Harley Davidson

I was walking down the street, counting the paving slabs. I'd counted well over a dozen when I got bored and started observing the traffic. It was a swaying motion. I don't know where the idea came from, as I've always been terrible at physics, but I was pleased with this conclusion, whether it was correct or perhaps even a bit crazy. So I walked, and all the walking made me hungry. So I stopped for a quick bite at a small, cozy bar with the catchy name "Czarny Okoń" (Black Perch) and ordered a calamus with fries, along with a Benito Mussolini with whipped cream. I ate, drank, and went to the bathroom to throw it all up. I'd been nauseous since morning, and besides, I'd suffered from bulimia for years. I left the bar and headed for the amusement park. There, I rode a plastic horse for a while, took a spin on the carousel, and threw up again from it all. I felt a bit weak, so I sat down on a bench in a nearby park, called Lasek Na Piasku. In the square nearby, children were happily playing concentration camp, wild swans were eating whole-wheat bread from the garbage cans, and martens were frolicking in the trees and poplars. The sun was shining, and a pleasant, heavy rain was falling. Nothing foreshadowed the fact that this was the day I would meet my brother. Nothing, except the horoscope in the morning paper, which said: "Today you will meet your brother."

My brother's name was Harley, and that was all I knew about him. When I was six months old, I didn't live up to my father's expectations, so he left me in search of a better offspring. My innocent mother, on whose shoulders I had been raised, suffered. I'm eternally grateful to her for that—after all, what could she care about my quarrels with my father? They clearly did, because she'd finally raised me to be an adult.

Harley was younger than me, but I didn't know how much. No more than 40, anyway, and probably no less than a year. So, by my calculations, he was younger than me. How much? I don't know, I wasn't the best at math either.

I sat on a bench and thought about my blue tonsils. Yes, about them, that topic had occupied me since childhood. One of my blue tonsils had been removed when I was in high school. Apparently, people have them in pairs, but I had three. One of them, apparently unnecessary, ended up in the hospital trash bin despite my protests. I didn't notice the fact that it was blue until much later; I had a dream in a hallucination, often mistakenly called a nightmare, or, in the American language, a "half-sleepin'-nightmare."

I got up from the bench to stretch my legs. They cracked pleasantly. I looked around: children were leading other playmates to the gas chambers, exact replicas of which had been thoughtfully placed on the playground. Wild swans lay in the shade of trees and poplars, gorged to the point of exhaustion. One of them even burst its belly, and a tiny cygnet emerged, somewhat resembling the one from "Swan Lake" (in French, "Le Yezarain De Ouabaindain"). The sun was still shining, but unfortunately, it had stopped pouring down like Cerberus. Cerberus was a manger's dog who, when he got up in the morning, would pour down like a bucket. I decided to take a walk along the Alley of Stars. I slowly walked towards the Rising Sun Cottage, a wooden structure built centuries ago, once a proto-Slavic temple, where you could sip cheap wine and smoke pot. I hadn't done this in ages, so I decided it was a really great idea. Before I reached my destination, however, I bumped into an old acquaintance. His name was Bond. James Bond. Because of his surname, he'd gotten into a lot of trouble in the past, being wrongly mistaken for a famous agent of Her Majesty the Queen and assigned various, often very risky and dangerous, assignments. The last time I saw him, he was searching for Doctor X, who planned to destroy the world with several thousand nuclear bombs, which he'd purchased at a Russian market.

"Hi, James," I said warmly, extending my hand in greeting. He visibly frightened and pulled his elegant gray trench coat tighter around him.

"Quiet," he whispered conspiratorially. "The devil's awake."

"She's asleep," I reassured him, thinking he was talking about my wife. "She had the night shift last night."

Bond calmed down and relaxed. We sat down on the grass next to a pond where the park's geese and terns were bathing—eager, as always, to fight at a moment's notice. James pulled a pin from his coat lapel, which turned out to be a miniature Polaroid, and asked a passerby to take a souvenir photo of us. I tucked the mite-sized photograph behind my fingernail and decided to stick it in the album.

"How are you?" James asked, settling back and lighting a cigar.

"Old wretch," I replied with a smile.

"Are you still working at the Institute?" asked an old acquaintance.

Indeed, I was still Professor Davidson at the Institute for the Study of the Life and Death of St. Bernard of Clairvaux. I was currently in the process of making the groundbreaking discovery that St. Bernard had been canonized in 1174. To my surprise, it turned out that it happened only after his death. And 21 years later, that's right.

"They keep confusing him with a rescue dog with rum around his neck, huh?" James guessed sympathetically.

"Unfortunately," I replied with a sad smile, spreading my hands, "and the St. Bernard Pass."

Yes, that was a real problem. It's hard to eradicate from society the idea that someone can be anything other than who they're generally perceived to be. It was similar to St. Bernard, or Adolf Hitler, whom many still consider a great criminal, even though in reality he was just a humble Austrian painter. Or Beethoven. How could he be a great composer if he was deaf? I could multiply the examples endlessly, but as I mentioned, I was very bad at math.

"And what are you working on now?" I asked, changing the subject somewhat.

"It's top secret," replied James Bond. "It's 'compact clandestine,' not, as many mistakenly claim, 'top secret,' which simply means a tall, discreet man.

" "Oh yes," I replied. "Then it wouldn't be appropriate for me to drag you out any longer.

" "No," James objected. "Feel free to do so, it's very pleasant."

So I snorted at my friend's tongue for a while, but he was drooling profusely, so, disgusted beyond decency, I stopped. Disappointed, James stood up, adjusted his elegant gray trench coat, and, offended, wandered off into the unknown. I decided to sit by the water for a while longer and play the watermill. Unfortunately, I wasn't very good at it, and instead of playing the watermill, I played something completely different. A young couple happened to be passing by, and I felt terribly embarrassed. I pleaded guilty to gastric problems and, blushing, quickly set off towards the Rising Sun House.

This structure was built in the mid-11th century. It was probably built by a famous Tatar warrior of the time, known as the Tatar of Tatarstan, in honor of his god, the Australian bear Kokakol. During the finishing work, a large wooden beam fell on his head, temporarily killing him. He returned a few years later, this time as a ghost, and has supposedly haunted the building ever since. Being a strictly humanist, I naturally didn't believe such nonsense and walked briskly towards my destination. Along the way, I bought some cheap wine and a couple of joints from a little boy in a striped sailor's T-shirt with the word "Juventus" written on it.

The Rising Sun House was located on the River, specifically on a small island colloquially known as Lil' Island. To reach it, one had to cross an old, rotten bridge, which gave me goosebumps, as I couldn't swim and, besides, had had hydrophobia since childhood. This stemmed from the fact that, as a five-year-old, I was thrown into the river, my legs trapped in a bowl of cement. A kind of kindergarten mafia-style score. Luckily, a fisherman caught me and, thinking I was a goldfish, revealed his three wishes. I remember fulfilling them to the letter, though my bottom hurt terribly afterward.

I somehow made it across the bridge and stood before the entrance to the temple. It was in very poor condition, despite every mayor promising in their election manifestos to restore the building and thus pay it proper homage. Unfortunately, as with all their other promises, the subject of the Rising Sun House remained untouched. I looked at the woodlice-eaten beams, the rotted stairs, and the dilapidated boards smeared with paint or scratched by pocket knives, and I felt sad. I thought it was sad that someone had once prayed to their god in this place, and now they drank cheap wine and smoked pot. Pondering this, I opened a bottle of Jabol, took a long swig, and lit a joint. Then I stepped inside and, astonished, noticed a pair of infants copulating inside.

"What are you doing here?" I shouted reproachfully. The babies panicked, pulled diapers over their bottoms, and that was all I saw of them. They ran out with a speed I wouldn't have suspected Carl Lewis of, let alone a few-month-old baby. Disgusted, I approached the stone altar, cleared away the numerous empty bottles, cigarette butts, and used condoms, and then sat down comfortably with cheap wine in my hand and a joint in my mouth. I sat there and felt blissful. Silence, peace, the smell of excrement. I fell into a nostalgic doze. My first girlfriend flashed before my eyes. Her name was Helga and she came from the GDR. We met at a summer camp in Dresden. Despite the language barrier, I explained to her in sign language how much I liked her and what I wanted to do with her. She readily agreed, though she also showed me in sign language that it would cost me 5 marks and a kilo of potatoes. We struck a deal. A few months later, back in Poland, I learned she was pregnant with my child. I congratulated her by letter and suggested she name the baby Hermann after a friend of hers, a famous Austrian artist. She replied with a telegram containing only the single word "schweine." Unfortunately, I never learned East German, and to this day I have no idea what that meant. I only guessed that Helga was thanking me for my astute suggestion and for everything I'd done for her.

