Awakening, 2nd edition

by Kuili, Ray N.

The smaller shadow waited patiently.

  “That trick you pulled off with Mike, that was good, ” the large shadow finally broke the silence. “Do that more often. With him, with the others. Just know where to stop. Don ’t carry it too far.”

  “Will do,” confirmed the first shadow , a proud note in its voice. “So what did Kevin tell you?”

  “That’s none of your business, ” the second shadow replied curtly. “You can go now. I ’ll find you tomorrow when I need you. And keep working hard. Do your best, or we ’ll play another pool game.”

  “I’m doing my best, ” the first shadow assured the second one in the utmost heartfelt fashion and set off, limping slightly.

  The large shadow watched until the first shadow disappeared around the corner. Then it bent down, picked something up from the ground and swung its hand towards the lake. A moment later the sound of a heavy splash came from the water accompanied by nervous quacking.

  “Conspirators, ” the shadow spitted discontentedly, and vanished, following its companion.

  Michael cautiously stepped out of the shadows . So much for playing fair . “I always follow the rules . . .” So much for wounded innocence and a wrongfully accused man, deeply hurt by the scheming of wrongdoers . Why in the world has Ross decided to turn into such an eager helper to Alex? It ’s late, it ’s cold, he ’s got a sprained ankle —yet instead of staying inside and getting some rest he comes outside in the cold darkness and accepts insult after insult . And what insults!

  What happened to all his composure? Alex, it seems, has found a little key to his heart. Along with a vote for himself, since there ’s little doubt about where Ross ’s vote is going to end up. Well, at least one competitor is down. Not that he ever was a competitor.

  The little key looked probably more like a little baseball bat. “I ’m not going to touch you tonight . . .” And this is the same Alex who ’s always so polite and amiable. Did he really drive him into some dark corner? Just like that, simply tossed away even minimal social niceties and threw a couple of punches to the stomach? What was that thing he said? “Another pool game .” That ’s a tough one to swallow, although that ’s exactly what that planted note was screaming about. The note , by the way , now looks entirely different in light of this friendly conversation. And the question as to the authorship of that note has become even more interesting, though less mysterious. Many things look more interesting and less mysterious in light of this little chat. Many, many things . . . But that ’s not so important anymore. The nice games are over.

  He looked around and headed for the entrance, leaving the stars to their twinkling, and not paying any further attention to their eternal pale-blue light .

  Joan sat, lazily swinging her nylon-covered leg and listening to Paul with what appeared to be sincere interest. Sincere interest, however, exist ed only in Paul ’s imagination. Her real attention at the moment was focused on the direction of Chris ’s gaze, which meant more to her than any of the sarcastic wisdom coming out of Paul ’s mouth. Chr is, his head tilted slightly, was also listening attentively to Paul. Nevertheless, a carful observer would ’ve noticed that for some strange reason his eyes were more frequently studying Joan ’s slowly swinging leg than anything Paul had to offer.

  Joan felt warm satisfaction stirring up inside her. Whoever invented nylon pantyhose was a genius. No! He was a talent . The genius was the guy—or gal—who invented the mini skirt . No matter how independent, smart and proud a man is, no matter what his social status, or his marital status , he ’s always game for that mother of all tricks. Granted, you need to have curves in all the right places to carry that little fashion item off successfully , but she has no complaints in that department .

  Here we go again. He’s looking at Paul, who is nodding, asking a question and then once again throwing this momentary uncontrolled hungry glance down, to the side. The fish is on the hook, it ’s time to cast. This is Liz ’s terminology; she ’s the one with a fishing addict for a husband. But it ’s very accurate. Successful fishing has the same principles, whether you ’re fishing for fish or for men. You give them bait, you wait, you find the right moment, you go for it—a nd if you ’ve done everything right , the catch is yours.

  The real question here is whether this is the biggest fish in our pond? There ’s no time left for wrong bets. No time.

