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Fiction

Neverland

By Urmas Vadi
Translated from Estonian by Adam Cullen
In these two stories by Estonian author Urmas Vadi, Roman declares war on Putin and Gérard Depardieu, and Margo receives a peculiar order from the king of Ground Beef Land.

Boycott

Roman wanted, unconditionally, to be present during the delivery; he wanted to deliver the child himself so no stranger’s hands would come between him and the baby. There had already been too many other people ahead of him in life, preventing him from reaching something of importance. Now, Roman wanted to be the first; he wanted to be the one to cut the child’s umbilical cord. Roman wasn’t sure if Sigrid even wanted him to come along to the hospital. Seeing how distant Sigrid could sometimes be, Roman reckoned she probably didn’t want him there at all. But he also supposed that when the time was at hand, Sigrid would certainly need him, and would call. Roman kept his phone on 24/7.

The first thing Roman did in the morning was check his phone. Nothing. It was a disappointment that swelled into trepidation and anger. But his face showed no expression; was seemingly frozen up—that happened. After a certain family gathering, Roman discovered that his facial muscles no longer flexed well, that he lacked facial expressions, and was thus unable to convey his emotions. He might, for example, feel joy, and laugh, but a moment later he stiffened up and only an odd, painful grimace lingered on his countenance. Because of this, he frequently checked his cheeks, jaw, forehead, and lips. Roman was deeply bothered by the fact that he had a defective physiognomy, because now it was even harder for him to connect with others and make himself understood. Would he ever connect with Sigrid? Would Roman be capable of manifesting in the way that he personally feels and sees himself?

Maybe this immobility will even be to my advantage sometime in the future, Roman considers, because that’s how things are these days. I could use it in poker, but also anywhere else you need to either bluff or refrain from betraying secrets, like in war or espionage. I don’t know what the future will bring. What’ll become of Sigrid, and what’ll become of Estonia’s national security? Could he promise his child that the Republic of Estonia would still exist in a year? There were absolutely no guarantees: Russia was making a show of might; the war machine had been put into motion. Roman felt he couldn’t just sit around and witness it anymore! Crimea was gone, Ukraine’s military was simply watching it happen, all of Europe, the entire world was just watching a country be steamrolled.

Online, Roman alternated between reading child-rearing forums and foreign policy. Syria and everything else, but primarily Ukraine, of course. Every day, even frequently at night, he would look up conflict maps on news sites and watch the front line in Eastern Ukraine ooze outward like a bloodstain. After Crimea, there was Donetsk, Sverdlovsk, Lugansk . . . Soon, they’ll be all the way to Kiev. Europe, with its feeble sanctions against Russia, is just as powerless as my face.

Roman felt he needed to take action before it was already too late—before we’re gambled off to the Germans or the Russians again! Much as he didn’t like Putin, he also wasn’t fond of Merkel, who was against the formation of new and bigger NATO military bases in Estonia. Europe as a whole with Merkel at the lead is either dumb or blind, but definitely too polite. You don’t need to play the diplomat here anymore: once Putin is wielding his battle ax, he won’t just stop with Ukraine—he wants to restore the Soviet Union in its entirety! Will it really turn out that we can’t manage to stay independent for longer than the first Estonian Republic, just twenty years? 

The more Roman followed the news, the more rage and desperation he felt, and he asked himself: what can I do from here? He was also at war and no longer bought anything produced in Russia: not beer, vodka, nor even dairy products with Russian-language labels. Neither did he read Russian literature anymore, or watch films that starred Russian actors or were made in coproductions with Russia. Roman likewise boycotted Western films that featured defectors. He pulled all the films with Putin-sympathizers Steven Seagal and Gérard Depardieu from his collection. Some of the movies were on videocassette, others on DVD.

He went into the garage and, one after another, he crushed the tapes and discs in a vise. It gave him childish joy and momentary satisfaction. But he had to start somewhere. And he started with Depardieu. He spun the vise on The Man in the Iron Mask to the point where it started to crack. Then he took an electric planer, regulated the blade to cut at a quarter inch, as deep as it possibly went, and simply planed the cassette to shavings. He did the same with the Asterix DVD. Roman was, for some reason, especially repulsed by Napoleon, which he had once thoroughly enjoyed: Napoleon, Depardieu, Putin; they all fused together. This in both the figurative and the literal sense. Roman lit a blowtorch and heated the DVD until the plastic crinkled. Finally, it ignited. Roman let it incinerate completely. Next was Seagal’s turn. Roman didn’t even bother to open the vise, because as an actor, Seagal was considerably more monotonous than Depardieu; a mere mountain of meat. Disc by disc, cassette by cassette, Roman stacked the films on an anvil and bashed Seagal with a sledgehammer. Marked for Death. “You got that right,” Roman commented, and the shards flew. Hard to Kill. “Well, not that hard!” The hammer fell, the plastic screeched and crunched. Above the Law, A Dangerous Man, Against the Dark. They all got what was coming to them: you had to confront the darkness somehow! On top of that, Roman had always liked Stallone and Schwarzenegger more—and even Van Damme; not Seagal, whose fragments were now scattered across the iron work bench and the cold concrete floor with the remains of another traitor. Such is the betrayer’s fate! Still, Roman felt this wasn’t enough.

In fact, he almost always felt like something wasn’t enough; that he had been left out of everything important throughout his life. It had started in childhood and only intensified with time. Roman’s older brother was a great deal bigger than him, was capable of and accomplished more of everything, received more attention, and on top of that, he ate more. Not that Roman was ever left feeling hungry, but that’s what it felt like—a sense of being deprived. That he was merely bypassed and dealt only the crumbs, his brother’s hand-me-downs. Mom and Dad justified it by saying Aleks was bigger: “If you were older, then your clothes would have gone to him.” Roman knew that would never have happened. And all the clothes Roman would have wanted from his brother, such as the acid-washed jeans and the denim jacket with the big Iron Maiden patch on the back, were so tattered by the time he’d have gotten them that only the buttons remained. Aleks had ripped the Iron Maiden patch off and stitched it onto a new jacket.

By now, Roman’s interaction with his brother was nearly nonexistent. They never called each other just to talk or met up or had a couple beers. They saw each other only when obligated, such as on their parents’ birthdays. And on those occasions, Roman once again felt like his brother ate more and talked more and was generally dealt much more attention. When Roman spoke, he was certainly listened to a little, but was soon interrupted because Aleks had something much more interesting to say. In general, Roman had a hunch that the most important topics were discussed only after he left the room. Or else they talked about him behind his back and laughed.

