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The silence exploded with the chime of the alarm clock, she grabbed it by the coil and put it under the blanket where it snarled until she had found the stopper. Her entire quivering body ached from the shock.
It's four o'clock. At five o'clock she had to stand in line. She raises her arm to turn on the night lamp but lowers it again. Closes eyes. Don't fall asleep again, just relax for a minute, or two minutes. Sleep overtakes her again and demands its share. A coughing fit wakes her up, a sour tickling cough that she gets in the raw morning air when she's standing in a queue and freezing. It always comes in the morning. But then she wakes up. She curls up under the blanket for a moment and tenses her muscles to collect as much heat as possible to resist the cold in the room.
It is quickly done to finish dressing; she is a bit sloppy with the washing to get into her clothes. She puts on her knitted jacket and coat before turning off the light to air out before leaving. When she rolls up the blinds, darkness stands against the window, but the rooftops have a hint of daylight above them, the chimneys are anxiously outlined against a clear strip of spawning day. The streets are buried in darkness. She opens the window, and a pungent smell of street dust confronts her. September often has such a strange cold burning smell in the morning. She sniffs it in, coughs a little and tries again to fill her lungs. When she has adjusted to the darkness, she can make out the yellow brick building directly above, where a few days ago a lady threw herself from the fourth floor. An ordinary housewife. She gathers her coat tighter around her neck and leans her head heavily against the frame. Her hand fumbles uneasily at the collar of her coat, she has sweat on her forehead and has a bad, frozen taste in her mouth which is quite dry. She closes her eyes with a gasp of pain. It's like it hurts to breathe, she complains slowly. Far away, outside the city, the sound of a shot is heard, several shots. It sounds muffled and muffled, more like a groan in the wall. But her eyes open again with a startled expression, she retreats a little behind the curtain. She listens in the direction. The shots have stopped. But she thinks she senses the smell of gunpowder smoke. The heart works so hard, it flickers before the eyes with each heartbeat. She closes the window again with trembling hands, this strange smell lingering in her nostrils.
In the entrance hall, she stands without putting her hat on. A yellow raincoat and a gray hat are missing from the coat rack. Tonight again, tonight too. She curls her mouth imperceptibly. Her face inside the mirror is an old face, a face without joy, the eyes are withered. When Ajax comes home one day, he will find his mother aged, an old bitter wife he will find. If Ajax comes home more. If. If. She is looking for the horror in this "if". Wait, wait. Toiling and struggling and knowing nothing. Maybe he's dead. thoughts do nothing for her. She has experienced it too often. She seeks the agony in it, she twists her inner self to experience the cut in the soul. But the thought twists dryly in a place in her without catching, like an emptiness, a threadbare nothingness. This bitter emptiness is worse than the anxiety.
Slowly she puts her hat on. Blanket and mittens, she finds both and listens at the same time. Now first!
That's Ajax's step. His calm, carefree step approaching. She throws the mittens away and picks them up again. Now he is past the third floor. She takes off her hat again and flings it on the entrance table, her breath is wheezing through her nose, her mouth has become tight, and a small blush is under her eyes, giving them life with resentment. Now he puts the key in the lock -
He closes his eyes immediately.
"No, are you all up then, mum" he says with strained kindness.
She doesn't answer. Just staring darkly and resentfully. He hangs up his hat and begins to take off his raincoat. She breathes in cautiously, looking for the scent of alcohol, but only knows that she has a helpless cold. Feeling this strange smell again, as if of gunpowder smoke, it has somehow taken up space in herself, in her head, in her mouth, it gives her nervous chills in her skin.
"Now?" she asks harshly.
He just shrugs "It was late tonight again." he says with a careless attempt at a laugh. She lets out a small sneer. She feels bad for him. He is already heading for his little chamber behind the kitchen.
"Ajax!" It comes low, an absolute order. He hesitantly follows her into the living room. There he stands half in the doorway. "Was there something you wanted?" it comes in a stifled yawn. At a glance from his mother, he closes the door and sits down, unwillingly, his face wearing a defiant indifference that makes it ugly. The mother takes a few steps on the floor with her hands intertwined, the silence is full of unspoken words that make it difficult to breathe. The void spreads relentlessly between them.
