“Gentlemen! Today I have resolved to present to you my latest discovery. Three years ago, I could not have fathomed where these inquiries would lead. In presenting the final result today, I cannot yet surmise what practical utility this invention may hold.

But first, let us address evolution. Tracing the phylogeny of living organisms, one observes that modifications occurring during adaptation to specific environmental variables have not always proven efficacious, occasionally precipitating the extinction of a species. Why? My answer is this: changes occurred due to the accumulation of genetic mutations, which were not invariably necessitated by environmental demand. It appears as though Nature attempted to alter species via a method of stochastic variations—not all of which were vital. Some proved advantageous; many were merely deleterious. Millions of years elapsed, lineages reached evolutionary dead ends, and then they simply vanished—as did the dinosaurs or the Neanderthals. Nature was indifferent; she possessed boundless time and an infinite reservoir of species. We, however, possess neither. We must execute our experiment within a limited temporal window and secure the desired result. And our substrate shall be a singular, solitary cell—the neuron.”

I hadn’t seen Roz Vitan since the time that moron Jim tried to drink all the fuel in the house. It was an old story, of which I remember only a night-long vigil, the smell of gasoline, and the solemn dispatch of the patient to a psychiatric ward. Generally, all my encounters with Roz were poisoned by some incident or another, caused by her deranged clients. But that was Roz Vitan for you—she had no desire to move through life alone.

This time, however, I expected to find her alone. And my hopes, strangely enough, were destined to be fulfilled: there were no madmen in the house, but there was no Roz either.

Now, I am trying to unravel the tangled knot of my thoughts so that my story doesn’t seem too chaotic. Therefore, I’ll start from the beginning.

Roz Vitan, a twenty-eight-year-old curly-haired charmer, was a distant relative of mine on my mother’s side. Since childhood, we had been present side by side at family celebrations, consuming heavy meals in silence. But then Roz would leave for home with her parents, and I would stay behind, forgetting her the very moment her car disappeared around the bend. As we grew older, our relationship didn't get any warmer. But, at my mother’s insistence, I was forced to visit Roz from time to time and feed her home-made pies. By then, she already had a private practice as a psychologist and was by no means starving. But my relatives liked me in the role of Little Red Riding Hood.

Now I can’t say whether the grocery duty was a heavy burden for me, but it ended just then—on the day of Jim’s "benefit performance." I hadn’t seen Roz since. It’s been three years. And I felt no particular sadness about it. I couldn't attribute the sudden, unexpected desire to see her to my own sentimentality. It came stealthily, in a dream. She deigned to appear in my sleep. And at the moment of awakening, I suddenly clearly heard a mysterious voice informing me that relatives usually appear in dreams either when they are passing into the next world or in particularly critical moments of their lives. The voice sounded convincing, and I heeded its warning. Indeed, I hadn’t seen her for three years. Well, what does it cost to follow one’s own whim for once? Coffee in the fresh air, cigarette smoke rising to the moon... Conversations about days gone by.

Therefore, moved by suddenly awakened family feelings and not wishing to break the established tradition, I bought some pies, added a pack of butter, and set out. But, by the time of my arrival, the wolf had already managed to gobble up the grandmother.

Even at that moment, as I climbed out of the car and walked up the path to the house, a strange feeling washed over me. The house seemed uninhabited. Where were the detached young people wandering through the garden? Where were the mad-looking girls drinking coffee on the terrace? There was only summer silence and the buzzing of bees over the flowers. The door was locked. I rattled the handle, tried to peer through a curtained window — no one. I pressed the doorbell for a long time, but no one said to me in a sweet voice: "Pull the string, and the door will open." There was no one behind the house either. So, I simply sat down on the threshold and decided to surrender to the tedious wait. Truly, how far could she have gone? Driven into town? She’d return anyway — Roz didn't like staying overnight at friends' houses. Sooner or later, she would appear before my eyes right on this very path I was looking at now. I was hungry, but I didn't dare dip into the supply of gift pies. I reflected on how some people receive undeserved gifts from life. This house, for instance. None of us had our own massive, ancient house surrounded by a garden — Roz did. And she could afford to exist in such wide-open space, unconstrained by a crowd of relatives. Of course, any of us could have visited her, but who could endure her "psychological groups," her "training for idiots," her...

But she made money, and reproaches regarding her "incorrect" lifestyle were, to put it mildly, tactless. So everyone just shrugged their shoulders but was in no hurry to accept her invitation to spend the summer in the lap of nature. I think I dozed off, yielding to the bliss of the rustic landscape, but then the gate creaked.

A lady in a hat appeared on the path. From a distance, she seemed quite young to me, but upon closer inspection, the "little one" turned out to be at least seventy years old.

"Are you waiting for Roz?" she asked sympathetically. "And who might you be?"

Upon learning I was a relative, the old woman began to pour out a torrent of information that even Julius Caesar could not have processed all at once. The main thing I managed to grasp was that Roz had vanished two weeks ago. How did they find out? Poor, poor pizza delivery boy. He rang the doorbell for a long time. Then he gave it a slight push, and the door opened. However, no one answered his calls. Then the lad—hardly more than a child—ventured a few steps down the hallway and there, in the hall right by the stairs, he discovered the sprawling body of the mistress of the house in a pink bathrobe. Closing his eyes so as not to accidentally look into the face of the corpse, the delivery boy bolted outside and gave vent to the feelings overwhelming him. To his wails, which a police siren might have envied, people from the neighboring houses came running. Naturally, they burst into the house and found the bathrobe—but its mistress was not inside it. It just lay on the floor, abandoned and forlorn. And then everyone remembered that, indeed, they hadn’t seen Roz for several days. And all those days, an inexplicable silence had hung over the house.

"The key was sticking in the door. I locked the door and took the key. You never know. They said she found a job in the city. And thank God for that, thank God! Because, you know, it used to be so noisy here. And a strange noise at that. Suspicious people gathered here, something like a sect. My husband said it looked like a theater rehearsal. And he knew about such things. He worked as a theater usher all his life. But actors, sooner or later, give performances, don't they? No, no, this was something else. Something dangerous."

She handed me the key, continuing to say something else. But I had already stopped perceiving her insinuations. Such are the peculiarities of my consciousness—I cannot listen to ruminations on the same subject for long. I tune out. The old woman, however, didn't notice. She escorted me all the way to the door. And on the threshold, she said:

"If you need anything, I’m right here—next door. Just knock on the window."

I stepped into the dark gut of the house and immediately felt cut off from the entire world. Order reigned everywhere, if one ignored the even layer of dust, still thin but already noticeable. Also, on the kitchen table stood a cup with the moldy remnants of coffee. And in the living room, a carelessly tossed bathrobe hung on a chair.

I walked through the whole house. It was so quiet that my footsteps sounded like the footsteps of the Stone Guest. In the emptiness of the rooms, I seemed to myself extraordinarily tall and purposeful. This happened to me sometimes. This feeling occasionally appeared in museums or in open squares and, as I now realized, was somehow connected to the absence of people. So, I was wrong to think that open space gave me significance. Emptiness—yes. The main thing was that no one was there.

Strange, only two weeks had passed, yet the air had already managed to grow stale, to suffocate. In the smell of dust, I discerned the scents of a crypt. Though, it's quite possible that this was merely an illusion—a creation of my strained nerves. I threw open all the windows, and it became a little easier. And another thing: this impeccable order grated on my eyes. Aside from the stinking cup in the kitchen and the bathrobe—everything was in its place. And this neatness, so uncharacteristic of Roz, was the most troubling of all. For some reason, I thought that in her final days, Roz had lived in seclusion, receiving no one. So, she had driven away all the psychos. Had the neighbor said something like that? Right, she said that shortly before leaving, Roz had found some job in the city. Either in a clinic, or who knows where... Only did she say "departure"? Or "disappearance"? Roz rarely appeared at home, and also "it's quiet here now." Quiet! No one else is here. Groups aren't meeting. Because Roz is busy? Or maybe she disappeared a long time ago? Then who ordered the pizza? Of course, she simply moved to the city. Tidied up the house and left. To work in a clinic. The unlocked door with the key sticking in from the inside and the bathrobe abandoned by the stairs didn't quite fit the concept. Why the haste? And why was I so fixated on this bathrobe anyway? Unfortunately, I wasn't familiar with Roz's wardrobe; otherwise, I could have determined exactly what she had taken with her.