Roman swept the fragments of Seagal and Depardieu into a dustpan, locked the garage door, and went inside. Sigrid had told Roman she wasn’t coming over today; that she wanted to sleep. Roman accepted Sigrid’s wishes unconditionally. So, what to do? Roman’s heart was pounding, a blood vessel throbbed at his temple. He decided to take an important step and join the Elva Unit of the Estonian Defense League. Many people had joined the voluntary Defense League recently. Roman was prepared to do so, also. He took a shower, stepped out of the tub, toweled off, and felt the floor was cold. Summer was ending. Before leaving, Roman ducked into the utility room and switched on the gas boiler.

 

Ground Beef Land

After Margo left his mother’s apartment and had gotten back from the cemetery, he stood in the kitchen of his summer cabin and tried to soothe his nerves. He’d sweated through his shirt and even his pullover, was slouching in front of the window, staring off into space, and slid into a state of lethargy. The whole world drifted further and further away, he was bothered less and less by the apples thudding onto the lawn, by the overgrown grass; everything was so distant, so alien and meaningless. The only things Margo had left were his appetite and ground beef. Every morning, he took a packet from the deep freezer and set it on the counter to thaw. Ground beef couldn’t betray or abandon you, nor could it kick you in the balls. When thawed, it’s so soft that you can do whatever you like with it: it doesn’t resist, doesn’t protest, doesn’t accuse.

Even though the deep freezer was fully stocked, he always picked up fresh ground beef whenever he was in the city. He’d gone into town today—today, he felt he was ready to try boeuf à la tartar. Margo dropped the meat into a bowl, ground salt onto it with a satisfying crunch, added a dash of pepper, and kneaded the mixture. A minced garlic clove and some chopped onion went in as well. The recipe recommended adding pickled cucumbers and capers. Margo felt those would be excessive, and would already come between him and the ground beef. He shaped the mass into a patty, set it on a plate, and made a hollow in the middle, which was where the raw egg should go. Margo wasn’t quite ready for that part yet—eggs were to be either fried or boiled—so he left it out, leaving the indent where it was in the middle of the ground beef, as if waiting for something to enter it. We all have hollows and holes in us: in our hearts; in our souls. It’s rare for us to know how and with what to fill them.

Margo set the plate on the table in front of him and sniffed at it. The smell of freshly ground pepper and garlic and onion and ground beef filled his nostrils, overwhelming every one of his senses. It looked so perfect. For whatever reason, he wanted to eat it with a spoon. He ate slowly, savoring each mouthful. Soon, he’d already finished and felt full to just the right point. The flavor he’d relished in every spoonful lasted on and on and on, so much as carrying him forth. Margo felt like he was somewhere in a film. Movies themselves are nice, downright pleasurable, and this film wasn’t cliché, but unique: his and only his; he plays himself in it and watches himself, likewise. And he’s not just some slouching, run-of-the-mill oaf who’s consigned to oblivion at his cabin, but is bound to something important and great—he realized what it’s all about!

He was no longer in the kitchen but walking across a wondrous meadow. The ground beneath him was so soft, the grass was just the right height, and there wasn’t a single rotten apple in sight. His tread was so light. In the distance, he glimpsed a city with walls and towers, flags fluttering upon them. The main gate was open, Margo walked onward, the townspeople halted, stared at him, and hushed. Margo arrived at the town square and stopped. He was guided to the king’s castle. It all pleased him—certainly—everything was so light and amazing, but he was still troubled by several questions: What city is this? What people are these? Why am I here? The king, whose face was somehow so familiar, received Margo and sat him at his side. They were silent at first, then the king greeted him:

“Welcome to Ground Beef Land!”

“Thank you for inviting me as your guest,” Margo replied gratefully but without overdoing it.

Even in dreams, Margo was incapable of feeling at ease with himself or saying the right things at the right time. He wrote and rewrote his lectures for work several times over, memorized them—no improvisation!—and even wrote the jokes in. Yet sitting here next to the king, he suddenly felt incredibly light and pleasant:

“I feel as if I’ve arrived home after many long years of travels.”

The king nodded and waited a few moments before speaking again: there was time aplenty, nowhere to rush.

“But even now, you still have not arrived; you still must embark upon more travels and journeys. There are paths yet untread and lands yet undiscovered!”

Margo nodded, no matter that he didn’t know what to think of the fact that he still had more journeying to do. The king could tell what Margo was thinking, and added:

“Here in this world, or there in that one, each of us has our own task. And none of us has arrived before that task is complete.”

“Good King—what, then, is my task? What is the journey, to which my path leads?”

Margo’s frankness didn’t bother the king, not in the least. Rather, he nodded as a sign of goodwill.

“I am the ruler of Ground Beef Land: everything you see in this country is made of ground beef, even you and I.” This came as a surprise to Margo. “Yes, yes, even you and I—we are all made of ground beef; I have made you all of ground beef. But that’s not what is important. What’s important is the path itself, though even that is made of ground beef.”

Again, Margo wondered whether the king was just speaking in metaphor:

“Good King, is all of this just one big allegory?”

“It may be, it may not; what is true is that everything here is made of ground beef. Ground beef is best for creation. But the meat must be filled with meaning and purpose! Only then does ground beef start to live and blossom. Only then, without ulterior motives or self-interest, is it capable of being happy; of enjoying the moment; of seizing the day; of using the day. Have you felt selfless submission? Have you yourself offered it?”

The king turned to look at Margo, and Margo recognized the man as his father:

“Dad, it’s you!”

“Yes, yes, it is I—now, answer my question. Have you offered anyone selfless pleasure?”

Margo was silent for a moment, thinking.

“Suppose I haven’t,” he finally answered, and a sadness came over him.

“You see!” the king added. “You’ve been neglecting your garden!”

“That’s true.” Margo recalled his garden, the grass turning to hay, the apples.

“But what must I do then, Dad?” Margo pleaded in despair. “Should I mow first, or gather up all the apples?”

“Not one nor the other!” Still, the king seemed indifferent. “The garden you have left fallow is not of this land.”

“What’s it of, then? Where’s the garden I must tend to?” The king didn’t reply. Why doesn’t he reply? “Dad, help me, I can’t seem to understand, just tell me what I have to do! Tell me what can fill this hole in my ground-beef soul!”

“Why wouldn’t I tell you? Of course I’ll tell you. That’s why I summoned you here.”

Margo waited; waited with bated breath. The king’s old and gray ground-beef eyes, eyes that had seen everything, stared straight into Margo’s, straight through the back of them, and he spoke:

“You don’t know how to treat women!”

“Oh-ho!” Margo exclaimed, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Precisely that! You haven’t offered them satisfaction!”

Margo felt just miserable, unsure of what to do, and the king wasn’t helping, either—he was being downright ornery.

