Hope you enjoy it and merry christmas Death is Warm
It happened on Christmas Eve, a day usually meant for hope. But Fates are tricky creatures, and take pride in their ability to turn the human symbols of hope into blazons of woe and grief. In all of Russia the sun seared the ground with cold ferocity, as was usual for this time of the year. Except in St. Petersburg. In St. Petersburg, the sun had been particularly warm all week.
Some called it a freak phenomenon, but few took too much heed of it. It was a bizarre occurrence like any other. Nobody cared. Not even the people in St. Petersburg itself. They simply adapted: wearing their t-shirts instead of their coats and scarves. Some women cursed their bad luck as they went out into the town without being able to show off their new collection of coats bought from the most luxurious shops in the world. They might have cared a bit more than the rest in this way. But it wasn’t a very good way at all.
However, a young man called Levin cared. He cared a great deal. For Levin was a peasant and an orphan – he couldn’t afford all the coats and all the scarves. He could barely afford something to eat. He would remain with the same patchy, ugly t-shirt throughout the year and every year, round Christmas time, he would catch an extremely bad cold. He would suffer through the harsh Russian winter, which would burn and lick his flesh with its icy flames, while he tried hard to earn his keep doing anything that would earn him enough to eat a warm bowl of soup at the inn.
Levin’s father was a musician. He was part of the St. Petersburg Philharmonic Orchestra where he would play the piano. One day the entire Orchestra rode to Moscow in order to play for Czar Nikolay at the palace. They never returned. Levin often heard people say that they died a death that was cold. Levin’s mater passed soon after, out of grief. Levin remembered taking care of her and holding her ice-cold hands. The cold was different though; it was harsher – more deathly. Death is Cold, thought Levin from that day on.
As the years progressed, Levin couldn’t keep the house and lost it to the bank. He was cast out, penniless and destitute, with only one remembrance of his past life: his father’s glockenspiel. Levin would carry it around with him everywhere he went, not daring to leave it in the cardboard box where the other homeless children might steal it. No, it was too precious. It played the most magical sounds Levin had ever heard. And so Levin made his winter living by playing the glockenspiel. In the summer, due to his relatively good looks, he would be paid to escort young women, oftentimes they would make him wear suits and take baths and once the event was over, he would see himself whisked back into the peasant garb he had always been used to.
Levin always preferred the winter because he could play his glockenspiel with the Christmas Carollers. Often they would seek him out themselves because his glockenspiel was infused with something special. Perhaps it was in the metal that rang cleaner and truer than others of its kind; perhaps it was in the brass knocker that was more beautiful and rounder than all others. Or perhaps, the reason Levin liked to think most true, it was because his father’s musical spirit was bound to the silver keys.
The cold keys played bright notes. Every Christmas Eve, Levin would play the glockenspiel in the local Christian church. He didn’t really believe in what they believed. He was just there to play not to believe. But the inside of the church was warmer than everywhere else, so he liked playing there. Then there would always be a marvellous feast, the time of year when Levin’s belly would be so full it could last him the rest of the year. Then he would catch his cold, suffer it and the rest of the year would continue as he knew it: tough and troubling.
But this year things were different. The warmth in the air was sickly sweet. All the week things were looking bleak and Christmas spirit was lacking. People were already not caring anymore. Levin’s glockenspiel was out of place, no one stopped to be enchanted by its bright ringing notes. Up until the day before Christmas Eve, Levin’s tin had a single silver penny inside. A single silver penny that would not buy him a blanket to keep him warm during the night. But Levin didn’t really mind – with this weather he would not need one. In twenty-four hours it would be Christmas Eve. He would feast with the rest of the choir and eat to his heart’s content. He would be saved.
Levin’s hunger kept him awake that night. So he strolled around, the night lights laughing at him in their twinkling nature. They danced around and changed places to confuse him. The dizzy earth began to grow colder. Everything was moving slowly now; the lights saw that their games were having malevolent affects. No longer were the lights playful, they became serious and stared fixedly downwards at Levin. Paranoia took hold of him – they wouldn’t stop staring! He threw whatever he could find at them, trying to block them out. He threw his only silver penny at them. It rolled far away, not even coming close to touching those unblinking lights. The clock struck twelve.
With no food to fuel his immune system and the sudden return of the cold on this newborn Christmas Eve, Levin caught his cold more viciously and earlier than usual. He fell to the ground with every chime that the local clock tower struck. It began to snow. All warmth had seemingly left the Earth.
Then Levin spoke to no one in particular.
“I was wrong,” he said. “Death is warm.”
