Turning, the girl saw someone waving at them from across the street. He didn't look like the kind of person you'd immediately wave back at: an outfit resembling a ninja uniform and a balaclava.
— Menacing vibe. Maybe he was sent by YourMom, getting revenge on us? — SeaAsia suggested, adopting the look of a seasoned detective.
— Let's find out. After all, that's the whole point of our adventure, isn't it? — Denzel proposed and slid down the trunk like a firefighter who had trained for years.
His companion didn't manage it quite as gracefully. She rubbed her palms against the rough bark, got a couple of splinters, and even scratched her left arm on a branch.
But is that really an obstacle for thrill-seekers?
Exactly.
By the time she climbed down, the man with the appearance of a robber or rebel had already approached them and asked in a low, guttural voice:
— Interested in buying some art? I've got a whole gallery in the alley. You in?
They exchanged glances and shrugged.
Why not?
— But first, please show that you're not armed, — SeaAsia asked, just in case, remembering what had happened in the saloon.
— Judging a book by its cover, huh? Smart. I approve, — the man nodded and offered Denzel to frisk him so he could check for himself. Denzel declined, explaining that they had nothing to fear, since he had everything under control.
"How cool. That's the perfect protector archetype. Now SeaAsia just needs to add a bit of fearlessness, and they could become an ideal couple in the future. Shipping these cuties hard".
Hearing that psychedelic voice in her head, the girl herself blushed. She wasn't thinking about romance at all yet — she was simply curious to see what the art dealer was actually offering.
Casting one last glance at the eerie School and trying to forget the ghostly performance, she followed the stranger.
— My name's Viktor. Nickname: Tarantella. That's what my manager came up with — for branding. Stupid, I agree. I've already fired him.
They crossed a completely empty road, cleared of all cars that might have slowed the pace of this small journey, and turned off the pedestrian path into a poorly asphalted but impeccably clean alley.
— Here it is — my gallery. Take a look at the exhibits first, and then I'll tell you about the full range of my services, — Viktor gestured broadly. — I'll take the mask off for now, get some air, wipe the sweat. Wearing this thing all day is rough. Also my manager's idea, by the way. Don't hire him, whatever you do.
— We won't. Especially since we don't even know his name, — SeaAsia assured him, already absorbed by what she saw.
Every wall of the narrowing dead-end was covered in murals — unknown faces alongside recognizable celebrities. There were doghouses, mathematical formulas, and even—
— No way! A DeLorean! But modified! — the girl exclaimed, while Denzel pulled out his ever-present binoculars to inspect the details.
— No, it looks more like my grandfather's Chrysler. Though I might be mistaken.
— Just a crude sketch by a talentless amateur. With wheels, — Luchador clicked his tongue, and he and the cat shook their heads in disapproval.
There wasn't a single empty patch on the brick walls — not one gap, not one crack. One image flowed seamlessly into the next, countless and uninterrupted. Denzel was especially drawn to a mural of an axolotl embracing its second stage — an ambystoma.
— Perhaps close friends. Or maybe a concept of rebirth. What was the artist trying to tell us?
Meanwhile, SeaAsia lightly touched with her fingertips the sandals of two Atlases, holding on their shoulders a painter with a spatula in his right hand. The painter sat proudly, clutching a sign in his other hand that read: "Looking for work."
The world around her began to spin, and she felt a wave of mild nausea. This entire kaleidoscope of images, this panopticon of human dreams and desires, knocked the ground out from under her feet. She even crouched down, silently asking:
"But where is… Dua Lina…?"
— I'm so tired of breathing air. There's too much of it for me. And the money situation is bleak. Not my best shift. So — what would you like me to paint? — Mr. Tarantella suddenly reappeared and crossed his arms over his chest.
— Why vanity? Are we even worthy of being immortalized? — Denzel began firing off questions. — Therefore, paint yourself. You are the Creator here — and yet you are nowhere on these walls.
Pixie and the cat even applauded, and the latter tried to whistle, though its paws were poorly suited for the gesture.
— Well, yes, sure, but no one pays for that, — the Gallery's creator protested weakly. This time, however, SeaAsia was already walking away. She urgently wanted to be somewhere else — for some reason, the exhibition had crushed her emotionally. She longed for something extremely simple. Like food.
— Hey, take some brochures. Give them to your loved ones. Maybe someone will be less stingy than you, — Viktor shouted after them.
And at last, SeaAsia understood what had unsettled her so deeply.
A mural depicting a corridor in some country house, furnished modestly, without luxury. She felt she had seen this place before — but couldn't remember where. And this plain, unpretentious image drained her of all remaining strength.
Her stomach growled traitorously, and at that very moment the voice burst into her head:
— And there's a fair just around the corner. Everything's compact — no need to go anywhere or waste precious ether-time and your grandpa's gasoline. So I'm expecting a continuation where they eat properly.
Almost immediately, Denzel reacted as well, brushing her hand with his little finger:
— Look at the spectacle unfolding straight ahead. I have a feeling this might interest you.
— Why not? — SeaAsia shrugged. — And does it interest you?
— I feed on your agitation, future member of the national volleyball team, — he said warmly, and they exchanged a glance.
It was difficult to read anything in their eyes, because—
here are no letters in the eyes, so that bizarre turn of phrase is complete nonsense! I never understood it and always argued about it with the playwright of our productions.
And he recorded our arguments and turned them into études… absolutely no respect for copywriting or intellectual property rights, — Pixie snorted. At the moment, he was lounging on a deck chair somewhere inside the crater of a volcano. — So let's leave this strange NLP heresy behind and move toward an appetizing meal.
Who even listens to such nonsense when hearts are catching fire?
Outwardly icy, yet so fragile and finely attuned, Denzel now seemed to SeaAsia like the sharp edge of an A4 sheet — the kind that cuts and hurts. And yet, on that very edge were written ancestral wisdom and a simple desire to please her.
A perfectly ordinary human feeling, which she sensed without any scanning devices. She simply felt it.
And there it was — the Fair.