Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
The Algorithm of Chaos
‘What’s your name, boy?’
A guttural snarl in response.
‘O! Even so? You’re a girl?’
A sonorous yap in the affirmative.
‘My bad, Lady! No offense intended. So what’s your beautiful name?’
The puppy uttered two whimpers.
‘Nice to meet you, Toto. I’m V. Are you hungry?’
The bitch sprang up on all the four.
‘Let’s check for the nearest hot-dog vendor in this neighborhood.’
V got up from the bench and took right tack towards the greens gate whistling wistfully:
Bury Me Not On The Lone Prairie…
Where the hell had it, the air, clung to him from like a leech?
The shaggy pup kept close behind tattooing the walk determinedly with her short shaggy paws…
* * *
13
‘You alone?’ V couldn’t hide his amazement.
‘I asked her but she snuffed my invitation out, like, leave me alone!. Besides, she’s sore at you for giving her up so too readily. You’re certainly on probation now and should keep your nose clean. That was the message for you put forward straight and clear by her face expression.’
‘I didn’t spill wild promises of rubies in the sky. Besides, did I have much of choice? You, girls, fell for each other at first sight, stuck, fused inseparable! Screamed in delight! All three of you… By the way, how are they getting along, Toto and your Auntie?’
‘The marvel of ideal union. Toto of her own accord fetches for Silva her glasses and the remote control, and Aunt has certainly found in her the most enviable audience to spin out her endless yarn. Faith! And Toto knows how to encourage her gossip by timely whimpers at right moments, like, ‘atagirl!’ or ‘all the men are so mean busters, dear!’. That way she’s turned Aunt Silva’s best crony and they get along just nice and lovely.’
‘Good news! Frankly, I didn’t like the idea of keeping her at the fish tank where I dwell now. All those naughty kids in their dash along the galleries, they simply can run her over in the stampede.’
‘Lame excuses, not a chance kids would harm the cutie-pie, ever. You can only adore the doll.’
‘That’s right it’s only I’d rather not stick out in any way. “The mister with that nice puppy”, you know. No thanks, I need to keep low, be just a face in the crowd. Besides, I hate responsibility for any living thing but myself. What if I let them down? Blast their expectations? It’s easy to roll-out self-justifications to Number One but why to disappoint the other guy? Or put the person at risk? Nah! That’s not in my line. By the by, in Toto there is more of a human than in two-thirds of people that I know.’
‘You wisely keep the weightiest arguments back to fire them off in the end. Yet, life is too unpredictable to be regulated by Genetive AI logic. When making decision, you forgot to ask Toto if she agreed to it. Regardless. Now it’s too late, you won’t get her back from Aunt Silva even for the life of you. Not a chance. So relax, the coast is clear, no responsibilities in sight. Congrats.’
V gave Lia an askew look. A needless precaution though. Sitting by his right side, she was too busy watching a toddler who chased a sizable gaudy ball bouncing along the walk. Two escapees rushing away from a lady with a baby buggy.
She passed the couple on the bench not seeing them, all her attention focused on her responsibility not quite used, as of yet, to the hang of steady upright walking and catching the twitchy dodger, his bright ball.
By passed she the pair of faces, alike to any other in the crowd absent for the moment, seeing them not, the placid faces that suited the serenity of day in the common greens for public recreation.
Lovers? Not in the least. None of their four hands outstretched to reach for and stake off their property rights for the treasure sitting next to each of them. Close by, yet separately. A married couple? Nah! Are you so naive or an alien on their visit to this world? Together, wed-locked hominids enjoy the lap of nature only in the backyard—their or of their bosom friends, another pair married happily—on a day scheduled for a barbecue, with the kind permission of weather cast.
Most likely, simply siblings or friends, or business partners were these here bench-sitters who the lady with the baby buggy passed by, not seeing…
V liked that face on the right, cool and confident, matching the warm, somewhat thoughtful day, sure of its beauty appealing to all capable of savvy beholding. Yes, beautiful it was, that face with a tiny hump up the nose bridge because of presenting its side view, with the exquisite matte skin beneath the soft shade of her light brown crispy hair made even lighter by the rays of the sun traveling at its glacial pace behind their bench.
