Trust Me

by nmNighteyes

Rating: mature
Tags: Romance, Slice of Life, Human
Length: 15560

This is the original 4th installment of the story Trust me.
It's been moved here due to viewer complaints and negative feedback to make room for a rewriting of the story in the original style instead of the experimental one used here.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2016-01-16 14:23:19 UTC

1. Way out West

Killing mockingbirds had never really been an option for Octavia Philarmonica - nor killing any other birds, for that matter; but she would not turn down a nice anti-bird shotgun on the fine morning that she was spending in the garden, enjoying fresh fruit straight from the tree that was a little to the left of her, and the fazend-ish table at which she was consuming the third glass of wine for the morning, while Mister Tummers, opposite her, still could not finish off his first one.

“I’ve got it, Mister Tummers,” Octavia said finally, grabbing the bear’s glass. “I’ve made up the Threesome Scheme!” she announced grandly. Mister Tummers did not seem to care in the slightest, sitting on the table in a tiny Hawaiian shirt made of green pestral fabric. “You see, since Vinyl does not like men, and I really want to sex them both…” Here, she used deliberately the verb Vinyl had coined. “Well, all we need to do is maintain such a position that I get some of the penis variety and the Vinyl Vag, and-” Suddenly, she stopped, looking at the plush bear. “You know what. You are still too young to listen to things like that.” Octavia finished the glass rather clumsily. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

She yawned and closed her eyes. The smells did not come to her this morning; she heard the tint of the songbirds and the warrup of the waves and the shusting of the leaves on the ferrous trees. It was the sound of creaking dust and rolling gravel, of bookpages far ahead and the inexistent Italy, the battered-smiling Serbia, the hardworking Bosnia, the lost Croatia, the shore-bound Germany, the kissing France, the rotting England, the frowning Russia, the shivering Finland, the huffy Norway, the roaming Dutchland, and the Freemanland, and the Northern Freemanland, only with hockey; and, finally, she opened her eyes and took a deep breath. Time for a call.

Belatedly, she realised that neither Vinyl nor she had turned on their phones upon landing. Peace and quiet. The pleasant aloneness. Solitude? Lonesomebility. Lonesolitude. Lonesomethingability. Lonesittitude. The attitude of loneliness. The one that’s with you. Salut.

That beginning never worked well. Why? For one, it began with a reference, a bad reference. It carried on with the old, abused joke on a cute plush bear, and then moved on to blatant discussion of sex. It would not work well with a thinking reader. Like you. It would work well with a working-class drunk coming home to read something to forget his toil and strife. I pity him, and I feel sorry for him. I think he should have better living conditions. But that does not mean I promote his lifestyle or his deliberate limiting of ken. We are not communists, after all. Remember The Godfather? From 1972?

You are confused; you are afraid; that’s okay. You aren’t used to words in the story talking to you. I swear, this will be easy. I’ll be your guide. Together, we’ll brave this difficult (and final) part of the story. I’ll lead you through. I’ll explain things. You will be cradled in care. You can just enjoy the reading.

So, what happens instead? Octavia sits there - no, a little to the left, by the white, gorgeously white, unspoilt garden chair that the owner had bought at half-price (180 European dollars, my friends, that’s what an old dog can get a nice fine old chair for, Fleur!) - you must forgive me, I am setting up the stage here - and then, then, the phone rings.

Actually, no, no. It doesn’t ring. What happens instead is:

Octavia wants to call FredericBecause she feels guilty and maybe a little at unease for not keeping contactShe goes up the stairsScratches her chin on the waySeventeen stepsShe countedThe sofa she hit her shin on was soft thoughUp the stairs to the bedroomVinyl does have a cute snoreMaybe kiss the lovely DJ?She kisses the lovely DJMaybe kiss her on the neck?She kisses her on the neckThinksUhuhMaybe?..No, that’d wake her upTakes up her phoneOf course it would be offTakes up the chargerGoes down with the chargerConsiders plugging the phone inThe phone still has a little battery leftNo wonder:It was off since the flightAndIt is actually an old NokiaOctavia muses on FinlandSpeculates about its paper industryGoes outside with the phoneThirty-four unanswered callsThe phone ringsAnd now the paper-The phone rings.They used to have this-The phone rings!She picks up the phoneContinues thinkingIt’s FredericHello FredericEt ceteraWhat?What what what?UhuhNo I…I get it.I.Of course!Dammit, Freddie, of course I will!Beep beep beepMy GodAnd she doesn’t know… yetIII have to…Why should I have to?I must tell herShould I wake her up?The majestic figure of Vinyl Scratch - time has passed, we’ll carry on from here - appears

“Vinyl, we need to talk.”

Vinyl Scratch descended the stone steps with a smile, inhaling with full breast the smell of growing fruit and the salty sea, and the tricotite water in the pool, and the grains of sand, and the age of the stone. Her ears rested in perfect silence. With a smile, she approached her cellist.

“Sure, Tavi, what’s-” Vinyl froze upon seeing Octavia’s solemn, scared expression. Her cellist seemed dismayed, and, despite the suggestion (demand?) to talk, wasn’t about to speak. “Oh my God.” The spinner sat down heavily, her heart jumping to her throat. Oh my God. Jesus. I knew it. I knew that, sooner or later- “Please don’t break up with me,” Vinyl begged. “I won’t be able to live without you.” Octavia’s mouth fell agape. “Is this because I didn’t want to take Sir Morning Glory in the ass last night?” There were tears in Vinyl’s eyes now. “I can-”

“WHAT?!” Octavia shouted, gaping her mouth at the heated-up spinner. “What in- What the- What the WHAT?!” The cellist blinked a few times, trying to form some semblance of thought. Time to change the record. “What what WHAT?!” Devil Octavia observed, drinking tea with Angel Octavia on the left shoulder: It’s not very effective.

Now it was Vinyl’s turn to blush and blink. “You mean, you are not-” Suddenly, the spinner felt ridiculous and stupid. “You are not-!” Now, she wanted to cry in relief. Devil Vinyl emerged sleepily from the divine bedroom, followed by a very red Angel Vinyl. I don’t wanna know. Vinyl blinked at her shoulder. Uh. Angels and devils can’t really..? Devil Vinyl narrowed her brows: Racist. Homophobic racist.

“Of course I am not breaking up with you!” Octavia managed finally. “Vinyl, I’ll never break up with you!” she exclaimed heatedly. Devil Octavia put her arm boldly around Angel Octavia’s shoulders. “How could you even consider that?!”

“I don’t know!” Vinyl screamed apologetically. “I mean, I come here, and I see that look on your face, and, and-” The spinner broke down sobbing in her palms. Octavia reached across the table diagonally, the tips of her fingers brushing the spinner’s cheek.

“Love,” Octavia said mildly. “I am not breaking up with you, but I have unpleasant news.”

Vinyl froze a little, her heart running laps in her chest. “What. What’s wrong. Tavi, tell me now. Please,” she added.

“Your brother.” Octavia shut her eyes. It’s. All. My...f-f-

“What about him?” Vinyl demanded angrily. “If he’s trying to bring me back or-”

Octavia opened her eyes, and there were fresh tears in them. “He tried to commit suicide.”

***

What happens next? Well, to give your eyes a rest from the italics, let’s just say that, indeed, there was much shock; and Vinyl did cry, and tremble, and there was much soothing, and Octavia even almost offered wine but withdrew her hand knowing that if Vinyl were to begin drinking at such a state she would become an alcoholic and of course Octavia mused if she herself was an alcoholic, but there was no time: eventually, Vinyl calmed down enough to understand that Neon was alive, he was unhurt, Frederic caught him, Frederic the Saviour, oh my God, Tavi, I will pray for him every day, I didn’t, I, you know, one time, I thought he, shh, it’s okay Vinyl, please, we have to book the earliest ticket and leave, go to him, go to your brother, yes, yes, go to my brother.

The plane flew at the proper altitude. The snacks were not delicious; but they were free. The choice given was between fish and beef. There was no vegetarian option. However, each portion included a side dish of roast vegetables (lettuce, not roast; carrots, roast; small cherry-tomatoes; roast, surprisingly), in addition to two types of bread (wheat and rye) and butter and salt (10G) and pepper (5G). There was no ketchup.

The reason why there was no ketchup: the woman who was responsible for packing supplies down on earth had had a quarrel with her boyfriend. It was a deeply personal matter, which will not be printed. However, that resulted in her being bitchy the whole day and forgetful, too; and we can only be thankful that she was in charge of packing food and not an aviadispatcher.

Not everyone took a meal on that flight: Vinyl had fish. Octavia had managed to fall asleep so she ate nothing. The pilot ate nothing either. He was busy.

How he became a pilot: he was a black teenager when he first read Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Hocus Pocus, which he enjoyed very much. His favourite line from it was: “See the nigger fly the airplane!” It was meant to be deep. But the black teenager decided that it was literal. He became one of the first niggers to fly the airplane outside the United States or Africa. He was damn proud of himself. He was a bloody good pilot at that. He liked to mouth, every time he landed, for good luck: “See the nigger fly the airplane.” He thought it was good luck. It might well have been.

All in all, only twenty-six (26) people took a meal. Twenty (20) of them took beef. Six (6) of them took fish. Out of the twenty (20) people who took beef, seventeen (17) did not finish the meal. Out of the six (6) people who took fish, two (2) chose not to eat it at all, instead munching on the bread. Vinyl was among those two. She had wheat bread. It was not tasty. Her mind was roaming elsewhere.

Who else ordered fish: The reverend Salmon Toothbrush, PhD in Feeble Technology; Frenzy McCormac, a bus driver who accidentally killed a cat as a kid - that event would haunt him for the rest of his life; Marina Shopogolik, a mistress of a wealthy Russian businessman; Kerzoko Mariashi, a sound engineer whose income, after tax, is 2579 dollars per month - not that bad for a sound engineer; and Anna the flight attendant who liked to be called a stewardess.

When the plane landed, it took exactly 17 minutes for the two women to get out. It took them forty-nine steps to reach the airport. It took them twenty minutes waiting in the queue for passport control.

