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Chapter 3
Minister of Scrofula, King of Aspirin

In the infinite flow of humanity that crawls along the subway escalators all day and a substantial part of the night, thousands of female faces flicker. They float past and are lost in the expanse of the subway reeking of rubber and the twisting passages under the streets. Their motley army includes: battalions of workaholics and regiments of harassed housewives, squads of sympathisers and artillery battalions of stinkers, logistic units of prisoners of the office, cavalry of hundreds of adventure seekers, divisions of wild hysterical women, draft reinforcements of bluestockings, strategic reserves of former wives, lawless detachments of good-natured mindless ones with canine fur on their skirts, and finally, platoons of poor devils supplied with the newest weapon of tears.

However, one ought not think that it is possible to cover all skirts rushing about with the above given modest classification. Some do not fall into any classification at all. A martyr, a pivot, or pouty lips and all ears? And this is still nothing – a mild case. There are even some, whom a guard of Gloom will not talk about, that are everything before him, and he will only scratch his head and go away. Women are like water. They never stay in one spot and frequently flow from one state to another. To take at least this one or that one there… Today she is a bluestocking, tomorrow a nice frump, the day after a harassed hostess or prisoner of the office. It seems, all the same, she gets off quickly at the terminal. But that is a denial. A woman is always capable of surprises. Suddenly a miracle happens – and a recent bluestocking takes off like a speeding rocket. A phoenix flares up where there were recently the ashes of a person.

Zozo Buslaeva, mother of Methodius, belonged to the now extended category of women-motors. Their main special feature is that they spend their entire life in fussy and chaotic motion. For them, an hour spent in one place is equivalent to a year of strict confinement. It was now necessary for Zozo to spend her days exactly in one place. Recently she was sweating over the post of secretary in the firm Construction Battalion Forever, busy with deliveries of construction equipment. The owner of the firm was Isadora Cutletkina, General Cutletkin’s wife, through whom Khavron arranged the job for his sister. However, Zozo saw Isadora herself only once. Moreover, their dislike for each other was mutual. However, this had no influence on anything. Isadora was barely at the office. The owner and director, as is well known to many, are often treated differently.

Five days a week from ten in the morning to six in the afternoon Zozo accepted and put her signature on papers, on which demolition hammers chiselled, asphalt spreaders rumbled, crane clamping mechanisms clanked, paint sprayers hissed like a snake, and Black and Decker pistol drills droned hollowly. In her time free from the drills, Zozo answered the phone, entered into the computer requests for spare parts for cranes, or sorrowfully watered the flowers.

Next to her behind the wall, in the large room occupied by the sales division, the telephone shrilled non-stop. The old informer Xerox squeaked idiotically. The drywall-covered wall, against which it leaned, shook nervously. Sputtering managers flew along the corridor like clamorous flocks. Something like fastening chains and construction gloves reigned over their bickering. The flock with the gloves had barely managed to rush past and a new invasion turned up. The door was thrown open, someone looked in and shouted, “Seen Tsitsin? Where’s that idiot?” Zozo vaguely and languidly waved her hand in the air as if entreating: all of you stay away from me, I know nothing. The flock of lynchers setting off in pursuit of the idiot Tsitsin had only just disappeared but a commotion again began in the corridor. Zozo plugged up her ears in order not to hear the managers’ sorrowful whine, but it was not possible to work on the computer with plugged ears, and she willy-nilly tore her hands away from them.

They were again getting excited behind the door. There along the corridor they were dragging Tsitsin, caught red-handed in the cafeteria in an attempt to purchase a bottle of Holy Spring mineral water. “What were you thinking when you wrote ‘Country of Recipient Egypt’ in the documentation on a snow blower?” they yelled at him. “Don’t blame me! They screwed up the order!” a velvety tenor objected with dignity. “But you’re not a moron! You could consider that the most severe frost in Egypt is twenty plus degrees!” “I warned the deputy Alex Kurilko, and he said: stop! I can’t work when they say ‘stop’ to me! I have two higher degrees! And let go of my arm immediately! You have sweaty fingers!” the tenor defended himself. “Aha, right away! Go, go!” the voices said and, judging by some suspicious sounds, they were urging on Tsitsin in the back.

