and body scents of yours I can’t stand either’, the old man grabbed the girl’s already-long-enough pencil skirt and tried to pull it down even further.
Inga only wondered where the old man was getting his enthusiasm from. They predicted it was his last week. Only how does his teethless mouth allow for such bizarre but clear sound of voice to be made? Every word of his was so clearly pronounced, one could say it sounded as though he was recording a podcast for a local radio. At some stage she’d even start to believe that she was spoken to by Krishna, or Cthulhu, or Stalin, because there was no rational explanation to this phenomenon. “You will never wash this off, cunt. I will always be here”.
‘You know, it used to be that sluts like you could not be let into our theatre. There was such dancing… Such dancing… And what a repertoire: Gorki, Chekhov, Pushkin – shoot yourself, it was such a bohemia’. He suddenly slapped Inga’s buttocks and started speaking in a voice that resembled the sound of very expensive red wine being poured into a glass: very complacent.
‘By the way, did I say you were a slut?’ – an ugly smile appeared on his face that looked as though he was nibbling on a carrot puree with a spice of her helplessness. “Shut up or I’ll shut it”.
And so, she was quiet. She listened and searched for an answer hidden in just a couple of seconds of her being able to make the quietest sound; so quiet she couldn’t even feel it was there. The answer was dripping down from the crown of her head to her temples. It was put into writing on expensive, but stained with doctor’s blotters, pieces of paper. It was curled up in a crib, somewhere miles away.
‘You’re waiting, waiting and walking quietly… I know what you’re waiting for. But I’ll sign everything. I’ll sign. I’ll sign. I live up to my word.
Tell me, you cunt, have you ever read at least one novel of Chekhov’s?
It’s hard to forget what Larisa and I were up to after those old rehearsals of Chekhov’s plays. And then I was with Tamara… And then with Zhanna. Do you know Zhanna? Zhanna was the boss’s daughter! What a girl she was! Though such a pity – a slut. But how they applauded when she was a tree on the stage! A tree with such tits! “Because meat is meat, and that is its nature”
The first hit stroked the old man’s nose. The mark from a massive wedding ring circled the wrinkled temple. For the first time in the last six months Inga smiled. “Now you’re worth nothing, like always. This is not how I raised you”
Having taken the helplessness of her old idol as an opportunity, the girl tied his chicken-like hands to the chair in witch-like knots; she hid the sharp lines of his lips behind a gag. “No, that’s not how you raised me”
A hunter’s knife can ease the job even for beginners. And then beautiful fountains from the old man’s gut flowed like a song onto expensive marble tiles. The song – just as sad and brave as the parts he did for his plays. Just as anxiously fast as the approaching moan of police cars. Inga stained herself with that song, and everything became quiet. Like a cherry garden.
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