* * *
"We don't get high at our own supply."
The words echoed through the chilled basement, finding a path through the noise of the machinery to the ears and heart of every worker. The shoulders quivered, and eyes shot frantically in my direction, wanting to see but not be seen. Movements took on an uncharacteristic haste, heads bent with a foreboding sense of impending disaster, imagining myself under a low lamp in the center of the hall instead of those who had been torn from their work by my word.
Today the guilty parties were many. In the lifeless light of the lamps, six workers, faceless in their matching white dressing gowns and gloved caps, lined up in an arc, forcibly putting a tall, stout guy in front. Someone had to answer for the shortfall. Somebody else, newly hired, and therefore more guilty than the rest of the team.
He tugged at the sleeve of his dressing gown, crumpling the white fabric with scuffed fingers. His eyes searched for the culprit, on the floor, on the walls, on the ceiling, and in the squares of sheeted windows.
"Sergei, you know the rules, don't you?"
He nodded and immediately shook his head in the negative: "But it wasn't me!"
His attempt to turn to his former friends was stopped by me catching him by the shoulder and pulling him sharply towards me.
"Your eyes are inflamed. Your skin is cold, and your breathing... Show me your tongue."
Sergei stubbornly stared at the floor, unwilling to obey.
"How much did you eat?" I half-turned to Vadik, who was standing guard with Saimon until then.
"Two packs are missing," he said with a glance at the paper.
"What happens to those who consume so much?" I turned to Sergei again, shaking him by his dressing gown. "What happened to Petya? Tell me"
"He's in hospital," the lad sniffed, doomfully slumping his shoulders.
"Right. And why was he in the hospital a second time?" I asked, moving a little closer.
"He fell down the stairs..."
"Wrong," I tsked, annoyed. "The reason is that he caused us problems. There was an investigation because of him. The shop had to shut down for a month. We lost a lot of money... Now, do you understand the consequences of your misdeed?"
"I won't do it again," he grimaced.
"Of course," I smiled toothily at him, "you're fired."
"But I..."
"Kick him out."
"And my pay?!"
"What pay?" I was surprised at the answer, rounding my eyes. "You owe us for two packages of shortages. The deadline is one week."
"No fair!" The sound came from behind the door, along with Saimon's cackling and a thud, after which all sound had ceased.
Hmm. Too quiet. I glanced around the hall, surprised to see the guys frozen as statues.
"Back to work!" I shouted in such a way that small parts shuddered somewhere on the shelf, and a small splinter of yellowish powder rolled over a mountain of yellowish powder in the corner.
They unfreeze.
"Let's go," I waved at Vadik and was the first one out the door of the underground ice cream shop.
"All according to plan," Saimon greeted us at the top of the stairs, "I've followed up. He's going to go complain about the injustice to his friends."
"Has the safe been shown to him?"
"A glimpse, as you ordered. Like we shuffling wads of money around."
"Great," I relaxed, noting another step in the plan had been completed. "Is everything ready for the second step?"
"Yes, boss, the boys whispered the right words. They're already looking for us," Vadik hummed contentedly.
"I don't understand. Are they completely brainless?" Mumbled Saimon, not fully believing it would work.
"Everyone needs a culprit for their troubles," I shrugged and adjusted the red bowtie on my shirt, "so let's let ourselves be found."
Our group walked leisurely down the corridors - wide and bright, thanks to the generosity of an unknown sponsor who had decorated every corner with a cheerful drawing. One that even the last bastard would dare to scribble on with a felt-tip pen. In the passage a frightened face of one of Sailor's men flashed, immediately disappearing to the swift stomp of new, but so loud, boots.
"A minute or two," Vadik estimated, leaning against the wall beside the dead end with the emergency exit, which somehow illuminated the two-by-three-meter area with yellow light from the letters.
I stayed a little further away, under the light pouring in from the window - as if I were alone and not standing in the shadows of two friends, real friends, not the Sneezer and Sailor had turned into in the last three years. There's no such thing as friendship for money, after all.
"You have sold us a poor quality product."
I was standing by the window, hands behind my back, when the accusation finally came through. I thought they were going to keep shuffling from foot to foot, hesitant to say the word. As I turned around, I noticed three tall guys showing off their striped shirts in the slit of their unbuttoned three-button shirts. Strong, aggressive, used to doing, not thinking. That's what is needed.
"Is that so?" I answered neutrally.
"The dentist said our teeth have gone bad because of the sweet stuff. You sold it to us!" Kolja made his argument, tilting his head forward threateningly. "You made us suffer!"
