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Luxurious
suite in the Four Seasons Hotel in Prague. Air-conditioning
relentlessly and noiselessly pumps in cool air. Behind the windows, the
Vltava River splashes rhythmically, but nobody in the room can hear it
as all the windows remain safely closed. Right at one of them stands
Mr. Michael – beloved by many and hated fiercely by others, a
man
with diamond-valued legs that can do 35 taps per second,
and have
earned him a place in the Guinness Book of Records. He stands
motionlessly with his hands at his hips and revels in the scenery
behind the glass. The marvelous glints of sun on the water! The gulls
sailing in the air! The magnificent castle soaring up to the sky!
Living history! And today he is going to conquer this pearl of cities
with his newest masterly production. Triumphantly appear as a king,
sorry, a tiger. Time to check the site of his forthcoming triumph and
to stretch his light-speed legs. But first a talk with the manager...
It’s a new guy, more of a personal assistant. In all the
years
Michael was wandering here and there and dazzling the world with his
opuses, things were going smoothly. And yet he was missing something
– direct connection with his roots, breath of true Irishness,
which would remind him of his beloved Emerald Isle, of the green
filelds where his heart is. (Well, he isn’t sure his heart is
anywhere else than in his chest, but admitting this may shatter his
whole image.) His loyal imagemakers advised him to snatch some
swineherd or a ninety-years old Gaelic speaker to accompany him on his
travels, but with all respect to them, he believed they overdid their
bit for once. He wouldn’t risk some intelectually-challenged
vulgar person treading on his precious toes. Fortunately, fate had a
better solution for him in store – a night in Dublin, a bit
of
misunderstanding, entering a wrong restaurant... and bumping into this
guy. Gentleman, obviously capable manager, amusing companion and
musician – splendid combination. And on top of that
– a
whistle player. Michael, who believes himself to be the greatest
whistler the earth has ever borne, fully appreciates this quality.
Couple glasses of old brand whiskey, couple philosophical debates about
Irish cultural heritage, a deep discussion about the intricacies of
whistle playing, and the deal was made. With his new assistant in
charge, the Prague show will be more glorious than any other, shining
like a freshly polished emerald.
Michael smiles for himself, reaches for his mobile and dials a number.
**********
A tiny bit less luxurious suite in the same hotel. Air-conditioning
relentlessly and noiselessly pumps out cigarette smoke. Right at one of
the windows stands a lone figure – beloved by some, and hated
fiercely by many, a man who once roused crowds to start a petition
against him. He stands with his hands in his pockets, rocking on his
heels. Fuck, couldn’t they choose a hotel without the
brownish
smelly ditch of a river running below the windows? And that frigging
structure over it – castle they call it, but it
doesn’t
even look like a castle! Damn, Michael doesn’t have a bit of
taste. But he pays, so why to argue with a walking moneybag? Pointless.
And Joey isn’t one to waste his time with pointless arguing.
He turns away from the window and scans the room. Fucking hole. Hotel
named after a pizza. And with that slimy prick Michael constantly
breathing on his neck, he hasn’t had time to make himself
comfortable here. If the guy hadn’t reeked of money at
hundred
yards, he would have never never even glanced down his nose at him, let
alone reply to his idiotic babbling. But, damn, not knowing whether
Shane fired him or not, the chance of getting another client seemed
handy. So he jumped at it.
Joey turns and reaches for the curtain to draw it and create
thought-inspiring dimness, but before his finger can touch the brocade
cloth, the mobile in his pocket starts screeching.
**********
"Take a seat, Joey, my friend, make yourself at home. Will
you
have soda? Or mineral water? We need to keep our heads clear before
today’s big evening. So... how has it been going so far?
Stadium
has been sold out? Construction built? Tell, tell!"
Joey reluctantly tears his eyes away from a TV screen where a bunch of
chicks wave their long bare legs in some step-crap. Why do the geese
shake so madly? One’s eyes hurt from watching them. Such a
waste
of such good legs...
"Uhm, pardon me, Michael?"
"Tickets for the show, Joey, how many sold? Will we be adding
another show? How many spectators tonight?"
"Many."
"How many?"
"Very many."
"How many?"
"Very fucking many."