And V picked up the same unhurriedness in his ecstatic pleasure (purely aesthetic too) with a palpable admixture of gratitude to the model for a picture which he was destined to never paint. Yet beautiful it was, with God as my witness, her face!.
He knew it as well as you would in his shoes, that he owed her one. As big as life.
Why, it was his life itself! It was she who saved it (the life of the unaccomplished artist) and she (the model never-to-be-painted-by-him) was aware of the fact without any affidavit. Still, she didn’t press for anything, and the feeling of not being pressed for the due reimbursement boosted his gratitude and admiration witth her friendly lenience expressed so intangibly.
Yes, grateful he was (and we’ll never stop spread thick on this point) for that unheralded, intelligently subtle imperceptibility…
Ah, no brush could ever be found to relay all the shades of what he felt on that bench in the greens!.
Besides, it should be kept in mind that V, firstly, had to check how the land lies, why he was hunted and by who.
Really, what the fuc… (no! it’s not French as of yet…) what ficus-eater (sic!) could ever find fault with unobtrusive V? Screw him!
No discovery or revelation from those quarters had caught on, so all V could do at the moment was waiting…
* * *
The lodging he moved in after the French leave of his hermit cell (of all his belongings only 2TB card grabbed along), not pretentious and reasonably priced, consisted of one room, the kitchen and the restroom in the third level of a Leviathan-like kinda motel girded with safety-barred handrails along the outside galleries in the pragmatic style of Center Pompidou, Paris, only a bit less gutted-out.
One of his crypt stashes had got hacked. The very first one which he used to learn the shebang. Access turned denied and when he bored thru the new (rather amateurish) password by means of a second-hand notebook from a five-and-dime nearby.
Yes, he missed his PC yet shipping the equipment to his place would make him even more conspicuous than walking Toto up and down. In the README.md file that he kept in the online wallet he perused an instance of creative streak by the cocky hacker—FUCK YOU, SUCKER!—in block letters.
V responded with apprehending shrug. Ya, bro, that’s life in the world we were shoved in. Today you’re riding high and mighty, make sure to collect a plum sum for the day when I visit to check how you are doing. To audit and fleece your assets.
So, he put off ripping the traced-back raider (oho! what an advanced buckaroo! you’re versed about VPN, huh? I love the naive innocence of numskulls).
Yes, V withheld an immediate flogging in favor of an imminent one because of his addiction, which he still reckoned a funny gambol though it avidly cannibalized his time, grabbed a too big share of it as for a fleeting whim.
To consider it soberly, the friendly gift from Lex turned the classical Trojan Horse (the one invented by Ulysses and not by guys at Kaspersky laboratories at the dawn of computer virology). The Horse positively undid V into an addict keenly tracing all sorts of thoughts by other guys—be they funny or dull, or gross, or pathetic—and some motley crew they were, the thinkers, of any national affiliation, from a fish-trapper in the Amazonia selva to a bookkeeper at a Shanghai bank. He could read their thoughts thanks to the inbuilt translator, the ubiquitous software for any platform, which filtered the raw data angled from the noosphere. And it was an in-deep translation at that, surpassing purely linguistic rendering of languages, both extinct and modern.
V knew none of extinct languages (and never sympathized necrophiles), however, you can’t imagine a contemporary thinker contemplating on the new tax introduced by the Pharaoh Treasury for the war against those fucking Assyrians, can you? (Excuse my French, but so it stood in the transcript.)
At times they were horridly straggly, the thoughts, they did not flow like a coherent stream. No! You had to untangle their ties-and-knots of interlaced fragments on this or that and other whatnots. Entwined like mating snakes, they were waiting for V to somehow suss out, order, and compile into more or less sensible picture, which job demanded a mindset like his, hence – the addiction…
Yet right now, V was on high not with foreign thoughts but with this pleasant day and the cute girl by his side…
She felt his stare and turned her head to the eye-to-eye contact… Gosh! But they indeed could make a fine team!
