M  A  G  D  E  B  O  O  K

6:30am A small square room. Morning twilight. The day hesitates. The day would prefer to sleep on, not to wake up. Let the night go on and hide in its gloom these scary things, matters and affairs which are to happen in the daytime. Different scary things, matters and affairs used to happen so often The Day got used to them, nevertheless from time to time it feels and overwhelming lassitude caused by such enormous dreadfulness and would like to sleep itself over, and wake up as the next one. The Night is not that stupid and naive and won’t let be cheated by such namby-pamby tricks. Scary things, matters and affairs happen also in the night, maybe not so many, but they do. It’s obvious people are more active in daytime, when they can see much better and scary things give them more pleasure and satisfaction, and that’s the point, isn’t it? Father is lying on a narrow divan bed. Mother and Daughter are lying on the floor, on a blanket and a foam pad, probably, it’s hard to say, it’s too dark in the room and the mess is overwhelming. The fact Father is lying on the bed while Mother and Daughter on the floor doesn’t mean patriarchy – it simply tells Father was very tired because had been driving all day long, so had gone to bed earlier and if he had laid down on the floor he would have obstructed packing. There are no more beds and the only one is set against the wall, so sleeping on it he was as if outside, off-room. 6:40am As he was the first to go to bed, he is the first to take his ageing body out of the dark. He is going to the bathroom leaned forward, as if the burden of his not so bad life, of the qualified ups and downs was too heavy. Well, heavy things should be carried on the head, then the back must be straight, otherwise everything would fall onto the ground... No, definitely he is not thinking to participate in a workshop for would-be head-bearers. He’s thinking about time, that there is little time. He’s staying in the bathroom short, we can hardly look around the tiny hall with a kitchen bay, and another chaos of bags, vessels, cloths, shoes... He’s coming back to the room. Twilight is almost gone. It’s in a hurry, too. It’s aware of time passing. Mother and Daughter are going to the bathroom, erected not leaned. They are coming back quickly. 7:00am Now they are moving around. Putting something in, taking something out. Placing things here and there. Pushing things in, pushing them aside. There are neither more things nor less. This is what we feel, though we are expecting there should be less and less things. The number of packages should decrease yet it seems to increase. It must be an illusion. The gap between night and day is full of illusions. It’s not known whether the feeling of harmony within such chaos is also an illusion. The lack of tension and friction can be an illusion, too, but some monosyllabic conversations, or even the lack of such, suggest an enormous concentration which must manifest itself in harmonious cooperation. Although they bump each other from time to time, which is inevitable in such limited space, they don’t shout, don’t scream and yell, don’t snatch things to try to pack them in the only proper way, one’s way. And there are no traces of panic. They control the time, they rule the time, as if had every move planned precisely and perfectly practised, while the scraps of talks, single words and murmurs prove it is a great improvisation. And the breakfast they are having at a run and on a fly proves the same. 7:38am The long, narrow corridor. A few shades of grey, washed out pink, dimmed white. The colours muted by a dull, bland light. At one end the door they have just gone out from. At the other one, far away, beyond the horizon, the window. Father is carrying two bags and is waddling, the bags keep hitting his legs at every step. Daughter is carrying some boxes, not so heavy, but uncomfortable. Father is saying: that’s not the first time I’m here, fourth? fifth? maybe, so that’s the twentieth or twenty second time I’m going through this corridor and again I meet nobody; I have never met here anybody, as though you were living here alone, as though all these rooms were abandoned... Daughter is answering: and I meet somebody, at least once a week, in the corridor and staircase... They are opening the wide glass door and are entering the spacious staircase. They are going down the wide stairs. Then they are opening the door down there and are going out in front of the building. Now they are going along the gable wall. On the right hand side there is the fence of a kindergarten, behind the fence cars and no children, on the left hand side – the lawn. Over there, a bit further, the street. Wide sidewalk. Roadway. Parking bays paved with big, a bit bulgy, rectangle stones. Suddenly Father begins to talk, to continue the interrupted phrase: .... the street is deserted, too, a few cars, almost no people; what a strange town, almost nobody in the centre, big town with so few inhabitants, wherever you go there are almost no people, the boulevards along the river are deserted, the park is deserted, you feel like in a library among shelves, like on a page in an open book, you walk, look at the houses-letter, it’s nice, warm, pretty, and all the time you think: I must be careful, I must be careful, any time, any moment this book can be shut and? ... are you small enough not to be mashed? Father is putting bags and boxes into the trunk of their minivan. They are coming back. Deserted sidewalk. Empty staircase. Empty corridor. And so on. On and on. For some time. Till the room is empty, too. Deserted. Abandoned. There is nothing they can take and carry to the car. 8:25am - Excellent! - says Mother. - We’ve made it. What time is he to come? Aaa... So you have almost quarter of an hour. You could even drink a cup of tea, but there are no cups... OK. Go and do it. We’re waiting in the car... 8:30am Father and Mother are sitting in the car. They are calm, not nervous at all. What could make them nervous? This scratch on the floor? Nobody will notice it. They are not talking. Is there anything they should talk about if everything is as it should be? - - - - - - - - - Quarter of an hour. It’s not like in a movie. Not at all. In a good movie, and in a bad, too, even in an awful thriller she would have quarter of a minute, fifteen seconds, exactly as many as she would need to run back to the room, provided she didn’t tumbled down or the door didn’t jam. But this is neither good nor bad thriller. So, what is it? . . . Father falls silent. He's not going to talk any more. Talking is exhausting, makes him even more tired, and he would like to rest. They are sitting and looking at the deserted, empty world in front of them... 8:48am Daughter is coming back. She’s getting into the car. Glad. - You’ve done it? - I have. - Quickly. - Yes, quickly. Everything was all right, no complaints, that’s why so quickly. We can go. - So let’s go. And off they go. They are going along the empty, deserted street, and in a while they disappear having turned to the highway. Then the one who is reading slams loudly the book and puts it onto the shelf. A really discouraged voice can be heard: what a bore... what the fuck is it? a thriller? maybe for kids . . . neither you know what it is all about, nor you know how it ends... bullshit...

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