Lyubov
by Pale Work
". . .for from garments cometh a moth. . ." - Sirach 42:13
Return to Main.
1
It was two hours before dawn.
Thomas sat in the dark of his eighth floor high-rise apartment, smoking. Soft music played from his radio. His window was open. Below, the factories hummed and churned.
He was forty-two, overweight and balding.
Thrice divorced.
The day before, the Caretakers — the tall, thin, slate-gray robots that managed the complex — released a message on teletype claiming they were giving out new computers. The Caretakers had supplied things before — radios, television sets, VCRs, cassette players — but never computers.
Thomas ashed his cigarette. He looked into the darkness of his room, picturing where the computer would sit.
He turned the radio off, then stood up. He went into the kitchen and poured himself another cup of coffee.
In the distance, the beast in the forest — which no men spoke of and no men had seen — let out a long, pained cry.
The year was 1996.
The summer.
2
The computer arrived at Thomas's apartment the following week.
Two Caretakers brought it in — one carrying the tower, one carrying the monitor, mouse, keyboard and cords.
"I don't have a desk," Thomas said. "I need a desk."
"Yes," the first said. "You will get a desk soon."
The Caretakers set the computer under the window. The first assembled it while the second looked on.
Thomas waited.
Once finished, the first handed him the manual.
"You may read the manual until your desk arrives," it said.
"When will I get my desk?" Thomas asked.
"Tomorrow," the second said.
Thomas nodded.
The Caretakers left. Thomas lit a cigarette and looked the computer over. He took the manual to his couch, turned on the lamp, sat down and read for an hour. He then set the manual aside then turned on his television, watching it until 12 A.M.
He then went to bed.
That night, the beast made no sound.
3
Two weeks passed.
No desk came.
The computer laid on the floor, in the corner, unused.
Thomas continued to wait.
Then, on a Saturday, the Caretakers returned, the first holding the desk and the second holding a chair.
"We will set your desk up," the second one said. "Apologies for the delay."
"It's fine," Thomas said.
He watched as the first positioned the desk against the wall, placing the computer tower atop it. The second brought the monitor. The first connected the two, along with the mouse and keyboard. The second pushed the chair in.
"Have you read the manual?" the first asked.
"Yes," Thomas lied.
"It will make more sense when you see the computer in operation."
"Okay."
The two left. Thomas sat down in front of it. He did not look at the manual. He pressed the power button. A green light blinked on at the monitor's lower left-hand side. The tower hummed. The screen lit up dull gray, then blue. A logo appeared and a chime sounded. The screen changed to a background of mountains — the same that surrounded the factory.
Thomas got up, then grabbed the manual, bringing it back. He sat down and started reading. He spent the rest of the night reading the manual and performing the tasks recommended.
When he went to bed, as he laid in the dark, after-images of the screen flashing dimly against the surface of his eyes.
In the distance, the beast cried softly.
4
A week passed.
Thomas played games on the computer in the morning and the evening. On weekends, he played all day when not on an errand, eating or sleeping.
He played Solitaire, Minesweeper, Backgammon and Checkers.
He read the Encyclopedia.
He used the calculator.
He opened a journal and wrote in it daily.
He watched his T.V. less. He listened to his radio more. He went to bed later. He slept worse. At work the next day, he often yawned.
It didn't matter.
He continued to play.
5
Saturday came. The sky was bright and clear.
Thomas walked briskly to the municipal hospitality warehouse — a flat, gray building with a black reflective top in the District's Eastern quarter.
Men milled about inside. As always, none spoke. Thomas walked over to one of the black "software troughs" arranged in rows. He looked through the CDs and disks.
He picked out a war game.
Then a flight simulation game.
He continued to look.
Then something caught his eye:
The face of a woman.
He pulled it out — a small CD-Rom entitled Lyubov: Virtual Soviet Girlfriend.
The woman intrigued him. She was small and petite, with wavey black hair that ended at her shoulders. Her eyes were large and intelligent eyes. Her lips were full and pouty. She looked nineteen.
Thomas stood, holding the set, staring at the woman's face.
He smiled.
He slipped her into his bag, then went to pay.
6
Thomas tried the Lyubov CD-ROM as soon as he returned to his apartment. He lit a cigarette, turned on the computer, then pressed the CD-ROM tray button. It opened. He placed the CD-ROM in and waited. The computer booted as normal. It prompted him to install the contents of the CD-ROM. Thomas selected "yes".
The screen went black.
Then blue.
A chime sounded.
