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the gun seller....

Eto, novi post.
Iako nemam ništa pametno za napisati (osim da ovih dana konstantno letim u Zagreb i iz istog nazad, samo da bih došao tamo i shvatio da su birokracijski problemi, koji su se "nedavno", ili ti još u 7. mj pokazali, još i dalje tu, ili ti 2: da su bili sve do danas tu...hvala bogu pa je jedan dio toga rješen...naime, u normalnim uvjetima upisa na filozofski fakultet u zagrebu, studenti su u informatički sustav, tzv. ISVU i studomat upisani još u 7. mj. A ja sam, eto, tek danas...mda )

I tako sam, pošto, daklem, nemam ništa pametno za napisati (), odlučio staviti jedan poveći citat, tj. jedan odlomak iz knjige (krimi roman sa povećim dozama humora, sarkazma i kritike današnjeg društva) "The Gun Seller", written by dragi nam (ili "mi") glumac, ex-komičar i pisac Hugh Laurie (da, to je onaj čiko što glumi Dr. Housea, da, da, je. Da. On piše i knjige, da. ) Pa, eto toga odlomka....btw, likovi, koji se spominju u odlomku, za ovu vam priliku i nisu toliko bitni, koliko je bitna poanta cijelog odlomka...uglavnom, ukratko, poput kakve scene iz krimi filma, negativčev pomoćnik istome donosi pištolj kojim negativac kao da će priprijetiti protagonistu, no sadržaj pištolja završi negdje drugdje nego što svakodnevni čitaoc to predviđa....i nakon toga slijedi poanta....zbog koje sam ja, eto, ovako munjen i ponesen odličnošću knjige, odlučio ovdje staviti ulomak, koji će svima ovdje biti dosadan....i uz to je, pazite, na engleskom.........




"I felt cooler air on my neck, and twisted round to see that Barnes and Lucas were standing by the door. Barnes looked relaxed. Lucas didn’t. Murdah nodded, and the two Americans stepped forward, coming each side of the sofa to join him. Facing me. Murdah held out a hand, palm up, in front of Lucas, without looking at him.
Lucas slid back the flap of his jacket and pulled out an automatic. A Steyr, I think. 9mm. Not that it matters. He placed the gun gently in Murdah’s hand, then turned towards me, his eyes widened by the pressure of some message that I couldn’t decipher.
‘Mr Lang,’ said Murdah, ‘you have the safety of two people to think about. Your own, of course, and Miss Woolf’s. I don’t know what value you place on your own safety, but I think it would be only gallant if you were to consider hers. And I want you to consider hers very deeply.’ He beamed suddenly, as if the worst was over. ‘But, of course, I don’t expect you to do it without good reason.’
As he spoke, he cocked the hammer, and lifted his chin towards me, the gun loose in his hand. Sweat spurted from the palms of my hands and my throat wouldn’t work. I waited. Because that was all I could do.
Murdah considered me for a moment. Then he reached out, pressed the muzzle of the gun to the side of Lucas’s neck, and fired twice.
It happened so fast, was so unexpected, was so absurd, that for a tenth of a second I wanted to laugh. There were three men standing there, then there was a bang bang, and then there were two. It was actually funny.

I blinked once, and saw that Murdah had handed the gun to Barnes, who was signalling towards the door behind my head.
‘Why did he do that? Why would anyone do such a terrible thing?’
It should have been my voice, but it wasn’t. It was Murdah’s. Soft and calm, utterly in control. ‘It was a terrible thing, Mr Lang,’ he said. ‘Terrible. Terrible, because it had no reason. And we must always try and find a reason for death. Don’t you agree?’
I looked up at his face, but couldn’t focus on it. It came and went, like his voice, which was in my ear and miles away at the same time.
‘Well, let us say that although he had no reason to die, I had a reason to kill him. That is better, I think. I killed him, Mr Lang, to show you one thing. And one thing only.’ He paused. ‘To show you that I could.'
He looked down at Lucas’s body, and I followed his gaze. It was a foul sight. The muzzle had been so close to the flesh that the expanding gases had chased the bullet in, swelling and blackening the wound horribly. I couldn’t look at it for long.
‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’
He was leaning forward, with his head on one side.
‘This man,’ said Murdah, 'was an accredited American diplomat, an employee of the US State Department. He had, I’m sure, many friends, a wife, perhaps even children. So it would not be possible, surely, for such a man to disappear, just like that? To vanish?’
Men were stooping in front of me, their jackets rustling as they strained to move Lucas’s body. I forced myself to listen to Murdah.
‘I want you to see the truth, Mr Lang. And the truth is that if I wish him to disappear, then it is so. I shoot a man here, in my own house, I let him bleed on my own carpet, because it is my wish. And no one will stop me. No police, no secret agents, no friends of Mr Lucas’s. And certainly not you. Do you hear me?’
I looked up at him again, and saw his face more clearly.
The dark eyes. The sheen. He straightened his tie.
‘Mr Lang,’ he said, ‘have I given you a reason to think about Miss Woolf’s safety?’
I nodded.
They drove me back to London, pressed into the carpet of the Diplomat, and chucked me out somewhere south of the river. I went over Waterloo Bridge and along the Strand, stopping every now and then for no reason, occasionally dropping coins into the hands of eighteen-year-old beggars, and wanting this piece of reality to be a dream more than I’ve ever wanted any dream to become reality.
Mike Lucas had told me to be careful. He’d taken a risk, telling me to be careful. I didn’t know the man, and I hadn’t asked him to take the risk for me, but he’d done it anyway because he was a decent professional who didn’t like the places his work was taking him, and didn’t want me to be taken there too.
Bang bang.
No going back. No stopping the world.
I was feeling sorry for myself. Sorry for Mike Lucas, sorry for the beggars too, but very sorry indeed for myself, and that had to stop. I started to walk home.
I no longer had any reason to worry about being at the flat, since all the people I’d had breathing down my neck over the last week were now breathing in my face. The chance to sleep in my own bed was just about the only good thing to come out of all this. So I strode out for Bayswater at a good pace, and as I walked, I tried to see the funny side.
It wasn’t easy, and I’m still not sure that I managed it properly, but it’s just something I like to do when things aren’t going well. Because what does it mean, to say that things aren’t going well? Compared to what? You can say: compared to how things were going a couple of hours ago, or a couple of years ago. But that’s not the point. If two cars are speeding towards a brick wall with no brakes, and one car hits the wall moments before the other, you can’t spend those moments saying that the second car is much better off than the first.
Death and disaster are at our shoulders every second of our lives, trying to get at us. Missing, a lot of the time. A lot of miles on the motorway without a front wheel blow-out. A lot of viruses that slither through our bodies without snagging. A lot of pianos that fall a minute after we’ve passed. Or a month, it makes no difference.
So unless we’re going to get down on our knees and give thanks every time disaster misses, it makes no sense to moan when it strikes. Us, or anyone else. Because we’re not comparing it with anything.
And anyway, we’re all dead, or never born, and the whole thing really is a dream.
There, you see. That’s a funny side."


Post je objavljen 08.10.2008. u 00:14 sati.