Libertionne

There were a few more pages of synthetic alcohol with the constant promotional message about how safe – “light, fast-disappearing effect’, healthy – “contains vitamin additives’, and fashionable – “Catch the wave! Turn on to the world of bright experiences.” A black sheep at the end of the colorful list indicated a couple of brands of “real Scotch whiskey’ (bearing in mind that Scotland had long sing passed away), a dubious wine and five lines of fine print with a frightening warning: “Alcohol is contraindicated for those with even the slightest health problems, people working at enterprises, office workers, children under the age of twenty-one’ etc. etc. At the bottom was a vignette in the form of a beautiful funeral wreath. “They could have written right away ‘contraindicated for everyone’, ” Tiberius thought, amused. Flipping through half of this hefty volume, he looked through the food options and made his choice, something called the pinnacle of French cuisine, but in reality was a slightly flame-seared piece of decent filet steak. Under the section “Chef’s choice” he found the eponymously named house specialty of the Gnarly Duck club. Tiberius with all his heart that the duck met a violent death. While the general public took a whole hour selecting the wine, with Moopechka especially ranting and raving, and decisively tiring everyone out with his comparisons of wine bouquets and aftertastes (and this after hearing in detail how they were made), Tiberius quietly slipped away toward the bar. The end of an entertaining and informative evening of socializing was drawing near, as was the trip home. He wouldn’t be able to get rid of Paul, of course, and he would probably spend the night. He had to mentally prepare himself.

“Whiskey. Bowmore.”

“Oh, of course. Ice, club soda?” smiled the young bartender, effeminately stretching toward the sparkling, mirrored shelf where pot-bellied bottles stood, their amber sides gleaming.

“No, the real thing.”

The smile instantly faded, the young man’s face stretched, and he looked at the strange client with genuine surprise.

“But… why? Have something normal, modern. A light, quickly-passing effect.”

“Today I’m afraid I need something heavy and long-lasting,” Tiberius chuckled.

“In that case… May I?”

“Of course,” Tiberius smiled, extending his hand, patiently waiting while the bartender checked his documents, record of convictions, medical restrictions and insurance coverage.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” asked Tiberius, staring point-blank at the bartender with his impenetrable black eyes. “And I’m you’re first?”

“No…” the youth mumbled, blushing, but then, suddenly understanding the meaning of the question, became even more embarrassed and red-faced. “I mean, yes, I’ve been working here one month, and so far no one has asked for real whiskey.”

Hoping to smooth over the awkward situation, he quickly and obsequiously asked, “How much? A single, a double?”

Tiberius threw a casual glance in the direction of their table. Colin was explaining something to Moopechka, seriously and intently, and the latter, his eyes bulging with zeal, for some reason trying to stuff a huge banana into his mouth. Whole. Unfortunately for Tiberius, with the heavy stare, the whole group turned toward him. Moopechka, with a banana in his mouth, waved at him with both hands. Melissa, pointing at Moopechka, made a heart shape with her fingers; Colin broke out into a sugary sweet smile. Tiberius swallowed.

“The whole bottle, please.”

Tiberius gulped down the first drink, and an invigorating warmth spread throughout his chest, his taut nerves relaxed a bit. He sat down, talked some more with the bartender, and turned his back to the stark reality in the shape of Moopechka and friends, and five minutes went by peacefully and pleasantly. However, as a certain romantic poet put it, nothing under the moon lasts forever. Someone’s hand playfully touched his hip, and Tiberius woke from his sweet reverie of peace and solitude.

“Tibby. Colin and I were discussing the problems of our private life,” Moopechka reported in a low voice.

“Your and his?” Tiberius carefully asked with a certain hope.

“No, of course. Yours and mine. It’s time for us to try something new.”

“What?”

“Well, I mean role-plays. Like all normal couples. For example, a little sadomasochism would really liven up our sex life. I have some cute little handcuffs and a whip, and quite a few marvellous toys.”

Tiberius’s imagined painted an enticing scene – Moopechka, tightly handcuffed to the bed, with a mouth gag (so the indignance would be silent), and he himself would calmly work in peace and quiet all evening. “Hey, great idea.”

Moopechka stuck his nose into Tiberius’s glass, and recoiled.

“You’re drinking real whiskey again? What is this… every time we have a date, you get drunk, and then you’re always rude, savage, insensitive, and cruel,” said Moopechka, tears welling in his eyes, “and there’s never any foreplay, just immediately…”

He sniffed and looked at Tiberius so piteously that the latter nearly relented. The bartender listed to this disjointed but fairly loud monologue with great interest, after which, glancing with admiration at Tiberius, told Moopechka with poorly disguised jealousy:

“You really struck it lucky, man!

