The Taste

The Taste by Alexander Kamenezki, lib.ru
Translated from Russian by Oleg Kobchenko

All my life I searched for the essence of things. The essence of a thing justifies its purpose, remember that. The purpose is recognized by traits. My head is spinning lightly and tilts sideways; the eyelids become heavy. The limbs are getting filled with gentle warmth, the source of which is the thinning blood. The breathing goes slow and deep. The lips feel slightly numb; and in the mouth, I taste a tart residue of saliva. My body is taken over by light, transparent dormancy, but the spirit seems to ascend from sleep: it is alert and fresh. With the inner eye, I can embrace thousands of causes and effects; the dome of my intellect is the magnitude of proportions. I take another small sip and conclude: in ampulla vinum (in vessel there is wine).

The purpose of wine is to give joy and oblivion. We accept as a gift that which does not belong to us. Joy and oblivion lure a man, as he is not capable of conceiving them in one's self without a cause. Wine is not the cause of joy or oblivion, yet it is the source of these sensations. Once I found joy in reflections like these. Now more and more, I think about oblivion. Joy is the beginning, oblivion is the end; consequently, wine is the symbol of life. However, if wine gives us the repose from life, how can it be its symbol?

I drink to you, who are ready, till the end of time, to be amused with a nonsense like this.

Until the very last hour I searched for the essence of things. The essence of wine is not the thought about wine, but its taste. What is it like? The bitterness of a dusty stem, which I picked once amidst the ruins, late in the fall, wandering with my pouch over the hills and discerning in the smoky ornament of the clouds, the contours of the path that will follow? The sweetness of the yellow-sided grape, swept onto the market square, when a merchant swung at a drifter? The tart burn of the only, hidden behind the cheek coin? The salty sip of blood from the broken nose? The ice-cold cramp of beastly thirst at a mountain string? The arrogant acidity of pomegranate? The stony crumbliness of stale flat bread?

Or is it the fiery taste of the skies and the earth, when the volcano of the sun is erupting at the horizon, and its rigid flames burn in purple color at the sharp edges of the prairie grass, as if just a while ago, warriors choked here, felled by the arrows; the smoky blue vapor drifting in layers of as if their weary souls spread their wings, to flock together and fly away into the night?

No. This beverage has a taste different from any of my memories.

Then maybe, it has the stuffy aroma of the oleander and the beauty of the Malva flowers, the coolness of silk and careful ramble of steps, the seashore whisper of loosened braids and the viscose fatigue of a kiss? The perfect stroke of a curve, the divine geometry of imagination, nonhuman beauty, created for a fleeting moment and to be celebrated for eternity.

I'd rather drink to you who worship the beauty.

Until the very death I searched for the essence of things. It evaded me, playing with light and darkness, shades and variations. Every time when I unmasked it, it turned into a mirror, in which I only saw my tired face. When I was a young man, I adored them, not recognizing my own reflection; now when I am old and ugly, the mirrors are repulsive. It is for this reason that I am seeking an image that will represent the soul of this beverage for you--I am seeking and cannot find, for the words are powerless. To know is to taste, but the cup is already empty. The glittering bottom reflects my cloudy eyes: they still gaze mockingly.

I will still have the strength to return the cup to the wine bearer and to thank him for his faithful service. Then I will turn to my side, pull the cover over the face, and will allow the silence to flood my consciousness forever. And you will have the memory of this parable about the magical beverage, in which the beginning and the end are hidden. As usual, still plenty is concealed; the unattainable grain of truth I carry away with me.

I am Socrates.