# Vacation

Олег Сергеевич Малахов

English version of my story "Otpusk"

Oleg Malakhov

(2.05.2000- 11.07.2000)


VACATION


At first he tried to talk. Probably, getting tired of non-audibility of words he became silent and sat down. She was already sitting, and looking at invisible objects she stopped hearing, also fallen into tiredness. Monotonous sound of one and the same song for more than two long days with exhausting nights has grown into the attribute of consonance of two voices. Yesterday the certain contact between them happened, though no signs were left. Half-night two heads were sharing one pillow. It came out he more often appeared over her breathing. In the morning the rumpled bed looked non-human. He had been already sitting in front of the mirror, found his abated glance, then left the bed. She who was near was waking up inertly, the perception of pleasure to be in a shower was swarming in mind. Soon foretaste of a morbid day swallowed momentary weakness. He was shaving, and again not looking at himself. It looked as if they had deepened into their own lull and simply do not want to disturb duality of own universe. He is walking too far stepping with moist feet on the floor in corridor leading from bath to the bedroom. She was shivering and wrapping her body with bed-sheet. Bed-sheet resisted and started getting torn. He heard or did not hear the bed-sheet crack, however slipped and having injured his elbow just stayed lying on cold parquet. She was breathing with heaviness and deadened his unexpected moan. It was noticeable he was shaving thoroughly and accurately, though his movements did not affirm his inner peace. Her fight with bed-sheet revealed sharpening of her menstrual cycle. He woke up, questions disappeared in darkness. It is possible to say: "Darling..." and something else. Getting up from the floor he felt the smell of alcohol. He drank yesterday. No. Yesterday he didn't drink. Then he referred to the force of whims. Though there was no erection in the morning. May be, something still was added. But his hand was pouring water. He recalled her breath. But not its smell, only indicated he was in immediate closeness with her smell coming from her mouth. He touched his saliva and tried to feel its smell slightly waving his fingers near his nose. Then it was possible to say "Darling..." and apologise for something. Too deep concreteness of her look reflected irrepressible tiredness effluent beyond walls and windows. The stream of hot water blindly flooded over her sweaty body. Though freshness failed to find its presence. Body felt dirt between the fingers. When it seemed to her it was enough of water and it was possible to give yourself to the towel, arms obediently were turning the cocks off. She continued the commonness of actions leaving the shower. In the corridor body did not feel cold, but was burning. "That is the effect of hot water," - she was thinking. Body kept on burning, as if fever settled down inside. Sweat was appearing fast and incessantly. The feeling of dirt competed against the feeling of boredom. She supposed she managed to get ill for the last days. Though it was hot. Conditioners do not make draughts. It was possible to ask: "Is there the wind?" Sweat was scorching body. She lied down again, having buried her face into the heat of the pillow. He ignored her pass through the corridor continuing lying on the floor. Nevertheless he felt cold and started to rub with arms his half-dressed body. Frost was originated from the attempt to enchain with hands the towel wet through. He knew there were no conditioners in that place, and windows can be opened only by crashing the glass. Transparent barrier was getting straight in his mind constructing connections with his instincts. He desired something or did not want anything at all. She got desperate in departing overwhelming fire. Her nature was bleeding. She wished...probably she just did not disagree if someone was the witness of her strange exhaustion. In the evening it was possible to go somewhere. House was located not far from the festive fair, somewhat similar to marketplace. Lots of things attract. They were attracted some time ago. It is difficult to identify their level of keenness on something. He was stroking his chin with arm, she was changing her underwear. TV-set was on all night. Music in tape-recorder joined hours. It was not difficult for him to get asleep, his final at the definite moment thoughts remained as the open wound. It was like nothing natural has been left, only occasionally it threw you into tremble because of unfoundness and irrespondingness. There was no struggle. Duality was expanding. Previous impressions did not disturb, new didn't appear. She had no longer the reasons to be beautiful, and he embodied the detachment in relations with appearance. She did not want to give mysterious looks, his look into eyes vanished, didn't see his eyes for a long. He lost interest in his health, and she started relying on suppositions. Closer to the evening time he felt again the desire to talk. He preferred to talk with the mirror, quiet talk. May be he remembers the sacred words his mummy told him. She who is near may become a mother, but does she know those words... And what if it is necessary to reach the secret root and conquer unconquerable height? And what if not to think about it? Is it possible to live not thinking about it? And what if the thought about it is equal to the death... However that may be but he had no place to turn his head to. The sense of moving head stopped bothering him. The absence of objects unveiled its affect. Stars did not cover sky or it was covered with stars, arms were losing touch, eyes were exposed to torture of insomnia. She was losing dreams and fallacious visions. It appears that it is possible to lose the habit of apologising and forgiving. It turns out that the absence of necessity appears. The present is appreciated or not. Any present is appreciated, the stimulant of pain or just unconsciousness. Presentation of the present is an ancient custom. For her presents remained to be murky light of late recollections. He more often made presents and received presents rarely, but soon started forgetting who presented this or that thing, and with time he stopped distinguishing presents from the things he bought himself. It could be told: "I am yours", and answered: "Yours..." and whispered something unattainable. It is possible to use