Читать книгу: «Millennial Exorcist»

Глава 1

I was made for other things.

O. Wilde, De Profundis

Mom will never put up with it. Just as with the fact that in my mid, or better, late thirties I’m neither married nor engaged without any immediate plans to become either.

Going to Russia (Russia!!!) as an expat PR specialist was just a tad too much for her.

I guess she would prefer my coming out as a gay, transgender or both, but staying home and pursuing some decent office career, paying out my mortgage for another couple of decades and retiring around 60-65 to start a senior fitness or cooking blog.

But there is a but, I am one of those misfortunates who try to escape from themselves. While Martin Eden failed, many keep cherishing rather vain hopes for a fresh start on a foreign turf.

Oh, I can hear you asking, “Ok, but why the heck Russia? Why not Italy or France with good wines, healthy food and climate, nice music and fine arts all over the place? Why not, by God, good, old Britain? Same language, though with a twist, a change without the shock. Why take your white Oregonian ass to Siberia. Even if Moscow is not exactly Siberia geographically, it still is culturally and politically just as bad”.

Well, I still remember that email written in strangely correct English. You know, that textbook, precise and clear-cut style smacking of the Cold War era. No typos, deliberate avoidance of complex phrases and tenses. Just the amount of emotion prescribed by an old-fashioned template from a business correspondence handbook. That is none. A chilly hello directly from KGB read out with a thick Russian accent with its very distinctive falls and rises making it sound aggressive. Yet, it was not the infamous secret service addressing me.

What it actually was is a message from a recruiter named ….ugh… Snezhana. She represented a tiny but ambitious IT startup (legion is their name and they are many) fooling around with blockchain and, obviously, demonstrating all signs of corporate delusions of grandeur.

After the “Dear Jeremy” line the letter exposed to me the titanic achievements the company made over the first year of operations. The main achievement seemed to be a speech by the CTO delivered in bad English (the link to a video was enclosed) at some executive meet-up in a luxurious venue in Malta (I had to consult the map) and an extensive documentation for a non-existent product published online (another link in the letter).

Then she got down to business and inquired whether I was interested in joining their great team of world best programmers, engineers and managers as a PR specialist and evangelist.

By then I hated IT. This endless parade of yet another app, yet smaller device, yet new and innovative cutting-edge something that at a scale failed to change a thing or achieve anything but helping some first-world customers to kill off some of their precious but vacant time granted by their exuberant, even arrogant life expectancies. Life expectancies there are, meaning of life there is still no. A paradox of modernity.

Well, philosophy aside, I certainly entered negotiations and eventually got the position. Next thing that comes to my mind when I recall this story is a flight to Moscow. Mid-November it was. The plane started descending at Sheremetyevo. The captain said it was around 1 degree Centigrade there. Centigrade? Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, of course they have to use a different scale! Anyways, when the plane dived below the clouds I noticed how gloomy it was. I then asked the girl in a seat next to mine whether it was always that cold. Apparently, she was Russian, despite wearing a smile which I would attribute to the shape of her mouth, though. In a decent though seemingly rusty English she replied that I was actually very lucky. It could be much colder in mid-November, let alone in winter proper. I told her I knew that in winter temperatures could fall below minus 30 in the Moscow region. Then I asked whether it was always that gloomy. Her smile widened, became somewhat mischievous if not outright mean as she said, “No, in fact, it is always sunny at minus 30.”

Russians…

Moscow is a mixture of an overpriced Prague without its gothics and some Mumbai relocated up the globe. I mean Mumbai, not Dubai. No, I don’t want to say that Moscow has actual slums, it doesn’t. It’s just there are days when it somehow achieves depressing you without ghastly sights of extreme poverty. Doesn’t sound too positive, yet I came to like it soon.

Taxi fare is cheap, grocery stores are marvelous and many are open 24/7, food is good and healthy. Locals look up at foreigners if they are white and speak a European language. I had never been so popular with shop girls and bartenders in my whole life before.

Speaking of stereotypes, they may work with the exception of bears and balalaikas. Speaking of the job, it was just like anywhere else. Boring.

