Kitabı oku: «Libertionne», sayfa 5
“We need to go,” Melissa delicately reminded them, “or else we’ll be late for the exhibit. Good luck, James, with your tricky matter.”
“I’m also leaving, as my workday is ending,” the gnome said, and walked toward the exit. Reaching the doorway he turned to the screenwriter. “Oh yes, I almost forgot. Our contract with the pet store is ending, so, Lucy, my dear, please relieve Mr. Snork of her eight cats.
“How?”
“Well, I think they caught distemper.”
And he gracefully darted behind the door.
The new word in art
The car stopped near a huge, ghastly building, its architecture resembling an industrial factory. Above the gloomy entrance hung a five-ton polished slab with the laconic message: “Garbage factory. Art gallery.” Solid and massive, you understood immediately as you passed this tombstone-looking slab, that this place exhibited serious art for a serious public. If the names of bars and clubs sometimes induced in Tiberius a question, sometimes a smile, and sometimes complete bewilderment, then with the name of this cathedral of art he was in completely agreement. Well, perhaps it was a bit too honest, but overall… Inside it was noisy and crowded; the entire world was there for the exhibit opening. Looking at the walls, Tiberius sighed with relief. They were empty. That meant there would be a performance, not an installation. He was afraid of installations – you never knew where to expect them. At the last exhibition he embarrassed himself when he threw some garbage into a bin that was obediently sitting near the entrance to the hall. He hadn’t noticed a sign nearby informing visitors that this was an installation called “The Consumer.” And a lawyer friend of his had spent a month dealing with a lawsuit over the conduct of several robot janitors who at the end of an exhibition had thrown away a pile of ripped-up cardboard boxes, which, as it was ascertained that same evening, had comprised an installation called “Liberation.” With performances it was simpler – you wouldn’t mistake the creator for a piece of garbage.
They sailed past the huge line at the entrance thanks to Moopechka; he made a phone call, and a pale, sickly-looking youth quickly came out to meet them from the building, and led them past security.
“Tibby, this is the great Naitch!” Moopechka said, introducing the pale young man. For some reason he forgot about Melissa, and she could only look reverently at the creator, not venturing to introduce herself.
“I know you,” Tiberius smiled. “Last year I was with my friend Michael Storm at your performance “My Day.”
He recalled the theatrical hall rented for this purpose, crammed with people. The organizers wisely locked the doors, the lights went out, and only the stage was lit. On the stage was a couch, and on the couch rested Naitch, his hand placed on his head. For the first ten minutes the crowd observed a respectful silence, staring at the completely immobile figure. Then, when it became clear that the essence of the performance consisted of the creator’s complete absence of action, a certain agitation began. Tiberius, whom nature had more or less graced with intellectual ability, if not conscience, made his way over to the guards and whispered that he had an urgent need. Apparently his example was an inspiration to many, as a few minutes later when he sat in the car, he saw dozens of art lovers rushing into the parking lot.
“Naitch, my dear, you don’t look so well,” said Moopecha, his voice snapping Tiberius out of his flashback.
“You see, Paul,” Naitch replied, lowering his voice to a whisper, “today the theme of the performance is ‘The artistic process’… And so, I have to defecate in front of the viewers…”
“Oh, how clever!” Moopechka clapped.
“Right here,” Naitch pointed to a square pedestal in the very center of the hall. On a snow-white surface, a chrome vase had been installed. They stood for a while looking respectfully at the improvised altar where the sacred act would be committed. Melissa furtively took a photo of herself with the pedestal in the background. The artist broke the extended pause wistfully.
“I’ve done a similar performance as a test at the Crisis club. There was, shall we say, a technical glitch. To avoid repeating that, I’ve taken precautions. That is, a laxative.”
“And?”
“And if this cursed performance doesn’t begin right now, it won’t happen at all.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Moopechka nervously. “I’ll run and catch the curator, that baddie, he’s probably messing around at the bar. We need to start right away!”
“Hold on, Paul,” groaned the unhappy creator, leaning backwards against a fake-marble sculpture. It was a copy of the Venus de Milo, indistinguishable from the original, but adorned with a black military cap and a spiked collar. The nipples of the unlucky goddess of love were decorated with metal clamps festooned with pink silk tassels. While Tiberius was thinking whether or not the sculpture was a continuation of the tradition of dadaism, with its strangely manner of drawing a Salvador Dali mustache on the Mona Lisa, or was it an advertisement for a typical pleasure store, or both at the same time, as was frequently the case in the art world, with the plight of the great artist growing worse and worse. Something had to be done immediately, and Tiberius decided to engage in some cultured small-talk on the topic of art in order to distract the unhappy artist from more pressing issues.