the sole language intelligible for harmony of two voices. The song appeals: "Be there where I call you, when I call." Is it really so actual to appear there where... for the one who... The intrusion of deconstructivism into the mood of mind was observed, the intellectual vein was being enmeshed. His nails have been growing. Lately he got rid of nails on his feet. Nails on hands started disturbing him. She visited beauty shops, hairdressers' and such visits turned into inherency... Her route was not saddened with queues or insufficiency of personnel. She used to come and go, she was looked at but with ennui and without interest. Also she dropped in at the stores. He stopped knocking on her doors trying to get in her thoughts. She used to work but not for a long. He worked more, had less rest. Wanted or didn't want to work or have rest. There where he worked it was boring, but to have rest was even more boring. He was once and again sitting on and leaving the chair. And remained standing. Earlier they used to feed themselves. And were happy with those deeds. It is still possible to start laying the table and playing jokes, and then laughing at each other together. He was standing quietly, undressed, was wandering within the room either in circles or in diagonals. He troubled himself, accidentally looked at the clock on the wall. She was lying all the time, heat was substituted by perspiration. She wanted to eat. She got pleasure to have the opportunity of feeling hunger. Not thoughts worried her but feelings. May be she was who she really was or there was no she. He presumed his bareness was not attractive. He was waiting till cold covers him. In some time he felt cold. He got infatuated with that feeling. Similar to her who was near he was aiming to experience something or had no aim at all. "Good day! Do you hear me..." And then it's rain of words and looks. This is someone seeing a dream or doesn't see anything at all. Then there burst out the kiss leaving a trace or destroying everything. He tried to get dressed and get undressed again. Cold became loathsome and then attracted anew. He liked something or there was nothing. She came out the room. Hunger continued tickling her innards. Does he remember childhood? It was tender or there was no childhood. Memory inheres in people. She has memory, but she doesn't remember anything. He suddenly felt moist on his face. His eyes were watering because of cold. There were tears-ghosts on the cheeks. To wipe them turned out to be an amusing process. There were rumblings in her belly. The stomach play was funny. And soon eyes instead of tears gained intolerable sharp pain inside. Womb began to utter poisoned sounds. Stuffy weariness was set in. What if they go somewhere... They could travel somewhere. But they traveled before. They frequently used to travel in different directions. Trips overburdened them. Trips were going nowhere as if there were none of them, or there were none of them. Sometimes people being near called themselves friends. He was interested in those people. She would lose them, search for them, find them and lose. Those people could dispel the boredom. There was no pressure. They could easily diversify life, although diversity in some time started depressing. And he didn't know where those people have gone. She thought they would appear or would not appear and she didn't realise whether they were or not. She would spread the bed linen and cover it back. Then she changed linen. She was crumpling dirty bed-sheet and unrolling it. She lied on the floor and wrapped her body with dirty bed-sheet. That way she was lying till the end of the day. He was ironing his suit. His shirts. Purposely touched the iron's bottom surface, uttered a low scream and turned the iron off. Finger started hurting being burnt. Pain hastened the farewell with the light of the streets and sinking into darkness. Having lived through one more day eyes were not getting closed. Is it better to look into darkness? Or will it get easier because of night air? And windows are closed and glasses have to be broken to let new breath in. She threw away torn bed-sheet, raised her torso and got frozen sitting on the floor. Transparent vertical line hung over her. Windows had no windows as eyes without eyes. He squeezed into the room. Instead of words: "My beloved" and tender look he was touching the walls growing with palms into their solidity. Music did not leave the space of senseless duality. No one tried to reanimate beauty. Inevitable irritation was spreading within the flat. Night foreboded sleep as deliverance. Elements of infernal activity were getting stuck in brains: sound of fire in the kitchen got stuck, scratch of the lift somewhere from the outside penetrated into interior of perceptions, the groaning connection was getting started. Some time ago they had sex. Often physical closeness opened new impressions, gave birth to miraculous feelings. Passion turned into datum and soon was dissolved in commonness. Where are the feelings so extraordinary? There is the possibility to touch body but there appeared the feeling of the absence of body, yours, alien, or the feeling was absent, or not only bodies were absent. There were no chairs in the room, the bed-table near the mirror was overloaded with cosmetics, on the floor there are the pieces of the bed-sheet, cloths, some papers... He used to like firing the candles. Their light resuscitated something, forgotten or unfinished emotion, or calmed down, though obviously, only time was crawling more imperceptibly. Tongue was sticking to teeth, was floundering in suffer between palate and rhizome. Body was silently communicating with brain. Some definite space appeared to be free in brain. Inanity appealed for liberation of reflexes and sensors of cognition. "I feel pain". "What, dear?" And the talk was growing out from the numbness or it was over before start. Dream caught him in the corridor. His legs prevented her movement. She once again discovered the opportunity to string the minutes, hours. Walking helped fury to appear. From bathroom to the bedroom - the attempt to find the signs of unreality. The eighth, the twelfth attempt. Stars are burning in the last view from the window in the kitchen. She was stumbling walking through the corridor. The confident realisation of psychological break-down was observed. Soon she was trampling down his legs with her own legs, beating with arms; bites she tortured him