I pressed my open palm against all the guitar strings to silence them completely. I waited for Maxim’s opinion.
“Well, it is stupid, you’re right.”
“Yeah, that’s the right word.”
“I mean, considering you wrote it in ten minutes, it’s not that stupid, but if we ignore that, it’s really stupid.”
“I think it’s stupid on multiple levels. Lots of weak points.”
“Yeah… And you’re saying people like it?”
“Elena keeps making me play it for her, Milica likes it. Xenia texted me the next day, saying, ‘That little song of yours is really sweet.’ Even Boyana likes it.”
“The ‘mick-mick’ part doesn’t even sound like in the cartoons; there, it’s fast-paced, here it’s drawn out. But that’s the least of its problems. It seems it’s so stupid that everyone loves it.”
“Charming, sweet, cheerful… that’s how people talk about the song. Everyone likes it except for me—and now you.”
“I think this song could work as the soundtrack to Petar’s art.”
“It’s not that stupid.”
I’d wanted to play this song for Maxim so many times, but I always forgot. The conversation would shift in a different direction. Now that we were finally on the topic, we could’ve kept analyzing the song and its contradictory reception, but I’d been dealing with a toothache for days, and the pain had just come back—much worse this time. My tooth was throbbing.
“Maxim, I think the song is so stupid it’s making my teeth hurt. I need to see a dentist right away.”
“There’s one just around the corner.”
I went straight to the dentist. There was no one in the waiting room. Within half an hour, the problem was resolved—a medication was placed in my tooth.
On my way home, I passed a window where a girl was calling out to her friend.
“Tamara, Tamarraaa…”
Her friend appeared at the window. The scene reminded me of a psychiatry exam Milica’s sister had taken in college. During that time, she was wondering if she had some psychological disorder. She analyzed every illness she read about, trying to figure out if she suffered from it—just as she’d done while studying for her previous exams, with other categories of illnesses.
I’d convinced Mrkvoni to spend a few evenings standing below her window, quietly calling her name, so she’d think she was hearing voices. That was the first time she ever got mad at me.
That weekend, we were all invited to Uncle Boshko’s atelier for a gathering, but Elena had mentioned she might not come because she was planning to go home. I called her.
“Hey. Just letting you know you’re staying with us this weekend at Uncle Boshko’s. You’re not going home. I’ve got your passport, and you’re not getting it back.”
She said she’d go home the next weekend, but she couldn’t go out at night until she lost two kilograms. When she goes out, she ends up eating late.
That sounded bad, and I started scratching my head.
“Ugh, my brain literally itches after hearing that.”
Our argument lasted from Liman flea market to the park. My head kept itching—I was holding the phone with one hand and scratching with the other. Then my armpits started itching, and the inside of my elbows too.
“Oh no, I’m having an allergic reaction.”
I thought quickly. I must be allergic to the medication in my tooth. First, I had to remove the source of the allergy, then get Sinopen and Dexamethasone. I had to act fast.
“Elena, I have to go. Something came up. Bye!”
I hung up and looked for the fastest way to get back to the dentist. Across the park, a car was looking for a parking spot. I ran across the street. The driver was getting out as I reached him.
“Excuse me, could you drive me to the dentist? I was just there—they put medication in my tooth, and I think I’m allergic. I won’t make it on foot. I’m already feeling worse.”
“Get in.”
I gave the driver the address and called Maxim, asking him to meet me at the dentist’s and check if they had Sinopen. If not, we’d have to find some quickly. By protocol, they should have it, but who follows protocol? My face was slowly turning rubbery, and it was getting harder to move my facial muscles. My eardrums started pulsating.
We arrived quickly. I explained the situation in thirty seconds. The dentist said he had Sinopen and agreed to remove the medication, although he was confident it wasn’t the cause. I lay down in the chair, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply. By now, I felt very unwell. They moved me to a bench in the waiting room to lie down and gave me the injection. I lifted my head with effort to see Maxim administering it. My skin was already red and covered in blisters.
