Libertionne
Anna Tishchenko
Cover designer Anna Tishchenko
© Anna Tishchenko, 2023
© Anna Tishchenko, cover design, 2023
ISBN 978-5-0053-1755-1
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
Freedom is the greatest myth ever created by mankind. And like all things unattainable, it is beautiful, perfect.
Libertionne
12 May 2078
Bright rays of sunlight pierced the dull haze of the spring sky, pouring liquid gold onto the polished roofs of automobiles, then slipping lower, down to where the icy crystals of skyscrapers grew from the murky desert sidewalks, hitting countless panels of glass before fragmenting and fading into nothingness. The pale morning sun had appeared over the huge imperial city of Libertionne.
Tiberius Crown, reclining on the leather seat of his Mercedes, was looking out the window. His eyes were blind to the thousands of virtual billboards that floated by: “Superfast breakfast cereal – any flavor!” “Superslim – lose three kilograms per day, no artificial ingredients!” “Young? Successful? Rich? Impotent? Our formula will bring back your erection in just a few days!” “Viagra. Improved formula – your boyfriend will be ecstatic!” “Lonely? At the Club Lady Safo we guarantee that you’ll find a girlfriend”… But Tiberius’s thoughts were far away, in the rector’s office of Libertionne State University.
Why is she calling me in first thing in the morning, on the day of exams? Tiberius wondered. We could talk later today – I have so few students in the history department, and I’d be free in two hours. He suddenly realized that he had been sitting in a traffic jam staring at a poster aggressively pushing a sexual stimulant that guaranteed multiple orgasms no matter where you applied it (“It’ll put Adam and Eve back in the Garden of Eden”). Tiberius annoyedly poked at the button on the plasma screen. The glass obediently went dark, hiding the street from view, but now along the edge crawled a blinding, scarlet line of advertising text. After a third unsuccessful attempt to turn off the advertisements, he remembered that the previous day he was supposed to renew his monthly payment subscription; now he would have to look at the crawling text until the end of his ride. Cursing quietly, he opened the window, then chuckled. It used to be that people would pay money to get something; now we pay not to get something.
A traffic jam had formed on the air route. Hundreds of thousands of cars, aligned in a multicolored ribbon, obediently waited their turn, their lacquered sides glinting in the light. Down below on the sidewalks, which were growing dark in the shadows of the houses, there were practically no signs of life except for the occasional ambulance or police car.
“Switch to manual control,” Tiberius grumbled.
Now dive down a hundred meters, and you’ll be hurtling along an empty road, all alone…
“Sorry, sir, that’s impossible,” a woman’s voice emanated from the speaker, polite but completely disinterested. “Today is Friday, and you may only use manual control on weekends.”
“Damn! I completely forgot.”
“Sir, you have broken the law. Under Article 13456, Clause 561, profanity is deemed an administrative offence. Would you like to pay the fine now?”
“What the…” he stopped himself in time.
“Did you want to say something, sir?”
“No, no, nothing.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“But this can’t be – I’m not allowed to say anything out loud in my own car?”
“You can, sir, but according to…”
“That was a rhetorical question,” Tiberius interrupted, irritated, “and yes, transfer the money from the card right now.”
He wearily leaned back on the seat back. No, I have to pull myself together. My lack of self-control has just cost me two hundred dollars. And it’s a good thing I swore in my own car. How much would it cost me at a lecture? Probably a thousand – a third of my salary. But wait, he chuckled. I still haven’t commented on Adam and Eve, or their fall from grace that led to the creation and development of mankind, right up to the peace and happiness that exists today. I wanted to. But that joke would cost me six years in prison, or a mandatory course of therapy and psychology, which could be worse Or have they already increased the punishment for propagandizing heterosexual love? Seems that something like this was in the news recently. I need to find out from that idiot woman. Feeling happy that at least in his thoughts he could express himself, in his own car, as he chose, Tiberius already wanted to ask a question, but he didn’t have time. The car quickly and smoothly descended down to a huge granite staircase, where a multitude of students were ascending and descending.
“We have arrived at our destination, sir. I will go and park; have a good day.”
