Homo Ludus

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Vincent

Vincent listened only to the click of his heels as he moved with slow, steady steps toward the car. It was especially nice to hear them after a conversation like this. He felt like a winner. The kind of man who would choose his own path, his own identity… And even his own death. To her he replied, "Another day…" He was reminded of a phrase from a famous saga where the characters said to death, "Not today," but he didn't like it completely. That's exactly what most people think. They recoil, they turn away, they seek to avoid – it's not a winner's road. And so I do not postpone, like a conscript, an unnecessary moment, but appoint it myself:

"Another day!"

The night is dark. And Vincent is drunk, though not too drunk. And once again, getting behind the wheel with a cloudy mind, with hands that are not steady, with eyes that close on their own, he simply said: "Another day."

Didn't care which one. This year or next year. Winter or summer. Sober or drunk. Just another one.

The turns were easy for him. As usual. It was business as usual. Him, his car, his body, his road. The road went on as usual. Tomorrow to Istanbul. Bashkurt's there. They'll definitely ask for a discount. He'll say times are hard and all that. It's so clichе. Times are never hard. Neither is it easy. It's all about people. Just like problems are only about people. It's as silly to say time is hard as it is to say time has problems. Time has no problems. It's just a given. And Gustav. Yes. He's really cool, isn't he? He's always listening, always learning. Always learning. That's exactly what you should learn from him. He's like an old man. Like an old wise man who absorbs the knowledge of the universe. I wonder if he's okay with women. I think he's had a few, but more details. I'd have to ask him. You'd have to ask him. If you ask him, you'll answer your own question later. I could learn that from him, too.

Cunning. Cool and sneaky.

The turn went sideways more than the previous ones, and the car went steeper, to the left, into the oncoming traffic. 140 kilometers an hour. There is no problem to go back, and even with such technique: 300C is strong on corners, the rubber is only run-in, you can participate in races on it. A little bit of cornering and you're back in your own lane. And, really, like in a race, just leave a small gap at the lefthand edge when you turn right. And then back into your lane.

Two white lights in the front. Headlights. Right in front of them… There's no point in braking – you can't go right.

Not a drop of nerves. Not a drop of fear. Vincent just sobered up instantly. Crashing is crashing. Not the stupidest death ever. And he chose it anyway. So it's worth confirming it. Just to be sure all the way. Shoe on the gas pedal.

He didn't really realize and couldn't remember exactly how he had gone around that car. It seemed to be to the left of the car, right on the edge of the road, even though he had skidded even more. I don't think so. They're all sort of–

Sort of– Sort of– Sort of–

And it's not like he's alive at all. He's alive, and he's not even hit.

Vincent glanced at the receding car in the rearview mirror and said. For the first time in his life, he said After instead of Before: "Another day."

Catherine

Catherine didn't fully understand what was going on with this puppy – he just didn't want to eat. He wasn't doing anything special: he wasn't moaning, whining, barking – he just wasn't eating. And he looked at her. With his kind brown eyes, asking for help. From her.

She has already contacted some of the best vets in town. Then with her father, who has already contacted the best vets, known only to a small circle of individuals where money alone is not enough to get help. And then the tests. And then consultations again. And more tests.

And everything said one thing: the dog was completely healthy. Everything and everyone said that… Except for one "but". His eyes. Catherine saw death in them. Yes, she was young, but still a journalist who had been many places and seen many things. You can't confuse death with anything, death is the same everywhere. And now this death sat inside this beast and laughed at her.

She had to do something. That strange "something." Something else when everything was already done. When everyone had said there was nothing to do. She wanted to talk to Gustave. Her picture of happiness with him was threatened. He had trusted her. Trusted this puppy who just stopped eating on the second day.

It wasn't in her plan to call him herself, even this early. Men never lasted more than 24 hours. But not him. He was different. And that seemed fateful to her. Different and made just for her. And he must understand. It wasn't her fault the puppy wouldn't eat. She'd done everything she could. What she had to. And maybe it's not a big deal. But still. We should call him.

Gustav picked up the phone almost immediately: "Yes, Katherine. Hi"

The first thing she did, of course, was smile, "Gustic, I… How are you doing?" She didn't want to talk about anyone else but them anymore. Except their future. Except for the happiness that awaited them.

"Great. Just a bit busy. How's Dobby?"

