Buch lesen: «Angel Of The Seventh Day»
ANGEL OF THE SEVENTH DAY
By Saša Robnik
Translated by Azeezah Salamah Abdul Awal
Prologue
The immaculately landscaped lawn stretches into infinity and a purple sky drape over the landscape like a shroud, suggesting that this place is beyond our world.
Two groups approach each other. At a proper distance, as prescribed by the order, they halt.
The first group is led by a man of medium height. He wears shorts and a white shirt with blue patterns. On his feet he wears sandals and, on his head, a straw hat. His eyes are hidden behind dark, round rimmed glasses. He nibbles slowly and with relish on peanuts he takes from a bag. His companions are dressed in white togas and sandals. Their eyes are light blue and piercing. One has short blond hair, the other is dark-haired and it falls over his shoulders.
The leader lowers his glasses to the tip of his nose and stares with mild brown eyes at the newcomers. He waits to be greeted.
The man across from him is wearing a bright red- men's suit, a black shirt, and a tie, the same color as the suit. His shoes are black, varnished, and his hair is straightened and glossy. His companion is the complete opposite of his theoretical appearance. The two monsters with the short stature, thick legs and bumpy bodies bear no resemblance to humans. Yet, the bewildered eyes on the grotesque heads show signs of sanity.
Both groups watch each other; the men in togas ridiculous and the two freaks insidious and hateful.
The uncomfortable silence is broken by the red suit:
"You got a little thick, didn't you?"
The man in the straw hat smiles and replies:
"Yeah, I know. And you, I see, have lost weight. I'm guessing, out of spite? By the way, that suit looks like it's hanging on a hanger."
"You don't get fashion, you gave up on the world a long time ago," he replies.
"So you want to get your paws on him?"
The freaks begin to roar; their leader calms them with a wave of his hand and suggests:
"Let's play!"
The man's brown eyes gleam curiously and mockingly. Sarcastically he answers:
"Golf, or do you have something else in mind?"
"Golf. In the process, I'm going to make you a proposition that you'll find hard to refuse. It will be very exciting, believe me!"
"That's the way it's supposed to be!" comes the answer.
Suddenly and out of nowhere, a bag of golf clubs appears on the shoulder of one of the freaks. The suit chooses one and measures the weight in his hand while the other freak stabs the tee into the ground and places the ball on it.
"Please, my former master, let the first blow be yours!" he offers condescendingly.
"Oh, thank you," replies the man in the same mocking tone, puts his peanuts in his pocket and continues:
"Still, you lost the game last time, now you have to start!"
Grins spread across the faces of the companions in togas, causing undisguised anger in the red guy. The two freaks start to roar.
He soothes her again with a wave of his hand and grits his teeth:
"Thy will be done!"
The duo in white grin harder, reminding the red guy of the awesomeness of his defeat in the last match.
He swings the bat furiously and sends the ball unmistakably through the air.
"New technology?" asks the man with the colorful shirt seemingly harmlessly.
Excitedly they follow the ball, which flies about three hundred meters and falls into the green zone not far from the flag. Their eyes are not mortal eyes and they see far more.
He bends down, sticks his tee in the ground, places the ball and receives the bat, which his black, long-haired companion adds.
"Just a chopstick?" he hears the mockery.
"One is enough, my stumbling son. You forgot modesty!"
"Modesty was not what you had in mind when you made your creation!"
Both freaks giggle horribly. Their master's remark is funny only to them.
The man pays no attention to them and gracefully swings the club. They follow the ball with their gaze as it rushes into the purple sky and realize that it is flying straight into the hole.
A sudden gust of wind changes the trajectory and the ball lands far from the flag.
"This gust of wind is a surprise. Here was no wind from the beginning." Calmly concludes the man, throws away the bat, which mysteriously disappears, and grabs the peanuts.
"There's a first time for everything, but why surrender?"
Nibbling, he replies:
"You, my son, did not ask for a meeting to play golf, but to make a suggestion."
"All business is done in the game of golf!"
"My son, are you offering me a deal?" he puts special emphasis on the word "deal".