“I hope you spend a long time looking for a parking space,” muttered Tiberius as he clambered out. The fury on his uncontrollable tongue, as usual, was redirected toward the innocent car. With a quick, long stride he walked through the archway of Libertionne University, where the inscription “Unity, tolerance, freedom” was written in huge gold letters. Looking at his wrist for the time, he remembered that he was forbidden to wear outdated, mechanical watches, and now his wrist was adorned with a modern smartwatch. He spent three minutes leaving the social network Bodybook, then a slew of virtual stores, news items, and advertisements, and finally he saw what time it was. Twenty minutes before the lecture, excellent, he thought to himself, and hurried down the corridor, ignoring the mechanical walkway which, as usual, was crowded with people. Funny, he thought, throwing an indifferent gaze across the young faces of the students. Almost all of them, after the lecture, will go to the fitness center for a few hours of exercise, but all day long before this they will do anything to avoid any exertion or movement whatsoever. Even this walkway goes slower than I walk, and yet…
The university building was huge. In fact it was an entire city comprising countless structures, pathways, and galleries, and resembling a polished octopus. It was the only university in Libertionne; likewise, the city had one prison, one psychiatric clinic, one Court, and one House of Government. Arriving at the only elevator that connected to all the floors, he once again found himself stuck in a traffic jam. He mixed in with the crowd of students, mechanically determining the ages of the boys and girls. No, not by how mature they looked – modern medicine had made it possible for anyone over the age of eighteen to never change again. At least on the outside. But those born before 2064 could still be distinguished by phenotype, by the shape of their body, or by the color of their skin. It was decided that these differences were the source of many of society’s problems, so under Unity and Tolerance, when the Vile Remnants of the Past* were finally conquered, people began to look more or less the same – a convenient common denominator for humanity. And to think there was a time, thought Tiberius, when a person was born with the help of biological parents, and it was all left to chance.
The lift swallowed up another group of riders, and only he and two girls were left standing on the platform. Judging from their extravagant clothing they were from the Faculty of Design. He shot an admiring glance at one of them, a tall, shapely brunette. Evidently this glance, which drifted across her rather revealing clothing, was too overt, and did not meet the standards of Tolerance. The girl, surprised, raised her dark, almost velvety eyes toward him quizzically.
“A very stylish blouse,” Tiberius said, regaining his composure and trying to manage a friendly yet silly expression.
“Oh, thank you,” she replied, calming down and breaking into a wide smile. “It’s really popular this season. I read it in Androgyne. That means it has to be true.”
“Androgyne?”
“The fashion magazine? It’s famous. You don’t know it?”
“No,” answered Tiberius, amused by the honesty in her surprised reaction, almost a sense of fear.
Tiberius might have finally gotten a chance to learn something about high fashion, but suddenly he was grabbed around the shoulders, and the chance was irretrievably lost. Which he actually did not regret.
“Tiberius, hello, my dear!”
A chubby, pink-cheeked man with faux cheerfulness embraced the sulking Tiberius.
“And hello to you, Normann.”
What rotten luck. This guy always showed up at the wrong time, and always tried to ruin his day somehow. Tiberius’s relationship with the math professor could be characterized as something like “tender hatred.” Normann lost no time.
“Judging from the fact that you are not running up to your sixth floor office, but instead you’re submissively waiting for the elevator, I’d say you are probably being called onto the carpet by the boss. Did you slip up again?”
“Normann, you don’t have to project your own experiences onto others.”
“Perhaps,” the mathematician said, feigning innocence, “you are not guilty of anything. Maybe they just want to let you know that the department is closing down. What will you do then?”
“Well, maybe I’ll return to my old job,” Tiberius said absently.
The pink physiognomy of Normann took on a slight green color, which was oddly pleasing to Tiberius.
“You can’t!” Normann cried, then stepped back and mumbled “There’s nothing to return to.”
“Whatever. But this other matter – about the department being shut down?” Tiberius inquired in a steady voice.
The two girls stepped into the elevator, and he and Normann were left standing alone.
“Well, I have a thousand students in my course, and you have how many? Ten?” The mathematician bared his teeth in a sickly-sweet smile.
His shot had hit the target, and revenge was called for. Tiberius absent-mindedly let his eyes wander over Normann’s entire round, doughy body, and suddenly he froze theatrically, staring hard at Normann’s feet, or rather his leopard-print high-heeled shoes. Tiberius’s actions did not go unnoticed.
“What? Something’s not right?” the mathematician asked, startled.
“Normann, how could you do this? You’re wearing three leopard-print items of clothing. You know that more than one is considered extremely bad form!”
“Are you sure?” said Normann, his eyes darting nervously. “Last season it was all the rage.”
“And now it’s simply a crime. I read it in Androgyne,” he remarked drily.
The lift opened, and he walked in, as triumphant as Perseus after slaying Medusa.
A Visit to Mount Olympus
In stark contrast to the lower floors, the fiftieth floor was a haven of peace, calm, and emptiness. The interior design was typical – black polished floor, fake granite trim, chrome planters with artificial plants. Bird noises emanated from hidden speakers, in a clumsy attempt to emulate traditional eastern concepts of relaxation, and the chirping mixing in with trivial background music, completely lacking in expression or melody. The bird sounds were supposed to be soothing, but Tiberius found them annoying. Once he was forced to wait twenty minutes here, and he imagined himself shooting them out of the sky, even wishing he had brought a gun. But this time there was no need for such violent fantasies, as there was no one else in the reception area.
“I’m here to see Mr. Darnley.”
Tiberius threw a glance at the secretary, who despite her youth had already managed to perfect an imperious air. She hesitated before replying.
“I see… is he expecting you?”