A rustling awoke me. But it wasn't an ordinary rustling. It was a rustling from the afterlife. Only the dead rustle like that. I glanced around the temple, somewhat uneasily. Across from me stood the Tatar from Tatarstan himself, the legendary warrior and builder of the House of the Rising Sun. He didn't exactly look like a Tatar. He wore an old, patched jacket, obscenely dirty trousers, and ripped, holey shoes. His face was old, worn, and framed by several days of gray stubble. To make matters worse, he reeked terribly of urine. However, his eyes seemed strangely familiar.

"May I?" he asked through toothless lips, pointing to one of the cheap wine bottles.

"Of course," I replied, recovering somewhat from the shock. The Tatar opened the bottle by banging its neck on the altar and downing the entire contents, pouring it directly down his throat.

"How many years has it been?" I asked, referring to the time of his death. "It'll be a thousand soon, won't it?

" "Yes, yes," he gasped, "a thousand."

He glanced questioningly at the next bottle, and I nodded in agreement. I didn't dare refuse the ghost, though I wasn't looking forward to crossing the rotten bridge again just to buy more wine from the boy in the Juventus sailor shirt. Meanwhile, the Tatar had drained the bottle, belched loudly, and collapsed at my feet. I bent down and touched his neck to check for a pulse. He was dead. Of course, what else could I expect from a ghost? I laughed and lit a joint. Despite the smell of marijuana, the stench of the fallen Tatar was becoming unbearable. So I moved to a far corner of the temple, cleared away some debris, and sat down on a wooden beam that must have once supported the ceiling. I began to doze off again.

This time, I pictured my best friend, Indian. We called him that because, like real Indians, he always scalped his victims. My friend was a pathological killer. We met in high school and hit it off immediately. We had similar musical interests, both of us were fond of good old hard rock, and we could spend hours listening to a single, worn-out Black Sabbath record on a beat-up turntable. Indian would often play it backwards, and then we could clearly hear the message from hell telling my friend to murder innocent orphans. We also had great conversations, and not just about topics close to our hearts. We would stay up all night discussing things like the carbonation process, which we knew nothing about. We also went on long walks and kissed occasionally, understanding each other without words. Unfortunately, we didn't get to spend much time together. Indian killed several of his classmates and ended up in juvenile detention. I must admit that I helped him a bit by acting as a lookout, but he never ratted me out. You could say, in prison jargon, that Indian did both of our jobs. Despite the distance between us, we maintained close contact. I wrote to him often, and every now and then he would send me a new scalp. He was transferred directly from the Reformatory to the Fritz Haarmann Maximum Security Prison, where he is still serving a life sentence. Thank God, in our beloved country, such radical methods of justice as the death penalty undoubtedly are not used. Although I visit Indian less and less often, my busy schedule at the Institute and my somewhat domineering wife prevent me from doing so, we write to each other from time to time. Recently, to my great surprise, a friend even sent me a handwritten biography of the patron saint of the prison where he is serving his sentence. I was surprised by Indian's literary skill, and the story of Fritz Haarmann itself seemed so interesting to me that I decided to share it here and now.

*"Fritz Haarmaan - writes Indian - was born on October 25, 1879 in the beautiful, though hated by everyone (because it was German) Hanover, the son of a railway worker and a housewife. Five siblings and the family's meager income meant that the boy grew up in extreme poverty. To make matters worse, he was unable to fit in either his family or school environment, because instead of playing football and war like other boys, he preferred to cuddle his mother's breast and sew new clothes for his dolls. Fritz's father was not very happy with this turn of events, which he showed to his offspring very clearly, beating him and forcing him to do things that his son had no desire for. And so, at the age of 16, young Haarmann was sent to a military school in Neu Breisach, from which he was expelled after only a month because he showed symptoms of epilepsy. His father therefore sent his son to work. However, Fritz did not feel fulfilled as a factory worker, which he did not fail to show At every turn. For tardiness at work, sloppiness, and an arrogant attitude towards his superiors, he was fired, and a few weeks later arrested on charges of molesting underage boys. His childhood play with dolls paid off, revealing Haarmann's homosexual tendencies. He was taken straight from jail to a psychiatric facility, where they wanted to check whether the boy was mentally ill. However, before anything could be determined, Fritz managed to escape.

