He remembered the green lawn under his feet, the squeaking of the tin hood, the glum determination of needing to punish someone for something.
Whom? Himself? Lenka? Mom?
He spent that entire last month finding and writing down the words of great and even just famous people. Words which said that things tend to go from bad to worse, that if things can get worse - they will, that the only free choice in this life is the choice to reject it altogether.
He remembered the moment of the jump. He even remembered a bit of the flight. A split second, a sudden stillness, and the blood in his veins turned into some sort of jello...
And he knew what happened afterwards. Somehow he knew a whole lot of things.
Mom came home from work, washed her hands, and started making dinner. There was a small TV on the kitchen table, some series was on...
The phone rang simultaneously on the screen and in the hallway.
Mom wiped her hand on the towel and picked up the phone.
And a voice, an official, unfamiliar voice, asked her if she was so and so.
And then she knew everything.
* * *
...Alex indeed scored - a beautiful culmination of the green shirt offensive.
And fell immediately because a short arrow with black feathers was sticking out of his neck.
- That one is hard to pull out, - said someone.
They pulled it out just fine. A big drop of blood came out of the little hole and slid down, leaving a glistening, spiraling trail around the neck. The drop came down to the pit of the clavicle and stopped there; Alex wiped his throat with the back of his hand. He didn't wipe off the blood, only smudged it.
Vova and Anton tried a few combinations, unsuccessfully.
- You have to practice your shooting! - exclaimed Vova heartily. - Combination or not, it all comes down to the same thing in the end… You are letting the team down!
Ludowik was pleased, swinging his foot up and down. Mel gnawed at a straw.
Anton felt tired. His muscles obeyed him, and his legs felt light, like he was at practice - yet he felt deathly tired inside. The invisible sun blazed from above, the icy snow glittered under his feet, the bright orange ball flashed before his eyes like lightning. Vova kept saying something - Anton grasped only bits and pieces.
- Tosha, - called Mel. - Come here…
Anton approached. The shadow from the fence fell on his face - he felt momentary relief.
- Tosha, - said Mel. - I am counting on you, you know. Get yourself together - or I have two candidates for your spot already… Understand?
- I need to rest, - managed Anton.
- You don't need rest... You are in great physical shape, - either you play right now or you get going... Got it?
Anton nodded silently. Returned to the court; everyone stepped out of his way.
There was no morning. There was no night. No one went to sleep. Only now Anton understood what it meant to be without time.
Maybe they played for a day. Maybe for a week. Maybe for a year. The muscles didn't tire - the nerves gave out. The game kept getting more and more intense; a foul after a foul, a free-throw after a free-throw. The teams, previously more than respectful towards one another, now showered each other with insults at the smallest occasion and even edged towards violence. The score was one thousand two hundred and sixty four to one thousand two hundred and sixty - Mel's team. Anton scored nine hundred twenty points and had four hundred and five pickups.
Mel and Ludowik also seemed to have fallen prey to the competitive spirit. They squabbled and sat apart, avoiding each other's eyes, and scurried further and further in the arms race with every point.
At first Anton got rocks to the back of the head. Then a dart to the neck. Then a knife in the back. Then an arrow in the jugular. Then a shot sounded as he made his throw; the ball rolled around the rim and missed the basket. While Anton lay in the snow with a bullet in his spine Mel and Ludowik engaged in a quiet argument: Mel was insisting that his opponent fired before the actual throw took place; Ludowik was countering with the suggestion that Mel at least lose with dignity.
In retaliation Mel also started shooting Ludowik's players, using calibers fit for elephants. He killed Oleg a hundred times, and Alex - two hundred and seventeen times, completely smashing his skull with the last one, so it took Alex a good three minutes of lying breathless under the backboard before he finally stumbled to his feet.
- Pick up! - screamed Vova.
- Don't slow down! Use your speed! - yelled Alex.
