Labyrinth of reflections (15 page)

The guard in the corner glances at me but stays silent. I can't help it and ask:

– Do the … customers happen?

I poke the brown album with my finger. The guard nods slowly.

The violet album. I turn it over in my hands trying hard to think of anything, then open it at the first page carefully: what if granddads are there?

She-goat.

I mean it: she-goat, the young one, whitish, with sharp short horns.

I don't laugh, I'm too exhausted already. But it's impossible to take a real goat into the deep so it's either a human operator or a program… that imitates sexual stereotypes of the young spoiled she-goat.

Granny, go milk the goat.

The three albums remain: the white, the green, the yellow. I open the white one, for some reason being tortured by thoughts of elves, angels and other heavenly creatures. Wrong guess, it's just women. As it should be, the famous top-model dressed in an evening dress

from Cardin is on the first page. Okay, I'll examine the dress later. I weigh the green album in my hand. What else have left that could feed the mighty erotic fantasies? Kids, of course. I open the album. A-ha. Juvenile millionaire, the movie star and aging housewives' favorite. Go help your Granny to hold the goat kiddo.

The yellow album. I guessed right again. The girl's face is vaguely familiar, I think she's an actress too. The entourage is amazing: the beach spreading to the horizon under the rising sun. Instead of tanning idly, better bring the bucket of goat milk into the house, baby.

Having finished with the most 'all' of offered amusements, I fill the goblet with wine, gesture at the pile of albums with non-traditional partners, the guard picks them up silently and brings away.

I had to take a better look at that one, with animals. I wonder, are there young crocodiles and the swans, ripened as Madam? Though, even if there are not, they'll be organized at the customer's request. Even the green squid or pit-bull.

I start looking through the white book making the girls to strip from time to time.

The choice is staggering. The movie stars and models end quite soon, followed by unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar but cute. I can't help myself and look at the very end of the album.

The clean white sheet is there and the title: "Draw your own happiness yourself".

Yeah, nobody would leave this place unsatisfied.

I start to browse the album faster. After all, it's possible to look at naked beauties, both still and moving, by less expensive means that being in the deep.

The African in palm leaf skirt on her hips, the Eskimo in furs, the Korean on the mat, the Polynesian with the ring in her nose… there's no racism in virtuality.

I turn the pages even quicker. One page, another and another…

Vika.

I freeze gazing at the girl that smiles to me every morning.

Madam appears quietly as a ghost, sits by my side and asks:

– Do you want more wine, Gunslinger?

I nod. Looks like I have spent a long time sitting here and looking at Vika. It was an evening twilight on the picture, she sat on the railing of the wooden verandah, the dark forest could be seen behind her, the dim yellow lantern in the high grass, the black mirror of the pool.

– We have many different customers here, – says Madam thoughtfully, – Some of them prefer movie stars, others – goats…

A slight smirk.

– Who is this girl?

Madam looks at me puzzled.

– Does she have a real prototype? – I ask.

The brothel mistress leans on my shoulder and looks at the picture for a long time.

– I don't have right to answer such questions Gunslinger. I even have no idea. It's thousands of faces here. Many of them might seem familiar to you, – a slight grin, – but this is not more than just a coincidence. Does she remind you somebody?

– Yes.

– Somebody real?

– Not exactly… – I cut my one-side openness, – Madam, can I… meet this girl?

– Of course, – our gazes meet, our faces are close, irony and mockery are in her eyes. – Ten dollars an hour. Forty dollars a night. Our prices are moderate, affordable to any hacker.

– You're cruel, – I say.

– Yes. When it seems to me that a nice young gentleman starts getting crazy, I'm cruel.

I take out the credit card.

– Forty dollars?

– Yes.

She accepts the money, hesitates, then says:

– Gunslinger, please listen to one story… Once there was a small silly girl, she studied in college, liked to hang in discos and to flirt with guys. And she loved a singer. He appeared on TV often, was interviewed, his pictures always were on magazine covers. He was a good singer and he sang about love. The girl believed in love very much.

– I know how these stories end, – I say. Not only Madam can be cruel.

– Once the singer arrived in her town during his tour, – Madam goes on.

– The girl was on all of his concerts. She jumped out on the stage with flowers and the singer kissed her cheek. Of course she had got what she wanted. On the second evening she entered his hotel room and left in the morning only. And never came to his concerts since. No, the singer really turned out to be a nice guy and a beautiful man. He was tender and sweet, sharp minded and cheerful. The girl didn't regret anything. But she didn't believe in love anymore. You know why?

– She mixed an illusion and reality, – I answer.

– You understand. Yes, sure. It would be better if he was dumb and dirty bastard. It would be much better. The girl would find the other ideal or would still love the singer's image. But this way… it was too much like a mirror, the love to reflection, the true and perfectly clean one. She really had met her dream, had found her ideal while it must be loved from a distance.

I nod.

Sure, Madam… Of course, the wise brothel mistress. Definitely, all-knowing master of love and sex.

I know.

– I'm sorry Madam, please remind me, have I paid you already?

The woman sighs.

– Follow me Gunslinger…

We ascend the stairs, there's a corridor, doors. Madam takes me to the door with number 6 and touches my shoulder.

– Take care Gunslinger… And by the way, the story that I've told you

– it happened not to me. But I know lots of such stories.

There's not a room but a garden behind the door, the night garden, crickets chirp softly, the air is fresh and cool, the dense grass is under my feet.

What did I expect after all? The hotel room with a squeaky bed and sheets damp due to frequent washes? This is what's good about virtuality: one can make the house's inner space as big as desired.

I walk towards the lantern light in the grass, my movements are slow and sluggish, drowsiness have almost retreated but the lead-heavy exhaustion have come instead.