“Your path and your task is to return to your own land and give back all those orgasms to all those women with whom you’ve had intercourse, and whom you’ve left without satisfaction!”

“Ah-ha!”

Margo sagged: there was no way he could have expected something like that! The king nodded:

“Until you have completed your task, you are no more than the pack of ground beef put on the kitchen counter to thaw this morning!”

“But I went to the market today!”

“As if! You don’t see hallucinations like this with fresh ground beef, now do you?! Fine, it is what it is. You must go.”

Margo realized that everything the king had said was true, but nevertheless: where was he to begin?    

“Go now, you’re awaited!”

The king’s audience had ended and his envoys, who had been standing at a polite distance throughout the whole conversation, now stepped closer. Margo rose to his feet, overcome with confusion:

“Who’s awaiting me? Where am I supposed to go?”

“Why, back to the maidens of my land, who certainly aren’t quite maidens anymore! They will instruct you.”

“I don’t know, I probably don’t need instruction.” The thought seemed so disagreeable to Margo at first.

“Come, now—of course you do! You, sir, don’t even know where the G-spot is!”

“Yes, I do!” Margo lied, and at that moment, he realized the king could see straight through him, just as he had seen everything without bothering to respond. The king’s envoys guided Margo through torchlit hallways to the maidens of Ground Beef Land, who first and foremost tore his dumb oversized band T-shirt to shreds.

From Neverland. © 2016 by Urmas Vadi. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2018 by Adam Cullen. All rights reserved.

English Estonian (Original)

Boycott

Roman wanted, unconditionally, to be present during the delivery; he wanted to deliver the child himself so no stranger’s hands would come between him and the baby. There had already been too many other people ahead of him in life, preventing him from reaching something of importance. Now, Roman wanted to be the first; he wanted to be the one to cut the child’s umbilical cord. Roman wasn’t sure if Sigrid even wanted him to come along to the hospital. Seeing how distant Sigrid could sometimes be, Roman reckoned she probably didn’t want him there at all. But he also supposed that when the time was at hand, Sigrid would certainly need him, and would call. Roman kept his phone on 24/7.

The first thing Roman did in the morning was check his phone. Nothing. It was a disappointment that swelled into trepidation and anger. But his face showed no expression; was seemingly frozen up—that happened. After a certain family gathering, Roman discovered that his facial muscles no longer flexed well, that he lacked facial expressions, and was thus unable to convey his emotions. He might, for example, feel joy, and laugh, but a moment later he stiffened up and only an odd, painful grimace lingered on his countenance. Because of this, he frequently checked his cheeks, jaw, forehead, and lips. Roman was deeply bothered by the fact that he had a defective physiognomy, because now it was even harder for him to connect with others and make himself understood. Would he ever connect with Sigrid? Would Roman be capable of manifesting in the way that he personally feels and sees himself?

Maybe this immobility will even be to my advantage sometime in the future, Roman considers, because that’s how things are these days. I could use it in poker, but also anywhere else you need to either bluff or refrain from betraying secrets, like in war or espionage. I don’t know what the future will bring. What’ll become of Sigrid, and what’ll become of Estonia’s national security? Could he promise his child that the Republic of Estonia would still exist in a year? There were absolutely no guarantees: Russia was making a show of might; the war machine had been put into motion. Roman felt he couldn’t just sit around and witness it anymore! Crimea was gone, Ukraine’s military was simply watching it happen, all of Europe, the entire world was just watching a country be steamrolled.

Online, Roman alternated between reading child-rearing forums and foreign policy. Syria and everything else, but primarily Ukraine, of course. Every day, even frequently at night, he would look up conflict maps on news sites and watch the front line in Eastern Ukraine ooze outward like a bloodstain. After Crimea, there was Donetsk, Sverdlovsk, Lugansk . . . Soon, they’ll be all the way to Kiev. Europe, with its feeble sanctions against Russia, is just as powerless as my face.

Roman felt he needed to take action before it was already too late—before we’re gambled off to the Germans or the Russians again! Much as he didn’t like Putin, he also wasn’t fond of Merkel, who was against the formation of new and bigger NATO military bases in Estonia. Europe as a whole with Merkel at the lead is either dumb or blind, but definitely too polite. You don’t need to play the diplomat here anymore: once Putin is wielding his battle ax, he won’t just stop with Ukraine—he wants to restore the Soviet Union in its entirety! Will it really turn out that we can’t manage to stay independent for longer than the first Estonian Republic, just twenty years? 

The more Roman followed the news, the more rage and desperation he felt, and he asked himself: what can I do from here? He was also at war and no longer bought anything produced in Russia: not beer, vodka, nor even dairy products with Russian-language labels. Neither did he read Russian literature anymore, or watch films that starred Russian actors or were made in coproductions with Russia. Roman likewise boycotted Western films that featured defectors. He pulled all the films with Putin-sympathizers Steven Seagal and Gérard Depardieu from his collection. Some of the movies were on videocassette, others on DVD.

He went into the garage and, one after another, he crushed the tapes and discs in a vise. It gave him childish joy and momentary satisfaction. But he had to start somewhere. And he started with Depardieu. He spun the vise on The Man in the Iron Mask to the point where it started to crack. Then he took an electric planer, regulated the blade to cut at a quarter inch, as deep as it possibly went, and simply planed the cassette to shavings. He did the same with the Asterix DVD. Roman was, for some reason, especially repulsed by Napoleon, which he had once thoroughly enjoyed: Napoleon, Depardieu, Putin; they all fused together. This in both the figurative and the literal sense. Roman lit a blowtorch and heated the DVD until the plastic crinkled. Finally, it ignited. Roman let it incinerate completely. Next was Seagal’s turn. Roman didn’t even bother to open the vise, because as an actor, Seagal was considerably more monotonous than Depardieu; a mere mountain of meat. Disc by disc, cassette by cassette, Roman stacked the films on an anvil and bashed Seagal with a sledgehammer. Marked for Death. “You got that right,” Roman commented, and the shards flew. Hard to Kill. “Well, not that hard!” The hammer fell, the plastic screeched and crunched. Above the Law, A Dangerous Man, Against the Dark. They all got what was coming to them: you had to confront the darkness somehow! On top of that, Roman had always liked Stallone and Schwarzenegger more—and even Van Damme; not Seagal, whose fragments were now scattered across the iron work bench and the cold concrete floor with the remains of another traitor. Such is the betrayer’s fate! Still, Roman felt this wasn’t enough.

