Бесплатный фрагмент - Observer

Prologue

In a world where solitude intertwines with faith in fantasy, where a person finds solace and true existential fulfillment, each of us in this labyrinth of existence can become the narrator of our own stories. One of these stories is dedicated to the life of the protagonist of our novel, Richard Ortiz. This character, seemingly brought to life within the pages of a book and lost amidst the landscapes of two drawn worlds in his diary, yearned to unravel his own history, of which he knew nothing.

However, his ordinary life takes an abrupt turn one day when Richard crosses paths with Hugh Tellman, the only person who held the keys to Richard’s enigmatic past and that of his family. Hugh was prepared to assist Richard in unlocking the doors concealing the answers to questions that had plagued our hero throughout his life.

“Black Angels”

Part 1

There are only two cases in this life

when everything is possible:

when a person is drunk

and when they are inventing stories.

— Muriel Barbery..

The cards fly onto the table. Players match their bets, skillfully picking up champagne glasses from trays. Patiently fingering the chips, a stranger in a red suit waits for the right moment and goes all-in. At the beginning of the game, he gets a “full house,” followed by an “ace and five straight,” and once again adjusting his glasses and theatrically flipping his cards onto the table, Lady Luck’s favorite collects “four tens” on the river and sweeps the pot in his direction.

“Luck favors the reckless,” Mickey murmured almost inaudibly, glancing at the dull and tinkling sound of ice cubes in his glass. “And in my mouth, the taste of canned tuna, an operatic suit as if Rudy himself is at the table,” he added, alluding to the name of the character from the movie “Knocking on Heaven’s Door’, “but in my hands, a solid pot. Incredible!”

Mickey waved his hands in amazement, as if not quite grasping how, through their own foolishness, people, especially those willing to defy luck and their reflection in the mirror, managed to amass a fortune.

“No one, Chad, believe me, no one knows what will happen next,” he continued, flipping a coin with “heads” on both sides. “People I loved now communicate with me through lawyers. Every one of them! And why? Because Mickey Ortiz once told them, ‘Look for diamonds in your own ass!’ People trust only money, Chad. That’s what matters. Not words, not vows of fidelity under the wedding veil, only bills. Everyone was outraged, but at the same time, they started pulling down their pants until luck thoroughly screwed them right in the rear. That goes for us too, doesn’t it?”

No response received.

A second later, Mickey catches a glimpse of a dark silhouette in the reflection on the chrome panel of a bookshelf, which drifted and disappeared behind the golden, bright light of a large crystal chandelier.

It was Chad’s reflection. He continued to pace slowly along the large wooden table, impatient and diluting the glass of Irish whiskey, which his old friend Christopher had kindly supplied from Birmingham.

The monitor in Chad’s office continued to broadcast the game. On the wall to the left of the screen, there was a control panel for surveillance cameras, allowing them to peek into every corner of the casino. Behind it stood Chad himself, along with three burly men from his personal security detail.

“For a couple of weeks, I need to make a trip to New York,” he said after a suspenseful pause. “You’ll have some time to think, consult with your people…”

“But I thought we had an agreement?” Chad waved his hand dismissively. “I’ve told you, I don’t make decisions on my own. Your situation is getting too messy — I suggest we put an end to these experiments and spare the kid.”

“The kid? That’s my son!” Mickey erupted. “You brought this project into my lab, and in a matter of days, you got what you wanted!”

Silence was broken only by Chad’s measured steps. At some point, Chad approached and, placing his hand on Mickey’s shoulder, continued to speak with the same calm tone:

“Mickey, ‘Ragnarok’ impressed not only me, but right now, neither Christopher nor I are ready to fund your lab. The deal is done,” Chad impatiently removed his black coat from the chair and, intending to leave the office, added, “You see, there’s no line between your genius and madness… And most importantly, your child and Cathy have been dead for a long time, many years, and you keep their bodies at your home.”

At the end of the hall, there was a rustling sound. The bodyguards exchanged worried glances, as if silently asking each other if they had all heard the same thing.

“I’m only interested in business, and all of this,” Chad hesitated, “has gone too far…”

Haunted by insomnia, Chad mentally gazed upon the pale, lifeless bodies of Cathy and Richard lying on high metal tables, their eyes veiled in death. It seemed to him that he was still within the walls of that dreadful laboratory, struggling to justify his own actions: the murder of innocent people. He saw their faces wrapped in decaying cloth and remembered how the distraught Mickey had desperately tried to bring his wife and child back to life. Nightmares plagued Chad, as soon as he closed his eyes. They frequently visited him and spoke to him with a vile, raspy voice: “They speak to me…”

“Their consciousness still lives on,” Mickey exclaimed, his voice tinged with hope. Chad flinched. “Ragnarok” was just a tiny part of the whole experiment. They are dead, yes, but their consciousness continues to exist as a computer code, hallucinations, you know… They… They are everywhere! Can’t you see?”

