How We Were Hit by Cupid's Arrow

 

The stranger sat down at a table and told us the following story:

"There was a boy and a girl. The boy was crazy about the girl, and she, though reserved by nature, seemed to reciprocate his ardent feelings.

One Saturday night, they were huddled together in a small café, enjoying the moment and each other. Coincidentally, a group of thugs were also huddled there—one of them, just for fun, said something insulting about the girl. The boy stood up for the lady of his heart and was brutally beaten. He ended up in the hospital.

The next morning, the girl came to visit him. She placed a box of chocolates and a bouquet of flowers on the bed and said,

'We're done. I have no intention of getting involved with a man who lets himself be beaten by a bunch of brats.

' And she left. The boy never saw her again..."

We felt incredibly sad.

"And never saw her again..." the stranger repeated quietly, stubbing out his cigarette.

Then he stood up and walked wearily out of the pub into the dark, rainy night.

Irka watched him go, then nodded sadly.

"Here's a classic example of how easily life can be ruined," he said. "A story as old as time, and the more sensitive guys suffer terribly...

" "Besides," he added after a moment, taking a sip of beer, "it's common knowledge that it was because of women that we fell out of paradise... I assure you, if I were Adam, we'd still be there today. I can't stand apples!"

We laughed softly, but nothing could erase the impression the stranger had made.

We ended the evening in a somber mood.

The next day promised to be quite intense: we had a pre-concert rehearsal, a concert, and a post-concert party planned.

I was tuning my instrument, and Irka was sitting on stage, swinging his legs and strumming "Sweet Home Alabama" on his guitar, when the door creaked open and a stunningly beautiful figure entered the rehearsal room.

"Hello, beautiful people," she said, "is there any chance I could get something like an autograph?

" "Bah!" Irka immediately dropped his guitar. "I'd even commit an entire essay for you. And everyone knows how much I hate writing.

" "I'm impressed," the girl smiled, tilting her head charmingly. "A short but concise dedication will suffice." For starters...

Irka signed the slip of paper briefly but concisely:

"To a charming lady, with wishes for continued success in life and in life. Did you know that you have so much charm and charm that you could bestow them on an entire army?"

The girl glanced at the entry, burst into loud laughter, waved at us, and left. We rushed to the windows, watching her walk along the sidewalk, swaying her hips.

"A charming artist," I murmured, "what's her name?

" "Look at you," Irka smiled, "I forgot to ask in my amazement."

During the concert, we easily picked her out of the crowd—it wasn't difficult, as she radiated beauty across half the hall. After the encores, she quickly fled, but the security guards, at our request, managed to get her phone number.

With such a valuable prize, making contact was only a matter of time.

The next morning, I left our studio apartment, whistling insincerely and announcing to my friend that I was going to take care of some very important official matter. On the street, I ran like a madman and ran to the first telephone booth I came across.

"Excuse me?" I heard a familiar, resonant voice.

"Hello, charming woman!" I wonder if you still remember me. I'm from a band...yesterday you graced us with your presence at a little jam session.

"Of course, of course I remember!" The girl visibly perked up. "You're the...second one? The guitar guy?

" "I'm the second one, right," I grimaced, "but I'm not complaining. They say the last will be the first..."

The girl burst into loud laughter.

"Sorry! It's awfully nice to hear from you!"

And I felt warm with joy.

"Is there any chance we could meet you this evening and chat somewhere secluded?" "I'll hit the ball while the iron is hot.

" "Of course there is!" the lady agreed. "You just have to find me first...

" "Find me?"

"Find her, charm her, and lure her out of the house... Preferably some romantic trick. And then we'll... chat.

" "Hmm," I grunted, "tough conditions, woman. Can I count on any hints?

" "I don't know?" the girl pretended to consider, "maybe a small one...

" "I'll be grateful until the end of the week! So?

" "Karolkowa 52, apartments 3. And choose the time of night yourself," she laughed brightly and hung up the phone.

I returned to our studio apartment all gleeful. And I reported on the morning to my friend, grumbling at length about the bureaucratic incompetence.

