Homer’s Golden Chain. Dreams of an alchemist

Growing up

Dan thought about his work and ideas, and after three days of poor sleep, he typed up a sample appeal to the President about the possibility of generating energy from antimony and salt, and about Tesla’s ether, and microwave radiation. He looked at himself in the mirror – he didn’t look like a fool, checked his passport in his bag, and took out a knife and a gas cylinder. The Presidential Administration was waiting for him, where he wanted to report his invention, and who knows – to receive support for research and experiments. He got dressed, closed the door, and went out, hobbled to the bus stop, and made it to the Vykhino metro station. So what? He decided he had to go, so he had to go, he urged himself on. Now he was walking along Ilyinka Street, toward the gray building. He walked around it a couple of times and approached the entrance where they receive citizens’ requests. The machine printed his electronic pass, his bag passed through the metal detector, and he passed through the blinds. His turn had come. The imperturbable employee checked his passport, the printed application, and the enclosed message with his thoughts, the fruit of his many years of work, and stamped it “Accepted.” “That’s it. Application received,” the employee said very politely. “Your response will arrive by mail.” Dan left in high spirits and decided to stroll along Ilyinka Street and pop into GUM to have a look. “Well,” he said to himself, “now they’ll definitely hire me for this, and they’ll hire me too. Maybe I’ll end up working at RosAtom, at the Institute of Rare Earth Metals, right downtown, next to the Tretyakov Gallery!” In such a cheerful mood, Denis strolled through the GUM gallery, looking at the rainbow-colored display cases where the rich bought their clothes, and recalled his favorite second-hand store, where he and his mother bought their barely-used clothes. Two weeks later, he received a letter saying, “We’ve heard you.” But neither a month nor a year later, no one seemed inclined to discuss the matter with him. True, five years later, servants of the state tried to take everything away from him, but that’s another story.

***

Denis rummaged through the attic, pulling out a microwave he’d found in the trash. He also found all his grandfather’s books that his mother had mentioned. He checked them all, flipped through them page by page, but found nothing else useful. However, the diary’s data was more than enough to correct the flaws in his calculations. He was simply swelling with pride; it turned out he’d become the apprentice of a great physicist! He didn’t even know that this hermit had also tried alchemy, but apparently used it with the study of microwaves… But he couldn’t do without the prose of life. He bought a crowbar at the UBI, and had his own extension cord… The boy, guided by the electrical diagram, began to tinker with the device. There was plenty to do, and progress was difficult, oh so difficult… He spent a week making a device with increased power, without distractions. The flashlight, gloves, and mask were also ready, as were rubber boots and old canvas pants, and the athlete put these goods in his bag. “Okay, everything will work out…” he reassured himself.

The backpack held everything, and the target of the attack was nearby. The basement of a small factory, With a powerful electrical wiring. The way there led through an underground tunnel discovered by Kudrevatov during a spontaneous search. Deniska sat down on a stool for a moment, hoping for luck. He stood up and walked into the darkness. Fortunately, the sky was clear of clouds, but the moon wasn’t shining at its full strength, so the naturalist happily avoided prying eyes. The factory fence was high and concrete, even lined with barbed wire, but the height of the obstacle didn’t matter; all that mattered was the heavy cast-iron hatch. The hatch was caught with a crowbar and rolled away. The young man removed his backpack and began to climb into the tunnel. His direction seemed to be correct. The new digger pulled out a flashlight, scanning the narrow tunnel with its beam. It stank mercilessly, but where else could he go? Step by step, in his rubber boots, he often hit rocks, causing his legs to slip. A couple of times, his knees hit the broken stone on the floor. He groaned in anger at himself and brushed off his canvas pants, trying to walk quickly, as quickly as possible. Sometimes, the wall drawings amused Denis. They were executed with a certain grace and strikingly concise and powerful phrases: “Fedya the fool” or “Lena the prostitute.”

Actually, it would have been strange to expect anything else in such a place. Yes, and the drawings served as a complete semantic complement to the inscriptions. Finally, he saw the mark left during a reconnaissance mission – a red stain on the wall. He simply sighed deeply and began to climb the iron ladder. It was a good thing he was wearing construction gloves; the ladder was heavily rusted and creaked mercilessly. Near the workshop, he looked around – no one was there. Before him stood the coveted brick building. Ten steps – and he was at the door. A quick work with a crowbar opened the way further, and Denis switched on his headlamp.