“Who, Mickey? You? A man digging his own grave? You’ve gone mad! Admit it…” Chad responded.

The image on the monitor unexpectedly started to glitch and distort, as if what was being seen had been recorded on a cassette with a damaged magnetic tape. Bright flashes of light drew Chad’s attention. He closely examined the image and noticed the silhouette of a boy standing in the center of the gaming hall, tilting his head upward and staring motionlessly into the camera. Chad decided not to pay it any mind.

“Listen,” Mickey’s voice rang out again, “nobody harbors illusions about immortality. I’m sober and just trying to conduct research while we still have time.”

“Not us, Mickey, but you. Don’t involve me in this again,” Chad threatened. “It’s madness! If the CIA finds out that you’ve used the project for personal purposes, they’ll sentence you to death, and me, as an accomplice, will get a life sentence. All because of your stubborn principles! Even though it’s not my child, I won’t let you experiment on him.”

Grabbing his bag, Chad glanced back one last time and said, “Is the whole world going insane, or is it just me?”

With his security detail in tow, he hurriedly made his way to the exit, never confessing to Mickey’s murder.

Mickey stood still, gazing into nothingness. He felt the past and present intertwining like diamonds in the sand, vanishing into an abyss. His hands trembled, and his face was contorted with anguish.

Chad withdrew, leaving Mickey amidst the cards and the cacophony of the casino. Somewhere in the distance, the buzz of conversations and laughter echoed. But for Mickey, it was merely a distant echo of the past.

Mickey took a step toward the table where the drama had just unfolded. He carefully collected the cards from the tabletop and began to stack them together, as if attempting to reconstruct the fallen fragments of his life.

“Ragnarok” had become not only his stumbling block but also a monument to his madness. Mickey realized that he had no choice anymore. He needed to conclude his experiments and erase the traces of his insanity. Yet now, he knew that his actions had consequences he could never forget.

The monitor in his office continued to broadcast the game, but Mickey was no longer interested in it. He exited the room cautiously, leaving the casino behind.

Chad’s words echoed in his mind: “There is no boundary between your brilliance and madness.” Mickey understood that he had to find a balance between his research and the human values he had lost.

Part 2

From the diary of Richard Ortiz.

English newspaper “Weekly Post.”

Birmingham, 1996.

“… Dozens more people in Spain have fallen victim to a mysterious illness,” reports a correspondent from the Link Press agency. The total number of victims has reached seven thousand people. The first outbreaks of the virus were recorded in November of last year on the Isle of Man, where, according to a Weekly Post source, secret developments of biological weapons were allegedly taking place. However, the authorities of the United Kingdom deny this information. According to the analysis of the Epidemiology Research Center, the virus unknown to science is capable of affecting the human central nervous system, thereby causing abnormal behavior. Similar phenomena were observed in 1974 when over three thousand people, including women and children, died in a mass suicide in the city of Belize. According to one version, the event was not a suicide, as reported by the FBI, but rather a massacre by local activists. The true cause of the tragedy remains a mystery…”

***

“Strange, but Christopher hasn’t told you or your people about his trip to Birmingham,” Mickey said hastily, trying to detain Chad. “You’re friends with him, aren’t you?”

Upon hearing this, he froze, gripping the door handle and allowing a glimpse of the tattoo on his muscular neck. It was a black angel, a celestial outcast — he had unintentionally committed an evil act, but only realized it afterward.

Chad abruptly turned around and approached Mickey, rudely invading his personal space.

“Nothing of what you know matters anymore,” Chad declared firmly. “Even if you broadcast it live, tell the feds, print it in every darn newspaper in the city… And you, Mickey,” he continued, jabbing a finger into Mickey’s chest, “will be first in line among the same psychopaths who see hallucinations and even kill people in the spirit of the medieval inquisition. Act now! I’ll deal with Chris myself.”

Chad had always harbored a deep, visceral fear of falling into the hands of justice: casinos, drugs, involvement in covert projects, corruption. Somewhere deep down, he suspected that sooner or later, by delving into the investigations in Maine, the FBI would reach Chris and turn him into their personal informant. The investigative team needed only a hint, a seemingly casual phrase dropped during a phone conversation, to arrest Chad and send him to a lifetime in Rikers. He was acutely aware of this, but in that moment, standing next to Mickey, entirely different thoughts troubled him.

After the murder of his wife, Cathy, and son, Richard, Mickey had transformed into a furious, vengeance-driven madman, willing to do anything to find the killers and turn their lives into an endless hell. In just a couple of months, when Mickey learned the names of the culprits, he was finally able to execute his planned scheme.

“First, you and Christopher will go down to a cozy restaurant on the ground floor to discuss the upcoming deal in New York,” Mickey continued. “It’s all quite simple. In the end, he’ll hand you an envelope with forged documents, just like always, shake your hand, and offer to drive you to the airport. You’ll agree, but here’s the thing,” he whispered, leaning in close to Chad’s ear, “this will be your last trip.”

