After closing the door, he greeted the ruthless silence of his house with a cough. The reason for this deep cough was obvious indeed, as it was also familiar; a small gift given by his loyal cigar, the cigar that every time the old man used as a citizen who just walks inside some shop and unburdens his troubles to some tradesman when he got bored. Indeed, this little gift, which may easily be considered an irrelevant one, has been customary for others at home. The sofa bed that is used as a bed, the swinging wooden seat that only gets used at night by the old man to develop his thinking, and the remaining objects at the house agreed that this scene was sufficiently familiar. However, such judgments were not approved separately by everyone at the house, especially not by the records.
The general conclusion about those records was that their place at the top of the closet was unique, and their meticulous arrangement by the old man was giving them a higher status, which might have been said to be a complicated situation for others to explain. Apart from their music, their inability to communicate was a complete misery among the house’s objects at times. Indeed, the veteran wood table told once, differently dressed people came to the old man, with money of a kind that the table had never seen, -if his memory is not fooling- for those records, but they got fired by the old man instantly. After that, the table decided to shut this topic down, and stopped interfering with records. A couple of days before the day of that talk, one of these records got broken, and the old man cried the whole night with that record in his hands. Did this moment affect the talk and the decision regarding these rich guys? We don’t know.
The door slammed shut, saluting the end of silence with the loudest creak before the old man’s cough. The green carpet got the dust from the area that comes from the non-sidewalk part of the street, by the old man’s torn shoe. The old man, with his age-specific agility, put his usual green coat, sewn by his wife three years ago before her death, on his swinging chair. He was doing these in the darkness, with the consciousness that he had earned over all these years. Then the gas lamp that could address the whole house from the wall, started to work - with a little light. Gas lamp, whom today’s lads would call egotistical, is extremely proud since it has been enlightening this house without the slightest glitch for years; if it did not, the house would be terrible, as it claims.
The old man continued his traditions, wore more casual clothes, and aired the house regardless of the cold and the whistles of the wind. After a slight hesitation, he took a case from the top of the closet, took a record out, and then placed it on the gramophone. Traditionally, the turning of record has two meanings in this pavilion: the beginning of the silence of the others with careful attention to detail, and the passing of the old man thoughtfully to another universe. This ritual is a classic, and it has not been possible to find a change in the facial expressions of the old man throughout the years. Calloused hands folded together on his chest, gently touching eyelashes, a slowly swinging old man… this is the view every time, even when Schumann’s Piano Concerto gets played inside. This is the view now too, with everyone in silence, with the record being turned, some New World of Dvorak.
While we are studying the mixed ridiculousness of this view and status, the old man has already begun his therapy session. He is in another world now, the world of his memories. These are not pleasant memories, unfortunately, as his wife died in agony during the bombing of Dresden in the final days of the war. At that time, the old man was a doctor who was trying to raise morphine for soldiers fighting against Zhukov in Sommerfeld.
He had no idea how long he had been in this agony. The concept of time disappears from your mind as if a Petlyakov you saw in the sky bombed the part of your brain dealing with time. Now you are lost. You cannot go home; you are no longer part of anywhere. Your heavenly imagination of the beginning collapses - at the bottom of hell, you will crawl through the houses, which have managed to stay firmly on the thin line between life and death.
As we’re told by the others in the room, after the end of the war, he has struggled with the pain and memories - the old man did not even know how many times he was on the brink of suicide. He lost everything he had because of the war, came back to the world as an empty, useless man; a poor man who despises every virtue of being called human due to the things he saw - it was as if he didn’t see the war but he was forced to recognize the true face of mankind, its lovely existence, its perfect (!) consciousness, and conscience. Fortunately, years have passed and the story continues.
This new self of the old man, shaped after years, has only one question left from the ones that were initially nearly infinite. It is still unclear, and he is still unable to solve the problem in light of his knowledge. Though, there was also the conclusion that knowledge was the most important but also the most dangerous thing ever existed - was not the Third Reich destroyed at the time it was trying to create a peaceful world? Furthermore, as known, those who hold the right information will always be humiliated and vanished. Bruno was burned, as were many other people. However, Luther and the other exceptions were quite lucky. Luckily, the old man is wise enough to know - God was with the Protestants and protected them. The minds that could have survived without the pressure of the fools could have lived better lives, such as with Protestantism or morphine.
What was man, and why was he? Here the old man had to pause. Was a perfect world possible? Theoretically, yes, it seemed quite possible - it is easier to do than silencing a soldier who is shouting so much as he lost his right arm in an explosion. The old man imagined - a world everyone is happy, everyone is peaceful. In science and art, and in every subject that comes to mind, people are hand in hand, always better. The result? Lucrative. Everyone is happy, everyone is helpful and good, the world is better. At least, it’s a world where T-34 tanks do not point at anyone. That’s enough. Nobody is hiding behind a black tuxedo. Everything is open. Everything is perfect. Such a world, with a door that almost opens up to heaven, possibly.
Unfortunately, the old man learned more about this: the perfect world was practically impossible. This creature, called a human, was no different from an object that could find a shadow of savagery by smell, and it was impossible to change this ordinary monster, who brings its curse everywhere, who enjoys another civilian’s scream or the scent of one’s pain. It is not possible to have that world. Not for this creature, not for these souls, who will not hesitate to shed another drop of blood if any two of them disagree.
The door to the perfect world, the door to heaven… Is there only one key? Does everyone have to live without sins or faults to be on the path to a perfect world? What if there are multiple keys and multiple paths provided to all of us? Put us in front of the door; what would happen then?
Some would enter, and some would not.
This is the most extreme point that the old man has ever had, to achieve a perfect world, it is not necessary for everyone to be perfect. Never needed. What matters here is self-perfection, which the old man nearly achieved. Still not sure if he did, though. He is also not sure if his thoughts make sense.
Here, let me, the author, be in charge, as the old man’s brain is so tired now. He is preparing for a few seconds later, for the time that Allegro con Fuoco will start to play. Yes, the old man was right, a single key to pass through the door to the perfect world, when all humanity is taken into consideration, is far from sufficient. After all, these creatures are humans, and it is not possible to make them all ready for a perfect world. However, every human also has their own private key to such door, to such peace, to such perfection, and every individual is on a level where they can perfect their own life. What’s more, there is only one way that it can be done, a very simple way: to get rid of the black-masked man with his black tuxedo so that you can enjoy, so that you can calm your eyes by giving attention to what’s beautiful around you, so that you can save yourself from a triggered blood bath and tears.
Dvorak’s symphony continues to play for the old man. The Allegro con Fuoco section has begun. There’s something different, though. The old man is standing up now, something he has not done since he returned from the war. He now headed to the records, grabbed something between the first and second records, and returned to his seat.
The gas lamp does not believe what it sees. There is this skinny gun in the hands of the old man, which seems to be quite well-kept. He’s looking at the gun, shaking the chair by his feet. The weapon is going to the temporal bone right now, the gas lamp is shocked and screaming, as every other object at home - it wants to stop it, changing the tone of the light, continuously blinking. The gun is on the temporal bone, and the gas lamp is now doing something that he did not do for years - neglecting its mission, leaving him and the others in darkness.
Ravens heard a shot from the other side of the street. They got their signal and fled.
A man in a tuxedo takes one last look around before taking his hat off in silence, eyes closed, with the hat and tuxedo jacket he has just removed, he salutes the old man - forever.
December 2017.
*Applied some grammar fixes.