"Forgive me, I do not know what I am doing. It's supposed to be a suggestion", answers the guy with difficulty, suppressing anger.
The man takes off his glasses, wipes them on his shirt and puts them back on his nose. His every move is precise and calm. The well-dressed guy knows he's testing his patience on purpose, so he reins in his grumpy side.
"Let's hear it. What are you gonna do now?" finally, the man speaks.
"You've been neglecting creation. I don't understand why, but I think you'll like the experiment I have in mind!" he replies, as his eyes sparkle with excitement.
"Your provocative attempt is futile, you know I never neglect my children."
"But they neglected you!"
He smiles and replies:
"I gave them the will and the freedom of choice. My mercy, as you know, is boundless!"
The freaks are laughing loudly now and their cawing is terrible. Their leader can't calm them down this time.
The two in white form up in front of the freaks with inconceivable speed; in a flash they rip their heads from their shoulders and throw them onto the grass in disgust. Two grotesque corpses fall to the grass like fallen logs and the eyes on the severed heads blink in surprise and agony.
"What is that supposed to mean?" The guy doesn't hold back the anger that's been unconstrained.
"As I said, I gave them the will and freedom of choice and they chose to calm your monsters. Now go on, I'm listening."
The eyes of the gentleman in red glow orange. He hasn't seen this much humiliation from the other party in a long time. The man's companions are nonchalant, their eyes gleaming with scorn and swirling his anger even more. He knows they are more powerful than he. Insidiousness and deception are his weapons, so he restrains himself. His eyes become human as he obediently walks on:
"Let the will and freedom you have given them decide who your creation will ultimately belong to. You can always create new ones, and I am surprised that you have not done so before."
"I listen, to convince myself."
"The competition becomes meaningless, our subjects are indecisive, they have faith and they don't."
"Ours?" the man in white tilts his head to reveal the view over the glasses.
"All right, yours. So, let's give them a challenge that will end the competition forever!"
" If you believe in your creation, your flock, love and grace, then agree and prove my efforts futile!"
The man in white doesn't answer that, instead he starts laughing so loud that his laughter echoes through the green expanse. Finally he calms down, takes off his glasses, wipes the tears from his eyes and answers:
"I'll do it. Let's explain the details!"
Suddenly a large office table and two armchairs appear as if they had grown out of the ground. On the table are a pitcher of water, two glasses and a globe of the earth. Both sit down to begin negotiations. The challenger takes out a file from the inside pocket of his red jacket and places it in front of his competitor:
"I chose these as a control pattern. I hope you agree, please check them out."
The man in white carelessly opens the documents and takes a look at the contents.
"You chose infidels?" Clever, but I agree. Let's use these people as a pattern!"
His companions stare in amazement, their masters' approval incomprehensible. Convinced that the master would crush the guy on the spot for shamelessly interfering with creation, they remain surprised and astonished.
The gentlemen negotiate and arrange the trifles. Time does not pass in this place, but the words exchanged would write all the books in the world. The companions listen incredulously and attentively.
Finally, they end the agreement and stand up at the same time. The guy does not hide his joy and offers his hand. The man in white presses a peanut bag into his offered hand, winks at him and leaves without saying goodbye, while the companions hurry after him.
After the right distance dares the companion with the black long hair:
"My lord, why did you agree to this?"
The green area dissolves and disappears into the nothingness from which it was created. Only the voices remain, resounding among the stars of the universe:
"Are you questioning my decision, Michael?"
"No, my lord."
"And you, Gabriel?"
"Far from it!"
"Still, are you surprised by my decision?"
"We are stunned "they say at the same time."
"Have you forgotten that I love all my children and try to fulfill their wishes and prayers?"
"We are not forgetful, my God!"
"Of course not, boss!"
"But you have forgotten that the apostate is also my child!"
The two archangels are ashamed.
"Descend to the earth, observe, and do whatever it takes!"
"Yes, Father!" The angels answer submissively and set out to fulfill his will.
