The Tool & the Butterflies Read online

  The Tool and the Butterflies

  Dmitry Lipskerov

  Translated from the Russian by

  Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler and Reilly Costigan-Humes

  Deep Vellum Publishing

  Dallas, Texas

  Deep Vellum Publishing

  3000 Commerce St., Dallas,Texas 75226

  deepvellum.org · @deepvellum

  Deep Vellum is a 501c3 nonprofit literary arts organization

  founded in 2013 with the mission to bring

  the world into conversation through literature.

  Copyright © Dmitry Lipskerov, 2016

  English translation © Reilly Costigan-Humes and Isaac Wheeler, 2020

  Originally published as О нем u о бабочках by Elena Shubina Editorial, AST, in Moscow, Russia in 2016

  The publication of the book was negotiated through Banke, Goumen & Smirnova

  Literary Agency (www.bgs-agency.com)

  FIRST EDITION, 2020

  All rights reserved.

  Published with the support of the Institute for Literary Translation, Russia.

  Support for this publication has been provided in part by grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Texas Commission on the Arts, the City of Dallas Office of Arts and Culture’s ArtsActivate program, and the Moody Fund for the Arts:

  ISBNs: 978-1-64605-039-0 (paperback) | 978-1-64605-040-6 (ebook)

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Lipskerov, Dmitriı˘ author. | Costigan-Humes, Reilly, translator. | Wheeler, Isaac Stackhouse, translator.

  Title: The tool and the butterflies / Dmitry Lipskerov ; translated from the Russian by Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler and Reilly Costigan-Humes.

  Other titles: O nem i o babochkakh. English

  Description: Dallas, Texas : Deep Vellum Publishing, 2021. | Novel.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020041307 (print) | LCCN 2020041308 (ebook) | ISBN 9781646050390 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781646050406 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PG3483.I448 O213 2021 (print) | LCC PG3483.I448 (ebook) | DDC 891.73/5—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020041307

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020041308

  Cover Art by Rob Wilson | robwilsonwork.com

  Interior Layout and Typesetting by KGT

  Printed in the United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  THE TOOL AND THE BUTTERFLIES

  1

  Mr. Arseny Iratov was sleeping. He never had any trouble falling asleep at night—not because his fifty-odd years had left his nervous system untouched, but because he’d chosen the right therapy. For twenty-five years now, he’d swallow two little pills three minutes before bed and go right to sleep, preferring to lie on his side with his legs tucked up against his stomach.

  Sometimes he had nice, bright dreams, and sometimes his dreams had mundane plots, but with an atmosphere of anxiety. He often had no dreams at all, though.

  Eventually, Mr. Iratov began to wonder whether taking meds for such a protracted period really was a wise decision, so he went to see a neurologist he knew, who, almost shouting, rebuked him for neglecting to inform his friend of the sorry state he was in—maybe he could have gotten proper professional help, but now he was a full-fledged drug addict …

  “You have no one to blame but yourself for your nightmares and anxiety!” When he was done with his indignant wailing, the neurologist informed Iratov that there were still treatment options available. He canceled the old prescription and replaced it with a trendy—and expensive—antidepressant.

  Mr. Iratov obediently abandoned his “practically narcotic substances” and began taking the costly new pills. After a week, the patient started feeling poorly and said as much to the friend who’d given him the new prescription.

  “That’s a case of withdrawal—and a nasty one,” the neurologist declared. “You’ll just have to deal with it.” What Iratov had to deal with was aching bones, total insomnia, and an unusual urge to consume copious amounts of food, an urge so strong it made his hands tremble with impatience. Black and blue circles appeared under his eyes, making him look almost like an old man, which alarmed his darling Vera, the thirty-year-old with whom he enjoyed unwedded—but very nice—living arrangements. They got along splendidly. He had set her up on the floor above, explaining that he needed to spend most of his time in peace and solitude and that he was completely incapable of falling asleep in the same bed as a lady. The lovely Vera hardly raised any objections to these peculiarities of her gentleman friend’s constitution and contented herself with living in her own apartment in a lovely building in an excellent neighborhood. The couple would lunch in boutique restaurants, visit theaters and museums, and enjoy infrequent but passionate intimacy; ten years into their relationship, they still kissed voraciously, on the lips.

  Vera loved Iratov deeply and intensely, like a true Russian woman who was raised properly, with fine sensibilities, prepared to give of herself unconditionally. Mr. Iratov reciprocated his lady friend’s strong feelings, worshipping her as an example of the sublime, and he was anything but selfish with her. Quite the contrary, he was never tightfisted where the woman he loved was concerned. The deeds to both apartments were in her name, as was the title to the luxury car, and she had a whole suitcase of treasures and a significant monthly allowance. Most importantly, though, Iratov’s bequest to her in his will was as wide as the Volga, even though he had plenty of people among whom he could divide his sizeable fortune.

