Читать книгу Homo Ludus - Владимир Андерсон - Страница 3

Vincent listened only to the click of his heels as he moved with slow, steady steps toward the car. It was especially nice to hear them after a conversation like this. He felt like a winner. The kind of man who would choose his own path, his own identity… And even his own death. To her he replied, "Another day…" He was reminded of a phrase from a famous saga where the characters said to death, "Not today," but he didn't like it completely. That's exactly what most people think. They recoil, they turn away, they seek to avoid – it's not a winner's road. And so I do not postpone, like a conscript, an unnecessary moment, but appoint it myself:

"Another day!"

The night is dark. And Vincent is drunk, though not too drunk. And once again, getting behind the wheel with a cloudy mind, with hands that are not steady, with eyes that close on their own, he simply said: "Another day."

Didn't care which one. This year or next year. Winter or summer. Sober or drunk. Just another one.

The turns were easy for him. As usual. It was business as usual. Him, his car, his body, his road. The road went on as usual. Tomorrow to Istanbul. Bashkurt's there. They'll definitely ask for a discount. He'll say times are hard and all that. It's so cliché. Times are never hard. Neither is it easy. It's all about people. Just like problems are only about people. It's as silly to say time is hard as it is to say time has problems. Time has no problems. It's just a given. And Gustav. Yes. He's really cool, isn't he? He's always listening, always learning. Always learning. That's exactly what you should learn from him. He's like an old man. Like an old wise man who absorbs the knowledge of the universe. I wonder if he's okay with women. I think he's had a few, but more details. I'd have to ask him. You'd have to ask him. If you ask him, you'll answer your own question later. I could learn that from him, too.

Cunning. Cool and sneaky.

The turn went sideways more than the previous ones, and the car went steeper, to the left, into the oncoming traffic. 140 kilometers an hour. There is no problem to go back, and even with such technique: 300C is strong on corners, the rubber is only run-in, you can participate in races on it. A little bit of cornering and you're back in your own lane. And, really, like in a race, just leave a small gap at the lefthand edge when you turn right. And then back into your lane.

Two white lights in the front. Headlights. Right in front of them… There's no point in braking – you can't go right.

Not a drop of nerves. Not a drop of fear. Vincent just sobered up instantly. Crashing is crashing. Not the stupidest death ever. And he chose it anyway. So it's worth confirming it. Just to be sure all the way. Shoe on the gas pedal.

He didn't really realize and couldn't remember exactly how he had gone around that car. It seemed to be to the left of the car, right on the edge of the road, even though he had skidded even more. I don't think so. They're all sort of–

Sort of– Sort of– Sort of–

And it's not like he's alive at all. He's alive, and he's not even hit.

Vincent glanced at the receding car in the rearview mirror and said. For the first time in his life, he said After instead of Before: "Another day."