Libertionne

The classics are dead. Long live the classics!

The exams came and went without incident. Since his thoughts were wandering today, somewhere far beyond the walls of the lecture hall, Tiberius was particularly sluggish and indifferent. There were no tricky, tortuously complicated questions, like the one that stumped his students last year: “Was Jesus born in B.C or A.D.?” The handful of students that came to his history class loved him. They loved him for his deep, encyclopedic knowledge, for his sincere passion for his subject and even for his rather venomous sense of humor. When Tiberius had been strolling in his mind around the cobbled streets of Berlin for the past forty minutes, gave a sigh, got up from the table, a fair-haired, round-faced boy gave a sigh, got up from his desk, and timidly walked up to him while clutching a scroll of brown paper nervously to his chest.

“Sam Becket? You want to challenge your grade?”

“No, by no means, sir,” the boy said, breaking into a broad smile. “It’s just, well… today is the last day, and maybe we’ll never see each other. I mean, as a teacher and student…” He blushed even harder. “And I’d like to present you with a parting gift.”

Tiberius took the scroll, and without even removing the paper, he understood what was inside. He shot a surprised look at his student, who was returning his gaze with even more adoring eyes.

“A book? A real paper book? Sam, you’re crazy. This must have cost you a fortune!”

“It’s not just a book! It’s Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy. When you told us about it, I understood that the story was like, interesting for you, from a historical standpoint, of course.”

“And…,” Tiberius said, looking incredulously at the boy, “where did you buy it?”

“At the antique store!”

“Legally?”

“Yes, and so what?” said Sam, somewhat at a loss for words. “We live in a free empire…”

“Of course, of course,” said Tiberius, and, still not believing his luck, tore open the wrapping. At the last second a fearful suspicion crept into his mind – the book was so small and light, probably published after “42, when editors were given carte blanche to make corrections. And the result was usually a fairly drastic reduction in the text. Anything that was unnecessary, extraneous, or forbidden, anything that could tire out the reader or cause boredom was thrown out, leaving only the very essence. And if the essence, so to say, was lacking something, then that something was added, at the publisher’s discretion. So as Tiberius removed the wrapping, he was somewhat mentally prepared. But not for this. The entire sleeve, except for the gold vignettes, of course, was covered with an eye-grabbing photo illustration. He didn’t expect a hand-drawn scene, of course, but this one gave Tiberius a migraine. In an alcove, on rumpled silk sheets frolicked Bronsky and Karenin (the latter Tiberius recognized by the outrageous, crookedly pasted-on sideburns), and Anna stood over them, holding a candle, shedding light on the scene, literally. Realizing how much money Sam must have paid for this abomination, Tiberius politely flipped through the pages. The book was not very heavy. Of course, the Creation Myth was written with five hundred words, and this work focused on a subject that was much less substantive, but still, at least twenty of the sixty pages were used for illustrations. And the subject matter of these illustrations was not very different from the cover. It took an immense effort for Tiberius to summon a smile of thanks.

“Thank you. Something like this… I never expected.”

Accepting his teacher’s painful grin for an expression of joy and gratitude, Sam happily bid him farewell, and Tiberius finally gained his freedom. “Looks like I have to bring this atrocity into my house. If I throw it into the trash, he might find it.“He placed the book into his briefcase, like a Christian martyr bearing the full weight of his cross, and departed the auditorium. Passing a trash can whose opening was grinning widely in the elevator lobby, Tiberius noticed something brightly colored, with red spots. Nearly the entire volume of the trash can was occupied by a leopard-skin jacket, with a torn white handbag resting on top. Apparently Normann had tried to correct his fashion faux pas by removing the bag’s decorative leopard-skin triangle. His clumsy efforts were aggravated by his foul mood, and he ended up ruining it completely. Imagining how tough it would be for the poor guy to go around today with countless lipsticks, creams, eyeshadow and other men’s accessories stuffed into his pockets, Tiberius marched cheerfully to the parking lot.

A battle in paradise

A beautiful, unnatural rose-colored sunset was painted across the evening sky. Tiberius, forced to kill time on the back seat, absent-mindedly looked out at the multicolored stream of cars, carefully and safely carrying their passengers home or to their usual evening entertainment.

