The Mystery of the Blackbird

It is not part of America's duties to visit other floors. But they must spark some interest, since the girl regularly goes there. What interests America? Meeting personalities she could never have met in life? The punishment allotted to them? What lies at the root of this interest?       Hell is not at all as Ami imagined it in life. A well-coordinated, unified mechanism, clear, simple, but multifaceted. Zami cannot comprehend it entirely, although she is a link, a cog in this very mechanism. She still wanders the labyrinth of Hell; it is by no means those famous nine circles. There is no chaos in Hell, there is order, its own order, driving one mad. Perhaps because America has the strength to delve into it, she has been granted special privileges?       Ami does not know how many floors there are here, how many rooms, how many sinners are imprisoned in this place. But she knows much more than all the others, much is permitted to her here. Not everything is allowed by her conscience, which often wages a cruel war with the curiosity thanks to which the girl has studied the most interesting places in Hell.       The girl has long loved to explore the upper floors, where the brightest historical figures are located. Ami would never have imagined in life what she has seen here. Today she again wants to walk past people she has read about in books. Here they are all on equal footing: with each other, with her, with ordinary people.       Ami walks along the corridors, surveying the white doors. Behind some hide political figures known to everyone, behind others—lesser-known ones, behind third—empty spaces awaiting their guests. The corridor is quiet and deserted, but perhaps because everyone who can walk through it is invisible?       Ami passes through one of the doors, behind which a very interesting personality is hidden. The girl puts her palm to her lips, then to the scroll of paper hanging in a case on the doorpost. On the case, a gilded letter "ש" sparkles. It is a Jewish mezuzah. The room Zami entered resembles more the dwelling of an Orthodox Jew: books in Hebrew stand in the bookcase; on a separate shelf—the Torah, Tanakh, Talmud, Siddur, Mishnah, Shulchan Aruch, and Zohar; near the bed there is a copper basin filled with cold water, in which floats a ladle for morning hand-washing; on the windowsill lies a lonely kippah, clipped with a hairpin; on the wall hangs a calendar of Jewish holidays and fasts, and next to it—a photograph of a colorful Jewish family. At the table, leaning his head on his palm, sits a man. The fingers of his hand press against his forehead, covered by black hair. Empty, cloudy blue eyes, pressed down by swollen eyelids, stare into emptiness. Under his nose, like a shadow, looms dark narrow mustaches.       Ami often visits this man, guilty before millions of people, her nation, and personally before her. Everywhere he was surrounded, pursued by what he hated and destroyed all his life. When he arrived here in 1945, helplessness drove him to such frenzy that the man smashed everything in the room, overturned the chair, and tore books. It only made things worse: sheets of paper, black with Hebrew glyphs, covered the floor like a carpet.       This man's name is Adolf Hitler.       Every Friday evening, a rabbi enters the room, recites Kiddush, leaves, and in the morning returns and speaks at length in a benevolent but edifying tone, as if a best friend and mentor. Adolf does not understand a word of what the Jew says: he speaks in Hebrew. If it weren't for the regularly heard Yiddish, which resembles his native speech, Adolf would probably have completely forgotten his mother tongue. The TV and radio also drive Hitler mad: no matter what time of day he turns on the TV, the "Nuremberg Trials" are on, and the radio plays the "Voice of Israel" station. Day after day, Hitler turns them on hoping to hear something unrelated to Jewish topics. Sometimes he tries to leave the room and encounters noisy festivities to "Hava Nagila." He sees no bread—instead, matzah or challah is served with meals. The chefs indulge him only with dishes of Jewish cuisine: hummus, forshmak, tzimmes, gefilte fish, and others. And on Hanukkah, Passover, or, say, Purim, he is served a special dinner.       Hitler covers his face with his hands. America does not dare take a step toward him. He cannot see her, and death has weakened the tyrant, but the girl is still afraid of him. Adolf reaches for the TV and presses a button, after which the screen flashes. Again, the "Nuremberg Trials."       Ami leaves the room. She cannot stay here long and look at this monster. She goes to the next room, where another dictator of Hitler's ilk lives. In an armchair sits he—a grey, pale old man. He cannot move from his spot: his body is paralyzed, his mind clouded by paranoia. Through the room pass emaciated, tired, hunched people. Cyanotic, swollen, with bruises and broken limbs. On almost every one's chest spreads the trace of a bullet wound. They pass through his room day after day, from morning till evening, and so since 1953.       This old man's name is Joseph Stalin.       The people walk by, looking at him with reproach, with incomprehension: "why?", "for what?" The old man knows many of them by face and can name by surname: they remind him of themselves, obtrusively passing by him several times a day. But the strongest blow is dealt to him by three people: Ordzhonikidze, Kirov, and Nadya Alliluyeva.       