Demiurge

@ Excerpt from the Novel written by Džena Andersone, 2024

@ Translated by Žanete Vēvere Pasqualini, 2024

Džena Andersone / Jen Anderson /

Demiurge

It was the crows that first picked up on what was happening, circling madly above the dark grey roof and filling the snow-drenched afternoon air with their rasping caws. The murder of crows massed above the house where, in a room leading from the third-floor landing, a moss-green Christmas tree stood, inexplicably smelling of eucalyptus. It was so tall its top almost brushed the ceiling. Beside it stood a four-year-old boy holding a string of fairy lights. His joy-filled eyes, grey and crystal-clear, reflected the flickering lights.

One moment later, the expression of excited pleasure on the child’s face was replaced with one of surprise as his mother started screaming, her high-pitched shriek cutting across the low, cheerful murmurings coming from deep within the child’s chest. ‘Damian, put it down! Put it down, Damian!’

The child just stood where he was, unperturbed and unsure why his mother was suddenly so alarmed. How was he to know, when the gnome-shaped fairy lights just went on flickering in his hands, changing from one colour of the rainbow to the next, buzzing softly while gently warming his fingers? They shone brightly, shifting prettily from one jolly hue to another, sometimes dimming and then growing stronger again.

The crows continued circling relentlessly overhead, cawing all the while. Tireless and croaking, they made endless rounds above the house like mad creatures. Mum, still standing in the door frame, scared to take even a step closer, continued shouting for Damian to immediately drop the string of lights. All the while, the fairy lights in the boy’s hands went on flickering in all their glory, the wire hanging by his feet, the plug unattached to any socket. 

Perplexed by his mum’s shouting, the boy stood clutching the string of lights until his dad came running into the room, carefully picking him up as the lights clattered to the floor and went out.

‘He, he …’ Mum whispered. ‘He …’

‘Hush now …’ Dad stroked the boy’s hair, kissing the side of his head. ‘Everything is fine. Hush now.’

The little boy pressed himself tightly against his dad and looked over his shoulder at Mum who, leaning against the wall, was staring at them. Tears like raindrops glided down her cheeks and behind her a yellow mist shimmered, resembling the foggy light of childhood summer mornings filtering through the curtains.

In later life, Damian no longer recalled that particular yuletide day from 1975 as it merged in with all the other Christmases and New Year’s Eves. Such memories from early childhood often blur together, making it impossible to pinpoint a specific year or date.

When we grow up, everything settles upon us like tea leaves strained through a well-used sieve. It becomes an odd tangle of memories and a gently painful nostalgia for times long past. Not just for the times, but for an entire world that now seems distant, existing in some other galaxy with different seasons, distances, heights, entities, and deaths that don’t quite correspond to reality. It’s a world where joy could be neatly separated from sorrow and anger, where the endless desire for life, curiosity and secrets never to be revealed are covered in dust and hidden even from ourselves. They remain important and secret only in the world of our past, which continues to rotate around itself like a freshly spun top, occasionally tilting to one side or the other, only to straighten out as if guided by an invisible hand. It swirls so energetically that, in moments of complete silence, one could almost hear the barely perceptible hum within, echoing the vibrations in our limbic system. These vibrations preserve the testimonials and codes of long-forgotten times without which we might struggle to grasp the scale of the world we’ve left behind or maybe attempt to find our way back there.

In some sort of involuntary quest for the source of this barely perceptible inner noise, Damian would sometimes pore over old photographs; they were all in a single album as people took far fewer photos back then, just on special occasions. The photos themselves didn’t evoke any emotions in him, but sometimes he would look at them, trying to detect what stayed hidden from others’ eyes – various circles, discs and spheres with empty or filled centres, fogs, shadows, thickening coalescences. Anything that might elicit that inexplicable sense of trepidation in his fingertips.

Damian liked to sit awhile with a photo resting between the palms of his hands. First, he would remove the cardboard corners used to affix the photo into the album. Then, he would hold the photo in his right hand and cover it with his left. Before his fingers even came into contact with the surface of the photographic paper, a sudden wave of heat would run through both hands and up his arms as far as his elbows. Damian saw, heard and felt everything that had remained beyond the frame – the rather humble New Year fireworks, a few red and green rockets that bloomed like carnations in the black sky, the smell of melting snow, soaked mittens, children cheering, adults oohing and aahing, dogs howling and above all else, the honking of ships bidding farewell to the old year. The enticing orange lights of the port, the odd excitement he felt and the urge to press himself to the house wall in solitude in order to take it all in by myself.

There was so much noise, light and smell, all blending, merging, mixing like wool in butter, grains of sand rolled into a ball of plasticine, feelings that couldn’t be distinguished. Damian couldn’t name it with one word. It had now rolled into an enormous, dense, polymorphous mass that did nothing but mutate from one form into another, one size into another – now spreading to an unimaginable cosmic volume, now shrinking to the size of an imperceptible dot or decimal point.

The surge of energy shot through Damian’s mind like a mechanically accelerated lead bullet, making his tiny frame from more than ten years ago tremble and the fingers of his right hand convulse beneath the photo. At the same time, a wavelike echo ricocheted inside his skull, causing the very membranes of his eyeballs, his muscles and ligaments to go into spasms. Exactly what that powerful surge of energy was coursing through his body and allowing him to accomplish so much, Damian had no idea.

He was just a small boy pressing himself against a graphite-grey wall, not yet grown and with university way off beyond the horizon. He was still unaware that one day he would study neuroscience, exploring the intricate structures of the mind, delving into the most delicate layers of the psyche, diagnosing ailments, curing and healing others and gaining an understanding of his inner boundaries. He would learn to guide and control the force that resided within him.

None of this had, as yet, manifested itself in the tangible world and yet it already existed in what his parents referred to as time. However, time is merely a construct and everything was indeed unfolding as it should; Damian just hadn't reached the point on the plane where he could access the life swirling around him, like lava erupting in space.

Standing beneath the dark, nearly black sky, scented with snow, observing the excitement and cheers outside, he remained as always on the periphery of things, a mere onlooker to the incomprehensible joy of others. At that moment, he wasn't troubled by questions about the meaning of life. The realization of his desire to help and save others pierced Damian when one of the firework rockets veered off course, crashing through the window of the house next door.

For the first time in his life, Damian saw a fire. He stood there, pressed against the wall, frozen, unable to tear his eyes away from the swirling smoke billowing through the windows, open like despairing mouths. The thick, acrid black mass spun like a colossal smouldering tree trunk.

People were running, their jubilance turned to screams. A few last fireworks burst like exploding blooms in the sky, sirens wailed, alarms from a nearby shop blared and the fire engine struggled to find access, the ambulance's deafening noise cutting the midnight air to shreds. Several people leapt from the fourth and fifth floors, the cacophony tearing at the eardrums. Damian stood looking on, overwhelmed by his helplessness.

In that moment, he longed to act; to run to the people’s aid and save them but he was painfully aware of his limitations, trapped as he was in the body of an eight-year-old boy. It would be at least ten or twenty years before he reached his full potential. Yet that night, Damian vowed to himself that he would dedicate his life to helping others.

All he could do now was be patient and wait. The time would come when he could be his true self, when there would no pretence or role-playing. When he would be free from the adults and youngsters just a few years older who bossed him around, making him waste precious time that could be put to far better use understanding his own nature and that of others.

‘Could we please borrow Dammy? Just to go to the shop,’ Vital, a neighbour a few years older, had once asked Damian's mother without much explanation.

‘Dammy is as good as a magician,’ the other boys with Vital chipped in. ‘He knows how to hypnotize people, make them fall asleep — well, sort of. Freeze them … he’s like a wizard!’

‘What?’

Damian couldn't lie. He confessed that at school, the children had discovered that when he asked the teacher something while looking intensely at her, she became confused, unable to break free from his gaze until he released her. Later, she would have no recollection of it.

‘What do they want from you? Tell us the truth now. You’ve nothing to be frightened of,’ his parents said, trying to hide their anxiety as they led Damian to sit on the living room sofa. They then both sat down either side of him, their heads turning like nervous pigeons exchanging glances.

