The ceiling replies, – Understood.
Now, regardless of how many visitors would like to walk in the virtual space of 'Three Piglets', we'll never see them, only the buyer whom I told the code.
There's a forest behind the second door, the Northern one, primeval and pristine. The cold wind chills to the bone, I huddle up. My companion is absolutely indifferent to the cold. Maybe his helmet is simpler, without air conditioner?
Who knows…
He earns not less than me, but maybe he has a huge family? Or maybe Roman really is alcoholic who squanders grands in just weeks?
There's a small stone hut behind us: this is how the restaurant looks like from this side. We walk along the path slowly, sipping our drinks.
– Do you like pepper vodka? – I ask the Werewolf incidentally.
– Yes.
It's said dryly and without further comments. I wish I knew who you really are, Roman.
But it's impossible: virtuality is cruel to the careless.
We come to the river bank: the steep covered with low thorny bushes. The wind is strong and I narrow my eyes. The sky is covered by dark gray clouds. The river is not exactly mountain one but with rapids and very fast. The flock of some birds can be seen in a distance, I don't know what exactly are they: they never fly closer. The table stands by the steep, there are bottles of Gin, Tonic and Absolut-Pepper on it. Also, a big nickel plated thermos full of mulled wine: a tasty one, with cinnamon, vanilla, pepper, coriander and nutmeg. Three wattled chairs are by the table, we sit and look at the river.
Beautiful.
The white foam on the rocks, the chilly wind, the full goblet in my hand, bluish grey clouds swirling above. It'll be snowing tomorrow, if 'tomorrow' existed in virtuality.
I take a sip, – I wish I knew where this river was taken from.
– More beautiful place never have I seen in my life… – pronounces the Werewolf in a strange voice.
Oh right, it's like this always. Everybody have their own associations and analogies. Maybe this landscape means something to Roman. For me it's not more than just a nice place.
– Have you been here before?
– In some sense.
Interesting.
– What are those birds, Roman?
– Harpies, – he answers without even looking. Whoops! and his glass is empty again but he doesn't get drunk anyway.
My, how I hate the mystery covering us! We fear each other. We fear everything.
– Well, but the weather is nice… – I toss in randomly.
– Yeah.. snowy is this summer… – says the Werewolf and looks at me with irony. He recognizes this place, it does stir something up in his soul. It's not for me to know what exactly.
I fill the heavy ceramic cup with mulled wine, sniff the aroma. The snowy summer? Who cares! There's nothing better than a lousy weather.
– Lenia, do you smoke grass? – Roman holds me the cigar-case.
– No.
Maybe he really is alcoholic and drug addict…
– They say it's much more harmless than alcohol and tobacco.
– They also say chicken are being milked in Moscow…
Roman hesitates, but lights the cigarette anyway.
Shit. Nadya's arguments don't seem to me so crazy anymore.
I drink my mulled wine, Roman smokes anasha {
marijuana
}. In a couple of minutes he throws unfinished cigarette down with a knock and says:
– Kiddies' fun. Lap me some wine.
– It's a mulled wine.
– What the hell is the difference…
Now we both sip the hot wine with spices. Roman nods:
– Rulez… {
Note: the same word is in Russian original ;-) as well as 'Sux' in part 2 by the way
} I agree. 'Rulez' is something cool: a cold beer, a computer of seventh generation, a beautiful girl, a virus killed successfully… a mulled wine.
We sit by the steep and feel good.
– What was in that apple?
– New cold reliever, a very effective one.
Roman frowns:
– This costs six grands?
– This costs a hundred.
– Ahhh… – Roman's jaw drops.
– Let's wait for the buyer.
The Werewolf nods:
– It's your operation, it's you to decide.
The buyer shows up in some ten minutes, when I start to worry already. I knew him only under a nick 'Hardened', and he knows me as 'Gunslinger'. The buyer is tidy and imperceptible, wearing a regular suit, having hard to remember face: a young guy with a briefcase.