“Yes.”
His answer was terse and confident, but she looked him over once again, even more disdainfully, before getting up from the black leather couch. Only a handful of mortals were granted an audience here, along with members of the government, patrons, and other celestial beings. Tiberius, with his humble suit and cheap smartphone, looked suspiciously like a professor, or even that most questionable type – a historian.
After a pause, she relented. “I’ll ask,” she said, looking timidly through the frosted glass of the massive door that led into the office. “Mr. Darnley, you have, um… a visitor. A certain Mr. Crown…. You may go in.”
The secretary flattened herself against the wall, in order to avoid the slightest physical contact with the dubious guest. The door began to retract slowly, and Tiberius impatiently gave it a kick as he walked into the room. A sharp whiteness cut into his eyes. It was a bright, pure color, but also a dead and naked one. Everything was white: the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the furniture. Eight years since his first visit, and he still wasn’t used to this blinding, sterile, cold whiteness. And although white was thought to be the pinnacle of design and the epitome of taste, reflecting the cleanness and perfection of our ideal era, Tiberius desperately longed for something dirtier.
“Well hello, Mr. Darnley,” said Tiberius as he walked into the office, smiling sincerely for the first time in two weeks.
Under the accepted norms, the inhabitants of Libertionne addressed each other officially as “feminolibertinian” and “masculolibertinian.” Ten years earlier, the Tolerance had introduced these terms to replace the sexist “man” and “woman.” It was decided that the informal title “Mr.” would be used for sexes, although Tiberius still felt awkward addressing women as “Mr.” It was never explained why “Mr.” was chosen and not “Miss.” Why, Tiberius wondered, hadn’t humanity’s feminine half protested against such gender domination? Perhaps for the same reason that for over a hundred years, while women were fighting for equality, they also loved to dress like men and cut their hair short. Come to think of it, most of the women he knew seemed to prefer the company of men (as did all of the men).
“I’ve missed you, Laura,” said Tiberius. “But what’s the urgency?” He unceremoniously dropped into a wide chair near the rector’s desk.
Laura quickly reached with one hand under the desktop, where Tiberius knew there was a “white noise” button, an unimaginable luxury that only members of the government had the right to own. But the rector of a university was a position no less important than a state worker; after all, what could be more significant than shaping the minds and attitudes of the young generation, the pillar upon which the superpower stood?
“Two items of news,” she said, raising her eyebrows gravely.
“Start with the good news.”
“Why do you think there’s good news? We’ve come up with a program to select one graduating student each year from each of the eleven academic departments, through a competition, and send them on a one-week excursion to one of the old cities. Please, close your mouth, that’s not the whole story. They have to be accompanied by the head of the history department, in other words, you. There will be a base of operations, fully-equipped with everything you might need. You’ll go out into the city only to explore…”
“Laura. You want me to be a babysitter to ten greenhorns for an entire week?”
“Eleven. The best students of the university. Questions?
“Only one. Why?!”
“The government wants future specialists to be able to extract fresh ideas from the rotting foundations of the past. And at the same time, they’ll learn just how miserable that past was.”
“Aha, that’s why…”
“Fine, I’ll be completely frank. They wanted to shut down the history department. Something like, a two-week history course in the primary school would be enough. Yes, that’s right, now stop imitating an crocodile that’s trying to swallow the Egyptian sun. If you only knew what I had to do in order to get this project approved, and also to find the money for it. But tell me,” she said, anxiously looking him straight in the eye, “don’t you want to see for yourself what you’ve been reading so much about?”
She stopped, then quietly added, “I was able to convince Him. And He gave the money for it.”
At that point Tiberius realized that he had no choice. If the project was being sponsored by the emperor himself, then of course neither Laura nor he could jump off this train until it had successfully reached its destination. But he was interested in another thing.
“Laura, that means you saw Him?”
“Yes,” she answered, reluctantly.
“Then you know what He looks like…”
“Yes, I do. But of course I can’t discuss it.”
“But don’t you think it a bit strange that in our modern era, when it’s acceptable to announce every single step you take to the entire world, that a figure such as the emperor is so cautious about hiding his name and image? A strange approach to PR, don’t you think?”
“Does this surprise you?” Laura said, squinting at him mockingly. “You’re a historian. Try and think of a single PR move, as you put it, like this one. There’s never been one.”
“Well, then,” he chuckled, his head still spinning from the unexpected news, “as an old and shabby wolf like myself once said, ‘We accept the fight.’” [a classic line from the Russian animated film Mowgli, adapted from Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book]
The awkward pause was broken by the quiet but relentless ringing of Laura’s smartphone. She glanced at it, nodded, and then turned off the sound.
“Martha?” asked Tiberius, trying to imbue his voice with an uncharacteristic delicacy.
Laura nodded, upset.
“You had another fight?”
“Not exactly, it’s just…”
“That means you did have a fight,” Tiberius said, looking at her point-blank. “Are you going to renew the marriage license?”