Damian wasn’t frightened in the least and, on his parents’ request, told them that the boys just wanted to see if his ability to mesmerise people worked on others. Like the shop assistant, for example.

‘Mesmerise?’ his mother gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

‘Just to see if I can only do it on our class coordinator or on other people, too,’ he clarified.

‘So they can pinch something from the shop in the meantime, no doubt,’ his father said, shaking his head.

‘Pinch something?’ His mother’s eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Damian, you haven’t …’

‘No, Mum. I would never do that. I don’t need anything that belongs to other people,’ Damian replied, placing his hands on his thighs and leaning forwards slightly.

‘We believe you. Everything is fine,’ his father said gently but with a stern look. ‘I will handle the boys. From now on, we won’t have you walking home from school on your own. One of us will pick you up.’

Damian gave a little sigh. He wouldn’t have minded. He might even have quite enjoyed seeing if the freezing or turning off thing - he wasn’t sure what to call it exactly - would have worked on a stranger. A shop assistant, no less. But he didn’t want to upset his mum and dad so, for now, he would have to shelve that idea.

Afterwards, his parents seemed to become a little on edge and took to scrutinizing Damian’s every move, even when he was doing something as simple as reading, writing, or having lunch.

He could sense their piercing gazes on his back which he perceived as a sort of numbness. Without turning round, Damian knew that his dad was only pretending to read his newspaper while surreptitiously peering over his glasses at him. His mum’s concern was palpable, even from the next room, as she tried to figure out what Damian was up to or simply fretted over him. Damian felt something emanating from her, something like dense rays or crackling sparks of fire. When she worried, the very air around her seemed to stiffen and sometimes he could detect a hue to it that oscillated between pale yellow and pinkish-orange, like the flesh of a freshly cut grapefruit.

It took about two or three weeks for their anxiety to subside. They took it in turns to pick Damian up from school, never leaving him unchaperoned when outside the family home. His mum would even creep up on him when he was leaning against the windowsill, watching the passers-by outside. Gently putting her hand on his shoulder, she would say slightly nervously, ‘Well, what are you up to here? Why don’t you come and read something? Let’s see now, what’s here in the bookcase? How about Alice in Wonderland, or Karlsson on the Roof? Or maybe the Moomins …’

‘I’ve already read all of them,’ Damian replied calmly.

‘Ok. So what about The Count of Monte Cristo or In Search of the Castaways?’

‘Those too,’ Damian drawled.

‘Oh,’ his mum said, sounding rather stumped. ‘Then what about Don Quixote? After all that …’

‘I read it last summer, Damian said.

His mum puzzled at length over how her eight-year-old son could possibly have read so many books but try as she might, she just couldn’t fathom it out. Something felt off, and she didn’t like it.

‘I’m a fast reader,’ Damian explained, unprompted.

That evening, he overheard his parents whispering. His mum was concerned that he was too precocious, too mature for his age. His dad reassured her, saying that their son’s abilities were a gift from God and not the result of accelerated learning. To be on the safe side, he planned to invite his brother Jakov for a visit.

Uncle Jakov soon arrived, joining what felt like a family council. A respected surgeon and university lecturer, Doctor Levij was someone his parents hoped could provide insight or at least some reassurance. He exchanged a few words with Damian, ruffled the boy’s hair absentmindedly, clapped him on the shoulder and sent him off to play. The adults then took a seat at the table to discuss matters yet Damian could feel three pairs of eyes on him.

Uncle Jakov shook his head and, while munching on his mum’s baked pies, declared that Damian was just a normal boy - a little wiser and quicker than his peers, perhaps, but nothing unusual. He claimed it was probably all down to genetics, recalling how he and his brother had always excelled in school, winning gold medals and passing exams early thanks to their brilliant minds.

‘But what about this sleep-inducing business?’ Mum asked, twisting a napkin embroidered in cross-stitch nervously in her hands.

‘It’s not so much sleep-inducing as switching-off,’ Dad clarified, ‘but I’d rather not dwell on that …’

Uncle Jakov advised avoiding the topic altogether, suggesting they act discreetly so as not to draw any unwanted attention from the authorities.

‘What authorities?’ Dad whispered.

‘You know, the usual ones,’ his brother responded meaningfully.

‘But we would never …’

‘Exactly. The key is no demonstrations, no showing off. You understand that, don’t you?’

Mark, Damian’s dad, understood all too well. With years of experience as an engineer of physical technologies at a state organization and a correspondence physics professor, as well as having narrowly escaped conscription into the military thanks to a malunion fracture in his leg, he was well aware of how to keep himself under the radar in this country.

‘All manner of experiments, laboratories … if anyone got it into their head to study him, we couldn’t let them get their hands on him,’ Jakov mumbled, then spoke louder, ‘Your pies are always excellent. What’s in the dough? Yeast?’

Damian listened intently from the hallway, hidden behind a wall hung with maroon-coloured paper. He had long grasped the whole situation but didn’t understand why they were still afraid. He loved his parents and would never do anything that might put any of them at risk. He resolved not to study teachers, shop assistants or even the lady on the third floor who used to sit on the windowsill in the communal stairwell, her boot-clad feet on the radiator, blowing out perfect mouse-grey rings of smoke as she enjoyed a cigarette.

Wandering through his thoughts in an attempt to find himself, Damian decided to extinguish the smouldering embers and constantly burning flames hidden within his silvery, metallic-like eyes. He wouldn’t play with the strange electricity that flickered in his palms any longer; he would smother it and hide it behind his eyelids.

‘You should get the boy involved in something,’ Uncle Jakov suggested as he was leaving. ‘A sport of some sort, perhaps, to help him burn off some excess energy.’

His mum immediately liked the idea but was unsure which sport would be best.

‘Football, perhaps, or maybe basketball?’ she suggested. ‘Being part of a group would bring the best out in him!’ 

‘No, definitely not a team sport,’ Dad shook his head. ‘He doesn’t feel comfortable in large crowds. Too many things could go wrong …’

‘What? Damian isn’t sick or disabled!’ Mum became nervous. ‘Maybe being with other kids would be good for him, shift his interests?’

‘Veronica,’ Dad called her by name.

Damian pricked up his ears as he knew this meant Dad was concerned, determined and cross all at the same time but, as usual, was trying to mask his anxiety.

‘What would you suggest, then? Boxing?’ Mum’s voice rose. ‘No fighting, no hitting, no fencing or pointed objects - don’t even think about it …’

‘Oh my God, Veronica, what are you talking about? Boxing? Pointed objects?’ Dad calmed slightly. ‘I was thinking of athletics or swimming.’

‘Athletes often get torn ligaments,’ Mum objected. Damian couldn’t see her but had no doubt that she was shaking her head energetically. ‘And there’s always a very high risk of picking up some fungal infection in pools. Every other child in them has one …’

‘We won’t get anywhere like this!’ Dad interrupted. ‘We need to decide on something. What are your suggestions since you’re dismissing all of mine? What do you have in mind?’

‘Tennis could be good, or Novuss, perhaps,’ Mum proposed. ‘Damian would look adorable in a tennis outfit and as for the racket, we could …’

‘Novuss isn’t a real sport, it’s just expensive messing about,’ Dad waved his hand. ‘And tennis is pricey, too, we couldn’t stretch to it. And then there’s all the travelling across town to matches in other clubs.’ 

‘Figure skating, then! There’s a rink just round the corner. Why didn’t I think of that sooner!’ Mum brightened. ‘Figure skaters wear such lovely outfits!’

‘Figure skating? With all the girls, while the boys play ice hockey? Out of the question! He’d be a laughingstock!’ Dad exclaimed.

‘No one would laugh at him!’ Mum stood firm. ‘I’d go with him and keep an eye on things. Just let anyone try mocking him! It’s a perfect sport, almost like ballet. So beautiful, and then there’s the lovely music …’

‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Dad sighed. ‘Veronica, I can’t even picture Damian on skates.’

