“I feel sorry for Bikie. As soon as I get my first payment, I’ll buy him a new Harley.”
“Don’t be in a hurry to sell the rights to your V-Rain, Isaac, I’ll soon be in the money and the situation will have changed: you’re no longer a crazy stranger to me. Let’s see, maybe we can agree on a partnership. I had time to think a bit about your invention and take a closer look at you. I am ready to do business with you. As for Bikie’s Harley, let’s do this…you agree with the buyer that you have the right to buy it back within two or three months to be on the safe side with a mark-up of twenty or thirty per cent. Bluff him and say you won’t sell otherwise. I think he’ll agree.”
“All right, I’ll try it. Thanks Peter! Bikie will be insane with happiness. He’s desperately miserable right now and gloomy as night.”
When Bikie heard about Peter’s idea and his willingness to buy back the motorbike he went gaga with joy. He went back to his room and asked Wolanski to come over. Bikie didn’t know how to express thanks, but it was a very long conversation, and Isaac could only guess what he said. When he came back to the living room, Bikie had a serious air and declared that Peter was like a brother to him now!
With that burden off the shoulders of the partners, things started moving to a different rhythm. Bikie changed his mind and went with Isaac to close the deal. At first the buyer was upset at the idea of losing his purchase, but he agreed to the buy-back condition and promised to be very careful with the bike
The van they bought turned out to be pretty good. Bikie bought a fuel combustion enhancer at a car dump and attached it to the engine. The gas was heated by air oxygen and entered the engine at an increased pressure that cut the fuel consumption by a third. An essential, albeit short-term gain: in this way the motor wore out sooner and various rubber gaskets and old spark plugs burned out more quickly.
Isaac provided for their everyday needs and with the rest of the money from the Harley he bought a couple of sleeping bags, some blankets, a little stove and other bits and pieces that might come in handy. They were intending to work, cook and sleep in the van and they had no idea how long the trip would last.
The two friends packed their things in silence. Bikie was still sulking about losing his Harley, even though temporarily, and he didn’t talk much. They just exchanged occasional remarks about important things… that was all.
Bikie was worried that the bike would end up in an accident or break down, he imagined someone blithely racing it too fast with the engine roaring, so every now and then he started grumbling like an old man with gout venting his bad feelings on his friend.
“Don’t forget to take your ski boots, Isaac!”
“Don’t forget your pink bathrobe, Isaac!”
“Will you survive a week without any porn sites, Isaac?”
Isaac tried to ignore the gibes and focus on essential things. He realized that for Bikie traveling to Sardinia was a blow, especially talking the ferry, and going for a long time and not on a motorbike. It was like a senior VP of Boeing flying on business in an Airbus.
“Isaac, take the umbrellas,” Bikie gibed yet again.
It seemed he just couldn’t calm down. Finally said he was going to write a song about a proud Kenyan marathon runner — an Olympic champion — serving in the army in big, clumsy boots.
“That’s it, Bikie. Stop it right now. I tell you what you love everything American, don’t you? So look, we are traveling in a classic American van, we are going to live in it, and I agree to listen to nothing but rock’n’roll the whole way. How about that?”
“Okay, damn you, on those terms it’s a different matter!” said Bikie suddenly breaking into a smile. “You surrendered easily after holding out for no more than an hour!”
They hooted with laughter and never mentioned the subject of vans, motorbikes or marathon runners in boots and swim fins again. Bikie packed a full box of rock’n’roll discs, enough to last them for a year on the road. There was no point in objecting, the old van didn’t have any slots for modern phones or memory cards, and there was no time to look for an adapter.
By evening they were ready; they downloaded maps and made some notes on them, set out their route and went to celebrate a job well done at McCarthy’s. Michelle was surprised that Isaac had chosen an unromantic bar for their next date, and invited his friends but she agreed to come anyway.
