To Mireia, who has the power to turn violence into
fiction


Boris Husak walked towards the exchange booth with a calm
step. The young man that just entered the booth was going
out, too fast to be able to change money. Probably just
checked the exchange rate, which made him the best customer
for Boris.
"Change money?" he asked him with his heavy English,
"forty-one Krones for a dollar." Though the guy was nodding
his head for no, the rate was too high to refuse.
"Forty-one?" he was tall and lean, about twenty-five, and
his eyes looked down at Boris with a suspecting gaze.
"Forty-one. How much you have?"
"One-hundred dollars."
Boris motioned with his head, "Come."
They went to the more quiet side street.
Boris took out a pack of bank notes from his pocket, and
counted four one-thousand notes, and one of one-hundred. The
guy picket one note and examined it carefully, comparing it
to a note he took out of his pocket. Boris could tell that
this guy wasn't doing this black-market business for the
first time. After a long moment the guy nodded his head in
approval.
"Good money," Boris said in reassurance, and folded the
notes neatly, the one hundred bill on the top, while handing
his other hand to take the dollars.
"Put in pocket, discreet, for no problem," he told the guy,
who put the notes in his pocket quickly.
"Next time, come here again," he said.
The guy smiled and turned away. Boris looked at him
carefully for another second, feeling his muscles tensing,
and quickly disappeared around the corner, smiling to
himself. As was his custom, he knew he has to stay away for
some days now, as the guy might come looking for him, with
or without the police, when he will realize that under the
one hundred note he was keeping in his pocket was a pile of
old papers, which Boris skillfully switched for the bank
notes before performing the transaction.
He went quickly to the metro station and made it to his
house in the outskirts of town, where he has a grocery shop.
He entered the shop and kissed his wife cheerfully.
"How did it go?"
"Oh, very well. Very well indeed."
"You think they will buy?"
"It looks like there is a good chance," his wife didn't know
about his side-business.
It was Wednesday, his poker evening with his friends at the
local bar. He went to meet them with high spirit, and as was
his habit in days when his business was good, he paid for
their beers.
He waited six days before going back. This time it was two
Spanish girls he made the exchange with. They were young and
obviously inexperienced, and proved no problem to Boris,
that after thirty years of practice did his business
smoothly and calmly.
A month had passed, and one day he found a letter in his
mail box, with a British stamp on the envelope. Curiously,
he tore the envelope and took out the paper.

Mr. Husak,
Some weeks ago, we were doing business together. Pretending
to buy US Dollars from me, you gave me one hundred Krones
and a pile of crap in return for one hundred dollars.
I'm a philosophy student in London University, and work as a
salesman during the weekends. The money you have stolen from
me is the result of a whole weekend's hard work. Having this
time to dedicate to my studies, my academic situation would
have been much better. I worked very hard during the year to
be able to have this vacation which you spoiled with your
dishonest business. All I can hope now is that you really
need this money that you cheated out of me.
When I realized the trick you played on me I was frustrated
and angry. I felt humiliated. I didn't even bother to look
for you then, as I was sure you will clear off the place for
some time. But I was counting on your false assumption that
after a few days I will be away, and you could come back.
I waited one week, and started going to the place every day,
looking for you. My plan was, if I found you, to beat you as
best I can, and then force my money, which I earned
honestly, back from you.
After few days I saw you there, in the same place. Just as I
was going to approach you, I suddenly realized that there
was nothing I could really do. Beating you was only good to
get me into trouble with the police, while there was nothing
I could do to prove your crime. Turning to the police was
out of the question, as our business was illegal to begin
with. Asking the money from you was pitiful, as I am sure
you are a mean and heartless man, and that you will laugh in
my face.
Not sure what to do I sat there, watching you. I saw you
doing your dirty trick once more, then going away.
I followed you.
I went on the metro with you, and followed you until you
entered your accursed home.
I considered forcing my way in, but as this was again
tampering with the law, I decided against it. I was sitting
there the whole night, feeling the frustration of
helplessness against your evil.
I'm not sure why I write this letter to you. You are a bad
man and I despise you and your life. I wish you bad, and I
hope you will know only sorrow. But, as you won and I lost,
I would like you to know that I was there, following you,
watching your window. Had I been the kind of person you are,
your bones would have been broken now after I treated you
with my fists.
But I'm not, and I'm happy for that.
Hope there is a heart in your chest that is beating now in
remorse and fear,