I wonder how many of them know that above their heads is a fake sky? The creation of the all-powerful designers, the modeled illusion conveys the most eye-pleasing shades of color. There, at the top, above the spherical cupola maybe it’s raining and an icy wind is blowing, but people don’t know about this. True, we have a few overcast days each month, but they were created because according to sociological data, many people like moderately bad weather. When it’s cloudy outside, one can get cozy under a fleece shawl, imitation Scottish wool, and, sitting in front of an electric fireplace, drink a cup of decaffeinated coffee. None of these accessories would be necessary if there were no overcast days, and no one would buy them for a modern, warm apartment, and obviously the more unnecessary things a person buys, the better it is for production. Everything in our time has become a surrogate – virtual games instead of wars, aspartame in place of sugar, false windows in the workspaces of office clerks, fake-brick wallpaper hung on drywall modestly covering up a real brick wall. Or holidays… One time, in a joking mood, he asked his students “Why do we celebrate Christmas?” And their answer was a noisy cocktail of plastic Santa Clauses, the tradition of giving presents, the celebration of the middle of winter and someone called Jesus who smiles in the illustrations on greeting cards.

But then, an ideal world should not be otherwise. If we had real honey, that would mean taking it from poor bees, real meat is the flesh of slaughtered animals, and natural childbirth is fraught with illness and imperfections. Let’s take control of everything and we’ll be more merciful than God. And i Pre-Raphaelites Pre-Raphaelites f we have become like God, what is he to us now? Amen. We have become lilies of the Lord which are neither sown nor reaped; we commit no evil, for all of our needs are satisfied beyond measure.

“We have arrived at our destination, Eden, sir,” the car’s voice spoke delicately, interrupting his thoughts.

Tiberius grinned. The car slowed down at the checkpoint, waiting for the pass to be scanned.

Eden. I wonder if the creators of this residential sector were simply guided by the inviolable standards of management, compelled to paint a picture of paradise for the imagined consumer, or did they have a subtly warped sense of humor? The endless rows of buildings, straight as arrows, identical on both the outside and the inside. Well, OK, not completely identical on the inside; otherwise how would the army of interior designers earn enough to eat?

He recalled a conversation with a designer that Laura had imposed on him, who showed up to try to give his bachelor’s den some dignity. At first the young man gave a long and impressive monologue on the importance of combining comfort, modernity and originality in his then-virgin interior (Tiberius, having just obtained [bought] the apartment, didn’t have the slightest intention of creating some kind of design, but alas…). Although when he saw that he might as well be speaking with the colossus of Abu Simbel, trying to explain to it the latest trends in modern design, he got more specific: “What color shall we paint the bedroom? I recommend choosing between the shades ‘sparkly snow,’ ‘mountain lily,’ and ‘cloud white.’ Here are the samples.” Tiberius looked at the three completely identical white pieces of paper, then asked:

“What about black? It’s easier to sleep.”

The horror experienced by the priest of the temple of creativity is difficult to describe. When Tiberius finally grew tired of listening to his moaning, which was a bizarre cocktail of eastern philosophy, modern psychiatry and his personal (rather superficial) knowledge in the field of architecture, he asked: “Is it not the designer’s job to satisfy the customer’s desires?”

Turns out it wasn’t; the designer’s job was to explain to an unreasonable client what was best for him, and this task had to be fulfilled, regardless of any protest. In the end, the apartment was given a complete makeover, but Tiberius couldn’t see any difference, no matter how hard he tried.

Tiberius parked the car in one of the anonymous concrete courtyards and with a kind of vengeful pleasure he listened to its hysterical monologue. “This parking lot cannot be found in the database! There is no satellite connection! I cannot process the payment! Sir, you are in breach of rule this and rule that. But I cannot send the data – there is no connection!”

“Very good,” Tiberius answered gently. “Now shut up, stay here and wait for me.”

The car fell into a gloomy silence. Tiberius tenderly patted it on its polished fender, like an obstinate but beloved horse, and, whistling, set off along the broken sidewalk. It was hard to imagine that this place was bristling with life just a few years ago; everything was young and fresh. Eden – the cradle of the empire. In this huge, now abandoned district, lived the ones who built the great Libertionne. The empire city, a great and modern Babilon, a realm of intelligence and freedom.

At the intersection he was supposed to turn right, but Tiberius slowed, glancing at the crooked sign that read “Peace Street. 2 km”. In Eden, streets still had names; the more modern and practical Libertionne had decisively rejected them. There, on Peace Street, was his old apartment. Somehow he had to go there and have a look. Probably the windows were broken, highly likely on the first floor; the lawn, which had never been mowed, was a jungle of sagebrush and wild mint. But not now; time was pressing and he was already late. Tiberius began walking faster.

What a difference there was between the aging modern buildings and their elderly cousins! These jewels of baroque and gothic architecture over time only got better, acquiring a special gloss unique to each one, the dust and cobwebs making their chiseled reliefs and sculptures even more mysterious and beautiful. Modern buildings, if not looked after even for a short time, started to resemble dented cardboard boxes, rotting in the rain. Their beauty depends directly on their cleanliness and shine; if a little dirt or the smallest imperfection should appear on their straight, smooth walls, just look how pathetic they become. In similar fashion, a Meissen porcelain plate becomes an antique, while a modern, plastic one turns into garbage.

