I notice a female mannequin in the far corner with a replica of the heart from the wardrobe on its left breast.
“Cool,” I say. “You’ve even got your own mannequin.”
“That’s my ex-girlfriend’s.” K walks up to it. Studies it a couple of seconds, then turns abruptly on his heels. His black shirttail lifts up, revealing that solid torso. “She sat indoors while I worked all the time. I just needed a couple of pieces of scotch tape. I love creating something out of nothing.”
The conversation turns to The Portrait of Dorian Gray. K leaves the room, but quickly returns with a book.
“Here, I haven’t thrown this away only because of the cover.” Against the soft yellow of the cover is the white profile of Wilde. The book is passed from hand to hand. “These are the little pleasantries I’m talking about.”
The book is laid on the carpentry table next to the pistol.
K takes a baggie from the shelves, unseals it, sprinkles white powder onto the table, divides it into three parts, and goes off to the kitchen. We sit terrified of blowing away the powder.
Rogue climbs up onto the sofa and lies down next to me. She starts to lick. Her rough tongue goes up and down my arm. I close my eyes. I feel the tongue with a thousand granulations on it. Open my eyes.
“Good, Rogue.”
The dog stops, looks at the body prone on the couch, and continues running its tongue here and there. It’s not unpleasant, it’s good. Rough. C and I chuckle lazily
K returns. In his hands are mugs of coffee. He sprinkles the lines one after the other into the mugs.
“Gentlemen, coffee’s ready.”
I add three spoonfuls of sugar.
K gets up, leaves the room, and returns with a seven-branched candelabra. He places it on the carpentry table in the corner in front of the mirror. Turns off the overhead light.
Rogue doesn’t stop for even a second.
“Why don’t you give her a rest?” C says.
“She’s doing it herself. It’s not like I’m forcing her.”
“Take your hand away.”
Warmth is radiating from the dog. I don’t remove my hand.
“So how are you both doing? Good?” K distracts himself from his activity.
We nod.
“It’s hard to enjoy yourself if your guests aren’t happy.”
We slowly pull at our coffee. Two in the morning. Time for the LSD to show itself.
“I know what you need,” K says, and leaves again.
“So how are you?” I ask C.
“Not bad, I’m starting to feel it already. That was a great idea K had about the candles.”
The flames break apart as soon as I try to focus my attention on them.
We deliberate about what film to put on.
“Have you seen Baraka?” C asks.
“Obama?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
C burrows through the Internet, finds it, reads the description.
“Listen,” I say. “It sounds a lot like this one film that I’ve wanted to see for a long time. I can’t remember the name. It starts with a K.”
We search. The director of Baraka leads us to Koyaanisqatsi.
“That’s it.”
We read about the thirty-five thousand meters of film used on the movie.
K returns. “Here, this should be just the thing for you both right now.” Two jam dishes appear on the table, filled with white globs.
“What’s that?”
“Fruity ice cream. Little cocktails.”
We try it, a soft sweet taste, it flows smoothly into the stomach.
“C, pass Alexander Sergeyevich over.”
C climbs onto the sofa, lifts the bust of Pushkin. “Behold the power of art,” he says.
I take the bust, it really is heavy. Pass it over to K.
K places Pushkin on the carpentry table, starts painting the white poet. C puts on Koyaanisqatsi. We eat the fruit cocktail, drink the spiked coffee. Rogue finally calms down and falls asleep.
“Koyaa-nisqatsi, Koyaa-nisqatsi,” a voice repeats against the background of mournful ceremonial music and clouds of fire.
After a minute we understand that a rocket is taking off in slow motion. It’s the beginning. Time passes quickly and imperceptibly. Hours fall away, leaving only perfunctory minutes behind them. The echo of Koyaa-nisqatsi traverses the entire film. The final scene. A rocket goes skyward. So does the mournful ceremonial music of Glass. Something has gone wrong, the music only reinforces this sensation. A torrent of air flows over the body of the rocket in a white plume. A second, then an explosion. The camera watches for falling debris. One piece stands out. It falls, tumbling and burning. For a second it seems as though it could be the astronaut’s seat. But no, it’s a piece of the rocket. Twirling in a final dance, it slowly falls to earth.
“All is senseless and futile.” I’m quoting Mujuice here.
K sits at the computer, searches for a color picture of Pushkin. In the time it took to watch the film, black kinky hair has appeared on the bust of Pushkin on the table.
I register the change. Colors have intensified. Trails have begun in my peripheral vision. I think of Kesey and the Pranksters’ tests. Put the jam dish with the fruit cocktail to the side. C finishes eating it to the very last.
“How tall did you say your ceiling is?” K ask unexpectedly.
“It’s, like, normal,” I reply. “Average.”
Outside the window we hear a guitar being played, singing.
“It seems our musicians didn’t get far.”
I go up to the window. A seaside neighborhood. Komendantskaya Square, at the center of which is a shopping center that resembles a flying saucer. Right beneath the windows is another big shopping center, overlaid in gray paneling. The frightful tastelessness typical of a residential neighborhood. Seemingly the only signs read, Secondhand. Beyond it, bunched together, are high-rise homes.
A young man sits on the grounds of the shopping center and strums a guitar. Beside him stands the yellow-green Deo Matiz. I step away from the window.
K has printed out several color images of Pushkin, and C is at the monitor again. He finds and puts on Baraka.
“I’m going to the store,” K says. “Got to buy food for Rogue. Anyone need anything?”
We shake our heads.
C closes the door. Baraka begins with the same images as Koyaanisqatsi.
The film is more vivid, the colors more vibrant. The camera moves along the corridors of a temple, a mosaic appears all around the monitor. It’s literally like looking through a kaleidoscope at the center of which you find yourself. You open all of these doors, walk through all of these corridors. You’re on the inside, while your eye is a camera. The music is extraordinary, it blends with the landscape in a very soothing way.
I grasp at something important. There’s something encased in the center of the universe. Some sort of simple and at the same time fundamental truth. Another second and I’ll understand it, seize it.
I need to get rid of this sensation. I recall the story of the banana. The story goes like this: Friend K faithfully wrote something on a scrap of paper during a moment of insight in the middle of an acid trip. The next morning K discovered the scrap. On it was written: The banana is cool. But the peel’s thick.
C sits with his legs tucked beneath him, and has gone quiet. I want to talk, share my perceptions with him. But something interferes, some strange and unknown barrier. It could be that the whole matter lies with K, since we’ve never had problems like this arise before.