"And what do you want from me?" I am sincerely curious about the answer.
"Compen... com... compensation!" mouthed the center one.
"How much do you want?"
"Two imps!" he blurted out, apparently not believing that such a huge pile of money could be made.
"For each tooth?" I asked, taking out my checkbook, which used to be a notebook.
"Yes!" the three looked at each other and nodded, amused at the prospect.
"And who has how much?" I tapped on a piece of paper with my pen.
"I have a front one and two molars," Kolka showed, pushing back his lip, "Seva has three, and Vitya has one."
"I have two!" Vitya was indignant, pointing his finger carefully at his healed teeth.
"Um, okay," I nodded, writing Kolka a cheque. "Here, for your three teeth. Seva, your check, Vitya, please. Everybody happy?"
"Yeah," they shook their heads in exasperation as they stared at my signature.
"Now I would like to get my teeth."
"W-what?"
"Well, I paid for them, didn't I?" I shrugged perplexedly. "They're sick, spoiled by my stuff. Am I saying it right? You put a price on them, and you got the money. So let's not waste my time. Teeth on the shelf," I patted my hand on the windowsill.
"That's not what we agreed!"
"Vitalik, Saimon," I commanded, and immediately my friends emerged from the darkness of the cul-de-sac, laying the enemy on the floor with a few blows. "Saimon, this one owes me three teeth. Book it, will you?"
"Worries not, Boss," he muttered, pulling a pre-prepared rusty pair of pliers from behind his belt."
"No, don't!" He yelled from the floor, but my friend pressed my client down with their knee, unclenched his mouth, and pushed the metal into his mouth.
A shriek was followed by a howling scream, and a bloody, half-broken fang appeared in the warm summer sun.
The tooth hit the concrete floor with a thud, immediately catching the eyes of all three of them.
"Not completely," I grudgingly complained.
"Boss, I gonna fix it now."
"Please don't!"
"But I paid for them," I chided him. "'Don't fidget, be nice.'"
"Deal's off," muttered Kolka, twisting his head to the side and spitting blood out of his mouth.
"Well... If that's the case, I can sell you your teeth back," I informed him kindly, sat down beside him, and patted his cheek.
There was so much hope in his eyes as if I were capable of returning his smile, which had been distorted by an ugly chink.
"More expensive, of course," I corrected myself, "say, for ten imps each. The deadline is tomorrow. The interest will go every day as long as my goods are in your mouth. The first installment you can make right now," I nodded at the cheques they were still holding in their hands. "No questions? That's fine. The balance owed is sixty-four imps."
There was no hope in his eyes now, only rage and a desire to kill.
"Get lost."
I wiped the blood from my fingers on his trousers and glared at my friends to escort our customers out with kicks. Once again, I stepped back to the window, stretched a little, reached out with my arms, and turned back to the boys.
"What a bastard one has to be."
"They mutilated Oleg," Simon reminded him, wiping away the pliers with a handkerchief.
"That's why I have to," I frowned, admitting he was right.
"You could have at least found some that weren't so rusty, eh?" Vadik chided his colleague, skeptically examining the red and yellow stains on the metal.
"It wasn't me," he threw a look at me.
"I'm not the Tooth Fairy to pay two imps for a tooth," I explained with mild irritation. "Half the boarding school would queue up with their jaws in their hands! It's not the tooth that matters. It's the fear and pain of the process. They should know that a tooth can be pulled long and very painful!"
"Easy, easy," Vadik patted me sympathetically, reassuring me. "We know this isn't easy for you. It'll be over soon, won't it?"
I covered my eyes, pushing the evil thoughts away. There were friends around, good and kind, and they didn't need to be frightened by me or anyone else at all.
"I'm sorry. Any questions about stage three? No? Then I'm off to the roof."
I shouldn't show my debtors around just yet. The guys are hot. They may try to settle things by force, coming back with reinforcements. And the idea is not to have a mass brawl at all. The idea is that greed and fear will unite for the big prize.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
In the chill of the shaded section of the roof, resting against faintly visible protrusions on the rough surface, I looked closely at the day.
The puffy clouds hung overhead, the midday sun was blazing, the haze rose vertically upwards over the tiny village houses in the distance, and the dark line on the horizon threatened to rain lazily and not at all fearfully. It was stuffy to the point of ringing in the ears. My body wanted to move, hoping for a gust of wind, but the sun drove me mercilessly into the shadows, burning my feet even through the soles of my sandals. And it was here, on the roof, under the occasional gusts of wind, now and then, but bringing freshness and coolness.
