Semmant (30 page)

The activist looked at me, pursing his lips. Like the pretty reporter, he probably wanted to make a screw-loose sign at his temple. But he controlled the impulse – it was obvious he was accustomed to holding himself back. He said, “We could help you. We have people working with us who are very concerned indeed. We could even help with money – within reasonable limits, of course.”

I asked him what those limits might be, and he named a laughable amount. I grinned and informed him Semmant and I wouldn’t lift a finger over that much. And on top of that, I’d never join in a war against women.

The man with the strong-willed face glanced at his watch and closed his notepad. All was clear to him; obviously, his world did not contain any blind spots. Then he inquired, nonetheless, who Semmant was. I replied drily, “He used to be my friend. He died.” The activist bowed his head in a sign of sympathy, but new curiosity flashed in his eyes. He probably suspected I was gay.

When he left, laughter overtook me – just like that time in the taxi. For a whole two days I had to suppress guffaws whenever I remembered him. But then it became no laughing matter for me. For the first time after Semmant’s death, I was ashamed. And the reason for it was yet another guest.

A man from the past came to me, the gloomy functionary who knew how to transform himself into a prophet. None other than the director of the School himself appeared on the threshold of my room just after midday a few weeks ago. He had hardly aged, though we had not seen each other for many years. At the same time, he had changed a lot; but I recognized him straightaway. I recognized him and said, “Hello, Director.” And I felt myself blushing uncontrollably.

No, I wasn’t ashamed of being here in the hospital, in solitary confinement. Nor was I troubled by all that had happened to me since the School ceased to be. But I immediately saw as clear as day the mistake I had made that merited censure. I noticed I had blinders on – as if seeing them with his eyes. I said to him, “You were right. The dream must be naïve, nothing less. I was too afraid they would not understand me – that was the stupidest of misconceptions!”

“Yes, yes,” the Director nodded. “Me too. But that’s beside the point right now. How are you doing here, overall?”

I shrugged my shoulders, gave him a brief rundown on the clinic, doctors, nurses. About entangled quanta and the collapse of wave functions. About nonlinearity and the vibrations of the market. And about how the trap of a detector, it seems to me, has not yet slammed shut – despite the bars around the balcony. Despite the white walls and attentive eyes.

It was easy with him – we could speak the same language without selecting simplified terms. “You know,” the Director chuckled, “your situation reminds me of a certain young man from Athens. Sometimes they call him Theo. I once flew to Asunción to help him out.”

“Yes,” I said. “By the way, they sometimes call me Defiort.”

I don’t know why I revealed this name to him – probably on a mischievous whim. I just wanted to change the subject. I felt it wasn’t the time to speak about notebooks with a bunch of formulas or recall the poem about the volcano. But to myself I thought: this is not just a coincidence.

As he bade me farewell, the director looked me full in the face. In his eyes I detected sadness. Later I realized I was mistaken: this was not sadness, but boundless sorrow.

“I’ll see what we can do for you,” he said quietly.

This reminded me of our first meeting – at the School, by the main entrance. But now it was easy to believe in his words.

When he left, a shadow flew out from under my thick curtains and seemed to follow him. The shadow of a chimera, I thought, squeezing out a grin. Then I muttered, “Out! Out!” though I knew it would return to me. Just as each of the nurses would return according to the schedule hanging in the office. As Anna de Vega would return – and perhaps some others whom I dare not remember yet.

So, life continues; I feel its pulse. I can meditate on a wide variety of things. About Semmant and the event horizon. About fine threads of energy and the algorithms of self-adjustment. I don’t think any more about the robot named Eve. But I do expect my Gela to come to visit me someday.

And, of course, I dream of Laura from Santo Domingo. About her slim, playful foot. About her buttocks, shoulders, hips. Laura’s next shift is in two days. Two days – two sunsets, two dinners with a bottle of red Bordeaux, two new letters to Semmant.

I write to him; I write about him. So as not to leave him by himself. To be present in his unseen field – might we not meet again in some universe or another? I think a lot about this and, comparing the facts, come to the conclusion it may happen.

I write him every evening, as before, though I have nowhere to send what I’ve written. That’s no problem; a time will come for these words. In any case, the main thing is to keep moving forward.

“Hey, we did this!” I wrote in the very first letter.

“They consider me insane. Maybe they’re right,” I wrote in another.

“As for you, you were the most normal of anybody I knew!” I wrote recently, in all honesty.

Here, by the white wall, sitting at a desk bolted to the floor, there’s no need to lie.

It seems to me I’m almost happy.