  His withdrawal from the old meds just wouldn’t end, though; it had already been dragging on for three months. His once steady blood pressure was hopping up and down like a kangaroo in the bush, and his stool left much to be desired. But worst of all were the episodes of déjà vu—not rare moments of delightful surprise, like normal people have, but torturous hours of hyperrealism that carried Iratov’s consciousness away into the past, forcing him to relive times long since gone until he felt as if he were being ripped asunder. His life could hardly be compared with those of the Biblical martyrs, though—it was just a regular life, with the usual ups and downs. Iratov knew very well that hell is shame, not some frying pan full of sizzling oil. Shame elevated to an absolute. Burning in hell is burning with shame. Before you pass the hundreds of people you have wronged in your life—perhaps without even realizing you were doing it—and the shame, multiplied a thousandfold, becomes almost eternal. When Iratov had his episodes of déjà vu, he was burning in shame. Maybe there was someone who wanted it that way …

  Strong-willed as he was, Mr. Iratov forced himself to resume his daily walks. He typically strolled down the lanes of Moscow’s fashionable Arbat district, and, before the onset of his illness, he would derive endless pleasure from the city’s architecture. He was a connoisseur, an aesthete, and things of beauty never failed to resonate with him … But now he hobbled along, leaning on an elegant ebonite-handled cane, oblivious to the intricate ruffles of the hand-sculpted palaces and all the masterpieces of nineteenth-century classicism. Like some uncouth peasant standing on a silk Persian rug in his muddy bast shoes, not even realizing just how uncouth he was—th
at’s the state Iratov was in.

  He suffered panic attacks, dragging himself along and recoiling from everyone he encountered—each passerby appeared as some protrusion from the regular surface of the world, flashing with excessive, celluloid brightness that made them dangerous. Iratov’s brain told him that these baleful pictures of ordinary streets with demon cars and pedestrians straight out of a science-fiction movie were just a trick his mind was playing on him, monsters birthed by the sleep of his exhausted reason … He managed to complete his usual route, but by the end he was drenched, nearly swimming in sweat, even though it was the dead of winter.

  Things were easier at home. He wasn’t afraid there; he could even talk on the phone in his usual confident way, but he had the eyes of a sickly dog, and Vera couldn’t stand to see him like that. She hardly left his side in those difficult times, of course. She did all the cooking herself—and there was a lot to do. Iratov requested pilaf with big chunks of meat, pot after pot of pasta, and desserts that Vera would order from Café Pushkin.

  All through that wretched time of human suffering, the little pills that Iratov had taken for twenty-five years lay unused in his desk drawer. His subconscious constantly reminded him that all he had to do was take a couple and he would be back to normal within an hour. But his will—the highest value, the greatest distinction for any man—was so firm, so strong that it never wavered for an instant. This is how it has to be, Mr. Iratov told himself. Serenity comes at a price, and I have the will to pay that price!

  His will was too strict, though. On long, sleepless nights, his brain searched for justifications for this brutal revenge—and, alas, there was a great deal to find.

  The moment came when Iratov realized that he might die very soon. That didn’t frighten him; he was just upset at the thought of losing Vera. He wasn’t done enjoying her, wasn’t done loving her. He’d only drunk a quarter glass of this rare wine, and the chance to savor it, one drop at a time, like the most precious elixir to balance body and soul, would be lost. It didn’t bother Iratov that he hadn’t fully gorged himself on his material wealth. He understood that human existence is just a brief transition between one state and another, but unselfish love elevates a man in the eyes of God. In the place where he was fashioned, castles had already been built for his immortal soul, standing on an eternal foundation, sublime and indestructible … Or perhaps shame would come first. But the shame would end, even if it took millennia.

  “I love you!” Vera said, stroking Iratov’s shoulder-length hair, black as a crow’s wing, with one gray streak that looked like winter. “I love you …” And she kissed his handsome face with its demonic features, unhurriedly, at nearly regular intervals. Temple, jaw, cheek—and then her responsive lips slid down to his neck.

  In those brief moments, Mr. Iratov thought that he was almost well again; he even started to enjoy himself for a moment—until he realized that he had tears in his eyes. It was just gross—gross!—it was unworthy of his stony structure, the granite that constituted him. There are no tears in stone … He gently rebuffed Vera and bade her withdraw.

  Iratov tried to make sense of what was happening to him on his own, spending hours poring over every internet source he could find. Thanks to his perfect English, that included professional European medical sites, where he studied G-proteins, beta-blockers, all the chemistry behind his condition, but the deeper he plunged into all that medical terminology, the more he realized that there simply wasn’t one single way to treat a disorder like his. He discovered that many truly great people hardly left their homes, tormented by panic attacks for decades until they died alone, and that he, a man crushed under the weight of his own fear, was likely also fated to die like that, cooped up in here, deprived of a normal life.

  He spoke to Vera.

  “I don’t want you to waste your life on my madness!”

  “You’re not mad!”

  “But I’m still an invalid.”

  “I’m your wife …”

  “No, you’re not. There are no vows binding you to me.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a jerk!”

  “You still have your own destiny!” He extended his beautiful hands and stroked Vera’s cheeks with his long fingers. “You’ll have everything, believe me!”

