The Dark Domain (2 page)

Slowly the wind alleviated, and furling its tired wings, it warbled softly somewhere in the valley. The landscape settled and solidified in the night frost … .

Ozarski worked his way tirelessly down the middle of the road. Covered in a hooded greatcoat, wearing thick, knee-high boots, loaded down with surveying equipment, the young engineer moved with difficulty through the piles of snow blocking his way. Two hours ago, blinded by the snowstorm, he had become separated from his colleagues and lost in a vast field, and after wandering without success in every direction, he had set off along this road. Now, seeing the rapidly descending evening, he exerted all his strength so that he could arrive at a village and put in somewhere for the night before complete darkness set in. But the road dragged on endlessly, empty and barren, its sides unrelieved by even a poor hut or a wayside smithy. An uncomfortable feeling of isolation gripped him. He momentarily removed his sweat-moistened fur cap and, while wiping its inside with a handkerchief, drew breath into his weary chest.

He went on. The road gradually changed its course and, bending widely, fell to the west. After rounding a prominent crag, the engineer started to descend into the valley with a quickened step. Suddenly, as he was rapidly scanning the area before him with his grey, sharp-sighted eyes, he let out an involuntary cry of joy. Down at the bottom of the road, on the right-hand side, flickered a dim little light: he was within reach of a human habitation. He hastened his step and, after a fifteen-minute vigorous hike, stood before a shoddy, snow-covered structure. It was a type of roadside inn without outbuildings, without a stable – part house, part hut – erected in complete seclusion. All about, as far as the eye could see, there was no sign of any village, farmsteads or settlements; just a couple of unleashed snow flurries kept on barking in furious yelps, like guard dogs, over the lonely habitation … .

He knocked on the rotting door. It immediately burst open, and at the entrance to a dimly-lit hallway he was greeted by an athletically-built, white-haired man with a peculiarly hopeful smile. Ozarski, closing the door behind himself, bowed slightly to the landlord and asked for a night’s lodging. The old man nodded his head amicably and, taking in with an exploratory glance the healthy, firm figure of the young man, said in a voice to which he tried to impart a possibly gentle, even tender, tone:

‘There will be a place – oh, yes; there will be a place to lay down your bright little head. And I won’t be stingy with food; I’ll feed you and give you something to drink; yes, yes; I’ll give you something to drink. Only why don’t you come closer, sir, here into the room; it’ll be nice and warm.’

And with a gentle, protective movement, he encircled him about the waist and led him to the open doorway of the room. This seemed too familiar to Ozarski, and he would have gladly freed himself. But the old man’s arm held him firmly about the middle, and whether he liked it or not he had to accept this peculiar cordiality from the innkeeper.

While crossing the high threshold with some hesitancy, Ozarski suddenly stumbled and lost his balance. He would have fallen had it not been for the willing help of his companion, who held onto him and, raising him like a child, carried him effortlessly into the room. Here, gently placing him on the ground, the old man said in a strangely altered voice:

‘Well, sir, how was it travelling through the air? You’re as light as a feather.’

Ozarski looked with amazement at the white-haired giant who had thought him, a man tall and well-built, as light as a feather. He was impressed by his strength, yet at the same time he couldn’t fight off a particular impression of distaste created by the innkeeper’s inappropriate familiarity and intrusive warmth. Now, in the glare of a simple kitchen lamp hanging on a rope from a filthy ceiling, Ozarski could get a thorough look at him. He was maybe seventy years old, but the healthy, vigorous posture and the recent display of strength, unusual for this age, disorientated the observer. The big face, covered with warts, was framed on both sides by long, silverly white hair cut evenly near the shoulders. Most interesting of all were the old man’s eyes. Black, of demonic glitter, they burned with wild, lecherous fire. The same look was betrayed by a wide face with a strong, prominent jaw and fat, sensuous lips. For Ozarski the impression was, on the whole, unpleasant and instinctively repellent, though he couldn’t resist a certain magnetic effect exerted by the fascinating eyes.

Meanwhile, the old man busied himself with supper. He took down from a shelf some smoked bacon and a loaf of whole-wheat bread, he drew out from a green cupboard a demijohn of vodka, and placed everything on the table before his guest.

‘Eat, sir, eat. Don’t spare yourself anything. I’ll bring you some hot borsch right away.’

He then patted Ozarski familiarly on the knee and immediately disappeared behind the door to a neighbouring room.