‘The other day,’ said Lia, ‘I saw your friend in the elevator. He doesn’t know me. Left at your floor. From our landing I heard the new tenants in your apartment told him they knew no Vs nor fivers.’
Soundlessly landed into the V’s brains another piece from the vexing puzzle.
‘Thank you, Lia,’ said V. ‘You’re simply a treasure. Priceless.’
His hand reached for her shoulder and gave it a light squeeze, tenderly.
V got thunderstruck! He never intended that move! His hand did it of its own accord, even without a last-minute notice! Gross insubordination! Where from? And at the moment when he felt so fed-up with all the mysteries, puzzles, and enigmas!
Damn! The buggers proliferate too quick…
* * *
14
…o! if only were I blessed with a son sprung from my loins! How I wish I had!
Nope. God hasn’t bestowed upon me a heir to my thoughts desultory and anxious… But I would spare no effort in raising, by the most dedicated parenting, a paragon of valor, prowess, and impeccability of my unbegotten boy!.
…woe to me! This house looks more like a chicken coup these days: cluck-cluck-cluck! Cackle-chuckle-chortle! Or wailing and hollering at each other. All of them, starting with the most esteemed matrona, Doña Catalina, as barren as the dismal hills and arid fields around, with whom for so many years I have been dragging our mutual yoke of matrimony… and my sister, an inveterate exhibit of widowhood, a stockpile of indisputable morality, with her stinging tongue is no better… and even she, my beloved one, my comforter and consolation now, in these days of withering, when my faculties decline and strength drains away to almost exhaustion. She is my only child, the sweetest fruit, the free gift from a juicy blond bitch in Lisbon, my military trophy for the exploits in the memorable glorious campaign for making the Peninsula one whole state…
…the outcome was clear to everyone in advance, the Portuguese were only going thru movements of a military resistance, counteracting with the languor akin to giving in by a slut spread out under a village lout in the barn: “Get off me, fool! No! Never! Not a chance until I pull my skirt up!”
…their reluctance to fight for their freedom allowed us to freely enter their capital, where flared up that passionate affair of mine. Oh! she was good! my fair Lady, the Hottest Bitch of Lisbon! and smart enough to find me later, in due time, and hand over the basket with a baby, my natural daughter, Donna Isabelle, the load thereof, my child—albeit, not by law—the precious gift by Nature … Yes, next Sunday, on St. Trinity, my daughter will become twenty years old… not baby anymore she’ll outyell and silence any of the hens in this here bedlam, yes, she can, shrieking louder and shriller than Maria, her maid…
…how on earth can a man of my meager means at this most perilous moment since the creation of the world—run such a funny farm of crazy chickens?
…although, God’s honest truth, they master distaff trade thoroughly, at times it’s only their skills in wielding needle-n-thread that wards off hunger from crossing this old house’s threshold… they sew from morning until late at night, whenever, by leave of Providence, a customer would suddenly appear…
…and coming of the proper age, he would become a real man, a brave, with my advice and guidance, my nonexistent son… mark well, my child! just two of all worldly professions are worth of picking. This couple surpass any other earthly path due to the gallantry of their nature…
The first, most essential by its necessity, profession is that of Warrior… Soldier whose true goal is not to win the day, but to bring peace to people… Warrior-Soldier pays for peace with his bleeding wounds or lost limbs, perhaps, even with his dear life… to give peace to people – this is his duty, the goal of his chivalrous vocation… overcoming all the hardships, duress, impediments thrown in the way of military service to his people.
