Around 400000 years later when a leader of a large settlement of early Homo sapiens commanded to attack a neighbouring village to seize vital resources in conditions of a deadly drought that drained rivers and robbed trees of fruits, he was guided by a legend about a man whom gods instructed to murder the majority his own tribe so that the at least a small fracture of it survived. This legend had been passed down from generation to generation in the northern part of what is now known as Europe.

Back in the days when the legend was created, it described a courageous rebellion of wisdom against the subordination to instincts and surrounding environment. It happened in one small tribe of Homo heidelbergensis, chinless people with protruding browridges that survived by hunting gigantic mammoths, fearful herds of hoofed animals, ferocious cave predators, by gathering fruits, berries and mushrooms. That tribe was headed by the strongest man with robust muscles and hot temper who refused to nourish his mind, one of the greatest gifts given to his kind by nature. His silent enemy was a feeble man who was as lean as a reed and extraordinarily wise.

Whenever the group of hunters from the tribe endeavored to hunt, the leader ordered to attack animals without any strategy, relying on the precision of spear throwing, speed of running and courage to not retreat. This method of hunting costed many lives. One day several men died because the leader commanded them to attack a herd of reindeers while it was observed by a group of cave lionesses. The hunters saw the predators, however, no one dared to disobey the order. The leader’s muscles tensed and enlarged like a hood of cobra when he watched the men being gnawed by lions and reindeers galloping away into the open plain.

Meanwhile, every time when the group of hunters spotted a potential prey, the wise man designed the strategy for an effective attack, such as driving a herd of reindeers down a canyon. However, he never shared the visions of the brighter end of a hunt. He did not dare to advice the leader who lost his temper after unsuccessful hunts and blamed his fellow hunters for the failure.

Apart from the ability to plan ahead, the wisdom of the man extended to manufacture of new tools and careful observation after the tribe. While he sat on a cold rock in a cave, striking stones together, his eyes that glittered in the dusk watched the relationships between the members of the tribe. Through meticulous surveillance the man knew exactly who was loyal to the leader and who was ready to double-cross him. This information was reflected in the length of intimate interactions, such as grooming and food sharing, between the leader and the subordinates, as well as in the number of sexual relationships that the members of the tribe were allowed to have. Furthermore, the wise man noted with which women the leader spent most of his time, which women he spared from hard work and endowed with the most food.

The day came when the wise man decided to replace the leader. He arrived to this decision gradually, through bearing the constant intimidation until the ancient emotion of hatred and instinctive craving for power intensified to the scale that they could be hold back no longer. The final resolution braced his heart when he imagined himself organizing a hunt. At that moment, he gained authority over the laws of nature by arriving to the conclusion that physical strength was not the only deciding factor in the pyramid of hierarchy.

The murder took place during the period of cold and rainy weather, which forced the whole tribe to leave the cave daily in desperate search for food. Furthermore, the flows of rainy water into the upper chambers of the cave drove humans into the lower ones. The upper and lower chambers were connected by a narrow path that could be blocked by a pile of large rocks.

One night the wise man woke up those members of the tribe who were against the leader according to months-long observations and instructed them to block the path between chambers by carrying and rolling large rocks. It was a loud storm outside with constant thunder and lightnings that muffled the noise of rocks being dropped on top of each other. When the wall was finished, the rebellious part of the tribe slept on the muddy ground of the upper chamber. At the dawn when the storm ended, they went away, dooming 28 individuals in the lower chamber on death from thirst and hunger.

The associates of the wise man passed down the story to their children, who passed it to their children. This way the legend about a wise man whom gods granted the incredible power to move large rocks was born. He turned against the leader of the tribe to ensure its survival.

Now as the leader of the settlement of Homo sapiens steeled his heart against citizens of a village that possessed resourced during the period of severe drought, he remembered the old legend as justification for the murder. As he and his warriors were killing men, women, and children by piercing them with spears and butchering them with axes, new legends about enemies who insulted gods and thus deserved slaughtering were formed. Storytellers immortalized justifications for the gruesome consequences of the increasing wisdom.

 

Dimitri’s heart was heavy when the young sales analyst entered the office of his manager in Research and Development Department of a large renowned company that produced juices. Michael Vinogradov sat in a black armchair at the oak table decorated with statues of gymnasts. Dimitri heard that Michael’s daughter was a rhythmic gymnast who aspired to represent the country on the Olympics.

“Good afternoon,” Dima said in an unconfident quiet voice and looked at his boss in a begging manner akin to a dog scared of punishment.

Vinogradov’s chin was supported on his left hand, while his eyes were focused in one spot. His eyebrows were scrunched together revealing a deep engagement into some thoughts. The hair on his head was touched by greyness.

Michael did not return the greeting, which crashed the young man’s hopes on a miracle that would help him keep his job. Despite of the fact that yesterday Dimitri’s father told his son that Vinogradov refused to accept a large bribery, Dima hoped that his manager would change his mind.

However, the expression of the Michael’s face showed no hint of mercy. Looking at the man renowned for his impeccable reputation, Dimitri realized all absurdity of his hopes. How could Vinogradov who has never committed a single dishonest action throughout his 8-year long career, turn a blind eye to Dima’s outrageous action?

On his side, Vinogradov saw a youth who let him down and whose father tried to tempt him into breaking own moral principles. Dimitri allowed himself to arrive on a conference where a new juice was presented under the influence of drugs. This provoked a large-scale scandal that affected Michael’s reputation. Therefore, Vinogradov was merciless.

He watched in silence how Dimitri read and re-read documents pertaining to his dismissal. This time-stretching and the desperate appearance of the young man – his eyes were blinking often and his hands were shaking – irritated Michael to the extent that he sighed, stood up and approached the window. He felt that he could no longer observe the young man without insulting him. Vinogradov started to drum his fingers on the windowsill. The view of the grey joyless sky with rainy clouds set his mind into a wandering mode. Michael remembered that today was his 16-year-old daughter Ksenia’s participation in a decisive competition the results of which defined whether she would be accepted in the Olympics team or not. He thought of her with tenderness, having no doubts in her success. She has always been very nervous, but I believe she pulled herself together and showed the best of her skills, Vinogradov told himself.

Eventually Dimitri said in an unsteady voice: “I’m done.”

Michael turned around and said in a well-modulated cold manner: “You are free to go then.”

Michael met the last pleading sight with neither doubts or tinkling of compassion. When Dima left the office with ducked head and hands dropped in a powerless way, Vinogradov immediately returned to his duties, wishing to waste no more time on the graceless matter.

Later when Michael Vinogradov returned home from work, the first sound that he heard was that of his daughter’s sobbing in the quietness of the flat. The thought They didn’t accept her flashed in his mind. He touched the top button of his shirt when he noticed that his fingers were trembling. He glanced at his face in the mirror and saw how pale it was. Only then Vinogradov realized the high degree of his disappointment.

I can’t believe it, he told himself, and immediately felt anger with himself, she’s extremely hurt. I have to console her. Michael clenched his fists, trying to take control over his own emotions. He felt robbed of pride, yet he had to find words to support Ksenia. He changed his clothes slowly, using every second to achieve inner calmness and distance himself from crashed expectations. It was very hard to do because the vision of his daughter, holding the golden medal and smiling radiantly at a cheering crowd, kept appearing in his imagination.

Drop it! Vinogradov ordered himself and resolutely walked into Ksenia’s room. He was shocked when he saw his daughter’s body fallen on the desk with her right hand extended. Her palm was cut many times with a knife, and blood was streaming on the surface of the desk. Ksenia’s wet face with red puffy eyebrows had a trace of incurable depression and tear-soaked eyes did not react on Michael. He ran towards her.

“Ksusha, my sweetheart!” he mattered in an anxious voice and kissed her forehead, “please, calm down. Everything is alright.”

Michael grabbed the knife and rushed into his room to the shelf with medicine and bandages. He locked the knife in the drawer of his desk. Then he ran into the kitchen, took all knives and locked them away as well. Then Vinogradov almost carried his daughter into the bathroom – she had no will to walk –  and washed the blood away. Throughout this desperate activity, he kept mattering, “Please, honey, calm down. It’s not a tragedy.”