For the first three months I worked from the office located in what they call Moscow City or City of Moscow, or Delovoy Tsenter. Intended as a posh sky-scraper heaven, it is a windy, unhomely, misplaced collection of glassy towers that would more become a 1980s cityscape than a modern one dominated by green trends. Anyway I soon moved the bulk of my activities to an apartment I rented in Medvedkovo (yes, the bear corner, you guessed it right). It is an old and comfy district with parks and gardens that struggles to keep its unique flavor and vibes of the past.

It was then that I started thinking I made it. Made my escape from myself a reality.

Глава 2

But, of course, I didn’t…

When did it all start again and why? I have no idea. I was living a calm life. My mind was in a soporific state when you just do your job that you are familiar with and pretend to be creative by occasionally taking the floor at a meeting or making an old and forgotten thing sound new and trendy. Trying to do better? Overdelivering? Hmm… let them chase all the bugs in the product first.

Anyway, I kept the buzz alive, the online community going, got my payslip and did not care to spend too much of my “mana” on something less important than creating a cure for cancer provided that the idea dawns upon me somehow, effortlessly. And to be 100% frank, even for this I wouldn’t probably bother to move my ass. Ok, boomer, meet me, a millennial.

Speaking of us millennials, I belong to the worst type of them all. The early ones who still remember things can be hard to get and still have solid survival skills, imagination, some hidden will and desires conscientiously suppressed. We can, but we would not.

Those younger ones cannot and wouldn’t.

So there I was enjoying my undisturbed life when it was eventually disturbed.

I started having those dreams again. First I tried to convince myself those were just bad dreams with no real consequences. But three months later an article in a newswire shattered my last hopes. It was mercifully (and terribly) translated into English. By then I could speak survival Russian, but with English accepted at work as a corporate language I had no motivation to improve my skills to read news, let alone War and Peace in the original.

So, the article read that a girl of 16 was badly injured in a household gas explosion in some suburban town with a name sounding like Borsch. I flicked through pics and amateur videos of onlookers. Yes, that was it. Exactly the site I dreamt of a couple of days prior to the event and the report.

It was that 1960s house, a squalid apartment, a leaky gas pipe and a girl walking home from school. Unluckily, she had a common cold and could not smell the gas when she entered the apartment. She turned on the light and an odd spark in the poorly maintained wiring caused an explosion.

“Even if she makes it, a lot of reconstructive surgery will be required to restore her looks”, read one of the reports. “But she won't”, thought I knowingly.

Глава 3

Did I feel sorry for the girl who I, as it seems, might have tried to save? Without knowing her name, address, exact timing of the crime...?

Not that time. By then I mostly felt sorry for myself. And angry. I hated this cursed gift that made me have nightmares about oncoming accidents and crimes that were later reported by the media. Little did I know about the nature of this “super power” and would definitely prefer something with more commercial and life-saving potential, like an ability to fly and toss vehicles (under condition that I am spared the need to wear the suit with underpants on top).

All I had instead since puberty was a maddening ability, an obligation better say, to dream of bad things that were going to happen within a couple of days. In most cases, they would happen not far from where I lived. Doesn’t sound like something making me a babe magnet, does it?

Did I ever reveal my secret to anyone?

Yes, I did. At high school I was silly enough to go to our counselor or what was the term.. Well, basically, a shrink. She listened to me with an all-understanding, ever-accepting expression of an angel guardian or Mother Mary herself (Mary was the first name on her badge by the way).

But when I almost believed she was the solution, she started peppering me with sly questions about my relationships with my mother, asking whether “daddy” would beat me, whether I masturbated or felt aroused at the sight of other boys or dead animals, whether I ever tried mom’s clothes on or her makeup…

Unfortunately for her, I failed even here. None of my replies would fit any standard disorder definition. I had healthy relationships with both of my parents, a group of classmates I could call friends and a group of those I considered foes. I had a dog that I liked very much and there was a girl I silently adored. Pretty boring, yeah. Not a movie scenario. All I achieved by this conversation was a strong recommendation to see a psychiatrist and a visit of social workers to our house soon after.

