Omen IV: Millenium | Diary. July 6
I'm sitting in a motel in Brooklyn, July 6, 2000, in a room where the bed creaks like an old closet, and outside the window a neon "Motel" sign with a falling off "M" is blinking. It smells of dampness and cheap soap, and my head is a mess from everything that has happened these past few days. New York is buzzing outside the window like a huge beehive, and I, Sukhov, with my shabby Halloween cape, feel like either a hero or a clown in this future. It all started on June 29, when I boarded a plane at Pulkovo, and I still can't believe that I'm here, in America. I'm writing conscientiously, as I promised myself, until my head explodes from impressions. Damn, this is another world, but the people here are not gods, they are the same as us, eating, drinking and pushing in lines.
At Pulkovo on June 29, I stood at the check-in counter, clutching a suitcase with a cracked handle and the ticket that Major Ivanov had thrust at me. My Halloween cloak hung on my shoulder like armor; without it, I probably would have fled back to the Khrushchev-era building. The airport was buzzing: women with bags were yelling at children, the smell of coffee from the kiosk mixed with the stench of sweat, and the loudspeaker was wheezing: "The flight to Moscow is delayed." I almost screamed from nerves - well, Sukhov, you're almost in the States, and here there are delays! Mark T., that American in a jacket, was grinning next to me as if this was all a picnic, and Ivanov, like a tank, was checking my papers. When they announced boarding, I almost tripped over my own suitcase, my heart was pounding like it was under fire in Afghanistan. The stewardess, with a hairdo like the saleswoman from Produkty, looked at my ticket and muttered: "Come on in, Sukhov, 12A." I dragged my suitcase into the Tu-154, narrow as a minibus, and plopped down by the aisle. My raincoat got caught on the armrest, I cursed - so much for a hero, Dmitry. Mark sat by the window, and Ivanov was already snoring two seats away. The plane hummed like an old vacuum cleaner, and I thought: "Well, Sukhov, hold on, you're flying into a new world."
The flight to Moscow was short but nerve-wracking. The plane, an old Tu-154, hummed like a tractor, and the cabin smelled of kerosene and someone's cologne. The stewardess, with a face like a saleswoman from a kiosk, handed out food: a rubber chicken with buckwheat and a plastic cup of tea that smelled like tea from grandma's cupboard. I picked at the chicken, ate a cabbage pie from a package - it was cold, but familiar, from St. Petersburg. Mark was sitting next to me, leafing through a magazine with an ad for the Nokia 3310, and mumbling something about America. Ivanov translated: "Mr. Mark says that a new world awaits you in New York." I just chuckled: "A new world? Let's see if it eats me up." In the porthole there were clouds, grey like the St Petersburg sky, and I suddenly thought: what if I don't come back? The Neva, the pigeons, the stalls with "Java" - all of this seemed to dissolve with every kilometre.
In Moscow, at Sheremetyevo, it was even worse. The airport was like a bazaar: crowds, queues, the smell of sweat and cheap cigarettes. Mark, Ivanov and I waited for about five hours at the transfer. I bought coffee in a plastic cup, as bitter as at Pulkovo, and thought: look, Americans are people, they drink the same crap as we do. Mark, however, ordered some kind of turkey sandwich, wrapped in paper with a logo, and chewed it as if it were a delicacy. I looked at him and thought: well, definitely not a god, just a guy with a sandwich. Ivanov, as always, was calm as a tank, checked our tickets and said: "Sukhov, don't talk nonsense, everything is under control." I just nodded, sweating in my raincoat, and thought: damn, I'm really flying overseas. My head was spinning: skyscrapers, Times Square, like in the Van Damme movies, but I'm Sukhov, with a soldering iron and a hangover.
The flight across the Atlantic was something. The plane, some kind of Boeing, looked newer than our Tu-154, but still hummed like a vacuum cleaner. The cabin was packed to the brim: businessmen in suits, women with children, a couple of hippies with long hair that smelled of something herbal. I sat by the aisle, Mark by the window, and Ivanov dozed, his head resting on the armrest. The stewardess, this time an American, with a smile like in a toothpaste commercial, handed out food: a slice of pizza, a salad in a plastic box, and juice in a carton. The pizza was strange - the cheese stretched like rubber, but I ate it all, because my grandmother's pies had run out back in Moscow. The juice was sickly sweet, with the inscription "Tropicana", and I thought: here it is, American abundance, but it tastes like compote from kindergarten, only in a beautiful package. This was the first sign that Americans are not gods, but the same people who drink juice and eat rubber pizza.
In the window there was an ocean, endless, like in the movies about Columbus, and then clouds, illuminated by the sun. I looked and thought: I'll be damned, Sukhov, you're flying to America like some astronaut. Mark was droning on about New York, showing me photos in a magazine: the Twin Towers, the Statue of Liberty, yellow taxis. I listened with half an ear, and imagined myself walking along these streets, in my Halloween cape, like a hero of some action movie. But my chest was aching: what if I'm a nobody there? At least in St. Petersburg I knew where to buy Baltika and how to persuade Aunt Zina not to yell at me for the dirt in the entryway. And here? A new world, a new me - or the same Sukhov, with a beer belly and dreams of Afghanistan?
About eight hours later - I don't know, I lost count - the flight attendant announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, we're approaching New York." I nearly jumped. Mark pointed to the window: lights were burning down there, like stars that had fallen to earth. New York, for fuck's sake! As the plane began to land, I gripped the armrests - it hadn't shaken like that under fire in Afghanistan. The wheels hit the ground, and I exhaled: we'd landed. July 3, Kennedy Airport, evening. The crowd in the terminal was buzzing like Palace Square during the White Nights. It smelled of coffee, hot dogs, and something sweet, like donuts. People were running, yelling, dragging suitcases, and I stood there like an idiot, clutching my battered suitcase and raincoat. Mark grinned: "Welcome to America, Dmitry!" I just nodded, but in my head there was a carousel: this is not St. Petersburg, this is another world.
Everything in the airport was sparkling: glass walls, signs advertising Coca-Cola and some movie with Tom Cruise. But I noticed something familiar - a guy in the corner, by the coffee machine, drinking from a plastic cup, wincing, like I had at Pulkovo. That's it, I thought, Americans are people, drinking the same crap we do. It was strangely calming. Ivanov, as always, took matters into his own hands: he checked my papers, said that Mark would take me to a motel. We walked out of Kennedy Airport, and New York seemed to crash into me like a truck. Yellow taxis honked like crazy, the crowd hummed like Nevsky during rush hour, and the air smelled of asphalt, gasoline and something sweet, like donuts from a kiosk. I stood there, clutching my battered suitcase, my Halloween cape thrown over my arm - it was hot, damn it, it was July after all.
Mark T., in his Hollywood-style jacket, waved his hand, and a yellow taxi, shiny as a toy, pulled up right next to us. I looked at it like it was a spaceship and thought, "Sukhov, are you sure you're in America? Is this not a dream?" Mark shouted something to the driver, who nodded, and we stuffed my suitcase into the trunk. I climbed into the car, still feeling like I was in some Van Damme action movie, where I was not the hero but a random passerby.
The taxi took off, and New York flashed past the window like a fast-forward film. Skyscrapers stuck out like needles, their glass sparkled in the evening sun, and the streets were teeming with people - in suits, in caps, with bags, all rushing somewhere. Signs were blinking: Coca-Cola, Sony, some movie with Tom Cruise, whom I saw at the airport. I was glued to the window, like a kid who got to Disneyland for the first time. This was not St. Petersburg with its gray houses and the Neva - this was another world, as if I had fallen into the future, where everything is brighter, louder, faster. But the driver, a fat man with gray hair, chewed gum and yelled into the phone in some broken English, and I thought: here it is, he yells like our taxi driver on Moskovsky Prospekt. Americans are people, not gods, just with shinier cars.