In fact, he almost always felt like something wasn’t enough; that he had been left out of everything important throughout his life. It had started in childhood and only intensified with time. Roman’s older brother was a great deal bigger than him, was capable of and accomplished more of everything, received more attention, and on top of that, he ate more. Not that Roman was ever left feeling hungry, but that’s what it felt like—a sense of being deprived. That he was merely bypassed and dealt only the crumbs, his brother’s hand-me-downs. Mom and Dad justified it by saying Aleks was bigger: “If you were older, then your clothes would have gone to him.” Roman knew that would never have happened. And all the clothes Roman would have wanted from his brother, such as the acid-washed jeans and the denim jacket with the big Iron Maiden patch on the back, were so tattered by the time he’d have gotten them that only the buttons remained. Aleks had ripped the Iron Maiden patch off and stitched it onto a new jacket.

By now, Roman’s interaction with his brother was nearly nonexistent. They never called each other just to talk or met up or had a couple beers. They saw each other only when obligated, such as on their parents’ birthdays. And on those occasions, Roman once again felt like his brother ate more and talked more and was generally dealt much more attention. When Roman spoke, he was certainly listened to a little, but was soon interrupted because Aleks had something much more interesting to say. In general, Roman had a hunch that the most important topics were discussed only after he left the room. Or else they talked about him behind his back and laughed.

Roman swept the fragments of Seagal and Depardieu into a dustpan, locked the garage door, and went inside. Sigrid had told Roman she wasn’t coming over today; that she wanted to sleep. Roman accepted Sigrid’s wishes unconditionally. So, what to do? Roman’s heart was pounding, a blood vessel throbbed at his temple. He decided to take an important step and join the Elva Unit of the Estonian Defense League. Many people had joined the voluntary Defense League recently. Roman was prepared to do so, also. He took a shower, stepped out of the tub, toweled off, and felt the floor was cold. Summer was ending. Before leaving, Roman ducked into the utility room and switched on the gas boiler.

 

Ground Beef Land

After Margo left his mother’s apartment and had gotten back from the cemetery, he stood in the kitchen of his summer cabin and tried to soothe his nerves. He’d sweated through his shirt and even his pullover, was slouching in front of the window, staring off into space, and slid into a state of lethargy. The whole world drifted further and further away, he was bothered less and less by the apples thudding onto the lawn, by the overgrown grass; everything was so distant, so alien and meaningless. The only things Margo had left were his appetite and ground beef. Every morning, he took a packet from the deep freezer and set it on the counter to thaw. Ground beef couldn’t betray or abandon you, nor could it kick you in the balls. When thawed, it’s so soft that you can do whatever you like with it: it doesn’t resist, doesn’t protest, doesn’t accuse.

Even though the deep freezer was fully stocked, he always picked up fresh ground beef whenever he was in the city. He’d gone into town today—today, he felt he was ready to try boeuf à la tartar. Margo dropped the meat into a bowl, ground salt onto it with a satisfying crunch, added a dash of pepper, and kneaded the mixture. A minced garlic clove and some chopped onion went in as well. The recipe recommended adding pickled cucumbers and capers. Margo felt those would be excessive, and would already come between him and the ground beef. He shaped the mass into a patty, set it on a plate, and made a hollow in the middle, which was where the raw egg should go. Margo wasn’t quite ready for that part yet—eggs were to be either fried or boiled—so he left it out, leaving the indent where it was in the middle of the ground beef, as if waiting for something to enter it. We all have hollows and holes in us: in our hearts; in our souls. It’s rare for us to know how and with what to fill them.

Margo set the plate on the table in front of him and sniffed at it. The smell of freshly ground pepper and garlic and onion and ground beef filled his nostrils, overwhelming every one of his senses. It looked so perfect. For whatever reason, he wanted to eat it with a spoon. He ate slowly, savoring each mouthful. Soon, he’d already finished and felt full to just the right point. The flavor he’d relished in every spoonful lasted on and on and on, so much as carrying him forth. Margo felt like he was somewhere in a film. Movies themselves are nice, downright pleasurable, and this film wasn’t cliché, but unique: his and only his; he plays himself in it and watches himself, likewise. And he’s not just some slouching, run-of-the-mill oaf who’s consigned to oblivion at his cabin, but is bound to something important and great—he realized what it’s all about!

He was no longer in the kitchen but walking across a wondrous meadow. The ground beneath him was so soft, the grass was just the right height, and there wasn’t a single rotten apple in sight. His tread was so light. In the distance, he glimpsed a city with walls and towers, flags fluttering upon them. The main gate was open, Margo walked onward, the townspeople halted, stared at him, and hushed. Margo arrived at the town square and stopped. He was guided to the king’s castle. It all pleased him—certainly—everything was so light and amazing, but he was still troubled by several questions: What city is this? What people are these? Why am I here? The king, whose face was somehow so familiar, received Margo and sat him at his side. They were silent at first, then the king greeted him:

“Welcome to Ground Beef Land!”

“Thank you for inviting me as your guest,” Margo replied gratefully but without overdoing it.

Even in dreams, Margo was incapable of feeling at ease with himself or saying the right things at the right time. He wrote and rewrote his lectures for work several times over, memorized them—no improvisation!—and even wrote the jokes in. Yet sitting here next to the king, he suddenly felt incredibly light and pleasant:

“I feel as if I’ve arrived home after many long years of travels.”

The king nodded and waited a few moments before speaking again: there was time aplenty, nowhere to rush.

“But even now, you still have not arrived; you still must embark upon more travels and journeys. There are paths yet untread and lands yet undiscovered!”

Margo nodded, no matter that he didn’t know what to think of the fact that he still had more journeying to do. The king could tell what Margo was thinking, and added:

“Here in this world, or there in that one, each of us has our own task. And none of us has arrived before that task is complete.”

“Good King—what, then, is my task? What is the journey, to which my path leads?”

Margo’s frankness didn’t bother the king, not in the least. Rather, he nodded as a sign of goodwill.

“I am the ruler of Ground Beef Land: everything you see in this country is made of ground beef, even you and I.” This came as a surprise to Margo. “Yes, yes, even you and I—we are all made of ground beef; I have made you all of ground beef. But that’s not what is important. What’s important is the path itself, though even that is made of ground beef.”

Again, Margo wondered whether the king was just speaking in metaphor:

“Good King, is all of this just one big allegory?”

“It may be, it may not; what is true is that everything here is made of ground beef. Ground beef is best for creation. But the meat must be filled with meaning and purpose! Only then does ground beef start to live and blossom. Only then, without ulterior motives or self-interest, is it capable of being happy; of enjoying the moment; of seizing the day; of using the day. Have you felt selfless submission? Have you yourself offered it?”

The king turned to look at Margo, and Margo recognized the man as his father:

“Dad, it’s you!”

