ART-ZINE REFLECT


REFLECT... КУАДУСЕШЩТ # 18 ::: ОГЛАВЛЕНИЕ


Rafael LEVCHIN, Anatol' STEPANENKO. COLLAGES OF FORTY-YEAR-OLDS



aвтор визуальной работы - Anatol' Stepanenko



A Screenplay
Translation from Russian by Tatiana Tulchinsky and Alexander Burry.




Этот сценарий – как бы покадровая запись фильма – или проза, стилизованная под такую запись. Написано в 1985 - 1990 гг., в соавторстве с кинорежиссёромн, поэтом и художником А.Степаненко. Использованы также произведения других киевских авторов-андеграундников, т.е. сценарий действительно является коллажом, язык которого, по мысли авторов, ближе всего к языку кино, сна, мифа. Описаны люди и ситуации, имевшие место, а также не имевшие места, но могшие произойти, и такие, которые не могли произойти ни при каких обстоятельствах. К счастью или к несчастью – неизвестно. Действие происходит в конце 80-х в Советском Союзе, в Городe, в котором легко узнать Киев, в те годы провинциальный советский город, бывший некогда столицей Древней Руси и сохранивший множество чудес /чудовищ – не меньше, чем магический Петербург.
Герои фильма – художники и поэты, своеобразная подпольная элита города; a поскольку в СССР человек, находящийся в арт-андеграунде, автоматически попадал в андеграунд политический, то, хотел он того или нет, вынужден был бороться с официальной идеологией. Борьба эта обычно напоминала "Процесс" Кафки, поэтому герои очень скоро обращают друг на друга свою ярость и отчаяние, растрачивают в этой бессмысленной борьбе свою жизненную энергию, теряют дружбу, любовь, творческие потенции, погружаясь в домашнюю чёрную магию, уничтожaющую их...
Сценарий печатался в журнале «МНОГОТОЧИЕ» в 1992 году. Перевод публикуется впервые.




A view from a trolley window. A crowd flowing along a boulevard.
The trolley moves slowly, stopping at the light. It crosses an intersection and continues. However the boulevard suddenly empties out. No one is on the sidewalk.
Some people come towards the trolley from the opposite direction. It’s only men, and they all look alike. Close-ups of them. They are all dressed identically, in formal three-piece suits, ties, gloves, and hats. Their faces differ only slightly. One has a goatee, another has sideburns, a third has a skipper’s beard, and a fourth is clean shaven, as if it’s the same face with different make-up.
Up until now, it has been silent. Now the close-ups of these elegant gentlemen are suddenly accompanied by sounds.
Close-up of the clean shaven man. At the same time, there is a slow, mournful wail.
Another close-up, of the mustached man. A distant belly laugh. Each close-up corresponds to a certain sound: shouting, grinding, laughter, indistinct muttering... and finally, silence.
Suddenly women appear from behind the gentlemen. They look strange, to say the least. Some of them even look wretched. One of them is on crutches, another is hunchbacked, a third is completely bald, and a fourth is blind. They are all dressed in different kinds of rags.
Each woman corresponds to a different sound. A woman without any outer defects, but with her mouth taped shut, is accompanied by silence.
Each gentleman leads his woman by the hand. Couples moving forward. Close-ups of the goatee and the taped-up mouth, a gloved hand, and a hand covered in scabs.
They enter a building without any signs, walk across a hall, and approach something resembling a reception desk, where they are met by a female clerk of indeterminate age.
The gentlemen check their women in with the clerk, receive tickets, and leave.
They go outside together, moving purposefully. The women walk down the hallway again. They are led into a big room, sparsely furnished with plank beds, a sink, and a few stools. They arrange themselves on the plank beds.
The gentlemen walk onto a pier. They board a small, festively decorated cutter, arrange themselves at tbls under a tent in the bow, and start smoking. They drink sodas and play cards, dice, and checkers.
A horn sounds. The cutter casts off.
The women in the room. Some are sleeping on the beds; others are trying to keep busy with something. One of them produces a small mirror from her rags and combs her hair in front of it, another washes herself in a basin, and a third, the one with her mouth taped, takes off the tape. However, there’s another piece of tape underneath it, and a third piece under that... One of the women sits staring fixedly and rocking back and forth. Two others talk animatedly, and then start kissing.
The cutter sails along the river. The gentlemen at the tbls continue what they’re doing. Their faces in close-ups are motionless, their movements automatic. There is a movement on the stern, and something either human or animal melts into a single moving mass. There is a stifled roar and shriek. The gentlemen don’t pay the slightest attention.
The women in the room, as before. The one who was washing herself continues to do so, and it’s clear that this will never end. One of the sleeping women wakes up, sits, and then falls asleep again. The one who is taking off her tape continues doing it, but more and more slowly.
A close-up of the faces and eyes of the kissing women. They undress each other.
The cutter sails on. Clouds of black smoke and flaming tongues of fire appear from the stern. The gentlemen continue playing and smoking.
The women in the room start shrinking somehow, becoming smaller and smaller. The one who was washing herself has already turned into a dark puddle. The puddle quickly dries up, turning into a foaming mass, which becomes covered with a dirty crust. The same thing happens to the rest of them.
The flaming cutter roams haphazardly along the river. The gentlemen, brushing away the smoke, continue what they were doing.
The metamorphosis in the room is complete. A clerk of indeterminate gender gathers up the hardened remains of the women and takes them away.
A roaring press turns the remains into neat dark squares. The squares are numbered and put into a box.
The half-burnt cutter bumps against the shore. The fire is almost out. Something is still stirring and groaning on the stern. The gentlemen carefully put away their games, put out their cigarettes and cigars, and get out onto the shore, not paying attention to anything. They walk along the sand, and go onto the road.
Then they walk along a street and come up to the door of the place where they brought the women. A little window by the door opens. They hand in their tickets.
The clerk checks the records in a book and gives each of them an identical-looking dark square according to their tickets.
The gentlemen put the squares in their breast pockets and go onto the boulevard. They walk in separate directions, not looking at each other.
The camera moves back. Now it’s clear that all of this has taken place on a screen, in front of which two women in black are sitting with their backs to the audience. One of them turns back for a second. She seems to be no more than nineteen, with dark, very short hair.
A sign appears on the screen of the VCR:

COLLAGES OF FORTY-YEAR-OLDS.
Then the credits:
Rafael Levchin and Anatol' Stepanenko,
with
Natalia Khatkina, Marina Dolia, Elvina Zeltsman, Iuri Zmorovich, and Aleksandr Malyi.

The credits fade. The VCR screen comes closer, filling up the whole movie screen.
A guitar plays. The words of a song are heard as if through a thick wall. Only a few can be made out: “...warmth and blood... window... chimeras...”
Spots come together, filling up the screen. Again, the refrain: “warmth and blood... warmth and blood...”
The picture becomes sharper. A room with a lot of people. Two of them open doors to other rooms.
The song ends.
Weak applause. Talk, laughter, exclamations.
The interior becomes visible. Many books, pictures, different objcts, including many exotic ones.
The camera shows first one listener, then another, then a few together. They are sitting comfortably around the girl with the guitar. She is very pretty, but a kind of defect can be sensed about her (later, when she gets up, it turns out to be a hump). She is dressed in black. One of the listeners is sipping coffee, many of them are smoking, and some are eating and talking. One of them, with an ascetic face, wearing a cap that covers a bald spot, stands by the bookshelves, looking through an art book.
The girl begins a new song. The bookshelves are on screen. A close-up of one of them reveals a strange combination of books: Camus next to The Dhammapada, then a few detective novels in bright dust jackets with foreign letters, and then The Bogomils, The Kabbalah, and scattered volumes, for some reason only odd-numbered, of Stalin’s works. A song:


My soul, Cosetta, stays a child forever.
The body traps it, like a ghetto slum.
But where? Right near some membrane, or the liver?
My soul is like the Jewess, sad and glum,
Who snivels in the joke to everyone.
And that’s the only way it can resist.
But soon this woeful singing will be done,
Since there’s no reason that it should persist...

During the song the tall man in a cap puts away the art book and a long-haired young man of average height in jeans overalls (seen from behind for now) immediately picks it up. He opens it and looks at the first page.
The song continues:


My soul, unburied myth, are you alive?
The swampy breath of evil unrestrained...

The hero’s hands (scratched, with a few bad-looking scars on the left), and the art book with Dali reprints.

