Putin durak
2005-01-28 04:00:05 UTC
I AM NOT A CANNIBAL!
by Tomindar Galeev
"Are you out of your mind?! How dare you speak to me like that! Get out of here
before I call the police!"
Maxim Fisher was beside himself with rage. He was standing in his night shirt
in the open doorway of his hotel room, looking the insolent young stranger
straight in the eye. Really, this was unheard-of insolence, knocking on a door
in the middle of the night and, without even introducing yourself, saying
something so horrible, so ridiculous, that at first Maxim was struck
speechless.
The unshaven young man in a wrinkled suit and tie was not even flustered at
being rebuked so harshly. Without even blinking an eye, he answered Maxim in
an even, self-assured voice:
"Of course, you can slam the door right in my face but that does nothing to
change the facts: you have committed acts of cannibalism, which, under the laws
of our state, are punishable by imprisonment for seven to fifteen years."
"What, are you nuts? Where did you get the idea that I've committed—how did
you put it—acts of cannibalism? What, I ate someone? I ate another person? Do
you even understand what you're saying?" Maxim grinned nervously and started to
giggle, but the laughter seemed artificial and forced. By this point, he wasn't
angry any more. This ridiculous situation was suddenly starting to strike him
as funny.
But the stranger continued unfazed:
"You're really going to deny it? You ate another person, or I should say, part
of another person. Or even more precisely, part of the remains of my
grandfather, who died a few days ago."
It finally dawned on Maxim. OK, it's some kind of practical joke. Well, of
course! Why hadn't he figured that out sooner? Now, finally, it all was making
sense.
Thank God, he was just dealing with a practical jokester and not some lunatic.
So as not to disappoint the stranger, Maxim decided to go along with him.
"OK, you're right," he said, grinning foolishly. "You guessed it. I'm a
cannibal. You know how it is, sometimes, at mealtime, to chow down on fresh
people meat."
"This isn't a joke!" The stranger cut him off abruptly. "You'd better hear me
out because we're talking about prosecution. I can offer you a compromise that
will let you avoid going to jail."
"I don't know what you're talking about. Explain it to me, damn it, why you
think I ate your grandfather. Let's take it from the start.
The stranger glanced around him. "I'd rather not let anyone else hear us…"
Maxim stood there a few seconds, not knowing what to do, then reluctantly took
a step backwards and nodded for the rude young stranger to come into his room.
"Remember," the stranger said in a pained voice, "what happened yesterday might
seem strange or funny to someone, but for me it was a tragedy. It's hard to
describe the terrible emotions I felt when I found out what had happened with
my grandfather's remains…"
With those words, the young stranger began to describe what, in his opinion,
had happened several days earlier. His story painted the following picture:
***
The first time Ken Rich found out about his grandfather's last wishes, he was
in the office of the wills and estates lawyer. In his will, Ken's grandfather
asked for his body to be cremated and for his ashes to be scattered in the city
where he had been born. And he specifically wanted it to be done by his
grandson, Ken, and not anyone else. His grandfather had almost no money or
property but that didn't matter to Ken. He had always loved his grandfather for
his emotional warmth and not for his bank account. He went straight from the
lawyer's office to the other side of town and took a room in the Mirage Hotel,
which was located in the tallest building in town. Ken wanted to spread his
grandfather's ashes from the hotel balcony. The metal urn with his
grandfather's ashes that he had received from the funeral parlor was very
plain, but elegant, about the size of a small vase.
Before scattering his grandfather's ashes over the city, Ken decided to have
dinner in the hotel restaurant, which was on the first floor of the building.
He wanted to sit "alone with grandpa" to ponder the meaning of life,
philosophize, and think back on happy times in his childhood, when Ken and his
grandfather used to go fishing together, play hide-and-seek, take walks around
town, and so forth.
Ken sat down at a table in the restaurant and from time to time would take a
sip of his martini. At mealtime, the restaurant was jammed. Every table had a
bright white tablecloth and was covered with all sorts of dishes. The waiters
were nimbly scurrying among the tables, managing not to brush against any
tables or customers. Ken's table was right near the entrance to the kitchen.
The kitchen door was constantly opening and closing, which gave him a glimpse
of the cooks at work. It was a fun to behold how they labored over their
enormous pots and pans. Ken moved the urn to the edge of his table so that it
would not block his view of the kitchen.
