Герман Садулаев - The Maya Pill

Saat nodded. To take on suffering, was this anything new for him? And to know that it is for the sake of his native land!

Then Great Bek asked: “Tell me, Saat—only be honest—what did you think of during those dark nights, as you tossed and turned on the cold steppe, with your empty belly grumbling and your exhausted muscles aching from the day’s unbearable labor?”

Saat went numb and replied truthfully: “I pondered, Great Bek, the fate of Khazaria. How to ensure that the simple people would labor without thieving, that the doctors would heal without quackery, that teachers would teach with wise words and not with damp birch rods, that those in high positions would not forget their duties and obligations before society, that our warriors would be so strong that the very sight of them and their valor would keep foes far from the borders of Khazaria, that wealth would grow within from our industries and trade relations, doubling every year, that we should have peace and prosperity among ourselves, and should live in loving respect with our neighbors… This I pondered day and night, miserable, foolish herdsman that I am!”

The Great Bek did not laugh at Saat’s thoughts, but folded his hands piously and expressed his approval: “Spoken like the true Khagan! Proof indeed that you are seed of Ashin, blood of the Khagans! Even as you starve, to be thinking of the economy of the land, of doubling the country’s wealth!

“O, Saat, son of Nattukh! Only the Khagan, the Khagan, blood, mind, and spirit, is concerned with this! Know now that the Murzlas, whose task it is to gather wealth for the realm, care only for their own bins of grain! The warlords share the spoils. Even I myself, the Great Bek, concern myself with intrigues, with maintaining my own power and position. This is what power means to us. And the simple people are no saints either: One poor man dreams of swindling another for a kopeck, the farmer cares only for his field; his neighbor’s melons can wither on the vine as far as he is concerned! Each is concerned only with his own personal well-being and pleasure! Only the Khagan can, forgetting about himself, give thought to the country and the people as a whole! By this is the true Khagan to be recognized!”

“I hate my life.”

Maximus heard the words and awoke. Awoke and realized that it was he who had spoken. Not that he’d awakened with the thought; rather, the thought awoke first and woke Semipyatnitsky in turn.

“I hate my life. I hate my job.”

The words whirled in his head like a mantra. And occasionally they spoke themselves aloud, without Maximus’s help. But that didn’t make any of it any easier.

The night before, after he came down from his flashback on the hill, Maximus had set back for home. He drove for a long time along the dark night road, drove slowly, peering out into the darkness ahead, verifying the route by lights near and far, proceeding hesitantly like a blind man tapping the untrustworthy sidewalk before him with his white cane; the path ahead hides so many unwelcome surprises, so many steep curbs and open manholes. Maximus arrived at his apartment just before dawn. And only got up again with the greatest reluctance, a half-hour later than usual.

It takes a long time to get to work by car during rush hour. And Semipyatnitsky had had enough driving yesterday. So he set off on foot and took public transit.

When he descended into the metro, Semipyatnitsky noticed that there were a lot fewer people around than there used to be before he’d gotten a car and stopped using the train. Even in the morning rush hour the crowd was sparse, like hairs in a Khazar’s beard.

The crowds had migrated onto the surface, where they now idled in tin boxes clogging up the streets leading from St. Petersburg’s residential suburbs to the commercial center. Within just a couple of years, all the luckless commuters had moved from trams and metro cars into automobiles, used and new, bought on credit. Every eighteen-year-old chick has her own car nowadays: If she’s poor, her car is a Daewoo Matiz; if the girl has a rich Dad—or Daddy, which is not at all the same thing—she can aspire to a huge SUV, a monster that takes up half the road. And only after she’s had enough of playing tank driver, and has overcome her childish fears, does she acquire a tiny, predatory little convertible—thereby holding traffic up more than ever, as it turns out.

And if the girl is still carless, well, that only means that she’s still taking driving lessons and working to get her license, without the least doubt that she is on the verge of becoming a full-fledged driver.

The workplace is overflowing with young women from universities out in Barnaul who have come to the big city with the conscious goal of career advancement, and the subconscious goal of finding a good husband (and isn’t that the best way to advance your career anyhow?). Subconscious because, ultimately, what else do you need a diploma and work experience for, really, if not to burst into tears and throw it back in your husband’s face in response to some incautious statement on his part about the grocery bill: “I’m not just some run-of-the-mill trade-school girl! I have a higher education! And if I hadn’t devoted my whole life to you, I would have become the CFO of some big corporation long ago, and would now be earning more than you do! I had real potential! How dare you get on my case about these petty expenses, you ingrate!” (Of course, some girls get the short end of the stick: They actually do have to become executives and make more money than men, which puts a damper on this particular attack. But their time, too, will come…) And so now here they are in the northern capital, where they spend half the workday scrolling through car ads on the Internet and discussing the pros and cons of all the different models with their friends.

At one point Maximus had tried to cool the acquisitional zeal of his young female colleagues, asking them where they thought they were going to get enough money to buy and maintain an automobile. Blondes and brunettes alike performed the same arithmetical operation, which was shockingly simple: Loan payments are 12,000 rubles a month, right? And I earn 16,000, right? That’ll cover it. And there will even be some left over. Hm… maybe I should look into a more expensive model?

In vain did Semipyatnitsky remind them that there is more to owning a car than just the loan payments; what were they going to put in their refrigerators, for one? And a car wouldn’t relieve them of the desire to dress in the latest fashions each season. Or did they think they would drive naked? Though that of course would be interesting…

An automobile, over and above its purchase price, necessitates endless expenditures for fuel, insurance, parking, and repair. Maximus came up with an apt metaphor, one that every woman was bound to understand. It was like adding another person to your life. Like having a baby. So now everything—food, drink, shoes, medical care, housing—had to cover two. Not to mention all the time and worry. Maximus watched the girls’ eyes go all moist, and realized that his example had hit a little too close to home, and that now they would be all the more eager to become car owners.

The real reason a girl suddenly wants a car the moment she hits puberty is that she can’t have a baby yet. That’s what she really wants, but she has to suppress that desire. She has to work on an equal basis with men. In exchange for her sacrifice, the modern economy offers her the option of buying a car—a cute little Tamagotchi on wheels that she can love like her firstborn.

Thus is the maternal instinct exploited for the expansion of the automobile industry.

Maximus thought that the underpopulation crisis could be solved by banning auto purchases by women and denying them drivers’ licenses. There would be nothing left for them to do but have babies.