What is it like for them there, in the concrete box of the boarding school? Of course, they feel bad. But soon, it will get worse. Simon is blocking the ventilation ducts, turning the rooms into a scorcher. Thanks to Vadik's efforts, the cold water tap will soon rattle and spit up rust, and the canteen has been ready to sell only ice-cold soda since yesterday, which makes your shirt sweat and you want to drink even more.
But I'm still not sure - is this day bad enough? Or should I make it a bit worse so that the thoughts and desires of my enemies are guaranteed to turn into deeds?
My life has spanned almost five thousand days. Good and bad, interesting and boring - like most of us, I didn't choose most of them, taking from life in the morning and giving each night back, with gratitude or rebuke. Until, after turning three and a half thousand, I realized that I can create the days myself. For myself and others. And a little later I started to sell them.
It didn't seem so difficult - then, three years ago. The senior class had left for the city to be replaced by the former eighth, already anticipating power by the right of the strongest and most mature in the boarding school. The older ones were gone, but I remained - and with me, the web of submission and fear I had inherited from those with whom I had done business.
I remember the disappointment on their faces when my dull voice sounded in the huge ninth-grade bedroom full of the scent of fresh sheets - about how they had grown up, but nothing had changed. When they didn't believe it and dared to object, I created my first twenty-four hours.
A night with a broken window, chilly, wind howling, cold. Mornings with the caretakers' loud shouting, stubborn silence, and anger. Burning breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. An evening with the white noise of a broken antenna instead of a cartoon, damp laundry, and two streaks on the other window marking the still intact glass. The hint was taken, and there were no further objections.
Then I created a good day. With good food, football in PE, a repaired window, and warm, ironed laundry. And I put a price on it.
Many could not buy the whole day, then I sold hours and minutes, taking payment with work and things. Gradually all the riches of our little world took up space under the bed, clogged the nightstand and the corner, and there were always a couple of runners near the door, ready to run any errand.
Was I happy, kicking over a stack of coloring books, choosing the right shade from two hundred different felt-tip pens? No. But when I created a new day, when I wondered what it would be like, I was even happier than my clients. I made up adventures for them, hiding the answer sheet for the exam, which was an hour away, under the insole of the cook's shoe. I was curious to see if Laika could get out of the principal's office unnoticed, and I regretted that I hadn't been part of her landing through the window. I used to put on a show for the kids by sending letters to the theatres and circuses signed by a hundred nondescript signatures - and the actors would come, creating a holiday for all of us. So it wasn't about the payment at all, although I couldn't refuse it. And that was the first of many problems.
I soon realized that in another month or two, my clients would have nothing to pay me. They had already started to reach into the pockets of the younger ones, seeking to do their work with other people's hands, forcing them to do it by force. No matter how much I raised my voice and imposed fines. But even that source threatened to dry up - which meant they would go into the pockets of the teachers or stage a riot. This could not be allowed to happen.
I began to dump the stuff I had accumulated back, lavishing it on the good guys, creating friends, guards, and supporters. But they were in no hurry to give away their wealth, preferring to save rather than trade, and if they did, they spent it unexpectedly to create their own power. The situation only got worse.
Then I started paying ordinary children for complete nonsense just so that they could pay me. When the fence was painted three times a week, the brushed and washed Mashka was almost taken away by the teacher, then I realized an outside source of work and payment was required.
This is how the boarding school came up with a secret production of simple kitchen utensils like spatulas, rolling pins, and planks. In exchange for a heavy gym bag full of wood, the labor teacher would bring in a couple or three pieces of paper and a scattering of change, each time averting his eyes and saying that he could earn more, but only if he sold it himself. As it was, the price was decided by the buyer, but they would take it all in one go and even ask for more.
I didn't care about the price. It was more important that the guys got a job that I wasn't paying for. But I was not happy either: rubles were not something I could safely hand over to my workers. I had no change. I didn't know their real value. I didn't want the caretakers to notice them. And I also didn't want the money to start being spent past me - it was, as I knew, valued there, over the fence. So I created my own money. Rubles were brought to me, and I paid in imps, tors, and ors, at the rate of one to ten, decorating the uneven rectangles of coloring with my signature (a peek at the green paper with the old man).
The situation evened out - until there was more money in my hands than I could offer for services. They began to buy back the items I had surrendered, exchanging my cleverly devised dummies for toys and mattresses, gradually scooping up all I had accumulated to the very bottom.
I asked my friends for advice - and they fled at once, hearing only the word 'problems'. So the team of Sailor (he had his father's T-shirt from home) and Fedka was born. I made him a Ытууяук myself by giving him a sunbath in the bitter cold.