Mickey cast a glance at his bodyguards, who stood near the door, their tense expressions suggesting they were awaiting a signal from Chad.

“As soon as you step out that door, your guys will put a bullet in my head. And only then will the deal be done: no witnesses, no papers… Just another Tarantino scene. (Minus the brilliant dialogues),” Chad said with an expression of cold indifference on his face.

The look of cold indifference on his face was replaced by confusion. Lighting up a cigarette, Chad contemplated for a moment, then grabbed the cigarette with his teeth and silently headed towards the exit.

“Just another harmless hallucination, Doc. I see dead people and harm no one. So, in my hallucinations, just like in me, there’s nothing bad…”

Part 3

“Echoes from the Past”.

Before Chad appeared a rather unexpected, chilling scene: a narrow, dimly lit corridor lined with people dressed in black, identical and faceless, silently gazing at the floor. At the end, he spotted the silhouette of a boy sitting on the stairs, pressing his head against his knees and swaying back and forth while softly whispering something.

“Daddy, I’m here!” suddenly echoed a piercing child’s voice from the darkness, causing him to startle and take a step back.

The people along the walls remained motionless. Seeing Chad, the boy headed towards the office. He held a candle in a high-raised hand, casting dim, flickering light around the room. His movements appeared as if he were a wooden puppet on hinges: abrupt and slightly awkward. Chad’s resolute features contorted with fear and horror with each step the boy took, making him cry out in fright:

“Who is this, Mike?” (pushing one of their bodyguards forward).

Upon hearing his voice, the people in black simultaneously turned their heads and followed the boy towards the office. Instead of faces, they had enormous black voids, from which it seemed like an abyss was gazing out into the world.

The door slammed shut, and the voices in the corridor fell silent. Chad looked at Mickey.

“You do remember Cathy, don’t you?” Mickey suddenly asked without taking his gaze off Chad. “I suppose that night you were delighted to see her bleeding before your eyes, begging you to stop, while I was in Birmingham. Do you think working for Christopher (a CIA agent) would have kept me from finding out?”

Chad swiftly grabbed a pistol from one of the bodyguards and, his hand trembling with confusion, pointed it at Mickey. At that moment, Chad’s judgment clouded. He struggled to keep Mickey in his sights, and his deep breaths, like the mechanical hiss of a machine, filled the room.

“I did warn you: ‘Ragnarok’ is just a tiny fragment of the whole experiment,” Mickey said, looking around and gesturing widely across the room. “Handing you over to the justice system, you know, would have been simple. But the idea of turning Chad Hurley into another test subject…”

Mickey paused for a moment to take a sip of whiskey, grimaced, and then added, “sounds much more enticing. You’re jumping to conclusions, and you’re impulsive, driven by emotions. I don’t recognize you; you’ve changed…”

Chad decisively pushed the safety lever with his finger.

“Alright, let’s get to the point,” Mickey said, attempting to steer the conversation. “Thanks to you, Richard will never be the same… But here, he’s alive. And it will stay that way as long as ‘Ragnarok’ and the lab belong to me. Yes, I broke the rules, but only to protect my family from scum like you, rotten scavengers.”

There was a knock at the door.

“And remember, I’ll do whatever it takes to make my child happy,” Mickey said, pointing towards the door, from which the shrill, heart-wrenching clamor of voices was becoming more distinct.

Chad glanced back at the monitor, holding his breath, and began to examine the empty casino gaming floor where a solitary female silhouette roamed. Slowly approaching the stairs leading to Chad’s office, the silhouette disappeared from the surveillance camera, and in just a few moments, as if out of nowhere, a black, elongated face with wide-open eyes and a large void instead of a mouth appeared on the screen.

Glancing back into the corridor, Mickey saw darkness rapidly advancing towards him, distorting and engulfing all the space around. Stepping over the threshold of his office and hastily slamming the door behind him, he began to run down the corridor towards the unknown, his silhouette gradually disappearing into the thick darkness.

Chapter 1. “Closer to the Heavens”

Part 1

New York. Empire State Building.

A Letter to Richard Ortiz.

A person feels uncomfortable

When talking about themselves.

Give them a mask, and they will tell you the whole truth.

Oscar Wilde.

“It’s me again. A lot of time has passed. I’m afraid I must have become a nuisance to you during these four months. I’m also afraid, and almost certain, that you delete my letters or that someone reads them along with you, and you both laugh. People have always laughed at me. But it doesn’t bother me anymore; no one will ever know who I am anyway. If you wish, just call me Bonnie. Have you ever seen death? It’s hard to look away from something like that. Killers see as someone’s eyes slowly fill with emptiness, but they don’t know how to relish the moment. They kill for entirely mundane reasons. For some, the inevitability of death frees them from its slavery: it teaches them to live. But I, anticipating only the final sigh and the fragrances of silence, was ready to exchange rusty emotions and even myself for something more wretched.