Did I ever try to use my prescience to prevent an accident or a crime from happening? You bet, I did! Never succeeded though. On many occasions, still in my teens, I would ramble around the town after a particularly bad dream trying to locate the place or find the people in time only to fail again and again.

DidI ever feel guilty? Sometimes.

Did I ever try to find a cure for this gift?

Sure I did. After conventional antipsychotics and illegal drugs failed to fix me, I toured the US as well as a good part of Latin America trying to find someone possessing mysterious powers strong enough to rid me of the thing. Hey, healers and physics, to the rescue! No response. Well, to be precise, a response there was and so were bills, but to no avail.

Despite this mayhem I managed to get a degree in marketing and communications from a less than illustrious facility. Its name will ring no bell to you, but it was OK for someone unworthy of the Ivy League. I was also equipped with a certificate in advanced Spanish that I obtained with ease after my trip to Mexico. And this was the main takeaway.

I still remember that ritual performed on me by a local sorcerer of a certain renown. He pretended to be the rightful descendent of a Mayan priest on his paternal side while his mother belonged to a millenium long dynasty of Aztec rulers. Impressive, isn't it? All the names involved were beyond my pronunciation and memorisation ability.

Anyway, I didn’t believe a word from the leaflet. It was a good professional copy created for money by someone with a relevant degree. Yet, I still cherished hopes there could be something behind the ad. Some real thing. So I fixed an appointment with the self-proclaimed cacique and wizard.

He ushered me into a sort of tent, listened to my story while drawing pensively on his picturesque clay pipe. He was wearing a passive, distant countenance and a replica of a traditional native American attire that you can buy from AliExpress or TaoBao.

He then touched my forehead with the pipe’s end, murmured something, coughed and said in a twisted English that he was going to banish all the ill spirits from my head the next day at sunset. I had to fast till then and to visit a local version of a steam bath.

Far from being obese, I was then loyal enough to the SAD and could hardly rejoice at the idea of a fast. Yet, I took the challenge.

Hungry and hopeful for both burritos and spiritual revelations, I came to the sacred venue by the river the next day at sunset, as directed.

The old cacique told me to undress and to step to the fire made at the river bank. The smoke was thick and smelly, I didn’t like it from the start but I was still a believer in bitter medicines like many of us. Soon I found myself wrapped in heavy fumes hearing some distant chanting in an unknown language. I felt lightheaded and suspiciously happy. I began to dance and that’s the last bit of treatment that I remember more or less clearly.

I recovered myself at some small railway station, in underpants. Still no burritos, no ID, no smartphone, no wallet. Shame and shock. The local police had as much fun as they could before contacting my family and relevant authorities.

Definitely it was not the cathartic experience promised by the website that vanished magically by the time I was back home and online.

My Spanish improved though, I picked up a lot of slang and obscenities commonly used by the law enforcers there.

Глава 4

Oh, you are sure to be curious about my sex life, aren’t you my little open-minded freudians? An early bloomer, I came to know myself in the Biblical sense at the age of 7. A child prodigy, wasn’t I? Since then I sought to revisit the experience using various visual and tactile aids, so to say.

Yet, an actual intercourse didn’t occur before I graduated. I’m not uglier or sillier than most guys, but male charisma is definitely something the Creator didn’t deem right to add when writing the recipe for my personality. Or, let’s blame the genes and upbringing. The human factor. Anyway, for quite a while two offline dates with the same girl were as many as I could get before being ditched.

Finally, I approached the matter boldly, got really drunk and went to an open air rave event. There I met Christy. First I thought she was a boy: tall, with square shoulders and slim hips, short and dark hair. From behind she was a he despite being lightly built. I touched her back to ask where the nearest shithouse was. When she turned her head to answer, I knew I was in love at least for the night.