Knowing my difficulties, they started spreading rumors that everything was about to collapse, that I was cheating everyone, and that it was time to beat me up.
In return for the roubles I had accumulated, I procured sweets and candies from the outside world, defiantly dumping dozens of kilos of wealth on a nearby, still-empty bed. My authority was once again unbreakable. But with this approach, the stock of outside money threatened to run out very quickly - the price per kilo of even the cheapest caramel was very unpleasant. Then the idea was born that we should produce something which would be appreciated both outside the fence and inside the boarding school. And I knew such a product.
The first batch of ice cream was made for me by the cooks, who easily transformed a packet of shop-made cream into quite decent ice cream - without a waffle cup and a sticker, but very tasty. The wafer cup, however, was no great problem either. But the cost of cream, cup dough, sugar, and the most expensive - the work of the cooks, rent of the room, and equipment - was scary. I was able to solve the latter problem rather quickly, having found out that after the renovation of the boarding school, all the old kitchen utensils and equipment had been abandoned in the basement. In a fortnight and spending a dozen kilos of sweets, the room had been put in order. And for a hundred roubles, a laborer repaired and greased all the necessary equipment - a large freezer, waffle makers, and several large dough beaters. Workers were also found quickly, but there were difficulties with the raw materials - I had to buy them for roubles, but I could not sell the ice cream outside the fence like that. On the other hand, the product was doing well inside the boarding school, pushing back the threat of bankruptcy for a month or two.
It soon dawned on me during another sitting on the roof. There were many villages around the boarding school for many kilometers. And where there are villages, there are cows, which means cream. And also - there are children, which means customers who don't care what ice cream looks like - as long as it tastes good and is cold. But for that, I needed a man on the outside.
Such a person was found - along with the phone that Tolik had left when he left the boarding school. His grandmother was cured, and the care authorities allowed him to return home, leaving behind someone else's jealousy and his firm promise to help me if anything. I seemed very fortunate to call the hospital then. He was very complimentary - or rather embarrassed and tried to shake my hand, but it's the same thing. Anyway, the promised "if anything" happened. I called - and Tolik showed up at the fence of the boarding school the next evening.
It won't work, he said. This is nonsense! he shook his head incredulously. Well, I can't carry it all in my hands, he muttered, giving up. I had to go back to the boarding school, pick up the bag of money and shove it through the hole under the fence. Is this money enough for a car? I kicked the unzipped vault of papers and change.
A week later, a red, tattered car with black patches on the hull, different rims, and visible ovals of the wheels dashingly pulled up outside the fence, and Tolik got out, adjusting his black glasses with a fancy label. Later I was told that the teacher, who had seen him through the window, burst into tears, admitting that he had always thought well of Tolik and knew that he would make a name for himself. So we set to work, exchanging the ice cream for delicious village milk, cream, pennies, and all sorts of things, that seemed valuable to Tolik.
The successful experience with Tolik suggested that it was still possible to find friends, and the workload at the ice cream factory and the carpentry business made me look for helpers. The only question was how to find dependable and decent ones. I turned to the teacher on the world around me, along with a request to give her a portrait of her (painted my workshop to produce new, beautiful money - the old have begun to counterfeit). The teacher was impressed and conducted a general psychological test, as a result of which I became friends with Oleg, Vadik, and Simon. All are loyal, intelligent, brave, and strong. And Oleg is also a good drawer - and he was the hardest to deal with.
The point is that I already had people who could draw well. But I have no one to do the paperwork, counting money, and other things that I considered unimportant. I changed my mind very quickly when I got my hands on the accounts department of the boarding school to reduce the number of kitchen utensils by one unit. I liked the full-service processor too much. And... no one noticed my edit, as if the processor never existed. The incredible power of the papers was so overwhelming that I realized the need for a specially trained person - to count and not lose mine. Oleg, on the other hand, wanted to be an artist. Then I came to him with a bag of tangerines and a thick ledger.
"What is it?" He asked me, swallowing his saliva, tearing his gaze between the goodies and the incomprehensible book.
"A work of art." I opened the ledger to the last page and poked my finger at the line with red writing. "Here, look."
"What am I supposed to see here?" He looked at me with big eyes without understanding.
"How? Can't you see the juicy orange fruit in the cold snow?" I wondered, pointing at the number with my fingernail. "Can't you see how they are consigned to oblivion, forgotten and spoilt by the snow?"
"Max, is there all right with your head?"
"Two kilos of tangerines," I changed my voice to mundane and pointed to the bag, "were thrown away according to this record."
"But they're not thrown away, are they?"
