The Fantastic Worlds of Yuri Vynnychuk Read online

  Finally they jumped away from the body that had curled into a coil, breathing heavily, one began to button his shirt, but there was nothing left of the buttons at all, a second wiped the perspiration from his brow.

  “Let’s go, guys,” the third one said to them. “Enough...” “How can we... ah... leave her... ah, here?” The second girl asked.

  Those who had struck her exchanged glances with uncomprehending eyes.

  “Don’t worry... she’ll recuperate...”

  “Let’s go, capisci... Let’s go...”

  “Next time she’ll know…”

  “She was kidding, capisci...”

  “Here’s her handbag,” the girl said.

  “Throw it next to her.”

  “Well, what’re you, capisci...”—to the girl—“...let the whiner clean up.”

  “The schizo’s cutting our ranks.”

  “He-he... well, capisci, you’re giving...”

  “You sack, let’s leave her alone... let her be…”

  They dragged her girlfriend after them and disappeared in the darkness.

  “Whew...” The man of the house sighed heavily. “Go back to sleep, huh?”

  “Wait a minute... maybe they killed her.”

  “Ooh, your imagination! They killed her!”

  “Y-yes, I tell you, pound the poor girl...”

  “Aw—she’s poor! Obviously there was a reason for it.”

  “We’ll need a new fence.”

  “That’s clear... we’ll stretch the wire.”

  “Vlodko will come—he’ll handle it...”

  “I’ll handle it myself, without Vlodko.”

  “Talk-yap... Look—she’s stirring.”

  The girl ponderously raised herself to her elbows, waited a minute until her head had stopped swirling, and straightened her arms slowly. Leaning on them, she looked around. They saw her face, black and blue, her torn skirt, tufts of stockings hung on her legs like old bark. Here she started to crawl, barely finding the strength just to drag her body a few centimeters.

  “Where’s she going?”

  “Don’t you see? She’s heading toward us.”

  “Now!”

  The girl crawled up to the wicket gate and hit it with her head. The gate screeched, the girl began moaning, the lady of the house gasped.

  “I told you—shut the gate for the night.”

  “So, why haven’t you?”

  “See how she isn’t crawling to the Marchuks.”

  “It’s closer to us.”

  Strength left the girl, she fell on her chest onto the gravel that covered the path. Her right hand lay on a flower bed.

  “My irises! They’re so delicate! Why are you standing there like a tree stump? Do something!”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “You see—she’s crawled toward us.”

  “Go and meet her. Maybe you want to ask her in? I’ll put on some coffee.”

  “What are you jabbering? It’s not the time to banter.”

  “Look—the Marchuks’ blinds just swayed.”

  “That’s what I thought... they’re looking... staring intently,” she strained through her teeth.

  “No doubt they always close their gate.”

  “Haven’t I told you: shut it?”

  The girl stirred, extended her arms under herself and tried again to raise herself to her elbows. Her head was swaying from side to side. Finally the world straightened out with her eyes. She licked her swollen black lips. For about a minute she looked in front of her, as if she had just remembered the direction she was going, then she lowered her head and crawled again.

  “She’s crawling to the door.”

  “With her foot through the irises, the irises... Why isn’t she crawling through the middle? Intentionally, huh?”

  And actually, the girl was crawling partly on the flowerbed on her right side, and now with her foot, broken irises were being dragged behind her.

  “Ah, their blinds swayed again,” he pointed with his finger.

  “Well, let them look. I won’t open up.”

  “They’ll talk about us then.”

  “No, they won’t. Because we’ll also find something to say.”

  “If Vlodko were just here... he’d give ‘em hell.”

  “Those bums.”

  “Well.”

  “Look how stubborn she is.”