Mark was sitting next to me, smiling as always, pointing out the window, babbling something in his English. I only caught "Brooklyn" and "motel," the rest was like radio noise. Damn, how I missed Ivanov! The major, with his ambassadorial bearing, stayed at the airport, saying that service business called him back to Russia. He shook my hand, muttered, "Sukhov, don't talk nonsense, hang in there," and went to the check-in counter. Without him, I felt like I was without an interpreter in Afghanistan, when the American instructors were yelling and I just nodded, pretending to understand. I turned to Mark and squeezed out, "New York… very big, yes?" My English was like a drunken sailor's, my words stumbling, my accent cutting into my ears. Mark nodded as if he understood, and said, "Yes, Dmitry, big city! You like?" I just chuckled, thinking, "Like, damn, I don't even know where I am!"
I tried to say something else, so as not to remain silent like a fool. "This… like a movie, yes? Hollywood?" I squeezed out, feeling my face turn red from shame for my broken English. Mark nodded again, grinning like a cat from an ad, and answered: "Hollywood, yes! New York - best movie!" I just threw up my hands: damn, he doesn't understand me, and I - even more so. I remembered Ivanov, how he clearly translated every word of Mark in St. Petersburg, and melancholy pricked me like a needle. Without the major, I am like without a compass, sitting in this taxi, in this alien world, and trying to put two words together, like a schoolboy at an exam. But Mark still nods, as if we are best friends, and this calms me down a little. Maybe he is not a god, but just a normal guy who also does not know how to talk to me.
The taxi sped along the highway, then turned into Brooklyn, where the buildings were lower, but still sparkled with neon. The streetlights burned like torches, and the sidewalks were packed with people: some were carrying bags from the supermarket, others were smoking at a hot dog stand. The smell of food came through even through the closed window - greasy, like shawarma, but with a sweetish tint. I thought: look, even here the food smells like ours, only in a beautiful wrapper. This was another sign that Americans are not celestials, but just like us, just with a bunch of signs and cars. The driver suddenly turned on the radio, and some pop music poured out of the speakers - I think it was the Backstreet Boys, I heard this song in St. Petersburg, in a club on Nevsky. "Shape of My Heart", or something? I snorted: well, exactly, people, even their music is ours, only louder.
I turned to Mark, deciding to try my luck with English again. "Is this motel… good?" I asked, trying not to sound like a complete idiot. Mark nodded like a clockwork toy and said, "Good, Dmitry, cheap and good!" I just sighed, "Chip, damn it, as long as there are no bedbugs." I said this in Russian, and Mark, of course, didn't understand a thing, but he was still grinning, as if I'd told a joke. I looked at him and thought: here you are, Sukhov, in New York, in a taxi, with an American who nods like a dummy, and you're spitting out words like a first-grader. But my chest was burning - damn, this is my chance! It doesn't matter that I'm talking like a drunken sailor, that Mark doesn't understand, and I'm sweating in my raincoat. This is America, this is the future, and here I am, with a suitcase and the hope that I won't screw up.
The taxi pulled up to a motel under a flashing neon sign that hummed like a broken transformer. I got out, dragging my suitcase, and looked around: a low building, peeling paint, cloudy windows, as if they hadn't been washed in ages. Mark slapped the driver on the shoulder, handed him a couple of bucks, and the yellow cab drove off, honking like a lunatic. I stood there, sweating in my raincoat, thinking: is this America? It looks like a St. Petersburg hotel on Ligovka, only with neon. Hell, in some places it's even worse - at least we wash our windows before foreigners arrive. Mark grinned as usual and waved his hand toward the entrance: "Come, Dmitry, check-in!" I nodded, although in my head I was thinking: "Check-in, damn it, as long as there are no bedbugs."
The inside of the motel smelled of damp, cheap cologne, and coffee from the machine in the corner. The reception desk was wooden, with scratches, and behind it was a woman of about fifty, with dyed red hair and glasses on a chain. She was chewing gum like a taxi driver and leafing through a magazine with Britney Spears on the cover. Mark started jabbering something in English, as fast as a machine gun, and I only caught "reservation" and "Dmitry." The woman looked at me like I was a tramp and muttered, "Passport, credit card." I shoved my passport in, and Mark waved his hand, "No card, I pay!" She shrugged, pointed at the computer-a huge box with a monitor, like in hacker movies-and handed over a key with a plastic keychain. "Room 12, second floor," she muttered, returning to her journal. I squeezed out, "Thank you… very much," feeling the accent grating on my ears, and thought: where are you, Ivanov? The major would have translated right now without blinking, but here I am, like a fool, slapping words together like a schoolboy. Mark nodded as if I had said something smart, and dragged me toward the stairs.
Room 12 turned out to be cramped, with floral wallpaper that was peeling in the corner, like in my Khrushchev-era apartment. The bed creaked like my grandmother's old sofa, and on the nightstand stood a Sony Trinitron TV - a big one, with a convex screen, clearly cool for the locals. I turned it on: CNN was showing news about the elections, some Bush vs. Gore, and I thought: well, at least the TV isn't a Rubin, that's progress. But the smell of dampness and the stains on the carpet reminded me of St. Petersburg - Americans, it seems, don't bother with cleaning either. Mark threw my suitcase down by the bed and said: "Rest, Dmitry, tomorrow institute!" I nodded, muttering: "Institute… good, yes?" He grinned like a cat from an ad and left, promising to come back in the morning. I was left alone in this room, which smelled like a cheap bathhouse, and I thought: damn, tomorrow I'll see their institute, meet my colleagues. Is this really my chance or am I going to get into trouble again?
I was so hungry that my stomach was cramping. As he was leaving, Mark handed me a paper bag from McDonald's that he had grabbed on the way. I pulled out a burger - a Big Mac, judging by the label - French fries and a glass of cola, the ice jingling like pebbles. I unwrapped the burger: the bun was soft, the meat smelled fried, but everything was somehow… unreal, like a toy. I bit into it - the sauce was sweet, the salad was crunchy, but a thought flashed through my head: oh, where are you, grandma's borscht? Or at least the shawarma from Nevsky, with its fatty meat and garlic sauce. The potatoes were salty and crispy, but I remembered the fried potatoes with dill that grandma used to stew in a cast-iron frying pan. The cola hissed, cold, but I thought of the Baltika that Igor and I drank in the kitchen, laughing at old stories from LETI. It was another sign: Americans eat burgers like we eat cutlets - people, not gods, everything is just in bright wrappers.
I finished eating, crumpled the bag and threw it in the basket, where someone's cigarette butts were already lying around. I sat down on the bed, it creaked, as if complaining about life. I turned on the TV again - MTV was showing a Backstreet Boys video, the same one I had in the taxi, and I snorted: well, exactly like ours, only the picture was brighter. On the nightstand there was a phone, a Motorola StarTAC, with a hinged cover, like in spy movies. I poked the buttons - cool, not our rotary "VEF", but there was no one to call. I lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, where a damp stain resembled a map of Russia. Tomorrow Mark would take me to the institute, introduce me to his colleagues. Who were they? Scientists in white coats, like in the movies, or the same as me, with longing in their eyes? I closed my eyes, and in my head was spinning: New York, skyscrapers, this motel, like a St. Petersburg flophouse. Damn, I'm really here in America and tomorrow it all starts. I just hope I don't screw up with my English and this science of theirs.
The morning of July 1st began with the door to my room clicking and me jumping up on the bed as if scalded. My heart started pounding: where am I, what the hell? Mark was standing in the doorway, in his grey jacket, grinning like a cat, holding the key - the sly one, it turns out, had grabbed a duplicate. I rubbed my eyes, my head was buzzing like after Baltika, and muttered: "Mark, what the… why are you here?" He just waved his hand: "Morning, Dmitry! Breakfast, institute, let's go!" I blinked, trying to understand why no one was speaking in human language, but then I remembered: New York, motel, America. Damn, I'm really here. I reached for my coat hanging on a chair and thought: well, Sukhov, get up, some scientists are waiting for you today.