When he put her on her bed and sat besides her, a decision was formed in his mind.

“Ksusha, you will get into the team. I promise you.”

“They… rejected…” she spoke for the first time. Her voice was weak, breathless, liveless, “There is no hope… The decision is final…”

Michael felt his heart breaking.

“Nothing is final,” he told his daughter, “It can be changed. They will change their decision. Trust me. You will become the Olympics champion. Give me two days.”

She raised her exhausted eyes at him and whispered, “Can you do it?”

“Yes, of course,” Vinogradov kissed her forehead again, “try to sleep.”

He stayed in her room for the whole night. He sat slumped at her desk, watched the movement of the moon across the black sky and reflected on his moral principles and his daughter’s life. Ksusha was diagnosed with depression after her parents got divorced when she was 9 years old. Vinogradov recalled the hard time when she refused to eat and go to school. Shivers ran down his spine when he thought that the depression might return and this time push Ksusha to suicide.

I can’t risk her life, he told himself, she is so desperate that she can end her life. At these words he shuddered and with wide-opened unblinking eyes stared into the darkness, making sure that Ksusha’s chest was rising and falling in rhythm with breathing under the blanket. The heavy feeling of own guilt was clutching his throat. I shouldn’t have married that woman. An unhappy child wouldn’t have been born, he was thinking, while massaging his temples with cold fingertips. I have never bribed anyone, never… I was so proud of being successful and honest. What will it be like to betray own principles? I will condemn myself until the end of my days. When Ksusha grows up and realizes what happened, will she respect me? Even if I bribe them to pretend that a mistake happened, she will realize the truth later. It might be a shock for her. How do I make the choice?  Her life and future or my dignity and self-respect?

Michael dropped his head on his arm and remained motionless for a long time.

In the morning he phoned his sister to come and look after Ksusha who was still sleeping at 10 a.m. After she arrived, he left the house and drove to the academy of gymnastics. He was so nervous that he could hardly focus on the road and nearly caused a car accident. A beep of an outraged driver returned Vinogradov back to reality and he realized that his forehead was covered with large drops of sweat. When he went out of his car and headed to the large building where Ksusha took classes, he felt himself a thief who was robbing himself of an invaluable irreplaceable treasure. Half-way towards the entrance he stopped and turned around. With horror Michael realized that he was making sure that none of his colleagues saw him. Then the image of his depressed 9-year old daughter with arms as thin as branches of a young tree and eyes as empty as those of a dead person appeared in his memory. Vinogradov dropped his head and quickly walked into the sports academy.

When Michael was invited into the office of the director, he realized with horror that he forgot to prepare a speech and that he was now lost for words. Vinogradov felt that the air around him turned hot as if he was transported into a desert. The face of the director with a well-wishing smile was seen as if through some sort of a mist. Michael hardly grasped the meaning of the welcoming words, “I’m happy to see you, Michael. Please, take a seat. I believe you want to talk about your daughter’s yesterday’s performance.”

Vinogradov remained standing. His throat was dry, and for a single moment he felt that he would not be able to pronounce a single word. This sensation lasted for only a second. Then he said, “I want to offer you and members of the committee one million rubles each if you pretend that yesterday’s decision was a mistake and accept Ksenia into the Olympics team.”

The director’s face became pale, the smile vanished from his face. He frowned and leaned back in his armchair with his hands crossed on his chest. Unconsciously he pressed the cold tips of his fingers to his burning forehead and lowered his eyes, hiding the unbearable suffering that could be visible in their desperate expression.

“Please, take a seat,” the director repeated his request, but now it sounded not as an invitation for a friendly conversation but as invitation for discussion of the terms of the deal. Michael slowly lowered himself in the armchair and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt that seemed to be strangling him. Suddenly faces of Dimitri and his father appeared in Vinogradov’s memory, and the despair rose once again in him. There was no way back. There were no means for repent.

“You did everything right. You had no choice. The life of your daughter is more important than your moral principles,” Michael’s sister told him when he returned home and poured himself a glass of vodka that he bought on his way back. She patted him on the shoulder and peered into his empty eyes.

He responded in a bitter voice, “Even if one does not have a choice, one always has responsibility for one’s actions. I will carry mine until my death.”

Alarming civil defense sirens cut through the tranquil air, ruthlessly destroying the calm and pleasant summer day in a cottage village on the suburbs of the capital. The sounds shake green grass and ripe sunflowers and cause flocks of birds to dart off with loud noise of flapping wings.

Ivan who is lying in a hammock hanging between two apple trees opens his eyes and stares at his phone. The capitalized phrases: “BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT”, “SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER”, “15 MINUTES LEFT” imprint in his mind. The wailing of the sirens pierces his heart with despair. He jumps out from the hammock and rushes towards the house. Half way he notices Alexandra running towards him with stretched arms. He shouts with all his might: “Follow me!”

Ivan rushes away from their cottage with the only thought The bunker circulating in his mind.

When he bursts into the yard of Vasilii Ilyich, the former deputy, he sees the old man hurrying towards the farthest corner of the yard. Vasilii Ilyich is accompanied by his bodyguard, a tall middle-aged man.

Ivan turns his head and notices a group of neighbors quickly approaching. He accelerates and reaches Vasilii Ilyich first. Immediately the guard points the gun at him and warns not to come close.

“Vasilii Ilyich, my wife and I wanted to ask if you have a free space for us,” Ivan puts his hand on his chest. He is suffocating from the sprint and anxiety.

A loud scream prevents the retired member of the parliament from answering. A woman falls on her knees in front of Vasilii Ilyich and begs him:

“Please, save our family. Kirill and I have two children. Please, save us!”

Ivan turns around and sees many pale faces behind. He sighs, feeling how the tremor travels from his lips down the throat, and how his chest quivers. Too many people! he thinks with horror.

Then his brain shifts into the familiar mode of depressive indifference. For a long time, Ivan has been suffering from regular depressions, propelled by his constant interaction with death in the highly stressful position of a cardiac surgeon.

Once in autumn he had a conversation about the meaning of life with his patient – an old man – who needed a complex surgery. The old man said with a feeble mocking smile on his pale wrinkled face, “The older we become, the more useless we get.” He did not survive the surgery. Later, every autumn Ivan recalled these words, and his job, his nation-wide recognition lost significance for him. He could sit for hours without movement next to the window, watching the waltz of colorful leaves outside. Alexandra brought him antidepressants, and before taking a pill he whispered, “One day I’ll die, and no one will remember me in four generations. What’s the point of it all?”

As the thoughts One day I’ll die anyway. If it’s today, I don’t mind, enter Ivan’s head, he continues to contemplate the frightened faces with indifference.

“Silence, please!” Vasilii Ilyich exclaims raising his hands, “We don’t have time. I have places for only 4 people in this bunker, including, obviously myself. We have to make a fair decision!”

“And including me,” Mark, the bodyguard inserts.

“Listen, Vasilii Ilyich,” Kirill steps forward. He is a 28-year old businessman whose hobby is amateur shooting and who has a license to keep a gun, “I apologize for sounding harsh, but you’re old and sick and might die soon. No offense, but why not give the bunker to my family?”

Ivan melancholically looks at Alexandra who is staring at Kirill’s cold and ruthless face in disbelief.

“Wait!” Pavel, a tall mayor of the police, says, approaching Kirill and pointing index finger at him, “After the nuclear war we will need to increase our population. If only your family occupies the bunker, how will your children reproduce? I bet it will be better for genome if your daughter, me, my brother Dima, and your wife took places there.”

Ivan glances at the little 10-year old girl. She is hiding her face, pressing it against her Mom’s belly. Poor child, Ivan thinks with pity, She didn’t have time to live… Then he looks at Dima who is shifting from foot to foot and is not rising his eyes from his boots. Dima is Pavel’s brother; there is a difference almost in 20 years between them. Hmm… Dima… it seems that he is no older than 20. Poor guy. He is so similar to Andrey. He remembers how many years ago 18-year old Andrey, son of Ivan’s friend, was kidnapped, and his organs were transported to the black market. The innocent youth died, while others could live. Ivan knew Andrey very well, treated him with love as he would have treated own child. The pain that tortured Ivan’s heart after the tragedy is still present inside.