  Tonight is the night of the big game. Of course, you can ’t write anyone off . A vote is a vote. But it’s the small fry who play during the daytime. Powerful evening weaponry should be used for big fish only. Big fish are so much more useful! The best way to get a crowd is to get its leader. But then a question presents itself: who is the big fish in this pond? Good old Chris is , of course , our formal-informal leader, but is he going to keep this title on Friday? And , even more importantly, is he a real leader? Can he really control others? He certainly has zero influence over me. And if his influence doesn ’t go beyond flashy rhetoric and shrewd fac ial expressions , he ’s just as useful—or rather useless—as , say , Paul , w ho brings his own vote, but nothing beyond that. And someone like him would make good ol ’ Chris just a bigger and cuter specimen.

  However, now it ’s time to catch someone who can manipulate the rest of the pond ’s population. At least to some degree. This is what we ’re all trying to do here : manipulate others ; control. Only som e are more or less good at it, while others suck. No, it ’s not that simple. Some people here don ’t try to manipulate others. Brandon , for example. Or Rob. Although had he tried he ’d be quite successful. But at this particular moment he ’s most likely only manipulat ing Stella. In every sense of the word.

  So who’s the catch of the evening? Oh, here comes another glance. This time he even allowed himself to keep his eyes on the target a moment longer. You can tell that the guy ’s married. All married men are like this—fighting their constantly suppressed desires all day long . Poor creatures. And my Jerry is no different. Like I didn ’t see him staring at Liz at that party last we ek. The sly bitch had this let-me-show-you-my-hip s dress on and it looked good on her. Too good! And Jerry ’s g lance was exactly like this one : furtive , quick , unnoticeable. They think these glances are unnoticeable. We always catch them. The glances they throw at others and the glances others throw at us.

  Although there’re exceptions. Someone gave me that look recently —just staring openly without trying to conceal it . Who was that? Ah . . . of course . . . our sweet Michael. On the first day, when he ’d just entered from the balcony. He gave me that evaluating head-to-toe look, like a sultan evaluating his new concubine. Now , there’s someone totally free of any suppressed desires. When he looks straight into your eyes you know this is precisely where he wants to look. And it ’s not easy at all to withstand that stare. Every now and then something odd appears in th o se eyes. Something strange. Unusual. And if he looks at your legs, you can bet he ’s not going to hide that look , either. He ’ll study you like a dummy in a store window. Actually , most people wouldn’t even be brave enough to stare at a dummy like that.

  But here lies the problem: s ince that morning , his gaze has never ventured below the shoulders. It ’s been strictly business. He ’s interested in what I say. He ’s interested in how I say it. He doesn ’t give a damn about how I look. In fact, talk is the only thing he appears to be interested in. He ’s the best listener around here. And by far.

  Others—even Brandon—worry a great deal about what the others think of them. You can tell by the looks on their faces. I ’m one of them. But he—he doesn ’t care. It seems that all he wants is to know what the others are think ing. A nd it doesn ’t matter about what or about whom —h e wants to know the thoughts. All the thoughts. And there ’s only one reason people want to know what others think : to be able to change these thoughts in a way that suits their interests. Control starts with understanding. You can’t truly control someone whose motivation you don’t understand.

  So the big fish has just identified itself. Of all
the men worth catch ing here , Michael is the only one who hasn ’t expressed a single drop of interest today. Chris did . . . and now he ’s done it again. Alex did, Alan . . . I even feel sorry for the poor boy . Rob did, but he ’s a lost case now that he ’s made it clear what kind of chicks he really prefers. Bottom line, everyone has expressed some interest. Everyone but Michael.

  And yet, it was Michael who established the rules we all have been playing by. It wasn ’t Chris, or Rob, or Alex.

  Mike.

  And the way he did it . . . that was something. It seemed he put in no effort on this at all. Chris spent the whole day bending over backward, while Mike . . . he merely said a few words and v oila ! the entire process got shaped the way he wanted. Well, everyone kind of wanted it, but somehow it was Mike whose proposal got implemented.

