Squonk

When the next morning a miner found the body, all trace of evidence to deduce the cause of death was washed away. No bruises nor breaks in the skin could be found, and save for the water filling both lungs, the simple appearance of the body would have been miraculous. But the doctors who autopsied the body gave credit to the water that filled the lungs. The man had drowned, they agreed, and he was buried without ceremony deep in the woods, in an all but unmarked grave.

The event was forgotten for nearly four decades, until one day an American came into the isolated village inquiring about it. I traveled from house to house in search of someone to interview, someone I could interview. Either my Russian was faulty and I was confusing the word "man" with "pineapple", or, in truth, none wanted to have anything to do with me.

I finally found a man willing to speak with me. His name was Kolya Sokoll, the grandson of the miner who had originally found the body. He put up his hand at my first words, shook his head, and asked me to please turn off the camera. I present the exact transcript of his words from the tape recorder I used for the beginning of the interview:

Imagine for a moment--I don't know if you Americans can--that a story you have heard all your childhood is finally completed; and you are there to see the beginning.

Here I asked him if he meant "ending", but he just laughed and made a comment that included the words "Americans", "patience", and "no". I declined to comment, but I urged him to continue.

Yes, the beginning. It is not so strange if you consider it, that the beginning happens at the same time as the end, for the end of this story, the one you are asking me of, began with the end. Now, have patience, my friend, and you will understand it all in a little time.

He asked me to close my eyes and I obeyed, considering it a peculiar request but unwilling to jeopardize the interview. Kolya seemed tenative enough.

Now the wind is blowing and the night is cold. But still Dyeda and I leave the village. He takes me to the road to town, where there is a bridge. We stop on the bridge and then we hear a sound behind us...

In my mind's eye, I see the scene the Russian is setting before me. In response to his sparse description, my imagination infers the rest. The forest ends at the banks of the river, and an industrial bridge passes over the stormy unfrozen water, that flows and churns swiftly despite the temperature, which I know is far below freezing. Kolya and an old man, his dyeda, his grandfather, stand on the side of the bridge that sees the water come and pass beneath. The wind is indecisive, and Kolya's blonde hair blows both ways in the same moment. The old man squints up the river, staring intently at a point beyond the river's horizon, as if he can see something that escapes my eyes. A sharp noise sounds behind us, and Kolya and his Grandfather turn to see a man standing on the other side of the bridge. He is watching the water come from under the bridge and flow downstream with a noisy rush. But it is the wind that makes the sound we can now see; it blows the man's cloak against the side of the bridge, which the man is all but standing on. His position is reminiscient of a suicidal, and a quick glance at my Russian guide confirms this. Kolya looks worried and his face is set and etched into a frown. I am reminded of how very different humans from seperate cultures really are. Neither grandfather nor grandson speaks, to each other or to the man. He has not noticed them. He stares out into the river, and I can see the look in his eyes; it reminds me of the miners' a moment before. The miner puts a hand on his grandson's shoulder and then approaches the suicidal confidently.

"Will you jump?" he asks him. The man does not show any sign or surprise, and I can see that his gaze does not even waver for a second. He does not answer for a while, and again the difference of cultures is prevalent to me.

Then he says, "That is what I am contemplating, Comrade."

I find my attention wandering as the silence lengthens. I smile at the Russians' ability to stand out in the open with the harsh wind for this much time. I shiver as another gust comes, and this time so strong that the suicidal sways forward, leaning farther out past the bridge. Still he stares at the rushing water. I look down at it, and at once am convinced that it has turned black. Then the miner speaks.

"I already know that you will jump."

The suicidal moves. He swallows, and I can see the arm attached to the hand grasped on an extension rope waver. He mouths for a second, then forms the words.

"I know."

And he jumps. The river roars, the sound now much louder that my attention is been drawn to it. I approach the edge and look down. Even the splash is gone, and I can see nothing anywhere on the surface of the raging waters. The freezing wind stings my eyes and I open them.

It is growing dark, and the heavy clouds threaten to fall. I plead for them to hold on just a little longer, but they ignored me as they always have. I walk home alone in the rain.