Every morning, waking up and looking at myself in the mirror, I feel an irresistible urge to devour my own flesh. It’s like a drug for the “outcast,” a quest for new sensations, an obsessive desire to succumb to temptation and do exactly what you’re afraid to do. Last night, after taking a double dose of tramadol, I cut my lip with a blade and ate it. The metallic taste of blood in my mouth made me shiver with pleasure…”

It was inconceivable in my consciousness that someday I would witness something like this: disfigured bodies bound to chairs, their faces shrouded in black rags… Clayton, Cory, Tristan… The names of the people were written on the corners of each photograph attached to the letter.

Gripping a bottle of mineral water and a pack of cigarettes, I decided to finish reading the letter before showing it to Oliver.

“…He must get what he deserves! What are you waiting for?” Suddenly, a crazed male voice erupted from the crowd. “Make way for the executioner, and do it quickly. It’s time for him to witness redemption and cleanse his soul with blood!”

Cowardice makes them sympathize with someone else’s death, yet they somehow continue to call it prudence, naively believing in the immortality of their own lives. This feeling is familiar to me like no other. For money, people are willing to remain silent, to love, to become accomplices, and to kill those who have paid them for their own death.

I still remember as if it happened just a few minutes ago how my body was tightly bound to the icy metal chair with twisting wires, squeezing it from all sides. And around me, the shadows of people went wild, dancing in the void and filling it with laughter, joyful shivers, and a feast at the celebration of death. They truly enjoyed watching me. Deciding to expedite the process, I impatiently thrust my hands forward, allowing them to be tightly woven with barbed wire. The sharp needles slowly pierced inward one by one, causing unbearable pain. The executioner tightened the wire, pressing me against the chair, swung and struck my fingers with a heavy hammer. He wished to hear my screams, but all he received were sneers, and this awakened the beast within him. His frenzied eyes, darting from side to side, were barely visible through the rotting fabric and burned as if they reflected the embers of a fire that had cooled by morning. At times, he nervously glanced at the exultant cries of the people, expelling air from their lungs with a roar, and, as before, continued to hammer me, turning the raging pain into pleasure.

The dance and the pounding of people had turned into silence, which meant it was time for dessert. I struggled to lift my head and noticed the crowd beginning to scatter in all directions, peering into the dark corridor from which slow but echoing footsteps could be heard. The silhouette of the stranger smoothly emerged in the cold rays of light, reflecting off his expensive suit and a large scar on his face. He walked to the center of the room, confidently stepping through puddles of blood and splattering his gray pants with it.

Adjusting his tie and capturing my gaze, he snatched a chair and sat down across from me.

“You do know why I’m here, don’t you?” he asked and placed his black briefcase on his lap. “Death provides the opportunity to get acquainted with the hidden truth, to walk this path anew. I know you want this least of all, but understand, everything, absolutely everything in the universe moves in a closed circle. I would be curious to know how many times you and I have already met. Each time you choose death, and each time you deserve it. You paid me to stage this show for you.”

The stranger smirked.

“Sometimes the truth is worth more than a whole life, but did it really surprise you?” He looked first at his shoes with bloody stains and then at the one standing behind me. If you look closely into his eyes, you can see that they are not aimlessly wandering in the darkness but watching someone with undisguised fear. In that moment, he uttered your name aloud, and afterward, I felt someone’s hands gripping my neck, squeezing it with monstrous force.

Waking up at my home on “Richmond Hill,” I realized that this was far from the end. One day, you will return for me, return for each of us…”

As I finished reading the last line, I felt as if there was a cold touch of alien thoughts upon me and internally shuddered while sitting in an empty office, absentmindedly listening to the hum of the dictaphone.

I think I should introduce myself first. My name is Richard. Nowadays, it’s a bit impolite to communicate without knowing names. But what’s even more impolite is exposing to view a strange, albeit odd, but still someone else’s world. By adopting various names, the stranger indulged in a criminal pastime, repeatedly sending me chilling letters, with each one revealing more details: abductions, murders, abandoned secret laboratories. According to his words, he involuntarily became a witness to horrifying experiments and, confessing his own helplessness, a victim of the passionate desires for someone else’s death.

Many of the individuals I consulted within the United States regarding management were quite influential and widely recognized figures in the business world. Their lives often fell under the scrutiny of paparazzi lenses, inevitably followed by the hands of “hungry” journalists who dug into them like a pack of piranhas on their prey. It’s not surprising that, for some of them, remaining incognito was much preferable. At first glance, their images may seem like the embodiment of polite and successful businessmen, but in reality, behind the apparent success and sophistication, some of them could be the most ruthless maniacs imaginable. If I were to sum up everything I’ve heard about them into one straightforward description, it would be the complete absence of moral restraints: drugs, consumer behavior, and an insatiable appetite for sexual indulgence that escalated into violence, followed by brutal reprisals.

