When

the Grass Overgrows the Sky

By

Logey Linnet




My name is Laine and some day I will be eating fish fingers for dinner. Now
– me, my brother and my mum only munch our portion of bread and butter
apace in hope we can finnish it before father gets home. One day – when I am
old enough and will have made zillion of bucks from inventing a fire truck,
ambulance and police car in one – I will never take a piece of bread and
butter. By that time I will also have got rid of my remaining pesky habits – best
to start with pouring my nails with toluene in order to provide an undisturbed
growth for them. I've tried that with chilli sauce once – but it was too tasty.
And continue by letting my left hand win for the first time when I play Joker
with myslef and stop just being polite to the right hand only beacuse I'm a left-
hander! And the most important one – I will have learnt how to respond when
someone will point out – 'Girl, are you nuts?'



'Put the bloody shoes away! He's gonna be here at any minute!' my brother
whispered to me in a cracked, rasping voice. Quite funny, needs to be
observed, he had just finished fighting against mutation. Even bought a
necktie in a canary yellow, for which I advised him to make a claim, since it
seemed more like vanilla-pudding-yellow to me.
'Just shove them behind the shabby sneakers and let's get to the living
room, now if you only hurried up..' he kept on repeating with this stealthy
trembeling, not just in his voice.
There was a conversation about our father, by the way. Can't remember of
single time any of us called him noun then pronoun, instead. Can't remember
of single time he remembered my age or name.
'Nils! Is she done with the shoe rack, already?' mum's voice from the
kitchen joined his motivation speech to my soul.
'As good as done!' grasped Nils the converse I was holding and tamped it
inside. 'Hurry!' gabbled and held my hand. We both were scudding to the
nearest door.
As for the thousandth time, I wasn't able to understand my mother's
patience with the situation, nor copy it. Even Nils (as a recent grown-up) was
hiding in his shell when speaking to him (pronoun, again!) and he was like the
only one whose name father could remember.
Just through the halway a rattling sound came from the doorway (to put it
straight – before the rattling there came a blunt jostling somewhere around the
metal handle) and we both stopped.
'Bloody shoes...bloody you.' came Nils silently to my ear with an
unexpectedly rhythmic chorus.
I was facing a man, turning in the doorpost and again hoping his betting
picks had gone well. For today.
'Nils-ie-y...' muttered the man wearing a reflective vest over the jacket sold
and later cried out back on the Bastille Day Celebrations from the Salvation
Army's stall.
 Brother took just a little sharper breath and stretched himself, reminding me
of the live shots from the governing cabinet showing solely an ironed ties.
Never seen any canary yellow. Never stop looking for one.
'How are you? Any unexpected scores?' he tried to hush our father exactly
like the wan middle age nurses on call do lull the newborns on maternity ward.
'I..ven't seenh 'em, yetz...' was the answer after he plopped on a shoe rack.
Then continued by taking off his right shoe and casting it on decayed mat. I
got up and picked it up. Mom would've been mad what mess he had left and
certainly would've started an argument. For which I was in great pleasure of
avoiding.
'You'll check 'em for me, now won't you..?' turned father his head to Nils in
effort to focus his less dioptered eye on part of his face. As he was trying to
manage it, his left shoe landed on part of my face.
'Well, but mum's expecting us to help her with di -'
'..Yeuh'll start nic-ni-nicely with Ni-nio-ort via Brest an' then move on ATP
Montpelliere'll, rignh!'
Could have been wrong, but was it sock that landed on my head?
'You see, mum's waiting for us to help her with making the evening meal...'
'ATP, TPA, PTA, 'TP...Ohh, I lov' yeu Nilsee, Nilsie...Jus' yeu an' me..with
no 'hose two bitches, yeu like it? Yea', yeu like it!...'
Nils gave me a fast and shy sight. I couldn't detect anything, but shame in
his eyes. Which I wasn't able to understand as mum's courage, either. I'd have
given up anything to be born with one extra Y-chromosome to be considered
also thought-worthy to father. But I didn't want to ruin the moment for Nils.
'Listen, we really should get back to the kitchen, I mean it...'
Poor Nils. He is the proof of appearance taking over the knowledge. Not
even month ago, his classmates applied for their prechosen colleges in writing,
so he did. According to his grades, he tried for Faculty of Pharmacy and they
accepted him, but very soon declined his application for a scholarhip for as
they had discovered that our parents were not divorced and mum was earning
a minimum wage, so were not exactly living on a poverty treshold.
He screwed up.
'Now, come up...' took my hand for a second time and literally marched
with me through the kitchen door.
 'Well?...How bad's it today?' turned mum to brother as I was scuffing the
handle. Forty five years old woman, midlong pale brown hair, giving the
vanilla pudding in a rusty pot for my tommorow birthday cake's stuffing a
gentle stir.
'N-n-not that-t-t bad-d -' I went on, before Nils could say a word. In case
you are wondering – I've been stammering this way since he (pronoun!)
almost two-dimensionalised my windpipe. Mum turned her head up.
'It isn't? Wasn't he supposed to be muddling along the most odious
alehouses in the whole 11th district with Stan?'
'Shhh – he could hea-'
'So's it that bad, or not,I'm asking you!' - she turned to us angrily, what's
more – in whispering.
'Not bad at all' reported Nils with awkward and pretended hilarity. Stan was
our father's twin. They used going for a TT together (tavern's tours) and
claiming about their marriages. After arriving home they always walloped
their wives for the things the other one'd been complaining to each other
about.
'Really? So what are you doing here, then? Go to our room. Oh, and you
might take some fish fingers from our fridge half.' I turned over and grasped
the jamb. Nils was sure to open the fridge door and loudly took off the
adhering plate.
'Ooops, I didn't want to, I swear! I couldn't predict it would've made such
noise!...' he draged his face and dropped the plate on the floor.
'Look, what you're doing!Mhhmpfffff!...' mather whispered to him back. I
broke through the door and sprout to the living room, where us three were
living. That's why it is called so. A living room.
Suddenly after I closed myself in, I overheard a strange voice -
'You'h bitch! Shutz up'h! 're you serious?! Let N-nillie bhee..! Thick-headed
shrew!..' And then there came this sound as if somebody tossed a rubber boot
into the kitchen door. I clogged my ears up with fingers, as I'd been doing
every time the situation came. Maybe that day it was a bit different, cause I
was about to turn thirteen the next day and was hoping father could handle one
weekend without his (not so) secret medicine.
I knelt down on the cherry-sprigged carpet. Two cherries, four cherries, six
cherries, eight cherries (and nine cherries on this place I burnt up when
building an olympic stadium out of Solstickan matches, architecturally correct
at every detail - even with it's own fire torch from the last third of one safety-
match).
' You'h bitchz! Jus' waait fo' mhee!'
WHACK!
… and then another one -
BANG! WHAM!
Screaming and crying, all together...
I stood up, as I couldn't stand it anymore. Afterall, it was my fault – I was
having a birthday and if I hadn't been – mum wouldn't have had to stay up in
the kitchen this long till father gets in and cook that accursed pie!
'P-please, st-t-top!' I went on, in this terror-struck voice.
'No more-' was that Nils?
I ran for few meters through the hallway and again broke through the same
door as the time I left it.
Now the scene would've definitely deserved a pic.. No!
But still -
'Please, let her be – she wasn't bothering me a bit, please!'
Nils – trying to stop our father from thrusting mum down the windowsill by
pulling his checked sleeve. Father – trying to thrust mum down the windowsill
and not paying even the slightest attention to his son pulling his checked
sleeve. Mum – trying not to be thrusted down the windowsill and desperate to
ignore the fact she was dengling 25 meters above decayed concrete.
I was hurrying to help and jumped three times to get to Nils as close as I
could. But somehow it happened that our father won over us both and I
suddenly saw mum's pale brown hair bound in elastic band disappear.
'One, two...' closed my eyes and silently counted for myself. I wasn't able to
dispose of applying physical laws on everyday life situations, constantly.
But...this was not exactly an everyday life situation. I knew what would
happen after I count 2,236067978.
SCRUP!...
That was it. Not a picture deserving scene, definitely.