– Good evening, Gunslinger! – the voice is too even: Hardened communicates through the interpreter program.
– Good morning, – I answer looking at my watch. Just a small mutual game, to figure out the diver's time, to determine what time zone he's in is not too little to know already.
– Oh, don't I really love your humor?.. – Hardened sits on the third chair, looks at me questionably, – Have the crop ripened?
– Quite heavy did those apples turn out to be, – I take the diskette out and put it on the table, – To be honest, I would expect these troubles to be more appreciated…
– Didn't we have a deal? Six thousand dollars.
I pull my hands apart:
– According to you, it didn't worth more.
– Do you think otherwise?
– Well… You see Mr Shellerbach…
Hardened shudders.
– … You got mistaken for at least an order. Of course the cold is a trifle.. but who would like to lie flat in bed with high temperature and runny nose, how do you think?
– Not me at least, – Shellerbach The Hardened's face changes. Now he's an aged man with the resolute but nervous face. – But I assumed that the diver's word is piously.
– I don't deny it. I'll give you the file, – with a slight knock I send the diskette across the table, – But next time not a single diver will even move a finger for you. You violate our ethics, Mr Shellerbach. Any job must be paid according to it's complexity.
Shellerbach picks up the diskette ans freezes. I drink mulled wine watching him. The Werewolf is silent: this is my operation.
At last Shellerbach have finished the download and his glance becomes sensible again.
– Well? – I ask.
– Fifty, – says Hardened.
– To each of us?
He is silent, for very-very long time. This is Money, alive, real money, not taxable, arrived from nowhere and went to nowhere.
– Your account?
I give him a piece of paper, an account number in Switzerland on it.
– Negative interest… you're very careful Mr Diver…
– I have no choice Peter..
He gives up. I know his real name while he doesn't know mine. The bank will never give me away, even if the International Jury states that I'm a man-eater and is guilty of genocide. That's what the negative interest is paid for: for complete safety.
– Fifty to each of you. I make a gesture of a good will, Mr Diver!
– Excellent.
Several seconds – and a hundred of grands flow into my account. This is much, very much! Many years of serene life in virtuality.
– Will you agree for the further cooperation?
I open my checkbook and look at the figure with pleasure, then I write a check for 50000 and give it to the Werewolf.
– It's quite possible.
– What about a permanent contract?
– No.
– What are you afraid of, diver? – there's a curiosity in Shellerbach's gaze.
What am I afraid of, hmm?
– I'm afraid of my name being known. The real freedom is in mystery always.
– I understand, – Shellerbach agrees and looks at Roman askance, – Are you the diver too? Or just a walking virus deposit?
– Diver, – says Roman.
– Well… Good luck gentlemen… – Shellerbach pads a step away, then stops, – Tell me… how is it: to be a diver?
– It's very simple, – replies Roman, – One just needs to know that everything around is just a game, a fantasy.
Shellerbach nods and pulls his hands apart:
– I can't, alas…
He walks away along the path, we watch him leaving. Then I fill our goblets:
– For the luck!
Roman obviously haven't yet understood the scale of what have just happened, he silently looks at the goblet in his hand:
– Tell me Lenia, are you happy?
– Sure.
– Big money… – he examines the check, then raises the goblet quickly,
– For the luck!
– Yeah, for it… – I agree.
– You won't disappear from the deep, will you?
– No.
Roman nods with obvious relief, makes a sip and says:
– You know, it's interesting to work with you. You're… unusual.
For one moment it seems to me that we're approaching that impossible point when divers open to each other.
– Same here, Roma.
The Werewolf stands up, sharply and quickly:
– I gotta go, visitors…
He dissolves in the air, the goblet falls down and rolls away clinking and bouncing.
– Good luck to you too Roman. – I say into the void.
Loneliness is the seamy side of the freedom.
I can't have friends.
– The bill! – I growl into the void angrily, – Now!
100
The most vexing is that I don't want to sleep at all: it was too lucky day probably.
