They discharged me after two weeks of active treatment, which incidentally ran to three thousand bucks. Nothing but expenses! On discharge I was pronounced a lucky man. It turned out the surgeon had extracted a mere two bullets from me, and one more had gone clean through. And with no damage to internal organs at all. Miracles, nothing less. Even a little insulting, and somehow indecent. During my forced lying-in I had managed to tell every one of the pals who visited me how I had defended the honor of the woman I loved without fear or hesitation, how I had put up decisive resistance to scoundrels, rapists and robbers, how I had come under withering rifle and machine-gun fire from an enemy battalion, how the enemy had kicked me in impotent malice, riddled but unbeaten. Such were the jaw-shattering reminiscences I shared with my friends in the hospital room, and then – there you have it! It turned out my story wasn’t worth an empty eggshell. And Romanych poured oil on the fire by telling everyone there had been six villains, that was all! He had watched them with his own eyes from his little office that night.
– There were exactly six of those boys. Don’t you doubt it, Cowboy. Three were sorting things out with your kitty, they splashed the whole bungalow with blood – floor, walls, ceiling, everything! Pepe wore himself out scrubbing it afterward. Another three were standing lookout outside. Then two of the outside bandits trotted off to the boat. That’s where they clocked you on the noggin with a rock, by the way. So, while those two were fussing about with their tub, you came around, swung your ugly mug about and made straight for the kitty’s bungalow. There you crawled around on your belly a bit and then went to work rearranging the guard’s face. Yes. Those two come back, and their buddy is lying by the door lowing something in a foreign tongue. Can you picture it? The boys started scratching their turnips: what sort of business is this, Creator? And then, bam – the door flies wide open! Out of the bungalow you come tumbling with the beaten-up kitty over your shoulders. The boys’ eyes go as big as six-centavo pieces! And you don’t see a thing, you come at them like a buffalo. Well, they whipped out their guns and let you have it! One-two-done. Yes. They took your kitty and the six of them tramped off to the beach.
All this Romanych told me while driving me from the hospital to the «Sunny Club». The road was short and I left the details for later. The main thing I got straight for myself was this: Romanych is a scoundrel. Instead of pulling the Thompson gun out of the storeroom and settling accounts with the bandits in full for his friend, his hotel and the whole glorious little island – instead of that, the vile dog took a more comfortable seat. Who needs the movies?
I was angry as a dog, as a thousand homeless hungry dogs. Romanych paid no attention to my glowering. Delivered me to the hotel and was gone, off to the airport for a fresh consignment of vacationers. I plodded down to the beach and took a spot under the awning. Alcohol was temporarily forbidden by the doctors, so what was cooling my palm was a glass of milkshake. Slowly sipping this whitish parody of a noble beverage, I occupied myself with self-flagellation.
Blunderer! Amateur! Lop-eared donkey! Yellow-beaked chick! Bah! A disgrace! Shame and infamy!
When had it ever happened that I couldn’t tell a squad of fighters from a company? And how had I let myself be shot by a mere two! gunmen. I rolled the whipped milk around my mouth and arrived at a sad conclusion: Crossbow is dead. I had ceased to be an invulnerable professional. I had turned into a clumsy fat man capable only of swaggering in front of visiting beauties. Only in my dreams could I manage to do battle with a crowd of villains.
Hold on. I remembered again the little war I had dreamed a month ago. Again I saw the face out of the delirium and that very same face out of real life. Damn! What to do about the obsession? How to fight it?
I think I have it.
I got up and trudged off toward the far beach, to the place where I had lain low, saving myself from Magda. There was nothing else to do. My muscles had gone slack during two weeks flat on my back and demanded a shaking up. What more do you need? What arguments are required in favor of examining the surrounding vegetation with an inquiring eye, feeling it over, sighing, and then, suffering from heavy shortness of breath, slowly plodding into the very thick of it?
I decided to climb to the summit of San Marco’s only mountain. There I intended to check whether the unfinished cable car that Romanych had supposedly taken me to had ever existed in nature. Maybe there were little metal brackets hanging somewhere on the lianas? Maybe cinder blocks were adding variety somewhere to the island’s abundant flora?
Alas.
The summit of the island was covered in unbroken jungle without a gap or a clearing. It seemed that any moment now good old Mowgli would leap down off some baobab and roar:
– We be of one blood, ye and I, Crossbow, old son!
I waved a hand at my recollections, conjectures and suppositions. The whole mystical business turned out to be pure rubbish. Nothing specific was to be found on the mountain I had examined up and down. Which meant a month-old drinking bout was of no interest whatsoever.
I came down to the hotel in the very best of spirits. Waiting for me were the disco and everything else associated with the concept of active recreation: cocktails, music, charming ladies and the principle of the four «F»s (find, feel, fuck and forget). Whistling «Shizgara», I got to the cherished little wardrobe in my room and pulled out my dress shirt along with my dress trousers. It had been a good while since I’d put them on.
Interesting – what do I look like these days?
I went over to the mirror. Apathy seized me.
Drag myself off somewhere to dance? Pointless.
Take a look at yourself, Herr Alexander. Your figure is shapeless, blurred and hideous. The flesh requires correction. It is not good when surplus fat bulges out on every side. And you, Mister Cowboy, are not yet thirty.
I sighed and threw the disco outfit back into the wardrobe.
All quite right. Time to start putting myself in order. Enough loafing. Starting tomorrow morning I would begin a new life, purposeful and directed. The goal was simple – to become again a man muscular, energetic, invulnerable. It wouldn’t hurt to turn back into Crossbow. An obscure premonition whispered: this may come in handy.