INSTEAD OF A PREAMBLE
My star
And my fire
And thinner than ice
Your palm
Far beyond far
Heaven beyond heaven
Play on, play on
In my chest
Like a foreign dream
Don’t go away
Stay with me
Far beyond far
Heaven beyond heaven
Play on, play on
The fire flew
The fire burned
It flew, grew weary
It flew and sang
Far beyond far
Heaven beyond heaven
Play on, play on
SONG OF THE GROUP AUCTYON «FIRE»
Chapter 1
THE STIRLANDIZED AND NOT SO MUCH
“What have you done? Listen! Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground. Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your hand. When you work the ground, it will no longer yield its crops for you. You will be a restless wanderer on the earth.”
GENESIS 4:8
They were forbidden to fight, as they could be evicted from the hotel for it. But that was for the best, to be honest, otherwise, they would have killed each other. On the other hand, these restrictions were used as blackmail, and they often indiscriminately accused each other of violations — that is, they complained with the aim of forcing someone out of residence. They were also forbidden to drink alcohol on the premises, bring guests to their rooms, or infringe upon each other’s political views and language.
The situation was in Ireland, in a hotel where refugees from Stirland were residing. Two years had passed since Grabland treacherously and basely began bombing Stirland, without a declaration of war, and in the middle of the night. Neither the Grablandians nor the Stirlandians could precisely understand what was happening. The versions regarding the cause of the war had changed several times over these couple of years, and the whole thing resembled a theatre of the absurd.
First, it was announced that Grabland had volunteered to help the people get rid of the unruly nationalists who were banning the Grabland language and culture. The fact was that many people in Stirland spoke Grablandian language. Then, it was declared that Grabland was fighting the West on Stirland’s territory: allegedly, the bourgeoisie were infringing on Grabland’s rights. Then, President Liliputin began demanding the handover of the country’s territories he had occupied. It wasn’t immediately clear that Grabland’s goal was to seize Stirland’s territories. Furthermore, the reason they needed this was completely incomprehensible, as the seizure would only bring sanctions and problems, not benefits.
Overall, all the versions were completely idiotic and did not withstand any scrutiny. The people were powerless; everything had been decided by them, and all they could do was flee the country. Few wanted to fight, as the two countries had always been friendly, and for many, taking up arms was tantamount to sacrilege.
Both of these countries were once a single entity called Grabstirland. Then Grabstirland became the Grabland Empire, which then became Proletaria, which for some reason created several countries out of one and gave them different names. At the same time, it included all of them in the composition of Proletaria. As a result, Stirland and Grabland appeared. But all this was so confusing that people had stopped understanding who was who.
A fight in the hotel eventually broke out, after a joint viewing of a video on YouTube, the plot of which you are about to become familiar with.
VIDEO CONTENT
Blogger: Hello everyone, friends. Grabland continues to air programs celebrating Grablandian occupiers, portraying them as valorous liberators and modern heroes. This time, they released a segment about a soldier who lost an arm in the first months of the full – scale invasion. The focus was clearly on showing that losing limbs in the criminal war against Stirland is not bad at all — on the contrary, it’s a very good and useful thing. The result is extremely questionable.
On the screen, we see the title of the show, “The Story of One Feat.” In the studio are the host, Alexey Malikhov, and the guest — a young man without an arm. He has a typical, simple-looking, nineteen-year – old country face. His gaze is somewhat foolish and, for some reason, cheerful. The host asks the first question.
Malikhov: So, as I understand it, you wanted to be a soldier since childhood.
Soldier: Yes, I wanted to be a soldier since childhood.
Blogger: Well, look how unfortunate that turned out. You wanted to be a soldier since childhood, but you became an occupier and a war criminal. You came to brag about it to the whole world. Well done. Makes it easier to detain and put you on trial later. A real unique case. You know, sometimes I think about it and realize there’s absolutely no difference between Grablandian occupiers and the Nazi occupiers of Derranger’s Germany, with maybe one single exception. Even they weren’t that stupid.
Malikhov: But do you regret it?
Soldier: Honestly, I haven’t regretted it once.
Blogger: Well done, a true Grablander. Couldn’t understand a damn thing even after two years, he’s keeping up the standard.
Soldier: Even what happened, how it happened. That is, I trained for this, and I was moving toward it.