Suddenly, he didn't feel very well. Earlier in the day, he had eaten a lot of
shrimp with ravioli and cheese, and washed it down with orange juice that
hadn't been so fresh. Maybe that was why he was starting to feel a little bit
nauseous? Wiping his now-sweaty face with a paper napkin, Ken carefully got up
from the table and went toward the restroom. In the bathroom, at the sink, he
looked at his reflection in the mirror. From his face, it was apparent that he
wasn't feeling well. The nausea was getting worse and worse and, finally, he
ended up vomiting. When he got back to his table, he noticed right away that
the urn with his grandfather's ashes was gone. Seriously alarmed, he started to
ask the passing waiters about it but they didn't have any idea what had
happened to the urn. Asking the people sitting at the next table also yielded
nothing. During his brief absence, not only had the waiters changed shifts, but
many tables had changed over as well.
Ken went up to his room, lay down onto his bed and started to sob. A couple
hours later, the phone rang. The chef from the hotel's restaurant asked Ken to
come down to the restaurant on the first floor. Ken did as he asked.
"Mr. Rich," the chef greeted him, nervously tugging at his bright white apron,
"something terrible has happened. One of our new waiters accidentally took your
urn into the kitchen and…"
Ken almost jumped with excitement:
"What? You found my urn? Where is it? You can't imagine how happy I am that you
found it! I thought it had been stolen. Thank you very, very much!
However, from the pained expression on the chef's face and the fear in his
eyes, it was apparent that what he was reporting was not good news. The chef
became a little bit flustered:
"I don't really know how to tell you what happened… You see… The thing is
that, how should I put it? Not to mince words, one of our cooks mistook your
urn for a metal pepper shaker.
"What???"
"He put the ashes into the peppershakers and served the dishes to the customers
in our restaurant.
Ken held his head in his hands:
"Are you saying that my grandfather's ashes were accidentally used as pepper?
Do you mean to tell me that my grandfather has been eaten by the customers in
your restaurant?
Damp with perspiration and red in the face, the chef just held up his hands.
***
When the young man had finished his story, Maxim asked him:
"But why are you calling your grandfather's ashes his ‘remains'? I think
you'll agree that ashes aren't remains. Eating someone's ashes isn't the same
thing as eating the flesh of someone who has just died."
"From a purely culinary standpoint, you may be right. But from a legal
standpoint, ashes and flesh are one and the same thing. Remains don't stop
being remains just because they have been passed through an oven. The criminal
laws don't say that you are allowed to eat a corpse so long as you pass it
through an oven first. Otherwise, any cannibal could say: Look, I roasted this
corpse so I'm fully entitled to eat it!"
Maxim was disconcerted by that answer.
"I am not a cannibal! Do not call me a cannibal! And what do you want from me
anyway?"
The young stranger answered:
"I demand compensation from you for the pain and suffering you've caused."
"Well, how much do you want"
"Just 500 dollars."
"Why so little?"
"Don't get me wrong: I'm not an extortionist, as you probably thought. Not, I'm
not a swindler. What's important to me is that you admit your guilt. And I
won't spend the 500 dollars on myself. Rather, I'll order a nice monument for
my grandfather. Three other customers of the restaurant who ate my grandfather
have already agreed to pay the same amount."
"Well, OK. I'll write you a check. Made out to Ken Rich, is that right?
"That's absolutely right."
Maxim made out the check and handed it to the young man, who examined the check
carefully, looked suspiciously at Maxim, put the check into his pocket and
bowed politely:
"I want to assure you that now I have no intention of pressing charges. You got
off easy. Goodbye."
With that, the young man turned around, opened the door, left the room and
walked down the hallway.
Maxim wiped the perspiration from his forehead and sat in a chair, still shaken
by what had happened. There was no point in going to bed. Through the window,
the sun was starting to come up.
Having calmed down a little, he turned on the television and started to watch
the news. About a half hour later, someone knocked. Maxim opened the door.
Before him stood a gray-haired old man he had never seen before, holding a
piece of paper in his hand. Looking closely, Maxim recognized his own check for
500 dollars that he had written for the young man.
"Good morning," the old man said. "I am giving you back your check. I am very
ashamed of my grandson, who got you to write this for him."
