Читать книгу Libertionne - Anna Tishchenko - Страница 11

Ignoring the elevator as always, Tiberius walked up his own stairway. The electronic key was acting up as usual; the green light refused to switch on. From the doorway of the adjacent apartment, the long nose of his female neighbor, Mr. Stern. The lady was of venerable age, but this in no way detracted from her enormous energy and enthusiasm. These wonderful qualities were entirely dedicated to spying night and day on all the residents of the building who had the misfortune of being her neighbor. And of the subsequent related visits. She was constantly pestering Tiberius with various requests for help, and he, out of pity for the creature, almost never refused.

“Aaaah, Mr. Crown, finally. They brought you a little package. And by the way… I have this little refrigerator I need to bring into my apartment,” she pointed to a huge crate that resembled the sarcophagus of Pharoah Seti I, standing like a monument in the center of the elevator landing.

Tiberius was so tired that didn’t have the physical or emotional strength to object, and silently he dragged the sarcophagus into the lair of the matronly lady.

“And where did you disappear to, for two whole days?” the old dame asked, skipping and frolicking around Tiberius, looking him over with quick, birdlike curiosity. “What a swell-looking suit you found. Expensive one, too. Can it be that you’ve got a new boyfriend?”

The suit was Michael’s, because when Laura took his suit to the cleaner’s, they told her that it may be of interest to a museum of criminology, but not to a respectable dry cleaner.

“I’m not judging you,” the old lady said, stroking Tiberius’s shoulder with her parchment-dry hand, “it’s a young thing, hee-hee. Does your boyfriend know?”

“There’s no boyfriend,” Tiberius replied, forcing the refrigerator into the space between the cupboard and the television. “There, all set.”

“Oy, thank you, my dear! I’m grateful to you for a hundred years. Whatever you need, just come by and ask. And where did you sleep, if you don’t have anybody…?

“First in a jail. Then in a psychiatric hospital,” Tiberius answered with pleasure. “All the best, Mr. Stern.”

And he left, hiding a smile.

Walking into the apartment, Tiberius saw that there was, in fact, a package with a card attached. Without much surprise (he was used to the fact that a locked door was never an obstacle to a delivery service), he picked up the card. Turning over the embossed square, he read: “To my best friend. Michael.”

Inside was a familiar-looking clock. His first reaction was a feeling of regret for his careless words, but then an overwhelming sense of gratitude and unusual warmth poured over him. He put the clock in the most visible place, and sat down to work, unable to think of how to thank his friend.

An hour passed. The bronze hand twitched, and with a jerking motion it jumped to six pm. A pleasant, rich tone resounded through the room, like the ringing of a church bell. Tiberius stopped writing and thought for a moment. He shouldn’t forget to mention the cult of priests in Ariccia and their golden branches. And he should certainly add the myth of Hippolytus. What a pity that this trip was going to delay the completion of a two-year project! But on the other hand, he was going to walk the cobbled streets of the actual, not ephemeral, city of Berlin – touch with his hand the time-worn walls of its great cathedrals – and see the sculptures of Rodin. And it’s no problem that there will be children with him; of course they will somewhat darken his mood, but everything in life has its price.

An intrusive ringing interrupted his daydream. On the display of his smart flashed the word “Paul”. Tiberius frowned and was about to switch off the sound, but suddenly Laura’s face appeared, reminding him of his blatant misanthropy. If not now, then when? Sighing, he pressed the Answer button. A familiar, playful, toothache-inducing voice cried out:

“Tibby, sweetheart, hel-looooo! It’s me, your sweet and nasty little Moopechka!”

“Hello, Paul,” answered Tiberius reservedly. “Please, stop calling me Tibby. How many times have I…”

“OK, Tibby, I’ll stop. So, are we going to have some fun today? Let’s go to the Gnarly Duck. Today there’s going to be a swell little gathering!”

“Fine, Paul,” Tiberius agreed without resisting.

“Really?” said Moopechka in astonishment, having grown as accustomed to Tiberius’s refusals as a business training salesperson. “And maybe we can stop into Nature’s exhibit opening? He’s a good friend!”

“Who?”

“Nature, silly. He’s the leader of the naturist movement.”

“What!?”

“Oh, come on, you’re such a barbarian, my little furrikins. Naturists. It’s the latest artistic movement. They show naturally occurring phenomena, as they really are.”

