Image and Man

-Lee Waters

Alexander’s alarm rang out from the bunkroom. 7:30 P.M.: shift change in

thirty. Nikolai squeaked the chair back from the terminal and turned off the

desktop transistor radio—Prokofiev. Ice popped and cracked against the roof as

Nikolai slipped on his jacket.

Negative-five degrees on the thermometer. Three layers of wool and his

leathers restricted the cold to his face, which had flushed already. He dug a cigarette and lighter out of the small, red box in his jacket. Filter on his ice-

whipped lips and covering the tip with his left hand, Nikolai sparked his lighter.

The buffeted flame cast green shadows in the mid-April sunset. Telegraph lines

stretched into the black, running fifteen miles back to town.

Afternoon’s mist had frozen to the trees hours ago, making way for the

silvery evening storm. Nikolai hadn’t seen one during this tour of the outpost, and never one this aggressive. He flipped up his collar and moved towards the

corrugated generator shed attached to the west wall. The diesel engine hummed

and sputtered. Nikolai shielded his eyes and watched the horizon turn first amber,

then pink, and finally a deep red. Another drag of his cigarette produced

nothing—ice had knocked off the ember. Nikolai threw the butt into the dark.

Brushing his teeth in front of the window over the outpost’s sole sink,

Nikolai pulled a brown, leather wallet out of his back pocket. The edge of a photo

peeked out of the money fold, and he pulled it out.

A young man in military dress uniform, clean-cut and waving. White

teeth, smiling. Signed: Sasha.

Alexander as sat at the terminal just a Nikolai spit, and the two men

greeted one another before Nikolai turned out the bunkroom lights. He slipped

into bed. The ice had not slowed.

———

In the dark, you could only barely see the heads in the front booths,

outlined against the faded gold valence. They were still leaning towards one

another, and every so often one would shake slightly. Your jacket was too warm

and too heavy, and you were glad to be seated.

A violin silenced the pit with a tuning note. The heads in the front boxes

quieted and faced away.

———

A gunshot. He jumped out of bed and retrieved his pistol from his locker.

The clock next to the bed read 4:26 A.M. He opened the bunkroom door with his

left hand and fumbled with the wall until he met the switch.

The front door was open and the air was already cold. The terminal

monitor was off; there was a note on the keyboard:

Kolya—

Word from Col. Kirsanov. Bombs fell, hour ago.

I’m sorry,

Alexander

Nikolai looked over his shoulder. Flecks of red covered the snow in the

stoop. He closed the door.

An inventory of the outpost’s supplies took until sunrise. Four weeks left—‘til Spring. Nikolai checked the terminal. Kirsanov’s last memo was still on-

screen:

Brothers-in-Arms—

Retaliatory strikes commenced. Mobilize what you can. Await further

orders.

You all are in my prayers.

Col. K.

Nikolai got ready to smoke. Alexander was already covered by snow.

———

Women’s voices echoed from somewhere backstage, intensifying over

warm tenors in unison. More and more women started to sing—the men finally

ceased droning, instead rippling close harmonies over a brightening stage.

An airplane against amber skies, steadied by a skilled pilot. He is

squeezing the triggers on the yoke—from twenty-or-so meters up, the straining of

his shoulders is still visible. He looks towards you while singing. You feel cold.

———

One carton of eggs were gone. Sunrise crept earlier, thawing slowly the

ice on the ground. Alexander’s body still couldn’t be moved; Nikolai smoked

towards the lichen-covered mountain on the south side. The colonel hadn’t sent

word beyond his notes twelve days ago.

The crows were finally out, crying back and forth in the clearing. Nikolai

heard no other voices for a week.

———

Still without legs, the pilot hesitantly lifts himself into the cockpit. He

starts the engine—a low cry from the brass precedes rising strings. The choir are

screaming from the wings, but the pilot’s voice is still clear. His medals reflect

dozens of stage lights into your eyes, and you feel them water. The pilot turns

towards the audience—you can make out his teeth.

———

When the grass began to poke through the snow, Nikolai took a shovel to

the earth. He spent four hours chipping a six-by-three-by-three-foot hole in the

half-frozen dirt. Alexander’s body was stiff, and his boots left deep trails from the doorstep to his grave. The outpost had a few pounds of quicklime, which stung

Nikolai’s frozen nostrils.

The mound was visible through the sink window; Nikolai kept his eyes on

Sasha’s photo. The corners were beginning to round off and fray, and Sasha’s

smile was fractured by a crack in the image. Nikolai spit into the basin—nine

days of water left. He lay down in bed. The corners of his eyes were wet.

———

Dirt and glass fly into the cockpit and you feel the wings twisting off the

frame. The hull skips three times before plunging its nose into the mud. The yoke

is pressed against your chest—at least two ribs broken, and there is smoke rising

from your feet. It is thick and sweet and filling your lungs and every cough is red. You hear shouting, from some distance. Your eyes blur, then fade.

———

Banging on the door. The clock next to the bed read 4:26 A.M. He took the

pistol out from under his pillow and approached the peephole in the dark and

through the lens, he could make out the shape of a man. Medium height, pale,

with dark hair and a dark mark in the middle of his forehead—Alexander! Nikolai

heard mumbling through the door.

Sasha... Sas—

He put the muzzle to the center of the door and squeezed the trigger three

times and collapsed his knees to his chin. Nikolai’s gun clattered across the

linoleum. Barring his gentle sobs, the clearing was silent.

Nikolai checked the window at daybreak. Unbroken snow covered

Alexander’s grave. Still, for three nights Nikolai awoke to banging and groaning

through the holes in the door.

He hadn’t gone out since the first nightmare; the outpost reeked of

cigarette smoke and sweat.

———

Sasha didn’t speak until the fourth night, as Nikolai brushed his teeth.

Alexander had been knocking since morning.

He wants me for his grave.

Nikolai screamed—the first sound he’d made in three weeks. Sasha

grimaced through the fold in his photo.

I hear him begging. Please, Kolya, please: keep me.

Sasha—Sasha, I—

Promise me, Nikolai. In your hand is my spirit. I have nothing else.

Sasha hadn’t spoken like this before. Nikolai’s hands were shaking.

How are—I love you.

He sobbed, harshly, loudly. His face was hot. His eyes stung.

I will not let him drag me under, Kolya. I want to see the sky

again.

The image stared into Nikolai.

It was beautiful when they fell, Kolya. Bright white, then warm. A

heat, then sunshine.

You didn’t suffer?

Sasha’s face twisted and folded into a formless fog, amber, pink, and

red—dozens of sunsets pierced Nikolai and transfixed him. His body was knelt,

limp, on the floor.

I suffer every day I hear you cry. I suffer every day I hear his

begging. Please don’t desecrate me any longer.

The skin on his neck was dry and tingling and his hands, still clutching

Sasha, were shrinking.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sasha. I—I love you.

I love you too, Kolya. You are my keeper. Please, come to me.

Nikolai’s spine stiffened and he wiped his eyes.

You are brave, my luchik.

He placed the photo, image facing out, in the window before praying.

Nikolai took his pistol out of his waistband.

The window threw bright light across the grass. Crows flew up from the

outpost’s clearing, caws echoing and fading over the empty forest. A mist had set

in.