Zozo wanted to scream and, screwing up her eyes, threatened the monitor with her fist. She felt like a prisoner of the dull office Cyclops with the spat-upon whiskers, which she wanted terribly to hit on the head with the cover torn from the Xerox. Stretching and straightening her numbed back, she glanced through the window at the crows bathing with pleasure in the air eddies by their high-rise, and smiled at some of her own obscure, mysterious, but very pleasant thoughts. Nevertheless, even in these dreamy moments her fingers continued as usual to run along the keyboard, concrete mixers and dumpsters jumped in the columns assigned to them, and the stapler clicked loudly, biting into the papers.

Zozo was despondent. She wanted a personal life or at the worst to be on leave. But for the time being there was no chance for either personal life or leave. It was hot in the office. The air conditioner did not get rid of the stupidity and boredom of the place. The yogi and essayist Basevich had disappeared somewhere. He had stopped phoning and, apparently, running in the morning. Other adequate candidates had not yet showed up.

A couple of weeks ago, on a wave of drawn-out absence of fish, Zozo put up a notice on an Internet dating site, accompanying it with a scanned ten-year-old photograph, in which she in a low-neck dress was tenderly embracing someone’s collie. The photograph seemed very good to Zozo. True, with the scanning and the reduction a certain special expression in the face adding attractiveness had vanished, and it was necessary to cut out Methodius, who, to tell the truth, was also in the photograph, neatly using Photoshop. In Zozo’s opinion, he decreased her chances for personal happiness. A pale, light-haired child with an aloof look, moreover, appeared too adult for his then three years of age.

Soon, to Zozo’s happiness, letters started to arrive. She immediately eliminated some, held others in reserve, listlessly answered a third, doubting for a number of reasons whether it would be worthwhile to lead it to a personal meeting. And then one more letter arrived, and Zozo understood with the nose of a bloodhound: he. Although the letter itself was sufficiently sluggish and spineless, and even the last name was some vegetable: Ogurtsov. Anton Ogurtsov.

* * *

Are you all still following Calderón, convinced that life is a dream? Untrue! Life is a nightmare. The only comfort is that a nightmare is short-term. People fear possibly everything. There are many thousands of fears or phobias. The fear of darkness is called achluophobia, cold – frigophobia, solitude – isolophobia, being buried alive – taphophobia, open space – agoraphobia, daylight – phengophobia, beard – pogonophobia, going to bed – clinophobia, standing or walking – stasiphobia, being robbed – harpaxophobia, work – ergasiophobia. Not in any way fewer than phobias are manias. The most inoffensive consists of the incessant washing of hands. Besides manias and phobias, there are some dozens of “philias” not promising their possessor anything except troubles, frequently criminal.

According to statistics, one phobia and a couple of manias haunt the average unremarkable moronoid. Rarely can someone brag about more. However, such unique examples nevertheless exist. In Moscow on Stromynka Street, in the beautiful elite house with turrets and circular windows lived a certain individual, who strove for absolutely all existing phobias and more than half of the manias. Anton Ogurtsov was that remarkable individual. He had wide shoulders, chubby cheeks with the insolent bloom of a piglet, and a firm nose of good breeding. He would even be considered a handsome man, if not for an eternal expression of hunted terror in the eyes and pursed lips.

