Mr. Zenon never opened his eyes before eleven. This time, at ten thirty-three, he felt a dull pain in his left temple, turning into a wild tingling across his entire forehead. From behind the haze, the image of a yellow wall and two deer fighting in the rut slowly began to emerge. A moment later, Mr. Zenon's room formed a coherent and clear image of M-2.
The man touched his forehead and was surprised to find a liquid sticking to his finger. Blood? Strawberry wine from the evening's dinner, but what kind? He licked his finger. But blood nonetheless.
This time Mr. Zenon jumped out of bed, hastily throwing off the dirty duvet. He ran frantically to the bathroom, jumping over and dodging obstacles like a rolled-up floral blanket. He finally reached the mirror and realized with horror that his entire head was drenched in dried blood. The red had already hardened, creating fanciful patterns on the sweat-drenched surface of his skin. Mr. Zenon splashed cold water on his face, simultaneously analyzing the evening. True. Marian and Zdzich had been there. True. They drank, sorry, got drunk evenly, but to punch him in the face all at once?
He emerged from the bathroom and surveyed the apartment. The mess was worse than usual, because this time it was difficult to find a place without things piled up on the floor. A few "tulips" and some scattered pieces of bread, and... the whole bed was covered in blood. Mr. Zenon shook his head and began to clean up. He covered the bed with a duvet and finished his fizzy beer.
He scratched the balding spot on the top of his head. After a moment, he heard faint sounds coming from under the blanket on the floor. The man stood up and, with a slow movement of his hand, uncovered the layers of material lying on the parquet floor. Finally, he reached the source. In front of him lay an open, small can of sardines in their own juices. From inside oozed a melody he knew well. "Hey Sokoly" was sung with a Balkan accent. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Mr. Zenon leaned over the can. The largest of the sardines, who had been singing enthusiastically until now, stopped mid-sentence and spoke to the man:
"Why are you staring? Haven't you seen a singing sardine?"
Mr. Zenon had seen all sorts of singing animals: horses, chickens, cats, and dogs. He'd seen white mice and slightly larger rats juggling and riding tiny bicycles, but he'd never talked to canned food!
"What's the expiration date on these?" he asked, a bit awkwardly.
"What? We stink. Goran, you're insinuating something!" The larger sardine turned its head toward the slightly smaller, but shinier one.
"Two more years, you idiot!" Goran replied in perfect Polish.
"Then maybe I should introduce myself, just to be clear?" Mr. Zenon raised the can of sardines to his eye level. "I'm Zenon."
"We're here. You've done a terrible job here, Mr. Źenon. I'm Radovar, and this is Goran. After that little party, we were left alone. You ate us out, Mr. Źenon. You ate us out, and without bread!
" "I'm sorry," the embarrassed man replied. "I didn't know you could speak my language."
"Asshole!" Goran began thrashing around in the metal can. "So we have to talk like you so you don't bother us? But at least you got hit. Marian really gave you a good kick with that bottle." Goran started laughing and infected Radovar with this action. "Blood on your face, and today you probably thought it was 'a squabble'"? Ha, ha, ha! Asshole, asshole! We come on a mission, with peaceful intentions, and here? Such an asshole consumes us. I thought I'd see a bit of the world, that we'd live life to the fullest. Nothing. Goran makes me want to cry. Cry.
Mr. Zenon didn't understand the rest, because the fish started talking in Serbian.
"I honestly didn't know. You can sing, but I don't care about artists.
" And he began to sing loudly, "Hey Sokoly," hoping the sardines would pick up the song.
"Uuuuch, Goran, let's sing with you, for your heart's sake."
And the three of them began to sing in three voices.
Mr. Zenon never touched the rare canned goods again and even tried buying luncheon meat and pickled tongues from local grocery stores, but his dream of a choir came to nothing because the pork was from the Hanover area and had fascist views, and the whole batch of tongues were from Belarus and wouldn't make a sound for the world.
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