The Tool & the Butterflies Read online

  “Huh?”

  “But why do it as two separate procedures?” asked Iratov’s old friend, thinking out loud. “Did they prescribe hormone replacement therapy? Why haven’t they performed the vaginoplasty yet?”

  “No, no way, no!” Mr. Iratov shouted, putting an end to the doctor’s wild speculation. “Gah! What surgery?! What vaginoplasty?! What’s wrong with you? Are you nuts?”

  “Well, what is going on, then?”

  Then Iratov had to recount the unbelievable story of his disappearing sex organs. His speech was halting, wandering, a far cry from his usual manner of expression, and he broke off after every other word, fully aware of how surreal his story and his appearance were.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t an assault?”

  “It happened last night! I would have bled out a long time ago!”

  “That’s true … You’ve got blood vessels down there, vein clusters, arteries … You would have been gone in an hour … Well, what’s going on?”

  “You’re the doctor,” Iratov said with a shrug. “What’s your hypothesis?” Now wielding a magnifying glass, the urologist knelt and examined the problem area for some time, probing with his fingers. “Does it hurt here? No? How about here?” After about twenty minutes of medical investigation, Sytin was only certain of one thing.

  “If I didn’t know you, I would say that this is a classic female pubic mound with an undeveloped vagina and sexual organs. That can happen when the endocrine profile—”

  “It’s not a pubic mound!” said Iratov, beginning to hiss with fury. “Sytin, please, can the theory, what I need is practice!”

  “Yes, yes,” said the doctor, clearly baffled by his own theorizing about the origins of this saucy situation, contemplating how interesting it was—scientifically speaking, that is. “A medical marvel,” he thought. “There is no rational explanation for what happened … assuming Yakut isn’t lying, of course.”

  “How about your libido, your sex drive?” he asked aloud.

  “I satisfied my wife a few times yesterday morning.”

  “Ah, I see there’s a reason for all those rumors about you! They said you were a real sexathon man—the whole gang was jealous!”

  “Why are you bringing that up now?” asked Iratov, irritated. “I’ve been left with no dick!”

  “Indeed.” Sytin agreed. “And no balls either,” he added, then instantly caught himself. “I’m not mocking you, simply stating a medical fact! Scoot on over to the cot! No need to put your pants back on yet. Face me, tuck your knees up by your chin. Anything getting in the way?”

  “Not anymore,” Iratov responded, and all through the prostatic secretions test, with all the revolting sensations that accompanied it, he remained firm in his conviction that what he had lost was not of primary importance, or even secondary, for that matter.

  When Sytin had finally obtained the juice he sought, he called in his assistant Marina, and gave her a vial for the lab.

  “Strictly anonymous,” he said in a near-whisper.

  Mr. Iratov finally returned his garments to their proper places and sat in the chair.

  “What do you want?” Sytin asked directly.

  “What do I want? Ideally, for everything to go back to normal.”

  “I must admit, this is a unique situation for me … no, I must say, for all of medical science! There is no sign of surgical intervention whatsoever. Everything looks as if this was the way nature had intended. Maybe you never had anything there in the first place?” the doctor asked with a sly squint. “Maybe your prolific sexual conquests were all an elaborate tale you spun for our benefit? Were you just born a little different?”

  “I have children, Sytin,” Iratov sighed wearily. “I don’t even know how many. One of them only turned up recently—paternity test in hand. He’s grown up, probably wants money, but he says he just never knew who his father was, so he was hungry for answers. I have a gorgeous young wife. Why would she want a guy with no … Well, you know.”

  “Where did that son of yours get the genetic material? Maybe he’s trying to take you for a ride …”

  “We leave our genetic material everywhere! We lose hair at the barbershop and teeth at the dentist, we spit out our gum—”

  “Then you’re a medical marvel!” Sytin concluded. “A phenomenon that has never been documented anywhere! I have never even heard of such a thing in old wives’ tales!”

  “Way to make me feel better …”

  Marina brought back the results of an expedited test. Sytin dropped his eyes to the paper and quickly familiarized himself with them.

  “Everything looks normal! No white blood cells, very few epithelial cells, no sign of serious infection detected. The prostate itself is in perfect condition.”

  “Good to hear.”

  “Let’s see what I can do for you …”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you know how far medicine has come? Or what kind of technology I have at my disposal? Looks like you don’t! Well, it’s expensive—”

  “What is expensive?” Iratov interrupted, frustrated again. “Talk sense!”

  “Penile prosthetics—a panacea for all men who have suffered traumatic injuries, whether at war or in everyday life! We take skin grafts from the back of the thigh and grow additional layers in a special container, then when it’s time for the surgery, we combine it with plastic to create a new member and scrotum. Then one prosthetic ball is implanted, while the other will serve as a pump for filling the new organ’s built-in erection chamber with fluid. That pump compresses the functional ball like the cuff on a blood pressure machine, which enables you to fill the organ itself with fluid—and an erection is achieved! Note, however, that this is an erection that will never end. You are its master! When you get tired of it, simply deflate the penis and the fluid recedes. Cosmetically, it will be as natural as the original!”

  Flushed and satisfied, Sytin concluded his monologue and awaited a response. Iratov sat and pondered. So his problem could be eliminated after all—it wouldn’t be easy, true, but it was possible. That conclusion forthwith restored his faith in a brighter tomorrow and a brighter day after tomorrow, too.

  “How much does it cost?” he asked.

  “Oh, it varies. American prostheses are good, Chinese ones are a little worse.”

  “I didn’t even buy Chinese in the Soviet days!”

  “A wise choice! So, the American one, plus the operation, lab work, and surgeons’ fees … It’ll come to between fifty and seventy thousand dollars, give or take. If that’s too much, I can still vouch for the Chinese model—”

  “Wizard, come on! I have enough for the American one.”

  “You rascal, Yakut!” the urologist said with a smile. “So you do have a little something tucked away. ‘Crumbs’ he says! By the way, I forgot to tell you the most important thing—you will enjoy the sexual act as much as you did at seventeen! The nerve endings of your prostate are in perfect condition, so you can get your new dick wet as often as you like!”

  “That’s reassuring!”

  “I hate to break it to you, but you won’t be able to have any more children. Creating artificial spermatozoa is currently beyond the power of medical science. Not that you need any more kids!”

  “That’s for sure …”

  As they were saying their goodbyes, the old friends hugged again, agreeing that Iratov would take some time to mull things over, discuss it with his wife, and then inform Sytin of his decision. It was only at the door that Sytin realized he was privy to no personal data whatsoever about his patient; all he knew was the nickname “Yakut.” He didn’t know his first or last name. “Life is strange,” thought Sytin as he closed the door behind his patient but did not pursue any further philosophical reflection—he knew full well the dangers of overthinking things. It was pointless! That superficial interpretation sufficed to ensure that he was capable of getting by in a civilized society … Yeah, he didn’t know the guy’s name—did t
hat change his life or something?

  At the same time, Iratov was walking down the stairs, thinking parallel thoughts about Sytin. What was his doctor’s name? They’d known each other for like thirty years, and he just called him Wizard … But what the hell did he need his name for anyway?

  Iratov arrived at his architecture firm, located on two floors of a historic mansion in the Ostozhenka district, Moscow’s Golden Mile. As befits a lordly man with democratic values, he went through every department, even shaking hands with the new draftsmen, and asked the department heads how their work on the World Cup stadium was progressing. Everything proved to be coming along just fine: most of the calculations for the utilities and structural elements were complete, and the firm was even set to complete the project ahead of schedule. Their first model, shaped like half a pumpkin, had received a prestigious prize in Amsterdam. The orange structure, its enclosed walk-ways fitted with windows resembling jack-o’-lantern eyes, didn’t just dazzle the Dutch; bids for the idea had come in from nearly a dozen countries. Russia won—the arrangements for the contract work hadn’t hurt.

