Saga of Rastoder

Circle I.8: In memoriam

2005-07-27T12:25:00.000+02:00

Days and nights, nights and days they had spent in taming down eruption of wild passion. They loved each other and made love, shaking and waving, breathing together, ascending towards gusto of their life, having brief moments of rest when they hashed out best of poetry, arts - even political economy.

It was November, a frost bit the houses, streets were obscured by the mist and dark shadow of remorse.

Last day, he woke up alone.

Monika made him a nice cup of coffee. She had arranged clean white underwear, shirt and clothes for him. Then, she kissed his cheeks, his eyes and behind the ears. He didn't catch her eye, but it seemed like he has heard a faint cry. Women are strange.

He mutely jumped out of bed and started dressing. Nice and neat clothes.

- It suits you perfectly. - she said. - I think, he'd also like to see you wearing it.

- Yes, I'm sure he'd like it. - Rastoder clarified cynically.

Out there, icy rain showered the haunted streets. Luckily, he had an umbrella. Her negligee was hanging loose around her bold breasts. She was so damned sexy.

- Come back, asap. - she said.

Rastoder hesitated.

- ...or, please call me. At least... - she tried again.

When he arrived home, Rastoder was depressed, cold and empty.

Obviously, Vera was having a party. It was exactly a full house. One locky guy in undershirt, one foureyed nerd, one redhead broad with a great ass, one unsightly brunette. Vera was a jolly joker.

- Tomcat's back home. Where've you been, Romeo? - she shouted.

- Seems that I've not been missed so much. - Rastoder cryed.

- You're wrong, Romeo. I'm all fucked up. Sinse yesterday, we're out of smoke. - Vera said.

- So, I have to smoke you out?

- Don't tire. I've borrowed some from in-kind neighborhood.

- Great! Well, then, hi, everybody. - Rastoder weaved.

- Yo, man! Errr... We drank that Chivas of your's. Don't get mad. Like... We liked it. - that was locky one.

- Get me some booze, kid. Run, run! - Rastoder gave him an one-thousand bill.

- Wow! You're fuckin Jack! I'm Rale. - Locky gave him a pot, for an exchange.

- How nice... Learn, learn and learn again. Or spread the revolution! It's forbidden to hang around! - Rastoder has sauced them.

Circle I.7: Delicate Atmosphere

2005-07-02T14:52:00.000+02:00

He was wandering the rainy streets carrying an umbrella in his hand. Fragile weather. He has been thinking about human misery. How man fabricates agglomeration of spiteful utensils out of his weakness. Take an umbrella, for instance.

And so on he walked as far as he found himself in the familiar street in front of well known house. He was facing the front door, like he had intention to penetrate inside.

"This is Iorp's house. What a nice subconscious drive. Was it Eros or Thanatos?"

And so on he stood oddly, flipping, playing with his umbrella, in front of the locked doors. Like, he was trying to determine his motivation.

Then, lock has snapped, doors had become unbarred. He even heard a somnolent female voice.

- Come inside, Istvan. One way or other I've been expecting you. Somehow exactly at this time. A time for hot tea. I know you'd like it. Come inside, serve yourself.

Rastoder hesitated. It seemed that inner struggle between Eros and Thanatos has not been over yet. Though, he gathered enough courage to pass the verge. And while he was entering - it happened. That is to say he tumbled over the doorstep, so his umbrella passed through her negligee and ended between her thighs. Time has halted until their eyes met. Hers was exposed and shamed, followed by an utter with a sigh. His was uncertain, ashamed, waiting for conclusion. And just about when he meant to say "please excuse me", his words were canceled by her gentle bite.

His unsealed feelings blissfully arrived from far and wide his entity and focused on burst and placid fit for her divine graces. A kind of magic you can lose your mind of...

- Yes... - Rastoder mumbled while breathing out cigarette smoke. That "yes" echoed through the emptiness of discharged man. A man who ended inner struggle of ethics with an after sex cigarette nirvana.

Monika was just chuckling.

- Have a tea. It's still hot, I left it on the stove. I knew that you wont consume tea at first. You know, Istvan, I know something about you.

Hmm?

