Chapter 22: ANDREY ADAMOVITCH
A long time has passed since Matilda left in that horrible way. I have nightmares about her head, hanging from Razyarennyy's mouth - the furious. That little head that snuggled in my lap after the shows, from where dreamy eyes admired mine. But I made the decision to move on with my life and move on. I moved to South America, but let me record how I lived until the present: On Friday, September 14, 1951, Pavel, the landlord at the inn where I had been staying for the past few months, a fat, short, arrogant man, threw me out as if I were an old, helpless dog. I hadn't paid the rent in three months, now I was on the street. I sought shelter at the home of a friend, Borya, who worked with me at the cookware factory. I thought that water stick was already dead. But the 57-year-old man still lived in that same old, isolated little house that he lived with his parents when I met him, aged just 18. He started drinking at that time, in the intervals of the long and arduous workday, between the card bets. The opaque and distant shadow of young Borya, disappeared between the wrinkles and merciless marks of time. But the unique joy and humor was still there. The Petersburg jokes and stories kept me up that night, along with the vodka. Weeks went by and even though I helped Borya by attending the small grocery store he had, I needed to get a job and get my life together. It was a drunk that helped me with that. Leaving the bar, I stepped on the pamphlet that advertised vacancies at the abandoned Khorosho mine. Those fateful steps to the place, with the reputation of haunted, sealed the course of my life forever and guided me like a magnetized needle that always points to the north. But the direction in question was that of the profane, the incomprehensible, the oldest and grossest evil that man has ever known.
Other men were there, used to hard work. Big, strong, with faces tired of punished appearances. I got too close to the improvised wall made of stacked bricks and wooden stumps, not obeying the strip and the cones that marked the Restricted Area. I fell, I fell under the ground that opened like a whale's mouth. Rocks rolled and hit me. Pointed stumps jutted out of the winding, irregular tunnel in which I was in free fall. One of them hit my leg and it looked so serious, at least because of the tearing pain it caused and then because of the amount of blood that painted that stony earth with the brightest and most painful red that I had the pain to paint with the same paint coming out of my veins. Death was present, I felt his breath cold and I trembled, moaning and asking God for forgiveness for my sins. I wanted to die there, at that moment. Go back to Matilda's arms and feel the warmth of your body. Caress your silky blond hair. Take your small, soft hands and kiss them, tasting the blackberries I picked with my father as a child. But I didn't die, I don't know how. The amount of blood I lost, the cuts and wounds. How to explain? Well, from then on nothing would have a rational explanation, as I found out.
I was in a cave. Stalactites and stalagmites, like limestone roots, emerged from the ceiling and floor like gigantic mouths full of teeth. A waterfall was running, falling into the sapphire blue lake whose bank I lay in that state. After realizing everything around me, I started to carefully observe every aspect of that place of unique beauty. The thousands of years old formations were a capricious work of art from nature and expressed tortuous contours that leaned sharply in distorted paths in search of a way out. Exit that I knew I would no longer find. I was bound to live in darkness forever. - What is a glupyy chelovek here? Lost? Yes, it has to be. Your place is not here. - I turned around and found this little creature talking. A thin, gray little man. The nose pronounced forward and raised, like an upturned hook. Her eyes were narrow and very close, which made her look uneasy. His irises were entirely black balls and he laughed all the time putting his hand in front of his mouth. His teeth were small and slightly pointed, the ones he still had in his mouth and which were not damaged. - How dare you call me a fool, you ... you garden dwarf. Who are you? Do you know me by any chance? - My young Andrey Adamovitch. I am as old as time. To the grains of sand of the sea I gave the name, as to the stars that exist. I can tell you things that just by listening would lead to death. But here I am not to boast, or to speak of my long history, but to speak of yours. - The little man jumped on a lower rock ahead, and took something out of the water in a quick and precise movement. A gelatinous and black being, with tentacles and eyes on top of the head. He devoured the mollusc by spurting blood while soaking his mouth with pieces of soft meat and black skin.
- What may interest you my story. If you could make me die? I wish for death. I've tried it several times, but it's not possible. - Andrey, my dear. If you want revenge, maybe you want a furious lion? - How do you know the furious? How can I find him? - Find it, you, power will not. But he can, with this little book, see. - The little man showed me a little book, apparently with nothing special, but that in the future would reveal secrets of men and the cosmos in its pages, which did not understand the sciences or common materials, nor of earthly or extraterrestrial characteristics. - What do you get out of it, little man? What are your intentions? I was sitting on the floor, with my knees bent and my elbows on them. He was curious about that little being. He was smart. I knew I had to bargain with him. - Here in this book, Adamovitch, has his story and that of Nubky, the Eskimo. But two stories written on it will be, like yours and so many others, from the most absurd to the most boring. Since alone it is written and its origin is unknown. There was no beginning, neither will end. - So, are these plots that are set up by you, the dance choreographers of the universe? I'm disappointed. How many people ignore your role in these little games made by you? - I asked curious, turning around the little man who followed me with his squinted and attentive eyes. - Human, carry your pain and learn to live with it. But understand, this revenge of yours will not happen and accepting it better is. Furious to be destroyed cannot. Your initial in the written book is found and for that detail you only live, as you know, when you win from death all the battles that you fought. Let the book tell other stories. Pass it on. Happiness to find you must. The ugly creature plunged into the blue lake forever and left me that little book, without my knowing what to do with it. The curious object fascinated me in an inexplicable way and he went with me to South America.
I used my experience working in the historical archive of Moscow at the age of fourteen, to exercise the profession of librarian in the small town of Arcadina. Away from the hustle and bustle of the big city, I learned to listen to the silence and take my samovar overlooking the view from the window of the small apartment that the librarian's salary allowed me to pay. I ended up in this small town by mistake, because the ticket agent at the station sold me the wrong ticket. My destination was São Paulo. I slept one night in the hotel paid for by the railway company and as it took me a long time to resolve my situation, I ended up staying right here. The book now every day was written by itself. New lines and chapters were created and I started to observe and read carefully. Sitting on the bench in the square, feeding the pigeons and reading the book, I had fun with that funny story that sprang from its pages. More pandego subject and bon-vivant, that I did not find even among my Russian countrymen. I tore myself to laughter, writhing from my stomach ache, with his spicy adventures involving his pupils, when a young man sat next to me on the bench. I nodded and he said, "What's up, man"? But the figure never left my head. It reminded me at the time of the character in the book. I kept reading until, following in his footsteps, I was able to accompany him to a square, when he sat down next to a Russian, who nodded at him. I closed the book with my mouth open, realizing that what I was reading was happening at this moment and that the young man had a book just like my little book.
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone