humanoid-whowouldveknown - Tumblr blog

[humanoid-whowouldveknown]

Proxy

The first time I knew I was a monster, I was 8 years old.

I remember that warm day in the beginning of June. I just got back from survival camp with my father, arms covered in mosquito bites, hair tangled with grimy river water. I walk out of his car with a wide smile on my face, only to see my stepfather guarding the door of the entryway into our building. Something is wrong. It’s summer, I’m not supposed to be with my mother -- I’m supposed to be with my grandparents, packing for the village. My stepfather here instead of my grandma doesn’t sit right either. This is wrong. This is not the plan.

A quiet ride in a stuffy elevator, 8 stories high. Quiet has always been normal with Andrey, but this feels daunting. This silence weighs heavy on my chest, turning my breath shallow and sparse.

I walk out of the elevator and into my mother’s sunny, warm apartment. I know the drill -- shoes off, shower, change into proper clothes. But not this time. This time is different.

She meets me at the door, taking my hand -- something my mother rarely does -- forcing my thoughts to run wild as she walks me to the corner room and sits me down on a beige, soft couch that smells of nothing but cleaning supplies. This couch was supposed to be my bed once, but that was a long time ago. Sitting there, I can’t figure out what I did wrong, what mistake I must be punished for. Then it comes. 

“Dmitry is dead. Three days.” She whispers, crying, looking at nothing but our locked hands. 

I jerk from the strangeness of the situation. What strikes me as strange is not the crying -- I’ve seen my mother cry hundreds of times. No, the strangest part is the name, Dmitry. She has never called him that. 

My mother never speaks of her father, not if she has a choice in the matter. Dmitry is an unspoken, taboo topic in her house. Yet somehow, he penetrates every part of it, soaked up by the light yellow wallpaper and the wooden furniture. I carry the scent of his heavy perfume whenever I happen to stay at my mother’s. Maybe that’s part of the “proper clothes” rule, I don’t know. I don’t ask. 

It’s hard not to speak of him. After all, she happens to be renting an apartment in the same building as my grandparents’ flat, just a different wing of it. If my mother left the house more often, perhaps they’d pass each other on the street. They’d both pretend to be too preoccupied with the birds or sidewalk trash or flowers or really anything, but I know that in the back of their mind there would be a stamp with a date -- “We met. Again.”

Of course, it was never that simple. Taboo or not, grandpa’s presence would sometimes break through the facade. Grandma is here a lot, splitting the time away from work evenly between her flat and mother’s. Since my brother was born, she has receded, feeling less welcome in the overbearing silence Andrey brings with him everywhere. She’s more needed by my aunt anyway. But whenever grandma and I do visit, the silent name almost always rings in the shadows. 

My mother calls grandpa “He”. Never by name, and especially never “Father”. She never whispers it either, preferring to scream the pronoun as if he can hear her through the walls of the giant complex; as if that adds more weight to her argument, her being. I wonder sometimes, if she knew when the word “father” would be her last. I somehow know she did. I will learn later, much much later, what it feels like to never whisper my father’s name. 

Here, now, I hear it. I hear her whisper the forbidden name, one last time. I see the tears stream down her cheeks and I want so much to wipe them. I can’t. 

“Do you want to go to the funeral?”

I want to ask her when he died. I let myself breathe in, scoot forward on the couch -- not touching, just close enough to whisper back and still be heard -- and ask.

“When?”

“When what?” Her impatience grows, heightened with the smell of clorox and river.

“When did grandpa die?” I know the boundary. I know when to stop. I just never do.

“I told you, three days ago.”

“Why am I only learning today then?” A rage inside me -- the feeling I’m ever so familiar with -- grows with every passing second. I feel cheated. “You could call dad, I know you could. Hell, you could pick me up yourself! I was still in school!”

A smirk on her face. Shit.

I know it before she says it. I let myself miscalculate; I let the feelings take control; I missed my step in our dance. I slipped.

“You’re so unbelievably selfish.” And just like that, I lose. “Of course, you only think about yourself. Of course, that’s your first question.”

She gets up and I break eye contact. 

“You didn’t ask me if I’m okay. You didn’t ask me if grandma is okay. You failed to think of anyone but yourself. My fucking father died and you only thought about yourself!” She breaks into a scream. The door is open -- no one could hear her weakness in the whispers, but my loss must be publicized. It is part of the punishment, after all.

I want to argue. I want to tell her that I didn’t ask because I couldn’t. Because I knew she would close up and recede if I acknowledged her weakness for the man she cursed the name of. Because I knew I would see grandma next, and I would hug her and tell her it’s okay. Because there was no use for that.

I don’t. Instead, I lock my eyes with hers and say, “I want to go to the funeral.”

“No.” There it is. There is the real punishment for my miscalculation. 

Later, much later, I will think of everything I could do. I will hate myself for my weakness, for letting myself speak without thinking. But here, now, I seethe and rage, anger growing larger than my childish body.

“You asked if I wanted to! I said yes! Why the hell not?” I’m standing upright, back straight, chin forward, arms folded in front of me, mirroring her stance. I’m fooling myself into believing I have any power here.

“You won’t be able to handle it. You will embarrass yourself and me by proxy. I will not let you embarrass us in front of the whole family,” She scoffs, chuckling at her next bit of impulse, “After all, you clearly don’t care about anyone or anything but yourself. Why would I let you? So you can flaunt your childishness while people -- far more important people -- grieve? How will that make me look?”

Checkmate. 

She turns to walk out of the room, but lingers. Her eyes search mine, looking for something I don’t think I can deliver. Her face drops, eyes widening, and she whispers as if to herself.

“You’re not crying.” 

She’s right. My grandfather -- a man that raised me, that I have loved, that came the closest to being my father -- is dead, and I am not crying. I search for sadness, for a slither of grief inside me. Desperately shuffling through my emotions, I attempt to find the part of me that grieves, that cries with my mother. I fail. 

She shakes her head, backing out of the room as if I scare her.

“I raised a monster.”

Perhaps she did. 

[humanoid-whowouldveknown]

Visų Šventųjų

All Saints

- ...and so, she is walking across the city in such panic that she can't even cry, because — I mean, come on, fifteen thousand dollars is not a small sum today, and in her times it was enormous. The money were there yesterday and suddenly disappeared. In her own house, in the daytime. So, it turns out, someone from the family took it. No one else entered the house. And she has no idea who could do such a horrible thing. And if she did know who, it would be even worse. Because if her husband took the money, everything is gone. You get her logic, right? Why would a normal, not addicted man secretly take his own money away from his house, if not to run away with some tanned beauty to, like, Argentina? Or at least Warsaw?

So, she is walking with these lovely thoughts, unaware of the destination or reason. Later, she said that she has walked around town for the whole day, simply to not go insane right off the bat, unprepared, and stretch the pleasure until the evening. When you have to move your legs and pay attention to the cars, it feels like you are doing something, and helps keep control… Whatever. She just walked. And suddenly, she heard that behind her back, some woman said, “...it’s lying in the fridge since yesterday.” And mom suddenly remembered that she hid the money in the fridge herself. On the day before, dad was on the night patrol, and mom’s sister, aunt Sonya, came over. As they gossiped, they finished a bottle of homemade wine. Or two. Then, aunt Sonya left, and mom got stricken with drunken paranoia. She couldn’t fall asleep, constantly thinking about the money. She was always nervous with money, thinking about where to hide them in case someone tries to rob the house. And now, after so much wine, it hit her. She wrapped the bag with a rag, put it into a pot, threw some sour cabbage on top, closed the pot, put it into the fridge, and finally calmed down — even if the robbers come, they probably won’t get into the fridge. Maybe for beer, but not for pots. So she fell asleep, utterly satisfied with her wit. In the morning, she went to check the closet for money — that’s her habit, she always does it. But the money, obviously, wasn’t there. And mom instantly started panicking, instead of sitting down and thinking. Only when someone on the street spoke of a fridge, she remembered, ran back home, and found the money in her pot. Thus, the happy ending. Parents later bought a house — the one on S. Konarskio where they live now; well, doesn’t matter.

Mom told that story to everyone, including our neighbor — grandma Daiva. She was one of those grandmas in hats with fake flowers, who look like they are seventy, but when you listen to them it’s more like five hundred; walking histories, probably once acquainted with the Grand Duke Gediminas. And Daiva started asking — where did mom hear about the fridge? At first, mom couldn’t remember, but then she recalled turning from Pilimo to the Church of All Saints and then turning somewhere else. At this point, grandma Daiva was nodding, “Of course, you were walking through Visų Šventųjų, where else could you get such good advice. Mom didn’t pay attention, but I did.

I was twelve! The best age to get interested in such things. I questioned Daiva — what is this street, and how do I get advice there? Daiva always liked to talk, so she opened up quickly. Apparently, there is something like a city legend — if you are searching for an answer, or want to know something important, or just long for advice, go to the street of All Saints. Walk through it a few times, focus on the question, and listen. At some point, you will hear your answer. Can you imagine my excitement?

Finally, a pause. Not because Yanka awaits my reply. She simply remembered about her long-cold tea. I reply anyway:

- I can. You began walking through Visų Šventųjų every day, didn’t you?

A laugh.

