The Border

"That's what morality is: things that later

leave a bad taste in our mouths."

Ernest Hemingway.

I learned about the whole thing by accident. Sitting in a student club (a phrase used with linguistic purists in mind who are offended by the word "pub") and sipping a banana-apple shake prepared by a bartender friend, I suddenly heard a juicy, "Son of a bitch!" from behind the bar. Magda—my brilliant, irreplaceable bartender, who sold drinks to friends at cost, didn't usually use this kind of vulgar, street-smart, and otherwise tactless language from a sexy brunette... Curious, I approached the bar, grabbed my almost-finished shake, and said what every guy in this situation would: "Pour me another one." I looked at Magda. She had a natural aptitude for this job. Every day, as she leaned over the table to wipe the beer-stained countertop, all the gazes of the libidinous, tipsy men landed on her cleavage as if by remote control. And even though there was no one else here but us, her magnificent body filled the entire room. "It's a shame she was a lesbian—with a body like that, she could have any man..."

I sat down on the leather-upholstered bar stool, which always makes a fart sound when you put your ass down on it. I noticed Magda was reading a newspaper. I asked, "What's so outrageous about this paper? That my Little Mi [as we called her] would have to be upset about?! What's this—another demonstration of sexual equality pacified?" "You're as funny as a flower-patterned hearse—do you think the world revolves only around sex?" she replied. "No, but for you, someone without ovaries is a potential threat to freedom of sexual preference and women's equal rights." "Okay, okay, little bear—see for yourself—the dean of the Private Academy—you know, that university on Warszawska Street—swept seven hundred thousand zlotys from the school budget and disappeared... He took the money, left his family, and that's all they saw of him. He's a better sly fellow!" "I understand, but tell me—what do you care about some dean?" "Heh—actually, I don't care—though I know his daughter—she goes to her daddy's academy—talented, pretty, runs a literary club. Shame on the woman. You see—they even offered a reward for revealing our dean's location—ten thousand zlotys..." She whistled, as anyone surprised by the amount of money whistles. I stood up, waited until the sound of the furniture fart stopped drowning me out, and said, "You know what? I have to go. By the way—what's his daughter's name?" "What do you need that for?" "No, I'm just asking—maybe I know her too?" I heard the name and surname and a wicked plan was born in my head...

I sat down at my computer and launched the search engine. Within moments, good old Altavista was spitting out link after link. Subject: Joanna D, 20, an only child. Despite the issue with her father, she's highly respected at the university. She hosts literary meetings every Thursday. I have the literary club's website address and her email address. I decided to take action. I set up an email account on Onet, with the alias 'Public Opinion Research Center "Fenix."' I send Subject an email with a hastily cobbled together HTML survey about the qualities her dream guy should have. I add a few words of introduction – that it's supposedly anonymous, that it was sent with the operator's consent, that there are prizes, etc. Meanwhile, I read stories and articles posted on the literary club's website...

The day has passed – it's Thursday. I receive an email with a completed questionnaire, which states that the Object's ideal man should be tall, dark-haired, intelligent, well-read, faithful, and more spontaneous than conservative in nature. And, of course, he must have a sense of humor... I analyzed the characteristics of my new identity and slowly prepared to go to Thursday's literary meeting: a black Pierre Cardin shirt, Bruno Banani perfume, and hair gel combined with an artistically disheveled hairstyle... It was almost five o'clock, so I went to the building of the Private Academy on Warszawska Street. The writers (all five of them) were a very hermetic, I'd say casteist group. However, they welcomed me quite warmly. I wait. Everyone waits. It's clear the meeting won't begin without the Object. Finally, she's there. She's supposedly twenty, but in her clothes and face, she seems much older than her actual age. She had the look of an intellectual. A bit insecure, and clearly tired of the affair with her father. She immediately noticed the new member of the group, me.