“Tell me,” he said to the creator, who was making strange motions near the legs of the placid and serene Venus, and his complexion was in perfect harmony with the sculpture, “I understand how it is with installations, that you can sell them, but how can you extract a financial benefit from a performance?”
“Oh,” said the artist, livening up a bit, “usually this is really a challenge, but to be honest you don’t really need this, because the main idea is to generate buzz, to make a big splash, to become famous, and then they’ll buy whatever, any old, how to say it…”
“Bi-products of vital functions?” hinted Tiberius considerately, trained to clothe his true thoughts into tolerant words.
“Yes, yes, that’s right. But in the case of today’s special event, it’s possible to obtain the actual goods themselves. Now where is Paul with that nasty curator? What, did they go to the bar to goof off?”
“Really? And where’s the novelty?” Tiberius inquired sweetly, as if by chance.
“What are you trying to say?” barked the creator, insulted to the core. He was so indignant that his face began to turn slightly red.
“But everyone knows,” Tiberius continued innocently, “that Piero Manzoni, in the year 1961, sold ninety tins of his own excrement, each one with an inscription stating that it contained “100% natural Artist’s Shit”, sold by weight for the same price as gold. Thirty grams in each tin. The idea is that people like the word “natural.”
“Oh…”
“By the way, the tins exploded, for obvious reasons,” Tiberius continued, ignoring the melodic ring of his smart, informing him that he once again had incurred a fine for using expletives, “and their lucky owners were left with nothing.”
“I didn’t know…” whispered Naitch, “…but this only means that I’m following in the footsteps of the greats!”
There was no arguing this point. And Tiberius hadn’t managed to voice his opinion about being spoken his mind about the precedence of ideas in art, when over near the archway that led into the hall, a commotion ensued. The cavalcade was led by Moopechka, leading by the hand a frail-looking youth in a sumptuous pink jacket decorated with sequins, clearly the curator, and behind him teemed a crowd of reporters, and behind them, the judges. And everything heralded a happy ending, but suddenly a pitiful groan reached Tiberius’s ears. Taking a look at the creator and realizing that he who hesitates is lost, Tiberius turned to the public and slightly raised his voice. It’s true, nothing strengthens the vocal cords and nerves like lecturing in front of young gold-diggers in the mines of academia. Tiberius’s voice easily rose above the hum of the crowd, the background music, and other sounds.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Today the great Naitch calls your attention to a performance called ‘The Artistic Process’! ” And he turned and whispered, “Take your pants off now, you loser.”
The audience applauded, and cameras began clicking. Several hours later, Tiberius and Moopechka were profoundly amused as they watched the news broadcast dedicated to culture: “Today the great Naitch shocked the public with his unusually brave, innovative declaration in the sphere of art. Choosing Venus as the symbol of an aging artifact of a dead and barren classicism, he very passionately and expressively depicted the process of breaking away from the conditionalities of academism…” And so on and so forth.
The Gifts of Bacchus
And then began what Tiberius hated with every fiber of his soul. Evening socializing. One had to go from a bar to a club, then from a club to a bar, everywhere having to drink something and greet someone. At a bar called the Malevolent Hacker, he met Moopechka’s acquaintance Colin, who was a winemaker. In short, Moopechka had friends everywhere. This wonderful creature better than anyone embodied the postulate: “trust everything to God.” His mornings began with a dilemma – where and with whom to have breakfast. And what was interesting was that he always solved this issue, and never paid. And although as someone living on unemployment benefits Moopechka had more money than Tiberius, who worked five days a week, his pockets were always empty within the first few days of the month. And he never knew why. But the reason was fairly clear to Tiberius, from whom Moopechka was always trying to borrow money. The poor guy couldn’t live a single day without buying some kind of “terribly trendy little item.” His apartment, thanks to this lifestyle, closely resembled the warehouse of a fashion store, yet he was always complaining that he had absolutely nothing to wear. This was actually understandable – it was impossible to find anything in that pile of stuff.
“Ah, Colin, hi! Let me introduce you – this is Tiberius, who I’ve told you about so many times. Aren’t you jealous?”
Colin, who up to that moment was reading something intently, jumped up as if he had been stung, and broke into an ecstatic smile.”