It came out past the canopy like Judith,
Holding Olofern’s abhorrent head...

FIRST LISTENER (to another as soon as the song has ended). Are you staying?

This is said so loudly that the girl with the guitar hears it too. A smile creeps onto her lips.

SECOND LISTENER. Let’s listen to one more and get out of here.
VOICE (off screen). Want more coffee?

Another voice answers indistinctly. More voices.
The young man in overalls, whose face is still not visible, continues to leaf through the Dali book.
The tall man in a cap heads for the door. The young woman in black, who seems to be the hostess, stops him and says something. He smiles crookedly.


HOSTESS. Why are you in such a hurry?
TALL MAN. Because I’m not immortal? (Exits.)

The singer starts a new song. The listeners move around. Someone finishes saying something.

What is it, my captive? Are you still alive?
She’s hot from the yellow and dribbling grease.
The millstones of gluttony grind from all sides –
Amidst this perspiring, sweat-covered feast...

She sings badly, sometimes switching into recitative. The audience’s scorn for her is not obvious, since these are all cultured people. Some are dressed a bit outlandishly. There are signs of bohemianism in all of the outfits, but only one of them is dressed provocatively. He is a typical hippie, maybe the last of the Mohicans, no longer young. Patches, necklaces, symbols drawn on his clothing, and various trinkets. He is sitting on the floor at the feet of the hero, who is looking through the Dali book. One famous painting after another: “The Temptation of St. Anthony,” “Presentiment of Civil War,” and so on.

Oh skeleton, weightless and rattling frame!
A complex of reeds! Oh, I can’t stand these louts
They don’t ever give me the proper acclaim
For couplets the pipes of my bones whistle out...

The page opens to a less well-known reprint. It’s also in Dali’s style, bright like a slide, but there is no obvious surrealism. It’s more like De Chirico. The print is small, taking up half a page (the camera pauses on the wide empty space of the page). A young naked woman is portrayed sitting on a window sill. Her face is not visible, since her head is bent. The window behind her back is open. A wind blows in playing with her hair and the curtain. It’s in this wild movement alone that a barely noticeable shift from reality can be seen.

...Gavroche, with the same kind of mocking,
Whistled away under fire.
How joyfully, almost for nothing
The soul from the body’d retire...

The singer stop and puts away her guitar.
The hippie sitting at the hero’s feet suddenly guffaws. This serves as a signal for some of the listeners to get up, including those who wanted to stay for one more song. They say good-bye and move toward the exit.
The hero (only now is his face briefly visible) is looking through the art book to find out the title of the unknown painting. He checks the list of illustrations for the page number (66). The singer gets up. Now we can see her deformity. She says something to the hostess.
The hero finds the title: “The unexpected, long awaited.” He abruptly puts the book back on the shelf and heads for the door.


HOSTESS (blocking his way). What are you leaving for? You’re also on the program...

The hero makes a gesture to excuse himself, lightly touches the hostess’s arm, and goes out. Suddenly remembering something, he comes back to kiss the singer’s hand (judging by her face, she’s not at all touched by this sign of affection; she probably takes it as mockery).
The hero leaves.


HOSTESS (to those remaining). Too bad. But you know how unpredictbl he is...

The hippie guffaws again.

VOICE (off screen). Top secret, for those who are still here: we have one more bottle hidden away...

The picture fades.
Two people walk along the evening street. They are seen first as one silhouette.
They come closer and stop by the brightly lit cafe window.
They say something to each other, then laugh.
Close-up. Now we can recognize the hero. He is not as young as he first seemed to be at the party. He is in his late thirties, maybe even his forties. The bright light from the window mercilessly illuminates his bald spots, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, his gray hair, his mouth, and most importantly, his eyes. But his smile is completely boyish.
The girl by his side is very pretty, stylishly dressed in black. Her long fluffy blond hair falls freely onto her shoulders and back.


GIRL (their conversation is suddenly audible). …you saw it yourself?
HERO. I heard it. Should we go in?

A man comes out from the cafe, stares at the girl for a second. The hero obviously does not like this close attention.

HERO. Something wrong?

The girl presses her finger to her lips.
The man, slightly embarrassed, shakes his head and leaves.


HERO (to the girl). Do you know him?
GIRL. I’ve seen him somewhere, I think... Good Lord, I know every other person here, the whole crowd...

In the cafe. Not a very cozy place. The interior is strange, with a random assortment of objcts: typical landscapes and sports banners on the walls, a badly done bas relief of Gogol above the counter. You can only recognize the great writer by his hairstyle and his sadly hanging moustache and nose (the resemblance is minimal).
The hero and the girl approach the counter.
A close-up of a beautifully done sign: “NO COFFEE.”
The hero looks around.
Everyone at the tbls without exception is drinking coffee. The barman nods and smiles at the girl.
The girl presses a finger to her lips again. The barman nods again to signal that he understands, turns on the coffeemaker, and pours in the beans.
The hero is just about to ask why it says that there is no coffee when there actually is, but then he sees the “NO COFFEE” sign disappear as if by magic.
The barman serves them two cups of coffee.
The hands of the hero and the girl taking the cups. Indistinct conversation. The girl and the hero at a tbl.
Looking around, the hero notices a balding bearded man at a nearby tbl exchange winks with the girl.
Turning to the other side, the hero sees two more men making signs to her. He realizes with horror that everyone in the cafe is a man, and that they are all exchanging glances with her.
A man with a cup of coffee in his hands joins their tbl. His face is off screen for now.


MAN. May I?
HERO. No!

But the man has already sat down. He is wearing a black and yellow mask with a long nose.
The bearded man at the neighboring tbl puts on a mask, also with a beard.
Suddenly everyone is wearing masks. The last to put one on is the barman – it’s a mask of a pig.
The portrait of Gogol falls loudly from the nail, revealing a portrait of Hoffmann drawn in charcoal on the wall. The shock causes the tape recorder on the counter to start playing.
A strangely familiar voice sings:


We robbed the big black German book.
The rags fit. Wear them, have no shame.
There’s nothing wrong, wherever you look.
What I want is what I claim.
Three names were heard. They are no more.
Three names were heard in these years past.
Ernst was first, then Theodor.
And Amadeus was the last...

The hero shakes his head. The song ends.
Now no one is wearing a mask. The portrait of Gogol is hanging in its place.
Some people burst into the cafe. Two or three of them rush at the hero, greet him loudly, slap him on the back, punch him on the side and so on. They are slightly tipsy, and some of them are foreigners, including one who is black. He takes a flat, almost empty flask out of his inside jacket pocket and offers it to the hero.
While the hero takes a drink, the black man winks at the girl.
The hero, noticing this, jumps up.
As if expecting this, the gathering starts singing right away:


Doroshenko’s ahead,
Doroshenko’s ahead,
He who traded Maria for marijuana...

A rooster suddenly appears on the counter. It’s incredibly enormous, dazzling, and bright. The hero stares at it as though mesmerized.
The barman pours a foaming drink into a tall glass. The rooster drinks it.


HERO (goes up to the rooster). Who are you?
ROOSTER. Cock-a-doodle-doo.
BARMAN (eagerly translating). That means rooster in Esperanto.

Laughter.
Masks on the faces and in the hands.


HERO (in Esperanto). Come on, say something!
ROOSTER. I can’t cock-cock-count the times you’ve been co-co-completely fooled!

The hero looks around. The girl is not at the tbl.

VOICE (off screen). ...when my heart was tormented, and my soul was suffering...

The hero rushes to the tbl.

BEARDED MAN (continuing). ...then I was ignorant and did not comprehend...
HERO (shaking the first person he can grab). Where is she? Come on! (Rips off the person’s mask, but there is another one underneath.)
VOICE OF THE BEARDED MAN (off screen). ...but I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand...

The hero rips off more masks, and throws cups from the tbl.

ANOTHER VOICE (off screen). Why are you making such a fuss, like Fantomas? Iurko left with her...
HERO. (freezing). Who?
VOICE. (eagerly). Her first husband.
BARMAN. He’s not her husband at all, but her friend Svetka’s. He’s her...
VOICE. (off screen). ...lover...

Voices having a lively discussion about who is whose husband and lover blend into gentle buzzing.

BEARDED MAN. (off screen). ...and because of this chaos, bloodshed, explosions, robbery, kidnapping, hunger, death, all kinds of epidemics, and all sorts of rumors will begin everywhere...

The hero pushes the bearded man aside and runs out of the cafe.

