Dorian na slikah Spet eden tistih dni, ki jih preživim v glavnem sede z nogami na mizi – živčno prelagam klobuk iz ene roke v drugo in se prepričujem, naj ne vstanem in odidem iz pisarne, čeprav še ni konec uradnih ur in čeprav bi mi nov naročnik še kako prav prišel ... A ga ni. Nihče ne pride naokoli, telefon ne zvoni, nič: vstaneš, natakneš klobuk, zakleneš in greš k Bobiju na viski ali dva, ki ju bo vpisal v zvezek, tretjega ti mogoče časti ... Pred vrati se prikaže silhueta. Potrka. Noge potegnem z mize, odložim klobuk, se odkašljam in rečem Naprej! Dober večer. Ste še odprti? Seveda, kar naprej! Izvolite, pokažem na stol nasproti mene. Ada Bogataj, se predstavi, ne da bi sedla. Ada Bogataj, lokalna tajkunka, polovico bogastva je podedovala po prvem možu, drugo polovico pa je pridelala čisto sama s poslovnimi akrobacijami, nikoli odplačanimi krediti in podkupninami … Tako o njej mediji. Peter, se predstavim, vstanem in ji ponudim roko. Baba je kljub letom videti osupljiva. Ne bom vam kradla časa, detektiv, tukaj – na mizo položi večjo pisemsko ovojnico – je vse, kar rabite. Mož me vara, vi pa odkrijte, s kom! Sedem in odprem ovojnico. Tipa poznam ... In kaj nameravate, ko odkrijem, s kom? S tem se bova ukvarjala, ko boste tako daleč, obljubljam pa, da boste bogato poplačani! Slike pospravim v žep. Bogato! ponovi. * * * Bobijeva luknja je napol prazna ... Kakšen drug dan bi se mi zdela napol polna. Slabo osvetljena in z glasbo, ki je preglasna za razmišljanje, je pravi kraj, kjer se lahko izgubiš ali skriješ pred vsem. Tudi pred zakonom ... Naslonim se na šank, poleg komolca parkiram klobuk in Bobiju pokažem dva prsta. Pokima in, medtem ko poči kozarec na šank, vrže vanj štiri kocke leda in nalije dvojno dozo džeka, z očmi poskeniram prostor. Ni ga še. Izvoli, detektiv. Klobuk in plašč na prvo žogo izdajata, s čim se ukvarjam, tudi če se ne bi, ampak tak imidž mi ustreza. Mogoče sem v otroštvu pogledal preveč črnobelih filmov, a me vsaj z mestnimi frajerji, sinovi prisesancev na strankarska korita nihče niti po pomoti ne more zamenjati. Hvala, Bobi. Mirno je danes, ne? Maaa ... Saj je vedno. Ni še prava ura. Iz žepa izbrskam telefon. Ni neodgovorjenega klica niti sporočila. Je bil Dorian kaj tukaj? Bobi odkima. Še enkrat se sprehodim skozi fotografije, ki mi jih je dala Ada. Na eni je na zadnji strani napisan naslov. Še enkrat, Bobi, rečem in jih stlačim nazaj v plašč. Prostor se počasi polni. Nekaj je parov, drugi so sami kot jaz. Prazen kozarec odložim na šank in pomignem Bobiju. Napiši mi! Kaj? Ti plačam naslednjič! Jebi se, Peter, sikne in pograbi kozarec. * * * Parkiram malo stran od naslova, ki mi ga je dala Ada. Ugasnem motor, do polovice odprem šipo in se udobno namestim – cel blok in večji del ulice imam pod nadzorom. Čez precej časa se iz daljave zaslišijo koraki. V vzvratnem ogledalu zagledam moškega s slik. Potegnem se v sedež, a ne pogleda v mojo smer. Počasi koraka proti bloku. Izgine skozi vhodna vrata. Izstopim iz avta, karseda tiho zaprem vrata in stečem čez cesto. Luč na hodniku še sveti in na vrhu stopnic slišim njegove korake. Komaj slišno stopam navzgor, ko se v vratih obrne ključ. Ko se vrata zaprejo, se poženem navzgor. Ustavim se pri prvih vratih in se nežno naslonim na kljuko. Zaklenjena so. Stopim do drugih, a se tudi ta ne dajo odpreti. Poskusim pri tretjih, ki so odklenjena, in jih počasi porinem naprej, luč na hodniku ugasne. Obstanem in nekaj trenutkov čakam, da se mi oči navadijo na temo. Na stranišču se zasliši voda in vrata se odprejo – svetloba se razlije po predsobi. Vstopi, detektiv, reče moški s slike. Dorian, rečem. Dorian zapre vrata za mano, sezujem se, vstopim v kuhinjo in sedem. Ozrem se po stanovanju: Kul plac! Boš kaj spil? Pokimam. Iz zmrzovalnika potegne nekaj kock leda in s kozarcem izgine v dnevni sobi. Potem pred mene poči viski. Uživaj ... reče in se odpravi v kopalnico. Naredim hlasten požirek. * * * Iz kopalnice pride z brisačo okoli riti, mi vzame prazen kozarec iz roke in me pelje v spalnico. Porine me, da s hrbtom pristanem na postelji, pusti, da mu brisača zleze z riti in sede name. Začne mi odpenjati gumbe na srajci in hlačah, čeprav nisem slekel plašča. Nehat bova morala, rečem, a me ignorira. Izpod postelje potegne štiri rdeče trakove. Danes je bla pri meni v pisarni ... rečem. Okoli leve roke mi zaveže en konec traku, drugega pa na rešetko na postelji. Ada, me čuješ? vprašam, on pa ponovi postopek z desno roko. Z riti mi potegne hlače in mi začne vezati noge na noge postelje. Ada me je najela, da odkrijem, s kom jo varaš! Ne zmeni se za moje besede, ampak se mi začne igrati s kurcem. Ko se mi prisesa nanj, se mi začne bliskati pred očmi in glava