Why it took them so long to get to the passport control: the officer who checked passports for validity had recently broken up with his girlfriend, because he knew very well a long-distance relationship wouldn’t work. His girlfriend had forgotten to pack ketchup because of that. If he’d known that, it wouldn’t have made any difference. Ketchup wasn’t that important to him. He preferred mustard. His irritation made him triple-check every passport. Every time he glanced up to look at the face of the holder, he saw the face of his ex.

Upon picking up their luggage, the two women took a taxi and rode to Octavia’s flat.

Why they rode to Octavia’s flat: Octavia had been sleeping all the way on the plane, and she did not want to brave the dirty WC of the airport; so, with her bladder calling out to her (copious amounts of alcohol before flight didn’t exactly help with that), she needed a release. Besides, they could not really go to the hospital with luggage, could they? No they couldn’t; so they also dropped by Vinyl’s flat to leave her luggage because well, they weren’t exactly living together as of yet, and the nigger driver who never flew an aeroplane brought them to the doors of the hospital. Octavia paid him the necessary fee, which will be a secret. The women proceeded to the hospital, inside. It took them fourteen steps to do so. The security did not want to let Octavia’s through because she wasn’t Neon’s relative but the cellist made a scene, pretending to be Neon’s fiancee, so they were let through.

The ward 19. The mental institution. Decober 45th, 3045.

Should we be precise or eloquent in describing the heartbreaking happening that took place in the ward upon the women’s arrival? Should we, o fair reader, delve deep with utmost attention, into the matters internal, or, should we say, lest we be thrown stones at, matters eternal? Should we, then, give a decent enough description of the way the two lovers entered the ward, side by side, mano a mano? Should we, then, transcribe the exchange of pleasantries between the women and Frederic Horoshevski, who had spent Lord knows how many hours awake, by the side of his trusted friend Nigel, who refused to say a word either to him or to the crying sister of his, the fair maiden whose beauty was shaded by the tears she had to shed because of her fair brother’s illness? Should we paint with black the lunacy of the Lord Brother, who refused, quite stubbornly, if we be allowed this frivolity, to speak to his kin? And should we mark the darkest phrase the maiden’s lover uttered, no doubt due to the excessive dismay of the situation, the eight-tentacled octopus of fear of flight, the general emotional strain? Should we, then, quote her precise remark that had to do with Nigel’s self-inflicted insanity, in addition to a rather disgusted, ill-concealed anger on the brother’s endangering his sister to a life of solitude? Should we note with content fulfilment of expectation the reaction of the sister, who, with open eyes, stood up from her brother’s bed, ready and eager to defend him. Should we, ashamed, write out the lover’s words: “At least Vinyl has me. But what if she didn’t?” quoth the lover! Should we put to parchment the effect these poisonous words had on the maiden? Should we paint with blood the still picture in dynamic, of the aforementioned fair maiden pummeling at her lover with her tiny fists, nay, the Dragonslayer, the fabled blade! How dare she speak, how dare she utter such nonsense, how dare she claim-! Away, away! Be gone, dragon, be gone, seductress, be gone! And never come again! For I have my brother, and my family is all I need to have, and naught, nay, naught will ever replace that, and definitely not you, Octavia!

Should we mention the tears? Should we mention the cries? Should we mention Frederic taking Octavia away to “calm down”, that is, drink - for mead is the answer of Gods to all problems?

Should we-?

***

If we set the stage, let it be a sports bar, in a dark, lightless district of the city. It is clean. It is underground. The set of stairs is pseudomarble. The floor is pseudowood. The tables are pseudometal. The patrons are pseudodrunk.

Here, let me depict the dialogue that occurred between Octavia Philarmonica and Frederic Horoshevski in the aforementioned bar, twenty minutes upon their arrival (drinks and small talk preceded the argument; words had grown heated; I am plunging you into the middle of the quarrel, so hold tight. I’ll be there to help):

Frederic: It feels like you are living in a Candyland, where the skies are always blue and the sun is always shining! Well, let me tell you something: it is not Candyland. It’s real life.

He is sitting opposite Octavia at the table. Both remember - albeit subconsciously - that sitting at the bar counter always ends up badly. Octavia’s habit is very deep.

Octavia: Yeah, well, what if- what if I am living in Candyland? I don’t want to wallow in misery. I don’t want to focus on tragedy.

When Octavia is drunk, her inner bitch activates with more fervour. Sometimes, she will say heated words, realising immediately upon that she didn’t believe those herself. But the trap is sprung and she has to carry on in order not to risk losing face. You’ve all been here. You have been here before. I have been here before. We have been here before. It’s -that- bar. You remember.

Frederic: You cannot just disregard tragedy!

Very ironic. It was Frederic who had taught Octavia to disregard tragedy. It was Frederic the Healer who believed in priests and never in psychoanalysis. What Octavia told Vinyl, back then, was Frederic’s words dropping from her lips. She had just forgotten it.

Octavia: Why not? I’m in ‘Candyland’!

Frederic is getting irritated. No, more. Angry. Angrier. No, show me some goddamn anger here! ...There. Frederic is furious. He is drunk and he hates his words being used against him.

Frederic: Octavia, you heartless fuck! You know what happened to Candyland? Django burned it down! That crazy black fucker just blew it up - and did right, and did a fucking good job at that!

People start casting looks. Frederic doesn’t notice. Octavia sulks. She didn’t believe the words she said, but she believes in Frederic’s words. Frederic doesn’t believe in the words he says, but he believed in Octavia’s words. Somehow.

Frederic: People try to help you, but you just take their help, wear them out, and offer nothing in return. You don’t like anyone, Octavia, but you expect everyone to understand you and like you and help you!

Octavia is getting on the defence. Frederic is dancing around the ring.

Octavia: Frederic, that’s not true! Please… don’t. You’re hurting me!

He is. Two jabs. Both hit home.

Frederic: Oh, and you aren’t hurting anyone, are you, Octavia? You aren’t the one who drove Neon to do what he did? You aren’t the one who dragged his sister away and tried to poison her mind against-

The referee has to interrupt. Frederic is making a bloody mess out of his opponent. Fine? Octavia, are you fine? No? Carry on with the fight!

Octavia: I didn’t!

It’s Freddie’s day today. Oh yes, it is! Look at the audience! The spectators are roaring wild with excitement! He’ll hold that belt. Oh yes, he will!

Frederic: Shut the fuck up! You don’t have a right to speak. Remember this. I spent my life for you. I thought… I thought I truly loved you. And we were such good friends. But you ruin everything you lay your hands on. It is your fault that Neon… Hope you’re happy.

Knock-down. Octavia gets up, panting heavily.

Octavia: Freddie, please!

Frederic: Octavia, remember when you told me you were afraid of becoming your father - a manipulative bastard who only cared about his own happiness?

Knock-down. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Octavia opens her eyes. Six. Seven. Ei- Can you see me? Do you understand me, Octavia? Can you fight? No? Not any more? Okay then. Carry on with the fight!

Octavia: Freddie,  please… don’t. I beg you, don’t…

Uppercut:

Frederic: Congratulations, Octavia. [Uppercut] You’ve become your father.

...Knock-out.

2. Lessons Learned

Да дело всё в том, что, чтоб понять книгу, надо опуститься на (подняться на, если Вам угодно), занять в некотором роде мета-уровень. Так же и с музыкой. Так со всем искусством. А что такое мета-уровень? А чёрт его знает, что такое этот мета-уровень. Мета-уровень, и всё тут.

Ну в этом суть, вроде бы.

Ну хорошо, есть, скажем, герои. Ну или злодеи. Да один хрен. Антигерой - понятие искусственное, неприменимое в большинстве случаев. Ну да ладно. Итак, есть герои. Протагонисты, так сказать. Что-то они на протяжении книги делают, говорят, думают. Думают, говорят, делают. Делают, думают, говорят. И так далее. Потом, значит, приходит читатель и начинает всю эту хреновину осмысливать. Я здесь не говорю Вам про шедевры. Я про книги, коих пруд пруди. И ещё немного.

Почитал, потянулся, проникся. На этих трёх “П”, казалось бы, и держится индустрия. Потом приходят критики, роль которых состоит в том, чтобы Почитать, Протереть, Порекомендовать. И вот уже плюс десять-пятнадцать тысяч читателей.

Но потом приходят искусствоведы. Искусствоведы - вообще стрёмные ребята. Их задача: Прошерстить, Проанализировать, Проповедовать. Они найдут в куче говна Высокий Глубинный Смысл. Ну то есть это не куча говна, а, например, символ раскола общества. Или разложения буржуазной морали. Ну или да, это куча говна, которая к тому же главный герой. И злодей.

Ну то есть это как бы мета-куча говна. Осмысляемая сугубо на мета-уровне. А чтоб понять мета-уровень? Правильно, надо занять этот самый мета-уровень. Это победа. Парадокс парадоксов. Ну или нет. Не знаю. Надо бы занять мета-уровень. Осмыслить.

***

We should just go home right now…

“Ah!”

Way he’d taken me. I asked him, true. He refused; of course he would. But I was… too inebriated. I begged him. I kissed him. After he’d soothed me so much, became my guiding star, my beacon in the ocean, my little green light on the pierce - how could I not?

Something to live for.

Or maybe we should stick around, for just one more drink...

“Frederic, please!”

The cab that drove us, a new one, bad; one without the sacred partition. We started making out straight there on the backseat. His lips, intoxicating, his skilful hands, the only hands that understood me. His teeth at my neck, something that she could never give me…

“Octavia, we should stop, it’s- mmfhm!”

The flight of stairs was almost imperceptible. We stumbled so much, but… you held me, you carried me, just like you did all those years ago. I begged you, and you paid heed. I prayed on you, and you descended. You were always my angel; but I’d invented new ones to keep myself alive.

“Frederic, now!”

The porter did not want to let us in, but money makes the world go round, and we flew up the stairs, and hit the elevator, and your nose nuzzled the soft spot on my shoulder that only you know so well… My fingers, running down your strong, wide back, your muscles, your masculinity, your gentleness, your smell…

“Octavia, I- Octavia, we-”

You couldn’t resist me; you never could. You helped me, you made me whole, but I was always the one with the reigns over you. Left, broken, set aside by Her, I turned to you for solace. And you could not turn me down.