“They show photos of the sun shining?”

“Of course not, Tibby. You’re such a virgin. Moopechka will show you everything. Should we go?”

Figuring that the expansion of the cultural program would mathematically lead to a reduction in the romantic program, Tiberius willingly agreed.

“Where should I meet you?”

Like many of his contemporaries, Moopechka considered car ownership to be a heavy burden, an encumbrance, limiting his freedom and requiring responsibility and resources. But he eagerly and frequently used Tiberius’s car. This was like having a lover who you could visit for an hour, but regarding marriage…

“Ah, just come and pick me up. I’m at Freedom of Speech Park.”

“You were with those freaks again?”

“They’re not freaks. This is where the cultured members of our nation gather to protest.”

“It would be better if these cultured members found jobs. And what did you forget there?”

“Come on, Tibby – the pee-eeople here are just sooo…! And there are free sandwiches and coffee.”

“I see.”

Half and hour later, Tiberius arrived at Freedom of Speech Park. The sharp smell of freshly cut grass hung in the air; flower beds of crocuses had opened their bright yellow and violet buds; and under striped canopies, pleasant-looking girls were serving mineral water and hot coffee. The park was equipped with every possible convenience for those with a strong desire to speak in public. There were tall, colorful tribunes and open spaces for rallies and demonstrations. For aristocrats and snobs there was a very expensive restaurant, with horrible food and a strange and decidedly provocational interior. Tiberius walked through the park, listening to some of the speech of a fervent young man, his eyes ablaze as he called upon his audience to destroy it and burn all of it to the ground. What, exactly, he did not specify. Especially loathsome to Tiberius was a demonstration in support of the rights of pedophiles. Men and women held signs depicting a young Cupid, and the generic phrase: “We demand freedom!” Finally he say Moopechka. There were so many athletic boys dressed in tight red trousers, their faces almost completely hidden behind BigBen sunglasses. Moopechka stood in the shade of a wide-branched evergreen tree, holding two pink, heart-shaped balloons, clearly chosen to match the color of his shoes, which were generously festooned with rhinestones. Spotting Tiberius, he broke into a blinding smile and waved the balloons. Tiberius felt a painful tightening in his heart. Two balloons was bad. It meant…

“Tibby, dear, it’s for you!” said Moopechka, happily handing Tiberius one of the pink monsters.

He unenthusiastically accepted the gift and asked:

“Where did you get this… this marvellous thing?”

Moopechka beamed.

“I was at an anti-government rally. Everybody got one.”

“And what, my dear, do you have against the government?”

“Um, I don’t know,” grinned the empty-headed member of the opposition. “There were such nice, handsome boys there, and they called me over. We laughed, talked a bit, nothing serious. Look, they gave out pins.”

He started to look for the pin, but then, stung by the mocking glance of Tiberius, he said in a serious tone of voice:

“Well… the government… It infringes our rights… “Moopechka fell silent, then suddenly remembered something and came to life again.

“Stipends are small! And benefits. Yes! Benefits should be greater.”

“Have you tried working? Thirty-three years already.”

Moopechka took offense.

“I haven’t decided yet what I want to do in my life. And, by the way, I’m studying.

“In your sixth academic program so far. You enroll, go to a few lectures, but you haven’t finished a single one.”

“Did you meet me today to hurt my feelings?” Moopechka’s lips started to tremble precariously.

“No,” Tiberius answered honestly. “I had a different goal entirely. Do you want some ice cream?”

All of the resentfulness was suddenly forgotten, and they walked to the parking lot, chatting merrily, and the car took them in the direction of the “Garbage Factory” exhibition hall, where the latest and most relevant art was displayed. Moopechka blissfully leaned back on the leather seat of the Mercedes, and filled the cabin with smoke from a nicotine-free cigarette. Tiberius shot him a wincing look.

“Could you explain why you smoke that crap? There’s not even any tobacco in it, only a repulsive smell, and no effect whatsoever.”

“Tibby, it’s trendy. How could you not understand, you knucklehead. Oh no, another traffic jam!”

“Switch to manual,” Tiberius grumbled.

The car complied with the order, not forgetting to accompany this action with a detailed lecture on the horrible tragedies and misfortunes that could be brought down upon the unwise car owner who wishes to reject the services of the automatic chauffeur. As soon as the tires touched the roadway, Tiberius placed his hands on the steering wheel with pleasure. In about ten minutes they would be there; in the traffic jam they would have spent at least an hour. But there was another reason why manual mode was preferable.

