Kitabı oku: «Libertionne», sayfa 6

“He’s so… big,” smiled Melissa.

“Everything about Tibby is rather big,” Moopechka giggled.

Tiberius choked on his “fake Merlot.” And then he turned sharply, because the sound he heard behind his back could have been made only by a person who had just experienced a serious attack of asthma. It turned out that medical attention wasn’t required; while Michael could have perhaps rendered some assistance in this situation, but he himself told Tiberius that there are cases where medicine is powerless to help. Moopechka, both Melissas and Colin were acting like members of an Amazonian tribe who were seeing an airplane land for the first time. Evelyn Young, to her credit, did not change her expression, fully occupied with apples and the censure of the despicable flesh-eaters, this time in her Bodybook app, since Tiberius was not scared.

“It’s Don Largo!” Colin whispered, not looking away from the monitor. “He came to our club, and now we’re going to see him for real!”

His excitement caused him to put his napkin, instead of a piece of lettuce, into his mouth and continued to chew, oblivious. Even Tiberius was interested. What was all the fuss? The crowd at the entrance started to thicken, like bees swarming around an uninvited guest who is after their honey. Finally it was possible to see the person responsible for this pandemonium.

“Who is he, anyway?” Tiberius, out of touch with celebrity life, asked Moopechka, who was in a strange and complicated state of mind halfway between orgasm and catatonic stupor.

“What, you don’t know Don Largo? How is that possible? He’s an entertainer, the king of happenings and parties, he’s so famous!”

“Really? So what does he actually do?” Tiberius asked, looking at the man clad in black leather with metal spikes. Dark hair shaved on the sides, a complicated construction on top of braids and free strands, his head wrapped in tattoos of thorny branches that ran down his neck.

No one could answer that question, but this did not detract from their adoration. The celebrity, his fans clinging to him like burrs to a water spaniel, moved toward the stage. The group at the table decided to have a loud discussion about how this Don was impenetrable, how nobody knew anything about his private life, even though a brave and fearless team of paparazzi worked in shifts in all places where he might be. Only Evelyn refrained from participation in this feast of reason and outpouring of souls. She sat sadly over a plate of pears now, and Tiberius began to think that fruitarianism, perhaps, could even beat buddhist ascetics at their own game. Their menu was more varied, for one. He quietly nudged Moopechka, and the latter, a kind soul, immediately understood – he told her a fresh joke and presented her with his “Pride of the Queens.”

It is surprising how simple flowers can change a woman’s mood! No matter what radical political outlook she might subscribe to, or what strange sect she belongs. Evelyn lit up immediately, the pink returned to her cheeks, and she nearly even smiled. And, perhaps, peace and prosperity might have continued its winning streak this evening, but, as everyone knows, bad luck never sleeps. As soon as a person relaxes, his vigilance goes to sleep, and fate will overtake him like a deadly heat in a waterless desert.

The waiter brought Tiberius the carpaccio he had ordered, and not only brought it, but accidently set it in front of Evelyn. With the same effect, Dante could have been served at a banquet with the head of his beloved Beatrice with oyster sauce. In order not to embarrass this respectable institution with horrible shrieking, Tiberius had to use a little force, placing his hand over the mouth of the enraged defender of animal rights. This was, of course, not very polite, but it was absolutely necessary. Evelyn struggled in Tiberius’s iron grip for a while, then went limp, and he decided that the time had come to let this springtime swallow fly free. He was mistaken.

“How can a civilized person even stand the sight of this ripped and bleeding piece of flesh, which literally screams of monstrous cruelty?!” she shouted.

“Flesh, strictly speaking, is silent,” Tiberius cold-bloodedly retorted. “You are the one who is screaming. And you are ruining the evening for everyone here.”

“Eve, it’s better not to argue with him,” Moopechka said softly, almost begged. “He’s a bit of a tyrant, and he’ll get his way no matter what.”

“Don’t you dare defend him!” Evelyn snapped, and glared at Moopechka’s cake. “Eggs!” she cried, gnashing her teeth, “that cake contains eggs. The unborn embryos of future chickens!

Moopechka turned pale.

“And in your hands you are holding the amputated sex organs of plants,” Tiberius calmed noted, pointing to the bouquet of flowers that Evelyn was still mechanically squeezing. “And the worst thing is, just imagine, these poor flowers bloomed for love, but the cruel hand of the gardener castrated them at the very dawn of their brief and fragile childhood. And then…”

Tiberius, tiring of the relentless tugging of his hand, gently and tenderly hugged Paul. The poor guy’s bones crunched, and he calmed down, like a trapped pigeon.