"You can hang in there. I'm so damn tired." It comes from the son.
"So, so" now come the words. The bitterness, months of accumulated resentment. She has a vague idea that she should be silent, right now she should be silent. The words come now, will chase him miles from her, now she is faced with doing wrong a thousand times worse. She can't stop, her voice gradually reaches a pitch she can't master, it's broken every now and then by small violent coughing fits, it cuts her own nerves.
"Tired! You're tired! Yes, of course you're tired, ha, ha. Me then! You don't think I'm tired? I only work sixteen hours a day. Only sixteen hours. Standing in line until my body aches like fire, it's nothing to be tired of. I've got to take care of everything. I've got to keep clothes worth hauling on the sea in order, I've got to wash them myself and take care of the early morning and provide fuel and-" She curls up in cough.
"While you sleep through the day. To be ready for your nightly angling. You certainly couldn't collect the fine you eat yourself if I begged you for it. I certainly won't beg you! because you must not yet believe that it is which is worst for me - that you are a day-rich, that you have disappointed me, that I am toiling to death."
Ajax sits hunched forward, his jaws are tight, his face is crooked and alien. He is silent. He rolls a cigarette with slightly trembling fingers. The mother has stopped her wandering at the window where she begins to pull up the blinds. Her neck is gray and gaunt under her overly short hair. She breaks the absorbing silence with a slower voice,
"It's War, Ajax"
"I damn well know that." he starts up "But then you have to remember that the light must be turned off before you roll up the blinds. He turns it off with quick, sharp movements. The mother coughs badly, he strokes his forehead quickly and sits down again. Now she starts again, now she starts again -
"Yeah. So, you knew. I thought you'd forgotten about it. You have so much else to think about."
There was silence for a short moment. He takes a heavy drag from his cigarette.
"Are you done soon?"
"No! I'm not finished, my friend. You may think I won't be finished so easily. I should like to know where you keep her, at night. But it's all the same. What torments me, torments me, makes me ashamed to death, it's this - this - oh. That you're one of them. The vermin. The ones who dance. The ones who dance and drink and flirt and enjoy themselves. Now, in a time like -." She gasps for breath, she feels this bitter taste on her palate, like the smell of gunpowder smoke. It sits foggy in the mind and senses, like a dream one can neither properly remember nor properly get rid of.
“It doesn't mean anything that you can't afford this at all” she says after a while. “It’s completely indifferent to me that you waste your life away and nothing is, and nothing becomes. But it pains me that I have an adult son who walks around this country today and does not know that there is a war! You –”
“Ouch, now stop it. Of course, I know it's war. But what the hell do you want me to do. I can't stop the war.”
“Stop the war! Stop it!” Her voice has turned up in pitch again, she has flaming red spots on her neck. “No, you - you, you can't stop the war. You who dance, you who dance! Oh god no, you're not stopping the war, you guys. Those of you who only care about pleasure -”
“Now what the hell do you know about that. Now stop it!” He has stood up, his eyes are red-rimmed and alert, he is breathing through his teeth. “You won't stop the war by tormenting my life, anyway, stay away from me!”
“No don't go, don’t go! You must not go.” Her voice is like a cry of distress. “Just tell me” she begs, “just tell me – where are you to her. What kind of girls –”
"None of your business!" he snarls.
"Oh God! Oh God." Now she cries a little.
"Excuse me, mother. You see, I'm far too tired for any kind of cross-examination. We're both tired, I guess." He wipes the sweat from his forehead, there are blood vessels on the skin under the eyes which the light eyelashes make white. "Could you just mind your own business. Rather try to understand me, and not bother."
"Bother -"
"Yes bother! You trouble me, even if you don't say a word! You talk about war—yes, that's the damn thing. It's war. It's more damn to me than you understand. And you must let me be alone too for fucks sake, you understand, you understand! You mustn't tie me down, you mustn't try to tyrannize me into staying at home, I must be allowed to be myself, and you mustn't meddle in my affairs." He has turned against the wall with his back to her, he breathes deeply with his whole body and lifts his head, his breath quivering.
"Don't you understand," says he, "that a little—a little fun. A little forgetfulness. Something—something I must have that is young. I—um. One is not young more than once."