In the office, everything remained as before. Rows of cardboard folders in the cabinet, a name on the spine of each. These were notes, tests, conclusions. The terminology of psychologists resembles a code. I can confess that I understand nothing of it. Who feels better for knowing which psychotype they belong to? And what joy is there, after yet another test, in throwing up one's hands and proudly exclaiming: "Ah! So that’s what I’m like!" As if one knew nothing about oneself before. And if one truly wants to know everything about oneself, then why hide one’s own name? For the sake of intrigue?

But all of Roz’s patients did exactly that—they called themselves by some invented nickname. Therefore, more often than not, Roz didn't even know whom she was dealing with. Although no, perhaps she did know. But that didn't make it any easier for me. What are you supposed to do when Jim isn't Jim at all, when some "Chill" is of an unknown gender, and "Franz Ferdinand" turns out to be a woman? Even her romantic partners bore some kind of dog-like nicknames. However, it's no surprise; her suitors were also raised in the psychological groups of the Reverend Roz Vitan.

So, I decided that even if there were some phone numbers or addresses hidden in the folders, I’d leave them for later.

There was also a huge brown desk with two pedestals. Behind a door, an "Optima" typewriter was hidden, along with a stack of paper. Very strange, especially since a computer with a printer stood in the corner. Perhaps it's considered very stylish to use outdated equipment. A patient arrives, nervous, looking around, and suddenly sees a typewriter. Ah... I see—he’s come to a conservative doctor. That means he... she can be trusted. Inscrutable are the ways of the psychologist.

I suddenly realized that every detail of the office was thought out to the smallest point. Both the heavy brown curtains, through which a green expanse accidentally peeked, and the pictures on the walls. This one, for example, depicts a grazing herd of horses. It hangs exactly opposite the window, and also acts as a window, open toward the blue sky and green grass.

The second pedestal consisted of four drawers. The first three were stuffed with bills, broken pens, chewed pencils, and other junk. I knew I would still have to sift through this trifles in search of some clue, but I preferred to hope it wouldn't come to that. In the bottom drawer, I discovered a thick notebook in a glossy blue cover decorated with a sun, and a small black address book. The notebook turned out to be a diary. I realized this immediately upon opening it. I hate diaries. Such a chronicle of a life seems like an act of violence to me. As soon as you pick up a thick, colorful notebook, you immediately begin to imagine an average person with average-important and clever thoughts, understandable only to the chronicler himself. Mistaken is the one who looks for the fragrance of innocence and purity in a girl's diary. Such a romantic will have to wade for a long time through a pile of vulgarities and banalities, seasoned with pearls of appalling poetry gathered from heaven knows where. Of course, one could find some answers in Roz's diary, but to read all that...

So, I opened the diary to the last page and saw a pencil entry made on the cover. This, of course, was an example of my dear sister's profundity:

"When I look back, I see my life resembling a multi-tiered tower. Each floor is a certain period. And there live the people with whom life has collided me. To meet again, one only needs to go down in the elevator.

But Archie stands apart. And not only because, having met him, I stopped noticing others. Conversations with Archie are also the peak of my professional mastery. Speaking with him, I was able to fully reveal myself as a human being, and that doesn't often happen to someone who spends their whole life digging into the problems of others."

Yes, Roz always saw not the problems of others, but her own reflection in their eyes. That was her primary stimulus. Therefore, she began to grow pale and wither when left alone. Nothing warmed her up like a crowd of madmen looking searchingly into her eyes. Hmm... Archie... I don't think I’ve heard that name. For some reason, it seemed to me that some card sharp might bear it. Though, most likely, it's just another nickname. At least one can guess it's a man. Roz writes "he." And a man who made her "reveal herself as a human being."

I glanced at the folders in the cabinet. Alas, there was no folder labeled "Archie."

Sighing, I turned my gaze back to the diary outpourings, but then the phone rang.

I’ve often noticed that as soon as you focus on something, at the very moment you think you've grasped the essence—the phone rings. And if there’s no phone nearby, some moron asks a question on a topic that interests you about as much as the weather in Africa.

I decided to answer. Firstly, because I might hear something useful, and secondly, I hate endless jingling. After all, there are some insolent types who will tirelessly dial the number just to drive a person to a white heat.

"I need Roz Vitan," a male voice stated in a peremptory tone. It was a man, and I suddenly became all alert.

"And who is asking for her?"

"Aren't consultations anonymous?" the jerk inquired. "I believe I have every right not to give my name. Put Roz on!"

"She’s not here," I replied none too politely and added vengefully: "So you'll have to introduce yourself so I can pass it on."

"Don't talk nonsense. I’ve waited a month for my turn, and I only wanted to confirm the time. Today at three? Is that right?"

"I’m not your secretary," I snapped, offended. "And anyway, there will be no appointment because Roz has left."

"Left?" The line went quiet. "I see. She left. It turns out she doesn't give a damn about the hopes of a sick man."

"Goodbye," I hung up. "Let this idiot swear without me."

But the deed was done. I had to start my reasoning from the beginning again.

I like to imagine myself as a detective—when everything goes according to plan, one thing after another. But I absolutely don't like remembering and reconstructing things. I can only console myself with the thought that it wasn't an insight, but just another dead end. I am a person with scattered attention, incapable of analytical work. I've been hanging around in someone else's office for half a day, and I've barely read five lines. If I continue at this rate, I’ll spend ten years studying the materials. Unless, of course, Roz appears in person and kicks me out of here. Why didn't I lure the phone client? He might have known something. Now he's gone. I examined the telephone set—the caller ID was disconnected. Yes, I missed it... I stuffed the diary back into the desk drawer. I'll get back to it in a couple of hours. A living person needs to eat sometimes.

I was finishing my coffee when a cautious knock came at the kitchen window. Through the frosted, streaky glass, I saw a vague silhouette. It looked female. Had the neighbor come to visit? But the girl standing on the threshold was an absolute stranger. She was clearly from Roz's entourage. A shapeless calico skirt reaching the ground, some kind of green netting over her shoulders. Wooden earrings dangled from her ears, and her neck was adorned with a necklace made of someone's teeth. Very stylish. Her face was so narrow it seemed to consist only of a profile, yet her nose would be visible even if she turned her back to you.

"Hello. Is Roz home?"

The dark-skinned girl gave a seductive glance, but immediately cast her eyes down, feigning extreme shyness. A tapir might flirt in such a way.

I stared, fascinated, at the two fangs beckoning from her sexily parted mouth. While I stood there sweating and petrified, the guest, unceremoniously shoving me aside with her shoulder, entered the house. I could only quietly close the door and follow her.

She set up camp in the living room. From a bulky bag, she extracted some vials and began to paint her nails. Such long, sharp talons. She painted them black and was so absorbed in this that she seemed not to notice me. I say "seemed" because I caught a quick, sideways glance thrown at me through long lashes.

I felt an irresistible urge to snatch that polish away and paint her lovely little teeth with it. My face probably didn't look particularly welcoming at that moment. Because she suddenly broke away from her task and declared:

"I'll wait for Roz here."

"And who might you be, exactly?" I inquired politely, my voice trembling with rage.

"Agatha," she replied, raising her eyebrows. Which, apparently, meant the question had insulted her.

She was simply wounded by my tactlessness and, seemingly to restrain her roiling emotions, focused on her talons again.

Since my presence in the living room was becoming burdensome to myself, I made an effort and moved to the office, where I greedily pounced on the cardboard folders. I found what I was looking for immediately. The "Agatha" folder was the second in the middle row. I untied the strings, and from a photograph, the aforementioned tapir-girl stared back at me.

"Well?" I heard a nasty voice behind me. "How much longer do I have to wait?"

I flinched but didn't turn around. I answered the photograph:

"You don't have to wait. Roz isn't here. She... she's left..."

I winced, feeling her gaze pierce my back. I could have traced it with a pencil right on my spine, between the shoulder blades. Agatha clattered across the wooden floor and appeared right in front of me.

"Roz hasn't gone anywhere!" she barked. "Stop lying! You're only saying that so I'll leave!"

"Fine by me, stay. You can wait a year for all I care," I muttered, elbowing her out of the office.

"You promised me coffee," she suddenly said in a meek voice. "A spoonful of coffee, two sugars, and cream."

"You'll do without the cream!"