Bikie persuaded Wolanski to come along. Michelle arrived a lot later than the others putting Isaac through some serious turmoil. When she finally showed up she looked absolutely devastating with her hair done in a ponytail emphasizing a long neck, minimal makeup and lips just touched slightly with a lipstick. Her look was completed with a stylish biker jacket of soft leather. Isaac clutched at his heart melodramatically, but Bikie immediately outdid him by putting his hands over his fly and starting to slip slowly under the table, groaning and gasping. Wolanski spluttered with laughter. Michelle gave him a scornful look, folded her hand into a pistol, set it against Peter’s head and said “Boom!” Theatrically blowing away the smoke of the shot from the barrel, she glanced smugly at the scene and asked:
“I’m not sure, should I stay here?”
They all instantly came to life and started jabbering that of course she should.
“I’m mortally wounded, but I’m still alive.” Peter exclaimed solemnly.
“And no one has ever died from an orgasm!” Bikie added.
Bewildered by this torrent of compliments for Michelle Isaac couldn’t think of anything to say. He kissed Michelle on both cheeks and moved her chair closer to him.
“I’ll sit beside you, I hope you don’t mind?” Michelle indicated to Peter.
“Sandrine would mind, only she’s not here,” Bikie responded merrily.
“Why not beside me?” asked Isaac.
“Because you’re punished!”
“For what, Michelle?” asked Isaac, falling straight into the trap.
“You invited me out… to a bar! You could have chosen a restaurant, a café, a park, anywhere at all. Who asks a girl on a date to a bar with a bunch of guys?”
“Um, well, “ Isaac found nothing to say.
“Please forgive him, Michelle,” said Bikie, intervening for his friend. “I agree that he is a moron, an idiot, a blockhead and a fool with his five stars having been someone’s screw-up. But then that’s his personality. I won’t be able to bear his sour face tomorrow; it takes almost twenty-four hours to get to Sardinia. And what’s more, today he saved my iron buddy’s life, so now I’m simply obliged to come to his rescue.”
Isaac was not even slightly amused by all these jokes, he felt despondent and miserable at his blunder. He had imagined Michelle as his girl and then bungled their first date so badly – in the fuss and bustle of packing he hadn’t even thought that it was a real date.
“Okay. Quits! Let’s say we’re even for the way you helped me that time in the bar.”
Michelle moved over to Isaac, who, delighted at his redemption, tried to put his arm round her waist.
“Oh-oh-oh! Don’t get too excited!” said Michelle, gently removing his arm. “Quits doesn’t mean you’re completely forgiven.”
“Oh come one, Michelle. You’re a real piece of work!” said Bikie. Turning to Isaac, he added. “I don’t envy you, old buddy. But I envy you just as well.”
“OK, then it’s a bar! I’ll have a Long Island!” Michelle kissed Isaac on the cheek and said affectionately: “Bring me that, please. And you Bikie, tell me about that iron buddy who was saved and why you are going to Sardinia.”
“Long Island for me too, Mister Leroy” Bikie added solemnly, getting into a role of a social advocate.
“And me,” Peter put in.
With every sip, Michelle’s anger with Isaac dissipated. Eventually he managed to put his arm round her waist and bring her closer to him. She didn’t resist. Isaac felt he was drowned in love for her. As soon as his panic was gone and the adrenalin from the fright left his blood, the alcohol to
ok effect and Isaac suddenly got very drunk. As a matter of fact, they all got totally zonked on the deceptively sweet, but very strong Long Islands, flinging out toasts about individual freedom and fine creative gals like Michelle Blanche!
Wolanski shelled out three grand in cash for the journey, for which Bikie promised to take him on as the frame drummer in his Banksy-Band, the rock group he was going to set up after the job was done in honor of the great English graffiti artist who “bombed” the streets of cities all around the world with his witty and acutely political paintings, and had never been caught. “And if you refuse to be my frame drummer, you yourself will be drummed. If you don’t play rock I will clean your clock!” he added laconically, tripping over his tongue.