with in a moment indicated her temporary enjoyment. He was not going to resist her collisions. It seemed her kicks coincided with his expectations. And it is possible to arrange a holiday, drink wine, he would prepare some unusual delicious dish, she would wear one of her beautiful dresses. They would kiss each other. They need a holiday, or every holiday is the same. He continued lying in the corridor. There was the time she was thinking about god. He wished she was thinking only about him, not religion, he explained everything himself. Her belief got weaker, or she had never believed in anything. He was lying in the corridor and kept silence getting awaked. It is possible to weave the cocoon around oneself, get locked or disappear. Sometimes he used drugs. She used to get drunk. Temporarily it amused. Tomorrow somebody's relative may come, or there are none of them, or may be there were no relatives at all. They used to leave each other. Many faces settled in brains. Each farewell was the farewell forever. Probably they had to give themselves to the solitude, have lovers, have fun easily. But he was able to read her thoughts within the variability of urban word-world. She could hear his desperate call drowning in transportation groan. They were uniting, crossing, copulating within strangely. There were moments they did not greet each other meeting each other. Some inconceivable element predetermined their unity. Alluring paths of disobedience stopped to exist. They stayed together. Heard repeatedly: "Stay with me" and obeyed. He believed. She was hoping. They were perceiving, or playing, or were inactive, but may be were waiting for something not knowing what for. And then... Then she decided to order a lot of food and eat it nightlong making short breaks for visiting toilet room. She failed to get through at first call, then few more futile calls. She has money. She will spend a lot. In some time telephone answered. He could not listen to music any more. He grasped the tape-recorder with both hands and smashed its oval corpus having thrown it far from own body. Music ran out, being crushed with concrete of the wall having left the substantial dent. She was looking through the window and didn't turn after the breaking plastic cracking and wall vibration. She remembered the melody of the song cut abruptly. There was time she enjoyed the sounds of the violin. For some time she was whispering the still melody. He was getting closer having got attracted by her alive voice. He knew what the song was about. Suddenly he regretted what he did. Though undoubtedly that act enlivened mind. And soon he realised the benefit of what was done. She was looking through the window. Impossibility to squeeze own mind into the transparency of the glass treachery got reflected in her deep meditation. Glass is breathing and fills her eyes with landscapes. He got crawled into bathroom and having stood up and let water flow he found his toothbrush, watered it and put into mouth. He was gnawing for a short time. She was leaving traces. She was waiting. Soon food will be brought. Will be food brought? She took the telephone receiver and separated it from the telephone set. She was doing that accurately. It was possible to say: "You are special" and hear: "It feels so good with you". Then she with the same purposefulness took the telephone set and having raised it over her head threw it afar. Weak crack did not inspire her. But it got easier. The room was spacious. There are few telephones in the flat: "There will be enough things to do", - she thought. The time when she used to read passed away. She was attracted by the opportunity to own books. She had a passion to obtain rare exemplars. He used to collect trinkets and postcards, but never was serious about that. They acquired habits and realised the pleasure not to follow them. He was running away from the window terribly excited by the unveiling invisible explosion of street colours. She lit the burner in the kitchen. May be the process of burning or the loss of tiredness is important for her. He desired to block the hole inside. He stretched on the floor and started crying. Crying set him free. They could have been bringing up children. She wanted to give birth to a child. He was against it, wished to wait, and when he expressed his desire to have children her passion got melted. They are still young, and she is still able to give birth to a babe. But doesn't want. The ring is getting locked or not getting locked. How pleasant it would be to kiss the dawn and drink the sky. Her thought is interrupted by the doorbell. It was not continuous. Sharp sound excited her. Waiting for another call turned into amusing process. The second call was viscous and pertinacious. She seemed to pay no attention to it. Then there were other calls. There were few of them. She started again singing the faded away song. Her voice was giving away her internal satisfaction. Soon silence again divided apartments apart. He used to get upset rarely. Grief always was leaking through his eyes. He lit the cigarette. Lied again on the bed. Stood up again. Ash was falling down on the floor. He has no cloths on. He blew the cigarette down having jabbed it into his belly. Howled. Threw the stub away. He knew her body well, could in a moment find any birthmark on it. She was amazed by his skills. They have been keeping their mutual flavour, or forgot it. Photographs, embodied moments. How many of them she had, he had? Or there were no such moments. Will they be? They had been deepening in photographs but soon started forgetting how to recognise moments. Something deep-laid stayed in him, or nothing was. In her organism the system is built to overpower her insides, and she got tired of internal desires. They are present or absent, and she is not capable to differentiate the impulses. He sent everything to hell. They live or take leave, or finish the cycle, or lock the circle, or die. His complicated fall from the bed is being reflected in her halted dead eyes. Evidently, they will get awakened, numbness will disappear, they will go into the streets, or pain will make them change names and forget everything, and start from the beginning, or having got tired with each other, with every moment, they will lose any perception of life. It seemed to him she started a new game, and she showed attention to his interest and closed her eyes.


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