Preston W. Child, Tasha Danzig
The Einstein Equation
‘Like the lonesome wail of the locomotive
Hurtling over the timeless tracks, endless
Our endeavors linger long after our steam had vanished from the efforts of our power
Our journeys forgotten but only for the remnants of words and deeds recorded of the hour…’
Prologue
Winter never scared Misha and his friends. In fact, they reveled in the fact that they could walk barefoot where tourists dared not even venture out of their hotel lobbies. It was a grand source of amusement for Misha to watch tourists, not only because their weakness for luxury and comfortable climes presenting him with much hilarity, but also because they paid. They paid well.
Many got their currencies confused in the heat of the moment, if only to get him to direct them to the best spots for a photo session or senseless reports on historical events that once plagued Belarus. That was when they overpaid him, and his friends were only too happy to share in the spoils when they congregated at the deserted railroad station after sunset.
Minsk was big enough to have its own criminal underground, both of an international caliber and of the petty variety. Nineteen-year old Misha was not a bad specimen, per se, but he did what he had to do to get through college. His lanky, blonde image was attractive, in an Eastern European sort of way, which garnered him enough attention from foreign visitors. Dark circles under his eyes spoke of late nights and malnourishment, but his striking pale blue eyes kept him handsome.
Today was a special day. He was due at the Kazlova Hotel, a less than lavish establishment that passed as proper accommodations, considering its competition. The afternoon sunshine was pallid in the bland autumn sky, but it lent its rays to the dying branches of the tree lanes throughout the park. The temperature was mild and pleasant, a perfect afternoon for Misha to make some extra money. With the agreeable environment, he was bound to persuade the Americans at the hotel to visit at least two more sites for some photographic fun and leisure.
“The new ones are from Texas,” Misha told his pals, sucking on a half-smoked Fest while they grouped around a drum fire at the train station.
“How many?” asked his friend, Viktor.
“Four. Should be easy. Three females and a fat cowboy,” Misha laughed, his giggles forcing out rhythmic tufts of smoke through his nostrils. “And the best is; one of the females is a pretty little thing.”
“Edible?” came the curious enquiry from Mikel, a dark haired rogue, taller than them all by at least a foot. He was a freakish looking young man with a skin like old pizza.
“Jailbait. Keep clear,” Misha warned, “unless she tells you she wants to, where nobody can see.”
The group of adolescents howled like wild dogs in the chill of the dystopian building they ruled. It took them two years and several hospital visits before they claimed the terrain fair and square from another troop of clowns from their high school. As they planned their scam, the broken windows whistled hymns of misery as the strong breeze challenged the grey walls of the old deserted station. Off the crumbling platform, the tracks lay silent, rusted and overgrown.
“Mikel, you do your headless station master bit while Vik does the whistle,” Misha delegated. “I will make sure the car dies just short of the side path, so that we have to get out and walk up the platform.” His eyes flared at his tall friend. “And don’t fuck it up like last time. Made a complete fool of me when they saw you taking a piss on the rail.”
“You were early! You were only supposed to bring them ten minutes later, fuckwit!” Mikel defended fervently.
“Does not matter, idiot!” Misha hissed, flicking his cigarette butt aside and stepping up for a rumble. “You have to be ready, no matter what!”
“Hey, you don’t give me a big enough cut to take this shit from you,” Mikel growled.
Viktor jumped in and parted the two testosterone monkeys. “Listen! We don’t have time for this! If you get into a fight now, we cannot do this hustle, get it? We need every gullible group we can reel in. But if you two want to wrestle right now, I am out!”
The other two ceased their scuffle and corrected their clothing. Mikel looked worried. Quietly he muttered, “I don’t have pants for tonight. This is my last pair. My mother will fucking kill me if I get these dirty.”
“Stop growing, for Christ’s sake,” Viktor huffed, slapping his monstrous friend playfully. “Soon you’d be able to steal ducks in mid flight.”
“At least we can eat then,” Mikel chuckled, lighting a fag behind the shield of his hand.
“They don’t have to see your legs,” Misha told him. “Just stay behind the window frame and move along the platform. As long as they see your body.”
Mikel agreed that it was a good solution. He nodded, looking through the shattered window glass, where the sun was painting the sharp edges bright red. Even the bones of dead trees lit up in crimson and orange, and Mikel imagined the park on fire. For all its loneliness and forsaken beauty, the park was still a peaceful place.
In the summer, the leaves and lawns were dark green and the flowers immensely colorful, one of Mikel’s favorite places in Maladzyechna, where he was born and raised. Sadly, in the colder seasons it was as if the trees would shed their leaves to become tombstones, void of hue with claws that raked at each other. Creaking, they jostled for the attention of ravens, begging to be warmed. All these assumptions drifted through the tall, gaunt boy’s mind while his friends discussed the prank, but he was focused nonetheless. Above his daydreams, he knew that tonight’s prank was going to be something different. Why, he could not reason.
1
Misha’s Prank
The three-star Kazlova Hotel was barely active, apart from a stag party from Minsk and some transient guests on their way to St. Petersburg. It was a terrible time of year for business, with summer gone and most tourists being mature in age, reluctant spenders who came to see the historical sites. Just after 6pm, Misha showed up to the two-story inn with his Volkswagen Kombi and his lines rehearsed well.
He checked his watch in the looming draw of shadows. Overhead, the cement and brick facade of the hotel lurched in quiet reprimand for his wayward methods. The Kazlova was one of the original buildings of the town as was evident by its turn of the Century architecture. Since Misha was a small boy his mother told him to steer clear of the old place, but he never heeded her drunken mumblings. In fact, he did not even listen to her when she told him she was dying, a small regret on his part. Since then, the teenage scoundrel had been cheating and hustling his way through what he deemed his final attempt at redeeming his abject existence — a small college course in basic physics and geometry.
He loathed the subject, but around Russia, the Ukraine and Belarus this was the way to a respectable job. It was the one piece of advice Misha took from his late mother, after she told him that his late father was a physicist from Dolgoprudny’s Institute of Physics and Technology. It was in Misha’s blood, she said, but he shrugged it off as a parental mindfuck at first. Amazing, the way in which a short stint in juvenile detention could change a young man’s need for direction. However, with no money and no job, Misha had to resort to street smarts and cunning. Since most Eastern Europeans were conditioned to see through bullshit, he had to change his target marks to unassuming foreigners, and Americans were his favorites.
Their naturally exuberant manner and mostly liberal stances made them very forthcoming toward the struggling Third World stories Misha told them. His American clients, as he called them, tipped the best and were delightfully gullible of the ‘extras’ his guided tours offered. As long as he could evade the authorities who asked for permits and tour guide registration, he would do alright. This was to be one of those nights where the extra money would come in for Misha and his fellow scamps. Misha had already baited the fat cowboy, one Mr. Henry Brown III from Fort Worth.