itself was that absurd display.I took out the twenty-mark note and tore it to pieces.I wiped the watch off and banged it on the floor until it stopped.It occurred to me that if I wanted to, right now, I could run out into the street, swear, and pick a woman into my arms; shoot someone, or smash a shop window...it was almost It's all I can think of: There's a limit to the lawless imagination. Carefully and fumblingly, I loaded the revolver and turned off the light.The thought of dying, which had once driven me out of my wits, was now a dear and simple thing.I am afraid, especially afraid that the bullet will cause me great pain; but is it more acceptable and understandable to be afraid of dreams and uniform darkness than a life of various insomnia?Nonsense - how can one be afraid of that?Standing in the middle of the dark room, I unbuttoned my shirt, pouted my buttocks, searched for my heart between my ribs, and found its location.It throbs like a small animal you are carrying to safety, a chick or a field mouse, and you cannot explain to it that there is nothing to be afraid of, but instead you are doing something good for it.But it is alive and kicking, my heart; and the barrel pressed tightly against the thin skin, and a pocket world beneath it contracting and throbbing elastically, I find somehow repugnant, so I put The awkwardly bent arms were pulled away a little so that the iron thing wouldn't touch my bare chest.Then I fired with all my might.With a jerk, there was a delightful trill behind me; the kind I'll never forget.It was immediately replaced by the trill of water, a guttural gurgle and surge.I took a breath and choked on the fluid; everything inside and outside of me was flowing and moving.I found myself on my knees; I reached out to steady myself, but it sank into the floor, as if sinking into bottomless water. After a period of time, if a person can still talk about time here, he finally understands one thing, that is, after death, people's thoughts continue to live by inertia.I'm wrapped tightly in something—a shroud?Just taut darkness?I remember everything--my name, my life in the world--clearly, distinctly, and I take great comfort in the thought that now I have nothing to worry about.By playful and nonchalant logic, I advanced from the incomprehensible sensation of a tight bandage to the notion of a hospital, and as if my mind had come true, a ghostly hospital ward materialized all around me, and I There are neighbors, mummies like me, three on each side.What a great thing is the human mind, that it can transcend death!God knows how long thoughts will beat and create images long after my dead brain is useless.There is, paradoxically, comic relief that the familiar pit of a decayed tooth is still here.I was a little curious about how they buried me, whether they sang the requiem, and who came to the funeral. How persistently, yet how thoroughly--as if it had been nostalgic for its original activity--my mind busied itself creating the appearance of a hospital, of figures in white clothes moving among the beds, a bed There is also the appearance of people moaning.I succumbed to these hallucinations with good intentions, excited them, stimulated them, until I managed to create a complete, natural picture of the simple case of a minor injury caused by an imprecise bullet through the serratus muscle; A doctor (my creation) appeared and hastily confirmed my nonchalant suspicions.Then, just as I was laughing and swearing that I was clumsily unloading a revolver, my little old lady appeared in a black straw hat trimmed with cherries.She sat down beside my bed, asked me how I was feeling, and wagged her finger slyly at me, mentioning a pot that had been shattered by a bullet... Ah, how cunning my mind is, and with what simple everyday To explain in words the crackling and gurgling that accompany me into nothingness. I reckon the inertia of my mind will soon wear off after death, but it is obvious that my imagination was so rich in life that there is enough left over to last a long time.It continued the theme of recovery and got me out of the hospital in no time.The restoration of a Berlin street looked like a resounding success—as I slid on the pavement, testing my still limp feet, practically detached from my body, I thought about the routine: I had to turn my watch I have to send it for repairs, and I have to buy a few packs of cigarettes; but I have no money with me.I was entangled in these thoughts—and not very disturbing thoughts—that flesh-coloured twenty-mark note with terracotta shades on it, which I tore into pieces before I killed myself, and my Feelings of freedom and impunity.Glad now that my actions had acquired a certain vengeance, I confined myself to a melancholy whim, and did not cause merriment in the streets.Because I know that after a person dies, the mind liberated from the body continues to act in all interrelated fields as before, and has a corresponding degree of perception, because I also know that the torment of a sinner in the underworld is precisely because he is tenacious. His mind can find no peace until it manages to untangle the complex ramifications of his reckless afterlife actions. I walked down the street in my memory; everything seemed real, but there was nothing to prove that I was not dead, that Passauerstrasse was not a ghostly illusion.I saw myself from the outside, hesitating so to speak, moved and frightened, like an inexperienced ghost watching a person's existence.He knows this person's inside, the dark night in his heart, his mouth, and the taste in his mouth, as clearly as that person's appearance. My levitating mechanical movement takes me to the Weinstock bookstore.Immediately printed Russian books to my liking appeared in the window.For a moment some titles seemed still foggy; I fixed my eyes and the fog cleared.The bookstore was empty when I entered, a cast-iron stove burning in a corner with the dim flames of a medieval hell.I heard Weinstock panting somewhere behind the counter. "It's rolled down," he muttered in a gruff voice, "it's rolled down." Standing up, I found my imagination (indeed, it was compelled to fly) not so accurate: Weinstock used to have a moustache, but now he doesn't.My imagination didn't have time to finish him off, and the pale space where the moustache should have been was just a kind of bluish stippling. "Your face is terribly ugly," he said, and