“Yes, yes, it is I—now, answer my question. Have you offered anyone selfless pleasure?”

Margo was silent for a moment, thinking.

“Suppose I haven’t,” he finally answered, and a sadness came over him.

“You see!” the king added. “You’ve been neglecting your garden!”

“That’s true.” Margo recalled his garden, the grass turning to hay, the apples.

“But what must I do then, Dad?” Margo pleaded in despair. “Should I mow first, or gather up all the apples?”

“Not one nor the other!” Still, the king seemed indifferent. “The garden you have left fallow is not of this land.”

“What’s it of, then? Where’s the garden I must tend to?” The king didn’t reply. Why doesn’t he reply? “Dad, help me, I can’t seem to understand, just tell me what I have to do! Tell me what can fill this hole in my ground-beef soul!”

“Why wouldn’t I tell you? Of course I’ll tell you. That’s why I summoned you here.”

Margo waited; waited with bated breath. The king’s old and gray ground-beef eyes, eyes that had seen everything, stared straight into Margo’s, straight through the back of them, and he spoke:

“You don’t know how to treat women!”

“Oh-ho!” Margo exclaimed, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Precisely that! You haven’t offered them satisfaction!”

Margo felt just miserable, unsure of what to do, and the king wasn’t helping, either—he was being downright ornery.

“Your path and your task is to return to your own land and give back all those orgasms to all those women with whom you’ve had intercourse, and whom you’ve left without satisfaction!”

“Ah-ha!”

Margo sagged: there was no way he could have expected something like that! The king nodded:

“Until you have completed your task, you are no more than the pack of ground beef put on the kitchen counter to thaw this morning!”

“But I went to the market today!”

“As if! You don’t see hallucinations like this with fresh ground beef, now do you?! Fine, it is what it is. You must go.”

Margo realized that everything the king had said was true, but nevertheless: where was he to begin?    

“Go now, you’re awaited!”

The king’s audience had ended and his envoys, who had been standing at a polite distance throughout the whole conversation, now stepped closer. Margo rose to his feet, overcome with confusion:

“Who’s awaiting me? Where am I supposed to go?”

“Why, back to the maidens of my land, who certainly aren’t quite maidens anymore! They will instruct you.”

“I don’t know, I probably don’t need instruction.” The thought seemed so disagreeable to Margo at first.

“Come, now—of course you do! You, sir, don’t even know where the G-spot is!”

“Yes, I do!” Margo lied, and at that moment, he realized the king could see straight through him, just as he had seen everything without bothering to respond. The king’s envoys guided Margo through torchlit hallways to the maidens of Ground Beef Land, who first and foremost tore his dumb oversized band T-shirt to shreds.

From Neverland. © 2016 by Urmas Vadi. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2018 by Adam Cullen. All rights reserved.

Neverland

Boikott

Roman tahtis kindlasti sünnitusele kaasa minna, ta soovis ise lapse vastu võtta, et tema ja lapse vahel poleks võõ- raid käsi. Liiga palju oli teisi inimesi tal elus ees olnud ja teda takistanud jõudmast millegi oluliseni. Nüüd tahtis Roman olla esimene, lõigata läbi lapse nabanööri. Roman ei teadnud, kas Sigrid üldse tahab teda haiglasse kaasa. Nähes, kui eemalolev on teinekord Sigrid, mõtles Roman, et ilmselt ikka ei taha. Kuid ta mõtles ka, et kui aeg kätte jõuab, küll siis Sigrid vajab teda ja helistab. Roman hoidis kogu aeg telefoni sees.

Hommikul vaatas Roman esimese asjana kohe telefoni. Ei midagi. See oli pettumus, mis kasvas edasi ärevuseks ja vihaks. Aga tema nägu ei väljendanud midagi, see oli justkui hangunud, seda juhtus. Peale üht perekondlikku koosviibimist avastas Roman, et ta näolihased enam hästi ei liigu ja tal puudub miimika ning ta ei suuda enda emotsioone väljendada. Ta võis tunda näiteks rõõmu ja naerda, järgmisel hetkel tuli peale justkui kangestus, näkku jäi püsima vaid veider valulik grimass. Sellepärast kontrollis ta tihti oma põski, lõuga, laupa, huuli. Et ta füsiognoomia jukerdas, segas teda väga, sest nüüd oli tal veelgi raskem teiste inimesteni jõuda ja ennast arusaadavaks teha. Kas ta üldse jõuab kunagi Sigridini? Kas ta suudab end näidata sellisena, nagu Roman ise ennast näeb ja tunneb?

Võibolla tulevikus tuleb see liikumatus mulle isegi kasuks, mõtles Roman, sest aeg on selline. Seda saaks ära kasutada pokkeris, aga ka kõikjal mujal, kus peab kas bluffi ma või siis ei tohi saladusi reeta, näiteks luures või sõjas. Me ei tea, mis tulevik toob. Mis saab Sigridiga ja mis saab Eesti julgeolekust? Kas ta saab oma lapsele lubada, et Eesti Vabariik aasta pärast veel eksisteerib? Ei olnud mitte mingisugust garantiid, Venemaa näitab võimu, sõjamasin on läinud liikvele. Roman tundis, et niisama istuda ja seda pealt vaadata enam ei saa! Krimm on läinud, Ukraina sõjavägi neverland 37 lihtsalt vahtis pealt, kogu Euroopa, kogu maailm vaatas pealt, kuidas ühest riigist sõidetakse üle.

Roman jälgis internetis Perekooliga vaheldumisi välispoliitikat. Süüriat ja ka kõike muud, peamiselt muidugi Ukrainat. Iga päev, tihti isegi öösiti vaatas ta uudistesaitidelt rindekaarte ja jälgis, kuidas Ida-Ukraina rindejoon valgub laiali nagu vereplekk. Peale Krimmi Donetsk, Sverdlovsk, Lugansk… Varsti on nad Kiievis väljas. Euroopa oma mannetute sanktsioonidega Venemaa vastu on sama jõuetu kui mu nägu.

Roman tundis, et ta peab tegutsema hakkama, enne kui on juba liiga hilja, enne kui meid jälle kusagile sakslastele või venelastele maha mängitakse! Nii nagu talle ei meeldinud Putin, ei meeldinud talle ka Merkel, kes oli vastu, et Eestisse moodustataks uued ja suuremad NATO sõjaväebaasid. Kogu Euroopa Merkeliga eesotsas on kas loll või pime, aga kindlasti liiga viisakas. Siin ei ole vaja ajada enam diplomaatiat: kui Putinil on sõjanui käes, ei piirdu ta vaid Ukrainaga, vaid ta tahab taastada Nõukogude Liidu terves ulatuses! Kas tõesti osutub tõeks, et me ei suuda olla kauem iseseisvad, kui me olime esimese Eesti Vabariigi ajal?