Mark dragged me to a pizzeria across the street, where the neon sign for Pizza blinked like something out of a cheap movie. It smelled of cheese and tomato sauce, and there was a guy in a cap behind the counter yelling at someone in Italian. Mark ordered us each a slice of pizza-greasy, with pepperoni, the size of a plate-and coffee in paper cups with lids. I took a bite: the cheese was stretchy, the meat was spicy, but in my head I thought-where are you, grandma's borscht? Or at least the pelmeni from Produkty on Vasilievsky? The coffee was bitter, with a cardboard taste, but I took a sip, watching Mark chew as if he were at a banquet. I choked out, "Pizza… good, yes?" feeling like my English sounded like a drunken sailor. Mark nodded, "Very good, Dmitry!" Damn, without Ivanov, who flew to Russia yesterday, I feel like I have no arms - every word is like a jump into the abyss. I remembered how the major clearly translated in St. Petersburg, and almost howled with melancholy.
We finished eating and headed to the metro. Mark walked as if he were on parade: his jacket was pressed, his back was straight, like a general in front of the line. I trudged along behind him, sweating in my raincoat, with a suitcase in my head - not a physical one, but the thoughts that I was dragging my whole life behind me. The metro station was buzzing like a beehive: the crowd was pushing, it smelled of sweat and hot dogs from the stalls. People were dressed as if they were going to a carnival: one guy in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, another in a bright yellow jacket with the inscription "NYC", a woman in a dress with flowers, like from a curtain. There were plenty of rockers: leather jackets, chains, shoulder-length hair, like in the Metallica videos that were shown on MTV. I looked and thought: is this how everyone walks here, like in a circus? In St. Petersburg they would have laughed at such Mickey Mouse T-shirts, but here it was like the norm.
The metro was crowded, the train clanked like an old tram, but the carriages were shiny, unlike ours in St. Petersburg. On the walls were ads for Pepsi and some movie with Russell Crowe. I grabbed the handrail, Mark was standing next to me, leafing through some magazine with a shiny cover. I tried to speak: "Institute… far?" - every word was stuck in my throat like a nail. He nodded: "Not far, Dmitry, ten minutes." I just sighed: ten minutes, and I already felt like I was at Petrovich's exam, when I didn't have time to get my cheat sheet. I remembered Ivanov, his calm voice, and thought: damn, major, how inopportune you left! The train braked, Mark waved: "Here, Dmitry, let's go!"
We got off the subway on some noisy street in Brooklyn. The sun was blazing like in Sochi, the asphalt was smoking, and there were skyscrapers all around, not as tall as in the center, but still oppressive. Mark walked ahead, in his shirt with the sleeves rolled up, like a local, and I trudged behind, clutching the strap of my bag like a life preserver. The institute turned out to be a three-story red brick building with huge windows that sparkled like mirrors. We didn't have those at LETI - the glass there was cloudy, always cracked, but here everything was shining, as if it had been built yesterday. There was a sign above the entrance: "Biomedical Research Center," and I didn't even try to pronounce it. My heart was pounding, as if I were about to defend my diploma - what was I even doing here?
It was cool inside, the air conditioners hummed like turbines. The hall was clean, the floor was shiny, the walls were white, with some kind of charts in frames, like in a museum. In St. Petersburg, our institutes were peeling corridors, the smell of Turkish coffee, and a notice board where half the sheets were falling off. And here was a desk with a secretary who smiled as if I owed her a hundred bucks. Mark nodded to her, said something like "He's with me", and led me down the corridor. I looked around: there were nameplates on the doors, everything was in English, the lamps were shining evenly, not flickering, like our "Rubin" at home. In one office I saw a computer - a big one, with a screen like a TV, and Windows 98, like in the ad. We don't have anything like that in our workshop, they still have floppy disks and DOS, and here - the future. I almost stopped to touch it, but Mark dragged me on.
"Dmitry, meet the team," he said, opening the door to a room full of people. I expected white coats, like in a movie about scientists, but here everyone was in regular clothes: shirts, jeans, some even wearing Nike sneakers. The students were probably young, about twenty-five years old, chatting, laughing, munching donuts. Our students at LETI are the same, but their eyes are sad and full of thoughts about how not to fail their exams. And these guys looked like they were at a party. Mark, whom I thought was somehow special - well, an American, knows everything, can do everything - looked ordinary against their background. It's not that he's gotten worse, he's just… the same as them. Not a hero from "The Matrix," just a guy with a magazine under his arm.
"This is Elizabeth Crowe," Mark pointed to a woman of about forty-eight, with short gray hair and eyes like a hawk. She was sitting at a desk covered in papers, writing something without raising her head. "Head of the commission. Elizabeth, this is Dmitry, from Russia."
Elizabeth looked at me over her glasses as if I were an exhibit in a museum. She nodded, but said nothing, just muttered, "Welcome." I felt like I was being interrogated by Major Ivanov, only without the shouting. Her desk was covered in folders, but everything was neat, not like ours, where papers were strewn about like after an explosion. There was a computer nearby, and I noticed how deftly she clicked the keys - Windows, damn it, works without failures! In our workshop, the computers freeze every half hour, but here - it was like in space.
"And this is Linda Hayes," Mark pointed at a girl of about twenty-eight, with red hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was standing by the coffee maker, chatting with some guy in glasses. She smiled at me, but somehow hesitantly, as if she was afraid that I would start speaking Russian and she wouldn't understand. "She's our bioinformaticist."
Linda extended her hand, I shook it - her palm was warm, but weak, as if she was not used to greeting. On her desk was a laptop, open to some kind of graph with colored lines. I had never seen anything like that at LETI - everything here is on paper or on ancient monitors with green letters. Linda muttered something about "data analysis", but I just nodded like a fool. My English is like a bicycle without pedals, it moves, but poorly.
"And here's Richard Byrnes," Mark pointed to a man of about fifty, balding and wearing a sweater like my grandfather. Richard was sitting by the window, leafing through a magazine, and didn't even look at me. "Neurosiologist. He's… busy."
Richard snorted, not looking up from his magazine. I realized that he already disliked me. Oh well, I didn't come here for friendship. There was some kind of machine on his desk - an EEG, probably, with a bunch of wires and a screen. At LETI we only see these in pictures in textbooks, but here it works, the lights are blinking, everything is like in science fiction. I almost asked if I could touch it, but I held back.
"And Caroline Moore," Mark nodded at a woman of about forty, in a strict suit, like from the FBI movies. She was standing at the board, discussing something with another scientist. "She handles the budget and… other stuff."
Caroline looked at me like I was a cockroach and turned away. I immediately realized that this woman didn't give a damn about me. Her desk was empty, just a folder and a phone, but the phone wasn't like our old rotary phone, it was some fancy one, with buttons and a screen. I thought: I wish I could show it to grandma Anna Ivanovna, she'd gasp.
Mark also introduced some James Lin, a biochemist, but he was somewhere in the lab, and I didn't see him. All these people, their computers, their coffee machines, their clean tables - it all seemed like it was from another world. In St. Petersburg, our institute was dust, old chairs, and the smell of borscht from the cafeteria. But here - it was like being in NASA. Even the microscopes that Mark showed in the next room - Nikon, shiny as new, and not like ours, with peeling paint and lenses that need to be wiped with alcohol. I looked at all this and thought: how come they don't find anything with such equipment? Half of ETU "LETI" would fight for such a microscope.
But they didn't tell me anything about the project. Mark just muttered, "We'll talk later, Dmitry. Need to find you a translator first." A translator? I thought they'd figure it out on their own, but they didn't seem impressed with my English. Elizabeth glanced at a guy in the corner, young, about twenty, wearing an MIT T-shirt and with long hair like Kurt Cobain. His name was Tony, I think. A student, not from the embassy, just a local who, according to Mark, "knows a few words of Russian." Tony looked at me like I was an alien and said, "Privet, Dmitry!" with such an accent that I almost laughed. He seemed to have learned the word from a phrasebook, but I nodded, like, okay, we'll figure it out.