* * *
Milan angrily throws the screwdriver onto the workbench, swears and lights a cigarette. For half the day he agonizes over the starter motor, which he can't put together. He can't use the brushes his employer gave him, as much as he sands them, and it wouldn't be the first time he's brought him the wrong parts. He sits down in a rickety armchair, bleached by the sun, and looks out at the junkyard. He has no choice but to take apart several starters and look for the right brushes.
"What's the matter, master, isn't it working?" Shouts one of the masons who are finishing a wall around the junkyard.
He shakes his head violently and greedily inhales the smoke, as if the tobacco will drive the anger from his consciousness.
"Come over and have a beer with us, don't worry about it!"
He thinks about it for a moment, gets up, and heads to the workers gathered around the beer crate to take a break.
The sun is low and it's late noon; he hasn't looked at his watch for a long time. The boys in their dungarees greet him and press the bottle into his hand. They exchange common phrases to dispel the unease. For fifteen days they've been building this meaningless wall around the junkyard, the gas station, and the restaurant next to the highway. During all this time, apart from greetings, he hasn't exchanged a word with the boys.
"Milan, right?" asks the bricklayer in his late thirties.
"That's my name!" he replies and raises the bottle to toast.
He takes a big gulp and the others follow his example. New cigarettes are lit to add zest to the narrative.
"What's with the wall? All around is a bare area, except for that cornfield over there?" interjects one of the workers.
"Boss Cvetković imagined that someone would steal parts from these mountains of rubble at night." Milan answers and continues:
"But if he wants to throw his money away, let him, I don't care."
"Not for us, actually. We got a good deal. How many junk cars do you have here?"
He knows what's coming next. Everyone needs a little something, some car part, for nothing even vinegar tastes sweet as honey. He learned this trait from humans a long time ago.
"About five hundred, I guess."
"And how do you manage to find a certain part?" the head mason asks him and drinks the rest of the beer.
"I have a computer in the trailer, it records everything."
The casual conversation continues, the request he knows will follow is only a matter of time.
The second beer is almost finished; the moment has come:
"Look mate, I need the last bumper for the Lada Niva, some idiot rammed me at the traffic lights the other day and money is always tight, you know how it is."
In the faces of the other workers he sees similar pleas beneath the false equanimity. He had long since learned to read faces. But in this group he sees no greed; he sees only a little lie in the man. They have not made a good bargain, it is impossible with the old miser Cvetković. A few small things go unnoticed. He didn't seem to notice the much bigger things he sold for his own pocket. Working on Saturdays and occasionally on Sundays, contrary to the employment contract, demanded compensation. His sudden decision to build a wall around the property instilled a worm of suspicion in him and commanded caution in future dealings for his penny.
The guys are his age, in their early forties, and as far as he understood, they were all family men. It is difficult to live next to the various Cvetkovićs, so it is easy for him to satisfy them.
"I'm going to get something to eat and see if the old man's gone. If so, that's where the tools are," he points to the work table under the eaves, "so take what you need. Only, don't overdo it!"
People spread grateful smiles and finish their beers.
Despite the ban, he enters the restaurant and takes a seat at a table. The grey overalls he wears, smeared with motor oil, stand out against the quiet ambience of the restaurant. He knows that the boss is usually in the dining room, keeping tabs on his employees. The clatter of cutlery and the low murmur of diners are absent, the restaurant is empty and the old man is not present.
Maria, the landlady, looks at him frowning:
"Are you normal, do you want the old man to see you? Go to the back and eat!"
Their noise makes the chef peek behind the counter. What Milan suspected became fact. The old man is gone.
"Please, don't lecture me and bring me something to eat. And don't bring me the leftovers from the guests this time. What are you staring at?"
"You idiot!" she replies. He has no doubt that at the first opportunity she will tell the boss about it. The snake just can't help himself, but he knows that Cvetković will look through his fingers. He's a good mechanic who has put himself through humiliating working conditions, and it wouldn't be the first time he's been pardoned. The other employees of the complex cannot understand his behavior, including his need to work alone in the scrap, and he will not satisfy them with an explanation of his motives.
Milan watches her irritably walk towards the counter that separates the kitchen from the dining room. Milan pulls the cell phone out of his pocket and sends the mason the message "everything OK".