Maxim scratched the back of his head:
"I don't get it. What's going on here? You're alive?"
"I ask you to forgive my grandson. He isn't well. He has mental problems.
Everything he told you is a complete fabrication. As you can see, I am alive
and well. I have not written any will. There wasn't any urn with ashes.
Everything he told you is the fruit of his sick fantasy. You see, my grandson
is suffering from an acute form of schizophrenia. Sometimes he thinks he's
having experiences that actually bear no relation to reality."
The old man told Maxim about how, from childhood, his grandson had suffered
from psychological problems and that they had come to the city from far away to
get help from a world famous psychiatrist, who was specialized in treating
schizophrenia.
"Unfortunately, I doubt we'll be able to use his services. The fees he charges
are astronomical and we just cannot allow ourselves to pay even for a few
sessions of treatment," the old man ended his story.
Maxim was moved by the old man's story. Rather than tear up the check, he
handed it back to the old man:
"Take the check. Now I am happy to give it to you. 500 dollars is not a big
loss for me."
"No, no, thank you. I cannot take advantage of your generosity.. You are very
kind, but…"
"Take the check, I insist."
The old man became flustered and embarrassed:
"I'm ashamed to admit that neither I nor my grandson even has a bank account.
We are very poor. I wouldn't even be able to deposit this check at a bank."
"Then take cash."
Maxim pulled out his heavy wallet, counted out 500 dollars and handed it to the
old man, who even had tears in his eyes. There was a look of infinite gratitude
on the old man's face. He embarrassedly took the money and bowed, left the room
and slowly walked away.
Maxim was very pleased with himself, his kindness and his willingness to help
complete strangers. He was proud of his selfless deed. However, his pride and
self-satisfaction did not last long. The next day, while going down the hotel
stairs, he noticed the same old man and his "grandson." They were standing at
the door to one of the hotel rooms and chatting good-naturedly. Maxim
distinctly heard the voice of the young stranger:
"Can you believe how stupid these rich people are? They bite the same bait,
just like a fish on a hook. Well, ‘grandpa,' go knock on the door. We can
soak this lady for 700 dollars. I'm outta here."
by Tomindar Galeev
"Are you out of your mind?! How dare you speak to me like that! Get out of here
before I call the police!"
Maxim Fisher was beside himself with rage. He was standing in his night shirt
in the open doorway of his hotel room, looking the insolent young stranger
straight in the eye. Really, this was unheard-of insolence, knocking on a door
in the middle of the night and, without even introducing yourself, saying
something so horrible, so ridiculous, that at first Maxim was struck
speechless.
The unshaven young man in a wrinkled suit and tie was not even flustered at
being rebuked so harshly. Without even blinking an eye, he answered Maxim in
an even, self-assured voice:
"Of course, you can slam the door right in my face but that does nothing to
change the facts: you have committed acts of cannibalism, which, under the laws
of our state, are punishable by imprisonment for seven to fifteen years."
"What, are you nuts? Where did you get the idea that I've committed—how did
you put it—acts of cannibalism? What, I ate someone? I ate another person? Do
you even understand what you're saying?" Maxim grinned nervously and started to
giggle, but the laughter seemed artificial and forced. By this point, he wasn't
angry any more. This ridiculous situation was suddenly starting to strike him
as funny.
But the stranger continued unfazed:
"You're really going to deny it? You ate another person, or I should say, part
of another person. Or even more precisely, part of the remains of my
grandfather, who died a few days ago."
It finally dawned on Maxim. OK, it's some kind of practical joke. Well, of
course! Why hadn't he figured that out sooner? Now, finally, it all was making
sense.
Thank God, he was just dealing with a practical jokester and not some lunatic.
So as not to disappoint the stranger, Maxim decided to go along with him.
"OK, you're right," he said, grinning foolishly. "You guessed it. I'm a
cannibal. You know how it is, sometimes, at mealtime, to chow down on fresh
people meat."
"This isn't a joke!" The stranger cut him off abruptly. "You'd better hear me
out because we're talking about prosecution. I can offer you a compromise that
will let you avoid going to jail."
"I don't know what you're talking about. Explain it to me, damn it, why you
think I ate your grandfather. Let's take it from the start.
