THE LAST BUS

I tread carefully over the mossy hummocks. Artem thinks that beneath our feet lies the stone breast of the mountain, reaching almost to the centre of the earth, but I know these parts. If you lie down with your cheek on a boulder, you’ll hear a faint rumbling. Half a century ago, a landslide came down from the bare slopes and blocked the bed of a mountain stream. It thundered over and calmed down, laying low for years, overgrown with moss and skinny crooked birches. But it did not stop the flow. Look above and you will see the triumph of the raw power of stone. Look deeper and you will see how life knows how to continue, to flow on.

Artem stays silent and walks ahead. He’s told me all about how magnificent the sunset would be from up high. He’d even begged his father for an old Zenit camera. He carried it on top of his backpack in a case with three lenses. After all, everyone knows that true romantics shoot on film. But the sky above is gloomy, and it looks like that won’t change: the sun will have to set in the blue-grey damp.

I, too, feel uncomfortable. Artem already knows that he hasn’t impressed me, and stops trying. We realised that we are as different as a highway and a forest path when we were halfway to the top. Down below, I was looking at him through a half-open heart: what if? He let me. He spoke beautifully and stood at a flattering angle that made the sun shine golden on his wild unruly curls. He wiped his hand on his trousers before offering it to me on the way up. And when we were about halfway to the top, he started telling his ‘forest stories’.
“We cut her belly open right away, the barrel hadn’t even cooled down,” Artem said, subtly catching his breath. «And there were piglets inside her, can you imagine? Still moving. I said to my father, ‘Let’s skin them and put them on skewers! Invite guests, get them to guess what it is.’ And my father said to me, ’Better wrap them whole in cabbage leaves, make stuffed cabbage rolls!’” We were doubled over laughing for half an hour! But then we had to throw the carcass away. A pity. We had to run from the gamekeeper to our car, we didn’t have a hunting permit!”

There were a lot of stories like this, each one more horrific than the last. At first I was shaking and asked: “Why did you do that? Why are you talking about it so easily?” Then I asked to change the subject. And then I just shouted “Enough!” – and ran ahead. He caught up with me. He said, gloomily and uncertainly, that he didn’t want to lose such a beauty on the mountain. I didn’t answer. He followed me in silence.

It was only a couple of hours to the summit. We could easily have walked there without stopping. But Artem sat down on the wet moss and rummaged in his rucksack, pulling out two sandwiches wrapped in foil. He didn’t offer me a seat next to him. He didn’t take off his jacket to drape it thoughtfully over my shoulders, as he always did when we met up down below.
I sit down next to him but jump up at once: there’s a sharp stone. “Want one?” Artem waves a sandwich in my direction, looking somewhere through me. “Thanks, I find it easier to climb on an empty stomach.” He shrugs, stacks two sandwiches on top of each other and starts eating.

I walk away towards a narrow wall of fir trees, to shake the forest debris out of my boots and reapply my plasters. It seems flatter and drier there. And I can be alone for a while. It’s true what they say: in the mountains, you can see right through people. I got the date location right. Now I see Artem in a flat outline. I even know what to say and what to do so he would liven up. So he would look at me with interest again. So he would run his fingers through his curls and comb them, without taking his eyes off me. God, it’s so terribly attractive!
I push aside the thorny branches with my hands and walk forward beyond the trees. I hide. But is it worth it? After all, I could go back to Artem right now, sit down next to him, put my hand on his palm and apologise for my harshness. Tell him that I’m nervous, admit that I’ve been single for a long time and forgot what it’s like to build a relationship. Nod a few times, lean on his shoulder. Later listen to his stories with detachment, smiling at the right moments. And then we will come down from this mountain as a couple. Finally, at my mum’s or uncle’s birthday party, with the whole family gathered, I will stop being a ‘ticking clock’ and introduce my very own, handsome, fantastically curly-haired man. He will introduce me to his athlete friends, their girlfriends, his dad the hunter…

The fir branches snap shut behind me. I look up and see a set of eyes. Huge, brown, with black lashes on a brown muzzle. The muzzle nods twice, and I notice antlers. An elk!
Trying to tear my eyes away from those eyelashes, I carefully hide back behind the fir tree trunk. Strangely enough, I feel no fear. There’s only the words of my forester grandfather resounding in my head: “And most importantly, don’t make a sound. It’s not a bear, it won’t be scared by noise. God willing, it will just be on its way.”

The elk moves its ears and wiggles its velvety nose. Its fur is covered with droplets of moisture, its hooves sink into the moss. I want to go up to him, touch his strong neck with my hand and hug him. And he would put his muzzle on my back, like in a sweet cartoon, close his eyes in bliss… I don’t move, but suddenly, forgetting my grandfather’s warning, I ask the elk:
“Is it worth it?”

And all of a sudden the elk shakes its head from side to side and rattles its antlers, and a small bubble forms on its nostril. But before I get scared, the elk turns around, snorts, and slowly walks away.

Quiet, as if through a foam wall, I hear Artem. He has eaten and suggests we don’t waste time climbing to the top and then spending the night on the mountain. He says that if we go down right now, we might be on time for the last bus.

Ahead, my elk sways like a brown speck in the gloom of the sparse forest, retreating into its kingdom. I watch it until the very last moment, without answering Artem. Artem has no gun, but I already know: in this encounter, he would have seen danger, passion and challenge. And I had seen in it my answer.
“You’re right,” I say as I walk back. “It’s not a good idea to spend the night here, it’s might rain any minute. Let’s do just that, let’s go down. That is a wise decision.”

Artem’s face softens slightly, his eyes betraying a hint of disbelief. He hesitates, then smiles and leans towards me slightly, and I – I smile too. And say ‘thank you,’ warmly and sincerely, whether to Artem, or to someone else. I pick up my backpack and slowly descend. I touch the gnarled trunks of the birches, bend down and pick a damp sorrel leaf with my teeth, slip a rough pine cone in my pocket. An hour later, Artem starts urging me on, tries to scare me that the last bus won’t wait. He repeats this several times. He gets wound up. Suddenly, he hurls insults at me. Runs ahead.

But as I said, I know these parts. This last bus will leave, perhaps with Artem on it. And I will spend the night alone in a hostel near the station. I will feel chilly and sad, I will find the pine cone in my pocket, squeeze it so it presses into my skin, and I will want to sob. And maybe I will be able to do it quietly so as not to wake my neighbours.
But a new day will come. And, honestly, I’ll walk to the station without rushing, and get on whatever minibus I want. And I’ll never be afraid of missing the last bus again, never. I won’t. You hear me, elk?