ART WARS
I entered the arena just like the gladiators of old had done, and had to shut my eyes, dazzled by the spotlights. The spectators sprang to their feet and started shouting but were soon overpowered by the loudspeakers around the stadium. From there a thick male voice recited his well-polished speech.
“Welcome everybody! I am Christopher Cruise and you are watching the ART WARS show! Today we will witness the final fight for the Permission to Publish Prize, staged by the TRIUMPH publishing house. I can see that spirits are high, there are no empty seats, and everybody’s just dying to see the duel!”
Again the crowd roared like an enormous animal with a thousand mouths, and I realised that at the far end of the grass oval my adversary had already come out. I opened my eyes, I squinted rapidly, and through my eyelashes I saw his silhouette. From where I stood, it was impossible to tell how tall he was, whether he was weak or strong; for the moment he was just a man’s figure in the distance. I knew all too well, however, this was Gromer Wotlyn.
“Look! The finalists have already stepped up, welcomed by huge applause. That’s what I call an audience! Yes, that’s the real baby! I hope the contestants will give you a really memorable contest tonight - one that stimulates both the emotions and the imagination ... To the right of the green sector and to the left of the yellow sector, we have Gromer Wotlyn – 193 cm. in height, chest – 133 cm., biceps- 51 cm., thigh – 71 cm., calf 48. cm.”
I listened to the words of the commentator while my eyes got used to the bright light, my feet – to the cool grass and my mind - to the thought that this time I wasn’t going to make it. I remembered well the victories of this giant of a Gromer, I remembered how at the very limit of my strength I defeated Allen Hoyle, RIP… I couldn’t see how luck would help me one more time.
“… and to the right of the yellow and the left of the green sector – there is Jason Eliot, 177 cm tall, 120cm around the chest, biceps - 40, thigh - 60, calf 41 …” The commentator made a dramatic pause and continued:
“As you can see, the difference is huge, yet there are no special rules for this kind of fight, therefore the two combatants face each other on equal terms. They are allowed to move freely about the entire stadium including the running track. Their clothing consists of a kimono-like top, and boardshorts and is identical, save for size, of course. Both outfits are produced in the textile factory of…”
I tried to master my thoughts, to encourage myself, to convince myself this was the only way for me to succeed in my mission. Only the tournaments organised by TRIUMPH or the rival productions of AT STAKE could give me the right to release my first book. Then I would officially be a writer - one that not only writes, but has permission to publish his books.
“So let us all – those who are here with me, Christopher Cruise, and those of you watching us on the TRIUMPH video channel - draw a deep breath while we wait for the starting signal. Let us bring betting to a close and watch the arena!”
Perhaps, I should have stuffed myself with opiate again… each time it’s getting so depressing. Look how everybody has gone quiet at once! How the entire stadium is muted as if there are no people sitting on the benches, just machines! Machines that Christopher Cruise just switched off… and the two of us are supposed to switch them on by shedding our blood! Has mankind changed at all from antiquity until now? Do people still get their kicks out of the doomed resistance of the loser and the bloody fury of the winner? Is this a rule: for a show to be really good, the stakes must be nothing less than the life of the contestants? Why don’t all these people who put their money on Gromer or me step down into the arena and stake their own lives?
“I’d like to remind you that in this final combat, there will be a prize not only for the winner, but for the loser as well. TRIUMPH publishers guarantee the loser the publication of one posthumous short story for every hour that he manages to stay alive in the arena. After all, it takes two to tango in this show; these two have gone through so many battles, they have presented us with so many beautiful victories. A fair share has to be granted to the weaker one tonight as well. The forthcoming issue of ‘Posthumous stories’ magazine will be named after the short story of the loser, and it will be published in its pages, unedited. Moreover, the name of the author will appear in the literary encyclopaedia… That’s all for now, ladies and gentlemen. Let the fight begin!”
There was a huge roar in the air, as several signal rockets soared into the sky above the stadium. I knew that nobody was looking at them, but at us – me and Gromer. I faltered on the grass with hesitant steps and pulsating temples. Grass leaves rubbed my feet and ankles, and I sensed what they smelled like – life. It was the same life I didn’t want to lose, although this insane world was pushing me right into the hands of death, making a gladiator out of me - one who lived by means of taking other people’s lives. I regretted not having taken an opiate as I’d always done before, like everybody else did… things were better that way. Otherwise, the world looked weird and utterly absurd. The stakes were indeed huge… Was I not an overly self-aggrandising person? Was Gromer not only bigger and stronger, but also a better writer than me? Let’s say I could kill him. Did I really have to?
For the first time I was reflecting deeply upon the whole thing. Who had introduced this Permission to Publish absurdity? Why were the rules so merciless? Why should we shed blood unquestionably? Why exchange art for brute force? Is this the way to prove your artistic talent?
Meanwhile, the distance between Gromer and me had lessened. I could see his face, the thick neck, his seemingly slow but actually mighty muscles. I mustn’t let him get hold of me or that would be the end of me…
“Take a good look at these men, ladies and gentlemen! Amazing, aren’t they!” The voice of the commentator grated on my ears. I felt a vague disgust.