- No! Not every — only when I had some vital questions. Meaning — every other day. And guess what? I always got my answer. Competent, simple, and coherent, as if life is a textbook for grade five, and I found a Quizlet to all questions. I swear! For example, if I asked about a boy, I would always hear someone swearing: “Idiot!” Or vice-versa, someone exclaims: “Oh, my dear,” — and I understand everything about this boy. When I fell in love with a pretty upperclassman, I heard how some drunk guy screamed at his companion: “Who are you? I don’t even know you!” Absolutely correct — this dreamboat had no idea that such a precious girl like me exists. I saw him five times, all from far away. Once, I argued with my best friend. I don’t really remember the reason, but I was so worried, I cried at night. In the morning, I skipped school and went to the center, to Visų Šventųjų, for them to tell me how do I live now. I heard this hushed reply, close to me: “Don’t be mad.” As if someone came from behind and said this to me, I even felt a breath on my neck. I turned around, but there was no one on the street. Not a single soul. Damn, I got terrified! I made peace with my friend, of course. If they said “don’t be mad,” I really can’t be…

I didn’t enter All Saints in a while since then. But my “while” at thirteen was just a few months. In autumn, I went there again. I promised myself to only ask vital questions, but, still, my “vital” wasn’t exactly what you imagine. A new boy, problems in school, confusion with hobbies… In short, one day I heard how some male voice says — quite bitterly: “Get lost, I’m so tired of you!” That’s when I felt terrified. And offended. “Get lost,” you say? Whatever. As if I ever needed you! I would not come here if my life depended on it, I swear to all the gods!

Indeed, I didn’t go back for a few years. At first, I was scared-offended, then I simply forgot. I mean, not really forgot — just stopped valuing. When you’re fifteen, everything that happened two years ago seems like useless nonsense. And the older I got, the less I cared.

So, until about twenty years old, I survived without the answers. And then, I got in trouble. Actually, several troubles, one worse than the other… Why am I telling you? You know whom I was married to. Long story short, I can’t even remember why did I go to Visų Šventųjų — was I searching for an answer, or just walking past? I lived in a fog. My home was hell, and wherever I went I brought the hell with me like a snail brings its house… Whatever the matter, I turned to Visų Šventųjų and almost instantly heard: “She left for just three years, but when she returned, everything changed.” A simple phrase, right? But I was sure it was directed at me. Only at me. As you can understand, I thought about leaving wherever. It was easy to find me in Vilnius, but the world is big. But I never got myself to actually quit. I couldn’t imagine where to go, what to do, and how to sponsor it all. I thought I’ll never succeed there, and it’s safer here — with a roof above my head, mom and dad near me. They couldn’t help me, of course, but they were good at pitying. And suddenly — as if someone poured cold water on my head, I woke up. I thought — what are my risks? I didn’t even go home since my documents were always with me. I went to mom and said that I’m leaving. She got so excited, she collected all the money in the house. She only gave it to me when I got on the bus at the train station. And I’m glad she did. That’s precisely how one should act with the wives of drug addicts.

In the morning, I was in Warsaw. From there, I left for Germany hitchhiking. And somehow, everything turned out fine — I found a job and a house. Thank god I spoke German well and knew how to talk to people. My hell got lost somewhere on the way to Munich. I guess, in the bathroom of one of the gas stations.

In four months, I returned my debt to mom, and then everything got only better. Literally, my life got better every day, it was incredible. Of course, I remembered the “She left for just three years,” but I never planned to return. Don’t push your luck. Everything changed when dad got sick. Exactly three years after I left. Nothing dangerous, as we found out later, but I got so scared I left immediately. Turned out, the lord of my hell disappeared a long time ago. Either he moved to India, as he always dreamt, or the “glowing astral essences” kidnapped him — I have no idea because nobody saw him ever since. And I think that’s much better than if he just died like people predicted — I’m all in for an open ending.

I got so excited from his fantastic vanishing that I automatically recovered my status in the university — I had just about a year to finish my major. Suddenly, my acquainted Germans started giving me attractive business deals, and my career snowballed — it’s still growing, as you know…

Now, you will make us more tea, and I will structure my thoughts. Because I have no idea how to continue coherently. I only know — I’ll explode if I don’t tell you the whole story.  

While I am away, Yanka manages to change her soft armchair to a wooden chair, button up the blazer, and even redo her lipstick.

- I need this to concentrate, — she replies to my silent question. — When my back is straight, I think better. If my clothes are buttoned up, my speech becomes more clear. Trust me, I checked. All of this is extremely important, you’ll see why.

I nod — alright, why not. I pour the tea into her cup and wait.

- Alright, — Yanka finally says. — Now, let’s look at how things were going for me. On one hand, I remembered the reason I left very clearly. I was perfectly aware that this was the best decision I ever made. I also never pretended like I made the choice myself. My gratitude for the voice on Visų Šventųjų was and is infinite. On the other hand, I didn’t go there anymore. There were no questions left in my life, to which I couldn’t find the answers myself. So, I tried to not bother them for no reason. I have no idea who “them” is. That does not matter. Of course, I did drive through there, but that doesn’t count.

But once, like a year ago, I went there. Completely consciously. I wanted to say, “thank you.” I mean, think, “thank you.” I decided that if you don’t need to ask questions out loud, you can keep the “thank you” to your thoughts as well. They will hear. Again, no matter who “they” are. So, I’m walking through Visų Šventųjų, thinking my “thanks-thanks-thanks,” and scanning my surroundings. It’s cloudy, but very light, the way only spring can look; the trees are about to bloom, which gives unusual green swell to the air; soon, it will be hot, the cherries, bird-cherries, lilacs will bloom; the summer is coming, and it will be great… And then I realize that I said that out loud. Not everything, just one phrase: “It will be great.” I shut up, blushed, and looked around — do people recognize this crazy woman? But there were no people around, just one girl in front of me, and who knows which one of us was man because she jumped and ran laughing. I stopped. Because — you understand what I’ve been thinking then.

- That the girl walked through All Saints for a reason?

- Precisely! I remembered that she walked slowly at first, dragging her legs. She was far ahead of me, and I caught up in just a minute, though not in a hurry. And suddenly — such energy. She reminded me of myself in my school years, when I went to Visų Šventųjų to ask about boys and exams. I laughed, screamed, jumped — all the same. Who did I have to feel shy before? Random voices, who know what I’m thinking anyway?

So, I spent quite some time thinking about that event. And in the end, I decided — that was great. Who cares, whether I said this or someone else did? If this girl actually had some vital question to the universe, she got the best answer possible.

Yanka smiles and sighs. Hell knows how she manages to do both at the same time.

- Next time I went to Visų Šventųjų about a month later, by accident. I mean, not because I had some grand goal, but simply because it was the shortest path from the Russian bookshop I bought my magazines in to a tea club on Bazilijonų where my colleagues awaited me; you know, we go there on Fridays after work instead of drinking beer at the nearest pub, like normal people do. Long story short, I was late and got very worried that they will order tea without me (gods, they have no idea what they are doing, they will choose something awful!), so I sprinted through the nearest route. As expected, at the most inconvenient moment, my mom called me to discuss whether she should go to her friend for the weekend or is it still too cold, and I screamed (it was loud on the street because of cars) into the phone: “Of course you should go, it’s a great idea!” I put the phone into my pocket and almost bumped into a woman that walked in front of me and suddenly stopped as if stricken. Somehow, at the last moment, I managed to walk around her and heard as she whispered, almost silently, my own words: “Go, it’s a great idea.” I almost laughed — again! I spent the evening thinking about it. And the next morning too. And you know, I couldn’t think of anything valuable, but I felt happy. Simply happy that my voice helped someone. And I got so excited that next day I went to the center, parked at Visų Šventųjų, and began walking around. It’s not like I planned to scream: “It’ll be okay” and look at the effect. On the contrary, I promised myself to not say anything. And not ask anything. I just wanted to walk there. Simply be there. That’s all.

Yanka smiles again, reaches for the cigarettes, grabs one, looks at it as if she suddenly forgot what do people usually do with it. Continues.

- And, you know, nothing outstanding happened that evening. I was quiet and never asked anything, not even in my mind. And there were no voices or prophecies. Only music played somewhere. Trumpet or something like that, I don’t know much about instruments. Apparently, it was a real-life performance, not a recording. Nothing surreal, of course. Someone was probably rehearsing next to an open window since it was warm and spring. But, you know, if I did ask my question, this would be an obvious answer. Thus, we may conclude that I asked without noticing. Doesn’t matter. When I got back into the car, I knew what will happen. I mean, I knew how to act and what to do. And how to react to it all. The correct answer is — intuitively. We’ll see how it goes. A universal formula. So now, I just... live. I don’t go to Visų Šventųjų every day if that’s what you’re thinking. But I don’t avoid it either. If I want to take a shortcut, I go through it. Why not? If someone calls me while I’m there, I will reply: “Look in the cabinet,” “Don’t forget about our morning conversation,” “Go there now,” “Don’t rush this,” — never thinking about the consequences. And if I realize that I said something without noticing, I don’t care about it. I’m not an oracle or a prophet. I’m not responsible for the happiness of the superstitious part of the Lithuanian population. I’m just a person who sometimes walks through the All Saints street and says something. Maybe someone will hear it. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter, because there are so many of us — those who speak, and those who hear, and those who don’t listen. It’s the matter of a musician, not the instrument. A good musician will pick any available tool and play it. I’m a very happy instrument — not because I sound better, but because I know for sure — the musician exists. I have no idea who they are, what they are playing, and why did they choose Visų Šventųjų for their concert. I have no clue what the whole melody sounds like. But, while they are playing, why shouldn’t I participate.

[humanoid-whowouldveknown]

The Café

The door closes with a loud creak. I turn to see if anyone walks behind us, but Holden grabs my hand. He doesn’t like to lose my attention.

“How did you like the movie?” He has warm hands, but I don’t mind. It’s cold outside.

“It was alright. Though when she walked into the room, I kind of lost her logic. Why would you walk into a room with just one exit when there is a killer in the house?”

