Prologue
Gentleman
You probably recognize me, even though we don't know each other. By now, I'm probably the subject of a few songs, the evening news, and daily gossip. It seems everyone knows this story better than me. Still, I wanted to tell you. Unfortunately, my finger was so tight on the trigger that, as I pulled, it pushed the bullet, which lodged itself in my head. I know what you're saying: what a shame. And you're right. A terrible shame, because I really wanted to tell everyone a rather interesting story, namely MY STORY. However, everything went to hell. You'll never know how it all happened;
that it started in childhood, but somehow nothing interesting happened then; The Beatles broke up, Presley died. Then God, through a certain Chapman, invited Lennon to join him, he agreed, and for the next few years, there was nothing to listen to. It's hard to say anything about my family that would interest you either. My old man fought in Vietnam, and things didn't get any better until his death. He said my mother died when I was conceived, but how much truth was there in that? In the 1960s, he served in the army, where they volunteered to test nerve gas on him, so it was difficult to verify everything he said. I don't have any siblings, and never had any. While other boys went out to the river in the evenings to catch frogs, while they played cops and robbers, flew kites, pulled girls' hair, and spied on them in locker rooms, I sat at home and, through the brown prism of Johnny Walker, watched my father and listened to his stories from Vietnam. How the commies killed his best friend, or he accidentally blew up his entire unit. Then he came back, got a pension, and never left Mr. Walker again.
But that's not what this story is about. If I could tell you something, it would be something truly incredible. I'd like to briefly outline recent events.
Chapter I
One winter day, on the verge of spring, I was sitting fishing, seemingly unbothered by anyone. Suddenly, I felt something bite. After a few minutes of wrestling with my catch, I pulled it from the water. It was struggling like crazy. I pulled it straight onto my plate (I was incredibly hungry). Suddenly, the fish spoke:
"Don't kill me, my good man," she said, quite shaken. Her scales were dark gray, slightly silvered. Her eyes were deep. Her eyes were Latin. "I recently found the meaning of life and I'm on my way."
Call me a conservative, but I don't usually believe in talking fish roaming the world. That's just how I am, but in this case, I had to redefine my perspective on certain things.
"Yes?" I asked. Despite my lowered level of skepticism, a talking fish immediately arouses suspicion. Not that I'm denying anyone the right to speak, but still. Something was wrong. The fish looked very tired. After a long pause, I followed this lead – Where are you going?
"Call me Henryk," the fish said to me. "I'm going to New York.
" "Why there?" I was very inquisitive.
"Because Dublin took its toll on me a while ago.
" "Mhm," I replied, adjusting my hat. "Listen, if you want, I can give you a ride to New York. It's on my way.
" "That would be great," Henryk replied. "I'll just grab my backpack," and he slung it over his fin.
And so, throwing Henryk over his shoulder, we set off for the city that never sleeps. It was 1989, but when he realized he wouldn't make it to the '90s, he simply left.
"You must be pretty excited, Henryk. You'll see the world," I said.
"...and outside is America. America!" he shouted triumphantly. "Just the sound of that word, just the thought of it, makes my fins wet."
But the America we were about to see wasn't the America of neatly cut lawns, red convertibles, football players chasing cheerleaders. It wasn't. The America that appeared before our eyes then was an America of dirty streets, pimps, and cobwebs in the windows. Straight out of Bukowski's biography. Paved with the cement of rotting words.
But Henryk had a point. It evoked a certain warmth, an evocation of long-forgotten happiness. We wanted to discover even a fraction of it.
Prologue
Henryk
I know exactly what's on your lips: "talking fish, impossible"! Possible or not, fact is fact. God's decrees and the paths by which an old man reaches them are inscrutable. Ever since I left my family pond, I knew, or rather felt, different. I felt like an old child, a child unable to play and laugh, innocently and purely like other children. I felt as if Calvino or some other devil had invented me. When I was traversing mountain streams, I wasn't interested in the world of the young. I preferred being with adults. With their plans to avoid predators, to plan the safest routes. But when I grew up and was appointed commander of the "Trout Planning and Logistics Unit" (POPIL for short), I realized that this wasn't the job for me either. It wasn't my life. It was then, having the opportunity to explore the quays and harbors, that I understood my destiny.