  So, where is he? It ’s unlikely that he went to bed—the night is still young. If his performance to date is any indication of his views , he certainly knows that now is the best time for the real work. The speeches are cute, but he wouldn ’t seriously be thinking that he can win here with nothing more than that hot air we call speeches. No, of course he doesn ’t think that. His rules are br illiant, no argument about that, but since when can a serious game be won by playing by the rules? Good rules are the rules that everyone believes in, save for the person who introduced them.

  So he must be somewhere nearby. There aren’t too many options : t he bar, the game s room, the lobby with these stupid animals, the library . . . There ’s also the backyard, but it ’s no fun out there now. Dark and boring. And he would be somewhere where the action is. There are four of us at the bar here —the sweet couple disappeared quite a while ago, which means there are five guys left and these guys most likely sit somewhere together. The boys ’ club. They ’ve got no business in the lobby in the company of the animals, and even less business in the library. Which leaves the games room as the only viable option ; h owever , sticking this beautiful head around t hat door now would not be wise. Sure, it would be cool to pop up there and beat all of them, one by one, but that requires at least some basic pool skills. On top of that , the role of Lora Croft has been already taken, so best stay on familiar ground . Oh well. Sooner or later he will show up here. And if he doesn ’t, it ’s not that tough to find a pretext fo r a visit to his room. In the meantime, let ’s focus on the business at hand.

  And she gave Chris the sweetest of her non-business smiles.

  The steps emitted a high-pitched almost inaudible squeaking. As if they were appalled by the fact that people walked on them, but were afraid to object loudly. A few years would go by and , having lost their prudence with age, they would start protesting vehemently every time their rest is disturbed. The warm air ascending from their buddy the f ireplace will routinely , day after day , make them grumpier. Their irritating discontent will be tolerated for some time, but one fine day their squeaking and grumbling will offend the wrong ears. Next, a couple of professionally indifferent handymen will appear in the house. They will cheerfully and promptly take apart the staircase that ha s grown senile and replace it with a new one—white and bright. The young steps will understandingly keep quiet and , in the hope of a solid, impressive career , will eagerly put their young firm backs under the tramping feet of the lodge visitors. They will believe wholeheartedly in their bright future and their great purpose in life.

  As for the former cranky steps, they will meet their end in the greedy mouth of the fireplace. Their childhood friends , the walls , also darkened by age , will sigh quietly , bidding their last farewell to the gray smoke ascending towards the skies, but will not dare to go beyond that—and will stay safe for years to come . . .

  Michael was slowly going up to the second floor, sliding his palm along the smooth curve of the railing. His visit to the grandiose planetarium that had ended on such an unexpected note had left behind an odd feeling. As if the voices of the conversing shadows had touched something forgotten and had tried very gently to wake up some sleeping memories —which memories , he didn ’t know himself. Nor did he know what made him want to stop by the games room .

  “ . . .play another pool game ” Alex ’s low voice had muttered. And the short shadow had shuddered timidly . . . Whatever had happened between those two, it took place right here, behind this oak door. All right, so it did happen here, but is that a good reason to go to this room tonight? There ’s something else, something that ’s been calling like a siren ’s sweet luring voice to pay a visit to this place right now. But what? The answer is somewhere nearby, yet it ’s impossible to grasp it. And , consciously or not, he just had to see this place . . .

  Just like on that day when he was on a business trip to his home town. With the same inexplicable certainty he just knew that he had to visit his school—his middle school—before going anywhere else.

  The place had felt totally foreign. No single familiar face was to be found anywhere and the entire neighborhood had changed beyond recognition. And yet something, some vague unidentifiable call, was luring him to that place—just like it ’s been calling him to the games room now. And so he headed there before stopping by his parents ’ house—another place that he hadn ’t seen for the same twelve years. He walked gray hallways filled with teenagers ’ voices , faces and scenes dusted with time restored in memory—and realized that nothing, not a single thought or memory, was keeping him with in these walls anymore. And so he left.

