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margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> One July morning of a hot, leap-year summer, Elizaveta Andreyevna Bestuzheva walked out of building number One on Solyanka Street  the home of her latest lover. She lingered for a moment, squinting in the sun, then straightened her shoulders, raised her head proudly, and marched along the sidewalk. It was almost ten, but morning traffic was still going strong  Moscow was settling into a long day. Elizaveta Andreyevna walked fast, looking straight ahead and trying not to meet anyone s eyes. Still, at the corner of Solyansky Drive, a brazen eyeball invaded her space, but then immediately turned out to be a store window dressing in the form of a huge, green peeper. Taken aback, she peered into it, and saw only that it was hopelessly dead. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> She turned left, and the bleak house disappeared from view. Brushing off the memories of last night and the need to make a decision, Elizaveta finally felt the relief of knowing that she was alone. She was sick of her lover  maybe that was the reason their meetings were growing more and more lewd. In the mornings, she wanted to look away and make a quick retreat, not even kissing him good-bye. But he was persistent; his parting ritual enveloped her like heavy fog, and afterward, she always ran down the stairs, distrusting the elevator, then scurried away from the dreary house, as if it were a mousetrap that had miraculously fallen open. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Elizaveta glanced at her watch, shook her head, and picked up speed. The sidewalk was narrow and packed with people, yet she stepped lightly, oblivious of obstacles: oncoming passersby, bumps and potholes, puddles left by last night s rain. She wasn t bothered with the city s deplorable condition, but a new sense of unease suddenly uncoiled deep inside her and slithered up her spine with a cold tickle. The giant eye still seemed to stare at her from under its heavy lid. She had a sense of another presence, a most delicate thread that connected her to someone else. Involuntarily, she jerked her shoulders, trying to shake off the feeling, and after quickly admonishing herself, returned to her contemplation. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Old Square gradually came into view: the church that once stood over public executions, then the commercial section crowded with merchant stalls and cars parked willy-nilly. Elizaveta traversed the square like a seasoned pilot, her shoes squelching in the mud that seemed to be left over from centuries past, when the sludge that filled the square was ankle-high, and traders caught selling boots with paper soles were flogged and whipped across their faces. Finally, she reached the flimsy fence that, by some strange design, had no gate. She shook her head, stepped gracefully over a massive chain, and found herself in the park, whose cool shade she longed for even now, so early in the day. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Then began the long journey up the hill  the symbol of a momentous effort befitting the city morning. Elizaveta winked at Saints Cyril and Methodius, who stared bleakly at a plaque that read,  From the Grateful Nation  a bitter joke about a nation that never learned how to be grateful. She skirted a bench with a sleeping bum, who exuded an unbearable stench, and, after a brief hesitation, took the left alley, which was slightly more shaded than the right one. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> The promise of another blistering day loomed over Moscow. The park was full of people  victims of morning hangovers, refugees from the nearby office buildings clutching their beer cans. The adjacent bar was also far from empty. The waitress wove lazily between the tables, fully aware of the power she wielded. Elizaveta surveyed unfriendly territory. She noted the casualties dispassionately, without noticing their faces, which looked blank in their identically aloof, inward-focused expressions. She walked with virtually no effort, pretending to float above the sidewalk, the meager greenery, and the trash-filled bushes. Only once did she stumble  and it brought back the sense of a persistent, hidden gaze. She was probably mistaken  most likely mistaken. But her heart remained heavy, and her thoughts disintegrated into a confused jumble. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> As she reached the top of the hill, the sun sliced into her eyes, and the smell of asphalt and burned gasoline filled her nose. Elizaveta waited for the light to change, crossed the road, and arrived at the Polytechnic Museum, which provided much better shadow than the despondent trees. Many years ago, the spot used to house a zoo. The museum had fallen on hard times  possibly the hardest since the zoo s Indian elephant broke under the persistent attention of gawkers and went on a rampage. The fate of the museum, much like the fate of the elephant, was regrettable, but Elizaveta had her own concerns. She continued to feel uneasy  and even glanced over her shoulder. There was nothing there. She hesitated at a theater poster tucked behind glass, watching the wavy reflections. They looked harmless enough. She snorted, frustrated with herself, and read the glassed-in poster inviting passersby to learn about varieties of packaging at a Packers Club that found a home in the impoverished building. For a moment, she felt amused, and the unease took on a mystical, ghostly quality. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Past the museum, Elizaveta gave the menacing Lubyanka building a cursory look and descended into the underground crossing, which let her out right by her office on Maly Cherkassky. With a glance at her watch, she hastened up the stairs  but the exit beckoned with bookstalls, and she gave in and began to examine the covers. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> One of the books caught her attention. She opened up an imposing, black tome, but somebody jostled her elbow, and the book tumbled out of her hands, wreaking colorful havoc on the stand. In the resulting commotion, the woman next to Elizaveta yelped with surprise, a man s guttural voice muttered an apology, and the proprietor of the stall rushed to straighten out his wares, worried he might get robbed. Elizaveta tossed an absentminded  It s okay in the direction of the voice, whose owner s face she never saw, and stepped aside to leaf through another book with a colorful dust jacket. Its contents, however, proved to be too serious, and the second page was branded with a triangle that nearly covered the entire sheet. She immediately remembered something she once read: The triangle is a proud figure; it controls the soul. It was an ill-timed sign, a dumb hint verging on mockery. Embarrassed, Elizaveta cast around a furtive glance, set the book down, and hurried away from the stalls toward the old, five-story building that contained small companies and underfunded government offices. <BR><BR> <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Elizaveta s colleague, staunch feminist Masha Rozhdestvenskaya, who called herself Margot, met Elizaveta amiably, seeming not to notice her lateness. The reason was simple: Masha was dying of curiosity. Not long before Elizaveta s arrival, a messenger had knocked on the door and handed the dumbstruck Masha a large bouquet of roses wrapped in golden tinfoil.  For Ms. Bestuzheva, he d said shortly and disappeared, as if dissolving in the Moscow smog. The card clipped to the edge of the tinfoil said nothing but From a suitor, written in ornate cursive with little curlicues. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Masha had never seen a card like that and was infinitely surprised. In the two years they d spent together in their stuffy office room, the mailman had never brought flowers, or even a measly love letter. This was completely out of the ordinary. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> The moment Elizaveta stepped, panting, into the office, she was deluged with questions, which, unfortunately, found no answers. Elizaveta was just as puzzled as Masha, who quickly realized that her friend wasn t trying to conceal anything. The occurrence had no explanation. All they knew for sure was that Bestuzheva had a secret admirer: a fact so strange, it irritated rather than thrilled or entertained. Her life held no mysteries, and having little faith in lucky accidents, she preferred to choose her admirers herself. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0">  You know, she said to Masha pensively,  I stopped by the stall, they had a book& Can you imagine, I open it, and there s a triangle right away. No idea what it means. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0">  It s for fevers, Margot explained, eyes narrowed in open mockery.  A triangle spell is the best cure for it. They draw it on a piece of paper, or on a wolf skin, like they did in olden times. Clears it right up. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0">  Come on, Elizaveta said, offended,  I m serious. Triangles control the soul. It said so right there: Thy soul is not thy body. Then something else I couldn t figure out, and in the end, thy soul is love... <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0">  Thy soul is love, her coworker repeated thoughtfully.  Wow. Your life is never boring, eh, girlfriend? she summed up, then added in reproach, shaking her head,  Lizard Liz&  <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Elizaveta felt awkward. She responded with an absent smile and went in search of a water jar for the flowers, while Masha continued to cast sideway glances at the strange bouquet, as if still trying to find the key to this mystery that had eluded both of them. <BR><BR> <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> A fervent enemy of mysteries  especially those connected with the opposite sex  Masha Rozhdestvenskaya had no faith in signs and orphaned bouquets. Unlike Elizaveta, she d had a strained relationship with men ever since her youth  more like a protracted war than a romantic dream. Many thought she was weak of character, and so they used her without compunction: in exchange for compliments, presents, and small favors. Once they got what they wanted, they would disappear without a trace, leaving the inconsolable Masha to lick her love wounds. Over time, her heart grew hard  and still, men continued to treat her like a toy in their hands. Her illusions wilted. It hurt more than the loneliness, to which she was beginning to grow accustomed. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Eventually, Masha went on counterattack. It proved to be quite successful: she managed to flip things around, convincing first herself, then others, that she was the one who used her lovers indiscriminately, walking away with pleasure, money, and more gifts and favors. And if they happened to disappear too soon, it was no biggie. There were plenty of fish in the sea  she just had to cast the net. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> People began to respect and sometimes even fear her. The victim turned into a  lioness with a somewhat cornered look she had learned to hide. But the metamorphosis drained her of vitality, and she was now building it back up brick by brick, ruthlessly dismissing all that defied rational cynicism as frivolous whim. She interpreted eccentricities of love and the ensuing lethargy as dictated by the latest fashion: as a chemical defect in the brain, like the warring energies of different colors that can t find a balance. Feelings were transient; colors tended to mix into a dull gray. It wasn t even worth talking about, Masha thought in her current state; not worth looking for far-fetched meanings. It was much more fun to discuss haircuts, Tarot cards, and dogs. She loved dogs. Her pug slept right in her bed, and she thought of her greyhound, who had recently died of old age, as an incarnation of some unknown kindred spirit. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Though not particularly friendly, she and Elizaveta weren t openly hostile, either. Their work was boring. The travel agency was nothing more than a front for the machinations of some bigwig whose name was never said out loud. As such, the company had to provide perfect form with no pretense of substance. Business was slow; the agency was mostly in the red; but a quiet young man never failed to deliver their salaries, which were rather high by Moscow standards. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> All in all, everyone was happy. Masha and Elizaveta covered the walls with posters, littered their desks and the windowsill with brochures, and filled the office with Tibetan music and Chinese figurines. African masks hung on the wall to the right of the entrance, across from the glossy map of the two hemispheres crisscrossed with flight paths, as if to validate the company s readiness to send a client to the ends of the earth if ever necessary. If the bigwig ever decided to drop by in his free time, he would like what he saw. But to the disappointment of both women, his time was never free. Would-be travelers were also a rare occurrence. The women spent their days in the virtual world of the Internet and in the pages of books as their presence livened up the somewhat drab office, like butterflies decorating a dusty bush. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Of the two, Masha was the more alluring. Her dark hair was nothing short of splendid; her eyes were big; her mouth  sinfully sensual. Her cheekbones were a bit on the wide side, but some would consider this another asset, as it suggested a similarity to women of the Transvolga region known for their insatiable appetite for love. Her overall appearance and behavior constantly reasserted the tumultuous nature of life. But she already knew that reality could be duller than appearances  and so she was no stranger to shocking behavior, especially in the company of people of privilege. Still, she never sank to the level of full-blown indecency. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Next to Masha, Elizaveta looked like Cinderella shoved into the background. Plus she was four years younger than her coworker: last month, she d turned twenty-eight. They couldn t have been more different in their appearance; and, while the eye first rested on femme fatale Margot, the two quickly balanced out, and it was impossible to say which one stood a better chance in sustained battle. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Either way, a helmet of dark-blonde hair perfectly framed Elizaveta s narrow face, with its graceful nose and green-specked, catlike eyes. She did resemble a giant cat  but only from the front. In profile, she looked more like an exotic bird. All this was augmented by very delicate skin, narrow wrists and ankles  a legacy of her aristocratic lineage, lost in the quagmire of intermarriage, but still evident in her last name and proud posture. All she knew for sure was that one of her grandmothers was Polish gentry. It seemed the grandmother s genes had skipped a generation to define her refinement and grace  and maybe to predispose her to pragmatic romanticism, which the rules of metropolitan life forced her to hide. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Not that romanticism was lacking in the Russian three-quarters of her wild family tree. To her great shame, she knew next to nothing about them. Still, she had no one to blame her, and gave little thought to the past. She was content with the present, with all its bustle  and with herself, exactly as she was. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Elizaveta Bestuzheva was one of those rare people who know exactly who they are, with no illusions about their world. It was mainly an internal, rather than an external matter, and was an easy subject for analysis  though, in typically female fashion, she did her best not to indulge too much in self-contemplation. Things sometimes came to mind, but the important stuff was undeniably clear: she knew that she contained an entire universe inside her, replete with heavenly bodies. Some of her planets were inhabited, and she could hear the voices of all the countless creatures that lived there. Sometimes the voices tortured her; sometimes they made her irrationally happy. They resonated in her heart, with confusion and anxiety; and in her body, with the whims of physiology. To Elizaveta, hers was the best of all possible worlds. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> She noticed other carriers of inner universes, which doubtless seemed as perfect to their owners. Of course this complicated life considerably: this is why, she told herself, messages from one individual to another often get so scrambled and are bound to be misinterpreted. They encountered so much interference  after all, the shells were not quite transparent. How could a message reach its target without distortion? Not to mention that everyone thought in a different language& People were utterly hapless when it came to communicating meanings. She could hardly believe they understood each other at all. It took tremendous effort to concentrate on an external stimulus, to capture a Morse code or some other cipher, let alone translate it into words& <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> She was considerate of others weaknesses, aware they could be hiding the complexities of private spaces. People valued her compassion  though she was callous with those whose worlds were empty, not bothering to hide her boredom. This wasn t malice on her part. She didn t think she was better than anyone else  it just happened that way. The Morse code got lost in the vacuum, with no hope for a reply. Unfortunately, most men she knew were carriers of this vacuumlike, nonresonating substance. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> It must be said that unlike the implacable Margot, Elizaveta harbored no ill will toward the stronger sex. Bestuzheva believed love was the most important thing in life  in the traditional, old-fashioned sense. It was a conscious challenge, an act of extreme romanticism she inherited from her Polish grandma or from some nameless Russian ancestor with a passionate heart and sentimental nature. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> There was a contradiction here: between external and internal, between her own and someone else s, a declaration of self-sufficiency and expectation of a fateful encounter. Sometimes, Elizaveta asked herself resentfully: isn t the inner world alive as well? Full as it was of life-giving juices and warm plasma, was it all just a lie, since she still pinned all her hopes on simple happiness? <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> She recognized her emerging impulses, unchecked and capable of surprising anyone  but she needed help to awaken them and set them free. When flirting with men, she tested their courage in hopes that their shameless gaze would help her find something deep within herself. At times, she was ready to sacrifice most anything, even the scattering of her internal galaxies, encased in perfect form, for a moment of insight. What if one day, she could just toss the fragile structure up into the air and fail to catch it? Let it crash, let it splinter into shards of glass& This thought scared her. It was distressing to think that somewhere inside this warm plasma, the gears of negation and decay were ticking away. She knew she didn t have the strength to rein them in. But one day, she would meet another: a man who would determine how far they both would tumble into madness& <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> In a way, this was a comforting thought, leaving ample room for fantasies. Elizaveta was a big fan of fantasies. Still, she had no doubt that, when reality caught up with her, she would meet it with dignity and would not miss her chance. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> She had learned all she knew about love from the books that filled her parents home, crammed into shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. Elizaveta spent her evenings buried in their pages. She even read at night in the private light of her dim bedside lamp. Nobody bothered her. Her older brother lived his grown-up life, and her parents had their own problems: the Bestuzhev family was not a happy one. Her father worked at Intertrade, and though he had been considered quite a catch back in the Soviet era, he had married a modest waitress, to the surprise of his friends and relatives. He had his own motives: he wanted incontestable authority, and that was what he got  along with license to demean his wife over the course of many years. But the children knew full well that, in actuality, their mother was secretly in charge. And then the father died, still young, from a rare bug he caught on a business trip to Africa. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Elizaveta grew on her diet of books into a young lady resembling Turgenev s heroines. She loved Kuprin, cried over bad poems she spent hours reading in the local park, and shunned all displays of rudeness. Soon, however, the wild romanticism of the  90s shook up the values in her pretty head. Her older brother began to work for a living, curse lewdly, and smoke pot. Her girlfriends landed boyfriends with secondhand German cars, and she fell in with the leader of a local gang. As a result, she finally lost her virginity at nineteen, blushing at such outrageous conservatism. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Then the century came to an end. Elizaveta mourned her gangbanger boyfriend, who found himself in a cemetery, as befit his chosen profession. Then she did her time at university, got her completely pointless degree, and moved out on her own, despite her disapproving mom and brother. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> They never truly connected after that. She grew more distant, refusing their advice and money. Finally, her brother left for another continent; her mother sold the flat and followed him; and Elizaveta felt truly free. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Her first marriage soon followed. It came from fleeting, feverish whim, and left no trace when it ended. The man she chose proved to be a nobody: a mediocrity, an insect, a waste of space. She quickly grew tired of him, and breathed a sigh of relief when she found cause to kick him out. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Then, after a bout of severe self-pity, Elizaveta befriended a certain Sara, with a hazy past and bright-red lock of hair. For four months, she ruled Elizaveta s fate. Sara was inclined to extremes; something in her entranced Elizaveta  namely, the glinting edge of a narrow switchblade with which she never parted. They invented game after game, and Bestuzheva forgot her troubles. She would often daydream about the blade that tasted so many secret parts of her body  along with Sara s playful tongue and her own sweet shame. No one had ever been so maniacally jealous over her  and this only fueled the fascination. Then Sara disappeared, leaving suddenly for the Altai Mountains, and Elizaveta knew that the worst was behind her. She was ready to go on with her life. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> A few well-mannered, elderly lovers helped her fully reclaim her confidence. The wish for fire and passion quickly returned, but they proved elusive despite her cheerful disposition and energetic search. As a result, Elizaveta s personal life was reduced to compromise and a quest to satisfy her lust. This held its own brand of passion: risky and shameless, with a tart, musky aftertaste. Her outward detachment would suddenly give way to a surge of stormy energy; she seemed to break free of her cage, grow unrestrained and insatiable. It had little to do with crude sensuality. The nature of these whirlwinds that tossed her about was much deeper and more subtle. Elizaveta had no name for it, but with a bit of work, she could convince herself it was the energy of love. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Time passed, and nothing changed. One by one, her girlfriends acquired families. Elizaveta held no grudge: she knew a different fate awaited her, and it should not be rushed. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Men fell for her, flocking like corpulent moths to her wicked glow and silent call. Eventually, however, she grew up and became more stingy with her charms. She was tired of variety; the ranks of her admirers thinned out, and only a lucky few were granted permanent status. And yet, she couldn t develop respect even for them. The hollow vacuum they personified didn t resonate on any frequency, didn t echo on any wavelength; it yielded no light and no word. At first, she resented them, but eventually they became merely amusing. She accepted as fact that in her country, the stronger sex was much worse than the weaker one. This knowledge helped her reconcile with reality, providing a common ground for isolated episodes. Having an answer made life easier: she watched with a smile, even a sort of maternal concern, as her lovers moved about the room, gestured, squared their shoulders, and threw furtive glances at the mirror; as they tried to put on airs and take up more space; as they ate, drank, and smoked, simulated thoughtfulness, and studiously knitted their brows, only to dive with relief back into familiar patterns, from house chores to sex and driving. She knew the real value of their lies and insinuations, their vague promises and frequent whining. She knew how easy it was to confuse them; to knock them right off their feet; to flatter them into giving her what she wanted; to get them to talk or fall silent with doubt. She held power over them  yet she didn t much like this power. Control over events offered convenience, but when things didn t work out, she took it lightly, refusing to get sucked into an argument and feeling no regret. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Her latest lover was going on five months. Bestuzheva didn t love him, but she valued his devotion  a quality that had gradually worked its way to the top of her updated priorities. He was easy to deal with  just as he would probably be a convenient life partner. But she knew that was something they would never get to test. This chapter, too, was coming to an end. In the mornings that followed their stormy nights, she could barely contain hostility, looking at the bustling  Sasha, as he d taken to calling himself to please her. His obedient stare caused nothing but irritation and disgust. She even began to hate this diminutive nickname, and after a few insulting outbursts,  Sasha turned into a gloomy  Alexander tangling up in consonants. After that, she tried to avoid the name altogether. At least she didn t have to say that out loud. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0">  Alexander was well liked by her girlfriends, including Masha and a few old classmates. This used to flatter her; now, it was another source of irritation. Yet, generally, Elizaveta didn t care what anyone thought. She d long realized that every opinion was one-sided in its own way  and besides, you could never expect to hear the truth. Everyone had personal goals, and she knew herself what a goal could mean  a clear, well-defined one, and doable within given deadlines. She had a whole list of them that she loved to inspect while drifting off to sleep  taking inventory and outlining new directions. At those times, many things fell neatly into place  many, but not all. Some matters stood apart, defying every list; they beguiled with their elusiveness and remained a permanent dream. <DIV ALIGN="CENTER"><H3>&nbsp;</H3></DIV> <DIV ALIGN="CENTER"><H3>Chapter 2</H3></DIV> <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Noticing Masha s lack of interest, Elizaveta sorted through the office mail and switched on her computer. Her inbox was almost empty. But one e-mail immediately caught her attention: Fortunate! the subject line blared. Naturally, this was quite strange. Elizaveta glanced at the bouquet, feeling out of sorts, then clicked on the e-mail and began searching for meaning in the tiny symbols that made up the image on the screen. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0">  Masha, check this out&  She was about to wave her co-worker over, but the screen suddenly sprang to life. The symbols swirled, danced, and settled into the shape of a large heart. It turned purple. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0">  What? Masha said, looking up, but Bestuzheva waved hastily at her  nothing, nothing  feeling a blush creep across her cheeks. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> The words Click this! appeared on the screen. She poked them obediently with her cursor, and the heart was replaced with a list of short commands. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> It was a formula for calculating the Soul Number  at least that s what the bold-face heading said. Intrigued, Elizaveta followed the instructions twice to make sure she made no mistakes in calculations, and typed the result into the box at the bottom, above the Decode button. She didn t have to wait long for the decoding. Your number is SIX, the screen blinked. Your sign is VENUS. Your stone is DIAMOND. Your nature is LOVE, MOTHERHOOD, DOMESTIC BLISS... <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> The words disappeared, and the heart returned, only to disintegrate into shards and then dissolve into nothing. Elizaveta tried to bring the image back  but to no avail. The e-mail refused to spring to life again, giving her nothing but a scrambled row of symbols. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Elizaveta felt unreasonably sad. She glanced at the bouquet again, as if it could give her a hint. When it didn t come, she shook her head and leaned back in her chair, thinking about her morning, her Soul Number, and her entire life. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> She languished like this for the rest of the day, and left work headachy and irritated with everything. The bookstalls had disappeared; fruit dealers with oily eyes had taken their place. Elizaveta got a fleeting sense of the transience of her surroundings, with the office and her rental apartment providing the only tenuous solidity. She walked downstairs, crossed the square, and headed slowly down Big Lubyanka, shaded by the famous building that still oozed menace and put inexplicable fear into some people s hearts. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Elizaveta wasn t affected by the building, with its granite base, or any other specters of the past she barely caught and had no reason to take seriously. Moscow swaggered with brand-new values, and Elizaveta was quite content with them, especially since she didn t have a choice. She turned toward Kuznetsky Bridge, which sparkled with boutique shop windows, and headed toward Tverskaya Street. The high-end stores neither she nor most of her fellow citizens could afford had long ago lost their allure. Her eyes glided absently across expensive clothes, bedding, and accessories illuminated by brilliant lights safe behind thick glass. Next was a row of jewelry stores. Elizaveta had a weak spot for jewelry. She slowed her pace, thinking back to the diamond from the morning e-mail  then immediately felt ashamed and sped up again with a slightly arrogant expression on her face. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> The workday was coming to an end, and Kuznetsky Bridge was packed with strollers. Elizaveta noted with annoyance that they all looked alike, like drops of wax or some other liquid that easily shifted form. It was some kind of trick, she felt  an offensive injustice  though she couldn t tell how and why it should be different. The setting sun, along with reflections of other lives, diluted and distorted the people around her, making them seem unremarkable, nearly incorporeal. They glided back and forth like shadows or characters from hastily written novels, their movements guided by the simplest of instincts and needs. Their desires, ambitions, and problems were all too predictable. The city had given them a respite, and they submitted to it, just as they had to the burdens of their workday: the rudeness of their bosses, the headaches and accusations, bad food at the nearest coffee shop. They lacked something crucial, and Bestuzheva didn t want to put a word to this something  naming it would only make things more depressing. She felt like a stranger to all of them, an alien from another planet  though she quickly reminded herself that this sentiment was temporary, and she would eventually have to grow up. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0">  Eventually, but not now, she mumbled.  You lucked out, gorgeous&  With secret satisfaction, she thought that there could be no other way. And that  gorgeous, no doubt, defined her very well. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Beyond the Rozhdestvenskaya Street intersection, the Kuznetsky went downhill  literally and figuratively. Boutiques gave way to regular stores and cafés. Elizaveta entered one of them, named after a Hindu god, and ordered citrus mix. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> She waited and watched the bustle outside. The structure across the street housed the embassy of some newly minted country, irrelevant and largely unessential. The store next to it offered foreign trinkets. Farther down the street, the once-famous Writers Bookstore now sold postcards and souvenirs, its only window blocked by a billboard advertising cranberry lipstick. The advertising slogan, like the taste of a lingering kiss, reminded Elizaveta of last night, which left nothing but fatigue and disappointment. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Suddenly, her back prickled with cold goose bumps again. She felt somebody watching her from somewhere nearby. Elizaveta craned her neck  abruptly, angrily  to catch the interloper, then leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.  My nerves are completely fried, she complained in a whisper,  seeing all kinds of crap all the time&  <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> She was mistaken: her suspicion wasn t groundless. From a reasonable distance, a nondescript man watched her every move. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Earlier that morning, he could be glimpsed outside the gray house on Solyanka; then, everywhere else Elizaveta went. He followed her like a relentless shadow. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> The nondescript man was a private investigator. His first assignment was to give the  subject a hint of his presence, but not so much that she could spot her pursuer or even be sure she was being tailed. So far, he had lived up to his reputation and carried out the task brilliantly. He didn t know the client; all he had been told was that the man was from out of town. That was enough to fill him with sympathy for Elizaveta, caught by misfortune in the web of some provincial fat cat. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> But the fat cat was far from provincial: born on Ordynka, he d spent his first twenty-seven years in Moscow. Had the PI known this, his sympathy for Elizaveta might have morphed into solidarity with a fellow Muscovite. On this account, though, he would ve also been wrong. Contrary to stereotypes, the client had enduring hatred for Moscow. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> His name was Timofey Timofeyevich Tsarkov. Once upon a time, he was Bestuzheva s classmate: a poor student who got his education somewhat late in life, after a youth wasted on black-market dealings and amateur rock, and a stint in the infantry. Through it all, he never lost his optimism and easygoing nature. One day, their eyes met over chemistry burners and flasks: they got to talking, then to hurried groping between the sheets, and then to infatuation and passionate desire. Elizaveta fell for him like a teenager, with a wide-open heart, and he loved her youth and vigor. Yet, their romance was short-lived. The city dealt Timofey a mortal offense, and his life changed forever. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> It was the slippery road that did it. Timofey s car skidded and smashed into a neighboring Jeep. The two vehicles drifted across the highway, hitting a few others along the way. Miraculously, nobody was hurt in the ensuing pile-up except the totaled cars. As Tsarkov, slight and skinny, climbed out of his smashed-up ride, the owner of the Jeep stomped over, tossed Elizaveta aside, ignoring her terrified squeal, and crashed his fist into Timofey s face, hard enough to give him a serious concussion. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> In the hospital, he realized he could no longer live like this. He lost interest in school, friends, and Elizaveta Bestuzheva. His life narrowed to one single point: desire to take vengeance on the world. He would use the same weapons the world had used against him: fear, money and power, invulnerability, and a right to be cruel. His uncompromising nature set a high bar for his future endeavor. But he was a reasonable guy and knew he couldn t reach his goal in Moscow  he had neither the cash, nor, more importantly, the connections. And so Timofey Tsarkov s heart hardened with searing hatred for Moscow. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> In the first two days of his hospitalization, Elizaveta barely left his side. But he was sullen, distant, burdened by her presence. She got upset, and her visits grew infrequent. Then, right before he was discharged, Timofey had a quickie with one of the nurses, which he admitted to Bestuzheva with secret relish. He couldn t forgive her for witnessing his disgrace. He wanted to punish her, and he succeeded: they ended on a very bad note. Soon after, he dropped out of school and fell completely off the radar. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Having disposed of his past, and even more so of his present, Timofey moved to Yekaterinburg, closer to his jeweler uncle. He found no overnight success; and besides, the uncle proved to be a real scumbag. Eventually, however, fate smiled upon him. As is often the case, fortune came in an unexpected package. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> One day, he did something he had never done before: approached an unconscious man lying helplessly just outside a bus stop. To his surprise, there was no smell of alcohol. Timofey flagged down a cab, took the guy to the hospital, and, as it turned out, saved him from almost certain death. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> The man happened to be an out-of-town bigwig with business interests all up and down Middle Volga. He came to the Ural incognito, on highly personal business. That nearly cost him his life: on his morning walk, he had an epileptic seizure and lost consciousness. The physicians said this was caused by a nervous disorder combined with a congenital vascular defect. Without immediate treatment, the seizure could ve killed him. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Within two days, the patient was patched up and discharged. He carefully recorded the obscure diagnosis in his notebook; said a few choice words about Volga doctors, who were obviously in for a severe punishment, and headed to the nearest church to donate all his cash. When he returned to his home town of Syvoldaisk, he took Timofey along as his personal aide. That was seven years ago. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Working side by side, Timofey Tsarkov and his patron didn t waste any time. The patron moved into the local government, where he could act even more shamelessly. Timofey, in the meantime, uncovered in himself an aptitude for financial scheming and built his own little  homestead, as he liked to call it. His assets were quickly approaching the levels he d once conceived in his hospital bed. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Disaster, like good fortune, came out of nowhere, in the form of the patron s daughter, who was suddenly grown up. Her zealous father wanted nothing but the best for his offspring and had long been exploring various matrimonial prospects. But then, his  little girl  who, at twenty-something, became a burly Russian matron, dressed to the nines and accustomed to denying herself nothing  took matters into her own hands. All of a sudden, she fell head over heels for Tsarkov, whom she d known since she was a giggly kid with freckles and a braid who, to her family s great chagrin, couldn t use a knife and fork. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Now that she was an adult, she scared him. She embodied a thousand devils, a handful of hardened bitches, and Albert Einstein adapted to the Russian plains. She was stronger, smarter, and more ruthless than anyone he knew. Her temper terrified everyone around her. Timofey imagined she could probably bite her lover s head clean off like a female praying mantis. Plus he didn t like chubby women. In other words, catastrophe loomed on his horizon, and all his senses screamed to get away. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> After the first failed attempt to lure her would-be husband into bed, the daughter, Maya, marched into her father s office and demanded a wedding.  Love will come later, she explained.  That s how everyone does it these days. And, really, who could resist a treasure like her? <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Nobody, her father agreed, slightly dazed by her onslaught. Placated for the moment, Maya took off for Cleveland as part of cultural exchange, tasking her parents with making all the arrangements. She was scheduled to return in three months or so. The first was nearly over now, and Timofey realized that this delay  a generous gift from the gods  was his only chance to escape. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> His patron called him in for a man-to-man talk. Both chose their words carefully. In a shrewdly perceptive move, Timofey brought a modicum of ambiguity into the situation. He was suitably incomprehensible and mysterious, alluding to some vague events from his distant past that he couldn t talk about just yet. His speech was peppered with  honor and  duty  words that resonated in the heart of his patron, an old-guard man shaped by obsolete rules. The conversation resolved nothing. It only proved that both parties had serious intentions, and the hapless bridegroom was in for hard times. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> If Timofey was going to defy the dangerous clan, he needed a damn good reason. His patron s bruised pride  not to mention the fury of the rejected Maya  could crush him like a bug. He could tell them he was into men, but that wouldn t work in Russia s backwoods: no one would ever shake his hand, let alone do business with him. He was left with just one option: he quickly had to arrange an alternative marriage  a retroactive and sufficiently credible one. He put everything else on hold and dived headfirst into this project. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Finding a fake spouse proved to be a hard task. Timofey needed someone he could trust completely, and, mulling over the candidates credentials, he felt increasingly hopeless. He knew plenty of women, and now that he saw them from a new perspective, he even thought he might have treated many of them unfairly, with little regard. But still, they were local, living in plain view, with pedestrian biographies, transparent down to their birth. There was no way he could change that. He needed an outsider, but all his old contacts were gone. What was he supposed to do  invite the first woman who came along to join his delicate and cunning game? <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Timofey was close to despair  but then a brilliant thought suddenly occurred to him. He congratulated himself and breathed a sigh of relief. Salvation might not be a slam dunk, but he certainly had a chance. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> He had to marry Elizaveta Bestuzheva, who fit nearly all parts of the profile. She knew how to keep secrets, knew how to keep her word  he just had to press her into making a promise. Unlike almost everyone else, she was honest to a fault, incapable of deceit. Timofey had a soft spot for honest and sincere people: he never failed to be surprised they hadn t gone extinct. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Yet she was stubborn, and that could be a serious problem. He saw that clearly, thinking back to the turmoil of their breakup seven years ago. Still, he had nowhere to retreat. He had to bank on Elizaveta s big heart and romantic nature  and on his charm and ability to get his way. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> He immediately put his idea into action. It took him one night to come up with a detailed plan. It would seem too intricate to idle eyes, but Timofey disdained easy solutions. He always relied on complicated schemes, and they miraculously paid off, to the surprise of his hardheaded partners, bringing prosperity to his  homestead. His customary tactics relied on piling up a heap of accidents until they grew into a clear inevitability  or at least its phantom. Inevitability was something you couldn t argue with  this was the secret of success. And so, armed with understanding of causation, Tsarkov made bold decisions and knew no doubts. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> He approached his  past marriage plan in the same way. Unseen patterns began to swirl around Elizaveta, building a chain of disparate events that moved along the same vector, aimed at the spot soon to be occupied by Timofey himself. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> The PI, who stood motionless behind the door of an office building diagonal to Elizaveta s café, was unaware of the plan s complexities. He was merely the man on the ground. He felt compassion for the young woman who was obviously headed into trouble  but it didn t stop him from doing his job as best he could. He didn t mind bringing emotions into his thankless business; he even cultivated them. At times, he felt pity for his  subjects ; at other times, he hated or disdained them. This helped him bear the inconveniences of his work, and provided comfort in the dark days of blunders and failures. Not that those were common. He was highly respected in certain circles and had no shortage of clients. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> The PI glanced at his watch, pushed a button on his cell phone, and said a few words to the person on the other end. A minute later, a girl in leggings and a pink tunic ran out of the neighboring house and trotted up the Kuznetsky, holding a large rose wrapped in tinfoil. Her provocative appearance drew everyone s attention. Passersby turned to stare; patrons of the open-air café gaped at her in shock. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> She suddenly made a sharp turn to stop directly in front of Elizaveta, and handed her the rose with an old-fashioned curtsey. The flower was the same color as the morning bouquet, but bigger and more vibrant. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0">  For you, the girl said, peering into the irises of Elizaveta s eyes.  Just one, but it looks like a ruby. The diamond  that s for later&  Her face crumpled into a cunning grin, and Elizaveta realized she wasn t as young as she seemed. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0">  What s this? Elizaveta asked, bewildered. The girl simply smiled again, giving Elizaveta s palm a quick caress with her cold hand, and ran off at full speed, melting into the crowd. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Elizaveta sighed, shrugged, and set the rose on the table. Completely baffled, she was oblivious to the fact that all eyes were on her. A plump waitress brought the bill and stared with undisguised curiosity. Elizaveta suddenly felt sad. Tears stung her eyelids. She paid the bill; grabbed the rose, pricking a finger on a sharp thorn; left the café, and headed quickly toward Tverskaya. <P CLASS="indent" style="text-indent: 32; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0"> Half an hour later, she sat on the couch in her small apartment on Gnezdnikovsky Lane, staring at the flower that jutted from the narrow neck of a vase.  I am Venus, my stone is diamond, she whispered, as if trying to cast a spell against some alien force that had invaded her life. <!-- end fragment --> <P> <DIV ALIGN="right"> <TABLE WIDTH="1%" CELLSPACING=0 CELLPADDING=0 BORDER=0> <TR> <TD COLSPAN="2"><IMG SRC="img/empty.gif" WIDTH=1 HEIGHT=3 BORDER=0></TD> </TR> <TR VALIGN="top"> <TD><A HREF="books_soul_frag_index_eng.html"><IMG SRC="img/icon_more.gif" ALT="" WIDTH="9" HEIGHT="9" HSPACE="5" VSPACE="3" BORDER="0"></A></TD> <TD NOWRAP><A HREF="books_soul_frag_index_eng.html" CLASS="more">contents</A></TD> </TR> </TABLE> </DIV> <!-- CONTENT END --> <BR>&nbsp;<BR> </TD> <!-- sep --> <TD WIDTH="1%"><IMG SRC="img/empty.gif" WIDTH=32 HEIGHT=20 BORDER=0></TD> </TR> </TABLE> &nbsp; <!-- line --> <TABLE WIDTH="100%" CELLSPACING=0 CELLPADDING=0 BORDER=0> <TR> <TD WIDTH="1%"><IMG SRC="img/empty.gif" WIDTH=251 HEIGHT=1 BORDER=0></TD> <TD WIDTH="99%" BACKGROUND="img/bg_dot.gif"><IMG SRC="img/empty.gif" WIDTH=1 HEIGHT=1 BORDER=0></TD> <TD WIDTH="1%"><IMG SRC="img/empty.gif" WIDTH=32 HEIGHT=1 BORDER=0></TD> </TR> </TABLE> <TABLE WIDTH="100%" CELLSPACING=0 CELLPADDING=0 BORDER=0> <TR> <TD WIDTH="1%"><IMG SRC="img/empty.gif" WIDTH=251 HEIGHT=1 BORDER=0></TD> <TD WIDTH="99%"><SMALL CLASS="yelldk"> <P CLASS="small"> &copy; Vadim Babenko.<BR> All rights reserved. </SMALL></TD> <TD WIDTH="1%" NOWRAP><SMALL CLASS="redmd"> <A HREF="index.html" CLASS="serv">home</A> | <A HREF="books_soul_index.html" CLASS="serv">@CAA:0O 25@A8O</A> </SMALL></TD> <TD WIDTH="1%"><IMG SRC="img/empty.gif" WIDTH=32 HEIGHT=1 BORDER=0></TD> </TR> </TABLE> &nbsp; </BODY> </HTML>