A.
MOLOTKOV'S
LITERARY PROJECTS
Without
excerpt
Just like unbalanced music, one theme suppressing the rest in
an ultimate agony of dying sound. Images thrown at me in a family fight
dish-breaking cacophony. Flashes of faces I have never seen and will never see
again. WHO IS THE MURDERER? My own thoughts so amplified that Sara's responses
almost drown in them: I have to apply additional attention to sort them out.
Images of things we've done and those we were going to do, but never got the
chance. Images of things we were afraid of, and those that she had not confessed
to me before. The same picture again: the man peeling off the top layer of
reality: a sinister slow movement of both hands, from the corner to the middle,
the new version innocently similar to the original, with the exception of one
detail. The knife.
Then - suddenly - everything changes, as though she has
finally heard my question. Feeble attempts of response, unfinished sketches of
unrecognizable faces on the pages of mental notepads intermingled with badly
overexposed photographs of strange silhouettes. Gradually, images seem to
acquire some sequence, as if Sara is doing her best to control them. The legs of
the killer encased in a pair of jeans as the knife lazily hangs by on the right
side, ready to be used. A pair of sneakers, nothing specific, nothing to hold on
to. The picture going out of focus, now it's completely blurred, stays that way
for a minute or too, frail fragments of the same image bursting into the mash of
melded colors: sneakers jeans knife patch on the knee jeans knife sneakers. Back
again, seen clearly now, still only the lower part of his body - WHY? Is it what
she was looking at, afraid to raise her eyes and meet the mad stare of the other
ones? In a final attempt the frame jumps up, all the way up to the ceiling, the
murderer's face could be finally exposed - but no, it is covered with his other
hand, as though he is sneezing or just scratching his nose, and all too fast
anyway, too fast to grasp anything, to memorize the features of the face covered
by the hand. END OF THE FILM. As though Sara is completely exhausted by this
attempt, the flow of images becomes less dense, and all of it the same as
before: memories and dreams, dreams and memories. The unhurried stream of random
information. And yet, it seems there is something depressed, something
pessimistic in it: in the colors, or in the overall slow motion of the images,
or in something else - as if Sara realized she was unable to answer my question,
and now, after she finally gave up, she is sad, crying the unfathomable tears of
the other side. Slower, slower, slower, slower with every second, until
everything stops - no more movement, a motion picture slashed in time, a
sophisticated combination of halfway rendered images compressed within the
section.
I open my eyes, returning to reality. The last part of our
communication has scared me: what could it possibly mean? The way the stream of
Sara's brainwork has stopped, resembles…resembles…I do not want to use the word,
even in this conversation with myself. Could it be that…Or is she just tired
after all these unsuccessful attempts to convey to me the information I need so
much? Maybe she has just paused for some time, or paused out of time if we try
to be terminologically precise? Could it be possible? But after all, what do I
know about the place where she is now - if it could be called a place? I remind
myself that only a few days ago I did not even know about the Cube.
Created by my disturbed imagination, cheerless sights appear
to me. I picture Sara, a bodiless shapeless entity trapped in some obscure
dimensions out of reach, waiting for her pass into the resting place, whatever
that place might be. I picture her: tired, motionless mind within the Cube, the
mind that is still trying to help me, to answer my questions which are probably
no more relevant to her now than the sound of rain outside my window when I
approach it and fling it open in a mad claustrophobic outburst of anguish. Rain
outside, heavy waterbombs crashing against the glass, against the windowsill.
She could be anywhere, she could be inside one of these raindrops, or everywhere
at the same time, or nowhere - now, or in some other time, or never. Suddenly…
A fragile lump of live matter there on the ledge, a black
ball with spots of white…I pick it up wondering how on earth it could have
gotten here - a cat on the ledge, seven stories above the ground…It meows,
trembling with cold. I put it on the floor, close the window, exorcising the
evil spirits of rain. The cat rubs against my ankle, leaving a wet trace on my
pants.
"What the hell were you doing out there?" I ask.
The cat does not say anything.
"Are you hungry? I imagine you are." I go into the kitchen,
the cat follows me obediently, reminding of its presence by an occasional meow.
I put some milk into a saucer and offer it to my guest. He starts licking,
paying no further attention to the rest of this world. Judging by the speed with
which the milk is disappearing, he must have been really hungry. He? Is it a
"he" or a "she"? I perform an unsophisticated inspection, only to find out that
my intuitive assumption was right: it is a male.
"You haven't answered my question," I say. "How in hell did
you end up out there?"
The cat looks up at me, aware of the fact that I am talking
to him.
"So, what am I going to do with you now?" I inquire. "I might
not be here very much longer, you know…I would keep you, but who will take care
of you in case I have to disappear? Do you have anyone particular in mind?"
The cat doesn't reply. Apparently he doesn't have a very
clear idea of his plans.
"Well, you can stay for a while," I say. "But afterwards…you
know…we'll have to see what happens. Is that a deal?"