These were the people, their cruel world of hunting, fishing, and the ridiculous gibberish they called speech. Every spare moment, I sailed into the nearest port. I listened, observed, and absorbed everything human. After a few months, I learned to speak (I lisped a bit at first) and breathe air. One winter day, I hid in a quiet, unfrequented cove (as a talking fish, I couldn't just jump out in the middle of the harbor). I crouched, and when I saw the hook, I didn't hesitate for a second. I struggled a bit, and the guy with the hole in his head pulled, introducing me to the world. That's how this incredible story began. But I won't say anything more; apparently, he really wanted to tell it. So I give him the floor.
Chapter II
Traveling without a map, we came to a town called "Tiny Valley." Henryk's flippers were hurting terribly, and we decided to buy him some decent shoes. The local shoe shop was run by a man named Al Peters (according to the nametag on his shirt). The moment he saw us, he was speechless. The guy with the hole in his head and the walking fish, which, to top it all off, would speak with a human voice, might not be "Bonnie and Clyde" robbing shoe stores, but it was still quite a joke.
"Good morning, sir," Henryk said, bowing from the waist. "I'm sure you're wondering what two inept guys like you want to buy in such a respectable shop?"
He glanced at us, then spat out some chewed tobacco.
"My name is Al. And I don't give a damn where you're from, who your sisters give you in the evenings, or whether your mother hugged you too much. I'm not paid enough to let anything bother me. This isn't Macy's, it's a lousy store with lousy shoes at lousy prices. So, listen," he plastered on his trademark smile and asked, "what do you gentlemen want?"
I'd gladly find another shop, but it was more than obvious this was the only one in town.
Henry smiled his best.
"I'd like some cowboy boots," he said, his eyes full of unfulfilled dreams. "I've always wanted them. Practically since I was a kid. "
Al burst out laughing.
"What the hell are cowboy boots for?! You want to ride mice?!" He reeled with laughter.
I had to intervene.
"Mr. Peters, Al. This is America," I felt like the president in his New Year's address, "and everyone has the right to buy cowboy boots whenever they want. Even if they have no chance of winning the rodeo. "
The salesman turned serious.
"Sigh! You're probably right," he waved his hand, then went to the back and brought back cowboy boots in child's sizes.
After exchanging a few suspicious glances, we paid, and Al went back to chewing tobacco.
Henryk had his boots, and we were ready to go. When we reached "Middletown," we were thirsty and cold after miles of wilderness, so we decided to stop at a bar for a drink to warm up our stagnant blood.
Chapter III
The bar was called "Pussy Catz." To this day, I'm not really sure if it was a bar or a space brothel. Immediately upon entering, we were greeted by a young woman in a strange outfit, straight out of a 1950s science fiction TV show. A quite pretty blonde with freckles converging on the bridge of her nose, and temptingly full and shapely lips that hid her missing teeth. She clung to us like a fly to a spider's web. Her skirt was so short that there was no point in even spending the few bucks. Everything was on full display. Despite this, I saw that dangerous spark in Henryk's eyes. I've never understood what men see in women. Personally, I haven't met anyone who held my attention longer than the new comic book "Sin City."
"Leave these nice gentlemen alone," the man at the bar said, "they don't need your cheap charms. Gentlemen, please, sit down." He left the bar and invited us to a table.
He had red hair and Irish features. A day's worth of red stubble, which always gives me the creeps, covered his sad face with thick stubble. He had a cheap earring in his left ear and an even cheaper suit on his shoulders. He looked rather odd, but in our situation, we had no right to judge.
We settled down and ordered a beer. When the bartender brought it, the man insisted on covering the cost and the tip. Since Henryk and I weren't particularly well-off, we didn't object. We protested, as was customary, and then let him settle the bill.
"By the way. Call me Steve. Steve Collins," he introduced himself.
Henryk rose from his chair and pulled out his flipper.
"Henryk."
I also rose.
