The record

She hurried out of the record-store, stuffing her purchase into her handbag. "Have a merry Christmas," the voice of the shop- assistant rang out behind her. It was almost dark outside. The streetlights were few, their light dim and yellowish. The inescapable slippery slush of December clung to her boots. The street was full of faceless dark silhouettes, hurrying somewhere shopping bags in hand.

Adjusting the collar of her well-worn fur coat, she sped across the main square, turned a corner and started to work her way uphill. She won't be doing any more shopping today.

Winter had been depressing as usual. The school-term was nearing its end and her pupils and colleagues seemed even more irritating than usual. She had been feeling down for quite a while now. Actually, that was the reason why she had stepped into the record-store today. She had hoped to find something to lift her out of that mood. Something good for the soul: classical music, Christmas carols or Bach, maybe. 

But everything had turned out differently. 

And hurrying home through the darkening winter afternoon, she felt a sudden and inexplicabe surge of excitement rush through her body.

The unlit hall of the old house was dank, the chronic stink of cat pee and boiled cabbage hung thick in the air. Feeling around for the key in her pocket, she realised that her hands were shaking.
 

She unlocked the door in a hurry, rushed in and slammed the door shut behind her. She didn't even bother to take off her coat. As she flung her bag on the kitchen table, a thick stack of exercise-books fell out. She ignored them and fished out the record.

Record in hand, she made her way to the sitting-room, kicking off her winter-shoes mid-stride. She landed in an old armchair, and lit the reading-lamp, an abomination with a faded orange silk shade – a gift from her mother-in-law. At last, she could examine what she had just bought.

Some unknown artist had tried to picture a jungle on the cover of the record and for such purpose, had heaped an abundance of clumsy palm trees, garish birds and exotic beasts on a relatively small surface.

But in the foreground, a surprisingly life-like tiger stood, checking her out with his bright yellow-green eyes that seemed to pop straight out of the picture. Looking into the tigers's eyes, the woman shuddered in delight.

She held the record close to her face, sniffing it gingerly.

THE SOUNDS OF THE JUNGLE, she read the heading. And just for a brief moment, the dark and moist warmth of the jungle, mixed with the aroma of thousands of unknown plants, seemed to waft into the living-room.

Fortunately, the flat was empty at this hour. Her husband was not back from work yet and Mother, in honour of pending Christmastime, had gone visiting in the countryside. On her way back, she would pass by the graveyard and tidy the family plot. But of course she would – everyone did.

She took one of Mother's precious crystal glasses out of the china-cabinet and, slipping her hand behind the plates, fished out an almost full bottle of brandy which Mother used to keep for special occasions and for medicinal purposes. 

"Isn't it funny," she thought, "she still hides liquor from me. As if I couldn't buy my own if I felt like it."

She pushed the ivory-coloured button of the radio-cum-record- player, and it started to hum softly. Beside the front panel, a bright green lamp with a black dot in the middle came to life. Looks like the eye of a tiger, she mused. She took the record out of its cover and gently placed it on the turntable. And suddenly, the whole room was flooded with sounds that only remotely reminded her of music.

She turned off the light and sat in the armchair, nursing her brandy and trying to listen. Her head was empty. In the darkness of the room, surrounded by the eerie whispers and dark hypnotic moaning, she felt her body go limp against the back of the arm-chair. Absent-mindedly, she let her fingers run through the fur of her coat
again and again, petting it slowly.

It was sweltering in the room. Mother had fed the stove in the morning and it was still giving off heat. Inside her coat, she felt her body burning.

When the music finally stopped, she got up and, without switching on the light, wound up the record-player again. Then she sat down in the chair once more, still in her fur coat. Thus, an hour went by.

Suddenly, her whole body tensed and she pricked her ears. A soft fumbling could be heard from the hall. In a single, graceful movement, she was on her feet. As she moved towards the door as silently as a predator, she could feel her muscles ripple under the
silk lining of her coat.

When her husband finally managed to find the key and opened the door, he caught his breath in dismay. From the darkness of the flat, an unearthly howling and hissing emanated.

"What the …" he mumbled, but before he could finish the sentence, he felt a hand being pressed against his mouth. He was nudged, gently but firmly, towards the living-room.

She slid against him from the behind and purring softly, she started to tear off his
overclothes. Soon they both stood naked in the hot darkness.

She pushed him onto the plush carpet. At first, her husband had been dumbstruck by her inexplicable conduct. He attempted to fight back but the strangeness of the situation soon got better of him soon. And so, for a while, muted moaning and panting, accompanied by the sound of two bodies slamming into each other in passion were heard, mixed with the sounds of the jungle.

She woke up early next morning. The events of last night had crept into her half-sleeping brain and suddenly, she was wide awake. She felt blood rush to her face, turning it dark red.

Oh, the shame! What had she been thinking of! How could she! Like an ANIMAL! She
slipped out of bed. Her husband muttered something in his sleep and turned the other side.

She washed with icy water from the tap, scrubbing herself long and hard. Nevertheless, the feeling that something in her life had changed beyond repair did not leave her. She flitted into the living-room, quickly stuffed the record back in its cover and hid it behind the books in the book-shelf. Then she put the coffee-pot on. When her husband stepped into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes, she was already busy preparing breakfast.

The incident of last night was never brought up. Only on one occasion, after downing a couple of drinks to work up the necessary courage, her husband had dared to ask: " I wonder whatever happened to … you know … that record?" She even failed to turn her head. "It broke," she said in an absent voice. With that, the topic was closed.

Life continued almost as before. Christmas and New Year came and went, spring and summer followed and on an unusually stifling August day, her water broke and she was taken to the maternity hospital.

After six hours of labour, she gave birth to a healthy baby girl. The nurse placed the bundle, that was her daughter, beside her and said: "Well, its high time you two got acquainted."

She eyed the baby, feeling something close to disdain. It was bright red and crinkly in the face, as babies come.

But her cheekbones were strangely high and its tiny mouth was closed tight,
not letting out a sound. It was just lying there, checking her out with its slanted yellow-green eyes, not even blinking.

The mother looked back at the baby and gave a sigh.

She realised that for her, real trouble had only begun.