Dazzling smile never leaves Michael’s face. He mutters
something
like "True Irishman" to himself, then flashes his
snow-white teeth at Joey again.
"Numbers, Joey, figures!"
"I know about a thousand."
For the first time a cloud flickers over Michael’s brow.
"The poor oppressed Eastern Europeans
don’t have a
bigger
stadium here? Shattering thought. We’ve chosen a good city to
premiere the show, Joey. A truly charitable deed."
Joey mutters an incomprehensible agreement.
"Maybe we could find sponsors to build them a bigger
venue..." Michael’s eyes mist over as if the
feeling of
bringing a torch into a dark corner of the world overwhelmed him. "I will pour my heart into it," he whispers, then
falls
silent as a worm of doubt creeps into his mind. "You booked
the
largest stadium in the city, didn’t you?"
"A big one, yes, Michael."
"And the stadium’s capacity is one thousand,
yes?"
Joey again mutters something incomprehensible, in a very reassuring
tone.
"Speak up, Joey, please! If several dozen more people can be
stuffed into the audience, we will print several dozen more tickets
right now!"
"More likely several thousand..."
"I beg your pardon, Joey?"
"That’s okay. Just thinking out loud."
"I like numbers, Joey! So don’t stretch my
curiosity any
longer – what is the stadium’s capacity?"
"Twenty thousand."
Disbelieving smile plays on Michael’s lips. "What?"
"Twenty fucking thousand."
"Have they run out of paper for tickets of what? Of printing
colour?"
Joey sighs. Looks like it’s inevitable to force some reason
into
the imbecile’s head. "Look, Michael, this is
success,
clear? Look the truth into the eye: you wouldn’t sell even a
hundred if it wasn’t for my genius managerial move!
I’m
glad I didn’t book a larger venue..."
"Larger venue? I told you to book the largest stadium in the
city, you foolish man! And you go booking a hole in the middle of
nowhere which... Wait. Genius managerial... what did you do,
Joey?"
"Secured hundreds of spectators for you, nothing
more."
"How?" Michael’s tone drips icicles now.
"Ever heard about a happy hour in pubs? So I organized a
happy week in ticket offices..."
"Oh! Buyers of tickets getting some promo materials as a
bonus?
If there is my photo in the materials, why didn’t you ask me
to
check it first? What if it needs retouching? Oh my..."
"Don’t worry. Not exactly this kind of
bonus."
Michael remains silent, stares into Joey’s eyes intently.
Joey meets his challenge boldly, as a true man of action.
"Kinda the tickets were the bonus."
"Bonus to what?"
"To anything the fuc-, the folks sell there."
Brilliant tactics it was. A way to sell out the whole bloody stadium in
one day. The problem was that only three hours ago he learnt that
tickets offices somehow didn’t have the tickets. Maybe he
should
have assigned the task of distribution to some well-established
company. But the
fuckers came demanding ridiculous prices! Laughed into his face with
them! Piles of dollars for the simple task of delivering the slips of
paper into box offices. Even a trained monkey would manage that. So he
assigned the job to one... Well, not to a chimpanzee, just to a roadie.
If the idiot hadn’t found the fucking Irish pub during his
errand and handn’t gone to merrily murder his few remaining
brain cells with
liquids, it could have worked out perfectly.
Ponderous expression creeps into Michael’s eyes. He cannot
keep
his fingers calm – maybe it’s suppressed anger,
maybe
he’s engaged in the process of feverish soul-searching.
"Didn’t we have posters everywhere? On every
billboard! On
every lamppost! It’s always possible to see from one poster
to
another you said!"
"Yes. Always."
Joey won’t go telling the clown about the perfect deal he
made
because Michael wouldn’t appreciate it anyway. Hiring the
cheapest
printing works he’d ever stumbled upon. Fellow managers would
drop their jaws in astonishment if they heard about the brilliant
bargain he was able to make. And the posters looked smashing although
he had to include a pic of that dumbbell on them. An incredible feat.
Alright, it’s true that first rain melted the colours and
turned
the paper into a porridge, but that’s a peanut... The fact
that a
wrong date somehow slipped onto them troubled him more. But he would
have fixed this tiny flaw if the fucking posters hadn’t
already
turned into a slush by the time he noticed!
