The Plan

Translated by Leo Shtutin; Published in New Contrast and Chewers by Masticadores

Yesterday a deranged pigeon nosedived straight into my neighbour’s head. My neighbour, who’d been striding over to the park opposite our building, tripped in surprise, fell, smashed his forehead against a rock lying on the pavement, and died instantly. Can you imagine? A bizarre, untimely demise. A kamikaze pigeon. The Hindu adage has it that “pigeons are no more virtuous than tigers—if they could, they would sin tigerwise”. Well, this one could. Many of us now sidestep that spot in case another unhinged bird decides on a dive. Yesterday, though, opinions diverged at our residents’ association meeting. Some declared that the site of the killing must be cordoned off. Others, conversely, thought this nonsense—there’s no getting away from fate. The dispute divided us. Our yelling escalated into a fracas. The cordonistas were branded yellow-bellies, and, in their turn, disparaged their opponents as fatalists. By meeting’s end, however, a compromise was reached: we resolved to enlist the services of a mathematics scholar. The scholar arrived a week later, pillow-down in his hair, slide rule protruding from his pocket. He spent a goodly while muttering under his breath and making pencil-notes in a little memo book—then delivered his verdict: the probability of a bird’s falling in the same spot was slight. The fatalists broke into applause. In a transport of joy, they took pity on their opponents and agreed to erect a monument at the site of the killing. The cordonistas almost wept with gratitude. On his way out the scholar snagged his trouser-leg on a nail. At its ripping he recalled something he had meant to add. He scrutinized the rip with melancholy eyes, inserted a finger into the hole, and said in a cheerless voice, “The probability of a bird’s falling anywhere else is far greater.” He had caught us off guard. Some of us, who moments ago were making ready to express their gratitude, now stood transfixed with mouths agape. For, supposing him to be correct, we oughtn’t to emerge into the streets at all: the deranged birds might be waiting for just that. There ensued a month of torment. The bravest among us poked enquiring noses out of doors—were the birds on the attack? But no one ventured to emerge. At length a sage was sent our way by fate itself. We saw him shuffle-limping past our building, prayerbook under his arm, and prevailed upon him to come in—practically dragged him inside. “Tell us,” we screamed, agog with impatience, “can birds really nosedive as and when they wish?!” “Of course not. What nonsense,” said the sage, scratching his beard. “It is said, is it not, that God does not play dice. All is subject to his Plan.” Many days have passed. Our children have grown up, our oldsters have expired. Our entrance door is boarded shut. We do not leave our building. We want to fathom out the Divine Plan.