Marek S. Huberath is the pen name of a physicist from the Jagiellonian University in Krakow. His first short story "Wrociees Sneog, wiedziaam..." (You caame Sneog, I kneew...) was published by Fantastyka magazine in 1987. Since that time he has written numerous short stories and three books: the collection Ostatni, ktorzy wyszli z raju (The Last Ones Who Left Paradise) and two novels: Druga podobizna w alabastrze (The Second Image in Alabaster) and Gniazdo swiatow (The Nest of Worlds). His fiction is deeply human. He often makes use of his knowledge and experiences as a biophysicist and mountain climber. He has won the Zajdel Award twice, at present he is working on his next novel, Miasto pod skala (City Under the Rock).

1

A properly furnished darkroom is a bright place. After a few hours one forgets colours other than orange and red without sorrow. It is a pleasant, peaceful, sedentary job, accompanied by the metallic grates of the masking frame, the splashes of the solutions or the gentle hisses coming from the developing tray just after a print has been placed in it. And the half-conscious regret is not even caused by the ridiculous pay, but by a vague belief that one loses something inherently pertinent to life - perhaps the uneven sunlight, or the view from one's window, or the grey rain clouds. In their stead one gets black and white images from other peoples' lives.

This compensation was enough for L. The darkroom was not a cage to him, but a burrow where he felt secure. And peeping at the monochrome moments was a safe way of getting in touch with reality. The never-ending procession of weddings, christenings, babies and monuments only became tiring when his arms were weak and the day of work was nearly over. And occasionally there were more interesting flashes, even from a beach. L preferred the crude authenticity of the darkroom images to the artificial, shiny, lying pulp given off by the screen of his black and white television set. Recently its appeal had dwindled to nothing anyway, because it had broken down.

Despite the armour of a recluse he had squeezed into, from time to time - less and less often of late - L felt lonely. The painful lack of someone close had gone duller and weaker over the years, as if a splinter had grown into the tissue, only rarely, unexpectedly signalling its presence.

2

But sometimes one must switch the light off in a darkroom: when films are moved from cartridges to tanks. The remaining part of the process, developing the photographs, takes place in the daylight. L was not especially fond of this work, because day obtrusively reminded him of the real world. He felt similar about the moments when the chime called him to the office, when there was an order to take or a ready film to give back to a customer.

In utter darkness L was working swiftly and deftly, faultlessly recognizing notches on the reels with his touch and skilfully winding the films on the reels.

He heard a soft purring sound.

My stomach is rumbling as if it were a cat meowing, he thought, amused.

A moment later the small grunt could be heard again.

Time for a snack...

But just then, gently and somewhat lingeringly, something brushed L's leg.

"Whoa... Who let it in!?" he called out, but did not interrupt his work. The room was quite big; the cat might have easily come inside earlier and have been sitting in hiding. L was only silently imploring the little stranger not to feel like leaping onto the counter and scattering customers' films all around. As long as all the objects were in their proper places, L was able to find his reels, bowls, tank caps and cartridges arranged in order on his left-hand side with certainty. The cat's walk could have disrupted this elaborate order at once, and switching the light on would have destroyed the film in the still open developing tank.

But the cat was walking around L's feet, rubbing against them and purring amicably. It never showed any inclination to jump onto his lap or onto the countertop.

"You bastard," said L, "you appeared like the Cheshire Cat...Well, no, not mean like the Cheshire Cat... you did meow first."

He thought he might actually keep the furry friend if the owner of the shop allowed him to bring the animal to work - and if the furry friend learned it must not walk on the tables or piss into the reagents.

Having finished a round, L was going to stroke the unseen but pleasantly warm shape. It responded with an abrupt leap; he could even hear the sound of its soft little paws, usually noiselessly touching the ground.

He switched the lamp on. The cat was not there. He did not find it in any of the lockers, but he did not look thoroughly either, as there was a lot of work to do.

3

On the next day he did not have the time to think about the Cheshire Cat, as he had named it. He got more complaints than he had during the last three years. Towards the evening, before he closed the shop, several customers came back with prints they have collected earlier. They all had the same complaint to make: in the prints there could be seen transparent human silhouettes, often out of focus. They seemed to be mooning around indifferently, captured by the lens. He had wondered about their appearance in the prints before and at first he had been verifying them with the negatives, but all was correct: the poorly exposed, vague silhouettes were there too. Each time he hesitated, not sure whether he ought to magnify them; in this case the rule of 'making one print from every good negative¹ seemed extraordinarily unclear.

He had been right and now paid for his mistake with many minutes of a frenzied argument.

"You've exposed the paper twice!" accused him the owner. "Next time I will charge you for the materials."

L could not rule out the possibility of such absent-mindedness overcoming him before. Before, though, before he got himself together, not now. Besides he had checked at least the first few of the incriminated nega-

tives himself. Still, he could not rule out one packet of so oddly exposed paper.

Unfortunately, he could not have another look at the returned negatives and defend his reliability.

"See how they give a man a hard time in this job, you little bastard?..." he said into the darkness as he was putting negatives into tanks and felt the familiar warm touch of the cat's fur. "If only I could have a closer look at those damn negatives," he complained, "but no. He defended me from the customer and then jumped all over me when I couldn't defend myself."

He bet what was brushing against his ankle now was a little furry face. When he worked in the darkroom, L would take his socks off, so his feet were not so sweaty.

"Think he's going to fire me and now he's collecting his arguments. There's less and less work. Everybody switches to colour, and then it's a new machine and that's it."

He was answered by a quiet grunt.

"Oh, well, the son of a bitch will go bankrupt himself anyway; he can't afford the machine. By the way, how do you get inside, you nasty cat? I've got to find out, you know."

He tried to reach the switch in one abrupt motion, but the start and patter of the cat's paws was still quicker. An upset meow hung in the air.

L decided he would make a thorough search of the whole room when he finished work, but he was tired and forgot. Instead he bought a bottle and in the evening he got drunk alone.

Unfortunately, the furry visitor did not show up for a few days, even though L would take his socks off and sometimes even roll up the legs of his trousers, so the warm fur could cuddle closer. He felt betrayed and abandoned again. He also rejected the hallucination idea - after all he had not been drinking more of late than before.

Eventually the cat reappeared in utter darkness. L was as happy as though he had won a friend back. "Where have you been, you shaggy monster?" he said kindly, loading the tanks efficiently. "Are you after them streaky girls, in autumn? It's a long time till March."

He chuckled. "You know what the boss finally said about the prints?" The cat leapt onto his shoulder and gently cuddled up to the back of his neck. "He said you shouldn't make prints on All Souls' Day, 'cause you might get more in them than you had in the negative. Now, that's a good one, isn't it...?" He paused and shivered. Actually, why not? The owner might have been right...

