To the Mars

By Max Maximov

Max Maximov, one of the most notable modern Russian writers, is now in English! Can dreams come true? Or the world will remain illusive without dreaming?
The whole life Ivan was told that he had to take pot luck. But Ivan had always knew clearly what he wanted get of his life. No failure could stop him. He learned from his mistakes... Until one day a force that had power not only over Ivan, but over the whole world overran his fate. The moment Ivan reached success, became billionaire, launched a spacecraft to the Mars and was about to realize his dream everything turned into ashes. Is the protagonist running insane? Or it’s somebody else who writes Ivan’s story? Perhaps, the nightmare began in the distant past, where Ivan being a boy saw what he was not supposed to?
Or things are simply less complicated and the author has just crossed the line separating genius from insane?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Max Maximov
• Release date: Jul 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005661199

Book preview

78

Max Maximov

To the Mars!

A man sat in the hallway near the wall of the flat and held a child tightly to his chest.

Hush, hush, it's all right, it'll be gone soon, he whispered to his son.

A human figure stood beside them wheezing:

I promise you this is the best you've seen…

The creature repeated the phrase over and over again. The hoarse voice sounded to the child like a disgusting drawling moan.

I promise you this is best you’ve seen... said the creature, I promise…

The child raised his head and looked into his father's eyes.

She'll be gone in a minute, father said, looking right through his son. His father's eyes were misty.

The best you've seen, the creature continued to wheeze behind the boy.

The child was weeping in terror. His father laid his hand gently on the back of his son's head and pressed his head tightly to his chest again.

This will be gone soon, father repeated.

The hoarse voice sounded behind the boy, just a meter away.

I promise you this is the best you’ve seen... the creature continued to wheeze, the best... the best you’ve seen... I promise…

The child felt the creature's breath close to his ear. His father buried his face in the boy's shoulder. He stroked the back of his son's head.

This'll go in a moment, son, this'll go in a moment, the man spoke in a trembling voice.

The best you've seen, the creature muttered, this is the best... I’m not cheating you…

The creature repeated the same phrase. The child did not see the monster. He listened to the creature's inhuman wheezing as he cuddled to his father.

The child felt someone took him under his arms and pulled back. His father impotently loosened his grasp, and the creature lifted the boy. The child stretched his arms up and slid to the floor. He crawled aside and turned back. Someone looking similar his mother stared at him, rolling its head as if stretching the neck. The creature was completely naked. It's not Mum. Mother has beautiful rosy skin, and this is something pale and old. Mum has beautiful blue eyes, and this monster has two black spots instead of them. Father was sitting, his back against the wall, and staring at his belly. His mouth was open. Long and tacky slobber was hanging from his mouth.

You're not my mother! the boy cried, looking at the terrible woman with the black eyes. Who are you?! Where are my parents?!

Father began mumbling something indistinctly under his breath. The woman took a step towards the boy. The child jumped up and ran into his room, hitting his elbow against the doorjamb. He slammed the door. He grabbed the toy wooden sword his father had presented him with and sat in the corner of the dimly lit room, pointing he sword at the door. He was rubbing the injured elbow with his free hand. There was a grimace of pain on his face.

Every time when his parents were replaced by these creatures who looked like Mum and Dad, he hid under the bed and lay there until morning. In the morning the monsters left his parents’ bodies and the boy, tired and broken, crawled out of his refuge. The real mum was making breakfast, and dad was usually still asleep.

After such nights he did not play with anyone in the nursery school, but sat on a chair and slumbered. When a nurturer asked him if he was ill, the boy replied that he simply did not get much sleep, because he was dreaming about terrible people.

This time he decided not to hide. The boy reached out his stuffed tiger and put it in front of himself. The tiger was looking at the door to the corridor, where the sound of footsteps came. Bare feet were slapping the floor and drawing near.

I'm a knight. I'm not a little coward, the boy said in an undertone, still pointing his toy sword at the door. I'm five. I'm not afraid of you anymore. I won't hide anymore. I'll get my parents back. My sword and my brave tiger are with me. We'll manage.

The sound of slapping feet died down. He knew it was behind the door. In boy's imagination the tiger growled at the door and attacked the demon! The only thing is it was just a stuffed toy.

Why doesn't she come in? the boy whispered to the tiger and got up from the floor. Maybe she's afraid of us, too.

The tiger said nothing. He kept growling at the door.

If she comes, we will attack, said the boy, heroes should not be afraid of monsters.

***

Ivan, 18 years old

We are all born naked. We come into this world with nothing. All of us have the umbilical cord cut and are given to our mothers. And after all each of us eats and drinks, sleeps and wakes up, feels happy and sad, falls in love and frustrates, learns and explores everything around... And everyone can become anyone, Ivan wondered, sitting hunched at the table in the kitchen. There are no regularities or connections between the starting conditions and the future. To be born in a poor family is a matter of chance. But it's your choice to die rich or poor, it’s the result of your activities during the time allotted to you by God or the universe, or... whoever determines that, I don't know. How many millionaires were born in poverty, and those who were born in a family of millionaires. There are many people who spent all the money and found themselves in poverty, once having been born in a wealthy family. I was born in a poor family, yeah, it's bad luck. I'm eighteen now, and I'm still poor. I hate it. I sometimes think other people don't worry about their financial situation. They are ready to suffer. How sad it is.

Ivan unscrewed the lid of glass pot and put strawberry jam in his tea. He stirred his tea with a spoon, continuing talking to himself:

Everyone has the same hands. The starting point is the same. And everyone has the same ass. And initially everyone has the same head which is equally empty. So what's the difference? Why have I got nothing yet? Why should I be satisfied with what I have? And I have absolutely nothing. Actually, no, I have savings. And that differs me with my peers. Still, these savings are very little, and they should be used wisely.

Ivan took a sip of his tea. He stared out of the window. There was a team of workers in the street. They were repairing the road. Ivan looked down from the window at a man in an orange vest with a jackhammer in his hands. The man was unshaved, dirty and tanned under constantly scorching sun skin. This summer was hot, but it was coming to an end.

I will graduate and apply for low-wage job, Ivan pondered, I will be like father. Sounds funny. Why is he satisfied with the fact that he didn't manage to become someone important? He comes home after his work, sits down and watches TV. And drinks. And on the weekends he goes fishing and drinks again. Why doesn't it bother him he is unable to leave behind anything? Why isn’t he afraid of spending his life without changing the world for the better? Why do I seek for it, but he doesn't? He says I'm still young, and this will pass. This is youthful idealism. But isn't it the thing that moves successful people ahead? Their idealism remains with them till old age, and because of it they succeed. They invent, fly to space, send satellites to other planets, treat cancer, write masterpieces. They all create something. Obviously, they also try themselves in different spheres and hope to conquer the mountains, make mistakes and change activities. They make mistakes again, lose money and time and change activities again, until something does work. Until they find themselves. Most likely, all the way people laugh at them and call them idealists.

Outside the worker put down his jackhammer and lit a cigarette. Another worker in the same orange vest came and squatted down. The first man gave the other one a light.

There are no untalented people, there are people who have not found themselves yet, Ivan kept thinking, many people die without finding themselves. I don't want to. But what the hell is the whole world telling me that I shouldn't seek my vocation but study just to become an engineer and build these houses. They harp about stability. My father has stability. Fishing on weekends and getting up at six in the morning to go to work for the ridiculous salary. A stable work with a stable fucking lunch at two o'clock. And then he goes home to drink stable beer and watch TV about politics or a concert. And then he will die stably, and no one will remember him. When I ask, Why aren’t you the boss yet, you've been working there for so many years?, he says. Oh... comrade, you don't understand what you're talking about, you're too young to understand... it's impossible. He considers me stupid. When I think big and dream about something bigger than we have, he treats it as idealism. Idealism is a synonym of stupidity for him. Never dream. Be like everyone else. Be a grey mouse and hold your stability. This all is youthful shit in my head, he says. I don't want to live his kind of life. I must find my place in life. And I must act, not reason. Start today. Now.

Mother came into the kitchen. She picked up an ashtray full of cigarette butts from the windowsill, emptied it into the trash bin, and put it back on the windowsill. She took a cigarette from her dressing gown and lit it. She stood by the open window, exhaling smoke into the street and watching the workers.

Summer's getting over, she said in a deep voice and coughed.

Ivan raised the mug of tea to his mouth and took a sip.

Summer's coming to the end, I’m telling you, continued his mother, how long are you going to be idle, you, mediocrity?

I am not idle, replied Ivan.

And how do I call you if you sit around and do nothing? mother asked and puffed of the cigarette.

I'm thinking, he said.

You don't study, you don't work, you're always thinking, she said grouchy, what’s the use of your thinking…"

I have already figured out what I will do, said Ivan, I have an idea.

What's it like? said mother. Some kind of idiotic business again?

This time the idea is not idiotic, the costs are minimal, and the profit is almost one hundred percent.

Oh, Ivan, Ivan... you're wasting your time. You should go to work. Or study.

I have enough time to do it. Now I want to implement one idea.

Ivan swung on a stool and stared at the ceiling with shining eyes. Various images swirled in his mind. Now he draws a wad of cash in the store and pays with one banknote, then puts the wad back into the pocket. Now he gets in his car and goes on business. It does not matter what business is, the main thing is that business exits. He imagined himself talking to big shots and planning the business. He shakes hands with important people. They all smile and nod at each other. That was Ivan’s idea of making good deals.

You're naive, Ivan. You're stupid, mother said and flicked the ash into the ashtray.

I'm not stupid, I just haven't had time to open up yet, the son uttered.

We do not have enough money, father and I work hard with one day off per week, and you're just sitting and dreaming.

Any achievement begins with a dream, Ivan said.

Do you understand what I'm telling you? mother asked.

I will not follow in your footsteps, he replied.

What do you mean?

You work from morning till night, and it doesn't give you the desirable results. You offer me to follow in your footsteps and live from one payday to another like you do. To graduate and work on construction with father on a meagre salary. If I follow your footsteps, I will come to what you have come to. It's logical. This is not what I want.

Be thankful we have at least a little, many people have even less. Thanks to your father and me, you eat and you are dressed. It worth a lot in our time.

In our time? Was there another time when the poor lived well? Any time is hard for the poor and good for the rich. Not only our time.

Aren't you tired of believing in all your stories about your wealth and money?

I don't believe in money, said Ivan, looking at his mother. There’s no sense in money. If there's no idea, you're working on, money doesn't matter. They will disappear. They will be spent, that’s all. Give a poor simple man money, and he will spend it quickly and become poor again. A rich person is someone who has an idea, a project he is working on, and money is a consequence of his work on the idea.

Yeah, your life will be hard. How stupid you are, Ivan, living in your imaginary world, mother said, put out the cigarette and left the kitchen.

Not harder than yours, Ivan thought, you'll thank me later, when I succeed. It will be interesting to see how you react when I earn my first million.

Ivan finished his tea, washed the mug and put it on the shelf above the sink. He went to his room. There he turned on the computer by