The fact that Dad couldn’t imagine Damian on skates carried no weight in Mum’s eyes. She thought of all her friends who had skated as children, how it had improved their posture, gait, confidence, rhythm, balance and coordination. Mum listed the numerous benefits of figure skating and Dad, unable to counter all her points, eventually relented.

The mere thought of the heavy, axe-like boots his mum bought the next day made Damian feel ill. They stood ominously in the corridor, threateningly black and shiny, waiting for Saturday - his first figure skating lesson.

Damian never feared anything - not bugs, not dentists, not even climbing a fifty-metre forest ranger’s tower. He hadn’t even been frightened when some boys a year above him at school had locked him in the old tool shed where he had sat in total darkness for hours until the cleaning lady found him and let him out. Yet now he found himself daily eyeing the ice skates, which seemed to leer back at him.

‘I can’t skate,’ Damian told his mum, guardedly.

‘Not to worry, sweetheart. That’s why you’re going – so you can learn. You’ll love it! It will be so much fun!’ Mum hugged him tightly and, as he inhaled the scent of fabric softener from her clothes, he sagged with  sudden sadness. He didn’t want to disappoint her but, gathering his courage, he objected warily, ‘I won’t. I don’t want to.’

‘Dam, what’s wrong? You’re making a fuss about nothing; everything will be fine.’ She kissed him on the cheek and placed both hands firmly on his shoulders. ‘Now, off you go and get dressed. We are leaving in ten minutes.’

Ten minutes later, his head bowed, Damian went down the stairs. His mother, with a perfect hairdo and lips painted a rather heavy shade of red, marched behind him in her best outfit, carrying his skating boots in a large, brown, faux leather bag. Stepping outside, they were greeted by the cold, raggedy spring - a chilly Saturday wrapped in layers of fog. Damian sagged even more, feeling increasingly despondent.

Inside the ice rink it was even colder than on the street. Damian pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and followed his mother, who pretended not to notice the chill. There were a lot more people at the rink than he had anticipated.

A group of girls in sparkling figure skating costumes that barely covered their bottoms ran back and forth, giggling and fidgeting in front of the large mirrors in the foyer. Boys dressed in ice hockey kits and helmets emerged from their changing room, pretending not to notice the little skaters, though in truth, they did nothing but squint nonstop at the girls’ short, bright skirts through the narrow slits of their helmets.

On the second floor, there was a spacious refreshments hall where parents waited for their children and older skaters had something to eat after gruelling training sessions. One wall of the dining area was made of glass, overlooking the hockey rink. Luckily, the figure skating rink was out of sight.

Mum took Damian for a look around both floors before heading over to the admin desk to deal with the formalities. As the assistant explained something to her, Damian just stood there, filled with a sense of impending doom, awaiting his fate.

‘Right, that’s everything sorted, sweetheart,’ Mum smiled, rubbing her freezing hands together. ‘We’ll have to wait a bit for this session to finish then it’ll be time to go and get changed.’

Damian didn’t reply.

‘We can wait inside; the admin lady said we could,’ Mum winked at him. ‘We can go and see what they all get up to round here.’

Mum took Damian’s hand in her cold one and they set off resolutely in search of the way in to the skating rink. It turned out to be on the other side of the girls’ changing rooms. At first, Damian didn’t even notice the white door but, as soon as Mum opened it, Damian felt as though he had entered a refrigerator. His body was engulfed by a stiff, paralyzing swirl of air glittering with white frost crystals. The door behind them closed softly, like the door of an ice-cream van. Dragging Damian behind her, Mum glided like an ice-breaker to the front row, separated from the brightly shining ice by a thick wall of organic glass. The seat for spectators were mostly empty, occupied only by bundled-up parents and a few freezing teenagers waiting for the session to end.

Horrified, Damian watched the white clouds of breath escaping from the mouths of those waiting. The cold invaded quietly and relentlessly and the thought that in twenty minutes he himself would be standing on the glittering, frost-covered surface nearly paralyzed him.

‘I’m cold,’ he said timidly.

‘Come on now, buck up!’ Mum shook him gently by the shoulders. ‘Look, the children there aren’t cold at all; you’ll soon warm up once you start moving. Look at that boy over there; he’s so hot that he’s all red in the face, even though he’s only wearing that flimsy costume.’

Mum gestured towards the centre of the arena where a much older boy in a navy-blue costume skated to the middle of the rink and performed a few jumps as instructed by his coach who was wrapped up in a thick pink jacket.

‘Those are toe loops or flips, I’m not sure which exactly,’ Mum explained, rubbing her nose which was turning blue. ‘But you’ll learn all of that too!’

Damian watched the boy confidently execute the exercises while his mother’s voice in his mind shifted - first subdued, then fading until it disappeared completely like an airplane cutting through the city’s transparent flesh with its noise before vanishing into the distance.

It felt as though he were a bystander or merely watching a film - detached from his body with everything unfolding in a fog he expected to wake from at any moment, like a nightmare. He stood there, frozen, engulfed in white vapours, his gaze locked on the perfect skater who, following the coach’s instructions, began to spin.

With both hands clutching his leg lifted behind his back, the boy in the blue costume released it then bent his body at a ninety-degree angle, stretching one leg out parallel to the ice and spinning faster.

‘Those are spins, a bit like pirouettes or fouettes in ballet …’ Mum’s hushed tone slid into Damian’s consciousness.

The skater continued spinning, now squatting with one leg stretched forward, accelerating until he resembled the spinning top Damian had received for Christmas. At that moment, the boy’s image merged with the spinning top in Damian’s mind, blending into a single entity. A strange rasping, drilling noise suffocated all other sounds and the background disappeared in a blur. Damian’s fear abated leaving only the shiny spinning top which turned so quickly, like a ball of quicksilver, that it became invisible to the naked eye.

Damian didn’t know how much time had passed when something abruptly pulled him back to the present.

‘Let’s go! Quick!’ Mum whispered, bending down to his ear, fear evident on her face. She grabbed Damian by his sleeve and dragged him through the rows of spectators and past the empty benches.

Damian rubbed his eyes, looking back at the rink, now swarming with people. Adults and children crowded in a semicircle while the coach, her pink jacket now open, fidgeted awkwardly and spoke loudly without pausing for breath. Everyone looked agitated. Everyone that was except the boy in the blue costume who was no longer spinning or jumping but instead lay stretched on the ice, unflustered and immobile.

Damian wanted to stay and watch what was happening but his mother pulled him briskly away. He noticed a hole where the boy had been spinning; the ice had broken. A dark, wet patch spread across the snow-white surface, growing larger in Damian’s mind until the entire ice rink seemed to be tinted black.

Mum shoved Damian through the fridge-like door before flinging herself behind him; it closed behind them with a gentle thud. Wordlessly she marched out of the sports centre, clutching the brown bag with the skating boots in one hand and gripping Damian’s hand with the other. Her hand was now boiling hot, giving off a searing heat like the oiled frying pan she used for making pancakes on Sunday mornings.

‘Where are we going?’ Damian asked, giving his mother a worried look.

‘Shush!’ she hissed, then didn’t utter another word all the way home. Damian trotted behind her, unsure whether to feel relieved or anxious.

Once back home, Mum continued behaving oddly. She barely spoke, saying no more than yes or no, moving around the flat faster than usual and spending ages locked in the bathroom from where Damian sensed her sorrow.

When she went to the kitchen to get supper ready, or at least pretend to, Damian went into the bathroom, closed his eyes and turned his palms upwards. He clearly sensed a cloud of salty tears, a kind of grey mist. Mum had been crying in there, pressing her face into a towel before making herself hold back her tears. The mist gave him a salty taste in his mouth and Mum’s sadness pierced his collarbones like spades, as if someone was poking rock-hard fingers into his flesh.

Mum’s distress caused Damian a physical discomfort which was crucifying. He felt at a loss, unsure of how to act. He didn’t feel guilty but he had a hunch that what had happened somehow involved him. All the same, he didn’t know how to make things right and that pained him deeply.