The stranger glanced around him. "I'd rather not let anyone else hear us…"
Maxim stood there a few seconds, not knowing what to do, then reluctantly took
a step backwards and nodded for the rude young stranger to come into his room.
"Remember," the stranger said in a pained voice, "what happened yesterday might
seem strange or funny to someone, but for me it was a tragedy. It's hard to
describe the terrible emotions I felt when I found out what had happened with
my grandfather's remains…"
With those words, the young stranger began to describe what, in his opinion,
had happened several days earlier. His story painted the following picture:
***
The first time Ken Rich found out about his grandfather's last wishes, he was
in the office of the wills and estates lawyer. In his will, Ken's grandfather
asked for his body to be cremated and for his ashes to be scattered in the city
where he had been born. And he specifically wanted it to be done by his
grandson, Ken, and not anyone else. His grandfather had almost no money or
property but that didn't matter to Ken. He had always loved his grandfather for
his emotional warmth and not for his bank account. He went straight from the
lawyer's office to the other side of town and took a room in the Mirage Hotel,
which was located in the tallest building in town. Ken wanted to spread his
grandfather's ashes from the hotel balcony. The metal urn with his
grandfather's ashes that he had received from the funeral parlor was very
plain, but elegant, about the size of a small vase.
Before scattering his grandfather's ashes over the city, Ken decided to have
dinner in the hotel restaurant, which was on the first floor of the building.
He wanted to sit "alone with grandpa" to ponder the meaning of life,
philosophize, and think back on happy times in his childhood, when Ken and his
grandfather used to go fishing together, play hide-and-seek, take walks around
town, and so forth.
Ken sat down at a table in the restaurant and from time to time would take a
sip of his martini. At mealtime, the restaurant was jammed. Every table had a
bright white tablecloth and was covered with all sorts of dishes. The waiters
were nimbly scurrying among the tables, managing not to brush against any
tables or customers. Ken's table was right near the entrance to the kitchen.
The kitchen door was constantly opening and closing, which gave him a glimpse
of the cooks at work. It was a fun to behold how they labored over their
enormous pots and pans. Ken moved the urn to the edge of his table so that it
would not block his view of the kitchen.
Suddenly, he didn't feel very well. Earlier in the day, he had eaten a lot of
shrimp with ravioli and cheese, and washed it down with orange juice that
hadn't been so fresh. Maybe that was why he was starting to feel a little bit
nauseous? Wiping his now-sweaty face with a paper napkin, Ken carefully got up
from the table and went toward the restroom. In the bathroom, at the sink, he
looked at his reflection in the mirror. From his face, it was apparent that he
wasn't feeling well. The nausea was getting worse and worse and, finally, he
ended up vomiting. When he got back to his table, he noticed right away that
the urn with his grandfather's ashes was gone. Seriously alarmed, he started to
ask the passing waiters about it but they didn't have any idea what had
happened to the urn. Asking the people sitting at the next table also yielded
nothing. During his brief absence, not only had the waiters changed shifts, but
many tables had changed over as well.
Ken went up to his room, lay down onto his bed and started to sob. A couple
hours later, the phone rang. The chef from the hotel's restaurant asked Ken to
come down to the restaurant on the first floor. Ken did as he asked.
"Mr. Rich," the chef greeted him, nervously tugging at his bright white apron,
"something terrible has happened. One of our new waiters accidentally took your
urn into the kitchen and…"
Ken almost jumped with excitement:
"What? You found my urn? Where is it? You can't imagine how happy I am that you
found it! I thought it had been stolen. Thank you very, very much!
However, from the pained expression on the chef's face and the fear in his
eyes, it was apparent that what he was reporting was not good news. The chef
became a little bit flustered:
"I don't really know how to tell you what happened… You see… The thing is
that, how should I put it? Not to mince words, one of our cooks mistook your
urn for a metal pepper shaker.
"What???"
"He put the ashes into the peppershakers and served the dishes to the customers
in our restaurant.
Ken held his head in his hands:
"Are you saying that my grandfather's ashes were accidentally used as pepper?
Do you mean to tell me that my grandfather has been eaten by the customers in
your restaurant?
Damp with perspiration and red in the face, the chef just held up his hands.