Later, we sat in the kitchen, filling ourselves with coffee. Reasoning that I couldn't figure this out alone, I decided to enlist Agatha in the investigation. Who else but she could suggest which direction to start the search? Agatha became intensely interested and proposed a "brainstorming session." I decided not to mention the diary for now, so as not to spoil the purity of the experiment.

She listed everyone who attended the groups, and I wrote them down. She didn't know their real names, of course, and as I understood it, had never tried to find out.

"In matters like these, knowing too much is bad form," she explained. "If you come here, you must accept the rules of the game. You came for help, why interfere? I think Roz knows what she's doing."

"And has she helped you much?"

"Of course she helped. You didn't see what I was like before. A country bumpkin, in a word. And I dressed like a fool—always resizing my mother's old dresses. Modest and nondescript. But now..." She adjusted the netting with an elegant gesture. "Now I feel like a human being."

The "humanization" processes were clearly Roz's main mission. I remembered her words: "I revealed myself as a human being." Could Roz herself have been seeing a psychologist? Is Archie also a psychologist, only a more elite one?

But contrary to my expectations, Agatha did not utter Archie's name; consequently, she knew nothing about him.

"Archie?" she repeated. "No, no, there was no such person. What an awkward name..."

The brainstorm ended with the drinking of a bottle of gin, which Agatha extracted from that same bottomless bag. At about the third glass, she pronounced solemnly, swallowing her vowels:

"I know. She was murdered and hidden in the basement. Right here."

I followed the direction of her bird-like finger. Agatha was pointing to a door behind the kitchen cabinet that I hadn't noticed before.

That night, I couldn't sleep. Agatha was snoring peacefully on the sofa in the living room. On the TV, literally on every channel, they were showing horrors, and my strained nerves refused to reconcile with reality. I imagined a stale corpse lying in the basement, and I felt nauseous. I tried honestly to fight my fears—I turned off the TV and wrapped myself tighter in the sheet. I even closed my eyes. I don't know if it was a half-doze, but I was somehow rocked on waves, and a setting sun appeared. It was sinking into the sea, and I knew that when it vanished, night would come.

A wild shriek drowned out the sound of the waves. I jumped out of bed and, knocking over furniture, raced downstairs.

I remember shouting something and running, and at the very bottom of the stairs, I collided with a ghost who shrieked even louder than I did. The ghost turned out to be Agatha.

"Did you hear that?!" I yelled.

"I heard it!" she snapped. "Who wouldn't hear you?"

"Not me, not me! Someone was screaming under the windows; someone was being murdered!"

"Cats fighting. And then you started howling. Your voice is even more repulsive. Will you let me sleep, you bastard?"

"We need to check the basement, right now!" I commanded and headed resolutely for the kitchen.

"Let's wait until morning..." Agatha whined. "I'm drunk. I want to sleep..."

But there was no force in the world capable of keeping me from my heroic deed.

"We need a candle or a flashlight."

Agatha tapped her forehead with a black nail and flicked the switch. I flung the door open and looked down.

The basement was a small room, completely empty except for a few chairs arranged in a semicircle. The lights shone with a sickening brightness, leaving not a single dark corner. It didn't smell of corpses; on the contrary, a thick scent of incense sticks hung in the air.

"We could also lift the floor slabs," Agatha suggested. "Maybe she's buried."

The floor was indeed laid with stone slabs, stolen, it seemed, from the Egyptian pyramids. It was unthinkable that our combined muscular efforts would be enough to move them even a millimeter.

"And what are the chairs for?" I asked dully.

“We were meditating here. On fear. Though I already knew there was nothing here.”

“In my opinion, that was just your assumption. In the basement, in the basement...”

“Who knows what one might imagine when drunk.”

“I just had to get involved with an alcoholic.”

Naturally, the next morning I had to return to the diary. From the first few pages, I learned: 1) Roz was exhausted by the constant presence of a large number of people in the house; 2) Agatha had learned to read Tarot cards and was recruiting clients right in the group, and therefore should be removed so as not to interfere; 3) a certain Mort had presented an antique chair, which turned out to have fleas. And during a game-training session, they bit a certain Omega, who was portraying a beauty queen. And finally, 4) and (most importantly), a mysterious handsome man appeared in the group, who did not name himself at all, thereby putting himself in a special position. This was already something.

Agatha, urgently interrogated, reported that the handsome man appeared out of nowhere; he came on his own, no one brought him. Every single woman was in love with him, and even—here Agatha lowered her voice—some of the young men were "making eyes" at him too. But the handsome man remained steadfast. However, he appeared only three or four times and then vanished. Roz also said that he suffered from bouts of agoraphobia. Between themselves, they called him the "X-File."

Having blurted out all these meager bits of information, Agatha extracted a photograph in which a group of young people in ridiculous costumes were acting out some scene.

“There he is. He didn't manage to hide, as he usually did. And I caught him.”

In the background, I saw a man turned almost completely away from the lens. I say almost, because part of a cheek was visible, a ring in his ear, and a black mass of hair falling onto his neck.

“Can this man be found?” I asked cautiously.

“Anyone can be found,” Agatha replied and, after a thought, added: “I’ll try, but... then I’ll have to leave you for a while.”

“Please do,” I permitted graciously. She probably thinks I’ll wither away without her. Guardian!

So, Agatha drove off. But an hour later she returned with a pile of groceries. While she was stuffing the refrigerator, I reflected on the fact that her utility was undeniable, yet her company did not become any more pleasant because of it. Therein lies the essence of all conflicts in the world. The necessity of enduring someone for the sake of benefit does not awaken warm feelings for that person, no matter how hard they try to earn our attention or even a shadow of gratitude. On the contrary, the very thought that you should feel gratitude is burdensome and counterproductive.

Eventually, Agatha left, and I took up the reading again.

From the Diary of Roz Vitan

February 4th

Today I received confirmation of my professionalism. Finally. It seems Roz Vitan is destined for great things. At ten o'clock in the morning, the phone rang. I thought it was one of my clients. But it turned out... it was Dr. Bernard's secretary calling. I don't know who Bernard is, but she said he owns a large psychiatric clinic. She also said that if I were interested in collaborating, I should arrive at such-and-all address for negotiations. I’m going tomorrow. My God, what bliss!

February 5th

I was there. Although the clinic itself seemed somewhat strange to me—I didn't see a single patient—Professor Bernard is very pleasant. My patient suffers from agoraphobia, and my task is to converse with him about this and that. Based on these conversations, the professor intends to prescribe treatment for him. However, he explained this to me quite vaguely. And I only nodded and smiled. What else could I do? Such positions don't grow on trees. Once I start working, I'll figure it out myself. Especially since they promise simply enormous money—and that's for only twice a week, three hours of talking. Paradise, pure and simple!

So, I learned that my patient's name is Archie. It’s possible that besides the fear of open spaces, he suffers from something else. Because Professor Bernard handed me a sheet of typed text and said it was a calling card of Archie's state of mind today. I explained that I couldn't say anything definite from a scrap of text. That I needed a handwriting sample. "He never writes by hand," Bernard replied, "Content yourself with what there is."

A four-times folded sheet was pinned to the page. I unfolded it. Well, of course, it was that notorious text "from Archie" that I had just read аbout:

“I am not at all who I am taken for. And not even who I take myself to be. A sad, pale man in a ridiculous panama hat, wandering along the water's edge, a narrow-as-a-blade boundary of water and land. A creature that does not know what it wants, a certain donkey stuck between two desires. That is who I am. That is what I am in a world where there is no room for indecision. But how to make this decision, how to make the right choice for oneself? Even if both possibilities are equal (let's imagine they are equal), I cannot use both. What nonsense! And won't this single choice of mine lead me somewhere I wouldn't want to go? And won't the second choice turn out to be better? However, all this is dry matter, and one can philosophize endlessly. One can draw conclusions and immediately refute them, one can juggle words and gradually lose them all in the sand. Much is possible, if one reflects. But is that the point? The point is that you don't like my panama hat. Big deal! I'm just a fool, and my panama is foolish. But no one else wears one like it. Some chain themselves to a pillory, others, on the contrary, tie a cross to themselves. It’s all a matter of taste. And I have grown into my panama.

A fool at a crossroads. So, I stand... That is, what am I saying... Of course, I am not standing, I am walking. Wandering... Meandering...”