She faltered. What's wrong with him? There was nothing wrong with him. After all, what she'd made up: a bunch of doctors with a lot of modern medicine for a lot of money hadn't found any cause for concern at all. Not that there were any ailments. And to give the puppy back to him in a week anyway. He's already asking for food.....

"Dobby's fine. I just don't know when he wants to eat… But fine. I consulted a couple of doctors I know, and they said it happens. So… I'll see you around?" – The final phrase popped out just out of breath after a full set of words and didn't fit well with Gustav's last sentence-it started to look like she hadn't been listening to him: "I mean, I was wondering if we could go for a walk sometime when you're free?"

–

Sure. Sure, we'll go for a walk.

–

And I also wanted to ask about the puppy.....

Gustav interrupted her: "By the way, yes. I was going to pick it up early. Almost finished with everything. Faster than I expected, and I'll pick it up… How about the day after tomorrow afternoon? 3 o'clock?"

Catherine exhaled a sigh of relief: "Yes, of course. We'll go for a walk then, won't we?"

–

Yes, yes, absolutely. What were you going to say about Dobby? Because I interrupted. He's all right, isn't he?"

–

No, it's nothing. – she smiled softly into the phone. – It's just that I think I'm starting to miss you already.....

After talking for a few more easy minutes and saying good night, Catherine hung up the phone and stood up from the table and headed for the refrigerator. A red dry Burgundy was on the door. Pouring a full glass, she drank it halfway and smiled. He'd be with her soon. Everything is going right for them. She knows how to take care of her other half and she'll certainly be able to take care of him too.

Just like he will take care of her.

Kathryn turned and met her eyes again with the puppy, who was lying in exactly the same position as he had been since morning. "There's nothing wrong with him. – thought the girl. – He's just sad for his master. Why did I get so excited. He gave the dog to me for foster care. I've been doing everything right. It's not like he's not eating. It happens. Other people wouldn't have done any tests, let alone seen the best doctors. I've got everyone on edge. And for what? There's no reason to do it. And the puppy's young. He's not gonna die on his own. The tests are normal, so he'll live. And in the end, even if he dies, it won't be in three days. And then Gustave will take care of himself. A man like that will figure out anything.

What do I have to decide? Too much responsibility for me, I'm tired of it… Although maybe I should have asked him why the dog stopped eating? At least he would know… Bullshit! It's none of my business. Did I do everything he asked? You did. The dog is alive and well, of course. Anyone can see he's healthy. And panic is hysteria, which is something you have to get rid of. And Gustav wouldn't like it if I worried for nothing. There's nothing wrong here. In three days, I won't care about any of this at all. He can take the puppy and let it die in a minute, it's not my responsibility… It's my responsibility to be happy. And Gustave will have to take care of that now. I have to be beautiful and keep him on a shorter leash. It'll all work out, just as it always has."

Catherine turned her eyes away from the dog and poured herself a second glass.

Gustav

Outside the window the wind blew again, the trees swayed, danced and began to hug each other like old friends.

Now it was necessary to go to the nearest store, to buy alcohol for the realization of another interesting idea – Vladimir Arkadyevich had a daughter with two incomparable but not uncommon features of physiology: addiction to alcohol and diseased kidneys at the same time. She had certainly taken a liking to him two months ago, and she had made it clear more than once that she wanted more than just to admire him from afar.

By the time Gustav got into the car, it had already begun to rain outside the window, not heavily, but obviously it was beginning to last. The Irishman loved this kind of weather – it suited his meditations perfectly, and it suited even better the moods of people who were upset and distressed by it, assuring themselves that "the sky was now crying with them". A surprisingly childlike view of nature, often present in historical descriptions: battles, coronations of kings, inaugurations of presidents are described by different people with directly opposite weather, as if we are talking about different events, time and place. The tireless desire to confirm one's opinion, to predispose oneself, to create the necessary background, and it is so easy when there is such a powerful but mute force, so vividly expressing one's opinion, an endless source of confirmation of any ideas and thoughts. And, apparently, many people considered it a sin not to use it for their own purposes.

Once upon a time in Russia "blind rains", i.e. rains coming in the light of the

Sun, were called "Tsarevna Crying" because the glistening drops resembled tears. There was at least some basis for such a designation. But it seemed hypocritical to make political propaganda out of nature.

"These are the sort of things that vividly reflect the lowliness of man. – Gustav thought as he started the car. – They deserve to die and nothing more.