They all looked at me like I was a curiosity. Elizabeth with cold curiosity, Linda with an awkward smile, Richard with irritation, Caroline with disdain. Mark was the only one who seemed normal, but even he, against the backdrop of this crowd of scientists, became somehow… ordinary. I thought he would be like Neo from The Matrix, but he was just a guy who drinks coffee and carries magazines. I stood in the middle of this room, in my stupid Halloween cape, and I felt like I was in a zoo, only I was the animal. They chatted about their business, about some specimens, about D.E.L.I.A., but they did not explain anything to me. They only said: "Rest, Dmitry, we'll start tomorrow."
I returned to the motel, lay down on the creaky bed, and stared at the ceiling. Cars were honking outside the window, sirens were screaming somewhere. I thought about this institute, about their computers, about microscopes, about Windows that doesn't freeze. In St. Petersburg, you'd only see things like that in your dreams. But something was still wrong. They looked at me like I was a stranger, and I didn't know why they needed me. Maybe they just invited me for the sake of it? Like, here's a Russian, let him suffer. I was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, when the phone in the room suddenly rang, sharp as a subway siren. I picked it up, and from there came: "Hello, Dmitry! This is… uh… Tony. Correspondence, right? Take it… uh… downstairs, please!" His Russian was like my neighbor Vova's when he tries to speak English after three bottles of Baltika. I mumbled something like "Okay" and hung up, although I didn't understand a damn thing. Correspondence? What correspondence? I'm not a KGB spy who wants letters sent to me. But there was nothing else to do, so I went down to the motel lobby, which smelled of cheap coffee and bleach.
There the maid was already waiting for me - a woman of about fifty, with a tired face and a cart piled high with towels. She silently thrust a cardboard package tied with twine into my hands and left, as if I owed her taxes. The package was heavy, not like a letter, but as if there was a brick in it. I went up to the room, sat on the bed and started to untie it. Inside - holy shit! - was a brand new VCR, Japanese, Panasonic, shiny as a spaceship. Next to it was a video cassette with a bright cover: "English for Kids", with a cartoon duck who smiles like an idiot. And a handwritten note: "Dmitry, learn fast! With love, Mark." With love, you mean? I laughed so hard I almost fell out of bed. Mark, you're such a joker, damn it.
There was a TV in the room - a Sony Trinitron, huge, with a convex screen, like in cool American films. In St. Petersburg, only bandits or those who "shuttled" on the market in the nineties had one like that. I connected the video card, fiddled around for about ten minutes, because the wires were not like our "Electron", everything was tricky, with a bunch of connectors. But I'm an engineer, and in the end I figured it out. I inserted the cassette, pressed "Play", and the same duckling from the cover appeared on the screen, who began to sing: "Hello, my name is Ducky! Let's learn English!" The voice was high-pitched, like a doll in kindergarten, and I sat there like a fool, repeating: "Hello… my name… is Dmitry". It was funny to tears, but I tried. The cassette had lessons for children: colors, numbers, "What's your name?" and all that. I, a grown man, an engineer from LETI, sat and mumbled: "Red, blue, yellow," like a first-grader.
Outside the window, the cars were still honking, a siren was screaming somewhere, and I was looking at the duckling and thinking: Mark, you bastard, you're a genius. Imagine that - they slipped me a children's cassette so that I would learn English like a baby. But damn, it works! By the end of the first lesson, I already knew for sure that "apple" is an apple, and "dog" is a dog. In St. Petersburg, I would have given half my salary for such a video, and here - a gift. True, I still did not understand why these people needed me at all and what kind of D.E.L.I.A. they were discussing. But with the cassette and this Sony Trinitron, I at least felt a little closer to their world. Tomorrow I'll go to college, I'll try to say to Linda: "Hello, my name is Dmitry." Let's see if she smiles or pretends that I'm furniture again.
I sat up all night before this Sony Trinitron, clutching the remote control like an airplane steering wheel. The "English for Kids" tape was spinning for the fifth time, and the cartoon duck with his squeaky "Let's learn English!" was already sounding like a broken record. But I didn't stop. I repeated phrases after him, pronouncing colors, numbers, questions: "What's your name? How old are you? I like apples." By three o'clock in the morning I could already say without hesitation: "My name is Dmitry, I'm from Russia, I'm an engineer." Of course, the accent was like Brezhnev's during negotiations with Nixon, but the words fell into my head like parts in a machine tool - clearly, in place. The tape turned out to be not so childish: there were dialogues, questions, even simple sentences about the weather and work. I wrote the words down on a piece of paper I found in the motel's nightstand and crammed them like I was studying for an electrical engineering exam.
By five in the morning I understood almost everything the duckling said and could answer his stupid questions. "What do you do? I'm an engineer. Where do you live? I live in Saint Petersburg." I even tried talking to the mirror in the bathroom - I looked at my tired face and mumbled: "Hello, Linda, nice to meet you. My project is… er… very interesting." It didn't sound exactly like Shakespeare, but it wasn't a disgrace. The problem was different: I could talk, but there was no one to talk to. The maid had long since left, Mark hadn't called, and Tony with his broken "hello" was somewhere in his MIT. I felt like a radio operator in the taiga - there was a signal, but no one to pick it up.
It was getting light outside, New York was humming louder and louder: cars, horns, distant sirens. I turned off the TV when the duckling started singing his song about the alphabet for the sixth time. My head was buzzing, my eyes were hurting, but there was a strange feeling in my chest - as if I had cracked a code that yesterday seemed like Chinese literacy. I could understand if Linda asked about the weather, or answer Elizabeth if she again looked at me like an exhibit. But what would I say about the project? About their D.E.L.I.A.? They won't ask how to say "apple" in English. I lay down on the bed without undressing and thought: I need to get some sleep, at least a couple of hours. Today at the institute I will have to talk, and not with the duckling, but with people who look at me like a stranger. If I screw up, it will be not only in front of Mark, but also in front of myself. And that's worse than any look Caroline could give.
I had just dozed off after a night with the duckling and his "Hello, my name is Ducky." My head was buzzing like a transformer, but I got up, threw on my Halloween cape - it was already like a second skin - and opened the door. Mark was standing there, in his usual shirt with rolled-up sleeves, with a smile like a used car salesman.
"Morning, Dmitry! How's the tape?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe.
"It's… good. I learned a lot," I answered, trying not to stutter. The words flowed easily, as if I had been speaking English all my life. The duckling had done its job.
"You sound like a native already," Mark winked, walking in uninvited. "Let's talk about New York. What do you think?"
I flopped down on the bed, he sat on a chair by the window, where the curtains smelled of dust and the cigarettes of the previous guest. Outside the window, cars were humming, somewhere a siren was screaming - New York was awake, and so was I. I thought, choosing my words, but they came by themselves, as if the duckling was still singing in my head.
"This city… it's like a car that never stops. Everything hums, blinks, presses. In St. Petersburg it's quiet at night, only the bridges are raised, but here it's like in a movie, where something explodes all the time. Yesterday I saw Times Square, there was an ad for Pepsi and some movie with Tom Cruise. People are running, as if they were late for the last train. And these yellow taxis - they're everywhere, like wasps. I thought St. Petersburg was big, but this… this is a different world."
Mark nodded, looking out the window as if he was seeing New York for the first time.
"What do you think of the food? Burgers, hot dogs?" he asked, grinning.
"Burgers are not food, they are rubber with ketchup. We have borscht, pelmeni, and here… it's like chewing cardboard. Although Budweiser beer is okay, but Baltika is better. And your coffee, from Starbucks, is like water with sugar. We had a vending machine at LETI, crap, but at least it was honest crap."
Mark laughed, slapping his knee.
"Well, you're almost an American now, if you're grumbling about coffee. Okay, let's get down to business. Are you ready to talk about the project? We'll get serious today at the institute."
I nodded, though my stomach was cold. Project. The word had been hanging in the air since I'd arrived, but no one had really explained what it was. All I knew was that it had to do with some medical anomaly, but the details were a dark forest.
"Tell me what kind of project this is. I didn't just fly here for no reason," I said, trying to sound confident.
Mark became serious and scratched the back of his head, as if choosing his words.