Later that evening when Dad came home, Damian heard them arguing. He lay in bed with his eyes shut, seeing a salty grey mist around Mum and a beetroot-red, grainy fog around Dad which seemed to grow denser by the minute.

When the argument ended, Dad came into Damian’s room and casually began quizzing him, asking numerous questions as if they were inconsequential but which actually betrayed his confusion. Damian observed his dad’s nervousness along with the beetroot-coloured clots forming behind him, which all served to worsen the situation.

‘Dad, I don’t know what happened back there,’ Damian said calmly, looking his father in the eye.

‘What?’ Dad, taken by surprise, looked at him.

‘I don’t know what happened there … at the ice rink.’

‘At the ice rink?’

‘Yes, I know Mum is upset, but I didn’t do anything. I …’

‘Damian, no one is blaming you, don’t even think like that!’ Dad clutched Damian’s hand as if scared of something. ‘We want the very best for you; you do see that, don’t you?’

Damian nodded.

‘Mum is a bit troubled because today didn’t go as planned, you know, back there …’

‘I know,’ Damian muttered, biting his lower lip. ‘We were watching the children skating and there was this boy ... he was doing spins. Mum said they were called pirouettes.’

‘I know, Dammy, you don't have to justify yourself. I'm not blaming you, see? I just want you to know that I love you very much and will always be on your side, no matter what. Do you understand that?’ Dad's speech grew increasingly jumbled and the maroon shade of tension around him thickened.

‘I'm not trying to justify myself,’ Damian hurriedly interjected, worried his father might cut him off. ‘I’m just saying there was a boy, spinning ... Then, all of a sudden, he was on the ground. I didn’t see the exact moment he fell, but then he was just lying there.’

‘Did you see why he fell? The very moment it happened?’

‘No,’ Damian shook his head. ‘I didn’t.’

‘Were you staring at him? Maybe you imagined him falling? Not that you wanted him to fall, of course,’ Dad hastily added, struggling to find the right words. ‘Did you think something specific at that moment? Maybe you wanted him to stop?’

Damian felt his father's embarrassment and regret, emotions more intense than his mother’s sadness. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he felt a sharp cramp in his stomach.

‘No, Dad. I didn’t want to stop him.’

‘But what were you thinking when you looked at him? Mum said you were staring too intensely, see?’

‘I wasn’t thinking anything, really. It just reminded me of the spinning top - the striped one with the red handle that you gave me. When I looked at the boy, I just saw the spinning top going round and round.’

‘And that’s all?’

‘Yes, that’s all. Then Mum said we had to leave, and when I looked at the rink, the boy was already on the ground. I didn’t see him fall.’

Dad hugged Damian, kissing his forehead.

‘Everything will be fine, son. Nothing to worry about. I’m sorry about all these questions. Mum and I just want to protect you.’

Creeping timidly backwards, Dad left the room, taking with him the heavy air of regret and embarrassment. Damian got into bed and tried to go to sleep, but he couldn’t drop off. Quietly, he got up, walked to the wardrobe and pulled out his toy box, fishing out the striped spinning top. Pressing it to his cheek, the cool metal felt soothing. He set it going in the middle of the room and, as it spun, Damian fell into a deep, dreamless sleep until the following morning.

II

Damian slept soundly as only children unburdened by worries for the future can. He wasn’t yet preoccupied with what other people thought of him or the fear of being alone, despite being aware that other children might eventually stop being his friends. He was, after all, a peculiar boy - a small, incomprehensible wizard always accompanied by his parents who were constantly there, holding his hand.

He didn’t yet sense the mockery or fear coming from those around him, nor did he try to read strangers' feelings. All of that was yet to come. Only the present mattered and that long, painful day was finally over, tucked away with the others, like glass beads strung into the labyrinth of time that people carve through their lives like the holes left by woodworms. Those creatures which gnaw through the chests-of-drawers, walls and even people we meet along the way, slowly reducing to dust everything experienced along life’s path.

For Damian’s parents, however, the present wasn’t enough. They constantly had one foot in the future, transferring their thoughts and anxieties beyond the present moment.

Veronica lay pressed up against her husband, consumed by fear, disappointment and anxiety. Her wide eyes stared out of the window at the dark, menacing sky and trembling, eery streetlights outside. She had envisioned an ideal son – bright, athletic, participating in school activities, the pride of the family. In her dreams, there was no room for deviation or strangeness.

Never in her worst nightmares had she imagined her son as a reclusive oddball who unnerved people with his behaviour, not to mention potentially harmful to others. It wasn’t the life she had dreamed of, where everything was orderly and pristine. A life like those depicted in glossy magazines, in a home with all the books lined up in descending order on the shelves, the cups sitting perfectly in the cupboards with all the handles facing the same way and a strip of plastic over the carpet in the entrance hall, preventing anything unpleasant from soiling her perfect home. Damian didn’t fit into that picture anymore and Veronica was lost on how to proceed.

Neither sports nor anything else would help here, as her husband, stubborn as a mule, had taken their son’s side and showed no intention of addressing Damian’s behaviour; an ‘error of nature’ that, according to Veronica, could certainly be corrected. Yet, she wasn’t even allowed to mention medication or consultations with specialists. Her brother-in-law, Jakov - the renowned doctor - didn’t think there was anything wrong with Damian’s behaviour.

So, what was she left to do? A poor mother, forced to endure it day after day. What could she do when her son cast a spell on another boy, nearly causing him to break his neck in front of everyone? Thank goodness it had been half dark in there! Fortunately, no one had noticed or deciphered Damian’s intense stare, the same cold gaze as when the Christmas lights had inexplicably lit up in his hands. It just didn’t bear thinking about …

So the notion of getting him involved in some sort of sporting activity clearly needed to be laid to rest. Veronica was quite convinced that her son had done it on purpose, having decided from the start that he didn’t want to take up skating. But what about me and my parental authority? she asked herself. The more she fretted, the stronger grew the sensation that a wall of ice was going up between herself and her son. He was becoming really quite unbiddable. The thought that nothing was working out as hoped and planned weighed on her like a terrible burden, making her come over all hot and bothered. Fury and helplessness hung in the darkness over the bed, preventing her from sleeping. The more she thought about it, the sorrier she felt for herself. Her fingers played with the bedclothes in a steelier manner as her anger mounted.

Her husband, Mark, lay beside her, pretending to be asleep, trying to avoid her questions. He could feel her tension through the blanket.

‘Dammy does have a special gift; there's no doubt about it,’ he thought. ‘It’s just that he’s too young to keep it in check. We can’t allow anything bad to happen to him. He just needs to keep his head down at school and we need to make sure he’s not bullied or fed any silly ideas. He doesn’t have to do a sport; he can exercise at home or go running outside when he’s older. Veronica is making too much of this. I can’t believe for a moment that he wanted to hurt anyone. He was just imagining the spinning top, that was all. There was an accident; these things can happen at an ice rink. I trust my boy and won’t let anyone speak ill of him.’

From that day, the atmosphere at home grew colder, suffocating everyone. Veronica moved through the house stiffly, as if bound by invisible constraints. Silent and heavy, like a cast iron cooking pot taken from the fridge, she spent most of her time in the kitchen. Whenever Damian caught sight of her, he would observe how her yellow light froze around her, like the outspread wings of a butterfly caught in a sudden frost. Her disappointment and occasional repulsion hurt Damian deeply.

Meanwhile, Mark tried to mediate, bearing the burden of their strained relationships.

Due to his parents’ constant presence, Damian’s friends gradually drifted away. He realised that all he could do was wait; playing the waiting game offered his only path to freedom from the place where he had never really fitted in. Isolated and friendless, Damian started to find solace in books.

By thirteen, he had devoured every book at home and in the local library. Initially, Veronica trailed him, wary of his interactions with others. But the librarians quickly grew fond of the diligent, quiet boy who treated books with care and even helped out around the library.

Damian felt completely at ease there. No one watched him with suspicion or fear. He could roam the shelves for hours; reading, thinking, or simply losing himself in the pages.

