He’d grown up in an elegant modern apartment in Moscow, the child of a pair of professors, spoke eight languages, had unfortunately graduated only magna cum laude in economics and psychology, and had never wanted anything else except success. None of the supposedly typical motivations for a desire for power and success applied to him. He was educated, loved, he just had no desire to put up with someone above him, he had no desire to have neighbors, he wanted to sue into oblivion anyone who annoyed him, he wanted to be surrounded by beauty, and he wanted to follow his natural inclinations. Darwinism. Be the tip of the spear, not the spear. The Russian didn’t fetishize money in a sexual way. He just wanted enough of it to forget about his mortality. He dreamed about digitalizing himself before his demise. Perhaps, he thought at times, he’d have been less happy if he’d been taller and more handsome. If he’d believed the game was all about muscle definition and pulling the prettiest women. But he was short. And he’d gone bald at twenty. At the beginning of his professional career he’d dedicated himself to the commercial use of the Aral Sea. Which in the meantime had completely disappeared due to the appropriation of water for industry and agriculture and so forth. The enumeration of his business activities bored him. They followed the simple pattern of growth. Unfortunately the Russian and his businesses got in the way of an oligarch with government connections, who for boring reasons feared that the businesses run by the Russian, who had no close contacts in government, would cause a drop in his revenues. His businesses were frozen at the same time he was charged with espionage. He was just barely able to transfer a modicum of capital to Panama and flee the country. Now he was slowly doing better. Now he was doing well enough to fall in love. For the first time in his life.

“It’s actually terrific.” Said

PETER’S MOTHER

who was finished packing and was gaining momentum as she talked. She stood there with her suitcase, which was a duffel, and wanted to leave.

“It’s not for long, I’ll leave money for you and I’ll come visit every week—What am I saying?—every day, well, every second day. You have everything here. Right.” Said Peter’s mother to the silent child. Who no longer looked like a child. “The rent is paid. There’s food in the fridge.” The mother kneeled in front of Peter. She had a tattoo on her shoulder, which identified her as an older person. Young people didn’t get tattoos. What would they get them of?

“It’s not for long, and you’re already…” said Peter’s mother.

“Twelve,” said Peter.