“Now wait half an hour. Everything should be fine.”
I lay there. Soon, I started feeling better. The source of the allergy was evidently removed, and the Sinopen was working.
Maxim noticed the redness fading.
“If you’d died today, you’d have missed Petar’s exhibition on Friday.”
“That’s on Friday? I forgot. I’m not going anyway.”
“Don’t say that. It’s not worse than your song. Your song makes people break out in hives.”
The dentist came over, asking what I’d eaten or where I’d been that day.
“You inhaled something in the park. This medication doesn’t cause allergic reactions—at least not according to the literature.”
I didn’t feel like arguing. Maxim invited me to his place to stay under observation for a few hours, just to make sure everything was fine.
At Maxim’s, I sat at his desk while he tended to the plants on his balcony. On the desk was a massive encyclopedia, History of Art, which had been there for two years. He was probably reading it for the tenth time. I flipped through it, thinking about the things I could’ve missed out on today. If I’d died, I’d never have seen some of these works. I turned another page—Van Gogh’s Starry Night. I stared at the reproduction for several minutes before my thoughts drifted elsewhere.
I recalled a time during the war when Uncle Vladimir brought home gunpowder packed in horseshoe-shaped plastic. They were cannon charges. We’d pour the gunpowder into little squares, making narrow trails, light them, and marvel at the sudden burst of flame. After one such game, I had a reaction similar to today’s. I made it to the emergency room just in time and got a Sinopen injection. That event was considered unlucky in my family and was rarely spoken of. It seems that experience was valuable. Today, I had the reaction just minutes from home, and had I gone straight to my apartment, who knows what would’ve happened? I wouldn’t have understood what was happening or how to respond.
The day had started off gloomy. I’d been in a bad mood, partly because Boyana left, and maybe a bit because of the slow progress of the game. I’d dropped by Maxim’s for his “Wormhole-Warhol” therapy, as I called our long talks (avoiding daily and local topics, mostly discussing art, video games, and science). Now, after such a day and dealing with the allergic reaction, I felt physically well, healthy, and as if all my worries had either vanished or significantly diminished. I was alive, and everything was okay.
I thought I should spend less time thinking about websites, projects, and programming. I should read more about art and socialize more. I definitely needed to cancel the Flash website project I was working on. I picked up my phone to call, but decided to do it in the morning.
Maxim came back from the balcony.
“Why did you give me the injection today?”
“I think the doctor got a little scared.”
Luckily, Maxim had finished medical school.
“What do you think—can digital scales be hacked to show two kilograms less?”
“Yes, I guess.”
“Definitely should.”
“If anyone can do it, it’s Ian.”
“Yeah, we won’t manage without him, but I’m sure we can do it.”
I called Elena and asked to borrow her scale for a day. Then I dove back into the encyclopedia while Maxim practiced the bass line to “The Time Is Now” by Moloko. It sounded awful at first—I could barely recognize the melody.
In less than half an hour, the bass line sounded great, indistinguishable from the original recording. I turned around and gave him a thumbs up, and Maxim nodded, bobbing his head to the rhythm. “It’s in my neck,” as he called it. When it clicked there, everything flowed easily.
“I guess that’s why I don’t feel like practicing guitar. Watching how quickly you and Mrkvoni learn new things is discouraging.”
“Stick to computers, Davy.”
I returned to the encyclopedia. Maxim was practicing a Moloko song because he’d been chatting with a girl from Brazil, and it was her favorite. Soon, he started working on a much more complicated bass line. It sounded a bit like the bass solo from the NBA ’99 game. I think he practiced for almost an hour. It seemed like he got frustrated with some sections, so I turned to see if it was as challenging as it sounded.
“I’m trying to reach art, Davy… or at least a part of it.”
“You’ll manage, you’re an artisan.”
We checked the stats for our game. Today, we had thirty-three new accounts. Max remarked on how owning your own product has a huge advantage over working by the hour.
“Even while you’re fighting to survive, your business keeps growing.”
