Awakening, 2nd edition (12 page)

“ . . . So he gets up and tells her , ‘It ’s for your eyes only, my dear!’ And then falls flat on his face.”

Loud laughter followed Chris ’s words.

“You know, some people shouldn ’t be allowed to drink and talk, ” Joan said, still laughing. “The damage can be as bad as DUI.”

Brandon snorted.

“Tell me about it. It gets even worse when you drink once in a decade. I used to work for this company on the East Coast, and they were known for some heavy drinking at their office parties. It was like part of the corporate culture. They were proud of it. And there was this young fellow. Didn ’t drink at all. Never. I don’t think he even drank Coke, only water and juices. So , one day we had a party —I don ’t think it was the big December one, just a party. And there was this woman—”

“Of course,” interrupted Joan. “I know the rest of it already. He had the hots for her, she wasn ’t interested, he got blind drunk, end of story.”

“Something like that, ” Brandon confirmed. “Not blind drunk , but close. He was sober enough to talk for a while before . . . you know . . .”

“Before he puked, ” stated Paul.

“Yes. Never in my life—and trust me, I ’ve heard enough drunk talk—never in my life did I hear such nonsense. First, he told us that his face wasn ’t really his. Went round asking us to touch his nose, his cheeks. What do you do in a situation like th at ? You take it easy and you joke about it. He almost went nuts when he heard us laughing. Started to yell that we were a bunch of morons. Well, one of us happened to be smarter than the rest, so he stopped joking and started asking questions. And then this guy spoke.

“You should’ve heard him. He went on and on . . . It was so weird. Long story short, he said that ten years ago his face had been changed—through surgery he said—at some secret location so he could participate in . . . guess what? Ah, you ’ll never guess anyway. I know I wouldn ’t. In an experiment to create an immortal man. And he was damn serious when he talked about this. Now , the funniest part is that next morning , he couldn ’t remember a thing he ’d said the night before . Not a word. And of course he had no clue about this immortality business.”

“Happens,” Alex said phlegmatically. “Especially if you watch certain movies. Sooner or later it goes to your head.”

Paul had a practical question.

“What did you drink?”

Brandon shrugged.

“Ask me something easier. I wasn ’t doing much better myself. I think I spaced out shortly after th at . I was a boy then, straight out of college.”

“Speaking of drunken people, ” announced Alan, “who ’s ready for another martini?”

“Great idea!” Joan exclaimed. “I ’m in. Hey, Rob, what are you doing over there all alone? Join the crowd! We ’re discussing how alcohol abuse can be bad for your health, and washing it down with martini.”

“The theory and the practice, ” Robert said, approaching the table.

“Precisely!” Alan proclaimed. “Just like in our class.”

Robert lowered himself into the chair, set his half-emptied glass containing brownish ice cubes on the table and crossed his legs comfortably.

“There’s a nice joke about the theory and the practice. Two friends, a lawyer and a doctor , are having lunch . . .”

Is it morning yet? Can’t be, it ’s too dark. What time is it? Two-thirty . . . Why do they always put alarm clocks with red digits in hotel rooms? Did someone come up with a theory that bright red light delights guests in the middle of the night? Why did I wake up anyway? Was it a sound? Nah, it ’s quiet in here. Very, very quiet . . . Although —there it goes . Is it water dripping somewhere? Yes, there’s another drop. Still, it ’s too quiet to wake anyone. Where is it dripping? Over there, someplace in that wall. A luxury hotel like this and water dripping in walls? It can ’t be rain, the sky was clear tonight. So . . . how do I go back to sleep now? It ’s like that night in Beijing . . .

When was it? Three, no
—four months ago. Jet lag had never been a problem until that day. But on that night it hit and hit hard. You wake up for no reason in pitch-dark night and can ’
t go back to sleep. And it feels so stupid . . . You want to get some sleep, you need it desperately ; you ’re tired after an eighteen -hour -long trip .
You’ve slept just two or three hours so far, but you just can ’t. Something inside you giggles and teasingly reminds you that what you consider yourself is nothing more than a thin layer built on top of an extremely complex machine that doesn ’t recognize you as its master. If you ’re lucky , you can negotiate good terms with this “something .” Otherwise , all you can do is lie in the bed, stare at the ceiling and pretend that you ’re enjoying the view. That was the Beijing revelation.

Nope, there was one more. The Tiananmen Gate. The Gate of Heavenly Peace . . .

You pass a security checkpoint where you have to go through a somewhat polite frisking, go up the steep staircase squeezed between the massive red walls, and step on to the upper deck. And this humongous square of unimaginable proportions opens up in front of you. Thousands of people walk underneath the huge red flags fluttering in the cold Beijing wind. Thousands—and yet they don ’t cover a tenth of this immense slumbering space.

And all you’re thinking about—all you can think about—is not the fact that you ’re facing the largest square in the world. Nor the fact that you ’re standing in the spot many generations have revered as the center of the Celestial Empire. You ’re not even thinking about the events that took place at this very square back in 1989. No —all you can think about is something entirely different.

You’re thinking about some moment roughly in the middle of the last century when an average-looking beginning -to -grow -bald man in his fifties stood right here on this very deck and shouted passionate words into the roaring sea of people who dammed up the square in front of him. And this crowd, blended together in a single formidable impulse, responded with a cheerful rumble every time he pause d . They were ready to follow him ; no matter where he decided to lead them, they were ready to obey his every order, and they were ready to build or demolish at his command. All he had to do was to wish it. And he knew it, and like a sculptor he molded whatever he desired of the yielding clay of people ’s souls.