"That's the beauty of true fine art," I moved the book to his lap, "it shows the world as the artist sees it. That is its power."
"But that's not what it is!"
"Really? There it is - the image of reality. Here is the creator's signature in the very corner. Here is the date of creation of the painting."
"But it's the numbers!"
"Is abstraction not an art?"
"But they can prosecute for that, can't they?"
"Were true artists afraid of persecution?" I winked. "Anyway, I believe in you. I believe in the pages of your works, ships will crash, and factories will appear out of nowhere. Inspectors and auditors will applaud you, believing in the masterpieces you've created. They will also be paid millions. Isn't what you want?"
As you understood, I was not going to limit myself to ice cream. But the main thing in that story was that Oleg agreed to be my accountant and enthusiastically buried himself in numbers, abandoning gouache and sketchbook.
Altogether, we continued working, continuing to create new days - good for ourselves and still paying for the rest of us. The ice cream was now, with the new equipment, indistinguishable from store-bought, so a few boxes were sold through the village shop. One problem was finally solved.
But I came up with a new one. I decided to create a new future for my friends in good schools like Simon's. And I knew how and through whom to arrange this - Uncle Kolya promised to appear once a year. We just had to wait.
However, instead of Uncle Kolya, Simonn himself visited the boarding school sometime later, delighting the teachers who had already forgotten him with the news of an elite lyceum and a bag full of clinking bottles. His request to visit his old classmates was, of course, received with a pep talk. The class got a pack of lemonade, a kilo of sweets, and an awkward conversation. A little later, though, we were able to talk tet-a-tete in my room.
"It's impossible," Simon said guiltily as he listened to my request. "Believe me. I want to help you, but adoption requires a family income and a job. And Dad is on welfare. There's not much work in town for a disabled man. I was registered with difficulty."
"So he needs the money?" I clarified.
"A job with a guaranteed income," he corrected me.
"What can I tell you..." I corrected the permanent bowtie. "He's hired."
"Аh?" without understanding, he opened his eyes.
And opened up, even more, when the accumulated earnings showed out from under the sofa. In two bags. Yes, I know there was only change and coins in there, but the impression was positive - I checked it out on Tolík.
"W-where from?" he exhaled.
"We're working a little bit," I said modestly. "In general, you have a secure income."
"Erm, great, but one needs an official job..."
"So let him register a company. I know adults can do that," I shrugged. "I'll send a car to your place tomorrow, so it can be done quickly."
"You have a car too?!"
Soon a company called "Max-Im" appeared in town with a highly respected veteran founder who, despite his disability, had taken on the burden of raising an orphan and was applying to adopt three more - he would pick them up in a fortnight after the school year was over. All the documents are already in the hands of the new dad, and the decision is, as I thought, positive.
Interestingly, Uncle Kolya was not even surprised in those days - except for a glance at the underground shop, ordering everyone to wear clean dressing gowns and wash their hands several times - and immediately started calling friends and organizing sales. We continued to take milk from the villages, but we paid a little more to the children's parents. But we got a lot more milk, and always on time. So now we hardly ever sell ice cream in the orphanage - everything goes to the outside market.
For the locals, I still had film and cartoon shows - creating entertainment proved almost free, but they sold very well and dearly. I also have Saimon to thank for the films and cartoons. When we were arranging communication, I shook my dusty, non-functioning phone out on the bedspread, with a long time ago (when I was still sick) running out of charge. Saimon returned it charged, with a new number and charger. And at the same time, he opened to me the wonder of the Internet. It had everything! New ice cream recipes, weather, and even cartoons. So, soon I had a laptop, and the kids at the boarding school had secret and very expensive sessions where you could watch very, very interesting things. And if you paid an even wilder sum, you could even play games.
There were problems, too. At the time, Petya ate too much ice cream and ended up in the hospital with pneumonia. The whole business was at risk at the time - entertaining the little ones, as the adults thought, turned out not to be entertainment at all but a business with a sizable profit margin. Before the adults made the wrong decision and ruined everything, I took the first step myself - I went to the headmistress and gave her what she loved most in the world. A carefully ironed wad of money, tied with a pink bow, took its place on the very edge of the table. And I just walked out quietly, shutting the door behind me, promising the same one every month. No one ever bothered us again... And when Petya, the fool, complained about my bill for the theft, it was not I who threw him down the stairs.
But everything must have a beginning and an end. I was well aware of that, knowing what kind of fate the headmistress had in store for me. So I always kept in mind that the day would come... I was slowly creating that day for myself.
* * *
Chapter 17
Seekers and the treasure