His voice is uncertain, he moves and avoids her. The twilight that stood against the route has grayed in weakness, outside the trams have started to run, the bare fire wall that juts into the sky in the cross street has taken on a hazy pink tinge from the morning sky. Cars clatter in the streets. The mother strokes a tuft of hair from her temple. The voice is gentle now, but ready for steep transitions. "Dear you," she says, "Dear you. Why can't you get a proper job then. These weekly newspaper printers of yours - it's just nonsense. You should have a steady job; you like everyone else. It's enough to spend your youth too." She coughs a little again, and her voice takes on a harsher sound. "The youth - the Snezhnaya youth today. It does not dance. There is no time for dancing. The Snezhnaya youth you, it fights in exile, it bleeds and struggles and lives in the midst of the wildest seriousness. Fun you! - Fun thing! - Do you think Anthon is having fun? Do you think Anthon dances!"
"Stop nagging." he says as if in agony, he turns with a jerk. "I don’t know fucks about if Anthon dances, it'll be his business, you hear, his business! And now you keep quiet, yes, now I want to ask you to keep quiet for once. I have to sleep; you can then damn it let me have sleep…”
"Yes, you are beautiful! You are a proud Snezhnayan! – yes you slept, you slept, only you slept! Sleep till doomsday if you want, I despise you! Yes, I despise you! And do you know what I wanted, yes know you what I would rather have endured! Yes for now you shall know it - I would have preferred you to be fatui and that you went to the Northern Front and fought for something you believed in, because I will tell you that those who volunteer and fight for the Fatui, they believe in something they, and fight for something they, and if we hate them and are enemies with them, then it is also something they sacrifice, besides they risk their lives, because they have human dignity, that if there's substance in them, I'll tell you, after all, how crazy they are, they're better than those who dance, no but God, Ajax, I didn't mean that, oh God I didn't mean that—don't go, no, you'd better go in and sleep, I won't bother you, don't look at me so badly, Ajax..."
"You didn't mean it. I know you didn't mean it." He came all the way to her, pushed her up to the window.
"I'm sure you like me. But you should have shut up, you know. You should have shut up."
"No, let me go – you're intolerable to me!"
He stands and shakes his clenched hands down his side, his voice jumps. Cigarette paper lies on the dry lips, the teeth are yellow. In the eyes there is a white gleam, the forehead is deep red. He groans at once, "no mother! Then don't cry – oh my God, don't mind me." He follows her awkwardly, but with a straight arm, the distance is too great. Words are dangerous. "Mother. Mother! Oh, we've gone too far. Listen, mother, don't you see that my nerves are all over the place!"
"No, not nervous, I'm not nervous as hell, but... we're both nervous. Everyone is. We talk too much. That's what you see, we—we have to shut up. If this is going to go well, you've got to learn to shut up. I can't talk to you." He stretched dejectedly, his features sort of falling apart and dissolving into a red vapor. "If only, only we could have talked!"
He cracked his voice like a man driven to the limit. His nerves live in the air about them.
The mother stands and blows her nose slowly, with small sighs. She is strong now, but it is as if the words' own vein has burst in her, it still flows a little.
There is all this rattling—
Without a word, he turns his back on her. He grabs the door to go inside himself but stops at her breathless "hiss"! She listens tensely towards the window.
Through the morning's rising noise of trams, carriages, bicycles and footsteps, a muffled snarl is heard, it sinks like a siren and is left purring impatiently a little further up the street, where a small gray car has stopped.
"Ajax, you know I think it's a harbinger car! Up there by the paper shop. Come here and see."
Ajax remains motionless in the half-open door.
"Yeah, you know, now they go out. There's one with a weird mask and blue hair and another one with glasses and a gun, no, two of them you! Ugh, I think it's creepy me. They go looking for a house. Maybe there's someone they're going to catch up with now. Oh no come here and see, they're coming over here. They're looking at the numbers."
She hadn't heard him coming, but now she feels him behind her, he's leaning over her quite lightly, his muscles quivering. But she cannot notice that he is breathing.