je vedno težja. Kaj ... kaj si mi dal v pijačo? * * * Nimam občutka, kako dolgo sem bil v temi, a pogovor med moškim in žensko me povleče nazaj v resničnost. Glavo bi v tem trenutku z lahkoto pogrešal. Ko se premaknem, pod mano zašumi podlaga iz polivinila. Dorian? Njegova zamegljena postava je vedno večja. Vgrizne me v uho. Dobro jutro, Peter, si dobro spal? Ko ubit ... Kaj si mi dal v viski, Dorian? Nič takega, dragec, zgledal si, ko da ti ne bi škodlo, če bi malo odsmrčal. Dorian, Ada ve ... Pšššš, mi položi kazalec na ustnice ... Ne naprezaj se, vse bo okej. Dorian, ti ne razumeš – Ada – auuuu, moja glava ... Božček, Pero, ne se matrat ... Ti samo v miru leži, pa bo hitro vsega konec. Kak to misliš ... konec? S težavo dvignem glavo in pogledam zamegljen prostor – še vedno zvezan in napol slečen – pri vratih stoji ženska. Znana ženska. Glej, Peter, kot že sam veš, je Ada začela nekaj sumit. Bla je pripravljena najet detektiva, tebe, da bi prišla do informacije, s kom skačem čez plot, kar je pravzaprav hecno, morš priznat. Natakne si rokavice iz lateksa. Vrat se mi začne tresti in glava mi pade na blazino. Za umret hecno, rečem. No, in zato je bla pripravljena ... plačat lepo cifro. In razmišlal sem ... Na tleh začne rožljati s kovinskimi predmeti. ... zakaj bi Ada plačevala nekomu tretjemu, zakaj bi metala denar stran? Med orodjem je očitno našel tisto, ki ga namerava uporabiti. Pa sem ji reko: Ada, lubica, kaj pa, če ti jaz pomagam odkrit, kdo to je, bi dala ta denar meni? Dorian mi sede na trebuh s hrbtom proti meni. In ne boš verjel, reče in se obrne proti meni, Ada je bla za! Ada me ma rada, ne lubica? Ada se zareži. Dorian from the pictures It's one of these days again that I mainly spend sitting with my feet on my desk, joggling nervously with my fedora and forcing myself not to stand up and leave the office, although the opening hours aren't over yet and I could use a client or two … But there aren't any. No one comes around, the phone doesn't ring, nothing. Stand up, lock the office, go to Bobby's, have a shot of whiskey or two (he'll write them in his notebook, maybe even buy you the third) ... A silhouette shows up at the door and knocks. I pull my feet off the desk, lay down my fedora, cough and say Come on in! Good evening. Are you open? Of course—come in! Please, have a sit. Ada Rich, she says. She doesn't sit down. The local female tycoon, she inherited half of her wealth from her first husband, and grew the other half doing financial stunts, failing to pay loans and taking bribes ... Peter, I introduce myself and offer her my hand. No matter her age, the broad looks stunning. I'm not going to waste your time, detective, here—she drops a large envelope onto the desk—is everything you'll need. My husband is cheating on me and I want you to find out with whom! I sit down and open the envelope. I know the guy ... And what are you going to do, when I find it out? We'll deal with it then—but I promise you'll be richly rewarded! I stash the pictures into the pocket. Richly! she repeats. * * * Bobby's hole is half-empty … Some other day maybe it would seem half-full. Dimly lit, with music a bit too loud to be able to think, it is a right place, if you want to get lost and hide from everything, including the law and marriage … I lean on the bar, park my fedora next to my elbow and show Bobby two fingers. He nods and while he slaps the empty glass on the bar, throws in four ice cubes and pours in a double dose of Jack, I scan the place. He hasn't come yet. Here you are, detective. It's easy to tell what I do for a living because of my coat and fedora, but even if I didn't, it's the image that suits me. Maybe I just watched too many black and white movies when I was a kid, but at least you couldn't mistake me for the city slickers, sleazy sons of spineless politicians riding the gravy train. Thanks, Bobby. It's quiet today, isn't it? Naaah … Same as always. It's not the time yet. I fish my mobile from the pocket. Not a single unanswered call or message. Was Dorian here? Bobby shakes his head. I check the pictures Ada gave me once more. One of them has an address written on the back. Give me another one, Bobby, I say and stash the pics back into the coat. The room is filling slowly. A couple of couples and a few lonely losers like me. I put the empty glass on the bar and wave to Bobby. Write it down, will you! What? I'll pay next time! Fuck you, Peter, he spits and grabs the glass. * * * I park near the address Ada gave me, turn off the engine, half-open the window and make myself comfortable—I can see the block and the greater part of the street. After a long while, the footsteps can be heard from