“Probably not.”
She nervously drummed her fingers on the table.
“But you’ve been together for four years! It’s so rare these days that anyone renews their marriage even once, and you’ve done it three times!”
“Let’s talk about you,” she exhaled, eager to change the unpleasant topic of conversation. “Tiberius, there are rumors…”
He burst out laughing. “You don’t say!! What rumors? That I’m a sadist and a pervert? Maybe even a secret heterosexual?”
“No, nothing that serious, of course, but…”
“And what are you ordering me to do? Copulate with my partner in the central square?”
“Well, that would be a start. But no, seriously, go with your partner to a club, get more people to see you, take a selfie in a cafe, on a dance floor…”
“Maybe a selfie in bed?”
“It would actually be good. I’m sure that Paul would post them all to his social accounts, if he doesn’t first explode with joy. You don’t exactly spoil him with your company, right? Listen. You already stand out because of your appearance and your abnormal lifestyle. You can’t swim against the current all the time! Just look at us!”
She rose effortlessly from the table and led him, laughing, to a large mirror on the wall. It seemed like the man and woman reflected in the indifferent surface of the mirror were separated by twenty years, no less. Tiberius didn’t look at himself, but as always he was lost in admiration of his classmate – her young, tender face, and her hair, which was the flaxen color of a linen Pre-Raphaelites goddess. And it was her natural color. Why do women always dye their hair some other color, he thought, regardless of whether their natural hair color is so beautiful? She could easily pass for Lorelei, from German folklore, if it weren’t for her eyes. Iridescent as jasper, they were unromantically piercing; her stern, sharp glare seemed capable of penetrating the very soul of an opponent, causing them to cower like a government bureaucrat at the Court of Fear.
“You see? Just look at your gray hairs, your wrinkles, and your hands! When was the last time you were in a manicure salon?”
“Never.”
She sighed, looking at him as tenderly as a lawyer gazing at a beloved, longtime client, whose case he hasn’t been able to win for the last fifteen years, but thanks to whom the bank account is not exactly hurting.
“I’m not going to ask which rejuvenation procedures you use; I’m just going to give you the phone number of my doctor.”
“I could care less about rejuvenation.”
Smiling, he turned to her, took her by the hand, and then spoke in a serious voice. “It’s been ages since we’ve gone somewhere nice. Maybe we could get together in the woods?”
“Only after you start behaving like a good boy. Do you promise? And it’s about time – exams are about to start.”
“Yes, mama,” he said, unable to resist a risque little joke.
Laura jumped when she heard the vulgar word, but then pulled herself together and smiled. Taking something from a desk drawer, she put a small object into his hand.
“Here, have this. Open it one week from today, no earlier. And don’t be angry with me. If you can manage that.”
Taken aback by the unexpected gift, and by her strange words, Tiberius couldn’t hide his annoyance. Despite his strong gratitude for everything she had done for him, she had once again refused his offer to simply get together and talk freely, about nothing in particular…
“Thank you,” he muttered drily, already turning toward the door.
“Tiberius. You know that I know everything.”
He flinched, then slowly turned and calmly asked, “For how long?”
“From the moment that I first saw you.”
The classics are dead. Long live the classics!
The exams came and went without incident. Since his thoughts were wandering today, somewhere far beyond the walls of the lecture hall, Tiberius was particularly sluggish and indifferent. There were no tricky, tortuously complicated questions, like the one that stumped his students last year: “Was Jesus born in B.C or A.D.?” The handful of students that came to his history class loved him. They loved him for his deep, encyclopedic knowledge, for his sincere passion for his subject and even for his rather venomous sense of humor. When Tiberius had been strolling in his mind around the cobbled streets of Berlin for the past forty minutes, gave a sigh, got up from the table, a fair-haired, round-faced boy gave a sigh, got up from his desk, and timidly walked up to him while clutching a scroll of brown paper nervously to his chest.
“Sam Becket? You want to challenge your grade?”
“No, by no means, sir,” the boy said, breaking into a broad smile. “It’s just, well… today is the last day, and maybe we’ll never see each other. I mean, as a teacher and student…” He blushed even harder. “And I’d like to present you with a parting gift.”
Tiberius took the scroll, and without even removing the paper, he understood what was inside. He shot a surprised look at his student, who was returning his gaze with even more adoring eyes.
“A book? A real paper book? Sam, you’re crazy. This must have cost you a fortune!”
“It’s not just a book! It’s Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy. When you told us about it, I understood that the story was like, interesting for you, from a historical standpoint, of course.”
“And…,” Tiberius said, looking incredulously at the boy, “where did you buy it?”
“At the antique store!”
“Legally?”
