Crematorium
It was unbearable.
Empty sky, heat all day, asphalt white from tasteless salt coming out on it, even the dusty poplars didn't move their leaves. They cast no shadow, as if the trees decided not to share the freshness of the night, the air was trembling over the hot road, the road that burned my feet through the soles of my shoes, the dry bark of the poplars looked like stone. I stood in the middle of an old broken highway, around me was a field, a field of wild grass, grass with hard, thorny flowers, the suffocating odor of these flowers, flowers boiled by the sun, the lazy chirping of the grasshoppers, the heat developed sweat on the people's skin, and they went on standing the torture of the sun, as if in a confused dream or meditation. I asked a man in a dark-gray suit, how long would this last, when was the beginning planned, but he didn't even look at me, he just moved his lips noiselessly, I looked back to the little crowd of women that due to some reason or other wandered in the grass, among them was the mother of the dead girl, nobody else was crying, impossible it was to cry in such heat, impossible to cry, impossible to shout, the throat was parched, the mother's face was like a masque, a woman near her holds her hand, I'd guess her sister.
The driver went out of the bus in which the casket was carried. The bus cast a little shadow, and the driver made use of it, leaning against the wall of the bus, unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, moved his jaw a little, took a mouthful of water from a white bottle and greedily gobbled it. He was getting ready to wait. I approached him and also leaned against the hot, gasoline-smelling metal. Black ribbons below the windows were covered with dust from countless farewell roads.
"When is the time?" I asked him.
"I dunno," he answered and gave me the bottle. The water was warm, but it was water. I drank some and looked at the road ahead. The previous car had gone, but I looked as though trying to find in the lifeless asphalt the reason of our waiting.
"Much work to do?" I asked again.
"Nope," he answered, observing the field. I nodded understandingly and gave him back the bottle: "Thank you."
It was unbearable, the way they stood in the grass like a herd of cows. I walked round the bus and slowly came up to the door. Near the door there were two people, a teenager in a buttoned shirt, shirt darkened on his back from sweat, and a slightly untidily dressed bald man wearing spectacles. The satanic sun reflected in the glass of his spectacles. I looked back at the women. All those people looked like a caravan during a stop in the burning sands, when the torture of the way has already made indifferent the time and place of rest, when it's only necessary to live through this infernal process to forget it for good, before the new torture begins.
"I'd like to say good-bye," I said quietly. I was waiting for the bald man to say something, and I felt that they don't know me at all, that they had never seen me before. But the bald man said nothing, he only nodded weakly. He didn't care. And the teenager in the sweaty shirt didn't even turn his head to look at me, didn't even squint, and I had to push him aside, because otherwise it was hard to open the door. It clanged, I stepped up, looking at the women in the grass. Mother was staring at me, so stupidly, that it seemed to me she was eating, she might have been eating the very grass with smelly flowers.
It was impossible to breathe inside the bus due to the heat and gasoline smell. There wasn't much room there, everything was filled with some wreathes, a lot of room was occupied by the casket itself, and in the corner huddled an old hag wearing a black dress, with red eyes, she seemed quite insane. She huddled in the corner, like a particular black wreath, like that very funeral scare-crow that I had so often seen in my dreams, for some reason or other I thought that there should be a scare-crow at the funeral, it fitted the wreathes very well, someone had to accompany the corpse, someone dead beforehand, for whom it would not be worth crying over.
"Who are you?" I asked the old hag.
She gave me a depressed glance, clenching one of her wrinkled yellowish hands, as though she wanted to catch an invisible branch like a bird, and mumbled something.
"Who the hell are you?" - I was on the point of crying, so great my suffering was. I was sick and tired. I had had enough. I had come here thanks to the ruthless heat, I had made this miserable way under the killing sun, I had come here like a ghost, past all these people, that were to kill me, to exterminate me, but they only gazed at me stupidly, their souls were destroyed by the cruel, meaningless heartache of the ritual, I had come here, and this ugly cripple was making me obstacles?
"What the hell are you doing here?" I repeated and clutched her wrinkled hand.