  Once he was finished talking to the employees, Iratov proceeded to his spacious office; it was designed in the best traditions of minimalism, but still elegant, showing clients that its master appreciated sophisticated simplicity. The office also had a hidden room with its own facilities, as well as a soft Arabian-style sofa with birds of paradise on the upholstery (and, naturally, tassels) where Iratov could recline. It was also fitted with a bar, a coffee machine, and a bunch of other junk: sketches of old projects, a big-screen television, walls lined with the certificates and awards Iratov had earned throughout his successful life in the international architecture world.

  Mr. Iratov visited the lavatory and once again relieved himself like a lady. He could have easily begun dwelling on that, but he’d already accepted the major changes his new situation had brought. Sitting or standing …

  Iratov returned to his actual office, poured himself a glass of whisky, contacted his assistant, Vitya, and verified that the first part of the plan had been sent to the Russian Football Union.

  “Certainly, Mr. Iratov!”

  “You remembered about the credit, right?” he asked, automatically twirling his elegant fish-patterned ring around his finger.

  “Everything was done in accordance with your instructions. A new seal was prepared and every sheet was stamped with ‘Designed by Arseny and Andrei Iratov.’”

  “Well done! What else?”

  “A strange middle-aged man who declined to give his name is waiting for you in the conference room.”

  “Strange how?”

  “He has a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist …”

  “Bring him here.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Iratov!”

  A minute later, an entity with the appearance of a mercenary appeared at his door. Iratov remembered that face. He knew who this was. “Oh, now I’ve done it,” he thought. “Now I’ve done it.” Owing to tragic circumstances of an intimate nature, Iratov had completely forgotten that he had agreed to a major transaction with his Israeli friend just yesterday. He had forgotten to wire the money, but it appeared that the sapphire in question was now in this courier’s briefcase. He was a man of about forty, with Middle Eastern features—a former Mossad agent who had worked for Iratov’s Israeli friend for many years, and now he was standing on this rug here in Russia, not moving.

  “I never transferred the money!” Iratov said. The courier nodded his close-cropped head. “I’ll do it now …”

  In just a few minutes, Iratov ordered an electronic transfer and shifted a six-figure sum into his Israeli friend’s account. He nodded to the courier, who promptly extracted a cell phone from his pocket and placed an international call. He said a few words in Hebrew, waited for a moment, then terminated the connection. In one movement, he unlocked the handcuffs, advanced a few steps, placed the briefcase on the desk, turned with almost military precision, and exited the office.

  The Kashmir stone was immaculate. Iratov examined it with a jeweler’s magnifying glass and a powerful lamp, relishing this natural masterpiece: the color of the Atlantic Ocean, flawlessly cut, with ideal proportions and miraculous dark blue coloring. It was stunningly pure, without a single speck of anything alien.

  Mr. Iratov had adored precious stones ever since his college days. At first, he treated them as an investment, as a safer and sturdier harbor than currency, but then the financial side became secondary to him, and he learned to love them as true masterpieces, born in the depths of the earth amid geothermal torment. He had an astonishing collection of diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds. It was kept in a Swiss bank, which Iratov visited at least once a month. He would open his personal safe, take out the little velvet bag that held his treasures, head back to the hotel, and spend a few hours dipping his fingers in the “pure water,” drawing energy from the stones, letting them make him just a little younger, harder, and more confident. Then he would bring the collection back to the bank and return to Russia.

  The sapphire from Israel was just a hair beneath his standards for the collection, so Mr. Iratov was glad he would be presenting it to his darling Vera today. He dialed her number and asked how she was feeling.

  “I’m all better now,” his wife reassured him.

  “Excellent! I’ll be wrapping up soon. Then I’ll come by. You remember that we’re going to the Bolshoi tonight, right?”

  “Of course.”

  They attended an avant-garde production of Eugene Onegin, which was booed off the stage twenty minutes in, when it was revealed that marijuana had been woven into the fabric of the plot—quite literally. The man seated in the presidential box waved his hand, promptly putting a stop to this unworthy treading of the boards, and the audience left the hall.

  “How about Italian?” Iratov asked.

  “Sounds good!”

  An instant later, he heard someone saying his wife’s name somewhere behind him, but with a British accent. “Verie, my dearie!” He turned and peered into the crowd, spotting a man with a spiky, snow-white buzz cut, but absolutely no sign of eyebrows or lashes on his face. Was it him? Guess the freaks are out tonight.

  There was a little Italian restaurant near their building. It was owned by an elderly Neapolitan man who had brought his children and grandchildren over to Moscow so they could help him run the family business.

  Iratov and Vera loved that place. It was a cheerful little island of sunny Italy in the midst of inclement Russia. Alessandro Italianov, as Iratov and Vera privately called the owner, made the best pasta in the city, and he always kept bottarga—cured tuna roe—in stock, only serving it to his most faithful regulars. The excellent selection of Tuscan wines, cozy, domestic atmosphere, and staff who always worked together smoothly—they were family, after all—made it a favored haunt for Ostozhenka connoisseurs. At the end of the evening, the owner would bring out his guitar and sing old Neapolitan ballads in his weak yet soulful tenor. By the time the third song came around, even chance walk-ins were singing along, especially if it was a sad rendition of “Napoli.”

  It was there, in the coziest nook, that Mr. Iratov and his darling Vera spent their evening. God, that night was such a pleasure. The beauty of that woman! Dressed in soft gray tones, with her hair up, revealing her graceful ears with their understated diamond studs, wearing some sublime, elusive scent … To Iratov, Vera looked like the most precious treasure in the universe, and she belonged to him. He simply couldn’t help feeling a sense of pride. At the same time, Vera was looking at her husband, still finding him the handsomest man on the planet, even after a decade of living together. Iratov’s black eyes enraptured her, a deep abyss she fell into long ago, when she fell for him; his long, thick hair, cascading to his shoulders in a black curtain, shone like the night sky, and his full lips stood out darkly under his prominent nose and white-streaked hair. It was a combination that presented a major threat to purity and holiness. Her tempter demon!r />
  Mr. Iratov ordered for both of them, and they conversed quietly between sips of Tuscan cabernet.

  “I want to go back to Ischia,” Vera said. “We spent a few days there, remember?”

  “That was ten years ago! I’d only known you for two weeks …”

  “You brought me there on that yacht, with that dazzling white sail … I forget what it was called.”

  “Eleanor,” Iratov reminded her.

  “The whole time we were there I wanted to ask you who Eleanor was …”

  “I told you, remember?” Iratov said with a smile. “That’s how it’s done—yachts are always given women’s names. It’s an old tradition. It was the previous owner who named the boat. That’s all there is to it. Maybe it was his grandmother’s name.”

  “And hurricanes are all men …”

  “Because men are the destroyers of their own creations … and there’s nothing to do on Ischia in the winter. The whole island is deserted; it’s depressing.”

  He ate his spaghetti with truffles, and she her ravioli with pears. The owner served the dessert himself, adding two tall, thin glasses of very old grappa to go with it. Iratov produced a little velvet-lined box from the pocket of his blazer and placed it before Vera.

  “What’s this?” she asked in surprise, as if she’d never received a present in her life. That reaction was to Mr. Iratov’s liking; it indulged his profligate generosity.

  “Go ahead, open it.”

  “But what could it be?” Vera’s eyes smiled, and her sweet features constituted indelible surprise.

  “Just open it.”

  “But what if there’s a scorpion in there? It’ll sting me, and I’ll die!”

  “Oh no, don’t worry,” Iratov played along. “There are no scorpions in there.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Go on,” he said hastily, nodding. She opened it.

  Men only give generous presents to women who know how to accept them generously. So when Vera opened the little box and saw the huge sapphire reflecting the candlelight, filling the restaurant with blue, she looked at it, seemingly dumbfounded, her eyes moving from the stone to her husband and back again, filling with joy, her entire appearance showing him that it was not the value of his gift that had lit a fire of happiness within her, but the fact that she, Vera, was valued, and loved, as strongly as one can only love his own kin. Then she spoke, her eyes lowered.