Blogger: He’s sitting there, with no damn arm, and says, “I was moving toward this.” Well done. You moved toward it, and you arrived. Not entirely whole, though. That’s what happens when you attack another country and ruin the lives of millions of people without any justification. And, by the way, it should be noted right away that Stirland’s defenders who receive similar injuries are heroes. And we treat them accordingly. For us, these are people who deserve unconditional respect, and those around them must do everything to make their existence in society more than comfortable. But as for the Grablandian specimens, absolutely everyone will spit on them. And believe me, their appearance won’t evoke pity in anyone. Not after all the monstrous suffering they brought to ordinary people on foreign soil. They just don’t understand many things yet. They will be hunted down just like the Nazi criminals after World War II. It’s only a matter of time.
Malikhov: So, April 16th. As I understand it, you were commanding a group. How many of you were there?
Soldier: Well, a platoon, twenty – two men. We went out on a mission — that is, we received a command from the commander to “liberate” a new settlement.
Blogger: But apparently, the settlement had other plans about that. Judging by what happened to you.
Soldier: And so, we set out in three APCs. I was in the first one. And we ran into an ambush at the entrance to the settlement. During the fight, the enemy used an RPG.
Blogger: What a tragic story. The boys weren’t allowed to liberate the settlement. What do these Stirlandians think they’re doing, anyway? Shooting at people with an RPG! What kind of thing is that in the 21st century? Just savages, really, aren’t they? Firing an RPG at such wonderful boys… I mean… It’s awful, simply awful. And most importantly, for no reason! Just like that.
Soldier: A shot hit me on my side, it turns out.
Malikhov: But I was told you kept yourself under control and asked if there were any other wounded.
Blogger: Oh, really? Cool. And why did you ask? Like, “Are there any other wounded? — Yes. — Uh – huh, well, I see.”
Malikhov: Just a second, right? You were literally between life and death. What thoughts did you have? Soldier: The most surprising thing is that I had absolutely no thoughts like that.
Blogger: Excellent! That’s so typical for Grablandians, when there are no thoughts in their head. I would even say it’s a habitual form of their existence. So, there’s nothing surprising about it. Damn, well, you shouldn’t laugh at the disabled, God will punish you. Although even God is probably laughing out loud at this and saying, “Well, go on, this one just turned out like this by accident!'”
Soldier: Well, at the moment of the injury, I thought maybe I’d become hazy, you know, because of the pain. In fact, my mind was clear. I was thinking about what to do and how to do it.
Blogger: Ah, okay. You see, you say your mind became clear, and you even started thinking. So maybe you should always walk around wounded? Maybe that’s the only way your little head will start to think? Because it doesn’t seem to work otherwise for you at all.
Soldier: And when I found out that no one had died, it didn’t matter anymore. Like, the main thing was that we held the defense.
Blogger: Oh… So, you held the defense now? I thought two minutes ago you were driving to capture a new village. How quickly does the plotline change in this blockbuster. Amazing! Just a quick five stages of acceptance. First, we were going to liberate, then we were ordered to capture, then we were ambushed, then we held the defense, and the fifth stage — I’m sitting on Malikhov’s show without an arm. Fantastic.
Malikhov: And how did you tell your mother? You’re her only son. How did she react to all this?
Soldier: Psychologists came and said, “You need to inform your parents that you’re alive.”…
Blogger: Psychologists came and said, “You need to inform your parents that you’re alive, and that the ‘Lada’ car, the gift for the deceased, will no longer be coming.” You should only say something like that in the presence of psychologists, because the family might completely lose it from despair. You have to be careful with that kind of information.
Soldier: I’m grateful to my mother, because when I called, I said, “Mom, look, I lied to you, I don’t have an arm.” She said, “Is it really bad?” I said, “It’s fine.” And that was it, she was like, “Well, okay.”
Blogger: Wonderful. “Well, okay,” she says. As if, damn, a new one will grow! Like, “It’s okay, son, it’s okay. I hope we get at least a piece of a ‘Lada’ for this? We’ll put it together in pieces. We’ll order the rear section now, you’ll go fight some more, and we’ll get to the front. Maybe we’ll end up with a whole car. Everything is fine, don’t worry, kid. You still have your whole life ahead of you!”
Soldier: “When can I come?” I said, “Tomorrow if you want,” she said, “Okay.” And that’s all, she said it so calmly, and I just felt relieved.
Blogger: She said it so calmly, I thought, “Damn, why did I only lose one arm? I shouldn’t have worried at all and just left a nose.”
