Jedna Věta

Zadání Marka Vajchra z Revolver Revue pro bandu studentů scenáristiky. Napište jednu větu denně o svém životě.

10.4.2012

Absťák vrcholí zrovna tu poslední noc, co jsem sama, a aby toho nebylo málo, nějakej pán nám na oborovém semináři povídal o chaosu a feminismu a mně přitom před očima minuty vlastního života přecházely v kapalné skupenství a protékaly výlevkou někam do háje…

11.4.2012

Ptám se gynekoložky na hormonální antikoncepci a ona odpovídá, že mé obavy, že bych snad jednou po vysazení prášků nemohla otěhotnět, jsou liché a měla bych se spíš obávat vysokého tlaku a trombózy – já nahlas polknu a beru si dva týdny na rozmyšlenou a asi je strávím v celibátu.

12. 4. 2012

Migréna.

13. 4. 2012

V kimonózním župánku vypadám jak japonská kurvička.

14. 4. 2012

Jedu k babičce, dáme si spolu oběd, velmi pomalu se projdeme na hřbitov, pozdravíme se s dědou a vyhodíme plesnivějící kytky, večer mi ujede zpáteční autobus a na nový čekám hodinu, za všechno může sirup s příchutí Mojito, zpátky v Praze praskám v metru bublinkovou fólii až v ní nezbyde vůbec žádný vzduch a pak konečně – večeře v hospodě kterou ani jeden z nás nezná, ale měli volný stůl, Milý se dojímá a slibuje že se mi bude víc věnovat a to všechno jen proto, že jsem mu darovala komiks.

15. 4. 2012

Edgar Wright je génius a až budu velká, chci režírovat jako on – jo a taky se mi podařilo použít přímení našeho děkana jako citoslovce. („Jech!“)

16. 4. 2012

Když se ptám, jestli na tý akci bude bezlepkový občerstvení, tak se prosím pokuste nesmát – mý nervy na tom nejsou nejlíp a pečivem si je obalovat nemůžu.

23. 4.

Nástup tvůrčího transu – Milý poslouchá dookola jednu skladbu, kouří strašně moc cigaret a pobíhá po lese, zatímco já jsem v Arkansasu a chodím a klepu cizím lidem na dveře.

24. 4. 12

Jsem na sebe hrdá, že jsem dnes vrátila nechtěný modem a naštvaná, že jsem málem zapomněla na svátek bráchy a táty a dědy.

26.4.12

V osm ráno zvedám telefon a dozvídám se, že garsonka je naše.

27.4.12

Stěhování, takže je první letněpočasní den a naše organizační schopnosti mizerné.

28.4.12

Jsme v garsonce den a už k nám chce z Norska přijet návštěva?!

30.4.12

Kámoška s mým Milým se k sobě chovají slušně, ale je to divná a napjatá slušnost a já jsem z ní nervózní.

3.5.12

Milého opilý příchod v osm ráno: „Vypil jsem toho tolik, že by to zabilo vás obě!“ 

4.5.12

Stěhuju s tátou do garsonky akvárko s rybičkama, který mi věnovala Kámoška před rokem, když ještě žila v Praze.

6.5.12

Rybičky jsou v novém domově šťastné jako nikde předtím, možná to bude tím, že Milý je na rozdíl ode mě nezapomíná krmit.

7.5.12

V tramvaji preferuji červené sedačky, už od dětství.

21.5.12

Milého ostříhal jeho ožralej kameraman, pojali to jako street performance před hospodou a já jsem ráda, že jsem u toho nebyla.

27.5.12

Začínáme s Milým trávit víc času venku na vzduchu: Náš soused bude moct sundat hrnek ze zdi a ucho z hrnku a šetřit svoje vzácné tělní tekutiny.

4.6.12

V kavárně čekám hodinu na majitele, uvážu si reklamní zástěru s logem ležáku Ježek, uklízím nádobí do myčky a přijdu si konečně po dlouhé době kurevsky užitečně!!!

16.6.12

Hotelový pokoj má rozměry jak kajuta ponorky a palandu jak vězeňská cela. Dvě hvězdičky vysvětlujou fakt, že podlaha sprchy má v sobě vedle odtoku i záchodovou mísu, na stěně umyvadlo – koupelna typu vše v jednom, proč jen to nenapadlo naší paní domácí, když kdysi předělávala garsonku?!

17.6.12

Jako správné české turistky žereme se Sněhurkou na lavičce salám s chlebem a tuňákovou konzervu, do restaurací jež jsou 3,44krát dražší by nás dost pravděpodobně ani nevpustili a já se už ničemu nedivím, ve městě co má v samém svém centru zábavní park a největší pamětihodností je socha mořský víly a největší událostí je, když té soše někdo uřeže hlavu!