As he ate, Ozarski glanced about the room. It was low, square, with a heavily smoke-stained ceiling. In one corner, near the window, stood a bed or a bed of boards, opposite it – a type of counter with barrels and a small cask of beer. The place was filthy. Cobwebs, uncleared for years, spread out their grey, monotonous threads over the ceiling and a stack of coal.

‘A dive,’ he muttered through his teeth.

Close to the entrance door, a fire blazed under a stove; higher up, coals were dying out in a baker’s oven, over which was a wide square hood. The softly smouldering embers merged with the bubbling food cooking on the stove into some mysterious, drowsy chat, into a muffled murmur of a humid interior set against the background of the riotous snowstorm outside.

The door to the other room squeaked, and, contrary to Ozarski’s expectation, a stocky girl hastened to the stove. She removed the large stone pot from the fire and, tilting it, poured its contents into a deep clay bowl. The borsch was hearty and thick. The girl silently placed the fragrant soup in front of Ozarski, while with the other hand she gave him a tin spoon from a cabinet. As she did this, she leaned over so close to him, that one of her breasts, hanging out freely from her blouse, brushed his cheek. The engineer trembled. The breast was firm and young.

The girl drew back, and sitting down near him on a bench, wordlessly fixed her large, blue, almost watery eyes on him. She looked twenty, at most. Her luxuriant golden-red hair fell down to her shoulders in two thick braids; the top of her hair was parted evenly, like a village beauty’s. The rather good-looking face was disfigured by a lengthy scar that, starting at the middle of the forehead, cut through the left eyebrow. The generously-developed breasts, which she didn’t attempt to cover at all with the border of her blouse, had the hue of pale-yellow marble and were overgrown with a light, golden down. On the right breast was a birthmark shaped like a horseshoe.

He liked her. He reached out his hand for her breasts, which he started to stroke. She didn’t defend herself and sat in silence.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Makryna.’

‘A beautiful name. Is that your father in there?’

And he gestured with his hand toward the closed room where the old man had disappeared.

The girl smiled mysteriously.

‘Who? In there? There’s no one there now.’

‘Come, come! Don’t evade the question. The innkeeper, the owner of this place, that’s who I mean. Are you his daughter or his lover?’

‘Not one or the other!’ she burst out with a deep, hearty laugh.

‘So you’re just a servant girl?’

She clouded up proudly.

‘Humph! So that is what you think! I’m the landlady here.’

Ozarski was astounded.

‘Well, then, he’s your husband?’

Makryna shook with a renewed drawn-out, generous laugh.

‘You haven’t guessed it. I’m no one’s wife.’

‘But you sleep with him, eh? Even though he’s lived long, he’s still strong. He could take care of three like me. And sparks are constantly flying from his eyes. An old wolf.’

A vague smile appeared on Makryna’s crimson lips. She nudged him with her elbow:

‘How curious you are! No – I do not sleep with him; no, I don’t. How could I? After all, it’s from him that I’m –’ She broke off, as if not knowing the appropriate word or as if unable to properly clarify things for him.

All of a sudden, apparently to evade further questions, she slipped free from his already too insistent hands and disappeared into the other room.

‘A strange girl.’

He drank down his fifth cup of vodka and, resting his legs comfortably on the bench, leaned back into the chair. A light languor came over him. The excessive warmth of the heated room, his weariness after a long tramp through the snowstorm, and the strong drink – all disposed him to sleepiness. And he would probably have fallen asleep, if not for the re-entrance of the old man. The innkeeper carried under his arm two bottles of wine, and filling glasses for his guest and himself, he said to Ozarski, smacking his lips loudly:

‘A superior Hungarian vintage. Why don’t you try it? It’s older than I am.’

Ozarski mechanically tossed it down. He felt dizzy. The old man was looking at him warmly, from the corner of his eye:

‘Ah, that’s because you haven’t eaten enough, sir. And it’ll do you good for the night … .’

The engineer didn’t understand.

‘For the night? What do you mean?’

‘Ah, nothing, nothing,’ the other dismissed quickly. ‘My, you’ve got strong legs, sir.’

And he pinched his thigh.

Ozarski abruptly drew back, pushing the chair with him. At the same time he searched in his pocket for the revolver that was constantly with him during long expeditions.

The old man leered slimily with his eyes, and said in a surprised voice:

‘Sir, why do you jump up from your chair? It’s just a simple joke, nothing more. It’s just from great friendliness. I’ve taken a liking to you. Besides, we have a lot of time on our hands.’