Malikhov: You said you’re already working. Let’s see how you live and how you spend your free time.
Soldier: Well, the cosmetic prosthesis itself doesn’t carry any function. It just makes it look like there’s an arm, that’s all.
Blogger: Wow! Practically just like your brains. They also seem to be there, but they don’t carry any function in themselves; they just create a cosmetic effect, so your head stays on. That’s actually why you’re busting into Stirland.
Soldier: Now they say they’ll even make fingertip attachments, for example. You know, just have them. Just in case I go out in public somewhere.
Blogger: Yes, of course. To fight with the old ladies at the housing office for a pension, it will be perfect. You’ll put on a nice black tuxedo, your going – out fingertip attachments, and take the subway out in public. Just be careful that the shine of the spotlights doesn’t blind you.
Soldier: I start doing things faster. So, like this, I take it, press a loaf of bread with my face, or hold it with my teeth, and cut the bread.
Blogger: Good job. Why doesn’t Liliputin come to cut the bread? Doesn’t it even help? Why is that? He’s constantly “pushing” such speeches for you on TV. That you’re simply the most beloved to him, the most precious, that he’s ready to take off his last pair of thongs so that you, God forbid, wouldn’t need anything. What, is he actually lying? That can’t be!
Soldier: Of course, when there’s someone at home who helps… I mean, you call them if there’s a chance.
Blogger: Yes, I see. If there’s a chance, you call. If there’s no chance, you don’t call. Clear, we get it. But there’s also a chance not to become a war criminal and, consequently, not to lose an arm. And, consequently, not to call anyone for help, not to have that necessity. I’ll repeat it for the Grablandians. You don’t bust into Stirland, you don’t lose an arm, and you continue to live peacefully. Do you see the point? We’re dealing with Grablandians, so one more time. Don’t go to Stirland. Then you won’t get wounded and won’t look like this guy in the video. Right? If you didn’t understand, just rewind this part and watch until you do.
Soldier: I can’t seem to meet anyone… I liked one girl, though. At one point, we started talking well, and it even led to a relationship.
Blogger: That’s incredible! You’re our Romeo. So, what happened next? Did you charm Juliet?
Soldier: On the first meeting, I think, I told her already. That I, you know, don’t have an arm. So, she should see for herself. So, that’s why we broke up…
Blogger: What a short love story! How could that happen, anyway? You’re a hero in your homeland, a liberator. You were liberating her from the bourgeoisie and from the entire NATO block. Why didn’t she, the bad person, appreciate it? Oh well. The main thing is not to be upset. After all, didn’t you say you were moving toward this? You said so yourself. Indeed. Well, there’s your advertisement for the Grabland army. I think it’s pretty crappy. If you feel the same way, like this video, also subscribe to my channel, and hit the bell. Glory to Stirland, Glory to the Armed Forces of Stirland. See you soon, friends. Take care of yourselves.
EVENTS AFTER VIEWING THE VIDEO
We won’t dwell on the hotel residents, figuring out their names, who among them is a “The Waiting Creature” (one who waits for Grabland), who is a true patriot, who is a “frightful person,” or who is a “scumbag,” because it is completely irrelevant. There were about a dozen of them there, all receiving benefits; they were provided with rather comfortable apartments, and everything would have been fine with them if they hadn’t brought themselves with them to Ireland.
In the plot of our story, these people will not appear again, as we will be talking about completely different things. But before we move on to the main narrative, we need to clarify why they disliked each other so much. Because this is precisely what led to all the preceding and subsequent events.
The argument began when one of them remarked that it was wrong to be so gleeful and laugh; he was disabled, after all. “What are we, brothers, turning completely into psychopaths? How are we different from them if we’re so pleased when we see such sights? He’s just a snot – nose kid, an unreasoning one.”
He was immediately countered with, “Well, it serves him right, losing an arm isn’t enough; he shouldn’t have intruded on our land. And you, scum, live off European money, but you defend the Grablandians.”
The immediate retort was that “you’re no better.” “You rented out your apartment, pocketed the cash, and darted off for Mugland handouts! Look at you, sly one, taking up space!” He insisted he wasn’t defending any Grablandians — he didn’t give a damn about them — he was simply speaking out against the fact that the people are inflating war propaganda no worse than the politicians, and then everyone suffers. To this, he was yelled at to put a sock in it and go to the front, if he was so clever. The reply was, “Am I a fool? You go by yourself!”