Mida rohkem Roman uudiseid jälgis, seda enam tundis ta viha ja meeleheidet ning ta küsis endalt: mida saaksin siin teha mina? Ka tema oli sõjas ja ta ei ostnud enam ühtegi Venemaal toodetud asja, ei õlut, ei viina, isegi piimatooteid, kuhu olid trükitud venekeelsed etiketid. Ka ei lugenud ta enam vene kirjandust ega vaadanud fi lme, kus mängisid vene näitlejad või mis olid tehtud Venemaaga koostöös. Roman boikoteeris ka neid Lääne fi lme, kus mängisid ülejooksikud. Roman otsis oma kogust välja Putinimeelsete Steven Seagali ja Gerard Depardieu fi lmid. Osa fi lme oli videokassettide peal, osa plaatidel.

Ta läks garaaži ja keeras ükshaaval need kassetid ja plaadid kruustangide vahele. See pakkus talle lapselikku rõõmu ja hetkelist rahuldust. Aga kusagilt pidi ju alustama. Ja ta alustas Depardieust. Filmi „Raudne mask“ keeras ta kruustangidega nii kaua, et kassett 38 urmas vadi juba ragises. Siis võttis ta elektrihöövli, reguleeris tera lõikesügavuseks pool sentimeetrit, nii palju kui vähegi sai, ja hööveldas kasseti lihtsalt laastudeks. Seda tegi ta ka „Asterixi“ DVD-ga. „Napoleon“, mida Roman oli kunagi nautinud, hakkas talle kuidagi eriti vastu, Napoleon, Depardieu, Putin, kõik nad sulasid kokku. Seda nii ülekantud tähenduses kui ka otseses mõttes. Roman süütas leeklambi ja kuumutas DVD-d nii kaua, kuni plastmass hakkas vaikselt lainetama. Viimaks plaat süttis. Roman lasi sel rahulikult lõpuni põleda. Seejärel oli järg Seagali käes. Tema jaoks ei vaevunud Roman isegi kruustange lahti kruvima, sest Seagal oli näitlejana palju üheplaanilisem kui Depardieu, lihtsalt üks lihamägi. Roman asetas plaadi plaadi, kasseti kasseti järel alasile ja tümitas Seagali suure kuvaldaga. „Marked for Death“. „Nii on,“ kommenteeris Roman ja tükid lendasid. „Hard to Kill“. „No mitte nii raske!“ Haamer langes, plastik krigises ja kiuksus. „Above the Law“, „A Dangerous Man“, „Against the Dark“. Nad kõik said oma osa, kuidagi pidi pimedusele vastu astuma! Pealegi olid Romanile alati rohkem meeldinud Stallone ja Schwarzenegger ja isegi Van Damme, mitte Seagal, kelle tükid vedelesid nüüd koos teise reeturi riismetega rauast töölaual ja külmal betoonil. See on äraandja saatus! Roman tundis, et sellest kõigest on ikka veel vähe.

Tegelikult tundis ta peaaegu kogu aeg, et midagi on vähe, et ta on üldse kõigest olulisest ilma jäetud. See sai alguse lapsepõlves ja ajaga aina süvenes. Romani vanem vend oli temast kõvasti suurem, jõudis ja tegi kõike rohkem, sai rohkem tähelepanu ning ka sõi rohkem. Mitte et Roman oleks kunagi näljas olnud, aga tunne oli selline, selline ilmajäetuse tunne. Et temast minnakse lihtsalt mööda ja talle langevad osaks vaid pudemed, venna ärakantud riided. Ema ja isa põhjendasid seda sellega, et Aleks on ju suurem: „Kui sina oleksid vanem, siis saaksid sinu riided pärast temale.“ Seda ei saa ilmaski juhtuma, teadis Roman. Ja kõik need riided, mida Roman oleks vennalt soovinud, nagu näiteks lumepesukad ja teksatagi suure Iron Maideni embleemiga seljal, kandis Aleks neverland 39 nii ribadeks, et Romanile jäid vaid nööbid. Iron Maideni embleemi harutas Aleks lahti ja pani juba uue tagi külge.

Romani suhtlus vennaga oli nüüdseks peaaegu olematu, nad ei helistanud lihtsalt niisama teineteisele ega saanud kokku ega joonud paari õlut. Nad nägid teineteist ainult siis, kui pidi, näiteks ema-isa sünnipäevadel. Ja siis tundis ta jälle seda sama tunnet, et vend sööb rohkem ja räägib rohkem ja talle pööratakse üldse palju rohkem tähelepanu. Kui Roman midagi ütleb, siis teda küll kuulatakse veidi, peagi jääb jutt katki, sest Aleksil on öelda midagi palju huvitavamat. Üldse aimas Roman, et alles siis, kui tema seltskonnast lahkub, räägitakse neid kõige olulisemaid asju. Või siis räägitakse temast ja naerdakse.

Roman oli sündinud 1971. Ta tuli võitjate põlvkonnast, kes kasutasid ära juhust ja aega, müüsid vahvleid ja suhkruvatti ja sinimustvalgeid rinnamärke, hiljem asutasid panku ja fi rmasid ja aktsiaseltse, ostsid kokku kinnisvara ja maad. Roman ei osanud siis midagi sellist teha. Vanaema kingitud EVP-de eest ostis ta endale kaheksakümne teise aasta Honda Prelude’i. Taga kapoti peal oli kiri: „Th ird Generation, Special Edition“. Auto oli toodud Rootsist, nagu neid sel ajal ikka toodi. Ja kuigi autoga täitus Romani esimene suur salaunistus, aimas ta, et see on Rootsist varastatud. Sest kuidas ta muidu sai nii odav olla? Roman ei hakanud ka pikemalt uurima, vaid vajutas, nii palju kui torust tuli, ja kuulas kassettmakist Europe’i laulu „Th e Final Countdown“.             Romani teine unistus oli olla tõeline eestlane. Ema oli tal puhas eestlanna, Mare. Aga isa – Anton – oli pooleldi venelane. Antoni isa elas kusagil Lõuna-Eestis ja oli eestlane, ema oli aga venelane ja elas Leningradis. Ja kui Anton saadeti aega teenima Tartusse, siis oli tal hea meel, sest seal oli ka kusagil tema isa. Anton teenis aega Raadil lennuväes, hiljem saigi temast lendur. Siin kohtus ta ka Marega ja nii jäigi Eestisse. Isa õppis eesti keele küll ära, kuid aktsent on tänapäevani selline, et kui ta räägib, oleks suus nagu midagi väga kuuma ja pehmet. Poistele otsustasid nad panna sellised nimed, mis oleksid rahvusvahelised – Aleksander ja Roman.