  She wouldn’t argue with him, and, whenever he tried to have the big conversation again, she would go to her upstairs apartment, weeping and wondering how she could help the man she loved. She kept on making pilaf …

  Iratov, who had so recently been a strong, handsome, and statuesque society gentleman, would probably have withered away like a proud flower, and inadvertently dried his darling Vera out, too, but, on one of those melancholy days, he got a call from Israel. It was Iratov’s partner from an old, near-dead sapphire resale business. When he heard the brief and tragic story of Iratov’s ailment, he answered concisely.

  “You do know I trained as a doctor, right?”

  “Rheumatology, as I recall,” Mr. Iratov answered.

  “My specialty has nothing to do with this. Let me tell you something, my dear fellow—when a man finds his pill, that’s a miracle, do you hear me? A miracle! Most people never find their pills, never! But the Lord has unveiled yours to you! Hallelujah!”

  “But the neurologist said—”

  “The world is full of quacks and idiots! Steer clear of those con men and don’t confuse willpower with the kind of stupidity that can get you killed! We’ll talk business when you’re back on your feet. I have this sapphire …”

  Iratov stopped listening to his Israeli partner. Mighty thunderbolts were suddenly crackling in his head, followed by torrents of rain that drowned his brain like the Great Flood, cleansing his right mind of its husk of hopeless wandering and fruitless searching. Mr. Iratov lunged toward his desk, tugged at the handle of the drawer, eventually got it open, dug out his old pills, squeezed two of them out of the package, and tossed them in his mouth …

  For the first time in three months, he enjoyed a night of deep, undisturbed sleep and woke in the morning feeling completely refreshed, his head finally clear, his body full of its former strength. Some unbelievable joy had overcome his entire being. He was like a man with some terrible ailment, on the very threshold of death, suddenly recovering and receiving decades of his life back, instead of the mere weeks promised to him. His senses were as they had been in childhood; whatever he looked at, be it a leaf on a tree, a cloud, or an ordinary sunbeam—the most trivial, everyday things—it was a discovery of global significance, except that this man was not obliged to share this happiness with mankind. It’s just for you; it’s all yours!

  Iratov smiled at the sky, whispering words of gratitude, then shouted at the top of his lungs, trumpeting like a whale, announcing to the world that he was the biggest man on earth, the strongest, and now he was bubbling over with fountains of love for mankind and the generous desire to share this new, mighty energy!

  “I’m going to live! Live!”

  Then he shaved, taking his time, enjoying the smell of the cream and the way the aftershave made his skin prickle. He washed his hair and carefully combed his shining locks, as black as Hammerite paint. He looked in the mirror and was a little troubled by the extra weight he’d put on while he was ill. But he knew that two weeks of tennis and swimming would be enough to rid him of his excess flesh.

  He grew hungry, but, for the first time in a long while, his body wasn’t trembling in expectation of abundant food. Iratov pulled on a pair of jeans with holes—the ones all the kids were wearing—and a T-shirt with the bold slogan “I love KGB,” slipped his bare feet into sneakers, and charged up to Vera’s apartment, taking the stairs two at a time …

  After his usual fried eggs with toast and coffee, he made tender, lasting love to his darling Vera.

  “My demon … you’re back,” she whispered delightedly in his ear.

  They became one, and it was noon by the time they became two again. Then, happy and pleasantly tired, they started mak
ing plans. Theaters, museums, trips to faraway lands, working out together … They made enough plans for two lifetimes, but first they agreed to have dinner at a little Georgian restaurant near the Old Arbat.

  He went back to his study, feeling like a David who had conquered the Goliath within himself. His imperious thoughts turned toward creating value, and he dialed the number of his brokerage firm in Switzerland. Once he’d heard the indices that had changed in his absence, he issued some instructions to sell energy sector stocks and acquire European bonds. He also exercised some options on currency pairs in the developing world.

  Vera appeared between calls.

  “What should I do with all that pilaf? There’s a whole pot …”

  “Give it to the doorman! It’s healthy food for me from here on out!”

  He called his Israeli partner via Skype and inquired about the sapphire.

  “Back to your old self?” his partner asked with a chuckle.

  “Thank you, Robert!”

  “Don’t thank me! I need you more than you need me.”

  “Okay, I owe you one.”

  “Well, I’ve got this sapphire that’s excellent across the board. If you could only see the color, whoa mama! I know that you’ve moved away from dealing with stones …”

  “What kind of weight are we talking?”

  “Twenty-eight carats.”

  “Wow …”

  Iratov had not been interested in buying and selling precious stones for some time. The fierce competition and serious risks had driven him away from the tears of the earth many years ago. That was what he called diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds: the tears of the earth. Still, he asked Robert about the price of the sapphire—and then asked him for a discount. His partner’s offer of 15 percent satisfied Iratov, on the condition that the stone and all the accompanying paperwork would be in Moscow by the following day.

  “I will wire you the money posthaste.”

  “So you’ll take it?” asked his amazed partner.