“Yes, and so what?” said Sam, somewhat at a loss for words. “We live in a free empire…”
“Of course, of course,” said Tiberius, and, still not believing his luck, tore open the wrapping. At the last second a fearful suspicion crept into his mind – the book was so small and light, probably published after “42, when editors were given carte blanche to make corrections. And the result was usually a fairly drastic reduction in the text. Anything that was unnecessary, extraneous, or forbidden, anything that could tire out the reader or cause boredom was thrown out, leaving only the very essence. And if the essence, so to say, was lacking something, then that something was added, at the publisher’s discretion. So as Tiberius removed the wrapping, he was somewhat mentally prepared. But not for this. The entire sleeve, except for the gold vignettes, of course, was covered with an eye-grabbing photo illustration. He didn’t expect a hand-drawn scene, of course, but this one gave Tiberius a migraine. In an alcove, on rumpled silk sheets frolicked Bronsky and Karenin (the latter Tiberius recognized by the outrageous, crookedly pasted-on sideburns), and Anna stood over them, holding a candle, shedding light on the scene, literally. Realizing how much money Sam must have paid for this abomination, Tiberius politely flipped through the pages. The book was not very heavy. Of course, the Creation Myth was written with five hundred words, and this work focused on a subject that was much less substantive, but still, at least twenty of the sixty pages were used for illustrations. And the subject matter of these illustrations was not very different from the cover. It took an immense effort for Tiberius to summon a smile of thanks.
“Thank you. Something like this… I never expected.”
Accepting his teacher’s painful grin for an expression of joy and gratitude, Sam happily bid him farewell, and Tiberius finally gained his freedom. “Looks like I have to bring this atrocity into my house. If I throw it into the trash, he might find it.“He placed the book into his briefcase, like a Christian martyr bearing the full weight of his cross, and departed the auditorium. Passing a trash can whose opening was grinning widely in the elevator lobby, Tiberius noticed something brightly colored, with red spots. Nearly the entire volume of the trash can was occupied by a leopard-skin jacket, with a torn white handbag resting on top. Apparently Normann had tried to correct his fashion faux pas by removing the bag’s decorative leopard-skin triangle. His clumsy efforts were aggravated by his foul mood, and he ended up ruining it completely. Imagining how tough it would be for the poor guy to go around today with countless lipsticks, creams, eyeshadow and other men’s accessories stuffed into his pockets, Tiberius marched cheerfully to the parking lot.
A battle in paradise
A beautiful, unnatural rose-colored sunset was painted across the evening sky. Tiberius, forced to kill time on the back seat, absent-mindedly looked out at the multicolored stream of cars, carefully and safely carrying their passengers home or to their usual evening entertainment.
I wonder how many of them know that above their heads is a fake sky? The creation of the all-powerful designers, the modeled illusion conveys the most eye-pleasing shades of color. There, at the top, above the spherical cupola maybe it’s raining and an icy wind is blowing, but people don’t know about this. True, we have a few overcast days each month, but they were created because according to sociological data, many people like moderately bad weather. When it’s cloudy outside, one can get cozy under a fleece shawl, imitation Scottish wool, and, sitting in front of an electric fireplace, drink a cup of decaffeinated coffee. None of these accessories would be necessary if there were no overcast days, and no one would buy them for a modern, warm apartment, and obviously the more unnecessary things a person buys, the better it is for production. Everything in our time has become a surrogate – virtual games instead of wars, aspartame in place of sugar, false windows in the workspaces of office clerks, fake-brick wallpaper hung on drywall modestly covering up a real brick wall. Or holidays… One time, in a joking mood, he asked his students “Why do we celebrate Christmas?” And their answer was a noisy cocktail of plastic Santa Clauses, the tradition of giving presents, the celebration of the middle of winter and someone called Jesus who smiles in the illustrations on greeting cards.
But then, an ideal world should not be otherwise. If we had real honey, that would mean taking it from poor bees, real meat is the flesh of slaughtered animals, and natural childbirth is fraught with illness and imperfections. Let’s take control of everything and we’ll be more merciful than God. And i Pre-RaphaelitesPre-Raphaelitesf we have become like God, what is he to us now? Amen. We have become lilies of the Lord which are neither sown nor reaped; we commit no evil, for all of our needs are satisfied beyond measure.
“We have arrived at our destination, Eden, sir,” the car’s voice spoke delicately, interrupting his thoughts.
Tiberius grinned. The car slowed down at the checkpoint, waiting for the pass to be scanned.
Eden. I wonder if the creators of this residential sector were simply guided by the inviolable standards of management, compelled to paint a picture of paradise for the imagined consumer, or did they have a subtly warped sense of humor? The endless rows of buildings, straight as arrows, identical on both the outside and the inside. Well, OK, not completely identical on the inside; otherwise how would the army of interior designers earn enough to eat?