Then, another person intervened in the dispute, shaking a mutilated hand, with the words: “I know our ‘defenders’; it’s sickening to listen to. They piled up their own guys in Marigraveton and then said, ‘It wasn’t us!’ Well, thanks a lot!” At the end of his speech, he gave a deep bow toward the invisible troops. He answered that there are enough sadists and scoundrels on both sides, and one should not judge the entire Stirland army by the behavior of individuals.
The conversation then turned to the fact that certain individuals were using other people’s toilet paper, trying to economize, and treating other decent citizens like idiots. These were no longer the initial debaters, but the support groups for each side. Patriotism was no longer the subject; they were reasonable people and understood that the true patriots were on the front line. Then, someone recalled that someone had left an unwashed saucepan on Sunday. And on Wednesday, someone’s dog — which should have been watched, by the way — stole a chocolate bar from someone’s room. “And be so kind as to give me two euros and eighty cents right now.”
The money was not returned, as those two euros and eighty cents had been unwittingly given away in the form of toilet paper, which had been secretly used for two weeks. Brazenly stolen in broad daylight.
The matter ended in a fight. Afterwards, they all drank Irish Guinness beer together and went to sleep. In short, it was evening, and they had nothing to do. A completely ordinary story that surprised no one. Of all those present, only the ancient mansion of some English Lord was utterly shocked by how “friendly” and “kind” its new tenants were to one another.
ALLEGORICAL MEANING OF THE CHAPTER
The Scene of the Refugees’ Quarrel is real. This is how Ukrainians behave abroad. The chapter shows how disgustingly Ukrainians treat each other, how they ignore all the laws of Ireland, and fail to notice that they are their own enemies, far worse than the actual occupiers who came to their land.
The Soldier is a symbol of the sacrificial, infantile, and deceived Russian people. His mutilation and the words “I was moving toward this” symbolize mental slavery and a readiness for self – destruction in the name of an empty state idea, despite the obvious absurdity.
Malikhov is a symbol of Russian state propaganda. His role is to create a heroic myth out of disability to maintain the illusion of a just war.
The Blogger is a symbol of critical reason and counter – propaganda. Yet, at the same time, he himself is an unwitting propagandist despite his good intentions. He is biased and unwittingly incites Ukrainians against the ordinary people of Russia, who are just as much victims of the regime as the Ukrainians are. They are also being killed and mutilated. The Blogger thinks he is confronting the aggressors, but essentially, he plays into their hands by sowing discord.
The Argument about the Toilet Paper is a symbol of moral decay. A conflict that begins with lofty matters inevitably descends into petty, domestic greed and nastiness. This shows that base instincts outweigh all “great” ideas.
The Fight and Drinking – violence is quickly forgotten in a drunken stupor, which prevents society from gaining insight and finding a real solution to problems.
Chapter 2
COMPLAINT TO HIGHER AUTHORITIES
For Jesus said to him, “Come out of this man, you impure spirit!”
Then Jesus asked him, “What is your name?”
“My name is Legion,” he replied, “for we are many.”
MARK 5
Madam Oldbagen briskly walked towards the center, constantly checking her wristwatch. She was heading straight for Barbarion, the heart of their city and country. It housed the president’s office, cathedrals, museums, and the crypt where the mummy of Hopeson rested. The majestic red walls of Barbarion were famous worldwide, and the Grablandians were very proud of it.
The weather was wonderful; a light, spring breeze offered a caress of freshness, yet the lady was very hot, and sweat stains were spreading under her arms. This circumstance greatly upset her, but she couldn’t possibly cancel the important visit. Such luck happened once in a lifetime, and it was highly unlikely that THEY would call her a second time. So, she had to accept it and prepare for a dose of shame upon meeting them.
She was about seventy years old, but she was an active woman, unlike some her age. Despite being quite overweight, she hadn’t given up hope of arranging her personal life, as she considered herself an extremely attractive and interesting person. On this fine day, she was wearing a light blue blouse, which, in her opinion, favorably accentuated her eye color. But, in truth, she wasn’t rushing to a date at all.
Madam Oldbagen stopped for a minute to catch her breath and pulled a bottle of water from her bag. There was still time; she needed to calm down a little. She took a sip of water and literally a couple of seconds later felt that the sweat began to flow even more strongly. Moreover, the smell was somehow excessively sharp. Tears welled up in her eyes out of despair. She wanted to drop everything and cancel the meeting! This was just incredible shame.