He doesn’t reply. He never responds to rhetorical questions. Perhaps, that's why I liked talking to him in the first place. He doesn’t enjoy movies, though. At least not as much as I do. I believe he only agreed to go to one now because he worries about me. Everyone worries so much about me. I wish they would just leave me alone.

“What happened?” He stops. I never know if he stops because he grew tired or because he wants to give a long speech about how everyone is a moron. Or both.

“Nothing. Just…”

Suddenly, I realize how close he stands. His eyes scan every inch of my face as if searching for something. Something I don’t have. Holden slowly moves closer. Every inch feels like a mile; time becomes viscous like honey.

“I… I’m sorry, Holden. I have to go home,” I say as I turn around, almost hitting him with my hair. His hand drops as if I left him with no strength, but I don’t care.

“Jane, wait!” I’m almost running. Leave me alone! I don’t want to listen to anyone now. Please, Holden, don’t follow me. Please, for once, let me go. I want to stay alone.

Steps behind me grow louder. Of course, he follows me. Of course, he does not leave me alone — after all, it’s Holden. He likes feeling like a hero, and following me is something a hero would do. I despise heroes.

A drop lands on my nose. The gray sky lost self-control, and now the tears fall on the ground beneath my feet. The wind howls like a lonely wolf, and people run from it, trying to cover their heads. Perhaps, I should follow their lead and find somewhere to hide.

“Jane, I’m sorry. Let’s go home, I’ll drive you.” Holden’s voice sounds louder than the screams of wind. My head hurts. Please go away, please, please, please…

With chaos in my head, I ran into the first door I see and shut it behind me.

Bells ring. The lamps drown the room in warm light as the sweet smell of pastries attracts me to the counter. I’ve never gone to this cafe before. I don’t think I ever saw any cafe in this part of the city. The interior reminds me of those old French movies, with wicker chairs next to small round tables. There aren’t many people here — a strange matter in such weather. Not a single head turns to me as I let go of the doorknob and move deeper into the room.

No one stands behind the counter. The table next to the window is empty, and I decide to wait there. Raindrops hit on the glass, and their sound soothes my headache. Poor Holden, he must be so wet and lonely outside. I shouldn’t have left him there, but I couldn’t help myself. He always tries to find something in me; something that can help him let go of his problems; something he can use to feel less lonely. I would love to help him. Truly, I would. Except, I barely have enough of that something for myself. If I gave it to him, there would be nothing left of me. An empty shell. Funny how these things work.

Holden gives me a lot, though. He is my only friend — the only real one anyway. When we met the first time, somewhere at the beginning of summer, he seemed like someone I would hate. His mom complained about our dog, and anyone who complains about dogs is a complete moron. He didn’t argue that fact, though, and that made me interested in him. I don’t know many people who agree with me.

A man with a long beard passes by me. He has medieval-style pants with an odd coat. Is there a masquerade somewhere nearby?

Anyway, Holden gives me a lot. Probably that’s why I decided to go to his house when I ran away two weeks ago. He seemed like the only person I could trust to not tell my mom where I am. I remember how surprised he was to see me in his room. He didn’t ask anything, and I’m still very thankful for that. Holden knows when he shouldn’t ask questions. We spent a whole night reading a book about an old man who loses his wife and tries to find a way to fill the emptiness. Holden said his brother wrote the book, but I didn’t believe him. After all, I never know if he is lying. Nevertheless, the night went fun, and I got closer to him. Not in any sexual way, but in my mind. My grandma calls that psychological connection. I don’t know, that sounds cheesy.

As I think about these events, I feel so guilty. Holden brings me so much love, and I always push him away. I doubt he will want to talk to me after I left him in the rain for no reason. I always overreact. Every time I get closer to my friends, I push them away. Every relationship I have is doomed to fail.

The wind throws the window open. With a side of my eye, I see that no one pays attention. Strange, the noise seemed so loud. I stand up to close the window and almost trip on the dress of some woman. Who wears dresses so long in summer? And a huge hat. She looks like my grandmother in old photographs.

As I’m walking back to my chair, I see a leather wallet on the floor. The odd woman must have dropped it.

“Excuse me, mam? I think you lost this!” She turns her head to me as if she has never seen a girl before.

“Oh, you sweet thing, thank you! May the god help you and your parents,” she says, taking the wallet. What a peculiar woman. Her speech sounds as old as her dress looks. No, but really, is there a masquerade downtown?

I slide back onto my chair and instantly remember how awful my life looks. I could inherit such fate from one person only — my mother. Oh, that damned woman. I never saw her truly happy, never. She is always either crying or drinking. I don’t think she deserves to feel satisfied, but that doesn’t mean she should feel so sad. She didn’t want me to be born — or at least my grandma said so. Without me, she had a grand future. I ruined her plans. She wanted to go to Hollywood and become an actress. She wanted to conquer the world. But then my dad, a beautiful actor in his thirties, happened, and I was born. It’s easy for a man to leave a baby, but my Catholic grandparents did everything in their power to tie my mother to me. Now, her career doesn’t exist. Maybe that makes her drink all the time, I don’t know. Or perhaps she hates life because of my stepdad. Never has the world seen a man more despicable than him. I remember the day when I first saw him. He seemed so sweet. I was seven or eight, and we went on the rollercoasters with mom. I never got to go anywhere with her, so I awaited that day and felt so excited. He introduced himself as my mom’s “friend” and bought me cotton candy. Grandma later told me that he worked as mom’s manager or something like that. He promised to bring her into the world of acting; instead, he brought himself down into our house.

Anyway, like my mom, I have no future. All of my friendships fall apart, and I will never see anything good happen to me. I will never get out of my stepdad's house.

“Miss, here is your order,” says the voice behind my chair. There stands a girl, not much older than me. Her green dress reveals striped socks and strange black boots. Her bright ginger hair is in a messy bun, and her green eyes seem to look deep inside of me. She looks like one of those people that read you like a book.

“Thanks, but I didn’t order anything,” I reply.

“Of course you did. Anyone who comes through these doors has a reason to do so. Your reason was a latte and a book,” she smirks with hidden excitement.

“But I don’t drink lattes, only espresso. I’m sorry, there must’ve been a mistake. I will pay for the latte, though.”

“I recommend you break your rules today. Latte is dreams, espresso diluted with the milk of hope. And we don’t take payment from strangers.”

With these words, the girl leaves to help some other customer. I have no words to stop her, so I accept her offer. The coffee tastes sweet yet bitter. Exactly what I needed now. I open the book to the first page.

The bells ring. The raindrops cover Jane’s silhouette as she walks away from The Café. The smell of sweet pastries and warm thoughts follows her steps. A girl comes to clean up the table of the unexpected customer. She smiles at the empty cup that Jane denied so hard. The book’s cover says The Catcher in the Rye.

[humanoid-whowouldveknown]

am i the only one to figure the connection? arthur christmas makes our dreams come true.

[humanoid-whowouldveknown]

coffee

Espresso is life. Bitter, but bracing. The first sip might seem tasteless, but after finishing a cup, you will want more. Usually, there is no time for more.

Cappuccino is young love. First rough, then sweet and light, and, in the end, the same -- life. But the moments of sweetness and roughness are the best. By the way, you can always just eat the foam and not drink, but no one thinks of that. Perhaps, the whole point is in the contrast. 

Latte is dreams, espresso diluted with the milk of hope. And the foam. Remember, right? That foam from a cappuccino. But no cinnamon, no bitterness that grounds you in the moment.

There is also mocha - coffee with chocolate. Mocha is melancholy. Dense and viscous. But even mocha has milk; that sweetness that you wouldn’t find in an espresso. You can’t feel it at first, so you wonder why you even ordered it. But you get it later, when sweetness hits your palate. 

Irish is lust. Somewhere there, on the very bottom, lies the scalding alcohol. If the coffee was well-brewed, you can mix it, dilute it into nothing. But it’s still there and you still get drunk. Oh yeah, the only drink worse than a bad Espresso is a bad Irish. 

And ristretto. Ristretto is death. Your whole life - in one sip. Drink, pay, and leave. Usually.

Love? Real love?

Real love is coffee that you make at home in the morning. Freshly ground, preferably by hand. With cinnamon, nutmeg, and cardamom. Coffee that you have to watch throughout the whole process, making sure it doesn’t go wrong and ruin the taste. You must let it rise three times, put a spoon of cold water into the cezve and wait a few minutes for the grounds to settle. Coffee you pour into an old cup and drink, soaking in every sip, every day. Enjoying every moment. 

-Max Frei, Coffee Book

[humanoid-whowouldveknown]

Beatričės gatvė

The White Man

This morning I knew it would work.

This evening, - writes Anna, - I was walking home through Beatričės, just like always. If you recall, it is very short, only one block. There, on the right corner if you walk from the flower market, stands a cafe. An utterly idiotic one, I hate it and don't even remember the name. Actually, I don't know it because I purposely don't look at the signboard. Every day I pass by and always turn away to not accidentally read it as if I didn't want to make an indecent acquaintance. Yes, I know, it's childish.

In summer a terrace appears by the cafe. I mean, the owners bring a couple of plastic tables outside, hang a large tv screen, and some people, usually quite ordinary ones, go there to watch sports and drink beer. Thus, the cafe gets even better, so I have to walk by the river to not pass this place.

Well, the screen was removed at the beginning of October, but the tables, for some unknown reason, were left outside. No one sat at those tables. The coffee they made, based off the disgusting smell coming from the inside, was poisonous, and no one would drink beer outside in this weather, considering the tv with football was now inside. Or basketball? Whatever.

