* * *

  On the day of the performance I got up and made him his favourite breakfast. Which was exactly the same as his father’s. A single orange. Which he sucked all the juices out of. A single orange that he never bit. Then some black coffee. And a big thick heel of bread. With cheese on. Then he said he was going to do some yoga. He got down and he did some poses. Really badly. I don’t know why he did that. He had never done it before. Light travels at 186,000 miles per second. My father said. He was still thinking about light in darkness. Surely you’d feel that even more than driving in a fast car. Driving in a fast car down the highway with the windows down. He said. Surely that would ruffle your hair. Surely you would feel it on your skin as it shoots past.

  We arrived at the venue in the afternoon. There was the same sound guy working there. The same sound guy that Jaco had said was behind the original Xstabeth LP. But of course he was giving nothing away. He acted like he had never met my father before. But then he made a joke. Don’t worry. He said. There will be no key janglers. I think my father must have forgotten how he had behaved. Because he didn’t even acknowledge it. My father got up onstage. Can you play us a song. The sound guy said. Can you play us a song so we can check our levels. No songs. My father said. Well. Can you just make a sound. The soundman said. My father took his hand and just banged the guitar for a bit. Is that what you will be doing for the show. The soundman said. It’s just I want to get the levels right. I’m not saying. My father said. I’d rather not reveal it right now. I mean there were only three of us in the room. What would it matter. But still. Well. Can you try your mic. The soundman said. Ah. My father said. Ah. Into the mic. Is that how you are going to be singing during the show. The soundman said. My father just looked at him. With no expression at all. Okay. The soundman said. I guess we’re done. Phew. My father said. That was like pulling teeth. Then he said. Listen. I want the room to be completely dark when I play. I want complete darkness. The people behind the bar are not going to be happy about that. The soundman said. They need to sell drinks. They need light to count the money. For God’s sake what does that have to do with art. My father said. What about if they had torches. What if the bar staff had torches to work by. He said. I’m trying my best to turn this into a total art environment. He said. Work with me here. The soundman looked at him. And for a second it was if he acknowledged that my father was Xstabeth. Or at least her chosen representative. Whatever you say. He said. After all. It’s your show. But you supply the torches. He said. My father said. I need to be alone. I need to commune. That’s what he said. So I went off to buy some torches.

  When I came back. When I came back my father was standing on his head in the dressing room. Listen. He said. Listen. I want you to know that I love you. He said. Still upside down. I want you to know that. In case anything happens. What could happen. I asked him. I’m putting it all on the line here. He said. It’s a leap of faith. He said. Across a chasm. He said. Into the dark. He said. From a great height. He said. Into the silence. He said. Why are you upside down. I asked him. I want to hear the rush of the blood. He said. I want to hear the rush of the blood. I want you to know that you can do nothing wrong. He said. What a thing to say to another person. What a thing for your father to say to you. I felt blessed. And excited. And upset too. Now go. He said. Now leave me here. He said.

  I went for a walk. I went for a walk in St. Peters. All in the snow. Which was falling so softly. So delicately. I looked out at the river. And of course it was frozen. There were people playing on the ice. Gliding back and forth on the ice in St. Peters. It seemed so precarious. I didn’t dare go out on it myself. After all. After all I had to see my father’s show. Everything had led up to this. I walked some more and I got a little lost. I remember feeling as if someone had rearranged the city. Behind my back. Subtly. Strangely. Where streets connected at odd points. Where squares let out onto new avenues. Where buildings appeared where before there had been none. Where grim old monuments to tragic revolutionaries flitted about like chess pieces. And new bridges. New bridges appeared. New bridges that I didn’t dare cross. And of course grim apartments with no heating. Where they had never been before. But that might have been the snow talking. I walked around in a confused dizzy state. I let my baby lead me. That’s what I told myself. And then I realised I was outside Jaco’s apartment. The one my father and I had stood outside of not so long ago. I had no idea how I got there. I looked up and saw a figure at the window. Was it Jaco. Jaco. I said. I called out through the frozen air. But the figure. The figure who was really just a silhouette. A silhouette on a winter’s day in St. Peters with no features. The figure reached up and drew the curtains shut. I thought about ringing the buzzer. About ringing the buzzer and asking for Jaco. Then I realised. I realised it was my baby kicking me. My baby kicking me. Backwards. Into the past. And I resisted it. We had to go forwards. Us two. I knew that now. Besides. Besides you can get into a lot of trouble ringing the wrong buzzer in Russia.

  I eventually found the venue but it seemed like it was on a different street. It was almost buried in snow. And the windows were frosted over. Inside I saw The Snork. Sat by an open stove. The light casting shadows on his face. It looked like a brain. A brain for a face. A red-hot brain. He looked at me then. He looked at me with a single eye. From under a fold of flesh. But I don’t think he recognised me. But who knows. Because he smiled. He smiled like he knew it all. So who knows. The club wasn’t busy. There were about fifteen people sat on stools or stood around at the bar. Then the young sound guy made an announcement. By special request of the artist. He said. I felt so proud of my father right then. The artist. The artist has requested darkness. He said. Then he killed the lights. Behind the bar I saw two torches click on. But that was it.

