LED

Roman LED je ušao u prvih 5 knjiga na listi biblioteka na konkursu za otkup Ministarstva kulture Srbije a nalazi se u prvih petnaest naslova po čitanosti u Narodnim bibliotekama u Srbiji. U prodaji je treće izdanje knjige.

’’Led’’ je dramatična ispovest četrdesettrogodišnjeg intelektualca, arhitekte Justina Arsenića, koji je 1994.godine napustio Srbiju i obreo se u Americi, u Čikagu. To je, zapravo, priča o svim onim mladim ljudima koji svoje znanje, talente, ambicije, pa čak i svoje privatne živote gube usled tragičnih društvenih događanja, nedefinisanih revolucija, ekonomskih stranputica, neverovatnih političkih grešaka i sopstvenog nesnalaženja u takvom svetu. Napustivši društvo opšte konfuzije i tragičnog besmisla Justin ne uspeva da se uklopi u ono drugo, naizgled izgrađno i sređeno društvo.

Gde su njegove greške, šta je njegova krivica, za njega je veliko, teško, bolno i veoma komplikovano pitanje.

Roman obiluje jakim ekspresionističkim opisima emotivnih i psiholoških stanja kroz koja glavni junak prolazi, čime čitaoca snažno vezuje za ovu žestoku intimnu ispovest.

’’Ivana Mihić je mlad autor i ne bismo mogli očekivati takvo majstorstvo u zanatu, a već smo dobili majstorstvo u zanatu, već imamo rečenicu koja je nepogrešiva. Vidite, moram vam reći, imao sam malu predrasudu – kako će sad ova dama, Ivana Mihić, napisati mušku priču, i to u prvom licu jednine. Znamo svi vrlo dobro kako je mučno nastajao roman Madam Bovari, koliko je bilo verzija; koliko je bilo verzija Ane Karenjine, jer postoji uverenje da mi, muškarci, ne znamo ništa o ženama. Onda sam se zapitao da li žene žele da znaju nešto o nama? Verujte, mislim da je to najvažnije za ono kako sam ja video ovaj roman i meni se učinilo da nas je Ivana sjajno pročitala! Pitao sam se kako? Da li joj je neko došapnuo nešto iskreno o nama muškarcima? Primetio sam da je u strategiji pisanja odlično savladala naš muški jezik, žargon, psovku, našu prozu svakodnevlja, i znao sam da je to bio put do onoga što mi jesmo u njenoj priči i čini mi se da je to bio uspešan put.

Držim da je ovaj roman u intimnom planu ponešto od onoga o čemu je razmišljao svojevremeno Marks kad je govorio o otuđenju čoveka od sebe samog, od drugog čoveka, od rada, od društva, od zajednice, od sveta i tako dalje; evo, ovde, u ovom romanu, zapravo, sve to, sve to je na jednom mestu. Razume se, ovo nema nikakve veze sa Marksom, ali ima veze sa sadržinom koja je umetnička, i koja je ovde bila prisutna zaista na način velike uverljivosti. Junak Led-a, arhitekta Justin Arsenić, napustio je Beograd i otišao u svet jer u svojoj zemlji nije mogao da pronađe sebe. On ni tamo, u tom svetu, nije hteo da bude ono što su od njega tražili, nije hteo da bude čak ni ono što jeste, nije hteo da postane to što je mogao postati, dakle, on je učinio sve protiv sebe samoga i ovo je jedna knjiga o nihilizmu modernog čoveka.’’

Prof. dr Ratko Božović
Izvod iz govora sa promocije romana Led u Beogradu

'' U svom drugom romanu, Led, Ivana Mihić stilski ubedljivo osvetljava fenomen otuđenja, potenciran traumatičnim dejstvom globalne finasijske krize. Dok pratimo doživljaje Justina, arhitekte srpskog porekla, koji se tokom 90-ih doselio u Čikago, gde nakon gubitka unosnog posla i napuštanja američkog koncepta sreće ostaje sam, suočen sa nizom promašenih veza, u moru polovičnih prijateljstava i besmislenih sukoba, dospevamo do tačke pucanja narcisoidne i u biti lažne slike sveta: u senci skupih nebodera, s one strane blještavih izloga, u zamračenim klubovima, uz opor ukus erotskih avantura i aromatičan dim Gauloises-a, zvuke džeza i stihove EKV-a, koji kao da su na momenat izvučeni iz vremenske kapsule, odvijaju se poslednji činovi drame Justinovog suočavanja sa svojim unutrašnjim bićem.

