Pink Noise - Leonid Korogodski [38]
You smile. You must. It only takes but one… not even testimony, merely just one finger to point at you. This is what killed the girl. The crowd doesn’t call for lawyers. So you smile. Here, in the damn front row, where you are seen, where the very iron fence you’re pressed against gets so hot that it can leave a burn—here, you smile. And make it better than the girl has done.
When is my turn?
You look around—everybody does, to look for enemies—if not to point at, then to see who would be first to point at you. And if you do find someone…, then you’d better be the first. You’ve seen the kindest neighbors here break and point in terror at whomever they have scolded once for broken windows.
You have a woman’s breasts. You’re in the body of a woman and, beyond doubt, deep inside, you know that you possess your own mother’s body, that you are inside your own mother’s mind.
Across your chest—two iminqwamba leather strips, draped in the shape of X. The ancient dress of a diviner, isangoma. You have never worn it other than on ceremonial occasions. But this time, knowing that you could not refuse to come—that would’ve been suicide—you’ve put it on, afraid to be mistaken for a witch. For who else could have done it, if not izangoma, the enemies of witches? A sudden fear strikes you—who if not a witch? You now regret you haven’t worn only one strip, to look like an apprentice—less conspicuous. You check yourself—has your facial expression changed? The other faces, pressed against the fence around the circle, smiling, laughing, looking just as frantically around as you do. They swim before your eyes. You’re terrified.
Who but a witch?
You have to get away. You must.
You try to push back through the crowd—a mistake. A man behind you starts to yell, “A—”
You are quick. A punch into his jaw, upward with all your strength, and, “—witch!”
He drops unconscious, and in this dreadful noise, who is to say who was the first to cry? He is a big man. Gathering him up takes time; a path is briefly opened before you through the crowd. You escape in the commotion, and when you’re far enough from the front rows, you just elbow your way, not caring what anyone would think, not caring if you would have to hide forever after this.
Hating yourself.
You run.
Across the squares peppered with ashes, down the roads flanked with rows of stakes, the people on them turning their heads to stare at you, their lips combining in a soundless, “A witch. Witch. Witch….” Their fingers pointing.
So you run. Ahead of you, a fiery procession, blazing—burning people dancing, heading straight at you. You turn—it’s right in front of you. You whirl—but cannot shake it off. The burning cadavers are laughing, pointing their arms at you, “A witch. Witch. Witch.”
You recognize their leader—that’s the man that you made burn. “Your man, I am. Your man, I am,” he says. “Now give your man a kiss.” He opens his mouth, and inside—a darting tongue of flame.
You dart aside. You must escape. Escape. Escape…. Must run away, away from all these horrors. Out of this city. Out of this body. Out of these memories, this dream.
A dream?
You’ve stopped before a stream. A ford. A woman with red hair and white skin, bent over her work. The woman’s washing something. Heads. Severed heads. One of the heads speaks up. “Go no further.”
And a little girl