Trust Me

Да дело всё в том, что, чтоб понять книгу, надо опуститься на (подняться на, если Вам угодно), занять в некотором роде мета-уровень. Так же и с музыкой. Так со всем искусством. А что такое мета-уровень? А чёрт его знает, что такое этот мета-уровень. Мета-уровень, и всё тут.

Ну в этом суть, вроде бы.

Ну хорошо, есть, скажем, герои. Ну или злодеи. Да один хрен. Антигерой - понятие искусственное, неприменимое в большинстве случаев. Ну да ладно. Итак, есть герои. Протагонисты, так сказать. Что-то они на протяжении книги делают, говорят, думают. Думают, говорят, делают. Делают, думают, говорят. И так далее. Потом, значит, приходит читатель и начинает всю эту хреновину осмысливать. Я здесь не говорю Вам про шедевры. Я про книги, коих пруд пруди. И ещё немного.

Почитал, потянулся, проникся. На этих трёх “П”, казалось бы, и держится индустрия. Потом приходят критики, роль которых состоит в том, чтобы Почитать, Протереть, Порекомендовать. И вот уже плюс десять-пятнадцать тысяч читателей.

Но потом приходят искусствоведы. Искусствоведы - вообще стрёмные ребята. Их задача: Прошерстить, Проанализировать, Проповедовать. Они найдут в куче говна Высокий Глубинный Смысл. Ну то есть это не куча говна, а, например, символ раскола общества. Или разложения буржуазной морали. Ну или да, это куча говна, которая к тому же главный герой. И злодей.

Ну то есть это как бы мета-куча говна. Осмысляемая сугубо на мета-уровне. А чтоб понять мета-уровень? Правильно, надо занять этот самый мета-уровень. Это победа. Парадокс парадоксов. Ну или нет. Не знаю. Надо бы занять мета-уровень. Осмыслить.

***

We should just go home right now…

“Ah!”

Way he’d taken me. I asked him, true. He refused; of course he would. But I was… too inebriated. I begged him. I kissed him. After he’d soothed me so much, became my guiding star, my beacon in the ocean, my little green light on the pierce - how could I not?

Something to live for.

Or maybe we should stick around, for just one more drink...

“Frederic, please!”

The cab that drove us, a new one, bad; one without the sacred partition. We started making out straight there on the backseat. His lips, intoxicating, his skilful hands, the only hands that understood me. His teeth at my neck, something that she could never give me…

“Octavia, we should stop, it’s- mmfhm!”

The flight of stairs was almost imperceptible. We stumbled so much, but… you held me, you carried me, just like you did all those years ago. I begged you, and you paid heed. I prayed on you, and you descended. You were always my angel; but I’d invented new ones to keep myself alive.

“Frederic, now!”

The porter did not want to let us in, but money makes the world go round, and we flew up the stairs, and hit the elevator, and your nose nuzzled the soft spot on my shoulder that only you know so well… My fingers, running down your strong, wide back, your muscles, your masculinity, your gentleness, your smell…

“Octavia, I- Octavia, we-”

You couldn’t resist me; you never could. You helped me, you made me whole, but I was always the one with the reigns over you. Left, broken, set aside by Her, I turned to you for solace. And you could not turn me down.

“Shh. Freddie, love me. Love me right now.”

Frederic… My saviour. My lover. My brother. My father. My mentor. My debtor. My teacher. My preacher. My ground. My sound. My laughter. My drafter. My courage. My storage. My carrier. My hailer.

“Octavia, we’re drunk… Vinyl, she-”

“Shut up and trust me!”

My creator. You made me from clay, but you made a Golem. Poles were always very anti-Jewish, no? Am I misunderstanding something? Or, better even: Polish Jews were always very anti-Jewish? Does it sound like truth?

“Uh. Uh. Uh!”

He did it the way he always did it: he was rough, he was swift, he was gentle and cautious. He paid attention to every spot of my body. He was like wrapping paper, a necessary extension to my body, my soul, my inner what it is. What do you call it?

“Frederic!”

Octavia screamed his name. Only his. Everything else was… mystic. It was out of the world. Right here, in the hotel, she was living. The infatuation faded. And then - fear.

Vinyl!

She screamed your name, Frederic; and she loved you. But she betrayed Her, and you did not stop her. How is your mentorship, your saviourship, your creatorousity now? You sealed this pace, you wrote this pact, you didn’t. What you did was break another pact.