Circle I.6: Quo Vadis

2005-07-02T10:49:00.000+02:00

A letter from his missing friend Iorp had very bizarre content.

"TO POIEO TO ON

If fall leaves,
If dawn shades,
If anyone,
And who?
Knows that this world is
Not the one.
(Don't look for me
I'm just gone.)

We'll met, maybe, in other age
Or even on the odd page.

In addition to the strange poem, there was the name of the book "Designing - Reality - Deconstructing - Fantasy", written by Rade Becsei. Words on the cover were in the form of the cross, so title could even be "Designing - Fantasy - Deconstructing - Reality", if read counterclockwise. Rastoder has obtained a book in public library. Book was strange almost as a poem. And that was just all that has been left from his friend.

Monika, sexy widow, strange message, subsequently a book - he was quite confused. Transcending over moist carpet of the autumn leaves, he returned back home.

Vera was still there. She has just showered, then made him a strong coffee. Rastoder liked idea of having someone to wait and care for him. Even if it was just a broad interest. He went for an examination job, like a real investigator. Started from Telekom information service.

- I need Becsei phone number please.

- Becsei... Becsei Rade, key cutter. - he instantly got a number. It was all too easy.

- I've invited some friends, here, tonight. - Vera digressed. She had great tight buttocks.

- Yes, yes... No problem. - Rastoder responded. Then, he called key cutter.

- 'Allo! Key cuttering service. - senile voice answered.

- Mister Becsei?

- It's me. - said the old man.

- Me... I'm Rastoder... Friend of Iorp's...

- You are the man I'm waiting for. Just come by, have an address?

"What is happening?" Rastoder has wondered. It seemed like he was involving himself into some kind of provincial conspiracy. But why? Why should he involve into that? If there is a good reason, why not? Name of the one good reason was - Monika. So he decided to continue his weird adventures.

- Listen, Istvan, I need some cash. You may like livin' like a monk, but I don't. I wanna shop, buy things. Food and beverages, you know. - Vera was straight. A young squab determined to became a dove. Survivalist. He liked her more and more.

- Ok. Clean this mess first. Deal?

- Gimme four hundreds and it's a deal.

Money was not, properly speaking, his problem.

Circle I.5: The Book

2005-06-20T18:19:00.000+02:00

"To be a tragic hero in the theatre of life, to act as noble as a spirit itself, to be in secret of uselessness of the being. Or, to be an actor to whom acting as it is, means the purpose of existence, without any value, with no denouement.

Hero acts in harmony with the supreme, one that is more grandiose than the existence itself. That way, he disestablishes selves grown by lightness of an idea.

Actor despises destiny and knows techniques to prevail its blind forces. But he prevails through elegy, which feeds his own lamentable destiny.

Both positions are having their finale in an absurd, although both of them have their origin in the question of being.

To be and even not to be, that is the answer."

Hush and quiet giggles, stretched from the table behind, were just enough to break up Rastoder's hardly gathered concentration. However, he found more likely to listen gossips of innocent girls than reading and understanding dubious text from the book.

He was not a kind of mystical mood man who searches for the great answers. It seemed like he even despised great questions from the best possible reason - he felt blase for them. Furthermore, he assumed idiots those who were still renting those ideas.

"Subjecting meaning or nonsense is a proof of adolescence or even retardation of mind. Era of Absolute Spirit, that has been fostered for centuries by totalitarian mind - God Ratio, has passed. Last effort of that oblivion was the silly attempt made by Hitler's Nazi's.

Today, it's outrageous not to see that being is plurality of images, forms, which are not to be rationalized. Images of being needn't be thought as absolute concept in order to have any meaning. The being is a plurality that should be presumed, and resumed.

The man is an artist, who experiences and creates the being. That is his highest potential and dignity. Rest is rationalization, that means reduction of beauty of the being to the plane vulgarity of the concept. Ratio is vulgar, not capable to sublime, only to score and number.

Therefore, the era of human emancipation as a rational earthling, is the era of collapse of humanity in human being. It culminates with metaphysical systems about the meaning of life..."

For a moment, Rastoder was distracted. He was strangely observed. He noticed that his forefinger was pointing and his mouth were opened as he meant to say something of a great importance. Image of himself made him feel ridiculous. He sealed the book and turned to librarian.