“Shh. Freddie, love me. Love me right now.”

Frederic… My saviour. My lover. My brother. My father. My mentor. My debtor. My teacher. My preacher. My ground. My sound. My laughter. My drafter. My courage. My storage. My carrier. My hailer.

“Octavia, we’re drunk… Vinyl, she-”

“Shut up and trust me!”

My creator. You made me from clay, but you made a Golem. Poles were always very anti-Jewish, no? Am I misunderstanding something? Or, better even: Polish Jews were always very anti-Jewish? Does it sound like truth?

“Uh. Uh. Uh!”

He did it the way he always did it: he was rough, he was swift, he was gentle and cautious. He paid attention to every spot of my body. He was like wrapping paper, a necessary extension to my body, my soul, my inner what it is. What do you call it?

“Frederic!”

Octavia screamed his name. Only his. Everything else was… mystic. It was out of the world. Right here, in the hotel, she was living. The infatuation faded. And then - fear.

Vinyl!

She screamed your name, Frederic; and she loved you. But she betrayed Her, and you did not stop her. How is your mentorship, your saviourship, your creatorousity now? You sealed this pace, you wrote this pact, you didn’t. What you did was break another pact.

Corruption.

Distrust.

Envy.

Adultery, for the hell of it.

And you know what, Octavia? It’s your fault. I may not say it, I saved you, I spent my life on you; but you are a bad student. You cannot help the others. I just wanted you to help yourself. You didn’t help yourself. You didn’t help anyone.

You are no saviour, and it seems neither am I.

Yes. Yes, Frederic, I know. But what was I to do? You compared me to my father; I cried; you apologised… We were so drunk. I wanted some of you in my life. A little Frederic to soothe my wounds. Am I to blame?

Yes.

Yes. But what I will blame myself for… is not spending this night with Vinyl. With Her. With She who loves me. With She whom I love. And, instead, I turned, once again, to the divine. To you.

To me.

Yes. But it won’t matter much. Because, when you are awake in the morning, I will be far away. And I will not be coming back.

***

Vinyl sat next to Neon’s bed, watching her brother lie wide awake, with his eyes open. Neon stared at the ceiling silently, had stared for hours, and the sun was barking at the slumbering world, nudging it up. The interns of the camp rubbed their sleepy eyes and obeyed. As we all must.

“You didn’t get any sleep,” Vinyl urged softly as she approached the bed and brushed her hand against Neon’s forehead. Cold but sweaty. “Try to sleep some.” She pressed her lips against her brother’s forehead.

Neon didn’t reply, staring at the ceiling. Two dots - stray flies - crawled about. Tic-tac-toe. No, that’s… backgammon, I guess. Turkish delights. Like the baths with the happy ending.

“The world is waking up,” Vinyl said dreamily, sitting down on a chair next to the window. “The birds are chirping with spring. Can you hear it, Nini?” She turned her head briefly towards the man.

Neon didn’t reply. Though, I remember it played in Georgia. Aksakal game. Shaman chants when they roll the dice, hearty, throateous. And the wine in the earth. The genius way of uniting the body and the blood. The unthinkable, cannibalistic ease with which they utter. But it’s not. It’s not. No. It’s association. The free, I guess.

Vinyl looked about the room. It looked cosy, like a room, not a ward. Something like they showed in that alcoholic psych clinic in The Great Gatsby, what with the potted plants and all. That didn’t ease her mind. Good book, weird film. But the music was splendid. “Do you like the room, Nini?”

No reply. Ack, the illumination. And that park I was to, what, the Lighthouse? No, the light-fly. Maybe that. Gets so hot at day that you can only ride at night. But those water rides are a delight. And the rains that last three days, and the pains that don’t a day, and the water by the shore that’s grim and sore. Spend an hour on the beach, then get out of their reach… How does it go?

Vinyl shut her eyes. No, not you too! She stood up abruptly, getting no attention whatsoever from Nigel. Don’t leave me, Nini. Don’t leave me too. They have all walked away. The spinner sat back down, the strip of light getting at her nose thinly. You are all I have left. “Nini, talk to me. Please,” she begged, leaning over the disemotional form of her brother.

“Is backgammon a Turkish game?”

Vinyl blinked, peering her gaze at her brother.  The Lord has spoken. And He said: … “I dunno,” the spinner admitted, surprised and scared. “Why?” Nini, you are seriously scaring me here…

“I don’t like it when it’s hot,” Neon lamented wearily. “I like a little rain. Do you think I can summon summer rain if I try hard enough?” Like that one god with the. Uh. Whatever his. Ah. Perun. No, that’s thunder. Lightning. Not rain.

Look at the Jews though. They have so many books and just one God. Imagine that. Or, if. If, maybe. Okay, so Perunese monotheism. They tried that. With Vladimir. He tried with the poles, wooden, and then Perun only. He then had it already. He had it. He had. The thing, that with the old Norse and Slavic gods and the union of one. He visited Byzantium, became Byzantine in 988. Was it 998. His mother, a Christian. His father, so very Pagan. They were mostly Pagan, the warriors. They, there was one. With the woman, some. Turned Byzantine at something ninth. Or tenth, maybe. They frowned, methinks. And dusty bowls of sand they poured.

“Nini, you are scaring me,” Vinyl said aloud, taking a step towards her brother. “You sound very…”

“Crazy?” Neon smiled. “I tried to commit suicide. I am allowed to sound crazy.”

And the blue moon, it saw me sitting alone, it saw me barking mad, and then there are those spurs that go jungle jingle jungle jangle. And the pigs do not. Will never eat as disgusting as. Dogs. Was it.

“Why did you do that, Nini? Why?”

“I’m getting married.”

“What?”

“I’m getting married.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“I would rather jump off a cliff than to marry her.”

“Whom?”

“Madeline.”

“I thought you loved her?”

“I love you.”

“...I’m your sister, and I’m… uh.”

“Not that way, you silly girl. I only need my sister in my life.”

“Nini, that’s so sweet…”

“But you ran away with Octavia, and I… I wanted some. Some attention. Some tending to? Some love.”

“Nini, please…”

“It’s not your fault. You love her.”

“I do.”

“You still love her.”

“I always will.”

“That’s devotion. I don’t have that devotion for her. I don’t want to marry her.”

“No one is making you.”

“She said yes.”

“So what? She can say a thousand times. You didn’t go to church so-”

“Silly little Vinyl. Church. Heh.”

“Nini, stop mocking the Church. It’s bad and sinful.”

“Thou shalst not fuck in the arse.”

“Nini, the Church progresses with the times-”

“That’s exactly why I hate it. Five years from now, Vatican recognises same-sex marriage and suddenly the whole Old Testament doesn’t make any sense. They have already started selling stuff in churches. Not very Christian.”

“Nini, stop blasphemising-”

“That’s not a word.” Chuckle.

“Ah, you-!” Slap.

“Ouch.” Heh.

“You don’t have to get married.”

“Who’ll stop her?”

“I will. I was wrong. Octavia is Octavia, and you are you. You are my family. I will stay by your side and protect you!”

With these tiny knuckles of yours, I wonder. “Thank you, sis. Go home, get some sleep now. I promise I’ll be all right. Take a day off, come back Monday.”

“Tuesday.”

“Sure, whatever day it is the day.”

“I love you, Nini.” Smooch.

“I love you too, sis.” Peck.

“Bye, Nini. Get some rest.” Shark shark shark.

“Take care, sis. See you Monday.”

“Tuesday. Today’s Monday.”

“Sure, whatever.”

Screech. Slap.

…

Creekckckck. Shark shark shark. Scrsh. Gulp gulp gulp. Ah. Sshgkdmp. Ah. Shark shark shark. Screech. Creererecccckk.

Yawn.

***

She cast a glance at them, taking a place at the counter. Workers mainly. Maybe. Labourers. Black and white, a little. Tinted Indians too. The most civilised drinkers. Or, maybe. What did Nini say about them?

...He is not all right. He is so not all right. That show of bravery… That’s the thing. He’s there, but he’s not with me. His mind is somewhere else. It’s scary. I want to forget it. I want to drink myself into oblivion. Tavi told me…

She is somewhere too. Hell knows where. Left me too. Neon, then. Or before. Dad, Nini, Tavi. Tic-tac-toe. What do we want? Change! When do we want it?

“What will you be drinking?”

How-how did he address me? That’s the barman. Wow. Maybe I. No of course. Not. Yes. Maybe. Of all days it. Today. Just when it’s. Just when I’m- “A pint of Irish stout.” What the fuck am I doing right now?

“Sorry, ma’am. Not till tomorrow. Some ale, maybe? Good old-fashioned German beer?”

No, no, no, back up, back up. I almost! And what if he- And what if he brought it would I really drink it I wouldn’t of course but maybe not to be feel deviated I would maybe take a sip and then alcoholism for years no not everyone suffers from it tavi doesnt i really hope she doesnt she she. She. “No, thanks. I’ll have a glass of apple juice, then.” There. That. That here. Is a nice catch. A save. Like, the. Sixteen. Maybe. No. Not that meaning. Just. Twenty what already and never had a drink? Never had a drink at sixteen. Good. B Goode. An apple a day.

“Apple juice?” Yes. Don’t ask. You’re embarrassing me.

Vinyl blushed. “A big glass of apple juice.”

Guffaws. Sick your dogs on me. I’ll only break for you for one day. Vinyl took up the glass and laid the money. In slow sips, she drank it. Maybe he poured beer in- no, of course not. On her shoulders, the reference points were lost. All centre now. Not like you write the guitar any more.

Vinyl sat at the bar counter, cradling her apple juice. This fucking day. At this fucking day. And no one- of course. I’m not even Eeyore then. Not even. Even. Quietly, she hummed.

Happy birthday to me~

Happy birthday to meee...

...All my loved ones have left me~

And I’m just twenty-three...

4. Ovidium

The Romans never conquered the world.

Okay? Okay. Court adjourned.