“Paul, take your hand away.”

“Whyyyy?”

“I’m driving. You’re bothering me.”

“Moopechka just wants to do something nice for furrykins.”

“Paul.”

“How about this?” Moopechka’s hand, which had already undone the zipper of Tiberius’s jeans, continued its exploration.

“If you don’t stop right now, I’m going to hit you. We could have an accident.”

“Ye-esss! Punish me, daddy!”

“I’ll punish you, but you’re not going to like it.”

Moopechka sulked, with a pouting lower lip, for five minutes. Tiberius looked at him askance. His sagging, faux-faded t-shirt displayed a rabbit and the words “If you don’t sleep with me, I’m going to cry.” “Probably from some idiot designer, and costs a fortune.” Jeans, specially torn and dyed to look like they had been rolled in the waste material of a cattle factory, a bracelet consisting of beads from different social and material ratios (on a leather strap, gold beads encrusted with rubies and diamonds peacefully coexisted with specially-varnished balls of chewing gum and paper pellets). Trend. A mysterious god that Tiberius pictured as a cruel and radical Moloch. And who knew which god was more fierce and insatiable: one child per village became Moloch’s victim, while all children fall victim to Trend without exception.

“You forgot what today was,” mumbled Moopechka, in a completely hurt voice.

“Day?” Tiberius’s thoughts were somewhere beyond 34th street, where they were driving.

“Yes. Today, by the way, is a holiday.”

“Is that right?”

Tiberius made a halfhearted tally: Lovers’ Day was some time in February, New Year’s (the most tortuous – the rule that, according to some people’s ridiculous beliefs, at precisely twelve o’clock you need to be doing something that you want to be doing all year). As for him, he would be happy to greet the new year at midnight on some deserted island. Alone. Or with Laura, if, of course, she was not finding something to nitpick about. And she couldn’t, if she found herself in his power on that same blessed island… He was torn from his sweet daydream by stifled sobbing. Throwing a sidelong glance at the cracking voice of Moopechka, Tiberius made an unmistakeable diagnosis:

“It’s your birthday?”

“Ye-es. And you forgo-ot!”

“What do you mean, of course not. There’s even a present…”

Damn. What can I give?!

And then it dawned on him.

“Paul. Open the glove compartment.”

Afraid to believe his luck, cautiously eyeing Tiberius like a dog who is regularly beaten by his master, and given sugar bones only on major holidays, Moopechka opened the glove compartment.

“A classic Russian novel, written by Leo Tolstoy. A rare and original, ah, printing,” Tiberius said admiringly, almost not feeling any remorse. “Have you heard of him?”

“I have, from Melissa. She’s horribly intellectual, a real bohemian. I will introduce you today; she’s going to be at the party.” Moopechka proceeded to look at the illustration.

Three minutes went by in silence.

“And they say the classics are boring.”

Moopechka stared at one of the illustrations for an unusually long time, and Tiberius couldn’t help but look over his shoulder. To the photographer’s credit, if the authors of the Kama Sutra had been alive to see his creation, they would have understood how weak and modest their erotic fantasies were. Tiberius flinched and tried to focus his attention on the road.

“Perhaps I will even read this book,” Moopechka announced decisively, and suddenly fell silent. His eyes became glassy, his lips opened slightly. Tiberius recognized the symptoms – Moopechka was lost in thought. This rarely happened with him, and it was not easily achieved; nevertheless it clearly had to happen.

“What?”

“Tibby,” Moopechka began anxiously, looking suspiciously at the disastrous book. “Is this in style?”

“Of course,” Tiberius answered firmly. “The classics are always in style.”

The book was immediately photographed together with the Moopechka’s glowing face, and was quickly sent around the world to delight and shock his countless online friends. The result was an immediate reply.

“Melissa Swan. She wants us to pick her up.”

“This is the ‘horrible intellectual?’”

“No, not her. Our Melissa, the editor of ‘Young Lucifer.’”

This coincidence wasn’t surprising. Since children came into the world at the reproductive center, liberated from the bondage of family and parental oppression, and having four thousand (exclusively pleasant-sounding) variations of names and surnames, it was a common occurrence that among one’s circle of close acquaintances there appeared someone who has the same name as you.