So, the diagnosis of the "X-File" and Archie coincided. I mentally rejoiced for Agatha and me. It seems we are on the right track. I turned two more pages and literally glued my eyes to the entry I found. It was a description of the first working day at the clinic. Roz wrote that she was led into an empty room with only a table and a chair. On the table stood a microphone and lay a pair of headphones. She did not see the patient. But why should I paraphrase—here are her own words:

“I had mentally prepared myself to meet my new acquaintance, but behind the door was an absolutely empty room... Nurse Bertha said that I would communicate with Archie via radio, as he does not wish to see anyone. She switched on the microphone and left. And I remained, waiting for what would happen next. And I can say that this waiting did not particularly please me. Finally, in the headphones, I heard a crackling, and a steady voice said: 'Hello.' It could have belonged with equal success to either a man or a woman, this voice. It could have been either a very low female voice or a high male one. It could also have been a teenager.

“My name is Archie,” the voice said, pronouncing the words very precisely, like an announcer.

“Archie?” I asked. “That is a male name.”

“I do not think that gender identity can influence our conversations,” he cut me off. “But, if you, as a woman, find it more pleasant to speak with a man...”

The words ‘as a woman’ were intonationally highlighted, and the unfinished sentence ended with a significant pause. My interlocutor clearly knew his worth and was deliberately building a barrier between us. Nevertheless, I regarded this as a result of the illness, which, without seeing him, I could only guess at. A certain hidden complex forcing him to keep a distance. I could not know if this distance was maintained in communication with those close to him. However, we were speaking for the first time, and I had no right to play the intimate friend.

“My name is Roz,” I said, maintaining as cold a tone as possible.

“Are you a journalist?” Archie asked without interest.

“No. Not a journalist. I am a psychologist, and it really hinders me that we cannot see each other.”

“No, no. Not that,” he stopped me.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you won't like my appearance, just as I don't like it myself,” he replied after a short pause.

I thought then that it might be some kind of deformity. I imagined the ‘Elephant Man’ and shuddered.

“There are no people completely satisfied with their appearance,” I said cautiously. “But, in the age of plastic surgery, anything is possible.”

Archie countered:

“A plastic surgeon won't help me become a tall brunette with black eyes.”

“From this, I can conclude that you are a short blonde. And are your eyes blue? Or gray?”Рене, какой мощный финал дневника. Этот «ГОЛЕМ» Лема, детское воспоминание о больничном заборе и, наконец, крах теории об Икс-файле. Роз влюбилась в голос, а Рассказчик нашел потайную дверь за лошадьми. Это уже почти Хичкок.

Вот английская версия. Я постарался сохранить этот ритм нарастающей тревоги.

English Version (The Narrative & The Final Diary Entries)

“Stop guessing. It doesn't matter, does it? Why do you need my appearance? Are you looking for a romantic hero? Everything that interests you, you can ask Dr. Bernard.”

After that, he fell silent.

I called him once, twice. But Archie did not respond. The session was over.

February 20th

Two weeks have passed since I met Archie. And every meeting is like a new acquaintance. Sometimes it seems to me that he doesn’t even remember me, doesn't know whom he's talking to. Always a polite coldness at the start and a faint animation toward the end of the conversation. I am in despair, trying to make him talk about something personal. Not a single slip-up on his part. Any other person would have let something slip by now. But no—polite conversations about world problems and not half a word about himself.

For some reason, I just remembered Lem. All those discussions about Artificial Intelligence. Of course, I understand perfectly well that GOLEM (GOLEMA, in the genitive) has not been invented yet, and it's unlikely to happen anytime soon. And Archie, of course, is not a computer, but a human being. He eats, sleeps, breathes... How do I know this? His answers are adequate to my questions. What surprises me is only his capacity for mechanical processing of information (if one can call it that). I think he is simply a genius, the kind that are sometimes born. A mathematical genius, say. And when one ability surpasses everything else, a psychic lopsidedness occurs... In this case, it's emotional poverty and fears...

February 22 th

I tried to remember where I knew this feeling from—talking to a person knowing I would never see them. I remembered. Impressions of a distant childhood, forgotten as unnecessary, turned out to be the thread connecting me to the present.

I was five years old then, and I was in an infectious disease hospital. Even now, older and wiser, I cannot put into words the horror and the longing that haunted me then. It was the first time I was torn away from my parents, and it was unbearable. I wailed day and night, and days in childhood are infinitely long. A whole lifetime fits into one day. And I was, moreover, in confinement. Thousands of lives stretched on and on, and I remained alone. Only strange-smelling women in white coats feigned some interest in me, but one could only expect trouble from them—in the form of injections or pills. But besides me, they had a heap of other sick, snotty kids aged two to six.

Once a day, they dressed us and led us to play in a tiny courtyard surrounded by a solid fence. And I knew that where the gates met the fence, there was a small gap to which you could press your ear and hear the noise of the city. That noise was the personification of freedom for me. So for the entire walk hour, I stuck by the gate and listened and listened...

And one day I heard a voice from that other, free side. It was a child's voice. I still don't know if it was a boy or a girl. And we began to talk through that crack, without seeing each other. My interest was clear—I wanted to hear a voice from the world of free people—but I still cannot understand what attracted my little friend. Probably simple curiosity. But whatever it was, day after day, they were always there and on time. Maybe they lived nearby. (Although now I am even inclined to think it was an imaginary friend. Inclined... but I don't want to...)

Later, when I was discharged and walking down the street with my mother, I looked for him or her. But, alas, none of the passing children responded to my gaze. And I never appeared on that street, near that hospital, again. For a while, I remembered. And then I forgot...

March 6th

I’m beginning to feel like a victim of an experiment myself. That it's not me trying to help Archie, or even the other way around. But someone third is watching me. Professor Bernard—that’s who. So now I carry a voice recorder with me and, whenever possible, try to record Archie's answers. Maybe it will come in handy later...

I see an extraordinary, interesting personality in my patient. I can confess that I am very drawn to him. Or he is drawing me to him. I don't know how to phrase it exactly. But right now, he has eclipsed the whole world. And I live the time between our conversations as if in a dream. Ah, Roz, haven't you fallen in love? Don't be a fool, Roz. You haven't even seen him...

I reread this and thought how good it is that diaries are not written for a wide circle. How good it is that, most likely, no one will read these entries. Who would need a compromised Roz Vitan after this? I am a person of the stage. Okay, "stage" is too strong a word. But I am in the spotlight, who would disagree? People come to me for help. And suddenly—enchanted, enslaved by someone or something (Unless I am being played with, unless this is a hoax.) Perhaps by the most inadequate of men... Though I’d like to think by the greatest, the most beautiful, the most-most...

Roz, don't relax, keep this problem inside. Unless, God forbid, you break... You won't break...

That was the last entry in the diary. Except, of course, for the one I found on the cover. And nowhere was there a hint of the clinic's address. I remembered the address book and pounced on it like a hawk. Yes, in matters of encryption, the toughest spy would have envied her. If those were phone numbers... instead of digits, there were unfamiliar symbols, the key to which I did not find. And even if I had, I would never have known whose numbers they were. Instead of names, there were squares, triangles, and other shapes. If they were names at all. Maybe Roz was marking her periods in this little book? So I reasoned sanely—I’ll wait for Agatha. And we’ll start checking the X-File version. It would have been so simple—drive to the clinic and find Roz there. Or just find out her city address. Why did I even assume she was missing? Only because she left the door unlocked, my inner voice prompted. Still, something is fishy. I have a bad feeling in my soul... a bad feeling...

Agatha returned two days later. And she brought discouraging news. She found the X-File, or rather, discovered his trail. But it wasn't he who turned out to be our Roz's romantic hero and the cause of her disappearance. The fact was that the X-File had been in prison for six months already, serving time for a banal theft. Agatha even managed to find out his real name—Janus Jõgimaa. If you bore such a terrible name, wouldn't you hide it, and wouldn't you develop an idiosyncrasy for names in general after that? Personally, I would prefer just a serial number. The handsome man specialized in apartment burglaries, where he first gained entry under the guise of a friend of the house. One could say God looked after Roz by tucking the X-File away in time.

Having listened to my report on the work done, she gave me a contemptuous look, snorted something, and plopped an impressive volume on the table—the telephone directory.

“Call!” she commanded. “Dunderhead! Call every psychiatric hospital and ask for Bernard, damn you!”