And then began the second phase of Haarmann's life. He clearly and consciously embarked on a life of crime. He supported himself with burglaries, thefts, robberies, and intimidation, and treated his hobby as a pastime of playing with young boys. After returning to Hanover, however, he slipped up, was caught by the police, and sentenced to prison. Over the next dozen or so years, he was repeatedly imprisoned. However, he received his longest sentence only in 1914, when the court sentenced him to five years in prison. He was released on good terms. He served a year before his sentence expired and immediately returned to crime. This time, however, he wasn't satisfied with petty burglaries or thefts; he aimed much higher. He became a smuggler. His financial situation immediately improved significantly, and because he also began cooperating with the police, informing them of this and that, he gained a certain impunity. Then, having spread his wings a bit, Fritz Haarmann began his third life stage. He began killing.

The murderous plan was simple and always the same. Haarmann would go to Hanover train station to scout for a victim among the city's arrivals. It was always a young boy of considerable beauty and stature. Fritz would offer the culprit accommodation for a nominal fee, as well as extensive assistance in finding well-paid employment and acclimating to the new city and environment. He was so persuasive that he rarely received a refusal. Back in his apartment, Haarmann would kill his victim, usually by slitting their throat. He would then cut the body into pieces and sell it as meat. He would dispose of the excess remains and blood in the river. In 1919, the forty-year-old Fritz met another homosexual, Hans Grans, a man slightly younger than himself, though with similar interests. After several serious conversations, Haarmann decided to introduce his new friend to his somewhat illegal dealings. From then on, Grans became Haarmann's partner, both in business and in murder.

Young boys disappeared, and Fritz, thanks to his cooperation with the police, remained above suspicion. However, after nearly 50 people disappeared, the case became so serious that the metropolitan police themselves became interested. Officers from Berlin visited Hanover. They immediately took a dislike to Haarmann, a homosexual, a repeat offender and smuggler. They began closely monitoring his activities. Soon, they caught him under surveillance molesting a teenage boy. Fritz was arrested, and Berlin police obtained a search warrant for his apartment. Imagine their surprise when they found hundreds of clothes inside, 90% of which were too small for the owner to wear. To make matters worse, a bag filled with the bones of nearly 30 people was found by the river. The facts were connected, and Fritz Haarmann was soon indicted. It was 1924, so his murderous activities lasted nearly six years. Haarmann confessed to killing over 20 boys aged 13 to 20. He didn't lose his humor when talking about his crimes; what's more, he took obvious pleasure in recounting the details of his murders. He was sentenced to death, and his assistant, Grans, to 12 years in prison. *

Can we judge this man? Did he do wrong? That's not for us to judge. One thing is certain, however: what's wrong is not mine, and I request that the sentence be changed from life imprisonment to three years, preferably suspended. Indian"

The biography of the patron saint of the prison where Indian was held truly impressed me. Especially its final paragraph, in which my friend discreetly, delicately, and almost imperceptibly to the casual reader, suggested that he was truly wronged by the legal system and the state system itself. Moreover, he had killed far more people than the Vampire of Hanover, as the press dubbed him at the time, and this fact alone speaks in my friend's favor. Unfortunately, the authorities remained deaf to his pleas and protests, and I fear we will never again meet in freedom to listen to good old hard rock together.

Hunger roused me from my reverie. I awoke to find that the bugle call of the St. Mary's Animals that had awakened me had come from my own stomach. I heaved myself up from the wooden beam and headed toward the exit of the Rising Sun House. As I left, I glanced back and noticed that the Tatar had not yet dematerialized and was still lying at the foot of the pagan altar. It wasn't surprising, really; after all, the guy must have been a bit tired of scaring people for nearly a thousand years.

I left the park and headed towards the Alley of Work Without Which There Are No Cakes. I knew a good Chinese restaurant there, run by my friend Ping-Pong, which served excellent grilled bull terrier ("hot dog" in English). After about fifteen minutes, I arrived, took a table by the window, and placed my order with a beautiful Chinese woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to a rather unattractive Japanese woman I'd met in Vietnam on my way back from Korea. While waiting for my meal, I pulled out my portable phone from a nearby cell phone and called home. No one answered, even though it was already late afternoon. My wife must have been very tired after her night shift. Poor thing. She worked so hard to make sure everything was in stock. With my professorial salary, I contributed very little to the household budget, forcing my wife to work the streets. Fortunately, the pimp was a mutual friend and rarely beat her.