“They’re staking their lives on becoming what they want to be!” he went on, and I felt how even without a special drug I was getting infuriated. The rage of the previous battles stirred inside my breast, although its intensity was still muffled. I clenched my fists.
“To become a writer! Such an attractive profession – a symbol of success in life, of winning, of overcoming…”
Suddenly, I feel sick and tired of all this. The cup is brimming over, and I hardly keep myself from shouting. I want to shout out as loud as I can. My indignation is not aimed at Gromer, not in the least. Why did I not take some opiate… And Christopher Cruise is a dumb-ass. A complete dumb-ass. A dumb-ass blabbering bullshit. I’m not staking my life for a profession! I am a writer! I am what I am and cannot be someone else. Writing is my life and I stake my life on writing! Because I’m writing, not only for myself, but for the others too. Because I still believe in the most humane of all causes. I believe that at least one of the mouths in the audience will shut up after reading these lines. I believe that during a different show, when, for example, the painters enter the arena to win their Permission to Exhibit, one of the viewers will turn a cold shoulder to the hubbub and the betting. Someone will start to reason: why in the name of the Devil must you fight and kill, in order to prove that your paintings are worthy of being seen by others; that your music should be permitted to be listened to; while you are a man of the fine arts; a man - not a fighter!
“Look at the way they are prowling around each other! How fatefully they’re narrowing the distance! They’re no more than twenty feet apart now. What a pair of strong and decisive men!”
Is this the only way for my stories to reach my audience? Is this the way to become a writer - by fighting? What a crazy world ours is! And Gromer? Does he feel the same as me? What if, instead of hitting him, I gave him a hand? Is he as full of hate as he seems to be? Is his hate directed at me or is his rage spurred by this self-same mad world that wants you to take part in bloody spectacles in exchange for the right to create and publish our creations… all this for sheer entertainment…
Did he stuff himself with opiate… It looks like he did… Opiate before every fight, so that you can kill without compunction. Small wonder that most of the “warriors” get mentally disturbed after winning the final, and in many cases they go raving mad… But who cares about this, anyway?
“Look! They’ve stopped only a metre from each other!”
Gromer is now before me. I look at his fuzzy glare and am sure about him taking the opiate. I know it is foolish to expect something else. He does so before each match. Until now I’ve done so too. Because... because what we do is alien and unnatural for an artist. We KILL!
I sniff the air once again. I sense the last breath of the grass I stomped with my feet as a soft moaning. I feel life flying away from the grass blades. My glance dives into Gromer’s eyes where the capillaries, pulsing with blood and fury give my entire body goosebumps. I sink into his pupils, hypnotised. Perhaps he is a really good writer or rather he was… Perhaps. Right now he is just a heap of muscles that will crush the life out of me, and then he’ll go crazy. I don’t know why I’m so sure about the latter, maybe I see it in his eyes: he will go crazy…
Somewhere far away the audience booms, encouraging us.
They’re spurring us on to put on a great show, yet I hope... I hope that at least one of these people from the stands will get sick, and turn away, so as not to watch; that he will never come again, and that he will read ‘Posthumous stories’ magazine. I believe he will ask himself why are there people ready to give their lives for a couple of pages written in dead letters… well, these letters… are they really dead? I hope that the man from the audience will fully experience the sorrow, the pain, the expectation and the joy, the love, the life and everything else hidden behind the letters.
I know I will lose, but I still want people to read this.
Perhaps nothing will change. Perhaps my life will be lost in vain. It is vain already. My handwritten books lie in cupboards, gathering dust, because today it’s a capital crime to print and publish them without Permission. All that matters is the show where you defend your right to be published… and it’s totally corrupt. Anyway! What’s the prize for winning, now that I’ve already lost? I stopped being an artist the moment I agreed to take part in these duels… because I stopped creating, and I did kill. I killed one of ours, one of mine. It’s too late to stop all this. All I can do is put down my hands and die, without feeding the eyes of a mad audience with another win-or-die fight… This Permission is such a big scam…
Nevertheless, this will be published. Someone will read it. I don’t think it’s obligatory to have been a good writer for people to understand me.
Editor’s note.
Please notice that, in spite of what he wrote, Jason Eliot had been hoping to win. When they’re about to lose, people always find good excuses to show off as martyrs and saints in the eyes of the public. His collected works will be kept in the archive of TRIUMPH publishing house. This short story, however, we publish without any interference from the editor. In our personal opinion it is not quite eligible for ‘Posthumous Stories’ magazine because it is sentimental and of poor quality altogether. However, a prize that is won is a prize won.
Editor’s note.
Please notice that, in spite of what he wrote, Jason Eliot had been hoping to win. When they’re about to lose, people always find good excuses to show off as martyrs and saints in the eyes of the public. His collected works will be kept in the archive of TRIUMPH publishing house. This short story, however, we publish without any interference from the editor. In our personal opinion it is not quite eligible for ‘Posthumous Stories’ magazine because it is sentimental and of poor quality altogether. However, a prize that is won is a prize won.
Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips
The Bulgarian text first appeared in ‘The Inn’, GAIANA book&art studio 2013