"It all started with one cop. His name is Earl Knight. He was digging up old cases and came across some strange cases. Children, illnesses, deaths - all unusual, not like regular cancer. He wrote a note in a newspaper, like the New York Post, saying that something was fishy. Our institute read it and got interested. We have access to genetic data, equipment, even the FBI. So we took matters into our own hands. We're trying to figure out what the hell is going on."
"Earl Knight?" I asked again, unable to help but smile. "What is this, еarl and the knight? Straight out of a fairy tale. Does he wear armor and defeat dragons?"
Mark chuckled, shaking his head.
"No, he's just a stubborn detective. But he digs deep, that's a fact. You'll see his reports today. There's… a lot of stuff. Creepy, but interesting. Are you ready to dive into it?"
I shrugged, though my insides sank. Creepy? Interesting? I was used to fixing TVs, not delving into medical mysteries. But there was no turning back.
"Ready. Just tell me, Mark, why do you need me? I'm not a doctor, not a geneticist. I have LETI, radio engineering, not your Nikon microscopes.
He looked at me as if he knew something I didn't."
"You have a fresh perspective, Dmitry. You're not blinkered like ours. Plus your research on electromagnetic fields - that could come in handy. Don't ask how, I don't know yet. But Elizabeth wanted you, and she doesn't invite people for nothing."
I nodded, although in my head I was thinking: "Elizabeth? That hawkish woman? She thinks I'm a cockroach." But I remained silent. Mark stood up and clapped me on the shoulder.
"Get ready, I'm at the institute in an hour. And don't put on that raincoat of yours, or Richard will whine again."
"The cloak remains," I muttered. "It's my armor, the Count Knight will understand."
Mark laughed and left, and I sat there, looking at the VCR and the tape with the duckling. English now sounded like my native language in my head, but that didn't make New York any closer or the project any clearer. Earl Knight, strange deaths, an institute that was looking for something. I felt like I was in for something big, but I didn't know what yet. I turned on the TV to distract myself, and there was news about Bush and Gore arguing over who would become president. I thought, "Maybe Earl Knight knows more than these politicians." And I went to get ready for the institute, praying that I wouldn't screw up.
I pulled on my Halloween cape, despite Mark's taunts, and we walked out of the motel. The street was buzzing with yellow cabs honking, the morning sun in my eyes, and somewhere nearby a hot dog vendor yelling, "Two for a dollar!" Mark led me across the street to a Chinese restaurant with a red sign with unreadable words written on it in gold characters. The inside smelled of soy sauce, fried rice, and something I couldn't identify. The tables were sticky, the walls were covered with faded paintings of dragons, and the waitress, a frail girl with pigtails, threw us menus and muttered, "Order quick."
Mark opened the menu and pointed his finger at some line.
"Let's try duck noodles and spring rolls. It's a classic, Dmitry, you'll like it."
I looked at the plate that was being carried to the next table: slippery noodles, some dark pieces of meat and greenery that looked like weeds from a dacha.
"Is this food or fish food?" I chuckled. "In St. Petersburg we bake duck with apples, but here… it's like someone spilled an aquarium on the plate.
Mark laughed, almost dropping his glass of water."
"Dmitry, you're just not used to it. This isn't your grandma's borscht, but give it a chance. In New York, Chinese food is like pizza, everywhere and for everyone."
The food arrived and I cautiously poked at the noodles with my fork. They weren't too bad, but they weren't dumplings. The spring rolls were crispy like chips and ok, but the dipping sauce was so hot it almost made me cough.
"Did they put pepper from Chechnya in there?" I wheezed, grabbing the water. "Everything here is trying to kill me, even the food."
"Welcome to America," Mark grinned, deftly wielding his chopsticks. "Everything here is peppery, even coffee."
I tried to pick up the noodles with my chopsticks, but they slid out as if they were alive. Eventually I gave up and picked up a fork. Mark looked at me like I was a child learning to eat, but I just shrugged. Not everyone can be a master of kung fu with chopsticks. After breakfast, Mark waved his hand, and one of the yellow taxis immediately pulled up to the side of the road. The driver, a bearded Sikh in a turban, nodded at us as if we were old acquaintances. I climbed into the back seat, which smelled of leather and cheap cologne, and said to Mark:
"Listen, won't you go broke on a taxi? In St. Petersburg, a minibus costs five rubles, and here, probably, it costs half your salary for the ride.
Mark chuckled, slapping the back of the seat."
"Relax, Dmitry, the institute pays. Otherwise, I would also ride the metro. But today we need to be quick, Elizabeth doesn't like it when people are late."
The taxi sped off, weaving between cars like in some action movie. I looked out the window: skyscrapers, Nokia 3310 ads, street musicians with guitars. New York was like a huge TV, where the channels were constantly changing. I remembered how I had been cramming English with the duckling last night, and I thought that now I could at least order coffee without panicking. But the project… the project was scary. What had this Count Knight dug up? And why should I, an engineer from a Khrushchev-era building, understand this?
"Mark," I began, while the taxi was stopped at a traffic light, "you said that this Earl found something. But what exactly? I'm not a detective, I need to know what to work with.
Mark looked at me, his smile fading slightly.
"For now I'll just say that it's related to children. Several cases, strange illnesses, either cancer or something else. Earl thinks there's a pattern here, and we're trying to figure out if there's science to it. You'll get the reports today, you'll see for yourself. But, Dmitry, get ready - this isn't fixing TVs."
I nodded, although my throat was dry. Children, illnesses, patterns. It sounded like something that would make Grandma Anna Ivanovna's icon weep. The taxi dropped us off at the institute, and again I felt like I was taking an exam at LETI, when the professor looks at me as if I've already failed. The brick building with its plate-glass windows stood like a fortress, and inside the air conditioners were still humming, and the floor was shining like in a museum. Mark walked ahead, confidently, as if he were at home, and I dragged myself along behind, adjusting my coat. In the hall, the secretary glanced at me as if I were a tramp, but Mark nodded to her, and we walked on to Elizabeth's office. She was sitting at a desk covered in papers, still the same, with hawk-like eyes and glasses on the tip of her nose. When I entered, she raised her head, and her lips twisted, as if she'd swallowed a lemon.
"Sukhov," she said, as if my name were a curse. "We'll give you the source materials. Read, understand. But don't expect us to chew everything for you.
She nodded toward a thick folder lying on the edge of the table. The folder was tattered, with coffee stains and dog-eared corners, as if it had been dragged all over New York. I picked it up, feeling the weight-there were at least a hundred pages. I opened the first page: handwritten notes, scribbles as if a chicken had written with its paw, and some telegrams, crookedly pasted onto the sheets. The handwriting was such that I could barely make out a couple of words: "anomaly," "diagnosis." I understood English now, thanks to the duckling, but this… this was like deciphering a KGB code.
"I need a translator," I said, looking at Elizabeth. "I can't read manuscripts; they're not printed text. They're too clumsy."
She snorted as if I had asked her to make me coffee personally.
"Translator? You bragged to Mark that you learned the language overnight. Okay, take Tony. He knows a few words in Russian, you'll figure it out."
Mark, standing by the door, nodded and waved for me to follow him. We went out into the hallway, where Tony, the guy in the MIT shirt and long hair, was already waiting, chewing gum. He smiled as if we were old friends and muttered, "Hey, Dmitry, let's go!" His Russian was like a child's, but I figured it couldn't get any worse. We went into a small office that smelled of old books and coffee. On the desk was a Windows 98 computer, a blinking cursor like in hacker movies, and a couple of chairs. Tony plopped down on one, I on the other, and we opened a folder. The first pages were police reports, handwritten, with lots of abbreviations and strikethroughs. Tony read aloud, stumbling, translating into Russian, but I could already make out the meaning myself. They were cases about children who had died of strange diseases. I kept scrolling, trying to understand, but the handwriting was like something out of a nightmare: the letters danced, the words ran together. Tony helped, explaining where things were, but his Russian quickly ran out, and he simply pointed at the lines, muttering, "This is… uh… the hospital… this is the diagnosis."