“Don’t you dare…” Kirill exclaims and tries to hit Pavel, but the latter’s reaction is as fast as a flash and he hits the attacker in face. Kirill falls on the ground, Alyona screams, kids cry out, “Daddy!”

“Damn it! Calm down!” the bodyguard Mark orders, pointing the gun at Pavel. Meanwhile, an old man with shaggy grey hair and large beard approaches Pavel and murmurs, “I can’t believe it, son! You want to leave your parents outside?”

“Calm down, Mark,” the former deputy recommends and announces, “I will take only women into the bunker.”

He approaches Alexandra and pets her on the shoulder, “You.” Then he pets Masha on the shoulder, “You and your Mommy.”

“What?” Mark lowers the gun, looking shocked, “You aren’t taking me?” He keeps murmuring, “I can’t believe it…”

“Why would I? I don’t need competitors,” the former deputy looks with adoration at Alexandra’s gracious body. Ivan notices it, but feels indifferent, as if he was falling into the abyss.

“No! No!” Alexandra screams and folds her hands in a desperate pleading gesture, “You have to take Ivan! He’s a cardiac surgeon! He’s known all over the country! We need a doctor!” She stares at Ivan in panic.

A wave of depression overwhelms Ivan, and he mutters:

“Kids must live. Vasilii Ilyich, I recommend that you give place to kids, Dima and Alexandra. Sasha is a psychologist. She’ll help the kids to deal with stress. The kids must live. It’s our duty to protect them. Any one of us, adults, might die from a heart attack tomorrow. Death is inevitable, and the probability of it is higher for us then for kids. Don’t be afraid of death. Face it with bravery.”

“I think, you’re driving nuts,” the old man with disheveled hair and beard lights a cigarette. He steps forward and introduces himself in a powerful voice as if he expects everyone to bow their heads, acknowledging his authority, “my name is Oleg, and I am the father of Pavel and Dima. Here is my wife – Irina. I have been breaking my back for the motherhood at the factory all my life. Irina used to work as a librarian. We’re both retired now. Pavel is a renowned mayor of police who serves the government with honesty. My family deserves places in the bunker.”

“Oleg,” Irina Georgievna says in a quiet but well-modulated and clear voice. Her discerning eyes are looking at everyone from behind glittering glasses. For a brief moment it seems to Ivan that she is capable of reading minds, “Pasha has always been quite cynical, but now I agree with him and with this surgeon. There’s no place for us in the bunker. The young have to live. Dear Vasilii Ilyich, I only beg you to give two places for my sons. And if you have heart, you will save these little innocent kids,” she points her trembling finger at the little boy and girl who are hugging their mother and whimpering.

“If I have the heart,” Vasilii Ilyich smirks and locks his cold ruthless eyes with Irina Georgievna’s tear-soaked eyes, “I’m afraid, I don’t. Let’s go, girls!” He looks at Alexandra, Alyona and Masha in an imperious way.

Suddenly a gunshot sounds. Ivan sees how a spot of blood appears on Vasilii Ilyich’s chest, in the place where seconds ago his heart was beating. The spot enlarges rapidly, soaking into the former deputy’s T-shirt. The man’s eyes roll upwards, he staggers and collapses, facing down. Terrified screams fill the air. Ivan stares at Mark who is still holding the gun in his stretched arms.

“I am the one to decide who gets into the damn bunker,” Mark warns, looking at the shocked crowd. There is a mix of bestial fear and aggression in his face.

Another gunshot deafens Ivan. He wonders who fired since Mark did not pull the trigger. Immediately he notices a bleeding hole in Mark’s forehead. The bodyguard’s eyes become glassy and he falls on the ground. Ivan turns around and sees how Kirill points his gun at Pavel who raises his hands. It turns out that the businessman has been hiding the weapon in the inner pocket of his jacket throughout the whole debate. Irina rushes forward and takes the place between Kirill and her son Pavel. There is a readiness for self-sacrifice visible in her eyes.  

“If anyone moves, I will shoot!” Kirill shouts, “Alyona, get the keys and take the kids inside!”

Alyona as pale as a ghost rushes to the body of the former deputy. With trembling hands, she turns him over and searches the pockets for keys.

Alexandra shakes Ivan’s arm. She pleads, “Let’s run to the basement!”

However, Ivan cannot move. He is staring at Kirill’s desperate eyes that are rushing about.

“Is it fair that the murderer should get the best chance of survival?” he asks. At the moment, he is completely emotionless. He does not comprehend how an adult can refuse to sacrifice himself for the survival of the young. Ivan is sure that if he was on Kirill’s place, he would have given the place to Dima because he does not want young people to pay with their lives for the problems that he and his generation failed to solve. Ivan looks at Dima’s brown eyes, large lower jaw, straight nose and once again recalls Andrey. A thought about reincarnation enters his mind involuntarily, even though he does not believe in rebirth.

“Shut up! Don’t you see he is mad?!” Alexandra whispers into Ivan’s ear, and pulls him trying to convince him to run to their house. However, Ivan’s calm eyes are locked now with Kirill’s distraught eyes. The businessman lowers the gun, makes several steps towards the surgeon. Kirill is entirely focused on Ivan.

“What did you say?” Kirill shouts, “Did you call me a murderer? I am not! I am protecting my family! And humanity needs me! I’m a businessman! I am talented and intelligent! No one needs this youth!” he implies Dima, “What has he done to deserve the bunker? These men were scum!” he kicks Vasilii Ilyich’s body, “When this jerk was a deputy, he stole our money! This bodyguard…”   

“Careful!” Ivan shouts, noticing that the mayor of the police, Pavel, has taken his gun from his jacket and is aiming it at Kirill.

The businessman turns around, but it is too late. The bullet hits Kirill. He drops the gun and places his hand on his stomach. The blood streams through his trembling fingers. Another bullet brings him down. Pavel, holding the smoking gun in his right hand, rushes towards the bunker where Alyona and the children have already disappeared. Ivan chases after him.

“Lock the door!” he shouts to Alyona who is staring at Pavel. Her eyes are wide open. She cannot move. Pavel stops, aims at her. At the moment when Ivan is ready to hit Pavel, he turns and pulls the trigger. Ivan feels burning pain. He is amused when he discovers himself lying on the ground, facing the locked doors of the bunker, into which Pavel is hammering with his fists.

Alexandra’s face distorted with pain appears as if out of fog. She is caressing Ivan’s shoulders. She cannot stop tears.

“Please, care after yourself… You have to live…” Ivan whispers, feeling how strength leaves him rapidly. “I am not sure, it’s the justice I was seeking for… I don’t know if there is justice at all…”

He watches after Dima who runs up to Pavel, shakes him and shouts something. Ivan is not sure if he sees Dima or the beloved son of his friend who was murdered decades ago. These doubts are caused by delirium of unbearable pain. The brothers Pavel and Dima run away from the bunker. The mushroom cloud is visible on the horizon. Alexandra kisses Ivan’s cold forehead and disappears from his eyesight. The civil defense sirens are still wailing in an indifferent empty high pitch.

Ivan’s consciousness initiates a debate. There’s no guarantee that justice as I see it is real justice. What was the point in trying to defend it? We’ll all be forgotten anyways. Maybe, a murderer deserves to live, and an innocent youth should die… Ivan uses the remnants of his strength to tell the grey sky above him, “However, I don’t think so…”

These are Ivan’s last words. Then, darkness and silence of death eradicate his consciousness.

Gavriil sighs, and the movement of air causes pain in his chest. He looks at his hands that are lying on the surface of the table. They are white and trembling. The vision of these hands makes him feel insecure. It seems to the young man that the sword of Damocles that has been hanging above his head since childhood fell and split his scalp. Due to the unbearable despair evoked by this feeling, Gavriil sometimes allows himself to hope that he is in a nightmare and the detention center is a construct of his delirious imagination.

The advocate, a young woman Olga, renowned for her progressive views and extraordinary approach to building defence, asks him to set forth his version of the murder. Gavriil glances at the dictaphone placed between him and the lawyer and starts speaking in a hoarse cracking voice.