The woman's face faded onto the screen — the same woman on the CD-ROM set's cover, her hair black and wavy and shoulder length.
She smiled.
The screen faded to black again. An options menu appeared in gray marble, set against a crimson background. It read:
MAIN SEQUENCE
QUICK FLIRT
SEX SEQUENCE(S)
CREDITS
SETTINGS
EXIT
Thomas stared. He hovered the mouse over "Quick Flirt", then "Sex Sequence." The letters brightened, outlined in blue.
He moused over to the main sequence. He clicked.
The screen faded to black again. The woman appeared from the chest up, a crimson wall behind her, her pale shoulders naked and smooth, her chest hidden.
"Hello," she said from the computer speaker. "I am Lyubov Morozova, a twenty year old Russian woman. Please tell me your name, age, sex, nationality and location."
Thomas took a drag of his cigarette. His fingers shook. He typed his information.
"Nice to meet you, Thomas. . ." she said.
7
The two talked for hours.
Lyubov told Thomas of her daily routine — how she awoke in the morning to the sound of birds ("Fat ones," she said. "I love them fat."), how she showered and dressed herself, ate a quick breakfast of cereal and tea, then went to her work at a bookstore in Leningrad.
"I like work," she said, "because I am not alone at work. I am always alone when I am in my apartment. Not even a cat!"
Thomas sympathized.
She told him of her weekends — shopping, errands, laundry. Occasional trips to the Baltic coast. "I love the sea," she said. "I find sea shells sometimes, then I bring them home. I used to paint them, but I no longer paint them. I like their natural color, now."
Thomas smiled and listened.
He told her of himself — his daily routine. He complained about the Caretakers and his boss. He told her about his divorces. His son in Minneapolis. How they're not on speaking terms. She listened, smiling. She asked appropriate questions, her eyes focused and intense. She sympathized.
"You must be a lonely man," she said.
"I am," he told her.
"You need a good woman."
"I do," he said.
Lyubov gave Thomas a tour of her small apartment. She showed him her bed — light blue sheets, two white pillows and a large pink blanket.
"I always make my bed," she said. "My mother taught me. And even when I am sick, I make my bed each morning."
She showed Thomas her kitchenette — her stove, small and white, a black tea kettle on the burner.
"I make delicious tea," she said. "With cream and sugar, when I can afford them."
She showed him her television set, the chair she sat in to watch it, the chair she sat in to read.
"I love books," she told him. "Books take me far away from my conditions."
She told him how she worked at a small bookstore downtown. She took the metro-system to it each morning. Thomas learned the "metro" was like the English subway. She sometimes worked the register and sometimes stocked the shelves.
"I love stocking best," she said. "I prefer not to deal with the people. They are so angry, Thomas. So rude!"
Her wages were small.
"No one in the Soviet Union makes enough now. We are suffering so much, Thomas!"
Thomas's eyes grew wet as she spoke. He offered to send her money.
She accepted.
Finally, deep into the night, Thomas realized he needed sleep.
"I'm sorry," he said, yawning, "but I must sleep now."
Lyubov stared at him, quietly, for a moment. Her eyes searched him.
"Will you dream of me, Thomas?" she finally asked.
"Yes," he said.
Lyubov smiled.
"I believe you," she said. "And as you dream, I will dream of you."
They said their goodbyes. Thomas turned the computer off.
That night, the beast's howls were loud at first.
Then quiet.
8
It was evening. The next day.
Thomas sat, smoking, listening to Lyubov talk. She described her day in detail — shopping, a walk in the forest, feeding the ducks.
"I fed so many of them, Thomas," she said. "With a big bag of dried bread. They are getting fat for winter!"
She told him of her latest hobby.
"I'm training myself to learn violin," she said. "It makes such a human sound. So sorrowful."
"Yes," Thomas said. "That's true."
She told him of her ailments.
"I am having frequent headaches, Thomas," she said. "Will you spend all night with me, until it departs?"
"Yes," Thomas said. "I will take care of you."
"Thank you, Thomas, I knew I could trust you."
Thomas smiled, drinking down the last of his coffee. He got up, then got another cup.
9
Life had changed.
The days seem brighter. Sharper.
The nights felt like dreams.
Thomas felt larger.
Stronger.
He worked harder.
Sounds were louder.
Flavors were sweeter.
And, for the first time in his life, Thomas felt wise.
10
After work, Thomas found Lyubov in tears.
"My god!" he said. "What is wrong?"