…the second comes Scholar… It is he who gives light to mankind, teaches them, enhances comfort obtainable in their lives, puts news powers within their reach, the power which man cannot even comprehend. But Scholar goes on, relentlessly, paying the harsh price for advancement by his unceasing toil, and sleepless nights, and scanty meals, before to die in his track, still craving for unreachable absolute knowledge…
…Warrior and Scholar, these are the two truest characters who cater for the human beings… and both are distinguished by high and noble code of honor… not too surprising though because every Spaniard is a direct descendant of some or other hero in the grand ranks of glorious knights—be it a peddler or a vagrant barber he’ll claim an ancestor from key figures in the Reconquista, dangling from this or that root in his family tree, or (taking a shot at the deeper introspection) maybe even a chef-cook at the itinerant court of Charlemagne…
…at present, the knight’s duties grew less in number than they have used to be, which noticeably simplifies and shortens the knightly code… only two rules still abide, and you will easily remember them, my son: serve Lord, stands first; be loyal to the King… That’s it, one-two, both brief and simple to learn…even if the high throne is seated by a stupid asshole, rooting into like a leach… regardless… do not break your oath, stay loyal as I was to old fart Philip, retarded moron… serve, yet keep in mind the sequence of commandments – God’s will is above orders from a mortal, however big were their title or rank…
…ah! what a brilliant plan was conceived by me in the years of captivity! not only to capture the fortress that guarded the port and the Viceroy, Pasha Hassan, we would have regain back half of the Mauritanian lands, as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow… given the number of Christian slaves and Christian prisoners of war compared to the city’s population… all that was needed – just one dark night to secretly deliver a shipload of weaponry into that cave in cliffs of the secluded cove, and in the morning we would carry out the God’s will according to the plan I was inspired with by His Providence…
I sent an explanatory petition to King Phillip—through a Christian ransomed by the monks Redemptorists—detailing the plan… but there was no answer in any of the ways proposed by me for giving us the signal communicating accomplishment of the preparations and setting the date…
…five years in the bondage and five attempts at breaking out… twice, mad with fury, the Viceroy was ordering to throw the noose about my neck… foaming at his mouth, Pasha Hassan, half-choked on his frenzied threats, curses, blasphemy, wild shrieks… still and yet, I'm alive till now… what stopped him? the will of Lord, no doubt, as well as my deportment of not caring a fig, my being ready for any fate… three years out of five I was shackled in iron, dragged jingling chains by each my step before the monks brought 1000 ducats, the price set by the Pasha for cutting me loose… four years more it took for paying back to the good people who chipped in for my ransom… but never doubted I my luck, always full of hope – if not this time, the next try would pull off!
…because I always was a favorite of fate, looked after since being born, of which my ever-present quality there could be no doubts, and when at dire trials, I trusted that whatever is is right, and the only truth is which is present inside any living man, it’s known to everyone, including those who reject it… yes, because it’s so obvious and simple – live by truth and forget cares, let come what may, God’s with you, He knows better…
…any trial impeding our progress by the injunction of malignant stars makes only sweeter the imminent redemption…
…am I happy? Yes! Because I know exactly what is happiness. You don’t need gold nor glinting stones to be happy… dark wine, white cheese, a lump of soft bread, an inkpot accompanied by a quill and, of course, a couple of sheets of paper – not a too tiring burden, huh? And yes, don’t forget to take a guitar along… aha! Now you’re all set to go after your daily share of happiness.
Start out in the morning to a mature tree among the vastitude of bone-dry hills and fields in our La Mancha and there under the lisping whisper of its rustling leaves in the boughs splayed to all the quarters watch the growth and wane of one more happy day in your life…
…no, we never split, my luck and I, at any time of my life I rode the very crest in the tide of my benevolent fortune… as a green lithe youth with fluffy growth in my jowl and upper lip, I fancied writing poems and those were praised by both my friends and tutors at the university… which one of those that I attended as a free auditor? where did we live then? in Alcala or Salamanca? well, doesn't matter… the family moved way too often, always on the run… my father, Lord have mercy on his poor soul, had a light hand at applying leeches and, besides, he was well-skilled in the art of giving men good looks by close shave, which two talents kept him afloat in the hard life of a constant fugitive from debts and creditors, poor Papa…
…at all events, it was none but jejune rhyme-jingling, those infantine opuses of mine, no better than the bosh turnout by laureates of the present day out-squirting the witless lace of their kinda verses for the claque of friends and mentors … in certain matters we, mankind, stay incorrigibly stable despite the flow of centuries…
…then for at least a year I had to tread the poorly paved lanes of Naples and the Eternal City, in the service of Cardinal Acquaviva, in the wake of my post-haste quitting Madrid necessitated by that silly duel… before my finest hour struck, which coincided with the pivotal point for all the Christendom – the Sublime Porte went out to enslave Europe and make it one more Turkey’s domain.
