Libertionne. Anna Tishchenko
abstract painting on the wall with soothing, pale spots on an obscure background, windows hidden by light-gray screens, and a soft, light-gray rug. The arrangement was infused with peace and tranquility, with an inexorable sense of doom. One wanted to either doze off or commit suicide. But then the door silently opened, and in walked a girl who could easily be called a beauty, if not for the all-knowing expression on her face. Sitting down at the table, she immediately stared at the monitor, barely glancing at her patient.
“Hello.” She looked again at the screen, apparently having trouble with his highly atypical name – Tiberius. What an unusual name.
She raised her eyebrows questioningly, gazing at him with her large, slightly bulging gray eyes.
He answered with his usual tongue-twister:
“I took advantage of the third amendment to the law ‘On names’: every Libertionnian has the right, upon reaching the age of sixteen, to change their name to…”
“I know about this amendment,” the psychologist dryly interrupted. “I’m interested why you chose this one specifically. I believe it was some sort of cruel Roman emperor?”
“You have an unusually deep knowledge of history,” Tiberius smiled, unsuccessfully trying to hide his scorn with a compliment. “Yes, that is true. Actually, Tiberius was considered cruel by his high-born subordinates, who were unhappy with his fight against corruption and the introduction of a luxury tax. One of my female classmates teased me in a similar way…”
His memory conjured up a slender, laughing face framed by golden curls. And summer, far away, hot, smelling of sagebrush and dust, walks along the stone-paved streets of Eden, the azure July sky overhead, the air ringing with the piercing cries of swifts. Two years later they were caught and relocated together with the pigeons, crows and other unkempt members of society who did not respect the inviability of the public order and who did not know to use public toilets.
“… I’m used to being called by that name, do you understand?” he mockingly glanced at the doctor, who was frozen solid in her chair; her figure could have been used for the creation of a new character type – “Virtue Offended.”
She did not understand, but she refrained from comment out of a sense of professional ethics.
“So, what has brought you here…” She delved deeper into his file, which, as he noticed with unease, was already rather thick.
The more she read, the gloomier the expression on her beautiful face became. Then the doctor plunged into the depths of her desk, and, after digging around for awhile, extracted a genuine sheet of paper and a vintage pencil, to Tiberius’s surprise.
“Draw me a picture of a mythical animal.”
“What?” At first, he thought he misheard her.
“An animal. Any animal. Maybe an imaginary one,” she said, her fingertips pushing the sheet of paper toward him, literally afraid to touch his hands.
For a second Tiberius didn’t know what to do, but then Normann’s face obediently popped into his mind, and, smiling, he quickly drew a fat pig with a turned-up snout and tail. He thought a bit, then for greater similarity he added coquettish bangs. Contemplating his work, and seeing that the result wasn’t so mythical as it was realistic, he added tiny, out-of-proportion wings to the pig. The psychotherapist took away the drawing and for a few minutes Tiberius her face becoming more and more tragic.
“Yes. Sad, very sad,” she sighed, placing the paper on the table.
“What, specifically?”
“Yes. Paranoid-depressive syndrome, deep neurasthenia, sexual deviations and complexes, repressed desires, sadistic tendencies… And this is far from everything.”
“And all this can be determined from my, um, pig?” Tiberius looked at his piggy with an almost respectful look.
“Of course.” The psychotherapist had already scribble the diagnosis, but deigned to explain. “Look, a turned-up little pig, this is unrealized libido, and the incompletely cloven hooves indicates a serious psychological trauma that you experienced in your childhood. No, just look at those hooves! This is a silent scream for help!”
“Really? I didn’t know that I was thinking about it so deeply. And why sadism?”
“Well, just look at her eyes?”
Here, perhaps, she was right. However limited Tiberius’s drawing ability was, he succeeded in conveying Normann’s look. As a result the pig had a resemblance to the worst, most deplorable representatives of humanity.
“Tell me about your last dream.”
“I don’t dream,” Tiberius lied, but after hearing the doctor mumble something to herself about “functional sleep disorder,” he corrected himself. “But wait, last night I had a dream.”
“Excellent. An erotic one?”
Tiberius nodded, deciding that it would be better to lie about decent, safe and neutral topics.
“Wonderful. Did you dream about a partner who was a stranger?”
“Ah… well, yes.”
“Which options did you use? Anal, oral?” She was clearly happy, discovering at last that her patient had at least some healthy mental reactions.
When is this mockery finally going to end, he thought. And I have to go through a whole series of sessions. Although… Laura said that afterwards his file would be ceremonially put to the flame, so why not end this nightmare and have some fun at the same time?
“Doctor,” he raised his tranquil gaze to the doctor, who was not expecting a disaster. “To be honest, my partner was a woman. And you know what we were doing?”
The hunt for the bluebird
“Tiberius. You are an amazing person!” Michael said, wiping away his tears of laughter, and Laura continued to sip her mint cocktail mournfully, sitting on the little couch in the large office of Doctor Storm. “Within 24 hours they tossed you not only out of jail, but out of a mental hospital!”
“What’s even more surprising,” Tiberius noted softly, “is that they still haven’t kicked me out of the only place – the university – where I, by the way, teach children.”
“This is specifically thanks to me,” said Laura gruffly. “If you continue acting like this, I’ll fire you.”
She turned away demonstratively and scratched Lancelot behind the ear. The bulldog sprawled imposingly on his master’s lap, and drooled on her perfectly ironed linen pants.
“Fire me,” said Tiberius, stretching out sweetly in the chair. “I will live like half of Libertionne – on unemployment benefits, which is more than my teaching salary.”
For the first time in 24 hours he was able to truly relax. Here, in his friend’s office was a veritable oasis in the desert of practicality, speed and progress. Not following the latest fashion trends, blind to external criticism, Michael decorated his office according to his own sense of style. The walls were covered with oak paneling halfway to the ceiling, with dark green wallpaper above it. An old fashioned wooden desk with various drawers and sections. Tiberius particularly liked the 19th-century bronze clock. One of the clock hands squeaked as it moved from section to section, no matter how much Michael oiled it, and the sound it made was rather charming.
Tea was served in thick porcelain cups the color of whipped cream. Even Laura warmed up a bit; she was not looking so angrily at Tiberius, and even smiled when Lancelot silently and unashamedly stole a cookie from the tray.
“Laura, my dear, don’t sulk,” Michael winked at her. “If you had seen the look on the therapist’s face when she called the police, and they refused to have anything to do with him, begging her to take him back!”
“It’s