Sometimes one of the regulars jumped out to smoke, sat on the edge of the chair, without brushing away the wet leaves that kept on falling while the wind ignored them, so the furniture was already utterly invisible under the fragrant snowdrifts of rotten gold. And that was a good thing. No need for the sensitive passers to see these brown plastic relics. Safer for us.

So.

This evening, on the veranda of this stupid cafe, sat a man. Clearly not one of the regulars. And not "one of the" at all - no matter what that means. Unique. One of those people that you recognize even if you don't want to. Either very dark skinned or just tan, but at the same time a bright blond. In a white coat. When was the last time you saw a man in a white coat? I can't remember any.

And this dreamlike tan blond man in a white coat sat by the pit of a bar on Beatričės, on a plastic chair. Frankly speaking, he sat on the pile of yellow leaves, like in a nest. He didn't even sweep them off the table, just put a laptop right on top of the leaves. The laptop was as snow-white as the coat and looked like he just got it out of the package. Well, the man as a whole seemed like he was just out of a package, but not because of his clean and ironed look. It was his face - innocent as if he never had a single negative thought, experienced a single trouble, or saw a single dead pigeon under a car on the pavement. As if he did not see anything in his life, except yellow leaves, blooming mums, and, say, foam on a cappuccino. Which, probably, confused him at first. But not for long.

I just reread my letter. And I understand that my efforts to describe the stranger look pretty helpless. But what can I do, if the person from the cafe on Beatričės was precisely like this? I mean, my impression of him was like this; we will never know how the story really went.

Now - the most exciting part.

Of course, I passed by as if nothing had happened. I would be happy to stand and stare, my mouth wide open in excitement like that of a village girl, but I had neither a lollipop, nor a rag doll that one must hold by a leg in this situation, nor a headscarf; in such circumstances staring like a gawk would be a stylistic blunder.

But at the last moment, I turned to look at what he was writing. Seriously, I would regret it so much if I missed that chance. I'm farsighted, you know, so I didn't have to loom over his head. Just passed by a few steps, quickly turned, gazed - and that's it.

Now listen carefully! You will probably not believe me. I would not if I were you. But whatever you think, this man wrote about me. That a ginger woman in a blue coat is walking by, the twilight suits her - I couldn't read more. But! Can you imagine?!

So-o-o-o.

I'm telling you this all specifically for that phrase; it's just impossible to hold in, I've never got compliments like that one. "The twilight suits her" - wow. I love being this kind of woman. I'll tell everyone about it, mercilessly. But you, of course, are my first victim.

Reread the writing. Not the best piece. Honestly, she could've come up with something more creative. On the other hand, she doesn't have time for rewriting anyway, and in her situation, any nonsense is better than nothing.

When you have to write a long letter every day for your best friend who is in the hospital for two months already, creativity becomes a struggle. And if you only talk about stuff that actually happens, some exciting events and unusual experiences would sum up into like three sentences a week. Maybe less.

Usually, Anna writes letters in the evenings and sends them at 9 or 10 PM. That's what they agreed upon. Ruta likes reading her messages before falling asleep when the lights in her room are turned off; when in the yellow viscous air of the corridors, like dead flies in a spider web, hang wall-muffled screams and snores; when the head is filled with thoughts that could kill even a healthy human. And here, naturally, the phone becomes the only... not just distraction, an actual savior. Provided that there is a new letter in the email. At least one. A living wage.

Writing in the evening suits Anna too because then she can (at least partially) consider the events in the day. Deform them completely, turning the routine into adventures. Twisting the gossip about colleagues, retelling the stories she heard in the cafes and buses. At the very least, talk about the weather, the eccentric grannies from the flower market, and the motley street cats. Only, it's important not to overuse the rich material, or else Ruta will bore out.

However, today in the evening Anna awaits some guests. Most likely they will stay past midnight since tomorrow is Saturday and no one has to hurry.  In such conditions, she may take a short break to send the letter, but surely not to write one. Thus she has to type the message to Ruta in the morning, for which she woke up a whole half an hour earlier. If that's not a feat in the name of friendship, then what is?

"Morning is indeed not a time for me, - gloomily thinks Anna, - I can muddle through getting up, with one eye open. I can carry myself to the shower without dropping in the middle. I can make sure the coffee doesn't run away from the cezve, stealing my great grandma's sapphire ring and seven hundred litai that I left for rent. I can even dress, though a couple of times I left the house in flipflops, and once managed to forget about skirt (good thing I realized the embarrassment before leaving the building). But, creative impulses in the morning are honestly terrible. They are - hmmm... - not really impulsive. And here is the result.

Next time I should write two letters in the evening, - thinks Anna, - Or maybe even three, to always have some in stock. How did I not think of it yesterday? Dummy..."

This morning I knew it would work.

I slept almost until noon, though yesterday we didn't talk until late specifically to wake up early. But what a great thing it is - the dreams in a new place. I almost forgot that it's possible - to live a couple of fascinating lives in one night, and then, awake at dawn from the sound of bells, drink a full cup of dense cold water, close your eyes and live them again, only better. The second try is a beautiful thing. Awake again, lie on your back tasting the details, mourning your lost friends and relatives, and, rejoicing from the thought that they are definitely immortal, think: I will meet them again. Earlier or later, I will. The rest does not matter.

Think: I will, naturally, not write this all down.

And certainly know: the story that I, unlike the dreams, will need to write, is close. Maybe right behind the door. It waits for me to dress up, drink coffee, and go to eat breakfast somewhere. Then it will jump on me from around the corner.

Well, I better hurry then.

Everything was so much more amazing than before, and even without any comparisons - so amazing that I laughed while washing my face, and splashed hot water at my confused reflection. It somehow managed to hide from the drops. We were both delighted.

I forgot to eat breakfast, and, for the entire day, I walked around the unknown town, as if led by not one but a whole group of local spirits, quite friendly but easily distracted ones, those that forgot all the city routes a long time ago and keep on saying at every second turn: wo-o-o-o-o-ow, what street is this? Where did it come from? Who would've known!

At the instigation of the same spirits, I drank decent coffee in tiny, inconspicuous cafes, ate a delicious pastry with cottage cheese and pears in a dark patisserie on one of the central streets; a couple of hours later I came into the same patisserie like for the first time, bought the same pastry and thought: it feels like a déjà vu - darkness, crispy crust, a tailless wooden horse in the corner, humid sweet filling, five-litai coin on a green plate. It certainly has happened. A long time ago. Or perhaps in a dream?

Of course, in a dream.

I slept walking, which, happily, didn't keep me from walking around obstacles, politely smiling to girls in coffee houses, regularly texting: "I'm fine, walking," and even crossing the street in right places, looking to the right and left, like we were all taught in childhood.

It would be false to say I thought while walking. Instead, I stopped thinking, turned off the inner voices, one by one, and enjoyed the pauses - at first short, but growing longer and longer, with the silence filling my head. And when the November air turned gray and dense, summoning the twilight,  I froze in place, because on the edge of my mind and in an indescribable area of hot, trembling darkness, located - I was always sure about that - on the inside of the heart, appeared a vague, warm, solid silhouette; not a ghost, not an illusion, not a capris of my imagination. An alive, real creature, which one could indeed hold on to because that's what they came here for - for me to grab it with both hands and don't let go. Ever.

I pass a couple more blocks and realize that the creature is a woman. Looks like she is thirty or so. Definitely ginger, with honey, like her hair, eyes. Now, in the late autumn, she wears a twilight-blue maxi coat, a heavy, but stunningly elegant one. She somehow knows that twilight suits her - maybe thought of it herself, or someone once told her...

Wait, stop. Now sit down and write it. The twilight suits her - that's the most important thing. These types of things can't be thought of for too long; in half an hour the phrase will appear dumb and dense, and then everything will turn to dust. I can't do dust; I just rose from it; I don't want to go back.

I look around - where can I sit? There's a sports bar on the corner, with a summer veranda next to the exit. Everybody already took the tables back inside, and here they still stand, buried under the piles of fallen leaves, and if that's not a good sign, I don't know what is.

"Wow, - thinks Anna, - If only I knew how early the work would end, I wouldn't have wasted my morning on this stupid letter. On the other hand, it is done already. On the third hand, nothing prevents me from writing a new one; there is so much time left. The guys won't come until seven. What time is it? Nice, it's not even five yet. The twilight is so dense, though, one could trip over this blue".

And immediately trips - not over the twilight blue, of course, over a dark-blue bucket. Did the wind blow it here? Where the hell are the flower grannies? There they are, chasing their tails, not seeing where did their valuable property run in the dark. Let's save them, then. She brings the bucket to its owner and gets so many blessing that she must have enough for a very long, moderately sinful life, like the one Anna recently planned to live. What a great start.

Exceptionally proud of herself, the bucket, future sins, and other circumstances, Anna turns to Beatričės street, to get home through the fastest route.

Only after settling down, I remember that I am wearing a fancy white coat. At noon it looked like not just suitable, but the only decent outfit for the upcoming promenade, but now it got clear that the idea was idiotic. Though, who cares? It's much easier to clean the coat than to bring the ginger twilight woman, without dripping a single drop of her, to not even home - at least the street corner. Or, even worse, write about her in a close space, full of other people's voices and smells. Later, perhaps very soon, will come a moment when I can write anywhere, under any circumstances: at a station pub, in a shared railway carriage, in the middle of chewing and laughing fair. But not today. A narrow, quiet, pedestrian street, fresh wind, and silence are the necessities.

I decide that if the waiters get interested in me sitting around, I'll order whatever they want, simply to make them leave.

But no one, of course, is interested. Serving a psycho who sits on a summer veranda in the middle of November - are they fools?

Well, alright. I consent.