"Maybe you're not here either, huh, little one?" All the time he made up new ways of addressing his friend, but he had not given him a name yet, thinking of him as the Cheshire Cat.

As the reply to that remark he heard an angry meow -a cat's scream of sorts; then something scratched his neck.

"To hell with you, cat!" shouted L, jerking. The creature jumped into the darkness, and when he turned the light on, it was once more nowhere to be seen.

4

L would not have called himself an alcoholic. He finished every other or every third evening with a bottle, but he was convinced he could give it up easily if he wanted to or if he were out of money. Just like everyday life, alcohol could not eat through his armour of indifference.

He thought the cat might be an alcoholic's hallucination. Maybe he did drink too much after all? Oh, but a cat was better than mice...Right?

5

"The ungrateful bastard cat!" complained L, inspecting three long blood-swelling scratches in the mirror. "Well, I asked for it. It could have well taken offence when I doubted it exists. Anyway, the Cheshire Cat must have long claws," he went on, dressing the cuts.

He decided to lay a trap: brought a table lamp to the darkroom and placed the switch within his reach. He was going at least to see what colour the shy visitor's fur and

eyes were, and at the same time meant it as an easy way of finding out its escape route.

He got down to work as usual, so as not to frighten the cat. If he behaved unnaturally, his timid guest would be definitely alarmed. Soon the invisible fur began to rub against L's feet. He could almost feel its static electricity. It walked around and purred, as always when it fawned on him.

During a break, having just twisted a top onto a loaded tank, L swiftly turned the lamp on; too swiftly for the cat to make off.

He did not see anything. There was simply no cat. Only in his ears, there remained an angry cat's shriek.

L shuddered, though not as hard as he might have expected. Perhaps because he had not been quite sure his pet actually existed anyway. After all the scars on the back of his neck had all but vanished.

What he feared most was switching the light back off; he was afraid the mysterious hallucination would return. But he had work to do. Fearfully, he turned the light off, and, slightly stiff, got to work. He was nervous, even jittery; he made mistakes. The films would not slide into their slots. His hands sweated for fear.

It was all unnecessary, for the mysterious presence, the invisible cat, did not come out. Instead, there were L's distinct fingerprints on a few developed negatives. There were another two complaints, followed by the boss's dry remarks. This time L did not try to argue.

I may be given notice any moment now, he thought. Though on the other hand he could not imagine his boss spending nine hours a day in the darkroom.

6

It is possible to miss one's own hallucination. The work in the darkroom seemed incomplete without the invisible cat. L deliberately drank every night so that the hallucination would come back. He managed a week; then he gave up, because every time the hangover was worse and his liver began to trouble him too. As if out of spite, even the

prints he had to enlarge were outstandingly boring and monotonous.

Putting negatives into tanks, on the other hand, really interested him. He could do that all day long. But of course he could not prolong this job indefinitely, and then again he had to work in front of the window, with the grey November weather, either drizzle or fog outside.

His feet had already become cold, because the darkroom was poorly heated, when he felt the familiar touch.

"So you have come at last, you horror of a cat," sighed L with so much relief that his visitor must have noticed. The cat rubbed against his shin, then it started to pull at a shoelace and tap L's foot with its paws.

"Not a hint of guilt," muttered L gladly. "You haven't showed up for a week. You might at least explain, you know..." He had already forgiven the hallucination for not being real.

The shoelace game was in full swing. Several times the tiny teeth pinched his skin, several times even a sharp claw scratched him accidentally. But one can forgive a pet a lot, even an imaginary pet, and that day L, usually grumbling, celebrated the return of his friend.

"Listen, you horror cat," ventured L, feeling without any regret that the laces had already been lost. "Maybe you'd stop being afraid of the light, huh?"

The little warm creature was drumming rhythmically on a leg of L's trousers.

"Look, I know you're not there anyway... Aw!" he screamed at the bite, but went on persuading the cat. "I mean you are there, but I can't see you..." he hissed. "Will you stop biting me damn you cat!" he kicked.

"Of course you are there. I don't have a slightest doubt about it." He tried to load the next set of tapes to a developing tank. "You see, it would be nice if you also appeared when I blow them up. I can even give up checking if my trousers bend under your touch, but be there.. .1 mean, try to be there when I do the prints...! needn't look to see if you are biting my feet, or pulling at my legs, but you might appear, at least a little! Am I right, horror?"

He did not get a direct yes, for there could not be any, but the warm presence lay down on his feet. L took it as a consent. After all an invisible cat might understand more than just any old cat.

"Listen, Horror Cat," said L. "Now I will switch the light on, and you will not vanish. I mean," he hesitated. "I mean you will remain as you are..." A hallucination, he added silently. But one so dear...

The activity around his feet seemed to weaken a bit. He felt the tiny heart beat under the warm fur. "You will be able to sit on my feet longer then," insisted L. "I promise I won't look at you."

Nothing. There was no response.

L pressed the switch and narrowed his eyes, blinded.

The warm something, the spectral Horror Cat obviously stayed where it had been. It must have been still lying, for that was what the heat of its fur indicated, but it also scratched L's calf: slowly, lazily, casually, drowsily.

L shuddered and shook his leg. "You bastard of a cat!" The cat started and ran, but the mysterious shroud of darkness had been torn down.

7

A sort of subtle equilibrium arose. Horror, or the Horror Cat, would turn up often, also - even most frequently - while L was working on his prints in the pleasant orange glow of the safelight. L, in return, would not look at his feet, seized by the cat. He did not look so that he would not learn that it was pure imagination, that there was really nothing there, that the creature was only a figment of his sick mind, perhaps of his addiction.

A little creature like that can mean a great deal in a lonely man's life, even if it is invisible. The darkroom had become more important than any other place; L came to the shop with joy and worked late for hours.

The owner of the shop, T, was rather pleased. Not always, though. One day he got furious when L entered the darkroom shouting to an army tune he had heard in a film, "Alone walks the Horror Cat, it will gladly eat a bat!"

He had to shout, because it only sounded well when shouted out.

"L! This time you have gone to far!" T followed the theatrically marching L into the darkroom. "I am not pleased with your work. All those complaints, and now such shouting and screaming...It's enough to make one crazy!"

L looked closely at his boss. The man was growing bald, and what was left of his hair had already turned rather grey. Old fart.

"I realize I might be dismissed, sir, as the number of orders has been falling from month to month," he said, marking the amount of pride in his words, careful to keep the possibility of a compromise. "But I can guarantee you until that happens I will work hard. My singing is part of the price for that, sir."

The owner snorted. "Fine. Then sing, L."

He had actually heard more than he wanted to.

"You can call me Lutek, that is Ludwik," called L behind him. "After all we have known each other for six years now.

"Well I told him, Horror Cat, didn't I?" he muttered. "Together we will teach all them farting bastards...!"