Christy and I, we didn’t talk much and that’s probably the reason for the perfect chemistry between us. I soon won her from her friends (never knew who they were) by bringing drinks. Then we danced till 3a.m. Romantiс, isn’t it? The whole mating display, as it is supposed to be performed. I have vague memories about getting to her place. I would love to tell you we made mad love till the next afternoon, but it was not exactly the case. I clumsily undressed her and started caressing this light, slim, almost surreal yet very feminine body. My gestures were fussy, hands got sweaty and shaky, I kept bumping my head against her neck trying to plant a gracious kiss there, like they do in the movies. I knew women like it. She was quite helpful and responsive, but I was a disaster. I recall coming before even taking off my pants.

At this moment she guessed what she was dealing with. Next half an hour she was giving me a therapy session and then a blow job. An angel, wasn’t she? Christy is the right name for a girl like that. Then I was man enough again to actually have her.

We met several times more, but it has never been a serious relationship you discuss with your friends, followers or parents. I now think Christy gave me those extra dates just to keep me confident and because she had no better options at that moment. Anyway, she was one of the most efficient coaches I have ever had. I wish my other mentors were that patient, interactive and involved.

My other dates were molded after Christy: tall, often taller than me, athletic and slim, androgenic, somewhat angelic beings. Fortunately, these girls tended to have little interest in matrimony. Just like me. More or less millennial. We shared bed and breakfast, sometimes our thoughts, but never our bank accounts, loans or second names.

I learned to touch their bodies in a way that their instant pleasure would become mine. I learned to ask and give, but I am not sure I have ever even hoped, planned or wished to love for real.

Глава 5

Fastforward. We are back in Moscow.

So, the dreams were definitely back giving me fears and headaches. I kept working and even partying, sometimes checking new venues in the downtown where I had little risk of running into a serious need to practice serious Russian.

But these dreams were a looming threat, what’s more, sometimes there was a minor event involved. Such that had no chance of getting media coverage, let alone being translated.

These are accidents like a child eating all his mother’s sleeping pills or choking on a lego piece, or an old woman slipping on the ice and breaking her hip bone.

It was a constant buzz of minor mishaps occasionally shutted out by major events.

By the way, hasn't it occurred to you that not every crime is recognized as such? Many are never reported and a lot of them fail to be ever discovered or investigated? Well, now you are aware of it and nothing will ever undo this awareness.

Have I ever tried to make a fortune by participating in a talent search or reality show? No. I did try finding the likes of me and I still attempt to now and then. But, believe me or not, shows are a big fake and so are all self-proclaimed mediums, star-gazers and other high school dropouts foraging on mystical mentality. Remember the cacique? His approach was on the extreme end, most would just do with a cheap show and bill you for it.

The more time passed the more certain I was getting that if a person with a similar curse exists, they keep the lowest profile possible.

Speaking of crimes, one of my earlier attempts to make myself useful to society was when I tried to at least report a crime disguised as an accident. It was a middle-aged woman walking along the river bank late at night. Maybe she was trying to lose weight and was taking a walk to add some steps after a long shift with overtime. As always, the prescient was just a still image of a pair of hands tearing a purse from her while she was falling down into the water. A couple of days later I found the accident reported by the local paper. The police and the coroner found no evidence of violence (like bruises or scratch marks), the woman seemed to have got dizzy walking and fallen into the water. According to her relatives, she could not swim. It was concluded that a blood pressure surge made her lose her balance and fall. As for her belongings, the purse, well, it was in the river, rivers do flow... I called the police and told them it was not exactly an accident though not a premeditated murder either. They started asking how I knew and whether I was present on the site. I decided not to push further and hung on them (yeah, I still think receivers). They called me back. Scared to death, I said the event report made me emotional and I happened to know from rumors and my own experience that it was not a good neighborhood. I only meant to say that it was worth looking into all possibilities, like that of an assault. I was beating in retreat and managed to narrowly escape the system. That time at least.

