Chapter 7 Chapter Six

That's when I realized I was being too polite to a ghost from my previous life, so I decided to let him hit the wall first, and I said, "I have nothing to talk to you about. I didn't send you Court, you should be grateful." "You see, Smurov," he said mournfully, "I have a bad temper, and I apologize for that. After our - er - heated argument, I have not had peace in my heart. I Felt awful. Allow me to confess something to you, as two decent men do. You see, I later learned that you were neither the first nor the last, and I left her--yes, Get her out of here."

"You and I can't discuss anything," I said, and sniffed my fat, cold bouquet. "Oh, don't hold a grudge like this!" exclaimed Cashmarin. "Come and beat me up, give me an old punch, and then we'll make peace. Don't you want to? Hey, you laughed—it's a Good sign. No, don't hide behind flowers - I can see you smiling. So, now we can talk as friends. Allow me to ask, how much money do you make?" Still pouted, I answered him after a while.During this time, I wanted to say a few nice words, and I wanted to say a few words to express how touched I was, but I had to hold back.

"Well, look," said Cashmarin, "I'll find you a job that pays three times what you're doing now, and meet me at the Monopole Hotel early tomorrow morning. I'll introduce you to someone useful It's a light job, maybe you often go to the Riviera, travel to Italy. Automobile sales. Then you will come and see?" He hit it right to the heart, as they say.I have long since grown tired of Weinstock and his books.I began to smell those cold flowers again, hiding my joy and gratitude in the bouquet. "I'll think about it," I said, sneezing. "God bless you!" exclaimed Cashmarin, "then don't forget—tomorrow. I'm so happy, so happy, to have met you."

we broke up.I walked forward slowly with figure-of-sight steps, my nose buried in the bouquet. What Kashmarin took away was another image of Smurov.Which image, what's the difference?For I do not exist: there are but a thousand mirrors reflecting me.One more person I know increases the number of phantoms like me.Wherever they live, they multiply.Only I don't exist.However, Smurov would live on for a long time.Those brothers, my two students, would grow up and grow old, and this image of me would live on in them like a tenacious parasite.Then one day, the last person who remembers me will die.By the mere fact of being alive I have sinned, and in the mind of the last witness my image, a reverse fetus, will shrink and die.Perhaps an accidental story about me, an anecdote in which I played a part, will be passed down from him to his grandson, so that my name and ghost will flicker for a while longer.Then, it will be completely over.

However, I am happy.Yes, happy.I swear, I swear I'm happy.I've come to realize that the only joy in the world is to observe, to probe, to spy, to examine myself and others, and to do nothing but a big, glassy, ​​bloodshot, unblinking eye.I swear this is joy.I'm a bit cheap, I'm a bit stinky, and no one appreciates everything that stands out about me—my imagination, my knowledge, my literary talent...so what?I am happy because I can gaze upon myself, because anyone is fascinating - yes, indeed!This world, although it can try its best, can't hurt a single hair of me.I am invulnerable, indestructible.If she married someone else, what kind of worry should I have?Every other night I dream that her laundry is on a clothesline of endless bliss, rippling in a never-ending wind of possession, and her husband will never know how I Treat the silky silk of this dancing witch.This is the pinnacle of love.I am happy - yes, happy!What else can I do to prove, how to declare that I am happy?Ah, shout it out, so that you all believe me in the end, you cruel, self-satisfied fellows...