2


I looked up. Father was propped on shoulders on the sash and breathing
gaspily.
'Didn' I tell yea wha' happensz to nasty bitchess?' He recited as if she was
staying few meters from him. Well, she was. Bad news – in a wrong direction.
'And yeu!' his eyebrows connected into one thick caterpillar, so for a
moment he reminded me of a soviet commander.
'Nils-sie! Geh' her!' brother kept pulling my arm, till we got to the
bathroom, backwards. It all didn't last for more than a couple of seconds, but I
could detect three different maledications on several types of hags and two
appropiate medieval punishments for them (well, in this case for me).
'Now, lock the door!...' Nills whispered, but before his fingers could even
slide from the handle to the lock – the particleboard piece of plate overtook
and we were again facing the commander.
'Comm' and get it!' he shouted out loud and reached out for the shower hose
(we were only having this formica one attached to the bathtub).
'A-ahcursed day, yeu filth-ie southpaw were born!' he hiccuped and bashed
Nils's forehead while aiming for mine. All the knowledge on advanced
petrochemical formulas just died, that very moment.
'Lookh', what yeu'ehv dann! Aaaarrghh! Ma' boy Nil-sieee!' The hosepipe
swished another time. Another. And another. One of them stinged me into the
right temple and the others probably around the whole body. While stepping
backwards I stumbled on the bathtub.
'Here yeu-uh are!' another smacks were marking my chest and loins. The
most unbearable thing for me was – that the smacks weren't devided
symmetrically. After like fifteen seconds he dropped it and started untying his
belt. The blood from my temple was pouring the tub's bottom. By my hand-
wawe was a switcher. I shut down the lightning and immediately stepped out
of it. Without thinking I tugged the foam carpet he was standing on - hard
which was followed by a slippery sound and then this awful bump only a
forehead can make. I mean – one can always recognize when the ground, or
wall collides with the neurocranium.
With no thoughts or ideas left in my mind – I only ran across the door's
leftover, grabbed a jacket seesawing from the coat hanger, pulled the keys out
of my tracksuit, opened our front door and kept on running down the stairs,
breathless. Neighbours from our floor started rattling with their doorchains,
disapprovingly. No doubt, they were frightened to death. At least, for once.
Mentally disabled, but nasty, for sure. Always driving our father mad, when
throwing plastic bags full of beer cans by their front door, at 6:45 am. And
our father throwing their Venetian loafers on their front door. I broke through
the main-entrance and while taking the stairs down – my right temple got pet
by a brazilian flag waving from one of the first- floor windowsills. Hope the
green fabric won't mind a few dried rusty spots on it's innocent surface...
I don't know whether you've ever been to Rue de Charonne, once. It's one
of the most window-flagged streets in the whole Paris. One of the nicest and
longest, as well. It's not that enchanting in this upper part, but as you keep
going down it gets fulfilled with restaurants and cafés, instead of occult
homeopatics next door our block of row-flats, for instance.
So was I. Running down Rue de Charonne and not knowing what to do
next. I was even letting pick-ups pass me without remembering their licence
numbers, which I'd been practising literally every time, situation occured.
When my lungs completly ran out of oxygen, because windpipe just pissed of
the salary – I fell on my knees and let the remaining limbs shiver. Before
closing my eyes I noticed a sunshade out of a yellow plastic (forming exactly
the shape of a kitchen hood) next to the black garage door signed with POS
TOPO BORRACUS. It was behind the bus station, so only lodgers from the
first-floor flats could possibly see me (the sky'd already turned dark, for it was
November). The eyelids quickly rolled down.



3

There was an internet website created in 2006 by Greg Laabs asking the
audince to type in a random number from 1 to 100 without any explanation
given for why does it do so. But the results are quite fascinating and show that
even such a prosaic quantities as numbers follow the order of populartiy. Most
people, if asked would never choose a November for their favourite month of
the year. Some mind the grubby puddles, some would cross it off for not
involving any entertaining celebrations to encircle with the red marker pen on
a calendar page...
Asking me – no weather conditions, nor lack of practice for drawing circles
bothers me, at all. Only Christmas decorations drive me mad. First scenery to
enlight (literally) my retina after getting up at 22:03 was the windowpane
bedecked with paperchains and Christmas tree lights above the
RESTAURANT DIYAR. The conditions were not that bad, afterall. From
what I could spot with my eye (not hiding under the black patch) they also
exposed four glass-stickers on the transparent window boards. They were
shaped as snowmen playing the music instruments. And wearing adorable
winter hats. One of them (insulting a tambour) had a bell attached to the edge
of his cap. I remember me watching that sticker for a couple of minutes that
night. If I should join the band I would play no violin, nor tambour or trumpet
or accordion – I would choose the bell. Even, once in a class we were
presenting our favourite music pieces, so I had chosen Suite Bergamasque. My
teacher asked me what kind of instrument I would have liked to master and I
went on like – 'Triangle'.
'Seriously? Why?'
'You don't get to hear it until the very end.'
Later on he borrowed me a vinyl records of Schostakovic. Later I borrowed
it to Nils to use them as a bookends for we had no phonograph. Never told him
about it. Always kept humming 7th symphony whenever he asked me,
whether I liked it.
As I said – the conditions were not bad, at all – it was that only once I woke
up – I was freezing to death. Altough, I shrinked myself near the black plastic
container – still the calfs were twiddling as if they wanted to perform in
Ireland got talent.
I stood up. The smooth surface of the topping on the pot was emerging in
front of my eyes. After few blinks it completely disappeared, but tears
appeared, instead. I was so cold, hungry, lonely and lost. Neon billboards
stroke me right thorugh the pupil. The billboard signed with - Virginia
Immobilier was lightning a bit an old building made up of solid bricks. On its
backside were shadowed windows (some of them with installed bars). They
were located so suitable for my 158 centimetres lenght and from the fisrt-floor
one was wawing a Confederation flag...
As fast as I could with my impractical Irish-dancing running method I
tottered to the Rue Charrière street. The wall was utterly taped with posters
from three sides, so the remaining ones were shivering in the air.
I approched closer to the window. The lever seemed to be pulled down, so I
was in a great hurry to tear down the sail and vanish into thin air. The lights
were switched off, luckilly. I started pulling with my left hand. Yes – if he
(remember the pronoun?) was disappointed with me being born as a daughter,
not as a son - than he being disappointed with me being a southpaw was like
as if being exhausted and missing your daily ration of Nescafé to missing your
daily ration of RedBull. Both nasty conditions to suffer from, but Nescafé one
hurts a lot more, because it costs and counts more.
Just when I stroke a spark when scraping the fabric onto a rusty nail – a
bigger electrical current appeared from the room's scone lightbulbs.
'I told you once I told you a thousand times – those hell crispy pieces are
mucking the mattress! Go to the kitchen to have that late-evening free-
midnight snack!' a wailful woman voice cut through the air. For a second I
believed in reincarnation – only cargo ship's whistles can shriek out that loud.
'Pie-ece!' - another (this time man's voice) joined the party. It actually didn't
sound that aloud, but its pure annoyance made it detectable for me. The young
man (maybe a son, or a reality show contestant) said this simple word with
arrogance and waved his hand.
'It always lasts to me to slave all around your piggish asses! And to point
out – I've never seen that Milo friend of yours with normal-sized pupils! It's
hell exhausti-...'
 'Pea-a-ace!!!'
'ing! What if I decided to pack my bags and move to a sublease, meh? Don't
wo-...'
'PEA-A-A-A-A-CE!'
'-rry – I have something saved-up. I'll find something, never mind.'
'Just shut up.'
I heard a settee squeal under the solid bunch of pounds. Finally – the end of
the flag pet my fingers.
'Ar-roof! Bow-wow-wow!' without any expectation a thick-furry brown-
grey spitz attacked me. You can see dogs like this in Stankovany, Slovakia.
Part of mum's family lives there. They only visited once – and the only thing I
can possibly recall is their regret for not having dogs like Wolfspitzs here in
France, too and also blaming mum for marrying father. I liked them, because
they had been sending us dried plums, peaches, apricots, filled homemade fir
honey jars and home grown wallnuts.
I fell down with the sail and even threw a flower pot with me.
'Aroooooooo! Bah-huuu!' it kept on howling.
'Vezuv! You shut up! What have you done, you moron!'
Immediately, I started crawling behind the corner, as fast as I could.
'Fuck! He shed the dalhias! And flag! It's gone!'
'You worthless leech! Go out and tidy it all up!'
CRINK! BANG!
'Pea-a-ce, I said!!!''
'I should've drowned you in a dishpan, as the others! Nah! Go out a make
yourself useful, for once!'
'Nasty hag...'
The area behind the corner was nowhere near five-star destinations
celebrities are tamming their bums in. You can find these in the third class
trash magazines alongside with puppies they supposedly found. In here were
only 12 cycles, 5 motorbikes, 3 dustbins and lastly - one split ceramic toilet
bowl. Suddenly - right then - God again proved his sense of black humour.
While escaping my right foot got stuck in the sewer lid. I wonder if he
punctuates his intentions in bullet points on a blackboard. That was kind of a
funny picture to imagine.
 I heard angry voices from the background. My knees descended. I was
determined to have the fabric rolled under my body, so no traspasser would
see it and it would, at least slightly protect my skin from the concrete.
For a few minutes nothing happened and then I heard steps. The building
was casting a shadow, so it sure wasn't that easy to spot me, but still...
'Drowning me in a dishpan... Pha! Once I'll choke her foul phizog in a
popcorn gallipot, I swear!'
The banging heels finally passed me. I put the flag out and covered myself
with it. I wasn't facing the belly snowman, so again – I was feeling lonely.