"I'm Eugenia's grandmother," mumbled the old hag, slightly resisting.
"Get out of here! Now!" I shouted, pulling her hand with all my might, I dragged her to the door and threw her out of the bus, kicking her skinny back with my knee. "Get lost," I whispered as she fell on the teenager who held her, and I banged the door shut.
Eugenia was lying very quietly in her casket, she didn't hear my voice. Dead people usually want the same, to be left alone. There was no lid yet, aye, they had to do the staring, and then they would close the lid and put the casket into the oven. The girl was smelly, the heat did its task. I touched Eugenia's hair, it was dry like a coil of wool, while it had once been soft like butter. Her face looked calm, sleeping. Even dead, she was still very beautiful, although a little swelled, and spots appeared all over her face, in the mortuary they tried to conceal those spots but they couldn't. Her neck was covered by a cloth to conceal the scar. I undid the cloth. She was so pale, and the scar was so dark. I took a marker out of my pocket, picked up one of Eugenia's hands, and wrote on her palm my address, Gogol street 12. Black letters looked good drew a little sun, a circle with beams. Then I pulled aside the sheet and lifted her skirt. Eugenia wore no panties, her feet were bare, well, she didn't need all that anymore. But once again I fancied the impudence of her relatives: they made a show of her, they traded their sorrow! Why had they let me come? Sorrow makes people indifferent, but there should be limits, it's impossible to be such beasts. On Eugenia's belly, belly a bit swelled, I drew another sun, just for her to know whose address it was, and then put her garments in order. I was crying. To hell with that, I don't want to discuss it.
True, I killed Eugenia, I strangled her with a rope, true, I didn't let her move, I held her as she jerked and wheezed, she fought with all her might, hysterical, she scratched my arms. True, I strangled her, and there will be none of her bright eyes or soft hair or her smile. And what would have been otherwise? It would have been even worse. They would have made a beast of her, same as themselves, an impudent, indifferent, stupid beast. I might be a beast, everyone might be a beast, but how could they even think of making a beast of her, she was an angel, didn't they see that, she was a little angel, she didn't belong to their cruel world, she never belonged and she never will. As for the belly, she ought to remember about it, I gave her belly such a strong kick, she couldn't even scream, she just covered it with her hands, and kneeled to the ground, her bare knees touched the asphalt, and it was then that I fastened the noose over her neck, and while strangling, I dragged her to the bush, and it was there that she wetted herself, before she died, as if she was afraid there would be no toilets in heaven, or that there would be a long queue.
I didn't do anything else with her, no, my main goal was to end her sufferings, I left her in the bush, on the grass, my little stranglee, blood was slowly oozing from her mouth, I called the police myself, otherwise the dogs would have found her before her parents, they permitted her to play in the yard till late at night, some beast or other could have taught her some filth or other, for I saw to her, I saw a friend of hers teach her how to smoke, and a disgusting boy living in the same house pulled her hair, they played hide-and-seek and he pulled her hair, she squeaked and he harassed her, a year more and a terrible thing would have happened, no, I couldn't wait.
You might think I'm old, but I'm young. It was exactly while I strangled her that I possessed her, she was mine, this creature that couldn't be anyone's, only then while I strangled her. Now it's all gone, she's nobody's again.
I kissed her, I patted her face, I pulled down her eyelid. Eugenia's eye was already covered with a network of blue streaks out of a shapeless spot, as if a little plum spider drowned in it. I unbuttoned her dress. The door of the bus opened, the driver appeared.
"What the hell do you want," I moaned. "Why should you get inside!"
"Time to go," he answered grimly.