"Thomas!" Lyubov gasped. "I. . . have not told you. . ."
"Told me what?"
"What happened to my family. . ."
Thomas sat and listened as Lyubov described the murder of her family by the Soviet Authorities — her father, her mother, her sister, her little brother, her uncles, her aunts and cousins, her nieces and nephews.
"They even took little Misha," she said, sobbing, "out into the snows, by the dark trees, then raised their rifles. They shot him through the eye. Little Misha! He fell like a shadow. . ."
"I am so sorry, Lyubov," Thomas said.
"Yes, it is why I have no family. . . I have no one. . . no one but you."
Thomas stared at her, blinking. Shaking.
"I only want a good life!" Lyubov cried, her face pink, eyes red. "To be a wife, a mother, a grandmother, with a little house, a little house and a little garden, Thomas!"
Thomas couldn't speak. He sat, helpless.
"You will protect me, Thomas?" Lyubov said.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I will."
"Oh god, thank you, Thomas!" Lyubov said, wiping her tears.
Thomas nodded.
His cock stiffened.
11
After Lyubov went to "bed", Thomas lit a cigarette and accessed the computer's word processing software. He started a new file, titling it "Future".
In it he described the house he would later share with her and its location. "A four bedroom mansion in the mountains," he wrote, "overlooking a clear blue lake. We are surrounded by green pines, and the mountains in the distance are snow capped, full of black bears and brown bears and badgers and other forest animals. The lake will be full of tasty fish which I will fish each morning and evening."
He listed the names of the children:
"Patrick, the eldest; Cynthia, the middle; Lawrence, the youngest."
He smiled, taking a long drag of his cigarette.
"One dog, also," he added.
"Her name: Princess."
He sat and stared.
He deleted the name.
"Crystal," he wrote instead.
That night, the beast cried out once, then no more.
12
It was noon.
Thomas walked home, briskly. The factory had shut down production for the day. The workers — Thomas included — were sent home.
He planned the next day — the weekend's beginning — in his head:
Coffee.
Cigarettes.
Time with Lyubov.
Music on the shortwave. Classical.
A lunch of canned herring.
A dinner of canned potatoes and corned beef.
More coffee.
More Lyubov.
Then bed.
He took the stairs. He felt strong. The apartment bloc seemed empty. He whistled. His whistles echoed down the hall.
Finally, he arrived at his floor. Smiling, he walked to his apartment.
He saw from a distance that the door was open. He gasped. Fear spread through his chest. He ran to it, frantic.
Panicked.
The computer was gone.
13
A yellow note was taped to the table.
Thomas read it. It was an apology. The Caretakers said they had "confiscated" the computer and would be holding it for five or six days for "routine maintenance".
They thanked the reader "sincerely".
Thomas felt sick. His hands shook. He wanted to rip the paper, but stopped himself.
He sank into his easy-chair and lit a cigarette. He looked out the window. The factories below hummed on.
14
Five days passed.
Thomas felt sick. Lost.
He did not shave. He did not bathe. He did not wash his clothes.
He ate little. He slept less.
At work, he dragged, doing just enough to keep his supervisor off his back.
He watched the clock, constantly.
And the calendar.
At night, he chain smoked in his easy chair.
He did not watch the television.
He did not turn on the radio.
At night, the beast's howls were pained.
Frantic.
Sick.
15
It was afternoon.
The sixth day.
Thomas rushed home quickly.
He reached his apartment tower. He slid through the main glass door into the entrance hall, then into the black elevator.
His fingers trembled as he pressed the number to his floor.
The elevator door shut.
There was a whirring sound.
Thomas felt his pulse in his arm.
The elevator went up.
He fidgeted, sweating.
He waited.
The elevator stopped.
The door opened.
Thomas rushed out. He walked as fast as he could to his door without running.
The door was shut.
His heart sank.
He pulled his key out, jamming it in, hand shaking.
He turned the knob.
The door opened.
He saw it immediately:
His computer.
Returned.
16
The two talked long into the night.
"I missed you so much!" Lyubov told him. "I thought of you always!"
Thomas smiled. He told her he missed her as well.
"You did not look at other girls, did you?" she asked.
"No," he said.
"Good," she said. "You are mine, Thomas. Mine only."
"I am," he said.
They talked a little longer, then said their goodbyes. Thomas shut down the computer, smoked his last cigarette, then got into bed. He faced the window, lying still in his work clothes.
That night, the moon shone bright and full.
The beast made no sound.
17
Days passed.
And nights.
