more important than their micromanagement, and so they left everything as it was. And her brother continued to drown and drown.
Alyona was the only one who had not agreed. So she ran away, following in her brother’s footsteps. She also had no idea what to expect.
At the last moment she decided she’d be lonely without Mishutka.
“And who busted up your face this time?” Whiskas asked.
“I ran into a wall.” Aspirin adjusted his sunglasses.
Whiskas did not bother to smile.
Listening to the beat, watching shadows bouncing in the violet, blue, and yellow lights, Aspirin felt like a snake charmer.
The people on the dance floor, they were in his power. In just a moment, he would boost them up, speed up their pulse, make every one of them feel like the winner of a world race: like thousands of sperm that die on the way, and only one makes it to the end—that’s what each one of them would feel, like a winner. The chosen one! Me! And when they got tired, Aspirin would add a hint of eroticism: let them soften and flow in each other’s arms, let them long for pleasure, and then Aspirin would boost them up again, and finally—for once—“there will be happiness, for everyone, and let no one be forgotten.”
They would never get an Oscar, never stand on top of Mount Elbrus; in all likelihood, they would never even go skydiving. But thanks to Aspirin, they experienced emotions that were not that far from the ecstasy of an artist drowning in a standing ovation. Right at this moment, he created—constructed—a new reality for them, not just entertainment, not just an evening, but another, wondrous, and extraordinary, existence.
He felt like the shaman of a large tribe. He had this honorable position. He sacralized nighttime dances. And he was a creator, because goddamnit, the world was imperfect, and that meant change was possible!
Courage swept over him—not the common, professional kind actors experienced every time they stepped on the stage. No; what he felt was akin to the feeling gladiators must have felt when the door of the cage slid to the side and the first lion sauntered out onto the white sand of the arena, squinting in the bright sun.
Sweat dried on his temples, making his skin taut and itchy. The bruise he had covered with makeup throbbed. People on the dance floor screeched and embraced and danced and lived.
And from a far corner, Whiskas stared at Aspirin, alert and focused like a cobra.
The next day, around noon, when Aspirin was still lounging in bed and Alyona tortured her violin, his phone rang.
“Hey,” Whiskas said. “Mind if I stop by?”
“Umm,” Aspirin did not like this turn of events. “I am not quite dressed yet. I am still sleeping.”
“And what about your daughter?”
“She’s practicing. Why do you want to know about her?”
“Listen,” Whiskas said, “we need to meet up. Are you out tonight?”
“I am in tonight. I cannot be out with my face.”
“Then I will swing by.”
“Sorry, man,” Aspirin said. “But seriously. I am not exactly in a welcoming mood today.”
“Not at all?” Aspirin detected a harsh, unpleasant note in Whiskas’s voice.
“Umm,” Aspirin was rattled. “Why?”
Whiskas leaned forward to make his point.
“Listen, man, I am on your side here. At first you had those thugs chopped up into pieces in your apartment. Those guys are now in a crazy house. Now . . . how are your car windows?”
“Victor, I am not sure I understand. What does it have to do with my car windows?”
Whiskas winced and scratched behind his ear, like a dog. “You can tell me. You know I like you. You are a good guy. And you’re talented to boot. And if I see that you’re having trouble . . . I can’t just sit back and watch it happen.”
“Why do you think I am having trouble?”
“Because it already happened twice. Once—all right, could be a coincidence, two guys losing their marbles simultaneously. But the second time? Fine, a few idiots wanted your car. They were wrong, that’s for sure. But one of them was thrown in the air like a basketball, and his neck was broken. How? Who did it? No one seems to know. There is talk of shadows, monsters . . . demons. It’s a good thing I read this just in time.” Whiskas slapped a month-and-a-half-old issue of Forbidden Truth on the table in front of Aspirin.
“‘Dear editors, my name is Alexey G. I know no one will believe me. You will probably think