Сергей Огольцов – DIY Masterpiece (страница 5)
… which pierces a traffic cop's lips with a chilling horror, their whistle, lost all its importance and meaninf, drops out…
A Screech that clutches the heart more mercilessly than any siren, more terrifying than a diving wail from the sky…
A Screech-alert: IT'S HERE!
. . .
Matter is indestructible. We die, our bodies disintegrate into atoms, which mix with the rest of the world's matter to become part of the next newborn, or to become part of a tree, perhaps a stone, or something else… for the next cycle of life.
Matter cannot be destroyed; it simply changes its state. There was a flourishing world—all what remained is incandescent ash, which, after all, is material…
Break apart a molecule and you get an atom; split it—the ions-electrons remain, and they’d escape to bond with other atoms, into other molecules.
Break apart the nucleus itself, and it dissolves into quanta—rushing through the vastness of the universe.
No matter how small you make it, it's all useless until the particles, having left the confines of your body, combine to form a budding Nobel Prize winner, so that at least he or she will finally understand that quanta are full-fledged universes, composed of their own molecules, atoms, and quanta, defying human measurement…
. . .
The drivers kept frozen, petrified—paralyzed by the memory of those atoms within their composition that had already heard that Screech…
… thousands of eons ago, in the bodies of the drivers’ primordial ancestors…
… who, maybe, not only heard it, but also screeched it out themselves—to signal to everyone else that they are done… that IT was there…
… an incessant announcement, without modulations…
… and IT, hesitating slightly, licked its mow and choosing—in which of these atomic compositions would, here and now, the change of matter begin?
The last thing Inna heard was that primordial Screech, ringingly smooth, bordering on ultrasound, lost in the darkness of her closed—irreversibly, tightly—eyelids…
CPP #3: Bemoaning the Unreachable
Your neighbors are easily identified at a couple of flights of stairs away; the sound of their footwear on the steps is deeply personal, defying simulation. And no one can navigate the stairs producing no footfall; we're not incorporeal; you shuffle, whether you want to or not.
Even more so when you're lugging your 90 kg body weight upstairs, like the neighbor at 129, who shares the same landing with Dmitro Ivanovich. The brown door to the two-room apartment behind the parting wall.
Well, of course, no one argues! Two rooms for a single person certainly is a too large piece of pork fat. The housing issue has been on our agenda for decades. It's being mentioned at every congress of the Party: 'It has to be admitted that we still lag somewhat in housing construction, and this issue requires spacial focusing… '
Although, who needs all this talk? Blah-blahing mills! Antonina Vasilna, switch to Channel 2, would you?
Well, maybe at the hairdresser's, where you can't leave your line, and the TV in the corner drones on, babbles like a brook from under the ficus: a live broadcast from the Palace of Congresses, blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah… Then, nothing doing… It’s a no escape situation.
But again, one must also take into account the position of the person living in the two-room apartment. Consider their relative weight, using technical terms, in the established social order.
The higher the social status of the member of society, the more comprehensive the approach to be taken to resolve the housing issue of the responsible employee. The burden of power is the decisive factor (from any angle you look at it) in determining the total square footage of the living space lus installation of the imported porcelain toilet. The home production at Kalinin plant of plumbing utensils isn't for everyone… well, not everyone is able to stomach them face to face, so to speak… when you've overindulged up to puking… anything can happen…
Aha, here he comes—the first appearance of Christ to the people. Puff-and-huff for the entire building. The poor devil’s wheezing on the vedge of a hearty snortle… Oh, how heavy you are, the burden put by an excessive diet on folks vested with authority! Not everyone can bear the brunt…
However, the neighbor next door is quite the cowboy—has not allowed his job title squash him, but he's broken it in instead and become the Chief. Although there remains a possibility his position’s name is the Senior… After all, it's forgivable for a philologist to confuse the ranks and titles within the engineering fraternity. When at a moment’s notice, just off the top of your head.