After a half-smoked cigarette, she brings the food. He pays her tribute; she's a master of her craft, no matter how grumpy she is. Deftly, he carries a plate and two platters in one hand. Her steps are measured and professional, and the service is on a par with much more elite eateries than this highway inn, the sanctuary of long-distance drivers and cheap call girls.
"And the beer?" he can't suppress the urge to be provocative. Instead of a reply, he only gets an icy stare .Chef George, leaning against the counter and rolling a cigarette in his mouth, smiles. Further proof that the boss is gone, staff are not allowed to smoke outside of breaks. Clearly he too senses the blackness beneath Maria's beautiful surface, so he enjoys the provocation.
"What are you laughing at?" Maria is furious when she sees through the conspiracy. She angrily leaves the restaurant to chat with the gas station attendant and Yelena from the store.
The chef winks at him, stubs out his cigarette, and gets to work.
The mobile phone rings. He takes it out of his pocket, sees the name "Cvetković "on the display and answers sharply "Yes!" Thinking how little it cost Maria to rat him out.
"You stay longer, the truck with the car parts has just passed Belgrade, it will arrive in two or three hours. Did you fix the starter?"
He suddenly loses his appetite. Three hours of extra work and the unloading of the truck.
Without hiding his anger, he replies "he'll be ready when the truck arrives".
The connection is broken. He swallows the rest of the dish in large bites. The place is, uncharacteristically for this time of day, still empty and without customers. Maria, returning from the gas station, calls George from the kitchen. She pays no attention to him, so he gets up to go back to work.
George appears from behind the counter:
"What's the matter?"
"There's been no one around for hours, that's what!"
"So what?"
"Man, not a single vehicle has passed by in hours!"
Milan stops at the door, turns around and asks:
"The bricklayers, have they left already?"
"Yes, while you were eating!" her impatience comes out. It does not remain hidden from her:
"And your aspirin-sized brain didn't catch that there may have been an accident and the highway is closed?"
When she opens her mouth to answer him, Milan sees traces of fear beneath her anger and a wave of pity overcomes him. He continues in a milder tone:
"It must have been a nasty accident if traffic has been blocked for that long."
Quick as a flash, she realizes she exaggerated and lowers her tone as well:
"Colleague, there is no traffic in either direction What is the likelihood of accidents in both lanes at the same time?"
"But it must be something mundane, maybe a street job. Well, it's not the end of the world."
He leaves the pub and makes his way to Stefan, the gas station attendant. Jelena is standing next to him, gesticulating and explaining something. Milan rarely had the opportunity to talk to her, she bothered him in a special way, so he avoided her.
"It must be something trivial, maybe the army is doing their stuff." he catches her guess.
"I don't believe it." Stefan answers and adds,
"I've been working here for ten years and it's never happened, besides, I think they would inform us. Forty kilometers in both directions, there is nothing until the tollbooths, only the field!"
Milan pulls out cigarettes, offers Stefan one, and pockets one. Jelena frowns:
"If the old man sees us smoking next to the gas pumps, we'll get fired."
"The old man is not there and there is no one to rat us out." Milan replies to her.
"You're wrong!" Stevan adds, pointing to Maria, who approaches them and lights a cigarette. Milan gives Stevan a confused look. It is obvious that fear has entered her, driving the malice out of her.
"The masons are gone. I have the phone number of one, now I'll call him and ask what the hell is going on in the highway."
"Do it, but it doesn't bode well for me." Maria interjects, eagerly swallowing the cigarette smoke.
He takes the phone out of his hand and calls. After ten seconds he puts the device back in his pocket:
"No one answering. I'll try later. The shift should be in an hour. I'm going to go and finish the damn starter."
Milan moves away from his colleagues and feels their gazes on his back.
He doesn't pay attention to the time. The brushes from the third removed starter finally fit, otherwise he would have given up on it, he's had enough of lying under the wrecks. Stevan interrupts his work for a moment to ask about the binoculars. He doesn't ask him why he needs the thing and sends him to the trailer, explaining that it's hanging on the wall by the back window. Finally, he finishes the job. Tomorrow the buyer will come, who he will charge for this chicanery.