Meanwhile, my dish arrived, and I eagerly dug into my bull terrier, starting, of course, with a short pig's tail. The lovely Chinese woman smiled charmingly, wishing me bon appétit. I thanked her profusely and asked about my friend Ping-Pong. I had clearly grown in her eyes, because she bowed to the floor, showing me her bare buttocks peeking shyly from under her short skirt, and said she'd ask the chef immediately. Ping-Pong, however, tactfully appeared only after I'd finished my hot dog. He greeted me with immense warmth, not to mention effusiveness. In the old Chinese custom, he kissed my ass and did the ritualistic "breaking dance." I invited him to my table, and he sat his massive frame on the chair opposite. For a Chinese man, he was incredibly fat, weighing about two tons at 5'6" tall with his hat on, but that didn't stop me from liking him. He was a decent guy.

"What brings you here, brother?" he asked, smiling warmly.

"Brother?" I was genuinely surprised. "We're not family, after all.

" "It's just a nickname," Ping-Pong explained. "Friendly," he added.

"No, no," I persisted. "Why did you call me brother?"

The Chinese man was visibly confused, lowering his gaze and blushing, which, combined with his yellow skin, gave him an orange color ("orange soda" in English).

"I told you," he muttered. "It's a nickname...

" "Stop it," I interrupted, rising slightly angrily from the table. "You know something.

" Ping-Pong paled then, turning beige, and rose from the table with unusual agility for his size.

"I have to go," he said quickly. "Duty calls."

Despite my protests, he disappeared into the back, and I left the restaurant without paying the bill. No one stopped me, though, not even the security guard at the door, Bruce We-Lee, known for his tenacity and white T-shirt. I wasn't about to leave things like that, though. I hid across the street behind a tit feeder and decided to wait for Ping-Pong until the restaurant closed. The bull terrier gave me a bit of a stomach ache, and besides, as I mentioned, I'd suffered from bulimia for years, so I threw up into the feeder. The titmouse ate it all with gusto and seemed grateful, smiling at me with their jagged beaks.

Several hours passed, spent crouching in hiding and pondering the secret Ping-Pong was hiding, when I finally saw the lights go out in his restaurant. Moments later, the waitresses, the chefs, and security guard Bruce We-Lee-s left the building. The owner is always the last to leave the restaurant, like the captain of a sinking ship. It was the same with Ping-Pong. He locked the door and headed for his car, parked at the end of the street. Because of his weight, he drove a truck—a very stylish one, by the way—with a CB radio and that funny horn that makes the truck go moo. However, he couldn't get in without confronting my humble self. I caught up with Ping-Pong as he inserted the key into the door lock.

"Oh, is that you?" the Chinese man said, startled when he saw me.

"I think," I said firmly, "that we have something to talk about.

" "I don't think so," he replied, looking away. "I mean..." He hesitated. "What do you want to talk about?

" "About us," I said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Ping-Pong turned the key in the door.

"Get in," he said. "We'll take a ride."

So I sat down in the big truck seat and fastened the passenger seat belt. Ping-Pong drove off with a screech of tires. He used that funny horn as he overtook other cars, which I really liked. So much so that I almost forgot about the matter that had been bothering me so much. Apparently, the Chinese guy was counting on it, because he started honking for no particular reason, but constantly. I only snapped out of my daze at the corner of General W Okularach and Plac Trzynastygo Decembrowego.

"Hey," I snapped at Ping-Pong, who was honking and honking, "Stop it."

The Chinese guy stopped the car. He sighed heavily and lit a Chinese cigarette, very similar to a regular one, only yellow. I grew a little impatient with this, and out of nervousness, I lit one too. I had one more joint left.

"All right then," Ping-Pong finally said, exhaling, "I'm tired of hiding this secret. I'm your brother."

Sweat broke out on my face. Instantly, as if someone had poured a bucket of seawater on me. But I didn't say a word, just staring expectantly at my newfound brother.

"You would have found out someday anyway," Ping-Pong said after a moment's silence, "though that wasn't supposed to happen until after my father's death."

I shuddered. So my father was still alive. I wonder what he looked like? Did he have a mustache and beard, or was he clean-shaven?

" "It was like this," Ping-Pong began, his slanted eyes meeting mine, which were completely unslanted, "My father left you when you were six months old. You didn't live up to his expectations. You cried too much, you made a mess around you, and above all, you didn't talk to him at all." He told me with tears in his eyes that you didn't deign to say a single word to him.

I lowered my head. Whatever the case, it was true.

"Father joined the army," the Chinese man continued. "He hoped that during some war, among a foreign nation, he would meet the right woman who would bear him a suitable offspring. Less tearful and more talkative," he added, probably unconsciously teasing me.