He stood on this deck, surrounde d by his retinue —and yet alone . For s ooner or later , people like him inevitably end up alone . A nd no one knows what he was thinking at that moment —a moment that has since made its way into countless books and articles.

There were no humongous buildings yet by the sides of the square—he ordered to have them built later. The gray hulk of the monument in the center wasn ’t there either—many years passed before he decided to erect it. And there was no monumental tomb surrounded by trees at the far end of Tiananmen—he was laid into it like a Pharaoh into his pyramid nearly thirty years later. There were only people. People whose faith had turned him , over time , into the man he ultimately became. He longed to rule and they lo nged to be ruled. They always long to be ruled.

And now you’re standing at the same place, feeling the same floor , steeped in history , beneath your feet, looking at the same square, listening to the same language around you. You ’re trying to imagine what he was thinking at that moment towards which he was heading tirelessly for many long years. You ’re thinking, thinking, thinking . . . And all of a sudden , the imposing buildings surrounding th e square , the gray stepped column of the monument, and the mausoleum disappear softly and silently under ground. The flapping flags disappear. The cars rushing along the lanes between the gate and the square dissolve in the clear air. And the crowd in front of you suddenly changes the multicolored diversity of its gar ments to monotonous muddy -green shades. And these identical -looking, faceless, indistinguishable little figures keep multiplying and multiplying . . .

Now the entire square is dammed-up by people. There are thousands, tens of thousands of them . . . A nd every one of them looks up at you, strives to catch your every word, watches you with faith and hope. And this faith and this adoration that borders on worship , and these thousands of believing gazes that blend into one awe-filled gaze strengthen your speech and make it even more confident. You ’re articulating word after word , and every word flies into the crowd like a stone from a sling.

The Forbidden City that lays behind you—the fortress of fortresses, the bastion of bastions, the ancient epicenter of imperial might suddenly turns, as if at the stroke of an invisible hand, into a plain theatrically fake assemblage of red buildings. Century after century emperors ruled the vast country from it, blinding like stars, sparing life and bringing death, inflicting wars and suppressing revolts. Terrifying and divine was their power , bestowed on them by Heaven. Whenever an emperor died , a new one immediately stepped to the throne, taking over and preserving the inexorable power.

And where is it now—that unshakable hereditary might of dynasties? Nowhere. It decayed and shattered to pieces. The last emperor became the laughing stock of all of Asia ; a puppet, manipulated by anyone who chose to do so. But power, true power , survived. Wherever people are, there is power. Wherever many people are, there is inconceivable power. And although it had dispersed across the ruins of the great empire, it didn ’t die. It lay low and waited ; waited patiently for its hour, waited for its man—for the one, who wouldn’t be intimidated by it, who would dream of it, live for it, who would be capable of accomplishing the quest to it. And you dreamed, and you wished, and you came. And over the years of deprivation, suffering, plots, battles, victories and crushing defeats, alliances and treacheries , you reconstructed it from the scattered bits and pieces. And from now on , you and power are inseparable. From now on , your name means power. . . From now on , your word means law. You are Power.

For real power belongs only to those who build it themselves.

“Beautiful, isn ’t it?” Stella asked, overlooking the lake.

Michael nodded. They stood on the balcony , in exactly the same spot he had stood yesterday, waiting for the class to begin. The air was the same—clear, fresh , and filled with teasing aromatic smells that appeared foreign to the urban nose. The sky hadn ’t changed either—it had remained pale blue, cloudless and sharply outlined by the silhouettes of the mountains. Nothing had changed. As if the past twenty -four hours packed with introductions, odd lectures, somewhat meaningless exercises, meals and a cheerful evening had not happened .

“A view to kill for, ” he said. “People in rooms on this side are lucky.”

“Hardly,” Stella disagreed. “I ’m one of th o se lucky ones and the only thing I got out of it today was the sound of a powerboat at 6:00 a.m.”

“Must be Robert, ” Michael guessed. “He took it out yesterday , too.”

Stella shrugged.

“Whoever he was, this boat enthusiast stole a whole hour of sleep from me.”

They went silent again. This balcony was great for just standing, looking at the lake , and being quiet for a while.

But not for everyone.

“What do you think about these analogies he made yesterday?” Ross enquir ed with his usual smile. “He ’s right ; you don ’t get to hear things like that in training. Priests, courtiers . . . I never thought about my job th at way.”

“Good analogies, ” Michael agreed, making an effort to keep a straight face .

This wasn’t the best topic for a morning chitchat. Although Clark ’s concluding words were indeed hardly appropriate for a business class. They bordered on tactlessness , if not outright rudeness. In fact, they were nothing but a pure tactlessness, calculated and intentional . . .

“ . . . Inside every one of you slowly burns the lust for power. Born to middle -class families, you have no means to satisfy this lust , due to the social status your parents have given you. To make matters worse, you ’ve already realized that you ’re neither ingenious entrepreneurs, nor talented investors, nor future generals. Nor are you inclined to join the shadow world of organized crime and rise to the top there. But you have this thirst for power and it has to be quenched.