What? Listen, I don’t know why. Look, maybe they were lazy. Or the wolf-mother had little milk, and Rome was weak and frail. Or, maybe, Pyrrhus never lost the war. Yeah, let’s roll with this one. Even better: Pyrrhus lost that one battle (and executed the oracle afterwards), but lo and behold! he lost at such little cost that it allowed him to reassemble his troops and crush the Romans - an occasion which now is known as Pyrrhic defeat. Lost the battle, won the war.

Judeia, the promised land, was granted to Moses’ people at once, because the Egyptian civilisation succumbed to… hmm. Let’s say, a terrible drought. The Nile ceased to exist. It’s a desert now. Subsequently, there was no Holy Jerusalem, and Jesus was yet another preacher whose following turned meagre in the wake of strong-willed Judaism.

The Tower of Babylon never fell. There. You have three empires already. The Jewish Empire, the Greek Confederation, and the Eastern Halifat. Oh, and, just so you know, the Normans never left their iron islands. Their civilisation, up to this day, is an isolated Nordic version of communism. Ah, yes, and the idea of communism never existed because Marx lived in the Greek commune of Prague, and never needed a better example of equality.

And what else? Oh, for one, the Picts conquered the whole Islands. No Romans, and definitely no Saxons here. A mighty Scottish kingdom under the rule of a benevolent High King of Eire and Scot. The Celtic Empire. The first land to shrug off slavery.

Oh, and slavery, from now on, was never limited to the black race. African Negroes fell under the rule of the Jews, who, after a long afterthought, gave them equal rights so long as they worked well and never rebelled. Jazz never originated. Imagine that.

I can go on. Japan and Australia, Ireland and Cuba - everything was affected. The Russian Empire took up the whole of the Soviet Union and also China and Japan. The largest Empire, and, ironically, Pagan at its core.

The Greek Confederation was bound to fall and crumble down, and now we witness parts of it reassemble into strange countries with funny names: Poland, Germany, France, the Czech Republic… Can you believe that a country would be called “The Czech Republic”?!

Imagine that. Mind reels, doesn’t it?

Well, here’s the good news: none of the aforementioned ever existed that way. It all existed, and exists, the way you know. You can take a deep breath now. It’s all right. Everything is the way it is today. The countries are the same. The religions are the same. The ideologies are the same. Take a breath now. Shh. It’s all right.

But, if one event - Pyrrhus’s tantalising defeat, then victory - could, hypothetically, change history’s course like that, can’t a single event, say, a cellist going insane, a brother gone insane, a friend crushed by guilt, a protagonist weeping with sorrow (okay, more than a single event, I have to admit) - be changed by one such event? Like, oh, I dunno, rain? Yeah, let’s roll with rain. I like rain. Everybody likes rain.

So, okay, there’s rain, and then what? Then - here, a homage - Octavia lifts up her head, to feel the drops of sacred water wetten her chin, and closes her eyes. Her heartbeat returns to normal, and she realises everything. She drops the knife from a cliff, into the sea (it’s southern Italy, no one gives a damn), and cries.

Vinyl looks outside from the ward and sees droplets of rain on the window. Neon sees them too, and, while the haunting thoughts are still with him, it’s a little OCD, not critical. He can regain control on reality. A little. Sometimes. He sees that, and he knows he can lift that stone. He comes up and hugs his sister. She is scared, and surprised, and kisses him, showers him with tiny pecks of relief and affection. Together, they sit before the window and watch the rain.

Frederic, tearing himself up over the sin he’d committed, goes to the church, where Father Projewsky soothes his aching soul with a confession and a mass. Renewed, Frederic leaves the church, inspired to do good, more good than he’d done before.

Thus, the brother gets reunited with his sister, the friend gets reunited with his faith, and the cellist gets reunited with her sanity. All of this because of Pyrrhus. And rain.

***

Of course Vinyl knew Octavia had left her. Of course she could not get through to her on the phone or find her at her apartment. Of course she felt this was over. But here, okay; let’s play a little Q&A game here.

Q: Why did Vinyl shout at Octavia back there at the ward?

A: She was scared, and we can’t forget the fragile state of her mind, spoilt by years of abuse and distrust. A remark, no matter how innocent, somehow aimed at the idol of her eye, her brother, would ignite a flammable reaction. And so it did.

Q: Why did Octavia go to the bar with Frederic?

A: She was offended; she was envious. She, for a long time, had considered Vinyl hers and, with another player entering the game, her shell crumbled. She just had to blow off some steam.

Q: By having sex with Frederic, no less? How convenient!

A: Frederic didn’t want it, any of it. He honestly was there to show Octavia the wrong of her ways, and maybe try to help her, just as he’d helped her many times before.

Q: But they did have sex. Didn’t they?

A: Why, yes, sure, they did, right after the excessive drinking. Don’t tell me excessive drinking leaves a clean mind.

Q: Why did Octavia do that?

A: Listen, I told you. She was drunk.

Q: That is never an excuse. She wanted it, didn’t she?

A: …

Q: She wanted it.

A: ...

A: Yes, fuck, Jesus Christ, she wanted it! Yes, she wanted it with every inch of her body! Yes, yes, yes, she did it deliberately and she would have done it again and again, even if she were sober!

Q: Why?

A: Shut up.

Q: Why?

A: Shut up shut up shut up.

Q: Why?

A: Because she is a whore, okay? Because her life was ruined at its beginning and she wants, she, every minute of her life, she craves someone to love, and yes, yes, fuck you, it involves sex, it’s not just some higher love, with Vinyl no longer dancing all around her, she needed someone else to dance around with and that was Frederic he was so convenient and she loved him yes she still she loved him she could swear she loved him would forever love him he said he said he was the one who maybe cured her but then again she was never would never be fully and dammit she would always return to him but not after that night that changed it maybe yes that was needed yes that was definitely needed for her to feel it that he would never replace Vinyl that way he would never replace her anyway it was needed it was needed IT WAS NEEDED.

Q: …

A: I told you to shut up. You didn’t listen.

Q: They… did that while Vinyl?..

A: Yes, they did it all night, while Vinyl was sitting saintly next to her brother. She left the ward in the morning and - here, follow closely the timeline - Octavia left for Italy. Here’s the sequence of events: Octavia and Vinyl arrive at the ward - Octavia and Frederic go to the bar (Vinyl is with her brother) - Octavia and Frederic spend a night together (Vinyl is still with her brother) - Octavia leaves for Italy (Vinyl goes home, only to realise Octavia is gone). What next? Right now, Octavia is mounting a plane back home, and Vinyl - she is going off to bed in her flat, exhausted after a night of no sleep.

While she is doing that, Nigel, her brother, leaves hospital through the window, after an unpleasant encounter with his fiancee (it happened, all happened, but it happened at about ten in the morning and there was no singing; Vinyl had just arrived home and started calling Octavia), laughing, drops by his flat, takes surprising amounts of cash and all his credit cards, mounts his bike and leaves for the airport. Octavia buys a plane ticket. It was a crammed, eventful day for her.

Q: What’s next?

A: Next, Vinyl is going to fall asleep, Octavia is going to come back home, gather up the courage to return to Vinyl, they are going to watch a beautiful landscape together, then they will return to Vinyl’s flat, only to find out that Neon is gone. Vinyl is going to go insane with fear, then Neon will call her, and then Vinyl will have her first drink. Then - even though it will not be shown - she and Octavia will lead a very miserable existence, drinking till faintness, for a few months. Then they will enter a rehab programme and open up a cafe.

Q: And then?

A: Read the story, for hellsake.

Q: Why do you have to be such a dick?

A: Because it all happened, more or less. The father-guests rape-thing. And here’s a heads-up: it didn’t happen in Italy, may it burn to hell. And the beating and the fight-making and music and business and Montenegro - and- and- it all SO HAPPENED. Because life is a bitch and, if you feel the same way, you don’t need an explanation. If you think life is great and you have a happy life, I hate you because I am bitterly jealous of you. Now shut up.

Q: … ...That timeline - it has a few faults. If-

A: Just shut up already.

Q: …

A: …

Q: ...What about music?

A: Heh. You really are a gullible little fucker, aren’t you. There will be no music. They will not finish up the album. Your music is in another castle.

Q: The story started out so bright…

A: Life starts out pretty bright too, most of the time. Do you have any real questions here or not? I have a very difficult steam-of-consciousness piece to write out.

Q: Why did you switch so suddenly to this weird style?

A: It’s not weird. As for why, there is another reader (not you) who knows that. His name is Michael. Ask him. Now-

Q: Will you translate the Russian gibberish from Chapter Two?

A: No. Learn the damn language already.

Q: Why did you call this part-

A: Listen here. Listen closely because I’m not going to repeat myself. The first part is titled Accept Me. It is about acceptance. It might as well have been called Embrace Me. For reasons Michael knows, I don’t remember why I chose that name. And yet, it is obvious that the style there is a descriptive A-major. Part Two - Hold Me - is an orchestral part. It is about feelings and dialogue. Note the appearance of devils and angels. Part Three - Love Me - is, intendedly, the base of the story. It is an interlude. It is what a common story should be. It is what this whole story should have been. Part Four - Save Me - is muddled, scared, crazy, confused. It resembles the state of a person that needs to be saved. This part, I partly wrote as myself. This is why it gets some integrity eventually. These words, I write fully as myself. It gives me a sense of integrity. Integrity is good.

Q: I don’t get it. Are you talking about yourself as the, the, meta-level? As the real writer? As the fourth-wall-breaker?

A: Next question, please.

Q: Where is the whole story set?

A: Do I need to paint a dot for you?

Q: Those… Those ‘guests’ - those bastards; did they get punished for what they did? In the story? In real life?

A: They did not get punished in real life. It was, if I recall correctly, a single ‘guest’, even. In this story, there was a certain punishment - one of the guests will have a severe headache on the day he would receive a Nobel Prize in Literature. He would receive the prize “for being sad, and painful, and true”. He would barely be able to give the speech. The other guests led their fine lives and died wealthy and old.

Q: Why?..

A: Because that’s life. And, in life, bad people win and good people lose. Way too often. And there is no way to change that. If you honestly believe there is a way, you are a gullible fool and you should not be talking to me.

Q: Who are you?

