Libertionne. Anna Tishchenko
out, leaving only the very essence. And if the essence, so to say, was lacking something, then that something was added, at the publisher’s discretion. So as Tiberius removed the wrapping, he was somewhat mentally prepared. But not for this. The entire sleeve, except for the gold vignettes, of course, was covered with an eye-grabbing photo illustration. He didn’t expect a hand-drawn scene, of course, but this one gave Tiberius a migraine. In an alcove, on rumpled silk sheets frolicked Bronsky and Karenin (the latter Tiberius recognized by the outrageous, crookedly pasted-on sideburns), and Anna stood over them, holding a candle, shedding light on the scene, literally. Realizing how much money Sam must have paid for this abomination, Tiberius politely flipped through the pages. The book was not very heavy. Of course, the Creation Myth was written with five hundred words, and this work focused on a subject that was much less substantive, but still, at least twenty of the sixty pages were used for illustrations. And the subject matter of these illustrations was not very different from the cover. It took an immense effort for Tiberius to summon a smile of thanks.
“Thank you. Something like this… I never expected.”
Accepting his teacher’s painful grin for an expression of joy and gratitude, Sam happily bid him farewell, and Tiberius finally gained his freedom. “Looks like I have to bring this atrocity into my house. If I throw it into the trash, he might find it.“He placed the book into his briefcase, like a Christian martyr bearing the full weight of his cross, and departed the auditorium. Passing a trash can whose opening was grinning widely in the elevator lobby, Tiberius noticed something brightly colored, with red spots. Nearly the entire volume of the trash can was occupied by a leopard-skin jacket, with a torn white handbag resting on top. Apparently Normann had tried to correct his fashion faux pas by removing the bag’s decorative leopard-skin triangle. His clumsy efforts were aggravated by his foul mood, and he ended up ruining it completely. Imagining how tough it would be for the poor guy to go around today with countless lipsticks, creams, eyeshadow and other men’s accessories stuffed into his pockets, Tiberius marched cheerfully to the parking lot.
A battle in paradise
A beautiful, unnatural rose-colored sunset was painted across the evening sky. Tiberius, forced to kill time on the back seat, absent-mindedly looked out at the multicolored stream of cars, carefully and safely carrying their passengers home or to their usual evening entertainment.
I wonder how many of them know that above their heads is a fake sky? The creation of the all-powerful designers, the modeled illusion conveys the most eye-pleasing shades of color. There, at the top, above the spherical cupola maybe it’s raining and an icy wind is blowing, but people don’t know about this. True, we have a few overcast days each month, but they were created because according to sociological data, many people like moderately bad weather. When it’s cloudy outside, one can get cozy under a fleece shawl, imitation Scottish wool, and, sitting in front of an electric fireplace, drink a cup of decaffeinated coffee. None of these accessories would be necessary if there were no overcast days, and no one would buy them for a modern, warm apartment, and obviously the more unnecessary things a person buys, the better it is for production. Everything in our time has become a surrogate – virtual games instead of wars, aspartame in place of sugar, false windows in the workspaces of office clerks, fake-brick wallpaper hung on drywall modestly covering up a real brick wall. Or holidays… One time, in a joking mood, he asked his students “Why do we celebrate Christmas?” And their answer was a noisy cocktail of plastic Santa Clauses, the tradition of giving presents, the celebration of the middle of winter and someone called Jesus who smiles in the illustrations on greeting cards.
But then, an ideal world should not be otherwise. If we had real honey, that would mean taking it from poor bees, real meat is the flesh of slaughtered animals, and natural childbirth is fraught with illness and imperfections. Let’s take control of everything and we’ll be more merciful than God. And i Pre-Raphaelites Pre-Raphaelites f we have become like God, what is he to us now? Amen. We have become lilies of the Lord which are neither sown nor reaped; we commit no evil, for all of our needs are satisfied beyond measure.
“We have arrived at our destination, Eden, sir,” the car’s voice spoke delicately, interrupting his thoughts.
Tiberius grinned. The car slowed down at the checkpoint, waiting for the pass to be scanned.
Eden. I wonder if the creators of this residential sector were simply guided by the inviolable standards of management, compelled to paint a picture of paradise for the imagined consumer, or did they have a subtly warped sense of humor? The endless rows of buildings, straight as arrows, identical on both the outside and the inside. Well, OK, not completely identical on the inside; otherwise how would the army of interior designers earn enough to eat?
He recalled a conversation with a designer that Laura had imposed on him, who showed up to try to give his bachelor’s den some dignity. At first the young man gave a long and impressive monologue on the importance of combining comfort, modernity and originality in his then-virgin interior (Tiberius, having just obtained [bought] the apartment, didn’t have the slightest intention of creating some kind of design, but alas…). Although when he saw that he might as well be speaking with the colossus of Abu Simbel, trying to explain to it the latest trends in modern design, he got more specific: “What color shall we paint the bedroom? I recommend choosing between the shades ‘sparkly snow,’ ‘mountain lily,’ and ‘cloud white.’ Here are the samples.” Tiberius looked at the three completely identical white pieces of paper, then asked:
“What about black? It’s easier to sleep.”
The horror experienced by the priest of the temple of creativity is difficult to describe. When Tiberius finally grew tired of listening to his moaning, which was a bizarre cocktail of eastern philosophy, modern psychiatry and his personal (rather superficial) knowledge in the field of architecture, he asked: “Is it not the designer’s job to satisfy the customer’s desires?”
Turns out it wasn’t; the designer’s job was to explain to an unreasonable client what was best for him, and this task had to be fulfilled, regardless of any protest. In the end, the apartment was given a complete makeover, but Tiberius couldn’t see any difference, no matter how hard he tried.
Tiberius parked the car in one of the anonymous concrete courtyards and with a kind of vengeful pleasure he listened to its hysterical monologue. “This parking lot cannot be found in the database! There is no satellite connection! I cannot process the payment! Sir, you are in breach of rule this and rule that. But I cannot send the data – there is no connection!”
“Very good,” Tiberius answered gently. “Now shut up, stay here and wait for me.”
The car fell into a gloomy silence. Tiberius tenderly patted it on its polished fender, like an obstinate but beloved horse, and, whistling, set off along the broken sidewalk. It was hard to imagine that this place was bristling with life just a few years ago; everything was young and fresh. Eden – the cradle of the empire. In this huge, now abandoned district, lived the ones who built the great Libertionne. The empire city, a great and modern Babilon, a realm of intelligence and freedom.
At the intersection he was supposed to turn right, but Tiberius slowed, glancing at the crooked sign that read “Peace Street. 2 km”. In Eden, streets still had names; the more modern and practical Libertionne had decisively rejected them. There, on Peace Street, was his old apartment. Somehow he had to go there and have a look. Probably the windows were broken, highly likely on the first floor; the lawn, which had never been mowed, was a jungle of sagebrush and wild mint. But not now; time was pressing and he was already late. Tiberius began walking faster.
What a difference there was between the aging modern buildings and their elderly cousins! These jewels of baroque and gothic architecture over time only got better, acquiring a special gloss unique to each one, the dust and cobwebs making their chiseled reliefs and sculptures even more mysterious and beautiful. Modern buildings, if not looked after even for a short time, started