18.6.12

Jen dva stoly otevřené a u těch už dávno nic nechtějí (ani zaplatit), myslím na dvě knihy doma na poličce, co za ně už zítra budu muset zaplatit v knihovně pokutu …

19.6.12

Milý flákne mobilem o zem a praví „nikto iný okrem mamy ma nevie takto nasrať“ a taky že ano, nasrala ho tak, že resuscitace telefonu je neproveditelná a tím pádem jsem nasraná já, teď už se mu nedovolám vůbec nikdy a zamknout doma ho taky nemůžu, prostě zkurvenej život.

21.6.12

Zpoza dveří ordinace slyším cinkání kovu, v rozhovoru dvou mužů zřetelně rozeznám slovo „dáseň“ a neklidně poposednu - v peněžence třináct stovek co by se daly utratit stokrát příjemněji.

22.6.12

Vrátila jsem Sněhurce pohorky s růžovými tkaničkami, po návratu do garsonky spokojeně koukám na překážející řadu bot, ve které konečně něco chybí – to se ohlašují lepší časy!

25.6.12

Myčka nádobí je ten nejvíc sexy spotřebič, co mi doma chybí.

27.6.12

Ze záznamu, co Milý stříhá, se ozývá sborový zpěv „není nutno, není nutno, aby bylo přímo veseló“ a Milý to komentuje slovy „zkurveté děti“ a „nenávidím pesničky“.

29.6.12

Wifina, jejíž signál jsme zneužívali dva měsíce, dnešního večera definitivně zmizela a na chodbě se vyčůrala na schody čísi podvraťácká čubička, navzdory tomu, že jsem ji slušně pozdravila.

30.6.12

Cikánská holčička mi důležitě sděluje, že se pejsek jmenuje Ovíčara, zdvořile se usměju a pokračuju dál po schodech do našeho patra, kde málem vyšlápnu čerstvý bobek.

3.7.12

Jsem praktická žena, co se dovede postarat o sebe i Milého a pomalu se to stává mojí jedinou charakteristikou.

4.7.12

Kytarista vykouřil cigáro a odešel z kavárny s prázdnou, tak už ani živí hudebníci se nemají jak uživit, je mi z toho smutno, ale z dýšek jsem mu nehodila ani korunu, nestihla jsem, zmizel jak smrad.

5.7.12

Zvenku hrozí blesky, vlažná sprcha smývá prach do kanálu. Servírka stojí před kavárnou, inhaluje dešťový vzduch a kapky jí rozpíjí řasenku, což je skandální, protože je ještě pořád v práci. Z tvořítka na led někdo stopil lopatku, takže hrnu kostky rukou rovnou do sklenice.

6.7.12

Cestou do práce v pojízdném skleníku potíme se všichni bez rozdílu pohlaví, věku a značky dezodorantu. Závistivě sledujeme šlapadla křižující Vltavu, s těmi druhými, dovolenkovými, na palubě.

7.7.12

Nechávám v moka kávě zahynout dvě kostky ledu, i Praha je mrtvá, zavřem snad už v devět.

9.7.12

Den plný telefonování - napřed volá táta mně, abych náhodou nezapomněla, pak já volám mámě, abych jí popřála, pak si vzpomenu na člena rodiny, který toho hodně zapomíná, a volám babičce, abych jí připomněla den, kdy před necelými padesáti lety porodila dceru.

11.7.12

V pátek má přijet Milého maminka, tak peru prádlo - můj plán je, aby přijela a zjistila, že tu není co uklízet!

12.7.12

Naplácám si na hlavu vlasovou masku, umývám ji a nad levým uchem nahmatám chomáč vlasů, který stupněm zamotanosti odpovídá dredu - nahlas kleju a čtvrt hodiny strávím jeho rozčesáváním, protože dredy jsem, sakra práce, nechtěla mít ani v patnácti.

13.7.12

Podivná atmosféra pokoje, v němž možná je a možná není strašidlo - praskla žárovka a ryby se choulí u dna.

18.7.12

Nevěřícně zírám na výpis z účtu, raduju se, utrácím jedenáct stovek za tři trička a jedny kalhoty a marně se snažím dovolat kadeřnici, která má asi dovolenou, následně trnu, že ty peníze navíc utratím dřív, než se z dovolené vrátí a budu dál vypadat jako koště.

24.7.12

Popadnu dva náhradní díly do filtru pro ryby a cestou k pokladně mě přiková na místo obří klec s nápisem „Amazoňan v akci“.