“And what is it you are reading?” Moopechka glanced over the shoulder of his friend. “Roquelaure services? What is that?”
All three looked at the advertisement. “Roquelaure services. Just send a text, and you’ll immediately receive the service! Only one hundred thousand dollars. A whole hour offline!”
“I don’t get it,” said Moopechka, scratching his nose, perplexed. “Just to sit for an hour without Internet, one hundred thousand dollars? What’s the big deal?”
“Not just without Internet,” Tiberius said, for the first time in his life looking at an advertisement with interest and affection. “You are completely switched off from the grid. No cameras, no surveillance, you can do anything you want, that is, within the confines of your own apartment.”
“Right. And you want to tell me that the secret police will honestly close their eyes to everything.”
“I don’t think they would bother with such nonsense,” winked the bartender, who, as there were no clients, decided to join the discussion. “They are serious guys. Their job is to kill and torture people, supervise punitive expeditions, investigate secret plots. So, I think you can go ahead and fool around in your own apartment.”
“But weren’t they disbanded?” asked Moopechka, doubtingly. “The secret police? A few years ago? There was some kind of scandal.”
“Yes, I read about it,” said Tiberius absentmindedly. “There was a businessman who committed suicide not entirely on his own, the details came out in the investigation, there was an uproar – something like that, such medieval methods in our humanitarian day and age.”
“And so what?” the bartender shrugged. “They are always being disbanded, then they regroup again. As soon as the noise dies down. This is why I’m sure the Roquelaure service is a safe bet. In our time, a scandal in the press can even destroy monsters like the secret police.”
“But… a hundred thousand! Tibby’s salary is three thousand. And to be honest, I can’t imagine how I’d spend that hour, since everything’s is possible anyway. We live in a free empire.” Moopechka was a bit confused.
“For you,” thought Tiberius. “But not for me. Why, why wasn’t I born like everyone else? Why am I a freak, a pervert, who has to carefully hide his illness?”
“And the name is strange,” snickered Colin.
“Actually, no,” Tiberius objected softly. “‘Roquelaure’ is a black cloak with a hood, used by Venetian men so they wouldn’t be recognized.”
The next twenty minutes were informative. Tiberius, who had a rather outdated concept of winemaking, imagining sun-drenched vineyards and hundred-year-old alpine oak casks, discovered that wine, like the majority of modern-day products, was made at a factory from water and a mixture of interesting chemical substances. And the price of this industrially-produced cocktail was the same for all types of wine. Colin, laughing, added that if one were to increase by a few grams the dosage of two of the components, then the result would be a popular cleaning product found in every apartment.
“One and the same formula, you understand? The rest is the work of designers and PR specialists, as the market needs wine in different price categories. That’s why you never get too drunk from synthetic wine, but you will suffer from the consequences. That’s why I only drink beer,” the celebrated winemaker confided.
“But that’s probably also…”
“Of course. But I don’t know about this.”
And what could one say, knowledge increases sorrow.
“But real alcohol is still sold?”
“We make it. But we make very little, and sell it cheap. So that it’s not prestigious. Almost nobody buys it.
The Labyrinth of the Minotaur
The Gnarly Duck was just exactly like a fashionable club should be. Inside it was cramped, crowded, dark, with strange smells hanging in the air; the noise from the music and the hundreds of voices was so loud that people had to shout, and the light show dazzled the eyes. On the bar countertops, swaying in waves, were the lethargic and somnambulistic body motions of half-naked male and female strippers. Tiberius couldn’t help admiring one of them, who was very young and immaculately built. Her gaze was serene and completely absent. She seemed not to notice where she was and what she was doing, looking off into the distance somewhere above the heads of the dancers. “Exactly like Nausicaa, staring at the sea horizon fruitlessly, knowing that she will never see Odyssey.” No sooner had Tiberius crossed the threshold of the club, when his smartphone began to pester its owner with questions. “Should I show your geolocation? Do you want information about our discounts and special offers?” And so forth, and so on. Tiberius took pleasure in pressing “cancel.” He was in this place for the first time; usually he went to the more democratic “Delirium’, where one could sit quietly at the bar with a glass of wine and boring, guileless sandwiches. Here you had to order a table beforehand, and pay a handsome amount of money in advance. True, this included drinks marked with a star on the menu, a three-minute private dance (Tiberius wracked his brain thinking of how to organize a private dance in a big, open room in front of a table for six) and several items from the “crazy menu’. Moopechka was completely in his element, loudly discussing with Melissa the weekly prize giveaway – today the club was giving away some kind of “Labyrinth of the Minotaur.” Everyone except Tiberius rushed to register for the contest. Tiberius, remembering that a traveler could expect nothing good from the so-named labyrinth, asked for a clarification. It turned out to be nothing special – a typical package of nightclub amusements, except for free. Moreover, Tiberius was completely bored by this typical evening entertainment, and reading the menu not only didn’t help things – on the contrary, it led to a new round of questions. The list read:
– Private dance. Again? he thought.
