The Man in the Purple Labyrinths
"It's getting cold outside, maybe we should go to the Hotel?" — I suggested, sitting down on the bench. My voice held genuine excitement, a tremor. — "It's here, not far, just a few miles' walk along an overgrown forest path. It's nice there, it's warm, there's a relaxing atmosphere, there... Wait! Don't you believe me, friend? Remember, you asked what it was called, well I found out. Solitude — that's its name! Well, remember now? Yes, you remember, I bet five to one you remember, I can see it in your eyes. You couldn't have forgotten. You were there, damn it. And she was there. That's not something you forget. Remember, remember, just don't rush... This pleasure
should be savored...Lead-gray clouds hung in the sky, the earth was slowly recovering from the night's madness. The valley seemed to come alive, to find new breath. And only the stern faces of the mountains, towering over the forest expanses, remained serene. Even despite the billowing fog enveloping them, rolling in from the North.
"Take my word for it," — I continued, calculating that the fog would be here in a quarter of an hour — "there's nothing more pleasant than mystery and romance, signed with the halo of a psychological game. I know you can see the Hotel clearly now, in all its colors, as if you were there just yesterday. Good old Solitude, can anything in this Universe compare to it? With its spacious veranda strewn with cedar needles and cones, bright corridors, wide windows and mirrored floors, at the sight of which a feeling of something mystical would wash over you, combined with light daydreams. You wanted her to wear a skirt. Of course, sitting in the armchair left in the hallway and admiring her figure as she descends the stairs and doesn't see you — what could be better? And she descended slowly, deliberately giving a gift to your imagination in anticipation of the future reunion. 'This is Heaven' — you fleetingly think.
And really, maybe today is one of the pivotal days of your life? Maybe the walls of the Hotel are Heaven itself? Maybe it's a haven chosen by Higher Powers, created specifically for lonely wanderers like you... All that was missing was the skirt. If it were there, you could have seen something extremely interesting in the mirrored reflection of the steps. Light eros — it's above nudity, it's a pompous-fetishistic pleasure that crept into male nature since the creation of the world. Perhaps my ramblings aren't entirely clear, but you, come on, better remember the childhood letters to 'Sibiryachok', feel again that stickiness of walking through tangled purple labyrinths that our endlessly-leveled fate throws at us...
My friend was silent, and meanwhile the fog descended from the mountains, swallowing them beneath itself; it grew even darker than before. Formless, cold, ghost-like, it drifted over the fresh coniferous forest, greedily absorbing the life-giving moisture, gradually, meter by meter, flooding the valley. It was getting closer to us.
"Alright then. Don't be shy, speak plainly. You're like a brother to me, like the closest person who will fight shoulder to shoulder and never betray. So what happened next? Ah, yes — walks through the autumn forest, which hides the Hotel in its depths from prying eyes. There was also a dining room with good food and a shop with a sparse but categorically necessary assortment. There were books, and tobacco, and bread, and condoms sold individually... I wonder, how long did you walk before the downpour started?... Kisses, embraces, cooling drops from the sky, thoughts. And then? Then a return to the starting point — to the Hotel. A return to a single logical chain: a spacious room, comfortable sofas, the gentle hum of air conditioners, cleaned soft carpets, cozy rooms, pulling with a strange, indescribable magnet, and smells. The most integral part of the Hotel — the smells. Without them, it wouldn't be so unique, so unreal. Just remember that extraordinary hint of roses, her intoxicating perfume, the mysterious scent of quiet alleys, pensive rooms, that light freshness before the rain.
It's not five stars, not ten — it's all the stars in the sky! Splendor! Surely your room also had a well-tuned TV with a built-in logic game about a red man in purple labyrinths. Someone reached the twenty-ninth level. Want to know who? It was me. Yes, friend, I also played that fun little game. Everything was just like yours. Agree?...
