White Walls: Collected Stories

SERAFIM

“GO AWAY! Go awaaay, you lousy beast!”

Someone’s dog—white, matted, disgusting—not only jumped into the elevator after Serafim and whimpered, its paws pacing the dim, clunking box racing up toward the sixteenth floor, but dared to rush to the apartment, scratching insistently at the padding of the door while Serafim struggled with the keys on the landing.

“Get out of here!”

Serafim was squeamish about nudging the warm brute with his clean foot. The dog was possessed by a frightful impatience: it drummed at the door, quickly wedged its nose to the crack and snuffed the air, drummed again, insisted, would not be dissuaded.

Serafim stamped his foot and yelled—useless. He tried to trick the animal by swiftly pushing his way into the apartment, but, shuddering and wriggling like a furry snake, the filthy cur slithered in with hideous speed, rubbing against Serafim’s legs in the process, and ran around the dark room, its claws clicking. Serafim squealed, grabbed a mop, overtook the dog, struck it, struck again, kicked it out, slammed the door, and with a pounding heart collapsed against the frame. The fiend of hell quietly fluttered about on the landing, circling and rustling. It left.

His legs could still feel the revolting sensation of dog flesh slinking by. He felt nauseous.

Serafini lay against the door, calming himself. Better now? Almost.

Leave me alone. What do you all want from me? I don’t want anyone. I am separate. Higher. I descended from the starry fields to this filth, and when I’ve completed my earthly circle, I’ll go back from whence I came. Don’t touch me.

Serafini took off his coat, drank a glass of cold, clean water, lit two candles, sat down in front of the mirror, and took a look at himself. Handsome. He narrowed his eyes appraisingly, threw back his head, observed from the side—excellent! That’s me. Uncommonly fine! That’s—me! Mind your own business, all of you. He remembered the dog. Disgusting beast. He jumped up in horror and glanced at his trousers. Just as he thought—fur. Get rid of it immediately. A hot shower. He sat down at the mirror again.

…What a vile world. Women, children, old people, dogs… Yellow, heaving swill. Flesh is nauseating. The flesh of others is revolting. Only what’s mine is ravishing, pure, transparent. I am fleshless and sexless. I don’t play your games. Get your muck out of here.

Serafini looked into the dark mirror. On both sides of the glass was a pure, living flame. Heavenly countenance. Candles. Heavenly countenance. But only I am permitted to admire this marvelous, inhuman sight. Turn your nasty faces away from me.

To go to work Serafim was obliged to ride the bus. He tried not to look at the swinish snouts, the camellike muzzles, the hippopotamus cheeks. People are all vile! And all of them, base, revolting, are staring at Serafim with bug eyes, grinning their grins. Yes, I am magnificent. Yes, my face shines with an unworldly light. Yes, golden curls. Snow-white wings. Angelic eyes. Part, crowd. Stand aside—Serafim goes here!

He looked in the mirror once more. Serafim’s countenance swam up from the dark depths, wavering in the warm flame. A rosy glow, the reflected light of white wings behind his back. To gaze forever… Who are you, my beauty? Serafim sank into the divine reflection. Time to go to bed. Tomorrow would be a hard day. He blew out the flames, folded his wings together, and hung in the soft twilight.

For the Montgolfier brothers’ jubilee, the district was planning a mass flight of thirty kilometers. Serafim was also participating. He had to collect various papers: a bilirubin blood test, a general urine analysis, and a certificate of residency. I’ll fly higher than all of them, thought Serafim while the nurse drew his delicate blue blood through a tube. Higher than the crowd, higher than the human throng, higher than their base passions. I, a child of the ether, will spread my blinding, silky, snow-white wings like a million white hummingbirds. Oh, how magnificent my triumphant flight will be!

He strolled leisurely along the drying spring path, carrying his curly golden head high. The quacking word ZHEK—the housing office—squatted on a brown plaque. Get the residency certificate.

He pushed open the door and entered. Two old ladies were asleep in a room without curtains, furnished with rows of chairs. A middle-aged lecturer slowly read from a notebook covered with oilcloth:

“According to the absolutely apocryphal legend, god-the-father, who doesn’t exist, supposedly fertilized the so-called virgin Mary by way of the nonexistent holy spirit; the result of this fraudulent conception, according to the mendacious allegations of the clergymen, was the mythical figure of Christ, who is totally alien to us. These unfounded fabrications…”

The old ladies woke up.

“Come in, come in, Serafim!” cried the lecturer. “Today we’re having an anti-Easter lecture on the evil of the so-called immaculate conception. Have a seat, it’ll do you good to listen.”

Serafim looked at him coldly, slammed the door, and left. I’m against any kind of conception. Fight, lecturer. Fight. Eradicate. I’m above human beings, above their fables about vulgar gods giving birth to idiot infants in dirty cow sheds. I am pure spirit, I am Serafim!

At the store “Woodland Gifts they had pigeons. Serafim took a pair. Simmer in a covered pot for up to an hour and a half.

