Бывает - в переводе на англ. язык

Aleksandr Krasnoslobodsky

                “It happens…”





Illustration by architect Yulia Popova
Translated by Alexander Ryumin.
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         Leaning over the pit, the skeleton thrust a torch above the prisoner's head. The light pierced his eyes like needles, blurring his vision with tears.

         - Well, well... Alive! I never thought we'd meet again!

          Through the veil of tears, the prisoner made out the steward's black tailcoat and his mournful, bony smile.

         - Yesterday it seemed like your last day. You were terribly weak, - said the skeleton, illuminating a corner where a fat toad sat in a hollow of the basalt wall.

         - Is your friend getting fatter?

         The prisoner smiled and wiped his damp eyes with his palm:

         - Yeah... Soon I'll be able to ride her!

         The skeleton nodded in agreement. Wedging the torch handle into a niche, he took up a spear leaning against the rock's edge and leaned over the pit again:

         - Yes, human! You are strong in insolence. Mighty in spirit! Your predecessor was devoured by this toad after a month of friendship. But you—look at you, more than a year on your feet. I respect that!

         The steward looked into the toad's black eyes and aimed the spear at her. Waiting until the tip was right before her nose, she sneezed, slid lazily into the muck, and dove deep.

         - What will you eat? - asked the skeleton, tearing his gaze from the toad's hollow.

         The prisoner sighed heavily and shrugged:

         - I don't know. You choose.

         Hearing this, the skeleton tilted his head. He began to study the naked, emaciated man with surprise. Then, with a questioning look in his eyes, he took the fattest piece of lamb fillet from the platter and skewered it on the spear's point.

         - With the chance, I'd eat that very best piece on the platter! Well...? Why hesitate? You've been hungry for over a year—take it!

         The scent of spices is intoxicated with promises of unearthly pleasure. The prisoner reached out. Carefully, he removed the meat from the spearhead. He brought it to his lips—but suddenly—sharp pain! The toad had bitten into his leg! Slipping on the damp stone, desperately trying to regain balance, the wretch plunged headlong into the stinking mire.

         He surfaced. With great effort and caution, clenching the meat in his fist high above his head, he clambered back onto the slimy stone. Smearing mud across his face, he rose to his feet—and only then, in the torchlight, did the prisoner see the filth on the food. Overcoming his revulsion, he brought the meat to his mouth—but a wave of nausea stopped him.

         Sensing danger, the toad resumed her favorite spot on the stone ledge and began to watch the "cellmate's" every move attentively.

         The prisoner found her with his eyes. In a fury, he hurled the meat at the toad and lunged to catch her. Seizing the piece, the toad darted into the muck and hid somewhere in the depths, forcing the wretch to plunge headlong into the filth.

         Exhausted from fruitless searching, he crawled back onto the stone.

         The bony steward shook his head reproachfully:

         - Time and again, the same thing. I give you meat, and you foolishly feed it to the toad.

         Understanding the hopelessness of his situation, the prisoner asked quietly:

         - What should I do?

         The steward straightened up. Setting the spear back in place, he took the torch from the niche, lifted the platter from the stone, and moved deeper into the cave.

         - What should I do?! - shouted the wretched prisoner after him.
The skeleton stopped.

         - You don't know? You surprise me. Kill the toad! - he said, and soon his footsteps faded.

          With a heavy sigh, the poor soul glanced at the hollow. His "friend" was already in place, warily watching her neighbor.

          - If only I knew how, I'd have killed her long ago.

          Calm and purring contentedly, the toad pulled the lamb from the muck...



          Silence. It is everywhere, as inseparable from the darkness as the prisoner is from the toad.
   
          He was hungry. He didn't understand why he was still alive. Something compelled him to live. But what? The stone on which he stood in the middle of the pit barely rose above the filthy water. The wall was smooth, just a step away—but the moment he touched it, he fell into the pit. Only his nails drew blood. And the mire had no bottom; where the toad sat, his foot could not find purchase. Freedom, an elbow's length away, was nevertheless... All attempts were futile.

          Loneliness, as if in league with the cave's darkness, crushed and broke the prisoner's mind so that he stooped to converse with the toad. Squatting, day and night, he told her the same story over and over:


          ... Autumn. Golden leaves and sunlight... First-graders cross the street, holding hands. A friend's car swerves sharply. It dodges the children, but catches the hem of the teacher's dress with its rear bumper... Without slowing, the car drags the young woman along the highway into oncoming traffic...

          In that accident, two died: the young teacher from severe injuries, never having waited for the ambulance, and his friend—without a single scratch—from a ruptured heart.

          Usually after the story, the prisoner would sob and tear at his hair, while the toad watched him with clever black eyes that held a silent question: "Why are you crying so bitterly?" Sometimes he saw mockery in those eyes.

          Oh, how he wanted to kill her! Every time the toad fell asleep, the prisoner would lunge at her. But the toad awakened in time and managed to hide in the muck. And when the prisoner, standing, would doze off, she retaliated, biting his legs bloody. So neither prisoner nor toad slept.