…I enrolled the armed forces of the Holy League and—thanks to my luck!—did not miss out taking part in the naval battle, where the fate of all the world quivered in the scales… two-and-a-half-hundred ships from our side carried 26,000 soldiers on the crisp October morning to discover the enemy in the Lepanto Strait… the vessels in the fleet of Sultan considerably surpassed, in numbers, us, however, the battle was unavoidable and both great armadas were slowly cutting down the distance between them…
…from early in the morning I suffered fits of excruciating fever… Captain of the Marquesa, aboard which I served as a private, ordered me to go down into a cabin on the lower deck, however, my incessant pleading made him change his mind, weary of hearing my unquellable entreaties, he put me in charge of the felucca manned with a crew of twelve… how could I ever bring out my gratitude to you, O, gracious Fortune?!
…that was a glorious day. the cannons put upon the ships confronting each other roared all over the sea depths, the clouds of powder smoke rose, twirling, up into the sky’s azure, the fumes’ whiteness competed with the streaks of foam on the crests of waves whipped up by the inconstant wind, which more than once changed its direction on that day… my men, experienced sailors, rowed with all might and main… we were the first to reach the flagship of their left squadron and rammed the galley’s side, breaking through the palisade of oars bristling across our way.
Swiftly from our felucca, sprung up two assault ladders with iron grapples on their tops to claw into the gunwale of the mastodonic larboard overhead… and off we rushed! up! on! aboard! We, the indomitable dozen under my command!
…what followed calls for a score of Homers to relate the uproar in seething deadly skirmish, clangs of swords, the snappy fragments from turbulent turmoil… I somehow didn’t notice two shots from arquebuses into my chest, though the bullets pierced the armor… all of the world went spinning about the tip of my sword… the hit of a stray cannonball made useless my left arm, but in the battle rapture, I still kept hacking forth—ahead!—to cut down the royal standard of Egypt streaming from her stern… down fell the standard and covered a swaying wave, “Mercy!” shouted the flagship’s crew, surrendering on knees, half thousand of their comrades killed in the battle kept silent, strewn about the galley’s decks…
…and when the sun of the great day went down giving way to the approaching night, everyone in the victorious fleet of the Holy League knew already – the victory was owned to the generalissimo’s wise strategy and gallantry of a 23-year-old private… the pair of bullet wounds in the chest oozed blood for a couple of years more, my left arm hangs lifeless from the shoulder and till my last day will be, like, a withered vine… sorry, no way to play you, my guitar… fare the well!.
…I was then both too proud and too young to get it that any battle you enter into will end in your defeat, ineluctably, because there is no other outcome … Señor Time, the Grim Umpire in the duel, will see to your defeat…
…so what else is there for me? besides being happy on sunny days?
Ha! here enters the main fortune of all that a person can only hope for in their life—Freedom! nothing whatsoever equals the feeling of being free!
…that's my walk in life – being free and happy… and there’s more! as a self-styled scholar, I fill my days with scientific observations and pretty soon I am to check in person the qualities of absolute freedom delivered by kind Señor Death to every mortal… is there any higher degree of freedom? Hardly so because you become free of your debts, diseases, of your worn out body in the sack of sagging skin… all that is left behind, together with hunger, wars, fear of death…
…beyond everything… all’s over… there’s only rest and freedom – isn't that the sweetest of the gifts of all you ever be bestowed by life?
