Awakening, 2nd edition

by Kuili, Ray N.

  The quiet murmur of the forest around her was whispering into her ears: “You ’ll be trying your best, you ’ll be fighting your fights, you ’ll be losing your sleep over your failures, you ’ll celebrating your victories . . . a nd meanwhile real life will pass you by.

  “Someone will climb mountains, someone will bring new things into the world, someone will raise children . . . As for you, you will fight ghosts and , if you ’re lucky, score illusory victories. And despite your achievements , you will always be at the mercy of your management who in a single stroke would invalidate your past and your future should you happened to be in their way. And when you retire and look back , there will be nothing worthy behind you. And you won ’t be alone. Neither magnificent Chris, nor sly Joan, nor I-mind-my-own-business Michael will have anything worthy in their pasts.

  And then she remembered . . .

  “So you support what Michael did ?” she asked in an abruptly changed voice.

  “Come again?”

  “You have nothing against what he did to that poor woman?”

  “Poor woman?”

  “His wife. Come on, you know perfectly well what I ’m talking about.”

  “Not really, ” Robert turned to her. “You ’ve lost me on this one.”

  Stella sighed wearily. She should’ve seen this coming. The vivid image of a fearless macho on his adventures around the world was rapidly losing its luster .

  “I know everything so you don ’t have to try so hard. I know that Michael shared his story with you guys on Monday and I know what that story was. I know what he did to his wife, and I know all about his whole case for , ‘Teaching them broads ’ a lesson. I also know that Chris said it was the only way , ‘To deal with those bitches.’ And I also happen to know what you said.”

  “And what exactly did I say?” Robert enquir ed rather curiously. He seemed to be completely unmoved by Stella ’s tirade.

  “You advised Michael to be cautious unless he wants to end up in court. But you didn ’t mind the whole thing.”

  “Interesting, ” said Robert. “That explains it . . . Let me guess, your source was present at that convention of male chauvinists. And he was burning with righte ous anger, while passing this to you.”

  “I’m not going to comm ent on that .”

  “That won’t be necessary anyway.”

  It was obvious that Robert had no intention of defend ing himself or com ing up with excuses. Stella was slowly growing gloomier and gloomier.

  “However,” Robert stirred the glowing coals with his blackened branch, “I can tell you exactly how it went. Someone approached you . . . Let me think about timing . . . m ost likely yesterday night, right after the speeches. He told you that he just had to share something with you. He was not happy about doing this, but he had no choice. Right? You don ’t have to say anything —I can see that I ’m right so far. You didn ’t mind and so he went ahead and told you how Mike pulled the guys together and boasted about beating his wife. The guys, understandably, kept nodding and saying that the bitch deserved it. As for me, I even gave some semi-p ractical legal advice. Right?”

  “More or less.”

  “I’m sure it ’s rather more than less. And so now you have to stay overnight in the middle of nowhere with one of th o se pigs, accept his help and even listen to his endless blabber. What an unpleasant situation.”

  “It is unpleasant, ” Stella confirmed dryly.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, ” said Robert and turned back to the campfire.

  Apparently the conversation was over. Suddenly Stella regretted recalling the incident and bringing it up. The evening , which had just been turning into the nicest she had had in a while, was now marred and ruined beyond any hope of repair. The only sound breaking the silence now was the crackling of the fire. Stella sighed involuntary and embraced her knees tightly .

  The feeling of regret that was filling her made her wish for a second that Kevin had never told her about that conversation. That he had chosen a different ear to whisper into. Say Joan ’s. Come to think of it, why didn ’t he tell Joan? They all drool over her. Yet, he chose to deprive her of that critical information and share it with someone else instead. Share may be the wrong word here —talking to him was like interrogating a criminal in denial. He came for something else. Actually, what did he come for? He left almost as soon as he ’d finished telling the story. Could it be that this was all he really wanted to talk about? Perhaps. But that, in turn, would mean that he had dropped that hint intentionally, k nowing all too well what was going to happen next.

  No, this doesn’t make any sense. Kevin is such a decent man. He ’s a much, much better per son than any of them. He could hardly keep it together while describing that episode of chitchat . In fact, he was even embarrassed he’d been a part of it. And he ’d almost lost it when he ’d hinted about the accident that had wiped out his entire family. Of course, Mr. Supermen here doesn ’t like it. Mr. Superman would laugh at the idea of relating this manly story to a woman. Mr. Superman would . . .

  But he has nothing against women, you have to give him that. According to his stories , he didn ’t even mind taking them with him on his dangerous adventures. By and large, had it not been for that boys ’ club evening, it would ’ve been preposterous to assume that he might have such views. It even seems—although with his poker face you can never be too sure—that he is offended by these issues . Supermen should be above these petty human emotions —but he probably isn ’t.

  Could it be that Kevin mixed him up with someone else? That it was somebody else who dropped a comment about being cautious? Come to think of it, the entire word caution hardly fits Robert.

  “Rob,” she asked quietly, “it was some one else who talk ed about legal problems , wasn ’t it?”

  Mr. Superman replied without taking his eyes off the fire. His answer was cryptic: “Wrong question.”