“There, I think!”

He found three-phase outlets left over from the factory’s removed machines. Then, in the far corner, he heard the crunch of bricks; Denis crouched down and switched off his headlamp. Something poked his leg, and a cold sweat treacherously trickled down the young man’s back… But it was only a strangely friendly mongrel, wagging its tail affably. The young man rummaged through his backpack for food and found his sausage sandwich.

“Okay, take it, big-eared one,” he whispered, and handed the food to the dog.

It snatched it and, before he could change his mind, darted off to the far corner. The backpack was finally placed on the concrete floor. Denis unwound the cord and checked the current. Everything was fine! The light from the lantern attached to his head bounced across the walls and ceiling, echoing his owner’s convulsive movements. His heart was pounding wildly, distracting him from his task. He took out a mixture of antimony and salt, about twenty grams of the powder, which had turned dark gray, and placed it in a glass container, which he then microwaved. After thinking for about three seconds, he put his device behind the concrete fence. He immediately turned the power on to maximum. A minor oversight! Okay, he told himself, it won’t heat up right away, it’ll have time to escape… He turned it on and bounded toward the exit, but turned around, watching how everything was going… The microwave began to hum shrilly, then a bluish glow appeared and there was a deafening bang, so much so that Denis fell to the floor. The heat seared his nostrils, and for a second he choked on the dust that rose up. Jumping up, he ran to the spot – a two-meter-deep hole in the concrete floor, surrounded by melted concrete, and it was terribly hot here, so much so that Dan was sweating.

***

The way back was quicker; Denis practically ran, afraid of being caught. But he was lucky; either all the guards had been fired, or they weren’t going to risk their meager salaries by showing up in an unsafe place. He passed through an underground tunnel and emerged onto the street. It was amazingly quiet. Kudrevatov carefully replaced the cast-iron hatch and ran home. The next day, his mother was arriving, and they were heading to the dacha; the season was starting. They usually rented a Gazelle van to bring everything in one go. So today, Denis was lugging bag after bag into the back, handing them to the smiling driver. The bags were filled with pasta, powdered milk, stewed meat, canned fish, sugar, rice, and cereal – so as not to have to carry the heavy items to the dacha on foot. They didn’t have a car. The other bags contained blankets and pillows.Mom didn’t like leaving laundry out for the winter – it got damp, after all. “Don’t rush, Denis, we’ll have time,” he said. Ten more bags, and the most important ones – with the seedlings. They carefully placed everything on the floor of the van. “Mom, that’s it.” “Okay, I’ll check the keys now,” she replied. The woman was sorting through the bunches of keys and putting them into tin tea boxes.

– Let’s sit down for a while before we go, – the mother suggested to her son, indicating with her hand a place to sit.

Denis sat down next to him, caught his breath, slung his bag with documents over his back, and turned off the water in the house.

– Close the doors, – the mother urged her son.

– Okay,” he only nodded, agreeing.

The young man checked that all the lights were off, checking them five times, entering each room. The gas stove was an object of special care, the handles were in a strictly vertical position. He checked several times that the door of his beloved refrigerator and freezer was closed, and the apartment windows were also checked. Finally, Denis left the apartment, checking the locks seven times, returned from the entrance, and checked again and again. Kudrevatov was painfully trying to remember if he had forgotten anything. He glanced at his mother.

– Okay, let’s go, – the woman noted.

The truck moved slowly along the Ryazan Highway, keeping with the flow of traffic. The road was familiar, and the destination was a small village in the Voskresensky District. The route led through Bronnitsy, then past the district center of Vinogradovo. The highway finally led to a small house on Almaznaya Street – such are the names the capricious folk have given to their native place. There were also Rubinovaya, Izumrudnaya, Almaznaya, Yantarnaya, and Zolotaya Streets. The truck pulled up to the gate, Denis got out, and the Gazelle entered the property. What fresh air after stuffy and dirty Moscow! The load was quickly unloaded, Mom paid the driver, and Denis closed the gate behind the truck. Two neighboring dogs barked furiously, and a cow mooed. Everything was as usual. Mom was in high spirits, unpacking. Denis unpacked his things, took the television out of his bag, and adjusted the antenna. Then he went to tighten the taps and set up the water pump in the well. Near the fence, in the currant bushes, lay two empty vodka bottles. He twirled them in his hands, then tossed them back to the neighbor. It was the last thing he needed to do, picking up the others’ crap! They promised, and began bringing the seedlings into the greenhouses and filling the barrels with water. Suddenly, something rustled in the raspberry bushes, and it sounded like a chicken calling.

