The unknown man - Анна Горбач

Анна Горбач

The unknown man

– Who are you?

He was silent.

– Who are you? – I repeated. – Who, the f…cking bastard, are you?

I sat across from him, lit a cigarette, but couldn’t take even a puff – the hands were trembling.

– And what do you want? – I continued. –What do you want NOW?

He was silent.

– Oh, really? You… – my voice quavered, broke, shattered into hundred fragments of glass. – Why?

It was not a sound, just a wheeze. Why? The only word was in my head, in my mouth, on the tip of my tongue. Why? And I couldn’t spit it out, couldn’t spit it into his face. Why? Why did I meet him? Why did he choose me? Why? Why? Why?

It was 2 months ago – the day when I met him for the first time. We were sitting in the café where I used to bring all my girls. But that day I was there with Margarete. She insisted. She said all her friends had been there, all of them liked that place, all of them admired… and so on, so on, so on.

I knew she was lying. I knew she’d seen me there with another girl. I saw her through – it was easy. I read her like an open book. But that day I was in a good mood and decided to play along.

We were having coffee, when Margarete suddenly said:

– Such a pretty boy!

I turned my head. He was sitting at the next table looking at us. With no emotions, calmly, indifferently.

Fair hair, grey eyes and a face… Oh, Margarete wasn’t right. That boy wasn’t pretty, he was beautiful. Not handsome, not. He was beautiful, really beautiful. Like an angel. With that face, he could be a movie star, I thought.

But said instead:

– He isn’t pretty, Margarete. He looks like a Teddy bear.

– It’s not true! With that face, he can be a movie star!

– With that face, he can sell a stuff to bored housewives. – I was angry with Margarete for giving a voice to my thoughts. – Just be honest, Margarete, he is fit only for that.

– Oh, don’t be so rude, dear! – She laughed. – Or maybe… you are jealous, aren’t you?

– Of course, I am jealous. So jealous! You cannot imagine how jealous I am.

– I wish you were. – She whispered.

I chose not to hear that.

– You know, – she thought for a moment, – He looks like you. The same fair hair, the same eyes. He has the same eyes as you, the color of the autumn rain.

– Don’t say silly things with such a smart look, Margarete. It’s not like you. Let’s go, I’m tired of being stared at.

We were standing at the café door, when Margarete, all of a sudden, went back to that table, stood in front of the boy, and with a smile on her lips and the sun in her eyes, didn’t say but sang:

– Goodbye, pretty boy. Goodbye, pretty-pretty-pretty boy!

She kissed him and ran out to the street.

And I hadn’t the slightest desire to run after. I preferred to go to the pub.

All the same, that day was lost. The next day I lost Margarete.

When I came home after all night party she had already disappeared. All her things, clothes, stuff – all of that was in place, she was not.

Police had been searching for her for a month. With no result.

A whole month and a day later, I came to the café and saw him again. At the same table, with the same angel face, with the same empty eyes the color of the autumn rain.

He looked at me. And he looked like me. He really did.

I turned my back on him, and felt my heart was full of fear. Great, unbearable, deadly fear. It filled every cell of my body, oozing through pores, flowing through veins. I was afraid of everyone and everything at that moment, of every breath and every rustle.

I was afraid that all my dirty secrets had come out, that all people in that café had known them and they despised me, they laughed at me, looked down on me.

Not having the courage to stay there longer, I ran out. I ran, ran, ran. I ran down the streets, ran to my home, to my fortress, to my own world where I could be safe.

I wanted to fall asleep and see no dreams.

Next morning I found that all my secrets were still mine, and police found Margarete.

Her body. It was found in the river 2 miles from the city.

I chose not to see her. I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t.

They said it was an accident. I believed. I chose to believe. I chose to live and live without her.

And 3 weeks of that life later I met him for the third time.

– Why? – My cigarette ashes fell on the table, but I couldn’t take even one puff. – Why?

His eyes were on me, the color of the autumn rain, cold and empty.

And suddenly those eyes of the dead angel came to life – the fire broke in them.

– Why? – he leaned towards me and grinned. – You know better.

It was Margarete’s phrase – she always muttered it being angry with me.

“You know better”. “You know” – and I knew. I knew it better than anyone else.

I always knew she loved me. She loved me when I left her alone, loved when I forgot about her, loved when she’d been waiting for me for hours on the streets, in the cafes, at home.

She loved me when I shouted at her:

– I’m sick of it!

She just hugged me tight.

– I know why you are sick, – whispered she. – That’s because you have a small fish instead of the