It took about 7-8 minutes to get there, around a few turns there was a separate building, still from the times of the USSR, where the service, prices and the general atmosphere were not suitable to sell alcohol, including of illegal origin, and including during the forbidden time.

There was some sort of parking lot in front of the building. And now there was a gray Lada of the ninth model, all the doors of which were open wide. Two men were sitting inside, with their feet out on the street. They could see from their eyes that they had drunk a lot, and that there was probably just as much to drink. "Hear this, bro! – shouted one of them to Gustav. – That's a cool car. Give us a ride, say on.... Beer." Even from ten meters away, the amber from the stoned and poured over the collar was quite vile and acrid, as if it had been layered on the skin for a long time.

Bullheaded, semi-hooligans. Hardly able to tell the difference between Einstein and Eisenstein. They haven't read a single book since high school, not just Remarque or Steinbeck, but any book at all. No ethics, no aesthetics. But a pronounced desire to imbibe alcohol and demand it from others, as if they owed it to them. After all, someone should occupy this niche, and if you don't want to do it yourself, then pay the one who takes this place for you. And pay so that he has enough to occupy it further. Or else he will drag you in, either at the same time, or instead of himself....

Uninteresting and useless prey.

"Sure, I'll give you a lift," the Irishman said and changed direction in their direction. Their faces were visibly pleased – apparently those who had passed them before had either ignored or denied them for various reasons.

The one in the back seat called out. He was more sober than the one in the passenger seat next to the driver's seat. Now it smelled even worse.

"Why the beer? – Gustav asked, half a meter away from them. – Vodka? Horse meat, better?"

"Bitch, yeah… I'd like some horse meat," the man in the front thought, though he'd had just enough.

Gustav reached into his wallet and pulled out a five-thousand-dollar bill and handed it to the man sitting in the back seat. The orange color of the money struck both of them in the eyes.

"Fucking hell, bro." – he whispered, looking at the money in his hands. "And for me… Give me one too," the other started, but the Irishman was already holding out a second bill of the same kind to him.

–

Well, just so you're not offended.

–

From the heart, bro…

The first one woke up a little: "Hey, what's your name, bro, come with us. We'll crush some horse meat…

–

Gustave. Gustav Glisson.

–

Uh-oh. A foreign pahan, then.

–

Sort of… Have you seen any cops around?

–

They're asleep, bitches. Vasyana's out for a fucking walk. Where are they going?

–

So you're Vasyan?

–

He's the fuckin' guy. And that's Gray over there driving.

Gustav pulled a folding knife from his inside jacket pocket and stuck it under the first man's jaw, closed the door and stabbed the second man in the neck. Blood splattered all the seats, doors, upholstery. Vasyana even tried to cover the wound with the palm of his hand, a money bill, but it was useless: their brains were not working by this point. Their brains did not realize that death had stopped sneaking up on them, but had just come at once.

Gustav put the knife in Gray's palm, squeezed his hand, and headed for the store entrance.

It is a great honor, of course, for such drunks to die by his hand, but once they prevented him.

A couple of months ago, with their questions and innuendo, they had scared off one of his possible victims in this very same parking lot. The short, frail girl had obviously noticed Gustav, but she had gotten into her car immediately when she saw the two men. There was no point in chasing after her, she was not so beautiful and interesting from the looks of it. But the residue remained, and it was certainly not worth waiting for it to happen again.

Of course, there was no one in the store except the salesman. In fact, the salesman was not quite present, either – a short, full-figured woman of about 55 was watching TV, watching some program about geography, without paying attention to anything.

Actually, the last time he'd come into this place and asked what he could get from cheap but quality products, he'd gotten the final answer: "Buy and don't fuck around!", which came out like an advertising slogan. Now it fit as well as it could.

The Irishman looked at the shelves with alcohol: "I'd like some cognac… There's

Stone land No. 5. 0.7 liter."

He had long known this brand with the inscription "We will change your attitude to Armenian cognac" placed in a frame. This phrase justified itself completely: the original product itself was of low quality, and it was often counterfeited, so that at the first sip there was nausea and a desire to spit it all back out, and under the tongue there was a very unpleasant aftertaste with a completely inappropriate for this type of alcohol tinge of cheap chocolate. Compared to Ararat, which is of high quality made in Armenia, this cognac spoiled the whole attitude and, indeed, changed it, but only for the worse.