Putem opisa junakovih poniranja u vrtloge strasti, koji se smenjuju gotovo kao filmske sekvence, poput neke vrste sna u snu, autorka otkriva kako se ispod plastificiranog pokrova virtualnog, sve nedvosmislenije pomaljaju obrisi onog nepotkupljivog, stvarnog sveta, a pod plaštom sleđenih emocija kuca još uvek živo ljudsko srce.''

Hilda Urošević
Urednica

Odlomak iz romana:

’’Osećao sam se kao da sam postao deo sofe. Svaki inč tela mi je bio prilepljen za tamnobraon kožni tapacirung. Mogao sam da pomeram i ruke i noge i glavu. Podigao sam se i seo. Oko mene je vladao red. Prozor je bio zatvoren, voda s poda prebrisana, čaše rasklonjene, novine naslagane na sto, kabl „banana“ telefona uredno obavijen oko slušalice, groblje hiljade DVD-a složeno i isparcelisano... Na tabureu su ležali ženski odevni predmeti: haljina, brushalter i gaće, a na njima piercing izvađen iz pupka. Pretpostavljam iz pupka. Na patosu su stajale razgažene cipele. Ceo taj skup je zapravo bila Vanda, samo joj je telo bilo privremeno odsutno. Hrkala je ubitačno. Čitao sam negde da je Musolini bio umetnik hrkanja, dok je, na primer, Winston Churchill hrkanjem stvarao buku od trideset pet decibela. U Ginisovoj knjizi svetskih rekorda stoji da je najglasniji hrkač bio Šveđanin Kare Valker, kome su 1993. godine u Oerebro Regional Hospital izmerili hrkačku buku od ludačkih devedeset i tri decibela. Da je Ginisova komisija bila sad u stanu, Vandica bi garantovano bila novi šampion. Možda bi zaradila i koju kintu od toga, postala medijska ličnost i iščupala se iz govana. Ali, jebiga, očito nema sreće. Ustao sam i pošao da pišam. Doteturao sam se do kupatila i po navici pritisnuo prekidač za svetlo. Lampa iznad lavaboa je zasijala, što je značilo da je distribucija u međuvremenu otklonila kvar. Na poklopcu klozetske šolje ugledao sam omanju, nedefinisanu masu. Filisina skvrčena cipela je stajala nasred poklopca, poput eksponata na izložbi nekog ekscentričnog umetnika. Podigao sam poklopac oborivši cipelu na pločice. Šorao sam dugo, toliko dugo da su me butine zabolele od stajanja, pa sam za vreme ispuštanja mlaza prinudno napravio U-turn , i nastavio pišanje u sedećem položaju. Prilikom tog lupinga bejah orosio i Filisinu cipelu. Vratio sam se nazad i seo na sofu. Sa ulice je dopirao zvuk zavijanja sirene s vatrogasnih kola. Neverovatno je koliko ljudi ovde zentaju od požara. Naročito oni starosedeoci kojima su prenošene priče o događaju koji je izmenio history Čikaga. Veliki požar, koji se dogodio 1871. godine, trajao je trideset šest sati, progutao je tri stotine ljudi, a oko sto hiljada je ostalo bez krova nad glavom. Požar je bio tako velikih razmera zato što je veći deo čikaških zgrada bio sagrađen od drveta. Ali da nije bilo te raspomamljene vatre, ne bi došlo ni do svojevrsne revolucije u arhitekturi i građevinarstvu. E baš tada šansu je ugrabio arhitekta Vilijem Lebaron Dženi, koji je projektovao prvu zgradu čeličnih okvira: Insurance Building.

