A TRAP for a THOUGHT-FORM
a novel in the series
"PLAYING ANOTHER REALITY"
Chapter 1. DEVIL’S TRILL
It was the first of the forty literary parties of the Union of Writers I was to hold in the legendary Mansion, behind the Left Door, where the Portal to Another Reality still operated in the 21st century. The presentations had been agreed back in September, however, the epidemic caused a time shift — we waited for the start of mass vaccination in order to obtain permits for cultural events. So Autumn imperceptibly disappeared from the scene, giving way to Winter.
“Hello, the Queen!” the Guardian of the Portal called out to me as I went up to the inner cafe. There, in the museum hall, combined with a coffee shop, our forty parties would be hold.
Yes, some people jokingly, and some mockingly, called me “the Queen”. Once I won the “King of Poets” tournament, similar to Igor Severyanin in the Silver Age, a century before ours, and on my father’s side (his grandmother and grandfather, the Writer’s friend, owned some mansions in the city center, however, taken away in their time) I was practically a princess, but “here and now” I was interested in a completely different thing — the local Portal…
Each literary party traditionally (once upon a time I had hold similar events in other places) consisted of two parts: presentation of a contemporary poet / writer book and, after a smoke break for autograph session and familiarity, the Open Microphone for guests. Actually, everybody flocked to the Open Mic like moths to the light, and without it one could hardly count on the presence of masses in the first part of “le ballet de la Merlaison”, because in the 20s of the 21st century, almost every person on Earth learned letters and wrote something, but there were almost no readers left.
***
I opened our first party at the Mansion introducing a mysterious writer with a collection of stories titled “The Devil’s Trill”, in which the characters actively changed souls and bodies, got stuck between our and Other Worlds, summoned the Devil, and, quite possibly, already beyond the stories, made love spells in cemeteries in thirst for human mutual love, and, not getting it, they reveled in blood, turning into vampires…
While I was revealing the author’s identity, asking tricky questions to the guests and to the author herself, acting as a bridge-guide (however, even children would immediately guess that the writer was a real Witch, not a fake one, in fact, all writers are magicians), the Guardian of the Portal was silently watching me from behind the counter of the already dormant cafe, located directly opposite the stage. The main museum rooms, which we had no official access to, were sighing behind the curtains to the right of the stage, and the Giant Mirror stared at us from the left.
“It’s funny!” I thought, glancing at the Guardian. “He recognized ‘my’ Gloves…”
“It’s funny!” the Guardian thought. “She brought me ‘those’ Gloves…”
On the stage, in addition to me and the Witch, there was a chair, occupied by the local black Cat of enormous size. I was sure he pretended to be snoozing, meanwhile in fact…
“So, did you really practice magic?” the question came from the audience.
“Well…” the Witch gave up, “I should confess! Yes, I graduated from the School of Magicians!”
“Did you practice the transmigration of souls, as in your story?”
“No!” she was embarrassed.
“Is it true that it is easier to settle spirits in the intoxicated people?”
“Does the Season of Sand exist only for Evil Spirits?”
“Have you ever been to the Other World?”
I sighed, remembering Ray, and closed my eyes. Then I opened them again… And…
“No! That can’t be true!!!”
Instantly forgetting about the sharing of spirits and the exchange of souls, I stared at a painfully familiar man: right in front of me, at the cafe counter, to the left of the Guard, appeared… Roman.
Everything that happened next seemed like a dream. I remembered only I announced the break, and the guests of the party pounced first on the writer, who had obviously managed to bewitch them getting the opportunity not to gift, but to sell “The Devil’s Trill” with a personal autograph, and then on the Cat, dozing on the chair…
They all remained in some other dimension.
Across from me there was a man who reminded me of Ray, but I was afraid to approach him, as if he might easily disappear, just as Ray had gone once, disappearing in the Other Reality.
“Are all the writers of the Union in league with the Devil?” the Guardian suddenly snapped me out of my stupor.
“An unaffordable luxury!” I said in response for some reason, while I kept looking at Roman, who kept looking at me from the back of the hall.
“When do you plan to…” the Guardian didn’t finish the question.
“As soon as possible!” I cut him off with a look and forced myself to go up to Roman.
He smiled. There was something strange about his smile. Already known to me, but quite probably unknown to him. I turned my gaze to the table, inviting him to sit down.
And so we found ourselves across from each other at a tiny table of the coffee space nearby the bookcase, which contained also my “Book of Black and White Magic”.
In the reigning uproar of the break, there was suddenly a deafening silence. For two of us.
