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A calmness of a dark forest covered the Capital's streets, and only thin lanterns illuminated the way for the drunkards who left early. This area was considered disadvantaged – it's worth mentioning that under their “hotel” (it had no sign, the front door was suspiciously crossed out with chalk, and the room was clearly not cleaned yesterday, as a hostess claims), a flophouse was quietly sobbing, which was sometimes turning to an ominous howling. All the colors in this district were dull, which, if it did not warm the souls of the two architects, at least reminded them of the purpose of their visit. Peter and Farkhad seemed to have forgotten that their ingenious architecture still needs to be built, and they shouldn’t bask in each other’s arms in a random room or drink in the nearest tavern all night long.
The room where they settled was, it seemed, trapezoidal in shape, and had two wide beds with worn-out paint on the headboards, a miniature wardrobe with a clock on one door and a dirty mirror on the other (and it was not inserted into the door itself, but hung on nail). On the floor there was a round green carpet with a floral pattern, but it was impossible to make out at least one specific type of flower in it.
And the walls were red. When the architects first came in, their color seemed scarlet; after two hours of drinking twyrine – burgundy; and when they already fell on the bed, it looked like a mixture of carmine and raspberry colors. Farkhad, on the other hand, described it as bloody.
This is his favorite color. He was wearing a shirt of the same shade right now; and in the Cathedral, the construction of which was soon to be completed, he installed blood-red stained glass windows. The light passing through them seemed the same bright red, as if there was always dawn inside the temple with the absent god.
God was here, now, in this room.
❈
“What was the last time you read?” Peter mumbled through his teeth. He drank an order of magnitude more than his friend.
“Well, well, if you don’t count the shopping list from Kains, then... Hmm... I read something a couple of months ago. Honey, I don't remember.”
This answer did not satisfy Peter at all.
“What was this guy’s name... Did it start with G or K? Haven't you read him? This new one... He calls himself a poet.” Peter was thinking. The name was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t form a whole word.
Something about this surname evoked melancholy. It was Russian, but also Latin, primitive, but not vulgar. Something that Farkhad certainly had to remember.
But he could see from his eyes that he was not trying to remember.
How black those eyes are. Street lights shone on them, whitening the canvas for the red walls. They painted the pupils. In scarlet. Or into dark scarlet when Farkhad lowered his eyelashes. And this scarlet attracted him. Peter thought that he was not the result of the refraction of light, but the source itself; it is such a strong scarlet that it exists on its own, outside the laws of optics. The lips also seemed scarlet, and they were also attractive. But for some reason Peter was afraid to touch them. There was a feeling in his chest that if he kissed them now, something might happen, something that would be impossible to rewind.
Peter straightened up to take Farkhad by his shoulders, but he extended his hand forward.
“What's wrong?” Peter knelt down.
“Karya, I actually wanted to talk to you about something else. Have you forgotten everything?”
Karya. There's that stupid nickname again. Harmless, but reminding that they are different people and will never merge into one whole.
Farkhad gave it to him on the first day they met, after an audition in Kains' house. They both provided two stacks of blueprints, and both took turns laying them out on the same table. Peter's pack was the thickest and, in addition to completed works, contained sketches of various concepts. It didn’t matter whether it was a sketch of a spherical building with cylindrical rooms or a house of only stairs – Peter always said the words “up”, “to the sky”, “vertical”.
Farkhad didn’t extend his hand to Kains’ side of the table, but placed it on his own. “We also need opposing power here. If the city is kept healthy, then it will withstand any impact beyond measure.”
And although Kains did not squint their eyes so contentedly, they approved the projects of both architects.
On the way out of the Crucible, Farkhad smiled softly, put his hand on his colleague’s shoulder, and said: “You’re like Icarus, Peter. You want to fly straight towards the sun. You need someone who can stop you in time."
When the Stamatins left him near a vacant lot, Andrey whispered to his brother with mockery: “If your wings are smeared with wax, then his are with clay. Only he wouldn’t fly, he’ll put them in the oven and won’t be able to move them anymore.” Peter smiled. He didn't let him know that Farkhad's parallel actually offended him greatly. And he didn’t let Farkhad himself know, even after many months of evening visits to each other and sleeping in the same bed. He allowed him to have this power.
In the room, Peter wasn’t remembering for so long.
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about your tower just now.”
Yes, he's talking about it again. Peter tilted his head and stared at his solar plexus.
“You see, I’ve already fallen in love with her.” Farkhad continued, “And you know why? For the courage of minds behind her. You and your brother aren't afraid to take risks. While I'm, honestly, afraid. I'm afraid that I will do too much and break something that I'm not allowed to even breathe on.”
“What are you afraid of? Wasn't it a risk that brought us to one place? You fixed the Bolshoi Theater after all.”
Farkhad stared displeasedly at Peter’s dark top of the head.
“Karya, but the Bolshoi Theater is filled with cement. It's so full that it's even empty. And we only build frames so that their essence becomes the soul. The interior chambers are incomparable to the Bolshoi Theater. I am not afraid to make the wrong calculations, choose the wrong materials, or entrust the painting to an inexperienced painter. I'm afraid that I will play too much and the balance will be destroyed. Aren't you afraid of getting drunk with your triumph and falling painfully down?”
