A moment before immortality. Juriy Tashkinov
sat down on the asphalt, exhausted, covered in drops of blood, Vika put her hand on my shoulder. Yura looked in our direction. And then he silently shook my hand and walked away, forgetting even about his car.
And yet I loved Vika. No, I needed her not only for procreation, as when I was a voidman. I needed not only her body, like when I was a dem. I looked at my right shoulder: there was no characteristic tattoo on it. I was a man.
The next day I eagerly looked at the paintings that Violetta Semyonovna showed. I could hardly restrain the feelings that suddenly surged: how could this genius artist, with a stroke of his brush, pour out his soul, which remained immortal for four hundred years? Why didn’t I notice this before? Seventeen years of life are wasted. But the rest of my life, which I have only now begun to appreciate, I will not spend on trifles.
Matryoshka effect
I entered my room, although this time everything did not seem so familiar and familiar. Where does this smell of sweat come from, mixed with too much deodorant? Socks are scattered on the floor. The bed is unmade, and she is wearing multi-colored clothes, crumpled into a heap. He walked to the window, disgustedly stepping onto the long-unwashed floor. He pulled back the curtain to dispel the prevailing twilight. I saw posters on the walls: rock bands, scantily clad girls. As soon as the handle was pulled up, the room was filled with moist, cold October air, mixed with the choice swear words of the local «gentlemen» who were constantly sitting at the tables, as well as with the endless hum of cars. But it became fresher, at least you can breathe. A corner of a precariously hidden erotic magazine peeked out from under the bed: what can you take from a teenager? And next to it lay an equally unsuccessfully hidden white book. I wanted to leave everything in place, but curiosity got the better of me.
«Diary of Nikita Sivtsov, 8th grade student» Flipped through. «Behavior – 2, interferes with the lesson», «No homework! 2», «Had a fight with a classmate», «Smokes on school grounds. Parents should urgently approach the school principal for a conversation.» Mathematics test – and then a bad mark. Has he even stopped learning his favorite math? By the way, there were more notes in red ink than shades of blue ballpoint pen. Of course, there is almost no diary kept, so teachers even have to write down subjects in red pen.
The door creaked.
«I asked: never come into my room without asking.» This is my personal space, and you are violating it.
The voice has barely begun to become rough, sometimes breaking into falsetto. The first fluff is above the lip. On the black T-shirt is the inscription «Down with the State.» When I go out, I sometimes take a hat with me, but he still wears a T-shirt. But the main distinguishing feature: a black eye on half the face.
He handed the diary forward. Nikita immediately lowered his head.
– Even a D in math? Last year you only got an A. Remember how you idolized Vera Fedorovna!
– I… I just didn’t understand this topic. It seems like he taught. And then all the rules flew out of my head. And Vera Fedorovna was so unhappy – she sobbed, or did it seem to me? – She is good. The only good person in our… school.
He pretended not to pay attention to his obscene expression.
– Nikit, you’re a smart guy. You can become, for example, a programmer or an engineer. Or you can become like me. that’s fair. I would give anything to go back to school and correct all my math grades and achieve what is now out of reach.
The boy shyly wanted to hide his hands in his pocket, but then another trouble awaited him: a pack of cigarettes treacherously fell out onto the floor.
– You’re already smoking! How many times have you been told – it’s harmful! At your age I also became addicted. And I still can’t quit. Although I tried five times. And then again any trouble, and the hand again treacherously reaches for a cigarette.
A challenge flashed in Nikita’s eyes, and the shyness disappeared as if by hand.
«If I want to, I’ll quit at any moment.» I’m strong, I’m a man! And now I decide for myself: I like it, so I smoke. I’m already an adult.
– An adult, yes. I see you’ve decided to give up on studying and you’re smoking. Did you go to the rally again, wearing that T-shirt of yours? If you are caught, your father will be punished.
«And you’re not my father to give me orders,» he clenched his fists. And some kind of irreconcilable rage appeared in the slitted eyes. His mood changes… just like, in fact, any teenager.
Father… I concentrated, trying to remember the features of his face. But at one time I was taken into Krylov’s gang for my good memory. I was especially good at remembering faces. But I can’t remember the face. And the name… Did I even have a father? «The matryoshka effect,» I think Professor Belgorodsky called this phenomenon that way. And also recursion.
I took Nikita by the elbow and led him to the mirror.
– Look at you. And then at me.
– Well?
– Don’t you see anything strange? – I ask
– Well, you look a little like me, so what? Brother or what? Or uncle?
– Nikit, do you know how many mistakes of my youth I would like to correct if possible? I am you.
Nikita pulled out his elbow and ran back a few steps.
– What? Are you drunk or stoned? Show your pupils.
«I’m sober, I haven’t drunk for five years now.» I repeat once again: I am you, only twenty-five years older.
– Came back from the future to save Sarah Connor?
– No, to save myself, that is, you.
– You don’t look like me. That is, it is a little similar, but so boring, you read the notations. I will never be like that. So, I went.
He didn’t say another word. A couple of seconds later the front door slammed.
I waited until late at night, but fell asleep to the sound of the TV on. And in the morning, as soon as I opened my eyes, I saw Nikita in the news bulletin. More precisely, the guy’s face was blurred, but I recognized a T-shirt with a characteristic inscription: «An eighth-grader, under the influence of drugs, stole a policeman’s service weapon and shot him during an unauthorized rally.»
I burst into tears. It seemed so simple: press the button in Belgorodsky’s invention, and you can correct any mistake of the past.
«It is impossible to correct the past,» Professor Belgorodsky said at our last meeting. «It’s very difficult to fix someone else’s, but you can’t fix your own.» It is advisable not to date yourself, this can lead to the «matryoshka effect». You will lock yourself into a looped period of time. You will meet yourself, trying to talk you out of your actions, then after a certain time you will return to me again to return to the past again, and so on ad infinitum.
– But why can’t the past be corrected?
– There, in the distant past, it’s not you, but a completely different Nikita Sivtsov. And his future is already determined by your past actions.
– But I’ll try.
I tried – so what? I know the future that awaits Nikita. Jail. Then Krylov’s gang. Drugs, prison again. It took me twenty-five years to understand that things couldn’t go on like this. But now nothing can be fixed: they won’t hire me for any job. Steal again?
When the tears dried up, I decided to try pressing the button: what if the recursion breaks and I can return to my time?
Belgorodsky sat in front of me, drinking red wine in small sips.
– Well, are you convinced? «There