4


Do you think that cats could score a hole in one using their furry tails?
It was 4:51 am, when I opened my eyes for the second time. I knew,
because I controlled my pocket watches. They were not always this way. Its
dial was not even analogue, but digital. I won them in a school ceremony for
scoring the best results in biology and chemistry regional Olympics. Bargain,
not only for me, but for the competition holders, as well for they only cost
8.99 euros from the nearest Secco chain-store. After few weeks the plastic belt
torn off, so I decided to continue on wearing them by replacing it with the
thread and hiding them in my tracksuit pocket.
'Your Lordship Victor Emanuel III – how was the weather during your tavel
via those freaky time-machine cabins masked as Paris's call-boxes?'' asked me
Mr. Rusnak – my chemistry and literature teacher with his familiar grin
whenever we were talking to each other.
'N-nho ac-ccidents, thank-kh you. You may ri-ise, my dear sub-subject. Th-
t-the royal audience i-ih-s now over. Time for m--mhy royal gluteus ma-
aximus to go occupy its royal bus-s-s-ss-seat in the most-royal-way-pleasure.'
I replied and plucked my wrist out of his slightly-sweaty palms.
'We really should train some more on paronomasis, shouldn't we?' he
countinued smiling at me and caressing my elbow.
'Awwww. There's st-s-s-till more to aliteracy, bu-h-tt don't forget I can
order to go off with yo-our head, anytime I want!' and then pressed my shin on
his calf in hope I could jump down the optical glass set cases we were sitting
on, but he only bedecked it with his ankle and continued making jokes of me.
'And you don't forget that I may find my way to all those masked time-
machines and I pull out all the twenty-cents, so you'll be stuck here with me
forever.'
'How d-didh you know only t-th-the twenty-cents work?'
'Everybody can see they're covered differently.'
Then my wrist/pocket watches set on alarm.
'Ouch. I must go. Cou-u-uld you, please un-o-ll-lock the door for me?'
 Now, I was stuck in one of the Rue Charrière' sewer lids and again – that
little truck of silicon microchips kept on tweeting. And I hadn't even set it....
These associations are funny things. One single look on the display and the
first thing to cross my mind that day – was the worry I hadn't finished my
work on that costume of the favourite book character for the Social Sciences
class. But immideatly I rememberd that nobody's gonna see me, anyway. I had
already picked, but...let's just keep it that way I'm not much of a Seville
Barber. My mum was good at needlework, but another thought on mama and I
began crying, again. Of course – now covered in Confederation flag – I could
pretend being a Georgian hero from Gone with the wind. I enjoyed reading it
several times. When Mr. Rusnak borrowed a venerable print from 1967 in
Slovak language to me and asked what I liked the most I went on like – 'The
inner anthropode-ecosystem. If you happen to find a magnifier – we could go
exploring. You should thank me. I am about to enrich even our bug-collection,
altough your incunabula's one is also...magnifying.' and then he gently slapped
me over the tracksuit with the magnifying glass.
But I wanted another character. You remember the Mad Hatter from Alice
in Wonderland? So I was always scared of him and wanted to be the Cheshire
cat. That one that could completly vanish and only his grin would left.
His grin...
And then it was like when in cartoons the characters find their heads under
the switched-on lightbulb. I did not, altough I certainly could use one for it
was still dark, outside.
I could go across the town to Mr. Jastram's block of flats. I knew the
address. Even had been there, once. I somehow could make him quiet about
my existence and cook for him (maybe if he buys bread and butter...) and tidy
up his textbooks (or make a castle of them and pretend to be living in there
with him and read its own bricks together) and, and.....
There was plenty of options for me to do. But a fear cut through my mind.
What if he doesn't approve? What if somebody discovers about us? Hiding
like this can happen only in stories from our beloved books. Suddenly – a
wind blew from behind and I heard that toilet seat crash into the bowl.
Determined! I must get out and meet him. At that very moment nothing
could make me feel sedately, but the concetpion of us two sitting again on the
hill of optical glass set cases in the locked storage for physical class
equipment and me teasing him for shaving his stubble, yesterday.
Alongside with the watches I also palpated a wallet in my pocket. I opened
it and looked into – there was 16 euros and 23 cents left plus a CCCP lighter
and a half-edgeless knife.. Those two I took out and hid into the tracksuit
pocket. It should be enough for a bus drive.
Because the Paris was deailing with subzero temperatures – I was starting
to feel quite uncomfortable and humiliated. Though it was November, so the
organism wasn't having that big problem with dehydration and I was now
more starving than I was thirsty – I still needed to urinate.
So far no progress with the foot rescue operation. That was absolutly
inconceivable for I was having the smallest feet size from my class.
There was no way of avoiding – despite the crinkling icicles hanging from
the bike handles – I was only glad there were holes in that lid, afterall.
During the next couple of minutes – inhabitants of the flats could either
witness their own brain cortex creations that would nicely repaint the EKG's
tape, or – the shortest and definitely – the least attractive peepshow.
Now, get back to my mission impossible plans. It absolutely didn't matter
how hard, or how long I was trying to move the leg's edge from behind the
bars. No results. So again I had to go for the most adrenaline way.
'Ow-w-whooo!' I shouted down the conduit, only to check up on its length.
No echo returned. They may also dislike the stammering. I sighed and started
untieing my shoe laces. I knew both the ways to actually tie them and for a
strange and unknown reason I had been practising it the way my father was
teaching it Nils and not the way my mother showed me.
'Stay still!' I whispered to that Chinesse plimsoll. It was hard to balance
with it only holding it by laces under the bars, but finally - I was half barefoot.
Now, I could easily push my flash and sock through the lid's holes and set
myself free, again. But however hard trying – the plimsoll would still get stuck
and wouldn't tiny-space itself to get 'pushable'...
'Man overboard!' - was the last thing for me to shout down the conduit that
morning. And the first (probably also the last) echo from the deep was the
splashing sound. I was secretly counting, as it was falling down to examine its
length, but somehow applying physical laws on daily life situations didn't
work this time and didn't rise my lip corners in any angle.
Free again – I set up on my journey to the Charonne underground station,
but somehow I ended up sitting on the children's playground parapet againts
the Church. I was still imagining Cheshire cat cheating on crocquet while
being invisible. Maybe Mr. Rusnak will know if there is something like a hole-
in-one in crocquet.