Kako se zvuk sirene udaljavao, tako se Vandino hrkanje pojačavalo. Zavukao sam ruku u džep i izvadio pljuge. Zapalio sam jednu i odmah posle prvog dima uvučenog u plućnu jamu, započeo svoje uobičajeno iskopavanje katrana nakon buđenja. Kašljao sam krvnički jako derući grlo. Možda nisam morao da budem toliko glasan, ali me je živcirao Vandin dubok hrkački san, koji nije uspela da poremeti čak ni vatrogasna sirena. Prekinuo sam iskašljavanje i uzdahnuo. Ona je i dalje hrkala u istom ritmu: jedan dugačak hrk udisaj – jedan šištavi izdisaj – dva kratka hrk udisaja praćena krkljanjem – jedan skoro bezglasni izdisaj – jedan dugačak hrk udisaj – jedan šištavi izdisaj – dva kratka hrk udisaja praćena krkljanjem – jedan skoro bezglasni izdisaj... Taj njen ritualni hrkački koncert me je podsetio na mog pokojnog brata. Moguće je da su ga u ratu i ubili zato što je nekoga nervirao hrkanjem. A hrkanje je nasledio od naših pokojnih roditelja. I majka i otac su hrkali. Samo sam ja u porodici – nehrkač. Možda je to razlog zašto sam ostao živ. Nečujno spavam, a sada već i sve nečujnije živim.

He, he, sad bi se Vandica pobunila i pokazala modrice koje sam joj napravio.

Pojavila se na vratima spavaće sobe kao da je čula da je spominjem. Bila je potpuno gola. Telo joj je bilo išarano tetovažama, starim i novostečenim modricama i ogrebotinama. Napolju se već potpuno smračilo, pa je bila fino obasjana svetlošću neonske reklame s radnje piljara Granvila.

Dobra je bila Vandica, dobra i nekako... velika. Imala je mesnati stomak u koji se usko i visoko usecao struk; poveće sise sasvim solidne jedrine, uzevši u obzir njihov minuli rad; okruglasto, čvrsto dupe; izrađene butine, listove i mišice na rukama; snažna pleća.

– Zgodna si, kučko. Kako to da ne radiš na nekom boljem mestu, a?

– Svetska finansijska kriza se oseća i u mom poslu, darling. Ovima na vrhu više nije ni do kresanja kolike probleme imaju, a ovim mojima na dnu je uvek isto sranje, pa nemaju valunge u seksualnim potrebama. Bolje mi je njih da se držim. Oni su stabilnija klijentela.

– U, jebote, kakva logika! Mogla bi da svratiš do United nations da im izneseš to svoje viđenje. He, he. Upali svetlo da te bolje pogledam.

Okrenula se oko sebe tražeći pogledom prekidač i uključila svetlo.

– Uh, dobro. Ajde... bolje ugasi.

Pritisla je prekidač i isključila svetlo, poput programiranog robota.

– E, ajde ipak upali, please.

Uključila je svetlo i koraknula ka meni.

– Ne, prejako je, bolje ugasi.

Vratila se i isključila svetlo. Prišla je sofi, sela pored mojih nogu i zapalila cigaretu.

– Pospremila sam ti malo kuću, nisi primetio?

– Jesam.

Okrenula je glavu ka meni očekujući da ću joj još nešto reći, zahvaliti joj ili je makar pohvaliti.

Ćutao sam i gledao je. Prezrivo se osmehnula i povukla dim.

– Ne znam šta još da ti kažem. Nisam tražio od tebe da mi spremaš kuću.

Povlačila je nervozno dim za dimom. Ruka joj se tresla u istom ritmu u kom je hrkala dok je spavala. I donja usna joj se drhtavo krivila nadole, prateći ritam ruke.

– Pretpostavljam da si zapravo poželela da se udaš i da je ovo spremanje stana svojevrstan poziv, odnosno preporučivanje: kao, ti umeš da budeš i domaćica, da pereš, ribaš, pališ i gasiš svetlo kad ti se kaže, bez prigovora i suvišnih pitanja. A možda bi i htela da rodiš dete, pa pošto u tom svom „dnu“ nemaš neki valjan izbor intelektualaca, mene si našla?

Ćutala je i piljila u žar goloaza.

– Nisam ja glup, Vanda.

– Nisam ni ja glupa, Justine.

– Šta to onda pokušavaš, Vanda?

– Ja sam ti samo pospremila stan. Ništa ne očekujem od tebe i ništa ne pokušavam. Ti si običan isfrustrirani paranoik, Justine.

– Vrlo moguće da si u pravu. Idi, obuci se. Nije pristojno da jedna profi prostitutka sedi tako gola pred „običnim isfrustriranim paranoičnim“ poznanikom.

– Ma nemoj. Bolje bi ti bilo da zakopčaš šlic, jer nije pristojno da sediš pred „profi prostitutkom“ tako raspojasan a da od nje nećeš nikakvu uslugu.

– Pa neću.

– I ne moraš. Fuck you.