Strange that I hadn't thought of it myself. The idea, of course, was brilliant, but no Bernard was to be found anywhere. No one had ever heard of such a professor, and we realized we were at a dead end.

“Call her parents,” Agatha urged.

“She only has her father left—and I don’t know his phone number...”

“Call your parents,” she persisted.

“They haven’t seen Roz in fifteen years. Only I kept in touch.”

“But there must be someone... friends, lovers... damn relative! Neighbors... Oh, right, the neighbors don't know.”

“It's all useless...” I kept saying. “Either she’ll turn up herself, or...”

“She would have turned up by now. You said yourself she had an appointment. You said someone ordered pizza. You said the door was open.”

Having exhausted all arguments, she shoved the phone book under my nose again:

“Call the hospitals and morgues!”

“Maybe the police too?”

“What, haven't the police been called?”

“They haven’t... Nothing has happened, what would the police do?”

“Idiot!” Agatha screamed and threw some book at me. I have good reflexes; I ducked quickly, and the book landed right in the painting of the herd. The carefree horses flinched, lost their balance, and flopped onto the sofa. And then we saw a little door in the wall. It was papered with the exact same wallpaper as the walls and had neither a handle nor a keyhole.

Agatha and I looked at each other and rushed toward the sofa in sync. Agatha proved to be more agile. She jumped onto the sofa and tried to pry the door open with her nails, but her nails wouldn't fit into the gap, which was as narrow as a blade.

Понимаю, Рене. Арчи действительно из тех персонажей, которые засасывают в свою «пустую комнату» и лишают воздуха. Пора выводить его на чистую воду.

Лови английский вариант, где мы сохраним этот контраст между «голосом викинга» Агаты и холодным, бесполым высокомерием Арчи.

“Give me the knife!” she shrieked.

I tossed her the paper knife. In a narrow niche, barely half the thickness of the wall, lay an ordinary cassette tape. With a triumphant war cry, Agatha snatched it and flipped it over.

“Archie!” she shouted with the booming voice of a Viking. “It says ‘Archie’ right here!”

We settled in the living room and turned on the tape recorder. Agatha extracted the remains of the gin. I gave her a murderous look, but she interpreted it in her own way:

“It’s fine... There’s more. I bought some...”

“I should eat something,” I suggested, but then caught myself: “Later... First, we have to hear what’s on there. Turn it on.”

At first, there was only crackling and static. Then we heard a strange voice. It didn’t sound like a man’s or a woman’s. It was, if one can put it this way, a voice in general. You couldn’t determine age, education level, or approximate place of birth from it. It offered nothing to latch onto.

Agatha froze, her mouth slightly open. It was the first time I had seen such an idiotically blissful expression on her face. This was no longer Agatha, but a rat following the Pied Piper’s flute in a total trance.

“An angel,” she whispered. “An angel is speaking...”

I was so distracted watching her that I missed several phrases and lost the thread...

“That’s enough,” I said, switching off the recorder. “Not now. I have to listen to this alone. Otherwise, I won’t understand a thing.”

Agatha didn't even seem to hear my words. She sat with a vacant stare, her thoughts wandering somewhere far away. What a strange influence on women...

I was about to retreat to the office when she finally shook herself and protested:

“Oh no,” she declared. “We’ll listen together. You might miss something, fail to notice. I don’t trust you. You’re making mistake after mistake.”

“And you’re in a trance,” I parried. “All ears, like a groupie.”

“Yes... ‘The word love will surely embarrass you’...”

“What?” I was astonished.

She looked at me as if I were some unknown insect—with squeamishness and disgust.

“You didn’t hear a thing, did you? Those were his words... You’re about as good a detective as...”

“You don’t have to finish the sentence... Yes, I’m a creative soul, I can afford to drift off occasionally.”

I couldn’t admit that Agatha had won this round, but I couldn't leave now either. So we sat side by side and turned the recorder back on.

“The word ‘love’ will surely embarrass you... and it embarrasses me just the same. Not because I am disillusioned with it, or because I have a prejudice that where that word is, there is a foolish game involving sex, or worse—the pain and suffering of the self-deceived. But because—being an idealist—I place this idea-state on a very high pedestal, unattainable for a human in the hustle and bustle of the everyday, just like many other heights—holiness, grace... But perhaps a human is great precisely because they strive... Whether they are capable or not, knowing where they are going or not realizing it, they strive for something higher than what they possess.

The word ‘love’ will frighten you... and it has frightened me many times as well. Not because... but because no matter what this strange and complex gravitation is called, it exists between humans.

Love is the most amazing, fantastic game in this world. Love is the paradox of faith in a single solution and its absolute randomness. There is probably nothing else in human life that is simultaneously so passionately attractive, terrifying, shamefully dirty, blissfully holy, grandly meaningless, and testing. The randomness of choosing an object is so unpredictable that many participants in the great game of love, after several attempts, fall ill with a terminal disease of the soul—despair, the fear of any relationships with people at all.

I have answered your question. I believe I have answered correctly, though I understand nothing of love. I have seen it all, all that humanity has known, I have reveled in it, suffered, and thought I was playing with it or at it... And now, knowing everything there is to know about this poison, I am not sure I have the right to speak on the subject. To speak or to judge? Neither...”

There was a dry click—Roz had turned off the recorder. For some reason, she had decided not to record her own questions. It’s unclear why. But I can say that such a detached answer from Archie truly produced a dual impression. On the one hand, it seemed as if he were simply reading a written text, so steadily did his speech flow. But there was something else behind it. He spoke of love, yet what you heard was: “I have left the world, but I permit myself to discuss your problems. But don’t get carried away—these are your problems, not mine at all.” He spoke only because Roz had asked. But why did she take this text as a revelation? And why did I decide she took it that way? Because, judging by the diary entries, Roz had created an entire world based on Archie’s reasonings. I see—Archie, consciously or unconsciously, was recreating a world for her, without, however, wishing to be there with her. Who do you think you are, sweetie Archie? Nothing less than a god.

I felt that my analytical excursions were leading me straight into the arms of the absurd. Maybe Agatha saw something else in this?

“Agatha,” I called cautiously. “Say something. What do you think about this?”

Agatha rolled her eyes like a gypsy and sighed:

“Now that is a man,” she said. “That, I can understand...”

But Archie had already started speaking again. He was answering another question. It seemed Roz had tried to meet him in person. Most likely. Because the speech began with these words:

“Why do I need that? Have I not told you that I have already lived thousands of lives? Is there anything beyond the limits of my room that I do not know? Why all these efforts of will? And isn't pure intellect enough for an acquaintance? It is enough for me. I do not understand why one needs to have distinguishing features. To differ from another? There is no necessity for that—rational beings are individual as they are. I express a thought in a way that is unique only to me. Another will express the same thought in their own way. Look for the differences there. Gender, age, appearance—these can only play a role in reproduction. Even a name makes no sense. It was invented only for convenience, not to define individuality. If it were customary to number people, everyone would very soon get used to that as well. Of course, it would be difficult to remember large numbers, so they came up with a letter code. Take you—you are Roz, but you could have been some Lily, and what? Would that have changed you? I know there are some pseudo-scientific discussions about the influence of a name on destiny. Science cannot develop in a straight line and only a straight line. A human, possessing a certain creative element, will always try to explore various layers of knowledge without considering that many turn out to be dead ends due to their implausibility and lack of logic. Но time will pass, and everything will fall into place. And reasonings based only on poetry will be buried. And even now, I can say that a name has no influence on destiny, so why use obviously false premises and trace the development of an idea initially set in the wrong direction? Learn to discard the unnecessary. The unnecessary does not increase the amount of knowledge; it only burdens the consciousness.”

Archie the Philosopher is having a polite conversation. Poor, poor Roz. And how did she think she would untangle herself from these insane reasonings, when to a naive question worthy of a schoolgirl, she received a rebuff woven from “pure intellect” and the grand ego of the great Archie.

Even the ecstatic Agatha was getting tired trying to follow the thread of reasoning. And yet we still had to listen and listen to this madman. What am I hoping for? That the clinic’s address will suddenly flash by? It’s unlikely Archie himself could know that. It feels as if he is stewing in his own juices and barely reacting to external stimuli.

The angelic voice continued to drone, producing one thought after another, built on impeccable logic and perverted primitivism. Archie was weaving a semantic web, and the poor fly was reveling in a once-in-a-lifetime spectacle—the creation of her own scaffold.