5


My favourite (but in this case just utterly improvised) pocket thing began
ringing at 6:37 am, yet I didn't know how to stop it, so I only slammed it agaist
the pavemement. First sun rays were finding their way throughout the
atmosphere. Once I happened to find and catch a tiny tree-frog. It had been
kept in a marmalade jar for three days and I had been scrutinizingly observing
its skin-shade in order to search up for the scientific accuracy of those fables
from metropolitan mythology. The results didn't show up, but on the fourth
day of the experiment – it was forenoon when I was in school – father was
looking for an empty bottles with Stan to collect enough of them for their
annual cycle trip around Alsace region's pubs. This one he found on a balcony
and poured its whole content into a toilet, so yeah – I can not say whether they
are able, or not, for sure. In any case, it was looking like no clouds for me to
stare at and pretend like they are taking shapes of a degenerate cartoon
characters, that day.
Now, what am I about to say to Mr. Rusnak? Just ring his doorbell and
announce a martial law? Or send myself in a package to his doormat as an
Easter egg surprise? These were again funny visions. As I knew myself –
mostly I was capable of ringing the doorbell and then running away. My
phobia of speaking with people via phones was the sixteenth most serious. I
was generally lost with everyday life situations. The first time for me to label
myself a nerd in public was in the 3rd grade when our class was rehearsing a
play for the school theatre. Nobody would really cast me, so I only helped to
design the scenery. They were only made out of a thin paper, not a cardboard
and we pasted them to the curtains with a duct tape. By the time my
classmates were performing I was playing some kind of a 'support staff', as I
had been instructed. From the background I could see that one of the paper
chestnut tree branches got unstuck and since I had been there to provide
everything around the play I only walked up the stairs to the main floor and
while the kids were reciting the verses I emerged with a duct tape and headed
right to the faulty branch to fix it. I had never been to a play, or something like
that before and I really couldn't stand that imperfection. After a while till the
actors spotted me and the audience understood this was not a part of the play -
craps of laughter came from the auditory seats. Maybe if those were
professionals, everything would have continued by the saying – the show must
go on. But, as I was measuring the right lenght (unstucking a twisted tape is
my eight most serious fear) and the silence was filling the hall – somehow it
ended up with me falling down that sticky wheel and running for it and then
getting screeched at by the castle princess.
'My daddy will scrag you for ruining our play!'
'I-Ih-I was only tr-eeeh-ying to fix up th -'
'Bhu-uhuu-oow – wanna go home! Ruined everything! You have no pretty
clothes!'
'F-fhorhive me – but your he-eeaa-dband's missing a ruby stone. The third
from t-the left -'
'Bwooo-hooh-hooo!'
Now, the audience started hacking and a sharp voice from the backround
flew near me – 'Can't somebody take her out of here?' I didn't mind that,
because none of my parents had come.
Now, my task was to buy a subway ticket in the Charonne station, take the
line number 9 and get off in Strasburg Saint-Denis platform. I should handle
that.
It was not that far from the Rue Chariére – only turn over and head back to
the Rue de Charonne, then keep passing down and turn left to Boulevard
Voltaire. As I was passing it – I noticed one of the street shops – Laboratorie
Analyses Medicales – the sight broke my heart. Well, not literally - you only
can puncture a cardiac muscle. In here Nils wanted to work once in his future.
There are plenty of homeopatics and pharmacies in Paris, but he wanted to
work here, because it was near our prefab. Right now, he was only helping in a
bookstore next door and he wanted it, because he was pretending to own a
bicycle. Somebody was parking a GIRO one almost everyday near his
coworkers's motorbikes and therefore he was always the last one to leave, so
he didn't have to unlock the safe lock. He must have felt so ashamed of our
poverty, because the Nils I knew was capable of far more refined plans. I
passed a woman wearing a turquoise scarf and holding a Samsung cell phone.
I could almost see the 'METRO' label when something crashed my right rib. In
a moment one man ripped and half-undressed me of my jacket. He was
wearing a hoody, so I couldn't see his face, but I noticed nibbled nails, burn
scarfs all over his knuckles and a name – Benjamine - IX II MCMXCII
tattooed on his swarthy wrist. It all happened in a second and he was gone.
The station was now right in front of me. I kept staying there and let the maple
achenes land on my torn sleeve. A wind blew a bit harder and I sneezed.
'Maybe, this is just one of those inappropiate prank, or 'social experiment'
videos for Youtube' – cut through my mind.
I kept staying there for so long, all the achenes got blown away.



6


Again, I searched through my pockets. No funds left. It still wasn't a round
sum - if he had asked me I would have borroved him those remaining 23
cents...
There was a a pigeon-marked bench in front of the Optic 2000 store where
I sat.
'Should I board 'off the ticket'?' Nonsense. Everybody would notice me
since whenever taking the bus, or subway – I avoided touching anything at the
expense of maintaining stability. One thing was for sure – it's expressly
impossible to obtain yourself any worth attention-paying amount of money to
satisfy your urges when the only way of your gain occupation is designing
calendars with the drawings of the 13-years old lassie's current crushes.
Anyway, this had probably spiked my guns on visiting Mr. Rusnak. Somwhere
from the background a clocktower rang for seven times. Hmmm...lucky
number. I remember we were so jeleaous about its popularity for we adored
number 13 (both of us got born on Friday the 13th).
It would have been nice if we had met that day, as well, but we didn't. I
remember it clearly – it was a year back on the 3rd of September when I
started attending Collège. At that time I only had heard rumors about him
being grumpy and indifferent. It was only the third day of the school year,
after all.
'I don't know how much you like reading, or how often and much you do.'
was the first thing to tell us when he entered the class and put a coffee mug on
his workbench. He was so tall, that he had to lower his 2 mm long-haired head
to actually pass the door.
'I spent 4 years overwritting recommended scripts, washing roommates's
cups and sunbathing on campus when pretending to study while attending
Faculty for Education. When four years had passed - I was found eligible to
pass on pumped-up knowledge to the next generation. Here, I have been since
then. Practising. Still learning.'
Most of the class was silnet. It was very hot and nobody was actually
paying attention. Not really. I thought to myself - 'when this funny zany
wearing knitted sweater in 24 degrees Celsius will come up with a hackneyed
aphorism?' He put his clenched fists into the pockets and leaned on a
blackboard.
'I'm about to tell you short story of my own creation to describe you the
forlorn hope called- education - A man was leading his donkey down the
road, when the donkey got free and ran to the edge of high cliff. The man ran
as fast as he could to the donkey and grabbed his tail to stop the donkey from
going off the edge of the cliff. But the donkey was stubborn; the more the man
tried to stop him, the more the donkey pulled the other way. "Oh well," said
the man, "if you are determined to go your own way, I cannot stop you." - end
of story.'
The silence continued. He kept on smiling, but as if afraid of showing teeth.
The story was accordingly short to catch everyone's attention and accordingly
long to teach us a lesson for....for what? I was sitting in the first row and his
desk was right in front of me. Those liquid creamy imprints on the desk's
surface were literally driving me mad. One side of the table got marked with a
circle, while the other one left plain.
'That's how the things work. You may choose - either to fall off the cliff, or
either to get yourself enlightened by somebody who wants the best for you. A
talent is helpless with bluntness around.'
'Aesop copyright.' I observed in a quiet insisting voice.
'Pardon me?' the whole class turned heads to my desk involving him.
'That's ee-exactly what Aesop said. Plus-s that fable.' still nobody'd spoken
a word.
'Well – it's about a donkey and his Master. It is called – A donkey and his
Master.' as always – a crap of laughter fizzed thorugh the air. 'Moron!' - a boy
eating his own snots from the fourth row blurted.
'What is your name, young lady?' Rusnak asked me with creased eyebrows.
'Lainie Isben.'
He was drilling through my eyebalss with his sight for quite a long time
and again turned his head to the class with no further remark.
'It is true, that the main goal of teaching a literature is to make good readers
and writers out of you, but what you will be asked to define at the exams in
reality - is the theory.' he said and passed me closer to the students in the
background.
'Naaaaaah...' cut the air. That mark on his workbench I felt as if it a was a
hot iron marker burning into my own skin.
'Therefore it's gonna be quite hard not to run right across the cliff's edge.'
I couldn't stand it. He was far behind me – so I bent over my desk to reach
for it. Unfortunately, my beloved physical laws apply also to mugs.
CRINK! It's a pity that liquid puddles do not spill symmetrically.
'What do you think you are doing! That was MY cup!' in two steps he was
standing right behind me.
'I-Ih know. But-th – if I wouldn't ha-ae-ave thrown it down – you could
have seen it left an imprint-'
'You think I am a fool? Who does - does – well, does - ugliness like this?
Who cares if it's there, or not!'
'I'll ha-ave it cleaned and dried. I-Ih promise.' luckilly I'd been stocking
tissue papers in my backpack. When watching me cleaning the mess I noticed
a small spark in his eyes. Corneal abrasion, maybe?
'Fine, class. It's been enough I want you to turn your textbook to page 11.
Time for some serious work done.'
Twentyeight unfriendly gazes rolled down to me.

