The Flying Dutchman

Chapter 4

1

Houses swallow people. They toy with them for a while, then: gulp. And when the person quietens down and gazes out of the window, the window dims and the scenery becomes a poorly primed canvas. You can rip through that canvas, or you can get caught in its web.

N. managed to not get caught; he ripped through the canvas. But unless you are a spider, there are many webs which can snare you. N. would soon let himself be swallowed by another house – a large wooden one, standing alone on a riverbank.

He sailed unhurriedly along the byroad like a little boat, a suitcase in one hand, a bag of food he’d bought on the way in the other; the forest gradually took him in, absorbed him, then released him into a first clearing, then a second; a hazel, pines, then suddenly aspens and silver birch, then more pines. The scent of the river. She was the queen of this place. Birds on the wing would bow to her, paying homage; otherwise, to drink her waters was forbidden.

The house was her palace. It was dedicated to the river, it lived for her. Straddling the ridge pole, balanced like yokes, dragonflies sang for her. And someone called Noone slung the yoke over his shoulders, carried dead water to the river and scooped the living waters from her. He lived off this water without food, and did not become Somebody because it was disgraceful, because it was unnecessary, because he had already been somebody.

An empty bucket stood on the veranda. Or maybe he was just imagining it standing there? Or maybe he was just imagining himself standing there on the veranda? For we are all artists imagining our own image. And now this is the still-life: a veranda, threaded on a tree. A “poplaspen” as N. christened it at once, unable to remember whether it was an aspen or a poplar. Even if you don’t remember, you still have to call it something, so you simply call it whatever you wish, not what others wish. Actually, N. often behaved contrary to others. He fondly called his own life ‘non-life,’ nicknamed himself Noone and, since a man needs a surname, he decided to make his nickname his surname, too. For privacy, and well… Curious, would anyone think to read it as no one?

Of course, a real Noone should live nowhere. N. probably wasn’t the real Noone since that is an honorary title which has to be earned. So what was N.’s story? For years, he had lived in the city. Lived and lived, and only left now. The city still lived in him, though. He tried to evict it, but to no avail, so he had to carry it around within him: he lumbered up the steps, sat down on the bench—still with the city—and talked to the landlord while the city roofs were knocking against each other in the depths of his innards.

The house had long since swallowed the landlord, who now had a dull air about him. He was remembering his wife, who had been carried away by the river on a yellow wave – carried away to town, they said, to a new marriage, but who knew where? You cannot ask the yellow wave. His wife lived in his eyes, and the stranger observed with interest how she beat the carpets, washed the windows and prepared lunch. At last the landlord closed his eyes, his wife hidden within them, and named his price. The price filled the whole veranda. It was followed by silence.

N. understood that this was akin to giving alms to the poor: you should either refrain completely, or give such that the poor cease being poor; you may even have to give yourself.

He accepted. The price obediently disappeared into a pocket, agreement reigned. The house was now his, until the autumn. As for the house itself, well, of course it raised no objections, readily releasing something long-since swallowed in favour of a new flavour for its belly. Noone did not suppose it could swallow him, too – well, how can you swallow no one? You simply can’t.

The landlord disappeared down the path. He left everything, even the photograph of his wife. It was an exodus. He was almost weightless; everything had been burnt out from within.