"Master, good afternoon, or evening!" he suddenly hears and quickly turns around. Two middle-aged men are standing in front of him. Both are dressed similarly, in jeans, a white sweatshirt and leather jackets. The first has blond hair, the second black, long hair tied in a braid. After the initial surprise, he suspects they came for the starter. In his mind he forms the price and how much he will set aside for his bag. Excessive harassment should be charged, but he holds back on that, her eyes radiating confidence. He is astonished at this, he has never seen people with nothing on their faces. He decides to pay special attention to them.
"Good afternoon, boys. Did you come for the starter?"
"No," replies the blond-haired man.
"Then how can I help?" His uncharacteristic friendliness awakens, caused by a certain calm and bliss that those present radiate. He thinks that he has finally met honest and fair people, but he quickly dismisses that thought from his mind. He lost faith in humanity a long time ago.
"We came to warn you to be careful in the coming days." Replies the black-haired man. Milan is taken aback. There is no trace of threat in his voice, his posture does not give him the slightest hint of aggression.
"I don't understand, I paid the debt with interest. Go and tell the donkey that we finished three months ago!" In the depths of his being he knows that they didn't come for that either, but it's not out of place to provoke them and thus put a mask on them, a mask he would like to read.
"That's not what we're here for, and we don't care, but we're glad you solved some problems."
Surprise after surprise catches up with him. It is inconceivable to him that this is happening, that he cannot grasp these people and their unexpected behavior.
"Why are you here?"
"Like we said, to warn you. You have a gift, use it. Pay attention and take responsibility!"
Losing his self-control is something he rarely allows himself to do, and now he does it with pleasure:
"Well, you idiots, are you a couple of jokers or what? Who sent you here, or do you regularly take people for a ride?"
"No. We're here to tell you what we said. And one more thing. Stop cursing God like you did in the trailer this morning. See you later."
How could they know what was going on that morning when he took apart the catalytic converter in the trailer to separate the platinum, so he clumsily hurt himself with a screwdriver and cursed God?
The two leave, leaving him dumbfounded and pensive. He would love to run after them and demand an explanation, but his whole being resists, for he knows he will see them again. This realization is too strong to dismiss as an insignificant feeling.
As they round the corner of the restaurant, he hears the blond-haired man answer the black-haired man a question he didn't understand "so our father said to do what needs to be done!" After which they disappear from his sight.
He shakes his head in disbelief and plunges into assembling the starter.
Dusk has crept in unnoticed and the shift has surely come, but not to him. Only he rules this junkyard realm. He decides to have a beer and wait for the truck. He doesn't attach any importance to what's happening on the highway, the traffic has safely settled in. Still, he doesn't hear the roar of speeding vehicles. He has been here for three years, these sounds, with constant humming in his ears have become a daily and imperceptible companion for him. The silence that he experiences for the first time spreads throughout the site.
He walks around the building and enters the restaurant. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that the store where customers pay for fuel is locked. There aren't even any lights on; the old man would raise hell if he were here, and no doubt he's watching his darkened domain through the installed cameras. Inside the establishment, he finds his colleagues at the table. Clouds of trepidation hang over the staff, who stare pensively at their phones.
"What about those two guys, are they gone?"
The incredulous looks let him know they don't know what he's talking about.
"No one has come in here since afternoon, not even to refuel. The last guests left around two o'clock. There's still no traffic and the shift hasn't come either." George replies, offering to sit down.
He leans and lifts his head to the large television hanging on the wall above the counter. There is no program on it, only the words "state of emergency" tremble tirelessly.
"Have you tried other channels?"
"Yes, of course, that's the only one that transmits anything. I'm telling you, something bad is happening, I sensed it," Maria replies, grabbing the remote to comb through the programs once more. Unsuccessfully.
"Did you call the boss?"
"No signal, we're cut off!" Jelena says with a slight touch of panic, and adds:
"Which two people are you talking about? We'd see their car from here, we're not blind!"
Milan takes a look out of the window. The parking lot, the gas pumps, the access road and the departure road are clearly visible even in the twilight.
