Chapters of the Beginning III

The only difference between the Being and the Void is just one left turn.

Memories kicked in like a storm. Vladimir found himself at the beer-house again. He was clenching the caustic alcohol in his right hand, with his left hand he was holding his throat as if fighting to make a breath-in. That must have looked very weird, though nobody was interested in him, since everyone was watching with rapture a military policeman selflessly beating up a hobo. Vladimir made a sip of yorsh and forced himself to swallow it. After the policeman had finished his business and left the hobo lying unconscious everyone turned back to their drinks.

“Damn plebs, no respect for the high law.” The girl muttered.

“Like you weren't plebs yourself.” Pasha said.

“Like it was your business, mongrel.” The girl had a large gulp of beer. “I'm equestrian by the right of birth”.

“Then what are you doing here, in Mother Russia, your excellency?” Pasha seemed startled, but the equestrian girl gave him such a look that he decided not to go on with the argument.

“I'll be sipping good wine in Urbs this time next week. And you will still be here.” The girl made another gulp as if confirming her words. For some time there was silence. Vladimir still had nothing to say, Pasha looked like a shamed dog, the poet still seemed uninterested in everything, the girl was trying her best to look equestrian. People around were hurrying to their trains or rushing for the exit, the beaten hobo was still lying unconscious, but at the beer-stall the time seemed to have stopped. “It is the country I had been living in before it disappeared.” Vladimir was surprised to find himself thinking nostalgic of the USSR.

That was his time, his place, maybe he would do better then. But it fell apart, it was taken apart, dissected by the Empire and other western countries. He would never feel at home here. Here they talk the same language as in the USSR, do the same things and just carry on pretending it's okay. “It's not okay” Vladimir thought. “The same vulgar language for us, but they call it barbaric and prefer High Latin. The same things for us, because that is plebs business. A freeborn Roman would never be a waiter or work at a factory. Still it's not the Empire. People here are not Romans, because they would never accept a Russian being called “a Roman”. The girl proves it with her every move and every word. Maybe she really is equestrian, she has the arrogant manners at least. “And you will still be here.” That's what she said. Yes, we will. Because we have nowhere else to go. We can only stay here and wallow in self-pity.”

Everything floated in uncertainty. Again there were visions, bizarre hallucinations, he saw a woman and black birds flying out of her mouth, a castle siege in a cold desert so familiar, abominable snowmen and giant insects striding on the surface of the sun. A warning that was still ringing in his head: “Avoid the left turns.” Nothing is real in his life. Slayer t-shirts, equestrian girls and hobo beatings are all fake. Only the left turns are real.

Pasha decided to break the silence: “So what do you think?”

“About what?” The girl seemed more interested in the beer than in the conversation now.

“The dead man.”

The girl glanced at him. “Try and ask the military. You sure you won't end up like that hobo.”

“You've said you know the shite that is going on.”

“I've never said that. I just know it does go on.”

“I know what goes on and whom they look for,” Vladimir wanted to scream, but the words “go on” echoed in his head reminding why he was drinking himself to death at a railway station.

“Just go on.” She said. “Without me.”