***

I could make millions with this one. Mil-li-ons. Tough dough. I could sell this so hard. So. hard. But copyright. Okay, sheesh, what’s of the copyright here? What’s left of the original? What’s tocopy? Names? Occupations? You can’t copyright occupations. Names. In Nomine.

Here you go. The original.

There’s the Cellogirl. She plays the cello and has extraordinary nasal skill. There’s the Wubgirl. She composes music and has extraordinary hearing. They meet and fall in love. Then they have a falling-out. Oranges are the only fruit, after all. Then what?

Then, Cellogirl woke up to the scent of Colombian coffee…

The cycle of life as perceived through the text. Is the text real? Eh. It’s fiction. Look. It’s on the cover. Fiction. Is life real? Yup. Does it make the text worse than life? Hell no. Life is much worse. Does it make the text better? If it does, it’s not my fault. I’m wearing my tongue on the sleeve. I’m not hiding anything. Here, it’s the text. I’m telling you it outright. None of this is true. It has roots in reality, in real life, but it’s a text. I’m deliberately trying to stop your involvement with it here, just to see what happens. I’m telling you all of this because I am honest. No? No. Okay, you got me.

That’s that other book.

This one’s ordinary. See, I forgot it was supposed to be ordinary. Now, I remember again. No more funny stuff. No deviations. Oranges, strictly oranges. And all that comes with it. What comes? Who comes?

HCE.

***

Vinyl closed her eyes.

Without the fragile bounds of experience, we. That is, I. If I knew how to fix it. If I knew how to fix the whole catastrophe. O Dies Irae, Neoni, Octaviae. That’s kinda like He said? But Greek. He spoke, among others. And gave the Mount in Hebrew, or what. Samarit… Samar… Saamarit? Arameic? Aramic?

Sermons. On the mount, and on the mouth. When we, I mean, I, will, sure. Someday. When I’ve learnt the basics of the Divine Language. The Tongue of -ere and -o. We’ll go there and pray a little, then all the happiness, like I guess endorphins that’s what the church makes off us? we make it off them, more. But say, the sermon daily is followed by daily bread. and what to say of Neon, and those like? No, not like. Not like. Noone like him. But if. If.

Porlly iffin. Iffin lion be a griffin, he be wary of the giffin’. If the griffin be a lion, he be wary of the lions. [Should read: ‘liars’.] Once he has a mighty sting, and a mane, and leather wings. Flies like shiny little star and consumes it where she are.

But then again. She is. Unutterable, the name. Not now. Now, the sleep pattern arises. No: approaches. Delirium, this is what scary word. One scary word indeed. The dreams lingering a little, and then you see the ending on the wall. Just when wake up. Creepy, a little insane.

And He, unutterable too. Insanity unappliable. Is he? When we want progress, we invent progress? We make it up? We what exactly?

Crawling like the moleworms radiated tainted by pollution we make, and a golden age is dawning - just keep yourself at distance. Not to. Keep at that, that is. Not crossing like [should read: ‘lines’], but, like. That’s the whole, what, dancing thing, maybe. And the. The. Uh. The ritualistic ritualiser ritualistically rituals ritualled, in ritual chambers of retreat. Chamberous chambers chambered chamberously over the chamberesque chamberine of Chamberlone. And the dukes and knights played rocknroll and all was good. that’s what God said. Let there be rock, and there was rock. And upon that rock He- that is, the gates of hell would never crush it.

Very blasphemy. Must get the Bible rewritten. Eine Shade you can’t get the, the. Indulgencies. Indulgent papers. The forgiveness, ought and bought. At bay. At bay. Hold it. No sinning.

Let’s go sinning, it’s so good for you, let’s go sinning, where the skies are blue, with the sin, piligrim, feel as free and happy as you’ve never been. But say, he has seen [should read: ’sin’] too. The point of his journey is. Then maybe journey is what we. Neon and I that is. We can go sinning on a journey, and. Maybe that’s why Octavia. Yeah. That.

And she’ll be. But what sin? And many, many. The one we share? Does not dare or that’s that other radio station. With the inventive curse we sin and it’s. It’s. It is. Librarians, dusting off the history to make space and make way and sin sin sin.

Shelf by shelf. We are, then. The glasses first. with the dots for the eyes so that     reading good they say; little light. And the. Then they invented the phone. Albert Leopold Graham Bramm. No, Bell. Alexander Bell. Sir. KCE. Rumour   no not really    has it he maybe  .   maybe.    Maybe. Maybe had a mistress, a black mistress. If Octavia were black, we’d really…  Maybe some diversity with the. Nigger sex. Some tender nigger lovin. Why cant we i mean. I think that. We can think that why not. Italians are niggers too. whitemen ever nigger-er, and the, the scands the niggerest of all. hehe. heh.  and they call it racism. it is maybe, ike that. Sheer grammaticallistic approach. But no, here, apology. not saying that. All rectified. Apology sad [should read: ‘said’], and then our Byzantine lords forgive us. Allow us. Maybe. No we do. We do really. Allow me ay maybe us allow us to be sane enough                    to              to. work and                     play    dulllllllllllllllll…

...

..

I serve three masters, the Italian, the Octavian, and the Penal  Code. The tax reform they had for us this whole the. the. What    so  maybe they                            When the [should read: ‘they’] invented this they alocute always talk about tell us dynamite and the what you call. The syncho. Synchophaso. Throne. No, not that. The collider? The earlier, when. With the dynamite. They always quote it along. No matter. The powder? The pirate thing?

In cycles. Ahoy the the seas and humdumdum yarr yarr ahoy ho ho yahoy we be trav’lin’ them seas and me perrot mateys maities in the early early eighties and then [should read: ‘they’] still maybe have the penalty for it like in japan where they hang em high for a single kill every year it s an annual event some slower some faster some wait on the row years and god bless whatever it is that it not us and not us and not us and never us just some other place where bad accumulates and us we we us never came never come to that place ever and avoid it bless it thrice

With the…

Dynamite-

.                           .

They invented the things to make life easier like the but the state it is the reason usually bit not [should read: ‘but now’] the marker and market is the marker sometimes and tech when they invented radio to communicate broad glo-bal. Woody and you.

This wooden fascination with the radiotech.  As if the trippy layers can absorb the signal and do the right sound, without the shh of the white noise. No, here: Caucasian noise. The irony is, that. They are actually dark-tinted, the real Caucasians. The fallacy of political  correctness and. And. Politcorrectness. That’s the what do you call it, concasion. No, like constitution, only more along with the consistency. Constinence. No. Collision. Collaboration. Tip of my t. Collocation. There, we got it, Mr Darcy. Always wondered why his name is not French enough. Guess that’s how the, Dad called him. Both Catholics, no. When this church, in Wisconsin, no, Winchester, the seat of Arthur, the Scot-king, it was the Lutheran? No, that’s Swedes. The Swedish pastry, that in the tint [should read: ‘tin’] and piano. The, can’t remember, I think. So dizzy. [Not trying to do a Molly Bloom here, revise.]

When they came the church, I think, it was the Anglican. And he stopped on that lawn, sitting like a Buddhist monk with precise clarity on the East of the Bells, the Meccha Moccachino, in those tender cartonboard cups. Talked to me Catholic religion while Dad “culturally invested”. Talked about urinals and politics. Female urinals, he called them, with what like the, the. Female condoms. Like, inside you put them? For the oltic. [‘Political correctness’.] and maybe me and octavia can. no  not really.

only if we   try.     Talked to at the. The coffeecupsboards. About the. On political anarchism. No, philosophical. No, that was that other guy. Tim the time philoso. ph. the music guy later    met him funny at the    at the       when a year later met him.   he was so. like anything maybe perhap not talks to you vin……

he used to jolly oh along the lawns and called me italian scarccezzo. whats scarccezzo i wonder not like i really. [Deviate.] Italian I’ll learn someday methinks. We Romans. In Latin we pray, et Dei. Altare. Ad. The hells, they say, something like that. The sound of it. With the horns, we’re used to it. But: I am Alpha and Omega. Aleph, bull. They write it like because. the horns. we not the                       language   not or our      not our own        but they maybe not speak it i never       he     ard       it.      and our own too it changed. so.   much.   m

And now [should read: ‘down’] along with Oscar Wilde we’ll down the wine and share the wild.

need to really this      write this down                        some paper in the wards he give   s

To free association and whatever they do with the patients, you need paper. Paper. But if roll now i will i think about it not enough too tired i think. too. too.

it’s the     seo                   secxx                       sexond                                  heh

when yousmileand              chuckle its time not just to                not to remember how fall asleep fell no

thats not the

i

Vinyl fell asleep.

5. As Told by Octavia Philarmonica

I never wanted to kill my father.

I guess that’s the whole problem. Normal kids want to kill their father on occasion. It’s fine. It’s healthy. It’s psychology. I never wanted to kill my father. I never even hated him. If I’d known anything about psychology, I would have tried to hate my father at least twice a day, before morning and evening prayer. But, as things had turned out ever since, I never hated my father; so there you have it.

I did - and do - hate many things. I hate it when it snows heavily, when you can’t see the road ahead of you, stumbling and sneezing from the cold. I hate it when I have to wake up in the middle of the night to pee. I hate it when it is raining outside and I have practice and have to brave the muddy streets on foot with a cello case. I hate Harpo when he makes his stupid bawdy jokes. I hate Bea when she giggles like an idiot. I hate Frederic when he’s being all bossy and commanding. I hate those vomit-inducing dirty workers who always build something on Sunday, when I’m supposed to be resting. I hate those fat-cats that waste their money on useless things when the planet is dying. I hate environmentalists. I hate polluters. I hate corporations. I hate communists. I hate my neighbours. I hate cold coffee and hot tea. I hate liberals and conservatives. I hate autumn and spring. I hate synthetic blankets and woollen plaids. They itch. They itch so fucking much.

It is harder to say what I love. Or, rather, it was harder to say that. When Vinyl appeared… Let’s say, I was living behind a huge curtain, peeking out at the world from a stage. I believed in the stage. There’s nothing wrong in believing in the stage. Shakespeare believed in the stage. Gatsby believed in the green light. Hunter Thompson believed in cocaine. Ghandi believed in peace. I believed in the stage. But then she… she just came up to me, took my hand, and delivered me from this madness. She said, “There’s no stage, love. There’s me. Only me.” And I looked around and I saw: there was no stage. The floor sweeper was gone, and the actors never existed. The producer was long past gone, and I was my own playwright. I could outshine the orchestra, and no conductor could tell me how to sing. And I didn’t need to sing any more. I had her. It was her, just her. Only her. And there wasn’t anything else to add.