– A thematic costume striptease. What could that mean?
– The smearing and subsequent licking off of cream from the body of the minotaur. Cream: no cholesterol, zero calories, only natural ingredients… The poor minotaur.
– Oral sex. Who does it to whom? They need to be more specific.
Tiberius opened the menu. It had a retro look, leather-bound on thick, textured paper. The first page provided information that was succinct and easy to understand: “Narcotics.” This was followed by a long list, including terms that Tiberius knew, like “cocaine’, “hashish’, and so forth, as well as the mysterious “Kiss of the Geisha’, “Anjelica, kidnapped by pirates’. A professional consultant was needed.
“Paul,” Tiberius said, showing Moopechka the menu, “what is this?”
“This, my little dearie, is a cocktail of narcotics. For example, ‘Cinderella’s Slipper’ is a combination of amphetamines and acid.”
“Then they forgot to write, ‘For use near a cemetery’.”
“No, silly. It’s like with alcohol – everything is synthetic. It’s completely safe, non-addictive, and the effect lasts about fifteen minutes. Eh, if they weren’t so expensive…” Moopechka rolled his eyes dreamily… “I would go from one of these wonderful things to another all day.”
“Well, it makes sense,” thought Tiberius. “You could say, with care and concern for society. After all, each of us has his own narcotic.” He remembered a neighbor, a gamer, who lived across the wall. Tiberius saw him only once, when he moved into his new apartment, and it seemed like he had never left the place even once. Pale, skinny, he greeted Tiberius, who had returned from his morning run, so timidly and quietly that the latter had to guess what he was saying. This inhabitant of a virtual world ordered food from a delivery service; where he got his money from, one could only surmise. But there, in his magical, mysterious land, he was probably working miracles, flying on dragons or whatever else they do there. The walls in modern apartments were so thin, clearly for easier spying on those who were so indifferent to the fate of humanity, like Mister Stern. And until Tiberius completed a thorough soundproofing, he heard practically all the neighbors – to the right, below and above – except for him. Only occasionally in awhile did the door open, to let in a delivery, and the sound of bare feet treading to the bathroom and back. Oh great Internet, you opened an entire world for humankind, locking him into his own four walls!
There were a few more pages of synthetic alcohol with the constant promotional message about how safe – “light, fast-disappearing effect’, healthy – “contains vitamin additives’, and fashionable – “Catch the wave! Turn on to the world of bright experiences.” A black sheep at the end of the colorful list indicated a couple of brands of “real Scotch whiskey’ (bearing in mind that Scotland had long sing passed away), a dubious wine and five lines of fine print with a frightening warning: “Alcohol is contraindicated for those with even the slightest health problems, people working at enterprises, office workers, children under the age of twenty-one’ etc. etc. At the bottom was a vignette in the form of a beautiful funeral wreath. “They could have written right away ‘contraindicated for everyone’, ” Tiberius thought, amused. Flipping through half of this hefty volume, he looked through the food options and made his choice, something called the pinnacle of French cuisine, but in reality was a slightly flame-seared piece of decent filet steak. Under the section “Chef’s choice” he found the eponymously named house specialty of the Gnarly Duck club. Tiberius with all his heart that the duck met a violent death. While the general public took a whole hour selecting the wine, with Moopechka especially ranting and raving, and decisively tiring everyone out with his comparisons of wine bouquets and aftertastes (and this after hearing in detail how they were made), Tiberius quietly slipped away toward the bar. The end of an entertaining and informative evening of socializing was drawing near, as was the trip home. He wouldn’t be able to get rid of Paul, of course, and he would probably spend the night. He had to mentally prepare himself.
“Whiskey. Bowmore.”
“Oh, of course. Ice, club soda?” smiled the young bartender, effeminately stretching toward the sparkling, mirrored shelf where pot-bellied bottles stood, their amber sides gleaming.
“No, the real thing.”
The smile instantly faded, the young man’s face stretched, and he looked at the strange client with genuine surprise.