  But metal bells were humming in her head—ding! dong! ding!–and the pain poured throughout her body, drowning out her new parts so much that she immediately turned into a massive clot of hellish pain... she was nauseous, a bitter burning rolled up to her throat, and she felt it on her tongue... she felt like drinking... drinking a lot... just to crawl a bit more, a bit more, just a tiny bit more, she could already see the stairs and the door above them, to the right next to the door post a doorbell... to crawl to it and press it... they’ll save me, give me water... drink...

  “No, I won’t open it up,” the woman said with resolve.

  “Then let’s get to sleep already... Why stand here like posts? We’ve gotten our fill of looking.”

  He waved his hand and trudged to the bathroom. His wife stood for a while yet, listening to the water swirling, and when the metal latch on the door clanged, she went in herself.

  “Try sleeping now,” her husband yawned.

  “Take a pill,” she advised.

  “You’ll bring me some water in a glass... oh-oh-oh,” he began to groan as he lay down.

  Here her hand touched the first step of the stairway. She decided to rest a bit. She put her head on the step and felt great pleasure when the surface cooled her burning cheek. Only now she noticed her handbag on her elbow. She couldn’t remember what was inside... She finally remembered and pulled out a bottle of perfume. Clenching her teeth on the cap, she turned it in her fingers. Then she spat out the cap and splashed the perfume on her face. It burned so much that she screamed, and her body convulsed as though it had been penetrated by an electric current. It seemed she was going crazy from the pain. Fortunately, it didn’t last long. The pain slowly decreased. Then she felt that she had come to her senses. The bottle fell from her hand and rolled along the road.

  “What’s this?” His wife became alerted.

  “Do I know?”

  “Do you think she’s crawled to the steps?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Maybe she’ll crawl up to them, but she won’t stand upright on the steps...,” his wife said, and, calming down, turned on her other side. “And she won’t be able to reach up to the doorbell—that’s almost... True?”

  “Uh-huh...”

  “She won’t reach it...”

  “If that’s not enough... we haven’t slept in so long. I have to get to the Children’s World store by nine.”

  “Why?”

  “I arranged for a woman to hold a wooden horse for me. Vlodko will be bringing his little one.”

  “Why, is there a shortage of wooden ones?”

  “You didn’t know? Sleep...”

  “Uh-huh...” And after several minutes, falling into sleep she whispered: “She won’t reach it...”

  Along the stairs there were railings, and she thought, by holding on with her hands, maybe she’d have enough strength to clamber up. How many were there? All together five steps—futile. Here she’ll just get on her legs... just a little more... more... go on... go on... Finally the railing was beneath her arm, and she, standing there on her legs, smiled to herself, or at least she thought she was smiling. She remembered how as a little girl she loved to smack the metal globe on railings with her lips, that globe was always so cold. Unfortunately, there was no globe here, instead just this metal pipe which she was hanging on to. She leaned with her mouth on it and with delight began to lick the intoxicating cold of the metal, which suddenly engendered a tide of saliva, of cold saliva. For a short time she was able to trick her thirst this way... Tiny hammers were knocking in her head. A stiff pain in the nape o
f her neck first rose, then fell like a tide. Again she felt nauseous, and hanging her head across the railing vomited, gurgling loudly. Her mouth was sour and hideous. She licked the metal until saliva began to flow from her mouth. A concussion, she thought. If I’m nauseous, that means a concussion... She started to remember what to do in such cases. “It is important to remember that the symptoms of concussion can appear in a few minutes as well as several dozen hours later, if during the entire time the patient shows no signs... If after the blow to the head the patient loses consciousness, vomits, and his limbs begin to tremble...”—only my hands are trembling... just my hands...—“if he doesn’t answer questions...”—I answer... I remember everything... I hear how the trees are rustling... ask me...—“if he is tossing...”—this isn’t about me... clear that it’s not about me...—“until the ambulance arrives the patient should lie calmly. You cannot give him anything to drink, or force him to take any kind of medication, because he may choke. Instead you should apply ice or some other cold compress to his forehead”—I press my head against the handrail... just in case... maybe this isn’t a concussion... you can’t give water... so... move on... But now she felt nauseous. And it was so intense that she couldn’t hold on and fell with her hands on the stairs. She had to wait for a bit.