  “What do you—” Stella began. “Do you mean you weren ’t there at all?”

  “Warmer.”

  “Sorry, I don ’t understand.”

  This time Mr. Superman decided to turn and face her.

  “Why do you think there was anybody there at all?” he asked , looking point-blank at her.

  It was too early to go to bed, and reading, for whatever reason, seemed as unattractive as finding someone for a random chitchat . Michael considered a couple of other ways to spend the time and headed for the side door.

  The world outside the lodge met him with fresh chilly air and friendly darkness. Somewhere nearby an invisible forest rustled. Night sounds occasionally wafted from the lake—either muffled splashing or quiet tapping. A helicopter rumbled above his head. Michael looked up automatically and froze, facing a breathtaking picture: deep, pitch-black sky studded with large, flickering stars. Back in the city it wasn ’t anything like that. There the cold shining of stars dissolved in the glow of city lights, dimmed among st the exhaust gases that rose relentlessly towards them . In the city , the night sky was nothing but an element of the landscape, and certainly not the most prominent one.

  But here the sky confidently dominated the earth. It stretched like an infinite quilt ornamented with unreal shining diamonds, and covered everything—the sleeping lake, the restless forest, the mysteriously quiet house, and the deserted beach. It covered the entire world, and the line of the horizon only emphasized its calm infinity.

  And the main objects on this black quilt were the stars. Not the thin crescent of the moon . Not the random lights of the retreating helicopter. The stars. All of them—lonely or interwoven into the familiar patterns of constellations, large or hardly visible—all of them were so alluring with their bright, pale -blue, eternal shining.

  It’s just like that evening, Michael thought.

  It had been fifteen years, if not longer, since that night. That evening had been completely unplanned and it flew by in a single breath, but it remained engraved in his memory forever. It had everything a sixteen-yea
r-old boy could only dream of: a girl who seemed completely irresistible, the serene tranquility of the surrounding world, the groundless confidence in guaranteed privacy, the growing desire untainted by adult practicality, the quiet laugh, the silly wrestling, and a jacket spread on the chill y ground. And stars. Bright cold stars that saw everything and gazed at what they saw with ultimate indifference. They had seen a myriad of such couples, and had they chosen to care about all of them, they would have burned out a long time ago.

  They haven’t changed a bit, he thought. As if nothing has changed. But in fact quite a lot has. Fifteen years have passed . . . no, it must be longer than that. What year was it? Must be eighteen years . . . Eighteen years, all gone in a single heartbeat! And I have no clue where that irresistible girl is now, although about six years ago someone told me that she had been happily married, just as happily divorced, and even more happily married for the second time. And I ’m almost thirty-four already. And the times of low self-confidence with women are long gone and forgotten.

  These days, I care about things like winning at this odd workshop, figuring out what it ’s really all about, and guessing what ’s going on back at work while I ’m wasting my time here. That overly excited teenager who gave these stars the proud look of a conqueror had ceased to exist a long time ago. He disappeared, vanished into thin air. Someone else walks the earth in his place. This someone is a manager bothered by the serious issues of grownups, and while he ’s labeled “young ” by many, anyone taking a good look at him would see that he is not so young anymore. Not young at all.

  Yet the stars haven’t changed a bit. They will remain the same when this “young ” manager disappears too, and when the “mature ” man who replace s him is gone as well, and when the “still going strong in his fifties ” person is gone, and when the “looking great for his age ” elderly man turns into a “decrepit ” old man . And when these metamorphoses come to an end and even the shell in which they have been taking place turns into dust and disappears, the stars will twinkle just as indifferently in the black sky above the earth, above the lake, above the forest, above the entire world.

  Forget me . All these world-famous tyrants, rulers and conquerors whose names we kept bringing up a day ago—they all saw the same stars. Exactly the same stars, exactly the same constellations that I ’m looking at now. Perhaps some of these rulers looked at the stars from a different angle, but still . . . the y were the same stars.

  They flamed with vanity, they built their lives on vanity, they created step-by-step horrifying and intimidating images of themselves. They were rising above the crowds, they were leading others, they were inspiring some and making others tremble. They were thirsty for power—for ultimate, boundless, absolute, unmatched -in -history power. And they succeeded at that. The world was now reciting the name, in a trembling whisper —the name , which just ten years ago was known to no one . A nd the kings, who not long ago had snort ed contemptuously at the mere sound of it , were rushing cap-in-hand to swear allegiance to the new ruler.

  And they had no other dream but power. Money, gold, treasures, women, slaves, monuments, palaces were but attributes. Power, absolute power , was the goal. The one and only goal. And they accomplished it , and they subjugated many nations, and they destroyed hundreds of thousands—if not millions—of people along the way . A nd they built empires, and they founded dynasties, and they experienced the kind of power that was unimaginable for anyone else in their time.

  And then they died and rotted, and the cold stars—these stars—glanced down indifferently at their graves and got back to their business of twinkling . And another few hundred years later—less than a tiniest fraction of a shortest instant for stars—the empires were gone , too, and with them the degenerated dynasties, and with that the power, which die d along with a true ruler. Only the names remained, written in books and annals, passed down through the generations by word of mouth, turning slowly into common nouns—the names that became synonymous with power and the lust for it. And that was all.