Nadya, who shot herself in the chest, leaving a crimson trace, every morning takes Joseph out in a wheelchair. The old man has long wanted to ask: why did you kill yourself? Am I to blame? But his lips do not move, and Nadya does not utter a single word. She is silent, and her wound continues to bleed. And this torments Stalin most of all.       Ami returns to the corridor and leaves to visit another character. His burning Spanish heart has been tormenting him for more than a century now. The heart of a patriot and conqueror. The heart of an aristocrat.       This Spaniard's name is Hernán Cortés.       The first thing he saw upon arriving here was the Battle of Otumba, which unfolded differently: the Indians won and took Cortés prisoner. For many years was imprisoned in the Aztec Empire, then he was transported to Spain, where he was locked in a fortress. But this was nothing compared to what he learned much later. Cortés learned that Spain had been conquered by the Aztecs—this was a blow to him. America learned this from third parties. Now she can only watch as Cortés toils for the Aztecs and chews moldy corn tortillas. But she doesn't linger here long either and heads for another door.       This commander is not Spanish, but Italian.       Like Hitler, this man loved reading, but this pleasure was also poisoned for him. On the shelves stand books of a single theme: Napoleon's defeats, the empire after Napoleon's death, the Battle of Waterloo. Every time a new book is published, a servant enters the room, head held high, and ceremoniously places the book on the shelf. All the men serving the master are at least three heads taller than him. His height concerned the master in life, and now the devil himself mocks him.       Right. This gentleman is Napoleon Bonaparte.       He wakes from the roar of artillery. Outside his window unfolds his total failure—the Battle of Waterloo. Every five minutes, an adjutant peers into the room and proclaims: "News from the front! News from the front!" On the table grows a stack of French newspapers, on whose pages they vilify Napoleon and praise his successors.       "The Battle of Waterloo was on June eighteenth. June eighteenth is Paul's birthday," Ami thinks. She loves to think about her husband, who, by an unfortunate accident, is not beside her.       Ami does not allow herself to grieve for long. Today she remembered not only her husband but also her mother and thought about her amazing escape from Eastern Europe, and now she wants to visit the Russian poets whom Merlin introduced her to. Ami lifts her feet from the ground and flies down the corridor.       The girl finds herself on one of the uppermost floors of Hell and enters one of the farthest doors. Along a country road walks a short young man. His wheat-colored hair sways in the summer wind. The lad is dressed like a peasant: a linen shirt down to his knees, under which hide worn trousers. On both sides of the road stand dilapidated houses. For ninety years now, this lad has been wandering and cannot reach his goal:       "Seryoga!" another village man sprouts from the ground. "So, how are you? Listen, let's have a drink? Here's my house," the man points to a dugout. "I have such a tincture! A-a-ah!"       "I actually have to go," the lad refuses, "I have things to do".       "What's the big deal!" the man waves his hand, hugging Sergei by the shoulder and trudges with him into the house. At home, they pour him a tincture, but as soon as the lad takes the first sip, the tincture turns into swamp water.       "I can't do this!" Sergei slams his hand on the table, jumps up, and runs away. How many years has he been falling for this bait? Toward him walk identical-looking village men, wave, call out: "Seryoga!" and invite him for a shot of vodka, tincture, moonshine. And Sergei hurries, for at the end of the journey a reward awaits him. As in life, alcohol hinders him. And as soon as Sergei takes a sip, the drink turns into blood, meltwater, iodine, oil, gasoline...       Sergei's surname is Yesenin.       Ami prefers other poets. Take Brodsky, for instance. But Ami never visits him because she saw him at a lecture in New York in the early eighties. She is much more interested in looking in on other Russian poets. Behind one of the doors hides an interesting hero.       This is Alexander Pushkin.       He has no luck here. A shiny tailcoat and a suede top hat make him more solid and taller. A dark alley teems with young and beautiful women. Alexander, swatting away midges, bounces up to one:       "Mademoiselle! Would you like to stroll in the company of an interesting man?       But she, not noticing him, passes by, leaving a floral scent in her wake. Alexander runs up to another and, extending his hand to her, repeats the same, but she squeaks:       "Don't touch me, you pervert!"       In Hell, nothing will help monsieur Pushkin regain his talent as a heartthrob. He has been walking this alley for almost two hundred years. He is tormented not only by the indifference of women, which was absent in life, but also by the unchanging July. Midges fly everywhere, and the sun bakes his head.       Ami heads further to look in on another poet. She finds herself in a living room with two armchairs, a small table, and a fireplace. A log fire crackles in it, and the flickering flames cast a yellowish glow over the room.       In the armchairs sit two elderly men. Both very, very old: withered, flabby bodies, sunken lips covering toothless mouths.       "You r-ruined my life, you famelef man!" one of them grouches.       "And who of uf if famelef now!" trembling from Parkinson's, the second grumbles. "You've been piffing me off all my life, you damned monkey!"       "Are you ftarting again, you patetic old codger? If I could've killed you again, I would have done it!" the first hisses.       "Den kill me! Or what, don't have de gutf? Ee-hee-hee!" the second one mumbles, drooling.       "I'll fow you now!" the first old man, groaning, tries to reach for the cane leaning against the table. The second tries to spit at the first.       These old men are Mikhail Lermontov and Nikolai Martynov.       Lermontov always knew he would die young, for which he is rewarded with eternal old age. Ami smiles and leaves. Leaves for where she came from—from the place of eternal youth.       A completely different life unfolds on the roof of Hell. Under a blue sky lies a cottage village. The windows of houses surrounded by gardens reflect sun rays in which clouds bask. Maybe this is Paradise after all? No, those living here are also due punishment—for talent squandered in vain. These houses, intended for them, stand empty, for their inhabitants sit without leaving the "Rock-n-Roll" bar, to which all the settlement's roads, covered with black, smooth asphalt, lead. America enters the bar, and Little Richard's harsh vocals attack her like a dog from the doorway. America walks down the corridor to enter the smoking lounge. "Good Golly Miss Molly" begins to fade, and from the half-open door at the end of the corridor, Jimi Hendrix's voice grows louder. The girl takes the last steps and stops at the doorpost, leaning her temple against it.       The cramped room is filled with a semi-transparent haze of cannabis and the smell of stale drink. In the center of the small room, empty bottles, cigarette butts, smoldering joints, and crumpled papers are piled in a heap. On sofas along the walls and on the floor in front of them sit and lie famous rock musicians. There are Elvis Presley and Buddy Holly. There are John Lennon with George Harrison. There are Brian Jones and Keith Moon. There are Janis Joplin, and behind her Ray Manzarek, and Jim Morrison hugging some blonde. You can see all the members of the "Club 27." Ami looks at the newcomers: Joe Cocker, Lemmy, David Bowie, and Prince. Too many to list, and they all fit into this cramped, trash-filled room. Jimi finishes singing "Gypsy Eyes" to the rhythmic claps of the listeners.       "How about "Little Wing"!" someone from the crowd requests.       "No problem!" Jimi replies and starts playing the famous guitar riff.       Ami's gaze falls on the smiling blonde held in Jim Morrison's embrace. She studies her face: it's Linda McCartney. The girl also notices Zami, and the smile slips from her face. Jimi finishes "Little Wing."       "If you only knew how beautifully "Little Wing" was sang by one musician ... his name is Sting, and he's a big fan of yours," Ami decides to step out of the shadows.       "Oo-oo-oh, Ami!" the aforementioned ones drawl in unison, perking up.       "Long time no see! Where have you been? Sit down," Janis pats the pillow beside her. If Janis had remained alive, she would probably have become Ami's best friend. Apparently, this is destined to happen only here.       "Well, I have... things to do," Ami smiles, sitting down next to Joplin.       "Tough luck for you. And what do those demons want with you?" the girl shrugs. "You could live peacefully with us!"       "I've actually heard that version of "Little Wing"," Jimi finally interjects.       "Really?" Ami raises her eyebrows. "How's that?"       "Well, thanks to you, actually," Jimi replies and turns to the bored crowd. "So, what else shall I play for you?"       "Purple Haze"!" they demand.       Jimi plays. Ami sinks into her thoughts. What punishment has befallen them, the ones who ignited millions of human hearts? This is how Hell is structured: the longer memory of a person persists on earth, the higher up they live. Ami has been to the lower floors, but very rarely—it's a long way down. Once she saw how they lived there. One story shocked her. About a bus that runs around the city around the clock, no days off. The passengers are bad bus drivers. Most of them drove in such a way that they constantly earned shouts of "We're not sacks of potatoes!" Others were responsible for terrible accidents. But that wasn't the worst. At the wheel of this bus sat a man who, in a fit of rage, shot a careless driver.       Jimi plays songs one after another.       So what is the punishment for all those present?       Inspiration cannot be realized. IInspiration floods and overwhelms, like a tsunami, and painfully burns everything from within, like a flame. It's impossible to play a new melody on the guitar—hands go numb or strings scatter; impossible to read poetry—the gift of speech is lost; impossible to hum a tune—rasps escape the throat. Dictating chords to someone is also impossible. No one prevents playing everything written in life, but it's better not to try to write anything new.       If one accepts their fate, they can receive their gifts. And Ami, who watches over the inmates, is responsible for the gifts. She can endow them with the ability to briefly cross into the world of the living and see how they live. Even rarer, she allows them to appear before those who loved them as ghosts. The most expensive thing is to appear in a dream to someone from their family.       Therefore, thanks to Ami, they can learn how the world lives without them. And it's not easy for the world living without them. But they are in both worlds eternally.       And their punishments are eternal.