K has now returned from the store, filled the dog’s bowl, cut up fruit in the kitchen, and brought it into the room on a big tray along with other edibles.
C goes for the pretzel sticks.
I try one too. The taste of salt is very pleasant. Words can’t begin to describe. It fluidly dissolves into the walls of the mouth. Even the cheekbones take it in. It’s also interesting to just gnaw on the pretzel stick. To bite into it, feel as the stick crumbles in your mouth, as crumbs from sharp edges scratch at your tongue, cheeks. As they slowly lose their rigidity.
I’m discussing this with C, whose attention is taken up mainly by the grains of salt, before he grabs an apple. The apple is undergoing a metamorphosis too. It’s succulent, spraying sweet juice along the walls of the mouth cavity. Biting, chewing it gives pleasure, bordering on ecstasy.
“There it is, fellas. That’s what I’m talking about. Now acid is going to eat away your entire brain.”
Hmmm, strange. Eat away the brain … The white jam dish. The fruit cocktail. Orange juice. Kesey’s tests.
Baraka culminates in a scene with cave paintings, also shown at the beginning of the film. I observe: “It looks like the director made another Koyaanisqatsi. He realized this and decided to mix in different scenes.”
Pushkin’s face is beginning to reveal itself. K works with inspiration, he periodically sticks out his tongue without noticing it.
It’s five thirty. The sky slowly grows light at the window. Soon it will turn turquoise, a pleasant color in every sense.
K pulls himself away from the bust and rolls a joint.
“Was that your girlfriend saying goodbye to you? I mean, when we drove up?” he asks.
“Yes, that’s her.”
Why is he asking this?
Rogue has eaten her fill and jumps up onto the sofa again, lies down next to my arm, gives me a reproachful look, and goes at my hand anew.
We pass the joint around. How many has it been tonight?
C puts on a video of Jefferson Airplane from 1968. The band performs on the roof of a building. Judging from the architecture, people, and taxis—it’s somewhere in New York. But something’s not right. The music is wondrously good. It’s reminiscent of contemporary “desert rock.” Yeah, even cooler! No, there’s something conspicuously not right here.
“Look at how it’s filmed,” I say. “How contemporary the camera angles are!”
I wait for a reaction, but it seems that no one is paying attention to this anymore.
“They’ve even got Bonham on drums. Perhaps it’s an omnibus show. Or maybe he’s replaced a sick drummer.”
“Perhaps,” C responds.
I look at him, he’s completely lost in the video. He sits right in front of the monitor with his feet tucked up beneath him.
The people in the video look as though they’re cut out and pasted. They jump off the screen toward the viewer. The background is glued to a wall, but it’s the opposite with the musicians— they move about their environment freely.
There, Polanski just walked behind the musicians.
“No doubt! This is a new video, styled after the 1960s. With all the attributes of that era. Even Polanski’s there. The music is a giveaway—it’s got a contemporary beat.”
C shrugs his shoulders. The video ends.
“That must be it,” I say. I get up, start to walk around the room. “Did you see Polanski there? It was so cool how they did that, and I was all ready to believe it. And Bonham’s planted there. It’s like, he who knows will understand. A subtle hint for us. Plus it’s only a year before Manson murders Sharon Tate.” I cut off the verbal fountain. Stop in the center of the room, throw my arms wide open, and say: “Now tell me, how is it possible to kill anyone in a state like this?”
It was worth it to voice this thought—the idea of murder no longer seems so absurd. Suddenly the urge arises to grab a knife and cut someone. Not out of hatred, but out of love. No, that’s not it. Out of an irresistible desire to show the world in my eyes, though such an attempt would be total depravity.
I go to the bathroom.
It’s good here, cozy. A soft glow comes from below, having something to do with the toilet. There are reeds on the red walls. Glassed-in pipelines of communication. Hieroglyphs.
I exit.
The top pocket of the bag that I came with is open. I remember that I retrieved the napkin with the pieces of sugar from there. What about my keys? The keys have been here the entire time in the pocket of a green Adidas Original jacket.
Knucklehead! I grab the jacket, feel the pockets. The keys are in their place. I retrieve them. The metal shines. But of course someone could have made a copy while I was out of the room.
All right, calm down. Right now it’s important to not show what you’ve figured out. Just go back to the room like nothing has happened, sit down, and think everything through all nice like.
All right, go on and think: You were sitting here, they arrived. You didn’t like Red from the start. His eyes were racing. What do they live off of? Music?
“C, what do those fellas live off of? Red, for instance?”
C slowly (way too slowly!) turns, he’s beet-faced. What’s wrong with him? Is he afraid of something?
“Well, he put this website up overnight.”
Spoken unpersuasively. Is he lying? Or does he just not know?
Fine, go on then. Next they got up and made their way to the front door. How much time did they spend in the hallway while they were saying their goodbyes? Enough to pull off the deal with the keys.
I have to ask where they went. The answer will calm me down. If they went to record music, then everything’s okay. However, if C lies, then I’ll know it right away. And then I’ll have uncovered their plan. They’ll know that I know. No, that’s not the way to do it. I have to be more careful.
Fine. They made a copy. Then what? They went to my house! No one is there but my sister, and she’s totally helpless. They’re drug addicts, after all. What did Hunter S. Thompson say? You can turn your back on a person, but never turn your back on a drug. They hold nothing sacred, they have no qualms.
To try to ease the trembling, I head back to the bathroom. Wash my face. K walks by.
“Well, is that helping any? It usually calms me down.”
Calms me down? That means he knows something.
The water is definitely pleasant, velvety.
I return to the room. Begin walking around in it. I notice that the pistol is no longer lying next to The Portrait of Dorian Gray.
K gave the barrel to those two drug addicts. He took it out of commission, so that they wouldn’t misfire at something. But now they’re at my house with a pistol and my sister…
The height of the ceiling. K asked me about the height of the ceiling. They want to go through the window. Of course, that’s it! They’ve got it all planned. There are cameras everywhere over there. They must have planned it all in advance. And they need to know the height of the ceiling, so as not to get the apartments mixed up.
I have to call my sister right away. It’s six thirty. I’ll wait until seven, then call her, wake her up for work.
What was up with the questions about M, my girlfriend? They want to kidnap her. Or rape her? Rape her. God, how did I not figure this out sooner? They want to ravage her. There were some characters hanging around the place where they picked me up. Stop. She sent me a message as soon as she reached home. But they could have forced her. They want to take it all away from me in one go.
All this is how clowning around with acid, amphetamines, and hashish affects a body—it is making me stupid, shutting off my brain so that I can’t comprehend.
And there sits C, all gloomy. He definitely knows the truth, which is why he won’t look me in the eyes.