ROOSTER. Co-co-co-complete nightmare!!!

The hero runs along the street. He jumps over a little fence.
A police whistle.
The hero runs through a back alley. He bumps into a garbage pail.
Another back alley. He climbs a stairway and continues running. He goes into an entranceway.
He runs up two flights of stairs. He stops by the elevator, presses the button, and continues running. Gasping for breath, he stops by the door. The door is covered in false leather and decorated with etchings.
The hero rings the bell again and again. He waits. Rings again.
He pounds the door with his fists.
The door opens. A man in a robe stands in the doorway.


HERO. Is she here?!
MAN IN ROBE. Who are you looking for? I think you have the wrong apartment...
HERO. I said, is she here?! (Pulls the door open, pushes the man aside and bursts into the apartment).
MAN IN ROBE. (off screen). What’s going on... I’ll call the police right now!

The hero runs across the hall. Something falls down behind him. He bursts into a room and freezes.
Everything from the painting that he saw in the art book is in front of him: a naked girl sits on the windowsill, bending her head so that her face is not visible. The window is open, and the wind plays with the curtain and the girl’s beautiful hair.
Backing up, the hero leaves the room, then the apartment, ignoring the man in the robe.
He rings automatically for the elevator, but goes downstairs without waiting for it.
He goes outside. Then he suddenly starts running again.
Тraffic lights in the darkness, police whistles.
The hero in front of a door. He rings the bell several times.
The door opens.
Not paying any attention to the half-dressed people, who look like they have just been woken up, the hero runs into the room and heads for the bookshelves.
The camera, as in the beginning, moves through the salon apartment.
The hero grabs the Dali book and feverishly leafs through it.
Close-up of page 66.
But the print he is looking for is not there.
The camera freezes on a slide. The young girl who turned away from the VCR screen in the beginning is sitting half-turned toward the audience.
Now, besides her short hair, we can see attentive eyes, downturned corners of her lips.
The hero walks along the street. He stops, takes a small camera out of his pocket, and photographs something unseen to the audience.
The camera freezes on another slide. Two fish, one in the water, and the other in the air above it.
A poem can be heard:


My friend, a poet, once wrote “sleep to rain,”
“And you’ll become the rain,” that’s what he wrote.
But now the rain and poet are no more.
The brother, friend, beloved’s also gone...
The Final Judgment that we had foretold
Has turned into a simple boring norm.
But who could know that it would just be summer?
How sumptuous: the Maiden has been burned!
All has disappeared into a void
(But it would be too much too call it fate!)
My friend became a fish, and then escaped,
No longer did I think of honor, vengeance
And I will never swear on anything...

The hero walks quickly, almost at a run. He is obviously in a great mood. The girl with short hair is coming towards him.
They meet in the middle of the street and embrace.
A view from above.
The camera moves still higher.
They become completely tiny as they walk in their embrace.
A snatch of conversation: “...waiting for us in the white coffee shop...”
They go downstairs into the cafe.
The cafe is in a pretty dark basement. It is unclear why it’s called a white coffee shop. About a dozen tbls, and a jukebox in the corner. The same song is playing the whole time. The people there joyfully greet the hero and the girl. The frequent customers obviously know them well. Most of them are young people, but there are also some who are older, with gray in their beards and bald spots.


HERO (to one of the people who has greeted them). Where’s Vit’ka?
BEARDED MAN (the short balding one from before). He’s on a trip to Central Asia, and then to Tientsin, I think...
HERO. Cool!

The people move aside to make room for them. They sit down.

VOICE (off screen). Listen up...

The hero turns towards the voice. We see another man dressed really strikingly. The word “REDS” is written on his jacket. The girl is talking animatedly this whole time with one of the others.
The camera moves among the tbls. There are cups of coffee, pastries, sandwiches, juice, and also ruled sheets of paper, pads, books and other objcts on the tbls. The customers are reading, playing dice, writing something on pads and scraps of paper, drawing, exchanging phone numbers, and so on.


VOICE (off screen). So, Roman already owes me three cups of coffee... Another round?

The hero talks to the man with “Reds” on his jacket.

"REDS". ...Linka called... She said she found something good...
HERO. A room?
"REDS". No, an apartment! There are three rooms. And it’s for the whole year... Copy down the number...

The hero writes the phone number into his address book.
The girl watches him.
The hero looks up and smiles at her. He gets up.
The hero talking in a phone booth.
The camera freezes on a fragment of Bosch’s “The Garden of Earthly Delights.”
A female voice reading poetry:


We were in the garden walking,
Mourning, singing, sleeping, talking,
The rain has washed our lips anew,
Released us both till Winter’s through...

The cafe. The girl and the others are listening to poetry (read off screen).
The hero enters, makes a sign to “Reds” that everything is A-OK.
He sits down and takes out cigarettes. The girl reaches for one.
A close-up of the pack with only one cigarette left.
The hero gives her the cigarette and crumples the empty pack.
He looks at his watch and suddenly takes out his camera. He starts taking pictures of the girl in the dim light of the lamps on the wall.
The girl, half turned, looks at him.
The door opens, and someone stumbles on the doorstep and falls down.
The hero gets up, waves good-bye to the girl.
He walks along the street.
Now he is riding on the trolley. He photographs something through the window at a stop.
He climbs up a long staircase.
Door no. 66.
The door opens. The hero goes in.
An old, dilapidated apartment. However, there is still a feeling of former dandyism in it: a huge bronze chandelier in the shape of a naked nymph, an armchair with legs ending in paws and griffin armrests, a cupboard with porcelain statues, a palm tree in a flowerpot in the corner, an African mask on the wall...
Тhe man who let the hero in is old, gray-haired, disheveled, and self-absorbed. A typical professor of the fifties. Shuffling, he walks across the room, sits down in the luxurious armchair.
He glowers at the hero.
The hero stands before him in a respectful but independent pose.
The face-off lasts for some time.
The old man cannot take it any longer and slaps his palm against the tbl in irritation. From the shock, an old transistor radio standing on the tbl turns itself on. Wheezing, it announces a military coup in Fiji.


PROFESSOR. So, you’re a painter, huh?
HERO. Yes. And a bit of a sculptor.
PROFESSOR. Well, I won’t let you set up a sculpture studio here. Is that clear?
HERO. Yes. I don’t really need a studio. I work at a friend’s...
PROFESSOR. Name?
HERO. Mine?
PROFESSOR. I already know yours – your friend’s. What if you’re lying about his studio?

But as soon as the hero opens his mouth, the old man changes the subject. He gets up and goes off screen.

VOICE OF THE PROFESSOR (off screen). It’s windy out...

Closing the window, the old man goes back to his armchair.

HERO. I...
PROFESSOR. Don’t talk about yourself so much!

The hero is silent.

PROFESSOR. So, a painter. Hmm... Now I, if you can imagine, am a professor of botany and paleobotany. Have you ever heard of this science?
HERO. Sure!
PROFESSOR. Liar, you haven’t heard a thing. However, in the given context, this is not important... Do you believe in God?

This time the hero is really flustered.

PROFESSOR. Aren’t you going to say “sure” again? It’s so fashionable nowadays... I bet you wear a cross too. (Without getting up, he reaches toward the hero’s neck.)
HERO (instinctively leaning forward). No, professor, this isn’t a cross, it’s a talisman... I have a cross too, but I don’t have it on today... I rarely wear it...
PROFESSOR. What a lie... Ein, zwei, drei... Now I, if you can imagine, am a nonbeliever, although I was baptized, and as a Catholic, at that... But this is all moot... And what about the devil?
HERO. What about the devil, professor?
PROFESSOR. Do you believe in the devil? Do you?
HERO (almost without hesitation). Yes, professor, I do.
PROFESSOR. Hmmph. What an idiot! That’s the best you can come up with? Tell me what you think I want to hear? But how could you know that, young man, if it’s a mystery even to me!.. Well, here’s how it is: I’m leaving for a year and a half. I’m going on a trip to Tientsin and Tibet... There are three rooms here... Are you married?
HERO. No.
PROFESSOR. What are you mumbling for? Speak up!
HERO. No, professor!
PROFESSOR. Didn’t I warn you right away? However, let’s not get ahead of ourselves... hmm... what was I going to... (mumbling). Three rooms, three rooms, three cards... (out loud). That’s it! There are three rooms here, but you can only live in this one. Understand?
HERO. I understand.
PROFESSOR.You don’t understand a thing. Let me say it in words you can understand. The second room is my study and library. Don’t go there under any circumstances. It’s locked anyway. The third room is my greenhouse. I have the rarest plants from all over the world there...

