Zyggis

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Zygmunt was a plump, handsome man, one of those who instantly make girls blush at the sight of him. He dressed in elegant tailcoats, always clean and tidy. He was downright pedantic about order. He demonstrated impeccable etiquette, though his mischievous side often awoke. He disregarded conventions, choosing to amuse the ladies, thus forcing a telling blush. He received a thorough education, was immensely well-read, and could find a quote for any occasion—some by Shakespeare, some by Byron, some by Goethe. He owned a fabulous mansion and an equally fabulous wallet.

He was one of the most desirable men in the city. Girls were hysterical about him, and his dialectics inspired admiration and endless sighs. Ladies vied with each other to please him, fawning over him more than the servants. In an instant, their refinement was replaced by a lustful desire for conquest. Unfortunately, he wasn't the type of sedate man; on the contrary, he found some ineffable fondness for toying with women.

They tried all sorts of tricks. There were anonymous letters, serenades in front of the balcony, stuffing one's bra with tissues, and showing off one's knees (which, in those days, should have been covered). They tried their best, undeterred by failure, for victory guaranteed wealth and fame in the arms of the man of their dreams.

Zygmunt's favorite pastime was weekend trips to the theater. He'd hop into a horse-drawn carriage, having it all to himself, and as he pulled up in front of the theater, about ten other female travelers would get out, all on the same plane. The theater audience was relatively uniform—all skirts and one mustache.

By the age of 13, he'd already developed a pouch under his nose, provoking envy among his classmates, and not enough sleepless nights among his female friends. A year later, he had such a large mustache that he could easily work in a factory and even enjoy the company of obliging women.

A few minutes before the end of the performance, he would go to the restroom and then skip out of the theater. This way, he would lose track of his admirers, heading to the salons, where more suitors were waiting. There, two groups would form: one with him among respectable married women, widows, and marriageable girls; the other with husbands, widowers, and bachelors. In the first group, words of admiration and respect could be heard, while in the second, there was only scheming and slander—against who knows who.

The men pontificated on how to get rid of their nasty rival. Various ideas were floated, from breaking bones, through electrocution, to murder. Unfortunately, this was impossible to implement, as their honor did not allow them to commit such a barbaric act. Finally, the more resolute one came up with the idea of ​​provoking a duel, but for a duel to happen, one had to first insult him and wait for him to demand redress, or be insulted by him and demand satisfaction. Execution was more difficult, as no one wanted to compete with Zygmunt, knowing that he had graduated from an elite military school, one of the best in the world. Secondly, it was not easy to get him to challenge any of us to a duel. He had such a jovial nature that he turned every insult into a joke, amusing the whole group. company. We therefore decided, in a Procrustean manner, to provoke a skirmish. The intention was simple: approach, hit someone with your hand, foot or head and demand satisfaction.

During one such meeting, we decided to play spin the bottle to see who would kill Sigismund, in a duel, of course. The neck pointed to Count Zola, who was famous for his shy insecurities. In the company of ladies, he always smoked cancer, exposing himself to ridicule. He was not discouraged by failures, for his shyness was compensated for by an ambition lacking in many a Harlequin. When he set his mind to something, he pursued it diligently. We knew we had chosen the right man for the task, although we were concerned that no one could predict when the Count would be willing to attempt a provocation. When he saw the bottle's designation, his eyes filled with tears, and he whispered, "I don't want to die." "

Don't be a whiner," Baron Ścichapęk scolded him, and he went to the bar for another carafe of wine.

Everyone distanced themselves from the Count, because we had agreed that the chosen one would sacrifice both his honor and, in the worst-case scenario, his life for the cause. Aware of the Count's two left hands, we knew the outcome of the fight in advance, which didn't fill us with optimism. The bottle was supposed to be in play until we killed the number one lover, so there could be more victims. Anyone could be next, so we grew terribly gloomy.

We watched the Count, wondering what he was doing there in the middle of the living room. The poor thing stood helplessly, shaken, trying to gather his thoughts. Apparently, after a moment, he regained composure, as he took the first step and approached the skirt-and-mustache circle. Perhaps he even got lucky, as Zygmunt had abandoned his flock of admirers, and he could throw down the gauntlet without any witnesses. He paused, looked at us with mortally terrified eyes, swallowed hard, and followed his prey.

In the hallway, a young lady of extraordinary beauty approached the lover, and a conversation ensued. The Count stood in the doorway, pretending to examine the ceiling's architecture, blushing to the whites of his eyes. His rubber ears recorded the conversation, or rather, a miniature monologue.

"I could have loved you, Zyggi," said the beautiful girl.

At that moment, a terrifying bang rang out, and the girl fled. Zola glanced at Zygmunt, but he clutched his heart and fell facedown to the floor. A trickle of blood formed around him, growing larger with each passing moment.

The terrified crowd rushed in, the girls began to wail, scream, faint, and do whatever they could. The Count left the chaos, and the other conspirators were waiting for him in the drawing room. They already knew what had happened in the hall.

The first to get the would-be provocateur was Prince Sam, "Congratulations, congratulations," then Baron Cham, "You are my friend forever," and Count Homo grabbed his hands, kissing them with great devotion, hoping that perhaps Zola had similar sexual proclivities. The entire male group cheered, lavishing praise on their savior. They practically carried him in their arms, and when he informed them that it wasn't him but some lady, they mocked him for being so foolish in the face of murder.

A week later, a telegram from a certain Miss Cherstwa reached the editorial office of the "Regional Gazette."

Dear Editors, Zygmunt's death was the worst trauma of my life. I remember the first time I saw him in Paris. My heart pounded, taking my breath away for a long time. I watched him as if enchanted. I decided then to take a keen interest in the object of my dreams. I closely observed his preferences, tastes, and behaviors. From then on, he became an integral part of my life, without even knowing I existed. After five years of platonic and detective love, I found the courage to invite him to a café. He accepted, clearly charmed by my charm. He was a very open person, we talked with such fervor, as if we had known each other since childhood. We felt this bond, a communion of souls, or maybe I just felt it? He opened the doors of his interior to me and confessed that he was in love with... Arthur. It intoxicated me like a dream. Opium. I couldn't believe Zygmunt's confession. His homosexual inclinations became a thorn in my eye. Two antinomies were fighting within me: love and hate. Apparently, the latter prevailed, because I shot him in the heart. I still love him, but I love him before his confession, when he was heterosexual to me, and as alluring as poppy seed dumplings on Christmas Eve. Irena,

kind to ideal love .