  There was a quiet murmur in the room. Then someone took the stage. All you could hear in the room was footsteps. But weird footsteps. Like one foot was heavier than the other. Or shorter. Clump-CLUMP. Then silence. Clump- CLUMP. Then there was the sound of water. The sound of water flowing. Glug-GLUG. Glug-GLUG. The rivers have thawed. I thought to myself. The rivers have thawed. Then there was muttering. A voice. Everyone was straining. To hear what it said. Everyone was rapt. Someone went to order a beer at the bar. They whispered to the barman. A shadow in the dark. Everyone turned to look at him. Suddenly everything was significant. Then there was the sound of sliding. The sound of sliding and pulling onstage. You couldn’t make out anything. It was like your eyes would never adjust to the dark. Like inside the dark it was darker still. And that’s where the performance was taking place. But was it even a performance. Later someone said it was like a crime scene. Yes. That was exactly it. It sounded like a body. A body being dragged across the stage. A body being displayed in the dark. Then there was silence. Well. Near silence. Not quite. Something was sitting onstage. Something had dragged something else onstage. And was now sitting next to it. It seemed. If you listened. If you listened you could hear breathing. Breathing somewhere near a microphone. This lasted about five minutes. Everyone in the room was afraid to move. Then there was the smell. A smell began to gather. It smelled like horse dung. Like something rotting. But positive. If you know what I mean. Like healthy decay. Like fertiliser. There were rumours afterwards that whoever it was onstage had tried to make a bomb. They had tried to make a bomb. Live in front of an audience. But that it had failed to go off. After what seemed like eternity itself. After that the thing onstage. Why do I call it a thing. Wasn’t it my father. I don’t know anymore. The thing onstage lit a cigarette. There was a sudden spark. And people gasped. People gasped and jumped back. They thought he was lighting the fuse. People said afterwards. They thought he was lighting the fuse that would blow us all to kingdom come. Of course he was. Art should be like a hand grenade thrown through an open window. At random. Of course he was. All you could see onstage was the glow of the cigarette. And as it moved it left patterns in the air. People claimed it spelled out a word. But no one could agree on what. Someone said it spelled SOS. But to me it was the birds. The birds were back again. The simple birds from my father’s journal. Simple shapes. The view from the beach. Always returning. Again and again. Then there was music. Oh God. There was music. But it was like nothing you ever heard. I swear that this thing onstage. Which was my father or whatever it was. This shape began what sounded like blowing. Like blowing over the strings of a guitar. A guitar that it had picked up. And it was rippling. A single chord was rippling. Droning. (E minor.) Droning. (E seventh.) Rising and falling. So delicately. Then it sounded like there was singing. Like there was singing under the breath. Like it was singing to itself. Why do I say it. That’s what it seemed like. I have to be honest. If my father was there. If my father was sitting up. Or if my father was dead on the stage. Which was a possibility. It felt like anything was possible. Either way it was like there was no personality. It was an it. A thing. A happening. An event. And it was like the music. The music was a beautiful duet with the moment. That the music was duetting with time. And time was duetting with space. And everything in the room was playing along. Every movement. Every sound. (Droning.) I began to feel an incredible sensation. At the base of my spine. (Droning.) Rising up and rising down. But higher each time. (Droning.) Until it felt like I was gushing. Gushing all over my brain. I almost cried out. I thought I heard someone crying. In the room. I swear. Muffled tears. In the silence. (Droning.) And then the sounds stopped. The light of the cigarette had gone. And there was dead silence. Heart-stopping silence. Everyone was afraid to breathe. No one moved in their chair. It was electric. Everything was heightened. How long did it go on. I don’t know. How long did we sit there. Frozen. Sounds from outside the venue began to drift in. Distant voices. A car struggling in the snow. Music from far away. People tiptoed behind the bar. People looked at each other in the dark. Trying to gauge the situation. Trying to read their reactions. Nothing happened. But nothing kept on happening. People began to get restless. Was it all over. Then a woman behind the bar. A woman took a torch and directed it towards the stage. No. People gasped. Don’t do it. It was like there was a vampire hidden in the corner. A vampire no one wanted to see. People covered their eyes. Covered their eyes and looked through their fingers. The beam crossed over the ceiling. And fell down towards the stage. And cut through the silence. In an arc. Had this been orchestrated too. Was it all part of the show. And when it came to the stage. When the light hit the stage. There was nothing. There was no one there. There was just a guitar. Laid on a stool. And that’s when we heard the ticking. From inside the bag. From inside the bag that the torch lit up. The bag that lay on the stage next to the stool. A black bag. That was ticking. There was panic spreading through the room. No doubt. But no one could move. Everyone was paralysed. Looking at this black ticking bag. In the beam of a torch. On an empty stage. Empty except for a guitar. Suddenly I felt so sad. It was so awful. I remembered the terrible fish. The terrible fish my father had torn in two. In St. Andrews. I had the same feeling. And I don’t know what made me do it. I don’t know. But I got up. I got up and walked over to the stage. Someone tried to stop me. They grabbed me by the arm. But then someone else said. Leave her. Leave her. It’s the daughter. And they let me go. I walked up to the stage. And I opened the bag. Inside was a clock. An old-fashioned clock. Ticking. I turned around. In the light of the torch. And held it up for the audience to see. And they began to clap. They began to cheer. With relief. I think. It was so sad. Why. It was so awful. That clock in the old plastic bag. Ticking away on its own. I began to cry. I began to cry. And everyone left. Everyone got up and left. The show was over. They thought. The show was over. And they turned on the lights. There was no one there. No one but the young sound guy. Who came over to me. Who came over to me and took the clock from my hands. And led me away. And said this is where the heart ends. This is where the heart ends. He said.

