120 lines
6.7 KiB
Plaintext
120 lines
6.7 KiB
Plaintext
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Underground eXperts United
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Presents...
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[ Insignificant Showdown In Central Europe ] [ By The GNN ]
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____________________________________________________________________
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____________________________________________________________________
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INSIGNIFICANT SHOWDOWN IN CENTRAL EUROPE
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by THE GNN/DCS/uXu
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I stumbled out of bed early in the morning and thought this cannot be me it
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must be my double. I smoked a cigarette and tightened up my gut.
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I left my home a few minutes later. A taxi took me to the airport. Rain
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poured down from a grey sky. During the flight I was entertained by a woman
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who told me that she flew to France every year just for the sake of the
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intellectually stimulating conversations at certain coffee shops. In between
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her seemingly never-ending babbling, she never asked me why I were on my way
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down there. If she had, I would say that I had decided one week ago that it
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was time to take of some unfinished business.
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Touchdown at Charles de Gaulle at half past eleven, central European
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time. Customs: a tall man dressed in a black uniform stopped me and asked
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where my luggage was. I honestly replied that I carried none, except for my
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wallet and watch. He wondered why. I said that I needed nothing more, I
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would just stay in Paris for a few hours.
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The second taxi of the day drove me downtown. The driver tried to make
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conversation, but I did not respond; partially because I did not understand
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what he said, but mainly because I was not in the mood. Something inside of
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me told me over and over again that this was not a very good idea; something
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inside me politely asked me to head back to Stockholm, and forget everything
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for real. But I did not listen. I had tried to forget, but I could not.
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Father time had failed to heal the wound, perhaps because the scar was
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buried too deep beneath my skin.
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I already had the address, but to make really, really sure that it was
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correct, I did the same thing I did a couple of days ago. I called the phone
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company from a booth. After a few seconds of searching, the benevolent woman
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on the other end of the line found the name and address I looked for. It was
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identical to the information on the note I carried in my pocket.
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At the central station I catch a train, and stepped off after twenty
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minutes. Nothing had changed since my last visit. Even after more than five
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years, the suburb looked exactly the same. Dark, grey houses; strange
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gardens, tiny cars speeding here and there, typically French people speaking
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or shouting at each other; and all this within a framework of streets that
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no one obviously had swept since the end of World War II.
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It was no problem to locate the house. I climbed the stairs and found the
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apartment. A familiar last name was neatly printed on a card and taped to
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the door. I checked my watch. It was two o'clock. Since it was Saturday, I
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assumed that she did not work. The door bell growled without echo. My heart
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felt like a raging machine gun.
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The person I used to know opened the door. Her jaw dropped to the floor;
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I guess she recognised me instantly.
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"Hello", I said in Swedish.
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She did not reply. Even if she had, I would have interrupted her. I just
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had one single matter to discuss, nothing more, nothing less; all other
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words were redundant.
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"Tell me," I hastily continued, "remember last time we met?"
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"Well, yes..." she said with perplexity in her voice.
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"Fine. I've always wondered one thing: did you tell me truth, or did
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you lie to spare me from grief?"
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She did not recall the statement in question, I had to remind her: She
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and I, on that empty street in the middle of the night. Her confession and
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despair. And then the things that she said. How I did not listen, but instead
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raised my hand and pointed out the way she ought to walk from now on, which
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was in the opposite direction of mine.
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"The truth."
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That was it.
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Well, if you wonder why I had gone all the way just to engage in what
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could be regarded as a pretty trivial enquiry, let me tell you. She had lied
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to me in letters, deceived me on the phone, and fabricated evidence on post
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cards. Nevertheless, she was unable to tell a single untruth to the face of
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anyone, including me. It was in her nature.
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My heart slowed down.
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"A shame that I didn't believe you, then? Now it's too late."
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I heard a male voice growl something from somewhere in the apartment. She
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turned around and replied, but naturally I could not understand what she
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said. When she turned back, I was gone. I have never seen her ever since.
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The train took me back to central station. From there, I walked six
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blocks north-west. I rang the door bell of yet another apartment. To my
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surprise, an old woman opened instead of my desired target. She explained
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that her son did not live there anymore. He was dead. He had been found in
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the bathroom of The Locomotive with too much heroine in his blood.
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I nodded and left. Nothing to do about it. It did not matter. His only
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purpose on a day like today was to be punched in the face by me. But he had
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punched himself too hard. Nothing to do about it.
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The third taxi of the day drove me back to Charles de Gaulle. The second
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plane took me back up north. The fourth taxi took me home. I closed and
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locked the door to my apartment at eleven in the evening. From now on, my
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life would be less shattered. My inner dispute that had haunted my dreams
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every night for over five years had at last been settled, concluded and put
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aside, forever. The birthmark on my heart was gone. Once again, I could
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finally laugh and forget, but more importantly, love and remember.
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---------------------------------------------------------------------------
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uXu #475 Underground eXperts United 1998 uXu #475
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Call INTERNATIONAL INFORMATION RETRIEVAL GUILD -> telnet iirg.org
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