Trust Me

“I can’t get through to him.”

Vinyl slammed the phone against the table with unspoken-spoken-shouted-out anger. “I can’t get through to Neon. He doesn’t reply.”

Somewhere in Alabama, on which the stars fell not long ago, a farmer is sure that the mowing cattle are planning a coup d’etat, like in that book he read, about the pigs and the farm. He is drunk a little more than Octavia Philarmonica, who is taking glass after glass of wine, dealing with adversity the only way that she had known.

“It’ll be all right,” she says over and over. Her thoughts are elsewhere. Her mind is hazy from the alcohol and excitement and lack of sleep. She could not sleep on the plane. She was scared. She almost died of fear there. No, not died. Almost fainted. That, yes.

In a Japanese club, a young prodigy sniffs cocaine from the top of his electric guitar while playing a solo that is based on the lydian scale - quite simple, but the shredding did the job on the crack-addled audience. The collapse of the Japanese traditional integrity and absolute health propaganda had begun. Salmons would be fried from now on.

Time passed. Much time passed. The topics of discussion between the two fine women were: their brief reunion (feelings of joy), Neon’s sudden escape (anxiety, shame on Octavia’s side; Vinyl does not remind her, but she remembers; guilt, for the sake of it; they know life wouldn’t be the same), philosophy (calmness; first ancient, then modern), times and mores of the society. The last topic was, incidentally, being discussed in exactly one billion seventy-five million three hundred thousand and fifty-nine (1 075 300 059) households. The discussion of this topic led to this scene:

“Just compare,” Octavia carried on, gobbing up the wine. “Here, we can enjoy our freedom. In Italy, we’d be frowned upon and shunned. In Russia, we’d be forbidden to make our relationship public.” Gulp gulp gulp goes the glass. “In Saudi Arabia, we’d be thrown stones at.” Gulp and gulp! Gulp and gulp and fill again! The joys of life, here, at the bottom of the bottle.

“What are you driving at?” Vinyl interrupted her, irritated, flamy, obnoxious. “I get it, life’s a bitch in parts of the planet. Why not enjoy what we have right here right now, and not give a damn about someone else?!”

Octavia shrugged. The clock sneezed four. Somewhere, presumably in Australia, the band played Waltzing Mathilda. The guitarist had just hit his hand on the door by accident and played slowly, almost dropping the rhythm. The drummer tried, hopelessly, to match. The audience went wild with excitement. It was a performance for kings and queens to be proud.

The phone rang. Vinyl’s phone rang. The black old mobile phone rang.

Vinyl, with trembling hands, shaking hands, shivering hands, picked it up. “Hello?”

“I am in an interesting part of this planet, sis. There is an endless nothing that looks a lot like wheat, and I am sure the native population consists mainly of sentient cows.”

“Sentient... cows?” Vinyl repeated hopelessly, in a broken voice. Octavia leaned in and pressed the loudspeaker on irritatedly. Neon’s voice carried on through the loudspeaker, crispy from distance.

“You should have seen the look of ancient wisdom on the cows’ faces, sis - and I refuse to call them muzzles. The fair cowboy smiles at me, unable to understand a word of English, in a land where people are still allowed to smile.” Neon coughed - semmi-chuckle.

“Where are you, Neon?” Octavia demanded, stern, sweaty, heart-leaping.

“Ah. I see Judas is still with you.”

Vinyl glared at Octavia. She was ready to kill her: leap at her and tear her apart, rip that fucking bitch who dared - who - who - who- who was responsible for her brother’s slipping away!

“I am, Vinyl,” Neon continued to speak to his sister, disregarding the presence of the cellist in the room, “in an Eastern part of the dictatorial world, a fine old country that was once ruled by Mongols and now is an example for those who crave dictatorship. Russians look up to this holy Muslim land and see that dictatorship is good, if the dictator is good enough. The Chinese glance at this land, ripe with gold and mines, and bow their Asian heads.”

Vinyl felt an urge to cry - give up - let her arms fall limp. “Nini, brother… Where are you?”

“I am gazing at a wonderful spectacle, Vinyl,” Neon carried on in his simple, calm tone, as if he were lazing around with the two women in the room, instead of having run off so scarily and unexpectedly. “Not far away, a majestic city of glass and steel lights up the horizon, a beacon of civilisation in this barren land, a beacon that the local population - and I don’t mean the cows - call Astana.”

Vinyl looked up hopelessly. You should’ve paid more attention at Geography, angel Vinyl remarked. Devil Vinyl took out a .44 revolver, waving it around on the shoulder dangerously.

“That’s Kazakhstan,” Octavia whispered, ingesting the darkly violent look her girlfriend (Still? Still? Or no more?) pierced her with, sliced her like warm butter. And yet, she could hope this little straw of help was enough to calm the camel and her back.

“I’m coming straight ahead, Nini, you hear me?” Vinyl shouted in what seemed to her a soothing manner, a piercing, knifelike shriek. “I’m coming to right where you are.” Childish dismay. “Wait for me there, okay?” God, that. That.

“We aren’t playing Mister Sandman here, sis.” And distant, so distant. His voice. Becomes. “I just call to say I’ll be travelling a bit. But hey.” Sappy inbound. “I’m still with you. I’m always with you. We have no problems, okay?” Okay. Okay? “We’ll manage.” Beep. Beep. Beep beep.

Vinyl stood up. Vinyl went to the table. Vinyl took and bottle and took a huge swig. It wasn’t as unpleasant as she’d expected. Octavia didn’t stop her. Octavia didn’t do anything. Octavia just lit up a cigarette and walked towards the window, through which the smell of Colombian coffee mixed in with the sound of stomping feet.

“I’m sorry, Vinyl,” Octavia said, looking into the window. There was no moon there. It was too early for a moon. But when the moon came, it would not peek into the window at the two drunken, broken women. It would be ashamed.

“I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t save your brother. I couldn’t even save myself.”