I made myself comfortable,
sat down on the old grandma's couch, took a bottle of wyborowa and injected a quick shot in my veins. I felt hungry so I took rye bread and ate it soaking it in vodka. This was a fast method to get drunk, eating rye bread soaked in alcohol. In the same time you felt you were eating something. The bread was already putrid, went bad couple of days ago but it didn't repel me. Anyway, eating rotten food is a matter of taste, like cannibalism. People may feel disgusted on the thought that someone may eat a man. However, once served on a plate they would devour human meat not even asking for its origin. I haven't eaten it but I guess it tastes like chicken.
Again I had a night shift. Working undercover had some advantages though. I could stay at my place and wait for orders instead of sitting all the time in the office and drinking with Aleksiej, the stupid janitor. All I had to do was to stay vigil and wait for the phone to ring. I was privileged and had one at my place. They led a phone landline directly to my place which was not a bad idea but on the other hand I had plenty of neighbours suddenly dropping by to make a phone call. But till the moment I told one of them I worked in Sovnarkom. From that time I hadn't had pestering neighbours on my head. Rumours spread faster than scarlet fever.
The elevator jammed again and made low, humming noises. The elevator's cogwheel was endlessly propelled by electric current that came from the basement's battery. I was thinking how to help the poor cogwheel from its suffering. My solution was to cut the wires, the Gordian knot but I wasn't electrician. Anyway, the elevator produced a sound that made me feel relaxed. Monotonous and repeating. Just the ideal music for my ears at this moment.
The hum of the elevator was only a background to my deeper thoughts. I pondered about meeting her again. I lacked her presence and the stillness of things around me drove me mad. Whenever I met her she put things into motion. She wasn't a hurricane but rather a fresh breeze with a heartbreaker spiel. Approached by her a person could not stand but to feel natural in front of her, chat about daily life or turn the conversation into deeper matters, like describing human emotions, looking for their source in person's action, comparing people's reactions-all this psychological matters than recently become so popular in the world. Above this, however, there was a ubiquitous sense of feeling distance to her own self, not being very self-attached but taking criticism or arguments as a way of self-development rather than a word of une mauvais chose.
Her sympathetic attitude was often interpreted as a carefree. People couldn't stand it because they didn't find this attitude to be normal. Everyone's got their own problems. People around her had their own but seeing her they didn't understand and didn't accept her frivolous behaviour, they desired her to be more martyr-like then jokerish. She was full of unspoken problems, fighting with her doubts and holding to her resolutions. And whenever she faced with sharp-tongued men she could easily retort them. Even more... she could push her now defenceless interlocutors who dared to start arguing with her to a dead end and squeeze them out of arguments, out of every possible straw that a drowning man could catch, until they are left helpless and give up all hope to win the argument. But even above all this her smile, yes it was her smile that was pervading the space of each room, of every street, of anything that she reached for or touched to.
She was one of the victims that we leave on their own once we take a new case for investigation. For us the investigation is crucial. Not the victim but the perpetrator. Of course we ask victims standard questions but let's not be deluded by its profundity. Only C. Auguste Dupine could deduce who the murder was by asking astute questions to the victim.
What was her name? What is her name? These are questions that are hard to answer. Why? Once she was a different person. Or maybe the same person but her behaviour changed. As I said she was a victim. Something happened in her life that made her wordless. She absorbed a strong shock that led to her being reticent.
sat down on the old grandma's couch, took a bottle of wyborowa and injected a quick shot in my veins. I felt hungry so I took rye bread and ate it soaking it in vodka. This was a fast method to get drunk, eating rye bread soaked in alcohol. In the same time you felt you were eating something. The bread was already putrid, went bad couple of days ago but it didn't repel me. Anyway, eating rotten food is a matter of taste, like cannibalism. People may feel disgusted on the thought that someone may eat a man. However, once served on a plate they would devour human meat not even asking for its origin. I haven't eaten it but I guess it tastes like chicken.
Again I had a night shift. Working undercover had some advantages though. I could stay at my place and wait for orders instead of sitting all the time in the office and drinking with Aleksiej, the stupid janitor. All I had to do was to stay vigil and wait for the phone to ring. I was privileged and had one at my place. They led a phone landline directly to my place which was not a bad idea but on the other hand I had plenty of neighbours suddenly dropping by to make a phone call. But till the moment I told one of them I worked in Sovnarkom. From that time I hadn't had pestering neighbours on my head. Rumours spread faster than scarlet fever.
The elevator jammed again and made low, humming noises. The elevator's cogwheel was endlessly propelled by electric current that came from the basement's battery. I was thinking how to help the poor cogwheel from its suffering. My solution was to cut the wires, the Gordian knot but I wasn't electrician. Anyway, the elevator produced a sound that made me feel relaxed. Monotonous and repeating. Just the ideal music for my ears at this moment.
The hum of the elevator was only a background to my deeper thoughts. I pondered about meeting her again. I lacked her presence and the stillness of things around me drove me mad. Whenever I met her she put things into motion. She wasn't a hurricane but rather a fresh breeze with a heartbreaker spiel. Approached by her a person could not stand but to feel natural in front of her, chat about daily life or turn the conversation into deeper matters, like describing human emotions, looking for their source in person's action, comparing people's reactions-all this psychological matters than recently become so popular in the world. Above this, however, there was a ubiquitous sense of feeling distance to her own self, not being very self-attached but taking criticism or arguments as a way of self-development rather than a word of une mauvais chose.
Her sympathetic attitude was often interpreted as a carefree. People couldn't stand it because they didn't find this attitude to be normal. Everyone's got their own problems. People around her had their own but seeing her they didn't understand and didn't accept her frivolous behaviour, they desired her to be more martyr-like then jokerish. She was full of unspoken problems, fighting with her doubts and holding to her resolutions. And whenever she faced with sharp-tongued men she could easily retort them. Even more... she could push her now defenceless interlocutors who dared to start arguing with her to a dead end and squeeze them out of arguments, out of every possible straw that a drowning man could catch, until they are left helpless and give up all hope to win the argument. But even above all this her smile, yes it was her smile that was pervading the space of each room, of every street, of anything that she reached for or touched to.
She was one of the victims that we leave on their own once we take a new case for investigation. For us the investigation is crucial. Not the victim but the perpetrator. Of course we ask victims standard questions but let's not be deluded by its profundity. Only C. Auguste Dupine could deduce who the murder was by asking astute questions to the victim.
What was her name? What is her name? These are questions that are hard to answer. Why? Once she was a different person. Or maybe the same person but her behaviour changed. As I said she was a victim. Something happened in her life that made her wordless. She absorbed a strong shock that led to her being reticent.
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