The Professor Lorenz effect

 Asya Kegelban, as it seemed to me, half of the young men of our course, the future geniuses of architecture, had secretly in love. Moreover, the nature of her feminine charm was such that even the rigorous institute teachers, despite their academic degrees and solid age, could not resist him. Sometimes one of them stopped in the corridor, letting the girl pass first, and then looked after her with a feeling of deep longing for the past irrevocably youth. I do not know how to explain such an attitude towards her by boys and men. Maybe this had been an amazing result of mixing two types of blood in her: the Austrian on the paternal side and the Ukrainian – on the maternal line. She knew what she was doing and why, at the same time, she was looking at the world with wide eyes, taking all the best from life. “Is it possible for a person to forbid the enjoyment of what pleases his eye and warms the soul?” She was talking naively, disarming the interlocutor with an innocent smile. Asya moved this positive attitude towards life to study at the institute. Without accord with the so-called social sciences, she thoroughly was engaged in architectural graphics, descriptive geometry, and drawing. That is, she gave preference to those disciplines that were directly, related to our future profession of architecture. Her term papers were just wonderful, if not beautiful. Of course, it caused some fellow students to pathological envy. Sveta Korsakova, Asya's best friend, and rival was indignant: “Just think Kegelban has created another masterpiece!” I, playing on counterpoints, unobtrusively, but sincerely praised Asya's works, and earned her location. Moreover, over time we began of friendship. Asya, like a real Odessa woman, adored her city. To those who used to walk with her in old Odessa, she generously revealed secrets of it city and showed the best of what remains to us in the inheritance after the masters of the pre-revolutionary era. Such walks, if they did not be-come for someone for us at school of a future profession, then, in any case, brought up good taste. Asya was always, and everywhere, interested in how certain things created by people fit into the interior of the urban landscape. Once, when we were walking along one of the sea-side parks, she said: “Do you want me to show you a little-known masтer piece?” And, without asking my consent, taking me by the hand, she pulled me on the territory of the sanatorium, which be-longed to the military department. There, in the depths of the park, alone stood a three-story mansion, of red bricks, which darkened by time. When we got to the house closer, Asya showed me the marvelous majolica on its façade, and proudly said: "Look how these flowers decorate and, I would say, spiritualize the house." She spoke about majolica with such enthusiasm that one would think, not she created this beauty with her own hands? We walked around the city, talked about architecture, about reading books or about painting. All that insulted her aesthetic taste, especially unsuccessful public and residential buildings, she betrayed merciless criticism. On the roof of the Theatre Music Comedy stood some strange rectangles. Seen their Asya said ironically: "They resemble me “gilded coffins” at the funeral service office...” And after thinking a little, she continued: «Yes, urban envronment can elevate or belittle a person. There-fore, architects and builders are responsible for the mental health of society, per-haps more than doctors and politicians…” We liked the quiet streets of the previously fashionable “Otrada” microdistrict. Name street names sounded there like poems: Quiet Street, Cozy Street, Gratifying Street, and Sea Street. We together walked around the whole French Boulevard, where the elegant mansions of a long-gone era still survived, and was go by tram to Arcadia and also the Great Fountain. It was es-pecially good there in spring, in the second half of May, when the Persian lilac blossoms, filling the neighborhood with an intoxicating scent. Comfortably seated in the thick grass under a fragrant bush, one could endlessly watch from the high shore into the sea distance, covered with a light translucent haze. Sometimes, when a white liner appeared on the sea, going on a cruise on the Black Sea to the Crimea and further to the promised shores of the Cau-casus, we tried to guess its name. "Ukraine!" Asya said confidently, looking at the subtle outlines of the ship. "Adjaria!" I contradicted the girl, recognizing the familiar lines of the hull and superstructure of the vessel…

It seemed to me that half of the young men in our year—the future geniuses of architecture—were secretly in love with Asya Kegelban. Her feminine charm was such that even the most rigorous institute professors, despite their academic degrees and venerable age, could not resist it. Occasionally, one of them would stop in the corridor to let her pass, only to gaze after her with a sense of deep longing for an irrevocably lost youth. I cannot quite explain why boys and men alike felt this way. Perhaps it was the striking result of her heritage: a blend of Austrian blood from her father and Ukrainian from her mother. She knew exactly what she was doing and why; yet, at the same time, she looked at the world with wide eyes, drinking in the best that life had to offer.

“Is it possible to forbid someone from enjoying what pleases the eye and warms the soul?” she would ask naively, disarming her listener with an innocent smile.

Asya brought this same zest for life to her studies. Having no taste for the so-called "social sciences," she instead devoted herself entirely to architectural graphics, descriptive geometry, and drawing—the disciplines directly related to our future profession. Her term papers were wonderful, if not truly beautiful, which naturally sparked pathological envy in some of our peers. Sveta Korsakova, Asya’s best friend and rival, would grumble indignantly: “Just look at that, Kegelban has produced another ‘masterpiece’!”

I, playing on counterpoints, offered Asya quiet but sincere praise, thereby earning her favor. Over time, we became friends. Asya, a true Odessan, adored her city. To those who walked with her through the streets of Old Odessa, she generously revealed its secrets, showing off the finest remnants of the pre-revolutionary masters’ inheritance. If these walks didn't serve as a practical school for our future profession, they certainly cultivated good taste.

Asya was always fascinated by how man-made objects fit into the urban landscape. Once, while walking through a seaside park, she said, “Do you want me to show you a little-known masterpiece?” Without waiting for my consent, she took me by the hand and led me onto the grounds of a military sanatorium. Deep in the park stood a solitary three-story mansion of red brick, darkened by time. As we drew closer, Asya pointed out the marvelous majolica on its façade.

"Look how these flowers decorate and—I would say—spiritualize the house," she said proudly. She spoke of the majolica with such enthusiasm that one might think she had created that beauty with her own hands.

We wandered the city, talking about architecture, books, and painting. Anything that offended her aesthetic taste—especially failed public or residential buildings—was met with her merciless criticism. Seeing some strange rectangles on the roof of the Theater of Musical Comedy, Asya remarked ironically: "They remind me of the ‘gilded coffins’ at a funeral parlor." After a moment’s thought, she added: "Yes, the urban environment can either elevate or belittle a person. Therefore, architects and builders are responsible for the mental health of society—perhaps even more than doctors and politicians."