27.7.12

Já a Milý obdivujeme nového kamaráda, zatímco Alda vypráví, jak si před lety všiml až dlouho po nastěhování, že v tom pokoji je jakési akvárko plné začernalého humusu a z něho vykukuje nesmírně nasraná a hladová vodní želva.

1.8.12

Labutě tvoří na noční Vltavě malou armádu, jejich peří bíle prosvítá tmou, poklimbávají a zmámeně hledí vzhůru – na panorama Vyšehradu a jasně zářícího úplňkového Měsíce, k jejichž pozorování si na řece vybraly to nejlepší strategické místo.

2.8.12

Prohlížím si sama sebe na fotkách, které pořídil můj kluk, a docházím k závěru, že ještě žádnému fotografovi se nepodařilo mě s takovou lehkostí a samozřejmostí udělat tak strašně ošklivou.

5.8.12

Každý den jedna SMS z Ukrajiny, v té poslední žádost „napis o mne v jednej vete“ a pro mne děsivý ortel „raz pojdeme do Ruska spolu“.

6.8.12

Zaplatila jsem Aldovi nájem a vydrhla želvu zubním kartáčkem.

21.12.12

Navzdory avizovanému konci světa přežil táta dnes let z Moskvy do Prahy a dovezl přibližně deset kg bonbonů různých druhů.

_____________

Fotky báj máj tehdejší Milý (MV). Všechna práva, tomu čest. Nebo tak nějak.

One Sentence A Day

This was an assignment given to us (scriptwriting students) by Marek Vajchr, a tutor and also an editor of a Czech magazine Revolver Revue. We were supposed to be writing one sentence a day about what is currently happening in our lives. Some of us managed to sneak more sentences than just one! :)

5.7.12

Lightnings threaten us from the outside and a warm shower carries the dust into sewers; Eliška is standing in front of the café inhaling some fresh air and raindrops are washing her mascara away – scandalous! We’re still at work! – which reminds me - someone has stolen the scoop from an ice-making machine and I have to place ice-cubes into the glass with my bare hand.

6.7.12

On our way to work in the mobile greenhouse we all sweat the same; sex, age and dezodorant brand don’t matter, we watch paddle-boats enviously as they cross the river with the other ones, the holiday folk, on board.

7.7.12

Two ice-cubes drown in mocca coffee and the Prague is dead too – we might even close at nine.

More translated sentences coming soon!

Recenze filmů /// Film Reviews in Czech

AFTERDARK (extract from the screenplay) - adaptation of Haruki Murakami's book

INT. NIGHT     KAORU´S OFFICE

KAORU and Mari are intently watching a screen that plays the video footage of the time when a Chinese whore´s customer came.

MARI

Here he is... He‘s alone.

There‘s a moment of silence, then KAORU gives out some kind of throaty growl that makes MARI jump.

KAORU

Yeah. Alone. He waited for her in the room. Pimps deliver those girls to their customers on motorbikes like a pizza. Ha! Zoom in on his ugly mug for me.

MARI zooms in on SHIRAKAWA´s face - a man in his forties, wearing a tie and glasses, with a  run-of-the-mill face, an inconspicuous boring dude.

KAORU

Nasty man.

MARI pauses the picture at the moment when SHIRAKAWA´s face is seen best. MARI is watching the screen. Her lips are clamped together and there‘s a grudge in her eyes. A vindictive sneer spreads across KAORU´s face.

The effigy of SHIRAKAWA comes out of the printer. A second.  And a third.

Detail of his face.

INT. VERITECH´s OFFICE

SHIRAKAWA‘s face detail. He blinks and thus becomes a living, real SHIRAKAWA staring intently ahead. Suddenly, he disappears to the side. The view widens. In the Veritech´s office SHIRAKAWA moves on a roller office chair between switched screens. He pays attention to each of them for a moment and then moves to the another. ERI in a mysterious sterile room is seen on one of the screens. She stands in front of the door and wavers with her hand on the handle. We will only focus on this screen, and zoom in until it covers the whole frame. ERI presses the handle and goes through the door.

INT.  INSIDE   TELEVISION

ERI is standing at the threshold of the bathroom, looking at the austere equipment: a narrow shower, washbasin with mirror, and toilet in the corner. She turns to shut the door behind her and stiffens. Her poster hangs on the door, a perfectly retouched ERI ASAI in a perfume ad.

ERI moves backwards away from the poster, hits her back against the sink, and turns to fix her eyes on the mirror. She puckers her brow uncomprehendingly, looks over her shoulders, and then back in front of her in the mirror. Her face stiffens with fright.

ERI is staring into the mirror, which reflects everything except her person. There‘s a door with ERI´s perfect poster, a corner of the shower, but it looks like ERI isn´t in the bathroom at all. As she stares into the mirror, tired and frightened, her eyes strongly resemble MARI´s.

