Was it left or right?
That was what Robert asked himself when he came to a crossroad he had never seen before in his life.
Robert knew that he should be able to find his way to the building where the investors' meeting with Lola and Arnošt was to take place in an hour.
He had already brought a package of drugs here once when Lola had called him during a break in the meeting to tell him that she couldn't make it another minute without a good cigar. He remembered that even then he couldn't find it and had trouble at this crossroads. He also remembered that he had finally gotten to that place, but how? He didn't remember. He was probably really high.
Anyway, now he had no idea which alley to turn into. They both looked exactly the same to him - just ordinary Prague streets, which reminded him remotely of something that might as well have been deja vu.
It was just like when you meet a person who vaguely resembles someone you know and you have no idea if it's a stranger or if your acquaintance just grew a mustache, and so, wondering if you should say hello, you stare at him until the sheer awkwardness of the situation forces you to do something.
Then your personality usually takes over. The sociable people have no problem waving to the person without being weighed down by the fact that they're, say, greeting a complete stranger, the shy ones put their heads down and move on, and the crazy ones just jump under the table to avoid the dilemma.
But how does your personality affect the direction of your journey? Some keen psychologists would certainly be able to write a lengthy essay on this, but in practice it won't solve your problem.
And that brings us back, in a roundabout way, to Robert's original problem.
Right or left?
And that's where the entire chaos of the universe came together for the first time that day to do something good... which admittedly was subsequently to lead to something utterly disastrous, but good intentions count, right?
Anyway, an obviously very distressed man in a threadbare blue jacket had just shuffled in Robert's direction from the street to his right and stopped just a few feet away.
Then the apparently very unlucky gentleman looked at him thoughtfully, wondering why a man of Robert's appearance would be standing at a crossroad in broad daylight, staring into nowhere as if he planned to stand in that spot until the judgment of God.
He must be selling weed.
So the unfortunate man in the tattered jacket approached Robert, who was watching his actions with nothing but great disbelief, and hissed, "I'll buy."
"And what?" asked Robert, puzzled, for the man's sudden words had just snapped him out of his contemplation of the probability of failure if he simply tried one direction and waited to see what happened.
"Well, what you're selling." The man said cryptically, winking at Robert.
"And what do you think I'm selling?" Robert retorted incredulously. He was having a bad enough day as it was, he wasn't about to make it worse by getting arrested. The jerk probably wasn't a cop, but he could still cause a lot of trouble if Robert tried to sell him illegal goods he hadn't specifically asked for. So Robert was very determined not to be the first to use the word 'weed' in their conversation, even though they both knew that was what was being discussed.
It was just bad luck that the man had vowed to do exactly the same thing.
"You know what you're selling."
"I know, but you don't know."
"Well... but I suspect." Robert's unwelcome customer laughed.
"It's just that I have no idea if you happen to have the wrong idea." Robert insisted, continuing to deny the man his wares.
"I suspect you suspect I'm guessing right."
"And I suspect you have no idea if I suspect you're suspecting correctly." Robert retorted angrily.
"And I, in turn, suspect that- Oh man... this is ridiculous. Are you gonna sell me that weed or what?" The man sighed, finally interrupting the conversation that was beginning to spin dangerously in circles.
"Yeah... sure." Robert said more mildly now, grateful to the man for saving them both from a verbal shootout that, with a little luck, could have stretched on for hours.
So he handed him a small packet of weed, of which he always carried several for occasions such as this, and asked with the faux empathy of a businessman who doesn't want to come across as a complete extortionist after making his business partner sign some very unfavourable deal, "Tough day?"
"You have no idea!" The man groaned, shoving the weed into the front pocket of his rumpled jacket. "Imagine working for a whole month coming up with an absolutely brilliant play and then having investors say they won't fund it because it's, allegedly, 'The Devil's Work'."
"That's a pity..." muttered Robert automatically, without thinking about what the failed writer was telling him.
But then it clicked in his head and he finally found the answer to his question.
To the right...
So Robert didn't hesitate and confidently made his way down the road from whence the rejected theatrical impresario had come.
And so, fearing that his new employer might be annoyed by the long wait, Robert set off towards his salvation, heedless of the fact that he had not been paid for the weed.
It was Lord's weed, after all, he wouldn't need it anymore.
So when Robert was directed to the right street, it didn't take long to reach the building he was looking for.
After walking down a long street teeming with graffiti and stray dogs, he finally stood before his destination, which was a ten-story tall modern building that looked like a lily flower on a junkyard being in the neighborhood of dilapidated apartment buildings.
This was the mysterious building that housed ruthless investors who could, with a word, rip artists' dreams to shreds and throw them from the tenth floor down to the street where rejected directors, writers and other unfortunates wandered aimlessly.
Robert had one consolation, then- the man he was here to meet could not possibly be the cruelest man in the house, not even a mob boss had the sadistic appetites of investors.
So he looked around the small parking lot located near the building and, when he was relieved to see that Láďa's black Mercedes was not there, he decided that he would rather wait inside the building in the lobby, lest one of the artists who mourned his shattered dreams here should happen to ask for his services.
Inside, things weren't much better, it was also swarming with people who looked like even one wrongly chosen word would make them jump off the roof of this damned building, but they were either too nervous about their upcoming meeting or still too shocked by their recent rejection, so no one even considered doing any illegal business.
And so Robert could wait in peace until his future employer's beautiful black Mercedes appeared in front of the building and he could finally take the terrible burden of uncertainty off his shoulders.
But instead of Láďa, someone else, whom Robert knew very well, arrived for the meeting with the investors.
Arnošt and Lola.
At that moment, Robert didn't even consider the reason why Lord's murderer was parading around with his best client. All he had to do was see the annoyed look on Arnošt's face, and he immediately reconsidered his intention to talk to him about his next career progression.
Never, and this is indeed a time-honored rule, never bother a nervous criminal unless you're separated by bulletproof glass.
And that's when Robert got the chance to try that impromptu choice based on the person's personality. This was no longer about going right or left. He could safely leave this situation in the hands of his primitive human nature.
So what did Robert do? Did he greet Arnošt, or did he put his head down and play dead?
Neither.
He hysterically rose from his chair, pushed aside a weeping choreographer whose investors had just rejected his project called 'Snow White and the Five Green Aliens', and ducked into the nearest doorway.
Luckily for Robert, it was neither the office of any surly handyman nor the ladies' room, but the men's bathroom.
What was worse for him, though, was that he revealed which personality type he belonged to.
But then again, fortunately, Robert had almost no pride. He was one of those people who would unhesitatingly sacrifice what made them at least somewhat acceptable to save their lives and their comfort.
Therefore, Robert had no qualms whatsoever about crouching in the bathroom like a cockroach under the closet, watching through the keyhole of the door to see if Arnošt had finally left.