Miha Mazzini
THE COLECTOR OF NAMES
Prologue
She was watching her husband eat his soup when she suddenly realised she was pregnant. From the kitchen, she could hear the clattering of the dishes Greta was putting on the serving trolley. There was no tension in the air and she did not sense anything terrible was about to happen. A quiet family dinner: even the flames from the candles were almost still and the darkness in the corners of the dining room was undisturbed. The rhythmic sound of the splashing waves wafted through the half-closed shutters, lazily, slowly. There was no wind.
Her husband’s spoon waded through the liquid, pushing the soup away — maybe in the rhythm of the waves outside? — and she knew that he would sense her looking at him, pause, raise his head and smile at her. She waited for him, ready.
“I’m pregnant.”
The spoon stopped and waves of soup splashed over it. He smiled slowly and for a moment she felt sorry for him. Not for the whole of him, just for that slow widening of his lips in the early summer evening.
“How long have you known?” he asked.
“Three minutes. It’s a boy,” she answered very honestly and immediately regretted her outburst. Watching his smile had temporarily made her drop her guard.
He looked in her eyes and she knew he would not demand an explanation for her strange answer.
The spoon was still floating in the middle of the liquid.
“What will his name be?” He only just managed to complete the question before he was overtaken by the growth — yes, that is exactly what she thought: something is growing. Out of his ears. So fast that his face did not have time to change, let alone grimace. His smile just stopped. Before she became aware of something leaving his body, his bald patch, covered with hair combed sideways, bent towards her. That’s just how it seemed: the slight movement of a hat being raised politely. It all lasted only a moment and this comparison only came to her later, much later, when it was all over.
The next few images came so fast they just ran into each other, drowning in a sound, which was by no means loud or unpleasant. As if somebody had hit a rock with a wet cloth. The body on the chair opposite her sat upright and dead. Untouched below the nose; but above that, nothing — it simply stopped, destroyed in the explosion. The base of the skull, above which only a moment ago the brain had been suspended, sparkled obscenely in the glow of the candles which flickered belatedly, nearly went out and then steadied themselves. The torn skin stood erect, surrounding the remaining half of the skull like the small leaves on a hazelnut. Then they wilted, gradually bending outwards. Downwards.
She looked around the room and the small, animated traces were visible everywhere. They slid down the walls, down the portraits of his predecessors, travelling down to the frames and then dripping onto the floor.
“What will his name be?” she repeated quietly, smiled and tore her look away from the splattered walls and returned it to the incomplete body in black tails and bow tie. Even after his retirement he still dressed as if he was in the diplomatic service.
She looked at the spoon, which continued to be held in the previous position by the stiff muscles, neither on the bottom of the plate nor up in the air. Why had she been given this body, which had so rarely laid on top of hers and which needed a full five years to impregnate her? Because it was coming to this place? She sighed deeply. You can not ask questions when you are in service.
The sound of the flickering room started to fade. The dishes clattered in the kitchen again.
Oh, yes.
She rang for Greta.
“Holy mother of Jesus… Holy mother of Jesus… Holy…”
He forced himself to look at his left hand. Yes, it was still there, even though he had stopped feeling it one ledge lower. It was bleeding without any real pain.
“Come on… come on…”
To plead without making a sound? Only in his head? Without looking down, at them? He closed his eyes and leant his forehead on the rock. Warm, but not very — as if the summer sun had bypassed it.
“I must… I must…”
He could picture their faces. All five of them, standing far below, watching. He felt dizzy at the mere thought of the distance, in metres and age. They were all a few years older than him; and they seemed so small. Dizzyingly small.
He was motionless even though he knew that he could not afford to be. With stillness came pain, a terrible trembling of the arms, as if they were someone else’s and uncontrollable.
Whenever he opened his eyes and looked in front of him the rays of the setting sun reflected off the rock and blinded him. He did not dare look up for fear that his backwards bent neck would break off like a piece of the rock on which he was climbing and pull the rest of his body after it. He focussed his every look on some small detail: indentations, cracks with grass growing out of them, dried up by the lack of rain. Whenever he could, he would hold onto ledge with grass stalks under his fingers. He could not even feel the grass, let alone be protected by it from the sharpness of the edge. Once, it seemed like a long time ago, what sounded like a seagull had screeched right next to him. He had not dared to turn around.
The spectators said nothing and because of their silence they seemed very remote. The temptation to look back kept repeating itself. What if they had gone and left him on his own? Had they got fed up and walked down the beach? Had they left only tracks which the sea would erase in long sweeps? The sea. Water. Cool, not yet warmed up. In spite of the heat, the summer had not been around long enough.
He pressed himself against the rock, which grabbed the heartbeat from his thumping chest and amplified it into what seemed like thunder.
“Holy mother of Jesus… Holy mother of Jesus… Holy…”
If he only knew how much further it was to the top. For longer and longer periods he kept his eyes shut. Sweat was dripping from his forehead and flooding his eyes. He squeezed his eyelids together and felt the drops of sweat running around them. He could not close his mouth in time and with quick breaths he drank his own sweat. Judging by the taste of it, his own sea of sweat. The first drop was the most dangerous one, it nearly made him fall. It slid down, then just tore itself away; he thought: what’s that? — and twitched his head to shake it off. You need room for a swift movement so he leant away from the wall. His left hand lost support, fell and immediately redeemed itself: a short distance further down it caught on a ledge and gave his body some time to calm down.
Did any of the spectators scream? Or at least gasp? He imagined himself splattered on the ground: a view from above, as if his soul, now rid of his body, was continuing with the climb and was fearlessly looking around. They would just run away and not tell anybody. They would leave him to the seagulls, the tide and the fish. They would turn him into another one of their secrets, one of those they bragged about all the time and because of which they held their heads up so proudly.
The secrets he wanted to find out. To share.
The sun had already begun to set and was shining directly into his eyes. Or was it that the rock had become smooth and reflective? Maybe the light had already destroyed his eyelids? He had never seen them so bright red, with tiny dots circling around, like small fish in the shallows.
What a wide ledge! The whole of his right palm slid over it, then his wrist, right up to his elbow. Then his left arm. His torso. His chest touched the ground. He opened his eyes and had to close them immediately because of the stream of sweat. He did not dare let go of the rock and wipe his eyes. He scrambled forward, then tried to open his eyelids a few times before he succeeded. He was at the top, beyond the reach of their eyes.
The jerky trembling started in his feet and promptly spread to his hands. He lay on the ground, giving in to his body.