INT. NIGHT     KAORU´S OFFICE

MARI´s eyes. MARI holds the SHIRAKAWA´s printouts and thoroughly examines his appearance. KAORU leans back in the armchair with arms folded over her chest.

KAORU

(thinking aloud)

A regular customer. He didn´t even look around, grabbed the key and dashed towards the lift.

MARI

(notes disparagingly)

Some sort of clerk, probably was going home from work.

KAORU

So what? I´m not going to involve the Police, I avoid them if I can.

While KAORU shakes her head vehemently against the police, MARI turns to her completely serious.

MARI

And what about handing these out to those who just stopped by?

KAORU fixes her eyes on MARI as if she could see her for the first time, with admiration and a little worry. MARI obviously doesn´t know what she is talking about. KAORU wonders how to explaint it to her in the best way.

KAORU

As a wrestler I was even on a few tours in Hong Kong and Taiwan.

MARI nods, her glimpse wanders to the diplomas. KAORU follows her gaze and smiles a bit painfully. Then she reaches out and switches off the screen.

INT. NIGHT VERITECH´s OFFICE

Another screen in the Veritech´s office. It shows a gangster with a whore on the motorbike rack stopping in front of the Chinese brothel.

KAORU (O.S.)

It´s a tough business and one would find some acquaintances among the Yakuza too. But compared to the Chinese mafia the Yakuza are such nice fellas. The Chinese are unpredictable.

The WHORE gets off the motorbike and goes to ring the door bell. The GANGSTER watches her from the still running motorbike. The brothel door opens, and the WHORE goes in. A MADAM in a baggy bathrobe comes out and nods at the GANGSTER to come to her. The GANGSTER hesitates, but he respects her.

KAORU (O.S.)

If they let such an amateur get the better of them then they would completely lose face before the higher-ups of the organization...

He turns off the motorbike and approaches, taking off his helmet. The MADAM demands an explanation from him and points at her face. The GANGSTER says something to defend himself, and then shrugs his shoulders. The MADAM points at her eyes and lip, then she gestures angrily behind her into the house where the WHORE has gone.

Voices

Fedor Semenovich Fedotov was making his way through the crowd in the street in Moscow. His walk was the fast, fresh walk of a man who knows that all of his problems will be solved in a heartbeat - and very, very soon. He was heading towards Sadovoye koltso, a road that was a perfect circle around the city’s heart. Cars were always speeding on this road, which made the road perfect for suicides. Fedor passed a woman standing at the underpass entrance, selling bouquet of white roses. He avoided stepping into some dirty puddle and made a face at the huge red letter M painted on a board standing about 20 metres to his right. Subway – he was thinking about this possibility, too – but he put this idea aside immediately. First, he hated tunnels and didn’t wish to force himself into staying underground for the last few minutes of his life. And then, he didn’t wish to pay 17 rubles for the ticket. He was going to commit suicide, not going for a trip. It just wouldn’t be right.

No. If he has to – really, finally, and thoroughly – kill himself, then let it be Sadovoye koltso road. Not that he loved cars, quite the opposite, he had this malicious image in his head: his suicide causes a traffic jam and the lives of other Muscovites turn into a small hell, at least for a short moment! So far other people were making a hell out of his life. It would be nice to pay them back somehow. He sarcastically smiled at this thought.

„You’re gonna fuck this up.“

Fedor suddenly stopped. He froze with his foot in the air and glanced around nervously. None of the people passing him looked like they had said these few quiet words. Somebody bumped into him. Fedor staggered, losing his balance, and received the man‘s curses without interest. He started walking again, quickly. I’ve just gone mad, he thought to himself. My fragile soul couldn’t cope with the fact that I was walking towards my death. Oh great. I’m going to die as a madman.

„You‘re not a madman, Fedor. You‘re a bloody moron. You fuck up everything,“ the voice laughed at him. Fedor stumbled over his own feet but managed to stand up, and after gaining his balance back, he bravely continued walking.

„What are you?“ Fedor hissed under his breath. The crowd around him was getting smaller as he got closer to the road. The voice didn’t belong to any of these people – they couldn’t hear his thoughts, after all. No, I‘ve definitely gone mad. I‘m talking to myself.

„If you think so. Now listen, Mr. Zero. You can’t do this. You’ll fuck this up, as usual. You don’t have the balls.“

Fedor frowned. He didn’t like the tone of this voice. It was mocking him.

