Chapter 17
The friends were descending the mountain. Strangely enough, the descent seemed even more difficult to them than the ascent.
"So, are you with me?" Konstantin asked Henry as they made their way down.
"What do you mean?" Henry pretended not to know what he was talking about.
"What do you mean, what do I mean? About founding the society," Konstantin stated the obvious.
"It's not that simple. One needs to study the occult sciences, learn exorcism, mysticism," Henry began listing reasons not to rush.
"What exorcism, what mysticism? This society is, first and foremost, scientific, and I believe I possess quite sufficient knowledge for that at present," Kostya insisted.
"Scientific? Did you not hear what the monk was telling us?" Henry asked with irony. "He was describing nothing less than an actual ritual for summoning a demon, and the demon itself, in case you missed that."
"Henry, you heard the wrong things, you paid attention to the wrong details. Their affairs were prospering, they were helping the state save money. And anyway, I take back my words—he does seem like a madman after all," Kostya concluded.
"So... he just ended up here by chance? A doctor of physics and mathematics simply up and became a monk out of nowhere?" Henry pointed out the inconsistency.
"Henry, I don't believe in demons. I believe in science and in my ability to found this society. There are no miracles in this world, nothing supernatural, but there is much that is wondrous and beautiful," Kostya affirmed his disbelief. "And there is also glory, honor, and money."
"In any case, this is not the same as that amateur writers' club you once started," Henry appealed to reason, recalling how Kostya had once established a circle for lovers of literary craft. It was called the Society of Buried Writers. "Buried"—because unrecognized. They gathered, when possible, once a week. They read their own texts, poems, or borrowed favorite lines from classical writers. They had no particular idea or system. Anything that was pleasing to the ear or bore at least some meaning would do.
"You know what? I don't care whether what that doctor-monk told us is true or not. 'Aut Caesar, aut nihil,'" Kostya quoted the Latin saying, stopped, and translated: "All or nothing."
"You simply cannot come to terms with the fact that you cannot win Elizabeth back. That's why you're inventing all this, when all you really need is to find a new love, and all the meanings of life will return," Henry spoke with the perceptiveness of a psychologist.
"Yes, I cannot come to terms with it, but I don't need a new love. Here is what I'll tell you: physical pain has its limits; spiritual pain is boundless. I suffer boundlessly. As soon as night falls, I am simply turned inside out by heart-rending memories," Konstantin did not deny the obvious. "But it's not only about that. I finally want to give our lives meaning. There are seven billion people on earth. Perhaps only we have been given the chance to find this damned meaning. I took a week's leave, and you cannot imagine how much I do not want to return to that job, to that meaningless routine, performing the same functions day after day like some mindless robot," Konstantin finished his tirade.
"And do you think I want to?" Henry asked rhetorically, lowering his voice.
"Well, that's precisely what I'm talking about. We can do something important. Believe me, I have everything I need—knowledge, strength, and unprecedented determination," Kostya assured his friend with characteristic arrogance.
"All right, I need a week to think about it. Let's go, or we'll miss the train," Henry said, glancing at his watch.
"Well, there you have it. We've missed it," Henry stated, watching the departing train.
"Well then, let's walk," Konstantin planted both feet on the tracks and set off toward the city.
"Walk where? You want to walk thirty-five kilometers?" Henry asked in surprise.
"I'm not going to wait at this station until tomorrow. Come on, I'll tell you how it will all begin," Kostya said with a smile and started on his way at an unhurried pace. He simply could not stand still. It seemed to him that if he delayed, all would be lost. He needed simply to move; the direction was of little consequence. Throughout the long journey, Konstantin shared with Henry his plans for the gradual development of the society, plans he had already been nurturing in his mind. By morning, they had reached their places of dwelling.