By high school, Damian’s interests spanned various subjects. He explored technical, medical, artistic, musical and social sciences, discovering forgotten books and long-neglected periodicals in the dusty corners of the library where no one else ever went.  

Damian was pleasantly surprised and delighted to discover the wonders hidden within the old library. Entire worlds lay encased in those heavy or light covers - full, vivid lives, far more real and true than the mundane daily occurrences outside the library's walls and the treasures they contained within.

Damian learned about things no one had ever discussed with him. Neither in school nor at home had anyone explained the mechanisms of life, how it worked, or the conclusions that could be drawn from correlations. It almost seemed as if the people outside weren’t interested in the truth. They moved through their lives with their eyes voluntarily closed, confined by the cages of time and space.

Even horses resist having blinkers put on, yet those who sought to control Damian’s life seemed to choose ignorance willingly. They neither saw nor wanted to see the world as it truly was, nor did they share or discuss their thoughts. This realization struck Damian as a profound insight into human nature.

Day by day, Damian's understanding of what was happening around him grew sharper. He began to read people’s thoughts even when they didn’t speak the truth. Time and again, he confirmed that most people lied. They either withheld facts or fabricated things. Teachers, parents, peers, neighbours – they all pretended. It was only in moments of anger or bitterness that their true feelings emerged, soon followed by apologies as they reverted to their facade.

It was a startling revelation: no one could be truly trusted. Everyone hid behind smiles and expected the same from Damian. When he didn’t return their smiles, they were offended. This always left him baffled, wondering if it was some secret game from which he was excluded, the rules to which would only be revealed when he grew older.

Thankfully, books and vinyl records were different. They didn’t set out to deceive; they remained exactly the same as when they were written or recorded, free from pretence. In them, Damian found no deceit and, therefore, also a sense of safety.

III

Damian watched from the sidelines as his dad tried to melt his mum’s icy silence. The more she distanced herself from their son, the more often his dad sought to please him. On his days off, they would go for long walks or to the cinema, sometimes watching more than one film back-to-back. They would visit ice cream parlours or the zoo and any other places his dad could think of.

At these times, Damian saw the warmest light glowing behind his dad - a grass-green hue. His dad even promised to take him on the big Ferris wheel when summer came.

One day, Damian asked his dad why he felt so guilty, but as usual, his dad pretended not to. Whenever he lied, the green light dimmed, darkening to the shade of sea kale his mum bought at the market and served up on Saturdays.

‘Dammy, is there anything you’d really like? Your birthday’s coming up and Mum and I thought it would be nice to give you something special.’

‘You and Mum?’ Damian looked his dad in the eye.

‘You know that your mum and I only want …’

Damian didn’t want to see the dark green mist turn into a black film.

‘An encyclopaedia,’ he said without missing a beat.

‘An encyclopaedia?’ His dad was taken aback.

‘Yes, a big encyclopaedia, like the one in the library. It has four volumes in all.’

That very evening, his dad took him to visit his uncle Jakov who had amassed a much-loved library in his home. A bachelor, Uncle Jakov lived alone in a large, four-room flat where three entire rooms were filled with books and the fourth served as his dining-cum-bedroom. The walls in the book-filled rooms were lined with shelves up to the ceiling, accessed by a sliding wooden ladder.

In one room, Damian spotted a colossal encyclopaedia comprising more than forty volumes. At that moment, he knew that waiting for his school years to end would be much easier.

Until he came of age, Damian spent more time in his uncle’s library than at school or home combined, reading everything he could get his hands on.

Unlike other people, his uncle spoke little, leaving no room for lies. He gave Damian complete freedom among the bookshelves and the plants scattered around the rooms. At first, Damian didn’t notice the plants, so engrossed was he in the books. But as he became accustomed to his uncle’s place, he began to pay attention to the green companions in their ceramic pots. Many were familiar from his readings in biology and botany. Among them were a fern, a Swiss cheese plant, a philodendron, a ficus, two dracaenas and various other plants he had yet to identify.

At first, Damian examined the plants with a magnifying glass, feeling their leaves and observing their colours and scents. Eventually, he began to perceive their vibrations which were somehow akin to human emotions. He realized that if he concentrated at length, the plants seemed eager to communicate with him.

Feeling a bit awkward initially, he started out greeting them and making small talk. Over time, however, Damian conversed with the plants as if they were his friends at school. He shared stories, read aloud to them and, after closing his book, observed how they communicated with him through thought or silent whispers.

Sometimes he waited for them to answer or give him a sign of some sort. Though they didn’t respond, he noticed a subtle, almost imperceptible halo surrounding each leaf. He detected their silent exchanges, possibly gossiping about him, through a delicate, invisible communication network. It was a secret language not intended for humans, the existence of whom they could not surmise.

‘They send each other warnings,’ Jakov explained, ‘alerting one another to potential dangers, like a nibbling worm or a bothersome fly.’

‘Not through sound, though?’

‘No, they have an ethereal cloud for communication.’

‘Like talking on the phone?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Is it a kind of mist?’

‘What exactly?’

‘Well, the cloud-thing that the plants send to each other. They move their leaves a bit and the green mist moves faster …’

‘Green? What makes you think the cloud is green?’ His uncle frowned and looked at Damian over the rim of his glasses.

‘If you look long enough, you can see …’ Damian bit his lower lip.

‘See what?’

‘Nothing much really … just something like a green veil,’ Damian admitted. ‘It’s almost invisible, but if you look closely …’

Jakov moved closer, removing his glasses and rubbing his forehead. He straightened up and spoke in a solemn tone, ‘Dammy, you’re special, and you know that. A bright future awaits you. Your dad and I will do everything to help you reach the great heights you’re destined for.’

Damian observed his uncle, sensing his sincerity. Jakov continued, ‘One day, you’ll be an outstanding scientist, maybe in biology or botany, or whatever field you choose. But …’

‘I don’t understand why you’re telling me this now,’ Damian shrugged. ‘I just…’

‘You have to be careful. You’re not a child anymore. Soon, you’ll start university, enter the adult world where people won’t see you as just a gifted boy who can put a teacher under a spell or hypnotize a shop assistant! You need to filter what you reveal and what stays within. Think, son, or you might end up in trouble.’

Jakov’s worry intensified, leaving Damian puzzled. He had never seen his uncle like this.

‘But I’ve only told you!’ Damian stood up. ‘I would never tell Mum or Dad!’

Jakov seemed unsettled. He wrung his hands, looking ill at ease as if accusing Damian of something. The usual orange light around his uncle darkened to brown.

‘What do you want to be, Dammy?’ Jakov asked, looking sheepishly at his nephew. ‘Maybe you’d like to study biology?’

‘I’m interested in people,’ Damian replied, noticing the leaves of the Swiss cheese plant tensing up. The plants' auras were invisible but Damian sensed their unease; they seemed to understand the reason behind his uncle's concern.

‘People, eh?’ Jakov rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Well, people are the focus of various branches of science – sociology, philosophy, anthropology, psychology, ethics ...’

‘No,’ Damian smiled, ‘I am going to study medicine.’

As Jakov sank into his chair, Damian saw an orange light pulsating behind him; so bright that Damian was dumbfounded as to why it wasn’t visible to everyone. Then Jakov jumped out of his chair, took a few steps toward Damian and gave him a big bear hug.

‘You’re going to be a doctor! Oh my God, you have no idea how happy you’ve made me! I am so flattered, son! I can call you son, can’t I?’

Jakov spoke on and on until the whole flat seemed to fill with a gentle, soothing light reminiscent of the bird of paradise flower. Even the dracaenas and Swiss cheese plants seemed to sense it as Damian noticed faint green veils flickering around them.

IV

Damian was used to being coddled and constantly supervised. He had escaped the watchful eyes of his parents and, now that he was at university, was under his uncle’s care. That had been the arrangement with Damian’s father.

