– Leonid, all that you've mentioned is right. But the right place for all these pleasures is in reality.
– Reality is not always affordable.
– Just as virtuality is, Lenia. I don't know where you get money from that allows you to visit here so often, and it's none of my business anyway, but billions of people never were in the deep.
– Millions of people never saw a TV set.
– Virtuality must NOT be an artificial substitution of reality, – says Nadya with conviction.
– Yes, sure. Let's turn the paupers and miserable ones into information storage, let's become impulses in the electronic network…
– Leonid, you know the teaching of Alexandrians through hearsay only. – says Nadya with conviction, – Come visit our Church some time.
I shrug. Possibly I will some time, but there's plenty of interesting places in the deep. The whole lifetime isn't enough to visit all of them.
– I have to go, – Nadya stands and throws a coin at the bar, – I have half an hour more today and should visit a couple more places.
– In search of Dibenko? – I nod, – But maybe it's better to… you know, a warm sand, a Hawaiian beach and some Chilean Red [wine]?
Nadya smiles:
– This won't be work anymore Lenia. The evening beach and the wine… then I'll want continuation. But virtual sex is funny only if you're at home, behind the tightly shut door. I connected from work: six computers in one room and all are occupied. Just imagine how will I look like for my colleagues.
She's absolutely sincere and clever. Good girl, I really hope she's just as open and bright in reality too.
I nod, – Good luck then.
– Thanks, oh mysterious Anonymous, – Nadya bends to me and kisses my cheek.
– Lenia, marker! – whisper the clips on my shoulders.
I take an antivirus handkerchief and wipe the lipstick print from my cheek, wave a finger to Nadya with a warning:
– Girl, I DO prefer to stay mysterious.
Looks like she feels confused, but has enough nerve to shrug and walk away without hurry.
Shit. She spoiled everything, stupid.
It was such a nice talk…
I toss off my glass and snap my fingers to call the bartender:
– Gin-Tonic, fifty-fifty.
Bartender frowns but mixes what was requested. Shit, should I order Tequila with tomato juice, what face will he make, huh?
– Lenia?
I turn around. My Werewolf friend stands nearby: a white suit, patent-leather shoes, a bit old fashioned tie, the face a bit strained.
– Hi Romka { Roman }. Have a sit.
– Who's the girl?
– Nothing interesting.
We divers are always paranoid slightly, it can't be helped.
Too many people want to know our real names.
The Werewolf draws in the air noisily and frowns:
– She tried to mark you!
– I know. Don't worry, she's just a journalist.
Romka sits and nods to the bartender who makes terribly ugly face but gives him a full big glass of Absolut-Pepper. It makes me sick to even watch Roman drinking. But he just
makes a wry face, wipes his lips and returns the glass. Maybe he's alcoholic in reality?
I Dunn.
We hide from each other not less than from our enemies. We're too valuable merchandise: a depth fish, freaks shimmering with a magic glow, any shark dreams to try our taste…
– Did you manage to get the apple out? – asks Roman.
– It's fine, – I fling my jacket open and flop on the shirt's pocket, – the trade article's in place.
The Werewolf relaxes a little.
– What about the buyer?
I check my watch:
– In ten minutes. At the river bank nearby.
– Let's go? – Roman takes his glass.
I scoop mine and we exit the restaurant door that is hacked through the stony wall. In the small lobby I say softly:
– Individual space for us both. Grant access to the person who tells the password 'gray-gray-black'.
The ceiling replies, – Understood.
Now, regardless of how many visitors would like to walk in the virtual space of 'Three Piglets', we'll never see them, only the buyer whom I told the code.
There's a forest behind the second door, the Northern one, primeval and pristine. The cold wind chills to the bone, I huddle up. My companion is absolutely indifferent to the cold. Maybe his helmet is simpler, without air conditioner?
Who knows…
He earns not less than me, but maybe he has a huge family? Or maybe Roman really is alcoholic who squanders grands in just weeks?
There's a small stone hut behind us: this is how the restaurant looks like from this side. We walk along the path slowly, sipping our drinks.
– Do you like pepper vodka? – I ask the Werewolf incidentally.
– Yes.
It's said dryly and without further comments. I wish I knew who you really are, Roman.
But it's impossible: virtuality is cruel to the careless.
We come to the river bank: the steep covered with low thorny bushes. The wind is strong and I narrow my eyes. The sky is covered by dark gray clouds. The river is not exactly mountain one but with rapids and very fast. The flock of some birds can be seen in a distance, I don't know what exactly are they: they never fly closer. The table stands by the steep, there are bottles of Gin, Tonic and Absolut-Pepper on it. Also, a big nickel plated thermos full of mulled wine: a tasty one, with cinnamon, vanilla, pepper, coriander and nutmeg. Three wattled chairs are by the table, we sit and look at the river.
Beautiful.
The white foam on the rocks, the chilly wind, the full goblet in my hand, bluish grey clouds swirling above. It'll be snowing tomorrow, if 'tomorrow' existed in virtuality.
I take a sip, – I wish I knew where this river was taken from.
– More beautiful place never have I seen in my life… – pronounces the Werewolf in a strange voice.
Oh right, it's like this always. Everybody have their own associations and analogies. Maybe this landscape means something to Roman. For me it's not more than just a nice place.
– Have you been here before?
– In some sense.
Interesting.
– What are those birds, Roman?
– Harpies, – he answers without even looking. Whoops! and his glass is empty again but he doesn't get drunk anyway.
My, how I hate the mystery covering us! We fear each other. We fear everything.
– Well, but the weather is nice… – I toss in randomly.
– Yeah.. snowy is this summer… – says the Werewolf and looks at me with irony. He recognizes this place, it does stir something up in his soul. It's not for me to know what exactly.
I fill the heavy ceramic cup with mulled wine, sniff the aroma. The snowy summer? Who cares! There's nothing better than a lousy weather.
– Lenia, do you smoke grass? – Roman holds me the cigar-case.
– No.
Maybe he really is alcoholic and drug addict…
– They say it's much more harmless than alcohol and tobacco.
– They also say chicken are being milked in Moscow…
Roman hesitates, but lights the cigarette anyway.
Shit. Nadya's arguments don't seem to me so crazy anymore.
I drink my mulled wine, Roman smokes anasha { marijuana }. In a couple of minutes he throws unfinished cigarette down with a knock and says:
– Kiddies' fun. Lap me some wine.
– It's a mulled wine.
– What the hell is the difference…
Now we both sip the hot wine with spices. Roman nods:
– Rulez… { Note: the same word is in Russian original ;-) as well as 'Sux' in part 2 by the way } I agree. 'Rulez' is something cooclass="underline" a cold beer, a computer of seventh generation, a beautiful girl, a virus killed successfully… a mulled wine.
We sit by the steep and feel good.
– What was in that apple?
– New cold reliever, a very effective one.
Roman frowns:
– This costs six grands?
– This costs a hundred.
– Ahhh… – Roman's jaw drops.
– Let's wait for the buyer.