Libertionne. Anna Tishchenko
is he, anyway?” Tiberius, out of touch with celebrity life, asked Moopechka, who was in a strange and complicated state of mind halfway between orgasm and catatonic stupor.
“What, you don’t know Don Largo? How is that possible? He’s an entertainer, the king of happenings and parties, he’s so famous!”
“Really? So what does he actually do?” Tiberius asked, looking at the man clad in black leather with metal spikes. Dark hair shaved on the sides, a complicated construction on top of braids and free strands, his head wrapped in tattoos of thorny branches that ran down his neck.
No one could answer that question, but this did not detract from their adoration. The celebrity, his fans clinging to him like burrs to a water spaniel, moved toward the stage. The group at the table decided to have a loud discussion about how this Don was impenetrable, how nobody knew anything about his private life, even though a brave and fearless team of paparazzi worked in shifts in all places where he might be. Only Evelyn refrained from participation in this feast of reason and outpouring of souls. She sat sadly over a plate of pears now, and Tiberius began to think that fruitarianism, perhaps, could even beat buddhist ascetics at their own game. Their menu was more varied, for one. He quietly nudged Moopechka, and the latter, a kind soul, immediately understood – he told her a fresh joke and presented her with his “Pride of the Queens.”
It is surprising how simple flowers can change a woman’s mood! No matter what radical political outlook she might subscribe to, or what strange sect she belongs. Evelyn lit up immediately, the pink returned to her cheeks, and she nearly even smiled. And, perhaps, peace and prosperity might have continued its winning streak this evening, but, as everyone knows, bad luck never sleeps. As soon as a person relaxes, his vigilance goes to sleep, and fate will overtake him like a deadly heat in a waterless desert.
The waiter brought Tiberius the carpaccio he had ordered, and not only brought it, but accidently set it in front of Evelyn. With the same effect, Dante could have been served at a banquet with the head of his beloved Beatrice with oyster sauce. In order not to embarrass this respectable institution with horrible shrieking, Tiberius had to use a little force, placing his hand over the mouth of the enraged defender of animal rights. This was, of course, not very polite, but it was absolutely necessary. Evelyn struggled in Tiberius’s iron grip for a while, then went limp, and he decided that the time had come to let this springtime swallow fly free. He was mistaken.
“How can a civilized person even stand the sight of this ripped and bleeding piece of flesh, which literally screams of monstrous cruelty?!” she shouted.
“Flesh, strictly speaking, is silent,” Tiberius cold-bloodedly retorted. “You are the one who is screaming. And you are ruining the evening for everyone here.”
“Eve, it’s better not to argue with him,” Moopechka said softly, almost begged. “He’s a bit of a tyrant, and he’ll get his way no matter what.”
“Don’t you dare defend him!” Evelyn snapped, and glared at Moopechka’s cake. “Eggs!” she cried, gnashing her teeth, “that cake contains eggs. The unborn embryos of future chickens!
Moopechka turned pale.
“And in your hands you are holding the amputated sex organs of plants,” Tiberius calmed noted, pointing to the bouquet of flowers that Evelyn was still mechanically squeezing. “And the worst thing is, just imagine, these poor flowers bloomed for love, but the cruel hand of the gardener castrated them at the very dawn of their brief and fragile childhood. And then…”
Tiberius, tiring of the relentless tugging of his hand, gently and tenderly hugged Paul. The poor guy’s bones crunched, and he calmed down, like a trapped pigeon.
“… and after that, still clinging to life with the perseverance of a soldier crippled but not killed, they are mercilessly ripped out of the ground by the roots, to be burned, mind you, alive. And in their place, the next mortals are planted. All of the above applies to fruits and vegetables,” summed up Tiberius.
And he started on his carpaccio, the rascal.
However, the punishing hand of fate did not pass over him with its vengeance. Behind the tables was some activity, conversations stopped, and the guests of the restaurant turned to the wall-mounted monitors. The moment had arrived for the daily prize to be drawn. Mupochka fidgeted in his chair, rocking from side to side with impatience, and even the sour, sickly Evelyn expressed interest – stiffening and standing at attention, acquiring a surprising resemblance to a hunting dog, which has stood in the rack. Tiberius did not pay any attention to it whatsoever. The voice of the invisible DJ rose above the roar and rumble of music, mixed with the strong cocktail of human voices. “The voice of God”, mockingly thought Tiberius, before his consciousness met his own name.
“And tonight’s winner, who will take home the prize ‘Labyrinth of the Minotaur’ i-i-i-is…. Tiberius Crown! Let’s hear it, folks!”
The room erupted in envious applause.
“What? How?” Tiberius looked around the room in confusion. “I didn’t even sign up for this stup… pointless lottery! I turned off my geolocation. Why?!”
“Silly, you turned it off for your friends,” Moopechka cooed tenderly. “but for serious people, like the government, or stores, or clubs, your switch-offs… Hey, you know. It’s like running into some hooligans on the street. Forbid them, don’t forbid them. Their still going to do whatever they want to your butt. I know this.”
Tiberius moaned. But then an idea popped into his head to save him. “Maybe I should just pay the young man, and not use his services.” Encouraged by cheers of approval, he stumbled over a gold brocade curtain, taking with him a rescue bottle of whiskey. He found himself in a fairly dark, stuffy room. The air conditioner was on full blast, but it wasn’t enough to eliminate the mixed odors of perfume, powders, warm bodies, and caustic and suffocating air fresheners. He could see them – two large cups filled with multi-colored, dried leaves, flowers, and cotton balls. Thin wisps of smoke rose from them, making the room even more inappropriate for breathing. Tiberius sat on a couch, taking a large, precautionary sip from his bottle.
Finally from the speakers emanated a stylized, antique-sounding music, and the minotaur dashed into the room. The face of the male striptease dancer was half-covered by a gold mask, depicting a sharp-horned bull. The body was also covered in gold; except for a mask, tunic and caligae, the improvised minotaur had nothing on. There was also a long tail, with a brush at the end that was dragging on the floor. The other end disappeared between the minotaur’s legs.
How uncomfortable it must be for him to dance with that costume, Tiberius thought, pitying the poor guy. And why is he gold? Did they confuse him with the legend of the golden calf? And people want to close down the history department.
Performing something that was supposed to signify the dance of an ancient Greek warrior, the minotaur got rid of his tunic, which didn’t take much time, and stopped in front of Tiberius. Thinking that the first two stages of the program were complete, Tiberius quickly said, “No cream, please. I have an allergy, you know.”
The Minotaur sighed with relief and dropped to its knees in front of the client. Tiberius did not feel uplifted. Not that he was at all squeamish, but today for some reason he was not drawn toward the priests of commercial love.
“You know, to be honest, today I’m not in the mood. I drank a lot. That’s right.” Tiberius showed his half-empty bottle. “Let’s just say the show is over, okay? I’d like to tip you…”
He reached over to the table, where he had already noticed a payment sensor, but the minotaur stopped him with a pleading gesture.
“Sir, please! Just let me give you some pleasure!”
Tiberius’s eyes widened. “Of course it’s admirable that someone loves their work so much, and so approaches his official duties so fervently,