  As for us, we won ’t leave even that legacy behind. We ’re sitting now in this lodge, and our only concern is about winning this competition—by any means. Because upon winning here , the winner will come back proudly wearing an “A pproved for power ” stamp on his forehead. And he will be welcomed back with the utmost hospitality, and promoted, and given a new assignment of vast importance, and probably a new very attractive position. Because now it would be known for a fact that , of all people , he can lead and he can be trusted with authority.

  And the winner will be given another slice of power —for what is people management if not power? And he will accept it and for some time will feel satisfied and even proud. But then he will take a look or two around and recall that those who gave him that slice of power have much, much more , and so with renewed vigor he will start lusting again for more, more, more . . . Because a man who wants power is never completely satisfied with what he has. And if he is satisfied , it means only one thing : he ’s growing old and his days are numbered. The younger, hungrier, more rapacious and dangerous newcomers will come on the scene and the man who decided to rest on his laurels will be swept aside and replaced by someone who wants more.

  Or perhaps the victory at the w orkshop will be interpreted differently , and no one will rush to give more power to the proud winner. Contrary to everyone ’s expectations, the round red stamp on the forehead will scream “DANGER!” And the winner will be immediately sent off to the periphery or in the best case left at his place and even fed a few bonuses, but completely deprived of the key thing he needs : advancement up the food chain. True, it was hinted to us that those who sent us here had attended the w orkshop themselves long ago . But who said they were the winners ? It had been our own assumption. A very natural, very logical, very human one—but still, an assumption. And , who knows, it could ’ve been those who lost back then who now lead our companies. Those who were smart enough to show to their patrons that they would stop at nothing. And now, some years later, they ’re waiting for the workshop ’s results to see whether those who want to become their successor are as smart as they were. Smart enough to lose .

  One way or another, upon our return we will be busy doing the same thing that keeps us busy here : struggling for power. Not fake power like the one we ’re after here, but the real thing . Well, real probably isn ’t the right world. We ’ll be working hard, we ’ll be contributing to the bottom line, we ’ll be helping the company to grow the revenue, we ’ll be inspiring, managing, hiring, solving problems, creating strategies, reducing expenses, and so on and so forth. We will be , with out a doubt , very useful assets to our corporations. But deep in our souls we will still be longing for the same old things : getting a bigger department, being trusted with a more important area, being allowed to hire another ten people. We ’ll be longing for more power.

  And although this power will be truly insignificant in comparison to the power that the Napoleons and Tamerlanes of this world had in their possession, we will be fighting for it ferociously, enjoying our victories wholeheartedly , and having our hearts broken over our losses. And each night , the stars will scornfully watch the tiny buildings of mighty corporations, in which passions boil throughout the day .

  The stars have seen many billions of people and they know the true value of power—the most illusory, most delusive , and most obsessive of all human passions.

  “Hurry up!” a low voice said impatiently nearby. “I don ’t want anyone to see us together.”

  Michael swiftly turned at the sound, discerned two gray shadows emerging from the darkness, and swiftly stepped back, becoming almost invisible.

  “My ankle hurts, ” said the shadow that was smaller , somehow managing to mix capricious and frightened tones in its voice. “I think I ’ve sprained it.”

  It lowered carefully onto its right knee and began manipulating its foot.

  “Not my problem, ” the second shadow snapped hars
hly. “So?”

  “Listen,” pleaded the shadow with a sprained ankle, “can ’t we go back into the house? It ’s freezing out here. I didn ’t have time to put anything on. If you want privacy, let ’s just go to the pool room.”

  “We can’t. Brandon ’s there.”

  “Okay, how about your room? Or my room, or the bar? Can ’t we just talk inside? Anywhere —but inside?”

  “No, we can’t, ” the bigger shadow replied, its cold voice full of the same harsh tones. “Not the way I need to talk .”

  “What?” the first shadow asked , panicky, instantly forgetting the sprained ankle and jerking back. “Again?”

  “Don’t sweat it. Just tell me what ’ve you got so far and I ’ll let you go. Relax, I ’m not going to touch you this time.”

  The first shadow sighed with relief.

  “I don’t have much, you know. They just keep silent. All of them. Really. They are like a bunch of conspirators.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “I swear, nothing. Joan only said that Chris rocks. But then she said that about everyone.”

  “Have you talked to everybody?”

  “Yes, except Rob and Stella. They must be having a blast tonight.”

  “I see,” the large shadow said dryly. “You were supposed to be useful —do you know that?”

  It fell into a short frustrated silence.

  “What about Mike?”

  “I couldn’t catch him after that.”

  “Kevin?”

  “Mute as a fish. I tried poking him in different ways, but no use. He agrees with everything I say, but gives no hint about what he ’s thinking. He ’s even worse than the others.”

  “A slimy weasel, that ’s who he is, ” the second shadow said suddenly with feeling , then fell into reverie.