“Slava and I went fishing on the second day of that corporate party. It was an early morning. Everyone was sleeping. I wasn’t friends with him. He just told me that he knew how to fish. I have never tried to fish before, but I always dreamed of it. So, I asked him to teach me.”

“He was appointed the Arts Editor of News Express, wasn’t he? You were hoping to get that position before he got it, weren’t you?” Olga asks.

“Yes, that’s right,” Gavriil admits gloomily, “We sat on the shore. Started talking about journalism,” Gavriil makes a pause trying to decide if a deception is worth trying. He doubts that he can lie in a persuasive way. In the sepulchral silence of the room Gavriil hears his watch ticking. Eventually, he tells the truth, “he asked me if I knew why he was more successful than me. I said I didn’t. I felt completely calm. Then he told me about connections that he has in News Express. It turned out that his father-in-law is the Editor in Chief. I was shocked and hurt. Still, I was rather calm, if you know what I mean… I didn’t think about killing him… I told him it was dishonest, immoral. Then he sweared at me, using horrible, dirty words. Then I felt… an outrage… I grabbed my knife and stabbed him. I couldn’t control myself…” Gavriil closes his face with his sweaty hands, “but I swear it was not intentional… it wasn’t because of jealousy… I swear…”

“Well,” Olga makes a pause, waiting for Gavriil to open his face, “Your sentence might be mitigated if I succeed in proving that you were in an affect when you grabbed the knife. But for now, it is unconvincing. The facts can be interpreted as an intentional murder. The fact that you threw the body in the river meters away from where you were fishing proves it. It looks like the action was planned.”

“I was in an affect! I swear, I was!” Gavriil exclaims, looking at Olga with hope.

“Your word is not enough. We have to prove it.”

“How can you prove it?” a sinister smile appears on Gavriil’s face, “Even I don’t know myself. I never thought I could kill someone because of an insult…” Gavriil avoids Olga’s discerning eyes. He feels that his words are not true. There is something hiding in his past that makes it clear why he lost control over himself and committed the crime. However, his attempts at catching this reason are as futile as catching without a scoop-net a butterfly flittering in the air. When he sees in his memory Slava’s neck covered with blood and the knife stuck in it, he feels as if he was approaching the answer to the question ‘why’. However, the beam of his attention scatters akin to the fountain of blood that broke down into countless scarlet drops that stained Slava’s jacket. The answer slides away because a panic overwhelms Gavriil and he hopes he is in a nightmare and will soon wake up. He misses sitting in the cozy kitchen of his flat in the mornings, drinking hot coffee with milk and reading news. He has yet not acknowledged himself as a murderer.

“Repeat me the words Slava used,” Olga’s eyes light up, as if she found an answer to a riddle.

While Gavriil repeats the obscene words, his empty eyes are staring at his fingers locked together. Inner pain stings his innards, his mouth is snarling, his head is ducked.

“I can’t imagine someone murdering another person because of these words. The investigator did not appoint a forensic psychiatric examination because you seem to be normal. If my supporting facts are strong enough, the examination might be appointed,” Olga says, “Can you think of a reason why these words made you lose control over yourself?”

Gavriil sighs and puts his chin on clasped hands. Suddenly, he is struck by an inspiration. It seems that the beam of his attention directed by Olga’s hints has finally fallen on the long-hidden truth. He relives the fear mixed with panic that he experienced during those moments when his father beat him, and the hot bitter blood filled his mouth.

“I think… I lost control… because those words reminded of my father. He would get drunk and beat me when I was a child,” Gavrill matters what seems to be the truth in a shaking voice. He crosses his hands and stares at a crack on the table, while thinking How are these past events connected to the most recent? There’s no connection at all! 13 years have passed since I was adopted and last saw him.

Olga stands up and starts pacing back and forth.

“Do you know the address of your father?” Olga asks in an agitated tone of voice. Gavriil leans on the back of his chair.

“No,” he replies in a sharp manner, “I haven’t seen him for 13 years.”

“Okay,” Olga says, “Could you give me the addresses of the custody agency and your foster parents?”

“What is going on? Why do you need this information?” Gavriil asks with irritation. He is totally confused as to why his past suffering might be relevant now. Nevertheless, the intuition that the abuse is linked to the murder does not leave him.

“Your childhood trauma could have had a large impact on your psycho,” Olga replies.

“Hmm…” Gavriil is surprized and wants to know how his psychology could be affected. However, something clutches his throat. He is suddenly terrified by the prospect of getting undeniable facts that would prove his predisposition to murder. He is scared of the responsibility that such knowledge would put on his shoulders. Since I had problems with psychology, I had to visit a psychiatrist, Gavriil is thinking.

“Well, could you, please, provide the addresses?” Olga reminds about her request.

“Yes, of course,” Gavriil matters. He writes the addresses on a piece of paper and gives it to the advocate.

 “Thank you,” Olga says, “See you tomorrow.”

***

Gavriil spends a horrible sleepless night. It is filled with ugly memories of the murder. The young man recalls Slava’s odious face distorted by a sardonic smile. Arrogant eyes of the new successful Arts Editor are still staring into Gavriil’s eyes. The derogative words are still sounding in Gavriil’s ears. The humiliation evoked an uncontrollable wave of outrage that paralyzed the will and locked consciousness and conscience in the prison from which they observed the sharp knife and its trajectory. Sometimes arrogant eyes alternate with widely open and unblinking eyes of the victim that make Gavriil shiver and wish he could put them out.

Mixed with awful visions are desperate attempts of Gavriil to prove himself that he has no responsibility for the crime. It was an affect. I couldn’t prevent it. However, when it already seems that the consciousness is persuaded, and the conscience has calmed down, the doubts arise: Are you sure? You’re avoiding the truth. Be honest with yourself. You’ve always been aggressive. You had to go to a psychiatrist. Gavriil recalls how once he nearly lost his job when he punched a director of an art gallery with whom he was conducting an interview because the man refused to answer a question.

Gavriil meets the new day with a resolution to face the truth. I can’t bear it any longer, he tells himself, it’s easier to live with guilt than with doubts.

In the beginning of the session, Olga gives a test tube to Gavriil and instructs him:

“I need you to fill it in with your saliva.”

“Why?” Gavriil asks.

“I need to get analysis of your DNA.”

“How will it prove that I was in an affect?” Gavriil asks in a trembling voice.

“People who have a low activity MAO-alpha gene behave in antisocial and violent ways if they experienced childhood abuse.”

Olga exits. Gavriil feels shocked. His brain refuses to work. In a blank state of mind Gavriil spits in the test tube.

When Olga returns after a while, she is accompanied by a nurse and a guard.

“Good afternoon,” the nurse says in a friendly manner.

Gavriil does not answer. He is confused.

“I also need you to provide blood for analysis,” Olga says.

Gavriil nods. The nurse opens her suitcase, takes a syringe, and pulls a blood sample from Gavriil’s vein. After the nurse and the guard leave, Gavriil asks:

“Why do you need the blood test?”

“High levels of testosterone are also associated with violence. It will be an additional prove that you were guided by your physiology, rather than your consciousness. Now we will take you to the hospital to get an MRI scan.”

“Why?” Gavriil asks, feeling hopeless.

“We need to check your amygdala. If it’s enlarged, it will also prove lack of conscious control in your actions,” Olga’s voice is cold and ruthless.

Gavriil’s head starts spinning.

“Do you suggest that a year ago I could know that I might commit a murder?” Gavriil exclaims eventually.

“Yes,” Olga replies in a well-modulated voice.

“If it’s so, then how in hell can it mitigate my sentence? All these are aggravating circumstances! I had to hire a psychiatrist or do whatever is possible to control the expression of my genes!” Gavriil shouts, “the judge will find me guilty of not taking preventative measures!” he hits the surface of the table with his fist.

“Calm down. You’re mistaken,” Olga objects, “our society does not provide opportunities for people to take preventative measures. It is the fault of the social structure. Not your fault. You’re lucky because you have a chance to contribute to the paradigm shift. Your case will raise awareness about the extent to which we lack agency. The more cases like yours will be investigated, the more our society will be forced to refocus from punishment to prevention.”