Ja kuigi Roman ei osanud minna kaasa võitjatega, teha endale õigel hetkel raha ega fi rmat ega tõusta kuhugi kõrgemale positsioonile, elas ta sügavalt kaasa taasiseseisvumisele. Ta käis kaheksakümne üheksandal aastal Tartu levimuusikapäevadel, sattus sellest energiast ja lippudest ja isamaalistest lauludest vaimustusse, läks üleüldise eufooriaga kaasa, oli lava ees, ühes käes lipp, teises ühe neiu käsi, ja karjus kaasa laulda: „Isamaa ilu hoieldes, vaenlase vastu võideldes!“ See oli nagu psühhoos, sel hetkel tundis Roman, et ta on millegi tõelisega seotud! Ta on üks osa tervikust, on millegi suure ja võimsa keskel.

Vastu hommikut käis ta selle sama tüdrukuga, kelle käest ta hoidis ja enam lahti lasta ei tahtnudki, Emajões ujumas. Ja see oli esimene kord, kui Roman oli seotud ja ühendatud naisega ja nii täituski tema kolmas, suurim unistus. Jõe pealt tõusis udu, päike hakkas koitma, nad olid just veest tulnud, tüdruk istus talle sülle, võttis oma märja Ultima Th ule särgi seljast, nii et tema rinnanibud jäid täpselt Romani silmade kõrgusele. See oli Romani jaoks võimas ja avastuslik hetk, kus ta tundis, et mitte kedagi ei ole tema ja maailma ja nende rindade vahel. Siin on tema, Roman! Kuigi tüdrukule oli ta öelnud, et ta nimi on Andres. Hiljem oli Roman seda isegi kahetsenud, aga ka mõelnud, et kas ta siis, kui ta oleks öelnud oma tõelise nime, oleks saanud keppi? Oli õige, et ta ei riskinud. Nõnda oli sellel päeval küljes ka väike plekk. Roman oli ikka soovinud tagasi seda päeva ja võimast tunnet, kus me oleme kõik koos ja vajalikud ja ajame ühte asja. Nüüd, aastakümneid hiljem, kui ta oli leidnud Sigridi, kes ootas tema poega, oli tal see tunne kogu aeg! Ainult Venemaa tegi ärevaks.

Roman korjas garaaži põrandalt harja ja kühvliga Seagali ja Depardieu tükid kokku, pani ukse lukku ja läks tuppa. Sigrid oli Romanile öelnud, et ta täna ei tuleks, ta tahab magada. Roman neverland 41 aktsepteeris Sigridi soovi täielikult. Mida siis teha? Romani süda tagus, meelekohal tuksus veresoon. Ta otsustas astuda ühe olulise sammu ja liituda Kaitseliidu Tartu Maleva Elva Malevkonnaga. Paljud olid viimasel ajal astunud kaitseliitu. Ka Roman oli selleks valmis. Ta käis duši all, astus vannist välja, kuivatas end ja tundis, et põrand on külm. Suvi oli läbi saamas. Enne minekut käis Roman tehnoruumist läbi ja lülitas gaasikatla sisse.

 

Hakklihamaa

Kui Margo oli ema juurest tulnud ja surnuaiast tagasi jõudnud, seisis ta oma suvila köögis ja püüdis rahuneda. Ta oli särgi ja isegi pulloveri läbi higistanud, konutas akna all, ei vaadanudki kuhugi, vajus justkui letargiasse. Kogu maailm liikus aina kaugemale, järjest vähem häirisid teda maha kukkuvad õunad, rohtukasvanud aed, kõik oli nii eemal, nii võõras ja tähendusetu. Ainus, mis Margole oli jäänud, oli tema isu ja hakkliha. Igal hommikul võttis ta sügavkülmast ühe nutsaku ja pani lauale sulama. Hakkliha ei saa sind reeta ega maha jätta, ega jalaga munadesse taguda, kui ta on üles sulanud, ta on nii pehme, sa võid temaga teha, mida iganes soovid, ta ei hakka vastu, ei vaidle, ei süüdista.

Kuigi sügavkülm oli täis, ostis ta alati linnas käies värsket hakkliha. Täna ta käis linnas, täna ta tundis, et on valmis sööma boeuf à la tartar’i. Margo pan hakkliha kaussi, keeras soolatoosist mõnusa raginaga soola, puistas pipart, segas. Lisaks veel üks purustatud küüslauguküüs, veidi hakitud sibulat. Retsept soovitas ka soolakurki ja kappareid. Margo tundis, et see oleks üleliigne ja tuleks juba tema ja hakkliha vahele. Ta vormis hakklihasegust biifsteegi, asetas taldrikule ja vajutas hakkliha keskele lohu, sinna pidi minema toores muna. Ka selleks polnud Margo veel valmis, muna peab olema kas praetud või keedetud, ja jättis muna ära, las olla pealegi hakkliha sees lohk, justkui oodates, et midagi peaks sinna tulema. Meie kõigi sees on lohke ja auke, südames, hinges. Harva, kui me teame, kuidas ja millega neid täita.

Margo asetas taldriku enda ette lauale ja nuusutas, värske purustatud pipra ja küüslaugu ja sibula ja hakkliha lõhn täitis ta sõõrmed, kõik ta meeled. See näis nii täiuslik. Millegipärast ta tahtis seda süüa lusikaga. Sõi aeglaselt, iga suutäit nautides. Ta oli söömise juba lõpetanud, ta kõht oli täpselt täis. Maitse, mida ta igas suutäies oli tundnud, kestis ikka edasi ja edasi ja lausa kandis teda. Margol oli tunne, et ta on jälle kusagil filmis. Film on meeldiv, lausa kaunis ja see ei olnud klišee, vaid ainulaadne, ainult tema oma, ta ise mängib seal ennast ja ka ise vaatab ennast. Ja ta polegi mingi suvaline löntis töll, kes on suvilasse unustatud, vaid on seotud millegi olulise ja suurega, ta sai aru, milles kogu asi on! Enam ei olnud ta köögis, vaid kõndis imelisel aasal, jalgealune oli nii pehme, rohi oli just paraja kõrgusega, ei ühtegi mädanenud õuna. Nii kerge oli kõndida, eemal paistis linn oma müüride ja tornidega, lehvisid lipud. Peavärav oli avatud, Margo astus edasi, linnakodanikud peatusid, vaatasid teda ja vaikisid. Margo jõudis linnaväljakule ja seisatas. Ta juhatati kuninga lossi. Kõik see küll meeldis talle, kõik oli nii kerge ja imeline, kuid teda vaevas küsimus, mis linn see on, mis inimesed need on, miks ta ise siin on? Kuningas, kelle nägu oli kuidagi nii tuttav, võttis ta vastu ja pani enda kõrvale istuma. Esmalt nad vaikisid, siis kuningas tervitas teda:

