17:28. I was peering at the willow tree and the rocks behind the Musical Comedy Theater.
‘Standing there for half an hour would make me look like a simpleton. I'll get anxious and by the time we finally meet, I'll be like a broken watermelon. And let's assume that my mentor is a scam master who knows psychology and reads body language. What if he has already arrived and he is watching me too. Taking note of my hesitation, he will surely think that I'm a complete idiot and will scam me without a doubt.’
That's why I walked to the back of the fountain towards the thorny juniper bushes, crawled into them, and laid down on the ground, waiting for my mentor next to empty Bobrov and Hmelnov beer plastic bottles.
Even though I often felt lost in life, I never got lost in scrutinizing something or someone. In my spare time, nitpicking became a hobby.
As I looked at the fountain I couldn’t help but notice the limitations that kept the creators of Sendai Square from realizing their full potential. The fountain was lined with Soviet granite slabs, which must have appeared here long before the idea of making the square Japanese. There were no government buildings nearby, but I felt as if there were. The granite slabs make it really hard to tune into the Sendai wave. I also noticed decorative masks with water pouring out of their mouths. The sculptor wasn’t told what kind of masks were needed and he made them as if for a patio in Italy.
At the very base of the fountain, there were spruces and junipers that scratched my hands as I was crawling into them. To the right of the fountain, an artificial stream gurgled surrounded by small boulders that sat under a weeping willow and an old dry pear tree; the area near the stream was covered with pebbles. A stone lantern had been placed on the boulders, which was the only thing that indeed looked Japanese. The rest remained a failed imitation. Not even after they made a miserable bamboo bridge. If only there were ferns, pagodas made of concrete, a mini-copy of the Kannon statue... If only these Soviet slabs could be removed... Probably then the place would feel Japanese to me.
At ten to six, a short guy with shoulder-length wheat hair and a bandage on his forehead approached the place. He was wearing a black linen shirt with a round neckline, and I had no doubt that he was my mentor. Or a scammer.
As my grandmother used to say ‘the fastest louse is the first to hit the comb’. I wasn’t going to come out at once, and took my time observing the man who was definitely waiting for me. At one point, I thought he was looking right at me; I held my breath, but convinced myself that his gaze was directed lower, at the fountain mask.
At 6:01 p.m., I crawled backwards into the thicket, through the closely planted fragrant spruces. Shaking off the dirt and grass off my soft-blue tracksuit, I went back to the Musical Comedy Theater with my knees bent, crouching as low as possible. Then I turned around abruptly and strode to the meeting place as if I were never hiding in those bushes.
Oh my God, we are about to start the dialogue.
I have to be very careful to recognize a scammer in this dialogue.
We said hello. I introduced myself. He nodded, and immediately offered to sit down without telling me his name. There was no bench or even a blanket, just the grass. I hasten to remind myself of the cost of this consultation, and he didn’t even bring any cloth to sit on...
He sat in a lotus pose and waited silently. In an attempt to keep my dignity I showed my displeasure with pursed lips and a wry face.
‘Sit where you are, your pants are already tarred anyway.’
I sat down obediently and looked at the face I always wanted to have. Calm, with a slight smile. As befits my volatile nature, I changed instantly from distrust to openness, and, to myself, called him «a handsome guy». Also, I decided that he deserved those 50 rubles, and that he had already influenced me.
‘My name is Reed. And your name will be Smoke.’
I looked at him with surprised eyes and tried to understand why, since I didn’t even smoke. Maybe he also knew about the lighter.
‘You wrote that you were afraid of your consciousness.’
I nodded.
‘You are afraid you will create fears with the power of your mind.’
I stared at the ground unable to move, feeling my miserable, lifelong experience coming up to my throat. Telling a stranger about the things which torture you is somehow easier than telling this to someone you trust. So I told him about the toy with two heads and the pixel pictures in my room. I told him everything that touched me then. He listened to me silently and said:
‘In ten days I will prepare you to fight your consciousness. You will stay at my place.’