We loved the quiet streets of the once-fashionable Otrada district. The street names there sounded like poetry: Uyutnaya (Cozy), Ottradnaya (Gratifying), Morskaya (Marine). We walked the length of French Boulevard, where elegant mansions of a bygone era still survived, and took the tram to Arcadia and the Great Fountain. It was especially beautiful there in May, when the Persian lilacs bloomed, filling the air with an intoxicating scent. Nestled in the thick grass under a fragrant bush, one could stare endlessly from the high shore into the hazy sea distance. Sometimes, when a white liner appeared on the horizon, heading for Crimea or the "promised shores" of the Caucasus, we tried to guess its name.

"Ukraine!" Asya would say confidently, tracing the ship’s subtle outlines.

"Adjaria!" I would counter, recognizing the familiar lines of the hull and superstructure...

If it was autumn or winter, and a piercing northeasterly wind blew from the Odessa Bay, we would seek shelter, chilled, in "The Golden Goose" café. We would order a cup of black coffee and a glass of Chartreuse. When you add a little of that liqueur to coffee, the drink acquires an unusually soft flavor and aroma. Once warmed, Asya would take off her raincoat, and the unique, heady scent of lavender—coming from her clothes and her young body—would mingle with the smell of coffee and liqueur. I called it "Anastasia’s Kiss," though I never admitted it to her. For me, there was no greater pleasure than sitting with Asya at the table, shoulder to shoulder, bathed in those scents, listening to her revelations.

“I want to love and be loved,” Asya said quietly on one of those autumn days, pressing even closer to my shoulder. These words, simple at first glance, sounded from her lips like both a challenge and a promise.

The following summer, wanting to earn some money, I joined the institute’s student construction brigade. In the remote taiga village of Agirish, in the Khanty-Mansi District near the Arctic Circle, we built wooden houses on pile foundations for loggers. We worked all day until the sun finally dipped behind the jagged silhouette of the taiga. The short "white nights," which had initially enchanted us Southerners, eventually became our curse. They were more suited for romantic walks than for resting after a day of backbreaking labor. Moreover, we couldn't get used to the horseflies, mosquitoes, and midges that mercilessly stung us, biting and drinking our blood.

I missed her terribly, and almost every night I had the same dream. Asya and I are sitting on a concrete pier; our reflections on the sea’s surface drift toward each other and then apart. Suddenly, she reaches out with her graceful foot toward this idyllic picture, as if trying to erase it, and slips off the pier into the sea. a passing wave covers her head. I jump in after her, diving deep, but I cannot find her. I surface, but Asya is nowhere to be seen. I would wake up covered in a cold sweat, my face itching from the bites of bloodthirsty mosquitoes.

Our detachment returned to Odessa at the end of August, at the peak of the "velvet season." The city was saturated with an atmosphere of freedom, sensuality, and a lightness of being. The very next day, I hurried to see Asya. On the way, I stopped at the "House of Books" on Grecheskaya Square to buy her a gift—Asya loved poetry. There was nothing interesting on the main shelves that day, but in the secondhand department, I came across a volume by Leonid Martynov titled Birthright. Opening it at random, I read: “I love you! Therefore, I create the whole world anew...”

Having paid, I stepped out and headed toward "The Two Carls," the famous wine cellar. Opposite it stood the house where my girlfriend lived. Seeing a payphone along the way, I stopped and dialed her number.

"Hello? Who is this?" I heard her surprised voice in the receiver.

"Wouldn't you like to walk 'to where the mill revolves'?" I asked, slightly twisting the lines of a famous Odessa poet.

"Oh, I’d love to!" she replied happily, recognizing my voice. "But what exactly are you suggesting?"

After wandering through the city for a while, we walked down Pushkinskaya Street, turned left at the "Krasnaya" Hotel, passed the former Stock Exchange—the brainchild of Alexander Bernardazzi—and walked down Polskaya Street to catch the number four trolleybus to the sea terminal. At the pier stood a passenger ship, the handsome Ivan Franko, with its white superstructure and black hull. The vessel was preparing for a cruise; happy passengers climbed the gangway, anticipating a vacation that felt almost European. Not far from us, a crane was unloading a grab of Cuban raw sugar from a cargo ship. In the rays of the setting sun, it looked like golden sand.

After observing the bustling port, we climbed to the third floor of the glass sea terminal. There was a cozy bar where our group often gathered to celebrate birthdays or holidays. We were lucky; there were few visitors at that hour, and we secured a corner table that offered a perfect view of the Odessa Bay. Having worked up an appetite, we ordered sandwiches with smoked sausage and red caviar, and for dessert—fruit and "Soviet Champagne," bottled right here in Odessa. I had just received my payment for the summer—a sum equal to fifty student scholarships—and I wanted to treat my girlfriend to something special.

“I missed you,” I said, as soon as the waiter left to fulfill our order.

“I missed you too,” Asya replied, her eyelids trembling slightly as she looked away.

We slowly sipped the sparkling wine and talked about our upcoming graduation projects. Or rather, Asya talked, and I simply listened and agreed.

“I want to use structural elements of reinforced concrete, metal, glass, and composites,” she continued. “It will allow for lightness and expressiveness in every detail, while maintaining the stability of the entire structure.”

According to her vision, it would be a complex of semicircular buildings resembling a sailboat. The multi-tiered façade would be adorned with large windows and loggias, each casting a cool shade onto the terrace below.

“I want to design something I wouldn't be ashamed of when they put a plaque with my name on the front,” Asya added with a sly smile.

Her eyes shimmered with shades of blue and green, like the sea itself. Caught up in her inspiration, she gesticulated vividly, sketching the outlines of the future building in the air. Her thin, beautiful hands occasionally brushed mine. Our knees touched under the table. “How I love this girl,” I thought, watching her. “But what do I mean to her?”

We returned to the city by climbing the Potemkin Stairs. Usually, its one hundred and ninety-two steps weren't a challenge. However, after the champagne, the staircase felt like Everest. We stopped at every landing, sitting on the parapet to catch our breath and watch the stars streaking across the sky, leaving silver trails in the black atmosphere.