And as if to quieten him down, he retreated and leaned his back against the wall.

The engineer composed himself. Wanting to turn the conversation to another, directly opposite track, he asked impudently:

‘Where’s your girl? Why is she hiding behind that door? Hey, instead of these stupid jokes, bring her to me for the night. I won’t pay badly.’

The innkeeper seemed not to understand.

‘Pardon me, sir, but I have no girl, and beyond that door there is no one now.’

Ozarski, already well intoxicated, flew into a rage.

‘Who are you, old bull, to talk such nonsense right to my face? Where is the girl I had on my knees a moment ago? Call Makryna here, and off with you!’

The giant didn’t change his calm position by the wall, but smiling playfully, looked with interest at the irritated man:

‘Ah, Makryna, so we’re called Makryna today.’

And then ignoring his angry guest, he left with a heavy step to the neighbouring room where the girl had disappeared. Ozarski rushed after him, wanting to force his way inside, but at that moment he saw Makryna coming out.

She was dressed only in her shirt. Her golden-red hair fell in a cascade over her shoulders, a reddish-brassy colour flickering in the light.

In her hands she was holding three baskets full of freshly-kneaded bread. Placing them on a bench nearby, she reached for a pair of tongs and started removing the glowing embers from the oven. Leaning toward the black opening, her figure curved with a strong, firm arch, emphasizing her healthy, maiden shape.

Ozarski forgot himself. He grabbed her in that half-bent position and, raising her shirt, started to cover her flushed body with scorching kisses.

Makryna, laughing, did not interfere. Meanwhile, removing the smouldering firebrands, she carelessly left the rest of the glowing embers along the edges, after which, with the help of a brush, she cleared away the strewn ashes. But the passionate embraces of her guest apparently hindered her too much, for, freeing herself from his arms, she grabbed a shovel and jokingly threatened him with it. Ozarski yielded momentarily, waiting until she would finish with the bread. She proceeded to toss out all the loaves from the basket one right after the other, and sprinkling them one more time with flour, she placed them in the oven. Then she grabbed the oven cover hanging on a string beside her and closed the opening.

The engineer trembled with impatience. Seeing that the work was finished, he advanced predatorily and, pulling her toward the bed, tried to tear off her shirt. But the girl defended herself.

‘Not now. It’s too early. Later, in about an hour, near midnight, I’ll come to take out the bread. Then you will have me. Well, let go now, let go! If I say I’ll come, I’ll come. I won’t let myself be taken by force.’

And with a deft, cat-like movement, she escaped his arms, flitted passed the oven, closed the vent, and disappeared into the neighbouring room. He wanted to force his way inside, but the quickly bolted door wouldn’t budge.

‘Bitch!’ he breathlessly hissed through his teeth. ‘But I won’t forget about midnight. You have to come out for the loaves. You won’t leave them there for the entire night.’

Somewhat calmed by this certainty, he began to undress. He assumed that he wouldn’t fall asleep, and so preferred to wait in bed. He put out the lamp and lay down.

The bed was unexpectedly comfortable. He stretched out with delight on the soft bedding, put his hands under his head and surrendered to that particular state before sleep when the mind, wearied from a day’s work, half-dreams, floating like a boat entrusted to the waters by a tired oarsman who lets down his hands.

Outside the wind stormed, slashing the windows with snow; farther on, from the woods and fields, and smothered by the sound of the wild wind, came the howl of wolves. Inside, it was warm. The darkness of the interior was brightened only by the weakly glowing embers left behind by Makryna along the sides of the oven. Through the gaps between the cover and the edges of the aperture, the ruby eyes of coals were visible, capturing his attention … . The engineer stared at the dying redness, and dozed. Time lengthened terribly. Every moment he raised his heavy eyelids and, overcoming sleepiness, fixed his eyes at the roving glimmer in the abyss. In his confused thoughts the figures of the lascivious old man and Makryna alternated, by the law of psychic relationship flowing into some strange whole, into some chimerical alloy, brought about by their mutual lasciviousness; their words, odd expressions, their successive appearances unreeled chaotically in a manifest, though not reasonable, arrangement. From covered thickets emerged previously hatched questions, now indolently seeking explanation. Everything loitered about, got entangled along the road, everything jostled sluggishly, sleepily and absurdly … .