He recalled a conversation with a designer that Laura had imposed on him, who showed up to try to give his bachelor’s den some dignity. At first the young man gave a long and impressive monologue on the importance of combining comfort, modernity and originality in his then-virgin interior (Tiberius, having just obtained [bought] the apartment, didn’t have the slightest intention of creating some kind of design, but alas…). Although when he saw that he might as well be speaking with the colossus of Abu Simbel, trying to explain to it the latest trends in modern design, he got more specific: “What color shall we paint the bedroom? I recommend choosing between the shades ‘sparkly snow,’ ‘mountain lily,’ and ‘cloud white.’ Here are the samples.” Tiberius looked at the three completely identical white pieces of paper, then asked:
“What about black? It’s easier to sleep.”
The horror experienced by the priest of the temple of creativity is difficult to describe. When Tiberius finally grew tired of listening to his moaning, which was a bizarre cocktail of eastern philosophy, modern psychiatry and his personal (rather superficial) knowledge in the field of architecture, he asked: “Is it not the designer’s job to satisfy the customer’s desires?”
Turns out it wasn’t; the designer’s job was to explain to an unreasonable client what was best for him, and this task had to be fulfilled, regardless of any protest. In the end, the apartment was given a complete makeover, but Tiberius couldn’t see any difference, no matter how hard he tried.
Tiberius parked the car in one of the anonymous concrete courtyards and with a kind of vengeful pleasure he listened to its hysterical monologue. “This parking lot cannot be found in the database! There is no satellite connection! I cannot process the payment! Sir, you are in breach of rule this and rule that. But I cannot send the data – there is no connection!”
“Very good,” Tiberius answered gently. “Now shut up, stay here and wait for me.”
The car fell into a gloomy silence. Tiberius tenderly patted it on its polished fender, like an obstinate but beloved horse, and, whistling, set off along the broken sidewalk. It was hard to imagine that this place was bristling with life just a few years ago; everything was young and fresh. Eden – the cradle of the empire. In this huge, now abandoned district, lived the ones who built the great Libertionne. The empire city, a great and modern Babilon, a realm of intelligence and freedom.
At the intersection he was supposed to turn right, but Tiberius slowed, glancing at the crooked sign that read “Peace Street. 2 km”. In Eden, streets still had names; the more modern and practical Libertionne had decisively rejected them. There, on Peace Street, was his old apartment. Somehow he had to go there and have a look. Probably the windows were broken, highly likely on the first floor; the lawn, which had never been mowed, was a jungle of sagebrush and wild mint. But not now; time was pressing and he was already late. Tiberius began walking faster.
What a difference there was between the aging modern buildings and their elderly cousins! These jewels of baroque and gothic architecture over time only got better, acquiring a special gloss unique to each one, the dust and cobwebs making their chiseled reliefs and sculptures even more mysterious and beautiful. Modern buildings, if not looked after even for a short time, started to resemble dented cardboard boxes, rotting in the rain. Their beauty depends directly on their cleanliness and shine; if a little dirt or the smallest imperfection should appear on their straight, smooth walls, just look how pathetic they become. In similar fashion, a Meissen porcelain plate becomes an antique, while a modern, plastic one turns into garbage.
Tiberius, taking a precautionary look around, went into an indiscernible little courtyard which looked like its thousands of cousins, opened a rusty door and descended a dimly lit and dirty staircase. The further down he went, the louder the noise and shouting of the crowd became. At the end of a dark corridor, Beelzebub’s fiery mouth burned in the arched passageway; a plywood sign hung with the handwritten inscription:
Pankrationne
No-holds-barred fighting
As with any advertisement, even ones that had put down their roots here like weeds, the sign was a cunning one. There were rules in this club, for sure, how else would successful businessmen, lawyers, and bankers – in short, people who were born to fight and having the bad luck of being born in such a peaceful and trouble-free era. Rules, and of course, restrictions. Besides an ordinary taboo list, finger holds and manipulations. Overall, this was nothing surprising – for a modern person, this was the main part of the body, the most essential part for survival. If you couldn’t pound on a keyboard, you would be deprived of your daily bread, and friends and family. Punches to the face were also not welcome. This was specifically mentioned to Tiberius on the first day of his membership. That being the case, there was nothing written against hits to the groin. And what of it? In our day and age, the face was more important that the genitals.
Tiberius went into the changing room, by the way, not immediately. The door literally would not close; it was letting people in and out. Men and women were changing clothes together; after all they were not to generate interest among each other. There he quickly undressed, changing from a business suit into shorts and a stretch t-shirt. Today there were so many people that he barely was able to find a place on the narrow iron bench to put his briefcase.
“Hello, Raven,” said a tall, skinny brunette, firmly shaking his hand.