'Now, you have to pass the street to get to the school gym. You all better
assemble in the atrium, so we'll show you the way. Or we don't have to?' asked
me and my calssmates our new sport teacher Mrs. Chastian dressed in a purple
coach tracksuit and holding a writing board under her left arm with the boy's
teacher Mr. Paget clenching a basketball bag's node between his fingers. It was
our last lesson that day.
'We'll make it – 've been there three months ago on the annual school
handball Chapmionship, remember? Some of us, I mean...' answered the boy
flaunting every nerd in the class by riding his new bicycle every morning to
school and not having to exercise with the rest of the class thanks to his
doctor's advice.
'Just make it on time, okay?' Paget said and lifted the bag from the floor.
'Thank you' I thought to the boy. I hated school sports. To be honest – I had
been planning on skipping this class few hours ago - but, now those got
serious. I didn't want to show anyone marks from the Monday's beating. That
was from 2 days back - Stan invited father for another TT. I admit that I
panicked. Few seconds after their speech I found myself detaching the others
while heading to lockers and being carried by my feet's autopilot to the school
library, instead.
The bell rang. Our middle-aged, two-times divorced, resignated librarian
was luckilly sorting the returned books back to their proper shelves, so she
didin't see me enter. Four bookcases passed and so far nobody to be seen. It
was looking good for me, at least for this lesson. I was trying to avoid thinking
what would happen to me at home, when they'll phone home. Maybe I
should've just played sick, so I wouldn't have to practise. Afterall – Nils was
teaching me advanced somatology – for sure I knew how to malinger several
symptoms...
'Huck!'- at least I think this is what I panted out after I plunged into a grey
woolen sweater.
'Oh, no. Captain Silver, please – I beg you for peace!' exclaimed Mr.
Rusnak and – smiled.
'You impersonated m-mhe into the most threadbare pirate figure? E-e-
except for Captain Jack Sparrow? Wh-hy?' he only kept smiling.
'You-u want me put down the ey-eyepatch?'
'Why are you wearing it? Isn't it – in a way – againts the school rules?' now
it was my turn to keep staring at him.
'Tell me. Or you'll forever stay a threadbare character for me.' he winked.
'I-Ih should be wearing glasess for my left eye.'
'And? Why don't you tell your daddy to go and see the doctor with you?'
still staring at him.
'Well – tell me. Why don't you?' I didn't do anything beside looking around
and avoiding to look at him.
'Shouldn't you be at class by this time? It's only the sixth lesson.' still I don't
know why – the tears burst from under my eyelids.
'Oh, no – I don't want you to cry. What's happened? Tell me, please.' we
headed back to the reading room (fortunately it was empty-crowded) and sat
together down on the fabrica stools.
 'Why are you crying?'
'I'm not.'
'Of course, you're not. You are only sheding tears, as an expression of
distress and pain.' I raised my forehead.
'Wbster's II New R-rh-riverside University Dictionary, pa-ae-ge beginning
with 'crude oil', as a headword.' his eyebrows lifted upwards.
'I believe it's Oxford English Dictionary, page beginning with 'cruishing
radius' as a headword.' he began grinning when I covered my chest with arms
as a sign of deep thinking.
'You are very probably right – the Riverside's de-efinition goes on like –
''To make in-in-inarticulate sobbing sounds expressing grie-ef, sorrow, or
pain'', I guess-ss.... What is it?' I was starting to feel uncomfortable with his
strange facial expressions.
'Huchh...' he went on.
'W-wu-hat?'
'I really need to drink this down. I would have never thought I will ever
find you.'
'You mean, li-ike you've been looking for m-mhe? And forseeing m-mhy
existence?'
'Something like that. Listen – here you eighty cents. Go please and buy us a
white coffee from the machine, could you?' I grabbed the coins and went my
way. Unfortunately – the automat did not accept 50 cents and the button for
changes got stuck. I had to go back and ask for another coins.
'All right, I believe you. Here – two twenty cents. Is that all right?'
'I hope.'
But when I came back I discovered that with those remaining thirty cents I
was still missing ten of them for two forty-cents costing milk-shakes.
'I-Ih swear this is fo-ohr the last time.'
'It better be.' he showed me his teeth in a smile for the very first time. I
tossed the coins through the loophole and waited for my order and then
brought it back.
'Umghfff-' - we both split out our first gulp.
'I see the white coffee's very popular menu item...' he observed and kept
stroking the brown plastic cup fulfilled with a hot water.
 'But to gratify you somehow, my dear Lainie – I happened to put together
my very own fable. This time for real.' he winked, again.
'R-rheally? And what is the moral point-th?'
'A cup of coffee is helpless with Lainie Isben around.'

'Here we are.' Mr. Rusnak unlocked the door handle, so we could enter the
Phisics laboratory eqipment and components repository, number 2.
'The month's detention still counts?' I asked.
'Of course – you know the deal. My mug's got broken, I've told my
colleagues you got sick, and I still haven't had my daily dose of caffeine. This
is the finest way you can get punished.'
'Wh-hat will I have to do?' I asked when he locked the door.
'Nothing much, as I said before. You'll help me to sort out, classify and
separate between these alchemistic implements.'
So, we started. And ever since then – even after a month had passed – I was
returning to help him there in the repositoy and we had become best friends.
'Clean it, carefully!' he rumpled my hair with the wet cloth.
'And easy up there on that ladder! Isn't it enough for one having an
eyepatch? Do you need also a wooden leg? Shouldn't I better do it?' shouted
he after me when I climbed the highest rung.
'I'm com-mfortable with this. Pass-s me another!' so we moved on the top
shelf.
'A-and for the wooden leg... Nah. I'd much rat-t-ther have my hand hooked.
But, if you had both – a hook hand and a wooden leg – you could handle the
kitchen work without a cutting board. Probably.'
'You better stick up with rudder-work, Lai. Kitchen-work is not exactly
your cup of tea – which is unfortunately also a thing you don't really get to
cook without completely burning.'
He was down there, waylaying for me to burst into flames and maybe going
down to slap him with the cloth. Again – I bedecked my chest with the arms
and pondered for a while.
'You are right-th maybe on 78%. It's true that I've burnt a Sunday chicken
soup on March the 12th last year, but still – there's a difference bet-tween a cut
parsley and celery leaves and a cut herbaceous stems.'
 'Homemade are the best, as they say.'
'They most sure are. Like the Slovak fir honey. You-u've told me you've
always wanted to master upon, at least 6 bee co-olonies? But in here you'd
only get a wildflower product. Fir tree's the best.'
'I've only tasted a pine tree honey. There is actually something like fir
honey?' I turned my face down to him.
'I can bri-ing you some, if you want. Tommorow. But, I sha-all warn you –
unless you b-bh-bring something sharp to hew it out of the jar with – so far no
feast for any of us.'
'Wouldn't they be mad at you at home?'
'Could b-bhe. … But their energy won't-th last for long without that
miracolous disaccharide.'
'Why do you never come over visit me? I've asked you a couple of times
and you know that, very well. Lainie... listen to me. We would have a great
time, don't you think?' I paid a great amount of attention to the rhinestone I
was wiping, so I only shrugged my shoulder.
'Really. You see – I would sitf all the pieces from that 10 000 jigsaw puzzle
box of black and white snap of the two kittens, so we could start solving it. I
have a stopwatch prepared, did you know that?'
'I didn't.'
'Lai, what's up with you whenever I suggest you should visit?'
'Nothing.'
He stopped sorting the tube holders, sighed and stood up. Silence continued
for a while and it was only cut through by the sound of a crinkling glass.
'You know what?'
'Wh-hat?'
'I had a dream last night.'
'Well - that's highly probable for you are a human being.'
'In fact – it was all about that painting of a lighthouse you showed me in
that Watercolour Art Revue, remember?'
'Yes. Now, when-n you mentioned that, I remember it, clearly.'
'In my imagination there was an abandoned island patchily overgrown with
grass tufts. The weather never got sunny or not windy, all day. Only a
lighthouse trustee lived there and a linnet. The linnet had it's nest down on the
ground. Problem was – the first day of spring the grass blades started growing
so fast.'
'That doesn't sound like Aesop.'
'It is not. The poor linnet had to abandon it's nest and wander to the coast.
As the landmark it was using a lighthouse's light. It only dared to walk to the
cost, not fly up to the lighhouse.'
'It-th sure could have flied..'
'It was afraid fot it was small, weak and bad at everything her peers were
doing naturally. And remember – the weather was mostly so cold and windy,
that the conditions were not quite favourable even for a good pilot.'
'But-th how did it end?'
'It took the harder way at it's own expense. Desparate with almost no food,
or water, sleeping during sunrise and traveling for many sunsets and nights –
there came one when the blades covered the whole sky in it's sight... Well,
what do you think?'
'You know I'm not a fortune-teller.'
'So try then, as a story-teller...'
I was balancing on the top of the ledder while polishing power supplies kit
and grabbed the biggest suitcase – it first fell off and it pulled myself with it.
After a collision with the earth's surface Mr. Rusnak leapt to me.
'Are you all right, coxswain? You've now really made it to a flying
Dutchman!'
'I'm al-right-th.' I fumbled and tried to tuck in my shirt.
'No – you're not! Something's there. Let me have a look at it.'
'It's nothing-' but he'd already rolled it's edge up.
'What?! What the hell is that! Those are not from the fall! What is it – Lai –
please – what is it!'
I didn't say anything and tried to roll it down, but he started unbuttoning it.
'I know what it is. Your father does this to you, doesn't he!'
'N-nho, I must have felt-t down the stairs. Yeah – week and a half ago, n-
nhow I remember. Better work on my ear-siphons li-i-quid to prevent
coordination, next t-thime-'
'This is an abuse! I have to phone the Social Services-'
'No! Don't! You hear me!'
 'This is not normal! It has to be announced!'
'Please, pl-hease, please, pl-hease, pl-hease – don't. N-nho – pl-lease...' I
cried and kneeled down to his feet.
'You're afraid. But everybody is in these cases-'
'I'm not th-the only one. My mum's, as well. Nils is. Pl-lheas – let us be...'
We were looking at each other and breathing hardly.
'Who's home, today?'
'T-thoday? Well, – mum's having a 16-hours shift un-until 7 am and Nils
went yesterday fo-o-or a Geography Olympics contest.'
'So, it's only your father.'
'He still won't be bac-ckh until midnight.'
'You'll come with me.'
'Wh-here?'
'To my apartment. It's not that far away – you know where is Rue du
Grenier Saint-Lazare?'
'Never been th-there.'
'We'll use my motorbike.'
'You have a m-mhotorbike?'
'You'll see.'