How could this be? Though she was heavy, such things had never happened to her. The menopause had long passed, and this was nothing like hot flashes. Could it be diabetes? But why now of all times! And, as luck would have it, time didn’t allow her to go and buy another blouse to change into; she was already almost at Cathedral Square. There were thirty – five minutes left until the meeting.
Madam Oldbagen suddenly thought: “Why didn’t I ask if I needed to buy an entrance ticket? How will I get onto the Barbarion territory without a ticket? After all, nine hundred bartercoins… It’s not that I mind paying, but it’s strange if I have to pay for entry when officials summoned me based on my application.” She took out her phone, thought about writing a message, hesitated, and slipped it back into her bag. She decided not to distract important people with such questions; it felt awkward. They probably don’t even think about such trifles. And the thought flickered again: should she postpone the meeting? Find everything out properly and come later, in an appropriate state…
But, after a minute’s thought, she continued on her way to the destination. The phrase “Carthage must be destroyed!” hammered in her head. This thought brought a smug smile and gave her strength. “It doesn’t matter, none of these matters. I’ll say I have a bout of sweating from diabetes. Or I won’t say anything at all. Maybe they won’t even notice.”
When she was almost at the Barbarion ticket offices and was literally fifty meters away, another nuisance occurred, or more correctly, another strangeness. Something completely incomprehensible happened to her vision. The benches in Mikhailovsky Garden, those same brown, curved ones on black cast – iron legs, were now bright red. This couldn’t be! They couldn’t have been painted; it looked so ugly. It must be something with her vision… Something connected to this sweating, one thing leading to another.
She walked closer to the bench, looked around — none of the visitors expressed surprise. Madam Oldbagen’s heart began to pound wildly. And suddenly, she felt the sounds disappear. It was like switching off a button on a remote control. When street sounds are there, you don’t really pay attention to them; everything merges into an unnoticed background. But when they vanish, that’s when you realize that just a moment ago you could hear the distant ringing of church bells, people were talking at the ticket office, and some noise was coming from the metro exit. And then, abruptly, silence. A kind of ringing, creepy silence.
“It must be some kind of attack, maybe a stroke? Do you have hallucinations during a stroke, perhaps?” Madam Oldbagen thought. She carefully sat down on the bench, looked closely, and touched the surface. Yes, a bench. Yes, painted scarlet. “Should I ask people about this? Like, ‘How do you like the benches?’ Oh, no. If I’m imagining it, they’ll think I’m just bothering them with silly conversations. I really can’t directly ask about the color.” The sound reappeared. She took a deep breath once, then another, to saturate her brain with oxygen, and the feeling subsided.
She still had twenty minutes, and she decided to calm herself down in her recently habitual way: by watching military reports and news. She opened YouTube, where there was a fresh video in which Liliputin claimed that the West had once again deceived Grabland. This time, the talk was about some oral agreement in the nineties concerning the deployment of NATO military bases, and this agreement had been violated. They built bases around Grabland, although they had promised not to, which meant they were clearly preparing for an attack. The journalist pressed Liliputin, asking where one could read this agreement, “show it to us; we haven’t seen such a treaty and couldn’t have promised such things.” But Liliputin said that was precisely the point — there were no documents! But we all remember, and they won’t be able to “fleece” us. The journalist started insisting that no such agreement ever existed and said, “Stop lying to people!” Furthermore, he spoke to Liliputin like a delinquent schoolboy, condescendingly, with a sneer.
Madam Oldbagen disgustedly closed the news and thought: “What scumbags! They deny everything! How they hate us… Grablandphobia all over the world because of them, the creatures. They are cunning, deceitful; they are just waiting for the chance to profit from our resources! They put up these bases and lied to our faces that there was no intention of attacking. Seriously, they think we’re fools! Well done, Liliputin. May God grant him a long life and the strength to overcome this filth.”
She was wrong in her reasoning. There truly was no such agreement. And Liliputin was indeed lying to the world, demanding the fulfillment of a promise that no one had made. He presented this invented reason to the world as a pretext for demolishing Stirland’s cities and killing peaceful people. Supposedly, they weren’t peaceful at all, but had all sold out to the Duplandians, become Nazis, and planned to destroy his country. And he simply went in with tanks first, delivering a preemptive strike to protect his people from them. Madam Oldbagen, like many citizens of her country, believed Liliputin implicitly and fiercely hated the “Pindoses” (a derogatory term for Americans) for robbing her country for many years: driving the people to destitution and, most importantly, despising them. She couldn’t understand why they were being oppressed and hit with sanctions, as if Grablandians weren’t people at all. She glanced at her watch; there were fifteen minutes until the meeting, and she had to go.
