Whatever the Price
By Alan Zhukovski
He woke up with the sunbeams. The rays have stretched on the grass, he thought, they are still sleeping. He took his hat, which had been waiting for him between the flowers, and went to the city. But the sunlight followed the man, covering him with the umbrellas of the shadows, curiously watching him from the trees. “To the city! Whatever the price!” he thought.
Some days before, his hours grew colder and colder. Living alone in the village, he got tired of the deep forests around him, of the small, ridiculously banal river, waving like a noose around his half-decrepit house, and of the sunsets, erected each day on the tops of the mountains like undecipherable and untouchable monuments.
His wife passed away seven years before, and the house seemed to be in the state of a never-ending convulsive agony. The roof planks will fall with a striking regularity, but the whole structure defended itself desperately from gradual decomposition. The master of the house was unwilling to help.
His son had died recently, during an epidemic of cholera, which seemed to infect not only several people in the village, but also several buildings and several trees, unwilling to fight for their lives. A small world, inhabited by a dozen of human beings, was dying. The village was surrounded by beautiful natural scenery, but it was indifferent to what was happening. Everything seemed to be wrong, this bitter emaciated river, these proud mountains, these pretentiously bright sunsets, and these scary forests, well-known to the villagers but still mysterious and cunning.
He didn’t think about his wife and about his son. He thought them to be part of this village, of this cholera, of these ridiculous and sinister surroundings. He might have been cruel, but, nearing the end, he wanted to start something new, something extraordinary. He left the house to its own devices and entered a fathomless wood of narcotic coniferous trees, and a crowd of sunbeams became his disciples and friends. “To the city! Whatever the price!” he thought.
A few days later, soon after awakening, he came across a small path, painted by somebody between the trees, and decided to follow it. More and more rays were sticking to his ragged shirt, forming a nimbus around his body. The needles of the firs scratched his skin. Suddenly the path ended, and the man’s heart started thumping loudly. There was a very steep precipice, and a big road below.
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By Alan Zhukovski
He woke up with the sunbeams. The rays have stretched on the grass, he thought, they are still sleeping. He took his hat, which had been waiting for him between the flowers, and went to the city. But the sunlight followed the man, covering him with the umbrellas of the shadows, curiously watching him from the trees. “To the city! Whatever the price!” he thought.
Some days before, his hours grew colder and colder. Living alone in the village, he got tired of the deep forests around him, of the small, ridiculously banal river, waving like a noose around his half-decrepit house, and of the sunsets, erected each day on the tops of the mountains like undecipherable and untouchable monuments.
His wife passed away seven years before, and the house seemed to be in the state of a never-ending convulsive agony. The roof planks will fall with a striking regularity, but the whole structure defended itself desperately from gradual decomposition. The master of the house was unwilling to help.
His son had died recently, during an epidemic of cholera, which seemed to infect not only several people in the village, but also several buildings and several trees, unwilling to fight for their lives. A small world, inhabited by a dozen of human beings, was dying. The village was surrounded by beautiful natural scenery, but it was indifferent to what was happening. Everything seemed to be wrong, this bitter emaciated river, these proud mountains, these pretentiously bright sunsets, and these scary forests, well-known to the villagers but still mysterious and cunning.
He didn’t think about his wife and about his son. He thought them to be part of this village, of this cholera, of these ridiculous and sinister surroundings. He might have been cruel, but, nearing the end, he wanted to start something new, something extraordinary. He left the house to its own devices and entered a fathomless wood of narcotic coniferous trees, and a crowd of sunbeams became his disciples and friends. “To the city! Whatever the price!” he thought.
A few days later, soon after awakening, he came across a small path, painted by somebody between the trees, and decided to follow it. More and more rays were sticking to his ragged shirt, forming a nimbus around his body. The needles of the firs scratched his skin. Suddenly the path ended, and the man’s heart started thumping loudly. There was a very steep precipice, and a big road below.
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