Quan Dang said hello, "You don't look good, you don't look good. What's the matter with you? Are you sick?" I replied that I was really sick. "There's been a lot of flu," Weinstock said. "It's been a long time," he went on. "Tell me, have you found a job yet?" I replied that I had been a governess for a while, but that I had lost it now, and that I was addicted to cigarettes. A customer came to buy a Russian-Spanish dictionary. "I think there's one here," Weinstock said, turning to the bookshelves, running his fingers along the spines of several fat volumes, "ah, here's a Russian-Portuguese dictionary—it's the same thing .” "I'll just buy it." After saying that, the customer took the waste he bought and left. Meanwhile, a deep sigh from the back of the bookstore caught my attention.Someone was covered by a book, and walked over slowly, muttering "oh-oh-oh-oh-oh" in Russian. "You hired a guy?" I asked Weinstock. "I'm going to fire him soon," he whispered. "He's a good-for-nothing old man. I need a lad." "What about the Mafia, Vikenji Levovich?" "If you weren't such a skeptic with ulterior motives," said Vikendi Lervovich Weinstock with dignity and disapproval, "I could tell you a lot of interesting things." He was a little sad Well, there was something wrong with this situation: my ghostly, poor, light-headed state had to be ended somehow, but instead my fantasies bred bland gossip. "No, no, Vikendi Levovich, why do you call me a skeptic? Quite the contrary—don't you remember—that sort of thing cost me old nose money." Indeed, when I first met Weinstock, I immediately noticed that he had a family trait of being easily swayed by obsessions.He believed that there were people who were constantly on his tail, and he always said of them with a mystical brevity: "spies."He hinted that there was a "blacklist", and it was estimated that his name was on it.I always tease him, but my heart is still trembling.One day, I felt strange because I bumped into the person I happened to notice on the tram that morning, an unpleasant blond guy with rogue eyes-he was standing on the corner of my street now. Come on, pretend to be reading a newspaper.So I started to feel uneasy.I often blamed myself and made fun of Weinstock in my heart, but I couldn't do anything about my own imagination.At night, I would fantasize about someone crawling through the window.In the end I bought a revolver, and I felt at ease.It was this expense that I was referring to (which is all the more ridiculous now that my gun license has been revoked). "What do weapons do to you?" he retorted. "They're as cunning as devils. There's only one way to beware of them—use your brains. My organization..." He gave me a suspicious look, abruptly, as if he It's like talking too much.At this point I made up my mind, tried my best to explain in a joking manner, saying that the situation was special-nowhere to borrow money, but I still had to live, smoking; when I said this, I always thought A glib stranger who lost a front tooth once approached my student's mother, and in exactly this jesting tone, said he had to go to Wiesbaden in the evening and was just ninety pfennig short . "Well," she said calmly, "you can tell your Wiesbaden story all you want, but of course I'll give you twenty pfennigs. No more, it's purely a matter of principle." But now, when I enjoy making such juxtapositions, I am not at all ashamed.Since that shot -- the one I thought was fatal -- I've watched myself with curiosity rather than sympathy, and my painful past -- before that shot -- now feels irrelevant already.This conversation with Weinstock was a new beginning for me.As for myself, I am a bystander.I believe in the illusory nature of existence, and that gives me a certain pleasure. It is foolish to look for a fundamental law, even more foolish than to find it.Some mean-spirited villain decided that life could be explained by the whirling signs of the zodiac, or by the struggle between an empty stomach and a full stomach; He played the role of Russia's secretary, and began to do business with the public in the wholesale era; but later, he was unlucky because of his personal vitality. Because his two sons were too soft, he had to despair in the thriving economic development. Shout out.Fortunately, there is no such rule: a toothache will lose a battle, and a drizzle will cancel an uprising.Everything is fluid, everything depends on chance, and the efforts of that mean bourgeoisie in Victorian plaid trousers, the author of the insomnia and migraine fruits of Capital, are in vain.Look back and ask yourself, "So what if...", substitute one accidental event for another, and observe how a gray, barren, monotonous moment in a person's life can happen in reality. A magical and beautiful event with some scratching fun in it.Something mysterious, this tangled structure of life: at every moment in the past a person feels a fork in the road, a "this way" and an "other way", against the dark background of the past, The twists and turns of the two-fork and three-fork are countless and dazzling. These simple thoughts about the impermanent nature of life always come to mind when I think how easily it might happen that I would never happen to rent a room in that house at 5 Peacock Street, never Vanya and her sister, or Roman Bogodanovich, or many others who I suddenly found alive around me so unexpectedly, so unusually.Also, if my ghost lives in another house after being discharged from the hospital, maybe an unimaginable joy will get acquainted and interact with me... who knows, who knows... Above me, on the attic, lived a Russian family.I met them through Weinstock, from whom they took books—another fascinating means of directing life, as far as fantasy is concerned.Before we really got to know each other, we often met on the stairs, and flirted with each other defensively, which is the virtue of Russians abroad.Immediately I noticed Vanya, and immediately my heart fluttered; as in a dream, you go into a dream house, and there, at the mercy of the dream, find the dream-bound prey.She had a married sister, Yevgenia, a young woman with a pretty square face that made you think of a kind and pretty bulldog.And Yevgenia's burly, stocky husband.Once, in the downstairs hall, I happened to hold the door for him, and his inaccurate German "thank you" (danke) rhymed perfectly with the Russian word for "bank"—yes, he Just right there to work.