We really arrived there by that two-wheeled vehicle. You could only get
there by entering through a dark and dank side entrance, but when he opened
his front door I immediately noticed a Galvanic series poster above the mirror
in the hallway. I began to like it from the first sight. My shoes came off and I
tried to align it, so they would perfectly fit on the shelf in his shoe rack.
'You can pull out that box puzzle from under the day-bed. I'll make you
some pancakes, alright?'
He opened the door to the kitchen and sounds of a rattling dishes came out
of there.
'Or you can go exploring in my library. Just be aware of the moths!' I
stepped into the kitchen.
'I'd rather helped you. You-u may teach me how to boil the water.'
'Oh, ninny. But if you insist – now you may set up the table.'
After few minutes we were launching the pastry on the pan.
 'Ha-ae-ve you ever tried – hmm - ...you kn-n-now – burn pictures into the
pancake?'
'Burn pictures? Show me.'
I grabbed the spatula and pushed it againts the dough. When we tilted it out
of the pan it looked a lot like this:

'Is there something to be seen? A hidden pattern, or something?' he teased
me a bit.
'There probably isn't. It-th worked out worse than I-Ih thought it would.'
'That's a pity. You know – I was a bit expecting this is another one of your
tricks and that there really would something appear...'
'Wait! It is there! For real!'
'I don't see, anything.'
'Just turn it over and you'll see it immediately!'
He did exactly the way I instructed him. Kept staring at it for a long time.
'Maybe I should procure myself a contact lenses, or some sort.'
'There really isn't anything. I just had fun imagining people turning their
heads if this was only an illustration in a book.' he rumpled my hair with his
fingers dusted with pastry, as a punishment.
It was on 99,98 percent - the best day of my life. In his library the books
weren't only stocked in the shelves, but they were folded in a columns, all over
the floor. After getting seriously lost with the jigsaw puzzle, we watched a TV
quiz for a couple of minutes, but we got lost, too.
'Wanna see my Bolivian stamps collection?'
It was on 100 percent the best day of my life.
'You go to the bathroom and take a shower. I'll put your clothes on the
radiator for tonight. You can put on one of my old T-shirts. When done come
to the hall, I'll dry your hair.'
He really borrowed me a T-shirts from his closet – it's lenght was so
propiate that I firstly experienced the feeling of wearing a nightie. From the
hall I heard a heirdryer and a little bit of his singing - Someone to watch over
me. I peeped from behind the corner.
'Come Lai.'
He put out a comb and began untangling and arranging my hair.
'So, you still don't want me to divulge your secret?' a gentle hitch on the left
side provided his teasing movement.
'Please, don't.'
'Maybe we could be spending a lot more time together, then.'
'Even less-s, probably.'
'You never know... in case you'd got abandoned I would be always there for
you...'
'What other sta-amp collections you have? Do yo-ou have Venezuelan? Or
Colombian? And has Cayenne City Council given a per-r-rmission for the
French Guiana to print their very own stamps?' I turned my face to him.
'Easy, coxswain – I could've harmed you. Now, we shall make a bed and go
sleep, what do you think?'
'But-th you only have a single bed?'
'Don't worry. It will suit us both.'
'I-Ih could be sleeping on the floor. O-or in the chest of drawers-'
'Hush, hush Lai. Good night.' he said after he draped the quilt over my face.
'You still haven't made up your mind on revealing the secret?' I felt
shivering on my crown-hair.
'No. I want to live with Nils and my mum.' I whispered.
'You are right...you three should stick up together.' now it was breathing
that I felt on my neck's backside.
'Thank you for understanding. You're the best.'
 'And you are a linnet.'
'What linnet?'
'That one the isle. When the grass overgrew the sky.'



7


The clouds were getting more attached to each other and ….how to put it –
seemingly fuller. But, it didn't rain for the whole day. The pot with the topping
for my birthday cake still kept appearing in front of my eyes. Mhmmmm-
strawberry flavoured....wait! Why strawberry? It wasn't rosy when I saw it the
last time! But - … everything seemed to be now getting shaded pink.
'What's she wearing? Is it from a toy store?...' a group of boys in flat caps
muttered a joke for themselves and pointed at me. When they dissapeared
behind the corner I put my eyepatch down and uncovered myself from under
the flag. This must have been the feeling of those runaway Georgians when
they escaped from burnt down Atlanta back to their plundered granges with no
cotton shrubs, or radishes-covered fields left.
'Just a single bite! Anything to expose to my metabolism effects!' I thought
to myself. And then - ….a nasty idea cut through my mind. Is shoplifting such
a big deal when one has her whole stomach walls etched with Hydrochloric
acid from almost both sides? In case they catch me I could propose it as an
intriguing legal question. I'd heard somewhere that microchips used in stores
wrapped in aluminum foil won't peep when crossing the photocell on your
way out. Well... worth trying, at least. Bad news – no cellophane within 50 km
in sight. In the street corner there was a silver trash can. Turning left to
Impasse Bon Secours I vandalised one. It took me, at least few minutes to
collect four plastic bags (just to provide enough thick protective layer) and
firstly I had to grudge to them through already used ear tampoos and leaked
overriped yoghurt jar's content. I checked my pocket watches – it was 11:47. I
hope the outlets around don't get closed for a lunch hour.
'Com-mh to mama...' I sang to myself. The nearest supermarket I could
think of was back there on Rue de Charonne and the way itself was not that
short, but I kept on twining my feet. The plastic bags were safely stocked in
my tracksuit pocket. The entrance glazed wings flew apart.
'Something...tiny. It must be something tiny...' I thought. All the things
deviating from a range of a shelf were stinging me to my brain cortex.
 'Not now. Not now...' I grabbed a basket from the nearest column to snap
my wrists under the handles. Cereals! With one box full of them I would even
have a plate! But... it's size probably doesn't quite narrow a bag's dimension.
Well, better move on... Believe me it's very hard to move around the store with
your shoe-missing leg hidden between her twin and a vegetable packs
container.
'Laine! So, it was you, afterall!'
'Oh-h! Good-dh day to you Mrs. Daniau.'
'Why aren't you at school? I thought you were supposed to be wearing
masks, all day long?' Mrs. Daniau was the bicycle's boy mother and lived few
blocks near us. In my situation – meeting somebody who could contact the
competents was one of the worst scenatio-twists.
'Well – I-I-I'm not feeling very well, you see...gotta go – straight from the
doctor's, you know - ...bu-uy stuff...'
'Is your temple bleeding?' she shoved the basket under her shoulder and
reached for my hair.
'No, not – I m-mh-mean – not exactly... a bus driver p-p-pulled the bra-a-ke
too hard and I was standing near a man with a guitar case...'
'Really?' I'd always wondered how do people manage lifting just one
eyebrow.
'Excuse me no-ow – I need-dh to go. Goodbye.' that pirouette was the
utmost physicall performance of my body shell. Until now – I don't really
know, whether she'd seen that bare foot, or not.
The passed-by shelves were now offering too much – 'just grab one and
fold it!' In case she's about to phone someone – I better get out of here, till I
can. Baked beans! I've luckilly got a lighter and a knife in my pocket! The act
of enfolding the can ran smoothly and fast. I narrowed myself and headed to
the exit. But...if she calls to the school and if my plan fails and the cops
come...the overlap of both situations will come earlier. I don't know why I was
afraid of getting taken to the custody followed by orphanage– I just was. But I
have to do this! Hunger's more powerful than good manners. Mom's always
taught me to follow a rightful behaviour.
'You do something – I'll get busted and you two – stuck here with him!'
(even she prefered pronouns). I'd only stolen one thing before this. It was in
the second grade of École primaire when I was 7. Most of my classmates were
madly in collecting Pokemon cards and playing games with them. I remember
every morning they used to sit down in a circle and 'let the fight begin', or
whatever it was they were saying. By the amount of them was structured the
class's hierarchy. Nils was 12 at that time and he had few. I gained him over to
borrow me them for one day and he approved – only in case I just join the
meeting and won't join the battle. But, once I was sitting down there the class
leader shouted – 'Let the battle begin! Warriors – take out your weapons!' and
everybody put down their cards.
'Move on! What are you waiting for!'
'I-Ih think I'll just keep watching...'
'She doesn't want to!'
´Hey – she doesn't want to! Put them down, or leave!'
So obviously – because I didn't even know what the numbers and symbols
meant – I lost. I lost them all. I only felt anxious for what would I tell Nils. I
had sweared to him I would bring them back – those were one of the very few
things he had. I had no money for a new package of those stickers, so I
decided to snoop in the bag of the winner. When he was sitting in the canteen I
sidled to his briefcase and tried for some honest detective work, but he came
sooner than I expected. You know the ending – obviously a former teacher, my
mother and his mother were called for. He kept howling for those scraps of
paper for so long that one would believe he just discovered that he had thrown
away tons of them in a Happy Meal for the one containing a jigsaw puzzle.
Luckilly mum didn't tell father, but ever since I'd been satisfied with the things
I had.
But now....well, I don't know. I was just jeleaous that other people have so
many trading cards while I only have to smuggle out a bean can in a vomited
plastic bag to keep myself alive, so I can envy of them, henceforward. But, I
shall wipe their eyelids! I'll come here every single day and every single day
I'll sneak out with a smoked sausages, or pink salmon, or a tomato soup in a
can! And maybe – when I'm strong enough – I'll smuggle out a magazine with
trading cards enclosed!
When approaching the treasuries I put the tin down to a half empty shelf
with Cereals and came out the glazed photocell.