"Could you tell me how to pass the thirtieth level? You probably didn't
pass it... though who knows? It's such an addictive game. I enjoyed playing it while she did her makeup, combed her hair in front of the Hotel's antique mirror. Yes, come on, she's beautiful even without that. To hell with dyes and rags! Everything just like yours. You wanted that too, you thought about it too. Ah... I'd cry like a child right now, but I'm ashamed in front of you. You're older than me, wiser — that's why I'm ashamed, though I understand there's nothing to be ashamed of. I bet you also once cried from happiness and resentment at the same time. From happiness, because you got a lucky room at the Hotel, and from resentment, because time is so merciless to us mortals. No matter how much I shave my beard, no matter how much I powder my dried, wrinkled face, no matter how much I dye over the gray — I can never get the past back. I don't act in big films anymore, maybe in short films or commercials. It's shameful for an actor of my class, but what can you do, they don't value old-school actors now, directors only take young, unskilled, though sometimes temperamental ones. Well, so be it. To hell with them! The past — that's the most valuable thing a person can have. It's the only inseparable part of them. You can take away a person's valuables, food, health, life, anything, but you can never take away their past. Cut a person, beat them, destroy them, trample them into the dirt, but their bright memory is still with them.
You can't kill it, even by killing the physical body... Alright, I'm rambling for nothing. Only you can tell about this. Just wait, you'll have time. We haven't finished the excursion into memory. Where did the narrative stop? On the coffee, the cognac, or the key stuck in the keyhole?... You know, perhaps the path to the Hotel is that unique way through which we can find our road, our life's path. The Hotel emerges from the depths of our subconscious... 'To live for the sake of life. Who came up with that stupid statement?', your words. You're right. The biological meaning of life is boundless, it's like a beast lurking somewhere in the thicket of us, giving birth to all these joys, aspirations, hopes. Giving birth to the hotel. To be honest, I've always wanted to talk to my subconscious. And you? I understand, I understand. Each of us is in our own cocoon. And each has the right to act as they wish.
I shake my head, look at my friend. At this loose, damp earth, the rusted fence, the dark tombstone on which, under a neat little inscription of name, surname, and date of death, he is depicted: alive, handsome, smiling. My friend was at the Hotel, he didn't remain indebted to this life. As for me... That's a completely different, non-standard story. I'll hope that everything is still ahead, just around the corner, as they sometimes say in judging. Damned judging, which Dima killed.
"Good luck to you in that world," — I said to the grave in a half-whisper.
I placed four bright snowdrops near the slab. This is a tribute to memory — to one who experienced Heaven and Azarkhinsky, post-nuclear Hell. I hope you like snowdrops.
To you — the Man in the Purple Labyrinths, who went too far.
Getting up from the bench, I took a deep breath of air, which burned my nostrils with cold moisture, straightened my shoulders.
I — am the man in the Purple Labyrinths, who will never leave them.
I slowly moved along the winding cemetery path. I smirked to myself at what a strange thing life is, after all. We acquire one thing, instantly catching ourselves lacking another; we dream of living in peace, but kill each other every day, considering it normal; we believe in love and immediately despise nature, burning desire within ourselves, exterminating these simple, innocent romantics and sticking labels on them: 'pervert', 'moral degenerate', 'unsatisfied'. Why is showing a naked person — bad, but a dead one — normal? I don't understand why eroticism and pornography — are a crime, but murder and war — are just everyday news? After all, according to common sense, it should be exactly the opposite: in the first case, it's quite alright, and in the second — it's bad, evil. Why is that?!
"We are still scoundrels, lost in the Purple Labyrinths. God-born scoundrels," — I agreed with myself.
And I kept walking, walking, walking, until I finally felt a spreading breeze over my body, a Southern wind smelling of hay, roses, and astringent hope.
Roses. That reminds me of something.
I stopped in bewilderment, sniffed the air.
Yes, indeed — roses! The very ones! Could it be...
Turning towards the direction of the breeze, I peered into the distance. Through the misty haze, the dark, barely distinguishable outlines of a multi-story building emerged.
Love...
Madness...
Purple labyrinths...
Hello Hotel!
I am coming to you.
Jonathan Davis.