The hero acts surprised.

PROFESSOR (irritated). Yes, just imagine, from all over the world. Which, by the way, is not so big... So, you can only enter the greenhouse in the morning, no later than eight a.m. Water the plants every day, once a day. Don’t ever forget to do this, under any circumstances!

There is a sound of rustling. An old dog that used to be quite beautiful crawls out of a fireplace that no longer works. It stares gloomily at the hero, baring its teeth.

PROFESSOR. Stay, Toby, stay. He’s OK...

Toby yawns and lies down at the professor’s feet.

PROFESSOR. Yes, young man, only four years ago I could feel safe among a pack of tigers under his protection... He’s gotten quite old... (Scratches the dog behind his ear.) He’s even grown smaller with age. Before, he used to be that big! (Spreads his arms like a fisherman.) By the way, he’s a rare crossbreed: a sky terrier and a labrador. They bred him at my request. There are only five of these dogs in the world, three of them in Manila... Do you know where that is?
HERO(obediently). Yes, professor.
PROFESSOR (suspiciously). So why didn’t you say where?
HERO. You didn’t ask, professor.
PROFESSOR. Well, I’m asking now.
HERO. In the Philippines.
PROFESSOR. That’s right... Now, where were we?
HERO. Three in Manila.
PROFESSOR. Are you really an idiot, or are you just pretending?
HERO. I’m pretending a bit.
PROFESSOR. Well, stop! I meet enough idiots at work! Yes, the dog was unbelievably brave... We were talking about plants. Now listen to me! Water them! Don’t forget! Once a day, in the morning! And stay out of the greenhouse after that!
HERO. You already said that, professor.
PROFESSOR. What?
HERO. You already said that...
PROFESSOR. So what? I said it, and I’ll say it again. You have to water them, otherwise... And another thing: don’t open the curtains!

A squeaking. The hero looks at Toby, but the dog is asleep.

PROFESSOR. Don’t forget to feed the dog.
HERO. Of course, professor.
PROFESSOR. And don’t bring any broads over!

A squeaking.

HERO. Never.

A squeaking. A floorboard in the corner loosens, and a green shoot appears from underneath. The hero looks around, but he can’t see the source of the squeaking.

PROFESSOR (annoyed). You’re lying again! I bet as soon as I close the door... So listen to me, don’t do it! Get this into your head, don’t ever do it, my friend! This apartment isn’t for women. Not at all – I should know. Remember this...

A window. It starts raining outside.
The girl with short hair sits by the phone waiting for a call.
Close-up of the girl’s face (we can’t see her eyes).
Rain.
The professor’s face.
The hero from behind. “BE LOVED” written on his jacket.
The hero moves his shoulder, and the words “BE” and “LOVED” come closer so that it reads “BELOVED.”


PROFESSOR. Why do you need the apartment, anyway?
HERO (off-screen). Excuse me, professor, I don’t understand.
PROFESSOR (annoyed). You say you have a studio, so...
HERO.Oh, I see what you mean... I need the apartment at night. So I don’t have to schlepp back and forth from the suburbs every day.
PROFESSOR(off-screen). Oh, that’s why!
A window.
HERO (off-screen). Professor, we didn’t agree...
PROFESSOR. About what?
HERO. The rent.
PROFESSOR (off-screen). What rent? Feed Toby and water the plants – that’s your rent! And don’t bring girls over – it’s for your own good... (Gets up, indicating that the conversation is over; at this moment, the hero notices the shoot from under the floorboard.).

Rain.
The hero walking down the street.
Jumbled memories about meeting the girl with short hair: a platform at night, a lamppost, a few young people, music from two tape recorders at once. One of the girls is clearly at odds with the rest of them. The conversation is indistinct, but judging by the gestures, not at all calm. The hero stands at a distance from them, immersed in gloomy thoughts. He’s also waiting for the train.
The conversation grows louder. The light shines on one face after another.


YOUNG MAN(taking a drag on his joint and passing it to someone else. His hair looks like it’s exploded in all directions.). ...why the hell are you... bothering me...
ONE OF THE GIRLS. You idiot!
ANOTHER YOUNG MAN (doing the same thing with the joint. He has a hoarse but high-pitched voice.) You guys are really cool...
THIRD YOUNG MAN (in a surprisingly normal voice). I’m really starting to feel it now...

One of them pushes the girl, and this acts as a signal. Three or four of them start pushing her several times lightly between them. She manages to free herself and jump away with a jerk. Her face is visible now – it’s the girl with short hair.
The hero takes a few steps towards them.


YOUNG MAN WITH HIGH-PITCHED VOICE (seeing him). Get out of here, asshole, or you’ll be sorry. Understand?

The hero doesn’t answer. It starts raining.

Rain. The hero is walking down the street. He passes the cafe where he’d been with the fluffy-haired girl.
More memories.

The hero’s jacket becomes wet and dark, as he stares closely, probably trying to figure out who his main opponent is, and whether he should interfere.


GIRL WITH SHORT HAIR (unexpectedly). What do you want? Who told you to come here? Who?

As if aroused by this cry, one of the punks throws himself at the hero. The hero dodges, and the attacker falls to the ground but jumps up right away like rubber. The others run up and a fight starts. But it’s more for show. A girl’s scream.
The train suddenly pulls in, and at that moment the punks manage to knock the hero to the ground. He doesn’t get up right away. One after another they run onto the train, laughing. The train leaves.
The hero gets up. He sees the girl with short hair.


HERO. Why did you stay behind?
GIRL. No reason. Got a smoke?
HERO. I quit.
GIRL. Oh.
HERO. Hmm... (Comes closer to her.) So, are you a violinist? No... A pianist?
GIRL What?
HERO. You study at the conservatory, right?
GIRL.. How do you know?
HERO. What’s your name?
GIRL. Ira. And yours?

It starts raining harder. They laugh and run under the awning.

Rain. The hero is walking down the street. He goes into a telephone booth.
The phone rings. Ira answers the phone.


HERO (in the booth). Hello?
IRA. Well, finally. I was beginning to worry. Where are you?
HERO. I’m right here. Listen, what are you up to today? Watching a video at home? Visiting your aunt?
IRA. You’re making fun of me, right? What’s going on with the apartment? Get to the point...
HERO. Irkin, everything is set. The place is ours. We can enter our dwelling in three hours.
IRA. Cool! Should we go look at it today?
HERO. What do you mean “look”? We’re moving in today, get it? Meet me in an hour at the usual place. Can you bring some canned meat with you?
IRA. But you don’t eat...
HERO. It’s not for me, it’s for the dog! OK, I’ll see you. (Hangs up.)

Ira laughs, still holding the receiver. Then she hangs up and begins hurriedly getting ready. She puts on a brightly colored jacket, then takes it off and puts on a black one instead.

The hero walking down the street. It stops raining.
He gets out a camera, takes a few pictures.
Then he runs out of film and sticks the camera into his jacket pocket.
The picture fades. The Beatles can be heard.
The hero with Ira in the apartment.
Ira looks around and immediately notices the plant, which is already winding along the wall.


IRA. What’s that?
HERO (off screen). Where are your cans? Toby’s dying to eat...

Toby runs into the picture. Now that he’s gotten younger owners, he looks younger.
Ira sits on the floor and plays with the dog.
Close up of a leaf from the plant. A flower slowly opening its bud.


HERO. What did you tell your folks?
IRA (off screen). Stop that, Toby... Shame on you... What did you say?
HERO. Did your folks make a fuss?
IRA. Think I care?
HERO. You don’t give a damn?
IRA. I wouldn’t go that far. You know what’s strange? My stepmother’s always nicer to me than my own father.

Toby sniffs the plant and sneezes a few times.

IRA. She’s half his age and he...
HERO (off screen). Listen, Irk, I’ve been meaning to ask you for a long time – how do you feel about sex?

Toby barks very loudly.
Ira laughs.


HERO. What are you laughing at? Because of the dog?

Ira’s laughter off screen.

HERO. Is this the first time you’ve ever heard this word?

Ira laughs uncontrollably.
Toby continues barking.
A close-up of the flower.
The hero feeds Toby, who greedily eats the canned meat, barking from time to time.


IRA (off-screen). Just today my stepmother said “don’t go out – let’s watch a new video instead...” She got another porno... She doesn’t have a very good time with my father.