She sat down and, from the doorway, said to me, "Welcome. I'm glad we have a new member of our quasi-literary group. As you can see, our room is quite small, but unfortunately, these conditions have to suffice," she said mechanically, though with a certain amount of interest and some undefined complex... "It doesn't matter—it's enough that the length of the corridor reminds us of Kafka's work, and a small room has its advantages—it allows you to better observe the person asking you questions..." Yes, it worked—she looked at me with unconcealed curiosity and—importantly—fixed her hair. We soon moved from organizational matters to the topic of the meeting. The Subject said, "The topic for today is depression. You have five minutes to describe this condition literary on paper... Begin!" I kept my eyes on the Subject for a moment longer (which didn't escape her notice) and began writing. After five minutes, the Subject gathered the papers and read them aloud, one by one. My note was at the very bottom... Meanwhile, a discussion was underway, in which I took an active, exceptionally eloquent part. And finally, it was time to present my work. The Object was to read aloud the contents of my note, recently scarred by my reflections. The success of my plan depended on this (incidentally, the level of my previous works was rather

mediocre

). The Object read: ------------------------------------------------------------------- ... You call THIS stress? I wasn't born to live!

I'm the creator's plaything, pregnant with a message I have no one to bear. A lone rider, a fucking John Wayne in this urban desert... Surrounded by blind spies, brimming with a personality for which I have no human cesspool. I've read about ten books on how to be happy. I've delved into the secrets of a dozen religions. And nothing. Emptiness. The despair of a vain existence. Nothing brings me joy anymore, nothing matters to me anymore. I'm tired of life, I lack purpose, I'm emptied of meaning, I've become the private Judas of my own consciousness.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

It worked. Silence fell. I had achieved a literary victory. The Subject ended the meeting, but she asked me to stay. I sat down across from the Subject. After just a few sentences, I sensed a thread of sympathy forming in her. We moved from purely literary topics to more personal ones. We had a great conversation, so I invited the Subject to a cheap, yet quite exquisite restaurant. Wine, live music—it had a balm or spa treatment for her. She forgot her recent troubles, relaxed, and smiled frequently. And most importantly, she let her guard down. But I had to wait, because asking too soon could have torn apart the entire carefully constructed house of cards, which I should have called a plan. When I was at the stage of, "You know, I really came to this literary meeting to get to know you. I've liked you for a long time," she suggested we go to her apartment. It turned out she lived in a rented studio apartment—a sort of "dear parents, I'll be living alone, but close to you—you have to agree, because I'm not a child anymore!" I picked up two bottles of wine from a restaurant to go. She lived modestly, considering her father's finances... Student-style—the entire studio apartment was cluttered with books... The subject briefly went to the bathroom, so I decided to search her room in hopes of finding clues to her father's whereabouts. I found a personal calendar full of notes, completely written on every single page, a verbal substitute for a day. That's when I realized she was a virgin—she had no time for love or affection in her life... However, I couldn't find a single clue that could lead to her father...

She came back quickly, so she almost caught me in the act of this lousy surveillance. I couldn't do anything like that—I had to get her drunk. I handed her a glass of wine, picked up a book of Emily Dickinson's poems, and started reading the Subject her most heartbreaking poems... She was delighted. And increasingly drunk. The next two hours of conversation (it was almost 9 p.m.) and half a bottle of wine took their toll. She stopped forming coherent sentences, became increasingly intoxicated. And worse—she clung to me. But how could I do that? How could I get information about her daddy's whereabouts? Or maybe she didn't know anything? No, I don't believe it—she had to know something. Mr. "Where's the seven hundred thousand?" Dean couldn't be such a cold-blooded bastard—my wife and daughter surely knew where daddy was, or at least they suspected it. Meanwhile, the Subject had only one thought in mind, and tried to wrap his legs around me. And then an idea popped into my head – first I kissed the Subject, and then I asked, "What if your father drops by?" Without a second thought, she exclaimed, "Nooo... He's not flying in from Amsterdam!" That was my moment! I pulled her tongue: "Why not? All he had to do was check out of the hotel, go to the airport, and in two or three hours he'd be here..." And the Subject replied, "What hotel! (drunken laughter) My dad's at Aunt Katrin's!" Enough. Enaf. What I'd heard was enough for me. I laid the Subject on the bed and dug into her notebook again. I found it! I copied Aunt Katrin's Amsterdam address and phone number onto a blank piece of paper. I looked at the Subject. She looked surprised, but somehow seemed dazed... After a moment, she fell off the bed onto the floor. I picked her up, put her to sleep, covered her with the duvet, and left. I reach for my cell phone and make one call, and it's free. I'll pick up and cash the check in the morning.