Fingers Pointing Somewhere Else by Daniela Fischerova, Neil Bermel Page A

outside the youth’s will. Not even his fingers moved, but the key gyrated ever more wildly, till it was whirling like a dervish in ecstasy.
    â€œShe’s okay,” the boy pronounced confidently. He licked the key on both sides and then squeezed it between his palms. “With time she’ll get better. But not for you.”
    â€œThat’s enough,” Dr. M. answered in a level, expressionless tone. “We have to go.”
    The boy simply ignored this news. Again his fingers lowered the key; it came to life and fidgeted restlessly, like a horse pawing with its hoof.
    â€œRelease her!” he ordered sharply. M.’s arm grudgingly loosened. The key flew here and there for a while and then — as if it had found its trajectory — began to swing sharply between us like a pendulum.
    â€œYou see?” the youth said amiably. “Tuck in your fore-wings. This writer isn’t for you.”
    He stopped the key and turned my way, looking me right in the eye, the way most people never do. Despite the absurdity and disjointedness of the whole situation, he was so nonchalant that he did not come across as frightening or intrusive.
    â€œHe’s not the one,” he announced confidentially. He unbuttoned the doctor’s coat and cheerfully tapped a finger against the man’s chest.
    â€œAnyone there?”
    M. just stared past his shoulder. The streetlamps flared to life and a cone of light fell down on us as on a stage.
    â€œYou see?” the boy said. “He’s not there. But where is he? He’s afraid of what’s inside, because he has an evil sprite in his heart. He’s fine, really, but the sprite keeps giving him bad advice. My advice is good, but what can I do when he’s not here? And when he is, he’s under anesthesia. That’s so he can pretend he doesn’t hear me.”
    He glanced at the key, placed it on his palm, and stuck out his hand. The way people give presents to small children. For a moment time stopped or, at least, slowed to an imperceptible crawl. Everything stood stock still, the snow paused in its fall. Then M. took the key and put it in his pocket. The pink band on hisforehead sparkled with frost. The boy laughed softly and ran off down the street. The rusty tuft of hair quickly dissolved into the snowy darkness.

    Invisible violets, a dancing key, an evil sprite in his heart. Mythical elements in the logic of fact. This is the logic of fact, at least the logic of biased memory.
    When the youth left us, we walked off quickly, without a word. We no longer walked arm in arm. Since we often did not talk on our strolls, today we could easily conceal what we were so stubbornly silent about. Cold and confusion were battling within me. A fit of shivering came over me, and I wanted to be home as soon as possible. The moment of twilight had passed, the snow had stopped falling, and a bare winter darkness had descended.
    At the gate I found I did not have my keys. There was no point in ringing the bell of an empty house, but there was the aforementioned route past the construction site.
    â€œJust so I know you’re home safe,” he mumbled, and we stumbled through the dark over the frozen planks, the tattered cardboard, and the frozen, desolate disorder of the abandoned lot. I clenched my teeth firmly so they wouldn’t chatter, and my face hardened into an obdurate expression of defiance and pique.
    We ended up at the cellar door. I had my hand on the icy doorknob.
    â€œYou wouldn’t marry me,” he said suddenly, without a question mark, rhythmless, in the flat tone of an inconsequential statement. I was cold. I didn’t want to know anything, didn’t want to make any decisions. My bubble stiffened with frost and would not let the news inside.
    â€œNo,” I said, just as unemphatically. It was a reaction right from my spinal cord, a simple reflexive arc that bypassed my brain. I did not know why I said