They talked a bit more about Banksy, his sense of humor and how distinctive his works were, about the way he managed to remain incognito, the cunning way he inserted his graffiti into the environment and how municipal boards, signs and peeling walls turned into pop masterpieces once one of his drawings appeared on them. The police had never once caught him at work, and they wondered why. Was it because he thought out thoroughly how to avoid getting caught, or was it plain, dumb luck?
“Anything worth doing is worth doing right?,” Bikie quoted, “Hunter S. Thompson said that. You know what about? Of course not. You’re not bikers. In the 1960s that guy Hunter Thompson did something fucking awesome. Back then he had an old Jaguar, no bikes, and he had absolutely zilch connection with bikers. But he found them, I mean us, interesting. Normal folks have always associated us with freedom, rebellion and real adrenalin.
“Those were the days of motorbike clubs. One ferocious name competed with the next: ‘Gipsy Jokers’, ‘Grim Reapers’, ‘Galloping Geese’, ‘Pissed-Off Bastards’, and so on. Brutal, leather clad dudes with tattoos all over them. They swilled beer and roared along highways but one group among them really stood out – the Hell’s Angels. They drove the law-abiding society crazy with terror. There were rumors that they smear their bike suits with shit to make leather stiffer and that they would rape all the women they came across. The newspapers constantly wrote rumors about them. Well, you know how low-grade journalists can both terrorize and confuse. The girls all squealed and waited for the Angels to drive round and start raping them.
“So Thompson wondered what this national bogeyman was really like. He had a friend, a former Angel, some kind of a news reporter, a colleague basically. And through him Thompson got access to the bikers’ get-togethers. It was useless to tell the Angels ‘Hello there, I’m a journalist; I want to write about you’. But Thompson was no goodie-goodie, he was a man who broke the rules. He got an advance from a publisher for a book, bought a bike and spent a year riding with the Angels, recording the way they lived. He stuck with the pack, cruising round the cities, tearing along the highways, interacting like crazy, smoking pot, lying on lawns, listening to cops ranting about his rights and ending up in the slammer, he was beaten up with the bikers and he buried their gang bosses with them. In short, he plunged headfirst into the subject matter. And when he resurfaced, he published his book and it became a sensation. He didn’t just say how much beer a biker drank a day, he dug deep and came up with the causes of the confrontation between bikers and American society – he figured it was all to do with the post-war period.
“By the way, those damned Angels totally flipped out from all that fuss, they started reading the news about themselves over their morning beer, and they learned how to extort money for interviews, photos or videos. So when they found out about the book, they demanded a share of the author’s fee and beat the shit out of Thompson but that was nothing new for him. It wasn’t the first or the last scandal in his life. Scandal drives the media. That was the way he lived,” concluded Bikie what wouldn’t be his last story that evening. “A new term was even coined in his honor – ‘gonzo journalism’ – he was a real heavy guy. A legend.”
“He also wrote the book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, I’ve read it,” Michelle added with a smile. You’re not the only one here who knows Hunter Thompson.”
“If you get bored with that blockhead Isaac, I’m always at your disposal,” Bikie added respectfully after a brief pause. “You’re a totally fucking cool chick!”
“You could have left out the swearing, but coming from you, Bikie, it doesn’t sound crude,” Michelle laughed, winking at him flirtatiously.
“You can’t have her!” said Isaac, coming awake and drawing Michelle closer against him.
Part four
Chapter one
Isaac didn’t remember at what time they all left. Michelle’s driver took her home first, then came back to collect him, Peter and Bikie and take them to the villa.
Instead of six o’clock as planned, their morning began at noon. During the night Isaac ran to the kitchen three times for a drink of water. The thirst was vicious. But even though he drank at least a liter of water that night, he still woke up not completely sober and a bit puffy-faced. He woke Bikie and Wolanski, brewed everyone a large cup of coffee and fried up a huge pan of eggs.
After breakfast his head was still buzzing. He felt like staying at home and resting but it was time to set out for Italy.