All that day the cat fawned on L, now munching on the straps of his sandals (L had brought them to work), now lightly scratching the legs of his trousers.

L took it to mean his courage was approved of. He appreciated his invisible friend too. It was like having a pet, but not the accompanying troubles - no faeces on the floor, no piss on the wall behind the bookcase. The only price for all this convenience was he could not see the Horror Cat and he could only enjoy its presence at work.

And he worked like a demon. The prints he had to deal with, had to rescue by force, were very poor, for their authors were total amateurs. So every time he felt he would have captured the same situations much better, incomparably better; besides all the time he had the contact of a friendly creature dozing trustingly on his feet. It had shattered L's shell of loneliness and he was glad it had.

The invisible friend must have been coming to trust him more, because occasionally L would wake up in the middle of a night and feel a strange, warm, furry presence, a cat's presence, cuddle up to his neck. He was certain the presence was friendly, although at times he woke up terrified, just as everybody is terrified at this presence, waking up in the middle of a night, in the power of four little furry paws. And it happens to everybody. The point is to endure the threat and accept the warm, friendly thing.

8

Horror had become L's only friend, because making friends with T was impossible, and he had no contact with other people. For that reason he was really deeply hurt when the Horror Cat stopped paying its visits. He tried to find out why it had, but in vain. He tried changing his daily routine, but it did not work. It seemed the subtle balance between light and darkness had been disturbed and the visitor had vanished. Or maybe, it was the other way round. Maybe some sort of equilibrium had been restored, and the little dweller on the other side could no longer pass into this world.

Recently, L had had to take care of everything; not only did he do all the darkroom work, but also accepted orders and even photographed the customers. T would leave him in charge of the shop for days; he was probably trying to start another business. That involved many trips, the more unpleasant as the weather had gone all rotten, it was snowing, and streets were covered with hopeless melting gunge. It also seemed T had come to trust him more, and several times L actually caught him singing the silly Horror Cat song.

About noon a very pale guy came to order ID photographs. L wrote down his name: Olegoff. He noted it because of the double f spelling. Of the two of them, only T had a diploma in photography, but L could set the light just as well - although he was afraid the pale guy's thin face would come out too flat, and the shadows too sharp. The pallor was somewhat greyish or even greenish, quite

unlike the complexion of fair blondes, which appears so finely in a wide spectrum of subtle chiaroscuro. L decided he would not take great pains with the Pale Guy, but take a standard shot though. In the last moment the perfectionist in him made him add the screen and the shade.

This evening, when he worked in the darkroom, L found it was even worse than he had expected: a blank, black negative, not a trace of the Pale Guy's face in it.

Damn, thought L, did I overexpose the chap? Impossible. No, he had not; the photo had normal white background, the density identical to that of other photographs. Empty background without Olegoff against it.

"Shit," grumbled L. "Another complaint."

That night he got drunk.

9

"I am sorry for that, but I will have to take your photograph again," said L when on the next day Olegoff came to collect his prints. "Somehow it got overexposed. Actually, I have no idea how it happened." He shrugged.

"So I haven't come out on the photo?"

L made a helpless gesture.

"I thought by now I should be visible on emulsion..."

"What?" L stared at him, and his eyes became very round.

"Yes... Well..." This time it was Olegoff who looked helpless. A pale walking case of helplessness. "You managed to accept the cat, didn't you?" he muttered, reproachful.

"Oh. So you are from there too? Another one to have penetrated from the other side?"

"Actually.. .yes. Yes, there's a lot of truth in it."

"So are you a dead man, a walking corpse or a ghost? Or maybe a vampire?" L started retreating toward the darkroom door. The only way out of the darkroom was through the window, but at least he would gain some time to pre-Pare his defence.

Olegoff winced. "We don't need all these big words. And I'm quite certain I'm not a vampire." He grinned. "You can

stop being afraid - if you really can, that is," he added, sending L a suspicious glance.

L regained his confidence. "You said yourself I was not afraid of an invisible cat. So, provided you don't get aggressive..." He fell silent, unable to say it would be quite all right.

Olegoff looked surprised. "Aggressive? No, I assure you, unless you consider it aggressive when one of my fingers falls off, or a hand."

L snorted with laughter. "Enough of this joking. You have taken me in, I admit. Shall we take the photo again?"

"It would be more reasonable to believe me. How could I have known about the invisible cat?"

"T could have told you. Or you could have heard my darkroom soliloquies."

"I can't fall apart at any moment, just to show you. I don't want to, anyway. But you can take the photo again; you'll see there will be nothing in it - although I'd really like something - anything - to appear."

"OK. Let's take the photo."

"Yes, we had better. Ill come tomorrow. Perhaps you will take me more seriously then."

10

The photographs did not come out well again. L blew them up to a large size, 8 by 12 inches, and inspected them closely. There was nothing there, except the light background with slightly varying density. Only the grain did come out, although it was quite pleasant and sharp. But then with this enlargement the grain had to be visible.

Olegoff came in the afternoon. He looked even worse than yesterday: one hand covering his cheek, the other in his pocket. "Well, what have you got?" he began, no beating about the bush.

L brought a huge print from the back room and put it on the desk. "Nothing. Have a close look at this." He bent over the print. "You will clearly see the background has been exposed properly. The only thing that stands out is the grain."

"Have I convinced you then?"

"Hmm...I suppose so."

"I can present a more impressive demonstration, but I don't know if you can bear it..." Olegoff hesitated. His gaze lacked the inherent light, or even glint.

"What do you mean?"

"The skin is coming off my cheek; the sight is really ugly. Actually, it's the same with the left hand. Maybe you will be able to take the hand better."

L did not know what to answer, so he only gestured.

Olegoff extended his hand, palm down. All the back of the hand was one big wound, the skin coming off, its edges wrapping up as though it were a sheet of paper. Underneath he could see tendons and veins; some of them hung like tassels as well.

"Aw!" L shuddered. "Why, this must be dressed?"

"No, there's no need. Can't you see there is no blood?"

He was right. The gushing wound looked like a model or a well-preserved specimen; there was no blood in it.

Encouraged by L's calm, Olegoff said, "My face looks similar."

He uncovered his right cheek.

"Oh, no." L nodded his head.

Olegoff s face was really badly injured. The skin hardly stuck at all, revealing pale muscles. Through the gaps between them L could even see the brown stained teeth.

"Do you still believe I'm joking?" asked Olegoff dryly. Immediately he raised his hand to hold the flap of skin in its place. He smoothed the wound carefully, then with the same care did the same to his hand.

"You might have run from a dermatology ward." L looked at him questioningly. "It's not difficult to fake such an injury using professional make-up."

Discouraged, Olegoff nodded. "True. Consistent scepticism is able to question a great deal. Have I lost because of it?" he muttered. "Still, aren't all these coincidences too many?"