I see the small house, either a good 'dacha' or a modest cottage, nobody around. The lantern shines lonesomely and sadly. For a moment it seems to me that merciful Madam decided to leave me alone. No, hardly. Compassion is one thing but the business is always on the first place.

I sit by the lantern – this is an antique kerosene lamp in net case. Those are used to descend underground. Into the deep.

The tiny moth circle around the lamp, bounce against the glass powerlessly trying to break into the light. Humans are much more stupid than the moth, they always manage to find a fire to burn their wings, that's why they are humans.

I don't hear the steps, just the hands lie on my shoulders, unsurely, shyly as if accustoming.

– Is it always so silent here? – I ask.

– No.

I shiver. Even her voice sounds familiar.

– It depends on the guests.

– I like silence, – I say, still not turning around.

– Me too, – she agrees, maybe in order to make a good impression on me, maybe sincerely.

I dare to turn around.

She looks just as on that picture. A short skirt, not a 'sexually' short one, just comfortable summer clothes, smoke grayish blouse, gray sandals on her feet, dark hair tied up with a narrow band on her forehead. The girl looks at me seriously, examining me as if I'm not the customer whom she has to serve but really just a guest whom she might accept or kick out into the night.

– I was called Gunslinger all day long today but you better call me Leonid.

She nods in agreement.

– And… if you don't mind, – I add. – If possible, I'll call you Vika.

The girl stays silent for so long that I decide that I have hurt her accidentally. But finally she just asks:

– Why? Do I remind you somebody?

– Yes, – I confess. – I'll forget anyway and will call you by that name. Let's better avoid this.

– Okay, – she agrees sitting down by my side, outstretches her hands and warms them above the lantern as if above the fire, – I get used to names easily.

– Me too.

We sit in silence. I feel falling down slowly – deeper and deeper…

– Vika…

– Yes, Leonid?

– Will I look very stupid if I fall asleep now?

– I don't know, – she says, – Was it a hard day?

– The hard ones are still ahead.

– There's a bed in the house.. as you understand.

I nod. I don't want to stand up and leave alive silence for the dead one.

– But if you want, I'll bring you comforter.

– Thanks, this would be just great.

She rises and I gather remains of my strength.

Abyss, I'm not yours… let me go , Abyss…

Firstly, I went to the bathroom. Luckily the suit and the helmet have long enough wires. Then I lagged to the sofa and fell on it throwing the pillow aside: the head in the helmet is lifted high enough even without a pillow. My neck will grow numb by the morning, but I don't want to leave now.

– Vika, turn the deep on… – I whispered to Windows-Home. The colorful whirl follows and I'm in the deep again.

– What did you say? – Vika stands by me. The one that is alive… almost…

– No, nothing.

I take the comforter, spread it out on the grass and lie down. The girl sits by my side. I look up at the stars, they are so close, so alluringly bright. I lack just transparent light wings to fly up and crash against invisible glass…

– Vika, aren't you lonely here, in this nook?

– Why do you think it's a nook?

– The stars are too bright.

– No. I like it here…

She lies by my side and I shift on the comforter a little to give her more space.

– Do you like the sky? – asks Vika.

– Yes. I like to look at the stars. But I have no idea what their names are.

– Why would they need the names we give them… – Vika touches my hand.

– Look, the star have fallen. Just above us.

– We could go and search for it, – I say seriously. Vika doesn't answer right away and I understand with horror that I'll have to rise now.

– No, – she decides. – Your feet are failing you Gunslinger. We'll look for it in the morning. It'll just cool down by that time and it'll be possible to pick it up.

– It's too much light in the morning, – I note. – Better tomorrow in the evening.

– You're strange, – says the girl quietly. – Okay. Let's look for it tomorrow.

– Had you ever found a fallen star?

Vika stays silent but I can feel how she shakes her head.

– Virtuality took the sky from us, – I whisper.

– You understood it too?

– Of course. The world leaves into the deep, into reflection of reality. Why would one fly to the Moon or to Mars if any planet is reachable here and now? The passion have gone. The interest have gone too.

– But computer technologies are developing rapidly.

– Oh really? "Octium" is not more than just very cool "686"… – I purposefully call Pentium-Pro by unaccepted name. – Nothing new was invented in last five years, we are just marking time.

Vika laughs softly

– Oh geez… an argument about technological developments… Leonid, you're in the brothel, remember?

– I know… You're bored?

– No, but… I just have weaned of the talks like this…

She pauses then slightly touches my cheek with her lips.

– Sleep. You falter, Lenia.

I don't argue, I don't want to argue with her.

All the more, she is right.

I close my eyes and fall asleep – instantly.

I see a dream. I often see dreams – the consciousness gets so exhausted during the day that relief is absolutely necessary, it's what the dreams are for, to save us from overload of impressions, to finish what was left unsaid.

I don't remember my dreams usually, just messy remains whirl in my head, not completely understood. But now the dream is bright and imprints into consciousness, maybe because I sleep in virtuality.

I'm standing on the stage, the heavy curtains' cloth is behind me. There's a man with a guitar on the stage, he's motionless as if chained by invisible chains. He sings but the words don't reach me. It's the deep between us, the Deep that became alive, that turned into transparent wall. I strain myself trying to walk to him, to break the wall and to hear the words but the deep is heavy and resilient like a rubber slab. It throws me back, I fall on my knees and freeze, unable to move. The singer turns his head and looks at me. It seems that he starts to sing louder, but I can't hear him anyway. I'm chained by the deep, I'm swaddled, helpless.

The singer nods and turns away, I suddenly understand that this is Unfortunate from "Labyrinth", the one I have to save… to save instead of standing on my knees under invisible rubber heaviness.

But I have no strength anyway.