About how we had fun adventures

 

Summer arrived, and the band members scattered to various campsites and resorts, collapsing in the process with long-lost relatives.

We stayed in Prague, bored to death.

Irka browsed newspapers and old magazines, and I painted.

Didn't I tell you I paint yet?

It's just an amateur hobby. I paint very often, but few of my works survive for posterity. When a painting is finished, I admire it for a few days, then cut the canvas into small pieces.

I do this for a quite simple and rational reason: I need a frame.

Irka even claims, sarcastically, that I'm painting the same picture over and over again. In either case, it's surely some kind of perpetual motion machine.

So I devoted myself to the joyful torment of creation, while Irka browsed the classifieds sections.

"Listen to this," he snorted with laughter at one point, "The all-female, intellectual rock band 'Deputowane' is looking for two guitarists. Auditions will take place..." date, location, etc. What do you think?

"What do you mean, intellectuals? Will they be reading books and solving puzzles during the concert? I don't think I'm getting it, to be honest...

" "Screw the name," Irka waved his hand, "look in the mirror. If you shaved a bit and put on some makeup, you could be a polished guitarist!

" "You think?" I only just realized what he was getting at. "Do you want to audition?

" "Why not?" Irka smiled broadly. "A good laugh isn't bad."

We didn't have any problems finding women's clothing or women's clothes. It so happened that our private and personal girlfriends had plenty of them, and plenty of them. They even carefully applied our makeup, permed our messy hair, and beauty treatments to our faces.

We looked in the mirror.

The results weren't particularly impressive.

At a glance, we could have passed for a couple of unshaved, bow-legged transvestites.

Irka shrugged.

"Nobody said guitarists had to be beautiful."

And we went to the audition.

The band members were even uglier than us, and besides, terribly conceited and, indeed, intellectually dull.

We sat in the waiting room of some community center, surrounded by several stressed-out guitar candidates, patiently waiting for our turn.

And when we were asked inside, the band leader, the ugliest and most pimply of the bunch, said point-blank:

"We clearly stated in the ad that we were looking for GUITARS. That means women."

"We're women," Irka declared, "from the very beginning. Mother Nature, however, played an ugly trick on us and clothed us in male bodies. But we are so... just like you! Sensitive, affectionate, loving, yearning for happiness and love...

" "And we like to wear makeup," I added, just in case.

"Despite everything," the band leader adjusted her glasses, "we have quite clearly defined requirements when it comes to gender... No middle ground is an option! "

We made sad faces.

"Are you rejecting us?" Irka pursed his lips. "No sympathy for sisters in need?"

The deputies felt a little foolish.

"At least let them play..." the bassist with the sticky ears muttered.

"Play," the pimply leader graciously allowed.

We played.

"Well, well, well! You're good!" said the drummer with the big nose. "A satisfactory level.

" "So do we have a chance of playing with you?" Irka blinked.

"Chances... hmm... do you have any," the boss grunted. "I'm just wondering how to arrange you on stage so you can't be seen...

" "Maybe behind the drums?" Irka asked.

"Maybe behind a curtain?" I suggested.

"We'll think about it," the boss decided. "Either way... come to rehearsal the day after tomorrow. Oh! And one more request... Can you do something about your makeup? I mean, make it less... garish.

" "We'll make it less garish," Irka promised.

And we left.

"You double idiots," I said, struggling with my perm.

Of course, we didn't go to any rehearsals.

Irka spent a full fifteen minutes writing a letter to the 'Deputies' and explaining the reasons for our resignation:

"Dear 'Deputies,'

It is with regret that we resign from your noble musical endeavor. Starting tomorrow, we begin rehearsals with the band 'Transowi Transi.' As you can probably guess, the band consists of members representing the intermediate sex. Yours

faithfully."

Signatures, date.

He addressed the letter to the Cultural Center and dropped it in the first mailbox that came to hand, completely unconcerned about its fate.

Then he went back to browsing the newspapers, and I returned to painting.

I was just putting the final touches on my brush when my faithful friend stood behind me and critically examined my work.

"What will it be titled?" – he asked, feigning interest. – "Scum after the spring thaw"?

– Very funny – I grunted, offended. – You might be surprised, but these are 'Sheep on the meadow.'

– 'Sheep on the highway' would be more appropriate – my friend declared – or better yet, 'Sheep under the wheels of a truck.'

I ignored the jealous layman's remarks.

In any case, my "Sheep..." soon provided us with much joy and amusement.