Tiberius, grabbing the bottle and glass, returned to the table, leaving Moopechka to pour out his grief to the grateful listener. But there he found no peace.

“Tiberius, meet Melissa!”

Colin was dragging by the arm a rather extravagant woman. Tiberius understood immediately – a bohemian. The woman of art can be seen from a mile away – frequently, instead of attracting attention with their creativity, they attract it with their external appearance. With Melissa, the second one was true. She looked as if she had jumped out of an anime cartoon: hair colored candy-red, striped stockings, a dress suggesting a fairy-tale princess, but even for a fairy-tale princess it was too short. “Fantastic manicure, means she isn’t a writer or an artist. She’s either a designer or a photographer,” thought Tiberius. “Probably a photographer; designers sometimes have to do business with clients, and so they have a slightly different approach to their image.” His guess turned out to be true; no sooner had they met, than Tiberius was forcibly seated in order to view Melissa’s photo album. This masterpiece was called “Dreams about the fantastical” and amounted to a series of photos of languid, half-nude boys and girls, their faces made up in all sorts of ways, and draped in transparent and half-transparent fabric. Tiberius was immediately offered the chance to pose for the next photo shoot as a romantic knight: “You, against a backdrop of wild cliffs, unsheathe your large sword…” Tiberius was saved from following description of his deplorable fate by the appearance of a new member of the group, a girl named Evelyn Young. She turned out to be an employee at a human rights organization, and a ferocious supporter of a society for the protection of animals. Things started to heat up at the table. Melissa “number one” was compelled to prove that her mink coat was fake, and Melissa “number two” apologized for the leather purse, professing her innocence – it was a gift from a female fan! Then, finally, the food that was ordered an hour ago was served. Evelyn succumbed to a critical evaluation of everyone’s plates. Everyone froze before their desserts and salads, while Tiberius unabashedly turned his attention to his bloody steak. Retribution did not take long to crash down upon his rebellious head.

“How can you eat the flesh of a slaughtered animal! Allow me to close my eyes and not look at this!” Evelyn dramatically covered her eyes with one hand and turned away.

Tiberius did not react at all. Sprinkling freshly-ground black pepper on the steaming piece of meat, he was about to tuck into his meal with pleasure. But it wasn’t to be. Evelyn did not abide by her own words – not only could she not keep her eyes shut, but her mouth as well. Furiously raising a plate of sliced apples, she returned to her sermon:

“This is monstrous! I can’t watch this in silence!”

“Why not?” politely asked Tiberius.

“I’m – a fruitarian!”

“What?”

“I don’t eat the flesh of slaughtered animals! That poor bull wanted to live, and because of you… because of you they killed him! Fruitarians eat only fruit that falls to the ground, we don’t tolerate any violence, we eat only that which is natural from the point of view of nature. But this – this is corpse-eating!”

With a picturesque loathing she squinted at Tiberius’s plate, and he, without any embarrassment, began to eat.

“But…” he said, thoughtfully pouring sauce on his meat, “if we’re talking about fruit. Have you ever wondered why they fell on the ground? That’s right, so that their seeds would end up in the soil, that is, to continue the reproductive process. That is, right now you are eating pregnant women. And by the way,” Tiberius added, humorously looking at Eve, who had gone slightly pale, “I would hasten to assure you that if these apples truly fell on the ground, then they were not sent to the store by a respectable supplier.”

At that moment the waiter approached them, wobbling on skinny high heels, carrying a tray laden with glasses. Young and wicked-looking, he surveyed the entire company at the table with an exacting look, and flashed a dazzling smile at Tiberius. Heaving onto the table the wine ordered by Moopechka, he needlessly adjusted Tiberius’s napkin and, throwing him an expressive look, departed. Under the napkin a few minutes later he found a business card with a phone number and an urgent appeal to call. Thinking for a bit, Tiberius quietly placed it into Evelyn’s handbag.

“Colin, enlighten me – you said that the formula is absolutely the same, and only the aromatizer determines whether the wine will be a prestigious brand or a cheap table wine. Then why, despite the identical production cost, a bottle of fake Chateau Petrus, like a hundred years ago, costs an entire fortune?”

“Well, this is obvious,” Colin smiled his professional sales manager smile, that is, paternally condescending, “if someone has the money, they will want to buy the most expensive wine.”

“But why? It’s one and the same garb… I mean healthy beverage.”

“You’re forgetting the most important thing – prestige. Look at how those young men at the next table is watching us, sitting there with his common, cheap Chablis.

Tiberius was not convinced that it was worth throwing away a hundred dollars for an envious look from a bunch of young men, but since he had firmly decided to try to be good today, he didn’t protest. Understanding that Moopechka was not impressed by the Russian classic novel, he secretly ordered something more substantial and traditional – a teddy bear and a bouquet of flowers, which was called “Pride of the Queens.” He didn’t have to be very secretive about it. When a group of friends gets together for a meal, it’s completely natural that everyone sits at the table poking at their smartphones, and they eat with their free hand, not looking at anything else.