I got to a report on a boy, Isaac, from Miami. It said he'd died in 1997, at age ten, from something called "atypical lung carcinoma." The doctors said the tumor had behaved strangely, not like a typical cancer, and no one could figure out what it was. I read on: the boy had been coughing up blood, had been living in an orphanage, and before that his caregiver had died in some freak accident with a fish-cutting machine. I put the paper down and stared at Tony.
"Is this some kind of horror movie?" I said, feeling goosebumps running down my spine. "Children, tumors, caregivers dying, like in a horror movie. Is this true or is someone making this up?"
Tony shrugged, chewing gum.
"I don't know, Dmitry. Earl Knight put this together, he's a cop, a serious one. He says there's a pattern here. I'm just translating, but… creepy, huh?"
I nodded, looking at the folder. Creepy is putting it mildly. I was used to fixing TVs, where everything was simple: a contact came loose - soldered, a lamp burned out - replaced. And here… children, illnesses, deaths. And I, an engineer from St. Petersburg, should understand this? I kept scrolling, but my thoughts were confused. Isaac, his cough, his guardian crushed by a fish guillotine - all this was like the script of a bad movie that no one wanted to watch. I closed the folder, feeling that my patience was running out.
"Tony, let's take a coffee break. These aren't reports, this is the devil knows what."
Tony chuckled, and we went to the coffee maker in the hallway. It was shiny like something out of a sci-fi movie, with buttons and a blinking light like the cockpit of the Cosmocrator in the books. Tony pressed the lever, and the coffee maker hissed, releasing a stream of black slop into a paper cup. The smell was sharp, bitter, but better than the motel. I picked up my cup, burned my fingers, and cursed. Tony leaned against the wall, chewing gum, and suddenly spoke, looking somewhere at the ceiling.
"You know, Dmitry, I read one writer, Stanislav Lem. He wrote about a future where everything is perfect - communism, you know? People are freed from hard work, fly to the stars, invented a new element, "communium", so that rockets fly through space. That's cool, right? Science decides everything, no wars, everyone is equal. Maybe we are heading towards that too?"
I looked at him like he was a kid who believed in fairy tales about Lenin and a bright tomorrow. I took a sip of coffee - hot, but still crap - and shook my head.
"Tony, that's nonsense. Old wives' tales. I lived under communism, until 1991. Bread lines in the cold, coupons for sausage, and if a neighbor saw that you were fixing a TV for money, he'd report you to the OBKhSS. There was no "community", only posters about "to the stars" and empty shelves. Your Lem may be a genius, but he didn't stand in line for boots at minus twenty. Utopia is when there's butter in the store, not when they tell you about rockets."
Tony frowned, his cheeks turning red as if I had broken his favorite toy. He straightened up, the gum still in his mouth.
"Well, that's unfair, Dmitry. You just saw the bad version. Lem wrote about science that would fix everything. A new element, new engines, flights to Mars! It's not about coupons, it's about a dream. You were just born at the wrong time, that's all."
I snorted, looking into my glass. Bad timing? Is he telling me, Sukhov, who soldered wires under fire in Afghanistan, about the time?
"You were born too late, Tony, that's what I'll tell you. Here in America you read about communism in books, but we lived in it. A dream is good, but when instead of Mars you only have a line for potatoes, there's no time to dream. Your Lem wrote about the stars, but at LETI even the lamps in the lab burned out, and no one changed them."
Tony spat his gum into the trash, clearly hurt. His eyes glittered like a student who'd been told his term paper was trash.
"So what, Dmitry? Politics is not physics. The butterfly effect doesn't work here. It's one thing to change an atom, another to change society. If you had something like "community," everything might have turned out differently."
I shrugged, finishing my coffee. The butterfly effect? Was he talking about that theory where a butterfly's wing causes a hurricane? Maybe so. But I remembered St. Petersburg, a Khrushchev-era building, where the radiators were barely warm in winter, and I thought: no amount of communism can fix that.
"Who knows, Tony, who knows. Maybe there would have been a hurricane, or maybe just another line for sugar. Okay, let's go, enough philosophy. We need to sort out these reports before Elizabeth eats me for breakfast."
Tony nodded, but looked at me as if I had stolen his faith in utopia. We went back to the office, where the same folder with Earl Knight's scribbles lay on the table. I opened it again, feeling my insides tighten. Children, illnesses, deaths - this was not Lem and his rockets. This was reality, and it was more frightening than any story about space. But I sat down, picked up a pen and said to myself: "Sukhov, stop talking, get to work." Tony chewed another piece of gum in silence, and I began to leaf through the pages, hoping that I would find at least something that did not look like a horror movie script.
I finished reading the report on Isaac Brown, the Miami kid who coughed up blood and died of some kind of atypical lung carcinoma. His caregiver, Francois, died from a fish guillotine-hell, you don't hear about that even in St. Petersburg, where everything breaks. I turned the page and came to the case of Laura Smith from Houston. She was nine when she died in 1995. Headaches, seizures, then an atypical glioma, a brain tumor that doctors couldn't quite explain. Her caregiver, Miguel Torres, a truck driver, died under a construction crane a year before she died. As I read, images appeared before my eyes: a girl who loved books, clutching her head in pain, and next to her an empty house because her brother had been crushed by a car. It was like a punch in the gut. I put the paper down, feeling a lump in my throat.
But my thoughts kept returning to the conversation by the coffee maker. Tony and his Lem, this "community," a utopia where everyone flies to the stars. He talked about the butterfly effect - that one wing can change history. I sat there, looking at Earl Knight's scribbles, and thought: what if he's right? What if one little thing - a letter from America, my arrival here, this folder - changes everything? But then I pulled myself up: what the hell are butterflies? In life, everything is simpler and harsher. In Afghanistan, I saw how a mine explosion changes lives, but not because it's an "effect," but because life is a meat grinder. No romance, just blood and dirt.
I looked at Tony. He was sitting there, buried in his notes, chewing gum, as if nothing had happened. And suddenly I thought: he, this American with his broken "hello", is more Russian than I am. Not in language, not in life, but in soul. He believes in ideals, in utopias, in Lem with his stars and "community". And me? I haven't believed in anything for a long time. Not in a bright future, not in God, although I still mumble prayers in front of the icon of my grandmother Anna Ivanovna. Not in science, which at ETU "LETI" was a pile of rusty wires and burnt-out lamps. Tony, with his faith in the best, was like those Soviet posters that I saw as a child: "To the stars!" And I was like a Khrushchev-era building, where those posters got damp and fell off.
"Tony," I said, putting the folder down. "Do you really believe that one little thing can change everything? You know, your butterfly effect?"
He looked up, the gum frozen in his mouth.
"Why not? That's how it is in science. One experiment, one idea - and bam, everything is different. As Lem wrote: a new element, and rockets fly. And in life… maybe it's like that too?"
I chuckled. His eyes were shining like a kid waiting for a miracle. And I looked at the folder where the reports about dead children were, and thought: what the hell, miracles? There's only pain and unanswered questions here. But I said out loud:
"Who knows, Tony. Maybe you're right. Only in my world, butterflies don't fly, they get crushed under boots."
He frowned but said nothing. I went back to the folder, leafing through it further. My eyes slid over the lines, but Tony and his "butterfly effect" and Lem were still spinning in my head. I got to the report on the experiment with Laura Smith's tissues - they decided, you see, to mix her cells with rat cells in a Petri dish, like alchemists looking for the philosopher's stone. I read: "cell co-culture", "proliferatio cellularis abnormis", "remodelatio organica" - solid Latin, like in a church book, only instead of prayers - scientific nonsense. Mark T. writes that he expected a "remodeling" of the cells, and Linda Hayes wonders about mutations. They didn't find anything, of course, only the rats died in vain.
I snorted and turned the page. What a thing to do, to mix human cells with rat cells and expect a miracle! Just like Lem with his "communium" - naive, childish, as if you could just open a new world. Tony, with his faith in utopias, would be delighted. I thought: damn, he's not the only one "Russian at heart", these scientists also dream, like Soviet engineers, that one spark will change everything. And me? I'm sitting here, reading about dead children and thinking that all this alchemy is a waste of time. My head was buzzing like a transformer at LETI. I put the folder aside and said to Tony:
"That's enough. I'm tired of this Latin. I'll go stretch my legs."