"I must admit there's been a lot of them. So why did you come, as the photographs would not come out anyway?"

"You've gone through the cat test. Besides, it happened to matter a lot to me whether I would come out on a photograph. It was a test too."

"The cat test?"

"Exactly. The Horror Cat was a test, a test of your mental strength...You know, it told us of how much use you were to us."

"Are you part of a conspiracy, or secret service?"

"Nonsense." Olegoff had to pat and smooth his flapping skin again. "The cat test was to show how hysterically you respond to such situations."

"How many people are subjected to this cat test?"

"More and more people, recently."

L smiled. "Photographers?"

"No. But on awakening many people feel there is a cat sitting on their neck, strange, and thus dangerous, ready to paw their face. This is their test. Usually they are horrified and sweat heavily. A second later the cat's presence is gone and they have failed."

"Horror waited some time before it started coming to my bed and sleeping next to my face."

"That's why I advised Horror to try it another way with you: because you work in utter darkness."

"Is there only one cat like that?"

"No, there are more."

Unexpectedly Olegoff brightened up, smiled even. Again he briskly patted his horribly damaged cheek and hand. "Thank you so much, L," he said kindly.

"What for?"

"Oh, for everything, generally. You are willing to talk to me, to the monster I am."

"In return I would like to learn more." L was not malicious and did not say such company was better than none at all.

"Good. You will." Olegoff got briefly lost in his thoughts. "But it will take time; we will do it gradually. Can I come again?"

"Sure. You know what, can we switch to our first names? No drinking of course." L was in a good mood. "I've never been familiar with a ghost."

"With a dead guy, you should say. Or something in between. Sure we can. I'm Oleg. But let's skip the handshake, I'd rather take my hand with me."

"You are right." L gasped, realizing the possible results of such a handshake, and nodded as he introduced himself. "Lutek."

Once more, Oleg smoothed the skin on his cheek. "I know, from the cat. See you tomorrow."

11

Withdrawing into the shell of loneliness may be a very useful operation, but it is also very easily undone by the world around us. Two visits by the mysterious Olegoff were enough for L to spend the evening thinking what the third one would bring.

"Listen, Lutek," said the owner next morning. "I have an offer for you." With his finger he pushed and rolled a can of beer in his direction; first can since he took L on.

"Wow. During the working hours?" L smiled, but he opened the beer with eagerness. The pleasant hiss made the conversation much nicer.

"Yeah. There's less and less work to do around here. I'd like you to run this shop. You know, do all the job: talking to customers, the actual work, collecting money, keeping the books. If I'm happy with your work, we'll think about partnership; if you don't make it, you'll close the shop down. How's that?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Ha ha. I like that pragmatism," chortled T. "That scepticism, total lack of faith or trust."

Now it was L's turn to chuckle. "Oh, but I have a lot of faith." He began laughing so hard he spilled a little beer.

T gave him a serious look. "So? Do you accept?"

"I do. It's the only choice that makes any sense."

"Let's drink, then." T raised his can in a toast.

"Let's." L knocked his can to T's. There was a splashing sound.

"Yes, let's drink and draw it up.

12

Olegoff was in an excellent mood when he came; despite the pallor he was cheerful and talkative. The ghastly wound that had been on his cheek yesterday had now healed. His left hand was flawless too.

"Will you take my photo?" he began. "I'm in great shape today. I'm sure something will come out."

"I will, I will. How about you started to pay for your failed pictures?"

Olegoff gave him an askance look. "You haven't become a partner, have you?"

"I have."

"Congratulations."

"Don't even mention it. The business is dying anyway."

"Still. In my parts the only business was an inn."

"At least it gives some income. You must eat, unless you plug your ass."

"Not quite. You may eat hardly anything..." said Olegoff. "But I'd rather not remember my parts."

L was still sorting his prints, putting them into tiny envelopes. "You are the only one so unlucky that you don't come out on photographs," he told Olegoff.

"I'm not the only one." When he saw L was not going to make a break, he added, " I'm not disturbing you today, am I?"

"Of course you aren't. I like these strange conversations. Listen, Oleg, bring one of those pale friends of yours." He smiled. "If they want to, that is."

"They will, they will; I was going to suggest it myself. That's exactly what I wanted to ask of you, L."

"I will believe you more then," said L. Or I'll think I've gone completely insane, as I'm surrounded by a whole network of mysterious agents, he added silently.

"But" Olegoff hesitated and paused. "But this person will be in much worse condition than I am. Will you be able to bear it?"

"I've already endured quite a lot, haven't I?"

"All right."

"In return, tell me, what's happened to your cheek? Has the make-up come off?"

"No. It has stabilized. You may think it has healed. Our talk yesterday caused it. Well, how about a photo on the house?"

"OK. Sit on that chair, Oleg."

13

There was a distinct outline of a human skeleton in Olegoffs photograph, the more gruesome because there were eyeballs in the sockets.

"Whew! What an ugly creature," muttered T as he watched the print. "Well done, Lutek, You made a drawing on the plate, didn't you? Or on the print?"

"Er..." L moved made a vague gesture, more or less intended to confirm T's guesses.

"Send it to a contest, it's very impressive."

"I'll think about it. Though perhaps I'll work on it a little more."

Unfortunately, at this point Olegoff entered the photoshop. L smiled and waved his hand at him.

T turned round.

"The damn skeleton has come here!" he yelled.

Startled, Olegoff left.

"You see it too? Lutek? Did you see it close the door?" asked T frantically.

"It was a customer," muttered L. "But you yelled so loud I don't think he's going to come back any soon. You weren't drinking last night, bud? Were you?"

"Yeah, well, a little, but not so much as to..." T's voice trailed off. He was still holding the print. "Damn this thing! I've had enough! Run the business yourself, I don't have to come here so often."

"Sure you don't. But you could drop by to see your partner once in a while."

In the evening, when Olegoff came again, both had a good laugh.

"You see me this way, the normal way. Others see something like a gruesome skeleton," Olegoff explained.

"Be honest; is anything wrong with me?" "No, but a lot is right with you. Thanks to you they can see the skeleton at all. Without your help, there would be even less than that. That's why you are so important for me."

"'Cause I've passed the cat test." L glanced at the dead man distrustfully. "Yeah. That's why." "Well, what's up today?"

"Perhaps you could help another person." Olegoff's face was tense, and an expression of total uncertainty. His black hair framed a pale brow covered in sweat.

"Time you had a haircut, Olegoff. This hair is too long." "OK. I'll try. What about this other person?" The question was timid.

"Listen, man." L was as self-confident as never before. "You come every day, you say chatting with me helps you, but others see you as a skeleton with two hard-boiled eggs in its sockets; and then..."

Olegoff interrupted him. "There is a splash of chocolate pudding on each egg." "What?"