It all started a couple of years ago when, after moving to the United States, I began working for a large corporation, taking on the role of an “observer.” At that time, my job was to provide consulting services to corporate executives and financial departments, not to delve into their family issues or, as it’s now commonly referred to, matters of emotional “burnout.” In the not-so-distant past, I had managed a large company in Paris, so I understood how crucial it was to be a sensitive “meteorologist” within your team. Finances took a back seat in those days.

I knew practically everything about my clients, including what they had for breakfast, their music preferences, their sexual escapades, and even the intimate details of their relationships. It’s one thing to help someone cope with their personal struggles and allow them to remain in the shadows, but it’s another to witness a much more powerful and exhilarating revelation than any confession.

As I read each new letter, I imagined that the true face of the serial killer would soon be revealed before me; deep down, I even believed in such a scenario. Wanting to be caught, his disarmed appearance would suddenly materialize in a crowded building during broad daylight. He would leisurely stroll through the lobby towards the somber and faceless crowd, relishing the anticipation of a new, incomparable sensation. He would look around and, spreading his arms wide, his voice quivering with overflowing emotions, he would shout, “Here I am, ladies and gentlemen! Please welcome me!” Capturing more and more attention, his piercing laughter would echo throughout the marble hall, giving law enforcement the opportunity to apprehend him. After all, what would be the point of the murders and abductions? It’s true, it’s a game with the investigators, in which the perpetrator, having completely taken control, decides to make a deal with justice but does so willingly.

Part 2

My office was located on the 47th floor of one of the tallest and most famous buildings in the world. You’ve probably heard of the Empire State Building. No other structure in my eyes reflected such a passionate desire to reach so high into the sky. Gazing at the skyscraper from the outside, I always imagined it as a living, breathing entity, with its mighty constructions and vacant windows filled with black light and spectral shadows of people, silently watching passersby, each of whom had the chance to feel echoes of past lives within its walls.

From an early age, people considered me strange, but they didn’t avoid me. Strangely enough, I never fell into despair because of this, and I couldn’t understand people who suffered from melancholy. Being alone with oneself, especially alone with one’s imagination, is a risky but, you know, very useful occupation.

After all these years, I suddenly realized that there was still an aesthetic to the empty apartment: an intangible expectation of new life. It all began at the Cheese Valley Corporation in Lyon, where I worked in the finance department for more than five years. Later, while closing my last deal in New York, it continued with my entry into the Spring City shareholder society.

The turning point came during our first visit to the United States when, just minutes before the start of our negotiations, I found myself holding a fresh copy of the corporate business magazine “Inside.” In it was an article titled “Dumb Shares,” which not only revealed my true attitude toward money but also life in general.

Virginia State.

Dr. Hugh Tellman’s office.

“I hope the camera won’t bother you?” Hugh inquired, pointing to the corner of the room where a tripod with a camera stood. “Many of my clients are quite sensitive about confidentiality…”

Up to this point, I had never met Dr. Tellman in person. We had only exchanged business calls over the phone. This was our first meeting.

“Does anyone else concern themselves with my affairs?” I replied with a smirk.

“Well” the doctor nodded approvingly, “then I’ll rephrase my question. It wasn’t just about the money, was it?”

“Perhaps my answer might sound foolish, but at that time, I was convinced that money brings, you know, love, respect, that they rid people of prejudices and make them who they really are. All that remained was to verify it personally”

“And what were the results?”

The doctor barely concealed a smile.

“Not very significant. Plus, at that time, I had an excellent opportunity to move to Bern, where nobody knew me, which, in principle, would have been much easier.”

“Your environment, including Frankie, objected to this idea?”

“They were against any idea” I said indignantly. The camera in the corner made a sharp click every twenty seconds. “Where and how I should live, they knew better than me. It’s just amazing!”

“Another fact, Mr. Richard, that I cannot help but ask about.”

The doctor efficiently flipped through the page in his notebook, where everything was written in large yet indecipherable handwriting, as if he had to pretend he was reading the questions.

“After your wife Sandy’s suicide, you lived alone for a long time.”

“That’s correct.”

“For a whole twelve years… It must have been difficult.”

“It depends on the individual. Many people live together and feel even lonelier. If you don’t have the desire to dance naked to James Brown when you see each other, is that happiness? But when you’re alone, you can spontaneously head to a bar at two in the morning, stand in the shower for hours. I couldn’t deprive myself of these pleasures.”

“As far as I see it, the main reason for your solitude, let’s call it that, was the desire to always stay one step ahead of others.”

“Loneliness has haunted me my whole life, Doc. I assure you. Wherever I am, in pubs, on the streets, in stores… Everywhere. You can’t escape it. I think life originally made me this way.”

“I just wanted to understand what…” — Hugh suddenly stopped and, flinching from another click of the camera, yelled angrily, “Larry!”