„Your whole life sucks, one catastrophe after another!“ said the voice triumphantly and Fedor hissed at him: „That’s why I’m going to kill myself, don’t you see?“

A few heads turned around – Fedor raised his collar and gave them grumpy look. The voice was laughing in his head: „Oh Fedor, you are not going to kill yourself, you are going to embarrass yourself, just like you did back then. Remember that day you came back home early from work? Do you think your wife was embarrassed? Or the badass manager dude, who was shagging her?“

„I guess it had to happen, eventually,“ said Fedor quietly. He sounded calm.

„But you knew!“ the voice was mocking him again. „You didn’t do anything!“

„What was I supposed to do?“ mumbled Fedor into his collar. „She wouldn’t stop. And I had no evidence.“

„Not even after that?“

„All right then! I should have killed them both and rotted in jail!“ Fedor got so upset he stepped into the puddle on purpose. A woman passing close shot him a grumpy look. Fedor felt sorry for not soaking her completely.

„You fucked up again,“ said the voice happily. Fedor rolled his eyes.

„Your whole life is fucked and you’ll fuck this up, too.“

Fedor grimaced like a madman. The road was now just a few steps in front of him. He could hear the air whistling and roaring of the engines, and the fumes were tickling him in his nose.

„No I won’t,“ he said. He paused at the pavement’s edge, took a deep breath – and made that last step forward.

„You idiot,“ said the voice.

There were some thumps, screams and breaks squealing, followed by more thumps. There was a sense of irony hanging above this whole scene, as if someone invisible was rolling their eyes. „Do I really deserve this?“ said the voice into the wind. An ambulance hurried down at the road.

Paramedics were placing a terribly injured, but still living Fedor into the ambulance. Invisible lips sneered to other invisible ears. „I did tell him so,“ reminded the voice to the others. One shrugged his invisible shoulders. The ambulance disappeared behind a curve. And as the invisible one, who was talking to Fedor, dwelled in the silence, while the attention of the another unsubstantial being was caught by a young lady, driving a red Peugeot. She could feel the pleasant weight of the revolver, resting in the pocket of her designer coat. She was headed to the parking lot of a big suburban mall.

„Svetlana, there are other, more pleasant ways,“ whispered the voice of a sweet young woman into her ear. Sveta screamed and tore the steering wheel to the side. Somewhere behind the sounds of smashing glass and crashing metal there was a quiet, cold laugh. Cars now stood in a traffic jam at Sadovoye koltso. But not because of Fedor. He did fuck up. As usual..

Catharsis

„I didn’t get lost.“

She must be only ten years old, with worn out jeans, a short pink jacket, and her hair hidden under a corduroy cap. She is repeatedly answering to the old woman: „I didn’t get lost.“ Her eyes are showing that she really means it, but it isn’t working on the old lady. She is deeply concerned about the fact that this fragile ten year old girl in white sneakers is standing alone at a tram stop at one o‘clock in the morning. She is absolutely sure that this child must be lost, despite the fact that the girl isn’t running around helplessly and sobbing.

„I see... But isn’t it a bit too late to be out in the street? Don’t you think?“

„But you‘re out in the street now too,“ reminds the little girl with ease. The old lady gets a bit mad.

„It‘s a bit too late for you, young lady. What are you doing here anyway?“ the old lady is losing her motherly temper. The child gives her a sharp look as if considering whether this person is authorized to be asking these kind of questions.

„I’m waiting for a tram,“ replies the girl and then looks into the space, where it will appear in a few minutes.

„On your own?“ the old lady continues to state the obvious, and the girl chooses to ignore her. I can see it in the old lady’s face - the inner struggle that she experiences right now. She might be a mother herself, I assume, and she would hate the idea of her own child waiting for a tram on the street in such a late hour. Not even mentioning the scarier idea: where has the child been this late?

„Do you see anybody else?“ is the delayed, amused reply. The woman frowns and looks around.  Excluding me she can see about three other people. (I’m not sure about this number, I am mainly focused on her and the girl). One of them is a teenage boy in a suit. He is sixteen and apparently tired from lifting beer-glasses. It’s pretty clear that he skipped his dance lesson and went to a pub instead. If it wasn’t for the interesting pair of women, I would definitely dwell in my own memories of doing the same thing. But back to the old lady – after she carefully examines everybody else with her sharp eyes, she turns back to the girl who didn’t move an inch. The girl continues waiting, with a bored expression and sucking the end of her jacket lace. The old lady stares at her, opens and closes her mouth couple of times, then she gives up. She sighs, rolls up her sleeve and glances at her watch. It doesn’t make her feel any better, but she keeps her mouth shut.

The girl in the pink jacket gets on the same tram as I do. She sits in the front in the seat intended for blind people and stares out of the window absently. I am standing close to her, waiting for what comes next. Just to be clear, I am as equally curious and surprised as the old lady at the tramstop was. There’s one difference, though: I have never had any maternal feelings.