Tony nodded, still chewing his papers, the gum still squelching in his mouth. I stood up, adjusted my coat-it had already become like a second skin, although it still made the locals smirk-and went out into the corridor. It smelled of coffee and something sterile, like a hospital. The air conditioner hummed, but did not provide any coolness. I walked, looking at the shiny floor, when suddenly I bumped into Caroline Moore. She stood with her arms crossed, in her formal suit, like a general before an attack. Her eyes, cold as the ice in my St. Petersburg entryway, bored into me.
"Well, Mr. Sukhov, are you getting the hang of it?" she asked, drawing out her words as if I were a schoolboy taking an exam.
I stopped, feeling my insides tighten. Caroline always spoke as if she knew something I didn't, and it was infuriating.
"Yeah, I get it," I muttered. "This isn't for the faint of heart, Mrs. Moore. Your files are like a nightmare scenario."
She laughed, but it wasn't a kind laugh, it was a harsh laugh, like the howl of a hyena in a documentary I'd watched on TV in the motel. The sound gave me goosebumps. Caroline looked at me like I was a lab rat and said,
"Oh, you haven't seen everything yet, Dmitry. Keep digging."
I nodded, just to get rid of him, and muttered:
"I'll go. I need some fresh air."
She snorted, turned around and walked away, her heels clicking on the floor. I watched her go and thought, "What a bitch, she knows more than she says, but she's silent like a partisan." Stepping outside, I inhaled the hot New York air - a mixture of asphalt, gasoline and hot dogs from a kiosk on the corner. Opposite the institute there was a diner selling Budweiser beer for a dollar. I bought a bottle, cold as ice, and sat down on a bench by the road. Cars were honking, a horn was blaring somewhere, and I took a sip of beer and stared at the sky. It was gray, like St. Petersburg, only without rain.
Igor, my classmate from LETI, was spinning around in my head. He was the one who got me into this mess by sending me a letter from the Americans. "Dmitry," he said, "this is your chance, get out of your Khrushchev-era apartment." And I'm sitting here, drinking American booze, reading about dead children and thinking: what the hell is a chance? This is not a chance, but a hole where I dug myself. Igor would be laughing now, looking at me with this beer and a folder full of horrors. He always believed in a bright future, like Tony with his Lem. And me? I'm drinking Budweiser and thinking that this whole thing is like those rat cages: nothing will come of it, we're just wasting our time.
I sat on a bench, finishing my Budweiser and watching the cars speed through Brooklyn like they couldn't wait to escape this city. The bottle was cold, but the beer was crap, not like the Baltika from the kiosk on Vasilievsky Island. Thoughts of Igor kept spinning around in my head like a broken record. He would say, "Dmitry, stop talking, work, this is your ticket to life." And I'm sitting here, with a folder of dead children in my head, thinking that this is a one-way ticket to nowhere. The air smelled of asphalt and fried onions from the kiosk across the street. I was about to get up when I heard footsteps. I turned around and saw Mark. He was standing there, his hands in his jeans pockets, with that half-smile of his, as if he knew something I didn't.
"Dmitry," he began, sitting down on the edge of the bench, "I was thinking… You're in, right? What you do next with these reports is worth it. Elizabeth appreciates your approach, and, you know, you'll get paid well for it. More than you think.
I looked at him like he was a kid offering to fix my TV for a ruble. Money? Seriously? I took a sip of beer, feeling the bitter taste mingle with irritation.
"Money, Mark?" I said, looking at the bottle as if it contained the answer. "What do I need it for? That's not why I came here. In St. Petersburg, I fixed Rubies for pennies, lived with my grandmother in a Khrushchev-era building, and you know, I was happy. And here? Folders with dead children, rat cages, Caroline with her hyena-like laugh. What do I need your dollars for if they only make me sick? Life isn't about money, Mark. It's about waking up in the morning and not feeling empty, like this bottle."
I shook the Budweiser and it gurgled dully. Mark was silent, looking off to the side, at a yellow taxi honking at the intersection. His face became serious, as if I wasn't just Sukhov, but some philosopher from Nevsky who had ruined his day. He scratched the back of his head, clearly not knowing what to say. And I continued, not understanding why:
"You, Mark, are running around with these reports, writing about some kind of "mutations", like in a cheap movie, honest to God! And what's the point? Laura, Isaac - poor children, they died, and no dollars will bring them back. We're digging through their bones like in a morgue, and for what purpose? So that Elizabeth will report to the FBI? Or so that Caroline will close the budget? I don't believe that we will find the truth. And money won't help here. It only makes everything dirtier."
Mark was still silent, his eyes darting across the asphalt as if he were searching for an answer there. He was preoccupied, it was obvious - not with what I had said, but with something of his own. Maybe he, too, felt that this project was like a pit into which we were all falling. I finished my beer, threw the bottle into the trash - it rang like a bell in an empty church. I stood up, shook out my coat and said:
"Okay, Mark, I'll go. I want to think about all this alone. Maybe then I'll understand something."
Mark remained on the bench, watching me go. I turned around for a second - his eyes were sad-sad, like a dog whose owner had left him near a store. As if he wanted to add something, but the words were stuck somewhere in his throat. I shrugged and walked to the subway, feeling New York pressing down on me with all its weight - asphalt, horns, the smell of gasoline and cheap hot dogs. Coins jingled in my pocket, and Laura Smith and Isaac Brown were spinning in my head - children whose lives fit into the yellowed reports that I had been leafing through all day. Their faces, which I had never seen, seemed to be looking at me from those folders, and from this everything inside me contracted, like from the cold in a St. Petersburg gateway.
I got on the subway at Flatbush Avenue. The stench of the underground, sweat and iron and something sour, hit me. The platform was crowded with people, some in suits, some in tattered sneakers, an old lady pushing a cart muttering something about Jesus. I bought a token for a dollar, walked through the turnstile, and squeezed into a Q car. The doors slammed shut, the train jerked, and I grabbed the handrail to keep from falling. The car was packed: a guy with headphones bobbing his head to rap, a girl leafing through a magazine with Britney Spears on the cover, and across from me a man in work clothes was asleep with his head slumped on his chest. I stared out the murky window at the black walls of the tunnel and thought that I wanted to get to the motel as soon as possible. There, in my moldy room with a creaky bed, I would take a bath. Hot, almost boiling water, to wash away the dirt. Not the dirt on my coat, but the dirt that seemed to stick to my skin from reading about Laura and Isaac. Their deaths, their pain, their cells in petri dishes-it was like grave soil, ingrained in me. I felt like I was digging in their graves, not scientific reports.
The train whistled, the wheels clattered, and I looked at my reflection in the window - pale, with dark circles under my eyes, in this stupid raincoat that still smelled of the St. Petersburg club from Halloween. And thoughts crawled out like cockroaches from the cracks in a Khrushchev-era apartment. This business of digging through the deaths of children, sorting through their tissue, mixing it with rat cages in the hope of finding a "mutation" - worse than murder. At least the killer hits and leaves, while we, scientists, sit and pick at their bones like scavengers. Laura with her headaches, Isaac with his bloody cough - they were alive, they dreamed, they loved, and now we cut up their tissue under a microscope as if it were just meat. The worst outrage imaginable. And no amount of Mark's words about "the future of science" or Elizabeth's "we will find the answers" will wash away this dirt. This is not science, this is blasphemy. I remembered seeing bodies torn apart by mines in Afghanistan and thinking that it couldn't get any worse. I was wrong. There, death was quick, but here we stretch it out, taking it apart piece by piece, as if we have the right.