Finally, we reached the "summit," where, as always, we were met by the monument to the Duke de Richelieu—the French aristocrat who became the Governor of Novorossiya and Odessa.

“It’s a mystery,” I thought, glancing at the statue. “The Bolsheviks tore down the monument to Catherine the Great, yet for some reason, they spared this Frenchman.”

“Look at him!” Asya said indignantly, striking the pose of an offended schoolgirl. “He didn't even glance in my direction!”

“But he's made of bronze,” I said, defending the Duke’s indifference to female beauty.

“So what? He’s a man! A Prince!” she countered.

“Do you want me to challenge him to a duel?” I asked.

“Yes, I do!” she cried excitedly. “Though, you don’t belong to the nobility, so you can’t fight duels.”

“Then I’ll just beat him up, plain and simple!” I declared, emboldened by the wine. I took off my shoe and struck the pedestal of the Richelieu monument...

“It’s late, why go all the way home?” Asya said in a low voice as we reached her front door. “Stay with me. My parents are in the village, and no one will disturb us. We’ll sit on the balcony and watch the stars all night...”

In the morning, I was woken by the cool air drifting in through the open balcony door. I was still savoring the intoxicating scent of lavender lingering on the crumpled pillow beside me when Asya, wearing a short blue robe, glided gracefully into the room. Giving me a wet kiss, she said: “Get up, sleepyhead! It’s time for breakfast. And by the way, today it’s my turn to take you for a walk.” Then, like a bluebird, she flew off into the kitchen.

After breakfast, we headed to the station and caught the train from Odessa to Belgorod-Dniesterovsky. Sitting in the half-empty carriage, Asya and I continued the conversation we had started the night before. She was deeply moved by the work of Antoni Gaudí. She spoke repeatedly of his “House of Bones” (Casa Batlló) and the “House of Stone” (Casa Milà). But her greatest fascination was the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, which had been under the master’s guidance for thirty-five years and yet remained unfinished—a dream he left for his students to complete.

I knew she longed to design something so significant that it would be admired by both experts and ordinary people alike. This was her passion. To interrupt such a sincere, ambitious girl’s monologue would have been unethical—criminal, even. So, I only muttered under my breath: “Yes, every Gaudí needs his Güell.” Fortunately, Asya paid no attention to my comment.

We got off at the Karolino-Bugaz station. Passing by the cottages of the railway workers and the shallow lakes where small Black Sea turtles swam, we reached a deserted beach. It was a clear, warm, sunny day—the kind you only find in the south in late August or early September. A light breeze brushed grains of sand from the crests of the dunes. The sea was perfectly calm; small waves lapped lazily at the shore, as if inviting us to plunge into their transparent coolness.

Asya accepted the invitation. As she entered the water, it seemed as if the sea parted before her, welcoming her into its depths; when she emerged, it seemed loath to let her go. Bitter-salty droplets rolled down her elegant, tanned body, scattering in a myriad of sparkling sprays under the sun. Raising her arms with a smooth motion to wring out her wet, rye-colored hair, Asya stood before me in all her vulnerable, lovely nudity. I looked at her and couldn't turn away, remembering the saying that the beauty of the soul is reflected in the beauty of the body.

After our swim, we set up a small tent on the shore. I opened my backpack and pulled out a long bottle of Bulgarian Riesling that Asya had prepared the evening before.

“To us—so young and inexperienced!” Asya offered her toast, raising an enameled soldier’s mug to the level of her emerald-shining eyes.

“To you, Asya —so beautiful, intelligent, and spontaneous,” I replied sincerely, kissing her lips, still salty and slightly blue from the cold water.

We were alone on that sandy spit that separates the Black Sea from the Dniester Estuary. We rejoiced in the high clear sky, the sun, and the waves rolling onto the flat sand. Most of all, we rejoiced in our connection, not thinking of the future and knowing nothing of what it held.

The future caught up with us nine months later, as we were preparing to defend our diplomas. In truth, things had begun shifting out of my favor long before that. By the fifth year, all our female classmates except Asya and Sveta Korsakova had married. This weighed on Asya. Unobtrusively but with enviable persistence, she began reminding me that our relationship needed a logical conclusion. I, like a foolish boy, kept avoiding a direct answer.

This continued until the graduation party at the "Zhemchuzhina" restaurant in Arcadia. Amidst the chaos of the dancing, Asya led me aside to be alone. I reached out to pull her toward me, but she dodged my kiss.

“You know, Rudolf," she said, calling me by my full name for the first time. “I'm getting married! And I want you to be at my wedding.”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned her back on me and walked to the other end of the hall, where our dean sat at the same table as her mother and father. The crisis that had been brewing in our relationship for so long had finally reached its predictable conclusion.

In the days remaining before the wedding, I was lost. I was drowning in sadness, trying to numb the mental pain with alcohol, presumptuously thinking there was still time to fix everything. And yet, I took no steps to do so.

Asya's wedding took place in that same restaurant, the Zhemchuzhina. From our year, only I and Asya's old friend, Sveta Korsakova, were present. I sat at a far table near the emergency exit, watching the scene unfold. The bride, in her white dress and airy veil that half-hid her face, looked like an image of immaculate purity. The groom—a tall brunette in a black suit—reminded me of the Hollywood heroes Asya had always admired. Looking at him, I thought that this was exactly how the husband of "my" girl should look.

Suddenly, Sveta came up to me and pulled me away from the table, leading me outside for a smoke.

“Asya treated you unfairly,” she said, exhaling tobacco smoke as she stared at the sea darkening across the road. She took another drag and added: “No, Astashkin, she simply betrayed you.”

With those words, Sveta spat, flicked her cigarette butt like a firefly into the night, and walked away.

Left alone, I thought that Sveta had her reasons to say so. But she was wrong. It wasn't Asya who had betrayed me; I had betrayed her. I couldn't bring a beautiful young wife into the cramped room of the communal apartment I rented. That miserable dwelling would have become for us the "pigeon cage" described by Professor Lorenz in his book.

Still not knowing why, I descended the wooden steps, crossed the "Health Path," and walked out onto the sandy beach. Reaching the water's edge, I took off my shoes, my jacket, trousers, tie, and my white shirt, folding them neatly on a coastal boulder slick with black algae. I did this all automatically, without a single thought.