A couple of minutes later I know much more about the ginger woman in a blue coat than one could write in half an hour - I won't be able to survive the outside for longer. But that is not a problem. I can just take notes, forgetting about punctuation and shortening the words to catch up with myself; there is no real practical sense underneath since the suddenly available details will unlikely leave, even without notes, but it's impossible to stop. Such a fantastic feeling - to write nonstop, swallowing it all at once.

With the edge of my eye-view, I notice a woman in a blue coat. She passes by, her hair slipping from under the hood, looks like they are ginger, though it's hard to be sure in the twilight. Satisfied, I whisper, "Yep, there it is." These coincidences stopped being happy accidents a long time ago and became almost the requirements that follow the birth of a new text, the reliable shreds of evidence that everything goes as needed. Well... it always goes as needed, if only it goes at all.

And from this point, - writes Anna, - please, read very carefully. And, if you can, believe me. I really want to talk about it all. And there is no one in this world, except for you, that could understand me. If not you, I would probably explode right now. This way, I will write about it, and possibly survive.

Firstly, I have to confess. The story of "a white man" was written this morning. Usually, I write in the evenings, as we agreed upon. I tell you about stuff that happens during the day and lie in minor things, merely to make it more appealing. But today I will have guests over. According to my forecast, they will be here until late, if not morning. So I realized that it would be quite impossible to write the letter in front of them; thus I better write it beforehand, meaning in the morning.

It's easy to say - better. Does my head ever function in the mornings?

So for the first couple of minutes, I just stared at the screen, thinking - what the hell do I write about? Nothing outstanding happened during the night, not even dreams - like always when I have to wake up with an alarm. In sum, a humanitarian catastrophe.

Then, I decided to write whatever comes into my head. Any nonsense. And, I don't remember how, but I created this story about a man in a white coat, that supposedly sat and wrote that I, all-so-pretty, walk past. And I peeked at his computer and rejoiced - the twilight suits me! Awesome! The greatest compliment ever.

Wrote, reread, and thought - what a complete nonsense. Doesn't tell anything and has no reason at all. But there was no time for rewriting, so I quickly mourned my creativity, drank for its health and ran to work. Which, by the way, ended almost one and a half hours early, so there was no point in all this fuss. Well, whatever.

So, I'm walking home. And, just like always, I turn onto Beatričės, since it is the shortest route, and I am exhausted.

And - listen.

There sits the man. A blond guy in a white coat, tan and calm. With a white laptop. He actually sat on a chair next to the entrance to my "beloved" cafe, without sweeping the leaves off. Just like I wrote in the morning.

Here, I want to apply storytelling and lie, like - I stopped, peeked at his writing, and saw that exact phrase about the twilight and my look. But Rutka! I wish I did. I got so terrified! Can't even understand what of. So much that the appearance of a drunk maniac with a bloody hammer would calm me down a lot. But, these maniacs with hammers are never there when needed.

Thus I just speeded up. And only after turning the corner to Jakšto, I could finally breathe. And yet, I walked even faster. Honestly, I ran. Though no one ran after me. Why would they?

For now, there is only one thing I know: I will never go through Beatričės again. Because, if the white man that I so foolishly created will from now on sit there, I don't want to have any business with that. And if he, on the contrary, suddenly disappears and no one ever sees him again, I don't want to have any business with that either. I don't know why. I don't want to, bottom line.

My hands are so frozen on a November wind that I can't warm them in the warm pockets of my coat. Coming into the house, my unbending fingers can hardly deal with the buttons and laces.

Well, that doesn't matter.

In the living room, I'm met with a questioning stare - how did it go? I smile, in victory, and say:

- This morning I knew it would work.

[humanoid-whowouldveknown]

Basanavičiaus gatvė

Six rooms

Six separate rooms, one of them in the corner with two windows - to the north and the east; two rooms - just to the north; three rooms - to the south, one of the southern ones has a balcony. And no rooms with windows to the west. It just happens to be that way.

I didn't relocate too much in my forty plus years; of course, there were hotels, tens of identical clean rooms, but I don't count those. Thus, six rooms.

I asked myself many times, where did this idea come from? Did I read about it? Heard something? Dreamt? Saw in the movies? Finally, I remembered: I created it myself, a very long time ago, while giving my first interview. Well, frankly speaking, the second interview; but, since I had like a dozen of those that day, one after another, unable to even let go of a mug with cold coffee to which I gripped as to a lifebuoy, we can say it was just a single perpetual "first" interview. The journalists were interested in the opinion of a young author of the best architectural project of the year on almost every question possible, from the upcoming parliament elections to another apocalypse that was promised to all individuals interested in participating as early as the end of August. And the "newly baked"celebrity thought about only one thing: how to not publicly blurt out the fact that the idea of participation in the contest and the project itself were simply a joke gone too far. Such statements should be avoided at all costs. Especially if they are true.

At first, it was fun to answer all the trivial questions, but it got boring after about a quarter of an hour before a cute girl in a blue knitted hat suddenly asked: "How would you build your ideal house?" Her brown curls stuck out of the hat; the girl was stunning, one of those women you want to show off to, even when not planning to continue this relationship. This question was a great possibility to present me in the best light. I began expertly discussing: said the topic is utterly irrelevant to the architecture or interior design since the ideal house of any human is from his childhood. Actually, why just childhood? A perfect home is a compilation of all the rooms where you lived in happiness. Quickly calculated - then I only had three poor rooms, but that, of course, was merely a matter of time.

The time added three more rooms, all with a much better design. Meaning not just "whatever I buy goes into the room", but according to the style, taste, and need. It added up to a total of six separate rooms, one of them in the corner with two windows - to the north and the east; two rooms - just to the north; three rooms - to the south, one of the southern ones has a balcony.

However, then it was a chatter, nothing more, prepared specially for a pretty brunette in a blue hat. I would never even think about bringing it to life. Maybe as a project, but who would've ordered something like this madness.

Once, a long time ago, probably before the prize for the best project and before some enthralling changes, which logically followed the victory, my mates and I held a conversation - who would do what if they suddenly turned rich? Won a lottery, found a treasure, got an inheritance, found an ownerless bag full of money, had a cordial conversation with gnomes - whatever the reason. What would we do if we didn't need money? Great Question! I said that I would pursue the same path, just work much more, since the most exciting projects are usually impossibly expensive, but in case there is a lot of money...

"Turns out you're a remarkably happy person!" one of my mates got surprised. I shrugged, "Yeah, I guess." I never thought about it. "Happy" is just a word, who knows what the person means by it. Frankly speaking, all the other words contain the same problem. The walls, roof, windows, doors, stairs, floor, facade, electricity, base are another matter. A house.

I liked the houses. Always. Since birth.

I even married a house. Anna had beautiful long legs, green eyes, and a derisive mind, but, most importantly, she had a giant, old house she inherited from her grandfather. It desperately needed reconstruction, and a perspective of becoming its owner looked so tempting that Anna had to accept my proposal; later she amazedly recalled that she wasn't in love, and didn't want to marry at all, just couldn't withstand my knockout pressure.

When, days before the wedding, Anna found out that she is much richer than could be expected, I got excited: that meant we would have enough money to rebuild the house, even if there shall appear any surprises. I had absolutely no other self-serving impulses. I always believed that poverty is when you don't have enough money for the ongoing project; the wealth appeared as an outstanding opportunity to increase the outlay if needed.

By the time the five-year project was finished, Anna finally decided to live separately for some time. And formulated this offering so delicately that I had no inner protests, just a practical question: "some time" is how long exactly? Like twenty-thirty-forty years? Yep, that's what I thought.

Alright, separately means separately. We have no kids, the cat is indifferent, and the house is already perfection.

One could've said "They parted as friends," but neither of us knew friendship. So we parted as mates. We were far too lazy to divorce, and set these negative thoughts aside, to resolve them later. Whatever "later" meant.

And a couple of years later Anna died, and it seemed not exactly sad, rather absurd. Wild, unbelievable. Anna - and suddenly died. Don't lie to me; it's impossible. Whoever, but not Anna. You don't know her well enough.

Yep, that's precisely what I replied to the call about a date and time of the funeral. And continued replying even after hanging up, arguing with an invisible, inconceivable, indefinite partner, who only condescendingly smiled in return. He already put down his single, yet incredibly destructive trump.

I thought it was a mistake for quite some time after that conversation. Maybe a stupid prank. Anna never joked so dumbly, but everyone has moments of weakness. We can do many things in those moments.

I did go to the funeral though. But it changed nothing.

After learning that I became not just a widower, but a wealthy heir, I got enraged. She wrote a damn last will. She left almost everything for her husband, except for a house that was passed onto her aunt; who would've guessed how jealous Anna was. Here is your gigantic pile of money, dear, but you will not get the house you loved instead of loving me. No letter, no note. Now I must live like an idiot, not having a final conversation, not understanding something important - about Anna, about me, about, perhaps, life.

I thought: what a surprising thing! I was enough with two or three dates every year, and never missed her, but now, when Anna is dead, the world lost color. Maybe not all of it, but a significant portion. And who cares about these damn money?

The money, however, did not disappear from these thoughts. They just lay in my bank account, awaiting their moment. There was no wish to spend them. There was no wish to do anything. I even worked without initiative, just on the inertia, and that was entirely unusual. I didn't know myself, why did this happen. "Middle age crisis," said my coworkers, and gave me numbers of great, competent psychotherapists. I even went a couple of times, more out of curiosity than a hope to get help. All psychotherapists appeared nice, like people you would love to be friends with, meet once a week with a glass of good wine, watch movies with, gossip with, take advice from, discuss the recent books with, got to a vacation together once in a while, rent a house by the sea together, drive a car one-by-one, greet every morning in the shared kitchen, forgive the unexpected bad habits, not get angry at, not make angry.

