Sky Salt
It was a nice Sunday morning. The sky was clear, blue like water. Each open window showed its virginal blue with melting snow-white clouds, made from the cold material of human dreams. The birds had got up early that day, and were chirping merrily, hiding in the leaves of the trees, the flies knocked at the glass from time to time, still a little awkward after their night death, but most people were sleeping, for it was a Sunday morning, and only some restless children were already shouting in the yard, yard still covered by a shadow, and from somewhere far away the sound of a carpet being beaten, and if an average man would have wanted to find the source, that beautiful girl wearing a bright summer dress, the girl that was beating her carpet in an empty yard, behind the curtain of leaves, in the tent labyrinths of the linen hung out to dry, the delicate girl that was still yawning in her drowsiness, beating carelessly on the same place of the carpet, because her invisible mother could only hear the sound of the clapping through the thick leaves, so this average man would have hardly found this girl, he would have been lost in the damp parallelepiped yards, and he would have been hearing this sound from the south and then north. Peter's way ran across the buildings that stood in the light of the rising sun, and these houses were like books to him, and each book was written in another type and language, and there were old books, gray, with dozens of alike balconies, as dusty as statistical issues, there were official books, covered with mosaics on the blind wall, there were old, made of brick, they always conceal fairy tales inside, at least the magic story of their former keepers, because there was none of them left, they might never have lived before, but the house remained, and it kept inside the marks of their glances, touches and the wonderful breath of the dead.
On the open places, Peter walked in the sun, and he passed the damp drafty yards faster, sometimes he even regretted his not taking a bus, but he could wait too long, and it took only three stops to get to the place where Lydia Michailovna lived, also Peter wanted to shorten his way in the yards, but unknown streets puzzled him, sometimes he found himself in a dead end and had to return, but he had a lot of time, his mother made him start having a half-an-hour in store, his mother always had time in store, he was never late, she always had to wait, but she didn't care, she said she was sure she won't be late. An hour ago, Peter was hoping that Lydia Michailovna would call and tell him not to go, her head was aching, it was such a relief, not to go there, to be free Sunday morning, to watch TV and then go and play football at the stadium, all the boys will play and he will not, if she lived somewhere nearer, he would have had time.
The house where Lydia Michailovna lived seemed mysterious and hostile to Peter, for it was quite different from Peter's own house, nine-storied building in the middle of the asphalted yard with rusty garbage bins and a playground for kids. The house where Lydia Michailovna lived; a small house hiding in the trees and bushes, so the windows could not be observed, only at night - for Peter would come here each Wednesday night - only at night the light of the shaded lamps guided his way, but still the boy couldn't see the people; the smell inside was mysterious, too, as though the paint was not good on the walls; going up the stairs Peter squinted at the door of the flat below the one where Lydia Michailovna lived: once he knocked at that door, mistaken, and a weak old voice told him there was no Lydia Michailovna, she used to be but now she was dead, now she was at the cemetery, Peter was very surprised and went home, and later his mother showed him the sky with diamonds, Lydia Michailovna's flat had a brand new door, and there were canaries in the next flat, they were always singing, day and night, and in the flat above lived a small dog, which sometimes barked, hearing Peter's quiet footsteps.
Peter knocked at the door. The canaries were singing, and the radio was playing in the next flat. Lydia Michailovna never turned on the radio, when she wanted music in her flat, she would play the piano herself, and as for the songs that Peter liked, pop music, she hated such songs, and when he once asked her about them, she wrinkled her nose a little, this indicated her scorn, the scorn that was much stronger that the one indicated by a full nose-wrinkling, for example, the disgusting smell of bad cutlets in her refrigerator. To cut a long story short, Lydia Michailovna cared about sound much more than she did about cutlets, or books, that were lying right on the floor of her flat, although she was very neat in other aspects. The door opened to her hall where she stood, in a dress, Peter never saw her in a robe, she always dressed so as to be able to go out at once, she didn't even wear slippers, instead, she wore shoes without heels, she smiled to Peter and moved aside so that he could come in, he greeted her and came in, took off his boots and put on his special slippers, the flat smelled exactly like it always did on Sundays, it smelled of fresh coffee, Lydia Michailovna always drank fresh coffee with a muffin, with some plum jam, or maybe cranberry jam, and Peter wondered who had made that jam, for it was impossible that she could have made it herself.
