Interlude
I don't know why the moment of my own death remained the most distinct piece of my memory. All my previous life seems to had been but a prelude to this event, as senseless and unjust as many other events in Russia in the last years.
I had my breakfast, piled up the plates in the wash-basin, decided not to shave myself (I felt it like a challenge to somebody, although didn't know to whom) and putting on my jacket went out of the flat.
The staircase stank, as always, with the odors of cat urine and stale cigarette smoke. Down at the door I met our dvornik [17] whom everybody called Aunt Nastia. Her duty was to maintain the staircase in order and she was working hard to fulfill the task but some bad guys preferred to satisfy their needs of nature just at the stairs. Aunt Nastia, in her turn, used to tell these stories to any of the inhabitants of our house and curse the bastards. I agreed with her opinion as to the low moral level of those bad guys and, leaving her content with my sympathy and support, hurried out to the street.
The Volvo of my boss was already waiting for me near the house. This was his habitual trick every time when he was going to charge me with a new problem, one of those problems defined by the whole throng of his prominent computer experts with all their diplomas and certificates qualified with short and distinct term: "Deadlock!"
As a rule, on hearing such a diagnosis the boss would call me up personally, pouring sweet balms of praises and promises through the telephone and the next morning would arrive to bring me to his office in the car of his own.
At first I had felt flattered by all this.
The driver (and body-guard), known under the nickname Big Paratrooper, or simply Paratroop, waved his hand more resembling a bear's paw and smiled to greet me. All his forty-eight and a half golden teeth sparkled in the sun. Once I had managed to conquer him quite convincingly while playing cards but did not boast about this victory to anybody. Since then Paratroop got to like me; I was the second man in the whole world whom Paratroop liked, the first one being himself. He seemed to pity me and used to ask bringing me my morning cup of coffee:
– Well, Genius, tell me honestly: cannot you really discern the colors?
I soon got tired to explain him that color-blind persons are able to see the colors, it is only some hues that we loose, and the world does not look for us as an old black-and-white film. But Paratroop could not believe me.
– Tell me what's the color of that car there? – he would ask me from time to time.
– It's red, – I would answer and go away.
– You failed, Genius, you failed! – he shouted triumphantly.– It's orange indeed! You're wrong, Genius!
After such entertainment he remained good-humored for a whole day.
I am color-blind. Or now it is better to say that I had been color-blind. Besides, I had no musical pitch. To the least degree. The midwife helping my mother to deliver me to this world was a bit too awkward and a bit too strong. Accordingly, she applied pincers awkwardly and pulled strongly, while my mother was too busy with crying and groaning to notice what's going on. As a result, the head of the innocent baby appeared to be a bit too flat from the left side. This defect is now hardly visible; I've successfully grown up, moreover, Vera called the Miracle, my personal hair-dresser, invented a way to hide this asymmetry so skillfully that sometimes I even attract the attention of girls. But our acquaintance does not last long. Sooner or later all of them call me a "callous monster" unable to percieve genuine beauty.
The girls had some reason for saying it.
I was indeed a callous monster.
But I was also a computer genius.
– Good morning! The best of mornings! – the boss exclaimed coming out of his car in a hale and hearty tone.
His round face with fat cheeks stretched in a most good-hearted grimace. I have already almost come to him. But at that moment the Volvo exploded.
A sphere of bluish fire annihilated the car, only Paratroop's head remained visible for a moment in a most silly way, the fire crumpled my boss as if he were a paper doll. As to me, I felt strong heat and saw one's hand and arm amidst the hell of flames.
The hand was waving as if inviting me to come in.
It was very strange: skinny and sinewy, hairless and covered with peculiar tattoo... I tried to approach it and saw it in details – the forearm of this friendly body member was decorated with an image of a dragon showing all his fangs and claws.
Then I looked back and saw my own body.
It lay face downwards near the fuming car, almost touching the Paratroop's head torn off by the explosion, golden teeth shining in the sun; a jagged splinter stuck under my right ear. Aunt Nastia the dvornik was toddling towards me crying desperately.
I saw all that and remembered forever because I don't forget anything at all. This is my doom and my job.
Once I have read in a small but very clever book that "the hemispheres of human brain provide contacts with various fields of external excitations in quite different ways". Namely, the left hemisphere is dedicated to logical and analytical operations, it sorts and classifies notions and concepts giving each a corresponding label; while the right one perceives the reality as a whole, it controls intuition, space coordination and musical capabilities, i.e. all non-logical and unconscious things.
It was also written there that the left (logical) hemisphere of the babies practically does not function; it develops in the course of socialization of the future member of society. The awkward midwife had evidently damaged the right side of the globe hidden in my poor little head: that is why the left one began to develop too swiftly in order to compensate for the defect. Colour hues and musical overtones were left incomprehensible for me; but school teachers and university professors were shocked to see a student able to quote the textbooks word by word beginning from any page and any line chosen randomly. They did not understand that it was as easy for me as it was for them to see the difference between scarlet and red colors or not to mix up two sounds in different octaves.
After I had graduated from the university my boss invited me to work for him.
...the dragon tattooed on the skinny arm winced joyfully at me, its sharp teeth shining and making him thus quite like the innocently slaughtered Paratroop; this was an impression too strong for both of my brain's hemispheres, and darkness fell over me.
And when I came to my senses I found myself making low bows in front of some very important person whom I looked at from below seeing only his mouth twisted in scorn for all other features were hidden in the shadow of a wide and bulky four-angled hat; there was a strangely shaped musical instrument with many strings in my hands.
They called this phenomenon "Buddha's Madness" in this country; but I did not know it yet and so decided that it was simply madness as such.
Because the world around me was multi-colored and bright.
17
Dvornik is a Russian word derived from “dvor”, i.e. “yard” meaning a man or a woman who keeps clean the staircases, takes care of the territory surrounding dwelling houses, waters the trees and flower beds etc.