Zift Page #5

with us

by the notes of lunar jazz.

The moon is to blame.

The mad moon.

When they killed the boy in Varna

who was in love with me,

they told me

I was a hopeless b*tch.

You're wicked, people point at me,

but I don't believe them.

The moon is to blame,

the full moon.

The moon carelessly plays with us

by the notes of lunarjazz.

The moon is to blame,

the mad moon."'

There's this book called ""Candide"".

It asks

what is the human thing to do:

to drift around the world

with no direction or goal

and be raped

by a bunch of vulgarian Bulgarians,

or to sit down on your warm butt

in life's flower-bed.

What is the human thing to do?

Hmm, you don't get to choose.

Man squats down in life's

flower-bed anyway,

but only after he's been raped

by a bunch of vulgarian Bulgarians.

Coming in?.

The criminal always returns

to the crime scene.

Who owns all of this?

- He does.

Slug?

He bought himself the crime scene?.

Yes, but he doesn't live here.

I live here alone.

Men don't live in parlors -

they go there to fornicate.

Did you sleep with him?.

- Yes, I did.

To cover your rent?.

He believes the stone is here.

That's why nothing gets touched.

Even the chalk.

White slave.

The praying mantis.

She seems to be praying, while

in fact she's stalking her prey.

When in heat, she takes on

a praying position

and remains exquisitely still until

a vagrant male specimen mounts her.

A little before the male ejaculates,

she bites off and swallows his head.

The beheaded male

doesn't die immediately;,

in fact, his potency is enhanced.

Copulation is the reverse

of self-preservation.

Suddenly,

Slug was born out of the night

with the smell

of a freshly printed book.

I"m losing my mind.

Tell me about Leo.

Leo's gone.

There's only the grave.

Let's run away from here.

We'll need money. I'll take some from

the cocktail-lounge cash register.

There's no need. I know.

- Know what?

Where the stone is.

- The stone?

The diamond.

Where?.

In Bijou's grave.

So there was a stone after all.

Yes.

Slug had already

ransacked the room.

There wasn't a trace

of the negro's penis.

A little before

they knocked down the door,

my eyes fell on Lolushikin's ass.

And it all came together.

The penis was in...

- Yes.

Slug had shot him in the chest.

He was in his death throes and

soiled himself in the agony.

The penis fell out.

Just before they stormed in,

a black diamond slipped into my hand.

They were already knocking off

the hinges

and Lolushkin was breathing his last.

His mouth opened.

I dropped the stone inside.

He swallowed it convulsively

and died.

And then?

I came to myself in the hospital.

A policeman was guarding me.

Didn't they ask about the stone?.

No one suspected there was a stone.

Or that I had accomplices.

That I had you.

Gravediggers. Living Quarters.

Gravediggers. Living Quarters.

""Death solves all problems -

no man, no problem."

Come on, come on.

Wait, wait.

Give me a good one.

Good evening. Who's in charge here?.

Peter Raychev. Deputy gravedigger.

The chief is out.

The stench of rubber boots,

rotten teeth, and burned flatulence.

Over there.

First we visit the grave of our son

Leonid, then bijou's.

The grave is fresh.

Leonid

Someone was

buried here recently.

The obituary says:

""The dark years

after the death of Leonid

were the death of his mother

Paraskeva. May she rest in peace!'"

I'm pregnant.

This is not my son's grave.

If this Leonid's mother

wasn"t buried recently here,

the fraud

might have never been exposed.

I've never had a son.

She was lying to me all along.

She brought me

to someone else's grave.

Moth.

I feel sick.

My head is about to burst,

as if death wants to remove me from

this world with a corkscrew,

and is now screwing it

into my brain.

Slug is standing next to Ada.

It doesn't matter anymore.

I'm looking at her,

the most volatile variable in life -

the female variable.

To bijou's grave, Moth.

Vladivostok Dmitrievich Lolushkin

Vengeance makes you feel good,

really good.

That was the last time I saw her.

The mantis is a special creature,

by which Nature prays

to the Creator

to forgive the fall of man.

It's butt-warm inside.

I overstuffed myself with sh*t,

deputy gravedigger.

It's time for me to go.

Don't worry, man.

The bigger the sh*t,

the lesser the damage.

The moral damage,

that is, not the material one.

You're a good man,

as earnest as Lenin.

I have one last wish.

Pass me the zift from the pocket,

so I can get a fresh taste

in my mouth before I depart.

The moth.

Picture him flying.

He doesn't fly,

but flutters chaotically.

If you try to map his flight,

you'll get an inscrutable drawing.

My life was something of the sort,

actually any life.

Moth, who lived by chance

and died thereby.

Six o'clock. Good morning.

""Where are you,

where are you, brown eyes,

where are you my homeland?

In front of us - Bulgaria,

behind us - the Danube.

In front of us - Bulgaria,

behind us - the Danube.

We've traveled many leagues

over water and land,

but our Soviet fatherland

we have not forgotten.

And under Balkan stars

we persistently recall

the Yaroslavl, Rezanski,

and Smolensky places.

We recall the brown eyes,

the quiet voices, the merry laughter.

Bulgaria is a nice country

but Russia is better than them all. '"

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