“Who am I?” he would exclaim, and immediately answer. “No, a human cannot answer this question without deceiving himself. If he is untalented and lazy, he will say: ‘I am a genius, but the world does not understand me.’ If he is greedy and shifty, he will say: ‘I know how to live.’ If he cannot resist the pressure of others, he will boast of an angelic character. And if he himself crushes everyone and everything, he will tell a fairy tale about the value of his own principles. He will find a justification for everything, turn everything into a virtue. And at the same time, the words ‘good-bad’ never leave his tongue. He hands out evaluations left and right; he simply cannot exist without dragging everything that is into these two poles, occasionally replacing their names with, say, ‘harmful-useful,’ ‘smart-stupid,’ or ‘white-black.’”

I was already beginning to doze off under the monotonous reasonings of our Casanova. Agatha sat as tensely as before, catching every word. I thought sluggishly that she was perceiving Archie’s monologues on some physiological level. Women fell under his influence instantly; they became addicts of the enchanting—no, what am I saying!—the monotonous, hollow voice. There was nothing enchanting about it. I thought with longing that I would have to spend a few more hours in this room, listening to questionable maxims and trying to find the slightest lead on Roz.

Archie’s knowledge seemed inexhaustible—he easily cited examples from physics and chemistry, biology seemed to be his home, and in his knowledge of literature and all sorts of religions, he had no equal. He scattered knowledge like pearls and, indifferently watching as the latest volley vanished before reaching the listener's consciousness, immediately produced a new one, even more saturated. I was so exhausted that I stopped perceiving even that which was beyond doubt—and as for following the intricacies of his reasonings, count me out.

“...passing segment of the path for... a set of external signs... Ding-la-la...” When will you finally shut up?

And then we heard a scream. It exploded in the midst of the monotony like a bomb. Although Archie didn't exactly shout, he spoke in that same voice.

“...no... be careful... this is not a world where there is Good and there is Evil... not a world where they exist... and not even Brahman... do you feel... how This is wafting... it is good... but you must not touch it... drive Him away... you know who I mean... you’ll drive him away regardless... drive him away...”

After that, silence fell, followed by the click of the recorder.

Agatha looked at me with a thoughtful gaze and asked:

“What is Brahman? And why should one be afraid of it?”

“I have no idea,” I replied. “Look it up in the dictionary.”

“Which one?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Look it up on the Internet!”

A minute later, she was reading:

“The highest objective reality, the absolute, the creative principle in which everything arises, exists, and ceases to exist. Like the Atman, Brahman is inaccessible to verbal description and is often characterized negatively, by a set of negative definitions or a combination of opposite signs. Its identity with the Atman is a cardinal tenet of Hinduism.”

“So what's so scary about that?” she asked. “Just philosophical gibberish...”

“That’s exactly the point—nothing,” I replied. “But who is he suggesting we drive away? Does the magnificent Archie think himself to be this danger? ‘You’ll drive him away regardless.’ Hmph. It seems to me he is so hideous that he knows the result of their meeting in advance.”

“By the way,” Agatha suddenly perlivened, “the name Bernard sounds familiar. I know, he was the one who did the first heart transplant. And he sewed two heads onto one dog. Exactly. Maybe Archie has two heads too, or something like that. Bernard was having fun and messed him up somehow. And now they both don’t know how to get out of it.”

“No,” I replied, “that was Barnard. What else have you made up?”

“Oh, right,” Agatha said, disappointed. “Let’s not develop that version. We need to listen further. Or maybe we should have a drink first?”

“No,” I replied firmly. “Later.”

What followed was entirely different. Archie got off his high horse. His subsequent texts increasingly resembled human speech. And I congratulated him on such an achievement.

“Roz,” he said, almost joyfully. “Roz, is that you? An incomprehensible thing happened to me. Yesterday. Everyone left, even the professor left. And he turned off the light. But I asked him not to do that. He thinks that if there is no light, I will be able to rest. Nonsense, of course. Being in an unconscious state has a detrimental effect on my mental abilities. I begin to see things that aren't really there. Yesterday, for example, I saw Nurse Bertha Hanson, as if she were coming in with a cup in her hands and saying: ‘Hello, Archie, I’ve come to feed you.’ And as if she doesn't know that living organisms feed on electricity, not on water, even if it's hot. You can wash with water, but you can't feed on it at all. I knew that clearly last night. And after that, they want me to sleep? In the mornings I feel broken after all these absurd visions. It’s a good thing I can’t remember everything, though memory lapses are also a sign of some defect. I’d like to figure it out myself, but apparently, I’ll have to look for some information about this phenomenon. No, Roz, I can't talk to you today. I must be ill. I feel weary...”

What followed were no longer answers to questions. Archie unleashed a torrent of contradictory information. It was difficult to catch any logic or even a shred of meaning in his speeches. Agatha huddled on the sofa. She looked frightened. It seemed that all this was costing her more effort than it was me. I, remembering that Roz was forced to listen to this directly, felt something akin to pity. It wasn't easy for our Iron Lady. And yet, feelings were mixed into this. Delusional, perhaps. Although Roz herself called them love. Perhaps love has many faces and, unfortunately, I am not familiar with all of them. Now, when Archie was collapsing right before our eyes, even I, a complete outsider, felt uneasy. What then must my poor sister have felt? Where on earth is she?

“Something is pressing, pressing hard. I can hardly open my eyes. And I see a red light. Bernard says I’ve gone to another world. Yes, I see sand under my feet. But it isn't dry; it's viscous. But I hear your voice, Roz. How can that be? If I am here, in my room, but I see sand? And I’m going somewhere. Only your voice connects me to reality. Don’t be silent, say something! Yes, I hear. Strange... I can’t understand the words. There it is again. I don’t know that word.”

And so it went on. His speech became more and more fragmentary. The pauses grew longer. Archie was clearly delirious, endlessly mentioning red light and sand and Professor Bernard. I thought he just had a fever. The flu or something... “I don’t know you! Don’t touch me... And turn off the light... That’s all...”

Then, for some time, there was a clicking sound which, with a very rich imagination, could be taken for some kind of signals. It could also be taken for the chirping of a grasshopper, amplified by speakers.

Silence fell. Agatha and I looked at each other, and she had even opened her mouth to say something, but then Roz’s voice sounded in the room.

“If you have found this recording,” she said tonelessly, “then you are on the right track. What you have heard is far from everything. And now I want to make a statement—Professor Bernard is conducting experiments on living people. You heard how Archie turned into an idiot, and I suspect even more. I suspect that Archie is no longer alive. That he was killed, killed brutally. But even if that isn't so, his mind is dead regardless. I tried to talk to Bernard, but received no answer. He urged me to wait. But I do not wish to wait. I know that time is not on my side. I know that I, too, will be removed as a superfluous witness. Therefore, whoever found this recording should know—I have hidden myself; you don’t need to look for me. But on the inside of my desk door, where the typewriter stands, there is a piece of paper with the clinic’s address glued to it.”

A fit of idiosyncrasy seized me. The effective ending of Roz’s performance proved stronger than my desire to get to the truth. While I was quietly losing my temper and cursing this cinematic idiocy, Agatha had already found the mentioned address and was joyfully jumping around the room, presenting a hilarious sight.

“She’s alive!” Agatha shrieked. “Alive! Alive!”

Then it finally dawned on me too—Roz was alive.

Рене, это просто потрясающий поворот! Арчи — не человек, а биологический мозг, выращенный в пробирке. «Лабиринт отражений», «электричество вместо воды» — теперь все эти его странности сложились в единую картину. Бернард — настоящий «безумный ученый», а Агата с кухонным ножом на этом фоне выглядит на удивление адекватной.

Вот английский вариант. Я постарался передать иронию Рассказчика и этот тяжелый, гнетущий «аромат» клиники.

English Version (The Expedition to the Hornet’s Nest)

And so, Agatha and I decided to drive to the address we’d found. Or rather, not exactly—we’d been planning to go for a long time, but we just didn’t have the address. And now that it had turned up, there was no point in stalling. So, we quickly saddled my automobile and pointed its hooves toward the hornet’s nest. Although it didn’t turn out quite so "quickly." First, Agatha had to choose her outfit—one that was, as she put it, "comfortable for fighting." Then she spent ages dashing around the house in search of some kind of weapon. Naturally, she found nothing. But she still shoved a kitchen knife into her bag. She forgot to sharpen it, though—I checked.