Yes, please. A double espresso.

Was it higher love? Was there ever higher love? Is it higher love if I forgot everything but her? Is it higher love if there was no praise in the world but her praise, and no hurt but her hurtful words, the truth she spoke then? Is it higher love that I ran away, to go away forever, like her brother, but-

Thank you. Yes, some sugar, please.

-but I returned. For her. And, if she won’t have me…

Thank you.

If she won’t have me… I won’t do anything stupid. I’ll just walk away, and burn all the bridges behind me. She’s shown me too much of the beauty of life for me to ever give it up.

Just let me finish my coffee.

***

You really thought I would leave you? No, this, now, is a very important part. How could I leave you without guidance here? After all, the story is coming to its end. It does not have an end, as you’re used to; but it does not loop or form a cycle so I guess we could call it an ending of some sort.

You must have realised what’s going on by now. The story has been a modernist piece all along. It was well-hidden. I didn’t know that. I’ve learnt that along with you - maybe a few seconds earlier. You were sure this would be a good, ordinary story. You were deceived. It is unpleasant, I know. Misleading is so human. You get used to it. It also makes the title of the story oh so ironic. Let me reiterate myself: Sometimes, irony is just too bitter.

But let’s return to the story, because it’s getting complicated. Here, we should understand - and you, clever reader, you have understood it already - the general theme of each part. Part One was Uncertainty. Read it again: I’m sure it was Uncertainty. Part Two was Anxiety. Read it again: I can calmly assure you that it was Anxiety. Part Three was Tranquillity. Read it again: I’m anxious to say, but I think, rushing to and fro in a nervous lane, that it was Tranquillity. This is Exhaustion. You must have noticed it. With each chapter, the story becomes more nocturnal. The language exhausts itself. The words become tired. The descriptions fade. The narrative shifts.

Returning to the narrative:

Octavia returns, reluctantly. Her finger follows the precise trajectory to the bell. The bell rings, obeying the law of physics. The sound attracts the attention of one Vinyl Scratch, who opens the door without looking: she is too exhausted. Octavia falls on her knees and embraces Vinyl’s knees, perfectly resembling the famous painting of the Prodigal Son. The Prodigal Daughter has returned. My mind conjures a play again:

Octavia: Vinyl, love, Vinyl, Vinyl. Vinyl.

Vinyl: …

Octavia: Vinyl. My Vinyl. Vinyl.

Vinyl: Octavia?..

Octavia: (cries) Vinyl. Love. Vinyl.

Vinyl: (uncertain) Are you for real?

Octavia: (cries) Vinyl. Vinyl.

Vinyl: (uncertain) Are you drunk?

Octavia: (sniffs) Vinyl. I love you, Vinyl.

Vinyl: You… You left me?

Octavia: (starts crying again): No, no, Vinyl, love, there’s been a mistake. I love you, I love you, I love. You.

Vinyl: Tavi… (meekly) Get off the floor.

Octavia gets off the floor and enters the familiar flat. They sit. On the couch. They talk. Octavia tells everything. It sounds crazy. Vinyl listens. It sounds crazy to her too. They talk. They sit. Vinyl thinks hard. It all seems surreal. Big Sur. She doesn’t even know what’s real. She has this crazy notion that she’s a character in someone’s novel. She’s goddamn right, by the way. There’s only one thing she knows to counter this insanity. She asks Octavia to go on a ride with her. Octavia is afraid. She agrees. They go to the car. The air is crispy and cold. Vinyl inserts the key. She starts the engine. The car roars. Octavia is afraid. She holds on to her seatbelt. She has a notion that Vinyl is going insane. She is wrong, by the way.

They drive off.

Let me now give you the courtesy of being driven into the midst of their ride. I’ll leave you there. Don’t worry. You’ll manage. If you’ve managed to get through the previous chapters, you’ll manage this one. I believe in you. (I honestly don’t.)

“Where are we going?”

Vinyl drove carefully past the city limits, guiding the car along the narrow road, wincing every time a stray pebble jumped up from the slowly rotating wheels. “I want to show you something.”

Octavia gulped. I really hope it won’t be a Romeo-and-Juliet kind of thing. “Vinyl, love, you are creeping me out,” she tried to reason gently, her fingers running up and down the belt, sweat forming on her forehead.

“You vanished without a word, and now you’re here, confessing your love for me,” Vinyl replied, not taking her eyes off the road. “I need to know if it’s true.”

Damn. Octavia gulped. It is going to be one of those Romeo-and-Juliet things, isn’t it. God have mercy on my soul. Angel Octavia looked on sternly from the shoulder. Oh really? With how much you’ve sinned, you expect mercy? Hopefully, Octavia looked at the other shoulder. Devil Octavia gleefully took out a contract for one (1) soul of Octavia Philarmonica, the cellist with the exceptional nasal skill who woke ever so often to the smell of brewing Colombian coffee. I hope I can have a cup. If Vinyl doesn’t throw us both off a cliff. Oh well.

And the car firked and furked towards the edge of town, and way past it, and back to it, and along it - for the driver was not a good one, nor was her memory that perfect - but she remembered that place - way back she was a kid and she and her brother - and there was much apple juice and they had a picnic - and F… D…

….

…..

……

………….

…

They couldn’t go into there, anyway, okay, for a REASON - and there it was, the perfect round natural cavity, by which she’d parked her car and came out and Octavia had no way but to folow her and marvel at the nature.

Was it, was it, is it, Octavia asked. I mean, is it. Natural, Vinyl replied. Yes it is natural. Maybe they say. You know. There was this meteorite. Oh, come on love, Octavia said, It can’t be?

…

That’s the sound. Listen to it. It is called silence.

...

Why did you run away? You hurt me. Didn’t you hurt me? I’m sorry, Vinyl, I don’t, love, I don’t know what- I know. What? Fear of flight, fear of my losing Nini, fear of losing me. Fear of losing you.

They stand side by side. It is almost an edge. Almost a brink. Octavia is still afraid.

Octavia, I. I don’t even know anymore. Know what, love? You know. Anything. Can’t we just erase this, all of this? Pretend this never happened? You know we can’t. WE changed, Tavi, didn’t we? WE? As in, separately, and, well. Vinyl, listen to me. Hmm. Listen to me, love. I know I’m not supposed to be the voice of reason here- Hehe. But can we just. Accept. Accept? Accept life as it is. Accept it and move on. Neon will be cured. We’ll… We’ll what? You can live with him, if you want. I want it. ...I. Okay. You what? You expected me to say no? He is my brother, Tavi. No, I. I love you. I accept whatever you impose on me. For you, I can. I can. Can what? If you decide to live with Neon, I will accept it. I will just. If you’ll just have me, again… We could go on dates and, and restaurants? I could drop by and cuddle, if. If. If? And if you won’t have me, like we used to be, that is. That is? If you won’t have me, I won’t bother you ever again. I will just… live. Live my life. But I will… look after you. Not stalk you… Just. Learn your movements. That… does sound a lot like stalking, actually. Hm. What I mean is- if you ever get in danger - God forbid - or if Neon does - God forbid - I will be there. I will come to help. And then, then. Disappear. Vanish. And, maybe. Maybe I’ll just wait. Wait for you to accept me, if ever. And if I don’t? Then I’ll wait till the day I die. You are the only one in the world worth dying for.

A kiss.

Curtain.

***

Now that was just horrible, wasn’t it? So sappy. And that remark about stalking? And Vinyl’s reiteration? What’s she have - echolalia? Psh. A load of crap, I’m telling you. Sorry for making you read this. It doesn’t work this way with books? Who will honestly believe that two characters would act like that?

What?

Would real people-?

Woah. Wait a minute. We’re talking about real people here? Huh. Then it’s all right. It’s all real. Real people would definitely act this way. What exactly seems surreal to you? The way Octavia’s father- oh, please. It all happened, okay. We’ve been over this. The way Neon acted? I knew a guy who went a little crazy over an arranged marriage. He is fine now and lives in California. His bride is still here in Moscow. Hey ho. The way Octavia-? Jesus Christ, you are supposed to be a smart reader here, okay? There are people - and I knew such a case - who disappear for another town or country when in dismay, and yes, carry knives with murderous intent. Such a return? What exactly was Vinyl -supposed to- do, in your view? She acted as a human being. If she were a character, there’d be some pacing. Some waiting. She’d agree to begin again, maybe, in time. She’d live separately from Octavia for a while. They’d work on restoring their relationship while Neon healed, for, say, sixty chapters. As many as I wanted to. If they paid me for this, I’d drag this for eternity. Proust would cry salty tears with his lost time. (I haven’t actually finished the whole huge novel-thing.) But they don’t pay me for this so I’ll let - make - allow - whatever - my characters to act as human beings, if just for fun.

Because if they acted as characters are supposed to act, they’d come home to have a passionate night of love-making. Instead, they came to Vinyl’s flat, only to receive a call - on Vinyl’s phone - from the mental facility - let’s call it that, for political correctness; even though I’ve been at one, and I wouldn’t call it that - telling them that Neon is gone, he’s escaped, he’s nowhere to be found. That isn’t what was supposed to be in the novel. But this happened in the novel. So there you have it.

Now? Now’s time to write a nice scene. Imagine it as a still picture.

In the foreground we can see a certain cellist, sitting on a sofa, a half-empty bottle of wine in her lap. On the small table in front of her there is a bottle of water, full. To the left the picture blurs into the hallway. To the right it shrinks towards a wardrobe, diagonally. In the background a certain DJ is pacing back and forth - frozen in mid-step, a phone in her hand. There’s a window. A certain plush bear before the window.