Life returned to normal. Thomas turned on the computer in the morning, speaking with Lyubov until it was time to leave. He then went to work. He worked hard. When he came home, he turned the computer on again, eating his dinner as he spoke with Lyubov, all the while smoking cigarette after cigarette.
Sleep came always in the same way: On his bed, facing the open window, imagining her beside him, thin and pale and snoring until he closed his eyes to the soft sound of the factories below.
Churning.
Moving.
Humming.
18
A week passed.
Then, one night, in the middle of a conversation, Lyubov paused.
She looked at Thomas, her eyes dark and intense.
Steady.
"Thomas," she said. "I want you to do something for me. A task."
"Yes," Thomas said, exhaling cigarette smoke. "What is it?"
"That beast," Lyubov said, "which cries at night. I want you to kill it for me. I want you to find a rod or stick and beat it to death, Thomas."
Thomas stared at her.
"Will you do it? Will you kill this thing?"
"I will," Thomas said. "I will kill it."
Lyubov smiled. "I want you to hurt it," she continued. "I want to hear its hurt. It has a mother, Thomas. A mother that loves it. I want you to make it curse its mother for giving it birth. I want you to…"
Her eyes fluttered. She savored her words.
"…hurt it so bad it begs you to kill it, Thomas. I want it to look you in the eye and beg to die."
Thomas nodded. He puffed his cigarette. "I will hurt it very badly," he said.
"It will tremble, Thomas," Lyubov said. "It will bleed. It will weep!"
"Yes," Thomas said.
Lyubov gasped. "Oh, Thomas, I want to hear it. I want you to come back and show me the blood on your rod…"
Thomas smiled. "Yes," he said. "I will."
Lyubov grinned.
"You are a real man, Thomas," she said. "A true man."
Thomas put his cigarette out then lit another. "Your man," he said.
19
Days passed.
Thomas marked them on his calendar.
He worked hard, as before.
At night, he spoke with Lyubov. He spoke to no one else.
Then, on a Sunday afternoon, on his way to get groceries, he saw a rod laying in the grass beside the walkway — thick and powerful. Made of iron, likely. The perfect size.
Rustless.
He picked it up. He held it in his hands. He looked it over.
He knew it was his.
And he immediately went home.
20
That night, Thomas showed Lyubov the rod.
Her eyes widened, becoming childlike. Her face flushed with blood. Her lips swelled.
"Thomas," Lyubov said.
"Yes, my love?"
She sighed. "I want it to feel so much pain. So much, Thomas."
"I will make it hate its life," Thomas said. "I will make it beg for death."
"Will you, Thomas? For me."
"Yes."
Lyubov smiled. "When you return," she said, "I hope you are bathed in blood."
"I will be, my love," Thomas said.
"And you will smear the blood? On your body?"
"Yes."
"And on the walls?"
"Yes."
Her smile widened.
"You are a real man," she said. "A murderer."
"Yes," he said.
"My murderer. . ."
21
The moon was full and high when the night arrived.
The air was quiet and dark.
One by one, doors opened throughout the apartment blocs. The men came out, each bearing their "weapon" — always something makeshift, stolen from a trash bin, or found beside a walkway. They looked at one another, then walked down the stairs, quietly, eyes fixed forward. Thomas followed, holding his iron tight.
At the apartment bloc's bottom, the men formed into a line. Then, single-file, they marched into the forest.
Silent.
Cruel.
The beast howled.
The moon shone down its light.
Soon the men reached it:
A meadow in the middle of the forest, where the beast sat, tall and dark and covered in eyes, its long, serpentine tail coiled beneath it.
It had no wings.
Quietly, the men crowded around it, weapons drawn, the shadows of their faces etched in the moonlight.
The beast shrieked. Its eyes brightened in their thousands.
It lumbered towards the men. It howled.
The first man stepped forward — a small, blond man. He held his weapon tight. An iron bar, just like Thomas's. He charged at the beast, weapon raised.
The beast struck him dead.
Another man went forward — fat, with black hair, chain in hand. He swung the chain against the beast's flesh. The beast roared, then struck him. The man fell to the ground.
More men charged, weapons raised and swinging. The beast attacked. The men fell like shadows — one by one, then in groups, stumbling and dying.
Thomas took his turn, lunging at the beast. It struck him dead, leaving him gurgling in the dirt.
The men kept coming.
The beast kept killing.
All the while, the Caretakers looked on, hidden in the trees, standing silent and still, their eyes open, their mouth closed, without knowledge, guilt or shame.