afar. There's the man from the pictures coming closer in the rear mirror. I squeeze into the seat, but he doesn't look in my direction anyway. He steps slowly toward the block and disappears through the entrance. I exit the car, close the door as silent as I can, and run across the street. The light in the hall is still on and I can hear his steps at the top of the stairs. When he turns the key, I start walking up the stairs inaudibly. After the door closes, I start jumping three steps at a time. I stop at the first door and try the doorknob. It's locked. I try the next, but can't open it either. The third door is unlocked—as I push it slowly forward, the light in the hall goes off. I stand frozen for a moment, as my eyes need to adjust to darkness. After a splash in the toilet the bathroom door opens—the light spills across the foyer. Come on in, detective, says the man from the pictures. Dorian, I say. Dorian closes the door behind me, I take off my shoes, step into the kitchen and have a sit. I inspect the flat: Cool place! Want a drink? I nod. He produces a couple of ice cubes from the fridge and disappears with the glass. Then he parks a whiskey in front of me. Enjoy … he says and returns to the bathroom. I take a greedy gulp. * * * He comes back with a towel around his ass, takes the glass from my hand and leads me to the bedroom, where he pushes me on the bed. I land on my back, he lets his towel slide down slowly and sits on my belly. He starts unbuttoning my shirt and pants, although I still didn't take off my coat. We need to stop, I tell him, but he ignores me and fishes four red tapes from under the bed. It's over, Dorian. She came into my office today … I tell him. He ties one of the tapes around my left wrist, and the other end to the headboard. Ada, do you hear me? I ask while he repeats the procedure with my other hand. He pulls my pants off my ass and starts tying my ankles to the bed legs. Ada hired me to find out who you're having an affair with! He doesn't give a damn about what I'm saying, and starts playing with my cock. By the time he finally sucks on it, I start seeing flashing lights and my head weighs a ton. What … what did you put in my drink? * * * I've no idea how long I've been in the dark, but a dialog between a man and a woman pulls me back into reality. I could easily survive without my head. When I move, a polyvinyl wrap rustles under me. Dorian? His blurry figure becomes bigger. He bites my ear. Morning, Peter, did you sleep well? I was dead … What did you put into my whiskey, Dorian? Nothing special, you looked like you could use a little snore. Dorian, Ada knows … Hush … Take it easy, everything's going to be okay. Dorian, you don't understand—Ada—aaaah, my head ... Poor Pete, don't push yourself so hard … Just lie down, it'll be over soon. What do you mean … over? I can scarcely lift my head to scan the foggy room—still tied and half-undressed—there's a woman standing at the door. The woman I've seen before. Look, Peter, as you already know, Ada became very suspicious. She was ready to hire a detective—yourself, to get the information about who I was seeing, which is kind of funny, you must admit. He puts on his latex gloves. My neck stars shaking and my head falls down on the pillow. I'll die laughing. So, she was prepared to … pay a nice sum for that, and I was thinking … He starts jangling with some metal objects. … why would Ada pay someone else? You know, why throw the money away? He obviously found the tool he was looking for. So I said to her: Ada, honey, what if I help you find out, who he is, would you give that money to me? Dorian sits on my belly, his back against me. And you won't believe, he says and turns his face at me, she said YES! Ada loves me, don't you, baby? Ada bursts into laugh. Bio Renato Bratkovič je oglaševaski kreativec, pisec proze in bloger iz Slovenije. Piše v slovenščini (seveda, saj je njegov materni jezik) in angleščini (most do globalnega bralstva). Leta 2012 je izdal zbirko kratkih zgodb Ne poskušajte tega doma, njegova zgodba Točno opolnoči je bila objavljena v Noir Nation 3 (VegaWire Media), Pleme pa je ena od zgodb v Exiles: An Outsider Anthology (Blackwitch Press). * * * Renato Bratkovič is an advertising creative, fiction writer and blogger from Slovenia. He writes in Slovene (his mother tongue, of course, he does) and in English (a bridge to global readers). He's published a short story collection Ne poskušajte tega doma (Don't Try This At Home) in 2012, his story High Midnight has appeared in Noir Nation 3 (VegaWire Media), and The Tribe is one of the stories in Exiles: An Outsider Anthology (Blackwitch Press). Table of Contents Start