Fingers Pointing Somewhere Else by Daniela Fischerova, Neil Bermel

in arm across the expanse of snow. It was that twilight hour, when everything is suspended. The snow had the crunch of a freshly created world. Suddenly, unbelievably, from out of nowhere came the smell of violets.
    Mythical elements of reality! Archetypal natural settings! We cannot escape them; there is no way out. The emotion at the heart of those twilight winter moments: the lively hush of whirling snow, the nearness of a warm, foreign body. A lyrical drumstroke, when amid the frost and the dwindling light, the scent of spring flickers past like a flying carpet.
    The veil of snowflakes parted; a lanky boy stood in front of us in a rather flimsy coat for such a cold winter, a thicket of tangled, rust-colored curls hanging down past his ears.
    â€œHi!” he said to me, and then smiled radiantly. We had never seen each other before. M. pressed me a bit closer to himself.
    â€œSo this is her?” the youth continued, this time to M., but without taking his eyes off me. “The writer?”
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” Dr. M. replied evasively. He sounded strange: as if he were carrying a tray of delicate, long-stemmed wineglasses, putting one foot carefully in front of the other. “I thought you weren’t here. You promised you’d be gone.”
    â€œI was waiting for my tram on Peace Square. I was just about to get on when the Holy Spirit stepped on my foot. So I guess I’m supposed to be right here. I told you, I let myself be guided.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, on Peace Square? You were supposed to be out in the bush long ago.”
    â€œGuess not, if I’m here.”
    Again he gave me a conspiratorial smile. “He doesn’t believe I’m guided. Still doesn’t want to believe me. I’m always in the right place. Exactly where he needs me at that very moment. Like those avalanche dogs.”
    â€œLook, we’re in a bit of a hurry.”
    We were not in a hurry. All three of us knew that no one was in a hurry. The kid did not have the generosity to let it pass, and gave a grimace of indulgent disbelief.
    â€œHe’s lying,” he pointed out chummily to me, “and he has no reason to. He couldn’t even explain why he’s lying. He thinks I’m his adversary, some sort of antipodean. But he’s the antipodean. Except he doesn’t want to admit it. It’s the anesthesia, I think. Most of the time he’s under anesthesia. Right?”
    Ropes of steam, imbued with their own independent lives, flowed from their mouths and twined about each other long after the sound of their words had died away. Dr. M. grew more and more nervous. Through the layers of our sleeves I felt his arm instinctively pulling me away, but his feet stood obstinately still as if this odd conversation would last into the night. The boy suddenly pulled out a crumpled band with a door key hanging from it.
    â€œI’ll take your measure.” He glanced at me encouragingly, as if he were promising me some sort of fun. “I’ll measure your writer,” he informed Dr. M. “You know I’m never wrong.”
    It was like a dream. An archetypal setting: the deepening darkness and the deepening whiteness of the snow, the hot clump of violets in the frost, the illusion of isolation on an island, while around its borders anonymous shadows glided past — all of this gave the episode a sort of latent, cryptogamous meaning, a plot invested for future interest. Violets: the boy had a woven sachet of herbs around his bare neck. Snowflakes melted on his rusty curls. He approached me, took my hand unaffectedly, turned it palm up, and started to swing the key above it.
    â€œDon’t be afraid,” he said sweetly. “The Holy Spirit guides me. I don’t hurt anyone.”
    The key, suspended from between his pinky and thumb, slowly began to sway. Transfixed, I watched the gradually increasing motion, which truly seemed to flow from some source