The score was one thousand three hundred ninety six to one thousand three hundred ninety eight, Ludowik's team, when Mel pulled out the flamethrower...
* * *
The drops were falling off the ceiling - heavy and transparent, and very cold compared to the rest of the water.
The steam thickened. The world seemed hidden behind a veil.
All of the soot was long gone from Alex's body, but he kept rubbing his back, his sides, his shoulders. His face. His short stubby hair.
- ... it's hard to admit sometimes, - Vova was saying. - It's hard to admit to people what a low thing you did...
- Stupid, not low, - corrected Oleg, wincing.
- Low, - put in Alex hoarsely. - Vova is right.
- Hah! - retorted Oleg insolently. - I am an orphan. Who the hell is gonna miss me?
- You could have had children, - said Alex with reproach.
- Or not, - snapped Oleg. - You, who had a mother, a father, who hung yourselves for a piece of gum, you are idiots. But I, I had no choice... I was a goner either way...
- Why don't you shut your mouth... Who, did you say, hung himself for a piece of gum?!
Anton quietly walked off to the side. Turned away and stared at the wall.
Hot water whipped at the back of his head.
* * *
...Not overnight. Slowly. Over the course of months.
There was still time then.
It had been six months since Lenka had gotten married. Her belly was like a huge basketball. The word on the street was that she was knocked up, and the evil tongues of the town kept telling Anton not to sweat it. Seeing as how she was no great prize and all.
Anton listened. Didn't nod, but didn't argue either. Only later, at home, he kept washing his face again and again, rubbing his hands, his cheeks, his ears.
The skin on his face started to chafe. Mom bought him some moisturizer.
Mom watched endless, boring serials.
He would go to the school court and play. By himself. To exhaustion. Sunk the balls into a bold, netless ring. Pounded on the asphalt. In the dark. Blindly. Played.
- Do you understand that if you get kicked out of school you will immediately get drafted?!
He obediently attended the lectures. Understood nothing. Sat there like a porcelain doll.
They made fun of him because of his height. Called him "longshanks", "polearm", hell, all basketball players are called all the same names...
In the depth of his desk sat pictures of Lenka and him - he didn't throw them out. Idiot.
He was sick of mom's guilt trips. He was sick of the serials. He knew he'd fail the finals.
He hadn't a single friend.
He was an outsider, an extra.
That day mom made him a cheese sandwich. Poured some tea into a small thermos. And packed him an apple.
He didn't know about it. He didn't open his bag. He only knew about it now.
Had he opened his bag, that apple would have held him back.
* * *
- Mel...
- Yes?
Anton realized that he won't be able to say it. Mel's eyes were dark-green, viscous, and his sneakers - white, like an egg shell.
- I regret, - managed Anton. - I am sorry.
- That you played badly?
- No... That I...
He stopped.
- Yes? - Mel winked ever so slightly.
- That I am a bastard! - almost screamed Anton. - That I am a traitor...
- So? - chuckled Mel.
Anton shut up.
- Doesn't matter, - said Mel. - I am not the judge of you. You now have one goal, one thought: how to put that ball in that basket. That is the only solace that I can offer you now... And be happy with that: others don't even get that much.
* * *
The true meaning of his words came to Anton much later.
The playfield was a replacement for life, the shower room - an analogue of death. A symbol of despair.
During the game he thought only of the ball. Of how to shake the defender and open himself up to the playmaker. Of how to make a more accurate pass. How to dribble. How to steal. How to score.
The commonplace death that awaited him at the moment of a successful shot no longer frightened him. Only the flamethrower still induced terror, but both Ludowik and Mel resorted to flamethrowers only in exceptional cases. Alex and Vova were each burned once before his eyes. He himself has avoided such fate thus far.
In the shower room he always remembered what had happened, though. In the shower room he thought of mom and of the red apple at the bottom of his bag. Stood with his face to the wet tile, listened to the chatter in the nearby cabins, saw the green lawn under his feet - and his mother's face, when she found out.