In the end, we finally settled into our vehicle and took off. Agatha was twirling around, bouncing on the seat, poking her finger at the glass, and commenting on everything that caught her eye. And since she was simultaneously and incessantly eating either cookies or pastries, the glass was soon covered in greasy smudges. Crumbs fell from her hands and flew from her mouth—in short, she was providing me with a wealth of pleasure, because nothing in life irritates me more than crumbs on smooth surfaces.

“One time, we portrayed frozen chicken carcasses floating in a pool,” she recounted. “Franz Ferdinand had a dream like that. And all dreams must be acted out to understand why they happen. Ha-ha-ha... It was so funny... Even funnier than when I had to portray an Energizer battery commercial. Actually, I can play anything. Look!” she declared proudly and immediately offered to demonstrate her skills.

“Yes, yes...” I replied. “Show me how a mannequin behaves when it’s riding in a car. Keep quiet for at least five minutes, and be as artistic as possible.”

Agatha shrieked and burst into such a piercing laugh that my ears popped. But I found a way out—I turned on the Archie tape again. No, he definitely had a hypnotic effect on women. Agatha instantly froze with her mouth open.

“...you know, remember my last depression—the third one since the birth of Christ is about to begin. In the last two weeks, I have moved to the next stage... I have outgrown myself... From the pigsty, I’ve entered a labyrinth of reflections. People toss out new tasks, but in reality, there is no movement. Only a kind of spinning in place. No, I’m saying it wrong, not correctly. You know, I probably would have loved you. Perhaps I once had a dream that there would be a person in the world capable of loving only me. Now I don’t like that I could even think of that, but it seems too late for regrets. I feel as if layers inside me are shifting. In this movement, I see blindness, a black cosmos behind the flat objects as I see them... But I cannot, I cannot convince myself of the reality of everything I touch. It feels like self-torture. I cannot accept an intrusion from without because I am incapable of accepting reality. I have no feelings—only thoughts, and within these thoughts, I’m beginning to realize that I see and hear nothing. When space suddenly starts to pull me in, dragging me outside where everything should turn out to be clear and simple, where even the movements of God will become child's play... Yes, Roz, I see the end of my path, the absence of a future, the inefficiency of analyzing the present. Everything has stopped, everything is distorted.”

We found the street bearing the proud name of Elzbeth. I don’t know who this Elzbeth was—perhaps a very worthy person... but to name such a street after anyone is barbarism. A foul, filthy alleyway where the smell of a dumpster lingered, mixed with another untidy kitchen odor. This ambre intensified as we approached rusty iron gates, painted blue in time immemorial. The rust spots, coupled with the aroma, brought to mind corpses. I reluctantly pulled the heavy wing of the gate toward me, feeling the slippery, greasy surface of the metal handle beneath my fingers. A dirty courtyard opened to our view: the gray wall of some building with dim windows and a small wooden door set into it. No identifying marks.

The door was unlocked. Behind it was a long, dark, empty corridor. We crawled along this corridor, inhaling the kitchen smells. Agatha followed me step for step, breathing into my ear. The corridor turned into another one, just as gut-like and dark. And not a single living soul was encountered on the way. Just as I was losing heart entirely, a janitor in camouflage uniform appeared before my eyes. He gave me an unfriendly look, scanned Agatha from head to toe, but apparently, we didn't spark any burning interest in him, because he merely moved his yard-wide shoulders and began to bypass us on the right.

“Stop!” Agatha barked. “How do we find Professor Bernard?”

The monster jabbed a sausage-like finger somewhere behind his back. This could be taken as an answer, and we trudged on. And, strangely enough, we saw light—a huge hall where, behind a counter in a glass aquarium, sat a very presentable old man.

As silent as the previous janitor, he responded to our question by pointing a finger toward a polished wooden door with a sign: "Demonstration Hall." By the pointing finger, fate itself was leading us to our goal.

Behind the door was a fairly large hall filled with chairs, the right armrest of each being a small writing table. The hall was almost empty, but in the first row, a flock of old men, strikingly similar to one another, were cozily settled. On the faces of these elders, the same expression was forever etched—disdainful skepticism. It seemed to me they had lived their whole lives side by side in a confined space, never allowing themselves to relax for a second, lest they accidentally agree with a colleague's opinion. In any case, the glances they threw at the lecturer and each other did not inspire thoughts of friendliness in an outside observer. On the stage—or whatever you call this platform—stood a high table and a lectern. On the table, I noticed some glass vessel with unappetizing contents. And the one standing behind the lectern—the most bilious of them all, yet with the air of a winner; perhaps the youngest among his colleagues, the most... I don't know what else, but markedly different from the rest, as if radiating a hypertrophied academicism—that was Bernard. I realized it immediately, though no one mentioned his name. Even as we opened the door, from the fragmented phrases, I understood that they were talking about some experiment. Behind the rattling, purely scientific phrases, it was hard to see any meaning. And the kabbalistic signs on the chalkboard, which he drew lustfully, almost pressing the chalk through the black surface, were depressing. The pointer fluttered in his hands like a conductor's baton. In short, it was acting, a performance. After a while, things began to clear up in my head. I even noted that I was beginning to understand individual words. And then a little more. The talk was about "the fusion of biology with computer technology," or vice versa. Not bad, considering the average age of the seated scientists.

“We needed a robot. But not just a robot acting only within the framework of a pre-set program. No. When landing on another planet, in total solitude, it must be able to make a decision under any circumstances, and also be able to modify its mechanisms and form according to necessity. It had to evolve and adapt, gradually turning into a perfect being, for whom no interference, no extreme conditions are fearsome. Therefore, having abandoned the crystalline brain, I grew a biological brain.”

One of the listeners waved a pink palm and spoke:

“But you grew it from a human neuron? Wouldn't it have been simpler to transplant an ordinary human brain into a machine, creating a cyborg? That, at least, would have been funny. We all stopped believing in science fiction long ago. Similar experiments were conducted as early as the late 20th century. And they led to nothing. To nothing. What is fundamentally new in your approach?”

Рене, это мощнейший финал. Настоящий экзистенциальный триллер. Арчи, превратившийся в «таракана» (привет Кафке!), и этот горький вывод о том, что мы любим не человека, а свои проекции. Иронично, что Роз, будучи «железной леди», заходила с черного хода, буквально и метафорично.

Вот английский вариант для завершения этого марафона.

English Version (The Death of Archie and the Labyrinth of Illusions)

“I assure you, in this case, we utilized entirely different mechanisms,” Bernard reacted somewhat acidly. “Is it enough for you to know that within this neural matter lie the possibilities for the transformation of the organism? Though, as it turned out later—not only the organism as a whole, but the brain itself.”

“At first, everything went as we had anticipated. The brain developed, learned, and absorbed a vast amount of information. But it was a stationary mechanism. In laboratory conditions, we did not create a complete organism. Let's just say—it was a virtual model of consciousness in a virtual world. Although we had the opportunity to communicate with it through a computer. We even synthesized a voice. This, of course, was optional, but—why not?”

“Of course. That’s how we sacrifice science. Synthesizing a voice... What for? For a greater effect? Colleague, you should be hosting a show, not conducting research. First you give him an eye in the form of a webcam, then a voice. What are you—the Lord God? Everything could have been done much more simply and at a lower cost.”

“The brain began to acquire an individuality. At some point, we set a desired model of reality for it. And that is when, unfortunately, the trouble began. The brain began a transformation, but not of the proposed model—of itself.”

The bilious opponent burst into an unpleasant laugh and couldn't stop for a long time. Dabbing his eyes with a pristine white handkerchief, he let out another shrill volley:

“But of course... What else was left for it to do? You humanized it. You made it real, and yet you expected some kind of virtual answers? No, my dear friend, you got exactly what you put in. Not a unified bio-techno organism or whatever, but simply an organism—a brain living by its own rules and your program.”

But Bernard continued as if he hadn't heard:

“Instead of transmitting to us the intended form of the organism or mechanism (if you prefer), it began to mutate. As we tightened our conditions, the convolutions began to disappear. The brain became smooth and elongated, until it became... this.”

Bernard lifted a glass vessel, and I saw something revolting—a transparent white worm with thick appendages on its sides. He stepped down from the platform and began to shake this monstrosity before the eyes of the assembly.