Madam Oldbagen resolutely got up from the bench, walked to the ticket offices, bought the cheapest ticket for nine hundred bartercoins, and headed towards Cathedral Square. This price only included visiting the square itself, without entering the cathedrals and museums, as separate fees were charged for those. But she didn’t need that, strictly speaking.
Madam Oldbagen tried to look away from the blood – red benches; it was indeed an unpleasant sight. Firstly, it was glaring bad taste, and secondly, the color itself was very depressing. And in combination with the ancient cast – iron lanterns, it looked simply repulsive. Before, the lanterns and benches formed a wonderful color ensemble. She also tried to stay away from people so they wouldn’t smell her sweat. To say it was an uncomfortable walk was an understatement. It was probably the most monstrous walk of her life. But… Carthage must be destroyed!
In the square, she crossed herself and slightly bowed towards the Defiled Cathedral. “What an unappealing and tasteless structure,” Madam Oldbagen thought. And most importantly, it was unclear why this church was considered central to Grabland. Indeed, the entrance door was simply ridiculous — semi – circular and gaudy. It didn’t match the noble golden domes at all. There were also some jagged, golden cornices around the perimeter of the canopy above the door and higher up. To top it all off, the unsightly, grayish walls below, and the round towers under the domes above, were painted a bright white.
She walked around the building and on the right side saw a white sign with black letters: “LEGION.” The door was massive, made of oak, with a door knocker, but apparently only for decorative purposes, as there was an electric doorbell on the wall. At first glance, the entrance looked old, but she knew for sure that this room adjacent to the church had appeared recently, as she had been there six months ago and hadn’t seen anything like it. She glanced at her watch, sighed, and pressed the doorbell button.
A short, stout man of Caucasian appearance with a neat beard opened the door and greeted her with a seductive smile. If she were younger, she would have thought he was flirting with her, so brightly did his eyes sparkle when he looked at her, and he almost curtsied in a bow. And there was something oily, almost obscene, in his gaze when he fixed it on her large chest. He nearly bent double as he invited her in.
“I am delighted to welcome you, Madam Oldbagen. Please, come in. We have been verrry much looking forward to you,” the porter said in a sweet, velvety voice.
She entered the room. It smelled of incense, like a church, but otherwise, the setting was like a regular office, if not for the large painting with Biblical motifs on the wall. The room was quite spacious, the walls painted white, a huge arched window, and next to it a large desk, behind which sat elderly, gray – haired, and very important – looking official in glasses. To the right was a large full-length mirror, and to the left, apparently, a waiting area with a swamp – green sofa, matching armchairs, and a coffee table.
There were some people sitting there, about five of them, and for some reason, they were playing backgammon. They were also drinking wine; there was a half- empty bottle and snacks on the table. The scene was extremely strange, considering this was the office of state figures. But, since people had long been accustomed to the fact that anything goes in their country, unlike the damned capitalists, this fact didn’t particularly surprise Madam Oldbagen. On the contrary, this “landscape” seemed quite cozy, familiar somehow, and native.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and flinched. She looked awful! No, the mirror didn’t distort the reflection, but in some surprising way, all her flaws were much more visible than usual. Her figure looked bulky, flabby, her light brown hair was thin, sort of matted, her head seemed tiny against her huge body, her fingers were swollen like sausages, and her eyes… not blue, but sort of washed out, colorless, and the blouse looked excessively bright against them. Plus, those huge sweat stains, dark and very noticeable. She quickly turned her eyes away from the mirror and thought: “What if I really look like that? Maybe the lighting is better at home?”
“Be so kind, esteemed madam, to come and take a seat. I will gladly listen to your problem,” sounded the low, noble, well-placed voice of the office owner, who was sitting at the desk. He looked like Professor Preobrazhensky from the film Heart of a Dog, a true aristocrat. He seemed like a guest from the past, with such a special, old-fashioned manner of speech. Moreover, his surname was Licht, and he demanded to be addressed as none other than Herr Licht. Or maybe he didn’t demand it. In any case, that’s how the Caucasian man who met her addressed him.