However, these people couldn't return the either once lost or never existant meaning. They could only teach how to live without it. This was not an option.

I thought: my life was like a summer that you spend in the city when there is a ton of workload, and parties almost every night, and, maybe, a festival you can't skip, and long-legged girls outside of cafes who are willing to communicate; and you spin in an entertaining tornado, presumptuously thinking you are this tornado; and then you realize that August is almost over, and the nights grew longer and colder, and the windowsill is covered in fallen dry, scratchy stars. And it wouldn't matter, but you suddenly remember that you never went to the market for ripe cherries. You didn't even steal them from neighboring trees, though passing them every day. And you sort of understand that it is not a big problem, that cherry is just cherry, a sour berry that grows in late summer, a simple food; but it's still bringing you close to tears, because there was no cherry, so you had no real summer, everyone had one, and you didn't; it's the last day of August, so you can't change anything, because time is ruthless, done, finito, basta.

I thought: the time is ruthless. From the very first day, it begins to crash us in its millstones and never stops. At first, it works carefully, trying not to disturb us, but at some moment, it frees oneself and runs as fast as possible - what's the point of all these ceremonies anyway? Get used to it; you can't escape, this is what your life will forever look like. And when the sound of breaking bones in the millstones gets so loud you can't hear your own voice, they call it "middle age crisis" and give you phone numbers of specialists. They are usually people, just like everyone else, already halfway broken, so they can't help you. The best thing you can do at this point is to find some exciting work to distract yourself from the incomprehensible that you can't stop.

I thought: wait, I have this work. I always have had. Before, while working, I forgot not only about time - about myself! Did it suddenly grow boring? No, I won't let that happen.

So I began looking over unrealized old ideas. The ones that didn't find their customer. The best ones. But they didn't inspire me much either. And,  all of a sudden, I remembered: an ideal house as a compilation of rooms one had a happy life in. A funny idea. Way too simple concept and a way too complex creation, plus no one would care enough. I can't even imagine this customer. Who is that psycho and what is going on in his head?

Suddenly, I grinned - this psycho is me. Nice to meet you, congratulations on your new excellent contract. A sane, easygoing, wealthy customer that knows exactly what he wants. Where will you find one like that again? So, how many rooms exactly do we have?

I made a list. A room in my parents' home, where I lived from early childhood until graduation. A room in a big cold flat that I rented together with my three mates. A tiny studio in mansard, where I lived after getting my first job ever. Another studio, larger and much more expensive, a typical "stylish flat of a successful unmarried man" from a glossy magazine, to which I moved when things got better. A cabinet in Anna's house, perfected a couple days before I had to leave it forever. Finally, the present space, thought-through and well-equipped, a perfect working place, sadly not adding to inspiration, though clearing my head in whatever condition I enter it, which is already a lot.

I realized: wow, it appears I was quite happy in every place I lived in. Okay, maybe "happy", "unhappy" are not useful terms, I doubt anyone understands what they mean. But I most definitely had a pretty damn good life, though not recognizing it. Well, at least now, later in my life, I began to understand some things. It's regretful, of course, the fact that I can't re-live my life once again, now definite in its happiness. Unfair. Even the driving tests give you multiple tries, and life is much harder than driving a car. And they, in the sky, have to understand it.

Whatever. No means no.

I drew a line: total - six separate rooms, one of them in the corner with two windows - to the north and the east; two rooms - just to the north; three rooms - to the south, one of the southern ones has a balcony. Damn, and how do I find such an apartment? An impossible task.

A then I finally felt the real excitement.

Theoretically, there was a straightforward path: buy land and build a necessary house. But it seemed incorrect. My entire life, I lived in big cities, in multiple-apartment dwellings, and the only exception was Anna's house, but it was stuck between two prominent buildings on the main street and was so huge one could divide it into several separate apartments.

After thinking for some time, I decided to search for a necessary flat. The chances are small, but that's even better. Let it be somewhat a lottery: If I find a matching space - great; if not - I will not do this project, and think of something else.

Nothing would ever happen without Laimė, of course.

Laimė was my old mate, so old that he had to be called a friend already - just for the length of service. Laimė was a realtor, but not a simple one -a golden one, just like the famous chicken's egg, and his service cost accordingly.

I called him and said, "I need a flat". Requirements are six separate rooms, one of them in the corner with two windows - to the north and the east; two rooms - just to the north; three rooms - to the south, one of the southern ones has a balcony. After thinking for some more, I added: let it be on the last floor, I'm used to being the closest to the sky, it would be stupid to change that fact... What city? You know what, I almost don't care at all. No, I'm not ready to live on another continent. Let's find something in Europe, the northern or central one - I don't like too hot summer. Start from the capitals and merely large cities with airports, so it's easy to travel since I always have job hell knows where.

Almost a half a year later, when I already began to think that almighty Laimė though this order was a momentous caprice, not worthy of time and skill, he started regularly calling and giving options. Some of them were utterly unsuitable: some had only five rooms, some had a whole eight, some had a room with a window to the west, some with all windows to the north, some had three balconies. Unworthy of even looking at. And all of a sudden, like thunder on a sunny day: looks like Vilnius has precisely what you need. It is not a single flat, but three. All on the same floor, no other neighbors, a shared corridor. A good, brick house, ten minutes away from the Old Town. But, take into account that the biggest flat is in an utterly disgusting condition because for the past couple of decades there lived a few generations of alcoholics. They didn't even build sewage and just kept on doing their stuff into a bucket. My agent almost fainted after entering the space, poor boy. On the positive side, they will sell it for tiny amounts, just as fast as possible before they are thrown out for not paying debts. The owners of the one-room flat, on the contrary, raised the price awfully - a flat in London would cost less. Their neighbors were searching for costumers these two years, but this family never planned to move. However, after realizing how much we need it, they took their chance to enrich the funds. Well, it's their right... Are you going to look at it? You understand, right? It's Lithuania. Not an edge of the world, but pretty damn close. Do you, at least approximately, know where it is?

"Yes," I said, "I know very clearly. Can I look?" And bought a ticket.

The city was tiny - the road from the airport to the center took about ten minutes, and that is if you stand in traffic - and unexpectedly charming. Mariuš, Laimė's local agent, was disconcertingly young and sweet, the pearly light shone through the holes in clouds, front gardens and balconies drowned in flowers, the streets were filled with girls with glassy mermaid eyes and imposing, well fed, colorful cats.

We turned to Basanavičiaus street and parked in front of an old brick house. Walking to the third floor, I was almost deafened by my heartbeat - nervousness took over. I suddenly desired this whole idea to complete - not somewhere-sometime, but here, now, that's it.

I carefully looked through all three of the flats: a three-room, a two-room, and a large light studio, a bit similar to my apartment from meeting-Anna-epoch. In total: six separate rooms, one of them in the corner with two windows - to the north and the east; two rooms - just to the north; three rooms - to the south, one of the southern ones has a balcony. Exactly what's needed.

While finishing up the formalities of the purchase I hanged around town all day and night, thinking that after we sign all the documents, I will have no time to wander Vilnius. There will be too much work. Delightful, ravishing, hard work. Thank you, God, for this happiness.

I settled in a small hotel next to my future home; when the studio was free, I moved there. I began to sleep twelve hours a day. The dreams were so beautiful in that flat that wasting them by staying up before the work starts seemed a squander. But I had to be awake for at least half of the day. Though, I wouldn't want to whine about it - an awake man, while being tied up with the chains of cause-effect relationships, still can descend into the Old Town and walk to the intersection of two rivers, the large Neris and small Vilnia, where, according to the legend, knyaz Gediminas spent a night and, after seeing a metal wolf in his dream, got so affected that began building this city. I sat down on the grass, looked at the flowing water, and thought: actually, I would make this city myself if knyaz didn't pass me, lead by a wolf. Great job, they created an awesome city, I have no other comments.

I spent hours walking through the Old Town, observing the houses, climbing into closed yards and porches, drawing, looking, remembering. Insinuated myself with the students of the Arts Academy, and found a guy there who knew all the paths to the city roofs. I was a thankful tourist, positive and quiet: I petted the sun-warm tiles, watched the city from bird-eye view, hugged chimneys, and emotionally whispered to cats, "We are one." The cats looked at me knowingly and nodded in agreement. I thought - who, if not I, will understand the secret behind the charm of this city, calculate a formula of its modest, unobvious, intoxicating and eternal beauty? But I quickly realized: no one can do so. Neither can I. Let it be.

I spent a lot of time in cafes, bought spices and tea in small shops, walked for honey and raspberry to a little, only open on Thursdays market by the river. Quickly developed new habits and preferences, got new things and new mates, took roots. Laughed at myself - wow, finally, - but deep inside of my soul I was satisfied.

A small granny on the market whispered to me about a product - "shoes for dreams" made of soft felt. She explained: their soles have special signs embroidered on bottoms, which leave trails in every, even the vaguest dreams. It's beneficial for the ones who want to be guaranteed that they will wake up in their beds, whatever dreams they have. I got amazed by this creative fantasy but bought the shoes anyway. Told myself that I only did it to help the granny's strange business. However, from then on, I never fell asleep without those shoes. They were very warm. Good purchase.

When I first left Vilnius for a business trip, I felt so lost that I had to return as soon as possible, meaning almost three days before I thought I would. I paid a ton for the ticket change, flew with two confusing stops - in Vienna and Riga - but it didn't matter. Only home did.

Home. Who would've known?

Finally, the last tenants left. I could begin the work.