Gavriil remains silent. It seems to him that for many years he was desperately hiding from someone, and now he was given away to the pursuer who turned out to be his true self. He does not have enough courage to object.

For the next three weeks that Gavriil spends in the detention center waiting for court, his dejection gradually transforms into a depression. I hoped I could make a successful career as a journalist, but I always refused to acknowledge and face my childhood trauma, Gavriil is thinking in his solitude, if I searched for someone’s help, perhaps, I could prevent the murder. I have always felt the urge to avenge myself. I turned the blind eye to it. It was wrong. One can’t hide from oneself.

In the end of three weeks, Olga meets with her client to discuss the line of defence. Gavriil notices that her eyes are shining with pride despite of her attempts to look calm and indifferent.

“All results indicate on that fact that you had neurological and genetic predisposition to murder. The analysis of DNA, blood test, MRI scan will convince the investigator to appoint the forensic psychiatric examination for you. Even if he refuses, which is highly unlikely, I am sure the line of defence is impeccable. I am sure we will succeed in mitigating your sentence.”

Gavriil does not say anything. Depressive thoughts keep circulating in his mind, For you it’s another brilliant application of your new methods. You’re proud of turning the social paradigm upside down. You don’t care that I have to live with the burden of responsibility. I’m guilty for letting myself live among people while I was dangerous and misanthropic. I am a murderer!

Maggie Fisher is sitting at a small round table besides a window in a café. It is late evening and the street lights are shining outside. The girl’s legs are crossed, and she is embracing herself. Her shoulders are slouched. Widely opened eyes are staring at the street without blinking. There is a noise of loud and agitated conversations around. Maggie’s tense appearance contrasts the elevated spirit of the café. Indeed, her thoughts are far away from this place.

It was a hot early autumn day four months ago. Fisher with her chin resting on her palm was listening to monotonous voice of the Biology teacher. Sometimes sleepiness was clogging her ears and the fog was making her sight hazy. Suddenly Liam interrupted the dull lecture. He told some interesting facts and all the students awakened and applauded him. Maggie’s heart sank when she thought with a deep sigh: “Such a smart guy”.

Maggie shudders and comes back to reality. The girl’s eyes start wondering around and her gaze stops at the wall opposite her. There is a picture: a naked woman is depicted lying on a bed, while Eros is sending an arrow into her heart. Fisher has seen many versions of this mythological plot in different cafes and hotels in various countries. The girl’s nose crinkles, she feels sick, and hurriedly looks away. Again this cheap scum! she thinks and a current of irritation causes all her body to tremble for a while.

The girl moves to the opposite side of the table in order to sit with her back turned at the picture. Maggie perceives the softness of the armchair. Then she focuses her eyes on the chestnut surface of the table, and all sensations cease to bother her.

It happened around two months ago in a sushi restaurant.

“You’re special,” Liam said. Maggie felt that her heart skipped the beat. It was their first date. Her pale cheeks blushed when she noticed with the corner of her eye that the waiter had approached them. She thought that he might have heard Liam’s confession.

The waiter put the plates with sushi in front of Liam and Maggie, said “Enjoy”, and walked away. Maggie raised her tear-soaked eyes at Liam hoping to meet his eyes. However, he was not looking at her anymore. He started to wolf down sushi.

Maggie recalled her childhood when she felt herself unique: during Arts lesson in Primary School she created a picture that caused her teacher’s fascination. The teacher even invited Mr. and Mrs. Fisher to school. Mom called her daughter “genius” for a week after that occasion.

“Really?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Liam replied while chewing the sushi roll, “I wanna you to become my girlfriend.”

“Yes, of course,” Maggie grinned.

“Here is your hot chocolate, Ms,” suddenly a loud voice announces. Maggie raises her head and discovers herself not in a sushi restaurant on the first date with Liam but in a café after the painful break-up with Liam. She winks away tears and forcefully smiles at the waiter – a young man with styled blue hair.

“Thanks!” she replies while the waiter is transporting the cup with hot chocolate on Maggie’s table. Fisher is clutching her hands, uncomfortable with the fact that a stranger sees her red eyes and puffy brows. 

“Enjoy!” the waiter smiles back and leaves.

Maggie stares at his back until he disappears behind the counter. She feels gratefulness for his indifference towards her swallowed appearance. At the same time, there is disappointment with his fake friendliness in her heart. Her eyeballs feel as heavy as dumbbells. She drops them and sees the black surface of her hot chocolate. Everything inside her is full of terrible sourness. It seems as though her blood vessels and alveolus in her lungs are clogged with lemon juice. She puts her hands around the warm cup and lifts it. The first sip sends sweetness around her body and it feels relaxing. Unfortunately, it does not last long.

Maggie and Liam went to Greece for Christmas holidays. One day they were walking around Acropolis. Maggie constantly blushed because it seemed to her that everyone was looking at her with admiration. There were reasons for this intuition. She was wearing her best dress that exposed her pale fragile shoulders and arms and emphasized the slimness of her silhouette. Also, Liam was taking selfies with her almost every minute. He went insane with my beauty, Maggie thought. Her lips were hurting from smiling all the time and she was almost blinded by the sun that was constantly shining into her face. Liam begged that she did not cover her “magnificent eyes” with sun glasses.

Later in the evening as she was skimming the photos, she suddenly shuddered with disgust and frowned. She noticed that on every photo Liam was at the front and she was at the back.

Maggie is brought back to reality by loud voices. A group of young men has just entered the café. They are now taking seats around the table in vicinity. One of them shows his new watch to the rest:

“Look how cool it is!”

“Yeah! Expensive stuff, isn’t it?”

“Now, all girls are yours!”

Maggie shudders with disgust and frowned in the same way as at that evening in Greece two months ago when she was looking through photos.

Then she remembers that dreadful day when she was in Liam’s apartment and he went to the bathroom to take a shower. She was sitting on the sofa, watching T.V. when suddenly Liam’s cellphone beeped. Liam forgot to switch it off and according to the settings it never turned automatically. Maggie’s heart leaped in her chest. Cold sweat covered the palms of her trembling hands. “That’s immoral” her conscience was screaming while she tiptoed to the bathroom and listened for a while. When she got reassured that Liam was indeed in the shower, she returned to the living room. She memorized in exact details the placement of the phone before picking it up.

There was a message from Liam’s friend. It said: “what do I say her?” Burning with curiosity, Maggie opened Messenger and saw the whole chat. She started scrolling up. Fisher saw selfies from Greece sent with the following text: “I’ve a girlfriend now. Be jealous!” and a smile sticking out its tongue. Maggie scrolled up and up: “Tell her she’s special. I bet, she’ll go crazy. Be smart, bro. It’s not hard. Just blab. They’re generally stupid. Anything can impress them, bro.”

Maggie bit her lower lip so hard that she sensed blood in her mouth. Tears began to stream down her cheeks. Then her senses became unusually acute. She heard that Liam turned water on again. Washing the soap off, a thought flashed in Fisher’s mind. She dropped the phone on the sofa and rushed into the hallway. She put on her snickers and tied the laces with great difficulty – so strong was the tremor in her hands. Then she opened the door and shut it. She did not bother to lock it with the key. The thoughts about Liam’s safety did not even appear in her mind. It was preoccupied with the only thought: “Get away!”

The shape of the cup with hot chocolate is becoming sharper and more lucid as Maggie is returning from the past. She is staring at it without blinking. A clot of tears is enlarging in her throat. Fisher stands up and rushes to the counter and drops the coins. She does not reply to the cashier with “Good evening” as she storms away.

In the night streets of the town Maggie Fisher is walking with her hands pressed against her feeble chest where the heart is pulsating on an extremely fast pace. Her tear-soaked eyes are trashing about, looking at showcases of shops. Through the windows she sees rings, bracelets, necklaces, souvenirs, clothes and a countless number of other objects. She desperately wishes that people’s souls were as transparent as showcases but not as occupied with things that have no real value.

Angelina Rodionova is a 17-year-old girl who lives in Moscow and attends the last grade of High school. She arrived into the school just one month ago. Currently she and her three classmates are on the bus station, chilling after lessons and waiting for the bus to arrive.