See? I wanted to give you a different scene. Not related to the story directly. You were afraid of that. But I didn’t. You are relieved. The picture was a row of seats on which three men sit, two of them holding unlit cigarettes. A drummer is laying a beat in the corner on the right. Students are being congratulated in the background. There’s an empty stage. But I didn’t give that scene to you. It’s mine to keep, I suppose. I wanted to give it in Russian, even. You were afraid of that. You shouldn’t be, any more. Here, let me finish this chapter for you.

Time passes. It always passes. A still picture cannot remain still for long.

So, time passed. What’s next? Now, a powerful phrase to finish this thing. Or, rather:

Octavia gulped down the wine, her eyes fixed on the wall before her. Vinyl’s heart was leaping in bounds, the woman shaking, about to faint from stress and pressure. On the TV screen there was a screensaver of the sun setting over a seaside resort. So, on the window,

Here, the powerful phrase:

Contentedly, Mister Tummers watched the sunset.

There. Time to relax. Only one chapter left. You’ll manage this. It’s home straight from now on. The Sun is finally setting over the British Empire. And hey, I promise the next one will end better. It’ll be nice, romantic, and fun. Oh, it’ll be loads of fun. You’ll roll on the floor with laughter. It will not make you think. It will not be scary. You can relax now. It’s over, baby. It’s almost over. The bad doctor will just look at your toothie here. Ouch! What was that? The doctor had to take the toothie away, love. The doctor is a metaphor for life, sweetie. Life just takes things away. And all that is left is hurt and void.

Oh well.

6. The Abyss

“I can’t get through to him.”

Vinyl slammed the phone against the table with unspoken-spoken-shouted-out anger. “I can’t get through to Neon. He doesn’t reply.”

Somewhere in Alabama, on which the stars fell not long ago, a farmer is sure that the mowing cattle are planning a coup d’etat, like in that book he read, about the pigs and the farm. He is drunk a little more than Octavia Philarmonica, who is taking glass after glass of wine, dealing with adversity the only way that she had known.

“It’ll be all right,” she says over and over. Her thoughts are elsewhere. Her mind is hazy from the alcohol and excitement and lack of sleep. She could not sleep on the plane. She was scared. She almost died of fear there. No, not died. Almost fainted. That, yes.

In a Japanese club, a young prodigy sniffs cocaine from the top of his electric guitar while playing a solo that is based on the lydian scale - quite simple, but the shredding did the job on the crack-addled audience. The collapse of the Japanese traditional integrity and absolute health propaganda had begun. Salmons would be fried from now on.

Time passed. Much time passed. The topics of discussion between the two fine women were: their brief reunion (feelings of joy), Neon’s sudden escape (anxiety, shame on Octavia’s side; Vinyl does not remind her, but she remembers; guilt, for the sake of it; they know life wouldn’t be the same), philosophy (calmness; first ancient, then modern), times and mores of the society. The last topic was, incidentally, being discussed in exactly one billion seventy-five million three hundred thousand and fifty-nine (1 075 300 059) households. The discussion of this topic led to this scene:

“Just compare,” Octavia carried on, gobbing up the wine. “Here, we can enjoy our freedom. In Italy, we’d be frowned upon and shunned. In Russia, we’d be forbidden to make our relationship public.” Gulp gulp gulp goes the glass. “In Saudi Arabia, we’d be thrown stones at.” Gulp and gulp! Gulp and gulp and fill again! The joys of life, here, at the bottom of the bottle.

“What are you driving at?” Vinyl interrupted her, irritated, flamy, obnoxious. “I get it, life’s a bitch in parts of the planet. Why not enjoy what we have right here right now, and not give a damn about someone else?!”

Octavia shrugged. The clock sneezed four. Somewhere, presumably in Australia, the band played Waltzing Mathilda. The guitarist had just hit his hand on the door by accident and played slowly, almost dropping the rhythm. The drummer tried, hopelessly, to match. The audience went wild with excitement. It was a performance for kings and queens to be proud.

The phone rang. Vinyl’s phone rang. The black old mobile phone rang.

Vinyl, with trembling hands, shaking hands, shivering hands, picked it up. “Hello?”

“I am in an interesting part of this planet, sis. There is an endless nothing that looks a lot like wheat, and I am sure the native population consists mainly of sentient cows.”

“Sentient... cows?” Vinyl repeated hopelessly, in a broken voice. Octavia leaned in and pressed the loudspeaker on irritatedly. Neon’s voice carried on through the loudspeaker, crispy from distance.

“You should have seen the look of ancient wisdom on the cows’ faces, sis - and I refuse to call them muzzles. The fair cowboy smiles at me, unable to understand a word of English, in a land where people are still allowed to smile.” Neon coughed - semmi-chuckle.

“Where are you, Neon?” Octavia demanded, stern, sweaty, heart-leaping.

“Ah. I see Judas is still with you.”

Vinyl glared at Octavia. She was ready to kill her: leap at her and tear her apart, rip that fucking bitch who dared - who - who - who- who was responsible for her brother’s slipping away!

“I am, Vinyl,” Neon continued to speak to his sister, disregarding the presence of the cellist in the room, “in an Eastern part of the dictatorial world, a fine old country that was once ruled by Mongols and now is an example for those who crave dictatorship. Russians look up to this holy Muslim land and see that dictatorship is good, if the dictator is good enough. The Chinese glance at this land, ripe with gold and mines, and bow their Asian heads.”

Vinyl felt an urge to cry - give up - let her arms fall limp. “Nini, brother… Where are you?”

“I am gazing at a wonderful spectacle, Vinyl,” Neon carried on in his simple, calm tone, as if he were lazing around with the two women in the room, instead of having run off so scarily and unexpectedly. “Not far away, a majestic city of glass and steel lights up the horizon, a beacon of civilisation in this barren land, a beacon that the local population - and I don’t mean the cows - call Astana.”

Vinyl looked up hopelessly. You should’ve paid more attention at Geography, angel Vinyl remarked. Devil Vinyl took out a .44 revolver, waving it around on the shoulder dangerously.

“That’s Kazakhstan,” Octavia whispered, ingesting the darkly violent look her girlfriend (Still? Still? Or no more?) pierced her with, sliced her like warm butter. And yet, she could hope this little straw of help was enough to calm the camel and her back.

“I’m coming straight ahead, Nini, you hear me?” Vinyl shouted in what seemed to her a soothing manner, a piercing, knifelike shriek. “I’m coming to right where you are.” Childish dismay. “Wait for me there, okay?” God, that. That.

“We aren’t playing Mister Sandman here, sis.” And distant, so distant. His voice. Becomes. “I just call to say I’ll be travelling a bit. But hey.” Sappy inbound. “I’m still with you. I’m always with you. We have no problems, okay?” Okay. Okay? “We’ll manage.” Beep. Beep. Beep beep.

Vinyl stood up. Vinyl went to the table. Vinyl took and bottle and took a huge swig. It wasn’t as unpleasant as she’d expected. Octavia didn’t stop her. Octavia didn’t do anything. Octavia just lit up a cigarette and walked towards the window, through which the smell of Colombian coffee mixed in with the sound of stomping feet.

“I’m sorry, Vinyl,” Octavia said, looking into the window. There was no moon there. It was too early for a moon. But when the moon came, it would not peek into the window at the two drunken, broken women. It would be ashamed.

“I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t save your brother. I couldn’t even save myself.”

Epilogue

The glasses clinked in the faulty pyramid that called itself a cafe, and a gourmet cafe, no less. The lack of alcohol - a fine homage to the owners’ abstination - severed discussion, which was strictly unnecessary, with the band - a piano, a harp, a cello, and a tuba; imagine a more peculiar blend - providing jazzy lounge for the stray visitor. There had yet to be regulars, what with the cafe standing where it stood for merely a year and a half.

The waitress, a wild-haired woman with shriekingly red earrings, served coffee to a table of four, thinking about buying a new scrub for her household. Her posture, stiff, shyly determined, was a fine contrast to the other owner of the establishment - the aforementioned cellist, who left her quartet to tend to the owner-play-waitress. How is it today, she asked. Better?

Better, the waitress replied. Every day is better. She was lying, you see. No day was better than the day before. But the lie had its intended effect, and the cellist left for the kitchen to supervise.

Supervise.

With the supervisor gone, the waitress turned owner once again, with the real waitress rushing into the cafe, past the glass door where the sign OPEN neighboured the name of the establishment, written in bold pink, between a treble clef and an eighth note:

ALLEGREZZA

I’m very sorry, Vinyl, um, ma’am, I just, that is. It’s okay, it’s okay, the owner assured her with a smile. Here she was, the ex-fiance, meek, subjected, forlorn.

Forlorn.

The lack of True North, the lack of Him united them under the roof of this cafe. The lack of love united the owners. The lack of hope made the waitress come here every afternoon, after the coffee shop work.

Love became dependence, and hope became acceptance; and with these human emotions, this place was built. A shrine, it never paid enough. It was enough to keep them together, the two of them. It was enough to never drink again. It was enough to never smoke or cry. It was enough to shut down, the fine Octavian principle, the technique that Vinyl Scratch, the owner, the waitress, the DJ, the hysteric sister, picked up oh so well from her lover, her supervisor, her cellist, her partner, her wall, her stepping stone, Octavia Philarmonica, who still woke up every day to the smell of Colombian coffee that, over the months, became dull and rusty. And every day, Vinyl Scratch woke up to the nightmare of the sounds of the street crushing her, collapsing the world. But with the raven-haired, slender-built, white-toothed, angel-voiced pillar next to her, no world could ever stand a chance.

In came a stranger, thick leather boots on his feet, a military joke, dirty with grime; on his shoulders there was a waistcoat that covered a grey flannel shirt, stained with blood and dirt, and on his legs his trousers were patched and sewn quite professionally. Vinyl turned to him, eager to say, that, that, um, this, such, please, you are not wanted here. How to say it nicely? Was it this way that lost them customers? That never gained them?

She gazed into the rough, pricklish beard of the stranger in a familiar land, open-mouthed, and began to cry. The four-table glanced at her and resumed their coffee.

Nigel, Neon, Brother, lost for over a year, stamped his dirty boots towards his sister, the owner, the DJ, the sobbing lost soul. He placed his heavy body onto a chair by one of the tables. He smiled, showing a mouth of perfect teeth.

“Hi, sis. How’s the weather?”

