Story from Underspace
The Sphere
Translated by David Limon
The antelope was secretly watching…
The sphere appeared in the middle of the crossroads and in a moment created a traffic jam. The cars packed together and after a while impatient drivers began to blow their horns.
The sphere persisted in the middle of the crossroads and the lights went to red.
The queue of hooting cars became ever longer. Pedestrians trying to cross the road became trapped in an invisible membrane, where they kept repeating their last step.
The floating sphere showed no intention of withdrawing.
Some grew tired of waiting and tried to turn their cars round. It didn’t work.
They repeated their last gesture, they remained stuck where they were.
The police arrived with their siren wailing. A sombre police officer cautiously approached the sphere. As a representative of the forces of law and order, he spoke decisively:
“Whoever you are, move immediately or I shall fine you for impeding traffic. You are in violation of…”
The sphere ignored the threat. The police officer wanted to return to his car. He didn’t succeed. Once again, but this time against his will, he repeated:
“Whoever you are…” And he kept repeating and repeating.
For some time, the other officer in the car didn’t know what to do. His colleague was standing there, as if wound up, repeating his mantra about being fined for impeding traffic. He decided to intervene. He got out of the car and pulled out his truncheon. Between his first and second step he stopped and repeated his last movement.
People gathered and stared and took photos of the sphere, and there was soon no room for taking selfies as they were all trapped in the middle of their action.
The grassy areas, pavements and car parks around the crossroads were soon full of funny, jerky people, trapped in their last movement.
Vehicles from different TV stations appeared. But when the reporters started to report, they messed up after the first few sentences.
A car carrying the foreign minister made its way through. Evidently the powers that be thought they were faced with a diplomatic incident. The minister clambered out of the big limousine and stopped beside the police officer, who was repeating his threat of a fine.
“Whatever you are, in the name of the government I demand that you state your intentions. Your appearance is in contravention …”
Something interrupted the minister’s chain of thought and he repeated what he had said to the same extent that the police officer was repeating his threat of a fine.
Soon the head of the Migrant Party appeared:
“You must be an economic migrant. In the name of my party I guarantee that we shall arrange asylum for you…”
But the tousled man with the boyish face could not unfix himself from his last action. He kept repeating his speech in harmony with the minister and the police officer. As accompaniment, the reporters kept repeating their introductory sentences.
A flushed and round-faced representative of the Homeland Party came rushing up:
“How did you get past the fence? We don’t need hungry…” And he too, in the company of his migrant-friendly political colleague, became trapped in endless repetition.
The sphere was floating and above it a police helicopter was soon trapped, followed by two military ones. Several drones also became fixed in the air. Although their batteries were soon empty, they persisted. They floated where they were caught.
Past this confusion of repetitive movements and voices shuffled a homeless man with a plastic carrier bag. His hand was in the pocket of his worn-out jacket, weighing the change he had managed to collect. He observed with interest this whole mess. He had only one goal – the shop – where he would exchange his coins for a bottle of cheap wine. He slowly approached the crossroads and the sphere. He wasn’t led by curiosity, but more by thirst. He tried to push past all the stamping people who were caught between two steps crossing the road. He paid them little attention, for his goal was on the other side.
In spite of his efforts, he failed to make his way past all these people. The crowd was too dense and no one wanted to give way even for half a step. He realised that the only route to the shop with its sweet redemption was to cross the crossroads with the sphere. It was over there, although his view was blocked by that damned round thing.
A few metres before the sphere he stopped, carefully weighing the change in his hand. He wondered for some time what to do. His weary soul was being increasingly tormented by thirst. He couldn’t hold out any longer. He waited for a few moments in front of the sphere. He hesitated, but eventually plucked up the courage:
“Can I get past, please?”
In a moment the sphere disappeared and the homeless guy found himself in the middle of a crossroads full of impatient drivers.
The story is published in the collection
Underspace: The first Bojan down there
