The Nightingale

The translation of my semi-autobiographical short story into English. "The Nightingale" took third prize at "Havaqatsu" writing contest on June 2, 2012.

http://iwl.me says the style of the short story is like L. Frank Baum; I believe that's because of my abuse of words "child" and "little one" in dialogues. I hope you'll enjoy it; this is my first work translated into English and the style won't be as smooth as I would like and you might even find adverbs in the text.

2012, Yerevan, Armenia

t was damp in the field; when he looked up, he couldn't find the sun and find out what time it was. The grass was deep green, almost a man's height, bushy, with tiny blue and purple flowers, and small drops of dew had gathered on the leaves. The fog was dense; he realized he was walking towards the swamps and directed his steps to the forest.

The bitter smell of grass pleased him, but he knew - if he walked a bit further to the south, it would get mixed with the stench of standing swamp-water.

Then a sound attracted his attention: a brass bell. The sound was coming closer, so he decided to wait for a while.

Then he saw her: a small girl-child with a brass bell in her hand was running through the field. He waved to her; the girl run to him. Her breath was heavy.

- Help me, please!

- What happened, child?- he asked.

- There are gakis there.

- Give me your bell. What is your name?

- Naichinge-Ryu.

- Go home, Naichinge-Ryu.

He took the bell and shook it.

The burst of cold wind made him wrap into his coat. If the fog wasn't so dense, he thought, I'd see them already. He sat down in the damp grass.

When a transparent cloud of the fog took the form of a human hand, he could not decide whether it was for real.

He shook the bell once more. This time it wasn't an illusion for sure: he managed to see the angry, fretful face of a fat, ugly woman, her cap and her apron. Two kids were hanging onto the woman's skirt, seemed like they were crying, though without making a sound. The gakis stepped forward and seceded from the fog, becoming fragile visions.

But he could see the ghosts. He shook the bell and started a segaki prayer. He knew: the ghosts may be as hungry as they will, but they can't harm him.

They are just hungry ghosts from someone's past. Maybe your own.

This is a dream, isn't it? The ringing of the bell is my alarm clock, that tries to wake me up.

But I don't want to wake up. No matter how weird or terrible my dreams may be, no matter whose life I live there, I never want to wake up. But do I have a choice?

I opened my eyes and, as always, I saw the ceiling. I sat in my bed and stayed that way for a moment.

I had dressed and finished my breakfast when the phone rang.

- I'm near your house,- you said.

- I'll be in a moment.

He was walking through the damp grass until he caught up with her.

- You really made them go,- said the girl.

- Yes.

They walked together for a while.

 

There's a forest at the foot of Fuji mountain they call Akoigahara, "The Sea of Trees". That's where I should be. There's a rock in Akoigahara, and if you lean to it upside-down - your legs on the rock - and look up, it will seem to you that you're looking into a pit, and the sky is the bottom. And if you look for long enough, you'll fall into that pit.

And if you can spread your wings until you hit the sky, you will turn into a bird. That's the only place in the world, where a man can become a bird.

The Suicide Forest. That's how simple folk call Akoigahara.

And then I woke up.

 

The burst of cold wind made the man on the park bench wrap into his coat. A wave of gray, spotted leaves washed over his shoes and covered them in dust.

The park was empty, and he was free to let his mind race.

It was November: the sky was like lead, it predicted a cold winter. He looked at his watch - 5pm, but it seemed like dusk already.

A child was standing under a tree, looking up. She was saying something, but it was too far for him to hear the words. Wasn't interested either. He slumbered again.

- Sir!

He opened his eyes: the same girl was pulling his sleeve - not exactly beautiful, long neck, freckles. She might be ten or twelve maybe.

- What happened, child?- he said, trying to make his voice sound friendly.

- Sir, would you please help me save that cat?

- That cat?

- Come with me, I'll show you.

And pulled his sleeve once more in impatience. He made himself stand up and follow the child to the tree, making his sleeping limbs wake up while walking.

There really was a cat on the tree; it was meowing in its misery.

- Will you help it, Sir? It won't listen to me,- said the child. Then she spoke to the cat:- Don't worry, this man will help you right away.

He looked at the cat: a simple, gray tom, one of those who had escaped the attention of Animal Control people. Tried to convince himself to climb the tree, not knowing why, but suddenly understood that his coat was on the bench already, his hands were around the lowest branches and his feet were climbing up.

When he reached the cat and tried to catch it, the cat jumped down and run away.

He hung from the branch and jumped down too.

- Your cat ran away, child,- he said laughing.

The girl was just standing, her fingers woven together, and looking lost. He asked:

- What happened to you?

- Dad says I shouldn't talk to strangers.

- You're a strange child. You talked to me first.

The child kept silent.

- Your dad is right. Now run back home, it's late already.

The girl run away, and he walked home too. Soon he forgot about the incident.

