Max was commenting on Raf’s latest falclass="underline"
“Listen, Samo, listen! A nuclear bomb will fall and it’ll go BOOOM. The whole city will come down, ruins everywhere and from under them Raf’ll emerge looking confused and say ‘Jesus!’ Ha!”
They burst out laughing, which made Raf even more embarrassed. He turned to Alfonz.
“I’ll help you carry the brandy to the cellar.”
“No, the stairs are very steep, you’ll break a leg or something,” said Alfonz becoming both sad and happy. Happy because of another burst of laughter from the other two and sad because of the look on Raf’s face.
He grabbed the rucksack containing the bottles (he could not have got the wrong one — his was the only ancient canvas one, like hunters used to use, as opposed to the modern, brightly coloured nylon ones), put it on his shoulder, turned on the torch and set off downstairs again.
He put the rucksack on the floor and started taking out the bottles. He unwrapped each one and put it on the floor. Then he very vividly imagined Raf coming down to get the drink, tripping over the crate of beer, falling onto the bottles, breaking them all and injuring himself as well. He started moving them somewhere safer, near the wooden boxes and as they were already there he thought he would lean the bottles against the one with its top off. Nothing could happen to them there.
He picked up the rucksack and playfully threw it over his shoulder. He turned towards the stairs and noticed something strange above him. He shone the torch onto the ceiling and let the light slide across the thick wooden beams, which glowed in the light. Far too beautifully for wood. He raised his arm and stood on tiptoes to see better.
Drops.
Hard, solid drops.
He felt them. The same stuff as in the crate. This time he realised what it was. Earlier, he had been confused because of the large mass of it. But seeing it now, in small amounts, which were attached to the wood by their pointed end while their wider part faced him, there could be no mistake. Following the usual custom, his mother and father had gone on a honeymoon, their one and only trip, holiday or anything like that. They went to Russia. When looking at their photos from there Alfonz would always shake his head asking himself if there was anything at all he had in common with them. He could not even console himself with the thought that he might have been swapped in the maternity ward — his mother always gave birth at home. Anyway, his parents went to Russia. From a village where there was winter for most of the year, they chose to travel on their only trip ever to a country where there was winter for most of the year. Besides the Russian dolls and a plastic Lomonosov with a thermometer they brought back a piece of transparent golden stuff in a shape of a large drop, encapsulating an insect.
Amber.
As a child, he often looked at it but then forgot about it. It was probably still in his parents’ bedroom in the top drawer of the large cupboard.
It must be the same thing, he was almost certain. Unless it really was plastic — apparently they can fake anything these days.
But on the other hand, there was something encapsulated in the drops on the ceiling too. It did not look like insects. It definitely was not black and even though it was difficult to make out the exact colour because of the reflection, he was pretty sure it was red.
He pulled nearer one of the wooden crates containing old junk and stood on it. Now his head was touching the ceiling and he had to bend it. He moved nearer to one of the drops and tried to see what was in it.
Something was written in it.
Silly, really silly. There was a word in there. It did not seem to be written on anything, rather it looked as if somebody had written it on a sheet of paper, on both sides, and then cut the letters out with superhuman care. On top of that, the word was not flat, but looked as if it was waving, moving and fluttering like a flag, caught in the wind by an avalanche of amber, preserving it in that position for ever.
He concentrated on the drop next to the first one. He strained his eyes to read it. And then the next one and so on.
He read the amber. There were no sentences, just independent words, in which he started to recognise names. From everyday ones to foreign, strange sounding ones which he assumed were given to babies in far away countries. Some written in letters he recognised, others in letters whose origin he could only guess.
Name by name, each in its own drop, all over the ceiling.
Alfonz crossed the cellar diagonally. He became dizzy from reading all those names. He himself did not know when he had started reading them aloud, spelling some of them.
How did they do that? Was it at all possible?
Why?
“Hey! Who’re you talking to?” Max’s voice boomed down the stairs.
“Talking?” muttered Alfonz to himself and then shouted:
“No, I was just humming a tune to myself.”
“Come up! What are you doing down there for so long? Did you fall asleep? Wake up! The party is starting. And bring some bottles with you. Who needs all of them in the cellar? COME ON, WAKE UP!”
3
Aco started writing a letter. At least that was what he intended to do, but when he finally found a pencil and a few blank sheets of paper and wrote a few words, he realised how he was completely out of the habit and, what was even worse, how much time it would take to explain everything.
Time he did not have.
He limited the letter to a few short sentences. The people he was writing to knew what it was about anyway. They had been there.
He took a few paces around the kitchen then walked to the window and looked into the night. The moon shone through the edge of a cloud and sparkled on the sea. He had to decide what and how much to tell his niece.
He would wait for her and tailor his story as he went along, judging her reaction after each sentence.
Max took a gulp out of the bottle and missed a number:
“thirty eight…, gulp…, forty…”
Raf was watching the rhythmical movement of Samo’s body going up and down, irrespective of the counting. Apparently he did fifty push-ups every evening and he was not going to miss one single night, party or no party. Fifty! The nose-touching-the-floor ones! Raf went dizzy. He himself could not do very many and it was only because he was so thin and there was not much weight to lift, rather then because of his strength that he could do any at all. In PE, the teacher tormented them incessantly. All of them, even Samo, who was the personification of a sporty type. With him, the teacher directed his mockery at his brain whereas with all the others at their physical abilities or the lack of them. Raf envied Max and found it encouraging that he never worried about any of it. He just lay on the parquet floor or the sports-ground or wherever it was they were supposed to be doing the exercises and giggled. When the teacher came near him Max would grunt in a terrible effort as a result of straining his vocal cords and facial muscles rather then any other part of his body.
“Forty five…, forty six…”
Once Raf had heard the PE teacher in the changing room threatening Max that he could not care less who his father was, he would still teach him a lesson or two. But he never succeeded.
Alfonz offered Raf the bottle. Raf took a sip and trembled.
“Ha,” said Alfonz, “this brandy would wake even the dead!”
Raf nodded, smiled and returned the bottle. Alfonz too was probably capable of doing quite a few push-ups, he was as strong as a bull. But he never showed off and his strength came from hard work on a farm and in the woods rather than from lifting weights and that showed in his body-shape.