Indifferently, I entered the water. After a few steps, pushing aside the seagrass with my hands, I noticed the watch on my left wrist. I returned to the shore, took off the chronometer, and placed it on top of my clothes, dial-up, not even glancing at the time.

Then, I entered the water again. I swam without looking back—first the crawl, then the breaststroke. When I grew tired, I turned onto my back and kept swimming. Finally, a powerful current caught me, carrying me further and further out to sea. My eyes stung from the salt and were heavy with exhaustion. Falling into a semi-conscious state, I repeated to myself:

“I will enter your tender womb,

And dive into the depths hopelessly yours...”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter six

That year, the Entrepreneur’s Day gala was held at the "Victory Gardens" concert and entertainment hall. In keeping with tradition, the event drew not only top officials from the regional state administration but also high-ranking representatives from the tax department. The premise was simple: fostering close, "on-a-short-footing" relationships between those who generate wealth and those who appropriate it would surely stimulate local business activity and advance market relations.

Throughout the evening, the "high" rostrum yielded an abundance of optimistic, grand promises regarding the “eternal” alliance between tax officials and entrepreneurs. The official segment was followed by a buffet reception, set to the background music of the local conservatory’s chamber orchestra.

For me, this was where the evening truly began. To the strains of Brahms and occasional jazz improvisations, representatives of the “opposing sides” ate, drank, and rubbed shoulders in a "relaxed and cordial" atmosphere.

Normally shy and self-conscious, I had consumed enough of my least-favorite tequila to feel completely liberated and uninhibited. By the time the orchestra struck up the "Dog Waltz" in the flamboyant style of Liberace, I had grown bold enough to court danger. I decided to invite a girl from the "enemy camp" to dance. Her name was Dunya Hermes, and she happened to be the deputy head of one of the tax departments.

 I took a liking to the brown-eyed blonde fiscal, whom I internally dubbed Dulcinea. To my relief, she didn't seem repulsed by me either.

Against all odds, we hit it off. Making quiet fun of our tipsy colleagues while wisely steering clear of professional topics, we actually had a wonderful evening. After the reception, I walked Dunya home. We exchanged office numbers, said our goodbyes, and parted ways. As a low-ranking supervisor with zero ambition, I knew better than to hope for anything serious with an official from such a formidable department. So, I tried to put her out of my mind.

On New Year’s Eve, one of our coworkers was turning thirty-three—a milestone birthday. Everyone in the department chipped in for a gift, and the task of buying it fell to me, being the youngest and the only one unburdened by family responsibilities.

Leaving work early, I headed to Deribasovskaya Street, straight to Europe, the city’s most expensive shopping mall. Finding myself in this temple of petty vanity, I wandered the floors in utter confusion. I drifted from one boutique to another, staring at counters packed with European brands that were mostly made in China or Thailand, yet I couldn't find a single thing suitable for the birthday girl. Suddenly, a familiar face flashed through the motley crowd of shoppers.

“It’s Dunya! Dunya Hermes, the fiscal!” I rejoiced. “Who better to help her pick out a gift?”

Wasting no time, I closed the distance and, pretending it was an accident, lightly nudged her elbow. A small parcel slipped from under her arm. Reacting like a goalkeeper diving for the ball, I caught it in midair and, offering a gallant apology, handed it back to her.

“Thank you,” she said reservedly, turning to go about her business.

“Is that really you, Dunya?” I blurted out, matching my tone to the sheer emotion of the moment.

“What can I do for you, young man?” she replied coolly.

"Don't you recognize me?" I pressed on.

 "I'm Leonid—Leonid Petrenko, the supervisor. We met back in September, at that corporate mixer for entrepreneurs and tax officials."

"Oh?" she murmured uncertainly.

Then, retreating into her professional armor, she asked in a thoroughly official tone: “How can I help you?”

“You see, Dunya, I have a bit of a dilemma.”

 I was hoping that, for old times’ sake, you might help me solve it,” I pleaded, looking ingratiatingly into her eyes, practically wagging my tail like an eager one-year-old puppy.

"Are you seriously upgrading our fleeting acquaintance to 'old friendship'?" she teased, casting an ironic glance through brown eyes heavily lined with blue mascara.

"Well, fair enough. Let's not quibble over words."

Some fifteen minutes later, the perfect gift was safely tucked into my bag.

Step by step, Dunyasha and I made our way out of the Europe mall and onto the chilly street. She shivered, burying her face into the high collar of her mink coat.

“Dunya, you're freezing!” I urged. “Let's grab a hot cup of coffee. We can celebrate our successful shopping trip while we're at it.”

We ducked back inside the mall. Down in the basement, right next to the supermarket, was a cozy little cafeteria. Minutes later, Dunya and I were perched at a high bar table, nursing coffees laced with cognac.

 As the warmth spread, Dunya slipped off her mink coat to reveal a finely knit, sky-blue woolen pullover and a perfectly tailored, mouse-gray skirt. From beneath the hem, her round, charming knees, clad in anthracite-colored tights, peeked out altogether appetizingly.

“I honestly don't know what I would’ve done without you. Choosing a gift for a woman is harder than sinking a tricky bank shot in billiards,” I said, my eyes lingering on her flushed cheeks.

"Is this your first time doing this?" Dunya asked, casually switching to the informal ty.

“To be honest, I don't get much practice,” I admitted.

Seizing the momentum, I ventured: “New Year’s Eve is just around the corner. Have you decided where you'll be celebrating?”

“A girlfriend and I are heading up to Bukovel to ring it in there,” she said.

“And I’ll be staying home. It’s a family fete...”

Following those words, Dunya locked eyes with me. Her gaze was suddenly so soft and enveloping that it made me nervous; I actually fidgeted in my chair.

“Do you know why she’s looking at you like that?” Brain chimed in instantly.

“Why?”

“She’s cooking up some interesting plans for you. They’re still half-baked, but they’re there.”

“What plans? What are you making up now?”

“The girl just decided you have excellent husband material,” Brain reported to me, leaving me stunned.

“She wants to marry me?!”

“It's a bit early to plan the wedding. Dunya thinks you're still a bit of a fixer-upper, and after that...” Brain refused to shut up.