“But… why? Have something normal, modern. A light, quickly-passing effect.”
“Today I’m afraid I need something heavy and long-lasting,” Tiberius chuckled.
“In that case… May I?”
“Of course,” Tiberius smiled, extending his hand, patiently waiting while the bartender checked his documents, record of convictions, medical restrictions and insurance coverage.
“You’re new, aren’t you?” asked Tiberius, staring point-blank at the bartender with his impenetrable black eyes. “And I’m you’re first?”
“No…” the youth mumbled, blushing, but then, suddenly understanding the meaning of the question, became even more embarrassed and red-faced. “I mean, yes, I’ve been working here one month, and so far no one has asked for real whiskey.”
Hoping to smooth over the awkward situation, he quickly and obsequiously asked, “How much? A single, a double?”
Tiberius threw a casual glance in the direction of their table. Colin was explaining something to Moopechka, seriously and intently, and the latter, his eyes bulging with zeal, for some reason trying to stuff a huge banana into his mouth. Whole. Unfortunately for Tiberius, with the heavy stare, the whole group turned toward him. Moopechka, with a banana in his mouth, waved at him with both hands. Melissa, pointing at Moopechka, made a heart shape with her fingers; Colin broke out into a sugary sweet smile. Tiberius swallowed.
“The whole bottle, please.”
Tiberius gulped down the first drink, and an invigorating warmth spread throughout his chest, his taut nerves relaxed a bit. He sat down, talked some more with the bartender, and turned his back to the stark reality in the shape of Moopechka and friends, and five minutes went by peacefully and pleasantly. However, as a certain romantic poet put it, nothing under the moon lasts forever. Someone’s hand playfully touched his hip, and Tiberius woke from his sweet reverie of peace and solitude.
“Tibby. Colin and I were discussing the problems of our private life,” Moopechka reported in a low voice.
“Your and his?” Tiberius carefully asked with a certain hope.
“No, of course. Yours and mine. It’s time for us to try something new.”
“What?”
“Well, I mean role-plays. Like all normal couples. For example, a little sadomasochism would really liven up our sex life. I have some cute little handcuffs and a whip, and quite a few marvellous toys.”
Tiberius’s imagined painted an enticing scene – Moopechka, tightly handcuffed to the bed, with a mouth gag (so the indignance would be silent), and he himself would calmly work in peace and quiet all evening. “Hey, great idea.”
Moopechka stuck his nose into Tiberius’s glass, and recoiled.
“You’re drinking real whiskey again? What is this… every time we have a date, you get drunk, and then you’re always rude, savage, insensitive, and cruel,” said Moopechka, tears welling in his eyes, “and there’s never any foreplay, just immediately…”
He sniffed and looked at Tiberius so piteously that the latter nearly relented. The bartender listed to this disjointed but fairly loud monologue with great interest, after which, glancing with admiration at Tiberius, told Moopechka with poorly disguised jealousy:
“You really struck it lucky, man!
Tiberius, grabbing the bottle and glass, returned to the table, leaving Moopechka to pour out his grief to the grateful listener. But there he found no peace.
“Tiberius, meet Melissa!”
Colin was dragging by the arm a rather extravagant woman. Tiberius understood immediately – a bohemian. The woman of art can be seen from a mile away – frequently, instead of attracting attention with their creativity, they attract it with their external appearance. With Melissa, the second one was true. She looked as if she had jumped out of an anime cartoon: hair colored candy-red, striped stockings, a dress suggesting a fairy-tale princess, but even for a fairy-tale princess it was too short. “Fantastic manicure, means she isn’t a writer or an artist. She’s either a designer or a photographer,” thought Tiberius. “Probably a photographer; designers sometimes have to do business with clients, and so they have a slightly different approach to their image.” His guess turned out to be true; no sooner had they met, than Tiberius was forcibly seated in order to view Melissa’s photo album. This masterpiece was called “Dreams about the fantastical” and amounted to a series of photos of languid, half-nude boys and girls, their faces made up in all sorts of ways, and draped in transparent and half-transparent fabric. Tiberius was immediately offered the chance to pose for the next photo shoot as a romantic knight: “You, against a backdrop of wild cliffs, unsheathe your large sword…” Tiberius was saved from following description of his deplorable fate by the appearance of a new member of the group, a girl named Evelyn Young. She turned out to be an employee at a human rights organization, and a ferocious supporter of a society for the protection of animals. Things started to heat up at the table. Melissa “number one” was compelled to prove that her mink coat was fake, and Melissa “number two” apologized for the leather purse, professing her innocence – it was a gift from a female fan! Then, finally, the food that was ordered an hour ago was served. Evelyn succumbed to a critical evaluation of everyone’s plates. Everyone froze before their desserts and salads, while Tiberius unabashedly turned his attention to his bloody steak. Retribution did not take long to crash down upon his rebellious head.