8


Out on the street I thought to myself how great would it be to carry with me
an umbrella. Or a raincoat. Plip - plip - ploop – plip – plop... Now it was
impossible to think of any odd, but witty shapes for the clouds.
Nimbostratuses and Cumulonimbuses do not count for fantasy fanclub. Plip –
plop – plip – ploop – ploop... I covered myself in a flag, again. Thanks to the
towerclock I could deduce it was midday. Oh! So hungry, thirsty, barefoot and
cold – or should I name those alphabetical?
'…so make sure that one's plugged in, alright?' this man in seude suit that
my father stocked in a secondhand three months ago - passed me. Probably I
was wrong. Hundreds of people stock and buy seude suits. I followed him.
'Listen, gotta go – talk to you later. … No! - No – it's just that the battery's
dayin'... you expect me to throw away my spare tips for a phone box,
honestly...no you don't! Alright – name one!' it was my father's suit. Positive
on that one. I could recall the needle's patterning. That was my mother's work
– she tried to teach me how to sew several times, but it was good for nothing.
This suit's pocket she had sew not just around it's edge, but through it –
creating a pattern looking just like a nightinghale. Or a hysteresis loop. She
had to patch it when he (pronoun!) tried to cut out a stiffed skein of chewing
gum with a knife.







A phone box. If I only could call him, not everything will have to be
necessarily lost. Well – it would be probably better, just to grab a bicycle and
ride to Rue du Grenier Saint-Lazere, but let's face it – I wasn't even able to
steal a can, than how about a vehicle? He picked up the pace when we turned
right to Rue León Frot. I stepped right into a dead end behind the Fruits LAY
PAPAYE VERTE stall. Now, it was raining truly hard. Mr. Rusnak gave me
the number few months ago and I kept memorising it. It was long enough gone
and I wasn't paying attention, at all – but yes. I remembered it – 09 52 88 34
27. Too bad I had no money to insert into the booth. Not even those 23 cents
left.
'Try asking passerbies for some.' an inner voice whispered.
'Should I?'
A 194 centimetres tall man passed in front of my eyes. Probably not the
right target.
Hispanian couple pushing a stroller? Also not.
A guy wearing sunglasses and a singlet instead of a raincoat and umbrella?
Not exactly.
Then a middle age short eastern Asia-looking lady carrying a net shopping
bag appeared. Target oriented.
'E-excuse me.' I rushed out from behind the corner.
'Excuse mh-h-me – could yo-ouu please lend me some money for a call?'
she kept on passing, but I knew she had noticed me.
'Please, could you ju-ust -'
'Stop bothering me, or I shall call the police!' the lady shrrieked at me and
hurried away.
'Only few I need it-th-' she didn't let me end that sentence, because she
attacked me with her umbrella handle.
'Go your way! You wasted creature!' and again she hit me into my waist.
Intuitively – I grabbed the hose and pulled it the opposite direction.
 'You hear me? I'll call the competents!' she reached for it and her bag fell
down. I grabbed it and turned back.
'A thief! Stop her! Somebody stop her!' - this was certainly an improvment
form the supermarket attempt. Or wasn't it? … How could I do it? I only
remember I kept on running away. There was directly a cross road behind the
fruit store.
SQUEL! SCREECH!
Ouch. 'What is a joint internal specialist called like in Latin?' the inner
voice pestered, again. Like I said – luckilly to the rain the traffic wasn't that …
'ouchy', but still 'owchy', at least...
'What is it madam?' I heard a man's voice from the background.
'Snatcher! Evil creatrure! High and everything! Wearing flag!' and than a
creacky sound like as if the bicycle just moved on. There were many cars
behind me and I was given a head start, but still... I dipped my hand into the
net bag and pulled out a wallet. Then (while still running away) – without
looking back – I aimed and threw it behind me alongside with the flag. It was
full of tins and plastic wrapped-goods. Though it was raining and the sun was
hidden behind the clouds – the sparks it threw shone beautifuly behind the
drops creating thousands of rainbows. I heard the bike pull the breakes. Now,
without the flag-coat I was too far to be followed. But still my legs stopped
twining just when I took the first turn right and headed down the Impasse
Delaunay. Another dead end. I fell on my knees and the reamining Hydrochlic
acid poured out of my throat. The eyes got wet and also a nasty shivering cut
through my nasopharynx.
'Phew.' I set on the parked scooter's seat. Without my utterly improvised
raincoat the clothes got all full of rise puddy water. Impasse Delaunay's dead
end was unlike the others spacious and lighted. The place is located between
two blocks of flats out of orange bricks, facing each other. Also there's a
playground behind them fenced with wrought rusty green gate. The driveway
is made out of stone and lined with bulky flower pots and flower beds
preserving various species of these green Autotrophic fairies.
I don't even remember for how long was I sitting in that position with no
move. Probably for an hour. I just kept tamming myself on the seat and
sending all the plants around nasty gazes. My enviousness reached for another
level. I was just sitting there and being envy of those weeds, cause I was only
a Heterotroph. When the rain stops they shall throw a banquet.
'Take a look into the wallet.' the voice advised. 'You've seen that booth in the
street's entrance, haven't you?'
There really was one right next to Dia shop. That hour I spent not even just
with envying, but also with blaming myself. This was really the very second
thing I had stolen. When I opened it – a relief splashed me almost physically.
There were only two coins – a Spanish 5 cent and an Austrian 10 cent. I rolled
them in a palm with my fingers and then stood up to continue in my way
bback to the telephone box.
'What is that...?' there was more in the wallet. When I shoke it – a
cloverleaf-shaped bookmark with a lace fell off. I chipped away one leaf
making it a trefoil. Maybe – it'll bring me luck. When I was 10 we were asked
with other kids from ASC (after-school care) to find one on the field. We were
having a trip. The winner shall get a Carambar candy, or some sort. Everybody
headed his way each direction, so the teachers could pull out their tanning
mirrors and slander about their common chiropodist. I really wanted that
candy bar. The class's princess that was always there to bite off your nosh and
start crying you're a liar whenever a victim tried to comfront her - was
following me and watching my each step. Partly to distract her and partly to
make her go her own way – I sat on the grass. Her eyelids sqiunted and she
walked closer, threateningly. And then – I saw it. One magnificent cloverleaf –
glinting in the sun, expressing it's juicy greenness up to everybody. So I
stooped. Big mistake.
'I have it! I have one! I found it! I found it! I found it!' our little treasure
started shrieking. She might have judged I had found it by my facial
expression, maybe by something else. The only certain thing was that she
attacked quickly. I knew if I tore it all – she would just rip it out of my hands
and get the candy, so I just happened to pluck one leaf making it a trefoil.
'Here! It's here! Somewhere! Here...!' everybody ran to us and was looking
for it including teachers.
'Oh Jacalyn, but nothing's here. Probably it's too hot. Aren't you having a
blurred vision: Here, my dear – go and have some drink. It probably is too hot.
We shall go now, kids. You all agree to give the Carambar to Jacalyn?' nobody
said a word and Jacalyn smiled, sweetly.
'So agreed. We shall go, or some of the tots might get a heatstroke.'
In a way – the trefoil brought me luck. Finally, I was standing in front of
the booth.
'Wish me luck-' I whispered to my clenched fist. The coins slided down the
slot and I picked up the handset. I did not even pay attention to the microflora.
'09 52-' I repeated in my mind alongside with tapping the dial's numbers –
'88 34 27. It's ringing!'
The tune of a ringing bell had always made me feel anxious.
'Good day. Brenda Lornan speaking. Who is it?' a stranger's voice
answered…..
…
…
…
I must have memorised it wrong. So for me being arrogant about my long-
term memory and everything. This definitely set up my last campign to an
end. I took the trefoil-shaped piece of plastic out and treaded it down. So did I
the earphone.
'Hel-lo? Anybody there?' low pitched voice spitted out through the drilled
holes.
'Who's the-' - toot – too -toot …. the line got discontinued when it ran out
of the inserted funds. As the cord was dangling and walowing from side to
side – it began raining, again. The plastic threw another spark at me. It got
picked up and pocketed.