“What do you mean, a ‘fixer-upper’?” I was indignant.

"Well, the lady believes that step one is weeding out your friends, and step two is getting you checked into a solid rehab clinic. She already has a specific place in mind—her direct boss was treated there."

“Is that all? You can’t be serious!”

"Oh, I am. Dunya is convinced that a man must be properly broken in and educated before you marry him, not after."

“This is something new! Where are you getting this from?”

"It runs in her family. That’s exactly how her great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother all operated. But those three blundered: they tied the knot first, and only then, having come to their senses, did they try to re-educate their husbands. But by then, as they say, that ship had sailed." Brain was getting uncomfortably specific.

“Leonid, a penny for your thoughts?” Dunya’s teasing voice reached me, sounding as if she were many miles away from me.

I snapped out of it like a drowsy Basset Hound, blinked dazed eyes into Dunya’s, and blurted out as if hypnotized: “I was thinking about marriage.”

“How strange,” she murmured.

“What’s so strange about that?” I asked.

“The strange thing is... I was thinking about it too,” she said, her gaze unwavering.

“You, see? Our Dunyasha is the most honest girl you’ve ever met,” Brain noted. “She actually says exactly what’s on her mind.”

We left Europe and walked down Ekaterininskaya Street toward the Church of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. As we crossed Grecheskaya Street, we encountered a lady with a dog.

She was carrying a smooth-coated Chihuahua, tucking it inside her coat to shield it from the biting cold. Catching sight of us, the little "Mexican" tried to sound off, but choked on his own bravado and sneezed instead of barking.

“Bless you!” I said warmly, smiling at the pup comfortably nestled against its owner's chest.

“Oh God, I want a dog so bad!” Dunya said with a sudden, almost childish pout.

“One exactly like that?” I asked.

“Any dog!” she sighed.

 We rang in the New Year apart: Dunya in Bukovel, and I in Odessa, desperately missing her. But we celebrated the Old New Year together at the Gardens of Semiramis restaurant, attending a corporate holiday bash—or a "party," as the fashionable crowd likes to call it.

Everything followed the usual script for an "insiders only" event. Tipsy men and women, shouting celebratory toasts, engaged in a full-blown shouting match. Everyone was talking over one another, interrupting, and completely tuned out. Yet, somehow, it seemed everyone managed to hold the floor for exactly as long as the alcohol in their system permitted.

I was a total outsider in this crowd. Observing the chaos from the sidelines, I realized that if I didn't want to be branded an alien or a complete idiot, I had to keep pace with my partying colleagues in every single way. Which is precisely what I did.

In a word, the corporate holiday bash was a resounding success, wrapping up only as dawn broke. Deciding to clear our heads in the crisp morning air, Dunya and I strolled slowly down Genuezskaya Street.

 As we passed the Odessa Regional Institute of Public Administration, she remarked: “I trust that this year you’ll enroll as a student at this prestigious academy.”

“Why on earth would I do that?” I asked, caught off guard. “I already have a university degree.”

“To climb the career ladder, obviously,” she answered matter-of-factly.

“But I’m no high-altitude construction worker,” I tried to joke.

“No, of course not. But you will secure a highly paid position. Let's say in one of the regional customs offices. They have money to burn!”

“And who came up with this brilliant master plan?”

“I did.”

“But I have absolutely no desire to be a customs officer!”

"If you love me, you will," she said, sealing her verdict with a cold kiss on my lips.

Just as predicted, Dunya had set about re-educating me, determined to guide me onto the "righteous path." It felt like a systematic psychological campaign, borderline harassment, really. And yet, I didn’t resist. After all, I couldn't spend the rest of my days toiling away as a low-level supervisor. I’ll do a stint as a customs officer, and then we’ll see, I reasoned, comforting myself with the memory of Saint Matthew—he, too, started out as a publican.

Granted, I was unlikely to become an Evangelist like him, but a blogger? That was highly possible. Though, who knows how I would truly behave if I ever heard that voice calling out: “Follow Me...”?

 Meanwhile, another holiday was creeping up: International Women's Day. Once again, I plunged into deep reflection, growing frantic over what kind of non-trivial gift to get Dunya.

“Get the girl a dog. She’s been dreaming about one for ages,” my ever-helpful Brain prompted.

Taking his advice, I headed to the Starokonny Market. After sizing up about a dozen puppies of various breeds, I settled on one of the most expensive options—a Pomeranian.

The breeder, a woman who looked distinctively like a mangy lapdog herself, solemnly assured me that this fluffy white ball of fur traced its lineage directly back to the legendary Spitz named Marco.

Yes, indeed—the very same dog adored by Queen Victoria, who reportedly refused to part with him even at night.

Dunya was absolutely thrilled with the puppy. And seeing her that happy gave me some of the most exhilarating moments of my life.

In the south, summer makes everyone a little mad. Dunya and I were no exception; we spent our nights "moonbathing" on the beach, feeling like creatures born into this world for the sole purpose of share your happiness and mutual bliss.

That June night, we swam in a phosphorescent sea and lounged on sand that was finally cooling from the daytime heat. Later, we had a midnight supper of Danube oysters washed down with light Bessarabian wine. It felt as though nothing on earth could spoil this enchanting Ukrainian night. Dunya talked enthusiastically about her Pomeranian, whom she had modestly named King.

“You know, my King had an upset stomach yesterday. I had to rush him to the vet. And imagine—the doctor actually gave him an enema! My poor little baby, he whined so pitifully…” she lamented.

Packing up our things, we left the beach and climbed back up toward the city, stopping to rest on a coastal street that overlooked the panoramic expanse of the Odessa Gulf. At night, it looked even more romantic than by day. I swept Dunya up in my arms and, treading carefully, carried her across a lawn turned blue by the moonlight.

 Reaching the canopy of a young maple tree, I gently lowered her onto a bed of soft grass.

“Oh, what’s that?” she whispered suddenly.

“Where?” I asked, instantly alarmed.

“Right there, underneath me,” she said, her voice laced with confusion.

“Probably a hedgehog,” I offered uncertainly.

She slipped her hand beneath her backside and immediately yanked it back, letting out a piercing shriek: “What hedgehog?! This is dog shit! You did this on purpose, didn't you?!”