"Have they opened the gates already?" I put my hand on Eugenia's chest. It seemed to me that she did some very subtle breathing. Looking into her sleepy face, I thought that she was gone, turned her back to me for ever, but there was something between us, for instance, she permitted me to kiss her pretty nose for one ruble, and she showed me her tongue when we once met in the yard, or once she was sitting on a bench near the entrance, she wore a short dress, she put her feet on the bench, too, and she noticed me chewing a bubble gum and watching her panties, but she didn't put her feet back on the ground, she pretended she didn't care. But now, now that I touched her naked body for the first time, I touched her naked body that was a little warm from putrefaction, now that I felt something pass through her veins, now that I heard death rumble and gurgle inside of her, I again felt so sorry for little Eugenia, and I again gave in to the ephemeral insanity that had driven me here, that had made me write my address on the palm of the dead child, the insanity that opened these fields for me, fields where ashes gather, ashes coming from long tall pipes. They will burn her, they are intending to burn her. Another merciless ritual, soulless ritual, burn her, burn my angel, so that nothing remains of her, just a handful of greasy ash, they'll put it into an urn and wall up, what a pagan nightmare, burn her like a witch for her being better and clearer and nicer than they were? I pressed Eugenia's chin and put my finger into her dry mouth. Some ill-smelling air came out of her, like out of a rubber ball. She will crack there, in flames, her belly will explode, she will rise in the scorching wind, in flames, she will dance to their tune.
No! I pulled the sheet over Eugenia. The bus moved slowly to the open gates of the crematorium. Through the back screen I could see cars with the participants of the ritual, the future observers of the crude show. Some were slowly walking along the roadside, not afraid of being late. I opened the door and jumped out of the moving bus, my right foot knocked against the ground. The bus turned to the special clearing in order to drive back to the open gates of the hall. The crematorium looked like a temple, and the modern architecture increased the inhuman heresy. Everything was lifeless, everything was done in abstract geometrical patterns, black and white, simple lines, and disgusting men dressed in black were standing, they were the cult workers, I came up to one of them and took him by the wooden elbow, he smelled sweaty, it's hard to wear a black suit in such heat.
"Excuse me," I said in a low voice. "The girl being brought now, is it possible not to burn her? I'll pay you."
The man looked at me attentively, but what sort of interest he had in me, I didn't know.
"I don't need the body, I just don't want her to be burnt. It's not Christian. It's better to bury her in the field."
The man said nothing, looking into my eyes, his partner also stared at me, moving his head up and down, like a snake.
"Please take this," I put the money in the tuxedo pocket of the man. "Please don't burn the child, I beg you."
"Understood!" said the first man so suddenly, that the other one jerked and blinked. "Harry, meet the relatives," he turned around on his heels and went out through the personnel door.
Then everything turned to a real black celebration. A fat gray man said a speech, which might have been a sermon, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and eyes as he was saying this speech, and women held mother's elbows, elbows of the mother who seemed to be on the brink of fainting caused by the heat, the orator dissembled about the shortness of human life, cursed my wicked soul, he had to vent his anger on somebody, he even appealed to god, but very insecurely, he probably didn't have enough experience, then he shed a few tears, remembering a story about Eugenia's naturalness, just like it usually happens in such cases, such stories live longer than childhood, sometimes even longer than the very man, only this memory will remain after her, nothing else. Everybody sighed, wiped the tears, but it was high time to burn the child, to get to the final chapter of the rite, the casket was put in the circle, on the draw gate to hell. Can they imagine, how she will feel there, in flames?
The other crematorium worker was back, both were standing near the wall, crossed-armed, the gate keepers. Their faces are dry, terrifying. The gates drew, the casket scratched the iron floor of the elevator frozen in its highest point. Like an iron grave The elevator began its slow descent to the mine. Everyone was quietly happy, that this was the end. They all couldn't wait to see the end of the short life of Eugenia, if it happened to her, she should go out of sight. There, you see, this is human love, one always remains alone before the face of death, nobody needs you anymore, everyone is sick and tired of you. The gates crashed closed. Eugenia's mother gave a choking sob, and they dragged her away. Everyone hurried to leave the place. Nobody wanted to see the Master. Everyone was afraid to hear, from the satanic circle, cut into two semicircles by a slit that looked like a female organ, to hear the child's muffled squeal. I remained standing at the wreaths that decorated the hall, stuck to small white columns. I pitied mother. We were close. She gave life. I took it..
It took us some time to stand this way, opposite each other, they didn't look at me, I didn't look at them. At last I went to the personnel door. It was locked.
"You cannot have the body," said the talking man. The dumb one nodded his head.