      never yours,
Adrian

Boris tore the letter to small pieces which he tossed away
angrily with a nervous movement of his hand into the nearby
garbage can. He heard the silent, steady beat of propechy's
drum in his head. This guy, one of his many dissatisfied
customer, finally tracked him, found him. He looked around
him, but the street was empty of any foreign presence. Where
was this guy? What did he want from him? What was he going
to do to him?
Of course, getting caught was a professional risk he took
upon himself when starting his business. Though he trusted
the dexterity of his hands and his wits, if not his strength
anymore, he knew that one day he might be caught. But he
never imagined that someone will play this kind of trick on
him.
With a heavy heart he opened the shop, arranging the morning
papers, pulling out the wooden boxes filled with apples,
oranges and grapes, all the while casting nervous glances
around him. At eight o'clock old Mrs. Marislavska entered
the shop, after picking for twenty minutes on the apples and
finally choosing two. The revolt he felt at her sight pushed
away his fear, and as usual he cheated her with the change.
For a whole week he avoided going to the city center. If
fate was after him, he preferred to meet it near his place.
When nothing happened he finally resumed his business. An
elder American couple was his next victims. Going away
quickly in the shades of the small alleys, he thought that
they looked pretty well-off, and probably wouldn't miss too
much the three hundred dollars the rested safely in his
pocket. These thoughts were strange to his mind, like an
unwanted fly that entered through an open window, and he
chased it with his shoe in his hand, determined to take the
life of the despised creature, and then close again this
never-opened-before window.
His hand went involuntarily to his pocket, which seemed
deeper than ever. Diving deep, a sudden fear hit him that
the notes will not be there, that he lost them somehow.
Finally he reached them, and sighing heavily, felt them with
his fingers, fondled them lovingly. There was a strange heat
flowing from them, a bad heat. He went to his home, stopping
at the shop to tell his wife he was sick, and went straight
to bed.
Three days later, a second letter arrived.

Mr. Husak,
There is no reason I can give you for writing this letter. I
still believe that you are a cruel, inhuman creature, that a
dead grave lies in your chest instead of a heart. But as you
taught me a good lesson, I have the urge to share this
lesson with you, though I believe my thoughts will be far
beyond the grasp of your small mind.
I kept thinking, after going back home, about our meeting. I
tried to think, why was it that I felt so bad about it. The
money, I had to admit, was only a small part. After some
thinking, I realized that the true pain came from the
feeling that I was cheated, when I was sure I played it safe
and was smart. I felt bad because I was stupid, in a time
that I felt smart.
Though I'm sure your limited mind is no match for my own, in
this little game we were playing you won and I lost. The
feeling of losing to a lesser person was hard. And I felt
revengeful. But revenge, I discovered, is the way of the
weak to feel strong. When you are sure inside that you are
strong and right, you don't need revenge to prove it
anymore. The urge died, and I didn't want to hurt you
anymore. Your way of life is bad and wrong, and I don't need
your pain to know that. I overcame revenge, and became
stronger. I learnt a lesson, and for me this is important.
One hundred dollars is not the highest price people pay for
a good lesson. I don't feel I paid too much. I don't feel
cheated anymore.
There is no hard feelings in me anymore. I'm glad for the
lesson I've learnt. I don't regret, and in a way I'm even
thankful to you, though I find it hard to believe that you
can understand what I'm talking about.