“Are you out of your mind, Dunya?!” I stammered.

“You planned this whole thing! You set it up in advance!” she yelled, tearing off her sundress, which had just abruptly lost all of its "kosherness." Left in nothing but her bikini, she bolted into the night.

I chased after her, finally catching up on Lidersovsky Boulevard. But before I could utter a single word of defense, a taxi rounded the corner and screeched to a halt right in front of her. Dunya ripped the door open and threw herself into the back seat.

I lunged toward the car, intending to slide in next to her, but she delivered a sharp kick straight to my groin, screaming: “Scoundrel! You haven’t just insulted my maiden honor and my feelings—in my very person, you’ve dragged our entire tax department through the dog shit!”

The door slammed shut, and the taxi sped away into the darkness. I was left completely alone on the sidewalk, shaking with a volatile mix of anger, helplessness, and utter despair, knowing I couldn't undo what had just happened or bring Dunya back.

I was ready to literally bash my head against the nearest lamppost. And I probably would have done it, too, if it weren’t for Brain.

With its usual calm wisdom, it dryly noted: “To prevent such unfortunate incidents from happening in the future, humans and canines urgently need to reach a consensus…”

I chewed on that for a second and had to agree.

Brain, meanwhile, pressed on: "There are roughly six hundred million dogs on Earth. And they would easily outnumber humans if you people didn't keep forcibly castrating them."

“The planet is overpopulated as it is,” I pointed out.

 "Be that as it may, you humans—whether you like it or not—will eventually have to grant dogs the exact same rights you enjoy yourselves. Furthermore, you must officially introduce the term 'Doggyism' into both scientific and everyday discourse, with all the legal and social consequences that follow..."

“What about cats?” I interjected.

“They’re not any dumber than dogs. I once saw a cat hop onto a toilet seat to relieve itself. And then, believe it or not, it actually flushed the damn thing all by itself, without a shred of help.”

"A rare exception, perhaps," Brain shot back sarcastically. "But cats have never claimed to be the chosen species. Nevertheless, if one were to weigh which civilization—human or canine-feline—has inflicted more damage upon planet Earth, I’m afraid the scales would tilt heavily against the former..."

Yeah, you certainly can’t get bored with a Brain like mine, I mused. But what if the bastard actually turns out to be right?

  

 

Глава вторая

 

 

— Папа, мама! О чем вы говорите? Русские бомбят сирийцев, но они никогда не посмеют убивать украинцев! — возмутился я.

Папа посмотрел на меня, как смотрят на умственного инвалида, и сделал резкий вираж на месте. При этом я едва не свалился на обочину пространственно-временного континуума, но в самый последний момент он схватил меня за шкирку и сказал, едва сдерживая раздражение: «Смотри! Смотри, во что твои русские братья превратили Украину».

И предо мной пронеслись голографической чехардой картины ближайшего будущего: опустошенные войной города и села, выжженные сельскохозяйственные угодья, яблоневые и вишневые сады, которые никогда уже не зацветут, и кладбища, кладбища с холмиками свежих могил…

Они будут бить по Одессе, в том числе, по Соборной площади, попадут ракетой в кафедральный Свято‒Преображенский собор.

— Интересные получатся параллели, — сказала, печально улыбнувшись, мама. — В 1936 году эту божью обитель взорвали российские большевики, а в 2023 году по возрожденному храму ударят баллистической ракетой русские национал-социалисты…

— Да, почерк у них один, — согласился с мамой папа.

— Нет, нет! Этого не может быть, — сказал я, в отчаянье.

— А я говорю: может. Уже даже известен день и час, когда это случится, — сказала мама.

«Да, чтобы ты не думал, как бы не бесился, русские начнут эту войну, — откликнулся на события будущего мой Брейн.

— Ну, зачем им это? — спросил я.

— Знаешь, зачем? Они хотят все повторить, хотят снова взорвать Свято-Преображенский собор, а Соборную площадь переименовать в «Площадь Советской армии»?

 «Оказывается, бремя земных забот и воспоминаний не отпускает нас даже здесь, во временном «бесформии», — подумал я. И, обращаясь к родителям сказал:

— Папа, мама, я вынужден покинуть вас…

—Да, тебе нужно спешить. И, пожлауйста, попытайся предотвратить эту войну, если сможешь. — сказала мама.

— Да! Да! Ты должен найти выход и уйти отсюда как можно скорее! — согласился с мамой отец.

И мы продолжили путь. Малая Азия предстала пред плацдармом бесконечных сражений. Куда ни кинешь взгляд, наткнешься на человеческие скелеты, лысые черепа, которыми смерть играет на бильярде.

Над колоннами Христового воинства, идущего горными дорогами Анатолии в Святую Землю, кружили, черные вороны, высматривая добычу.

Впереди конницы — лучшей в средневековой Европе — верхом на белом коне ехал Рыжебородый Фридрих — император Священной Римской империи Барбаросса. Он был облачен в дорогие рыцарские доспехи, пурпурный плащ стелился по земле, заметая следы, оставляемые копытами его лошади.

— Хорошо идут! — сказал отец, обозревая колонны очередного, третьего по счету, крестового похода. — Однако, где же твой выход?

Выход нигде не просматривался. Его здесь и близко не было. Этот факт опечалил моих родителей, они опасались, как бы я не остался с ними навсегда...

— Идем дальше, в Палестину, в Иерусалим! — убеждал я их. — Где же еще искать выход, если не у Гроба Господнего?!

Воспрянув духом, мы воспарили, оставив позади колонны пилигримов и крестоносцев с белыми крестами на груди. Когда нам удалось достичь пределов Святой Земли, нас догнала печальная весть. Император Римской империи Фридрих Барбаросса, переправляясь через небольшую речушку, свалился с коня в воду, его подхватило и унесло сильное течение. Когда крестоносцы, наконец, вытащили своего предводителя из воды на берег, он уже не дышал.

Узнав о бесславном конце Рыжебородого Фридриха, отец сказал:

— Не верь, сын мой, авторитетам, особенно тем из них, кто более других щедр на инициативы и обещания. А лучше, вообще никому не верь и никого не слушай.

— Почему же, отче? — спросил я.