“… and after that, still clinging to life with the perseverance of a soldier crippled but not killed, they are mercilessly ripped out of the ground by the roots, to be burned, mind you, alive. And in their place, the next mortals are planted. All of the above applies to fruits and vegetables,” summed up Tiberius.

And he started on his carpaccio, the rascal.

However, the punishing hand of fate did not pass over him with its vengeance. Behind the tables was some activity, conversations stopped, and the guests of the restaurant turned to the wall-mounted monitors. The moment had arrived for the daily prize to be drawn. Mupochka fidgeted in his chair, rocking from side to side with impatience, and even the sour, sickly Evelyn expressed interest – stiffening and standing at attention, acquiring a surprising resemblance to a hunting dog, which has stood in the rack. Tiberius did not pay any attention to it whatsoever. The voice of the invisible DJ rose above the roar and rumble of music, mixed with the strong cocktail of human voices. “The voice of God”, mockingly thought Tiberius, before his consciousness met his own name.

“And tonight’s winner, who will take home the prize ‘Labyrinth of the Minotaur’ i-i-i-is…. Tiberius Crown! Let’s hear it, folks!”

The room erupted in envious applause.

“What? How?” Tiberius looked around the room in confusion. “I didn’t even sign up for this stup… pointless lottery! I turned off my geolocation. Why?!”

“Silly, you turned it off for your friends,” Moopechka cooed tenderly. “but for serious people, like the government, or stores, or clubs, your switch-offs… Hey, you know. It’s like running into some hooligans on the street. Forbid them, don’t forbid them. Their still going to do whatever they want to your butt. I know this.”

Tiberius moaned. But then an idea popped into his head to save him. “Maybe I should just pay the young man, and not use his services.” Encouraged by cheers of approval, he stumbled over a gold brocade curtain, taking with him a rescue bottle of whiskey. He found himself in a fairly dark, stuffy room. The air conditioner was on full blast, but it wasn’t enough to eliminate the mixed odors of perfume, powders, warm bodies, and caustic and suffocating air fresheners. He could see them – two large cups filled with multi-colored, dried leaves, flowers, and cotton balls. Thin wisps of smoke rose from them, making the room even more inappropriate for breathing. Tiberius sat on a couch, taking a large, precautionary sip from his bottle.

Finally from the speakers emanated a stylized, antique-sounding music, and the minotaur dashed into the room. The face of the male striptease dancer was half-covered by a gold mask, depicting a sharp-horned bull. The body was also covered in gold; except for a mask, tunic and caligae, the improvised minotaur had nothing on. There was also a long tail, with a brush at the end that was dragging on the floor. The other end disappeared between the minotaur’s legs.

How uncomfortable it must be for him to dance with that costume, Tiberius thought, pitying the poor guy. And why is he gold? Did they confuse him with the legend of the golden calf? And people want to close down the history department.

Performing something that was supposed to signify the dance of an ancient Greek warrior, the minotaur got rid of his tunic, which didn’t take much time, and stopped in front of Tiberius. Thinking that the first two stages of the program were complete, Tiberius quickly said, “No cream, please. I have an allergy, you know.”

The Minotaur sighed with relief and dropped to its knees in front of the client. Tiberius did not feel uplifted. Not that he was at all squeamish, but today for some reason he was not drawn toward the priests of commercial love.

“You know, to be honest, today I’m not in the mood. I drank a lot. That’s right.” Tiberius showed his half-empty bottle. “Let’s just say the show is over, okay? I’d like to tip you…”

He reached over to the table, where he had already noticed a payment sensor, but the minotaur stopped him with a pleading gesture.

“Sir, please! Just let me give you some pleasure!”

Tiberius’s eyes widened. “Of course it’s admirable that someone loves their work so much, and so approaches his official duties so fervently, but it’s a little strange. The client has no complaints, everything is paid for, why are you so enthusiastic?”

“You see, I’m in my trial period,” the unhappy minotaur began to explain, haltingly. “There are two weeks left, and the administration is watching closely. What will they say if nobody wants me, even for free? Up to now, I’ve had only the best reviews.”

“What, I have to write a review as well?”

“Well, just a small form to fill out. Here,” the minotaur nimbly ducked under the table, which was draped like a sacrificial altar, and extracted from its dark nether regions a sheet of lined paper.

Tiberius read from the top. “Assessment report of the activity”… – “Not my luck today.” He always felt sorry for trainees. Powerless creatures, their entire career was at risk because of someone’s bad review.