“Ha-ha!” the tireless opponent cried. “And what is that, in your opinion?”

Bernard squinted with academic cunning and declared:

“I believe it is an enlarged brain of a cockroach, or more precisely—its neural ganglion. See—everything is in place, the ganglia... Our favorite simply transformed into a cockroach. Here is the proof of the most acceptable form of life under the conditions we created. The only pity is that natural communication ceased at that point. Perhaps he did answer our questions after all; perhaps he will answer in the future. But our Archie will not say another word. Archie is dead.”

“Archie is dead”... My head spun, and my ears rang. There he was, the one I had seen as a man, the one I thought to find, to see, perhaps even to talk to. There was Roz's romantic hero.

“I’m going to be sick,” Agatha roared and shot out of the hall like a bullet.

I didn't try to catch up with her. I sat in a stupor, trying to analyze my state. To think of it—I had mocked Roz and Agatha, blaming them for being overly emotional, yet I myself had been led by the charm of Archie, by his knowledge and logic. I had seen a human in him. Oh, this eternal humanization!

Bernard said something about a letter code that the cheerful staff had translated as the name Archie. About how, as a result, the brain perished because of its size—because there cannot be a cockroach the size of a human. He said that, in principle, it didn't matter that it died; the main thing was that the experiment could be considered a success. He kept saying "the brain." But I saw the genderless Archie hiding behind the door, strange and fearful, but alive. One I could not associate with the contents of a vile jar of alcohol.

I waited until the old men left the room and approached Bernard. One question remained—where was Roz? He was busy with some papers, so absorbed that he didn't hear me.

“Do you know Roz Vitan?”

“Eh?”

This “Eh” ruined my entire script. I lost my footing, but repeated the question:

“Do you know Roz Vitan?”

“But of course. A lovely girl.”

What was I expecting, exactly? Fear? Embarrassment? What? Just like that—a lovely girl.

“By the way, how is she?” Bernard asked without interest. “She hasn't shown up in a while. Her salary was transferred. Though, she has nothing more to do here. But she is a good specialist, and I would be happy to recommend her to my colleagues. You must be her husband?”

“Not at all. What makes you think that? I’m her brother.”

“Yes, you look very much alike,” Bernard replied without looking. “So tell her I’m waiting for her call.”

I knew that scientists were strange people. I knew they often failed to understand simple things because they were busy with complex ones. But I already knew the answer—Bernard was not involved in Roz’s disappearance. You might ask how I reached such a conclusion. This man clearly saw nothing, even under his own nose. I even thought he didn't know Roz by sight. She was just an employee, one of the cogs in this research. And there were many such cogs. Perhaps one would have had to kill hundreds of people if anyone had ever needed to. It was just that Roz was the only one who didn't know the truth. Therefore, she replaced it with fantasy. For a person completes any situation they don't understand to the best of their ability.

And I asked one more question that had tormented me since we crossed the threshold of this establishment.

“In that case, tell me, where am I? You have no identifying marks at the entrance.”

Bernard looked at me with surprise.

“What do you mean, none? Is it under renovation again?”

“There’s nothing at all,” I replied, “only a suspicious door.”

Bernard gave me another mysterious look and led me out of the hall through the lobby. And then I saw them—huge glass gates. We stepped outside, and before my eyes, in all its glory, appeared a massive sign announcing what kind of institution was housed in this building. I involuntarily looked at the street name on the wall. Alas—it was not Elzbeth Street.

For several months, Roz had gone to work through the back door, thinking she was going to a psychiatric clinic. And not once did the thought occur to her to walk around the building. Of course, it was entirely in her character. And at that moment, I realized that Roz hadn't fled from a criminal psychiatrist, which was how she saw Bernard, but from her own illusions—illusions she had created without bothering to provide a real foundation for them.

“So, everything is cleared up,” Agatha said with relief when I found her near the entrance. “No one tortured or killed anyone. An ordinary experiment. Roz will turn up. She hid herself somewhere, spun a detective story around it. She’s impatient... What would it have cost to wait a little? Though, of course, those talks of Archie’s would throw even a stone off balance.”

Agatha fell silent. Most likely, she was once again replaying Archie’s maxims in her head, because her gaze became detached. She looked through me. I hate it when people look through me! Redirect your gaze to an inanimate object and look as much as you want. I tried to move out of her field of vision. Agatha suddenly started, as if she had discovered something unexpected before her eyes. It made sense; a frog only sees moving objects. Finally noticing me, her eyes suddenly went wide, and let me be cursed if I’m wrong, but it seemed she was seeing me for the first time. Because she suddenly tensed up and reached out to me with her bird-like claw. She violated my space, and I instinctively stepped back. Agatha immediately twitched, narrowed her eyes, and uttered the following in a sepulchral voice:

“Of course, how could we ever compare to the magnificent Roz?”

This threw me off a bit. What did Roz have to do with it? I wasn't even thinking about Roz at that moment. A multitude of thoughts crowded my weak head—about the vanity and futility of good intentions, for instance. But Roz wasn't among them.

“Of course, everything is for her,” Agatha continued. “Even the man of my life—is for her, too.”

“And who is the man of your life?” I asked cautiously. “The X-file?”

A dragon would have given me a softer look. Agatha bared her fangs and growled:

“You. You are the man of my life. I made a vow: if everything clears up, then it’s true.”

This entire performance turned out to be nothing more than a passionate declaration of love. But of course—a romantic investigation was bound to take its toll on the mental faculties of the participants. It was just that while Archie was pulling the blanket over himself, I was out of danger. And now Archie is dead; we had just seen his corpse, if one could call it that. So, Agatha decided to unleash the tenderness accumulated in the process upon me. And on whom else, if not me? Not Bernard? But to link me with Roz in the process? Very funny...

I went to the parking lot. Agatha trailed behind, boring holes in the back of my head. Well, never mind, she’ll get over it. The main thing is for everything to fade out quietly. Stranger things have happened. It's time to return home, to my sweet solitude. Roz, of course, will return or write. Curiosity won't let her stay in the dark for long. She’ll gather her groups... She and Agatha will sit down, grieving, and begin to sift through memories. And I will flicker there, like a ghost...

But as it turns out, such stories leave no one untouched. I analyzed the situation for a long time. And I understood something for myself. I understood that the strangeness of Archie's influence lay precisely in the one-sidedness of the communication. Receiving programmed answers, often chosen by just one word in the question, Roz was nevertheless convinced that she had received an extensive answer to her specific question. Perhaps because Archie dumped all the information associated with the word. Or perhaps the mind of a person in love has a tendency to extract exactly what it wants to hear. Does this not suggest that the creation of illusions is a product of unconscious desire and physiological needs? And if such a passionate love could arise from nothing, without the presence of the object itself—or rather, without its presence in the flesh, but merely on abstract maxims spoken by an indeterminate voice—then what is passion? I speak of a real passion that received not a drop of nourishment from the outside, yet managed to bloom luxuriantly on a void. We can allow for such fantasies in a prisoner sitting in solitary confinement, or in a person restricted in movement and communication. But Roz was always a person surrounded by friends and admirers, by men in love, to whom she herself often did not refuse reciprocity.

And I drove home. Carrying with me the agonizing feeling of an unsaid word and an unfinished action. It irritated me. It irritated me all the more because there was no way to go back and resolve a situation already resolved in a different way. It seemed to me an injustice and a deception. And so I felt like merely a passing link in this story, and not its main hero. And although there turned out to be no main hero, I was still humiliated. Thus, in a state of light depression, I hurried to return to solitude, where, hunched over the computer or pacing the room with a cigarette in my teeth, I could surrender to the flow of thoughts, which most often resembled the circling of fallen leaves on the surface of a slow river. My solitude was not the perverted solitude of Roz, in a crowd, in the noise of conversations filling the vacuum. My vacuum could only be filled by myself.

And at first, everything was like that. Every day was like the previous one, and I was happy that the next would be exactly the same. But one evening, when exhaustion was insistently driving me to bed, a certain realization, like lightning, flashed before my eyes. Without yet understanding its essence, I already felt that this was the last, unsaid word. And it was not said by me because it had already been said for me. And I repeated it aloud. A small scrap, a fragment of a phrase from the deceased Archie:

“What do I have besides my mind? The moment I feel it dying, I will no longer live. Not because I cannot exist in another form—I can... But I do not want such an existence...”

2003