A former medical student, who quit during second year, he knew too much. Even now, ten years later, occupying a post of average importance in the office of an Austrian firm producing disposable serviettes, cotton swabs, and paper towels, Ogurtsov suffered from a multitude of his knowledge. The medical student who failed to complete training saw dangers where others let them slip satisfactorily. What indeed, it seems, is more pleasant than messing around in one’s nose with a finger? By no means, attention! Being excessively absorbed, it is easy for you, darling, to join the ranks of clinical idiots. How? Easy! Pursing his lips, eternally stiffened in expectation of misfortune, Ogurtsov would explain to you that, by extracting snot stuck in the nose, it would be easy to bring on an infection through the capillaries, which in turn cause a clot of brain tissues.

“And this is only the beginning!” Ogurtsov would exclaim and, rolling his languishing eyes tormented by Graves’ disease, would disclose a terrible secret. Fish accumulates mercury. Canned foods increase the probability of cancer. It is easy to suffer a stroke getting up too quickly from a chair. The sharp foil of Alenka chocolate can cut a vein if we saw it with this foil for a certain time. And our food? What is it if not a cemetery of pesticides, herbicides, preservatives, and hormonal additives!

Now if only all the horrors of the world were limited to this! How easy, how nice it would be to live then! Alas, a hundred times more things were known to the unhappy Ogurtsov. Take transport. Aircrafts fall into oceans. Trolley buses burn like matches. If a trolley bus did not burn today, that means it burned yesterday. Buses only pretend that they have routes and stops. In reality, they patiently search for closed-down railroad barriers in order to demolish them and then go lifeless. And the subway? The air in it is full of the worst infections. An escalator, breaking down, seizes with its gears a poor fellow off his guard and drags him into its clanking womb. And the maniac-machinists, rushing into the tunnel with a grin at its mouth, and passengers pinched by the pneumatic doors?

The ill-fated Anton Ogurtsov lived sadly, very sadly, in the world. He did not live but dwelled in it. Even in the evening, falling in exhaustion onto his bachelor bed, covered in antiseptic sheets given to him free of charge for advertising purposes, he could not drop off with dreams of escape. Ogurtsov was lying and remembering that streptococci were living in his pillows, the cup of tea drunk at night could cause vomiting, and a smouldering mattress was capable of suffocating a sleeping person in five minutes. In the middle of the night, he woke up in a cold sweat. It seemed to him that the protective vent over the pipe was ripped out and the apartment was filled with methane. Furthermore, a mean little falsetto regularly whispered to him that, according to statistics, ninety percent of people die in bed. The same tireless little falsetto suggested to Anton Ogurtsov to watch his health vigilantly.

At different times, the employee of a foreign firm suspected he had spondylarthritis, peritonitis, pyoderma, helminthiasis, iritis, astigmatism, cancer, lymphadenitis, polyneuritis, endocarditis, cirrhosis, tracheitis, leprosy, and gingivitis. The fact that none of these diagnoses was confirmed did not weaken his natural hypochondria.

There was not a single prominent medical notable, to whom Ogurtsov would not show himself. Homeopathists, virologists, dermatologists, allergists, bacteriologists, gastroenterologists, therapists, toxicologists, and physiotherapists – all knew him in person. To all of them, the worker of the serviette front demonstrated his athletic trunk and vigilant eyes of a paranoid. It was impossible to disengage oneself from the frightened Ogurtsov, burning with desire to learn the truth. He clung like a leech and cried on the doctor’s shoulders, imploring, “Professor, please don’t deceive me! Tell me the truth, no matter how brutal!”

In despair, doctors used the last resort – they sent the minister of antibacterial serviettes to their colleagues, also venerable notables, against whom they had a grudge. Doctors exchanged Ogurtsov like iron ingots, hastening with his help to play a dirty trick on their foe. As a result, the histologist sent Anton to the cardiologist, the ophthalmologist – to the balneologist, and the endocrinologist – to the orthopaedist. At parting, each notable nevertheless considered it his duty to write some prescription for Ogurtsov to remember him by. As a result, in Anton’s kitchen cupboard were set up in rows: Papazol, Asparcam, riboxine, Nitrosorbid, norsulfazole, Erynitum, ethazole, Senade, Sustak, theophylline, Levomycetin, cholosasum in blue bottles, cholosasum in red bottles, Teturam, Nembutal, Nootropil, Suprastin, hydrocortisone, and the most favourite of all medicines, the name of which Ogurtsov uttered after two passionate sighs – amoxicillin 0.123 %. So far, the powerful organism of the athlete was coping successfully with all this trash, devoured daily in unthinkable quantities.