- I shall take out this one! - although he couldn't understand anything.

- That's single one we've got. Strange, for years it stood on the shelf, and you're third one to ask for it lately.

Circle I.4: Sobering

2005-06-19T19:36:00.000+02:00

He expelled tar and mucus of the nights before and revealed Vera in his bed. He enjoyed moments being exposed to her smooth nudity. She was so young.

Uncovering unbearable lightness of being under intolerably serious life.

His friends from adolescence finally payed a visit to his mind. Eventually, he grabbed an old directory and took out a phone number of his best ally. Friend's name was Iorp. He has never seized an idea of giving that kind of name to somebody. Iorp originated from the old, petty bourgeois family. Species from the brink of extinction.

Sexy mezzo-soprano answered the phone.

- Rastoder speaking. I've just...

- I know. I'm his wife. I know you, Istvan.

- I'm... I just...

- You're back. At my place, Rastoder, eleven o'clock. - she ended conversation.

Her voice emitted thousands of eroticons through the wire. Rastoder was well shaken by the single brief call.

Vera was still sleeping. He left her blessed, dressed himself up and literally bounced on the streets of Maria Theresiopolis. He was hovering across the hangovering town. Some cats, dogs and people were busy seeking for a lunch from the thrash bins. It was Sunday.

"I've been called by the Iorp's lady. But, where's Iorp? What if she wants to cheat on him? Should I make another call? What if she answers again?"

Scruples were tickling him to the itching suspense.

He decided to have an espresso. It took a lot of effort to find an open caffe. It was Sunday. Personnel was slow and bored.

Finally, time ticked off eleven. For long fifteen minutes, he was waiting in front of the house. Precisely, behind the thirty meters tree afar. He was looking at Iorp's house remembering wild teenage parties: "When Meeckey defecated himself and was thrown into bathtub". Iorp's parents were dead, he knew. They corresponded by mail, for some time. Fact that he was married, Rastoder didn't know.

He rang and she opened. Monika! Ever since he was fond of her. In some crazy, passionate, erotic way. And he knew that she liked him as well. He was sure.

- He's gone! - she cried.

- He left this envelope, for you. I've read it, of course. Go, now! Please! - she asked.

Doors were closed. Rastoder was left standing with envelope in his hands while the whole world began to twist around.

Circle I.3: Sharing Vera

2005-06-19T19:14:00.000+02:00

Sip of black, warm coffee on an empty stomach, after drunk night. Barking of smoked cigarettes from the deep bottom of the lungs. Joy of the upcoming lunch. Popular music and afternoon buzz. Then restaurant dinner and black coffee again. Late afternoon Rastoder decides to sunk into the beer.

- Who knows, maybe this time I shall not spring up into dawn blazed away from the cheap liquor, bad cigars and worst of the personal stories. - he was thinking.

Just when he decided to order another pint, he has been accompanied by her. She sat on the barstool, merely a cubit away from him.

After short snooping like:
- Please ask mademoiselle what would she like for a drink,
- I have never seen You here before, monseigneur,
- Voila, sometimes I just drop by, but let me introduce myself,
- Ok, I'm Vera,
- I'm Istvan, pleasure's all mine,
- I work at the nearby boutique,
- That should explain everything. I'm brand-new in this town...

Conversation entrenched up on her instant confession:
- You know, I'm renewing first year on the High, otherwise I'm from Crvenka, father is retired sergeant, he drinks a lot, mother lectures Russian, she aches from the osteoporosis, they cannot support me, I have to work, I'm squatting public hostel for students, in secret, all professors are morons, anyway... By the way, guys over here are sham, like, they're all trendy, they act as they're cool, but they're just cretins. Comprendo? There is no soulmate, someone who listens, understands and cares for something. Who reads books, for instance. So far, everyone is in Brazilian soap operas, but I care, I read damned books. I read just about... The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho, and that sort of things. It discharges me. He's so, you know, mystic...

- Yes, absolutely, yes absolutely... - Rastoder was confirming occasionally. He was focused on boldness of her red lips. From time to time, cold, salty drop of sweat poured off his brows.

So, after preliminary interview, carried out within the faint eyes of the bartender, Rastoder bargained another wet night, spiced with the charmy spell of a student broad.