‘It will be better for everyone and it will give Veronica peace of mind,’ his father had told Jakov. Veronica struggled to accept that her son was different, obsessed by the idea that he might do something terrible to someone, revealing his abnormality. She also believed that Damian might actually do something on purpose, acting out of spite.

Damian knew that his mother’s fears hadn’t vanished; she had merely learned to hide them better. In his presence, she was tense, sad, consumed with regret and Damian felt her sorrow like a smouldering pain in his body. Although he would never have realised it himself, living with her long-term would have destroyed him; her misery would have eroded him away cell by cell. He simply didn’t have the resources to counter her melancholy.

Living with his uncle was an escape. Now, Damian had a room in Jakov’s flat equipped with all the reading materials he could possibly need and a certain mental space.  But he also enjoyed stimulating conversations with his uncle and other medical professionals whom Jakov invited over on a regular basis in order to introduce Damian to what he called the world of adults.

During one of these gatherings, referred to by Jakov as ‘cognac colloquiums,’ he made a point of introducing Damian to someone in particular.

‘And this is my brother’s son, Damian, a future doctor, an incredibly inquisitive and clever young man,’ Jakov said. ‘Damian, meet Dr Weiss, head of our largest Psycho-Neurological Research Institute. When it’s time for your residency, you’ll find many field that might interest you at Dr Weiss’s institute.’

Dr Weiss, a middle-aged man with close-set, darting, almost black eyes, valued two things in life – potential and the ability to pay. Scanning Damian like an X-ray, he asked his age, academic year and specialization. The light around him flashed turquoise like a drenched peacock feather.

‘No doubt you’re planning on becoming a surgeon, eh?’ Weiss guessed bluffly. ‘Nowadays, everyone wants to be a surgeon, especially a plastic one. Can’t wait to cut and stitch everyone!’

Jakov took a sip from his glass and swallowed.

‘I’m not sure yet,’ Damian shrugged. ‘There’s still time to decide.’

‘Hm,’ Weiss grimaced. ‘Time? Just be careful not to wait too long and be left with the scraps.’

Damian, in his third year, hadn’t yet given much thought to his residency.

‘What kind of illnesses do you treat at your institute?’ he asked out of politeness.

‘Now, that’s a good question!’ Weiss grinned, squinting his eyes like a raccoon, then patting Damian’s shoulder. ‘Straight down to business, eh? We have a vast research institute with several departments: cerebrovascular illnesses, an epilepsy clinic, a neuroses clinic, psychiatric diseases, organic brain damage and a separate drug and alcohol addiction clinic. A comprehensive profile, indeed.’

‘You forgot to mention the centre of judicial expertise!’ Jakov winked at Weiss.

‘Ah, yes, our crowning glory! We’re the only ones in the country offering judicial expertise services in psychiatric and psychological matters, which elevates our organization’s status. So, keep us in mind when choosing your path; we always have work, and it’s never boring,’ Weiss said, taking another sip. ‘You seem like a smart, serious young man, Damian. I like that.’

‘Our Damian is exceptionally smart and self-disciplined,’ Uncle Jakov praised his nephew, patting him on the back. ‘Such an analytical mind, not to mention gifted and intuitive. He’s a gem, not just a student!’

‘We’re always on the lookout for gems in our line of work,’  Weiss’s tiny black eyes narrowed. ‘By the way, have you met Deborah?’

Confused, Damian looked between Weiss and Jakov, shaking his head.

‘No?’ Weiss said. ‘Well, she’s two years ahead of you, graduating next year. Deborah is my daughter. I’ll have to introduce you two.’

‘Absolutely!’ Jakov gestured with his empty glass. ‘Bring Deborah along next time so the young people can talk medicine!’

Weiss raised his glass, Jakov refilled his, and they clinked loudly. Damian felt a wave of heat in his face and suddenly wanted to retreat to his room, but his uncle held him by the sleeve.

‘Don’t disappear,’ Jakov whispered when Weiss went off to use the bathroom. ‘We’re paving the way to your future here. The Weiss family are major players in this field. You need to learn how to network – it’ll be to your advantage.’

Damian didn’t want to argue. These evenings exhausted him. He had noticed that alcohol dimmed the luminescence surrounding people, including his uncle’s tangerine-coloured light, which dispelled after his first glass. During these gatherings, some guests even developed a black contour, like comic-book characters. Damian intuitively avoided them as their presence caused unbearable headaches.

Most of all, Damian felt disappointed that his uncle, whom he respected and loved, was trying to involve him in this charade, something he had never understood.

The day after the party, when Jakov returned to his usual self and his orange light began to reappear, Damian asked him outright what these soirées were in aid of.

‘Well, you see, Dam, that’s just the way of the world for us humans. It’s a bit trickier for you, perhaps, because you see through everything, rather like having X-ray vision. But most people aren’t able to cut through things like that …’ Jakov sighed.

‘What do you mean by the way of the world? I don’t want it; I don’t need any of this.’

‘Well, let’s just say that finding a shortcut lies at the heart of human evolution,’ Jakov said, shaking his head sadly.

‘What am I supposed to understand by that?’

‘People are predisposed to look for shortcuts, the path of least resistance. They want to achieve everything quickly – money, fame, recognition, pleasure – with minimal effort. Speed is at the core of everything.’

‘That’s not for me,’ Damian said, watching the Swiss cheese plant turn its leaves, almost imperceptibly slowly, towards the light coming in the window. ‘I’m in no hurry.’

‘But that’s how these things work. Think about it, son.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Just that Weiss could be our shortest route,’ Jakov said, his expression melancholic.

‘Ours?’

‘Yes, yours and the family’s. Your parents worry about you. You know that, son.’

Damian kept his eyes on the green leaves; their breathing and trembling so slow and peaceful that it was only possible to detect when he breathed in sync with them.

Deborah’s light was yellow. Initially, Damian was alarmed as the hue closely resembled his mother’s but he soon spotted the difference – his mother’s light was more of a lemony-yellow while Deborah’s had a daffodil-yellow tinge to it. It was so dense that it sometimes made breathing difficult.

Deborah had turned twenty-six on the first of August and claimed repeatedly that it had been her best birthday ever as almost all her wishes had come true.

Damian had never seen a girl who resembled her father so much. She had a long nose, the same black, closely set eyes, shiny like glass beads, and straight, sharp eyebrows that gave her a stern look. Her unruly black curls contrasted with her pure white complexion, reminiscent of a marble statue in a museum, but threaded with a fine network of light blue capillaries. Only her lips, as pink and round as earthworms, softened her sharp features, though she continuously bit them, either as a nervous tick or a childish habit. And yet her face transformed instantly when she smiled or laughed, becoming immediately gentle and easy to read.

Just a few months had passed since Dr Weiss and Uncle Jakov had introduced them but Deborah acted as if Damian had been gifted to her as a birthday present. She demanded his constant presence, calling him constantly and throwing tantrums if he didn’t make himself available to her.

‘We could be the happiest people on earth!’ Deborah insisted.

Damian didn’t understand what she wanted. He’d never had a girlfriend and didn’t know what to talk to girls about. At school, the girls had all giggled and flapped about, loud and shrill - he had been quite scared of them. Even at university, where the girls were more composed and focused on fighting it out for scholarships and grants, their studies consuming most of their time, Damian preferred to keep his distance.

All this meant that Deborah's sudden arrival on the scene made Damian nervous. He didn’t know how to handle the big, white, marble sculpture-like presence of Deborah, who had stormed into his life like a spring hurricane, bringing with her the aroma of coffee and oranges.

Damian always sensed when Deborah was about to show up; he would first detect her peculiar aroma, his eyes unconsciously searching for a freshly brewed cup of coffee or a glass of juice. Later, he came to realise that the scent was merely heralding her arrival. It was strange as he never noticed such signals from others. Damian suspected it might be possible to delve deeper into the mechanics of this phenomenon, but with everyone so focused on him, he didn’t dare experiment, despite longing to.

‘Have you been eating oranges?’ Damian had asked Deborah when they first met at the house party. She had thrown her head back, laughing.

‘No, why?’