In fact, it wasn't really interesting to Peter, the only thing that interested him was how to spend those two hours of the lesson, to make them end as quick as possible, he was no longer on a hurry, he knew he'd go back home at eleven anyway, he walked slowly into the room and sat down at the wooden stool, and Lydia Michailovna brought her coffee, and put the cup onto the table that stood by the piano, the table that bore a small jar with flowers, which was also interesting, who gathered those flowers, for she couldn't have done it, and there was nobody else in the flat, nobody else lived there, although there was another room, Peter never entered it, but he saw through the open door that that room was very small, that there stood a wardrobe, an armchair, a lamp and a bed, and that there was no more room left for anyone to live.
Lydia Michailovna took Peter's notebook, looked through the notes and smiled to herself, made a drink from her cup and slowly waved her hand, showing Peter to the piano. He turned around on the stool, opened the deck, took a deep breath, and began playing. He played uncertainly, he wasn't sure of his self, and the more he played the more he realized that he didn't like the way he was playing, he seemed to do as many mistakes as usual, not much, but he soon felt so bad, that he wanted to stop playing. Lydia Michailovna wasn't very nervous, she stopped him as often as usual, she told him to play some passages again. She drank her coffee, looked through the curtains at the blue sky with melting clouds, quiet, breaking sounds went out from the piano and dissolved in the morning air. Peter's friends were already on the field, Eugene was appointed goalkeeper, and the enemies came, the boys from the next street, and the sounds were breaking, they didn't want to live in the sunlight, and it was so difficult to breathe life into them, into these simple sounds. Finally it was over, and Lydia Michailovna pushed her chair closer to the piano, and began pointing out Peter's mistakes, he listened inattentively, she played some passages with one hand, carelessly, and the keys sang under her hand, they sang as if they were alive, as if they knew the melody, but were lazy to pronounce each and every sound, and Peter didn't believe he'd do the same some day, he was on the point of crying, looking at Lydia Michailovna's delicate hand, her versatile fingers, on one of them there was a ring with a small gem, she played and sang a little, she laughed without laughter, she laughed with her eyes, and then she suddenly stopped, looking at her hand, twisted over the keys, her hand was like a quick bird, photographed in her flight, her fingers remembered each sound, the sound was within them, it was photographed by them, she smiled and said:
"You know, Peter, I seem to have forgotten to buy salt yesterday."
She took her hand away from the piano, stood up, and went to the kitchen, and immediately returned.
"Exactly," she said sadly. "Forgotten. Wait a moment, I'll go to my neighbor and ask her for some salt. If you want, you may go to the balcony: I grow forget-me-nots there. I'll be back in one minute."
Lydia Michailovna left, and there was complete silence in the flat, only a couple of flies were wiggling near the lamp, probably the lamp was still a little warm and those silly creatures were thankful with small mercies. Peter sat, hands in his lap, and watched the sky, the sky turned more and more limpid, it revealed more and more deep blue, the trees growing by the window murmured in the sun, and the sky even reflected in a piece of glass that was part of the construction of Lydia Michailovna's cupboard, and there, in the cupboard glass, Peter could see clouds, clouds that were coming from West, t hat he couldn't yet see through the window. In the cupboard, there were a lot of crocks, before some there stood little jars or small statuettes, all dusty. All of a sudden, Peter felt scared in that strange flat filled with sun, all that clarity and limpidness were like signs of something new, something he had never known before. The sky was already entering the flat through the glass, like water penetrates a sinking ship, the whole house seemed to heel over, and birds would soon fly into the rooms, and the piano will play by itself, gently moving its polished keys, and new exits will appear in the walls, and young green trees will shine through them, shine with birch leaves, and everyone will have to live in a different way, live the way nobody had ever told Peter to.