"Romantic trick?" she said.

I play, sing, and make music, so an evening concert under my beloved's windows should be romantic enough. The idea struck me as brilliant: so I headed for Karolkowa Street and surveyed the venue for the evening's performance. The set design was satisfactory – lush bushes grew directly beneath the windows of apartment number 3, giving me hope that I would remain incognito from the other tenants. I spent the rest of the day carefully selecting my repertoire. That evening, I slipped out of our studio apartment with my guitar, congratulating myself that my faithful companion Irka had disappeared. The problem of answering uncomfortable questions was now solved.

It was well after 10 PM, and Karolkowa Street seemed to be in a state of lethargy – which was very convenient. I'd already found a suitable bush in the shade of which I could unleash my uninhibited vocals, and I was just untying my guitar from its case when a man appeared on the street.

He was heading directly towards me. There wouldn't have been anything unusual about this except that he was also carrying a guitar. He stopped for a moment in the middle of the sidewalk, glanced around warily, and then headed for my bush.

"Good evening, Irka," I said aloud. "Are you taking your instrument out for an evening walk? And the litter box at home won't suffice? "

My friend stopped dead in his tracks and was speechless for a moment.

"Are you running errands again?" "He asked maliciously, regaining his composure. "You must be doing pretty well with the warden, because it must be a bit after hours. "

I scratched my head in embarrassment.

"I'm not very bright, my faithful friend, but it seems to me we came here for the same reason...

" "What did you want to sing to her?" Irka asked matter-of-factly.

"Ain't no sunshine...among other things...

" "Holy crap! How is it possible that we come up with exactly the same ideas?

" "That's good, don't you think?" I smiled. "At least we know our friendship isn't based on opposites."

We stood there, unsure what to do next, our guitars dangling awkwardly.

"Well," Irka finally said, "since we're already here, let's play."

We crept into the bushes, and after a moment, the wistful sounds of a melody floated over the dormant street.

We were doing pretty well; we were howling at top volume when suddenly, somewhere on the first floor, a window banged open and some guy yelled,

"Quiet up there, you damn brats! I'm trying to sleep here!"

It turned out that news travels fast.

The next day, at a beer stand, we ran into a guy named Mila Pavelec.

"Hey, guys!" the guy shouted cheerfully. "How were the nightly performances?

" "Good," I grumbled.

"Didn't you have any problems with the audience? Didn't you fall asleep during the performance?

" "Mind your own business, Mila," Irka snapped.

"As you wish," Mila shrugged. "I just wanted to give you a loyal warning that half the city is laughing at you.

" "And why would that be?"

"Well...it's not often that two guys sing lullabies while standing under another guy's window...

" "What are you talking about?!

" "You played a concert at Karolkowa 52 yesterday? Apartment 3, right?

" "That's right," Irka replied, concerned.

"It just so happens that a certain Zdenek Blecharz lives at this address. A well-known king of the suburbs and a sexual minority...

" "What are you talking about?!"

"Oh yes!" Mila took a sip of beer. "A faggot in one word! You were running after a faggot! "

We were completely speechless.

"Tell me you're joking," I finally managed. "This girl... she's so beautiful... She can't be a man!"

"There are things in heaven and earth that even Solomon never dreamed of," Mila said philosophically. "Everything's right. Zdenek is a truly beautiful woman, and I'd give him the once-over on the street. But for now, I prefer ladies!"

And he cackled loudly.

"I don't know if this will comfort you, but you were hanging around some really good art! Zdenek, if I may use that comparison, is the Rolls Royce and Bentley of faggots!"

And he walked away, roaring with laughter.

"That can't be true..." Irka shook his head.

And yet...

When we visited the Tigra that evening, our friends looked at us strangely, and the bartender hesitated for a long time before shaking our hands.

We sat down at a table.

"What are you doing tonight?" I asked Irka. "Want to take a ride in your Rolls Royce?"

My friend glared at me.

"I drive badly," he replied weakly. "Maybe another time..."