"Gentleman."
We shook hands. The ceremony concluded.
"Very pleased," Steve replied.
He looked at us as if trying to read our thoughts. He didn't give the impression of a man we could trust. More like a small-time swindler, living day to day. One scam after another. We decided to wait and see how things unfolded. Meanwhile, he continued talking.
"What are such distinguished gentlemen looking for in such a remote and desolate place?" I began inquisitively.
I was about to answer him.
"We're looking for a meaning...
" "We're looking for a sideboard! A sideboard! We're simply looking for a sideboard," Henryk interrupted, as if scalded.
Steve looked at us curiously.
"Are you looking for a sideboard?
" "Absolutely," Henryk replied, probably just to convince himself.
Steve clapped his hands.
"That's wonderful," his face was full of hypocrisy, like a traveling salesman's, "because I'm in the business, broadly speaking, including selling sideboards!"
Henryk and I exchanged glances. We decided to have a little fun at Mr. Steve the Salesman's expense.
"What could you suggest?" Henryk began.
"We need something compact, yet spacious and affordable," I continued.
Steve thought for a moment. His eyes burned with Irish fire. He was in his element.
"I have something just right for you, gentlemen," Henryk and I feigned curiosity. "The sideboard of the year, maybe even the decade. It's won every industry award.
" "What is that!?" I genuinely couldn't resist. Steve looked the way he did, but he knew how to dial up the tension. You have to give him credit for that.
"Gentlemen, it's the Turbo 3000 Sideboard! The latest marvel of furniture technology.
" "Incredible," Henryk gushed. "I've read about it." It must be a magnificent machine.
"Exactly," Steve slammed his fist on the table. "Drink up, gentlemen, and let's go to my room. I'll show you this gem."
And so we did. Wiping the golden liquid from our lips, Henry and I rushed to Mr. Collins's room. He opened the door and invited us in. It was dark. There was a terrible stench, combined with sweat and dirty underwear strewn everywhere. He told us to sit in the armchairs by the window. In a straight line, as far from the door as possible. I started to worry a little.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"Here," Steve replied, his hand illuminating with moonlight. At first, I could only tell he was holding something metal. After a moment, I recognized the shape. A Desert Eagle. I have to admit, it caught us off guard.
"Come on, ladies. Empty your pockets." He was clearly enjoying this moment of power. At that moment, the world had narrowed down to the three of us. And he was in a privileged position. Henry and I scraped together about ten bucks and put them on the table. Then Steve tied us back to back. He took the money and left. We sat alone in the dark, stinking room. Arm in arm. Like soldiers in the trenches (though without the homosexual overtones).
At night, I always liked to imagine I was at war. Just like my old man. Mortar fire and shells were pouring in. And I was alone with my childhood fears. I've carried them with me my whole life. From those lonely nights and playing war until today, to this room where I'm trapped with my companion. As I was recounting these sad memories, Henry began to slip out of his bonds. I watched the remnants of moonlight stream into the room through the blinds, which were sometimes broken, shimmering with a thousand colors, ending their journey on his shell casings.
"Okay, we're out of here," he said. We dropped the ropes and left Middletown once and for all.
Chapter IV
We walked forward. After a long time, we'd been taking silent steps, I felt like singing. I remembered a song my father used to hum to me before bed, before the whiskey had replaced his blood. I couldn't quite recall the words, so I hummed the two lines that stuck with me the most:
Until now, I've always traveled with the moon,
but the moon has fallen asleep, and now I travel alone.
Henryk was clearly not in the mood for singing along.
"Stop it!" – I hate singing while traveling. – It reminds me of cheesy Boy Scout chants and sausages by the campfire. I can't stand that kind of atmosphere.
– "Okay, I won't do it anymore." I don't know what's gotten into him?
We wandered through the pine forest like that. Each with their own nameless anger and resentment for the world, hidden in their hearts since childhood. I knew I wouldn't create history like my father in Vietnam, wouldn't take an active and visible part in writing its pages. Yet everything, everyone, is a part of it; a single step we take on this forgotten road, Henryk with his undirected anger, and I with my childhood memories. A small, seemingly insignificant fragment of a song. This is the story: Until now I've always walked with the moon, but the moon has fallen asleep, and now I walk alone; which I sing tonight.
