“I can’t do this anymore,” I decided to share my thoughts with you.
You turned away, trying to hide your face, and at that very moment I saw your reflection in the kiosk window – helpless, crocked and embittered.
“We can’t quit, you must understand, we have nowhere to go,” you said, choosing the words with difficulty. “However, Ickie’s maternal dwelling or better yet a madhouse would accept us with open arms.”
Suddenly and without any warning, your eyes flashed with malicious fire:
“Here we’re uncommonly but not improperly taken for a very young woman, I mean, two women. And in the mental home, what is expected of us? Now I say that walking from corner to corner, pills, dirty bedpans and special treatment which makes us really and permanently madwomen; and nobody’s even going to listen to you – you are a loony, you are of no use for anything. Running away is not an option because there is no place to escape. We have to survive with a limited number of options, that’s the only thing we should think about. Society determined with great precision that we belong to the rubbish dump; we have to take it and be grateful for it. Here, we are at least given a chance for some kind of existence.”
You became silent for a while, moving your finger on a glass, and then continued:
“Our underground world is not so bad. It is governed by certain rules, which may be cruel, but they work perfectly fine for me. Up above, there are no rules at all, especially for the needy like us; just sadness, depression and gloom.”
A burdensome feeling of unease and sickness that is hard to put into words was gradually fading away until it disappeared completely. From that moment on, I tried not to bring up the issue of escape anymore because I was sincerely afraid: what if you suggest the old proven way of solving problems: jumping out of a window?
It is generally accepted that if you have ugly looks, you must be beautiful inside. That’s what classic books say. Lies! Only here, in our place, you understand how far the authors are from reality. The truth is, the more hardships a person is going through, the more exasperated he or she becomes. A new tunnel reminded me of a tumultuous river with a flock of beggars nestling ashore; they met us “at the door” with such undisguised hatred that we even had to close our eyes tight. There was nothing but the malice we were already used to; nothing but new concerns and privations which we were somehow meant to get through.
15. A DAY SOBER IS A DAY WASTED_
Ickie found us three days later. That was how long it took him to search through half of the walking tunnels under the city. We left our spot to fulfill a physical need while he agreed to substitute us in our begging business.
“Help, please, good people. Don’t just walk on by, make a donation,” Ickie squealed, expressing all the grievances of the world and puffing out his shiny, sweaty cheeks. When we returned, he had already raised a fairly decent amount of cash. The only thing I could say about that was: whoever is a real nothing is capable of many things.
Making our way back to our spot in the half-dark, we nearly ran into a “newcomer”. It took me some time to actually recognize her, because the woman standing in front of us was a totally different person. Fear and desperation had bent her back completely, against her will, as if somebody dispatched Sprinter – yes, yes, that was really her – to another planet and replaced her with a pathetic, miserable woman looking exactly like her mom, whom we have never seen. In addition, now she was called Teeter-Totter, probably because of her rolling gait. The reunion reminded her of foster-home days which she wanted to forget. Recognizing us immediately, although there was a crowd of people around, she became completely abashed, shrank into herself, and grew dim, contorted with a mixture of horror and shame. We continued looking at each other for some time, not knowing what to say. A painful and unwanted meeting with the past. I couldn’t understand how she had ended up here. Later, Compass Legs gave us a brief summary of her life, actually not even a summary, just a few words. “She got kicked out of technical school, and then banished from her roost; now she lives with some drunkard; besides, she’s lazy and slow, not eager to work.” And that was it! No names, no dates, no fate. And, what’s most important: she is just an ordinary beggar, just like all of us. This thought was both new and honey-sweet to my heart, which filled with malicious joy. I hate to admit it, but boy was I pleased! Why?
While I was pondering whether I should bend my knees in submission or spit at her as a greeting, Ickie stealthily slid behind us and diffused the situation. He told us a strange story of how he had been surprisingly hurt in the best of his feelings when a terminally ill woman he had fallen in love with had started recovering all of a sudden, with such a touching expression and so comically waving his hands that involuntarily he made everybody laugh. For the first time in our life I saw Sprinter laughing.
“You’re such an attractive woman, a perfect model to be drawn,” Ickie cackled spiritedly. “But I can only offer you a photo of yourself. It’s not a painting, of course, but it’s still a keepsake weapon which I plan on using for the delight of your soul.”
After our refusal he still had some idea of how he might replenish his collection with new images.
Having thought for a moment, Sprinter, or Teeter-Totter, screwed her face into a smile and replied:
“Well, I don’t mind delighting my soul. This I am willing to do.”
As a goodbye, Ickie at first kissed her on the cheek, and then shook her hand twice, probably just to clinch the deal, to seal the bargain. Then he stood for a while, shyly and ingratiatingly looking her in the face and, after making an apology, left – and later…
What happened later? One evening, after a working day, Ickie invited us to a backstreet boozer, as dirty as his apartment. He was a little bit jittery, staring at us nervously, hesitating and not knowing where to start as if a girl he had been dating for a long time took her friend with her when he decided to confess his feelings. After five minutes of waiting you couldn’t stand it anymore:
“So, what happened? Spit it out!”
“I’m getting married,” Ickie blurted out, and you shuddered with surprise.
He was so desperate to look impassive, as if the talk was about an old friend, but his hands showed his condition, fidgeting, shivering, and from time to time letting out a mute “shout”.
“You’re a lying jerk! Whoever’s gonna take an interest in you?” you spat out with eyes flashing with hatred.
He didn’t answer, just clasped his hands around him tightly, trying to join them behind his back, and started coughing discontentedly.
“If she was humpbacked or didn’t have a foot or an eye, then you shouldn’t hesitate to marry her. But she is, to my unspeakable horror, merely lame. What’s so special about limping? Not your style, Ickie!” you said very rudely.
I didn’t realize at that moment you were talking about an old acquaintance of ours. From the first day, she did her best to try and please Ickie. She shook the dust out of his house and cleaned the dirt off his clothes, cared and helped him, even cured his ailments. Yeah, Sprinter chose a truly non-losing strategy, searching for survival outside the tunnel, not inside.
“Don’t be offended, but it’s the first time someone needs me after my mom,” he said, sobbing silly with happiness. “I know we’re meant for each other.”