THE WRITER AND THE BEAST

Tea dreams, milky dreams.

The Beast wakes up at five o'clock. Much earlier than humans. Than most living creatures. He whines for a few minutes (specialized guidebooks call it babbling). At three o'clock, the Beast, with the strength of his nine-month-old arms, legs, and head, rises, dangling dangerously over the abyss. With his eyes still closed, the Beast must be rescued. The abyss is no more than a meter high, and the carpet is soft, but the Beast hates falling; he can then inform the entire four-story building where he lives, and the two neighboring ones where he doesn't.

The Beast adores his parents. That's why he wakes up so early and wants to play with them. Anything. Especially spider. He stands by the wall where the map hangs and begins to believe he's a spider. He lunges at it and, moving his legs, walks. In reality, he moves with the help of his father's hand, and even if his hand doesn't help, he should try not to get up. A little spider would crash into the wall after a few moves, and with eyes brimming with crocodile tears, he'd say, "It's your fault, Daddy!" "You pushed me into the wall!"

When he's tired of spidering, he becomes a plumber. He starts grinding his gums on the heat regulator. Then, with an expert shake of his head, he taps the entire radiator, checking for water loss and possible air pockets. Bored, he decides to mount the radiator, saddle it, grab it by the ribs, and hey, off you go, horse, to the steppes, anywhere away from those old men who always want to sleep.

The old woman gets up for work at six. She's an accountant in a large company that pays low wages. The old man thinks he's a writer. The beast is also male, and when his father sits at the computer, he thinks he's a writer too. What could be difficult about typing? It's trivial. Easier than walking, much easier. Four hours after waking up, after brushing the carpet, tearing up the curtains, and making three consecutive poops, the Beast begins to feel a nagging need for rest. He lies down wherever he can, his head pressed against his favorite toilet seat, sucking on the TV cable with nostalgic dreams of a breast, pretending to fall asleep. And if anyone tries to tuck him into bed, he starts breathing fire. This means he needs to rock him to sleep while drinking. Tea or milk, depending on how much peace and quiet he needs. Tea sleep, light and airy, can vanish at the sound of a passing starling's cough. Milky sleep, heavy and powerful. Sometimes it lasts up to half an hour. Just long enough to make a strong coffee and turn on the computer. Checking email or opening Word is out of the question. The beast in the next room begins to yawn, then hangs over the edge, and the spider game begins again.

The beast sets out into the world.

From time to time, the Beast needs to be taken out. It's not as easy as it seems. You can't just say, "Go away," and that's it. First, you have to tear the Beast away from whatever it's currently occupied with, like the carpet or the kitchen knife, which it's eyeing with inevitable surprise. Once you've torn it away, you have to dress it. Even if it's warm. No one knows why. That's how it is, and that's that. The Beast likes its own warmth; what does it care about it being twenty degrees outside? The Beast is bundled up like an onion, revealing a bit of its nose—just to prevent it from suffocating, right away. The world surrounding the Beast and the old man pushing it in the stroller isn't exactly grand. A dozen or so identical apartment buildings, a swing, and most importantly, a shop. The Beast likes the shop because it can finally trade in its ride for a sportier one. It settles into its wire blanket, as if in a convertible, and, looking around, starts shopping. The Beast takes whatever comes, financial matters are beyond her for now and she doesn't really care. She packs everything colorful and rustling. Whatever might be useful or not, but it's still worth having. After half an hour, everyone, including the charming saleswomen who've been pulled by their hair and the security guards who were slightly, if unintentionally, spat on, has had enough of the Beast. Time for a swing. In all this beastly activity, it could have been a moment of respite for the old man, a moment of reflection. Unfortunately. The swing is too narrow for the old man's backside. There's only room for one butt, but you have to swing because the Beast likes to swing, a lot. You can swap butts, but after a while, both are swollen, and the old man says (quietly): "Sucks with this job!" And he stops swinging. The Beast roars, so loud that car alarms go off, you have to get out.

The Beast is reading.

The Beast, though illiterate, likes to read. It gives her pleasure, and let someone try to convince her otherwise. Let someone explain that Henry Miller is unpalatable. And yet, oh so delicious. Recently, while reading an old newspaper, the Beast consumed the silver-plated covers of the three-hundred-page "Tropic of Capricorn." Her expression was ambiguous, a bit full, a bit well-read. The Beast doesn't read the press, as if she held current events in high regard. The Beast tears the daily press into shreds and rolls them into balls, which she then soaks in her own saliva, and spits at her own father, as if he had something to do with what was being written.

The Beast is an eroticist.

The Beast shows signs of infatuation with the opposite sex. Sometimes, in strange circumstances, she embarrasses herself as a boy, sometimes a stranger flashes charming, toothless smiles at girls and large ladies. You have to be careful with the Beast, because he attracts women like flypaper, gripped by a sudden fury of maternal feelings. The Beast ensnares them with a single glance and leaves them to their old man. Let Daddy talk to you about the hardships of raising a child. Or maybe Daddy will invite you over for coffee. Don't worry, Daddy, it's not even noon yet, Mommy won't be back yet. Yes, the Beast is very, very dangerous.