Also by Vadim Babenko:

A Simple Soul

The Black Pelican

A SIMPLE SOUL

An excerpt from the novel published in Russia in 2009

The first English edition coming in 2013

Chapter 1

One July morning during a hot, leap-year summer, Elizaveta Andreyevna Bestuzheva walked out of apartment building number one on Solyanka Street, the home of her latest lover. She lingered for a moment, squinting in the sun, then straightened her shoulders, raised her head proudly, and marched along the sidewalk. It was almost ten, but morning traffic was still going strong – Moscow was settling into a long day. Elizaveta Andreyevna walked fast, looking straight ahead and trying not to meet anyone’s gaze. Still, at the corner of Solyansky Proyezd, an unrelenting stare invaded her space, but turned out to be a store window dressing in the form of a huge, green eye. Taken aback, she peered into it, but saw only that it was hopelessly dead.

She turned left, and the gloomy building disappeared from view. Brushing off the memories of last night and the need to make a decision, Elizaveta felt the relief of knowing she was alone. She was sick of her lover – maybe that was the reason their meetings were becoming increasingly lustful. In the mornings, she wanted to look away and make a quick retreat, not even kissing him good-bye. But he was persistent, his parting ritual enveloping her like a heavy fog. Afterward, she always ran down the stairs, distrusting the elevator, and scurried away from the dreary edifice as if it were a mousetrap that had miraculously fallen open.

Elizaveta glanced at her watch, shook her head, and picked up speed. The sidewalk was narrow, yet she stepped lightly, oblivious of the obstacles: oncoming passersby, bumps and potholes, puddles left by last night’s rain. She wasn’t bothered by the city’s deplorable state, but a new sense of unease uncoiled deep inside her and slithered up her spine with a cold tickle. The giant eye still seemed to stare at her from under its heavy lid. She had a sense of another presence, a most delicate thread that connected her to someone else. Involuntarily, she jerked her shoulders, trying to shake off the feeling, and, after admonishing herself, returned to her contemplation.

Find out more about
A Simple Soul
at
www.simplesoulbook.com

THE BLACK PELICAN

An excerpt from the novel published in Russia in 2006

The first English edition coming in 2013

Chapter 1

To this day I remember the long road to the City of M. It dragged on and on, while the thoughts plaguing me mingled with the scenes along the way. It seemed as if everything around me was already at one with the place, even though I still had a few hours to go. I passed indistinct farms in empty fields, small villages and lonely estates surrounded by cultivated greenery and forest hills. Man-made ponds and natural lakes skirted the road and reeked of wetlands, which later, right before M., turned into peat bogs and marshes, with no sign of life for miles to come. The countryside was dotted with humble towns sprouting out of the earth, the highway briefly becoming their main street: squares and clusters of stores glimmered in the sun, banks and churches rose up closer to the center, a belfry whizzed by, silent as usual. Then the glint of the shops and gas stations at the outskirts said farewell without a word, and just like that, it was over. The town was gone, without having time to agitate or provoke interest. Again the road wound its way through the fields, its monotony wearing me down. I saw the peculiar people who swarm over the countryside – for a fleeting moment they appeared amusing, but then I stopped noticing them, understanding how unexceptional they are, measured against their surroundings. At times, locals waved to me from the curb or just followed me with their eyes, though more often than not, no one was distracted by my fleeting presence. Left behind, they merged with the streets as they withdrew to the side.

At last the fields disappeared, and real swamps engulfed the road – a damp, unhealthy moor. Clouds of insects smashed into the windshield; the air became heavy. Nature seemed to bear down on me, barely letting me breathe, but that didn’t last long. Soon I drove up a hill. The swamps still sat a bit to the east, retreating to the invisible ocean in a smooth line overgrown with wild shrubs. Now the trees grew dense, casting the illegible calligraphy of their shadows over the road, until, several miles ahead, the road became wider, and a sign said I had crossed the city limits of M.

Find out more about
The Black Pelican
at
www.blackpelicanbook.com

About the author

Vadim Babenko left two “dream” jobs – cutting-edge scientist and high-flying entrepreneur – in order to pursue his lifelong goal to write full-time. Born in the Soviet Union, he earned master’s and doctoral degrees from the Moscow Institute of Physics & Technology, Russia’s equivalent to MIT. As a scientist at the Soviet Academy of Sciences he became a recognized leader in the area of artificial intelligence. Then he moved to the U.S. and co-founded a high-tech company just outside of Washington, D.C. The business soon skyrocketed, and the next ambitious goal, an IPO on the stock exchange, was realized. But at this peak of success, Vadim dropped everything to set out on the path of a writer and has never looked back. He moved to Europe and, during the next eight years, published five books, including two novels,
The Black Pelican
and
A Simple Soul
, which were nominated for Russia’s most prestigious literary awards. His third novel,
Semmant
, initially written in Russian and then translated with the author’s active participation, is published exclusively in English.

Find out more at
www.vadimbabenko.com