Why look far? Dmitro Ivanovich, for example, doesn't even know what specific engineering shop his neighbor across the hall is working in.
At the Progress defense plant, there are plenty of them—both shops and engineers. However, elementary common sense dictates (in which the sense, is not alone—reasonable restraint fully supports the move) to refrain from delving into the production issues in the defense industry.
On the other hand, the principles of good neighborliness have not yet been abolished, and he, Dmitro Ivanovich, maintains relationships with his neighbors… The form may be brief, but always cheerful: 'Good morning!', 'Good day!', 'Good evening!' And every time, a smile on his face. A very friendly one at that.
You are the Chief Engineer, I am the Senior Prof, each of the two’s a useful member of society, in their own sphere of application, but, if necessary, we can also be of use to each other, privately, through mutual understanding…
Fr-r-r! Ugh! He rushed past at breakneck speed, a galloping gait, as they say… He didn't even glance, just a little more, and he would have swept the Senior Prof away in his breathless run…
The long hem of his wide-open cloak (Made in Hungary) almost lashed Dmitry Ivanovich's knee with its imported hoof. This forced him, almost injured, to swallow the 'Good evening!' he had been about to offer, along with a neighborly, joyful smile.
Uff! The guy passed by without looking up. Has no time right now… Happy people don't even notice their neighbors, neither watch their clocks. The Chief Engineer isn't here anymore, he's all there—he's lost in the anticipatory design for the romantic night arranged for today.
Here's someone who's going to sweat it out! He'll be immersed, up to his… well, ears… for example.
No, Dmitro Ivanovich isn't offended; he understands—the man can't bear the strain of stagnation. Relieving of the cursed load is a sacred duty to himself…
Male menopause is a real scourge; even high-ranking employees can't escape it. That's why he takes care of himself, shaves his head regularly, so that his bald spot doesn't show…
. . .
Yes, Dmitry Ivanovich had a three-room apartment, but the children were of different sexes. And once they'd flown off to their independent living, there was no way they could take back the square footage. Thank God, we've already moved on from the War Communism period. We (glory to the dear Party!) have already lived to reach the stage of Socialism with a Human Face, after all…
No need to worry about Vitya… Well, there were a couple of unpleasant episodes during his rebellious youth, but who doesn't have complexes? Look through your Freud, for a convincing explanation…
Gradually, it all smoothed out when the son took up sport, like, clay pigeon shooting, and went to all-Union competitions. Now he's in Moscow, in the state security organs.
Dmitro Ivanovich didn't pass on to the son his grandfather's admonition 'don't get recruited!'; the boy has his own head on the shoulders, and by now he's probably recruiting people himself. Early in his career, he might have done some shooting as was his duty, but his present rank is inconsistent with it.
No, Victor doesn't share the details of his difficult service with his father, it's all just a few things that have leaked out…
Zinaida's situation was more complicated… Freud, that damn bugger… But once she got married, everything settled down… Although even now, sometimes—almost past midnight!—she might call and—set off, Antonina Vasilyeva, pedal your lady's stuff all the way to the Magerki neighborhood!… And that's practically the other side of town, albeit a provincial one… For a maternal psychotherapy session…
Dmitro Ivanovich staked off the first room—after the entrance hallway—as his office when only he and his wife remained in the apartment. The interior designed as austere, as that of a carry-on baggage locker at a train station: the receptionist's desk and chair, a rack of roughly planed shelves, and none of frilly blinds or curtains in the bare window. Who needs them anyway? The fifth floor is practically the stratosphere, with no one to peep in except for stray UFOs…
So, he was just sitting there, clacking away on a portable Olivetti typewriter, when Antonina Vasilna arrived, all agitated, to complain.
She'd been meaning to share it for quite a while, only hesitated if it were her mistake… But the next door neighbor is definitely crazy. When the TV in the living room is off, you can hear him howling. Like a dog. She's already afraid to meet him on the stairs. To disguise his abnormality, he'd turn up the tape recorder at full volume and—howls.