I‘m coming home from a theatre performance. Despite the fact that I was just accompanying someone and wasn’t expecting any miracles, I am disappointed. The performance just didn’t have any exquisite ending. My subconcious is now taking this interesting change in my travel routine as the performance’s missing big finale. I saw Les Miserables with my sister and her friend – just in case you‘re interested – and as far as I’m concerned, this weird little creature could be some kind of modern Cossette. In fact, I already started calling her that in my thoughts.

Where is this Cossette heading? Home? And where does she live? And why – that’s what intrigues me most – why the hell is she not scared? Not a bit? At her age, I would never dare to wander the city streets in the night.

At another tram stop, a random guy wearing a blue jacket steps in. The moment he sees Cossette, he heads towards her. The little girl is not paying attention to the world around her, she breathes on the window and fogs the glass. The white fog disappears quickly as she paints in it with her finger. The random guy waits for the tram to start moving and bows to the girl. I am tempted to jump in, but I can’t, I do not dare interrupt the play. I am curious – deadly curious – what will come next. The girl looks up to him, disinterested, listening to his whisper. After he finishes, she appears to be contemplating. Then she looks straight into his face and nods at him, demanding that he leans towards her again. The guy seems to be very satisfied with himself. Cossette says something to him in a low, resolute voice. The guy doesn’t look satisfied anymore, but the girl continues talking. The guy doesn’t stay long enough to hear the whole speech, instead he straightens his back and steps towards the door. Cossette turns back to the window and places her white palm on it. It seems that he has made no impression on her. Far more important are her attempts to create a perfect palm-like shape on the window, but she can’t manage it. She keeps breathing at the glass and I wonder – when do kids in school start with physics? Does anyone like Cossette attend school at all? She might be supernatural creature. Prague has so many ghosts, why couldn’t one of them take the shape of a little girl and travel on a night-tram?

The rest of the journey passed without any distractions. The tram is about to reach my stop, so I walk towards the door and my last look at her is a good-bye. She is examining her short, bitten off nails. She doesn’t look like she is getting off at this stop, so I’m surprised when I hear quick children’s steps behind me. I want to look back, but I conquer that desire. The tram passes me and disappears in the night as I walk up the street. The steps behind me quicken and I understand – I slow down a bit and let her walk past me. She walks like a steam engine, so determined and resolute, her chin buried in her collar and her hands hidden deep in her pockets. She doesn’t look so self-confident anymore. I realize that the show is over for tonight. It‘s almost one o‘clock, the old lamps light the street in a soft orange tone, and there is a lonely child walking ahead of me. At the corner she turns right, and I walk behind her feeling a bit creepy. We pass a former kindergarten and arrive at a crossroad. Cossette takes the middle road. Usually, I take the left turn, but now I follow the girl.

I don’t know if its just curiosity, or if I’m actually feeling responsible for this fragile little thing and I want to make sure she makes it home safe. I’d rather choose the second possibility.

Cossette starts walking faster. I hesitate, but don’t want to lose her, so I walk faster too. All of the sudden, she starts to run. Now this is the dilemma – if I run after her, I prove myself suspicious. If I slow down, she’ll be gone. I hesitate for too long and she disappears in the passage. Oh great. I slow down and walk to the passage, determined to at least take a look. I realize too late that I didn’t hear any steps since the moment she disappeared in the passage. Cossette huddles at the entrance by the wall. There is this weird, cold look on her face. I stop and we just stare at each other for a while.

„Aren’t you afraid of strangers?“ says the child. Why doesn’t she run away? I’m in no mood for another game of chase. In fact, I regret I started this whole thing. There is something very disturbing about this child. As she is standing in the dark passage, she doesn’t look like Cossette anymore. She looks more like some wicked goblin, who knows something that I don’t. And she finds it very amusing.

„What?“ I ask stupidly. The girl watches me with narrow eyes.

„If I were you, I wouldn’t follow a strange person. Especially... not at night,“ continues the girl and watches me cautiously.

„I wasn’t following you,“ I spit out quickly, in attempt to defend myself in front of those eyes. „I just wanted to make sure you‘d make it home safely.“

She steps back and her face disappears in shadows. „What?“ says the girl in an amused voice. „You care for me? You don’t even know me.“

„I don’t – it’s just – so late at night, alone-“ I stutter, trying to explain myself and my legs are slowly walking backwards.

„Are you saying,“ says the girl in a serious voice, „that you’re a nice guy?“

„I don’t know. I guess. I don’t want to hurt you. Go home, and I will go home, too, ok? Just get back home safe, that‘s all I want for you.“ I manage to say this instead of good-bye and intend to run away from this little person hidden in the shadows. My heart is beating in my throat.