It's about time. All of a sudden, I got so much energy that I walked almost not touching the earth, outraced my own reflection in the windows, and put the coffee mug on the table seconds before taking the first sip. The workers I hired to destroy the old walls and build the new ones, bringing room sizes closer to their distant prototypes, claimed their boss had a terrible trait - he could be in two rooms at once and, at the same time, clearly observe what happened in the third.

I sympathetically laughed, listening to their complaints, but kept all of the workers in their place. Especially myself.

Just as I guessed from the beginning, the hardest of all was the childhood room. The wallpaper alone was incomprehensible.

This wallpaper was brought to me as a gift by my uncle from Germany. There were large amanitas painted on top, all transformed into residential houses - with doors, windows, chimneys sticking out of the pileus. The inhabitants of these mushroom dwellings - fat male hedgehogs in satin vests, female hedgehogs in starchy aprons, solid male hares in frock coats, female hares in frivolous mob caps with ribbons, dandy ladybugs in derbies, and gangling grasshoppers in spectacles - peeped out from the lace curtains, smoked pipes on the porches, had picnics in the yards, and danced on the wry trails between giant daisies. It's tricky to find such a beauty forty years later.

I hoped for a miracle, called many people from different countries, but never found anything similar to the wallpapers with mushroom houses. So I had to draw them from memory. In about a month it became resemblant, but still clearly wrong - either the colors, or the proportions, or the expressions on hares' faces were off. Most likely all at once.

I kept on thinking just about the wallpaper. Every evening, before falling asleep, no matter how tired I was, I worked a bit on the sketches. Laughed at myself, playfully cursed my dead uncle - thank you so much for your present! I hope you shall dance with these hares until the Doomsday. And even after, according to the sentence. The maximum-security paradise awaits you, dear.

Hoping for a hint, I bought from the internet-flea market: old German postcards, magazines, children books with illustrations, and other nostalgic staff.

The hint unexpectedly awaited me in a dream. I heard many stories about people solving impossible problems in their dreams, but never believed it - what a nonsense. And, all of a sudden, I get this dream: a white door of my childhood room, a brown linoleum, thick red sienna curtains, an uneven edge of thin tulle, a low wooden bed with a once blue, but now faded murky-cyan cover. In the corner, there is a big cardboard box painted in red - for the toys, and one more, blue, for the books. By the window stands an old, double pedestal table made of dark wood, too big for a child. It was only comfortable to work on about two years before graduation. On one side of the table stands an oval drawing of a serious girl with a blue ribbon in her dark brown hair. With surprise, I remembered: wait, we were good friends with her, and I never kept a single secret away from this girl. She was terrific at comforting and never said any unnecessary words. For quite a long time, I believed she was a fairy from the wonderland, that traveled to live on my table and keep me company. One of the walls was covered in half-a-dozen handmade paper puppets, the ones we drew and glued together with my dad. Wow, how could I forget? It's such an important detail, just like the girl with a blue ribbon! I thought that the only problem is the wallpaper.

After waking up, I rushed to draw it down, before forgetting. My visual memory was always retentive, some of my coworkers even said, "phenomenal," but here we have a dream, and I never tried to remember dreams in general, let alone the details.

I tore myself away from the paper only after realizing how much I need to go to the bathroom; after returning, I looked at the clock and sighed: four in the evening. You know, I got up at sunrise. I didn't even drink coffee.

The sketch, however, looked pretty decent, and the puppets were almost perfect - one could say they are done. Said out loud, "Finally, something started happening". I whispered it, although I wanted to scream from excitement, halfway out of the window.

That's precisely what I did a half a year later when I got samples of the printed wallpaper. They weren't just "like real," they were actually real. And it felt like a miracle; technically, it was a miracle, which is why I happily opened the window and shook the winter air with my three-time "Yes!"

The passers, though, acted very delicately. Not a single person even raised their head to rubberneck at a screaming psycho. And not a single cloud that swirls by one's mouth on a cold day turned into a question mark. Big deal, delighted screams. Some people do crazier things.

It only got easier. Even the old drawing, the girl with a blue ribbon, appeared at an old collector's shop, held by a bored ancient man in the far corner of the flea market. In the same shop, there was a blue cover, exactly like the one in my parents' house; it was merely a matter of technique to fade and age it. The table was built from my sketch, and a sad brown linoleum happened to be in the building materials store on the outskirts of the town - the fortune has to be complete.

The handmade puppets were ready long before we could glue the wallpaper, but I didn't stick them on the walls. Instead, I put them into the locker. I just suddenly decided - it would be amazing if the work on all of the rooms finishes at once. It's simple, there will be some minor, yet an essential detail that one may hide and then, on the last day, put it on the required spot. I had no idea why this seemed so critical, but I was happy for finally listening to my intuition, the one I thought of so highly in my youth, but then insensibly either lost or just forgot about in the multi-voice inner noise.

In total, the work with the childhood room took more than a year to complete - with some breaks for other matters that slowly began to disappear. I finished up all the old responsibilities and tried not to take up the new ones. The idea of working on the flat on Basanavičiaus street like I used to work on Anna's house - in the time free from the main work - seemed stupid. Because the moment I began, I realized which work is the "main" one now. And it felt great.

The other rooms were even easier than the childhood one, - meaning they gladly came to me in dreams, showing themselves from a necessary angle - watch and memorize. This fortune made me wish I could take my pencil and sketchbook into the dreams, but it didn't work. I tried putting it next to my head or in my pajamas - it just didn't appear in the dream.

Well, still amazing. Without these dreams, I would probably not recall all the posters and placards that I stuck to the walls of the room I rented as a student. And the stupid orange blanket with giraffes that used to help me a lot in those years; the rug, by the way, had to be ordered too since it was a unique object.

And the paintings of my friends on specially primed walls in the tiny mansard I remembered too vaguely before. And the big bright splashes of paint, supposedly made by mistake, with which I decorated the floor and furniture, would also be forgotten. And I completely forgot that, for example, in the "stylish flat of a successful unmarried man" there were paper planes everywhere because I almost manufactured them out of anything I saw while thinking. And on the windowsill of the cabinet in Anna's house sat a rag bear, made of colorful patches. Anna constantly created these bears; she said it calmed her down. Slowly, thoughtfully, she picked the colors and patterns, stuffed the bears with herbs that she collected in the park and everywhere else she could, so her bedroom always smelled like the end of summer, the sunny dust of a hot August midday and the freshness of first cold nights. And it's so sad that I can't talk to her about it all anymore - now, that the whole world, including Anna and her rag bears, became an utterly incomprehensible, yet incredibly important thing, the spy cipher with instructions that are locked by a long-lost key. Now, idiot, you have to sit and think about the meaning of it all.

My mates were worried. Or rather curious. They asked - some delicately, some unceremoniously: where did you go? What happened? Why are you stuck in Vilnius? What the hell can you possibly do in that dump anyway? What do you want there?

Telling the truth is tedious and ungrateful. Especially when you don't know it yourself. There was no one, in the entire world, that could understand the concept of six separate rooms, one of them in the corner with two windows - to the north and the east; two rooms - just to the north; three rooms - to the south, one of the southern ones has a balcony. Maybe just that journalist girl in a blue hat, but where will I find her now? Which is why I said that I got a girlfriend here, it's all love, happens, you know.

On a large scale, the love part was completely truthful. The details are no one's business.

I was completely sure that no one would come to check. In this sense, a flat in Vilnius is much better than, say, a house in Province, which brings you to a terrible realization of how many close friends you have and how much they miss you.

I was right - no one came.

The work took up almost five years. And only thinking back after it was done, I finally realized that I began something impossible to do. And, somehow, I completed this impossible task - these were not just fantasies about my past dwellings, but exact copies of those rooms. I couldn't believe it myself.

It's worthless to ask yourself: "So? What's the point? Why did you do it all?" When you are doing the impossible, the answer is obvious: so it exists. Because humankind is itself the impossible, whatever it says.

So I tried not to think at all, just do, work nonstop, be happy about completing the parts, get tired, fall on the bed, see dreams, wake up happy and work again, breath in, breath out, exist.

On the first day of summer, I told myself: "done." I put the puppets on the wall, stuck a poster of "Led Zeppelin" on my student's room, drew a bright yellow blot on the floor of the small studio. I folded a small plane from a dark-blue napkin, set a rag bear on the windowsill. In the last room, I put a mirror ball, the one I bought when I started missing Anna's cat, - for the bright light reflections. The sunny bunnies. They could make good pets, funny and effortless.

I winked at my deformed reflection - that's it. The reflection didn't wink back. It kept seriously examining me as if it tried to understand who it belongs to and does it really want to belong to this person.

All of a sudden, I got scared. I didn't exactly know of what, but it was so strong, I ran off to the street without even changing, happily with the coat I automatically grabbed from the corridor. The wallet in my pocket allowed me to change from the working cloth into a new one in the nearby shop. I couldn't make myself go back into the flat for money and documents.

I spent two nights in the hotel, not sleeping at all on the first one, and making myself take sleeping medicine on the second one. First time in five years. After resting, the fear completely disappeared, so in the morning I couldn't understand why did I run away from my perfect house instead of celebrating the end of the project there. I probably just got too tired - that's the only logical description.

After breakfast, I returned to Basanavičiaus street. Got inside of the house, climbed to the third floor. Walked around all of the rooms, feeling neither fear nor happiness, just a patient satisfaction of a man that completed good work. Finished it, and that's great. Now he can live.

I spent the evening thinking which room should I sleep in. Still couldn't choose, so I threw a dice. It's very comfortable: six sides, six rooms in a chronological pattern, so it's easy to use.

Number one - meaning, the childhood room. I thought that it seems logical.