"I cannot understand it, Joey! They have always loved me
here!
Girls wrote me love letters! Letters which I – well, my
manager
– always assiduously answered. I wanted to entrust this
highly
responsible task to you, Joey..."
Joey smiles the most reassuring smile he is capable of. "Head
up,
Michael! I know this bitc-, I mean bizzare and truly unique lady who
runs a... well, a chain of highly-respectable establishments where the
most tasty, I mean the most talented women from the city work. With a
bit
of her help, I will distribute the remaining tickets among them. True
charity, Michael, as you wanted it! Think of the poor
Eastern Europeans. Nothing is lost yet!"
Michael is silent for a long, long moment. Joey can almost hear the
clock on the wall ticking away the seconds although it is a silent
digital crap. Finally an expression appears at Michael’s face
– could it be smile? Recognition of the masterly plan? Alas,
his
mobile chooses this most innapropriate moment to wail Danny Boy into
the silence of the room. Michael grabs it. "Yes? Hello...
Aha, go
on... I see, I see. What? WHAT? And... I see, I see." The
mobile
falls from his hand onto the sofa and disappears between two pillows.
Another long moment passes by, with Michael staring out of the window
into the yellowish sunlight. Damned sunlight which stings
Joey’s
eyes like a hornet. Finally the man speaks.
"Joey, you were in charge of hiring a company to build the
construction at the stadium, am I right?"
"Don’t you like the colour? It was the greenest
green I could get in this fucking hole."
Well, the other company offered even a bit greener, but it was a heavy
massive shit. It would spoil the whole stage. People would be staring
at awful green monster instead of the luscious legs of the lassies.
Hasn’t Michael claimed from the very beginning that the stage
has
to be "airy and etherical as my show itself"? So
why does
the wretched bastard complain about the airy etherical sticks carrying
the fucking huge screens?
"They finished building it. Tested the screens. The SCREENS!
The
crucial thing! The screens which will show my tapping legs! My
thirty-five taps per second! Well, with a bit of accelerated broadcast,
it will hopefully seem as thirty-five... And..."
"And?"
"It doesn’t work! The construction nearly collapsed
when they tried to put the screens up!"
Only nearly? So why is he fuming? When they first tried the screens in
Joey’s presence the construction screeched so much that it
nearly
tore
the ears. Nearly. So he just ordered to play the music a notch louder
and that was that. Problem solved.
"Take it easy, Michael. We’ll do something about
it."
"When? The show is supposed to start in couple
hours!"
"So it will start in four or five hours, what
’s
the
difference? Won’t
your loving fans wait an hour or two?"
"And what will we tell them, how will we explain
it?"
"We could tell them that... hmm... that the taxi was late...
or
the
organizers hadn’t
ensured security in time... We’ll
improvise, rely on
me!"
"It’s
a scandal... a real scandal!"
"Kidding? You do not know what a real scandal is! We could
tell them ..."
Violent shaking of the head. "No, no, no. They say the only
solution would be to build the whole thing anew."
,No screens, no show‘ shouts from Michael’s face as
if he
had it written over his brow. Joey knows that there is a time for
everything – a time to reap laurels of triumph, a time to
make
hard decisions. And he has just made one.
"Michael, I request just half a minute of your
attention."
"Yess?" It sounds more like a snake hissing.
"It grieves me to tell you but you are sacked."
"What?"
"Sacked, fired, dismissed. Time for you to start looking for
a new personal assistant."
With these words and without even turning around, Joey strides out of
the fucking tidy room with the fucking irritating view. Good that he
hasn’t made himself comfortable in his room yet. The easier
it
will be just to snatch his bag and head for the airport.
C’est la
vie. Looks like he will have to find out whether he still has his job
with Shane. Striding through the corridor, he silently whistles "life’s a bitch, then you die, black
hell"...
**********
"Thousands of fans came to Prague Strahov Stadium in vain, expecting to
see the newest dance-show of the Irish tap-dancing champion Michael
Flatley. The show was cancelled mere two hours before the beginning due
to technical problems. Flatley expressed his deepest regret and
promised that the long-expected premiere would be shifted to autumn.
All sold tickets remain valid." |
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