Читать книгу You - Zoran Drvenkar - Страница 27

Of course there’s an idiot in every story. Someone who does everything wrong, backs the wrong horse and gets caught in the rain. Someone like you, disappearing on a stolen Vespa and grinning to themselves as if they’d won the jackpot. You’re the idiot, you’re the marked card. At the same time you’re the only one lying contentedly in her bed tonight. Your head is heavy from those two cocktails, the barkeeper probably slipped something into your glass. You hate it when guys flirt and then get nasty when you slap them down. If you said yes to every barman, you’d have died of alcohol poisoning years ago.

Eventually sleep overwhelms you and you dream of Neil going down on one knee in front of you in the disco and saying he isn’t bothered by your flowery underwear. You also dream of Nessi, bobbing away like a water lily and disappearing into the distance, even though you call her name. It’s a good thing you have a brother, otherwise you’d probably have slept through the rest of this story.

“Get up!”

The light goes on and off, on and off.

“Are you deaf or something? Get up!”

You wish you were deaf or something. You roll over. Your brother won’t let go.

“One of your stupid girlfriends has been ringing up a storm, how can’t you hear it?”

That’s enough. You kick the covers away, bickering like a washerwoman. You swing your legs out of bed and a whole universe of stars explodes in front of your eyes. You feel dizzy and you bend down and look at your toes until the explosions subside. You didn’t hear any ringing. Good thing your aunt’s on night shift tonight.

“God, Paul, I didn’t hear it ring,” you murmur.

“Yeah, right.”

Your brother slams the door behind him, you sink back.

Maybe it’s all just a dream? Maybe I can just go back to sleep—

Your bedroom door flies open again.

You raise your head.

Ruth is standing there, and she says, “I hate it when you don’t charge your battery.”

And as she says it you know something has happened.

Something bad.

The clock by the door says ten past three.

Whatever it is, it’s definitely bad.

The realization reaches your brain like a shock wave, your ears pop, you have to rub your nose because it’s suddenly itchy.

“My goodness,” you say, like a grandma whose shopping bag tears on the way home, then you totter to your feet and get dressed while Ruth tells you about the message she got.

Five minutes later you’re sitting on the stolen Vespa, your hair blowing in the wind, Berlin is in a coma, the streets are deserted and the traffic lights have a weary pulse that looks a bit like slow-motion Christmas lights. How you hate Christmas, how you love the city at night.