Trafika Europe 6 - Arabesque

oblivion

don’t have the strength to take apart the houses. Chop down the trees for us—you are a stranger, they don’t mean anything to you; you will leave, and we will have fire and warmth. The old man handed me the axe with its long handle; an old tub with iron hoops was placed under the roof gutter, and since I didn’t know what to do, I moved toward it and leaned on it; a memory appeared in the tub and apples, prompting the answer. One autumn night I was walking to the stop on the narrow gauge line used to carry peat from the Bryansk swamps; the work train passed the stop early in the morning and I could take it to the big railroad. Night in the swamp is different from night in the

woods or fields; in swamps the darkness resembles mud splashing into your face, permeating your clothes; it seems that if you spit, it won’t be saliva but a gob of the darkness filling your mouth. It had been pouring for two days, the swamp soil could not absorb any more liquid, everything around me slurped, bubbled, and dripped, the yellow spot of light from my flashlight, which I turned on from time to time, caught toadstools bloated by the rain, and I felt I was trapped in an endless witches’ circle; the rain washed everything that had accumulated over the long September dry spell, and the trees, earth, and water gave off a rank swamp smell, rotting and unclean, and even the rain smelled of it. On an ordinary night you feel the movement of time—

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