„You are good,“ says the girl as if pitying me. I stop and watch her turn her back on me and walk into the darkness. Suddenly, she stops and starts turning back. I will never find out why because at that moment, my survival instincts scream aloud and I run far away from the girl and the passage.

I sleep terribly that night. I am haunted by the hallucination of a soft children’s footsteps in my flat. I’m having weird dreams of deserted theatre halls, where random guys in blue jackets, concerned ladies, evil pubkeepers and escaped prisoners keep wandering around. Bulgakov had to have similar dreams before (maybe even after) he wrote Master and Margarita. Morning comes, and I almost scream as I look at myself in the mirror. With dark shadows under my eyes, I look like Jean Valjean. I‘m forcing myself into chewing a piece of bread when my girlfriend calls.

„You haven’t forgotten about dinner tonight, have you?“ she reminds me kindly.

„Don’t worry.“ I try sounding cheerful, but she doesn’t buy it.

„You sound tired – did you guys go for a drink last night?“

„A drink? No... but I returned home late, I had to walk my little sister and her friend home.“

„Are you sure you just walked them?“

„Who do you think I am?“

„All right. I’m sorry... It‘s just, you sound so tired.“

„Yeah, well. That’s the performance. You know. It was so... convincing,“ I say to my own surprise in a guilty voice. She starts laughing, „Of course! You experienced some intense catharsis?“

I try remembering what that weird foreign expression could mean. It didn’t sound familiar.

„Catharsis describes the effect of tragedy on an audience, an emotional release that purifies morally and mentally,” explains my beloved other half.

“I have been putting myself back together for a week after watching Cyrano de Bergerac,” she adds with deep understanding.

“Yep, that’s what it is,” I agreed. “It’s totally the catharsis’s fault.”

When she hangs up finally, I feel relieved. I drag myself into the bathroom and try not to execute myself accidentally while shaving. My hands are shaking.

There is one thing I know for sure. Whatever it was yesterday, it wasn’t catharsis. That happens only in the theatre.

Nightwalker #72034, AR

My Hawaiian friend told me about Nightwalkers once. They have an army of ghost warriors in Hawaii that march through certain forests in the night, and those who see the army with their own eyes die. How typical: to die for witnessing something… forbidden. Damned. Mysterious.

But I won’t be telling you the story of the Nightwalkers. This is the story of just one nightwalker. Me.

It’s early morning in Conway, Arkansas. The summer sun is baking everything alive that dares to step out of comfortably air-conditioned houses and cars. It’s baking me alive. I dare to step out in the sun, because I have to. I’m a door-to-door salesperson. I’m the bloody solicitor that all of you hate. Except, I’m a white Europian girl in her early twenties, quite cute and my accent is hilarious. I’m dressed in shorts and polo T-shirt, carriyng a huge and heavy backpack with few samples. They’re books, stuffed with knowledge that makes them super-sized and terribly heavy.

I’m walking away from the spot where my luckier friend and fellow solicitor just dropped me out of his old, smelly car. I say he is lucky, because he can move much faster and his vehicle provides him with a delightful portion of shadow, something that I won’t be seeing until evening. And I work thirteen hours a day, six days a week. Feel free to imagine how my sanity is slowly getting burned out of my brain with blazing sunbeams. The white cap I’m wearing isn’t much of a help. Oh, and how sweaty I must be. A disgusting person that you wouldn’t let cross your doorstep. Ever.

Walking makes me suspicious. Everyone here is using cars to get… basically everywhere. I’ve seen a few people on bikes, and in my first weeks I was using one of these, too. I can’t ride the bike anymore, I’m out of turf. I’ve been to all of the houses in my landlord’s neighbourhood, and the neighbour neighbourhood, and all of the neighbour’s neighbour neighbourhoods, too. The neighbourhood I’m working on now is too far to bike. So I turned into the walker. Every morning, I step out of the trashy vehicle that is covered in duct tape. Neighbourhood watch must find this really, really suspicious. They called the police on me once. You bet I was shocked! The policemen were armed and wouldn’t even let me show them my permit. As soon as I tried opening my backpack, they told me to freeze and took the paper out of there themselves. Like I had a bag full of explosives or something. Jeez, I’m 6’5’’ feet tall, a pale sweaty creature, selling stupid encyclopaedias that no one needs or wants, how could I possibly hurt someone? (Unless you think that having these characteristics must make me willing to hurt people.)