In an instant, a young man in a wrinkled blue shirt burst into the office. The doctor’s assistant. Larry looked at us as if he had seen a ghost, then regained his composure.

“Is something wrong?”

“Not yet, but if I hear that sound again…”

“You didn’t turn off the timer” he innocently replied and immediately went to the corner of the room.

When someone starts giving me moral lectures, my brain shuts off like a malfunctioning radio. It’s irritating. Watching Larry, I had the impression that I had known this guy for many years, that we had at least one joint photo together.

“What the hell?” — Hugh waved his hands, froze, and, waiting for Larry to set up the camera and move to the door, continued “I’m not mad, but don’t you see who I’m talking to?”

“Doc, maybe we should talk about Frankie?”

“Go on.”

Dr. Hugh was an excellent listener, he caught every word and thought, delved into every situation, and asked guiding questions. So I continued my story, which began long before my arrival in France…

***

After completing Bellerbys College, when I had just turned twenty-one, I embarked on an internship at the trading organization Cheese Valley. I knew everything, including who our investors were and where the money was going, and these people always had deep pockets. At that time, I had no idea how close the company was to bankruptcy rituals: another bank loan, most of which went into buying elite real estate, dining out, or, not uncommonly, renting private jets. The closer the organization was to collapse, the more concerned the top brass was about their own prestige and wallet thickness, and, in principle, no one cared anymore about what was happening right under their noses.

On this subject, I often recall our conversation with Butch. I was confident that my ideas would help pull the company out of the crisis pit. However, Butch, the latest director of our firm sent from the States, cut them off at the root:

“Listen,” Butch said heavily one day, “you’re doing everything right, and I like your persistence, but sooner or later, we’ll have to sell the company.” He responded this way to all of my proposals: “You’re a smart kid, but we won’t do it your way. I’m going to grab a couple of tacos instead!”

I didn’t understand him until I came to Wall Street nine years later and saw it all with my own eyes. We were only staying afloat thanks to someone’s desire to profit from it all with impunity, while the rest of us, people like me, continued to work hard and fill other people’s pockets. Getting rid of the “spoiled cream” was the first and perhaps the most important step.

Francois Weier, or Frankie (originating from New Mexico), as he was nicknamed in our circle, was my friend and one of the most influential figures in the business world. He appeared quite serious on the surface, but as soon as we were alone, we both turned into idiots. Fooling around, doing crazy things, escaping from problems, and so on. I believe our shared vices brought us together, and everything else can’t be called friendship, it’s more like a “you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours” kind of deal. Just business on favorable terms…

However, Mr. Richard,” Dr. Hugh’s voice suddenly sounded cautious, “were you planning to move to Bern even before Frankie appeared in the company?”

“Well, you can always start fresh, it’s not a problem. The worst part is taxes, and in Switzerland, they’re a real headache. Frankie has nothing to do with it. Besides, people started noticing me, listening to me, and I had Sandy, after all. You can’t imagine how important that was to me back then. If I had known who he really was at the time, I would have disappeared from the city that very day!” I said irritably, and almost dropped the glass of water, yelling, “Well, of course, Richard! You wanted to keep your word!… Damn it!”

“Of all the decisions you made, you chose the only right one,” the doctor calmly replied, and, waiting for me to take a sip of water, added, “And yet, how did you manage to pull off the deal?”

“Negotiating with Americans is a piece of cake, you know. The main thing is for them to like you…”

We collaborated with George’s Milk and a couple of other well-known Swiss organizations, but it wasn’t enough to overcome the crisis. One of the ideas I proposed, which I mentioned to Butch earlier, was to reach the neighboring Atlantic coast and try to independently strike a deal with the United States. Just a week after the meeting in Paris, we set off for a meeting in New York, bringing along a trio of charismatic speakers and wearing expensive suits. In reality, I never wear expensive suits. They make me look cheap, and showing up at the boardroom of one of the world’s largest companies in a flannel shirt would be even more absurd.

Thirty minutes of talking about American football, which we didn’t understand at all, and five minutes about business — that’s the entire recipe for successful negotiations.

Part 3

“The five charming guys, tied in the score, attempt another fierce battle against the ‘Denver Broncos’ team for a spot in the playoffs. And yes, the player from France managed to intercept Mitchell’s pass. He swiftly bypasses the defense from the left, makes an accurate pass, a deciding shot, and… crosses the line, just unbelievably! With a deafening crash, the ‘Denver Broncos’ are knocked out of the lead, breaking their winning streak, and they leave the field to the thunderous roar of the stadium! The jubilant crowd of fans can’t believe their eyes!”

Just as our delegation did when signing contracts with several states for a sum of over three hundred and seventy million dollars. Upon hearing this news, something seemed to click in Frankie’s head, and the very next day, he appointed me as his deputy and the head of the entire financial department. If it weren’t for my exceptional luck, I would have had to continue politely bending over and letting fate take its course, just like many other people! Crazy actions turned the routine of life into something that reminded me of a sandcastle about to be washed away by a massive wave: no mistake, just another attempt to run away with closed eyes from one’s own shadow. On my first day in my new position, I promised Frankie that I would help pull the company out of the crisis, and I kept my word. Everything else, including my own career, no longer mattered to me.