The official’s expression was pompous, the corners of his mouth were turned down disdainfully, and when she approached and sank into the chair in front of him, she noticed that his face took on a simply mournful and suffering expression. “He must be smelling it!” But it was too late; leaving would be stupid and awkward in front of those sitting in the waiting area, so she began her story, discarding all doubt.
“Well, I wrote to you in the application, you read it, didn’t you? Everything is laid out in detail there! I didn’t miss a single detail,” she rattled nervously in a high, nasal voice.
“I have received your letter; however, allow me to hear all of this from your own lips,” the official replied diplomatically.
She thought for a second about where best to start and looked at the painting with biblical motifs hanging above his desk. It depicted Noah’s Flood, the famous, gloomy reproduction by Aivazovsky. People were shown in a state of despair, their faces disfigured by fear, trying to save themselves, the sea engulfing the sinners, and the saving ark far away. The painting was beautiful, but it was somewhat out of place in a business setting, in Madam Oldbagen’s view. Although, if it’s attached to a church…
“Please proceed,” urged the interlocutor.
“A gang of fraudsters is operating online! A sect!” Madam Oldbagen began shrilly, her face expressing extreme indignation. “And their leader, her name is Fayina — I included her surname, address, and details in the application — she is simply subhuman. Sub-human.”
She nervously shook her head in rhythm with her words, clenched her fists, her voice began to tremble with indignation and got higher. This woman had made her life a misery and was the cause of many sleepless nights. She had fought her for eight years, all in vain. Fayina did not understand human language at all, a clear psychopath. Madam Oldbagen clipped her words as if reading a verdict.
“These villains’ mock people, instill incorrect moral principles in them, and corrupt the youth! They insult, ridicule. They ruin families! They illegally collect donations. And, most importantly, they are spreading an illegal method for treating drug addicts! This untalented impostor wrote some garbage, complete nonsense, and is selling it to the naive, lining her own pockets at the expense of people’s lives.”
“Allow me to inquire, what is the number of affected individuals?” the man asked gallantly.
“I am sure there are hundreds! But no one really files complaints; she influences them so much. It’s a pure sect; they are like they’re not themselves there; they are afraid to say a word against her. She uses a combat NLP method,” Madam Oldbagen lowered her voice and looked conspiratorially at the official.
“We know their type!” a loud voice boomed from the sofa. “They’ve got nothing to offer themselves, yet they lecture others! Unbelievable people!”
Madam Oldbagen gave a grateful glance at the man who had joined the dialogue and stretched her thin lips into a gracious smile. This was exactly what she thought, and so did everyone else who had signed her application. How lucky she was that she was finally being heard here! The man who intervened was dashingly dressed, clearly sporting a haircut from an expensive barbershop.
“Yes, it is dreadful! I feel sorry for the people. I feel sorry for them to the core of my soul. That is why I am here. I am a person who loves justice,” she sighed mournfully. “And I very much hope for your help. I’ve written everywhere, but there have been no results.”
“She probably pays bribes; that’s why they’re covering their asses,” another man on the sofa reasonably suggested. This one was young, dressed very casually, even sloppily. His hair stood on end; he looked like one of those classic slackers who sat on the sofa in a stretched-out T-shirt, drank beer, and talked to the TV.
Madam Oldbagen nodded approvingly.
“The testimonies of the individuals mentioned in your application certainly carry weight. May I inquire if they are prepared to confirm their statements and bear responsibility before the law?”
“Of course, of course!” Madam Oldbagen pressed her hands to her chest, her gaze pleading and passionate. “We are all victims! We rely and depend only on you!”
“Excellent. And you? Should I understand that you recognize the consequences of your words and are you ready to affirm that awareness?” the official clarified in a strangely solemn voice, like a registrar at a marriage office.
“Yes!” Madam Oldbagen assured him just as solemnly, looking into his eyes with dog-like devotion.
His gaze became heavy and challenging.
“Do I understand correctly that you would like us to shut down this dwelling of evil?” Herr Licht lowered his glasses onto his nose and peered intently at Madam Oldbagen.
Madam Oldbagen felt a warmth in her chest. That was it — she privately referred to the project as a “dwelling of evil.” She had never voiced it aloud, as the phrase was a bit high-flown, but she had long decided for herself that it was a dwelling of evil. She nodded rapidly and, for some reason, crossed herself.