– Ma fuck the world. Dođi ovamo, ludaro jedna, da te zagrlim. Dođi i lezi pored mene. Kiselo se osmehnula i legla, naslonivši glavu na moje grudi. Zagrlio sam je preko leđa i prislonio usne na njen nos. Usne su mi bile otekle kao da me je izujedalo hiljadu stršljenova.

– Ajde, molim te, idi do frižidera i donesi mi malo leda da stavim na ovu oteklinu na usni. Sad dok sam te ljubio u nos, kao da me bajonet proburazio.

– Hoću, ali pod jednim uslovom!

– Dobro ajde, oženiću te, jebi se.

Hitro je skočila i, promuklo se kikoćući, othramala do kuhinje. Začula se lomljava leda o kuhinjsku dasku.

– Evo me, odlomila sam manje parče. Nemaš baš mnogo santi.

Namestila se u pređašnji položaj, kratko i bolno zastenjala, i prislonila šaku sa santicom leda na moje usne.

– Probudi me u jedanaest, darling, treba da se nađem s jednim zahtevnim klijentom u ponoć.

– Ma fuck the world. Probudiću te. Sad ćuti, spavaj i drži taj led.

– Je l’ hrčeš?

– Ne.

– Dobro je.

– Ali ti zato razbijaš, Vanda.

– Šta ćeš, takva sam se rodila. Baš nemaš sreće, Justine.

Privukao sam je sebi i stegao njeno golo, toplo telo. Bila je mekana i mirisala je na šampon za pranje kose iz mog kupatila. Led se polako topio i kapao mi na ključnu kost. Učinilo mi se kao da se zvuk kapanja vode meša sa zvukom lupanja Vandinog srca. Čuka joj je tukla strahovito jako, a onda je najednom počela da se smiruje. Umočio sam prste u jezerce koje mi se napravilo u udubljenju kod ključne kosti, i njima joj lagano prešao po leđima i zaustavio se na okruglastoj polutki dupeta. Bila je mirna. Klizio sam šakom od polutke dupeta, niz butinu i nazad, uživajući u glatkoći njene kože. Što sam bio bliže njenom kolenu, to joj je koža bila rapavija i bockastija. Dopala mi se ta rapavost, pa sam je obuhvatio ispod kolena i privukao joj nogu gore, ka stomaku. Tako sam mogao da joj mazim list, koji je bio najbockastiji. Bila je prilično savitljiva. Šarao sam joj prstom od butine ka listu, pa nazad ka butini i okruglastoj polutki i tu, u skrivenom kutku između dve polutke dupeta, otkrio najbockastiji deo Vandine kože. Kako sam joj dodirnuo klitoris, tako je zahrkala: istu melodiju koju je hrkala malopre u mojoj spavaćoj sobi, istu onu melodiju koja mi je bila dobro poznata iz detinjstva. Uhvatio sam je oko butine i zbacio na pod.

– Ajde, briši kući brzo! Dosta je bilo zajebancije – promenio sam ton.

Trgla se i zabezeknuto me pogledala.

– Šta ti je, darling?

– I jebi se više s tim tvojim „darling“! Ajde, tornjaj se napolje, je l’ me čuješ?!

Uzeo sam njene stvari, otvorio prozor i zavrljačio ih na pločnik.

– Zašto to radiš? Šta ti je odjednom, Justine?! – očajno je vrisnula.

– Ostavio sam ti cipele. Natakni se na štikletine i briši! Briši! Napolje!!! – viknuo sam hladnim, nemilosrdnim glasom.

Sedela je zgrčena na podu, glasno dahćući. Četvoronoške se dovukla do cipela i ugurala stopala u njih. Podigla se, pošla ka vratima, otključala bravu i osvrnula ka meni.

– Ovaj... mogu li da dobijem makar jednu cigaretu, za usput?

Dobacio sam joj celu kutiju i zaurlao:

– Napoljeeee! ’’

Segment from the novel Ice:

’I felt like I had became one with the sofa. Every inch of my torso was stuck to the dark brown leather upholstery. I could still move my arms, my legs, and my head. I got up and sat down. Tidiness was all around me. The window was closed, the water from the window wiped off, the glasses put away, the newspapers tidily stacked on the table, the cord of the “banana” phone neatly wound around the handset, the graveyard of DVDs arranged and parceled out… Female clothes were lying on the leg rest: a dress, bra and panties, an on top was a body piercing from her belly button. I guess it was taken out of the belly button. Worn out shoes stood on the floor. That whole pile was in fact Wanda, only her body was absent.