— Они не сомневаются в том, о чем говорят, и не ведают, что творят, и не предвидят последствий того, что собираются содеять, — уточнил он.

Я открыл рот, намереваясь еще что-то спросить у отца об этих авторитетах. Но меня отвлекли замаячившие впереди силуэты. «Мираж!» — первое, что пришло мне на ум. «Миражи — обычное явление в пустыне!»

Услышав характерный шорох и скрип песка, я присмотрелся и увидел семь дромедаров. Они спускались с вершины бархана, неся на своих горбатых спинах седоков. Загорелые лица всадников, резко контрастируя с белыми бумажными платками, повязанными вокруг их голов, напоминали финики в сметане.

На первом верблюде, покачиваясь, вальяжно восседал мужчина, по всей видимости, шейх-эль-кабир, лицом похожий на американского актера Мишеля Шельхуба. За ним, на втором верблюде, следовал некто в летней английской военной форме и пробковом колониальном шлеме.

Кавалькада спустилась к подножию бархана. Бедуины, одетые в халаты туркменского покроя, понуканиями и ударами прикладов, принудили верблюдов встать на колени передних ног. И всадники спешились.

Один из них, тот, который был одет в английскую военную форму, снял пробковый шлем, встряхнул головой и на спину ему пролились волной тяжелые цвета красной меди волосы.

— Это женщина! — вырвалось из уст мамы.

— Вижу, дорогая, но я хотел бы знать, каким ветром занесло эту даму в такую даль? — сказал отец, продолжая с неослабным интересом наблюдать за происходящим в аравийской пустыне.

Неожиданно откуда-то появился еще один любознательный путник и присоединился к нам. Это был мужчина невысокого роста с лицом, испещрёном морщинками-квадратиками, как разлинованный лист школьной тетради по математике. Под мышкой у мужчины торчала красновато-коричневая грелка. И я не мог понять, зачем она ему в такую жару?

— Рад тебя видеть, коллега! — сказал отец, обнимая пришельца и указывая на меня. — Познакомься, это мой сын, Леонид.

— Альберт, — представился старичок, неохотно протянув мне маленькую сухую руку, обтянутую желтой шероховатой кожей в коричневых пятнах. Пожимая ее, я ощутил холодок, исходивший от его небольшой, похожей на устричную раковину, ладони.

— Как ты думаешь, Альберт, это мираж или?.. — спросил его отец, указав рукой  на группу бедуинов, толпившихся в пустыне.

— С точки зрения вероятности или относительности? — вопросом на вопрос ответил Альберт.

— С точки зрения практичности! — сказал, раздражаясь, отец. — Мы хотим знать, кто эта рыжеволосая женщина и что она делает в этой пустыне среди аборигенов?

— Вы не знаете, кто эта женщина? Но и я не знаю, кто она! — сказал Альберт. И стал ходить кругами, не касаясь ногами земной тверди, которой, как я уже заметил раньше, не было под нами.

Наконец, успокоившись, он привычным движением выхватил из-под мышки красно-коричневую грелку, которая оказалась маленькой скрипкой, и подмигнул моему отцу. Тот взял свою лютню, встал рядом с Альбертом. И они разом ударили по струнам.

«Марш Турецкого», — подумал я, слушая музыку.

— Вы ошибаетесь, молодой человек, это не «Марш Турецкого» и даже не «Турецкий марш». Это — мой новый «Концерт для скрипки и альта с оркестром», правда, музыканты безбожно фальшивят, но, поверьте, великую музыку не испортишь даже такой плохой игрой, — сказал мужчина, не известно, откуда взявшийся и стоявший справа от меня. 

Я повернул голову, чтобы лучше рассмотреть того, кто так бесцеремонно проник в мои мысли.

Но его уже рядом не было. Он уходил, показав мне спину. Я обратил внимание на его белокурый парик, длинный камзол с потертыми рукавами на локтях, на узкие облегающие панталоны, белые чулки с подвязками и маленькие серебряные туфельки на высоком каблуке. Незнакомец шёл, маша руками, так, словно он дирижировал оркестром.

«Это же Вольфганг Амадей!» — пронзила меня догадка.

Мне хотелось пойти за ним. Но я не мог оставить маму одну. Она, уткнувшись лицом в мою грудь, плакала, загипнотизированная музыкой, и повторяла: «Не может быть, этого не может быть…»

Наконец, Альберт и мой отец отложили инструменты. Но музыка продолжала звучать. И, казалось, она никогда не закончится.

Растроганный, я перевел взгляд на бедуинов. И увидел, как рыжеволосая женщина с зелеными глазами, сидевшая на песке среди кочевников, тайком утерла слезу.

— А ты знаешь, кто здесь только что был? — спросил я шепотом отца.

— Да, бедный Вольфганг Амадей! — сказал он. — Ему здесь очень одиноко без любимой жены. И он часто приходит к нам, послушать, как мы с Альбертом играем.

— А почему его жена не с ним?

— Она, как и ты, не познала счастья.

Поскрипывая кожей итальянских туфель цвета граната, к нам подошел счастливый Альберт.

— Да, Иван в музыке Моцарта ни одного лишнего звука! — сказал он. И свысока посмотрел на меня.

— Альберт! Ты уже вспомнил, кто эта женщина? — спросила, снедаемая любопытством, мама.

— Минуточку, — ответил Альберт. И, подобно фокуснику, незаметным движением достал из-за спины портативный телескоп, установил его на треноге и прикипел к окуляру.

Его «минуточка» растянулась как минимум на полчаса, а для меня так на целую вечность. Наконец он оторвал глаз от окуляра, демонстративно стряхнул, вероятно, для шика, пыль с колен, которой там не было. И сказал торжествующе:

— А, знаете, я таки вспомнил, кто эта женщина!

— И кто же она? — спросила, затаив дыхание, мама.

— Она шпионка! — сказал простодушно Альберт.

Отец посмотрел на рыжеволосую женщину в стане бедуинов, перевел взгляд на Альберта и, схватившись за живот, захохотал, повторяя: «Шпионка! Шпионка! Ну, ты и юморист, Альберт!».

Таким веселым отца я еще не видел.