"I mean my eyes are dark."

"So they are! And then you want to bring another.., another one like you. Be sensible." Olegoff sighed. "Shit. I knew that." "What did you know?" L snorted. "Sure, bring him with you. I'm helping you, or so you say, so why shouldn't I help this other guy? Does he look even worse? Maybe his eggs are soft-boiled and spilling out of his sockets?"

"You are a regular sonofabitch, L." For the first time L saw a bright flash in Olegoff s dark eyes. "As soon as you are out of this private oppression of yours, you become very good at oppressing others."

"So I'm oppressing the dead and their ghosts?" "Right."

"Well, have you ever thought I'm simply terrified? Of that skin peeling off, those skeletons on the plates? Or when that bastard T is afraid his eyes nearly pop out when he

sees you? I'm simply close to the edge behind which my nerves will fail; so I'm behaving like a sonofabitch."

"I'm sorry."

"It's OK. Of course, bring your friend."

"But my friend is going to look real ugly, so be prepared."

14

It could not even move. It was just lying next to the wall of the shop. L had to follow Olegoff out into the street in order to look at it as he had promised. It was mushy brown pulp, its outline somewhat resembling a human form lying on the ground. Olegoff watched L intensely. "Can you touch it?" he asked.

L shuddered. "It's disgusting and scares me."

"There's nothing to be afraid of, I promise."

"The police will say I have touched it. They could even charge me."

"Nobody can see it, only the two of us."

"And me," spoke an elderly passer-by.

L turned abruptly. In the stranger's eyes he saw the same emptiness and glassiness he would see in Olegoff s, he saw the same unvaried facial expression and automatic movements.

The stranger introduced himself. "Stefan."

L nodded.

"He is also pale, the way I am."

"Yes, I can see that."

"Great." Olegoff smiled.

"You are doing a good thing," said the pale stranger. "It's good. Good for her."

"Ahh..." L gestured with his hand. "Can I put a glove on?" he asked, taking a step back.

"No, I don't think you can. But..." Olegoff hesitated. "Have a try. It might also work. I just don't know."

"But I ought to touch my hand to it?"

"Yes, then I'm sure it will work."

He conquered his repulsion and rested his hand on the mush. The texture resembled that of rotten wood mixed with mud. It was not even sticky. If he felt any heat or

contact, then it was as intense as what a bridge player feels to his hand of cards when he expects it to let him win, although the bidding has not started yet.

Olegoff smiled. "Enough, I think. Your acceptation was more important than the time."

"Where is Stefan?"

"Gone."

"Disappeared?"

"Nonsense. Either you can see him, or you can't, but there's no appearing or disappearing."

Later, L spent a long time washing his hands. Then he wiped them carefully with a piece of cotton wool dampened with alcohol, then washed them again.

"Who are you anyway, to tell me what to do?" he demanded from Olegoff who was sitting nearby. "What powers are being let loose here?"

"I'm not of the devil. I try to avoid him if I can."

"So why are you trying to go back ... you, Stefan, this thing outside?"

"That's the way it's supposed to be."

"Am I changing into a medium or what?"

"No, no. If by medium you mean a person able to get you in touch with us, then you aren't. For now, I can't tell you more. Well, I'll be going."

L did not even ask if Olegoff would come back; he was certain Olegoff would keep coming back until he responded with fear or uncontrollable revulsion. But he called at his back, "Could Horror come back? I've come to like it."

15

Olegoff did not turn up until two days later, but Horror did come back. The cat's presence gave some charm to the long lonely hours in the darkroom. But the little furry delight was not the most important thing now.

Now the most important thing was going out of the photoshop and walking the mere twenty or so metres to the wall of the next building. Rarely at first, then increasingly often, finally whenever he found a spare moment in his work - L would go out, approach the pile, or stack, or

heap, or whatever it should best be called, and lay his hand on it as Olegoff had told him.

Then he would lay his hand on where the bulge of the head could be discerned, then on the white skull.

This newly formed skeleton was too clean, very light-coloured; it resembled a manikin rather than a person's remains. He retained the impression even when, on another visit, he found the bones connected with ligaments, and hints of articular capsules.

The process was too unreal to be frightening, too spectacular. The object of the reconstruction was every time perfect and complete; there was no trickling blood, wounds or lymph.

After two days the skeleton turned its empty sockets on L. It was not rational, or so he thought, because the muscle fibres entwined around the neck were few and as thin as ribbons.

In an equally absurd way, the skeleton extended its hand towards L,

It's asking me to lift it up, thought L.

Gently, he took the fragile framework into his hands. He did not as much find the thing repulsive as feared that the structure of bones loosely put together by some of the tendons and traces of muscles would fall apart. He lifted it up in his arms, and noticed how light it was - but that was obvious, as nearly everything was missing. He seated it on a chair, so he could work close to it. Every now and then he would cross to it and place his hand on the smooth skull. Watching the reconstruction fascinated him. All growth took place when he was busy working in the darkroom, never when he was watching.

At first he would tell himself he felt what the Maker, or at least an artist, feels. He compared himself to a sculptor. Then the first incongruous movements of the skull suggested a more reasonable expression to him. The soul is clothing itself in flesh again, he thought, but the new in-terpretation was fascinating as well. When Olegoff came to visit again, L asked, "Olegoff, can describe what you see on the chair?"

"I know whom I see, Lutek," replied Olegoff calmly, "but I can't say that. Better you tell me what you see, that is more important."

"I'd rather not. I don't want to shock you." "Olegoff snorted. "To shock me?" "Yeah. If you know the person..." Olegoff s spirits fell abruptly. "It's so bad then?" he muttered.

"I've got accustomed to it. It used to be worse." "Oh, but I have better news regarding yourself," said L. He had been watching Olegoff closely and noticed how the other piece of news affected him. "Oh?" Olegoff s face lit up a little. "You came out quite well on the last photo...You are no longer a skeleton or something. You've got all the muscles, buddy, even the subcutaneous fat. The process must be nearing its end."

"I know." Olegoff was still unhappy. "A few drunks fainted when they saw me. They say the last stage is worst. You know, when the differences aren't very big... then they are more emphatic. It's all shit. Since I became visible, I've had to use all those tricks...hunching, wrapping into a scarf...It makes one want to puke."

"Come on, Oleg, you've managed to get back from the other world! Rejoice, man, and pay the price!"

"Ohh, if you knew it all...," sighed Olegoff. "But you are

quite right, quite right indeed," he added, hanging his head.

"It's just that sometimes it's so difficult to rejoice, so hard."

"Surely you must have already got used to being a dead

man, or a ghost, or whatever you call yourself..."

"I have. Though it's been one long day. Don't squeeze everything out of me, Lutek." "Are you Russian?" "No, why?"

