The Mirror Maze. Almost a chess novella

What is one to do with their aggression in a confined space? The success of the entire Project depended on the solution of that problem. We tried a lot of different methods; yoga and meditation, ayahuasca, LSD… And now what? Household decor versus shooting games? Storytelling and writing skills were also discussed. I’ve been writing for a while now and it was time for something new, so I gave painting a try.

Chapter three: Order versus Chaos

I decided to paint a portrait of Little Sparrow using a photograph of her. I have everything required. In the two weeks of self-isolation following my last flight, I became deeply addicted to painting. With all due respect to myself, I cannot call what I did painting. The Germans have it easy; they call both a painter and an artist a “Maler’. I don’t judge myself too harshly. I like the feeling of it. The process is addictive. The canvases need to be restocked far too often; they run out treacherously quickly.

Wait, why do I need her portrait again? In the soft twilight, her skin shimmered like… Yes, I already compared her to a flower. She is clearly one of us. They don’t talk to strangers. If I had gotten any closer, I would have only embarrassed her, or even scared her away. Have I already? Rikki taught me to be careful with words. I would love for her to look at that Little Sparrow and tell me what she sees. But if she were here, I would have to hear her questions, “Oldie, what’s wrong with you? You are not yourself today. Is something bothering you? What do you want from the girl? Afraid of scaring her away, are you?” And I then would have to tell her about the stupid doctor and the memory lapses and the tickling worm of guilt that is for some reason making me think of the girl who fed sparrows. Stop. I can’t talk about the worm… Even when dead? Rikki deserved to know the truth. At least at this point. The truth is that the book I’ve been dictating is just an excuse. I want to talk to my wife. Actually, talk to her! I want her to hear me, hear my voice. I want to watch her nod her head to the rhythm of either my words or her thoughts. God, she was wonderful at nodding! At first, she responded in silence, but then began to answer. And now I can hear her question clearly, “What do you want from the girl?”

Damn! All my life, I’ve been thinking about what I want for people like her. I want them to be happy, satisfied, calm… For the world to be fun, interesting, and comfortable for them. I want them to be entertained, and not yearn for what they do not have. I want them to be healthy and optimistic. I want them to not suffer and or wish to die.

Yesterday, Little Sparrow looked tense and lost in thought. I remember it vividly from when I found her on the summer terrace of the cafe. Right under my house. I’m a regular there, but had never seen her there before. Surely, she looks different in her nest. So why did she leave her house? What happened? I don’t have the answers, only her pictures in my phone.

“Oldie, you are a disgusting paparazzi!” my wife would tell me, looking at the photo. Yes, I admit I couldn’t resist the urge to take her with me into my empty lair.

But I would not remain in debt, “Rikki, you old witch!” I’m sure she would have minded. I was always amazed by her magical ability to see into peoples’ cores, capturing their essence instantly. And after fifteen minutes of detailed explanations, I was finally able to understand what she had grasped in seconds.

I would say, “Rikki, something is going on with her and I must figure out what it is! I feel as though she needs my help. How and for what? I have no idea. But I’ll figure it out. I have to.”

Oh, my wife knew when to stop. After a pause, she asked, “How exactly are you going to do that?” I glanced at the freshly primed canvas and the printout of yesterday’s photo. She nodded approvingly.

Everything was fine until I re-read yesterday’s notes. Fragmentation. Confusion. Memory losses. Conversations with my dead wife… Rikki died whilst in her right mind. And I… Looks like I’ve been here longer than I should have. But I don’t want to talk to anyone else. Only her! I want to talk to her so badly that I begin to hear her voice. Yesterday I was ecstatic to hear her questions. Today I started feeling uneasy. An old man going out of his mind. I’m not good for anything anymore..

But that doesn’t matter. I have never been in the habit of giving up. I must help Little Sparrow. I have to pull myself together. Rikki will understand. She will wait. No more dictaphones. Voice recognition is great, but I speak chaotically. It’s useless. Today I’m going to start writing the old-fashioned way again.

I’m using Rikki’s sharpener. The scalpel doesn’t obey me anymore. Damn, these hands can’t even sharpen a pencil anymore! The easel and paints have also been moved into the Gateway. I will work on the portrait of Little Sparrow and write down my observations in a new notebook. This should work.

Chapter Four: Portrait of Little Sparrow

Day 1

The canvas has remained untouched. I’ve been staring at the photo all morning, and eventually realized: she is not a Little Sparrow! Thщse annoying squeakers are always fussing around. She isn’t like that. What should I call her instead? Her silhouette is smooth and calm. The lines are simple and light. It’s a pity you can’t tell how she moves from the photo; I printed the clearest shot.

Day 2

One photograph is not enough. After rummaging through my phone, I found some blurry shots of her throwing crumbs to the speakers. The blurred movement of her hand resembles the flapping of a long narrow wing, similar to a boomerang. That’s familiar… Of course! Silver seagull, Larus Argentatus! They are unfortunately often mistaken for cormorants. It’s decided. The name of the girl who fed the sparrows will be Lara. I made the first pencil sketch.

Day 3

The bluish evening shadows resemble the sea… It urged me to blur the background some more. The sea, sky, and freedom are not for Lara. She should instead be comfortable in the “nest”. I abandoned the acrylic I had originally started with. This work requires watercolour. I also removed the canvas. Many times, I wet the paper and painted shadows with a sponge and a wide brush… I spent a lot of time looking for the exact colors of asphalt in the evening and the glow of the setting sun in the house opposite. I succeeded!

Day 4

I came to the conclusion, that all of yesterday’s work was entirely worthless. I couldn’t help myself. I had to start over. Gone were the sparrows, the terrace, and the evening city. The asphalt and setting sun followed shortly. In my painting, Lara is spreading her wings by the shore. Although… The grey-violet and ochre paints came in handy. She must see it. For the first time in my life, I want to take my work out of the Gateway. Previously, I would just turn them over to face the wall and begin something new.

Day 5. Outcome

I wanted to know what she needed. I succeeded. She’s not fit for life in a bunker, but freedom and space frighten her. The silvery glow contrasted by the bluish twilight is a godsend for the picture, but her pallor on a July evening is a sign that she barely ever leaves the house. The summer has been glorious. Generous, sunny. What is keeping her locked up? Fear? Weakness? If so, it’s on me. I must help her. The idea of gifting Lara the painting today seems ridiculous to me, but I want to do it anyway. I want to show her how she was seen from the side. But that is not enough. I have to do something else.