And it happened like this:

The next day, so soon enough for me not to have had time to chop the painting into small pieces, my half-brother Petr came to our studio apartment. We saw each other infrequently, but we shared a warm and friendly relationship. Petr was a very wealthy man and an avid art collector. He thrived in the world of exhibitions and auctions, diligently investing his capital and profits in often priceless objects. As soon as he settled into the corner of our room, he immediately noticed my "Sheep...".

"Is it yours?" he asked.

"Mine," I replied modestly.

"I like it," he said. "Can I buy it from you?

" "No way," I shook my head. "The canvas isn't for sale. At most, I can give it to you as a gift."

Petr burst out laughing,

"So we made a deal."

On his way out, he took the painting and stuffed it in the trunk of his Mercedes.

About two weeks later, Irka and I were invited to a gala dinner at Petr's. Besides us, there were supposed to be a few art dealers and industry experts there.

We were terribly bored, vowing to ourselves that we would never again be fooled into such a social event. We had already resigned ourselves to the thought of a wasted evening when suddenly one of the experts, Dr. Zdenek Blecharz, noticed my "Sheep..."

"Whose brush is that?" he asked, adjusting his glasses.

"Oh! I haven't the slightest idea," Petr winked at us. "I bought this canvas at an auction four weeks ago, and to this day I'm still wondering who the artist is." It looks authentic, but I have no idea if it has any value.

Dr. Blecharz rose from his chair and examined the painting inch by inch.

"Interesting technique, vivid colors, a superb composition... What's the title?

" "'Tomatoes after a car crash,'" Irka blurted out.

Petr bit his lip, stifling a laugh, and said,

"'Sheep in the bosom.'"

"In the meadow," I wanted to shout, but I stayed silent, not wanting to reveal the artist's identity.

"Yeah..." the expert looked at the painting from various angles. "Brilliantly integrated into the background... I see sheep, I see the bosom... An original, extraordinary, and tastefully crafted composition! If you'll allow me," he said to Petr, "I'll take the painting to my laboratory, have it examined, and try to determine the artist and the approximate date of creation."

"Unfortunately," Petr replied, the shrimp choking on laughter, "I'd rather not part with the work. It has some beneficial effect on me, you understand...

" "The magic of art," Dr. Blecharz closed his eyes dreamily.

For the next hour, experts and connoisseurs discussed my "Sheep...", discovering ever new strengths and brilliant features of the work. I felt myself growing.

"Just don't let those "Tomatoes..." go to your head," Irka muttered to me as we walked home through the dark streets of Prague.

I don't know if they did, but my painting talents certainly saved his skin.

One afternoon, we had a fun, boozy get-together in our studio apartment with two charming sisters. The fun unfolded as we had hoped, and soon we had achieved our goal. We were sitting there, relaxed, chatting with the ladies, when the intercom rang.

"Hello?" Irka approached the strainer.

"Hello, my love. It's Marika," we heard a familiar voice, and we shivered with fear.

"Holy cow!" "Irka scratched his head. "There's going to be a huge brawl here! She's so jealous! Damn it! Any ideas?" he asked with faint hope.

I had one.

"Take off your clothes! Quickly!" I said to the sisters.

"But why? Again? Why?" The girls tried to figure out the reason.

"Quickly! Then I'll explain everything!"

When Marika entered our room, she found this scene:

in the center of the room, on a makeshift podium, two naked girls sat entwined in an embrace, and I was busily sketching them on a huge canvas, covered nose-to-nose in various colors.

My companion sat nearby, strumming his guitar with a bored expression.

"What are you doing?" Marika asked.

"He's playing at being a nude painter and I'm bored," Irka explained. "It's nice to see you, lovely woman. I was just thinking about you.

" "I saw your 'Tomatoes...'" Marika approached the canvas, examining the sketch with interest. "They're impressive."

I shot Irka a furious look and for a moment I felt like acting like a complete pig.

"They're not 'Tomatoes...'" I snapped. "Go for a walk with Jiri, and he'll explain. Come on! Get lost, I'm getting distracted!"

As Marika and I left for the walk, Jiri gave me a grateful look.

And then came another day of blissful laziness.

We sat in our studio apartment, bored, playing tic-tac-toe.

"We could use some ladies," I muttered.

- I'll bring something in a moment - Irka said in a tone as if he were talking about shopping at the supermarket - but first I'll finish my coffee, if you don't mind...

Life is beautiful.