I looked at the people in the carriage, and it seemed to me that they all knew what I was doing and were judging me. The girl with the magazine, the guy with the rap, the man in the overalls - they lived their lives, and me? I dig into death, as if it were my job. In St. Petersburg, I fixed TVs, drank Baltika with Igor and thought that life was shit, but at least honest. And here, in America, which I considered the future, everything turned out to be the primeval past, disguised as neon signs and skyscrapers. They talk about progress here, about the "Human Genome", about new computers with Windows 2000, but in reality they are the same savages who in ancient times made sacrifices to the gods. Only now the victims are Laura and Isaac, and the gods are grants, reports and the FBI. I remembered Caroline Moore laughing her hyena laugh, and I thought: she knows that this is all a game. Money, as Mark said, budget, as Elizabeth likes to say. And we are just pawns digging in graves for their game.
The train stopped at some station, the doors opened, and a street musician with a guitar tumbled into the carriage. He started playing something by Bob Dylan, hoarsely singing about change. People threw him coins, and I looked at his shabby hat and thought: here he is, alive, real, and I am as if dead inside. In St. Petersburg, I went to "White Nights", watched the bridges being raised, drank vodka with Igor and felt that I was alive, albeit in shit. And here? Here I read about children whose lives were cut short in hospitals, and I try to find meaning in their deaths. What meaning? Their guardians - Miguel under the tap, Francois with his fish guillotine - died as absurdly as if someone was playing dice from above. And we, scientists, pretend that we can explain it. Mark with his "mutations", Linda with her spectrophotometer, Elizabeth with her orders - they all believe that this is for the sake of the "future". But I see only the past: wild, cruel, where people expect a miracle from blood and bones.
I remembered how Igor and I argued about God at ETU. He said, "Dmitry, if God exists, he is in science, in progress." And I laughed, poured myself some Putinka and replied, "If God exists, he spits on us from above." Now I am in America, where everything glitters, where the Backstreet Boys are played on the radio, and Pepsi and Gladiator are advertised in Times Square. But under this facade there is the same emptiness as in a Khrushchev-era building in St. Petersburg. There is no future here. This is a primitive world where we make sacrifices for the sake of the illusion of progress. Laura, Isaac - they are not victims of science, they are victims of our blindness. We think that we can disassemble their cells and find an answer, but there is only one answer: we have no right to do this to them.
The train jerked and I almost fell. The musician finished the song, collected the coins, and got off. I looked at the empty space where he had stood and thought: maybe he's right, this Dylan and his changes. But change is not about us. We are stuck in the past, digging in graves, while the world outside lives, breathes, sings. I imagined Laura writing her stories about the cat who steals stars, Isaac playing football in Miami. They deserved to live, not lie in our petri dishes. And I, an engineer from St. Petersburg who thought he would find meaning in America, now sit in this stinking subway and feel like I have become part of this outrage.
Finally, the train pulled into my station, Kings Highway. I got out and walked up the street to evening Brooklyn, where the sound of traffic and the smell of pizza from a fast food joint greeted me. The motel was two blocks away, and I walked without looking around, with one thought in my mind: a bath. A hot, scalding bath to wash away this dirt, this grave soil that had stuck to me from Earl Knight's folders. In the room, I would turn on the TV, let them scream about the Bush and Gore elections, let them show a Nokia 3310 commercial - anything would be better than thinking about Laura and Isaac. But deep down, I knew: water wouldn't help. This dirt wasn't on my skin, it was inside, and no bath would wash it away.
I walked to the motel, my legs aching like I'd been on a forced march in Afghanistan. Brooklyn was noisy: cars honking, a teenager yelling at a hot dog vendor for change. My motel room greeted me with the musty smell and creaking of my bed, as always. The air conditioner hummed, but it only blew warm air. I threw my cloak on a chair-that damn Halloween rag I carried around like a lucky charm-and went into the bathroom. I turned on the water, hot, almost boiling, so it steamed like the bathhouse on Vasilievsky Island. I wanted to wash away the dirt that had stuck to me from Earl Knight's files. Laura with her headaches, Isaac with his bloody cough-their deaths were ingrained in me like grave soil. I undressed, looking at the cracked mirror, where my face seemed alien: circles under my eyes, stubble, as if I hadn't shaved for a week. I climbed into the bath, the water burned my skin, but I clenched my teeth and sat, watching the steam rise to the ceiling.
While the water was running, I thought about the D.E.L.I.A. project, about these scientists who rummage through the tissues of dead children, like in some horror movie. This is not science, but blasphemy, worse than what I saw in Afghanistan, where at least everything was honest - a bullet is a bullet. And here? They mix Laura's cells with rats', waiting for "mutations", as if it were a game of alchemy. I decided: when I read all the reports, I will give these Americans a hint, an idea that will lead them astray. I need to present something cunning, with a hidden meaning, so that they themselves close this vulgar project. It is not just useless - it is disgusting, like digging in graves for grants. And I came up with an idea: I will offer them a hypothesis about low-frequency electromagnetic fields. EMF is my old love from LETI, when Igor and I argued at night about how they can rebuild cells. It was a hit in Soviet science in the 1980s, everyone dreamed of finding the key to cancer or longevity in them. Americans hardly know about it - their journals then published nonsense about microwaves, not serious research. If you present it beautifully, they will swallow it like a fish takes bait and run to check. But I know: it's a dead end. They will find nothing but empty test tubes, and maybe then Elizabeth Crowe will spit and close this circus.
I closed my eyes, the water was making noise, and those years at LETI came back to me. 1989, I was a kid, fresh out of the army, with a concussion and nightmares, but I felt alive at the university. Igor and I were sitting in room 312, which smelled of old wires and chalk. The teacher, Professor Zaitsev, bald as a light bulb, but with the eyes of a fanatic, was talking about EMF. "Low-frequency fields," he said, "can change cell membranes, affect DNA. This is the future, comrades!" Igor and I were laughing like horses, imagining how EMF would turn us into supermen. After the lectures, we drank Zhigulevskoye in the dorm and argued until we were hoarse: I swore that EMF was the key to cancer, Igor kept droning on about the brain and telepathy. Once we even stole an old EMF generator from the lab, connected it to a homemade coil and tried to "charge" a potato so that it would glow. Nothing happened, it just stank of burnt wiring, but we laughed like idiots and dreamed that we would discover a new science. Zaitsev later caught us and yelled that we were "disgracing Soviet science", but I saw how he himself smirked. EMFs were our religion then - we believed that it was the answer to everything.
I got out of the bath, my skin flushed like I'd just been in a sauna. I wrapped myself in a towel, sat on the bed, and stared at the TV. CNN was showing the Bush-Gore debate, and some guy in a suit was pontificating about taxes. I turned off the sound-their voices were just irritating. My idea about EMF was spinning in my head. It was perfect: it sounded scientific, in the spirit of Soviet research that Americans hadn't read. I imagined pitching it to Elizabeth: "Dr. Crowe, what if these atypical tumors are caused by low-frequency fields? There are warehouses in Houston, ports in Miami-they're all full of old transformers and radars." She might be a skeptic, but Mark would swallow it, because he loves "breakthroughs." Linda would run to calibrate her spectrophotometer, and Richard Byrnes, that pompous turkey, would call me a "Russian charlatan" again. So be it. I knew that EMF was a swamp in which they would drown. In the 1980s, Zaitsev and I tested it: the fields affect cells, but not in a way that would cause tumors like Laura's or Isaac's. It's like looking for a black cat in a dark room - it seems logical, but you won't find anything.
But until I read all the reports, I will keep quiet. I need to know everything about these children so that my hint hits the mark. If I give out an idea now, they will start asking questions, and I am not ready. Laura with her glioma, Isaac with carcinoma - their deaths are already like a knife in the chest, and there are others I have not seen. Maybe there is something there that will turn everything upside down? Or nothing, and this is just another grave I am digging in. I lay down on the bed, the bed creaked, like my life. I turned on the TV again - an ad for the Nokia 3310, everyone is smiling, as if the phone will save the world. And I thought: if only I could go back to LETI, to that generator and potatoes, to Igor with his stupid jokes. Then I believed in science. And now? Now I am sitting in this motel, in New York, which promised a future, but brought only dirt. And all I can do is give the scientists a false trail so they'll give up this abuse of Laura and Isaac. Let them shut down D.E.L.I.A. and leave these kids alone.