—  Да, это — Гертруда Белл. В годы Первой Мировой войны, когда Французская и Британская империи делили наследство третьей, Османской, эта женщина работала на разведку Соединенного Королевства и одновременно умудрилась быть советником у арабских шейхов, — продолжил невозмутимо Альберт.

— И ее не разоблачили? — спросила мама.

— Для них в то время главная задача состояла в том, чтобы изгнать турок. И в этом интересы арабов и англичан совпадали, ̶   сказал Альберт.

— А что эта чертова женщина чертила своим стеком на песке? — спросил, перестав смеяться, отец.

— Ты что, считаешь меня обманщиком? — сказал возбужденно Альберт. И, не дождавшись ответа, сделал резкий выпад в сторону и в мановение ока оказался в стане бедуинов. Те от неожиданности вскочили, схватились за карабины. Но рыжеволосая женщина остановила их царственным жестом руки и посмотрела вопросительно на неожиданного гостя.

Альберт снял с головы шляпу, которой раньше я у него не видел, учтиво поклонился женщине и что-то сказал. Та кивнула в знак согласия головой, улыбнулась и протянула ему руку для пожатия. Перемолвившись с Альбертом несколькими словами, она представила его шейху. Тот повел себя весьма сдержанно, «по-джентльменски». Но по выражению его лица я догадался, что он с удовольствием расстрелял бы этого белого человека, вторгшегося без спроса в его владения. И он сделал бы это, если бы рядом не находилась женщина. Она, по-видимому, имела на него какое-то влияние. Как бы там ни было, они втроем присели на корточки, и женщина стала водить стеком по аравийскому песку…

— Ну, что я тебе говорил! — сказал Альберт, когда снова оказался среди нас, и окинул отца гордым взглядом. — Это, действительно, та самая Гертруда Белл, шпионка Ее Величества…

Отец был явно обескуражен таким неожиданным и опасным фортелем, какой только что выкинул Альберт, переместившись во времени и в пространстве. Но природное любопытство взяло верх над обидой и он, смущаясь, спросил:

— Так что же все-таки она делает, эта чертова женщина среди арабов?

— Кроит, — сказал невозмутимо Альберт.

— Ты хочешь сказать, что она организовала для бедуинов курсы кроя и шитья?

— Как могло прийти тебе такое в голову? — возмутился Альберт. — Она кроит Ближний и Средний Восток, как ей это заблагорассудится.

— То есть? — спросил, озадаченный таким ответом, отец.

— Когда мы втроем — шейх Фейсал, Гертруда и я, присели на корточки, — продолжал Альберт, — Гертруда провела стеком по песку и торжественно заявила, обратившись ко мне: «А, знаете, сегодня я, наконец, проложила южную границу Ирака!»

—  Такое могли позволить себе только императоры, когда кроили карту Европы, — сказал отец.

— А в данной исторической эпохе, как видишь, этого сподобилась женщина, — сказал Альберт. — Не зря ее называли Гертрудой Аравийской, Королевой пустыни, матерью Ирака…

— Ладно, будем считать, что ты меня убедил. Но, скажи, как ты оказался в Аравийской пустыне, совершив, по сути, скачок в другое измерение? — спросил отец.

— Музыка, способствует мышлению. И в перерывах между игрой на скрипке, Иван, я думал. Я решал одну задачу психологического характера, если так можно выразиться, — сказал, смущаясь, Альберт.

— Неужели ты «создал» новую теорию? Тогда, давай, рассказывай, мы слушаем тебя.

— Честно говоря, еще до того, как попасть сюда, я работал над этой spatiotemporal проблемой. Сложность заключалась в кривизне пространственно-временного континуума во Вселенной. Если бы ее удалось закольцевать, можно было бы совершать путешествия во времени. Размышляя, я пришел к выводу, что Пространство не может существовать вне Времени. А само Время ‒ продукт Сознания. Таким образом, соединив их, получаем логически замкнутую цепь: «Сознание — Время — Пространство». Ты понял?

— В общих чертах — да! — сказал папа.

Я же, как ни старался, не уловил никакого смысла в том, о чем говорил Альберт. Но, тем не менее, приготовился слушать дальше.

— Таким образом, — продолжал Альберт, — любая протяженность, которую описывает Сознание, имеет смысл только в контексте самого Сознания. И только. Вот, это и требовалось доказать!

— Понятно, — сказал папа. И невозмутимо продолжил:

 — А что такое эта «протяженность»?

— Это та самая кривизна в пространственно-временном континууме, которую я, наконец, закольцевал.

— Но каково ее практическое применение? — спросил, не сдаваясь, отец.

— Не перебивай, дай доскажу, — сказал Альберт, недовольно взглянув на отца. — Так вот, все, о чем я пытался вам втолковать, я это описал с помощью простой формулы: (L x T): S = NO.

Где L — это life (жизнь), T — это time (время), S — это space (пространства), а NO — это нуль, равный бесконечности…

— Получается, что моя личная жизнь, умноженная на Время, и деленная на Пространство равна Нулю, так, что ли? — спросил, огорошенный открывшейся ему истиной, отец.

— Нулю или Бесконечности, — уточнил Альберт. — Бесконечность — главное в моих разработках. Она упорядочивает хаос и убирает все преграды. Это я вам продемонстрировал в действии, переместившись в Аравийскую пустыню начала ХХ-ого века, и вернувшись назад, к вам.

— Вот он, выход! — воскликнула мама, по-своему истолковав открытие Альберта. — Наконец наш мальчик может покинуть нас и вернуться в свой мир…

— Ну, не знаю. Я до этого экспериментировал исключительно с субстанциальной эфемерностью. А Леонид — он персона, персона оттуда! — сказал Альберт.

— Тогда грош цена твоим изобретениям и теориям, если наш сын не может воспользоваться ими! — сказала раздосадованная мама.

— Ладно, пойду на риск, однако Леонид должен соблюсти одно непременное условие: поверить в то, что он делает, так же искренно и сильно, как верил Иисус Христос, когда он шел пешком по морю! — сказал решительно Альберт.

— Мама кинулась ко мне, спрашивая:

 —  Леня, скажи: ты веруешь? Скажи мне: ты веруешь? 

             Я не хотел, я не мог расстроить маму после стольких испытаний, выпавших на ее долю. И, набрав как можно больше воздуха в легкие, я прокричал: «………..!»