The hero stares at the empty can.

IRA. She’s only eight years older than me...
HERO. And I’m eighteen years older than you.
IRA. How do I feel about sex? What do you care?

The hero reaches in his pocket for the camera to take a picture of the can. Then he remembers that he’s out of film.

IRA. I used to feel differently about it. When I first heard about group sex, my jaw dropped. I never would have thought of it! (Starts singing something softly.)

The hero looks at her.

IRA. What?
HERO. Nothing... I’m thinking about you.
IRA. And what are you thinking?

A pause.

HERO. Want a smoke?

The flower continues to open up.
Night. The hero, Toby, and Ira are sleeping on the couch.
One of the plant’s branches has wound around the lamp, and is hanging over the sleepers. Two flowers are close to their faces. They start fidgeting, then suddenly calm down. The light changes.
The hero sits up and opens his eyes.
The hero’s eyes.
An open flower across from them. A long oily pistil. Something glitters on its end like a human eye.
Toby’s barking, from afar.

The hero is in “The White Cafe.” The Beatles can be heard. There are two men sitting with him at the tbl – one short with a beard, the other taller, clean-shaven, but with the habit of stroking his chin, since he used to have a beard.
The hero finishes his story. The music constantly drowns him out. The hero wants to smoke. He pats his pockets, but he’s out of matches. His companions do the same. They don’t have matches either.


HERO. In a word, if it weren’t for the dog, I wouldn’t be sitting with you right now. I wouldn’t have woken up.

His companions smile skeptically.

HERO. You don’t believe me? By the way, Irka wasn’t able to come with me. I took her out to the street and put her on a bench.

The clean-shaven man seems ready to believe him.

BEARDED MAN. You overdid the joints yesterday, man.

The hero jumps up.

CLEAN-SHAVEN MAN (off-screen). Don’t be so touchy!

Suddenly a loud barking can be heard.

HERO. What’s that?
CLEAN-SHAVEN MAN. You know, a whole pack of wild dogs has appeared out of nowhere. They’ve been hanging around downtown for two days now, and nobody is doing anything about it...
BEARDED MAN. What should they do, shoot the dogs? They’ll do it, just wait...
HERO. So you don’t believe me?

The barking fades.

BEARDED MAN. Are you going to see the Smoky Show tonight?
HERO (mechanically). Where?

Camera freezes on the fluffy-haired girl from behind.

BEARDED MAN (off-screen). At the university...

The hero takes some change out of his pocket and counts it.

CLEAN-SHAVEN MAN. I got it, man. (He tries to pay for the coffee, but he doesn’t have enough money either, so the hero adds all his change, which leaves him penniless.)

The hero walks along the windy street towards the “house with chimeras.” He stops and looks at the chimeras.
The mug of one of the chimeras. Poetry can be heard:


... he who makes his peace with the stupid world
and doesn’t join its frenzied dances...
... he who doesn’t change his essence
into a barren herbarium with Latin names...
...he who discards his ego like a suit,
which has gone out of style...

The clean-shaven and bearded men, arguing, catch up with the hero.

CLEAN-SHAVEN MAN Did you read “From the Economist’s Point of View” in the fourth issue?

The bearded man makes an obscene gesture.

CLEAN-SHAVEN MAN. You’re wrong. It’s a great article.

They walk past the hero without noticing him.
The hero doesn’t notice them either. He’s looking at the silent chimera.
The pictures fades. The Beatles can be heard.

The beach.
Wind, big waves.
A human body lying alone.
The camera moves closer.
The man moves and changes position – he is alive.
We see his face – it is the hero. He is sunburned with a scar on his cheek.
Nothing but waves.
The hero turns on his side.
The beach. Two distant figures.
The hero watches them.
The figures approach slowly.
The hero dozes, raising his head from time to time to look at them.
They come closer. We can already see that they are young men in swimsuits, carrying something, holding it from both sides.
The hero’s expression slowly changes from indifference to interest. He is not sleepy anymore. He stretches and tries to get up, but cannot. A close-up of his taut shoulder, sweaty skin, and his wrist in the sand.
He cannot get up. The nightmare is real.
The young men in swimsuits approach. They’re lugging a huge iron urn. We can recognize them now. They are two of the punks the hero fought with. Their faces are painted, and their eyes cannot be seen.
A close-up of his eyes, full of horror and rage. He tries to get up again.
The punks are very near.


A PUNK (dragging out his words). Now, asshole, we’re going to kill you slowly...

They raise the urn over the hero’s head and lower it.
The urn in the air.
They lower and raise it again.
The hero’s body, with a bloody pulp where the head should be. The camera freezes.
The hero’s face again.
The punks turn out not to be punks, but ordinary young people carrying a double bass in a case, which only looked like an urn from afar. They come closer and walk past the hero without looking at him.
The hero gets up halfway and watches them pass by. He easily takes his hands from the sand.
There is no scar on his face.
The clean-shaven man approaches the hero.
The hero gets up quickly and leaves.
The clean-shaven man follows him with his eyes. They look identical: black swimsuits, and cameras dangling around their necks.
The hero walks along the beach. He bumps into a sand castle.
He stares at it.
Close-up of the castle. It’s a real work of art: in the center there is a multi-storied ziggurat tower crowned with a spire and a flag made out of a candy wrapper. It is surrounded by three rings of crenellated walls, towers of various heights, bastions, bridges, buttresses, underground passageways, wells, steps...
The hero aims his camera at the castle.
The camera doesn’t work.
The hero tries over and over again, unsuccessfully.
He kicks the castle in irritation. Several towers and part of the walls fall down. The flag on the central tower tilts. The hero kicks it again.
The clean-shaven man hurriedly points his camera at him.
The camera freezes: the hero’s foot destroying the walls of the sand castle.
The camera moves away. Two boys watching the destruction of their work enter into the picture. One of them is eight years old, the other a bit older.


HERO (seeing them). Er... Boys... I’m sorry. (From this moment on he almost always speaks Ukrainian, but sometimes switches to Russian or Polish).

The boys silently look at him.

HERO (squatting). Just a second...

He begins to rebuild the castle, replacing the destroyed towers.
The boys continue to watch him silently. Then they walk pretty far away and begin to build a new castle.
The hero follows them with his eyes.
He kicks the nearly rebuilt castle with all his strength.
Then he jumps away with a shriek, grabbing his foot.
Close-up of his bloody foot and the destroyed castle.
The frame of the castle is visible: stones, metal, glass shards, etc.
The clean-shaven man runs up. The hero brushing him off limps towards the water and washes his foot.


CLEAN-SHAVEN MAN (suddenly starting to read Voznesensky out of nowhere).

Timidly, as you step into the ocean,
Could I, a cynic and clown, really know
That love is a great dread?
Ave, Oza!
You, microbes, people, trains,
I beg you: be careful with it!

Blood in the water.
The roar of a train.
The picture fades.
The hero rides into the city, holding onto a freight car.
A gray morning, still half-dark.
The cars are carrying cattle. The train heads towards a slaughterhouse.
The hero jumps off, waves after the train, and starts walking. The train keeps moving away.
The hero walks normally, with his hands in his pockets.
He meets the clean-shaven man. Greetings, laughter. They walk together.


HERO. ...did you start a new one?
CLEAN-SHAVEN MAN. Yeah... I’m working on an article... the same kind of thing... archetypes, myphologemes...
HERO. Parallels and meridians... What is it about?
CLEAN-SHAVEN MAN. Immortality.
HERO. Not bad. How’s it coming?
CLEAN-SHAVEN MAN. Hard to say... So far I’ve only chosen the epigraphs.

The hero snorts.

CLEAN-SHAVEN MAN. But they are really great! The first is from Pushkin: “There is no death in this world, but there is peace and freedom.” The second is from Akhmatova: “Everyone knows there is no death. It’s become trite to repeat it.” The third is from Tarkovsky: “I’m one of those who pull out the nets when a huge school of immortality comes.” And the fourth...
HERO. Wait, how many of these will there be?
CLEAN-SHAVEN MAN. Just four... The fourth is from Tutuola, from “Journey to the City of the Dead”: “He who defies death is immortal, and he who is the devil of death is a mortal devil.”
HERO. What?
CLEAN-SHAVEN MAN. Read it yourself. (Writes it on a pad, and gives it to the hero.)