The pigeons bubbled in the pot. The doorbell rang. So. It’s Magda, his neighbor. She wants to get married. She visits Serafim under various pretexts, the redheaded scourge! Serafim folded his arms and began looking out the window, began to heat up. Magda sat down on the edge of the chair, her legs under it; she never knows where to put her hands. She likes Serafim. Vile thing! “Khhem…”

She’s thinking about how to start. She glances around the kitchen.

“You’re boiling a chicken?”

“Yes.”

“Khhem.”

Silence.

“I bought some pork, too, you know, a fairly large piece, well, I mean, about three pounds, I kept looking at it, thinking, should I take it or shouldn’t I, but I did; I thought I’d bake it or something, I stood in line a long time; when I got home and unwrapped it—all fat. All fat!”

Fat is nauseating muck. The whole world of flesh—is fat. Fatty, sticky children, fatty old ladies, fatty redheaded Magda.

“Ahem. I thought, maybe, I could do some washing for you, dirty sheets or whatever. You live alone.”

Go away, you nauseating creature. Go away, don’t soil my clean, clear, mountain spirit with your swinish hands. Go away.

She went away Serafim threw out the pigeons, drank a cup of clear broth. A pure, lean bird.

There. Get the results of the blood test; one last humiliation—and upward! To the stars! Serafim knew the results beforehand: no traces of filth, nothing lowly, denigrating, or shameful would be detected. Not like these others.

Serafim got on the bus. People pressed in. Careful there, those are wings!

“You should take taxis,” said a woman. But she looked at Serafim’s luminous face—and smiled. Get away, you base thing!

He made his way to the middle. Someone touched one wing with a finger. Stung, he turned around. A small boy, hideous-looking—glasses, crossed eyes, no front teeth—was looking at Serafim’s luxurious, swanlike feathering. His whole body winced: the snotty freak… with dirty hands!

Yes and here’s the result of the blood test: aqua distillata [sic!]. What did you think it would be?… Swine!

The day was ending. The sweaty din, sticky dirt, stench, the human swarm—everything was loaded onto wagons and carted away. The deep blue evening, brandishing a broom, nodded to Serafim as it advanced from the east. A gentle silvery sheen set in on high. On the emptying streets each black silhouette was i ndividually underlined. Piggish faces dared to smile at Serafim, to look into his face. Annihilate them all, thought Serafim. Incinerate every one of them. Yes, my face shines. Not for you! How dare you look!

By the time he approached his building, it was completely dark. A temptingly empty bench. I’ll have a breath of fresh air. And tomorrow—the flight.

He spread his wings, looked upward. The starry wheel turns slowly, slowly. Berenice’s Hair, Virgo, the Herdsman, the Hunting Dogs—clean, cold, April diamonds. That was the place for Serafim. A sexless, shining body, he would glide in silvery raiment through the resonant heights, let the streaming cold of the constellations run between his fingers, dive into ethereal currents. Dling! Dling!—the starry threads jingled like the strings of a harp. He would drink his fill of the clean, sparkling bubbles of the twenty-star Cup—And burn up the filthy earth. He’d pluck out the double, transfusing star from the Hunting Dogs constellation—the Heart of Charles… And he’d scorch the earth with fire.

Behind the bench, in the thick, bare bushes, something rustled, crackled, yapped—the white dog ran out, spun around, waved its tail, jumped on Serafim’s lap—joyfully, joyfully, as if it had found a long-lost friend. It jumped about noisily, trying to lick his face.

Serafim fell from the sky, jerked away, screamed, thrust out his arms. The dog jumped back, sat on its hind legs, tilted its head, and looked straight at Serafim endearingly. The sight of the affectionate muzzle and dark dog eyes caused something hot and dirty to rise in Serafim’s chest, fill his throat. Silently, gritting his teeth, trembling, hating, Serafim moved toward the dog. It didn’t understand and was overjoyed, wagged its tail, grinned, and ran to meet him. Serafim kicked at the dog’s eyes with his heel, lost his footing, kicked, kicked, kicked! There we go.

He stood for a while. The dog lay stretched out. Quiet. The stars dripped. A woman’s voice called:

“Sha-arik, Sharik, Sharik!… Sha-aaaarinka, Sharinka, Sha-rinka!…”

The same for you, thought Serafim. Stamp out everyone. Trying not to make any noise with his wings, he quickly moved toward the building.

He slept badly that night. His jawbones ached. He awoke at dawn, and felt his alarmingly changed palate with his tongue. Something was wrong. He yawned—and had difficulty opening his mouth. Everything had somehow become different. Something’s in the way. It had gotten colder. He wiped his face with his hand and looked—blood: he’d cut his palm on the end of his nose. The mirror! From the white morning murk, from the oval frame, someone was looking out at Serafim: a red, horny beak; a low forehead covered with blue-gray scales; from the mouth, the edges of a narrow slit, two large, long milk-white fangs. Serafim looked coldly into the frame. He ran the split tongue along the fangs. They’re strong. He looked at the clock: Off to the dentist. The private doctor. There’s time before the flight.

Tap tap tap went his claws on the asphalt. Faster—tap, tap tap tap tap…

“The monster Serpent Gorynych!” shouted some boys. “Look there’s Serpent Gorynych!”

Serafim tucked his coat tight around him, grabbed his wide black wings, and took off at a run—the bus had already rounded the corner.