He hardly ever remembered Lenka anymore.
She has probably given birth by now. Or maybe it has only been one day… Or maybe a hundred years. And there is no one left of those who had known him. And mom is finally free of...
Or maybe that's forever.
- Listen, Alex...
- What?
- Those bastards, in the army... what did they do to you?
- Buzz off, - Alex immediately became distant, frowned and sombered up.
- You know, - said Anton, swallowing the hot water. - No one made me do it... I am one of them, the ones who "hung themselves for a piece of gum". Only I didn't hang myself. I...
- Whatever, - said Alex. - Slavka Jr. over there did the same thing. His father was a businessman. Slavka went to college, in England... but he got sick of it. He chose "freedom", you see. And you chose "freedom". And I am here too, with the two of you, in the same basket. By way of these bastards.
- What about your mom? She still there?
Alex looked up, not even squinting under the water, as if his eyes were made of glass.
- That would be fair, at least… But no, no fairness. Ludowik will trade me right out if anything... I keep telling him - you know everything about me. I didn't do it out of boredom, I did it out of desperation... But he says - so what.
* * *
- What's wrong with you, Tosha?
Anton said nothing.
For two consecutive matches now he has been outright sabotaging the game. Dropped the ball. Mucked up easy shots. Indifferently followed the game, strolled leisurely along the court like a casual observer.
- What's wrong, you don't want to play anymore? Tired of the game? Ready to part with the guys, - and with me?
- Yes, - said Anton.
- What?!
- I am ready to go in standard charges, - managed Anton, looking above Mel's head. - That would be fair.
Mel remained silent for a minute. Then put his hand on Anton's shoulder; his touch was akin to the caress of a giant praying mantis:
- You know something about fairness? Tell me. Because I don't.
* * *
- This is Danilka, - said Ludowik. - He is great on offense. Please welcome him... Anton, may I ask you to warm up with Daniil one on one?
The guy was seven feet tall and very young. Sixteen, no more. Frowning, tense, but not scared. Wearing a nice T-shirt by a well-known designer.
- Let's go, - Mel threw the ball to Anton. As he caught it, Anton realized that he would not see Alex again.
"What do you know about fairness?"
Why Alex?!
He, Anton, voluntarily refused this break. Alex, on the other hand, was always afraid of going in on standard charges...
"Ludowik will trade me right out if anything..."
And here he was, playing with some Danilka.
...This teenager was decisive and confident. And he was 4 inches taller than Anton; the game went in a circle: Daniil would force Anton to the line, the ball would go out. And again: Daniil would force Anton to the line...
- All right, - said Ludowik. - Mel, Anton, wait for me a second.
And went behind the fence - with Daniil.
- What? - asked Anton.
- This one is no good.
- What's his problem with Alex?!
Mel shrugged:
- He is the one picking his players, not you or I... Right?
Right then Ludowik re-appeared with another guy - this one was Anton's age, coursed, lanky, in a worn navy shirt.
* * *
When the score in the new game became two thousand one hundred and eight to two thousand ninety, Mel's team, Ludowik put the army rifle aside. Anton couldn't yet see the flamethrower, but knew for sure that it was coming; he knew it, but still went for the ring. Knowing he'd pound it in.
The ball was orange, the flame - white. If you looked from the inside. White with thin black streaks that looked like capillaries. Anton ran and burned - for a long time, for a few very long seconds.
Chestnut leaves rolling up in the fire... And pages of someone's letters - with a child's handwriting; and photos, black and white, and color, melting like icicles...
Lenka and him at a sea resort. With a postcard view behind them. Lenka is smiling and hugging Anton by the neck.
Lenka in a thin beach robe over her wet body.
Lenka...
"Mom! Get me out of this camp! It's boring, you have to go to sleep an nine and it's always raining. And the counselor is mean. I'll be waiting for you on Sunday..."
