It’s a bright light morning in Podil. The sun is warm but the air is cold, the sky all baby-blue, clear of any clouds, not a wisp of white in sight, anywhere overhead.
The square, opposite Zhovten Cinema, has several free benches, short trees and a flowerbed of sorts in the middle.
Young mothers do the sidewalk circuit, pushing baby buggies, blabbing into mobile phones, rocking their strollers while reading a book, seated, then standing, then treading in circles again.
The occasional dog walker appears on the lawn in a tracksuit, lacking all the dignity of the animal in his care.
It’s a day off for the weather-beaten women in orange plastic smocks, Kyiv’s groundskeepers.
But a large pair of heavy buttocks has positioned itself over the flowers, digging, it appears, but for what? The crack of an ass over his belt line gives not a clue. Dirt flies back from between his legs, angry scoops raked up and out of the earth.
Effort after effort from the sweat of one man’s tinseled brow, but hell has no hold on the fury of an angel, dingy-winged and helpless to alight from the dust of temporal existence.
…
In a post-Soviet edifice not far away:
“It’s weaselry – pure, unadulterated and indiscriminate weaselry!”
John Smith, in shirtsleeves and suspenders, stands arched over the older, still well-built man, menacing the air with a dog-eared copy of “Pilgrim’s Progress.”
“Now I’m inclined to believe he can’t help it,” Smith continues. “At least that’s what my value system would suggest. For why else would a man, be he a rat or what-not, endlessly indulge in lies? Yes, I can of course imagine the momentary pleasure of commanding an audience of the gullible, savoring the effects of one’s own words as they are spoken, inflaming the imagination of all who would listen while maintaining the cinders of conceit deep inside for some dubious albeit purposeful pleasure.”
The man, seated at a plain wooden table with an empty white sheet of paper and a No. 2 pencil placed in front of him, says nothing.
“But I cannot for the life of me entertain the engineering of fibs for what in effect leads to only more fabrications, each more ridiculous than the previous, ultimately ending in what has traditionally been described as a web of deceit. Indeed (Smith smiles crookedly) I find that metaphor much too fanciful for the situation at hand, undeservedly poetic for the likes of whom we’re dealing with – a character utterly devoid of character much less literary motivation.”
The man, having folded his arms, clears his throat and leans back in the chair.
“We all like to spin a tale or two, embellishing an otherwise dull or uninspiring incident from our past. Some approve passively of this folly. And then there’s the self-defense mechanism that comes into play. Who doesn’t remember the smart of that smack received across the face or alongside one’s bare bottom at the hands, of all people – our loving mothers… much less the lash of a belt dealt by dear old dad. So why tell the truth, or at least the whole truth and nothing but the truth, only to suffer similar consequences from a total stranger, your boss, an officer of the law or whoever? Surely it’s better to deny that little mistake that we’ve made to avoid punishment, humiliation or retribution. Lies save lives, one might argue.”
The door, the only one leading into the room, swings open, and Doctor Woo enters. He’s wearing a white lab coat, carrying a cup of steaming coffee and holding a still unlit cigarette in his mouth. He approaches the older, still well-built man from behind, leans over his shoulder and says something into his ear that is completely inaudible to Smith. Then he leaves.
Smith waits for Woo to close the door behind him and then slams the paperback edition of Bunyan’s classic Christian allegory across the tabletop like an angry preacher, raising the eyebrows of the older, still well-built man, who otherwise remains completely still.
“We are dealing, you must know, with an entirely different animal here,” says Smith.
“For there exists a category of falsehood that is neither promotional nor defensive in nature. It’s malicious and serves no other purpose than to offend, both the subject of the lie as well as the community of those within earshot of its telling. It thrives on success like a primitive microscopic organism that grows more complex and resilient to its natural enemy – the truth. It comes from nowhere and can end up anywhere, always leaving a trail of confusion in its wake. Its victims include everyone that fits the narrative: not just the intended target of the slander – and believe me, there always is one – but innocent bystanders, people who can add legitimacy to the liar or somehow serve as props in his tale.”
Woo, the unlit cigarette still in his mouth, has now pressed his face up against the glass of the door. And either the light from the room has created an optical effect from the imposition of his dark-framed glasses against the glass of the door, or Woo sometimes goes cross-eyed. Smith can’t tell.
The older still well-built man stands, straightens and goes out into the corridor.
After an indefinite period of time, both men return to find John Smith again reading his book. They hesitate in the doorway, Woo apparently waiting for the older still well-built man to say something. But then Woo says:
I only thought to make,
I knew not what:
nor did I undertake,
Thereby to please my neighbor.
Smith stands and the men all leave the room together.
…
A crowd of dog walkers and pensioners has gathered on the square opposite the Zhovten Cinema in Podil. The young mothers shield their children from a distance. An old man, standing nearest to the large gaping hole that’s been dug near the flowerbed shakes his head cynically. A dirt-caked propeller hat and mud-stained knee-high striped socks lie near the mouth of the hole.
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, April 8, 2014