Tiberius, taking a precautionary look around, went into an indiscernible little courtyard which looked like its thousands of cousins, opened a rusty door and descended a dimly lit and dirty staircase. The further down he went, the louder the noise and shouting of the crowd became. At the end of a dark corridor, Beelzebub’s fiery mouth burned in the arched passageway; a plywood sign hung with the handwritten inscription:

 
Pankrationne
No-holds-barred fighting
 

As with any advertisement, even ones that had put down their roots here like weeds, the sign was a cunning one. There were rules in this club, for sure, how else would successful businessmen, lawyers, and bankers – in short, people who were born to fight and having the bad luck of being born in such a peaceful and trouble-free era. Rules, and of course, restrictions. Besides an ordinary taboo list, finger holds and manipulations. Overall, this was nothing surprising – for a modern person, this was the main part of the body, the most essential part for survival. If you couldn’t pound on a keyboard, you would be deprived of your daily bread, and friends and family. Punches to the face were also not welcome. This was specifically mentioned to Tiberius on the first day of his membership. That being the case, there was nothing written against hits to the groin. And what of it? In our day and age, the face was more important that the genitals.

Tiberius went into the changing room, by the way, not immediately. The door literally would not close; it was letting people in and out. Men and women were changing clothes together; after all they were not to generate interest among each other. There he quickly undressed, changing from a business suit into shorts and a stretch t-shirt. Today there were so many people that he barely was able to find a place on the narrow iron bench to put his briefcase.

“Hello, Raven,” said a tall, skinny brunette, firmly shaking his hand.

Here people knew each other by nicknames. The last thing the members of the club wanted was for any information to leak beyond the walls of Pankrationne. Absolutely everything that took place here in the evenings was strictly illegal. The owner of the venue was a Mr. Smith. Small and altogether invisible, this person had a truly rare sense of intuition in business. Thinking up and bringing to fruition the idea of a secret fight club, he easily and unfailingly found potential clients. Held in the grips of business ethics, forced to hold themselves back, and to all day be nice, pleasant and right-minded, people here had the priceless opportunity for a few minutes to be themselves. To forget about bank loans, to stop worrying whether you laughed hard enough when your boss told a joke. Mr. Smith himself had no more feelings for the members of his club than a frigid prostitute for her clients, but with the same degree of success he derived a profit, rationalizing: “If people are willing to pay five hundred a month for the hope of taking one in the neck, then heaven bless them. And their hopes and aspirations, too.”

A heavy-set girl with a mobile terminal walked into the changing room. “Who hasn’t paid their dues for this month?” she asked. Tiberius placed his palm on the scanning device. His payment was processed as a visit to a Thai massage salon. How Mr. Smith did it – after all, gone were the carefree days when a person could pay for anything he or she wanted unsupervised – only God knew, but no one could deny that he had a sense of humor. When he was finished with the payment, he assisted Nyx the name given to his female acquaintance, in removing the pads from her hands.

“You’re still wearing the six-ounce ones? You’re not a beginner.”

“I’ll switch to the ones you have. Today is just a nightmare. One guy broke his collarbone, knockouts right and left. As if everyone had a tough week.”

“That’s actually true. You know what happened at the stock exchange. All right, I have to go.”

He nodded farewell to Nyx and approached the entrance to the hall, where someone’s lifeless body was being carried out. There was a traffic jam at the entrance, and scarcely had Tiberius got through it into the packed hall, or rather elbowed his way in, when he heard his name called by the swarthy, stocky man in charge of drawing lots. As Tiberius made his way to the ring, he caught a glimpse of a new face in the crowd – a young man, almost a boy. Feminine, skinny, impeccably dressed, with long, blond carefully-styled hair, a typical little “baby doll.” Although the face, with its clear and expressive individual features, indicated that he was the same age as Tiberius, if not older. In his paws, like a chipmunk with an acorn, he firmly held a smartphone. Tiberius frowned. Clearly he was one of the “curious ones.” Mister Smith welcomed as members to the club not only those who wanted to insult someone close to them, but also those who wanted to watch. True, for this he charged triple. But here’s what was strange – usually these people had joy and desire written all over their faces, yet the “baby doll” was observing the proceedings with a look of horror and mistrust. His hands were clearly shaking, and his face was white as chalk. Tiberius had no time to commiserate, however, as his opponent had already climbed into the ring.

“Bull versus Crow! Raven” the referee shouted gleefully.