"Ajax! Oh my God. It looks like this is where they're going. Someone in the house thinks! Oh, no its scary. You know, it's just like I smell gunpowder smoke. Is it really just imagination? I think I've known it all day. What do you think they're talking about. I'm so nervous to see if there's anyone in the house. Oh no, but look, they've got a key to our front door! No, this is really awful. Imagine if it's Yehorova down on the second floor. Oh poor Mrs. Yehorova. Ajax, is it really true that they torture people? Do you think it's really true?"
He has retreated into the shadow of the frame, she sees nothing but the white gleam of his eyes, and the answer works its way in a whisper, convulsive and rough.
"It is—really true. They torture…"
They both hold their breath when the front door slams in. A rhythmic drumming of iron-shod steps far down the stairs reaches them with its echo. She hears her own pulse beating. - The footsteps stop on the second floor.
"Oh God." she whispers and folds her hands under her chin. But what is this, now the steps are chopping again, a heavy clinking chorus of iron steps, they continue, they come closer. Third floor. The Misses Chlemowska? Well, no, they still continue, they hear the echo in the hallway's brick walls. Stronger. She turned to Ajax who had slipped out of his shadow. The gusty daylight from the window falls on him like a ghost. He has opened his mouth, it looks like a hole in his gray face, it is as if his features have been completely erased. Now they're right outside here, they're standing and subbing a bit and stomping, are they going to move on, she wants to grab Ajax and hold on to him. He slips away from her as if he wants to escape, he ducks and stands as if frozen while the sweat beads on his upper lip. He has grasped the back of a chair; he is grinding his teeth...
The two in the living room hold their breath. Their eyes locked into each other in a silent fire.
The ring line goes like a scream through the apartment.
The two in the living room do not move, do not breathe.
It rings again, rings persistently, the clock murmurs through the silence.
As in a bad dream, everything that happens in those seconds flickers through her. She senses Ajax's hand, it has her grip in a fast, hot hold, it is clammy. Then there is no more. He closes the door behind him without looking back. His hand is still on her skin, she feels it like a sick wave of blood through her. The door is closed. Then there is no more.
She is alone. She stands as if nailed in the same position, it tingles numbly in her skin. All the blood has left the face.
The clock is screeching. She puts her icy hands on her chin and cheeks and closes her eyes, her mouth is pulled into a grin of pain, she slowly regrets it.
Then there is a muffled bang from a shot in the apartment, a heavy sigh in the floor and walls.
Afterwards it is quiet. Grave silence while the entrance bell rings, because nothing in the world is quieter than the silence after a gunshot.
She doesn't move. She stands there and is dead. She tastes blood in her mouth. The fire wall across the street is colored completely red by the morning sun. A pale sheen of its blush settles across her neck, delineating a bit of the steep slope of her skull beneath her pubic hair.
Now they start pounding on the door.
Then she straightens up, she moves bravely and does not feel the ground under her feet.
It's been a few seconds, maybe. Timeless moments, they stand and tremble alone in eternity. And the words, which still live in the room as detached, invisible tissue, have not yet had time to die, their bitter breath still breathing from the darkness of the corners.
She opens at the same time they start working on the lock.
"Ajax Tartaglia?"
Ajax Tartaglia. Ajax Tartaglia.
The man with the strange mask apologizes, he speaks and says something. She doesn't understand him, she doesn't hear. She walks in front of them. Her neck is faded and old beneath the shaggy hair, but it is an upright neck, a queen's neck. "Ajax Tartaglia! That's his name." Her steps are weightless.
At the closed door to his bedroom, she pauses with her hand on the doorknob, it's so quiet in there.
"Yes god, what a silence in there." The visitor involuntarily lowers his voice before her gaze. He speaks snezhnayan, he asks, not without politeness: "Perhaps he is sleeping?"
She smiles a quick, gray smile, it flutters like a frightened bird across her face." Yes. He's sleeping."
Slowly her hand bends the doorknob, the three of them have fallen silent.
The door opens slowly, the three wait tactfully.
She moves her grey-white lips, and now she has a voice, a voice with organ tones in it. Underneath her eyes is a slight reddening of fever, and her throat has flaming spots. The corners of the mouth quiver helplessly, but the voice has a bursting undertone of triumph.
"Please, gentlemen!"