Corruption.

Distrust.

Envy.

Adultery, for the hell of it.

And you know what, Octavia? It’s your fault. I may not say it, I saved you, I spent my life on you; but you are a bad student. You cannot help the others. I just wanted you to help yourself. You didn’t help yourself. You didn’t help anyone.

You are no saviour, and it seems neither am I.

Yes. Yes, Frederic, I know. But what was I to do? You compared me to my father; I cried; you apologised… We were so drunk. I wanted some of you in my life. A little Frederic to soothe my wounds. Am I to blame?

Yes.

Yes. But what I will blame myself for… is not spending this night with Vinyl. With Her. With She who loves me. With She whom I love. And, instead, I turned, once again, to the divine. To you.

To me.

Yes. But it won’t matter much. Because, when you are awake in the morning, I will be far away. And I will not be coming back.

***

Vinyl sat next to Neon’s bed, watching her brother lie wide awake, with his eyes open. Neon stared at the ceiling silently, had stared for hours, and the sun was barking at the slumbering world, nudging it up. The interns of the camp rubbed their sleepy eyes and obeyed. As we all must.

“You didn’t get any sleep,” Vinyl urged softly as she approached the bed and brushed her hand against Neon’s forehead. Cold but sweaty. “Try to sleep some.” She pressed her lips against her brother’s forehead.

Neon didn’t reply, staring at the ceiling. Two dots - stray flies - crawled about. Tic-tac-toe. No, that’s… backgammon, I guess. Turkish delights. Like the baths with the happy ending.

“The world is waking up,” Vinyl said dreamily, sitting down on a chair next to the window. “The birds are chirping with spring. Can you hear it, Nini?” She turned her head briefly towards the man.

Neon didn’t reply. Though, I remember it played in Georgia. Aksakal game. Shaman chants when they roll the dice, hearty, throateous. And the wine in the earth. The genius way of uniting the body and the blood. The unthinkable, cannibalistic ease with which they utter. But it’s not. It’s not. No. It’s association. The free, I guess.

Vinyl looked about the room. It looked cosy, like a room, not a ward. Something like they showed in that alcoholic psych clinic in The Great Gatsby, what with the potted plants and all. That didn’t ease her mind. Good book, weird film. But the music was splendid. “Do you like the room, Nini?”

No reply. Ack, the illumination. And that park I was to, what, the Lighthouse? No, the light-fly. Maybe that. Gets so hot at day that you can only ride at night. But those water rides are a delight. And the rains that last three days, and the pains that don’t a day, and the water by the shore that’s grim and sore. Spend an hour on the beach, then get out of their reach… How does it go?

Vinyl shut her eyes. No, not you too! She stood up abruptly, getting no attention whatsoever from Nigel. Don’t leave me, Nini. Don’t leave me too. They have all walked away. The spinner sat back down, the strip of light getting at her nose thinly. You are all I have left. “Nini, talk to me. Please,” she begged, leaning over the disemotional form of her brother.

“Is backgammon a Turkish game?”

Vinyl blinked, peering her gaze at her brother.  The Lord has spoken. And He said: … “I dunno,” the spinner admitted, surprised and scared. “Why?” Nini, you are seriously scaring me here…

“I don’t like it when it’s hot,” Neon lamented wearily. “I like a little rain. Do you think I can summon summer rain if I try hard enough?” Like that one god with the. Uh. Whatever his. Ah. Perun. No, that’s thunder. Lightning. Not rain.

Look at the Jews though. They have so many books and just one God. Imagine that. Or, if. If, maybe. Okay, so Perunese monotheism. They tried that. With Vladimir. He tried with the poles, wooden, and then Perun only. He then had it already. He had it. He had. The thing, that with the old Norse and Slavic gods and the union of one. He visited Byzantium, became Byzantine in 988. Was it 998. His mother, a Christian. His father, so very Pagan. They were mostly Pagan, the warriors. They, there was one. With the woman, some. Turned Byzantine at something ninth. Or tenth, maybe. They frowned, methinks. And dusty bowls of sand they poured.

“Nini, you are scaring me,” Vinyl said aloud, taking a step towards her brother. “You sound very…”

“Crazy?” Neon smiled. “I tried to commit suicide. I am allowed to sound crazy.”

And the blue moon, it saw me sitting alone, it saw me barking mad, and then there are those spurs that go jungle jingle jungle jangle. And the pigs do not. Will never eat as disgusting as. Dogs. Was it.