"I want to bury her," said I firmly. "Right here, in the field."
"You think worms are better than flames?" cawed the talking one angrily.
"I paid you for the right to commit her body to earth."
"You may have an hour with the body. Will an hour be enough?"
I stepped to him and looked into his yellow snake eyes.
"I paid you for the right to commit her body to earth," I said firmly. "You've sold this right to me, fire servants." I showed my right palm to the talking one and his face twisted.
.
"Why have you come to the house of fire?" he hissed harshly.
"My words were heard," I said dryly. "I've paid you, now it's your turn."
The talking man crawled to the door, inserted the key in the hole. The door revealed a narrow hall, giving down slightly. Eugenia lay in the floor, head to the entrance, on a dirty sheet.
"Go to the end of the hall, then turn left, first door. The staircase is there." The talking one snatched the sheet from under the girl, and she rolled aside, spraining her arm.
"Do you have a spade?" I asked, picking her up. Eugenia's head fell back, her mouth opened, bad smell was coming out of it. I shook her, and she readily gurgled with her gases.
"You'll dig it with your nails," said the talking one. His lips didn't even move.
I buried Eugenia in the field, amidst the grass that was dry because of the heat. I dug it with my knife, digging the dry ground with roots in it wasn't an easy thing to do, the odor of the flowers and stems exasperated me to madness, beads of sweat rolled down my face. Eugenia lay near and decomposed naughtily. After the work was done, I threw her into the grave and threw grass and turf over her. It was just anyhow, but I didn't care.
At home, having taken a shower, I sat in my armchair before the open door of the balcony and drank cold milk. The sun was setting. The sky was crimson, as if a bloody storm was gathering somewhere in the middle of it. The breeze brought the warm breath of tired dusty slabs from the house walls, the mysterious smell from someone else's kitchens. When a child, I read a book about a boy who was apprenticed to a wicked cook that would cook gigantic chocolate cakes, I don't remember what was wrong with the cook, and neither do I remember the ending, I just remember the fear of all these unknown food factories, where everything was pink, white, yellow, and where there was death, so unlike any other.
I woke up at night, my bed looked like a preparatory in the laboratory of street lamps. I lay, stretched, unable to come back to life. Then I remembered that I was woken by the inhuman, dream-like ring of the doorbell. It was four a.m.
When I opened the door, she stood there leaning against the wall. Her ruffled hair was hanging over her shoulders. She was shivering. She raised her hand and showed me the palm. She didn't expect anything from me, she came here because she had nowhere else to go.
At the table, Eugenia shuddered every now and then, as if it were cold. I poured her some cold tea. She was afraid to drink.
"Drink," I said.
She looked at me frightfully.
"Don't be afraid, I won't hit you anymore."
She turned to the wall. It seemed that she simply had forgotten how to drink from cups. I put my arm around her little trembling shoulder. She reached out and put her hand under my shirt, through the buttons. Her hand was cold.
"No," said I. "Drink."
Eugenia took her hand back and picked up the cup. She was a beautiful, dead girl, blowing on her warm tea, her eyes were wide open, her eyes with those plum blue spiders in them.
"Where will you go?" I asked.
She pointed her free hand to the wall. Her hand was a turncoat, it almost dissolved in the pattern of the wallpaper. She lifted the cup to her lips and opened her mouth. Something dark poured into her tea from her mouth. I gave her cookies on a plate. She looked at the cookies as if they were wonderful river stones. Closing her eyes, she began drinking.
When the dead drink, it's scary and nice, it's like November walking across a park of dead beautiful leaves. When the dead drink, I suddenly want to live.
The night was deep as a lake. We sat silent in the kitchen, in the light of a white torch, half-shaded by the trees. We were drinking tea, me and the dead girl Eugenia. We were silent, as if everything between us had already been said. She trembled and blew on her hardly ever warm tea, waving her venomous eye-lashes. We were so close, I was so close to her, I was almost dead, and she was so close to me, she was almost alive.
You know, it was for that intimacy, that I had killed her.
Original Author: Ilia Masodov 1998.