When Anton managed to open his eyes the air still smelled of burned flesh. Sneakered feet surrounded him - gray and blue sneakers; then there was a glimmer of an egg shell, and big, heavy sneakers sailed out of somewhere like a great white sea liner, and stopped right before Anton's eyes.
- Get up, - said Mel.
The soot was everywhere. And the smell.
- Now you have some idea about the place you wanted to go to so much, - whispered Mel in Anton's ear. - So get yourself together and keep playing.
* * *
The water flowed into a barred drain hole in the middle of the shower room. The guys conversed in a half-whisper, glancing at Anton uneasily. The new guy - his name was Kirill - hunkered down with his hands over his shaved head.
The water was black. The soot didn't want to come off.
* * *
- Mel...
- Yes?
- I can't change anything... Take it back. I can't, can I?
Mel chuckled:
- You want me to make you feel better?
- No, - said Anton. - I was just asking. I thought... It's hard to score under that flamethrower fire, isn't it?
- Yes, it's hard, - agreed Mel.
Anton looked away. Looked at this hands. His palms were gray as ashes.
- What if someone does it? Scores under fire?
Mel examined him for a few moments, then suddenly burst into laughter:
- Are you trying to bargain? No, tell me, do I understand you correctly? You want to make a deal?
He had sharp, even teeth. The big plum on his shirt changed all shades of blue.
* * *
The score was five thousand one hundred and thirty six to five thousand two hundred - Mel's team. Kirill, the new guy, was very good technically, but weak psychologically. Every time a round of bullets hit him in the back he died seriously and for a long time; he then had to be almost forcefully lifted from the snow and slapped back into reality. And for many minutes after Kirill would stumble around the court like a blind kitten; Ludowik's team lost points, and Anton knew that soon time would come for the flamethrower.
The time came.
Anton lifted off the foul line - and saw Vova, running for the basket and completely open. Anton passed, and Vova would have surely scored, had a thin streak of fire let out by Ludowik not turned him into a dancing torch.
The ball went out.
Kirill the newbie slid down onto the snow.
Anton walked up to the blackened doll, which was Vova only a second ago, and would be Vova once again in another second, a dirty and reeking Vova.
- My turn, - said Anton sullenly. - Pull off Slavik Jr. and pass to me... Got it?
Vova nodded.
* * *
...He saw a green lawn below. Big chestnut trees. Parked cars in front of the building. Telephone lines.
He could hear the squeaking of a tin hood.
The branches swayed invitingly. The clouds flowed in soft curves, beckoning him to take flight...
Like a mischievous cat he darted off from the edge of the roof. Stumbling, tripping on some wire, bumping into antennae, knocking down everything in his path - off he went, to the stairs, into the shadows.
Sixteenth floor. Fifteenth. Fourteenth…
Someone drew back, out of his way:
- Are you nuts?!
(The fire clouded both his sight and his mind. The ball was white. Everything was snow-white. His fingers already popped, charred, but his eyes still saw the ultra white light of this final fire.
The fire was dense, like jello. White, with black streaks.
Anton had just enough time to see a blackened rim with burned netting...
By that time he was already gone, had burned almost completely...
...and a big, misshapen ball, sinking down like the head of a snowman...
...rolling around the edge - and falling in...)
He ran out into an unfamiliar courtyard, under an unfamiliar sun, under the sights of these unfamiliar old ladies. The old ladies that never got to witness his flight...
(Fire...)
People twisted their fingers at their temples as he went by; he ran along the street, clipping passerbys, ran to a payphone, but couldn't dial the number and rushed forward again...
(Green lawn under his feet. The squeaking of the tin hood...)
His building.
His floor.
His door..
About to open.
- Mama!..
* * *
The walls of the shower room were covered with white tile. In a few places the tiles fell off, leaving dark squares of concrete. The ceiling was lined with heavy water drops and the shower was churning out a wide stream of really, really hot water.
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