***
When the young man had finished his story, Maxim asked him:
"But why are you calling your grandfather's ashes his ‘remains'? I think
you'll agree that ashes aren't remains. Eating someone's ashes isn't the same
thing as eating the flesh of someone who has just died."
"From a purely culinary standpoint, you may be right. But from a legal
standpoint, ashes and flesh are one and the same thing. Remains don't stop
being remains just because they have been passed through an oven. The criminal
laws don't say that you are allowed to eat a corpse so long as you pass it
through an oven first. Otherwise, any cannibal could say: Look, I roasted this
corpse so I'm fully entitled to eat it!"
Maxim was disconcerted by that answer.
"I am not a cannibal! Do not call me a cannibal! And what do you want from me
anyway?"
The young stranger answered:
"I demand compensation from you for the pain and suffering you've caused."
"Well, how much do you want"
"Just 500 dollars."
"Why so little?"
"Don't get me wrong: I'm not an extortionist, as you probably thought. Not, I'm
not a swindler. What's important to me is that you admit your guilt. And I
won't spend the 500 dollars on myself. Rather, I'll order a nice monument for
my grandfather. Three other customers of the restaurant who ate my grandfather
have already agreed to pay the same amount."
"Well, OK. I'll write you a check. Made out to Ken Rich, is that right?
"That's absolutely right."
Maxim made out the check and handed it to the young man, who examined the check
carefully, looked suspiciously at Maxim, put the check into his pocket and
bowed politely:
"I want to assure you that now I have no intention of pressing charges. You got
off easy. Goodbye."
With that, the young man turned around, opened the door, left the room and
walked down the hallway.
Maxim wiped the perspiration from his forehead and sat in a chair, still shaken
by what had happened. There was no point in going to bed. Through the window,
the sun was starting to come up.
Having calmed down a little, he turned on the television and started to watch
the news. About a half hour later, someone knocked. Maxim opened the door.
Before him stood a gray-haired old man he had never seen before, holding a
piece of paper in his hand. Looking closely, Maxim recognized his own check for
500 dollars that he had written for the young man.
"Good morning," the old man said. "I am giving you back your check. I am very
ashamed of my grandson, who got you to write this for him."
Maxim scratched the back of his head:
"I don't get it. What's going on here? You're alive?"
"I ask you to forgive my grandson. He isn't well. He has mental problems.
Everything he told you is a complete fabrication. As you can see, I am alive
and well. I have not written any will. There wasn't any urn with ashes.
Everything he told you is the fruit of his sick fantasy. You see, my grandson
is suffering from an acute form of schizophrenia. Sometimes he thinks he's
having experiences that actually bear no relation to reality."
The old man told Maxim about how, from childhood, his grandson had suffered
from psychological problems and that they had come to the city from far away to
get help from a world famous psychiatrist, who was specialized in treating
schizophrenia.
"Unfortunately, I doubt we'll be able to use his services. The fees he charges
are astronomical and we just cannot allow ourselves to pay even for a few
sessions of treatment," the old man ended his story.
Maxim was moved by the old man's story. Rather than tear up the check, he
handed it back to the old man:
"Take the check. Now I am happy to give it to you. 500 dollars is not a big
loss for me."
"No, no, thank you. I cannot take advantage of your generosity.. You are very
kind, but…"
"Take the check, I insist."
The old man became flustered and embarrassed:
"I'm ashamed to admit that neither I nor my grandson even has a bank account.
We are very poor. I wouldn't even be able to deposit this check at a bank."
"Then take cash."
Maxim pulled out his heavy wallet, counted out 500 dollars and handed it to the
old man, who even had tears in his eyes. There was a look of infinite gratitude
on the old man's face. He embarrassedly took the money and bowed, left the room
and slowly walked away.
Maxim was very pleased with himself, his kindness and his willingness to help
complete strangers. He was proud of his selfless deed. However, his pride and
self-satisfaction did not last long. The next day, while going down the hotel
stairs, he noticed the same old man and his "grandson." They were standing at
the door to one of the hotel rooms and chatting good-naturedly. Maxim
distinctly heard the voice of the young stranger:
"Can you believe how stupid these rich people are? They bite the same bait,
just like a fish on a hook. Well, ‘grandpa,' go knock on the door. We can
soak this lady for 700 dollars. I'm outta here."