“You were under observation at the Château de Garsh clinic before taking up your new position, is that correct?” Dr. Hugh asked, flipping through another page in his notebook and looking at me over his glasses.

“After Sandy’s suicide, I attracted the attention of investigators. It was about them. They watched me, called me in for questioning. It was exhausting. They believed I had killed my wife.”

Dr. Hugh continued to silently watch, as if he wanted to hear more from me.

“Alright. They were also interested in my father.”

“Did anyone know about his past? What he was involved in…”

“Mason” I said and looked out of the window with a contemplative smile. “Although at that time, I had no idea that my arrival in New York was someone’s well-thought-out plan.”

“And it was there that the hallucinations returned to you?”

“It all started again when I saw Monika… She was damn similar to Sandy: the same soft voice, blue eyes, the scent of her hair.”

Deciding to return to the United States, I find and rent a cozy house not far from the city center, just about seventeen miles east on Richmond Hill. I open a new bank account and, after making a profitable deal with Mason, acquire 57% of the shares of one of his American perfume companies, SpringCity.

Did I fully realize what I was doing? I don’t think so. During all this time, from my last call to Frankie to joining the shareholder society, I felt like I was in a deep and hazy dream where I was running as fast as I could but still falling behind.

— And as often happens in dreams, at the end, a monster was waiting for me.

A person is usually held in one place by nothing but memories, and along with them, the hope that the revived images from the past will return to him and fill his exhausted mind. It’s like a sweet bait. The key is to understand whether you’ve fallen for it or not. If you’re trapped and haven’t realized it, it’s the end.

Looking back, I often pondered over the best versions of myself, walking through the heart of New York City. As I strolled along the skyscrapers, I found myself falling more in love with these extraordinary yet faceless sketches of the metropolis. What really mattered to me was to quickly immerse myself in the present, to witness and participate in its remarkable, unlike-many-other lives: the architecture, the yellow taxis, the incessant sounds of cash registers, and, ultimately, the “American Dream” I had only known from glossy magazines.

“Those were wonderful times” Dr. Hugh interrupted the story.

He took off his glasses, pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and methodically began to wipe the lenses, moistening them with his own breath. Silence fell in the room.

“Did you work in the United States?”

“With Chad Hurley” Dr. Hugh said thoughtfully and continued, — In the late nineties, he headed the National Security Department at the FBI headquarters, while I was sitting behind a desk as a forensic specialist in Denver. We were living through turbulent times. We collaborated on issues related to terrorism or drug trafficking. No one asked where I came from, what my skin color was, or about my accent. It didn’t matter. Intelligence agencies needed specialists above all else. Your father had just moved from the District of Columbia when…

“Wait” I whispered, trying to gather my thoughts “I don’t know who he was, but I’ve had enough of the mess he left me as my legacy.”

“Ahem…”

“And there’s no need to defend him. He was a killer, a monster who saw the world differently from us.”

The words I heard froze me in place, and I stared at the doctor as if hypnotized.

“Your father is alive!”

The revelation made me sit up straight, and I looked at Dr. Hugh in astonishment.

“Throughout your life, your father has been watching over you. You told me about how he was killed in front of you when you were six years old, how your mother committed suicide. But is that really how it happened? Thanks to him, Mr. Richard, you are still alive. No one knows about his existence except for me, the FBI, and those who staged the chance encounter in New York. So, all I need from you is a brief answer to a simple question: where are all these people now?”

The doctor handed me an open pack of Marlboro, giving it a little tap to slide a few cigarettes out.

“Who exactly are you interested in?” I asked, taking a moment to think.

“Mason.”

“Alright,” I said, shaking my head thoughtfully. After lighting a cigarette and glancing at the camera that continued to record our conversation, I asked, “Are they watching us?”

“Richard, don’t make me lie,” Dr. Hugh responded, simply tapping his wristwatch and crossing his legs. “Go on.”

Chapter 2. “A Delicate Matter”

Part 1

Hammondtown.

Mason Allen’s аpartment. April 7, 2018.

It had already been six months since the day I joined the SpringCity shareholders’ association and met Mason. This man was one of the most influential figures in the world of finance. I genuinely believed that he would embrace my expertise wholeheartedly, but as I would later discover, he had entirely different plans for me.

One day, he invited me to a barbecue at his luxurious apartment in Hammondtown. That’s where it all began. He often spent his weekends there with Monica and Oliver, especially after long and grueling negotiations.