“Let me fill it out,” he signed, taking the piece of paper.

The minotaur fell on his knees before him for the second time.

“You can’t do it so easily! The camera will see it.” He took Tiberius by his lifeless arm. “You’ll like it! I have, you know, talent.”

And then, not waiting for a decision, got down to business. Tiberius closed his eyes and tried to imagine the same doomed Nausicaa, dreamily wiggling her hips over the polished bar countertop. It didn’t work. There were definitely men’s hands touching his thighs, men’s lips expertly but unsuccessfully performing their work. “Okay, let’s try again. We’ll make Nausicaa lay down on the bar. No – the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. No. It’s not happening. Maybe some more whiskey. Aqua vitae. Now why aren’t you working? According to legend, you can raise the dead. Looks like not completely… OK, one last try… No way… Sorry, minotaur.” He opened his eyes and looked at the genuflecting youth. He had seen those eyes and hands somewhere before. Definitely. And very recently. They held a scroll in a brown envelope.

“Sam?” he queried, then, not waiting for a reply, he literally grabbed the bull by the horns and pulled off the gold mask.

To be honest, his student didn’t look particularly confused. Disappointed, but only slightly. But Tiberius flew into a rage.

“My best student! Here?” His voice acquired a poisonous quality. “And going through a trial period! Three different departments wanted you as a graduate student, but you said you had a better career opportunity.” Tiberius gestured widely at the improvised boudoir. “Really?”

“It’s true!” said Sam, still on his knees, but raising his head proudly. “Judge for yourself, sir – when they give me an official contract here, I will be making a thousand a night, plus tips.”

“Who would argue?” Tiberius snorted, “I always said the main thing is to find a profession where you can use your best talents.”

He picked up the end of the long tail. Sam looked into his eyes hopefully.

“Sir, why don’t we try it one more time?”

“Sit!” barked Tiberius, only now remembering that he was still sitting with his pants undone in front of a student of his, albeit a former one.

Sam jumped up timidly (recent seminars suddenly came to life in his memory), trying to sit next to his professor on the couch, but failing. The tail got in the way.

“So tell me,” Tiberius began sarcastically, when they ended up reaching a diplomatic agreement instead of going to war, “how is everything organized here? Pensions, vacations, overtime pay? Tell me, I’ve always been interested in what my best students end up doing, how their careers pan out.”

They ordered coffee and chatted for another ten minutes. But meanwhile at the Gnarly Duck, passions were flaring.

“He doesn’t love me at all,” Moopechka whined to the world-wise Colin. “Each time I have to beg him for sex. And he never even takes off his shirt! And he’s never kissed me!”

“Then leave him.”

“I can’t. He’s so handsome and strong, and smart…”

“I see.” Colin glanced condescendingly at the unfortunate victim of hopeless passion. “In that case, here’s the best thing to do…”

And then he poked a finger at a menu item: The Secret of Priapus! Just one gram of pure sexuality, and you will turn into an unbridled stallion!

“Do you think one gram will be enough?” Moopechka asked anxiously.

“Better take three; he’s pretty big.”

A tough night

Tiberius decided not to sit around in the boudoir. The young man was on the clock, and enough was enough. He went back to the table unnoticed, poured himself some more whiskey and fell into a sleepy drunken state. Colin was babbling about something, and Moopechka and both Melissas were discussing a burning question: how to take a photo with the immortal Don Largo in the background so that it would look like they were together? Tiberius, who was fairly drunk, made an unexpected, strategic proposal.

“Why don’t you just go up to him and ask?”

They hissed and waved their hands at him; it was as if he had suggested they go to a club with the emperor himself. At that moment his smartphone went off – a message from his insurance company. If he didn’t immediately stop the intake of alcohol into his blood (that’s what was written!), they would immediately raise the price of his medical insurance by twenty percent. Tiberius pulled himself together. He was pretty far gone; one mustn’t get so completely relaxed.

“Paul,” he shouted to Moopechka without turning, “pour me some water, please.”

“Of course,” came the reply, with a treacherous smile.

And, encouraged by Melissa “number two”, he passed Tiberius a glass to which the Secret of Priapus had been quietly added. All three grams right away.

Tiberius drank the water with a single gulp, and only at the very end did he notice a strange honey flavor. All the blood drained from his face and went to another place, slightly lower, the room was floating in colored lights, and sounds flowed together in strange, intrusive buzzing of notes. And something soft hit him in the back of the head. Already falling into a darkness filled with brightly shining stars, he abruptly got up from the table, leaning on an unsteady hand.