  He never figured out completely why it was so critical to start his homecoming visit from this building, but he came up with a remote guess, which was good enough. It allowed him to know without analyzing, without touching some dark spot he didn ’t want to touch. So he just smiled involuntary as he was passing by the school ’s side entrance.

  That’s the spot, he thought. This is where it all happened . . .

  . . . Dust in eyes, the gray concrete floor hitting the cheek with cruel all-smashing force, the sweaty palm on the neck. And hate. Melting, corroding everything inside . Strange , never before felt , hate. Then—blood. His own or someone else ’s—that didn ’t matter anymore. And ten minutes later—frightened, breaking, nearly trembling voice of the principal: “This is . . . this is wrong. This is all wrong! Just look at what he ’s done to him— Just look at this! Boys don ’t fight like that . . .” She was right. Boys were not supposed to fight like this . Especially boys from good schools, especially in those days. You are not supposed to fight a school fight as if you ’re fighting for your life. But on that day he discovered that he knew no other way to fight.

  And then—eyes, many pairs of eyes. They surrounded him for years, only two feelings gleaming in them: fear and a desire to please. He knew the true worth of these feelings. It wasn ’t much—and yet meant so much more than words. As for words, they didn ’t mean anything anymore. Words were nothing but tools that everyone use s to achieve their goals. It was then that the deep contempt for th o se eyes and their owners crawled into his heart. It lived there confidently year after year until in adult life it crawled somewhere even deeper, leaving cold cynicism behind.

  Only a few times during this contempt’s existence something weird would happen—all of a sudden it would soften, pale—and just as suddenly vanish altogether. Replacing it would come some odd inexplicable warmth. And in these rare moments it felt as if he were about to cry, so shaken by this feeling roaring inside him like a wild fierce ocean surf. At moments like this , it felt as if the world wasn ’t inhabited by only people with eyes full of fear and servility. It felt as if , before his eyes , a parched earth , cracked under the scorching sun , was suddenly blooming and people were appearing out of the thin air and walking it. Real people with real feelings. And words like friendship and love, trust and honesty were no longer just hollow sounds, invented by sly people for manipulating naive folks. This was how he felt on that starry night.

  But sooner or later, the moment would pass ; all the words in the world would turn back into dry husk, and deep cold c
ontempt would flood his soul again. And at some point these moments vanished forever, never to return. As for the world full of words rustling like dry brown leaves and shifty eyes, it stayed . . .

  Michael opened the door and stepped inside the games room . There was no one inside. He looked around, taking it in, feeling more than seeing it .

  Cues lined up like rifles, the tidy multicolored triangle of balls on the table, someone ’s pullover on the armchair. An innocent room for innocent games. But recently a game of a different kind had taken place here. A strange, ominous, horrifying and at the same time ridiculous game that people have been playing for countless thousands of years. Two men entered this room. Two men, each a free person , with his own thoughts, desires, dreams and hopes. But only one man left this room.

  The second was no longer a man when he exited through this door. He was the Obey or , the Crushed , the Destructed. He was a slave. His desires became irrelevant next to the desires of his master. His own thoughts gave way to attempts to guess the thoughts of his master. And his dreams disappeared forever. From that moment on , he could dream of one thing only—of life without his master. Dream, but never act.

  In this casual, not in any way remarkable room, two people had transformed into Master and Slave. Each one had taken his place , just as legions of other people had done since the dawn of humankind. Never mind that these two words evoke gloomy olden days . Never mind that modern Western society prefers to refer to these concepts as artifacts of the Dark Ages or even use them as labels for certain sexual preferences . Never mind all that. Nothing had changed so little between the Dark Ages and today ’s bright reality as these two roles. The mere denial of these two concepts is nothing but a result of rather successful attempts by today ’s masters to divert the attention of their future slaves away from their real goals.

  Whenever two people come together, a struggle for power emerges sooner or later. Whe n ever a struggle for power—real power—takes place , a master and a slave emerge sooner or later.