Что-то личное, темное, сокровенное. О душе и о том, что в ней сокрыто.
– Who are you?
He was silent.
– Who are you? – I repeated. – Who, the f…cking bastard, are you?
I sat across from him, lit a cigarette, but couldn’t take even a puff – the hands were trembling.
– And what do you want? – I continued. –What do you want NOW?
He was silent.
– Oh, really? You… – my voice quavered, broke, shattered into hundred fragments of glass. – Why?
It was not a sound, just a wheeze. Why? The only word was in my head, in my mouth, on the tip of my tongue. Why? And I couldn’t spit it out, couldn’t spit it into his face. Why? Why did I meet him? Why did he choose me? Why? Why? Why?
It was 2 months ago – the day when I met him for the first time. We were sitting in the caf'e where I used to bring all my girls. But that day I was there with Margarete. She insisted. She said all her friends had been there, all of them liked that place, all of them admired… and so on, so on, so on.
I knew she was lying. I knew she’d seen me there with another girl. I saw her through – it was easy. I read her like an open book. But that day I was in a good mood and decided to play along.
We were having coffee, when Margarete suddenly said:
– Such a pretty boy!
I turned my head. He was sitting at the next table looking at us. With no emotions, calmly, indifferently.
Fair hair, grey eyes and a face… Oh, Margarete wasn’t right. That boy wasn’t pretty, he was beautiful. Not handsome, not. He was beautiful, really beautiful. Like an angel. With that face, he could be a movie star, I thought.
But said instead:
– He isn’t pretty, Margarete. He looks like a Teddy bear.
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