When my vision began to fall precipitously, I remember thinking that this was a bad tone, a bad joke. In place of my own destiny, which, contrary to good taste and common sense, has become accustomed to personifying, I would perhaps be ashamed to act so straightforwardly.
No, really. The man who completed the first semester of studies at the university completed the course on Borges's early poetry, and the last - a diploma work on the influence of the poetics of ultra-ism on his prose, then immediately sat down to study the syntax of his oral speeches, while amusing himself wrote several dozen essays on modern prose under the clownish motto "Jorge reads us in heaven" and suddenly acquired, frankly speaking, cheap, but, damn, pleasant popularity - so I want to say, a person with such a biography th should not be blinded, it is bust, bad taste, but plagiarism.
I regularly joked about it and visited experts as regularly. Specialists, all one-by-one, spreading their hands, referring to clever devices, according to the testimony of which my body continued to function normally, talked incoherently about psychosomatics, blamed fatigue and stress in everything, which I, shamefully did not suffer at all, incriminated to me a subconscious desire close all eyes, just did not cry out to my conscience, although it sometimes seemed to it.
All this was extremely instructive, but I saw worse and worse. I got special reading glasses and one more for driving; half a year later, they had to change those and others, and then, at the beginning of winter, again. Just a month later, at the end of the Christmas holidays, I sat behind the wheel after a week or so, and realized that the new glasses were in need of replacement, that's when I felt that the Lord laid the punishing hand on my head and squeezed my fingers . The jokes ended, panic began.
I just turned thirty-seven years old; my life, to tell the truth, was poor in events. Even in my youth, I was prudish enough sluggish, not at full strength, but I was happy to make plans for the future, I composed for myself a destiny full of passions, adventures and travels, deep down I thought that I was created for it, but I kept putting it off for later, I thought I would succeed, but now I suddenly found myself standing like a fool, leaning my nose against a dead wall, and my beautiful "sweat" was left behind somewhere, and in general everything.
Gripped with feverish enthusiasm, I began to fuss life. Not knowing where to begin, I chose the usual drunkenness as the first point of the program; I can not call this decision successful. My stomach flatly refused to follow this path, but I fought as best I could. After several turbulent nights, still suffering from a hangover and heartburn, I flew to Madrid - not because I had dreamed all my life, but the airline had arranged another action, tickets for the weekend to Madrid and back, at a discount, for a quarter of the usual price, flight to Friday afternoon, return on Monday morning, three nights at the hotel, why not. We must finally learn to make impulsive decisions.
Arriving, I almost immediately went to bed, and the next morning I left the hotel and realized that I was dragging myself here in vain, the city made absolutely no impression on me. It's a stupid idea. It is foolish in my position to waste time and money on the spectacle, which I do not want to resurrect before my inner gaze, when there will be no other gaze left for me.
It was possible to get on the bus and go somewhere else, even if only in Toledo, the benefit is very close, but I lost heart and went shopping. In the souvenir shop across the road from Prado bought a ceramic plate on the front door for Karina and another one, with the moon and stars, for Ritin's kitchen, which, I already knew, would never become mine either. And I found myself a postcard, a glossy black rectangle with the inscription "Night Madrid", a witty idea, you will not say anything, as if specially unknown jokers were trying for me.
And then I went to a Mexican restaurant, where I ordered a portion of tequila and a miracle. Rather, only tequila at first, but the elderly stocky waiter in the decorative sombrero was tiringly amiable, continually approached me, insistently asked: "Something else?" I at first politely thanked and refused, then silently shook my head, finally said rather harshly : "And I need a miracle." I spoke quite sincerely, but, of course, the calculation was that a professional Mexican would consider me a psycho and leave me alone. He smiled at the edge of his long jackal's mouth, nodded, and retired. Later, when I demanded an invoice, it read: "Tequila - 6, miracle - 1.5". I appreciated the joke, neatly counted the coins, but left nothing for tea, judging that the witty waiter had already earned me a good job.
The rest of the weekend I spent wandering aimlessly around the city, admiring swarthy beauties in fur coats and flip-flops on my bare feet, sniffing early crocuses in the Royal Botanical Garden, throwing coins into the box of the old woman of the organ-grinder, wiping my pants in a smoker's bar with a tamper, , of course. I thought out a worthy way out of the situation; My fantasies, however, did not differ in originality. Here, for example: I come home, call my sister, and Karina says: "While you were gone, I found a good doctor, try again", and miraculously found in the municipal clinic on the outskirts of the ophthalmologist puts finally an accurate diagnosis, and then quickly leads me in order, and, please, no lasers and operations, tablets and, okay, I agree, drops.