“Listen, maybe I should give it a try?” I suggested to Mason in a conversation about his new company, which dealt with securities in Tennessee and was just starting to gain momentum.“No one, even if you’re the damn Edgar Casey himself, knows whether the stocks will go up, down, or in circles. Nobody, especially those brokers who will work for you for a piece of bread.”

In response, Mason just shrugged nonchalantly, as if suggesting that I find the answer to my own proposal.

“Well, bro-ose! Wall Street is teeming with ‘top illegals’!”

“Definitely not Eskimos!” He replied with a wide smile, pressing pieces of meat to the hot grill. Sparks flew in all directions. “Listen, you moved to New York, live off passive income, isn’t that what you wanted?”

“But…”

“Everyone’s favorite ‘but’! Tell me, what could be more challenging than working like a horse? Right! In our case, it means allowing ourselves to be non-efficient: not planning anything, not preparing complicated dishes, not thinking about work.”

“And wait until my ass is completely paralyzed!”

“Until you get your head in order, and there are plenty of patient ‘iron’ asses in my company without you. Look around” he suddenly said, gazing through the smoke towards the forest and the large green lake that surrounded his mansion “isn’t this life?”

Looking around, I accidentally noticed in the panoramic windows of the first floor that very young beauty, Monica, Mason’s friend. He continued to say something, standing with a plate in his hand and waving meat tongs in the air, but I was no longer paying attention to him.

That day, I saw Monica for the first time. I could confidently say that she was Sandy. They looked so much alike.

I remember how she walked alone around the house in a semi-transparent negligee, hanging from her young and luxurious body, and the black lace lingerie accentuated all the advantages of her figure. As if intentionally, feeling my targeted gaze on her, she let the thin robe slide off her body. It seemed like my brain had figured out the rest on its own. Turning her back, Monica unfastened her bra and tossed it aside, taking a couple of determined steps towards the stairs to the second floor, and then whispered with her lips, “I’ll be waiting for you upstairs.”

I continued to watch her enchanting stride intently until I heard Mason’s demonstrative cough:

“No way in hell, don’t even think about it” he said, baring his white teeth.

“How long have you been together?”

“For three years.”

“And when is the meeting with the delegation?”

“Tomorrow evening. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing special” I said barely audibly, and plopping down on a wooden chair with a piece of food in my mouth, almost involuntarily (and that word characterized me as well as any), as if by someone else’s will, I said “What if Monica wanted to sleep with me?”

Hearing this, Mason unexpectedly burst into loud laughter, barely avoiding splashing another portion of beer past the glass. He shook his head from side to side and said: “Damn, not even think about it!”

When you’re afraid to say what you want, you start to blabber nonsense. The idea of asking about Monica may not have been the best, but sometimes such thoughts arose, and once they did, there was nothing left to do but act on them.

“You’re not upset?”

“What are you talking about!” Mason interrupted, hastily wiping his hands on a towel and glancing at the second floor, he shouted at the top of his lungs “Moni-i!”

In that very moment, her completely naked figure appeared, startling me and causing me to drop my cigarette.

“Moni, someone wants to sleep with you” Mason taunted, watching as I brushed off the still-warm ash from my pants.

“Bunny, maybe tomorrow?” she teased.

“Richie, there’s an offer for tomorrow. What do you think?”

“Uh…”

“It’s clear… Moni! Write to Oliver, have him pick up some more on the way, — he shouted, waving an empty beer bottle in the air.”

“So, where were we?”

“Why did you tell her?”

“Was that supposed to be a surprise? Sorry” Mason barely holding back his laughter, replied, and reaching for the paper bag with the Grant’s logo in which I brought the bottle of whiskey, he said “Good Lord! Do you think you’re the only one who’d like to bed her?”

Every person on this planet.

“I didn’t plan to do that.”

“I’m just a weird guy!” he interrupted, grinning “that’s all clear. Listen, when was the last time you wore anything other than a black polo? It’s like you came to a funeral.”

Hearing this, I began to seriously examine my T-shirt.

“I don’t remember.”

“And that’s it! Everyone goes to great lengths just not to be mediocre. You, on the other hand, love the truth, and that’s why you wield it thoughtlessly, like a golf club — left and right” Mason said, waving a barbecue spatula “believe me, I need just a minute to understand who’s in front of me and what to expect from them. It’s important for you to speak the truth to people, and you appreciate the same in them, am I right?”

“Well, I think that’s right.”

“So, we’ve figured it out! Just like the fact that one truth intentionally conceals another “he said, arching his thick eyebrows as if suspecting something, he cast a wary look at me, — or am I mistaken?”

“Most likely, it’s about “not being mediocre,” I agreed.

At that moment, as if intentionally interrupting our conversation, a disgruntled male voice came from the entrance, making Mason burst into laughter.

— Ask: “What’s it like negotiating with scumbags?”

“And how?”

“Awful!”

“I promised it would be fun, remember?” Mason said, reaching Oliver and friendly patting him on the shoulder, then offered “Whiskey?”

“Bring the bottle!”

Part 2