It is a sunny autumn day. Angela is wearing a mini-skirt and a light almost transparent blouse celebrating the last moments of pleasing warmth that caresses her skin before the frosts start biting it. A stock of ducks passes in V formation high up in the sky. Their quacking is the last echo of sound diversity. Soon it will be reduced to the monotonous roar of motors, rasping croaking of crows and intrusive chirping of sparrows.

Sophia Maslova is Angela’s classmate, but they are not friends. When Angelina talked to Sophia for the first time, the latter shared a story of how her pug almost fought with a rottweiler. “He started barking so loudly and courageously! Suddenly, the rottweiler’s owner dropped the leash, and the rottweiler charged. I almost had a heart attack. Thank God, the owner called “Come back!” so furiously that the rottweiler changed his mind and left my Charlie alive.” Angela smiled and tried to make friends with Sonya. However, she soon realized that the best solution was to drift apart. Sophia is a party-goer, while Angelina studies hard and has high aspirations of becoming a government official, following the footsteps of her father.

Vlad Lobov is one of many guys who flirt with Sophia. He does it predominantly through teasing the girl, while she responds to him with a submissive and charming smile. He calls her “fat” and “stupid”. She continues to skip lessons, ignore home-work, and spend most of the time with her friends in malls, either window shopping or eating ice-creams and fast food. Vlad goes to the gym regularly and feels superior to Sonya. He enjoys demonstrating his fear-inducing masculinity. Vlad has a friend, Dmitri Shatov, who is not remarkable in any respect. Shatov goes to the gym with Vlad and echoes him in calling Sophia “fat” and “stupid”.

Vlad and Sophia are having a conversation. Dima is listening to them with attention, faithfully peering into Vlad’s eyes. Angelina stands aside from them with her eye-brows frowned. She does not like all three of her peers. Every time the smoke from Maslova’s cigarette reaches her nostrils, she clenches her fists in rage. Why is it necessary to smoke on the bus stop? I hate smoke! So disrespectful!

“Start going to the gym, cow!” Lobov repeats, probably for a millionth time, and Angela’s hands and back get covered in goosebumps. She is scared that one day Lobov might turn his vulture attention at her and start insulting her similarly to how he insults Sophia.

 Angelina is preparing herself for an argument in which she will protect her dignity. Now he’ll call me amoeba for not going to the gym, and I’ll tell him that he has no right, whatsoever, to talk to me in this way. Vlad does not look at her and continues talking only to Maslova. When their conversation pauses for a moment, Dima sighs:

“Where is the bus?”

“Just shut up!” Vlad orders, and Dima lowers his eyes. 

Angelina scrubs the back of her head and continues looking out for the bus.

“Look! A churka is sweeping trash!” Vlad says loudly.

Angela shudders. Her Dad always shakes hands with men who are immigrants and work as street swipers. Her Mom is friends with a woman from Tajikistan who works as a hairdresser and makes great haircuts. How rude! Angela exclaims in her mind. Having never pronounced pejorative words herself, she feels uncapable of tolerating the use of them in such an unfair context.

She looks around and sees a middle-aged man who is sweeping the street. His clothes are dirty, and he seems tired. He looks extremely thin with sinewy hands and hollow cheeks. Sweeping the rubbish, he collects it into an old, dirty ramshackle cart that is surrounded by a swarm of flies. Angelina drops her eyes, feeling that an invisible mole of guilt is burrowing a hole in her chest. She stares at her gorgeous high-heeled shoes and wishes she could take them off and hide somewhere in her bag. Meanwhile, Vlad instigated by Sophia’s cynical laughter continues shouting insults: “Look at that bastard! Son of a bitch!”

Angelina’s heart starts hammering in her chest. She feels that her face is burning, and she subconsciously wonders how her crimson cheeks and forehead look like. I have to intervene! She is telling herself, his words are impermissible! I’ve to tell him to shut up! A fearful voice inside her protests: what if he insults me? He might start to hate and insult me every day! Angelina glances at Vlad who suddenly starts walking towards the young man in an aggressive gait.

Angelina’s heart fells to her feet. Her tear-soaked eyes notice as through a fog that Sonya is laughing hysterically, Dmitri is following Vlad, and Vlad boots the cart, causing it to overturn. The rubbish: broken bottles, plastic bags with wasted food, Coka-Cola bottles scatter across the pavement.

I don’t care! I must intervene! Angelina starts walking towards the group in an unsteady gait. Her hands are shaking, and her mind is blank.

The man asks, “Hey! What the hell are you doing?”

Vlad laughs: “Know some Russian, don’t you? Dirty…”

He does not have time to spit out another obscenity because Angelina appears next to him and shouts: “Shut up!”

Vlad seems to be puzzled for a moment, but soon recovers: “What did you say?”

“I told you to shut up,” Angelina repeats firmly, “Why are you doing it?”

“I wanna see this dog’s reaction. Will he have courage to…”

“Are you crazy?” Angela feels herself overwhelmed with rage.

 “Boy, go away,” the man says and starts to put the garbage back into the cart.

“Go away!” Lobov mimics the accent, “Get out of my country…” here he pronounces the most pejorative insult that can be ever imagined. Seemingly satisfied, he walks away. Shatov follows him like a life-guard with a smirk on his lips. He regularly turns around to check that they are not being followed.

Angela is standing with her lips shaking and hands hanging powerlessly. She does not know neither what to do nor what to say. She is watching the man patiently collecting rubbish. Eventually she exhales: “I’m sorry.”

The man straightens his back and looks directly into her eyes: “Don’t be sorry. It was brave of you to intervene with your “Shut up”. These teens are just stupid,” he waves his hand hopelessly and continues reloading the cart. His lips are tightly pressed together, and eyes are focused on the job. Angelina once again feels that the invisible mole of guilt is painfully digging a pathway from her heart to her stomach. 

Angelina turns around and notices that the bus has arrived. Lobov, Shatov and Maslova get into it. Angela does not move. She waits for the bus to depart, then drags herself to the bus station.

***

On the next day Angelina is scared to meet with Vlad. Trying to become independent from her parents, she did not tell them anything about the incident; she does not want them to intervene into her problems. She believes that as a future government official she will have to take full responsibility for the consequences of her actions. She also believes that she must be brave and resist Vlad. Still she is afraid. Vlad comes from a rich family of entrepreneurs and was brought up in the atmosphere of permissiveness. She deliberately arrives 1 minute before the first class begins and proceeds to her seat with lowered eyes. Angelina is scared to catch Vlad’s sarcastic gaze. For the whole lesson her mind is occupied with imagining what she will say if Vlad insults her. Once she does not even hear that the teacher calls out her name to answer a question.

Later during the break Vlad and Dimitry approach Angelina. Their facial expressions are hostile and Rodionova feels fear that she will not be able to stand up for herself in the wave of verbal abuse. It is exactly what happens:

“Is one of your parents an immigrant that you protect these sons of bitches?” Vlad asks with hatred burning in his eyes.

“Or ask her if she’s in love with that churka,” Dimitri suggests and starts laughing. Nobody shares his laughter.

Angelina exclaims: “Go away! Both of you!”

“You know, you’re a bitch, right? We’re gonna treat you this way from now on!” Vlad threatens and tells Dimitri: “Let’s go!”

The next few days become a nightmare for Angelina. Vlad only shouts pejorative insults across the corridor every time he sees Rodionova. Once in the canteen he spills a drink on her blouse and on a Physical Education lesson deliberately throws the ball into Angelina. The ball strongly hits her in the chest, and she can not breath for several seconds, her head starts spinning, and she is scared she is going to die.

Nevertheless, Rodionova does not complain to her teachers and her parents about her struggles because she believes she has to deal with them on her own.

During one break, Sophia approaches Angelina.

“They’re unbearable, aren’t they?” she asks with a sympathetic nod of her head.

“Who they?” Angelina pretends not to understand the question because she is afraid of being perceived as a weak character who can not stand up for herself. She straightens her shoulders and puts up a mask of courageous facial expression: knitted eyebrows and highly raised chin.