  His wife dreamt that water was gurgling above her ear, and she awoke. It gurgled outside the window, she heard a wheezing and moaning. She’s crawled all the way up... well, what does she need from us?

  “Do you hear?... No way... he’s sleeping like a hamster...”

  His wife covered her head and tried to imagine something pleasant, so she could fall asleep easier. A battered girl’s face emerged in her memory. Cursing her allergy to pills, she began to think about Vlodko.

  She’ll make her way to the doors... she didn’t know how much time was left... maybe none at all... Good that she remembered that she shouldn’t drink. That’s the first thing she would have done—to ask for something to drink... She began again to rise up on her legs. This required so much effort that when her chest finally fell onto the handrail, it seemed that this was the end—before her eyes colored circles twirled, she couldn’t discern anything else. Pain in the nape of her neck pulsed furiously... If only I can hold on... and not fall... She rested for a minute and made a step, then another. Now she was on the second step. Three more. And again she smirked to herself... What a smarty I am. These torments will soon be over... Who lives there? And suddenly she got frightened... Maybe there’s no one home? They couldn’t help but hear the fight... Who wouldn’t wake up with such a clamor? Are they really not in?... Phoo, I’m stupid... they’re just sleeping at the other end of the building. Of course, that’s how it is. But these are the windows to the living room or the kitchen... What kind of blinds are in the kitchen?... So a living room... One more step, another... The third step. I’ll wake them up now... poor people... Do they have a telephone?

  The wife squirmed on her bed, her thoughts kept returning to their yard the whole time. For some reason it was quiet. What’s she doing there?

  The wife got up from the bed, walked over to the window and pushed away the blind. To the right of the windows there used to be an added-on veranda, and the owners could see the stairs and door.

  The girl was hanging onto the rail. She’s made her way up. She’s climbing up further.

  The fourth step... Just a bit more... rest...

  Well, move on. What can I do now? Will she really ring? To total strangers! In the middle of the night! There’s contemporary education for you... Back in our day... And what do I say there... Maybe I still should go out? Well, go out and what next? What should I do with her then? Console her? Can’t let her in the house—she’ll steal us blind... She’s roaming around with some kind of vagabonds. Expect bad news from this kind... Well, just look at her... She’s crawling and crawling... What does she think? What, we’ll greet her with open arms here?.. Filthy slut... So don’t go running around with just anybody...

  The fif-fifth... the fifth ste-ep... finally...

  Her head was buzzing...

  And he just gulped down his pills and sleeps. His wife shook her head... He didn’t think to turn off the bell—now you’ll hear the music start playing. She was about to move from the window in the hope of finding where that doorbell had become disconnected there, but suddenly the building began to ring and shake, as though in a fever, and she knelt down in the middle of the room like a thief caught stealing...

  “What, there again?!” Her husband woke up.

  Those words reinvigorated her. Shaking off a strange fear, she jumped up to the window and plucked angrily on the blind.

  “May lightning stri…! She’s leaned her head on the doorbell! Have you ever seen anything like this?! Stop it! Do you hear?! Stop it!” She screamed, knocking along the pane.

  The girl raised her head. Now just the silence continued ringing.

  “Lo-ord, what a night!” The man of the house sighed.

  They’re at home... that’s good... they’ve heard me... they’ll open up now…

  She could now see the face of the girl distinctly—tormented, in black and blue and scratches. And when their gazes met, the woman, frightened, screeched and grabbed her chest—the girl’s lips with traces of blood that burned on them, these big, puffy lips suddenly began to curve into a smile. It was unbelievable—a smile on that face! As if it were a flower in a puddle of rain.

  “What is it?” Her husband called out.