"Unfortunately, our country wasn't at war with any foreign countries at the time. Civil wars, as you yourself understand, didn't satisfy our father, as they offered no prospect of finding what he was looking for. So he left the army and signed up as a passenger on a passenger ship. His first voyage was to the French island of Noirmoutier off the coast of the Vendée. There, he met a charming, strong, and intelligent woman named Predhomme. He had intercourse with her, and she bore him a child. Unfortunately, that child, too, turned out to be imperfect. My father continued his search." He landed in the Persian Gulf, where in Kuwait he tried his luck again. However, a woman named Al-Hassiya also didn't give him what he expected. He then decided not to waste time waiting for the child to emerge from its mother's womb, but to leave his mark on as many women as possible, and then gradually see what came of it. So he traveled the entire world, from Africa to Australia, from Europe and Asia to both Americas, from Pole to Pole. As you can probably guess, he also visited China. Specifically, Hetian, my hometown. In every country, he met women and left his legacy everywhere. Then he returned to the places he had previously visited and checked whether his life's purpose had been achieved. Unfortunately, none of his sons, let alone his daughters, lived up to his expectations. Finally, disappointed, he returned to Poland, tried his luck one last time, and after another failed attempt, devoted himself to meditation. To this day, he remains a hermit, living near the Woods on the Sand.

A shiver ran through my body again. Ironically, I'd spent most of today in the Woods on the Sand.

"So you didn't either?" I asked Ping-Pong.

"I didn't live up to his expectations either," my stepbrother replied sadly. "If that's what you're asking.

" "So how do you know all this?" I asked, my voice rising a little in excitement.

"You see," he replied, taking a drag on his yellow Ping-Pong cigarette, "As I grew up, my father and the mystery surrounding him began to bother me. I asked my mother many questions, but she could answer few of them. I only learned that my father's name was Davidson and that he came from your country. And then I decided to find him. I saved up some money by working wherever I could, and at the age of 17, I left China. The trail led to your city. Luckily, the phone book only listed two names: Davidson—your father's and your mother's. That's when I realized I had a brother. But first, I found my father. It wasn't easy. The address where his phone number was listed was long out of date. As I mentioned, our father became a hermit. Thanks to Social Welfare and various institutions, I managed to locate him. We met only once. He told me everything and asked me not to reveal his secret to anyone until after his death." He also forbade me from visiting him again. He threatened that if he saw me again, he would kill himself. I listened. "And now I'm breaking my promise," he added, lowering his head.

He thought for a moment and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, and that's when I realized I was burning my fingers with the butt. I threw it out the window. A passerby screamed and, with third-degree burns, ran to the emergency room.

"I stayed in your country," my stepbrother continued. "I started a business, things started going well. I sent my mother money, got married, and gradually forgot about the whole thing. Until I met you. When I learned your name and realized who you were, the memories came flooding back. I made a promise to my father, so I couldn't tell you anything. However, the matter haunted me. I started looking for our other brothers. I located several of them, although I only managed to contact one. He lives in our town."

"Harley," I whispered.

"So you know about him?" Ping-Pong asked, surprised.

"My mother told me," I explained.

"You see," my brother continued, "as I said before, after returning from his travels, my father tried his last chance. He searched for a woman for a long time before choosing her. She seemed perfect. However, Harley, too, turned out to be a failure. Even worse than the others. Over time, it turned out he was mentally unstable, schizophrenic. He thought he was a secret agent. At the age of 15, he escaped from a mental institution and began leading a normal life in the maria under a new name, albeit in the same city. However, he was still ill.

" "What name did he take?" I asked, frantic.

"Bond," Ping-Pong replied. "James Bond."

With trembling hands, I pulled from behind my fingernail the miniature photo James had given me this morning. I handed it to the Chinese man. He was astonished.

"So you've known each other too?

" "For years..." I replied thoughtfully.

Ping-Pong fell silent, and I didn't say anything either. The situation didn't call for unnecessary words. After a long moment of silence, my brother suddenly perked up and reached into the glove compartment next to the steering wheel. He pulled out an old, worn photo. He handed it to me. The photo showed a young passenger and a pretty, slant-eyed girl. She was smiling at the camera, he was looking off into the distance.

"That's my father," he said, "and my mother."

I watched the thoughtful man and had the strange feeling that I'd met him before. And not so long ago. Those eyes... Oddly familiar... I gasped. So my hunch was right. I remembered the eyes of the ghost of the Tatar from Tatarstan, whom I had offered cheap wine at the Rising Sun House just a few hours ago. And then I whispered to Ping-Pong:

"You didn't break your promise. Our father is dead.