I keep knocking at the doors, introducing myself and getting to the point of the so-called “sales-talk”, which is – to get into the house. You can sell to people much easier when they’re in the house, for some reason. Some of them are tough cases, though. They let you cool off for a bit, even offer you some beverage and an apple, listen to you carefully, ask promising questions… but when it comes to signing something – hell no, get out of here. But I’ve seen too many poor homes, with residents whose pets cry because they haven’t been fed for days, to be angry with locals. Every time somebody invites me in (I’m not supposed to enter the house when a male opens the door, unless I make sure there’s also some woman inside. It’s for my own safety, men are animals, apparently.) I can’t help but wonder, whether these people have money or not. Sometimes you can tell from the interior design, but even that can be deceiving. You don’t know when they got all this stuff; it might have been very long time ago, before they lost their job. And since things are not very expensive here, other quite-well-off-looking people can easily be poor and you won’t be able to tell.

I wouldn’t trust me either to be completely honest with you. That’s probably the main reason why I haven’t sold anything. Not in my previous weeks, not today - and it’s afternoon already. I had to take my panties off just a moment ago. Their lining was hurting my skin that was irritated enough by the sweat already. This nice old African-American lady let me use her bathroom. I’d die if she didn’t. I’m wearing my shorts on the naked skin now. Bit of a relief, but I won’t be going home for another few hours. We’re prohibited from working after the sunset, that’s what our permit says. But the managers keep saying the opposite. Don’t worry about the permit, nor the blue lights, nor the angry locals. Bring us some cash. Make yourself useful. As the sun starts dissapearing in the ocean of red and purple coloring the dark blue horizon, I continue walking. People are home now, but busy with their dinner, kids, TV shows… I walk past sprinklers watering the green grass. I give a friendly wave to the Virgin Mary, whose statue is praying in one of the gardens. There’s a red hog in there, too, holding a huge red letter A above its head, grinning wildly. And a dragonfly – how beautiful, its rainbow colours, its fragile, glass-like wings - is sitting on the top of the A. I move closely to it and watch the little insect helicopter with pure joy, until it decides there’s been enough staring and flies away. I sigh and raise my head. In a few minutes, sun sets and that moment comes, finally. I turn into a nightwalker.

The thing about us nightwalkers is not that we are dangerous or malicious or even evil, it is that we exist. That we dare to walk on our own in the darkness at the side of the road. There are no pavements around here. What for?

Nightwalkers are rare. But when they appear, you can easily die when spotting one. Die from fear, I mean.

Imagine this – you’re driving your car,  heading home finally after hours of exhausting work. You stop at the supermarket before to buy some frozen burgers and corn. You’re looking forward to the dinner, your partner, your kids. Your pet, maybe. And then, without any warning, you see IT. It’s walking slowly past you at the side of the road. My gosh, what an ugly being this is! Hunched up, with oily hair framing its pale, expressionless face. It walks forward, but how! Zombies show more life-enthusiasm than this creepy thing! It gets momentarily blinded by your carlights, blinks maybe stops for a moment, rubbing its eyes with its fingers. And that’s it – you passed the nightwalker. You breath heavily, not sure you can believe your own eyes. There might even be a small heart-attack. But it’s over, you’ll be safe soon. The nightwalker wishes it could say the same thing.

I sit on the sewer’s lid, forcing myself to chew an apple. I wonder if my panties are somewhere below me, floating. I flushed them into the toilet. The night air cooled off a bit, I can breath easily and I’m happy that another workday is over. I check my watch, just to find out that it stopped. Shit. Looks like the sweat somehow got inside its inner mechanisms. I should have listened to the heat warnings. I’m screwed now. How am I supposed to get a new one? My workday finishes at 10:30 pm, for Christ sake! I’m getting tired of this whole solicitor thing. So tired. I wish I was able to sell something, like my friend the car owner, but I am not. This has to stop. Oh, good. I can see two small lightballs hurrying through the dark in my direction. Another scared local, that’s all I need. Preferably the one that stops the car to ask if I’m ok. Of course I am. I’m the nightwalker. I fear no man, for when the lay their eyes upon me, they shalt all die. Or something like that.

“Anna?”

I look up towards my friend’s face. He’s grinning at me happily from the open window.

“Oh, hi.” I stand up with difficulty and get into the car next to him.

“Guess what?” says Slava happily.

“What.”

“The blue lights! Today, twice. Can you imagine that?”

“Ridiculous. We should put an end to this.”

“Hardly. They’ve got guns.”

I glance out of the window, into the perfect darkness of sleeping neighbourhood.

“In a way,” I say slowly. “We are armed, too.”

He looks at me, puzzled. How could he understand? He’s driving. He turned into one of them. I’m too tired to explain anything to him.

“My watch just died, by the way.”