Читать книгу A Man from the Future. 1856 - Евгений Платонов - Страница 6

Dmitry left the office, took the elevator down, pushed open the heavy glass door, and stepped outside. Moscow greeted him with cold wind, wet snow, and the roar of traffic. He zipped his jacket up to his throat, shoved his hands in his pockets, and started walking – where, he didn’t know. He just walked.

Usually he ate in the office cafeteria – quick, cheap, convenient. Soup, a main course, compote, three hundred rubles. But today he couldn’t. Today he needed to get away from here, far from the office, from his colleagues, from the endless conversations about projects, deadlines, reports.

He walked along Tverskaya, past shop windows, past cafés, past pedestrians buried in their smartphones. Everyone was rushing somewhere. Everyone was busy. Everyone knew what they were living for.

And him?

Dmitry stopped at a traffic light and looked at the people around him. A woman in her thirties in a business suit, phone pressed to her ear, talking fast, agitated. A guy in a hoodie with headphones, nodding to the beat of the music. An elderly man with a cane, slowly crossing the street, not looking around. All different, but all the same. All living in the same system, by the same rules. Work – home – work – home. Day after day. Year after year.

Is this really how I’m going to live my whole life? he thought, and the thought made him sick.

He remembered himself at seventeen. Bright eyes, dreams, faith that the world could be changed. He’d wanted to become a historian, to write books, to tell people about the past, to teach them to understand the present. He’d wanted to be useful, important, needed. Not for money, but for meaning.

And now? A manager. Reports in Excel. Presentations in PowerPoint. Meetings where everyone talked a lot but decided little. A salary that went to rent, food, loan payments. And at the end of the month – nothing left.

I sold my dream for a hundred and eighty thousand a month, he thought, and the thought was bitter as wormwood.

He kept walking, not noticing where. Past a square, past a monument, past theaters. The snow fell thicker, clinging to his hair, melting on his face. It was cold, but Dmitry didn’t feel it. He was somewhere far away, in his thoughts, in his past that would never return.

What if I’d finished my degree? he thought. What if I’d stayed in the history department? Finished my studies, defended my thesis, completed graduate school? I’d have lived hand to mouth, but I’d have been doing what I loved. I’d have lectured to students, written articles, gone on archaeological digs. Would I have been happy?

But immediately another voice in his head answered: No. You’d have been broke. You’d have lived in a dormitory, survived on instant noodles, couldn’t have afforded anything. No car, no apartment, no vacations. No girlfriend – what girl would want to date a poor lecturer?

And it was true. Bitter, but true.

So there was no choice? he asked himself. Did I do the right thing?

Then why did it hurt so much? Why the emptiness inside?