She snored brutally. I read somewhere that Mussolini was an artist at snoring, while Winston Churchill’s snoring produced a noise that reached up to five decibels. The Guinness Book of Records states that the loudest snorer was a Swede, Kare Valker, whose snoring was measured at Oerebro Regiona Hospital in 1993 at a mental ninety three decibels. If the Guinness committee was in my apartment right now, little Wanda would have certainly been crowned as the new champion. Maybe that would have earned her some dough, made her famous and pulled her out of these dire straits. But, fuck it. She’s obviously out of luck.

I got up to take a leak. I staggered to the bathroom and instinctively pressed the light switch. The light above the sink lit up, meaning that the electric company took care of the malfunction in the meantime. I spotted a small shapeless mass on top of the toilet lid. Phyllis’s shriveled shoe was standing in the middle of the toilet lid like a showpiece at an exhibition of some eccentric artist. I raised the lid and knocked the shoe down to the floor tiles. I pissed for a long time, so long that my thighs began to hurt from standing, so with the stream still running I made a compulsory u-turn and continued to piss sitting down. During the performance of that stunt I sprinkled Phyllis’s shoe a little bit.

I went back to the living room and sat on the sofa. The wailing sound of a fire engine siren was coming from the street. It’s incredible how scared of fire people are here, especially the Chicagoans who had heard the stories of the event that changed the course of the city’s history. The great fire in 1871 lasted for thirty six hours, swallowed three hundred people and left around hundred thousand without a roof over their heads. The fire reached such magnitude because the majority of Chicago’s buildings were constructed of wood. But if it wasn’t for that raging inferno an architectural revolution, of a sort, never would have happened. It was just after the fire that the architect William Le Baron Jenney seized an opportunity and designed the first steel-framed building: Home Insurance Building.

As the sound of the siren was moving away Wanda’s snoring grew louder. I tucked my hand into my pocket and pulled out my cigs. I lit one and after filling up my lung pit with the first puff of smoke, I started my usual after-waking-up tar mining. I coughed savagely, severely tearing my throat. Maybe I didn’t need to be that loud, but I was irritated by Wanda’s deep snoring sleep, undeterred even by the fire engine siren. I stopped coughing and took a deep breath. She was still snoring at the same rhythm: one long inhaling snore – one hissing exhalation – two short inhaling snores followed by gurgling – one almost soundless exhalation – one long inhaling snore – one hissing exhalation – two short inhaling snores followed by gurgling – one almost soundless exhalation…

This ritualistic snoring concert of hers reminded me of my late brother. It’s possible that they killed him in the war because he irritated someone with his snoring. He inherited the snoring from our late parents. Both mother and father snored. I am the only non-snorer in the family. Maybe that’s the reason why I’m still alive. I sleep quietly and now I am starting to live more and more quietly.

Ha, ha, now Wanda would have something to say about that and would have the bruises on her neck to back it up.

She appeared in the bedroom door as if she heard me mention her name. She was completely naked. Her body was covered in tattoos, old and newly acquired bruises and scratches. It was already completely dark outside so she was finely illuminated by the neon light from Granville’s greengrocery.

She was fine, little Wanda, fine and somehow… large. She had a meaty stomach and high and narrow waist cutting into it; biggish tits of quite satisfactory juiciness considering their mileage; a round, firm ass; well-shaped thighs, calves and arm muscles; strong shoulders.

– You’re hot, bitch. How come you’re not working at some better place, eh?

– Global financial crisis is felt in my line of work too, darling. The high-ups don’t feel like fucking anymore with all the problems they have, and it’s always the same shit for my gutter crew, so there isn’t any oscillations in their sexual needs. It’s better to stick with them. They’re more stable clients.

– Some fucking logic! You could stop by the United Nations and share that viewpoint with them. Ha, ha. Turn on the light so I can give you a better look.

She pirouetted looking for the light switch.

– Ah, okay. C’mon… just turn it off.

Like a programmed robot, she flicked the switch and turned off the light.

– Actually, can you turn it on, please?

She turned on the light and took a step toward me.

– No, it’s too bright, it’s better when you turn it off.

She went back and turned off the light. She approached the sofa, sat next to my legs and lit a cigarette.