Twice I dreamt of serial crimes when they were committed in my state. Fortunately both times the police knew those were strikes from killers they were already after. Yet, one was still at large by the time this story started, and I ...I knew the last victim was still undiscovered, lying dead by the mirror in the comfort of her overdecorated interior. What could I do? What should I have done? I kept silent. I would draft and re-draft anonymous letters to this and that newspaper, but I have never sent any of them fearing they will trace me down and start interrogating. Looking back there, I was right.

If I had revealed myself, I would have at best ended up a guinea pig in some research facility. Most probably though I would be committed to an asylum or jail for misleading the authorities because even real powers are not easy to prove.

So, never trust those bragging about their supernatural abilities. That’s the takeaway for the chapter.

Глава 6

Prescient dreams were back after a brief respite that I attribute to some fine-tuning in my mental machinery after the relocation. Russia was not far enough. Still inhabited by humans who have a nasty habit to die and to cause each others’ deaths.

I can hear you asking whether I considered a more reclusive life-style ever before? By then I actually knew it wouldn’t help. Going far away was my last desperate hope. One of the worst nightmares I have ever had before this story started ruined my time with dad in a camping area in the middle of nowhere. A freshman then, I still cherished illusions about what I would internally refer to as my condition. I hoped to get rid of it or to learn to use it somehow. There in the wilderness minor local events were nonexistent for the want of people and could not bother me, yet the most gruesome atrocities queued up to haunt me, as if suddenly enabled with a direct line with me free from any noise of mundane events. My brain cleared from the usual traffic and became a freeway for dreadful things from all over the country and maybe beyond.

All the nation’s serial killers, rapists, worst car, bus and airplane crashes with multiple victims, natural disasters crowded at the gateway to my mind routed by some supernatural TCP/IP.

Really, I’d rather deal with the local agenda jamming the air with lonely elderly people who occasionally die at home failing to timely dial 911 on that fancy device they got from their social worker or from a daughter-in-law. I would do with young pranksters occasionally taking their own lives trying to impress social media with a fancy selfie or a girl of 60 found dead after an adverse reaction to some beauty or rejuvenation procedure.

What made me think that Moscow will feel differently? Hope? A silly concept indeed. It should be censored and cancelled like Gone with the Wind. I guess when people emigrate they mainly hope that it is less painful to be an alien in an alien environment than to be an alien in a place where you are supposed to be and feel like a native, be accepted just the way you are.

Does the “rightfully alien” policy work? I cannot answer for everybody, but in my case it definitely failed.

Yet, socially and financially I had never done better. I was living the life of a white male in a so far mostly whiteman’s land. Oh, I can now hear you calling me a racist and getting ready to throw this book away with repulsion or delete it angrily from your device and report your feelings to the publisher. Wait a sec. Let’s first talk it over a bit, shall we? You will always be able to hit some kind of a dislike button and rant in some review section. Those are 24/7 online receptacles of your anger and subdued emotions. Moreover, alternative rant and whine options may well be released before you finish the next line. The global economy needs you to generate more content and kill some time. So why hurry?

I believe there is outright racism (bad) and common, domestic xenophobia (tolerable and natural).

By racism I mean any violence or actual discrimination against other people because of their gender, color, religion, sexual preferences, whatever… And it is inacceptable. Common xenophobia is in our genes, let’s admit it and make our lives easier and happier. This attitude is just another element in acknowledging that we are in fact different. And you know what? There is nothing wrong with gravitating towards your own kind and being open about it. Likewise the opposite is ok as well. But in this case make sure you respect the majority you chose to join. When in Rome… do not wear burkas. Indeed, if you chose another country to live in, it must be for some reasons, for benefits that your own country or culture failed to offer. These benefits come at the price of respecting the host nation, its traditions, cultural heritage, etc. Fair enough?

Oh, there is the issue of colonial legacy, especially visible in the God blessed USA. I know, I know, but what will happen, if we dig another millennium back? Two millennia more? Who will pay the British for oppression they suffered from the Roman Empire? Who will restitute losses suffered by nations conquered by Alexander the Great? Maybe all women should receive some welfare for having been oppressed for centuries. Or who should reimburse who when it comes to Russians and Tatars? It is complicated to say the least.