„Tere tulemast Hakklihamaale!“

„Tänan teid küllakutse eest,“ vastas Margo tänulikult, kuid ülemäära pingutamata. Isegi unes ei suutnud Margo tunda end hästi ja öelda õigeid asju õigel hetkel. Oma loengute tekstid kirjutas ta mitu korda läbi, õppis pähe, ei mingit improviseerimist, isegi naljad kirjutas ta oma loengutesse sisse. Siin kuninga ees aga oli korraga uskumatult hea ja kerge olla:

„Mul on tunne, justkui oleksin ma peale pikki rännuaastaid koju jõudnud.“ Kuningas noogutas, ootas veidi, enne kui uuesti midagi ütles, aega oli küll, kiiret polnud kuhugi.

„Aga ikka veel ei ole sa kohal, ikka veel tuleb sul ette võtta rännakuid ja retki. Ikka veel on käimata teid ja avastamata maid!“

Margo noogutas, mis siis, et ta ei teadnud, mida sellest arvata, et ta peab veel rändama. Kuningas nägi, mida Margo mõtleb, ja lisas:

„Meil kõigil on siin ilmas, või siis seal, oma ülesanne. Ja meist keegi pole kohal enne, kui me oleme täitnud oma ülesande.“

„Hea kuningas, mis siis on minu ülesanne, mis on see rännak, kuhu viib mu tee?“

Margo otsekohesus ei pahandanud kuningat, üldsegi mitte, kuningas noogutas hea tahte märgiks.

„Mina olen Hakklihamaa valitseja, kõik, mida sa siin riigis näed, on tehtud hakklihast, ka meie sinuga.“ See oli Margo jaoks üllatus. „Jaa-jaa, ka meie sinuga, kõik me oleme hakklihast, ma olen teid kõiki teinud hakklihast. Aga mitte see ei ole oluline. Oluline on tee, kuigi ka see on hakklihast.“

Jälle tekkis Margol küsimus, kas see, mida kuningas räägib, on metafoor:

„Hea kuningas, ons see kõik üks mõistujutt?“

„Ta võib olla nii või naa, tõsi on, et kõik on siin tehtud hakklihast. Hakkliha on parim, millest midagi teha. Aga hakkliha tuleb täita mõtte ja tähendusega! Alles siis hakkab hakkliha elama ja õitsema. Alles siis suudab ta olla ilma tagamõtte või omakasuta õnnelik, nautida hetke, haarata päeva, kasutada päeva. Oled sa tundnud omakasupüüdmatut andumist, oled sa ise seda pakkunud?“

Kuningas pööras oma pilgu Margole ja ta tundis kuningas ära oma isa:

„See oled sina, isa!“

„Mina-mina, vasta nüüd mu küsimusele. Oled sa kellelegi pakkunud

omakasupüüdmatut naudingut?“

Margo vaikis viivu ja mõtles.

„Ega vist,“ vastas ta viimaks ja muutus kurvaks.

„No vaat!“ lisas veel kuningas. „Sa oled oma aia unarusse jätnud!“

„See on tõsi.“ Margole meenus tema aed, heinaks muutuv rohi, õunad.

„Aga mida ma pean siis tegema, isa?“ ahastas Margo. „Kas kõigepealt niitma, või õunad ära korjama?“

„Ei seda ega teist!“ Kuningas tundus isegi nagu hoolimatu. „Aed, mille sa sööti oled lasknud, pole siit riigist.“

„Kust siis, kus on see aed, mida ma pean harima?“ Kuningas ei vastanud. Miks ta ei vasta? „Isa, aita mind, ma nagu ei saa aru, ütle ometi, mida ma pean tegema! Millega ma saan täita auke oma hakklihahinges!“

„Aga miks ei ütle, ikka ütlen. Selleks ma sind kutsusingi.“

 

Margo ootas, pidas hinge kinni ja ootas. Kuningas vaatas oma vanade ja hallide hakklihasilmadega, mis on näinud kõike, otse Margo silma sisse, lausa silmapõhjast läbi, ja ütles selle välja:

„Sa ei oska naistega käituda!“

„Tohoh!“ ehmus ja üllatus Margo. „Mismoodi?“

„Vaat, niimoodi! Sa pole pakkunud neile rahuldust!“ Jube nõme oli olla, mida teha, ei tea, ja kuningas ka ei aita, on isegi kuri.

„Sinu tee ja ülesanne on minna tagasi oma maale ja anda tagasi kõik need orgasmid kõikidele nendele naistele, kellega sa oled vahekorras olnud ja kelle sa oled jätnud ilma rahulduseta!“

„Ah nii!“

Margo vajus ära, midagi sellist ei olnud osanud ta oodata. Kuningas noogutas:

„Niikaua kui sa ei ole oma ülesannet täitnud, oled sa lihtsalt täna hommikul köögilauale üles sulama võetud hakklihakotike!“

„Ma käisin täna turuhoones!“

„Kus sa käisid! Ega siis värske hakklihaga sihukest jampsi ei näe! Hästi, on, nagu on. Sa pead minema.“

Margo sai aru, et kõik, mida kuningas ütles, on tõsi, aga ikkagi, kust alustada?

„Mine nüüd, sind oodatakse?“

Kuninga vastuvõtt oli lõppenud, saadikud, kes olid kogu jutuajamise jooksul veidi eemal seisnud, astusid nüüd lähemale. Margo tõusis, suur segadus valitses ta hinges:

„Kes mind ootab? Kuhu ma pean minema?“

„Eks ikka minu maa neitsite juurde, kes küll enam pole päris neitsid. Nemad õpetavad sind.“

„Ei tea, pole vast vaja.“ Esmalt tundus see mõte Margole nii vastumeelne.

„Kuidas siis, ikka on vaja! Sa, mees, ei tea isegi, kus on G-punkt!“

„Tean küll!“ valetas Margo ja sai samal hetkel aru, et kuningas näeb teda läbi, nagu ta kõike on näinud, ega vaevu isegi vastama. Saadikud juhatasid Margo läbi tõrvikutega valgustatud koridoride Hakklihamaa neitsite juurde, kes esimese asjana kiskusid lõhki tema nõmeda T-särgi.

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