We fell out of context, scanning each other with eyes. Outwardly, Roman hadn’t changed at all, although we hadn’t seen each other for… how many years?
“Happy New Year!” I breathed out and thought, “How did you end up here, darling?”
“You called me, darling, and I came!” Roman uttered obvious nonsense, in my opinion, unexpectedly and unconditionally switching to ‘darling’ (perhaps mirroring my mental appeal to him), and then, nodding at the bookcase, he calmly added, “You will teach me magic, Alice.”
I looked at him and understood nothing.
“How could he know that I am here? Oh, yes… I said on TV I would hold literary parties in the Mansion. Roman watched that show, and the Museum posted invitation on their website. But why didn’t he call? Didn’t write me via WhatsApp? Didn’t make an appointment somewhere else? In an ordinary cafe? Didn’t invite me for a walk in the park or down the same Tverskaya to the Kremlin, if he really wanted to see me? And why on earth did he suddenly decide to do magic?!”
“I told you, I’m just a child in magic,” Roman quoted himself. “It’s the perfect place to learn such arts, isn’t it? The time is the best, Christmas time. I’ve even got a magic notebook. And a pen. To record your lectures. So, do you agree?”
His palms hovered in the air right above mine.
From overexertion or stuffiness in the tiny space of the museum, I began to feel dizzy, and I instantly removed my hands from the table and squeezed my head with them.
The bell rang, the break was over. Or was it the Devil’s trill?
The Guardian of the Portal gave me a sign.
“Sorry, Roman!” I resolutely got up from the table.
“Give me some home task!” Roman stopped me. “And I’ll disappear. Did I buy the notebook for nothing?!”
“Well, okay…” I sighed. “Write it down…”
Task No. 1. PLAN for 12 MONTHS
…Imagine that you have only 12 months left in our Reality. Make a plan: what do you want to do here before the transition to the Other Reality, so that you won’t regret anything later. And write it down, month by month…
When I returned to the stage for the announcement of the Open Mic, Roman had disappeared. The Guardian of the Portal and the Cat replaced him at “our” table.
***
After returning home, I wandered around the apartment like a zombie, periodically grabbing the phone to call or write to Roman, as I had done to Ray, solely at the call of my soul. I didn’t think Roman would be surprised, but I was terribly afraid of men, especially the ones I liked.
Yes, nonsense! Over the years, the more I liked a man, the more I feared him. I was afraid to do something wrong (to say, to write, to look…), of not being liked and, as a result, of losing the one I could easily communicate for some other questions with.
I hid my feelings so deep to let them be unknown to the man, in order to avoid the pain from another loss of hope, when he would say something like, “It’s nice! But you’re too late. All the seats were taken long ago!”
I wanted a man to be a leader, to take my hand and lead me somewhere far away. Even in such case I would be scared that he would say, “I love you!”, I would believe him, and next day he would take his words back, “Me? You? What else love?” And then…
“What’s the point of that reasoning now? 39 nights, and I’m free!”
Of course, I didn’t call or write anything to Roman, so I turned off the light and went to bed. However, as I tossed from side to side in search of oblivion, I suddenly noticed a message on my phone. I glanced at my watch, it was past midnight. Automatic notification from a social network informed me of the birthday of Pasha, that waiter boy from the Greek restaurant near the Dark Tower.
We had known each other for years, but he “befriended” me online last autumn, if my memory served me right.
I automatically typed “Happy Birthday” in his timeline, without even an exclamation mark and any wishes, when I suddenly drew attention to the current date and got stunned, because it was Ray’s date of birth! The year was different, of course, Ray was older than me, and Pasha was just a boy.
“Hi, my girl! How u?” I received an instant response in a private chat, filled with Latin letters in my language.
“Ok, and you?”
“Viber? Whatsup? Want 2 call u.”
I took a deep breath in and out. Without asking stupid questions, despite the fact that in all those years we had nothing in common, except seafood salad, chicken and coffee, I gave him my number. And just a couple of minutes later I got the following.
“Miss u. Much much, true say!”
I got out of bed, turned on the night light, took Tarot cards and pulled out two at random… “The Devil” and “The Knight of Cups”!
“Are you writing this to me?”
“U Alice yes. Why? I call u?”
He didn’t wait for my answer and called. I dropped it.
“Sorry, I’m sleeping. Have a good night!”
I wrote that and immediately switched off the phone.
The Matrix was fundamentally buggy.
I went to the table by the window and wondered what I would do if I had 12 months left instead of 39 nights.