Free Crumbs by Miha Mazzini Page A

speed.
    The rocking of the car caused another avalanche.
    The chassis started to slide down, carrying the guard with it.
    I ran away so quickly that the sheets of paper flew around like virgin snow behind a skier.
    The guard slid away, growling with despair. He saw us escape. The party was over. We wouldn’t be having any more fun.
    He hurled the pipe after us. It flew high above our heads, bounced off the fence, and rattled on the scrap metal.
    The front of the car hit the ground. Stood on its end. Ejected the guard in an elegant arc.
    At last he shut up. He was waving his arms in the air and opening his mouth. His prosthesis detached. Flew away in a different direction. The empty trouser leg waved at us. It looked as if he was going to hit a wrecked van, but he flew over it onto a heap of newspapers. He dug into it. An avalanche immediately covered him.
    The sheets of newspaper settled down slowly.
    The sisters stood looking at each other.
    I felt for the magazine. It was stashed in my trousers. And the book was in my pocket.
    I ran along the fence back towards the town, away from the Gypsies.
    Maybe they’d change their minds and call for reinforcements. You never know.
    The paper on top of the guard moved, and out popped his head. All you could see were the whites of his bulging eyes. He howled like a factory siren. Foam sprayed from his mouth. His hands, which were trying to dig out his body, threw the torn paper high into the air.
    A light breeze blew them around.
    Selim, this was worth three crates.
    I felt cold, which made me realise I was sweaty. I was completely wet. My balls were swimming in sweat, which was running in torrents down my back. I put off my visit to Selim’s till later and went to the flat to have a shower.
    The bar was still empty. I sat at a table in the corner and gazed through the window. The waitress peeped out of the kitchen. When she saw who it was, she immediately disappeared again.
    The crackly radio played the current pop successes. First, three pensioners came in. They drank their spritzers, explaining how many people they’d kill and who would be shot if they were presidents of this country. They had a terrible argument about methods of execution. The winner was the one who suggested they should all be covered in honey and thrown on an ants’ nest. Having calmed down they ordered another round.
    I took Nastassja from under my T-shirt, briefly looked at the photos, turned to the interviews. It was a French edition of
Playboy
. I soon gave up and read only thecartoon captions.
    She moved a chair and sat next to me.
    â€˜What’ll you have?’
    Some women really do know how to play the right tune.
    She went to get two beers. I tried to remember her name. In vain. All I could remember was that she was easy. It may be true, how should I know. I only knew her by sight. Once we had waited together for a bus, and I’d fucked her twice, both times at a party, pissed out of my head.
    We poured the beer and started talking. Had she been born forty years ago, she would’ve been considered a great beauty. Then, her square face surrounded by curly hair would have been used as the epitome of a heroic Red Army soldier, a young Komsomol who had surpassed her norm by 315%. I looked at her, and martial music rattled through my head. Cheering masses shouted slogans under large banners. Tanks rolled down the roadways. Her face looked out from the turrets. People threw flowers. She reminded me of the screaming pathos of the bright future. Of victories. Only victories.
    A terrible bitch.
    It wasn’t her fault. You’re born the way you’re born. But I could only force myself as far as medium niceness during our conversation.
    She said she was waiting for her boyfriend. She was half an hour early. I felt sorry for her. Real women make their men wait.
    I put my elbows on the table and rested my head on them. I was looking at her from below, like at an old movie