‘You smell of oranges,’ he had replied, making her laugh even louder.

‘You are so funny,’ Deborah said, flashing a broad grin, revealing the bright green line of her braces.

‘So are you,’ Damian replied, studying the strange things on her teeth.

‘Well, that is a compliment!’ Deborah frowned.

‘You have a biblical name, really nice.’

Deborah laughed again.

‘You really are funny, but I like you,’ she said loudly and directly, leaning close to him. ‘My friends call me Debby. What are you going to call me?’

That confused him.

‘I am going to call you Deborah.’

Deborah was like a brick falling into a pond. Damian felt she had shaken his usually calm and quiet world. There was something both menacingly off-putting and magnetically compelling about her. Damian was taken aback by her frankness, her honesty and her lack of hesitation or pretence.

‘Don’t you ever tell lies?’ Damian asked.

‘No, why should I? Only losers lie,’ Deborah confidently pursed her raspberry-coloured lips as if about to whistle. ‘I’m not afraid of anything. And do you lie? Often?’

‘No,’ Damian shook his head. ‘I’m not capable of it.’

‘There you go then. We’re like two peas in a pod.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind,’ she laughed again. ‘You are so strange; let’s go and dance instead.’

‘No, I don’t know how,’ Damian froze.

‘You can’t lie and you can’t dance; you’re like something from another planet!’ She shook her black hair and, paying no heed to the elderly doctors, professors and her father’s friends, dragged Damian to the middle of the room. She placed his hands firmly on her waist, put her arms round his neck and the two of them began to sway; at first awkwardly but then more fluidly, almost like dracaenas in a slight draft.

They might have swayed longer if someone hadn’t lit a cigarette in the room. The swirl of tobacco smoke had barely reached Damian when he was overcome with anxiety. He perceived a sudden, piercing signal of alarm as if a poisonous fang of burning plastic had cut his throat, blocking his respiratory tract.

Damian had such a severe coughing fit that he couldn’t draw breath. Clutching his throat with one hand, he motioned towards the far corner of the room where one of Jakov’s friends was smoking, flicking ash into the pot of the Swiss cheese plant.

‘Hey, there! Put that cigarette out right now! He’s having an asthma attack!’ Deborah shouted.

Chaos erupted as people darted back and forth like cockroaches when a light is suddenly switched on in a communal kitchen at midnight. The windows were hurriedly thrown open, the smoker was shamed and chased out of the room, cigarette still in hand, and Damian was laid down on a sofa in the adjacent room, where several tipsy doctors came to his aid. His uncle arrived with a stethoscope and a blood pressure monitor.

‘The symptoms don’t correspond to classic bronchial asthma,’ someone who repeatedly emphasized he was a pulmonologist, muttered anxiously. He suggested Damian might have an allergy of some sort for him to have reacted so violently to something as innocuous as tobacco smoke. Meanwhile, everyone was busy speaking over everyone else, all of them keen to refute the pulmonologist and the world at large.

Deborah stood to one side, leaning against the doorframe, observing the chaos with a steady gaze that hinted at her resolve to watch over this strange, incomprehensible man who had dropped into her life as though from another planet. This, she thought, must be that marvel known as love at first sight, as found in books. The body on the sofa seemed like a fragile figurine, patched together from bits and pieces, dressed in creased clothes, yet there was something magnetic about him. She felt a compelling need to protect him, to shove everyone aside and shield Damian from the world.

Enduring the commotion submissively, Damian lay there with his head pressed into a soft pillow, thinking about the tight bond he had with the Swiss cheese plant whose air roots were especially sensitive, particularly to strangers and even more so when assailed by lit cigarettes and ash flicked into its pot.

He pondered whether such telepathy was possible between people or if plants were somehow more advanced and, with their silent, invisible veils had surpassed the clod-hopping, bipedal creatures who permanently dashed about creating more of a hubbub than the world could stand. Damian also wondered whether there was a limit to the noise humans created, which plants avoided by staying mostly silent, having no call for superfluous sounds.

These thoughts and many others raced through Damian’s mind as he lounged helplessly on the sofa, waiting to be left alone. He couldn’t actually see Deborah, blocked from view by the doctors encircling him, but he sensed the daffodil-coloured mist glittering from all corners of the room, like a protective veil rising from the doorframe and gradually enveloping the room.

The next day, when his uncle was at work and Damian had the apartment to himself, he had a long conversation with the Swiss cheese plant and his other green friends, promising to protect them from outsiders and take better care of them. Damian believed the plants had entrusted him with one of their secrets and a pact had been formed between them. He sat immobile for a long time, feeling the turbulence within him gradually calming until a sense of peace and inexplicable relief washed over him.

VI

Deborah married Damian as soon as he finished medical school and obtained his doctor’s degree. By then, she was two years in to her psychiatry residency in her father’s clinic and had another two left to go. After that, it would take another year for her to become a fully-qualified judicial expert in psychiatry.

‘I’ll be thirty by then, Dam. It’s insane, isn’t it?’ she said, applying dark red lipstick to her rounded lips.

‘What?’

‘What do you mean, what? Haven’t you been listening?’ Deborah gave Damian a stern look. ‘I’m going to be old by the time I finally qualify as a judicial expert, and I want it sooner! That’s the thing!’

‘Do you really want it that badly? You’re already practicing as a full-qualified psychiatrist. What more do you need?’

Deborah moved closer so she could see Damian better. Reluctantly, he detached his eyes from his book. Deborah looked stunning, as if she had just stepped out of a Klimt painting. She shimmered, encased in a golden, baroque light that she seemed unaware of.

‘You are so beautiful,’ Damian said.

‘But you’re not listening to me!’ Deborah’s voice became shriller. ‘As soon as I mention anything to do with being a judicial expert, you …’

Damian felt his jaw joints going into spasms. It happened whenever his ears were assaulted by shrill noises.

‘I am listening to you; I just don’t understand why. Why are you so driven by it?’ Damian swallowed to ease the spasms and looked back down at his book.

‘Damn, Dam! It’s like you’re going out of your way to annoy me!’ Her golden light quivered as she sat down next to him. ‘You could become a judicial expert, too; it could form the core of our family business. They need specialists; it all has to be developed, so …’

‘I’m not actually interested in diagnoses per se but rather in how to heal people. The job of a judicial expert involves a whole set of different undertakings,’ Damian, turning to Deborah, explained evenly.

‘Right, so business-oriented planning clearly isn’t your strong suit,’ Deborah retorted, shaking the curls that cascaded down her back like sleek, black lizards.

Damian felt a gentle regret, not anger, emanating from her; a yearning for him to always stay by her side, within arm’s reach. A red light flickered behind Deborah’s back and Damian drew a parallel to his mother’s expression when she felt disappointed.

‘So you want a shortcut?’ Damian repeated, his gaze fixed on the pages of his book, as though seeking refuge from childhood memories.

‘Will you stop?’ Deborah frowned, two vertical lines forming on her forehead. ‘I’m not in the mood for messing about today. I have no intention of spending my entire life treating junkies, addicts, and lunatics, if you must know.’

Damian had known this for a while; he didn’t need it to be spelt out for him. Their views on medicine - and the mission inseparably tied to it - were worlds apart. For Damian, the essence of being a doctor lay in healing, not merely stating facts. Healing required time and patience, qualities many doctors seemed to lack.

In 1995, Damian began his residency at his father-in-law’s clinic - the same year two American physicists made a groundbreaking discovery by identifying the fifth state of matter: the Bose-Einstein condensate. By cooling atoms to near absolute zero, they slowed their motion, causing them to condense into a quantum state - a phenomenon Albert Einstein had predicted back in 1925.

Damian often pondered why it had taken scientists seventy years to uncover this - a process requiring the utmost patience and perseverance with the very likely outcome being failure. The revelation intrigued him: the breakthrough wasn’t in speeding things up but in achieving the slowest possible movement that, in physics, still constituted motion.

The more Damian reflected on this, the more convinced he became that he was on the right path. It takes years to notice certain things and even longer to understand them fully. Cracking the mysteries of the world required time.