During a pumpkin storm, we arrived in a town with the odd name "Ratherbigsonrocks." We were already on the outskirts of New York. We stayed in a motel. Our room was more run-down than the price would suggest and barely smelled of cigarettes. Henryk didn't mind. He knew what bridges over the Mississippi and Wisconsin's chicken farms smelled like. Lying silently in our beds, we soaked in the atmosphere of America—the new one we were just getting to know. After a few hours' sleep, we headed out into the city. Next to the motel was a brothel with cheap Mexican whores. Henryk, previously opposed to such ideas, brightened up a bit and decided to have some fun. We had a little fun with the Latin girls, who seemed to always seem sweaty by nature, their skin gleaming like a freshly waxed Cadillac. After an hour or so spent with them in their dingy rooms, we realized with regret and fear that we had no money, which led to an inevitable conflict with their pimp, Ramon, who was quite possibly the sleaziest guy we'd ever laid eyes on. He looked like a little boy, a child of his surroundings, with whores as his mother and pimps as his father. His shiny hair, cheap chains, and above all, his ugly, kitschy mustache looked as if it had been there since birth, something he'd only grown into. Apparently, he hadn't quite made it. Now those shiny mustaches were chasing us through the dark, dense larch forest. When the footsteps and shouts behind us faded, we hid under a fallen tree and waited for dawn. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of a leaf seemed to herald our doom. With each passing hour, the gathering darkness increasingly took on the shape of Ramon and his companions. The shape of an inevitable punishment. Fortunately, the darkness remained darkness until morning. At dawn, we headed back to the road. We reached a specific road with a gas station. Henryk was very tired. He asked me to find him a fishing bike. It took me a while. He wasn't at the station. A few hundred meters beyond the station was the small town of Bythewaysville. I had to check three fishing shops, two sporting goods stores, and one liquor store (none of which was relevant). When I returned with my bike, we set off for New York. This time for good.
Chapter V
The morning we arrived, I showed Henryk a few shops they never let me into. In the afternoon, we went to a Yankees game. Standing outside the stadium, we bet on the outcome based on the fans' reactions. I won 70 cents and two promotional Coca-Cola bottle caps. We had a great time, so the day flew by. In the evening, we were strolling along Broadway, chatting away, until suddenly, Henryk, in the blink of an eye, stopped, speechless.
"What happened?" He couldn't understand. "What?!" I repeated.
"She...look!" He pointed to a beautiful brunette strolling across the street.
A perfect silhouette moved along the neon lights that illuminated her hair like two in the afternoon. The light changed. She was walking towards us. Her smile was like a moment of rain on a spring day. For a second, I thought it was meant just for me.
"I've never read poetry, and I don't think I'll start today," I said, staring at her as if I'd seen a snowflake in July.
Henryk's lack of a sarcastic remark alarmed me. I shot him a sideways glance.
"Now, you fool! Kiss her!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "This is the meaning of life!"
I caught up with the girl, attempting a standard, two-armed hug.
"It's not that easy when you have an eight-centimeter hole in your head," I muttered, irritated.
Henryk thought for a second, then said,
"Hold on to your hat.
I did. But it was a bit like hammering a nail with a paper hammer. I felt like a fallen firefighter who had been a hero just a month ago.
"It's not always easy," he said, summing up.
"With advice like that, you'll sooner cook spaghetti than make a career in show business," I replied, and then headed toward the light.
Epilogue:
Gentleman
. And that's basically all I'd tell you. It didn't work out this time, but I'll try next time. Maybe not today, but better tomorrow than next week.
Epilogue:
Henryk.
It's hard to say anything more. I haven't managed to steer Gentleman onto a better path. And we've been walking ever since, with mile-long moonbeams illuminating our path. Meanwhile, Gentleman teeters on the edge of the lake, as if on the shore of a lake. A guy with a hole in his head and a trout. Like characters from a forbidden children's novel.
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