9


Luckilly, the storm didn't last for so long. Just another one of those
mediocre late-autumn scurries in a row. You usually feel a warm touch of a
leather when you sit down on the scooter's seat, but I did not this time. It was
all wet and covered up with cuts with a foam-rubber pieces falling out. One's
fingers plus toes wouldn't suffice to count how many swivel chairs's paddings
in the school library had fallen prey to me. I liked chewing it instead of a
chewing gums. For them – you have to pay in a Tobacconist's. I quickly tore
three, or four pieces and tried to swallow. Believe me – when the foam gets
dampened by your saliva gland's secretion it slides down the throat much
easier.
'What am I doing?' the inner pesterer attacked again. It was forlorn.
Another two, or three hours passed and the sky shaded indigo. What should I
do? There was no more hope for me. Everything I ever do in my life turns out
a disaster. Fiasco in better case. An unsavoury flock of pigeons laned near my
bare foot.
'Get lost!' there were so many of them marching in this top annoying way
with their necks jiggling in the beat. I put out the bookmark and the watch out
of my pocket, tied them together and draped it around my neck. Better save
single space on wrists. Somebody pays to have an internal look at
neurocranium tattooed on his shaved head, another one replaces his eyebrows
with his name... I mean – not the usual crap (broken hearts, bleeding thorns,
Chinese dragons...). I wanted a Girard-Perregaux watches on my left wrist – I
had once drawn an anlogue dial on in, but it had only been right two times per
day.... at 7 minutes to four.
'Coo – croo – koo -coo!'
'Owch!'
'Coo- croo – croo – koooo!' those acursed winged rats dared to rend my
trouser leg.
'You hear me! Fly away!' I picked up a solid rock from the ground and shed
it among them. With satisfaction I watched them take a formation and glide
away. All except one which got hit by the stone and rebounded from the
opposite flower bed. In a second I jumped up to stamp it. Nasty look. Partly I
counted on, at least couple of faces to peep from behind the laced curtains.
Nobody did. I had read a short story about a man who shipwrecked on a
remoted isle with one water canteen, a pouch of rusks and 60 dollars in a
pocket. Also a rat from the frigate reached for the land. And then – the
struggle for life began. Rat ate almost all the rusks for which the man planed
on killing it, so his chances for living for a day, or two longer would have
increased. For the rat – eating the man would have meant he could honestly
think of recieving a pension insurance. Obviously the man lost – but shortly
before he would have died – tailors from the nearest ship came for him and
saved him. The rat was zinging in anger and agony from the island. The man
bought half quintal of biscuits from the sailors and left it there to pay back for
his loss. Now, I was thinking this way of a pigeon. Like I said – the 'against all
the rules' mood was slowly taking over me. That was the first (and last) job
for the CCCP lighter that very day. Almost a creamy flame ablazed. It's flanks
and breast feather started golwing. Slowly. A smoke and stews were coming
off...until the chest got covered with a frothy white mass of bubbles.
'Wha-' a mice ran across it.
BUMP.
The lighter crashed at the pavement after I dropped it.
'Just run! Run! Run away!' I almost said it with my own lips and tongue.
The flame quenched and the street was dark, but I was running like for the first
100 meters of a marathon. My mind was singularly calm and pieceful. There I
came – back to the beginning of my journey under the sunshade next to the
black garage door signed with POS TOPO BORACUS. The body shell was
already half exhausted to death to feel anything emotional. So again – I laid
down there using the black plastic bag as a pillow, wishing this birthday on
Friday the 13th will end soon.



10


Sometimes you get awakened by a sound, sometimes by a light. This time I
was not entirely sure. But it's scientificaly proven that the speed of the light in
a vacuum is defined to be exactly 299,792,458 m/s, while the speed of the
sound narrows only about 341 meters per a second, so I take it, as the first
option is more probable. Firstly, the headlights from the black Renault Clio
crossed the street and just after then there came the sound of pulled breaks, so
I got up. After another two and a half seconds (or fourteen -times crossed
globe by a single light quantum photon – depends on what statement you
personally prefer) – it began. All the pedestrians passing the street at that time
– turned their heads the same direction when the La Belle Equipe's windshield
got broken by 9 shots from the gunshot in a row.
I stood up and ran from under the shelter, but another 12 shots followed.
Yelling and agony shouting.
Steaming hoods.
Unorganised crowd-pedaling.
It was good that the cars actually got hit. Only by their cracked front
screens I could detect the flow-direction of the shot-shells. Also, there were
many crinkling sounds, all together that moment – falling iPhones and broken
heels, to mention few of them. I turned my head down and kneeled. My
temple was still bleeding a bit, so I hoped that the attackers would think I'd got
hit, if they passed me laying on the ground.
The final dose lasted in about 19 shots from the machine rifle. My eyelids
were as tough as ever. When they opened – Renault Clio was nowhere to be
seen, but I still didn't stand up. The scream to cut through the night was the
longest sound of the day (funny, huh? - night and day in one sentence). People
were moving furiously and treading my untied shoe-laces.
I stood up. Clamoring after relatives was filling the air. Few onlookers were
pestring the criers with the cracked-screen iPhones and with the dullest
questions ever – 'What's happened? Did your relatives get hurt?'
'BLAM!'
 All the spectators turned their heads the same direction and I heard one
Brazilian woman sceech.
'Deus do céu! O que era?'
'You hear' that? Like a bomb!!!'
Accents of all kinds decanted tohether creating one indistinguishable
mixture of sounds. Apart from the sirens which seemed to be getting closer
and closer.
'..here the heck's the ambulance!' a man in a leather jacket kneeling on the
cracked asphalt road with a younger girl surrounded by the strayed dustbin
content yelled out loud just when I was passing them addressing it to nobody
specific.
'Like they are coming from the Boulevard Voltaire!'
'A Doppler effect?'
'What?!' they raised their faces to me.
'N-nh-nothing.'
Whenever a bicycle or a motorbike hit the garbage on the ground people
screamed convinced the gunmen returned. Bicycles...a whole pile of them
laying on the parking lot and nobody taking care of them.
'Excuse me – have you witnessed the street-shooting? Ambulance is on it's
way.' somebody from the background accosted me and a group of people I
was standing next to.
'Have you seen anyone get hurt? This is live-footage for Youtube!' when I
deflected I saw a guy with a dreadlocks and a lipstick on his eyelids. At least, I
think it was a lipstick, but thinking back – I must have been exhausted to
death. By the time the fire truck arrived I furtively sidled to the bicycles heap
and tried to pull out one of them. They all were knotted with each other.
Finally, I grabbed one fully functional. Nobody was paying attention to me, at
all – and if anyone had even spotted me – probably thought to himself I was
looking for my own by which I had come to the restaurant. I hurried out while
paramedics were covering recumbent figures with black polythene blankets
and I made it quite on time, since few seconds after the policmen stretched the
place with a yellow tape. It seemed everything could just keep going better,
henceforth. Now, I could ride to Rue du Grenier Saint-Lazare! Now, I could
make it – I remember the way! Now, I only need a hanky to touch the entrance
buzzer with!
'Fausto! … Fausto! Vá embora daqui, deixá-lo passar! E onde, o inferno
Imacualda?'
I mounted it and pedaled away. While leaving the street corner I passed a
middle age married couple hugging themselves and crying. The woman was
persuading him:
'It'll all end, you'll see. There must be someone to help us. Help all the
victims. Like the girl, you see her? Riding the bicycle - one would say she has
absolutely nowhere to go...'

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