“Vlad and Dima,” Sophia smiles and sighs at the same time.

Rodionova remains silent, waiting for her interlocutor to speak.

“Well, if you wanna, I can tell them to shut up. Vlad’s my boyfriend, after all. But just promise that you’ll not cross their road again.”

Angelina is surprised that Sonya and Vlad became a couple. When did they even have time? But she quickly comes back to the gist of the conversation:

“No, I am not going to stop!” she exclaims, “When I see injustice, I intervene!”

Sonya looks at her with pity:

“Don’t bark so loudly. Last week Charlie died. He was killed by that damn rottweiler. He shouldn’t have barked so loudly. Just leave Vlad alone.”

Angelina feels outraged about Sonya’s rudeness and emotionless about the death of her dog, however, something in her words appeals to her. Why can’t I just ignore them? She asks herself. Anyways, I am not going to follow them around and check that they don’t insult immigrants. Perhaps, I won’t even be witness of their behavior again. What’s the point of listening to their insults for the whole year?

“So, you want me to promise you that I won’t intervene when Vlad insults others, and instead you’ll make him stop insulting me?” Angelina asks.

“Exactly!” Sophia nods.

“But why? What makes you hate immigrants so much? How calm you can be friends with a racist who can’t control himself?”

“’cause he’s a cool guy, you know?” Sonya replies, “and I don’t want you to spoil his coolness.”

“Okay,” Angelina suddenly feels exhausted with the conversation and Sophia’s irrationality. She chooses the easy way out and accepts the deal.

Later, after the conversation Rodionova is in her room, deep in her thoughts. I’ve just allowed them to break me down, she feels hatred to herself. Immediately, a coping mechanism switches on in her head: On the other side, I didn’t have much choice. Anyways, it would be stupid to suffer for something that I can’t change. I can’t prevent racism all over the world. I’d love to, but I just can’t! If they continued bullying me, I wouldn’t be able to focus on studies… I don’t need to spoil my future just because I spoke out against a racist. Never mind! I should just forget about it.

Angela unpacks her school bag and starts doing homework.

***

20 years pass. Now Ms. Rodionova is a 37-year-old mayor of Moscow, elected in the turbulent time of radical changes, happening all over the world. The moment of climate breakdown happened simultaneously with the breakthrough in technologies. Waves of progress washed people out from all those positions that could be delegated to AI, such as waiters, hairdressers, street sweepers. Depression spread like plague among those who were left without means for survival, especially in the face of catastrophic heat waves, droughts, and flooding.

One year ago, when all routine jobs were automated, around 300000 poor illegal immigrants got trapped in the city where the climatic conditions were deteriorating on a rapid speed. Most of them could not afford the protection, and the government refused to help. Angelina tried to start a Moscow-based charity organization that would distribute water, food, and protective clothes for free. In the long-term she planned to build shelters for homeless people.

She speaks in front of the Committee of Economic policies and strategic planning of Moscow and suggests that half of the Moscow’s budget is allotted for her project. Angelina is wearing high-heeled shoes and an elegant blue dress that covers her shoulders and knees. Along with the members of Committee are Vlad Lobov and Dimitri Shatov wearing identical black suits and blue ties. An expensive wedding ring is shining on Vlad’s ring finger. Lobov and Shatov are respectively Chairman and CEO of Future Russia – a company owned by the Russian Government and responsible for purchase, delivery and distribution of robots and cutting-edge technologies that allow people to deal with climate change. When mayor Rodionova finishes her presentation during which she talked about economy and morality, her fingers and palms are cold. Her intuition is whispering her that the project will not be approved.  

“That’s stupid!” Vlad exclaims and hits the table, “We’ll go bankrupt!”

Rage starts to fill Angelina’s heart. Shut up, idiot, she thinks, have you not heard the numbers I just gave? Your damn company won’t go bankrupt. You’re lucky that your Dad was a government official. Otherwise, how could someone that stupid become a Chairman? She takes a deep breath and repeats the calculations again.

Chairman of the Committee narrows his eyes, “You don’t possibly want to cut us short of profits, do you? While the government holds monopoly on imports, we have to use the opportunity.” A president of the Committee with an indefinable facial expression, a woman who looks as if her humane feelings were buried under layers of years spent in bureaucracy, says: “It is not our responsibility to care about illegal immigrants from other countries.”

During a break a man who introduced himself as an authorized representative of the Chairman of the Committee approaches Angelina and asks to have a confidential conversation. When they enter an empty room, he tells her, “The Chairman asked to inform you that with all respect, you will be forced to step down if you continue pushing the project forward. He has the president’s administration on his side.”

Angelina bits her lower lip and lowers her eyes. When the informant walks out from the room, she falls into a chair and drops her hands on her knees, palms facing upwards. She is staring at her palms for a long time, while sobs are shaking her body that feels weightless. Eventually she stands up and walks into the hall to witness how the Committee votes against her proposal.

Angelina feels defeated and desperate. She compares herself to a drug addict who finished a rehabilitation course but lost control over herself again. She compares herself to a murderer who was released from prison and had a chance to start a new life but killed again because she was useless for society and hated people for this. Angelina remembers that day when she entered into agreement with Sophia. The feeling of hopelessness is nauseating.

When the meeting ends, and Angelina stumbles to the entrance door, Vlad and Dimitri approach her with smirks on their faces.  

“I told you politics isn’t for women,” Vlad says to Dimitri loudly. They both have changed. Positions that do not require any intellectual efforts from them and bring them wealth left prints of stupidity and impunity on their faces. They walk everywhere with raised chins and speak informally to people of any positions.  

“So, churkaphil, are you going to invite thousands of churkas to your house? No wonder you’re still unmarried,” Vlad is watching Angelina with a ruthless expression on his face.

Mayor Rodionova replies in a well-modulated voice, “Watch your words. You are speaking to the mayor.”

Later, when she arrives home, Angelina takes a bottle of potassium chloride and a syringe from the drawer in her bedroom. She puts them on a bedside table made of red wood. Angelina stares at the bottle and syringe, while The following thoughts are circulating in her head: I am a betrayer, a killer. How can I rule the capital of Russia? I was tarnished with corruption. I lost honor.

After an hour of delirium, Angelina fills the syringe with the poisonous drug, however, somehow, she knows that she will not inject it. She puts the syringe back on the bedside table, stands up and approaches the window. She has a feeling that she has reached and crossed a point of no return.

***

 Mayor Rodionova is outside of the building where city council has recently held a meeting. She is waiting for a self-driving car that she ordered using the app Selver. Not a pleasing warm autumn wind surrounds her, but rather a murderous heat. Mayor Rodionova is wearing a special expensive costume that cools down her body. Trees that grew near the majestic residence of city council dried out last year. There are no colorful leaves, the symbols of autumn. Ducks no more fly in V formations high up in the sky. All sounds ceased, and there is silence like in a grave. People who could afford protection from the heat, stay inside. Mayor Rodionova is looking at the road with melancholy. Suddenly, she notices two figures, approaching her.

Some of the last survivors, mayor Rodionova sighs, looking at a grey-haired man in his 60-s with a slouched back walking with a small girl. They are approaching slowly, seemingly exhausted by the unbearable heat. Why are they walking in this heat? Did he decide to die and kill her too? Mayor Rodionova wonders with neither sadness, nor real wish to understand the man’s intentions. She is not afraid of an attempt on her life because robot body-guards are highly efficient. Last month one pauper tried to hide in some wealthy family’s house, which is equipped to protect from the extreme heat. The robot guard discovered him almost immediately and executed for illegal entrance of private property.

The man sits down on the pavement in several meters from the mayor and lights a cigarette. Did he go mad? The girl looks very weak. She begs her grandfather not to smoke. When he starts coughing from the smoke that does not move in the air, the girl looks up at the mayor Rodionova.

“Please, help us!” she cries out. Her eyes are tear-soaked.

Mayor Rodionova does not respond. It is not the responsibility of the government to care for immigrants.

However, something in the girl’s desperate face, brings up memories of the autumn afternoon many years ago, when Angelina was feeling that a mole of guilt was burrowing a hole in her heart and when she felt herself obliged to intervene. Everything changed, Angelina sighs, It is not obligatory to help them. We can’t save everybody.