– More of the neighbor’s crap,” the young man thought out loud, grabbing the chicken by the wings.

He tugged at its feet, then tossed it into the road, and the variegated chick dashed off to another neighbor’s plot. He followed this one into the air with another chicken, which landed awkwardly in the viburnum bushes. Denis walked along the fence next to the farmer’s; the edge of the plot smelled mercilessly. But there was no point in ruining their mood; it was wonderful here on Almaznaya Street. Evening was approaching, they lit the stove, and the old log house became warm. A delicious dinner and TV brightened up their leisure time. And how they slept here!

***

On Monday morning, early, the Kudrevatovs rose with the first rays of the sun. They walked quickly to the bus stop, and five minutes later a small, cozy bus was taking them to the station, along the road, past three cozy villages. They walked very quickly again, and barely had they crossed the tracks when the electric train hospitably opened its red doors for them. The little family was returning to Moscow. The mother to work, the son to university, Studying to be an economist. My studies were going smoothly; it certainly wasn’t the coveted Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology, where I didn’t have the passing grades. Oh well, Lyokha and I were grinding away at our studies here. I actually enjoyed studying, even though I felt it wasn’t my thing. Denis and his friend were working part-time as administrators at the fitness center, handing out keys and activating membership cards. They’d been working for three months, even diligently. But they both knew they wouldn’t be promoted to manager. Olga, the director, only promoted girls. The prospect of working in the director’s male company wasn’t at all appealing. That was their fate, as Alexey liked to say. But they could train for free, which they did, using their resources twice a week, lifting weights. The results were coming in, and this calmed them a little, knowing their visits to this place weren’t in vain. Here Denis met Anna Listova again, fortunately not at work, but while studying. The girl was pressing the platform with her feet, Denis, standing, was working with dumbbells.

– Hello, – the girl greeted first, – How are you? What’s good? – Everything is fine, Anya.

– You’ve recovered, well done. – And you’ve become prettier, even more beautiful than before.

– I hope you’ve found yourself someone? – asked Anna, smiling sweetly.

– Why? – answered the seasoned young man, – my arms don’t hurt, I can handle it myself.

Anya just grinned, and Denis continued his heavy workout, working on his shoulders. They worked for a long time, and Alexey came up and nodded to the girl.

– The love of your life? – asked his friend understandingly.

– Simply a beauty, – answered Kudrevatov.

***

They often went to the dacha in the summer, every weekend. They arrived by commuter train, shopped at the Shesterochka supermarket, took a taxi – much cheaper and more comfortable – and arrived at the dacha, their beloved home. Anna Ivanovna opened the gate and stepped, almost slipping, over an empty vodka bottle.

– Let me throw this back, Mom,” Denis quickly bent down.

– You can’t stoop to the level of the neighbor’s bastard, son. Come on, let’s have some tea.”

Denis opened the padlock, turned on the electricity, and the refrigerator began to hum quietly. His mother loaded it with food for two days. His son put the kettle on to boil, threw the sausages into the pan, and turned on the stove. Breakfast, more like an afternoon snack, turned out to be excellent, and they got to work – tying up the currant bushes. Then they watered the cucumbers and tomatoes in the greenhouses. Denis worked on the automatic irrigation system until they were gone on weekdays, to keep everything from drying out. Behind the fence, the dogs barked incessantly and the cow mooed. The neighbor’s rules didn’t apply, and despite numerous inquiries about the cow, the pigs and goats were never found, even though Denis sent photos of the property with the animals to the municipal administration. Apparently, it wasn’t a cow, but a mosquito, and the goats and pigs had become butterflies. So, correspondence with Russian officials yielded no results. Denis checked the fence, but the chain-link fencing was intact and the bushes were untrodden; the farmer probably hadn’t been around them that week. But he got excited too soon and had to catch three chickens that had flown over from a neighbor. The hunt was short-lived; the young man caught the creatures with his now-hefty hands and tossed them over the fence onto the road. The deed was done, and Mom didn’t see anything, not even those animals trying to ruin the berry bushes. Soon there was a knock at the gate. Denis came up and opened the latch. “Have you seen my chickens?” the farmer asked immediately.