And then, all at once, everything disappeared.

The subsequent events melted together into a sparkling fireworks display, with crazy bursts of color; he returned to reality, only to be thrown again into the delirious darkness. The first time he woke up, he was in the middle of the dance floor – in one hand was a nearly empty bottle of whiskey, and in the other, two laughing girls who were clicking their cameras like crazy. Fortunately, he was able to recite from the stage Tennyson’s fairly politically correct “Lotus Eaters”. Tiberius looked around. Hands were reaching for him from all sides, all around he saw flushed, half-mad ecstatic faces, the music was like red-hot nails being driven into the brain, and the strobes from the light show was blinding him. The survival instinct demanded that he immediately leave this monstrous place, and he drank the rest of the bottle in one gulp.

Again there was darkness.

When consciousness returned for a second time, he found himself in clearly friendly company, in a recreation area. Here the music was blaring quieter, there were drinks on low glass tables, and across from him on the couch he saw Moopechka with two unfamiliar girls. They were talking, and joking with him, and he was responding. Colin, who, journalists later discovered, had unsuccessfully tried to attract Tiberius’s attention, ultimately did not come up with anything better than to poke his little finger under his shoulder blade. His besotted brain was thinking very slowly, but his body hardened over the years by training worked perfectly and instantly. Just a moment before, Tiberius had been sitting, relaxed, his eyes half closed; then like lightning he turned and grabbed Colin’s wrist, knocked away a nonexistent knife, and sent him flat onto his back. The gray eyes staring in horror seemed vaguely familiar, and Tiberius loosened his grip.

“Sorry,” he murmured, releasing his victim.

An already familiar bartender appeared nearby and obligingly handed him a glass of whiskey.

“Sir, you need to relax.”

The last thing he heard before he fell back into oblivion was the melodious and ecstatic voice of Melissa.

“Tiberius, how did you earn a living before you started to teach history?”

…The dark spots in front of his eyes start to clear, and he hears his own voice, confident and clear, as if he is teaching in his department: “More water, please. And so. Freedom is a myth, Evelyn. You, as an employee of an organization for the protection of human rights should know this well. As for myself, I’m not saying that absolute freedom is a good thing, but for some reason, the more a certain group of people is called to it, the more blood it is going to shed.”

“No, that’s not it,” Evelyn Young hotly objected. “We live in a free empire. We have democracy, openness, freedom of speech.”

“We have no freedom of speech. If you mean the right to go yell in this ridiculous park, then I’d like to remind you that there are a lot of things you can’t yell about there.”

“No, of course, you can’t say anything that insults someone’s honor, or incite violence…”

“Evelyn, try to go out on the street and declare that heterosexualism is not perversion. And to fight for the rights of heterosexuals. This is not a call to violence and does not insult anyone’s honor. And then you will see what kind of freedom of speech we have.”

If only Tiberius had known how much he would have to pay for these words, which he would never have spoken while sober! Moopechka turned pale with horror, and then, his eyes resembling those of a lemur, he quickly filled Tiberius’s glass with a tea-colored liquid and shoved it into his hand.,

Again he nodded off.

The next image: he is standing, holding onto the surface of a perforated steel supporting column; the column is somehow swinging, as is the floor beneath it; on his arm hangs Mupochka, plaintively asking about something, looking unhappy. “That’s awful. What’s the matter?” Tiberius raised his bleary eyes and saw in front of him Don Largo, caught in the beam of a spotlight. “Oh, I see, he probably wants to be photographed. This is why Melissa and they were worried.” Tiberius tried to focus on the show business idol. “Nothing special, just some overdressed peacock, honestly. And then he dares to reject my friends? Now I’m going to take care of this…”

…He finally regained permanent consciousness in a taxi. His own car, Paul told him, absolutely refused to take him home, because the incoherent speech of its owner indicated that he was extremely intoxicated. And drivers in such a condition are not only prohibited from sitting in the driver’s seat – they aren’t allowed in the vehicle at all. After Tiberius was unable to correctly recite, even a second time, the tongue-twister that was generated, the car angrily shut down, but not before it informed him that he would need to present a narcologist’s report before it would make the next trip.

The taxi showed less indifference. Moopechka apologized on the way for the Secret of Priapus and carefully inquired about what exactly his Honey Bunny remembered about what had happened. When he found out it was practically nothing, he almost felt glad. The fragile world had been restored.