I return to the restaurant. Some guests have left, some new ones have arrived, an American crowd still laughs at their jokes.
I need a walk.
I leave 'Three Piglets', hesitate for a moment: should I stop the cab?
– then decide to walk. I eventually leave the central streets and approach Russian blocks. In my opinion, this is one of the most interesting places in virtuality, the place where one can just chat.
About anything at all.
I see long rows of buildings, small squares and parks between them, either crowded or empty. I study intricate plates. Some of them are obvious, others are deliberately vague.
'Anecdotes'
'Talks about nothing'
'Sexual adventures'
'Strange place'
'Oats growing!'
'Books'
'Martial arts'
People come here to discuss the certain topics, this is the echo of pre-virtual age. More serious clubs are located further, where one can get an advice on technical questions, to argue about software or even buy pirated programs cheap. All that is of a little interest for me.
I enter the little park with the plate 'Anecdotes' on the gates. This place is always crowded, noisy and messy. This park looks very much like 'People's culture park' of the 60's. The little orchestra is playing in the corner, obviously not a real one, the people are sitting on the benches drinking beer and chatting. I sit a little aside.
The guy dressed in jeans and snow white shirt climbs on the small wooden stage. He's absolutely featureless. The audience glances at him lazily.
– Once Shtirlitz have left his house… – starts the guy.
{
A side note. Shtirlitz is the main character of very popular Russian 13 episode 1972 TV series about the Soviet spy in Nazi headquarters. The story takes place in February-April 1945. Shtirlitz investigates the attempts of the separate talks held between Allen Dalles and high-ranked Nazis. This series was a real hit then (and still is!), and, as it always happens with something much loved (or hated) in Russia, it gave rise to an enormous amount of anecdotes, mostly hilariously stupid or one-liners based on 'game of words'
} The girl nearby whistles loudly and throws a beer bottle at the guy. I understand her perfectly: 90% of all anecdotes told here is an ancient junk. This club is most loved by the newbies in virtuality… who don't yet realize the little fact that there's nothing new under the sky. One have to spend not more than half an hour here to believe: Cain killed Abel only for the latter's love to tell the old {
'long bearded'
} anecdotes…
Despite the whistles and shouts the guy finishes telling his anecdote and runs from the stage looking around in a primed way. Lonely applause can be heard: geez, who could imagine… I look around for the bar, it's in the far corner of the park. The girl gives me a bottle of beer without a word.
– Thanks.. – I make a sip. The ice cold 'Heineken' raises my spirits instantly.
One more guy ascends the stage, this time much more individual looking one, reminding me the Baltic type. His face looks roguish and I prick up my ears. The guy glances at the small booth in the corner of the stage askance.
– Gentlemen! – he shouts. Hm, he's really Baltic unless it was my subconsciousness that made me hear the accent. – 'Lithocomp' company is honored to offer you the lowest prices for the following…
A-haaa… no questions.
I look at the booth too: the moderator's hiding place. Every club has the person who watches the talks to correspond to the declared topic. The question is though: is moderator on duty now or will react later?
He's here.
The booth's door opens and the sturdy man emerges from inside lazily, holding the pretty sinister looking device in his hands. The Baltic guy notices him and starts chattering really fast: – … hard drives: 'Quantum Lighting', 'Western Digital'…
– Not on topic! – the moderator says lazily but with suppressed rage and shoulders his weapon. The audience goes quiet enjoying the show.
The barrel recoils and the brightly shining red cross-like object flies towards the merchant with a shrilling whistle. The Baltic tries to duck but no use: moderators never miss. The fiery cross or 'plus' as it's usually called, sticks to the merchant's shirt: three such 'pluses' in total – and he'll be banned from 'Anecdotes' club forever.
The crowd laughs approvingly.
– Hey, maybe it was the way the anecdote was supposed to begin, huh? – shouts somebody out from the audience. The moderator shakes his finger to him with a warning, then aims at the Baltic again. The guy quits his attempts to scrape the shiny plus off his shirt, jumps down from the stage and flees.