On the way back, Fiddler told Cord his story.
Fiddler was a typical child who had not met the expectations of his parents. He had been calm, balanced and to some extent closed, in contrast to his lively and active younger sister. After her birth, the parents stopped pretending that they were in any way interested in their son and started raising the girl.
"You know, they always loved her more. Metaphorically, I was an ugly duckling for them, and in their opinion, I could never turn into a swan."
Fiddler understood perfectly well that his parents did not need him. It suited him: he still preferred the bustle of the real world to the escapism of books, so by getting rid of constant pressures, he became even happier.
When he graduated from school, his parents made a last attempt to instruct their unlucky offspring on the right path—towards the world of economics. His father got him a place in a foreign university, but Fiddler stood his ground: economics was never interesting for him, and coercion only fueled in him a spirit of rebellion, which had not been previously characteristic of him. Therefore, he went where he wanted.
To the University Department of Philosophy.
Not that philosophy really attracted him… Previously, he only came across hermeneutics, and then as a matter of curiosity, but now he had to learn about other philosophical schools and suddenly liked what he was learning.
When the time came to graduate and leave the institution, he found that what he had guessed was true but had not wanted to think about was, in fact, the reality: the world has no need for philosophers. Unsuccessfully trying to find a well-paid job in his specialty and not wanting to do what he was not interested in, but which may have brought money, he soon became a vagabond. His only property was his clothes and a new violin, bought with his last money, and which he independently learned to play to somehow survive. At some point, he discovered he liked such a wandering and unstable life. He felt genuinely free, and although such an existence was fraught with many difficulties, it suited him.
Not so long ago, he had met a group of homeless people who lived under the bridge, so now he had comrades and a roof over his head. Even though it was a bridge instead of a roof, it was enough.
At the gates of the park, Fiddler summed everything up:
"No matter what you say, it is not all bad. Probably, if I had been born a little earlier and a little away from here, I would have been considered a beatnik."
Cord chuckled. He liked this guy more and more.
"Look, it's Little Red Riding Hood sitting over there," suddenly, Fiddler smiled and pointed to a girl sitting on a bench quite far from them. "She even has a basket."
Cord narrowed his eyes, and only then could he make out a vague human silhouette ahead.
"You have excellent eyesight, as I can see."
"Like an eagle!" Fiddler laughed.
"Let's go. Perhaps that is who I need."
***
Cord's premonition turned out to be correct: Dia was sitting on a bench with a book in her hands. She was dressed in a beige cardigan and a red beret, worn slightly to one side. Next to her was a voluminous wicker basket covered with a red and white checkered bedspread. Dia was immersed in reading and therefore did not notice the men who approached her.
"Hi. You're early today," said Cord. Dia looked up at them and put the book down.
"Hello," Fiddler greeted her.
"Oh, hi, you guys! Is this your friend?" Dia asked.
"Yes, his name is Fiddler."
"Very nice to meet you, Dia!" the girl held out her hand and gently squeezed the palm of the taken aback Fiddler. "Are you a musician?"
Fiddler turned over the violin in his hands.
"Uh… Yes, the street kind. I… Uh… If you don't mind, I need to go to work." He was embarrassed. "I was very pleased to meet you."
"Me too!" Dia smiled.
Saying goodbye to Fiddler, Cord sat down next to Dia.
"And really, why are you so early?" He glanced at his chronometer. "You have another hour."
"There was nothing to do at home, and I had no other plans for today, so I thought maybe I could read a book in the fresh air."
"What kind of book?" Cord took it and turned it over in his hands. "'Murder on the Express'"?
"It's a detective story. About how a murder was committed in a train car and a detective traveling on the train had to find the criminal. Exciting reading really."
"Huh. That's nice, although the real work of a detective is not really exciting."
"Who was that musician?" asked Dia.
"Fiddler? Ah… Yes, so… The first time I saw him was when we were at the hospital after the accident. We got to know each other there."
"Why did he run away from us so quickly?"
"Well, perhaps he thinks that on a date a third is too many, and just perhaps he felt you are a person of blue blood. He himself is homeless."
"Homeless?!"
"Yeah."
"Do you hang out with the homeless?!"