Damian wasn’t one to dwell on regrets or follow orders blindly. To him, regret was the most futile of emotions, offering neither energy nor meaning. Worse than that, it was deceptive, seeming to fade away while at the same time transforming people into uncontrollable entities, idling aimlessly and polluting everything in their path.

Damian accepted whatever life handed him, including Deborah, without complaint - as naturally as he accepted the changing seasons. The human world was constantly ready to intrude and reorganize everything as it saw fit, but Damian refused to assign blame. To him, blaming others was unjust, and he despised injustice.

Despite it all, Damian finished medical school and took up his residency which paid him a modest salary as well as granting him numerous perks. As it happened, the clinic was actually understaffed as apparently  persuading new doctors to take up their residencies in departments such as narcology, psychiatry or neurology was no small feat, fraught as they were with unpredictable patients and an air of constant tension.

The residency was to last four years - a transitional period Damian intended to use to hone his skills and assess their utility in science, a field in which he was already deeply immersed. His greatest challenge was balancing this objective with his work and Deborah who, although busy with her own studies and the clinic, still sought to spend as much time as possible with him, which he found draining.

Damian wasn’t accustomed to constant interaction, let alone with someone who spoke loudly, asked endless questions, expected prompt answers and sought physical closeness in the way Deborah did. It was stimulating but could also be rather disconcerting, especially when he found himself needing to justify why he lingered in bed longer than expected, unable to muster the energy to get up. He craved space, serenity, and above all, silence, which he believed to be the world’s greatest healer.

Their flat, a wedding gift from Deborah’s father, offered neither peace nor quiet. At times, Damian sought refuge at his uncle’s house. However, Jakov would gently urge him to go back home, reminding him of his responsibilities as a married man and insisting that Deborah, essentially a winning ticket in the lottery of life, didn’t deserve to be neglected.

Damian would shrug off his uncle’s gentle rebukes, saying that he was visiting the plants which were sad without him. Jakov would brush these excuses off with his hand, promising to deliver all the remaining pots to Damian and Deborah’s new domain.

‘It’s the right thing to do,’ Jakov declared firmly. ‘You’re married now. It’s a serious business.’ Damian shrugged; the world of humans got trickier by the day.

Damian found these conversations unsettling. The world of adulthood with its models of family, maturity and obligations held no interest for him.

What did interest him, however, was the study of the human brain: how it coordinated and regulated behaviour, processed information and produced thoughts. The flow of thought and speed of communication, intuition, various levels of consciousness, dreams, memory storage and accessing and modifying human awareness – all these things fascinated him far more than the mundane concerns of daily life.

Tired of conversations about shortcuts and lottery tickets, Damian volunteered for extra hours at the clinic. In his small office, he could lock the door and pretend to be alone.

If Damian felt overwhelmed by the people around him, he would just sit on the sofa in his office, as still and quiet as a fleawort plant, reading a book or simply staring at the whitewashed wall. There were no plants in Damian’s office; he deliberately avoided them, fearing they might divert his attention from the people he was meant to focus on. In his mind, people and plants tended to compete for his attention, so he knew he had to tread carefully.

VII

The Easter holidays came up on Damian quickly, taking him unawares. It wasn’t that he was particularly bothered about preparing for celebrations but he was caught on the back foot when Deborah announced her plans for a weekend getaway. They had four full days off work and she insisted that he join her; she wasn’t taking no for an answer. Damian viewed the trip as a minor nuisance, a little like his annual trip to the dentist’s to have his teeth professionally cleaned. Damian could see he had no choice in the matter and that putting up any sort of resistance would be totally pointless.

‘We’ll stay in a nice hotel with a pool, a decent sauna, massages,’ Deborah said enthusiastically, seated on a low chair with wheels, scribbling in her notebook. ‘We need to recharge our batteries, have some quality time together, sort a few things out, or …’

Damian didn’t think that there was anything requiring sorting out that couldn’t be sorted out at home. He  resented the idea of an unfamiliar place filled with strangers and noise where he would have to partake in ‘sorting out sessions’ and all the other things Deborah was so excitedly preparing for him.

Damian picked up the first book that came to hand and, clinging to it like a life ring, lay back down on the sofa. He closed his eyes, scanning his bookshelves in his mind’s eye and thinking what reading matter he should take on this away break. It had to be uninteresting to Deborah and also not a title that might provoke remark from others, thus shielding him from their unwanted attempts at conversation. He settled on The Theory of Cognitive Dissonance by Festinger, thinking it would do the job perfectly. Opening his eyes, he saw that Deborah was still writing and talking.

‘… I’ve already said as much to him, but he won’t listen. Can you believe it? He doesn’t trust me!’ she exclaimed, turning on him eyes as dark as black aronia berries glistening in the twilight.

Trapped by her gaze, Damian couldn’t look away without giving away the fact that he hadn’t been listening to a word, something which in her book was both ill-mannered and disrespectful. Guilt surged through him. Deborah was his wife - intelligent, caring and willing to go through hell and high water for him if necessary. Yet here he was, lounging on the sofa, unable to engage with her day-to-day predicaments or even pretend to listen. He stared at her, unblinking, hoping she would carry on talking and not ask him a direct question.

‘Does it really bother you?’

‘Dam?’ she prompted. She tried to roll closer to him on the sofa but her robe caught in the chair’s wheel, keeping her at a safe distance.

‘I’m sorry … I didn’t really hear what you were saying,’ Damian admitted timidly.

Deborah tugged at her robe in frustration but it was well and truly jammed.

‘You’ll rip it,’ Damian pointed to the trapped robe before turning his gaze to the ceiling.

‘Does it really bother you?’ she asked.

Damian tried to discern irony in her voice but found only a faint tremor, like the clink of ice melting in spring. He glanced at her again. Her usually vibrant yellow aura, reminiscent of daffodils or sunflowers, freesias or dandelions, had faded. There she sat, jammed from moving forwards, sitting on an uncomfortable, low-slung chair, at her back no more than a muted patch of watery chamomile tea streaked with grey. This, he realized, was sadness.

Sitting up, he placed his feet on the ground as if ready to act, but remained still.

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head.

Deborah looked at him, surprised, then suddenly laughed.

‘That’s why I love you,’ she said, giving her robe a final, successful tug. ‘You’re so bloody honest! But I don’t understand - are you really not interested in what I’ve been saying?’

‘No,’ Damian replied, shaking his head again. ‘It’s not that. It’s just … sometimes I can’t process everything all at once. Too much information. You mention people I don’t know, and then I … struggle to keep up.’

‘You couldn’t care less about these people, could you? Just say it!’ Deborah giggled, finally freeing her robe.

Damian reflected that, if he were to start telling his wife about the auras and waves, his conversations with plants and his peering inside people’s heads, it would take hours and hours. Deborah was impatient; she would never hear him out and perhaps fail to understand or even believe him. He would be left feeling that he had revealed too much, said the unsayable.  

He didn’t want that. He had a silent, one-room world that was off-limits to everyone, Deborah included. Plants alone were granted admittance.  

‘What are you always thinking about, Dam?’ Deborah asked, settling beside him on the sofa.

‘Right now?’ Damian's hand brushed Deborah’s shoulder. ‘The theory of cognitive dissonance.’

‘Are you serious?’ Deborah gave him a look, half-incredulous, like he’d just turned a handkerchief into a bouquet of roses.

Before Damian could respond, Deborah stretched out beside him, clutching his knee with both hands and resting her head in his lap.

‘You’re my only salvation in this life, with your unshakable calm,’ she sighed, her eyes slowly closing. ‘Sometimes I feel like not even doomsday could rattle you.’

Damian ran his fingers gently through her static-filled hair and down her over-heated neck with its throbbing vein, absorbing a fragment of her melancholy. For a fleeting moment, his inner universe trembled but gravity reasserted itself and balance was restored. Closing his eyes, Damian became aware of the surges of energy he had accumulated over the years behind his forehead as they went off with a sharp crack, like a fired bullet.