In capital letters: “HE WHO DEFIES DEATH IS IMMORTAL, AND HE WHO IS THE DEVIL OF DEATH IS A MORTAL DEVIL".

HERO. Cool!... But I think in Pushkin it’s “there is no happiness,” not “there is no death.”
CLEAN-SHAVEN MAN (thinking it over). Yes, I think you’re right.
HERO. And anyway, you should have quoted from the Tibetan Book of the Dead...

The train enters the slaughterhouse gates.
The cattle are let out of the cars.
The picture fades. The Beatles can be heard.
A few people, including the hero, the clean-shaven man, the bearded man, and someone else that we’ve already seen, walk from the “white coffee shop” along a low passageway to a strange room. It could be an antique warehouse or a costume storage.
There are costume of various periods and corresponding stage props.
They all wander around, choosing costumes for themselves.
Poetry can be heard:


... a black rider on a white horse
dressed in shining armor
Plunges all the way
Into the rapid stream of a river at night
That gives off a milky smoke.

The bearded man puts on a hooded maroon cape.
The clean-shaven man dresses up in a coat of mail, attaching a dagger to his belt.
The hero puts a wide, crimson sash around his waist, sticks four flint pistols behind it, hangs a club on his wrist.
The poem continues:


When the moon flashed through the mist
Like melded silver and mercury
It noticed how on the other shore
The horse splashed out from the black river

Everyone goes back into the passageway again.

...but without the rider...

But they are now not in the coffee shop but in a huge hall.
Purple curtains, purple upholstered theater chairs.
The hall is hardly one third full.
They are greeted with weak applause. They sit down in the first row.
A poem is heard:


The urban magic of the street,
Forgotten corners, muttering
The odor of decay so sweet
And coal-furred tomcats glittering...

A woman in black seen from behind is reading.
Faces in the audience. Hardly anyone pays attention. Her voice continues off-screen.


Eternal March – magicians full of song
Summon novices into their clan,
And drunken sibyls gaze and stare so long
Into the oily eyes of every man.

The audience starts whispering and laughing. The women abruptly stops reading and sits down.
Close-up of a sort of billboard on the wall. It’s a questionnaire: “WHICH AVANTGARDISTS DO YOU LIKE MOST AND WHY?”
The clean-shaven man abruptly gets up, with his dagger jingling. He faces the audience. He sticks his hands casually into his jeans pockets, but the coat of mail gets in the way.
He announces challengingly: “Hermaphrodite!”
There is noise and laughter in the audience. It’s impossible for the clean-shaven man to read. He opens his mouth, but not a word can be heard. The hero jumps up and stands next to him. He has pistols in his hands, aimed at the audience. The expression on his face leaves no doubt as to his intent. It becomes deathly silent.


HERO (to the clean-shaven man). Go ahead!
CLEAN-SHAVEN MAN (softly).

The lover of musical instruments,
Sentenced to singing,
About twenty times
He hides behind the deathly nickname “mentor,”
Split in two, he lectures on undressing...

His voice grows stronger.

Half-dressed, the water is frozen
in cascades and terraces...
What a shame!
Freezing, I will touch the mirror:
To drink.
To enter it up to my chest.
To become one with it...

The light dims.
In the dark, they grope for an exit (fortunately it’s nearby), open the heavy door and go out into the street.
Their first reaction is embarrassment of their carnival costumes, and the second is astonishment, almost stupefaction. They are in a medieval city.
A rider dressed accordingly passes unhurriedly by them. The clean-shaven man, staring at him closely, makes a movement that seems threatening to the rider, and makes him pull out his sword. He strikes the clean-shaven man’s shoulder from above.
The sword strikes against the coat of mail.
There’s nothing they can do. The rider prepares to strike again, this time from the side.
The sword comes down in slow motion,
The steel plunges into the neck.
The fallen headless body, blood.
A gathering crowd, a policeman running up. A completely contemporary street.
The bearded man slowly takes off his cape. The red-haired girl comes up to him and hugs him, hiding her face in his shoulder.
The hero looks at the murdered man, then for some reason at his watch.
The watch has stopped.
The picture fades.

The hero is on Andreev Hill, gathering the pictures he had been selling. An artist who was next to him says: “Listen, I have a place.” (He speaks a Russian-Ukrainian dialect with a lot of slang. The hero answers in Polish.)


HERO. Where?
ARTIST. I’ll give you the address. But you know, it’s kind of unclean... They’re bloodsuckers.
HERO. Who?
ARTIST. Vampires.
HERO (lightheartedly). Oh, that’s fine! Give me the address! (Takes out a felt-tip pen and tries to write it down, but the pen doesn’t work, and he throws it away.)
ARTIST. Lemme write it for you... (He writes on a scrap of paper and gives it to the hero.) Just be careful over there!
HERO. Don’t worry. I’ve seen them all... convicts, fags, vampires... See you! Toby, come here! (The dog, who has been running around nearby, runs up to him.) Let’s go! (Slings the folder with his pictures over his shoulder.)

They wander around the city. Toby jumps around the hero.

HERO (humming to himself).

I escaped the hippies
I escaped the punks
I escaped the artists,
And I escaped the filmies,
I escaped the rockers,
I escaped the druggies,
Escaped, schmescaped,
And wound up with the vampires!
I’m a merry singing goose,
I’m not afraid if vampires are loose!

Toby joyously yelps, jumping around. They go upstairs.
Documentary shots of the slaughterhouse.
The hero checks the note and presses the doorbell.
More shots of the slaughterhouse. The camera pauses on the “butcher.”
The hero rings the bell again.
The door slowly opens. No one is there.
The hero and Toby enter a dark hall.
The door closes behind them, and another door ahead of them opens.
They enter a room.
The interior is strange, to put it mildly. The walls are bare, and a huge bronze-colored crucifix made of wood, almost as big as a person, hangs upside down on one of them.
An improvised coat rack is on the opposite wall: it is made of a piece of a wooden statue аttached to the wall and studded with nails of various sizes.
There is a new pair of designer black corduroy overalls on one of the nails, and canvas coats on other nails.
Parts of a metal bed, dirty socks, old newspapers, crusts of bread, bottles, broken musical instruments, and other such junk lie in the corner.
A bare lamp on a cord hangs from the ceiling. A black bra is attached to it.
Toby, growling softly, sniffs at the junk and rolls a human skull at the hero’s feet.


HERO. Quiet, Toby! I’m right here... (Bends down and picks up the skull.)

Close-up of the skull. It’s a papier-mâché cast.
The hero turns around sharply.
A man of indeterminate age with short hair, wearing a canvas coat, stands behind him.
Toby growls.


HERO. Quiet, Toby!.. Hello...

The man in the canvas coat does not answer, but just stares.

HERO. I was told that I could move in here... Is that right?

The man in the canvas coat pauses, then nods.

HERO (rests the folder with his pictures against the wall). I’ll leave this here, OK? I’ll come back in the evening...

At that moment a woman of about thirty enters through another door. She’s obviously just coming out of the shower, since she’s completely naked and wet. She is drying herself with a yellow, not very clean terrycloth towel as she walks. She also has short hair.
The hero feels uncomfortbl, not because of her nakedness, but because of his own long, disheveled hair. He mechanically smoothes it. Toby suddenly yelps, and then immediately falls silent as if he were choking. He lies down at the hero’s feet.
A tram stop. A man comes out. He is the “butcher” from the slaughterhouse. He walks toward the house and goes in.
The apartment again.


HERO. OK, I’m off....

No one answers him.

HERO. Hmm... And can I see where I’ll sleep?
WOMAN (having dried off, takes the overalls from the nail). In the kitchen... (Puts the overalls directly onto her naked body.) With me... (She exits through the same door she had entered before.)
HERO (after a pause). Well... See you tonight... Let’s go, Toby!
MAN IN CANVAS COAT (speaks for the first time). Leave the dog here. He’ll be fine.
HERO. He won’t stay here without me.
MAN IN CANVAS COAT. Yes he will.

Toby slumbers, with his head on his front paws.

HERO. Well... all right... See you tonight, Toby.

Toby wags his tail.
The hero exits the apartment and runs downstairs. The “butcher” comes upstairs towards him.
The “butcher” rings the same bell.
The door opens.


MAN IN CANVAS COAT (to the “butcher”). We don’t need any meat today, thank you.