"Well, Oleg, Olegoff..."

"The former name is Scandinavian; it was common in my family; the latter I made up; it's not authentic." "So you lied?"

"I had no choice, Lutek. And I have to go on lying. I can't tell you my real name, or you might verify it, you might use what is forbidden.

"Is everything you tell me a lie?"

"No. Only personal data."

16

Subconsciously, L began to avoid Olegoff. He would not tell him his visits had become a nuisance, as he would no other person. But that was the case.

He felt he was trying to rip something out of Olegoff s and little Horror's world, to rip it out for himself and nobody else.

Now his little furry friend no longer meant as much to him as this weak skeleton, barely covered with tissue - or so he thought.

L would stop his work every fifteen minutes in order to lay his hands on the friendly skull. And his dear skeleton was growing. First, the trachea and the lungs formed. Then he saw the lungs were moving in a regular rhythms, as if once in a while they contracted.

The soul is clothing itself in the flesh more firmly, he thought.

Blood vessels formed a complex network, and when the beating heart appeared, L could not help himself: he rested his hand on it. He felt what even a surgeon does not feel, for he touched the heart in its natural conditions, not ruthlessly laid bare by the cuts of a scalpel and thus covered in blood.

He also felt the heart speed up a little, as though irritated or excited by the fact that he had laid his hand on it. The feeling was incomparable.

And all this joy of creation or re-creation was reached such ease - simply by laying one's hands on a skull, e could also watch the interior of a human body as it filled, and see where everything belonged and how it worked.

Horror rubbed against L's legs in what seemed anger, forcing himself on L.

L chuckled. "Don't feel like a betrayed love. I'm just doing my duty." He moved the prints to their respective solutions, each in its turn, then got up and one more time put his hands on the white skull. So far it had not been covered by a network of blood vessels, but he virtually had to regard the living manikin lounging in the chair as a truly living being. L was watching the process of her reconstruction carefully; her, because he remembered Olegoff say Scraggy was a woman.

The heart beat, the lungs moved under the rhythmical pressure of the ribs, the gullet led to the stomach, and below, little could be seen, for everything was hidden behind the whitish membrane of the peritoneum. There were also more and more muscles, and the shape they gave her was increasingly pleasant - if the shape of such a thing could be pleasant.

17

The owner, T, could not see anything; he bothered L with the urgent matters, but he was obviously happy that L ran the business on his own.

Sensitivity threshold, thought L.

He found Olegoff s visits were unpleasant. The visitor asked too many questions, as if he wanted to rob L of what belonged only to him.

"Is her flesh as bread, her blood as wine?" asked Olegoff, send L a questioning look.

"Why should this be significant?" L would rather not

answer directly.

"This might well be significant. For her."

"Flesh, you mean the muscles?"

"Well, yes."

"It's light-coloured, and pleasantly warm. Feels more like the stuff of a loaf of bread than the crust."

"And her blood?"

"How should I know?"

"They say a returning one looks most beautiful when the blood has already started circulating, but there are no blood vessels yet. Only a Guide can see that, and you are her Guide."

"So someone actually drank this blood, gushing in the air?"

"I don't know. Maybe they have tasted it somehow. They say it can be as wine. And it doesn't gush; it just flows there in the air, as if it flowed in the veins..."

"Then I've missed the show. Last night she had no heart nor arteries nor veins, and this morning they were all there, complete. You should have warned me."

"I couldn't. Only you could earn it, yourself."

"Oh, hell. Then I'm screwing it up."

"You sure aren't. Don't doubt it. But there is gradation."

"I like the name: Guide. Not much, but it is something." He paused. "What is... I mean, what was her name?"

Even as he was saying that, he noticed a nervous tic in the other's face. He'll try and evade the question again, thought L, discouraged. Now Olegoff ought to seem to everyone a normal handsome man, skin and all - thanks to L's goodwill and kindness. He should feel obliged to answer.

Finally, Olegoff managed, "Listen, buddy... You know I can't tell you that."

"Why not?"

"Oh, you know why. You mustn't reach her, the actual environment, the dates, the places, the people around her. Sometimes it matters, sometimes it doesn't. It does if your knowing could change something." Olegoff had some trouble expressing his thoughts.

L decided to interrupt his efforts. "Very well. At least tell me names, which sound similar. After all you owe me something for your successful return."

"Marta and Anna."

"They don't even sound very much alike," commented L shrewdly.

Olegoff shrugged. "That's as much as I can tell."

18

L was surrounded by the world of the dead. Maybe it ^was poetic justice; he had shunned the living, so others turned up. He learned to recognize them faultlessly. They

were everywhere, milling around in the streets. They avoided crowded places though and were easiest found in empty streets. L knew why that was so.

When he first learned to recognize them in the crowd, he was terrified with the number of those who had managed to come back. An invasion or what?

For two days he walked the streets of the city until late at night to see if perhaps they had all gathered around his home or workshop. But he found that unfortunately he was not that special. The pale were many and they varied; varied so much they could not possibly all follow L in his wanderings around the city.

He found it in himself to accost them. He approached them and started conversations. They responded in a very natural way.

"Oh, so it's still possible to tell me from others? What a shame," said some.

"Congratulations!" exclaimed others. "So, you must be one of the few... You are a great help to us, it's so kind of you."

He never noticed any roaming skeletons, though perhaps if he had looked harder, he would have been able to discern something in the darkness. He did not have absolute sensitivity, which allowed to see everything.

Whenever he tried to have a longer conversation with any of them, they cleared off skilfully.

Why are they all so clever, he grumbled. Have only the intelligent returned?

His sole comfort was that he had never made the mistake of approaching a living person.

Of the three that were closest to him, Scraggy, Horror and Olegoff, L felt unsympathetic to the latter. Olegoff seemed too pushy, too calm, too determined. There was something in him L disliked, especially when Olegoff talked to him in the darkroom, with Scraggy sitting in the chair. He felt that even the little furry Horror Cat preferred to fawn on the damn dead guy.

He enjoyed Scraggy's evolution, because it was passive, that is depending solely on L and how often he would rest

his hand on her skull, warm, for heated with some inner warmth. She walked around the darkroom, and sometimes she would look into the office, which might shock customers. The way it shocked T, who entered, his eyes, as they had some time before, round and popping, and immediately left. L took Scraggy's arm, or perhaps her radius and firmly led her out of the office.

"Oh, pal," grumbled T when he returned a couple of minutes later. "So much drinking and the business is going to the dogs. And I've been seeing skeletons again. It can make one crazy."

"Skeletons?"

"Yeah, but guts and all. Can't stand them."

"You've actually seen something like that?"

"Yes, something like that drawing you once made on a photo."

"Sorry, buddy. I never suspected it can impress your imagination so much."

"You should see one in real life. Then you would sing a different tune."