Peter suggested putting off their departure for a day. Isaac was for it. In the morning he read a text message on his phone sent at night by Michelle, with no words but three kisses and a little heart. He wanted to see her again, to correct yesterday’s mistake. Just the two of them without his friends. But iron-willed Bikie – showed no sign at all that he’d been boozing heavily yesterday and insisted on going. He said they should not allow themselves to relax, that he was fine and ready to take the wheel. It wasn’t his first binge, wouldn’t be his last. Isaac really wanted to stay, but he had no arguments to object to Bikie, especially since he knew that the only reason he didn’t want to go was Michelle. He made a feeble attempt to argue, explaining that he’d received a very encouraging message.
“All the more reason for us to go! Michelle won’t run away from you. As an expert on women’s hearts, I can tell you Michelle is spoiled with men’s attention so she’ll find an original little character like you especially interesting. You caught her eye the way you are stay that way. The ones who jump through hoops for her probably don’t catch her.”
“But all the same…”
“But all the same, we’re going,” Bikie interrupted. “Trust me, you can’t think straight about her in any case. Get in the van and let’s go!”
They set out five minutes later. Isaac only remembered about Vicky as they were driving past the hospital. He felt ashamed for forgetting to visit her and for letting Michelle drive her completely out of his mind. The second reason bothered him less. Maybe Michelle really could help him forget his sudden crush for Vicky?
It was sunny and roasting already. While Bikie drove Isaac tried to doze away and asked him not to put on the music. Even in silence, trying to fall asleep on the winding streets of Monaco was pointless. Eventually the van climbed to the very top where the local road merged into the highway. Bikie was feeling great, and after Isaac took a pill for his headache he started recovering too.There was no point in driving in silence any longer, and it was strange not to talk at the outset of a new journey with the road stretching out ahead. Both friends were filled with contradictory emotions from the anticipation of adventure and a good hunt to a vague, indefinite fear of failure.
The highway quickly brought them to Menton.
“The last French town,” said Bikie. “After this it’s Italy.”
The border between France and Italy lay immediately after Menton. The friends for the last time paid its due — in the form of the road toll — to the French highway, and drove through the tunnel between the two countries. Up ahead of them there was an electronic display saying that they had entered an Italian toll road.
Ventimiglia was the first Italian town on their route. Like all the less prosperous inhabitants of the border regions of France, Isaac ofte
n visited its large local market. The low, modern buildings of the resort town were modestly mute about the ancient Roman consuls and emperors who used to frequent the area. The local Roman amphitheater, of which only ruins were left, once had been a place where humble slaves amused the rich.
Things were shaping up much the same way now, Isaac thought. Now the Veggies were the slaves, only by virtue of their intellectual abilities, not their physical ones. Their OE had been sold to those who had plenty of money and didn’t need to donate their creativity. Isaac knew from history that the Roman Empire didn’t fall in a single day, first it split into two parts – Western and Eastern. The Eastern part, which was also called Byzantium, was destined to flourish. Maybe that was because they stopped regarding slaves as things and started seeing them as people? Isaac was still absorbed in his Ancient-Roman thoughts, pondering the idea of liberating the world from modern-day slavery, as they approached San Remo.
“Have you ever been to San Remo?” Bikie asked.
“Strangely enough, I haven’t, but I’ve heard it’s not as good as our resorts.”
“No resorts are as good as ours, but that’s no excuse for not going.’
“Then I’ll go see it one day.”
“I’ve been here, on my bike. You can get here on the highway or along the low road. I didn’t care where to go especially when I’d just got my first motorbike. I had an itch to go somewhere and I chose San Remo as my first destination. I was over the moon and I thought the town was fabulous, although maybe it was just because I was so fired up.”
“And where else have you been?” Isaac asked.
“No many places in a car. But on my bike I’ve been as far as Venice and Geneva, and Paris, naturally. The farthest points I went were Amsterdam and Copenhagen. In Copenhagen I lived for a whole week at the famous Freetown Christiania. And in Amsterdam I had such a wild spree in a coffee shop, I was afraid to go near my bike the day after. My head was spinning. And you probably know yourself; it’s the kind of city where you’re always looking for a reason to stay an extra day.”
Collective Mind Page 16
