The convict scribbled numerous autographs on her legs and breasts, always adding a few tricky flourishes that arced deep beneath the hem of her underwear. Indeed, he had achieved a certain perfection in his aesthetic flourishes. To start on her back and end on her thigh, one had to guide her hand lightly and confidently, even carelessly, over all those bulges, tracing them with a marker line—yes, good, good. The bulging girl twisted like a turtle lying on its shell, trying to see the convict's tag disappearing into her buttocks. They were invariably disappointed when they discovered that the convict was just the convict. Not Elevated, Raised to the Podium by Poems, or Awarded, Awarded Money for Film, or Discovered, Discovered as a Member by the Famous. But simply Convicted, Condemned to the Face by Vodka. And those who witnessed his lifelong moratorium sincerely sympathized with him and pitied him, because, in truth, he was a pathetic figure. He sat alone at a table, unable to even play a single word, and he was very much alone. The guys ignored him, the girls had long since given up on him, and yet, he was convinced, if fame ever bought him a coffee, even exchanged a few words, the whole picture would change dramatically. He would become likable and desirable, and he felt that was precisely what he lacked. Despite the ravine wrinkles and the axe-like snout. And even if no one liked him, he wouldn't care, because he would be famous. He wouldn't have to sign autographs on his unwashed groin and sweaty back; he would sign them on the president's wife and the pope's wife, if only he wanted to. And if they didn't want to, he'd force them, take them by the face, or, if he were in a good mood, grab their chin, and order them, compel them, coax them, because he'd be famous, artificially famous—filmistic, balletic, and operatic. And he could insult everyone, or on the contrary, praise everyone, and he'd sing songs and deflower teenagers. Because he could, not that he wanted to.
But it was to no avail, prevented by that one bubble that didn't rise from the bottom of the glass, didn't catalyze a mass of critical popularity, didn't create the bonds of triple recognition. The bubble simply screwed things up, and perhaps, kudos to him for that. The condemned man received some miserable rudiments, but that's not the worst thing, being condemned rudimentarily, but that's a lie, because that's precisely the worst. All those who were not rudimentary, loved fully and completely, inhaling and exhaling, with their whole breast and pure heart, knew that this was the worst - and they felt pity and sympathy.
Condemned, Lost, Called Names, Insulted by Face, Neck, Abdomen, Hands, Feet, he rose and moved toward the exit, accompanied by silent compassion visualized on his hunched back. He passed the table where Fikołek sat, staining everything red, and then he didn't pass again. At Fikołek's table sat a short, stocky, plump man, panting heavily and sweating profusely. Before him stood a dozen or so glasses of various sizes filled with rainbow-colored liquids. In the center stood a mug of beer, filled with a foul-smelling liquid obtained by pouring all known and unknown alcohols into a single glass vessel in appropriate doses. The Condemned Man stood, feeling the marker slip from his hand. For in that brown mug, at the bottom of the glass, a bubble of wondrous beauty blooms timidly with pale, opalescent petals, a bubble like a fern blossom, a bubble reflecting the lofty and famous Convict. And any moment now it will burst on the fat man's tongue, and he will become a director filming adaptations of national epics. The convict grabs a nearby chair and, with a swing, hits the fat man in the back of the head with it. The fat woman knocks the bubble out of the way. The convict lunges forward like a great, wrinkled feline with an axe snout, seizes the mug, and downs it in a magnificent gulp, a legendary gulp. But the bubble, despite the terrible suction and decompression, escapes backward, backward, downward. The condemned man knows that one way or another he'll get to that sloppy little bubble, grinding it between his teeth, crunching it open, sucking out its marrow, and spitting it out. The little bubble knows this, so he runs, leaping from mug to mug, terrified by the Condemned Man's gaping, toothy jaw, condemned to the little bubble. The condemned man throws the mug aside, grabs another, and drains it. The little bubble escapes while it still has room. He chases after it, with grim mastery destroying every possible refuge the little bubble might have, hiding place after hiding place. He pours a whole sea of alcohol into himself, and the little bubble runs forward in panic. The entire audience respectfully steps aside. "Please make way," the condemned man steps, then staggers, tossing empty glasses behind him. He corners the little bubble at the bar, and it slips through the cork into the bottle and lurks at the bottom. The condemned man tries to dig it out with his finger, but it's too deep, then with a straw, too deep. So he tilts his head back and drinks intently, another, another. The ethanol concentration in the condemned man increases, his warning light goes on, the magical intoxication has long since evaporated. Now only chemicals turn to poison and poison to acid. The condemned man's hair curls, turns gray, and falls out, his hands turn black and shrink, his ribs tighten under the rustling skin, his face is covered with brown spots. And he keeps drinking because he only has four more bottles left. And three more, and two more. The condemned man begins to smoke, his insides and esophagus dissolve, holes form in his skin, and black blood spurts out. Only the last bottle remains in his hand, with a bubble lurking at the bottom.He holds it, shaking like an old man. He kneels, his corroded joints refusing to obey him. This must be the end for him, but with a cracked fingernail he presses the cork in and tilts the last bottle. He can't drink it, because his lips have burst like ripe cherries into the red pulp. A purple slit appears in his throat, through which the condemned man sucks in a hiss. And that's when he lifts the bottle with a final gesture. The boy, let's be honest, won't accomplish much more in life. He jams the bottle down his throat, neck to neck, and collapses headfirst, the smoking skull collapsing with him.
