"I hate you, got it? You and your soy sauce! I'm ashamed of you all the time, I can't even show up with you anywhere! You think you're special? And what's in your head, I just don't understand! Our home is a mess, just like your head! Are you some kind of genius professor? Then where's the money? Are you a Chinese prince or something? You're just a Chinese knockoff, not a real man!"

With these proverbs, the solemn handover of belongings in a sports bag from the wife-accountant to her presumably ex-husband Professor Zhen was crowned. Straight with this bag early in the morning, he, "the Chinese knockoff" and "not a real man," went to work. And being frank with himself, he came to the conclusion that he regretted losing the apartment near work a bit more than his wife. And even though the apartment was his, he had no intention of litigating.

That day, Walter was "at the gates." His face took on a rare serious and focused tone for a young superintendent when he saw Zhen.

"Uh, Professor, there's a thing," Walter, not particularly skilled in words, began, "could you please take a look..."

And with some circular gesture, he invited Zhen to go around his desk and look underneath it. Underneath the desk, in the drawer, were ordinary compartments where, apparently, the superintendents kept something known only to them.

"And?" the professor didn't understand.

"They're moving out."

That was indeed true. The compartments had moved out a little, not much, but it was obvious.

"They've been doing this for several days on my shift."

Zhen stared blankly at the rebellious drawers.

"You know, Professor, I think our university is leaning."

"Just stick something under the back legs," Zhen decided to solve the problem as best he could and went up to his third-floor office, quickly bypassing the pharmaceutical-chemical floor.

Overall, that day flew by almost unnoticed. Completely forgetting about being roofless during work, Zhen lectured something to freshmen and to the Grand Master, who joined him for a couple of sessions with "teenagers" as the only master who hadn't lost interest in teaching yet. His master's project of designing a café website in Scandinavian style blatantly frightened the color-sensitive Professor Zhen with its purple-orange and red-yellow textures. Thus, tearing himself away from the freshmen and sternly looking at them so they wouldn't take back his drawings, the Grand Master hovered over his sketches, like a general before a decisive battle, deciding to consult with his monarch just in case. Professor Zhen, with his characteristic caution, unsuccessfully tried to convince Max to adopt a more peaceful pastel palette. Just in the midst of the irresolvable coloristic contradiction in the classroom, the fair-haired head of "that very" junior came into view:

"Professor," pause. She glanced at curious freshmen and at the frowning Max. "Professor Zhen, can I speak to you?"

Professor Zhen, barely audibly sighing, shuffled to answer the call of his admirer. When they went out into the corridor, Zhen noticed her dark-eyed follower standing aside.

"Professor, I miss you!" The girl stepped towards the professor, who instinctively stepped back, pressed his back against the door, and immediately switched to Russian: "Victoria, are you out of your mind?"

This situation made Zhen sympathize with all the women in the world suffering from male advances. He looked around bewilderedly and only saw the face of the little third-year student with black eyes, embarrassed but not shocked. Apparently, she had no doubt that if her friend wanted something, she would take it. Being half a head taller than the professor, Victoria leaned slightly towards his face, and even casually rested her hand on the door jamb above his shoulder, further heating up the situation. Zhen could only press the door handle and retreat back into the classroom. What the freshmen saw and understood, Zhen didn't know. Stunned by the unexpected attack, he returned to his desk soaked. Max, critically assessing the situation, just shook his head and continued to argue, pointing his finger at the red chair he had drawn. Nothing else noteworthy happened that day. Zhen had an early dinner, with a poorly reheated burger from the supermarket, nowhere to go, he attempted to find solace in his alma mater. "I can let you in for today, Professor. You're lucky, I'm here at night. Stepanich and Makarich, two old guards of the university, got into a fight while drunk, and now they're playing billiards, but tomorrow Stepanich will be released, although I was rooting for Makarich..." In general, the good soul Walter, without much thought, let Professor Zhen into his glassy domain. Before going to bed, they played a bit of Need for Speed and had some beer. At midnight, graciously leaving Zhen the cot, Walter spread out his sleeping bag on the floor in the superintendent's "glass room."

"Professor?"

"Yes, yes?" Zhen tried to get comfortable under his jacket.

"I can't sleep..."

The professor became alert.

"Tell me a story..."

Walter said it so innocently that Zhen complied:

"In a distant city, where there were red and yellow houses, lived a boy who rode the bus to school every morning. One day, he got on the wrong bus and ended up in a completely unfamiliar place, where the houses were only gray and brown. 'Where am I?' the boy asked himself. To this, Walter responded with a peaceful nod.

'He fell asleep,' Zhen stated, interrupting the impromptu tale. But Walter hadn't completely surrendered to the arms of Morpheus yet.

'It was just amazing!'

'Like Greta Garbo,' Zhen confirmed decisively, assuming that before sleep, Walter could only dream of the fair Miss Borgia.

Walter had no concept of 'Golden Hollywood,' but dreamily nodded, 'Yeah... I've never seen anything like it before.' And after that, he snored more confidently.

Zhen sighed understandingly, but sleep had completely eluded him. He tossed and turned on the hard, plank-like bed. He remembered a previous argument with Marina and its possible outcomes. Then, the harassment by a third-year student came to mind, and finally, the white chemist from Golden Hollywood. Stop! What did he mean by 'I've never seen anything like it before'? He'd been a dormitory attendant for a long time, and Bordjia even longer, given her position on the honor board... They should have met every day!