– I tidied up your home a little bit, didn’t you notice?

– I did.

She turned her head toward me expecting to hear something from me, gratitude or at least some praise. I looked at her silently. She smiled scornfully and drew a smoke.

– I don’t know what else to say. I didn’t ask you to tidy up my home.

She was nervously drawing one smoke after the other. Her hand was shaking in the same rhythm she snored while she slept. Her lower lip was trembling and bending downward, following the rhythm of the hand.

– I suppose you actually wanted to get married and that this tidying up is a sort of invitation, or recommendation: as in, you know how to be a housewife, how to wash, scrub, turn the light on and off on command, without objections and superfluous questions. Maybe you’d also like to give birth to a kid, and since the intellectuals are scarce in that “gutter” of yours, you picked me?

She sat quietly, staring at the Gauloises light.

– I’m not stupid, Wanda.

– I’m not stupid either, Justin.

– What are you trying achieve then, Wanda?

– I just tidied up your home. I don’t expect anything from you and I’m not trying anything. You’re just frustrated and paranoid, Justin.

– It’s very possible that you’re right. Go, get dressed. It’s not decent for a professional prostitute to be sitting naked like that in front of “just a frustrated and paranoid” acquaintance.

– Is that so? You better zip up your fly because it’s not decent to sit in front of a “professional prostitute” all disheveled without wanting any service from her.

– Well, I don’t want any service.

– Well, you don’t have to. Fuck you.

– Oh, fuck the world. Come here you nut let me give you a hug. Come lay beside me.

She smiled bitterly and lay down, resting her head on my chest. I put my arm around her back and kept grazing her nose with my lips. My lips were swollen as if they were stung by hundreds of hornets.

– Come on, please go to the fridge and bring me some ice to put on this swelling. It felt like I’d been stabbed by a bayonet as I was kissing your nose.

– I will, but under one condition!

– Okay, fuck you, I’ll marry you.

She quickly jumped up and, smiling hoarsely, limped off to the kitchen. I heard the breaking of ice against the cutting board.

– Here, I broke off a smaller piece. You don’t have a lot of chunks left.

She placed herself in the previous position, let out a short and painful groan, and put a hand holding a little chunk of ice to my lips.

– Wake me up at eleven, darling. I need to meet a demanding client at midnight.

– Oh, fuck the world. I’ll wake you up. Now be quiet, sleep, and hold that ice.

– Do you snore?

– No.

– Good.

– But you’re a champ, Wanda.

– What can you do? I was born that way. You’re really out of luck, Justin.

I pulled her close to me and squeezed her naked, warm body. She was soft and smelled of shampoo from my bathroom. The ice slowly melted and dripped on my collar bone. I thought I heard the sound of dripping ice mixing with the sound of Wanda’s heartbeat. Her ticker was pounding hard and then it suddenly began to calm down. I dipped my fingers in the pond that had formed in the indentation of my collar bone and slowly dragged them over her back stopping at her round buttock. She was calm. I slid my hand from her buttock down her thigh and back, enjoying the smoothness of her skin. The closer I got to her knee the rougher and pricklier her skin became. I liked the roughness, so I held her under the knee and pulled her leg toward her stomach. That way I could fondle her calf, which was the prickliest of them all. She was pretty flexible. I ran my finger from her thigh to her calf and back again to the thigh and the round buttock, and there, in the alcove concealed between the two buttocks, I discovered the prickliest part of Wanda’s skin by far. When I touched her clitoris she started snoring: in the same melody she snored before in my bedroom, the same melody that I knew so well from my childhood.

I grabbed her around the thigh and threw her down to the floor.

– Go on, get lost now! Enough fucking around – I changed the tone of my voice.

She sprang up and gave me a startled look.

– What’s wrong with you, darling?

– And fuck the “darling” thing! Come on, get the fuck out! Do you hear what I’m saying?

I picked up her stuff, opened the window and tossed it out on the pavement.

– Why are you doing this? What’s up all of a sudden, Justin? – she screamed desperately.

– I left your shoes. Climb onto those heels and go! Get lost! Out!!! – I shouted in a cold, merciless voice.

She was sitting curled up on the floor, gasping loudly. She crawled to her shoes on all fours and shoved her feet in. She stood up, walked to the door, unlocked it and turned toward me.

– Hmm… can I at least get one cigarette for the road?

I threw her the whole pack and yelled:

– Oooout!’’