"Well, yes. Is that bad?"
Dia brightened.
"No, what do you mean? It's amazing! And great! I just could not imagine that someone from the aristocracy would bring themselves to communicate with a person like him, and here you are!"
"Well, I'm not an aristocrat, so I don't need to descend anywhere. He's an ordinary man and an intelligent one, a philosopher." Cord pointed to the basket. "By the way, what's that?"
"Oh, that," Dia smiled playfully, "is a surprise! We'll find a nice piece of lawn and have a picnic! Do you mind?"
Who would mind a picnic with a pretty girl?
***
The basket was by no means small, although the number of eatables which Dia had put in it was enormous. It was amazing how she had even carried it.
Spread out on the blanket lying on the trimmed grass under the birch trees were not only the couple but also a wide variety of snacks, fruits, vegetables, as well as an expensive bottle of white wine and two glasses. Cord sat with his back on the trunk of the tree they were under and stroked Dia's hair as she lies with her head in his lap.
The day was already approaching sunset, and it had gotten a little cooler, but they would not leave just yet. Despite the romantic nature of their surroundings, their talk was rather strange.
"Listen, has anything nasty happened to you at work?"
"Well, there was one thing, but it does not fit in with this situation at all…"
"Tell me!" Dia demanded.
"I warned you." Cord took a sip from the glass. "It was… a long time ago. I did an internship in a district office close to the city. There were no special crimes there, so I mostly fiddled with pieces of paper, but one day trouble did happen. In a village near to the regional center where I worked, there lived a couple of old people. One evening, the grandfather went out to smoke and did not return. The grandmother at that time did not yet know that her hubby was gone, so quietly she went to sleep and in the morning realized that her husband was not there. She panicked and went to the local police station. They accepted her statement and went to look for the old man. They didn't find him, so they forwarded the complaint to us. We did not take it very seriously, but my boss decided to send a local operative and me."
Cord took another sip and continued.
"We arrived at the location. The local operative began to question the grandmother, and I was taking testimony down in shorthand (back then, we did not have the voice recorders). Suddenly I felt I had to go to the bathroom. I politely asked the grandmother where their toilet was, she told me, and I went out to find it."
"Far away, or what?" asked a surprised Dia.
"Do you know how village toilets are built?"
"Well, I—"
"In the garden, there is a shed, in the floor a hole, below the hole feces floats."
"Gross!"
"It gets worse. I go in there, unzip my fly, take out my device, and… I don't know what came over me then, but… I looked down into the hole. Imagine: I look down at the spot, and the spot looks back up at me, and then I start to pee. Straight into his eyes."
"Wha-ha-ha-ha!"
"There was the grandfather."
"And— and—" Dia seemed to want to ask something, but laughter prevented her from doing it.
"It all ended up with the grandfather being drug up and out of the cesspool with a hook. The grandmother fainted, and I earned the nickname 'Pissing-in-the-Eye' in the district office."
If someone had seen Dia right now, they would have thought that she was crying: the girl was lying with her face buried in Cord's stomach, and her shoulders were shaking. What was important was that 'someone' would be absolutely right.
Not that Dia lacked grossness or vulgarity, but for her, it was new and, therefore, interesting. The date, which had begun as a romantic afternoon, turned into an endless stream of laughter from Cord, then from Dia. They exchanged their dirty, shameful stories so easily that they felt an incredible closeness to each other. Previously, Dia could not have imagined that she would communicate so freely with someone, but now, it seemed, she had found a kindred spirit.
***
The sun had already set, and the way back was illuminated only by lanterns and the moon. They slowly plodded along the alley: Cord was carrying the basket with the remnants of the food, and Dia was holding his other arm. The rustling of the first fallen leaves under their feet and the cool fall breeze pacified and calmed them.
"Listen," Dia suddenly whispered, "you now… Uh-uh… Where are you going?"
"To your place," Cord replied quietly.
"My place?"
"I'll take the basket and then… Escorting a girl at night is a good thing."
"And then?" Dia stopped abruptly.
"And then…"
"Could you," Dia blushed, "stay for tea?" she rattled off the end of the sentence.
Cord smiled and kissed her.
And then he really went for tea. And even stayed for breakfast.