The cat meows again, accepting the invitation.
"I have to get back to work now, if you will excuse me," I
add. "Let me know if you need anything else. Later on I'll get some cat food for
you, but you have to wait a bit. I'm too busy now."
The cat silently approves the idea.
I go back to the living room, he follows me there and curls
up on the sofa. He seems to feel very much at home in my apartment. He
definitely doesn't seem very shy. I switch my attention back to what I had been
pondering before.
It would be too far-fetched to imagine that the messages of
the murderer's appearance were transmitted to me accidentally, with no
connection to the question I was so insistently asking. And if so, there must be
a reason why Sara was unable to convey to me the image of the killer's face.
Maybe in the agony of her last minutes she did not really get a chance to look
at it, so my attempts were altogether senseless? It seems theoretically
possible, but very unlikely. The most reasonable explanation is simple: the
killer must have found a way to block a part of her memory. And if a memory
block exists, how would I try to disable it? Will I ever be able to do it?
Hardly so.
All of a sudden a simple notion occurs to me: even if my
experiments end up successfully and I find out the murderer's appearance - what
am I going to do next? How does one find a person by a face, or not even as much
as a face - just a memory of a face? Maybe John will be able to help me with
that? Maybe I will find a way to do it scientifically, with the help of various
devices I have at my disposal? Who knows…
Depressed as I was after our communication, all these
thoughts depress me quite a bit more. Why does it have to be so that instead of
solving problems, each one of my experiments creates more of them? Is there a
way to get out of this cycle? It seems that I am completely unprepared for the
task I'm trying to carry out. Normally I should have been able to foresee all
the likely outcomes of each attempt I make. Instead, all my expectations prove
to be wrong: the reality is making fun of me. Why? Am I unfit for the purpose?
Is the purpose unfit for me?
The cat wakes up with his usual cue. He leaps down to the
floor and heads to the kitchen - apparently to have some more milk. I look at my
watch. It's a little after six. I have about two hours at my disposal - then I
will take a shower and go pick up Eleanor at her house. The anticipation of what
might turn out as a promising date relaxes me a little. After all, I still have
four days left - four days plus two hours. There is no reason why I couldn't
turn it all around.
The cat returns to the room expressing his feelings in the
Cat language. I pet him absent-mindedly, still absorbed in my thoughts. Then I
walk over to the window and open it: the rain has stopped - such a tremendous
change in only a few minutes. It occurs to me that the weather is even more
inclined to mood variations than any of us humans. I look down at the ledge,
tracing it all the way to the corner. I still do not understand how the cat
could have gotten here. Could he be a messenger sent by Schneider to tempt (or
to inspire) me? Alas, I don't believe in the supernatural…
"What do you want now?" I ask the cat.
The cat does not say anything.
"You know," I say. "You are no fun talking to. I better go
back to work."
The cat raises no objections.
If my assumption is true and the killer has actually imposed
a block upon Sara's mentality, is there a way to bypass it? Possibly, if the
block has to do with her capacity to retrieve information that already exists in
her brain. Unlikely, if her very ability to see the murderer's face was
suppressed - in that case, her memory contains no information about it
whatsoever, so it is pointless to try to extract it. What is the easiest way to
set up a block? And first of all: why would the killer need one? Could he have
anticipated that someone might use the discoveries of brainwork science to solve
the mystery? Not unless he knew it already…
But how could he?
And if he did, then…then Sara is no longer a casualty of
random choice, and the killer must have done some studying before he arrived
there, at Sara's house, ready to commit the murder he had long planned.
Or is it all just a coincidence? Could be…There might be no
block at all, and even if there is one, the killer might have set it up simply
out of caution. Besides, he certainly must be educated enough to be able to
transcend reality. Hence, setting a block might have posed no challenge - an
easy gesture of a well-trained mind.
I don't think anyone I know could have done this. Definitely
not! I know very few people, and so did Sara, and besides, non of them could
have even a slightest shadow of a motive to kill her. Unless there is a
dangerous lunatic among them, but then I might as well believe that I am myself
that lunatic. After all, everybody else already thinks so.
Of course, Sara could have blocked out these images herself
(or, to be precise, her mind could have done it). Partial amnesia is a commonly
known phenomenon, and there is no reason to think that it is impossible in the
case of a person who has passed away…
Everything is becoming more and more complicated. I don't
know where to start. I feel completely lost. Wouldn't you?
I have been standing by the window for the last several
minutes, leaning on my bookcase. My willpower or desire to live temporarily
atrophied, I run my hand along the backs of the books, my hand randomly picks
one, takes it out, the other hand opens it in the middle. It is a book of poetry
by Goombeldt.
When light
Is too tired to shine,
Darkness
Will be your light.
When lies
Try to numb your mind,
Random chance
Will be your guide.
When life
Takes too long to end,
Death
Will be your friend.