One of the many reasons why I have an immense respect for some Jews is that they often first to tell Jewish jokes. Indeed the current fight for the right of identity now threatens the very notion of identity. A rainbow becomes duller and duller and is likely to turn into 7 shades of grey.

Well, I am digressing, but I hope you got my idea: I am a white male and ready to proudly parade and show off, yet I absolutely adore the Platters, admire Lisa Meitner and Jane Austin, I a great fan of Ghibli Studio, Korean movies, Chinese cuisine and Russian vodka. I could not care less about your size, as long as we are not sharing a bed. Am I body-positive? Yes, but not in the trendy sense. I think the recent revenge of the fat, obviously inspired by some FMCG marketers, again failed to benefit 99% of the Earth’s population who are neither model-thin, nor remarkably fat. They are unacceptably in between.

But, where was I in my story? Partying in Moscow and trying to quell my internal monster zoo.

Basically, I was rather deranged and only hoped my problems do not affect my performance at work too much. Born without a silver spoon, I still had to make my living. I was nothing unique as a professional, but in Russia I was paid exuberant wages, especially compared to the locals. Even being better than me, a local specialist could never get anything near my level of compensation. Why? He was local, he had to bear it. To me it is a form of real racism, by the way.

It was then when I was seriously considering killing myself with a massive dose of alcohol in some posh bar that I met Yeva. Not Eva or Eve, but Yeva with palatalization, like it is pronounced in Russian. She insisted on being a local girl even in the name.

She was sitting alone at the small table by the window not looking at anyone. She had a brilliant view of the city for her alone that night. “Pretty much my type”, I told myself, though I never learned whether I was hers. At least I do know she liked tall guys which I am.

She looked like a fashion model, but void of any glamour. She had the eyes of an Orthodox icon though they were grey-blue. From the very first moment I noticed her exquisitely shaped hands with eaten or splintered nails. For some reason all seemed to work together perfectly creating well...Yeva.

It was actually she who struck the conversation by commenting on my choice of poison that evening when I was strolling by her to my table with several shots. She said those were not the local forte and recommended a straight tequila, whiskey or just vodka.

She somehow guessed Russian was not the language to address me and spoke English with a faint accent which might just as well be a particularity of her speaking manner. I later learned she was actually in content and had a major in languages.

That night nothing happened. I mean, no sex. Maybe I was too drunk to even try getting laid. Maybe I didn’t really fancy it. We just talked till early hours in the morning and the conversation never stopped. We discussed everything from the origins of the Universe to the silly billboard she spotted from the window. And it was still a lot more to talk about when the bartender told us that unfortunately they had to close. We kissed goodbye, and only back home I understood that hadn’t asked for her phone number or email. First I was waiting for the right moment, then I just kept talking and was somehow sure that we had already exchanged all those details. Next week I picked the same bar again in a vague hope to see the girl again. In the end, she was quite right about the beverages; straight vodka gave me much less hangover than all those fancy shots.

And luckily there she was. Alone. She noticed and nodded, inviting me to take a seat by her side. It was actually then that I learned how to properly pronounce her name. She was very strict about it. We were about the same age and place in life save for my closetful of skeletons.

Not a thrilling way to start a relationship, I admit, but that’s how it was. A couple of weeks later she became a part of my life and I almost couldn’t imagine there was a time when I hadn’t known her. I suggested she move in with me. She chuckled and said she was too old to change her habits and smart enough not to try changing anyone else’s. That was my journey in knowing all about Yeva. The beauty of it was that it was never quite all. Actually, she was strange verging on being a freak (her own definition). Even her almost classical beauty did not seem to benefit her socially. I mean she was beautiful and attractive by anyone’s standard, but she did nothing to make herself pleasant, nice, loveable or merely conspicuous. The expression on her face was always her own, never corresponding to a convention or fashion, or trend. It could be interpreted as autistic, if it were not for her ability and eagerness to respond to every word, every breath, every slightest change in a mood of a person she was with, and she wanted to be with. She was intensely present and “on”.