She just started, smoothly and firmly, to exchange her professors from the High School of Pedagogy for the professors of the nightclubs' high bars.

Circle I.2: First Contact

2005-06-12T21:21:00.000+02:00

- Stumpy my name is. - he was told by the poor chap. He was standing by the glossy bar of the disco-pizzeria "Imperium of Wealth"

Besides, that was the first thing he noticed when coming home. He recognized some streets, Town Hall Castle, of course, Nepszinhaz Theatre, main route, Ferentz Reichl Palace... All good old landmarks were still in place - but he could not recognize a single human being, friend, or soulmate. He had become stranger in his own hometown.

Glancing again over numerous guests of the famous disco-pizzeria, he concluded that they're not worth even material and craftmenship ivested into bar he was sitting at.

- Stumpy my name is. - shabby fellow was repeating constantly. Look at him: ratty old asshole. But, his teeth looked perfect. Just incredible.

Rastoder found less than a sip in his glass, and he found to dislike armchair chillout and TV matrix safety of his modest flat.

- Ok. One on me. - The stranger has surrendered to the odd chap.

- Deer Beer smear. - Stumpy responded inspired.

Evoked by his world-wide experience Rastoder has thrown his next question almost immediately.

- What trip are you on?

- What trip are you on is not the question but for how long are you trippin! Stumpy my name is, capisco?

- Stumpy, is that a sort of an alias? My pleasure, I'm Istvan.

- Yo, man! Got a smoke? - Stumpy responded with handshaking.

Rastoder offered him one and lit one himself.

- Nice mouthpiece you've got. - noticed Stumpy.

- I know.

- Aren't you aboriginal?

- I are not. - Rastoder answered instantaneously.

He focused on one of the better looking waitresses. She was standing in the opposite corner of the "Imperium of Wealth". He could not imagine how huge this place was. He was wondering, If it spreads only trough these several rooms and levels, or even over similar places and maybe whole downtown.

- Then everything I'm going to explain to you. - said Stumpy.

That was just one long night, indeed.

Circle I.1: Circles of Existence

2005-06-11T14:14:00.000+02:00

From the deaf room of personal memories, surrounded by cheap guaches of depression, Rastoder was startled when his train finally entered a station. Maria Theresiopolis!

While stepping towards exit he has sensed rising tide of the homesickness - deeper and darker sorrow, grave melancholy of the rainy fall which erodes life from the fasades and people.

Step by step over well known asphalt disclosed development of black and white canvases: shiny eyes of the dingy boy who steals pigeons from the neighborhood's garret; twilight of the small village of Karadjordjevo, province of Vojvodina; sacred mother's eyes; blissed eyes of the student in Theresiopolis, embraced by aunt Erzsi; embrace scented on warm female body, roses and cooking; sparkling eyes of the young Marxist, never graduated student of Economy, cutting trough loud and smoky canteen.

His destiny has not left him down on the bottom of the dead Pannon Sea. It gave him life he has dreamed of. Life of the buccaneer, life on the living, true ocean. Right, Istvan Rastoder was a sailor. Precisely, last eight years he had served as a crew member on some transatlantic cargo ship. Until he collected critical mass of money to return back home. Passing vain adventures on vast seas, he decided to open new chapter in his life. He decided to live decent, modest and normal life. To say it profane, he decided to harbor himself.

But he missed something. Maria Theresiopolis was not a harbor. His hometown became sewer of the Central Europe. Cloaca Maxima. Honor and dignity of the town has been taken over by the neon marketing. Whole streets pulped into showrooms for the cheap consumer goods from the nearby flea-market. Dozens of bistros popped out on the promenade. To become safe-houses for the people to which clinchers of transition extruded all criteria for humor, intimacy, beauty, fairness and pride. And that is how Rastoder reminiscenced life.

However, he decided to stay. He took a room with cooking and laundry from some poor old lady. He took identity of an investment agent working for some foreign company. He was very gallant, he pampered around all new and potential friends. Soon, he became widely accepted in the social-cultural life of Theresiopolis. That is how his real life adventure has started.

Adventure that he could not imagine even in the clouds of the best Afghan hemp.