Adrian

Boris was more nervous now than he ever was before. This
guy, which he didn't even remember, was haunting him. He was
after him, with a feeling of revenge, only this guy chose to
revenge him in a crazy way he could not understand. Instead
of going to the police, or come after him, he was watching
him, waiting to strike in a moment he will choose, and
sending these letters to disturb Boris' rest, to make him
know his time has come. Before getting him, this guy was
scaring him, playing with him. He looked around, imagining
some curtains moving somewhere in the corner of his eyes,
then resting motionless when he directed his gaze.
This time he didn't go the city center for two weeks, and
even thought about quitting. But there was no real reason,
as whoever this guy was, he knew where he lived and could
get him any time he chose. His sleep was disturbed now, and
he jumped at the slightest noise, imagined or real, certain
this guy was at the door, stalking quietly into the house.
His wife got worried for his apparent restlessness, and one
night, drinking more and more, as alcohol became his only
mean to fall asleep, he almost confessed to her about his
side-job.
In the shop, his heart was beating fast with every customer
that entered. Again and again he was sure his time has come
when a man entered whom he didn't know. In the local bar,
his head was turned every time he thought someone was coming
in.
When two weeks passed and nothing happened, Boris went again
to the city center to resume his business. He was changing
two hundred English Pounds with two elderly women. His hands
were shaking, and while switching the papers he dropped them
on the sidewalk clumsily, and turned to run away in panic,
the women's cries echoing in his ears.
Something bad had happened to him.
Dark circles around his eyes, he started feeling that his
wife knows something. She was acting strange to him. That
guy must have spoken to her when he wasn't around. She knew.
Evil can approach him at any moment. He picked a big kitchen
knife and kept it under his pillow.
By then, the only way we could fall asleep was when he got
drunk. Really drunk. And even then his sleep was disturbed,
haunted, filled with nightmares.
He became nervous, and reckless.
In his mind, he knew that every time he was going to town
again he was risking himself. He knew he has to take a
break, to wait some time in order to regain his confidence.
Affording it was also not a problem, but still he had to go.
It was like a dark force that had him in its grip, and
pulled him back again and again. This wasn't a business
anymore, wasn't just a way to make a living, like he always
looked at it. It was an obsession, something he could never
put out of his mind now.
He waited only four days, and went again. He couldn't wait
any longer. If he was doomed anyway, why wait? It didn't
matter anymore to him where his end will come, and some days
he wished it to come and get it over with. Why was this guy
torturing him this way?
He went again.
There was a young guy, with black hair to his shoulders.
Boris eyed him carefully. Was he the guy? Should he wait in
the shadows till some one else will come? But he knew he
can't stop himself now. He was not in control anymore.
"Change money? Forty one Krones to a dollar," he said,
trying to hide the trembling of his voice. It felt like
stepping into his own grave.
The guy looked at him carefully. For a moment Boris' knees
turned to water and he had to lean on the wall next to him.
That's it. This guy was going to set the bill with him
finally. With fear, came anticipation. In a mad way, Boris
was curious about what was going to happen now.
Suddenly, the guy nodded his head in agreement, his lips
turning up. They went aside, and Boris could feel his heart
beating fast, faster than it did the first time he ever went
there, thirty years before. Was this a trick? Was he being
led to a trap?
But everything went smoothly.
He went home.
That night, he was sitting alone in his dark living room,
his face covered with cold sweat, drinking Moost Vodka in
big gulps from the bottle. The hand holding the bottle was
trembling visibly. Today, that was close. He felt the fear,
he saw what this all was leading to, and was given the
chance to go back before it was too late. But he also
remembered the anticipation. The sense of finally meeting
this destiny that was waiting for him. It was like standing
above a deep gorge, knowing that at one point he will have
to jump. In a way, he was waiting for this jump to happen.
He was drunk, and being drunk gave him a kind of courage he
was sorry will not last till daylight.
He went again.
Again it was a young guy, that didn't seem to recognize him.
Boris felt his confidence coming back to him, when he led
the guy to the side street, smiling inside. This wasn't the
guy that was haunting him. He got a chance to come out
again. While counting four thousand Krones, he suddenly felt
a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Hey, asshole, remember me?"
He turned around to face the long-haired guy from yesterday.
For the first time in his life, Boris was reckless, so
reckless as to go again the day after he made a
transaction.
He opened his mouth to scream for help, but before the air
left his lips carrying the cry with it, his mouth was
blocked. It was blocked by a heavy fist that came from the
smiling figure of the black haired guy. The fist came
quickly, and Boris felt his teeth give away gently, softly,
as the salty, thick taste of his own blood filled his mouth.
Only then came the pain, sharp and huge and scary, and only
for a brief second before it was mixed with another, fresh
pain that exploded in his stomach. He staggered backwards,
and two strong hands held him, steadying him.
In the corner of his eyes he saw other figures closing on
him. He tried to count them, when his eyes were suddenly
filled with liquid and sharp splinters. The most agonizing
pain followed shortly, and his slipping consciousness told
him vaguely that his nose was shattered to pieces.
Another explosion in his stomach, and the supporting hands
suddenly withdrew, letting his pained body slide slowly to
the sidewalk. Hands were searching his pockets, emptying
them. Pain came to his brain from different body parts
simultaneously, like a mass of sensual flooding. They were
kicking him hard, his head, his ribs, his back. Somewhere,
something gave way with a horrible breaking sound, that was
even worse than the pain.
Faintly, from far away, he heard someone saying something
about his quick fingers. Boris barely felt that his hands
were stretched at his sides and held down to the ground. The
sensation was dim, very dim. They were breaking his fingers,
one by one.
Finally, he fainted.


Prague, August, 1999.