THE DAY THE LIGHT WENT OUT

THE DAY THE LIGHT WENT OUT

The wind; it has always been the wind. His one, true companion throughout his sixty years of life. He knew it as it knew him. Ivan Rokosovic, born on the island of Sakhalin, one year after the Great War that claimed the life of his father, a Russian mariner, cherished the wind for it spoke to him, its natural movement of air and gases warning him of storms to come, caressing him in its gentle breezes, informing him, always, of life far away in the tropics, the subtropics, the distant poles. Its varied directions carried news from the four points of the compass and Ivan, as a mere babe, could taste the salt it carried from each and listen, enraptured, to its myriad of tales.

Sakhalin was no stranger to the fiercest of storms, westerly winds battering the shoreline but, where his mother and other islanders, at such times, would batten down the hatches, seek shelter in their cellars, home to their cache of tinned goods, dried goods and jars of preserves, Ivan, unafraid, and not wanting to be forced into the basement, would hide himself away beneath the kitchen table, its oversized, oiled tablecloth secreting his presence, and he would listen and learn the mysteries of distant lands.

Inevitably, once the Soviets had taken over the Aniva lighthouse from the Japanese who had built it on the rocky promontory of Sakhalin, the boy, growing through his formative years to become a young man, had only one ambition, his heart was set on an unwavering course; to be the custodian of that edifice. No other life tempted him; no other form of life called to him. Ivan was a loner, uninterested in finding a suitable woman with whom he could procreate the Rokosovic line, untempted by the lures of the big cities. To be the lighthouse keeper of Aniva was his sole aim and, in 1966, his wish was granted and he set foot inside that building of nine floors, never to leave again in his lifetime.

In truth, no other applicant for the position even came close to matching Ivan’s unique qualities, able, as he was, to judge the mood of the ocean, affected by the changing cycles of the moon in much the same way as the wind in its many forms: gales, breezes, hurricanes and the like, the ocean, too, traversing the shores of continents, carried secrets that no other human could discern. But, always, it was the wind that was closest to Ivan’s heart because of one vital reason: it listened.

And Ivan had much to say for, though he had never in his life ventured from his island home, that did not mean that he was ignorant; far from it. Ivan read; anything and everything, and was, to all intents and purposes, the most educated person that the island of Sakhalin had ever produced. Ivan could talk of the intricacies of different light bulb filaments, the lifespan of each and how best to squeeze that extra hour or two from a particular brand, information, he felt, that was crucial to his job and which every lighthouse keeper should know. Equally, he could identify any ship from afar, merely by its contour, even in the dimmest of lights. The state of the Union was a matter close to his heart, and he felt that the ideals of its founders had grown astray under General Secretary, Joseph Stalin, never again regaining its status in the world despite a plethora of different leaders. But, conversely, could the Motherland have prevailed against the treacherous Germans without such a ruthless leadership as that provided by Uncle Joe?

All these things, and more, Ivan would hold court on in his conversations with the wind and, in its gentlest form, the wind would be heard to chuckle in response to Ivan reading aloud from his latest comic book, as treasured as any book. And, even in its, more usual, wildest form of a gale, fiercely assaulting the island and the sentinel that was Aniva, still, the wind spoke to Ivan as it lashed the rocks and stirred up the waves around him.

And so, the years have passed in this fashion, the loner, yet never lonely, wandering from floor to floor performing his duties, never missing, even by a second, a scheduled switching on of the great beam, its luminescence spreading out upon the ocean, safeguarding ships from countries, far and wide, and guiding them safely to their destination, away from the deadly outcrop of rocks that whispered to them, coaxingly, calling them to their doom.

Now, in his sixtieth year, after forty years of life of solitary bliss, Ivan puts down his book, draws his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and compares it to the clock mounted on the wall of the lower level of Aniva Lighthouse, his living quarters. Time to head on up. His knees are not what they used to be after so many years climbing the nine storeys so many, many times. It now takes him three minutes and forty seconds longer to mount the staircase to the top. Oh yes, such is his attention to detail that he knows, to the second, how much additional time must be allowed for each ascent. By rights, he knew, he should have shifted his accomodation higher in the building but he is, if anything, as stubborn as a man can be and believes that any such move would be a precursor to the end of his time on this rock, something he cannot bear to contemplate. As a form of compromise, he has informed the wind that, when his daily climbs exceed five minutes, he will bow to the inevitable and go up another level...or two...or three.