“Yes, yes. Exactly. If that is possible,” she confirmed shyly.
“I must admit, there is one more question that causes me concern. After receiving your application, I deemed it necessary to look at the project’s website. There I found testimonies of numerous recovered individuals. How can we resolve this dilemma? After all, stopping the project’s activities will likely deprive these people of the necessary support…”
“Don’t worry about that!” Madam Oldbagen replied fervently. “There are tons of similar forums online! And tons of other methods! Do you think she is the only smart one? People will find help anywhere, it’s not a problem, believe me. The world doesn’t revolve around her pathetic method. That site must be shut down! It causes much more harm than good. It is a dangerous place. They are dangerous!”
“Very well. I can state with confidence that we will examine the case in detail, that justice will prevail, and that every guilty party will receive their just punishment,” the official declared weightily and stood up from behind the desk, signaling that the audience was over.
“Thank you! Thank you!” Madam Oldbagen said in a half-whisper, shuffling backward in small steps toward the entrance. “Goodbye! Thank you again, thank you.”
Near the door, she saw a small shelf with business cards, took a couple, and slipped them into her pocket. The Caucasian man was waiting for her by the door, again opening it with a beaming smile and looking with adoration into the depths of her blouse’s neckline. “Hmm… Maybe he does like older women. He really seems to like my figure,” Madam Oldbagen thought, and her mood soared straight to the clouds, if not higher. She walked outside, wanting to jump with excitement. She could hear the chirping of birds in the air, the sun warmed her gently, and the atmosphere of the square was so festive and solemn, as if for a parade.
Madam Oldbagen pulled out a business card, curious about who this man was. That it was the department of Liliputin’s office was clear; the reply to the complaint had come from there. But what was the official’s name?
The front of the business card was black and had a logo, which looked like some kind of golden, possibly Hebrew letters. Ah, yes, it was the word LEGION! On the back side, it read:
DEPARTMENT FOR COMBATING CRIME IN THE SPHERE OF PUBLIC MORALITY
Below was a list of employees, with their positions indicated.
Herr Licht – Head of Department
Morgan – Expert Appraiser
Abbadington – Head of Combat Group
Hott – Gender Issues
Goldman – Budgetary Issues
Layton – Leisure Organization
Flynn – Tasting Specialist
“For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind” was the slogan at the very bottom of the card.
“Interesting… What unusual positions. Especially the Taster,” Madam Oldbagen thought, and glanced back at the door. The porter was still standing in the doorway and smiling, visually caressing her. When she turned around, he blew her a kiss and slyly raised an eyebrow. She felt embarrassed for some reason, turned away, and quickly walked off. As she drew level with the benches, it occurred to her that they were brown again. Yes, so it was a hallucination… Oh well, thank goodness it passed.
Meanwhile, a dialogue was taking place in the department office. Herr Licht, the Head, the one who had taken the statement, addressed his employees:
“Well, gentlemen. We are starting this case. I deem it necessary to check the witnesses to exclude the uninvolved,” with these words, he took the remote control from the table, walked over to the sofa, sat down next to the others, pressed a button, and pointed it at the large mirror on the wall.
ALLEGORICAL MEANING OF THE CHAPTER
The Scene with the Broadcast where the president lies to the whole world is real; this is how the President of Russia behaved. Madam Oldbagen in this chapter serves as an allegory for the ruling regime of Russia and Putin personally. She just as indiscriminately, shamelessly, and baselessly accuses Fayina. This is a reflection of the lying, hypocritical, and deeply vicious regime that is ready to destroy any constructive effort under the false pretext of fighting for “public morality.”
Her smelly sweat symbolizes moral impurity and the fear that the regime tries to hide under a mask of vigor. The scarlet benches and the disappearance of sounds are manifestations of guilt and inner horror. The state, like Madam Oldbagen, desperately tries to ignore these signs (the color red being the color of blood) in order to continue its path.
The reflection that shows her as “flabby,” “bulky,” and “matted” is an allegory for the true, unsightly image of the regime, which it sees but denies.
At the same time, Madam Oldbagen is also an allegory for the people of Russia who silently and slavishly submit to those in power, revere them, and are afraid to express their opinion or even question anything.
“Legion” in this chapter is a symbol of the disorder “at the top” that is masked by a veneer of nobility and pious goals. The slogan: “For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind” is a cynical justification for their own crimes.