The squeaking of tiers informs about the arrival of self-driving car. Ms. Rodionova heads to it. The girl rushes to her. It seems as though she wants to fall on her knees, hug the mayor’s knees and beg for help. The robot body-guards hold her back with their firm grip. Ms. Rodionova drives away.

“The heat wave that struck Moscow will last for the next 30 days,” the indifferent voice of a weather forecast reporter informs. “Do not open doors for the sick immigrant dogs that are left in the streets. They will rob your houses and murder you. After 30 days no traces of them will be left.” Ms. Rodionova notes how excellent the state propaganda works.

As the car is speeding down the road, the mayor gets lost in her thoughts. The face of the old man emerges in her memory, and it seems similar to that of the middle-aged man who worked as a street sweeper many years ago and whom Vlad insulted. Both faces have the print of fatal exhaustion. Then the face of the small girl appears: the desperate glimmering of her eyes. They’ll die today, Ms. Rodionova thinks with apathy. But I can’t take them home. We can’t help everybody.

Then the feeling of guilt squeezes Angelina’s throat: Damn it! They were working for us! We were exploiting them! And now, when we don’t need them anymore, we let them die! It’s unfair! It’s so unfair! These doubts tortured her regularly throughout the last year, tearing her heart several times per week.

Ms Rodionova raises her eyes and sees posters with photographs of her. She is reading the pathetic inscriptions: “Mayor Rodionova brought progress!”

The woman recalls the day when she signed the contract with China for massive import of robots. It was followed by nation-wide demonstrations with desperate immigrants asking existential questions: “What are we going to do now?” “Who will train us for academic work?” “Who will teach us how to do surgeries and run businesses?” They still had enough strength and solidarity to speak out and protest. On that day Mayor Rodionova was pacing back and forth in her office, filled with doubts. Russia can’t lag behind! We need progress! But think about all these poor people! Her mother sent her a message to congratulate on the accomplishment. Her father called to tell her how proud he felt.

“But I’m not sure if it’s worth it. So many people will be left unemployed,” Angelina confessed in her doubts.

“Don’t worry, Angela. People always find ways to cope with adversities,” her father consoled her.

Another poster reads: “Mayor Rodionova saved millions of lives!”

Mayor recalls the day when the cutting-edge technologies were brought into Moscow to protect citizens from catastrophic consequences of global warming. On that day the independent social media presented statistics, according to which several thousand immigrants in Moscow would suffer from the consequences of a massive heat wave if the protective equipment was not provided to them by the government. It was then that Mayor Rodionova started telling herself: We can’t save everybody, and calling herself a monster, while everybody else were worshipping her as the Goddess of innovations. It was then that Mayor Rodionova realized that a part of her had died.

Angelina looks at her hands, and in a moment of delirium it seems to her that they are stained with blood, and in a rapid succession she sees in her mind faces of the little girl and an old man dying in the unbearable heat, millions of people praising her service, thousands of illegal immigrants with their hands folded in pleading signs, international summits where failure to prevent thousands of deaths in Moscow is discussed.

The sequence of memories arrives to that autumn day when an innocent girl thought that it was morally obligatory for her to resist racism of her classmates and who bravely intervened. Now Angelina is telling herself as she did many years ago: I must intervene. It is not too late yet. I can share my house with them. I must intervene. She opens her lips preparing to command: “Turn around”. Then a wave of contradictions overwhelms her: It’s not your obligation. You CAN’T save everybody! Mayor Rodionova squeezes her temples with her cold trembling fingers.

She has idols whom she worships every day. She connects to them via attaching her fingers to a small shining platform that she carries around all the time. The worship consists of the movements of the right thumb – up and down, up and down.

Her idols are insatiable. They require that every day she takes her life away. In the mornings she wakes up as a holistic being akin to a cup from which she drinks coffee. Irreversibly this cup falls on the floor and breaks into pieces. Her identity splits into multiple; each one is a lifeless fragment. The spilled coffee is a flow of her thoughts – chaotic, useless, wasted.

Her idols are capricious. On some occasions her devotion is rewarded. A wide grin appears on her face; her blue eyes squint and start shining; her eyebrows rise and form a shape similar to a rainbow. This usually happens when hundreds of red hearts or white “thumb-up” signs appear under her photos. On other occasions she is punished for a reason unknown for she never skips worships. Nevertheless, her face turns an earthly green color; her hands start trembling; her lips bend in a direction opposite to a smile; a frown covers her forehead with wrinkles. Her blue eyes cold as ice fix on a photo of a kissing couple. I wish I had a boyfriend, a thought flashes in her mind.

“Delete them! Come on, Eve! Just do it! Never install them back!” her classmate exclaims when she sees Eve shedding tears over a poor grade.

Eve’s thumb is shaking as it drags one of the idols to a rubbish bin. Done! Blasphemy committed. Another idol is following the fate of the first one. Eve’s lips are pressed tightly. Her heart is pounding in her chest. Done! As the last idol is broken into pieces, the shards of Eve come together, and she becomes an integral being before the glue of night sleep restores her. 

On the next day Eve enjoys how a fresh wave of energy from a gulp of coffee spreads around her whole body. Oatmeal that she has for breakfast is warm and melting on her tongue. For the first time in months she looks at her friend Julia who sits opposite her and not into her smartphone. Eve notices slight changes in Julia’s face: how her lips smile, how her brows either frown or rise in surprise, how her eyes shine. These alterations are akin to magic which enchants Eve. Later in the day, Eve clutches her hands, trembles with excitement and gasps with awe as she plunges into reading a scientific book. “So interesting!” she exclaims. 

Her awakening lasts several days, and then a serpent crawls into her unsuspecting heart.

“You’re gonna burn in hell of social ostracism,” it whispers, “let them back into your life.”

“They’re demons!” Eve desperately exclaims feeling how her heart skips a beat.

“You’re in an illusion now! The real life is there! You’re missing it!” the serpent continues to insist.

Her trembling fingers reattach to the shining platform. They start flying across it, reviving the idols. The coffee is wasted again. The right thumb continues the worship as if it was never interrupted. Up and down, up and down… Tap, tap, tap…

Artist: Science is boring. It’s like constructing Lego. Darwin came up with the theory of evolution by bringing together many facts. How tedious this must have been! Art is much more exciting! It’s all about inspiration! It’s a venture into the unknown!

Scientist: You speak like an old-fashioned romanticist. Inspiration is a popular term to describe how neurons form connections that create a groundbreaking idea. We have it in science too. Remember the widely known Eureka? Archimedus exclaimed it when he discovered displacement.

Philosopher: Why do you need to be so dichotomic? Both scientists and artists experience inspirations.

Scientist: Artists are like monkeys in the zoo. They just imitate what they see, and unintended subjective distortions are taken for “shifts of paradigms”, “new ways of seeing the world”. People are like herds and artists are like meadows. For some time, audience consumes the artist. Gradually this becomes boring. The audience migrates to another meadow and neglects the artist. On the contrary, in science we raise fundamental questions, dare to investigate the depths of universe. It makes us immortal.

Artist: Oh, come on! Who needs to know that water consists of H₂O molecules if one can just drink it?

Philosopher: Both art and science rise questions and look for answers. The only difference is in methodologies.

Scientist: What kind of methodologies do artists use? That’s absurd. It only makes sense if you confused “an artistic gift” with a methodology. People are either good in science or in art. Not both. These are mutually exclusive entities. Kids born with “innate talent” are generally uncapable of calculating 2 + 2.

Artist: Well, at least we are not imprisoned behind the bars of axioms, hypotheses, theories, algorithms and alike. We are people of feelings, not rationality. When we say that 2 + 2 equals 10, we shatter worldviews, challenge stereotypes, and encourage thinking outside of the box.

Philosopher: I have never seen a scientist without feelings… Creativity is the soil where trees with fruits both of science and art flourish. Arts and sciences stand on common grounds. Achievements within these realms are made due to hard labour and are equally remarkable. I would tell you, my dear friends, that every scientist is an artist and every artist is a scientist. Be free from the illusions of binary divisions, my dear disciples!