          Drops dripping from the stalactite that, over millennia, had grown to hang from the cave's vault above the pit, washed the smells and clumps of grime from the prisoner's filthy body. These same drops were the only amusement toad. She caught them with pleasure on her long red tongue, quenching her thirst.

          To deprive her of the joy of purity, to force her to drink the stinking mire, the prisoner collected the drops in his palms. When he had gathered enough water began to run down his arms, he drank, washed his face and body, and smiled maliciously at the contrast: he was clean, while the toad remained in filth. He could never drink his fill, but thirst receded—and with it, hunger.

          He longed for sleep, but the toad was waiting. She was certain! The moment would come when the neighbor could not resist and, drowsy, would fall into the muck. Then she would pounce, smother him, and drag him into the depths of stench. Knowing this, or sensing it, the prisoner did not doze. The thought of how his friend died had saved him until now. Squatting, cautiously glancing at the sleeping toad, the poor soul recalled that story.

          The steward's footsteps approached—which meant another day had passed.



          Leaning over the pit, the skeleton thrust a torch above the prisoner's head. The bright flame pierced his eyes like needles, blurring his vision with tears.

          - Alive! Well, well! You've made my day! How's your toad? Getting fatter?

          Through the veil of tears, the poor soul made out the steward's black tailcoat.

          - What could happen to that bitch?"

          The skeleton wedged the torch into a niche. Taking the spear from the rock's edge, he leaned over the pit.

          - Yes, human! Strong in insolence and mighty in spirit. I respect that!

           Looking into the toad's black eyes, he aimed the spear at her. She slid lazily into the muck, not even bothering to dive deep.

          - What will you eat? - asked the steward, tearing his gaze from the toad.
The prisoner thought.

          - You know... tell me about your cross.

          - Hm. Why would you want that? - The skeleton was surprised. - Tell me—what will you eat?

          - You were punished for gluttony, weren't you?" the prisoner pressed.

          The skeleton paused. Taking a piece of lamb fillet from the platter, he skewered the meat on the spearhead.

          - Yes. You're right! That is my cross. There was a time when I killed a man for a piece of bread... Almost three hundred years now, and I've eaten nothing. I carry food. I hand it out to scoundrels and bastards, waiting for a miracle! Only bones remain of me, but the smell of food—I still feel it.

          The spear point with the meat lowered to the prisoner's face.

          - Well! Why do you hesitate? Go on!

          The captive reached out—and suddenly snatched his hand back.

          - No!!!' he cried out." I know the meat will fall into the mire again. No, I won't feed her! There's only one way to kill the toad—WITH HUNGER!!! Take the meat and eat it yourself!

          The steward was astonished.

          - Are you ill? No... You're giving the meat to me?! - he asked, unable to believe what he was hearing—but seeing the determined look in the prisoner's eyes, he threw his arms toward the vault and shouted with all his might:

          - It has happened! It has happened!! Just as foretold!!! O God! He gave me what his, HIMSELF! The last of what he had!!!

          In the torchlight, the prisoner saw flesh beginning to appear on the skeleton's hands and face, and his laughter, unceasing, shook the vault.
   
          Catching his breath and calming down, the steward raised the spear. Placing the meat back on the platter, he took a step to the very edge of the pit. The flickering torchlight illuminated the tired face of an old man and his mad eyes.

         - Here, friend! I'll pull you out," he said, lowering the spear into the pit.

         The prisoner, unable to believe his eyes, burst into sobs. He grasped the shaft and the spearhead. The old man, not without effort, hauled the poor soul out of the pit. With a smirk, he kicked the toad that had clung to the prisoner's bare leg with the toe of his boot. Splashing down, she grumbled in discontent.

         - You may choose the best piece, my savior!" the steward gestured toward the platter at the pit's edge. "You won't believe it—I've waited for this offer for three hundred years! Everyone here is ready to feed the toad until they starve to death themselves. All those years... and only now...

         With tears in his eyes, the old man removed his tailcoat. He handed it to the freed prisoner:

         - Put it on. Farther on, it will be cool.


         The poor soul nodded in thanks to the old steward and draped the tailcoat over his bare shoulders. Then, timidly taking a bird's wing from the platter, he brought the meat to his mouth. He couldn't believe his fortune! Inhaling the fragrant aroma of roasted, still-warm meat, he began to eat, letting tears fall onto the food and his hands.

          - Yes! There is no better seasoning than one's own tears, - said the old man, and chose the fillet of lamb—the very same one he had skewered for hundreds of years.

          - I've waited for this moment for an eternity, - said the old man, examining and inhaling the aroma of the food, and asked: - Yesterday I told you why I was punished—and what are you punished for?

           The former prisoner put the meat down on the edge of the platter.

           Weary, he sighed and answered:

           - Envy of my friend's success made me cut the brake line on his car.

           The former skeleton smiled knowingly and gave the poor wretch a friendly pat on the shoulder:

           - It happens...

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           ... They ate for a long time and were happy. And afterward, they walked out of the cave.

            Eight more circles of HELL awaited them...