“Why did you do that, Nini? Why?”

“I’m getting married.”

“What?”

“I’m getting married.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“I would rather jump off a cliff than to marry her.”

“Whom?”

“Madeline.”

“I thought you loved her?”

“I love you.”

“...I’m your sister, and I’m… uh.”

“Not that way, you silly girl. I only need my sister in my life.”

“Nini, that’s so sweet…”

“But you ran away with Octavia, and I… I wanted some. Some attention. Some tending to? Some love.”

“Nini, please…”

“It’s not your fault. You love her.”

“I do.”

“You still love her.”

“I always will.”

“That’s devotion. I don’t have that devotion for her. I don’t want to marry her.”

“No one is making you.”

“She said yes.”

“So what? She can say a thousand times. You didn’t go to church so-”

“Silly little Vinyl. Church. Heh.”

“Nini, stop mocking the Church. It’s bad and sinful.”

“Thou shalst not fuck in the arse.”

“Nini, the Church progresses with the times-”

“That’s exactly why I hate it. Five years from now, Vatican recognises same-sex marriage and suddenly the whole Old Testament doesn’t make any sense. They have already started selling stuff in churches. Not very Christian.”

“Nini, stop blasphemising-”

“That’s not a word.” Chuckle.

“Ah, you-!” Slap.

“Ouch.” Heh.

“You don’t have to get married.”

“Who’ll stop her?”

“I will. I was wrong. Octavia is Octavia, and you are you. You are my family. I will stay by your side and protect you!”

With these tiny knuckles of yours, I wonder. “Thank you, sis. Go home, get some sleep now. I promise I’ll be all right. Take a day off, come back Monday.”

“Tuesday.”

“Sure, whatever day it is the day.”

“I love you, Nini.” Smooch.

“I love you too, sis.” Peck.

“Bye, Nini. Get some rest.” Shark shark shark.

“Take care, sis. See you Monday.”

“Tuesday. Today’s Monday.”

“Sure, whatever.”

Screech. Slap.

…

Creekckckck. Shark shark shark. Scrsh. Gulp gulp gulp. Ah. Sshgkdmp. Ah. Shark shark shark. Screech. Creererecccckk.

Yawn.

***

She cast a glance at them, taking a place at the counter. Workers mainly. Maybe. Labourers. Black and white, a little. Tinted Indians too. The most civilised drinkers. Or, maybe. What did Nini say about them?

...He is not all right. He is so not all right. That show of bravery… That’s the thing. He’s there, but he’s not with me. His mind is somewhere else. It’s scary. I want to forget it. I want to drink myself into oblivion. Tavi told me…

She is somewhere too. Hell knows where. Left me too. Neon, then. Or before. Dad, Nini, Tavi. Tic-tac-toe. What do we want? Change! When do we want it?

“What will you be drinking?”

How-how did he address me? That’s the barman. Wow. Maybe I. No of course. Not. Yes. Maybe. Of all days it. Today. Just when it’s. Just when I’m- “A pint of Irish stout.” What the fuck am I doing right now?

“Sorry, ma’am. Not till tomorrow. Some ale, maybe? Good old-fashioned German beer?”

No, no, no, back up, back up. I almost! And what if he- And what if he brought it would I really drink it I wouldn’t of course but maybe not to be feel deviated I would maybe take a sip and then alcoholism for years no not everyone suffers from it tavi doesnt i really hope she doesnt she she. She. “No, thanks. I’ll have a glass of apple juice, then.” There. That. That here. Is a nice catch. A save. Like, the. Sixteen. Maybe. No. Not that meaning. Just. Twenty what already and never had a drink? Never had a drink at sixteen. Good. B Goode. An apple a day.

“Apple juice?” Yes. Don’t ask. You’re embarrassing me.

Vinyl blushed. “A big glass of apple juice.”

Guffaws. Sick your dogs on me. I’ll only break for you for one day. Vinyl took up the glass and laid the money. In slow sips, she drank it. Maybe he poured beer in- no, of course not. On her shoulders, the reference points were lost. All centre now. Not like you write the guitar any more.

Vinyl sat at the bar counter, cradling her apple juice. This fucking day. At this fucking day. And no one- of course. I’m not even Eeyore then. Not even. Even. Quietly, she hummed.

Happy birthday to me~

Happy birthday to meee...

...All my loved ones have left me~

And I’m just twenty-three...