Владимир Андерсон – Homo Ludus (English edition) (страница 9)

With each word Gustav was once again convinced that it was not in vain that he had kept this man alive and not destroyed him. Two years ago, Gustav had traveled through southeastern Turkey, interested in ancient rock fortresses that looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Through the same places Vincent bought smuggled oil from Iraq, not caring who it came from, where it went, or who would make money from it but him. And it was profitable for Islamist militants, who later founded an entire quasi-state. And, although the supply channels themselves were formed in the early years of Saddam Hussein's rule, when, after the failed intervention in Kuwait, international sanctions were imposed on Iraq, obliging it to sell oil for food at low prices, then these channels began to actually finance terrorism.

Vincent was buying from them and transporting them to Europe, selling the raw materials on the Rotterdam exchange under the guise of Turkish. Many people knew about it, both in the CIA and in the European intelligence services, not to mention the Turkish ones, and everyone was happy with it. But it didn't suit the competitors from BritishDutchShell, who ordered Vincent. He just got lucky that time. He met Gustave in the ruins of the old town.

–

There are many strange things in the world. – Gustav said it with a kind of experienced interest, as abstruse biologists usually say about new species of animals. – One part of the planet, for example, is always trying to save animals. And if at first it all started with rare species, now someone is trying to save all animals, even, for example, those wolves that were raised in captivity to make a fur coat out of them… And once I was in Nepal. So there is a holiday there, when hundreds of animals – sheep, goats – are slaughtered as a sacrifice. Massively. It's not even dozens. It's hundreds. And for nothing. Not for some kind of hides or meat. Just for nothing. As a tradition… – Gustav's eyes were completely calm – with the same expression he could tell about children's holidays on New Year's Eve, and about the installation of drilling platforms in the ocean, and about Nazi concentration camps – just as a presentation of information, and then you could look at the reaction of the interlocutor: as long as you were sitting without emotions, you were open; if the interlocutor felt something, you would feel it immediately yourself. This was the way to understand others, and it was easier to manipulate them. At that moment Vincent received a phone call. He really had to go. He was flying to Istanbul tonight for a meeting. It was worth bargaining about the future, and only a fresh head would do.

"Drunk again?" – It was not that Gustav cared, but rather wondered how much one could drive drunk on Krakozhin roads in an expensive car.

"Fate helps the brave," the Spaniard said, looking into the distance. And it was evident that for him it was not just words, and not self-confidence. To him it is the order of things in life. "A Latin saying," he added. – "The Romans knew how to win." A couple minutes later, Vincent was out of the house, heading for his Chrysler 300C.

The room got a little darker. But just a little. There were a lot of thoughts in my head. Gustav turned on his laptop and went to Facebook – there were 300 messages, but it was worth opening them, and it turned out that almost all of them had been written by Oksana alone, all morning.

She was offline now and probably passed out from drinking, but until it happened she had burst like a Venetian sewer. She was hysterical, insulting, apologizing, making excuses, professing her love and saying there couldn't be anyone else like him in her life. She was both ashamed and scared. And torn by the silence in return. And it was both easy and hard to write this. And wanted and didn't want to hear the answer. "So do you love me or not I SPARKS??????!!!!" her last message.

Gustav didn't write anything back. She hadn't suffered enough yet. Let her believe in hope. People are so fond of that saying, "Hope is the last to die." Apparently, everyone likes to die, or lose, or maybe be disappointed.

Let him wait. At first it will be a pleasant wait, then it will become bearable, then difficult and finally unbearable. "Why doesn't he say anything? Where did he go??? Is he on purpose????" – these are the questions that await her. And further she will make up anything, as long as she does not think that he, really on purpose. After all, he wrote that he loves her. That must be so hard to write. You can't lie in such cases. I mean, he can see her condition.

"Stupid people," Gustav thought for the hundredth or thousandth time in his life. – Thousands of years of proving to each other that we should look at actions, and everyone keeps looking at words.

A couple hours later, of course, Oksana called. After listening to a few beeps to give her more ground for doubt, Gustav picked up the phone: "Yes."

Silence. Silence at first. Almost always. Silence, after all, always comes before actions.

"Gus," the girl's voice both expressed everything and nothing. Full of emptiness. The kind of emptiness that feeds hopelessness. Before calling, she thought for a long time, over how she told everyone about her purity and integrity with clients, not mixing personal life with public life. And in doing so, she lied. Lied to everyone, too. She'd slept with virtually every man who'd made a real estate deal through her. She even ingrained the phrase "real estate deal through her" in her soul. She believed that one day she would simply meet her man and say a resounding "no" to such an attitude and in an instant forget all of this. But that time never came. And such deals with men have long been a given. And when the moment of choice came yesterday, she had thought it was "just one more time that doesn't change anything." After all, Pablo had bought the apartment through her, too.

"Yes"-Gustav held a pause. As always. Man is his own best executioner.

"I called this morning… Did you read my messages?"

"Messages? No. I woke up a little while ago. Why, is there something urgent there?"

Silence. Silence again. And all because the answer was not what was expected. No reproofs, no moralizing, no idle chatter, but only indifference, stretching like a layer of clouds across the sky.

–

Gustav, I didn't mean to… I was drunk. I don't even remember everything… Or even I don't remember much.

–

What is there to remember? It's just the way it is.

–

Don't say that. I'm sorry. Я…

–

Sorry for what? You have nothing to apologize for. Just like there's no hard feelings.

–

So… So you're not offended by me?

–

No. Of course I'm not offended.

She sighed. She knew. There are men. Real men who know how to understand. They know how to take a punch. And they do it with honor. They say they're made of steel. And that's exactly what he is. And he is. And he's with her.

She sighed once more, wanting once more to feel the relief she had just felt when that pile of stones, that red-hot mass of iron, had fallen away from her shoulders. It was easy now. Now she could move on with her life. And now she would be with him. Only with him. Always.

–

I'm… So glad… You have no idea what a weight has been lifted off me right now… So I'll come to you now?

–

You don't have to.

–

All right. Uh-huh. You're right. I should come to my senses. – she sighed again, this time smiling so she could be heard on the phone. – Tomorrow, then?

–

No. You shouldn't come here.

Little doubts. Like a slight breeze. Like a slight darkening and you start to think you've only blinked.

–

Not to you?… Why, Gus?

–

Oksan.

–

Yes, sweetie.

–

Who needs a whore?

Something rumbled in her ears. Or maybe not in her ears. Somewhere inside. Her eyes went dark, and it felt like she'd forgotten how to breathe. How to breathe the air around her. She tried to cough, to push through whatever was stirring in her throat and ask "why?", "why?", "how do I fix it?". She tried to say it when the phone was already ringing off the hook, when her salty tears mixed with mascara rolled down her cheeks past her trembling lips. She tried to believe it wasn't her, it just happened. She tried to remember that things were different. She tried and tried, not realizing she was tearing her own stupid heart with her fingernails....

Vincent

Vincent listened only to the click of his heels as he moved with slow, steady steps toward the car. It was especially nice to hear them after a conversation like this. He felt like a winner. The kind of man who would choose his own path, his own identity… And even his own death. To her he replied, "Another day…" He was reminded of a phrase from a famous saga where the characters said to death, "Not today," but he didn't like it completely. That's exactly what most people think. They recoil, they turn away, they seek to avoid – it's not a winner's road. And so I do not postpone, like a conscript, an unnecessary moment, but appoint it myself:

"Another day!"

The night is dark. And Vincent is drunk, though not too drunk. And once again, getting behind the wheel with a cloudy mind, with hands that are not steady, with eyes that close on their own, he simply said: "Another day."