  His wife wanted to explain something to him, but she couldn’t gasp enough air. She leaned on the windowsill to keep from falling. Her smile grew and grew at that time—she fluttered away from the face and got closer to the window, covering the flower bed, the trees, the street, and the Marchuks’s building with herself—like a gigantic wounded seagull she beat the pane with her wings, and her sad rivulets, either rain or tears, rolled along the glass. And the window split precisely in two, and together with that night wind that smile flew in, and the room suddenly split down the middle—the walls ran into the four corners together with the furniture, only the bed was left on which the man of the house was sitting and frantically shouting, striving to outshout the rustle of the wind, which was dancing all around:

  “Well, what?! Well, what’s going on there?!”

  “She’s laughing! She’s laughing to me!” His wife shouted, gesturing, but he couldn’t figure out what she was saying—an awful wind tore her words into scraps.

  “What is it?! I don’t hear anything!”

  “She’s laughing! You hear—laughing!”

  “What happened?! Will you finally tell me?!”

  The Vagrant

  He appeared at lunch time in a small town where all the townspeople knew each other, so the foreigner’s arrival evoked extraordinary interest, even more so because his appearance was really weird: imagine a gangly guy in an old hat with a wide brim, in a worn gray coat that reached almost to the ground, in well trodden shoes with toes turned up, covered with dried mud and dust, in laces of different colors; his face was long, overgrown with a plucked, very slight mustache and the same kind of beard, ash-colored hair in thick shaggy locks falling on his shoulders. And if you just look at his eyes—they were a miracle of divine providence, more than just eyes—they are gray and peaceful, but just like a saint on an icon—that’s it, all right. He’s walking and propping himself with a walking stick.

  “Who’s this vagrant?” The ladies shook their heads, and the men eyed the uninvited guest with displeasure, blurting out:

  “Watch out...if anything happens to disappear...”

  Everyone expected the stranger to approach somebody with certain questions, at least be interested in where to eat or find lodging. But for some reason like a deaf and dumb man he ambled along the street slowly without saying a word to anyone. The children first decided to engage him, they ran after him in a crowd, crying out:

  “Hey, you, stranger! Let’s play hide and seek!”


  Under these circumstances the parents pretended to call their children to stop chasing him, but it was in such a tone that the children understood what they wanted to hear and tried to vex the stranger even more.

  Even the dogs didn’t like him, and they howled from the four corners of the city. A scruffy one, evidently expecting a prize from his master in the form of a tasty bone, attempted to bite the stranger’s leg. But he struck his walking stick on the ground, and the dog whimpered not so much from fear as from the insult that he was being slighted, because he wasn’t even hitting him, but just striking the ground. The dog ran away, tail between his legs, back to his yard where he got a good kick from his master, who was expecting to see an interesting spectacle, but instead saw his very own dog’s humiliation.

  It irritated everyone the most when the stranger went to the town hall where there were lots of pigeons. He pulled a handful of grain out of his pocket and scattered it to the birds, who flew to him from all directions. One of them even sat on his arm and trustingly nibbled from his palm. The stranger later scattered some more grain for them and walked on...

  “Isn’t this weird that he’s feeding our pigeons?” The local inhabitants were indignant and nodded their heads with resolve when the yardman Puharchyk chased away the birds and carefully swept the grain into a puddle with a broom, mixing it with mud.

  “They’re our pigeons, and we’ll feed them!” The yardman snapped to the stranger, but the stranger silently stooped his shoulders and, as it appeared to everyone, laughed bitterly, and in that laugh there was either a certain scorn or sympathy—one couldn’t figure it out, in short, it just didn’t sit well with the inhabitants of the little town and only heightened contempt for the tramp in their hearts.

  Then another thing happened that made them fly into a rage—the stranger, without asking anyone, went to the cafeteria and threw something to a dog that was sitting near the steps waiting for his master.

  Everyone then fixed their eyes on the dog—would he take it or not? For the prestige of the town rested on it.