He had already asked Peter about this many times. Why is he asking this again? The first time he asked him was when they were visiting Andrey. At that time this question struck Peter.
“Have you lost faith in our path?” Peter rested his hands on the armrests of the chair.
“Of course not. I just want to make sure ours was trodden smooth.”
“Well, then no, I’m not afraid, because I’m not going to fall. My line is still straight.”
Such confidence made Farkhad smile.
“But it could be a line segment.”
Then Peter couldn’t contain his boasting, although moderate.
“Well, then, before I jump, I’ll first dance on its end.”
But he had heard this question more than once and it had irritated him for a long time. The last time they had a big fight. Peter even demonstratively tore up a couple of his colleague’s blueprints and poured ink on them, staining himself, Farkhad, and the entire room. The next day he apologized and they didn't bring up the topic again.
So Farkhad is again trying to “keep” him from doing something he doesn’t want him to do. Or his mind is just as foggy as his from alcohol.
“He is rightly afraid of playing too much. He loves to play. And I feel that now he is playing with me,” Peter reflected. Admitting something that obviously wasn’t a Farkhad’s habit.
The closet door and mirror shook again from a stomping on the floor below.
“I’m afraid for the three of us, Gemini. But, nevertheless, I'm glad. If we work together, we can balance time and space. We will be able to invade a place where we are not supposed to be without breaking anything. I don’t remember who said this, Peter, but I remember very well this line: “If you ask me whether it is impossible to reach heaven, I will answer that the path to heaven would coincide with an earthly one.”
Exhaling, Farkhad extended his hand to Peter.
Will you take it? Do you agree with him? Will you make peace? Will you draw a line on your dispute?
His face felt hot. There was noise downstairs again – stomping, howling. Buzzing? No, it was only a fly buzzing through the window.
It seemed to him that Farkhad’s forehead had darkened, and the folds on it had bent into a crescent. And something flowed from thick dark hair into the recess between the eyebrows. Lowering his gaze a little, Stamatin again saw his eyes.
Now they are like two apples. Round, red, with black worms at the top and bottom, somewhere bitten by light, and somewhere smeared with soot. But the resulting emptiness will soon be overgrown and then Peter’s fear will come true.
Yes, he's a devil.
Peter crawled back a little and the image was supplemented with new colors and details. Subsequently, he no longer remembered them. Except for the copper stripes, similar to horns, above Farkhad’s head. It could have been a trick of light, but Peter could have sworn that they were really horns.
Standing up, Peter turned his head towards the window. The lanterns burned just as brightly and interrupted the light of the full moon. It, as if admitting defeat to the artificial phos, humiliatedly tried to hide behind its yellow, foggy reflection. They thus merged into each other, but only one source emerged victorious.
So, what did he do to you? Maybe he gave you drink and love just to finally bring you down? Break the creative spirit and devour it? Not to build together, but to build alone?
This vision sent shivers down Peter’s spine. He did not return his gaze – now he would just like to get away and end this conversation.
“You are a thinker, Farkhad. You have a lot of time. I’m not allowed such luxury,” Stamatin’s voice trembled slightly.
Farkhad raised his eyebrow in confusion.
“Why do you say that? Moreover, you are with me. You're doing the same thing as me.”
“Not the same as me. I can't lose myself in you. And you are in me – never. You wouldn’t give it to me...” When Peter thought about this, he looked at his stomach again.
But no. I wouldn't want that. If we are one, then we are nothing.
“...Don't torment me, Farkhad. Please don't torment me, I can't do this.”
Peter covered his eyes with his palms, but this did not make it any easier. He felt that Farkhad was grinning now. And the demonic smile was perfectly felt in the vertebrae.
“Karya... “Snow, if held in your hand for a long time, produces the effect of fire.”... Have you thought about this?”
He's making fun of you. Now he will touch you and tear you to pieces.
“Please stop. You know me too well. I can't stand this, Farkhad.”
Peter could not understand why he was so upset. They discussed this more than once – but for some reason here, in this red room, his words made him so scared? Even his presence causes pain. It's difficult to breathe.
A fly landed on his shoulder. He seems to be related to it! It gets in my way. How much I want to smack it!
“Don’t underestimate yourself, Karyenka. You're not a coward, nor a fool. Have you heard this story about one Arab sage?”
What the hell do you know about this? He drew chalk across Kains’ board and already thought he was God?
Have you ever been this scared?
Peter began to notice that something was being born in him, something had been moaning and tearing out of his hollow stomach all evening. Harsh words, somewhere in the back of my head, sounded louder and angrier. What kind of voice is this?
Is this my voice?
...Someone downstairs, by the sounds of it, hit someone else hard, and, due to the vibration, that poor mirror finally fell off its nail and broke. At first Peter did not understand what had happened, and only ten seconds later he became afraid. Farkhad’s body, in his opinion, didn’t shudder.
Slowly, without noise, the young architect crawled to his friend on his knees, but did not dare take his hands.
“Farkhad, I beg you... Let's leave this topic for now... I can't promise you... I don't want to.”
Farkhad sighed sadly.
“Okay, Karya... I heard you. Don't cry please, I still love you.”
Farkhad took Stamatin by the cheeks and gave him a kiss.
Peter felt sorry that he couldn’t taste someone’s blood in his mouth.