Read Online Crumbs by Miha Mazzini - Free Book Online

useful or slightly more valuable parts, which they sold to mechanics or anybody else who might be interested in them. The fence was rusty and full of holes. I looked around the yard, even though there was no need to be afraid of the guard. There was only one man guarding all the scrap yards. An old man. Once, he must have been a giant. One of legs had been cut off in the middle of his thigh. All his strength was now trapped by the clumsiness of his wooden-legged walk.
    I went in bent over, a suitable entry into such a distinguished establishment. Walking on paper mountains demands special skills. You’re constantly losing the ground from under your feet. You can slide back by metres, there’s nothing to hold on to. You have to go on all fours. That’s how it is with paper.
    I got to the shed by crawling on top of the mountains. Outside, there was newspaper and cardboard, inside this and that, as they call books around here.
    At the shed door stood a large paper press for compressing the paper into enormous rolls, out of which you can’t get anything, because it’s all packed so tight.
    I started rummaging, searching without aim. You can get real pleasure out of that. Every discovery is a pleasant surprise. I had a list of comics in my head I could sell to the brats in the blocks of flats. Some of them were passionate collectors.
    My eyes got used to the semi-darkness. I discovered two gypsy girls who’d hidden in the corner of the shed, frightened of the guard. We’d met before. They carried on calmly. They were collecting the heaviest paper and tying it into bundles. They’d carry them over to their trolley andbring them back again the next day.
    They resembled each other. Probably sisters. The older one was tall and the younger smaller and slightly chubby. Indeterminate ages.
    Children in the bodies of grown up women. I met quite a few here on Sundays. None of them lasted long. Their stomachs would start growing, and they’d stop coming.
    I was knee deep in the well-known novels of social realism. This style must have once been very popular around here. I opened a thick, threadbare book. Read the first sentence:
    â€˜In Moscow lives a leader, who is fairer and wiser than any other born on this Earth, our comrade Stalin…’
    I looked at the author’s name on the cover. I’d never heard of him.
    I threw the book away and rummaged on. I pulled out a first edition of Meyrink’s
The Golem
from 1913. It went in my pocket.
    The Gypsies were picking through the pile non-stop. They didn’t seem to see me as competition. After an hour’s rummage, I only had a couple hundred grams of paper on me.
    The younger Gypsy brought another bundle of heavy magazines to her sister. She threw it on the heap.
    Her sister got a piece of string ready. From the top a face familiar from somewhere was looking at me.
    I pretended to approach them accidentally and made sure. It was a
Playboy
. Nastassja Kinski was on the front cover.
    Suddenly, I became thirsty. I thought of beer. Or of Selim, I should say.
    And I foolishly said without thinking, ‘Hey, how much do you want for that magazine?’
    What a mistake! I became aware of it even before I even finished my question. They looked at me with surprise. It must have been something very important to have made me talk to them for the first time since we started meeting here. They looked at the magazine and then at me again.
    â€˜How much are you offering?’ the younger one asked.
    So it’d be her and me negotiating. The older one didn’t interfere, she just looked on with amusement.
    â€˜I’ll help you carry the paper home.’
    She laughed at me cheekily. I put on an I-couldn’t-care-less expression and a slight smile. I spoke with a deep voice, hiding impatience, which I couldn’t get rid of. I was hoping at least it didn’t show. I could let them take the mag home and then re-sell it again the