Here people knew each other by nicknames. The last thing the members of the club wanted was for any information to leak beyond the walls of Pankrationne. Absolutely everything that took place here in the evenings was strictly illegal. The owner of the venue was a Mr. Smith. Small and altogether invisible, this person had a truly rare sense of intuition in business. Thinking up and bringing to fruition the idea of a secret fight club, he easily and unfailingly found potential clients. Held in the grips of business ethics, forced to hold themselves back, and to all day be nice, pleasant and right-minded, people here had the priceless opportunity for a few minutes to be themselves. To forget about bank loans, to stop worrying whether you laughed hard enough when your boss told a joke. Mr. Smith himself had no more feelings for the members of his club than a frigid prostitute for her clients, but with the same degree of success he derived a profit, rationalizing: “If people are willing to pay five hundred a month for the hope of taking one in the neck, then heaven bless them. And their hopes and aspirations, too.”
A heavy-set girl with a mobile terminal walked into the changing room. “Who hasn’t paid their dues for this month?” she asked. Tiberius placed his palm on the scanning device. His payment was processed as a visit to a Thai massage salon. How Mr. Smith did it – after all, gone were the carefree days when a person could pay for anything he or she wanted unsupervised – only God knew, but no one could deny that he had a sense of humor. When he was finished with the payment, he assisted Nyx the name given to his female acquaintance, in removing the pads from her hands.
“You’re still wearing the six-ounce ones? You’re not a beginner.”
“I’ll switch to the ones you have. Today is just a nightmare. One guy broke his collarbone, knockouts right and left. As if everyone had a tough week.”
“That’s actually true. You know what happened at the stock exchange. All right, I have to go.”
He nodded farewell to Nyx and approached the entrance to the hall, where someone’s lifeless body was being carried out. There was a traffic jam at the entrance, and scarcely had Tiberius got through it into the packed hall, or rather elbowed his way in, when he heard his name called by the swarthy, stocky man in charge of drawing lots. As Tiberius made his way to the ring, he caught a glimpse of a new face in the crowd – a young man, almost a boy. Feminine, skinny, impeccably dressed, with long, blond carefully-styled hair, a typical little “baby doll.” Although the face, with its clear and expressive individual features, indicated that he was the same age as Tiberius, if not older. In his paws, like a chipmunk with an acorn, he firmly held a smartphone. Tiberius frowned. Clearly he was one of the “curious ones.” Mister Smith welcomed as members to the club not only those who wanted to insult someone close to them, but also those who wanted to watch. True, for this he charged triple. But here’s what was strange – usually these people had joy and desire written all over their faces, yet the “baby doll” was observing the proceedings with a look of horror and mistrust. His hands were clearly shaking, and his face was white as chalk. Tiberius had no time to commiserate, however, as his opponent had already climbed into the ring.
“Bull versus Crow! Raven” the referee shouted gleefully.
Bull – that was putting it mildly. Calculating the weight category was not done here, just like in a normal street fight. The only chance Tiberius had was to move the fight as quickly as possible to the floor, and he didn’t miss this chance. Bringing down the furiously snarling giant, Tiberius pinned his shoulders in a “crucifix”, gripping the throat with his free hand. Usually this pain-inducing technique forced even the most unyielding enthusiasts to slap the floor, but this one wasn’t giving up.
“All right now!” Tiberius wheezed, his voice cracking from the tension, “or I’ll squeeze harder.”
But his opponent only howled in pain and fury. Seconds hung in the air. And the referee wasn’t stopping the bout. Tiberius felt an overwhelming desire to push harder, to hear the crack of breaking bones. What was up with this guy? What`s up with me? Nyx had been right – there was something strange in the atmosphere today. When the judge congratulated Tiberius with his victory, his opponent, crimson with rage after suffering defeat, jumped into the crowd, shouting at him in parting “We’ll meet again.” Fine, no problem. Tonight had brought no satisfaction; the victory had been too easy.
When Tiberius left the club, the temperature outside had dropped. With pleasure he turned his red-hot face into the blustery May wind and whispered, “Now to go home.., turn off the smartphone.., brew some coffee…”
“Help!” came a blood-curdling scream from the next courtyard.
Tiberius inhaled. His dream of a pleasant evening ended abruptly. In the alleyway he saw the “baby doll,” wailing, looking not nearly as presentable as earlier. His trendy raincoat was torn, and blood flowed from a broken nose. He didn’t immediately notice the arrival of the rescue squad, and shouted with all his might, clearly in the hope that he would be heard in a place more peaceful and serene than Eden. And he had a real chance of succeeding; Tiberius had never heard such a piercing soprano, even from the whistle of a boiling teakettle.
“You’ve chosen a rather lightweight opponent, guys,” he shouted in jest at the four men surrounding the boy, who was shaking with fear.
“He was spying,” said the largest of them through his teeth, holding the “baby doll” by his hair-sprayed front bangs.
At this moment, the moon peeked out coquettishly from behind a cloud, illuminating the stage of the pending tragedy with its romantic light. “Bull! And you’re here,” Tiberius said, as the recent opponents recognized each other in the magical glow of the moon.
“Guys! This is our champion. Come over here, let’s have a chat.”