The hero walks down the street, eating something from a paper bag. A distant barking can be heard.
The hero throws the empty bag into a garbage pail.
Cries of “Dynamo – champions!”
A crowd of fans, moving backwards, comes into the picture and passes by the hero.
The hero jumps away from them and runs into an indoor market. He looks around. He is in the flower aisle.
The hero touches a freshly blooming rose, and right then a scary old woman with garden scissors in her hands crashes into him. She cries out something indistinct, clearly with the intention of castrating him. He runs away, laughing but also a bit frightened.
He goes into the subway.
He is on the escalator. The usual rush hour crowd is all around him.
Suddenly a naked body flashes in the crowd.
The hero rubs his eyes. The vision is still there.
Someone’s face turns to him from the next escalator. The hero opens his mouth in astonishment: the man is the spitting image of Lenin.
Another Lenin appears next to him, and then another and another...
Soon half of the escalator is full of Lenins.
All kinds of monsters – two-headed mutants, lepers, people with dog heads, and so on – appear before him.
The hero shakes his head.
The hallucination disappears, but not completely.
Somewhere far down, a naked woman that no one except the hero pays attention to can still be seen. The hero turns around and runs up the down escalator.

Ira’s apartment. Ira and her stepmother are watching a video of a horror film. A man resembling the hero walks upstairs on the screen.

The hero walks upstairs.
He stops in front of the door to the vampires’ apartment.
After a minute, he rings the bell.
The door opens.
He walks down the hall.
Another door opens in front of him. He walks in and finds himself in a cozy kitchen. People dressed in canvas are sitting at the kitchen tbl. The woman in black overalls is at the head of the tbl. There are eleven people.
Candles are burning, and an enormous meat dish garnished with greens and all kinds of spices is in the center of the tbl.
One stool is empty. The hero is invited to sit in it. He sits down and without ceremony reaches into the dish with his hand. Everyone follows his example.
They eat for a long time, with gusto, licking their fingers and sucking on the bones.


HERO (loosening his belt and taking a few bones). These are for my dog. Any objctions?

A pause.

MAN IN CANVAS COAT (he is the youngest here). No, we have no objctions, but you have no dog either.
HERO. What?
MAN IN CANVAS COAT (bends over, picks up Toby’s head from under the tbl, and places it on the empty dish.) We just ate your dog. (Gets up.) And tomorrow we’ll eat you... (Leaves.)

The rest leave after him. The woman and the hero remain sitting at opposite ends of the tbl.

HERO (looking at Toby’s glassy eyes.) How can this be, old boy...

The woman gets up and slowly walks over to him.
The hero backs up against the wall.


WOMAN. You know... (A long pause.) You know, witches die in torments.

An even longer pause.

HERO. Everyone dies in torments.

A pause.

WOMAN. You’d better leave... While you still can... (Puts her hands on the hero’s shoulders.)

The hero looks at her.

WOMAN. You just don’t want to live?

A pause.
The hero embraces her.
The picture fades.
A poem can be heard.


Snow again – an endless white screen.
Another crowd scene from a thousand cawing negatives.
This is my friend shooting a film about the burial of Autumn...

The bearded man and the red-haired girl are standing at a tram stop. He reads a poem to her.

Snow again and new janitors sprinkle roads with clinging sand.
And it seems that one of them – the one with a black mustache –
Broke the enormous hourglass
And gives out the wealth of his eternity...

The street is empty, but suddenly two men run up. The bearded man manages to read a little more before he is interrupted by their cries.

The snow has melted...
The women’s eyes sparkle strangely
The women’s eyes sparkle scarily
And all the dampness of the departing winter
Seems to be accumulating in them...

FIRST MAN (in a high voice). Help! He attacked me! He stole my bag! Help!
SECOND MAN (catching up and kicking him). Don’t listen to him! He’s a fag! (Another kick.)

At this moment, a tram pulls up.
The bearded man and the girl jump in, followed by the one who was being attacked (the attacker remains outside).
The first man sits across from the bearded man and the girl and looks them straight in the eye.
Close-up of his face and eyes.
He looks as much like the devil as a person can.
The bearded man’s face.


“DEVIL” (in a shrill voice). Damn you! Damn you!

The girl’s eyes widen with horror.

BEARDED MAN. Get out of here!
“DEVIL”. Damn you!!

Music of the Beatles can be heard.
The hero walks along the street. He stops from time to time and rests against the wall. Then he starts walking again, swaying a bit, clearly on automatic pilot. He stops by a long staircase and leans against the banister.
Someone is going up the staircase from below.
It’s the clean-shaven man. He carries his head in his hands.
He is wearing an old pair of jeans and a coat of mails, all covered in dried blood.
The hero turns around and starts running.
He runs along the street into an alley, then through a courtyard, then along the street again.

The bearded man walks along the street, comes up to a hair salon and sees that it’s closed.
In a few blocks there is another hair salon. It’s also closed.
A lighted clock on a tower. A date and day of the week: Sunday.
The bearded man sits down on the bench, stretching his legs.
A beautiful woman with fluffy hair passes by.
The bearded man follows her with his gaze.
The woman sneers in reaction, crosses the street, and passes through a door with an indistinct sign above it.
The sign gets bigger: “HAIR SALON.”
The bearded man jumps up and runs across the street.
He goes through the door.
A dark hallway, a light ahead. He walks down the hall, turns. There is a door in front of him. He goes in.
A big, bright room. Women sit under hairdryers. A young man in a white smock, obviously a hairdresser.


BEARDED MAN. Uh... can I get a haircut?

The hairdresser looks up. He is the “devil.”

HAIRDRESSER (smiling ominously). Of course! Please sit down! I’ll be with you in a minute.

The bearded man turns around and leaves without saying a word. He runs down the hall.
Then he runs down the street for a long time, making turns. He goes into a park and sinks onto a bench, exhausted.
Someone is already sitting on the bench.
The bearded man looks up.
It is the “devil.”

The hero switches from a run to a walk. He finds himself in the courtyard again. He leans against a black door with white letters across it: “POCKET THEATER.”
The hero pulls the door. It does not open.
Then he pushes it and almost falls inside.
A distant sound of barking.
The hero is in a half-dark basement.
The Beatles can be heard. There is a show going on, obviously a big performance involving the audience. Many of them are dressed in plastic and other costumes.
Everyone looks at the hero.
A nervous cry: “He’s here!”
Several people grab the hero and point at a girl who is being held by four men in the center of the auditorium. They explain to him with signs and indistinct muttering that if he agrees, he can be sacrificed instead of the girl.
The girl has the same fluffy blond hair as the one the hero was with at the very beginning, but her face is painted black and white, so that she is unrecognizable.
The hero hesitates.
Laughter.
They let him and the girl go. The girl disappears into the crowd.
A fluffy blond wig falls at the hero’s feet.
The hero picks it up, turns it over in his hands, and puts it on his head.
The crowd cries: “Light!”
Right away candles, burning newspapers, etc. appear in everyone’s hands. The hero takes out a lighter and flicks it a few times, but it doesn’t light.
He throws the lighter away.
Someone rips the wig from his head, and sets it on fire.
Close-up: a hand holding the burning wig. There is a tattoo on the hand. Only the first word of it can be made out: “Beauty..” The smoke envelops everything. A red sign start to flicker through the smoke: “No smoking!”
A bucket of water splashed down from somewhere above puts out all the lights.
The hero, all wet and coughing from the smoke, finds his way in the darkness from the basement to the street.
In the daylight he sees that his palms are painted red.
The barking can be heard again.
A ringing of bells behind him. The hero turns and sees that the door is slowly closing.
He rushes towards it, pushes and pulls, but it doesn’t open.
There is no sign on the door, and the door itself is barred with boards.
The hero shivers as if he were cold.
Something in between rain and snow starts to fall.
The camera freezes on the chimera’s face.
The hero walking down the street. He is dressed just as lightly, in jeans overalls, in contrast to the other passersby, who are warmly dressed.
Wet, melting snow.
The hero’s hair is braided, his face is covered with stubble, and a dried flower is pinned to his collar.
The hero stops to rest. He stares at the empty space of the wall.
He digs around in his pockets and takes out colored pieces of chalk.
He writes “Beauty will save the world” in Ukrainian, Polish, English, and Russian in big letters on the wall. He steps back to admire it.
Then he suddenly starts to cross out the words and wipe them away.
A man in a sheepskin coat comes up to him and claps him on the shoulder. He is wearing gloves and holding an attaché case.
The hero looks at him.


MAN IN SHEEPSKIN COAT. Don’t you recognize me?