  GRACE IN XSTABETH

  by Aneliya Andropov

  Let us first locate grace in its most common everyday occurrence. Which would be an extraordinarily beautiful young girl. Walking as if on water. Let us now lend her two sisters. Whom we will title Isrobing and Islence. There you have the classical Graces. As it were born again. We can see then that grace is something that is bestowed. And that itself bestows. Grace is revealed as the perpetual engine of myth and science. Grace is what Newton and Einstein failed to postulate. Indeed. Grace seems as impossible as the flight of a bumblebee. Which it must be admitted isn’t necessarily graceful. Grace also implies a certain thank-you. Who hasn’t thanked the stars and God above at the sight of a beautiful young girl. Her hair trailing in the wind. Her dainty steps one after the other in the summertime. To appreciate the gait of a slender young girl at that time of year is to be gracious. Grace can also be experienced in the cut of a fine suit. Or some nice swimming trunks. Perhaps it would be more correct to say that grace both bestows and diminishes. Grace removes what is timely. It gifts us with its absence. Which becomes another form of grace. This is the grace of ageing. Which is tied in with another word that passes for an exclamation of perfectly poised beauty. And that word is mercy. We demand mercy of the universe when it looks to overwhelm us with grace. We long to stop the young girls in the street with their long flowing dresses and perfectly proportioned pins and say. No. Please. It is too much my dear. Although the mean of grace is fluctuating its power just like gravity is constant. But to have grace is also to know one’s limits. Young girls and old men maintain grace through caring and conversation rather than carousing and complicating. No matter how much the grace of the young girl may unsettle. That is when the cry of mercy reaches the lips. And the conversation is subtly steered towards matters of the weather and the topic of yesterday. Yesterday is a topic that requires grace. In company when it is spoken you can be sure that grace has entered the scene. But grace can also make itself known as a form of disinterestedness. Grace relaxes its grip even as it anoints the calves of young girls in conspiracy with gravity and biology. It tightens as a bodice even as it loosens like an old well-loved couch that has had its day and is grateful. Because grace is something to be grateful for. Old men are particularly thankful for it. You can witness this on the benches of seaside towns where grace itself has brought them. Sometimes initially against their will. It must be said. But that is something we must take up with time itself. Despite time’s intimate relationship with grace. Grace comes up behind time and provides both salt and consolation. Here we should recall the story of the man who was hidden from civilisation for decades. On his emergence his first request was for salt. Salt was what he had missed the most. Grace is difficult if not pointless in seclusion. But even there it operates. And it is necessary to have the good grace to accept our situation. But on the whole grace is something that requires observation; hence this book is a requirement of grace. Hence the previous sentence requires a semi-colon. One runs from the other in a way that is delightful. I say good grace because grace is something that we must come to terms with in the long run. I say long run because as I have intimated grace is something that comes with age. I say comes with age because grace is something that makes itself known when we are older. I say also that grace is present in the young as they tumble and fall and get back up again. All with grace. Yet I insist that grace is something that makes itself known in age. Grace as I have hinted is something that is gifted. How else would we let go the lovely bodies of our youth. The lovely flawless bodies of our youth with such grace as to surely intimate the working of a heavenly hand. If not for the gift of grace itself. Because as much as it might upset or confuse the reader. Grace also has a hand in the deadening of things. It is said that people go to their deaths with grace. As if they have taken the hands of Isrobing and Islence and retreated across the soft dewy grass with silent footsteps. Then forgetting too becomes a graceful act. Grace descends and the pain becomes lighter. The memory softer. Grace works to soothe feelings and to quell rages. Grace allows us to separate ourselves from everything we believed we once were.

 

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