The semi-transparency of the veil. All those things that you can barely discern behind it. Then, slowly, very slowly, the movement. And the way it hesitantly lifts. It arches upwards. It separates. It begins to expose the nakedness. To see what it saw. To feel what it felt. All the time. Truly all the time. These must have appeared when the captain violated specific orders and allowed him to go up on the deck. Just as they appeared behind the paradoxical dance of the tulle curtain. It shouldn't move. Because what is revealed on the other side of the veil, which waves calmly, is a completely calm water surface. Calmness. Stillness. That’s how the world looked in Denda’s eyes when they took him out into the spring cold, onto the deck of the old barge. Like a miracle of calm, even serenity. As if there was, once again, hope for humanity. But of course, he didn’t think that way. Not consciously, at least. Maybe that thought was inside him, but not with those words. Besides, he was very young. He was ten years old, and the river stretched out completely calm in front of him.
It was as if a thin, incredibly thin layer of ice still covered the water’s surface, and the old barge cut through it like a razor blade. Quietly. On both sides of the river, the landscape stretched barren and desolate, the landscape that had appeared in so many windows over the past days. Only windows. First the windows of the train, then the windows of the barges, and then the portholes of the ship. If you could call this thing a ship. The captain cast another sad look at Denda. Just a week ago, he had transported timber with his old barge. Now, the cargo was different. Just like his life. There are four barges, four timber transport boats, that for decades have reluctantly carried timber to the most barren places. Denda’s barge is the first in line. It is the one that tears through the still, black surface of the water with its surprisingly sharp bow.