 

I'm standing by the window, Mary comes up to me and puts her hand on my shoulder.

- I don't know whether you'll ever forgive me,- she says.

Another ghost.

I'm looking back, looking at her, want to hug her, but I can't. Something balls inside, and I pull my hands back. It's like there's something in my throat, but I'm not crying.

- I'm not angry with you.

- You can't imagine how guilty I am. Forgive me, please.

He never confessed to anyone that he cried each time he saw Mary in his sleep. Men don't cry, and he's no exception.

"Why were you asking for forgiveness, Mary? You never said you were sorry. None of us ever did".

Then a suspicion crept in.

"Maybe something has happened to her".

He would shiver all day, unable to concentrate on anything. In the evening he couldn't help calling her.

- Hello, Mary?

- Why are you calling me? What do you want?

Fear turned into the old depressive feeling.

- Nothing, I just wanted to make sure you're ok.

- Thank you for caring, but I don't need it. I get all the care I need.

- I know. Sorry for disturbing you.

- Don't call me anymore.

He hung up and walked out of the room. Don't worry, ladies and gentlemen, I'm okay.

He looked back: something was wrong. the water jar was in place, the bookcase too. So what was wrong?

His coat. He had forgotten his coat in the park the day before. The cat. He should go back, hoping his coat was still there.

Walking towards the elevator, he wanted to push the button, but something balled up inside him again, like it did in the dream. He walked away from the elevator and took the stairs instead. The weather was worse than the day before.

 

When he's lying in his bed, the cat comes and lies down besides him. He caresses the cat, plays with it, then the cat jumps up and goes away. Maybe the cat thinks he won't let it go, will keep caressing him. But he lets the cat go.

Maybe that's what you wanted. Embrace you, never let go, but I can't. Stay, if you want, but that's something you should do, not me. I'm too tired.

We were in a swamp, the same green swamp, when I gave you my hand. I wanted to carry you out; but you wanted to know me first, trust me. I told you that you could walk away after we got out, even without me.

I was looking for solid ground and you were looking at me and holding my hand. And when the swamp swallowed us both, you let go of my hand, and I was looking for you, and couldn't find you anymore.

Mary was in my past and she still hurts. It's you now.

 

- Don't love Sunny,- the small one says in an angry voice.- Neil loves Sunny. Go away!

- You want me to go away?

I approach the child, take his shirt up, put my lips against his belly and blow. The child laughs, hits my head with his small fists and repeats:

- Go away!

- Already going,- I continue,- you want more?

- You know who you are?- asks the other kid.- You're papa. No, Neil is papa. Go away!

I know, I know. And I'd give anything not to hear it. I'd give anything to become their father.

Do you love me?

No.

Are you in love with me still?

No. Don't cry, you're turning everything into tragedy.

It's nothing, I'll be fine. I'm okay.

I'm going to Cyprus. I want to be alone, I don't need a second husband.

If you go, I'll come for you.

You won't. I mean you believe it now, but you'll forget soon. You'll be okay.

I'll come for you. Maybe not at once, but I'll put off some money and come for you. And I'll be near if you need me.

When you're drunk, you embrace me, kiss me and ask me to throw you out of the window, you say you love me that way.

We're making love, we are one, we're loving and trusting each other. Do you want us to orgasm together? Do you want us to try for a baby?

I don't know, you answer to me.

And I'm not brave enough. When you're sober, it will all be the same, and only regret will remain.

We're lying together for a couple of minutes.

We're out of cigarettes, you said. Let's go to the room and have a smoke.

 

Sitting alone at home he feels he doesn't want to start it all over. He doesn't want other children, other love, anyone.

Starting all over, it means losing all that was. Losing happy moments, losing pain and loss.

He has started all over way too often.

He finds value even in losing you. You won't be back, but he doesn't want to let go of your ghost. Years will pass, and you won't be as pretty, and you won't be yourself, and maybe everything will change. But at this moment you are everything he wants to hold onto.

For the first time in your life you're having a feeling like you want to go to sleep and never wake up. A feeling that moving on is impossible. And meaningless. Maybe that's the moment a man gets drunk and calls the girl and speak something weird, cries and makes himself look miserable.

I'll just sleep. And never wake up.

 

It was damp in the field; when he looked up, he couldn't find the sun and find out what time it was. The grass was deep green, almost a man's height, bushy, with tiny blue and purple flowers, and small dewdrops had gathered on the leaves. The fog was dense; he realized he was walking towards the swamps and directed his steps to the forest.

They found him lying under the rock, with a child's mild smile on his face. Maybe it was a coincidence, but the trail of blood had drawn the image of a bird's wings around his arms.

The Nightingale was singing on a willow's branch. I love you for your eyes, you said. Now you know, that this nightingale shall have my eyes.

The willow has bowed down in slumber,
And it seams to me, that the nightingale on her branch
Is her spirit.
Basho Matsuo