Part Four Marker

IV. SAVE ME

3. An A-sharp Day. Play in E minor. Rv 236.

Dramatis Personae:

OCTAVIA, a cellist who has just committed adultery and has an idea;

NEON, the agent of VINYL SCRATCH (not present) and her brother, currently in an asylum;

MADELINE, the fiancee of NEON;

THE PRIEST, a Catholic priest of kind heart and hearty stomach;

THE PREACHER, a Roman Catholic priest with a remarkable way with words;

THE CONDUCTOR, Francesco Romanchi, a renowned Italian maestro, a cellist, a violinist and composer;

THE CHOIR;

THE ORCHESTRA;

THE MAN;

THE FLOOR SWEEPER;

THE VILLAGERS;

THE PRODUCER (cameo).

All persons are entirely coincidental. Nothing has been done to protect the goodname of innocents. It’s God’s job, for hellsake.

Raise the curtain!

***

I

The act is set in a newly-built Catholic church in a casual district that seems to be somewhere of an Arizona landscape, but it just as well might be Cleveland, New Jersey, London, or Moscow, or Berlin, or Milan. It definitely does not have the rural feel of Northern Europe, but it is not a skyscraper-littered street. The church is nearly empty, with the majority of the population following the Protestant version of Christianity. (Definitely not Moscow then. Definitely not Milan.) Octavia takes up the steps and crosses her chest.

OCTAVIA: (whispers) In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. (dips her fingers in the water and repeats the ritual) The procedure… Where? Ah. (Walks past the rows, considering stopping for a prayer) No, not now. Not here. There. (Walks into the confession box) Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

THE PRIEST: …

OCTAVIA: How long since my last confession? (Counts) Eleven years, I think. I have given in to all the sins there are. Drinking. Gambling. Hypocrisy. Anger. Blasphemy. Gluttony. ...Homosexuality. Yes, I know it’s a sin. I am not a Lutheran whore. I know it’s sinful. I don’t preach  it- But that’s just who I am!

THE PRIEST: …

OCTAVIA: Look, the Bible is not a modern book. I am not saying we should give up our tradition, but The Church-

THE CHOIR: Sin!

OCTAVIA: I’m sorry, but, Jesus Christ, it’s-

THE CHOIR: Sin! Sin!

OCTAVIA: Sorry! Sorry! I’m sorry!

THE CHOIR: Sin! Sin! The fires of Hell await you, sinner!

OCTAVIA: (cries) No, please, sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, forgive me, I’ll go to a monastery, please!

THE CHOIR: Fires of Hell! Sinner! Sinner!!

THE PRIEST: …

OCTAVIA: (yells) I’m sorry! For whatever I did! For whatever I didn’t do! I’m sorry I’m sorry I’M SORRY FOR WHAT I AM I’M SORRY PLEASE LET ME GO!!! (Runs away from the box and the church without crossing her chest)

THE CHOIR: (quietly) Sin.

THE PRIEST: (Enters the church and walks towards the altar. Suddenly notices something and turns his head. Walks towards the empty confession box and closes the door. Begins the prayer) Pater noster, qui es in caelis…

***

II

The act is set in a mental institution in a casual district that seems to be somewhere of an Arizona landscape, but it just as well might be Cleveland, New Jersey, London, or Moscow, or Berlin, or Milan. It is a private clinic, and has cosy wards that look much like tiny dorm rooms. (Definitely not London then. Definitely not New Jersey.) NEON is standing by the window, gazing out towards the cloud-covered sky. The city is passing past him, big and lighty, covered with dust and grime. He sees summer snow. (Definitely not Cleveland then. Definitely not Berlin.) There’s a distant sound of a flickering lamp. He feels hallucinations slip by.

NEON: It was a nice and very sunny day~

THE CHOIR: A sunny day~

NEON: I felt my troubles withering away~

THE CHOIR: Awa-ay~

NEON: And when I saw you sitting there, oh when I saw those eyes, that hair, I didn’t know what I could say~

THE CHOIR: Oo-oo-aah~

NEON: Oh, where are you, my love? (Builds up to E4, a groovy bass-baritone still) Where~ Are~ You~ My~ Loooooooooooooooooooooooo~

MADELINE: I’m here! I’m here! (Storms into the room)

NEON: Away! (Backs up) Away!

THE CHOIR: Away! Away!

MADELINE: My love! My love!

THE ORCHESTRA begins playing a tritone-based string rhythm.

NEON: Away, you witch! Away, you bitch! Away! Get off my life!

MADELINE: (cries) My love! My groom! What have they done!

NEON: Away! I want you gone! (Shifts key to B minor, the prolonged C# sounding very dissonant) And ne-ver come a-gaaaaaain!~

THE CHOIR: Away! Away!

THE ORCHESTRA silences.

MADELINE: (walks up to the middle of the room, blistering in the light) I would have said that you are gone to me~

And that you’re never coming baaaaack~

THE CHOIR: Co-ming baaaaaa~

MADELINE: I would have chosen yet another breed~

And taken sin behind your back~

THE CHOIR: Oooooo~

MADELINE: But I have never laughed or cried in vain~

And so in vain I’ve never loved~

THE CHOIR: Ne-ver loooooo~

MADELINE: But if you want me out oooof your life~

This is what I am frightened ooooof~

NEON backs to the window, scared, trembling.

MADELINE: Love me!

NEON: No!

MADELINE: Embrace me!

NEON: No!

MADELINE: Accept me!

NEON: No!

MADELINE: Hold me!

NEON: No!

MADELINE: Trust me!

NEON: No!

MADELINE: I am the one you love!

NEON: No! No! No! No! (Slams his fist against the table) I’m not talking about you! I’m talking about my sister, my precious sister!

THE CONDUCTOR: (runs through sheet music) What is he doing? He isn’t singing!

THE CHOIR: …

THE ORCHESTRA is waiting.

NEON: Don’t you see? I don’t need your love. I don’t need you or any other woman. As long as I have my sister, my little Vinyl, my precious gem, I am complete. Now get away!

MADELINE: I will still love you. You can’t cross me out of your life. (Leaves)

Uneasy, awkward silence. THE CONDUCTOR sighs and shrugs. THE CHOIR moves away. THE ORCHESTRA leaves the stage to get some rest. THE PRODUCER rubs his chin. He looks at his watch: it is time for him to attend another play.

THE PRODUCER: Skibbidy-bop, skibbidy-bop, skibbidy-daa.

The curtain falls.

Entracte.

***

III

The act is set in a riverside Italian village, past the rustic houses. THE ACTORS walk along the field path, some chewing barley. THE VILLAGERS are wearing dirty shirts and coppola caps. OCTAVIA, a young woman, is wearing a tuxedo and is drawing the attention of the male population. She is carrying a sharp carving knife, which rests unconcealed in her hand, so THE VILLAGERS try to stay away. OCTAVIA is smiling at the warm summer sun and singing.

OCTAVIA: (Tiptoeing) O angry day, O angry day!

THE CHOIR: Rejoice! Rejoice!

OCTAVIA : (Cradling the knife) When dads, like ash, are swept away!

THE CHOIR: O angry day! O angry day!

OCTAVIA: (Walking on out of the village, and towards the seaside gleefully) Ring-a-ding-ding, daddy! (Smiles in ecstasy) That’s what Jesus and St Peter say! (Hits F-sharp)

THE CHOIR: O angry day! Rejoice!

OCTAVIA walks past an old Catholic church, where the mass can be well-heard. The chimes still tingle from the time. She stops and crosses her chest.

OCTAVIA: In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.

THE PREACHER begins the prayer loudly. OCTAVIA pauses before the church, then walks up to the steps. The stone breathes with cold and is a pleasant counterpart to the heat in the air.

THE PREACHER: Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra.

OCTAVIA: On earth as it is in Heaven. (Crosses her chest)

THE PREACHER: Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris.

OCTAVIA: Forgive us our sins. (Crosses her chest) Or was it ‘trespasses’? (Ashamed, places the knife in her pocket. The handle peeks out still.)

THE PREACHER: Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Amen.

OCTAVIA: Yes. (Nods) Deliver us from evil. Amen. (Takes out the knife and begins to pray) Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio, contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium. Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur: tuque, princeps militiae caelestis, Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute, in infernum detrude. Amen. (Crosses her chest) In infernum detrude. Yes. What was it in English?

THE CHOIR begins to hum a low note. THE ORCHESTRA starts to play a rough, abrupt string rhythm.

OCTAVIA walks along the rustic path. Her smile is reeking of joy and murder. She seems to be absolutely content and perfectly sure of what she is going to do. She looks like a Catholic inquisitor from the Dark Ages.

THE CHOIR: Welcome to the New Dark Ages~

THE CONDUCTOR: Stop! That’s copyright material!

OCTAVIA: Praise the Lord! Down fell Sodom and my father, down to earth, those pillars of salt! (Finally approaches the familiar villa. Stops. Breathes in and out, fighting an upcoming anxiety attack. Gathers her courage and rings the bell.)

THE MAN walks out of the villa, coming up to the almost non-existing fence. (In Italian:) Can I help you, ma’am?

OCTAVIA: (in Italian) I am looking for Senor Philarmonico. Is he in? (Aside) Who the hell is he?

THE MAN: I’m sorry, ma’am… I don’t know what to say… (Glances at the knife in fear. He is used to such pointless violence on this goddamn island. He is used to the mafia but he is not used to young women in tuxedos bearing carving knives.)

OCTAVIA: Say what it is.

THE PLAYWRIGHT: You think we can change it? Pass it on translation?

THE PRODUCER: Tatta-ratta-tatta-da.

THE PLAYWRIGHT: Sure, budget cuts. Chop chop!

THE MAN: He committed suicide, poor fellow. (Winces) About six years ago. God knows what made him do that. (Sighs) Didn’t leave no note, no notice, nothing. Poor goodwife! (Shrugs in melancholy) Why? Did you know him?

OCTAVIA: (Smiling) No, not at all.

The ACTORS vacate the stage. The lights are out. A FLOOR SWEEPER shrivels his broom lightly. OCTAVIA is sitting on the empty stage and laughing.

The curtain falls.

Finita!