Михаил Сегал, Каста. Cказка Черная Краска.
Mikhail Segal, Kasta. A Fable About Black Paint.
Lyrics by Mikhail Segal
Music by Vlady, Mikhail Segal
Directed by Mikhail Segal
Thanks to Kirill Nevostruev for the title design.
A Fable About Black Paint
“Hello. You sell paint?”
“Strange thing to ask. Can’t you tell?
We’re not on the phone—
You’re here in the flesh.”
“Have you got black paint?”
“You bet. When fall rolls around,
Stock runs out but we bring in that one.
It’s used year-round for gates and fences.
You never know… So how many gallons?
I can see you’re
a no-nonsense kind of guy.
I closed up the cash,
but the black you can buy.
Here it is: up on the shelf,
In its full glory—
Just help yourself!
All those black paint cans await
In the fall sunlight. If heaven’s gates
Gleam like honey with a golden luster,
Black coats all things here like lacquer.”
“Sorry, but have you got anything blacker?”
“Come again? How do you mean?”
“I need one without a hint of light,
Blacker than a Southern night,
So that if you look hard and often,
You’ll feel nailed up in a coffin,
Blacker than the ocean floor,
Blacker than what lies below,
Where not a single heart beats,
Where the letters for “sun” do not exist.
“Got it. No, that kind we haven’t got.”
“Could you try calling around?”
“By summer they might bring in a lot
Or two of the paint that fits the bill.”
“But I need it right now!”
“I see you’re talking for real.
There is one guy… Ok, let’s go.
It’s a long drive, just so you know,
But I’ll get you there door to door—
It’s my middle brother’s country store.
We are three brothers, I’m the youngest,
He will help you with your quest.
Why are you buckling? Are you a wuss?
It’s a long ride across soft grass.
To our right, ravines, to our left, a copse,
You can take a snooze, I’ll stay on course.
The sun is setting, the sky looks deep,
Hens roost in ashes as the brothers meet.
The middle one turns, eyes narrowed to slits,
“Yeah, I got paint. Whaddya need?”
“I could put it a number of different ways—"
“Take your time, this isn’t some race.”
“I don’t know how best to explain it all…
Say, you dangle your feet down a black hole,
Bring your fear and blindness to the fore
And multiply them two-hundred score,
Take a good look, feel ready to freeze,
And then jump right into the abyss—
The paint and the land are as black as this.”
The middle brother stood there,
No longer cock-sure,
He spat on the ground:
“I get the picture.”
The youngest one spat
Into the night’s stillness:
“Like I told you,
The man means business!”
The middle one left, came back with a can:
“This one here is our luxury brand –
You might say, the very top,
And usually, it does the job.
But this here by far
Isn’t the usual request.
So get into the car,
We’ll go see our eldest.”
The drive was long, past endless fences,
Cemeteries, and a line of defences—
Miles of barbed wire, needed or not,
That led to a wood, where amid leaf rot,
Stood a large house without any windows.
The eldest came out to see who it was.
He listened, then said, “You think black paint
Will be enough to cover up the taint
Of all that happened in the land you’re from?
We sell paint here, not miracles, bro!
Ten tribes will be lost, ten will rise again,
But it’s highly doubtful to me, my man,
That you’ll find a paint so black and thick
That even countless coats would do the trick.
If you had learned yourself some colour theory,
And not wasted time, as you have, clearly,
You’d know that this red bleeds
Through any black you’d use.
In life, spades don’t trump the red suits—
Red will squirm up to devour, like bloodworms,
Crops, blackholes, and the past with its swarms.
So why don’t you just head back home, bud.
Or you could stay back here, if you’re in a rut.
We could even gouge out your eyes, if you like—
Anything to help, man, we’re not here to psych!”
The brothers all nodded.
“Okay, I got it.
You have no such paint allotted.
It was nice to meet each one of you.
Is your dad living out here, too?
In fables, everyone has a father.”
“Not us—we never bothered.
In fact, we always understood
That we were born of ashes and soot.
Scratching at whatever scratches.
Saving money. Selling paint in batches.”
“I see. It can’t be helped. Good night, then.
Wait a moment… Have you got white paint?”
Translated by Maria Bloshteyn
