Aleksandar Hemon - Best European Fiction 2013

“Put on another log or two—” Gonzales said, “the mornings are terribly cold.” I got up and did as he asked. When I sat down again I expected he’d continue the story but it seemed he was no longer inclined. We sat there in silence for a while, and when I started to get bored I decided to prompt him:

“And? What happened after that?”

He looked at me with a wry smile in the corner of his mouth.

“Nothing—” he said, “the light went out.”

The expression on my face must have been pretty asinine because the gentle smile on his lips grew into a guffaw. How stupid of me, I cursed myself: Gonzales had found someone to pick on tonight. I was angry at him, but I didn’t say anything. He did:

“I think my words were still in the air when we suddenly found ourselves in the dark. We couldn’t see anything for a moment or two, but when the lights outside began to come in through the windows there certainly was something to see: in the middle of the room, right beneath the dome, there rose a regular-shaped cylinder of pulsating darkness. It moved quickly within the space bounded by the pillars but stopped and hovered next to each of them for a few seconds, as if gathering strength. Geiger got up and went toward the darkness, only to be stopped three yards from the closest pillar. He stood there utterly still, looking into the darkness before him, and then seized his head in his hands and fell to the floor without a sound.

“As soon as the light had gone out, Kefir had drawn his pistol and loaded a bullet into the barrel. That was evidently his habitual reaction to unfamiliar situations. He pointed his gun at the hovering darkness and muttered, ‘Sweet, bloody heart’—his favorite imprecation.

“And me? I didn’t budge from my seat. I wanted to flee but didn’t have any control over my body. Imagine—I couldn’t even close my eyes! It was as if I’d been destined to be there and see everything. I was a witness in this story.

“When he saw Geiger fall, Kefir fired two shots and was instantly thrown back against the wall; he slid to the floor and didn’t get up. I heard laughter and growling, which grew louder with every passing second, and then I saw it—actually I only saw its face, eyes, and jaws, which exuded a colorless slime. The face (if that formless mass deserved that name) consisted of disarranged clumps of what looked like cooked meat. Bloated and stillborn, it changed its shape, while the eyes remained the same: filled with a cold gleam, and in their depths I sensed an inkling of satisfaction. The face was enjoying itself, as least inasmuch as we were interesting objects for its gratification. Soon I felt a terrible pain in my head—and then I heard the song: the meat of the face issued sounds and words in a language I’d never heard before. It sounded tender and ominous at the same time, intimate like a lullaby but incongruous with the horror that sung it. I lost consciousness, and now I’m so glad I did, because if I’d listened to that singing meat for one second longer I think I would have lost something much more valuable.

“Day had broken by the time I regained consciousness and gathered my wits. Geiger was lying on the floor and trembling with spasms that washed through his body in waves, while Kefir crouched next to him and moistened his forehead and chest with water. We didn’t say anything: we waited for Geiger to come to so he could tell us what had actually happened.

“It was late afternoon before Geiger spoke, and what he said didn’t please us at all:

“‘If I’m right, and if that thing is what I think it is, we’re in big trouble and aren’t going to get out of it easily. I’m going to seek the help of someone who understands this sort of thing better than me, and until then it’s best that the three of us not meet. When I find help—I’ll let you know. I’m sorry.’

“We parted with insults all round, and even today I burn with shame when I think of it. But that’s not important; what is, is that I realized that the apparition we saw wasn’t a surprise for Geiger as it had been for Kefir and me; later—reading the documents he left about the dark side of architecture, specifically about the connection between space and the demonic, which he admits he started to delve into in the final years of his studies—I became convinced that what we saw was the result of his experiments: he’d invoked that creature on previous occasions only to meet it that night unprepared and suffer the consequences, as did we who were with him. Whether we were innocent or to blame doesn’t matter a scrap now. We all bore part of the burden and paid a price commensurate with our stake in the game.”

“What was the price?” I asked Gonzales.

“In a nutshell: Geiger died in hospital three months later, as dry as a stockfish, with the doctors unable to tell why his body kept losing fluids so quickly, what was draining the life from him. They played around a bit, tried this, that, and everything else, and came up with the craziest conjectures, but in the end they could only watch as he shriveled before their eyes. Kefir, on the other hand, was found on the beach six months after the event with two bullets in his body, his heart torn out, and minus his right hand. A friend who knows a few guys in the police said they all wondered why Kefir ended up like that, but when their surprise wore off they concluded that he’d probably gotten mixed up in the drug scene, made a mistake somewhere along the way, and ended up on a hit list.

“And me: one morning, nine months after that ghastly encounter, I discovered I couldn’t get out of bed. My legs had gone numb. And since then I’ve been a modern version of a centaur—half human, half wheelchair.”

“Didn’t you want to know what was behind it all?” I asked him.

“There’s no behind , sonny. Behind doesn’t exist,” Gonzales snarled, waving dismissively. “Everything is surface; it’s just that a few places are terribly deep, and if you look too long, you think you see something there.”

“It’s taken me ages to find your number. Two days I’ve been trying to call you.”

“What can I do for you?”

Silence.

“Oh God, this is so embarrassing…”

“What was it you wanted?”

“It’s embarrassing. Should I just say it?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

Silence.

“You sound different on the phone.”

“Do I know you?”

She laughs. “No, but I know you. I’ve seen you on TV.”

I’m getting tired of this. “Right… What was it you wanted again?”

Silence.

“I really liked your book.”

“Thank you. Which one?”

(Silence again—has she forgotten the title?)

“ The Sins of the Wolf . I’ve read it twice already…”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“Who are you talking to?” my wife asks.

“It was just so true to life, so realistic…”

She sounds like a young girl, and I can’t work out what she wants. Does she want to be my friend? Does she want to send me something she’s written? I mean, girls are always calling me to read me their poetry.

“Thank you.”

Maybe I should hang up? Pretend we’ve been cut off?

“I feel really bad asking… Oh God, I’m sorry, but look…”

Down to business, finally!

“Yes, what is it?”

“I wouldn’t normally bother you, but I just didn’t know what else to do…”

“Who is it?” My wife pulls a face.

“Please, go on. I’m listening.”

Silence.

“It’s Bakar Tukhareli. I really need to see him. Can you put me in touch with him? Or give me his number?”