The duke of serviettes and master of the order of cotton swabs did not exactly have harmful habits, in fact, not at all. He had solid lines in this column. When they smoked in his presence, he turned green. Sometimes he drank wine, but exclusively within the framework of treatment with grapes at one teaspoon twice a day. Ogurtsov was even tenser with girls. If it so happened that some girl approached the sinewy handsome man with an interest, Ogurtsov would immediately turn to flight. Where others saw girls, he saw hordes of microbes, hepatitis, and the flu.

When Ogurtsov turned thirty-five, his parents, living in Noginsk outside Moscow, sounded the alarm and took him in a tight Nelson hold, forcing him to get married. After being obstinate for half a year, the hypochondriac employee of the disposable serviette firm gave in. He sighed submissively, swallowed vitamins, and began to read ads on the Internet. Having written Zozo a very modest letter – the first letter in his life unrelated to business, he was extremely surprised when white hands immediately caught him and quickly mobilized him for a date.

* * *

Ogurtsov waited for Zozo where all Muscovites deprived of imagination meet: at the Pushkin monument. He had a large bouquet of roses in his hands. “Are you Zoe?” he asked in a business-like manner. “Me? Yes.” “Then this is for you. Please hold the flowers carefully. Don’t get pricked! They’re fraught with sporotrichosis,” warned Ogurtsov. Zozo almost dropped the flowers. She did not know what this sporotrichosis was, but the word sounded terrible.

In the meantime, Anton Ogurtsov straightened his Herculean shoulders and solemnly uttered another truth, “Since we’ve already met, it’s not worthwhile to stand by the road. Here I estimated and realized that in those ten minutes I waited for you, my lungs had taken in around four hundred million micro-organisms. People don’t have immunity to many of them.” Zozo patiently nodded just in case. She had long been used to being hit exclusively by psychos. Indeed, she had such karma.

“Let’s go somewhere for a bite? I just came from work,” she proposed. This simple proposal provoked the most unexpected reaction. The employee of a foreign firm absent-mindedly stared at her. Zozo perceived how his intellect broke through the shroud of hygienic thoughts, descending from the height of the stars, where spiral viruses flew and gloomy intestinal bacteria soared, to the sinful earth filled with microbes.

“Hmm… Eh… Well, yes…” “You’re not against it?” “Of course not. Of course, it’s possible to get a bite, only where?” Ogurtsov asked. “What’s the difference? Well, at least over there!” Frivolously flirting with sporotrichosis reigning on the thorns, Zozo waved the roses in the direction of McDonalds. Anton stared at her wildly and his chin shuddered involuntarily, “Are you serious? Carcinogenic preservatives, trans fats, and artificial carbohydrates there! How can you not be ashamed!” Zozo was humbly ashamed, but at the same time remarked timidly that all food without exception was harmful and what to do now – die of hunger?

The trainer of cotton swabs thought for a bit. Zozo began to languish. “I’d have dinner all the same! I’ll pay my own shot, if that’s what embarrasses you,” she said persistently, feeling the beast of hunger. “Is money really the matter? So, let’s go! It seems there’s this one place…” Anton said sourly. The necessity for a heroic deed was clearly visible on his noble face.

They went somewhere, turned, turned again, and slid under an arch. Although the sun was raging on the street, here dampness reigned. Having squeezed through between parked cars, they passed one more playground, and dived under one more arch. Here Ogurtsov stopped. Above a small basement with a sparse artificial palm at the entrance crowded the bright letters: DREAM OF YOGI.