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dreaming or definitely tripping.' He lay down on the jetty and, splash, sticks his head into the water. I do the same thing. It doesn’t help. I mean, our heads are clear, we’re not hung over—and a cold sea will heal even the worst of those—but still everything is all freaky. And then to top it all off, we hear this laughter, an angelic laughter people used to laugh a long time ago but have since forgotten. Nobody laughs like that anymore except for the Bushmen maybe, or the people of the Pacific Islands. As we look up we see a youngster, a girl no more than thirteen or fourteen, standing at the top of the stairs, watching us and laughing. Damn, Maia! She was all made up as if she’d just come from the world supermodel competition and only happened to be passing by, tall, lean legs, black mini skirt, cotton tee-shirt the colour of smoke showing off breasts, everything f-i-i-rm and beeeeoo-tiful! 'What’s so funny?' I ask her, having pulled myself together."
      "'You two,' she says, and does the angelic laughter again. I look at him and he’s shaking his head saying: 'are you nuts, we’ll get at least five years, provided we get out of here alive.' And then she saunters down to the jetty as if it’s the most natural thing in the world—I mean, hooking up with a couple lunatics clearing their heads in the sea—and she’s smiling, looking us straight in the eyes."
      "'I saw you last night when you docked in that boat,' she says."
      "'Really,' I say, 'and how did you manage that?'
      "'Because I live in the house you docked the boat in front of,' she says.
      "'Excellent,' I say, 'and what’s so funny about the two of us? ’Cause we’ve got our heads in the sea?'"
      "'No,' she says. 'I’m laughing because you’re standing on the jetty of whoredom.'"
      "'What jetty?'
      "'The jetty of whoredom,' she says and scowls at what I presume is my ignorance of such obvious facts."
      "The jetty of whoredom, Maia, Jesus Christ! So I ask her why the two of us should definitely not be standing
čudimo se onim alkama i izlokanom trupcu, što će te stvari tu, a on mi veli: Mi ili sanjamo, ili smo fakat na tripu. Pa legne na mol i hop, gurne glavu u more. I ja učinim isto. Nije pomoglo. Mislim, glava ti je bistra, nema mamurluka, hladno more liječi najgori mamurluk, a opet sve je tako odvaljeno. A onda još začujemo taj smijeh, anđeoski smijeh kakvim su se nekad davno smijali ljudi, pa su zaboravili. Nitko se više ne smije tako osim, možda, Bušmana i ljudi na pacifi čkim otočićima. Pogledamo, a ono curetak, trinaest, četrnaest godina, ne više, stoji na vrhu stuba, gleda nas i smije se. Jebem ti, Maja! Picnuta kao da se upravo vraća s izbora za svjetski supermodel, pa je tu samo u prolazu, visoka, vitkih nogu, crni minjak, ispod pamučne majice boje dima strše grudi, a sve čvrstooooo, lijepooooo! Śto je smiješno?, pitam je kad sam se malo sabrao. Vas dvojica, kaže ona, i opet taj anđeoski smijeh. Pogledam njega, a on odmahuje glavom i veli: Nemoj bit lud, za ovo ćemo dobiti najmanje pet godina, pod uvjetom da se živi izvučemo odavde. A onda, jebote, doleprša ti ona na mol, kao da je to najprirodnija stvar na svijetu, mislim spustit se među kretene koji guaraju glavu u more, pa se samo smiješi i gleda te drito u oči. Vidjela sam vas sinoć kad ste došli onim brodom, kaže ona. Je li, velim ja, a kako ti je to uspjelo? Tako što stanujem u kući ispred koje ste vezali brod, kaže ona. Super, velim ja, a što je to smiješno na nama dvojici, jel to što guramo glavu u more? Ne, veli ona, smiješno je to što stojite na molu od bluda. Na kakvom molu? Na molu od bluda, kaže ona i namršti se, negodujući valjda zbog mog nepoznavanja tako očitih činjenica. Ej, Maja, zamisli to, mol od bluda, Isuse. I pitam je ja da zašto nas dvojica ne bismo mogli OZBILJNO stajati na tom molu od bluda, a ona veli da zato Lady
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