Libertionne. Anna Tishchenko
relevant art was displayed. Moopechka blissfully leaned back on the leather seat of the Mercedes, and filled the cabin with smoke from a nicotine-free cigarette. Tiberius shot him a wincing look.
“Could you explain why you smoke that crap? There’s not even any tobacco in it, only a repulsive smell, and no effect whatsoever.”
“Tibby, it’s trendy. How could you not understand, you knucklehead. Oh no, another traffic jam!”
“Switch to manual,” Tiberius grumbled.
The car complied with the order, not forgetting to accompany this action with a detailed lecture on the horrible tragedies and misfortunes that could be brought down upon the unwise car owner who wishes to reject the services of the automatic chauffeur. As soon as the tires touched the roadway, Tiberius placed his hands on the steering wheel with pleasure. In about ten minutes they would be there; in the traffic jam they would have spent at least an hour. But there was another reason why manual mode was preferable.
“Paul, take your hand away.”
“Whyyyy?”
“I’m driving. You’re bothering me.”
“Moopechka just wants to do something nice for furrykins.”
“Paul.”
“How about this?” Moopechka’s hand, which had already undone the zipper of Tiberius’s jeans, continued its exploration.
“If you don’t stop right now, I’m going to hit you. We could have an accident.”
“Ye-esss! Punish me, daddy!”
“I’ll punish you, but you’re not going to like it.”
Moopechka sulked, with a pouting lower lip, for five minutes. Tiberius looked at him askance. His sagging, faux-faded t-shirt displayed a rabbit and the words “If you don’t sleep with me, I’m going to cry.” “Probably from some idiot designer, and costs a fortune.” Jeans, specially torn and dyed to look like they had been rolled in the waste material of a cattle factory, a bracelet consisting of beads from different social and material ratios (on a leather strap, gold beads encrusted with rubies and diamonds peacefully coexisted with specially-varnished balls of chewing gum and paper pellets). Trend. A mysterious god that Tiberius pictured as a cruel and radical Moloch. And who knew which god was more fierce and insatiable: one child per village became Moloch’s victim, while all children fall victim to Trend without exception.
“You forgot what today was,” mumbled Moopechka, in a completely hurt voice.
“Day?” Tiberius’s thoughts were somewhere beyond 34th street, where they were driving.
“Yes. Today, by the way, is a holiday.”
“Is that right?”
Tiberius made a halfhearted tally: Lovers’ Day was some time in February, New Year’s (the most tortuous – the rule that, according to some people’s ridiculous beliefs, at precisely twelve o’clock you need to be doing something that you want to be doing all year). As for him, he would be happy to greet the new year at midnight on some deserted island. Alone. Or with Laura, if, of course, she was not finding something to nitpick about. And she couldn’t, if she found herself in his power on that same blessed island… He was torn from his sweet daydream by stifled sobbing. Throwing a sidelong glance at the cracking voice of Moopechka, Tiberius made an unmistakeable diagnosis:
“It’s your birthday?”
“Ye-es. And you forgo-ot!”
“What do you mean, of course not. There’s even a present…”
Damn. What can I give?!
And then it dawned on him.
“Paul. Open the glove compartment.”
Afraid to believe his luck, cautiously eyeing Tiberius like a dog who is regularly beaten by his master, and given sugar bones only on major holidays, Moopechka opened the glove compartment.
“A classic Russian novel, written by Leo Tolstoy. A rare and original, ah, printing,” Tiberius said admiringly, almost not feeling any remorse. “Have you heard of him?”
“I have, from Melissa. She’s horribly intellectual, a real bohemian. I will introduce you today; she’s going to be at the party.” Moopechka proceeded to look at the illustration.
Three minutes went by in silence.
“And they say the classics are boring.”
Moopechka stared at one of the illustrations for an unusually long time, and Tiberius couldn’t help but look over his shoulder. To the photographer’s credit, if the authors of the Kama Sutra had been alive to see his creation, they would have understood how weak and modest their erotic fantasies were. Tiberius flinched and tried to focus his attention on the road.
“Perhaps I will even read this book,” Moopechka announced decisively, and suddenly fell silent. His eyes became glassy, his lips opened slightly. Tiberius recognized the symptoms – Moopechka was lost in thought. This rarely happened with him, and it was not easily achieved; nevertheless it clearly had to happen.
“What?”
“Tibby,” Moopechka began anxiously, looking suspiciously at the disastrous book. “Is this in style?”
“Of course,” Tiberius answered firmly. “The classics are always in style.”
The book was immediately photographed together with the Moopechka’s glowing face, and was quickly sent around the world to delight and shock his countless online friends. The result was an immediate reply.
“Melissa Swan. She wants us to pick her up.”
“This is the ‘horrible intellectual?’”
“No, not her. Our Melissa, the editor of ‘Young Lucifer.’”
This coincidence wasn’t surprising. Since children came into the world at the reproductive center, liberated from the bondage of family and parental oppression, and having four thousand (exclusively pleasant-sounding) variations of names and surnames, it was a common occurrence that among one’s circle of close acquaintances there appeared someone who has the same name as you.
Tough Days at Young Lucifer
The Libertionne TV building strongly reminded Tiberius of his own stomping grounds. The same concrete octopus, with numerous structures and passageways, just slightly smaller. Little-brother octopus. “Young Lucifer’ was located on the eighth floor in close proximity to Lucifer, Libertionne’s main info-entertainment channel. It was only natural, as the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. In days past, Lucifer tried with all its might to justify the proud name of the first revolutionary and the destroyer of the world order. The impression was that it was run by a gang of ruthless subversives through and through – from bourgeois family values to religion, from politics to anarchy, everything got plowed under by the channel. The films it showed were all provocational, it aired radical viewpoints, diametrically opposed to the mood of the day. But in time it started to lose steam. Of course, one could empathize with its creators – was it easy to surprise the viewer in our day and age? In the past, say a hundred years ago, if you showed society a film about a happy love triangle, what was the result? Society would be astonished and indignant, and there was progress. But now, as part of the all-encompassing freedom that had arisen, only old ladies might watch something like that before bedtime. To save on sleeping pills. There was a fragile hope for the younger generation; after all, children could still be surprised.
Tiberius and Paul opened a door with a name plate that read:
“Young Lucifer. Melissa Swan”. Melissa, a skinny blonde in a blood-curdling pink dress, sat moodily at her giant editor’s desk, sorting through a pile of advertising brochures.
“I can’t figure out,” she complained