"Yes, I think I would..." L only nodded. Such exchanges had already lost their amusing and interesting quality for him.

19

The creation, or perhaps the return, of Scraggy, proceeded with a lightning speed. She had nearly all the muscles now; strands of them covered the characteristic pale pink of the uterus, and two graceful hemispheres, pale yellow and pale pink, ornamented with blood vessels, appeared on the ribs. It was beautiful, because it resembled a natural form of a living thing, not a bare wound.

Each time, she is complete, thought L, finding apt words. Each time, she could exist in the form she has. Maybe such beings do exist somewhere.

Horror bit his calf.

"You furry bastard!" he muttered, but at the same time started playing with the invisible creature. "You might

show yourself too. Is your fur white, or brown, or purple...?" He paid for the teasing with bitten toes; bitten lightly though painfully, as if Horror knew it could hurt but miscalibrated and bit too hard.

Maybe he bit because he was jealous of anything, but himself, or maybe only of Scraggy.

"You're doing a great job, Lutek," said Olegoff, watching his and Scraggy's latest photographs. "So much heart."

"I've recently had enough opportunity to watch a heart at work."

"Be serious. Few of you can be like that. Even if they are a Guide."

"If so, then reassure me. Am I doing a good thing? Just a good thing?"

"Yes. You are doing a good thing. Just good."

"I don't see how."

Olegoff smiled. "Even though you don't see how." He was again irritatingly easy-going and confident. L had always lacked these traits. Now one more time he was made to look like a frightened kid. It was embarrassing more so, because Scraggy was lounging in her chair, staring at Olegoff with her exposed eyeballs. The eyes had ink-blue irises; the blue was so dark it was improbable.

"Why don't you ever talk to one another?" L pointed at Scraggy.

"Why, don't you either..." Olegoff lightly brushed aside the hair from his brow. "Lutek, Lutek." He assumed that infuriating tone again. "I'm telling you as much as I can. Sometimes even a little more. I promise...

"Make me some coffee," he added after a while, smirking. L's eagerness to throw him out the door was greater than ever before. He refrained, though, and made the dead man a coffee.

"What's her hair really like?" He nodded in her direction.

"Quite dark, but blond." Olegoff took a sip of coffee.

"How long are you going to visit me?"

"Oh, well..." Olegoff made a vague gesture with his hand.

"Are you supposed to lead me gently to death?"

"Quite the other way round, I hope."

"Metaphorically speaking, right?" L shot an inquisitive glance at his guest.

"Wrong, wrong..." Olegoff waved his hand. "There's enough life in you - for yourself, for me, for her..."

"About the cat. What about the cat?" asked L anxiously. "Why doesn't Horror become visible?"

"A cat's life is finished when it dies. An animal's soul. You won't see him again."

"What? I won't see Horror?!" Somehow it could not get through to L. "Won't see the Horror Cat? But I can feel it fawn on me, bite my feet..."

"I'm sorry, Lutek."

"You have really hurt me, Oleg. I've come to love this invisible one very much. But there must be cats in Heaven or there would be too little happiness there."

Olegoff hung his head.

"I can tell you more about this cat," he said. "Do you want me to?"

"I do."

"He did live in Cheshire. His name was Adriennee Boverman. He burnt to death with..." Olegoff s voice trailed off, his dark eyes went dead and still.

"With Scraggy?" L finished for him. But his throat clenched and somehow his body would rather that tears flew than that he heard the answer, which was too hard for him.

"Oh, buddy," sighed Olegoff, looking stooped and small and hunched.

20

Horror had disappeared. L was crying as he was falling asleep and he was not ashamed. He believed he had lost something very dear and loving.

He controlled the process of Scraggy's reconstruction carefully. He took a picture of her several times a day and every time what he could see on the plate was what he could see with the naked eye. Unlike Olegoff s, her return was quick; for him, L would virtually know in advance

what was going to be rebuilt, so he was careful to keep Scraggy out of T's sight.

For the last few days she had been rebuilt complete with the subcutaneous fat. She looked odd, but less alien than before. A yellowish form, adorned thickly with tiny red vessels. Not just her breasts, but all of her. He waited for the moment when she would be complete, but not her clothes.

He did not get to see it, though. As every day, he was working with some boring prints, when he instinctively glanced at the chair in the corner.

Before him, there was seated a beautiful girl, her chin resting lightly on her hand. She was watching L intently. Not only was she beautiful, but also fully dressed. She was smiling gently.

"Is this how you imagined me?"

Her pretty face had regular features and was surrounded by wavy dark hair. She brushed a lock aside, revealing the regular oval of her face. Her dark eyes were gleaming even in the dim light of the darkroom lamp.

"I can't see you very well," he replied. He found it difficult to hide the fascination.

"You could have said something nicer."

"There is a pleasant gleam in your eyes. Olegoff s gaze is dull."

"Thanks to you."

"In orange light, no colour is itself."

She shrugged. "I'm wearing a brown sweater, and a blouse, also brown, but a lighter shade."

"I thought your clothes would be reconstructed much later than your flesh." Never before had he been so blunt with a woman. But he considered Scraggy his own, his creation.

"Don't you want too much, Lutek?" Again she smiled.

"Tell me about yourself." He put a print into the fixative. In a few minutes it would become possible to switch the lamp on. For now, he tried to change the awkward impression he had made.

"My life story?"

"Yeah, why not."

"It was short. Few interesting events. But maybe you want to hear about my death? I really suffered." "What happened then?" "One long day and very many events." "I'll take your photo, just to check." "I suppose my picture will look exactly the way you see

me."

"How do you know?"

"Intuition. Go ahead, take the photo."

"All right." He wiped his hands, switched the lamp on, and started arranging the light in the atelier.

She was quite pale, but the pallor was natural rather than exaggerated. She had dark blue eyes and dark blond hair, although the latter colour sort of hovered in between.

"Well, what about these colours?"

"You are beautiful, Scraggy. Perfect."

She looked puzzled. "Scraggy? You know I'm not too thin."

"I know, but that's what you used to look like."

"Well, today I look...you can see how I look. Thanks to you, you know."

He made a couple of shots.

"So far you have been making ID-sized pictures."

"Now I can see you. And I'm fascinated."

"Take photos, then."

L went through half a reel. He would have loved her to undress, but did not dare suggest it. He had seen more of her than anybody else could, but this special sight of all of her had been denied to him.

"You know, that's not what I'm looking for..."

The girl shrugged. "I am what I am. You may take my photos, or you may not."

"Yes, but..."

"Perhaps we've had enough of photography, don't you think?" She smiled in such a way he had to obey. And the suggestion he had been thinking about was no longer possible. He accepted the fact that he did not own Scraggy any more. He never had anyway.

"Right," he muttered. "Want some coffee...?"

"How do you know I like coffee?"