“How can you eat the flesh of a slaughtered animal! Allow me to close my eyes and not look at this!” Evelyn dramatically covered her eyes with one hand and turned away.
Tiberius did not react at all. Sprinkling freshly-ground black pepper on the steaming piece of meat, he was about to tuck into his meal with pleasure. But it wasn’t to be. Evelyn did not abide by her own words – not only could she not keep her eyes shut, but her mouth as well. Furiously raising a plate of sliced apples, she returned to her sermon:
“This is monstrous! I can’t watch this in silence!”
“Why not?” politely asked Tiberius.
“I’m – a fruitarian!”
“What?”
“I don’t eat the flesh of slaughtered animals! That poor bull wanted to live, and because of you… because of you they killed him! Fruitarians eat only fruit that falls to the ground, we don’t tolerate any violence, we eat only that which is natural from the point of view of nature. But this – this is corpse-eating!”
With a picturesque loathing she squinted at Tiberius’s plate, and he, without any embarrassment, began to eat.
“But…” he said, thoughtfully pouring sauce on his meat, “if we’re talking about fruit. Have you ever wondered why they fell on the ground? That’s right, so that their seeds would end up in the soil, that is, to continue the reproductive process. That is, right now you are eating pregnant women. And by the way,” Tiberius added, humorously looking at Eve, who had gone slightly pale, “I would hasten to assure you that if these apples truly fell on the ground, then they were not sent to the store by a respectable supplier.”
At that moment the waiter approached them, wobbling on skinny high heels, carrying a tray laden with glasses. Young and wicked-looking, he surveyed the entire company at the table with an exacting look, and flashed a dazzling smile at Tiberius. Heaving onto the table the wine ordered by Moopechka, he needlessly adjusted Tiberius’s napkin and, throwing him an expressive look, departed. Under the napkin a few minutes later he found a business card with a phone number and an urgent appeal to call. Thinking for a bit, Tiberius quietly placed it into Evelyn’s handbag.
“Colin, enlighten me – you said that the formula is absolutely the same, and only the aromatizer determines whether the wine will be a prestigious brand or a cheap table wine. Then why, despite the identical production cost, a bottle of fake Chateau Petrus, like a hundred years ago, costs an entire fortune?”
“Well, this is obvious,” Colin smiled his professional sales manager smile, that is, paternally condescending, “if someone has the money, they will want to buy the most expensive wine.”
“But why? It’s one and the same garb… I mean healthy beverage.”
“You’re forgetting the most important thing – prestige. Look at how those young men at the next table is watching us, sitting there with his common, cheap Chablis.
Tiberius was not convinced that it was worth throwing away a hundred dollars for an envious look from a bunch of young men, but since he had firmly decided to try to be good today, he didn’t protest. Understanding that Moopechka was not impressed by the Russian classic novel, he secretly ordered something more substantial and traditional – a teddy bear and a bouquet of flowers, which was called “Pride of the Queens.” He didn’t have to be very secretive about it. When a group of friends gets together for a meal, it’s completely natural that everyone sits at the table poking at their smartphones, and they eat with their free hand, not looking at anything else.
Since Tiberius made purchases like a typical man, that is, in a hurry and without reading, the result surprised him a little. And he wasn’t alone. When the glass doors opened silently, letting in the courier, whose thin legs trembled and bent under the weight of a gigantic, scary-looking bear, mentioned in the catalog as a “cute little surprise’, everyone was dumbstruck. The “Pride of the Queens” was also surprising, but in the opposite sense. Before presenting it to Paul, Tiberius snickered as he held in his hand something that looked more like a corsage than the luxurious bouquet in the photograph. Either the florist had a weird sense of humor when naming his creation, or else he had a equally small opinion of the honor and dignity of the above-mentioned persons, God only knew. But Moopechka was completely ecstatic, and Tiberius noticed with an involuntary smile how he was circling in an improvised dance with the horrible bear as a partner. In short, an aging Christopher Robin. Finally he got tired and flopped down at the table, setting the bear between Tiberius and himself.