"I have no idea, two guys came, inquired about something and disappeared!" He has no desire to repeat the conversation; it is insane, especially under these circumstances.
"Where's Ivan from the workshop?" Now he notices that a work colleague is missing. The other mechanic, Bogdan, tries to send a message on the phone.
"He left about an hour ago to find out what was going on and still hasn't returned. He can't be reached either."
A leaden silence descends among the staff.
The darkness thickens and the glare of the television and cell phone display brushes across their confused and frightened faces.
"Why didn't you share this with me when I was working there? Well done, really!"
George lowers his gaze. The women pay no attention to him, they are busy with their mobile phones.
Finally Bogdan gets up and walks towards the counter. Milan suspects why and stops him:
"Where are you going?"
"Turn on the lights, it's dark."
"I don't think it's wise to turn on the lights. Don't."
"What's wrong with you, Milan? It's not the end of the world, we should be enlightened in this darkness, man."
"I repeat: do not turn on the light!" Milan said sharply, ready to hinder him in his intention.
"He's right, leave it!" Maria says conciliatory. Her suspicion that something is wrong supports Milan's assumption.
Bogdan shrugs his shoulders and indifferently declares that everyone will be fired. No one believes him.
"Let's at least turn on a light here so we're not in the dark?"
Milan thinks about what to do. He can't get the two guys' message about taking responsibility out of his head. He doesn't have time to think about it, but it won't hurt if he acts on them. After all, he believes that he has all moral and professional rights in such situations.
"All right, but first darken the windows with tablecloths!"
Jelena looks at him with wide eyes. After a few seconds, on the verge of hysteria, she begins to scream:
"We're not at war, the war hasn't started! No, it hasn't! How dare you give orders! Locking us up?"
"Shut up and get the tablecloths, you fat cow!" Maria interrupts her, stands up and starts to darken the shop window. "Come on, what are you waiting for?"
Her rudeness is having an effect. Jelena jumps up and follows her without saying a word.
The men are still sitting at the table, wrestling between reason and instinct. Milan senses their dichotomy, so he tells them that there's no harm in being okay, but that it can be useful to hide and wait for the situation to develop.
Milan turns on the lights in the restaurant, goes outside and makes sure it's dark enough. He enjoys the crisp autumn air to clear his head. Ideally, he'd like to take them all to the junkyard, which is surrounded by a new wall and the only access is a narrow passage between the restaurant and the garage, just enough for a truck to fit through. And just enough to close it with a wrecked car. He thinks he's exaggerating, though. In an emergency, they can easily evacuate. For the first time since this situation began, he has time and concentration to think calmly and settle on the facts.
Traffic stopped more than six hours ago. Communications were down and Ivan, who went out to scout, did not return. He couldn't even reach the masons while the connections were in operation. It's not worth wracking our brains over these two guys, there are too many unknowns in their appearance to deduce anything meaningful. It suggests itself that Jelena is right after all. The war did break out, but not like the one he was a participant in at the time. That war was happening gradually, giving awareness time to adapt and, in countless cases, change. Stevan sits on the roof, peering out, not thinking to go down. He will deal with it later.
This time, if it really happened, it happened suddenly and without notice. The world leaders rattled their guns, threatened and sanctioned, but the people do not accept the facts they do not like. If it really happened, the missiles flew up suddenly and insidiously; he is grateful to heaven that none of them hit Serbia, he would be feeling the consequences by now. But again, what blocked communications? The power supply is still there.
All these thoughts swirl around in his head and he is not ready to accept a single one, except the one he sees with his own eyes.
"What are you doing?" He hears Jelena's voice behind him.
"I'm thinking about this situation," he replies, lighting a cigarette and handing her one.
"I'm sorry, I lost my temper in there."
"It's okay, I understand, this has all really gotten out of hand. I hope that there is a good reason for all this and that soon we will laugh about our behavior in the last hours."
Jelena exhales smoke into the night and answers after a few moments:
"No, nothing is fine, and nothing will be. You're absolutely right. Thank you for trying to reassure me, but I'm not blind or deaf. It just took me a little while to figure it out."