Peter felt that the sky flood was beginning, and Lydia Michailovna certainly knew what would be, and that was why she had left. He turn round to look at the entrance door, and there she stood, looking at him in her usual friendly manner, but it was from her quietness and suddenness that Peter nearly screamed, and he immediately felt ashamed for his fear of nothing, and Lydia Michailovna entered the room as if nothing had happened.
"Nobody has any salt," she said. "I had to go to the Peskovs, they live in the first floor. But take a look at the salt they've given me."
She sat down and unwrapped the paper in her lap. Inside was the very usual salt, such as the salt that Eugene the goalkeeper's younger sister would pour on her bread, and Peter also saw such salt a few times in the dining-room of his school. But Lydia Michailovna found something quite unusual in it, she didn't hide her admiration, she drew her finger in it, leaving a little row, and the crystals slowly oozed from the heap to the paper. "They don't cling to each other at all," said Lydia Michailovna with some light tenderness, "but look, it is so transparent, I say, Peter, it is the real, it is the sky salt. The sun is in it, that's why the sun is so baking. You didn't go to the balcony?" she asked, and smiled guiltily. "Come on, I'll show you my forget-me-nots. Just a moment, let me take the watering-can to water them."
Lydia Michailovna went to the kitchen to take her watering-can, while Peter stood up and went to the balcony door. Indeed, there were mauve flowers in the boxes, and a few violets, too; the other end of the balcony was shaded by grape leaves, amidst which there were pink mysterious muscles of the vine.
"Push the knot," said Lydia Michailovna's voice from behind Peter's back. He opened the door and stepped onto the hot dry surface, moving aside a little so that Lydia Michailovna could pass to her forget-me-nots. In the corner of the balcony stood a few baskets and an old chair.
"And the air!" Lydia Michailovna sighed dreamily. "Splendid."
She didn't go to her flowers, she didn't have any watering-can at all in her hands, instead, she tenderly embraced Peter from behind his back and covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief that smelled like medicine. Peter tried to break away, but Lydia Michailovna pressed his head against her warm chest, she drove him back, to the very balcony wall, and then the clouds entered Peter, like froth on the water being drunk, he lost his strength and sat down on the small chair, and then he stopped feeling or understanding anything. Peter's eyes, unblinking, stared at the sky, and Lydia Michailovna immediately saw her own tiny reflection in them. She put the handkerchief on the boy's chest, and, unwrapping her paper, poured some salt upon his wide-open gray eyes. Then she bowed to him, brushing off his hair, and pressed her lips against his right eye, simply because it was closer to her. She opened her mouth and soaked the eye up, and it went into her mouth with a sucking sound, and when it was already in her mouth, Lydia Michailovna used her teeth to bite some inner threads, threads connecting alive and dead, or, it's better to say, the feelings of love and taste, light sparkling blood oozed down the boy's face, Lydia Michailovna gobbled the eye easily and, turning his head a little, so that his blood poured over his cheek and dripped on the floor, she attentively sucked the other eye, gobbled it, drew her tongue over her lips, and lifted the boy carefully, as if afraid he'd wake up, she dragged him into the room, Peter's feet trailed along the floor, in the bathroom Lydia Michailovna pressed his dripping face into the sink and quickly cut his throat with a sharp razor.
Hardly had the stream of hot blood reached the sink, when Lydia Michailovna put out her finger to test the temperature, and understanding it was warm enough, she washed her hands in it, using good French soap. Not because of unlimited cruelty, but simply because her hot water had been cut off five days before.
Original Author: Ilia Masodov.