I watched, feeling a bit hungry myself, but I didn't imagine I'd be on the guest list.
It became obvious, as heads nodded in my direction, mixed with quick glances, that I was the subject of conversation. One of the boys said something and they all looked over. There was a little joke said and a few snickers. Then it all got serious again as they got back to eating.
I kept pretending to look out of the window and be unaware of what was going on behind me.
A chair scraped on the bare wooden floor and shoes echoed on the boards as one of them came toward me. I turned and smiled at the old guy in his hat, watching as the TV shone on him in the gloom when he passed the screen. He was facing me, but talking back to the others, looking very serious. This wasn't another leg pulling. An index finger started pointing at me as he got closer, as if to reinforce whatever he was jabbering off about. I looked down in submission and slightly turned back toward the window.
From less than a foot away he began to poke me in the back, shouting very close to my head. I turned and looked at him, confused and frightened, then looked down, just like Tom would have. I smelled garlic and alcohol, and as he continued to rant and poke, flecks of sausage hit my face. His face, creased and leathered and showing a day's stubble, was now no more than a few inches away as the fur from his hat brushed against my forehead. He bellowed at me again.
I wasn't going to react by moving or wiping away his shit from my face; it might antagonize him even more. I just stood and let him get on with it, just like I'd done at school when teachers went ballistic.
I was never scared; I knew they would finish or get bored with it quickly, so fuck 'em, let them get on with their fun so I could skip school straight afterward. It was one of the attitudes that had fucked up my life.
I moved my left hand to the window and supported myself, as I was getting the four-finger poke now, my body jerking back with each jab.
Glancing across, I could see the other three at the table, their cigarettes glowing in the semidarkness, enjoying the cabaret.
The shouting and bad breath continued.
Sounding as frightened as I could I stammered, 'I am here for Eight? er? Vv-vorsim.'
He mocked me. 'V-v-v-orsim.' Turning toward the table, he mimed injecting his arm, laughing along with the other three.
He turned back and gave me one last shove against the window. I took it and then steadied myself as he headed back for more garlic sausage.
He was obviously talking about me as he pretended to take a line from his index finger, to the accompaniment of further laughter. Let them think it; the drama was over. Now where the fuck was Eight?
I looked out of the window again, slowly wiping all the shit off my face as the floorboards echoed toward me once more. He was coming back for seconds.
He got right up on me again and gave me a push with both hands. He was fucking with me; he was having some fun, maybe taking out some frustration. The others laughed as I rode the pushes and tried to lean against the window frame, still showing no resistance, looking forlornly at the floor to appear even less of a threat.
He got more serious with each push and I began to get pissed. After one particularly hard one I stumbled backward toward the television.
He followed me, the pushes now punctuated with the odd slap round the head. I kept my face down, not wanting him to see in my eyes what I was really thinking. He kept repeating the same word over and over, then he started gesturing, rubbing fingers and pointing at my boots.
Did he want my money and Timberlands? Money I could understand, but boots?
This was getting out of control. If I was right he would be getting a lot more than he bargained for if my boots came off. I couldn't let that happen.
I held my hands up in submission. 'Stop! Stop! Stop!'
He did, and waited for his cash.
I slowly reached into the inside pocket of the jacket and pulled out the insurance policy, still inside its protection. He looked at the condom and then at me, his eyes narrowing.
Untying the knot at the end, I probed inside with two fingers.
He barked a question at me, then, shouting something at the others, he grabbed the condom and roughly fished inside. Opening the thin paper and partly tearing it in the process, he turned to the table and waved it at them, as if sharing the lucky prediction in a fortune cookie.
Bending down into the light given off by Kirk on his horse, he pushed the note in front of the screen. His laughter subsided as he started to read. Then it stopped completely. Whatever the bit of paper said, it was doing the business.
He walked over to the others, looking extremely pissed as he muttered, 'Ignaty. Ignaty.'
I hadn't a clue what that meant and I didn't really care. They all had a read, and it had the same effect on everyone. They slowly turned their heads and stared at me across the room. I brought my hands together in front of me, not wanting to appear a threat. It was good the policy had worked, but it meant I might have to put up with their loss of face. Some people have the fuck-it factor when this sort of thing happens, and regardless of the possible fallout they'll still retaliate because their pride has been hurt. I couldn't afford to fuel that by appearing at all cocky; I still wasn't out of the woods.
Walking over to the table, my face full of respect, I put out my left hand, making sure that Lion King wasn't exposed. It wouldn't exactly help me maintain my new standing. I nodded at the sheet of paper.
'Please.'
He may not have understood the word, but he knew what it meant. He handed it back, hating every second of it, and I folded it carefully and put it in my pocket. Now wasn't the time to start putting it back into a condom. 'Thank you.' I gave a little bow of the head and, with my heart pumping as hard as if it was forcing crude oil through my arteries, I turned my back to them and walked to the TV.
Sitting as casually as I could in the chair facing the screen, I watched Kirk still taming the Wild West, leaning forward to hear what was happening out there in the desert. My pulse was louder than the TV.
I could tell that once I was out of earshot there was going to be some very loud shouting, but for now there was just low, disgruntled murmuring behind me. Where the fuck was Eight? Not wanting to turn or look in any other direction than the screen, I sat like a child who thinks he can't be seen at bedtime if he just concentrates hard and doesn't move.
They carried on mumbling as glasses were banged with the neck of the whiskey bottle to drown their anger. My eyes were on the screen and my ears were on them.
Five minutes later, just as Kirk was about to save the girl, Eight came back into the room. I didn't understand what he was saying as he fought with the zip on his leatherette jacket, but by the look of it, we were leaving. Muttering a silent prayer of thanks, I got to my feet and tried not to show my relief.
As Eight went to the door and I passed the table, they got a respectful bow from me before I followed him downstairs at the speed of sound.
35
Eight was a happy camper the moment he caught sight of his beloved Lada in the noisy parking lot.
'Where do we go now, Vorsim?'
'An apartment.' He already had the Lada's hood open.
I heard two metallic bangs as the starter motor got a reminder as to what it did for a living.
The Lada eventually fired up and he drove us both out of the parking lot and turned right, toward the traffic circle. The 'komfort baars' all had enormous doormen standing under their flashing neon to control the evening's trade. Turning left this time at the traffic circle, away from the river, we drove past even more establishments and parked trucks.
The baars' lights slowly disappeared and the darkness took over again.
Now apartment and industrial buildings lined the road, in between electrical towers and shells of crumbling masonry.
Fighting with two trucks that were trying to overtake each other, both throwing up waves of ice and snow, we turned left without indicating, then left again down a narrow street, with apartments to the left and a tall wall to the right.
Eight threw the Lada into the side of the road and jumped out. 'Wait here, my man.'