Bull – that was putting it mildly. Calculating the weight category was not done here, just like in a normal street fight. The only chance Tiberius had was to move the fight as quickly as possible to the floor, and he didn’t miss this chance. Bringing down the furiously snarling giant, Tiberius pinned his shoulders in a “crucifix”, gripping the throat with his free hand. Usually this pain-inducing technique forced even the most unyielding enthusiasts to slap the floor, but this one wasn’t giving up.

“All right now!” Tiberius wheezed, his voice cracking from the tension, “or I’ll squeeze harder.”

But his opponent only howled in pain and fury. Seconds hung in the air. And the referee wasn’t stopping the bout. Tiberius felt an overwhelming desire to push harder, to hear the crack of breaking bones. What was up with this guy? What`s up with me? Nyx had been right – there was something strange in the atmosphere today. When the judge congratulated Tiberius with his victory, his opponent, crimson with rage after suffering defeat, jumped into the crowd, shouting at him in parting “We’ll meet again.” Fine, no problem. Tonight had brought no satisfaction; the victory had been too easy.

When Tiberius left the club, the temperature outside had dropped. With pleasure he turned his red-hot face into the blustery May wind and whispered, “Now to go home.., turn off the smartphone.., brew some coffee…”

“Help!” came a blood-curdling scream from the next courtyard.

Tiberius inhaled. His dream of a pleasant evening ended abruptly. In the alleyway he saw the “baby doll,” wailing, looking not nearly as presentable as earlier. His trendy raincoat was torn, and blood flowed from a broken nose. He didn’t immediately notice the arrival of the rescue squad, and shouted with all his might, clearly in the hope that he would be heard in a place more peaceful and serene than Eden. And he had a real chance of succeeding; Tiberius had never heard such a piercing soprano, even from the whistle of a boiling teakettle.

“You’ve chosen a rather lightweight opponent, guys,” he shouted in jest at the four men surrounding the boy, who was shaking with fear.

“He was spying,” said the largest of them through his teeth, holding the “baby doll” by his hair-sprayed front bangs.

At this moment, the moon peeked out coquettishly from behind a cloud, illuminating the stage of the pending tragedy with its romantic light. “Bull! And you’re here,” Tiberius said, as the recent opponents recognized each other in the magical glow of the moon.

“Guys! This is our champion. Come over here, let’s have a chat.”

Full of passion and desire, Tiberius responded willingly to the challenge. Nothing fans the flames of our soul like removing all inhibition. At first he held back, trying only to take them down, not maiming them. They were not as reserved when Tiberius broke one of their forearms; he let out such a stream of profanity that it was fortunate there was no satellite connection in Eden. The guy would have had to sell his apartment to pay the fine. But when Tiberius caught a metal pipe to the face, his humanitarian ideals left him for a better world. Humanism is good in more comfortable surroundings. When pleasantly sitting on a little couch in a cozy cafe, talking about love and forgiveness, and about turning the other cheek. If this is done by a half-naked beauty as part of an elegant game, then he wouldn’t mind. But with four gentlemen who’ve gone berserk in a dark alley – no thanks.

Tiberius returned to reality when he heard a loud shout.

“Don’t move! Police!” To be honest, no one was planning on moving at all. Tiberius’s opponent couldn’t do this for technical reasons. One of them, laying on his stomach, was racking up a huge fine by filling the air with unkind wishes toward Tiberius; two more had no signs of life. The “baby doll,” looking like the ghost of Hamlet’s mother, not even Hamlet himself, father was quietly whimpering against a wall, exactly like Laura’s bulldog Lancelot when someone has taken away his doggy biscuit. Tiberius himself with great regret slowly unclasped his hands, realizing nevertheless that everything turned out for the best. A murder would not have looked good on the resume of a history professor. Bull, having turned the noble color of a revolutionary banner for the second time in one evening, coughed and gasped for breath like a Silver Age aristocrat with tuberculosis.

“Sir, you almost committed murder in the heat of passion.”

Tiberius, still sitting on the chest of his defeated opponent, raised his bloody face. He was lucky. The robot policeman extended his hand to him. If he had had to deal with people, imagine how many issues and problems would there be right now. These things just do their jobs without emotion. How much better the world would be if everyone and everything just did its job. But wait – how did they get here? Given that there was no telephone connection, and the police patrols ignore this place like a cemetery for plague victims. When Tiberius was being taken into the police car, the “baby doll” came up to him, wobbling like a drunk sailor on a ship.

“Why did you save me?”

“Could I have really just walked past?” Tiberius said, slightly surprised.

“Thank you,” uttered the ill-fated adventure seeker, and pensively wandered away.