Up high, at the summit of this tower, he walks out onto the narrow ledge, protected by a metal railing, and looks down upon the familiar vista below. He breathes in the air, a gentle breeze.

Welcome, old friend, it says to him in hushed tones. He puts out his tongue and savours the salt that the breeze deposits: raw fish, sashimi, from the land across the way, Japan. Though Ivan has never visited this country, he could give voice, eloquently, to the traditions and history of his nearest neighbour, so much as he absorbed from his many books.

Back inside, he checks his watch, once more, when, suddenly, he hears a noise, a thump, from down below. Tensing, he listens, his hearing not as good as it used to be. His instincts tell him to go down and investigate but his devotion to punctuality says otherwise. Just two minutes before the beacon is due to be switched on. He cannot possibly go down and return in so short a time. He strains to hear another sound but there is nothing. He must have been mistaken. But, as he begins to calm, there it is again; unmistakable, this time. A loud thump as if the interloper could care less that he might be heard.

Ivan is outraged. How dare someone invade his domain? Never has he experienced such conflicting desires: to stay and continue his unblemished record of activating his precious light exactly on time or to go down and confront this intruder. Every fibre of his being is telling him to hold fast but, with one last check of his watch, he succumbs snd clicks the switch, the beam, to his chagrin, beginning its swaying motion, one minute and ten seconds earlier than scheduled as he, bitterly, commences his descent.

One level down, on the eighth floor, as he rushes past, something catches his eye. He halts and retraces his steps, slowly, cautiously.

There, on this level, astonishingly, is his rug, his couch, his collection of books and magazines. How? What? Is this what caused the noises he has heard?

Just then, another sound from below echoes off the stone walls of the lighthouse and carries up the spiral, concrete steps. He hurries down. Enough of this nonsense, he thinks, outraged. But, on the next level, he stares in through the doorless opening and there is his bed. Whoever is responsible for this shall pay dearly, he tells himself. Again, that thumping from further down. No more delays, down he goes, pulling his belt from his trousers as he descends and wrapping it tightly around his knuckles, buckle to the fore, ready to strike out.

But, at the bottom, there is nobody. It is the lighthouse door that is open and, catching the westerly breeze, is slamming back and forth against the door frame. Ivan is confused for he never leaves the door unlocked. From high up above he hears a similar thump. This intruder must have been secreted on another level, had waited for Ivan to pass down and, now, was up at the summit. Doing what? Damaging his precious light? Never!

Securing the door, he enters his living quarters to fetch the metal poker from the hearth but the room is empty. Where, once, stood, everything that he possessed, there is, now, nothing, just a bare floor and bare walls.

Utterly confused, he begins his climb, both knees aching, clinging to the thin, metal railing that runs, round and round the walls of the staircase. Halfway, he pauses to catch his breath, breathing deeply, hot and stuffy in his thick cable knit, roll neck. Up he continues, slowly, painfully, the staircase of this tapered building twisting more and more as, finally, he reaches the summit to find that the beam of light, this saviour of ships, is switched off.

Breathlessly, panicking, he reaches for the switch and turns it back on but no light is emitted. The bulb; could it have expired? How is that possible? He knows, to the second, the life span of each brand. He checks the searchlight, itself, and is shocked to the core; no bulb.

He staggers back and, suddenly, hears another thump behind him and turns to find it is the door onto the narrow, external walkway that is being blown, back and forth, by the breeze.

Dazedly, he stumbles outside and, realises that it is daylight. Looking down, he espies a boat full of people, pointing up, taking photographs. Another boat has already docked on this safe side of the promontory, dispensing a dozen or more of these sightseers. He watches, confusedly, as they make their way towards the lighthouse.

He moves inside, meaning to go down, once more, and confront these people, aching knees or not, but, dimly, a recollection stirs. How, his knees, being so painful, he had moved his living quarters, not one, two or three floors, but all the way to the seventh and eighth level, needing two of the smaller rooms to accomodate everything at this narrower height.

The sounds of the tourists climbing the spiral steps, chattering excitedly as they head for the summit, awaken a more recent memory. This very year, 2006, his heart had given out and the Soviet authorities, in their wisdom, had abandoned the lighthouse. He should not be here, now, he realises. His time has passed.

He walks outside, once again, and, face up, closes his eyes, feels the wind growing in strength and, just as the first of the inquisitive visitors reaches the top step, allows himself to be taken up by his one true friend and carried far away... forever.