As soon as he walked into the apartment, Tiberius made a beeline for the bathroom where, after retrieving a special first-aid kit from a secret compartment under the sink, he injected himself with an antidote right through his pants. The cursed haze melted before his eyes, his head stopped spinning on its own axis, and his thoughts, at last, became clearer. It was awful that the memories of the previous night’s events did not return, and that there was no trace of the intoxication. The hops was gone. The threat of a night of passionate love, however, still existed. However, there was a decent option for salvation which had rescued Tiberius on several occasions.

“Paul!” he cried, poking his head out of the bathroom. “I’ll be in the shower, and you’ll play for a while, okay?”

“Well, I, basically, don’t want to,” indecisively murmured Moopechka, with the tone of voice of a chronic alcoholic who has just been offered a glass of superb cognac.

“I’m going to be bathing anyway,” Tiberius informed him in an innocent voice. “And you can quickly come in for five minutes, that’s all.”

“Oh, just for five minutes,” Moopechka licked his lips, and quickly added “I’ve got big plans for you today. Because you are always like that… in a hurry. You don’t even get undressed.

Tiberius again felt annoyed.

“You’re like Psyche, who tortured Cupid about this. It all ended badly.”

“Really? How? And who is this Psyche?”

Tiberius tried to explain in a way that Moopechka would understand.

“A mortal woman. She loved Cupid. The ancient Greek god of love, if you don’t know. He seduced her with words, and not only. They met in the darkness, and Psyche didn’t see what her lover looked like. She had to wait three months, and then he promised to marry her. This means to fill out a marriage license, only for an unlimited time. But her feminine curiosity led her to take a lamp and have a look at her beloved. The lamp dripped oil on his chest. Hot oil. He awoke, took offense and flew away.

“Oh,” said Moopechka, impressed. “She should have been more careful. With the lamp.”

“She shouldn’t have stuck her nose where it didn’t belong,” hissed Tiberius and slammed the door.

“Tibby!” Moopechka looked with interest at the bloody streaks that added color to the impossibly snow-white walls. “What an interesting design! Was this done by hand? Did it cost a lot?”

“No, not really,” Tiberius smirked.

“It’s creative,” Moopechka nodded approvingly, and sat down at the computer.

Now the coast was clear. The culmination of the evening was near – that is, the illegal book. He turned out the lights, and then, using a special flashlight, pulled out a small, unregistered smartphone. He looked toward the closed door again, then switched on his most valuable thing. He scrolled through the list of books stored in this tiny, unassuming storage device. To what lengths people went through to find them, buy them, and, most importantly, to hide them. His experience as a professional historian was helpful, very helpful. Access to secret archives, permission to examine them. And then came the methods he learned at his previous job. A real job. Thus he became the owner of ten thousand books; for the possession of each one of them he would face at least two years in prison.

Today’s selection was “Undine” by Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué. Tiberius had read it before, but today for some reason he was pulled toward it again.

He remembered the golden, tousled hair, the iridescent, greenish eyes, and their tragic maelstrom. And the taste of her gentle lips, opened in a silent scream, so warm and soft. He sat on the edge of the bathtub, as there was nowhere else. The already small bathroom in Tiberius’s typical apartment was even smaller because of the secret compartment built into the wall. Like a serial killer who cannot part with the victims’ blouses, he could not keep away from his beloved books. A small button, invisible to prying eyes, opened an entire cabinet, which held the real printed books that were most dear to his heart. Of course, the lion’s share of his treasures were a hundred kilometers away, and difficult to access, so how could he live for endless weeks without the wonderful smell of old paper, fine hand-made drawings, and worn leather bindings? Already not afraid of Paul, who was just a meter away on the other side of the thin glass partition, he opened his treasury and gently traced the binding of the real, living, non-electronic “Undine” and took it out of the closet. An hour passed, then another. The antidote started to wear off, and the dizziness and weakness returned, to be expected after such a disgraceful series of events. But he could not bring himself to stop. His headache and intoxication grew stronger – he had to sleep. Finally, Tiberius put the book back and carefully peered into the main room. There he was – Moopechka in headphones, frozen in front of the monitor, only his fingers showing signs of life, a very active one.

“Paul?”

“Just a minute. These guys have invited me to a raid, and there are only three bosses left.”

“Of course, of course. Don’t hurry.”

Yes! In the best case scenario, it would end in the morning. During that time, even the victim of the Secret of Priapus is entitled to a legitimate dream. Tiberius quietly made his way to his bed, trying not to attract attention. And he went to sleep as usual, when there were guests at his place, without undressing.