I spent a long time searching for my "shoes for sleeping," but couldn't find them anywhere. Did I throw them away with trash? Well, what else can you expect from a man who ran away from his own reflection a few days ago?

I fell asleep shoeless.

When I woke up, the room was filled with light. I lay under the blanket for some time, happy with an opportunity to wake up whenever I want, not when the alarm rings, - this is summer! Observed the pictures on the walls. If you look at them long enough, the animals begin to move, walk through the trails, nod to their neighbors, smoke pipes. It's better than any cartoon.

I lay on my back, face up, looking at the wall where fat hedgehogs almost began dancing on the meadow, when the boys in the yard scream: "When are you coming outside?" I stand up, walk to the open window and scream in reply: "In a half an hour."

[humanoid-whowouldveknown]

Introduction

There are one hundred and eight streets in the Old Town of Vilnius. If you walk through them long enough, meaning almost every day for at least a couple years, you shall experience astonishing, magical stories. If fortunate enough, you might even participate in some. In such cases, as I know, people usually say - and what? These stories could've happened anywhere. But I will not state so - why would I want to fool humans? No, these stories could only happen in Vilnius. And only while walking through the streets of Old Town, one can hear and write them down. I'm just a translator, but even I can state - one that comes to Vilnius will never be let go by this magical city.

[humanoid-whowouldveknown]

The Tales of Old Vilnius

Ašmenos gatvė

- ...and also acrylics in those large jars, - says insatiable Tony, - yeah, all the colors, except maroon. And brushes. No, not these, the ones in the corner. One, two, three, and zero. And maybe... yeah, this palette knife. And that one, too. Wait, what's on that shelf?...

While we are packing everything into our backpacks, a tiny, gray-haired saleslady restlessly rummages the cashbox, like a bird in a feeder, searching for the change from Tony's 200-litai bill.

- I have no change at all, - finally, she sighs. - Maybe you can take this?

She puts a box of colorful chalks on the counter. Not pastel, not even oil crayons, just simple chalk, like the ones we used to write on a blackboard with. And, of course, on asphalt.

Chalks don't interest me, I'm trying to zip the bag, and Tony automatically puts the box in his pocket. The saleslady, assured that the problem is fixed, smiles freely.

- Good, good, - she says as we walk away, - Present it to your kids, they should be happy.

Neither Tony nor I have any children. But we leave this knowledge to ourselves, not to disappoint the tiny gray bird.

Outside the doors, two suns are shining - the sky one, and its reflection in a silver puddle that fills the entire roadside. And wind is blowing, spring-warm and so strong that we promptly give up our right to choose the path and turn, so it hits our backs.

- Sunny wind, - says Tony, and squints, like a pleased cat.

We turn around the corner, to Ašmenos gatvė, and there - who would've known?! - Wind stops. And we instantly remember that we wanted to stop for smoking a long time ago. Even before we stopped by the shop. And now we want it so much, no words could describe the feeling.

While Tony is busy with the cigarette rolling machine and empty tubes, I loiter around, pretending to be in any way helpful. And, naturally, rubberneck at the surroundings, automatically framing all I see - click, click, click.

- Look, - I say, taking a cigarette from Tony, - someone couldn't finish a hopscotch game.

- Not even the game - they couldn't finish the drawing, - he nods in agreement.

The sidewalk is, indeed, divided into squares, but the artist never got a chance to write the numbers. Maybe they were called for lunch, or just got clipped by the ears for damaging public asphalt.

On the other hand, we, two overgrown fools, don't care about the rules. No one will call us for lunch. And it's pretty hard to smack our ears.

Drunk with a sudden (like thirty years ago) and still captivating permissiveness, sunny wind, tobacco smoke and the weight of paints in our bags, I pull the box of chalks from Tony's pocket and squat next to the first square, confident in my intention to write a tremendous number 1. Bright-blue, like the sky in the puddles under our feet, or yellow, like the joyful spring sun, or green, like the future, not yet visible, foliage, or red, like Tony's old coat. However, as I pick up the chalk, all ideas disappear, and, for an unknown reason, I cover the entire square in blue. Not satisfied with the result, I shake out the leftover chalks and begin drawing fishes. Because the blue square is quite indeed the sea. Based on the bright colors of my fishes - the Red Sea. Exampli gratia. Though, in a matter of minutes, the fishes take such weird forms that the sea is clearly gifted to aliens. Let them communicate with these fishes themselves, cause human race, presented by me, gives up.

- Wow! - says Tony.

He already finished his cigarette, and now wants to enter the fight.

The second square Tony confidently shades with green and blue, and I already know that it will be Venice, the one he is so crazy about. Quickly, the colorful houses rise from the water; however, instead of gondolas and motor boats, the landscape suddenly fills with winged creatures, looking both like humans and foxes.

- Mother of God, who are they? - I ask dazedly.

Tony laughs:

- No idea. They came here themselves and decided to be. It's not my place to judge.  

- Well, then let my fishes live in their waters, - I say, - They perfectly match to your foxes, I think.

- True, - agrees with me Tony, moving the box so I could also take chalks.

The third and fourth square we paint simultaneously, almost racing. Tony, of course, is the champion on this competition - he is a professional. He gets up, stretches, and observes the results with pleasure.

- Oh wow! What is it? - he asks me.

- A city map, I guess, - I reply uncertainly, setting aside purple chalk, - Right, the map. You know, the one with tour paths for tourists. Every day it is drawn on the city wall. And at night, the rain washes the picture away. Which is why in the morning comes a duty artist and paints a new one. He, of course, doesn't really remember what was on the wall yesterday. To tell you the truth, he doesn't even try to remember, drawing whatever streets he wants. But tourists can still use this map: while the artist draws his lines, the city changes to match them.

- Well, then there should be two artists, - Tony says, - Firstly, the man can't work every day. Secondly, then there is even more changes and chaos. And everyone is happy.

His drawing in the fourth square perfectly matches this statement. On the surface two very pleased winged fox-humans, a bit - as much as it's possible with their fox faces - similar to us, levitate over the city-lake, with large red mugs in their hands.

- They are drinking coffee, no doubt, - I say.

- Naturally. Whatever you look and wherever you live, it can't happen without coffee.

We might as well just go for coffee now - we wanted to, anyway, - but instead Tony begins to roll another cigarette, and I paint the fifth square. Its impossible to stop.

- What is it? - asks Tony, - It's beautiful, but I understand nothing.

- Probably, it's a book. Or rather their version of books. When you continuously fly above water, it's great to have some fun things reflect in it. For example, books with illustrations. It's also better to prepare the texts on the clouds, in the mirrored way, so that they reflect as needed.

- Alright, - Tony nods. He gives me a cigarette, grabs the chalks, and, while I relax, quickly draws flying writers in the sixth square. They carefully cover the clouds in reflected letters.

- Yep, that's exactly how they work, - I nod and begin the seventh square. Toni takes the eighth.

I draw streams of colorful wind above a rich blackness of coastal fruit gardens, and Tony works on the main square of the city, where underwater trees grow - so tall that tired creatures can relax on their branches, expanding high above the waters.

In the ninth square, I draw a bridge, but not between two riversides - between the earth and the sky. Precisely like the Old London Bridge, it is covered in buildings, at least on the visible part. What happens above the clouds? I don't know. It's not my business.

Tony is still drawing, so I roll the cigarettes. After finishing the last, tenth square, he takes the rolling machine and, stunned, freezes looking at the skies. I observe his picture, and, finally, ask:

- So... what is it?

- A map, probably, - Tony smiles, - But not the city map like yours, but how to get there. From here, I mean. In case of an emergency.

- Wow, - I say, peering at the drawing, - wow.

What else can you say?

We sit on the edge of the road and smoke. Honestly, it is a bit cold outside, since our friend wind has returned. While we were drawing, he relaxed, and now he is entirely ready to blow again.

Honestly, we should get our butts off the edge of the cold road and go to the coffeehouse or home. But we are so tired that for now, we can only smoke in the icy sunny wind and blissfully smile, looking at our work.

A girl, about ten years of age, exits the apartment house. A ginger girl in an old red coat, chubby enough to earn a nickname "bomb" or something like that. She has a waist-long ginger braid, round green eyes, straight forehead and such a forceful chin that no one would've wanted to be her hypothetic enemy. In the left hand, she holds a gray knitted hat; she probably took it off just a minute ago. In the right hand, she holds a flat round box, that one could surely use like a bat. Her face almost screams her uncompromising intention to play hopscotch in the squares she, herself, diligently drew before lunch; so they belong to her only; so no one disturbs jumping or laughs at the mistakes.

When she sees my and Tony's pictures, the girl freezes in amazement. For like five seconds, not more. Then she lands her bat on the first square, straight on the head of one of my fishes. And begins to jump.

The girl jumps very delicately. Stands for a long time in each square, preparing and calculating the next move. She tries hard - maybe to save the pictures, or to get perfectly precise movements. She seems to succeed at both.

Reaching the ninth square, the girl freezes and observes the tenth. Finally, instead of jumping, she carefully pushes the bat with her colorful boot towards the edge between the squares.

There, the bat slowly crawls on the edge, and slowly moves farther. There... hell, where is it?

The curvy girl in a red coat stands in the ninth square, on my bridge between the earth and the sky. She confusedly examines the tenth, on which nothing lies, except for Tony's picture. A flat white box couldn't possibly mix with the image. And yet, it's not there.

The girl drops her gray hat on the ground. Automatically puts the end of the braid in her mouth. Thinks. Squats down and observes the picture. Carefully, touches it with her hand. Finally, she stands up and makes a step.

We look at her as if we were enchanted.