Full of passion and desire, Tiberius responded willingly to the challenge. Nothing fans the flames of our soul like removing all inhibition. At first he held back, trying only to take them down, not maiming them. They were not as reserved when Tiberius broke one of their forearms; he let out such a stream of profanity that it was fortunate there was no satellite connection in Eden. The guy would have had to sell his apartment to pay the fine. But when Tiberius caught a metal pipe to the face, his humanitarian ideals left him for a better world. Humanism is good in more comfortable surroundings. When pleasantly sitting on a little couch in a cozy cafe, talking about love and forgiveness, and about turning the other cheek. If this is done by a half-naked beauty as part of an elegant game, then he wouldn’t mind. But with four gentlemen who’ve gone berserk in a dark alley – no thanks.
Tiberius returned to reality when he heard a loud shout.
“Don’t move! Police!” To be honest, no one was planning on moving at all. Tiberius’s opponent couldn’t do this for technical reasons. One of them, laying on his stomach, was racking up a huge fine by filling the air with unkind wishes toward Tiberius; two more had no signs of life. The “baby doll,” looking like the ghost of Hamlet’s mother, not even Hamlet himself, father was quietly whimpering against a wall, exactly like Laura’s bulldog Lancelot when someone has taken away his doggy biscuit. Tiberius himself with great regret slowly unclasped his hands, realizing nevertheless that everything turned out for the best. A murder would not have looked good on the resume of a history professor. Bull, having turned the noble color of a revolutionary banner for the second time in one evening, coughed and gasped for breath like a Silver Age aristocrat with tuberculosis.
“Sir, you almost committed murder in the heat of passion.”
Tiberius, still sitting on the chest of his defeated opponent, raised his bloody face. He was lucky. The robot policeman extended his hand to him. If he had had to deal with people, imagine how many issues and problems would there be right now. These things just do their jobs without emotion. How much better the world would be if everyone and everything just did its job. But wait – how did they get here? Given that there was no telephone connection, and the police patrols ignore this place like a cemetery for plague victims. When Tiberius was being taken into the police car, the “baby doll” came up to him, wobbling like a drunk sailor on a ship.
“Why did you save me?”
“Could I have really just walked past?” Tiberius said, slightly surprised.
“Thank you,” uttered the ill-fated adventure seeker, and pensively wandered away.
The price of poetry
In the car, the police officers offered to take Tiberius to the hospital, but he adamantly refused. Right now his mind was occupied by something else – how many years of compulsory vacation would the rescue of the young idiot cost him? Of course, this depended on the extent to which he overdid it with the two who maintained a suspicious silence in such uncomfortable positions on the asphalt. But even in the best case scenario (if they were alive) it would be slightly less than the great Merlin spent locked up in the enchanted cave. But Merlin had an indisputable advantage. First of all, he was a wizard and could probably have conjured up some kind of entertainment for himself, in order to speed up the two hundred and eight-six years, and secondly, he fell victim to this tragic situation due to the fault of the sorceress Nimueh. You could sympathize with him. But here! His thoughts on the topic of timeless examples of human stupidity were interrupted. The car stopped, and the policemen dropped off the dazed warrior of justice at the entryway of his own building. And they drove away, bidding him a good evening and a fast recovery. He stood there for a minute, slack-jawed, then shrugged and went up to his apartment.
As soon as he crossed the threshhold, Tiberius understood why men in the past century were not burning with the desire to be tied with the bonds of Hymenaeus. He didn’t even have time to switch on the light before the wall monitor lit up, and Laura unleashed all of her righteous anger on him:
“Why aren’t you answering your smartphone?!
“It broke,” Tiberius said, showing the empty strap on his wrist.
Laura didn’t let up.
“That’s not the main thing! How could you be so lacking in judgment…”
Not listening to her in the slightest, Tiberius shuffled off to look for the first-aid kit. Thanks to modern medicine, tomorrow he would almost look human again. But opening the syringe with the antibiotics proved to be not so simple. Every inch of his body hurt, and especially his head, and the reprimand from his boss did not bring him any peace and quiet. Especially torturous was the procedure for self-administered nose repair. Stealthily wiping away his unauthorized tears, Tiberius, trying to impart a lightness and effortlessness to his voice, asked,
“Do you want to go to the river? This week? We can take Michael as well. He needs to get away from his wards once in awhile; he hasn’t left the clinic for a month.”
She was not pleased by the sudden change in the topic of discussion, along with the fact that he totally ignored her remarks.
“Come on, that’s just ridiculous…”
She couldn’t have said anything worse. Tiberius, turning away so that she would not see his expression, quoted a long-forgotten line of verse:
“O enchanting one, evil one, can it be true
That you find humorous the holy word friend…”
“Tiberius, what are you doing, those are forbidden lines!” Laura cried, clearly frightened, and he saw her this way for the first time.
“On your moonlit body, you want only
To feel the touch of a woman’s hands?
You don’t need the contact of lips, passionate and shy
Or the gaze of eyes, do you?”