"Oleg does. I thought maybe you all do."

"Mm. I know he likes it. So do I."

They were sipping coffee together when Olegoff came, annoyingly handsome. L could see it very well; he would not be able to tell him from a living man any more. He saw dozens of the pale a day, but this one looked different, too good.

"Lutek, you are excellent," said Olegoff. "I've never known anybody to come back as quickly as Anna-Marta. You've become very much involved. I'm so grateful."

"You are?" asked Scraggy, surprised.

"Well, you must have guessed." Olegoff gave her such a look an icy chill clenched L's heart.

"Won't you make him some coffee?" she asked L. Her voice was calm, detached.

"No, I don't think I can. I must do some work."

"You are right. Shall we go?" she asked Olegoff.

"Finish your coffee and we'll be going."

L was so amazed he did not say a word. He had not considered such a possibility. He did not know how to keep Scraggy, though he really wanted to.

She had already drained her coffee. L made a timid attempt at interfering. "But perhaps you would..."

"Thank you, Lutek," she said, turning away, already in the doorway.

Olegoff put his arm around her and that arm became a painful barrier between her and L.

21

On boring days, L felt very lonely. When Scraggy went away, all the fine framework he lived in crumbled. He felt he had been used ruthlessly, used by Olegoff as an instrument. First he had been asked to bring Olegoff s friend back, then, when he had taken to her... For even to himself he would not admit he had fallen in love the way he never had before. Olegoff had just come and taken her away.

He had never known a woman so deeply, in so much detail, every muscle, every tendon. As days passed, he came to realize how deeply he had fallen in love. He had simply needed some time to recognize the fact, because so far it had been such an unfamiliar, alien thing.

But somehow this was the way it was. First he had lost a little invisible friend; then he had lost love before he had realized it was there.

There was one thing he had been sure of all this time: Olegoff should get a punch in the face. It did not matter Olegoff was taller and stronger; it did not matter Olegoff would then beat him up; the first blow would be his.

L tried to question the pale he met, but he did not even know her name. No one knew Olegoff, which was not a real name after all. L did his best to describe the looks of a girl with dark blue eyes and a tall tanned dark-haired man in detail. The suntan itself made Olegoff different from all the pale, but none of them was able to remember him. L was quite certain at least some of them were lying.

Finally, Olegoff himself came. He looked annoyingly well, tall, strong, sun-tanned. He had anchored himself firmly in this world. It would be hard to win a fight with such an enemy; besides, at the moment L was not in a mood for fighting.

"Why have you come?!" he snarled. "What else do you want?! Whom do I give the other piece of my heart? Do you have another woman, or what? Isn't Scraggy enough for you?"

Olegoff sighed heavily. "You are quite right to be angry. But I have loved her for a long time and you have only just realized it."

"You think you are so entitled to her you had the right to do that to me? It was rather brutal, you know." "I know. But I did believe I had the right to do that." "So why have you come again? You have got what you wanted, haven't you?"

"I have understood it now: it's part of my punishment."

"Punishment?"

"Yes. I can't be with her."

"With her?"

"Right. She was not mine either. These things must be different between people here.

"You know, I've lost more than you have," Olegoff continued after a moment of silence. "It was a brief infatuation for you, a chunk of life for me. And then all this struggle"

"What was all that for?" L hung his head.

"So that she would come back."

"I was hurt enough when the little Horror Cat vanished, now"

"Actually, that's why I came," said Olegoff. "I thought it might bring you some comfort..."

"Oh?"

"What I last told you about the Horror Cat is not completely true. You have a chance to see it. Later on."

"And talk to it? I suppose all our tongues should get untangled..."

"Well, yes, in a way. Just don't expect too much."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, it's great when a little furry silly creature walks around your feet, but... but it'll also have silly things to say."

"I don't get it."

"When a little one stares at the television screen and hums or meows the tune that can be heard, it's charming, isn't it? But listening to a stream of loosely connected words for hours can be a torture. Which is why cats and other lesser brethren are usually avoided here."

"And Scraggy? Will I see her too?"

"You may, but you may experience what I have. Relationships between people are completely different here from they are at your place. Accept it in advance or you will taste how bitter it is. The way I have.

22

"Since you've already told so much, Olegoff, tell me why are there more and more of you coming back, why am I the one who can see that?"

"One of those who can. You've been a great help to me and to her as well. We are both very grateful for that." "Why are you coming back?" "Why, so it has been written. It was supposed to come

one day."

"The end of time? Armageddon? But why not the way everybody thought it would look?"

"Because although resurrection is a gift, everybody has to invest their own work, effort and suffering in order to have it. I think it's part of the punishment too. It's different with everybody and some are accompanied by Guides, that's why I think it's also part of one's personal punishment."

"But her return was quite easy, wasn't it?" "It was. But due to your help."

"So it's not only about punishment," L noticed shrewdly. "But it is. Only, it was her you helped because for her this stage of punishment must have been milder."

"Why are you saying it's part of the punishment? One might also say it's work, necessary to be granted the reward."

Olegoff looked questioningly at L. "You know, some of us here think so too. But I'd rather say it's punishment." "About me. Why has it happened to me?" "You've managed to face your fear yourself. Maybe you'll see the end of times alive? I don't know." Olegoff did not know what to say.

"If it's true, then only our folks are coming back. I haven't seen any Muslims or others among the pale."

"Oh, they are coming back too. It's just that their path is different. They can't contact us yet. You are born in a specific part of the world and the society determines the path you will follow, and the requirements of this path. Changing the path means also changing the set of requirements. Our path is straight, but there are other, longer

ones."

"And what about, say, Buddhists? They don't even believe in a personal god, do they?" L was not very good at philosophy, but he had read something.

"Well, what do they want?"

"Liberation from suffering. Non-existence."

"Perhaps that's what they will be given. Exactly what they want."

"Bad luck."

"It's not my problem." Olegoff shrugged. "My problem is how I will be judged. Because I don't have a very good feeling about it."

"You know, Oleg," L smiled, his first smile in quite a while. "I really felt like punching you in the face when you came."

"Why didn't you?"

"You are too tall and too well built."

Olegoff snorted. "I couldn't have hit you back anyway."

"Oh, don't tell."

"But," L returned to their topic, "surely it ought to be preached and explained and people ought to be warned."

"Try. No one will listen." Olegoff shrugged again. "Everybody must understand for themselves, and only proselytizers believe they can convince anybody."

"Can't I do any good?"

" Now, you can. Make me some coffee," chuckled Olegoff. "I loved coffee, and it hasn't changed."

"Tell me, what does the Horror Cat look like?" asked L, filling the kettle with water.

"A big Persian with long fair hair. A terrible lazy-bones and sleepyhead."

Krakow, November 1993

Translated by Magdalena Jarczyk