The hero clearly doesn’t, but mumbles something you could interpret either way.

MAN IN SHEEPSKIN COAT. Are you going today?

The hero nods without asking where and what for.

MAN IN SHEEPSKIN COAT. All right! Let’s go together. But first we should get some more booze. (He opens his attaché case and shows the hero several bottles.)

A completely plucked rooster jumps out of the attaché case. All he has left are two bright feathers on his tail. He runs down the street.

HERO. Oh, the chaser’s run away!
ROOSTER (stops, turns to him, and says proudly). I’m not your chaser. I’m a man, according to Plato!

The hero shakes his head in bewilderment.
The rooster is gone.
A long bright feather is lying on the road.
The hero bends over, picks it up, and sticks it in his hair.
He is walking with the man in the sheepskin coat.
They are standing on line in the wine department.
The man in the sheepskin coat removes a glove and takes money out of his wallet.
A tattoo on his wrist says: “Beauty will save the world.”
Other acquaintances they met on the street join them.
Loaded down with bottles and packages, having had a drink on the way, they stumble into an entrance way. They wait by the elevator for a long time and finally climb up the stairs, ring the doorbell, and knock.
They are let in.
The interior of a nice apartment.
Half-darkness, candles. The party has obviously already been going on for a long time.
A blond girl in evening dress is at the head of the tbl. The same as before. The hero suddenly realizes that everything here reminds him of the cafe.
The man takes off his sheepskin coat. He turns out to be the barman. Noise, greetings.
The hero goes to the tbl, pours himself something, and drinks it.
Music can be heard. The hero listens and recognizes the Beatles. He sneers and keeps drinking.
The girl doesn’t pay any attention to him.
The hero, swaying, goes out into the hall, leans against the wall and sinks to the floor.
Music.
The girl goes out into the hall.
She sees the hero lying there.
Biting her lips, she looks at him.
She goes into the other room, and quickly changes into jeans, a black sweater, and a warm jacket. She puts her hair into a ponytail.
Then she goes into the hall. She shakes the hero, picks him up by the shoulders, and drags him from the apartment.
The music gets louder behind them.
The hero wakes up. He is lying in half-darkness.
He raises his head.
Lights flash by from left and right. The same music can be heard, but it’s now quiet.


HERO. Where am I?
GIRL (off-screen). With me. Sleep, don’t worry.

The hero sits up with difficulty.
He is in the back seat of a car.
The girl turns back to him for a second from the front seat. She is driving. The car is rushing along the night road.


GIRL. So? You alive?
HERO. Yes, but not well... Where are you taking me?
GIRL. To Broken.
HERO. Where?
GIRL (off-screen). Bald Hills.
HERO. Aha. (Gazes for some time at the girl’s ponytail in the semidarkness of the car.) You know, I like this hairstyle best of all on you.
GIRL (not turning around). I know. I’ve heard.

A pause.
The hero turns around and sees lights from behind. He stares at them. It’s clear that they are being followed.

HERO. Someone’s following us.
GIRL. Of course.
HERO. Do you know who it is?
GIRL. Yes, and you know too. It’s death, as always.

A pause.

HERO. How could get behind the wheel when you’re not sober?
GIRL. You’re the one who isn’t sober. I don’t drink at all now. Not even champagne.
HERO. Really? Has it been for a long time?
GIRL. A year. No, almost two.
HERO. Is that how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other?

The girl doesn’t answer.
The hero looks around again. He doesn’t see any lights.


HERO. There... Now it’s dark behind us.
GIRL. Don’t worry. Death never stops...

Darkness outside.

GIRL (continues off-screen). …it only puts out the lights on its hat sometimes.
HERO. “Journey to Ixtlan”?
GIRL. “The Second Reality.”

They laugh.

HERO. Listen, turn around for a minute.
GIRL. Oh, that’s just what we need, an accident. (But she turns around anyway and then immediately turns back.)
HERO. You know, babe, you’re really pretty.
GIRL. Yes, I’ve been told. You yourself told me, about seven years ago.

A pause. The music ends.
A poem can be barely heard from far off.


I’ll meet a young girl, a young girl
Or a middle-aged one...

HERO. Is this... his car?
GIRL. Yes.

A pause.

HERO (hesitating). Listen, let me out.
GIRL. Listen, don’t bother me. Sleep. We have a long way to go.

The hero lies down and closes his eyes.
The interior of the slaughter house again. During these shots the same annoying line can be heard:


Or middle-aged one,
or a middle-aged one...

The interior of a luxurious dacha: a fireplace, rugs, bookshelves, a VCR, a touch-tone phone, a bar, etc.
The hero sits on the floor with a cup in his hand. He drinks coffee and quickly starts to sober up. The girl stands across from him. She’s also drinking coffee, without even taking off her jacket.


HERO. Is this his dacha?
GIRL (drinking). Mm-hmm...
HERO. Are you going now?
GIRL (finishes drinking and puts her cup on the windowsill). Of course. The food is there, in the fridge. There’s enough for about four days. Then I’ll bring some more. There’s paper, pencils, ink, chalk, felt-tip pens – you can work, if you want.
HERO. Thanks.
GIRL. You’re welcome. The shower’s there. (Shows.) There are skis in the closet, in case you want to get some exercise. Bye.
HERO. Bye.

The girl leaves. The noise of the engine.
The hero throws his cup into the corner. It falls on the soft rug and doesn’t break.
The hero lies on his back with his hands behind his head. After lying there for a bit, he turns onto his stomach. Then he pushes himself up on his hands and stands up. He goes to the shower, taking his clothes off on the way. He snorts and splashes in the shower.

The slaughterhouse.

The hero, wrapped in a yellow terrycloth towel, gets out of the shower. He picks up the cup that the girl left and carefully examines it like a work of art. He looks at the one that he threw in the corner. He puts it on the windowsill. Then he flops into an enormous armchair in front of the screen. He flicks the remote and watches television, pausing on one of the channels.
A man with long hair and a beard wearing boxers, standing in snow up to his ankles, raves about how the only way to renew your personality is through toughening with cold, and that this is exactly how humanity is destined to revitalize itself and build communism in the long run.
The hero reaches into the refrigerator and takes out a ring of smoked sausage, breaks off a piece, and chews on it without taking his eyes from the screen.

The slaughterhouse.

The telephone rings.
The hero, hesitating, picks up the phone.


GIRL (from her apartment). How’s everything there?
HERO (looking out the window). I’m fine, thanks.
GIRL. Hang in there. I’ll probably come over the day after tomorrow.
HERO (after a pause). With him?
GIRL. Sooner or later you’ll have to meet each other.

The hero is silent.

GIRL. That’s life, you know?
HERO. I know. It’s OK.
GIRL. All right then, bye. (Hangs up.)

The hero listens to the dial tone and then hangs up.
He glances at the TV screen again, takes off his towel and heads for the door.
He goes out onto the front lawn and starts walking in the snow. Then he lies down, rolls around in the snow, and rubs it on himself. He crawls into a snowdrift up to his neck, and then dives in headfirst.
The camera freezes on a bloody foot.

The girl at home. The door opens, and the “butcher” enters, dressed stylishly.
The camera freezes on the chimera. The Beatles can be heard faintly.

The hero crawls out of the snowdrift. He eats some snow. Then he goes up to the door, his body red all over, and tries to go in.
The door has slammed shut.
He pushes and pulls, but to no avail.
He rushes to a window and tries to break the glass.
He throws snowballs at the window like a child. Then he finds a stone and throws it.
Nothing happens.
For some time he stands there with his arms dangling.
Then he starts jumping and running around, trying to get warm.
He stops and sits in the snow.
He laughs.
A poem can be heard:


His eyes didn’t want it, were green with his effort,
They aimed for the veins of the vanishing trees where
The hair of the crucified’s caught in the crown.
He clings to the threshold so foolishly, firmly...

The camera moves away.
The hero sitting in the snow fades to a barely visible spot.
The Beatles can no longer be heard.
The hero can no longer be seen.
There is only snow on the VCR screen, in front of which Ira and her mother-in-law sit, both dressed in black.
This text can barely be heard:


...he managed to prove short hair’s virtue in flight
The scene was marked down by an ancient wise man
I even remember a writer who told it
A writer well-worn by my whole generation...

The screen is completely white.



следующая Joseph MILLS. ASHES AND DUST
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предыдущая Тарас ПРОХАСЬКО. [СНЫ СЕБАСТЬЯНА]






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