Since Tiberius made purchases like a typical man, that is, in a hurry and without reading, the result surprised him a little. And he wasn’t alone. When the glass doors opened silently, letting in the courier, whose thin legs trembled and bent under the weight of a gigantic, scary-looking bear, mentioned in the catalog as a “cute little surprise’, everyone was dumbstruck. The “Pride of the Queens” was also surprising, but in the opposite sense. Before presenting it to Paul, Tiberius snickered as he held in his hand something that looked more like a corsage than the luxurious bouquet in the photograph. Either the florist had a weird sense of humor when naming his creation, or else he had a equally small opinion of the honor and dignity of the above-mentioned persons, God only knew. But Moopechka was completely ecstatic, and Tiberius noticed with an involuntary smile how he was circling in an improvised dance with the horrible bear as a partner. In short, an aging Christopher Robin. Finally he got tired and flopped down at the table, setting the bear between Tiberius and himself.

“He’s so… big,” smiled Melissa.

“Everything about Tibby is rather big,” Moopechka giggled.

Tiberius choked on his “fake Merlot.” And then he turned sharply, because the sound he heard behind his back could have been made only by a person who had just experienced a serious attack of asthma. It turned out that medical attention wasn’t required; while Michael could have perhaps rendered some assistance in this situation, but he himself told Tiberius that there are cases where medicine is powerless to help. Moopechka, both Melissas and Colin were acting like members of an Amazonian tribe who were seeing an airplane land for the first time. Evelyn Young, to her credit, did not change her expression, fully occupied with apples and the censure of the despicable flesh-eaters, this time in her Bodybook app, since Tiberius was not scared.

“It’s Don Largo!” Colin whispered, not looking away from the monitor. “He came to our club, and now we’re going to see him for real!”

His excitement caused him to put his napkin, instead of a piece of lettuce, into his mouth and continued to chew, oblivious. Even Tiberius was interested. What was all the fuss? The crowd at the entrance started to thicken, like bees swarming around an uninvited guest who is after their honey. Finally it was possible to see the person responsible for this pandemonium.

“Who 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, but it’s a little strange. The client has no complaints, everything is paid for, why are you so enthusiastic?”

“You see, I’m in my trial period,” the unhappy minotaur began to explain, haltingly. “There are two weeks left, and the administration is watching closely. What will they say if nobody wants me, even for free? Up to now, I’ve had only the best reviews.”

“What, I have to write a review as well?”

“Well, just a small form to fill out. Here,” the minotaur nimbly ducked under the table, which was draped like a sacrificial altar, and extracted from its dark nether regions a sheet of lined paper.

Tiberius read from the top. “Assessment report of the activity”… – “Not my luck today.” He always felt sorry for trainees. Powerless creatures, their entire career was at risk because of someone’s bad review.

“Let me fill it out,” he signed, taking the piece of paper.

The minotaur fell on his knees before him for the second time.

“You can’t do it so easily! The camera will see it.” He took Tiberius by his lifeless arm. “You’ll like it! I have, you know, talent.”

And then, not waiting for a decision, got down to business. Tiberius closed his eyes and tried to imagine the same doomed Nausicaa, dreamily wiggling her hips over the polished bar countertop. It didn’t work. There were definitely men’s hands touching his thighs, men’s lips expertly but unsuccessfully performing their work. “Okay, let’s try again. We’ll make Nausicaa lay down on the bar. No – the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. No. It’s not happening. Maybe some more whiskey. Aqua vitae. Now why aren’t you working? According to legend, you can raise the dead. Looks like not completely… OK, one last try… No way… Sorry, minotaur.” He opened his eyes and looked at the genuflecting youth. He had seen those eyes and hands somewhere before. Definitely. And very recently. They held a scroll in a brown envelope.

“Sam?” he queried, then, not waiting for a reply, he literally grabbed the bull by the horns and pulled off the gold mask.

To be honest, his student didn’t look particularly confused. Disappointed, but only slightly. But Tiberius flew into a rage.

“My best student! Here?” His voice acquired a poisonous quality. “And going through a trial period! Three different departments wanted you as a graduate student, but you said you had a better career opportunity.” Tiberius gestured widely at the improvised boudoir. “Really?”

“It’s true!” said Sam, still on his knees, but raising his head proudly. “Judge for yourself, sir – when they give me an official contract here, I will be making a thousand a night, plus tips.”

“Who would argue?” Tiberius snorted, “I always said the main thing is to find a profession where you can use your best talents.”