They laid him in the corner of the room, built a small heap over his charred corpse, and hung a plaque on the heap: "Famous because he drank himself to death."
The lover sat uncertainly, his back against the woman whose name remained unmentioned. The gray paint on the walls was fading at an alarming rate, peeling off in wide flakes, leaving lighter marks. The space was becoming empty left and right, chairs lying noticeably on the tables in neat rows. Foolish, uncultured people say they lie there so the floor can be swept. But this is false, false, and a lie, because on a table night, that is, a bright human day, those tables and chairs move like hedgehogs across the empty halls, catching the walls with the spikes of their wooden legs. And there's no such moral poetry in sweeping the floor; it's completely unnecessary, or at least that's what the lover imagined. In the other corner of the room, against the backdrop of Fikołek's bloody corpse, some other women were sitting. The lover smiled at them again and again, hoping that his beloved would slap him with a bang, take him by surprise if he didn't wait. But the lover waited like hell the whole time, so he couldn't meet his woman, and the women across the room, because it was morning, must have been heavy-duty whores, so the lover couldn't meet his woman, and they were drunk too, lesbians, so the lover couldn't meet his woman. He remembered that his woman wouldn't be like him, completely and utterly; she would be the exact opposite, an antithesis and complement one moment, a substitute and equivalent the next. The whores across the room were unfortunately useless, because, in truth, the lover had a fair amount of whore in him. He picked up the cigarettes from the table and lost faith and hope in that very moment. And when he lost it, he found it again. He sat next to her, so close. To be honest, he always sat with his back to her. To the one whose name hadn't been mentioned. If it hadn't been mentioned, it meant he completely, utterly, truly didn't know her. And he was glad that at least she would have a positive ending, not like the Condemned One, he looked anxiously at his little henhouse. At least one hero deserved a good, proper ending, a bit awkwardly sticky and familiar, but also truly pleasant and pleasant. She'd turn around in a moment, the better profile, no, nudge him with her elbow, and then turn to apologize and say something ambiguous. Or she'd jump up abruptly, and they'd make love on that wooden table. Or they'd get up on three, four, and walk out holding hands, sit on a bench, and say all sorts of things. He wondered if she was beautiful, like a gothic, soaring woman, or just pretty, but pretty especially for him. Maybe she'd be silent, mysterious, and have big, understanding brown eyes. Or maybe she'd be blonde, laughing, tanned, and lively. He was a little afraid, but really, he wasn't afraid, because for the first time he was certain; his previous certainties were fading and fading one by one from the warmth radiating down his back. And it truly was a beautiful moment in a lover's life, if not the most beautiful.Why only a minute? Because a shadow had left its mark on the lover.
A rectangular shadow, sloppily made, cracked across, the shadow of a peasant, the shadow of a boor. The lover shuddered, because the shadow had already left its mark on him once, and then it had left its mark on him again, and it hurt like a son of a bitch, and the lover didn't want it to hurt again. But the shadow moved over the lover, the lover exhaled. But then he bit off a bloody, fleshy piece of his lip. Because the shadow stopped on the one whose name was unmentioned. He heard a hard hand gripping the fragile wrist, far too tightly, and she hissed in pain.
"Come on, you'll be the next Chinese promotion."
The lover choked with fury.
"We'll go dancing. Then you can invite me for coffee.
" "Leave her alone."
The lover was astonished to find herself standing before a large man, holding his arm. Surprised, he recoiled.
"Go away..."
The fist, like a loaf, missed the lover's head by millimeters, because the lover was terribly nearsighted. Luck was on his side today. So he shrank, terrified for the moment, and punched the big man in the nose, where it hurts so much. The big man fell, more from the shock than from the impact, because no one had ever hit him before. He lay on the floor, terrified, and with his crash, he enacted the happy ending of a knightly lover who gains the upper hand over his opponent and rides away with his beloved on a black horse into the distance, blue with pain. But shit, always, remember, achtung, because this is important, listen carefully, shit, shit, and nothing, and bad. Because the big man pulls from his belt the object his grandfather had kept in his ass for three years in a prisoner of war camp. The object is beautiful and silver, and it's not a watch. He shakes the silver larva, which slowly spreads its silver, shiny limbs and wings. Now a silver butterfly sits on his hand. He takes a short swing and throws it at the Lover, who ducks. The butterfly, with a whoosh of air splitting in two, flies above him and turns with a metallic screech. The Lover makes a half-turn, the motif gracefully gliding under his wrist, passing his head in a sharp arc and accelerating. The Lover stands in a silver halo, a heavenly light radiating from him. It resembles stained glass windows in churches on a sunny summer day, when the slowly setting sun illuminates them in various colors. The butterfly circles so quickly that it is no longer visible, only the squeak of fingernails dragging across the glass is heard. It brushes the Lover's forehead, and blood spurts, and strokes his hand, and blood spurts, and touches his neck, and blood spurts. The Lover feels a blow to the head and falls, darkness envelops him, his blood mingling with the pink blood of the somersaulter and the black blood of the condemned man. He rested his fading gaze on the motionless back of the one whose name remains unmentioned, and quietly died. Was it worth it?
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