Zhen emerged from under his jacket, lit his vintage lighter, and carefully, so as not to disturb Walter, circled the tiny attendant's room. The young attendant lay straight in his black uniform, as was their custom in case of theft, break-in, or if particularly diligent students wanted to continue studying in the middle of the night. Walter slept on his back, like true saints, or young carefree attendants. Right beside his face were those very drawers that had recently puzzled him. They were now subtly trying to escape their usual position. Randomly opening the middle drawer, Zhen immediately found what he needed: the attendant's report on the issuance and return of keys to the offices. Carefully placing the lighter on the stand and unfolding the book, Zhen began to search for the name Bordjia among the faculty. She was not there. Zhen looked into the darkness. Then he wanted to check the others from the chemistry and pharmaceutical floors. One was named Sinepupov, you don't forget that, but he forgot the rest. He could, of course, take the opportunity to go and check... But Zhen would sooner have his front teeth pulled out than volunteer to go there alone at midnight. Excitedly, he immediately remembered other chemists: Pryshchenko and Alakyan. He began to search for these dreadful three names throughout the attendant's log but, of course, did not find them. What did it mean? He didn't know. These gentlemen had never taken or returned keys to their offices throughout the year. It was very strange. And what conclusion to draw from this, he also didn't know. Here, lacking any signs of logical thinking and content with only the abstract, Zhen decided to check which chemical cabinets had actually been opened and closed during this time in reality. Fortunately, all the cabinets on their floor were under two hundred numbers. Here, the biggest oddity was revealed: only odd-numbered cabinets were operated on this cursed floor. Bingo! That is, only one side of the corridor had cabinets that were opened and closed! Zhen was thrilled with the discovery but didn't know where to take his thought next and, for some reason, stared at the trembling drawers right above Walter's smiling face.

All night, Zhen lay in fruitless contemplation, and rose frozen and miserable as if he had spent the night at the train station. 'What's next!' He sighed deeply and shuffled to the toilet to freshen up, until his colleagues, unlucky with the morning schedule, caught him. The old tap in the men's room rattled and groaned, and hygiene enthusiast Zhen, lifting his shirt and sweater, began to splash himself with icy water, quietly moaning in unison with the tap. It was this pitiful scene that the straight-A student and obligatory attendee of all lectures without exception, Max, also known as the 'Great Master,' witnessed.

'Did you spend the night here?'

'As you can see,' Zhen shivered, pulling down his shirt.

'With Walter, I presume?'

Zhen didn't even think of replying, but the master drew his own conclusion:

'I told you, it's easy to tempt you!'

This day, which started so miserably, intended not to ease its malicious pace for the professor, thanks to the upcoming event. Specifically, today Zhen had to drag his first-year students on an outdoor sketching session to draw exhibits from the city's museums. Without having children of his own, living a generally isolated life, and fearing responsibility in any form, Zhen absolutely did not want to drag thirty students somewhere in the cold. For some reason, he foresaw some otherworldly catastrophes and potential injuries to teenagers on this day. Fortunately, after some hesitation, Walter volunteered to help him, the same Walter who replaced the dormitory attendant Makarych in the morning, the one who defeated Makarych in their epic showdown. And as it turned out, it was difficult to find a better companion for such an event than Walter. He was a potential father of many: he always brought up the rear, made sure everyone crossed the road correctly, and even double-checked them. Besides, the girls (because, as it turned out, boys never went on such outings) just couldn't peel themselves away from Walter when the opportunity presented itself, so the group stuck together tightly, and no one fell or got lost. However, they didn't manage to draw much, as the museums were closed on Mondays, and the architecture around wasn't particularly inspiring in such cold weather. If it weren't for Walter, the girls would have cursed Zhen and his sketching session and scattered to their warm rented apartments and dormitories. To boost their creative spirits, Zhen told them stories about China, bought coffee and pastries, spending his last few dollars. His last attempt to impress the students was the crazy idea of taking them to the "Cat's Belly" store. Why he got the idea to take teenage girls to the oldest and most notorious store in the city, Zhen couldn't even remember later. There was no explanation for it. "Cat's Belly" had been located in the old downtown area since the early nineties, if not earlier. Since those ancient times, "Belly" hadn't changed: oversized T-shirts made of plastic cats and hookah bongs were sold in the black interior of the shop. All this strange stuff was fluorescent in color and literally glowed in the dark. And most importantly, the store had a strong smell of sandalwood, as if all of India, all one and a half billion of its inhabitants, were smoking there. Of course, eighteen-year-old provincials had never been to such a place, so they wandered dazed among the neon T-shirts, trailing behind Walter, who felt it was his duty to guide and recount the girls even in the store. Especially when he saw how the shop assistant called Professor Zhen over, and he obediently headed to the counter. A boyish figure in a bandana, resembling a movie pirate, was smoking a hookah behind the counter, slightly glowing with neon and squinting at the professor. Then he blew smoke at him and asked, "Did you do this?" pulling out from under the counter some old notebook paper. In the poisonous yellow-green light, you could see a caricature, most likely of the same shop assistant: a long nose, cunning eyes. The professor shrugged, but the guy pointed insistently at the signature: "Zhenya, 11 years old." Then he showed the backside, where there were several clumsily written hieroglyphs. Zhen hadn't studied the language of his ancestors for a long time and only understood the word "live."

"What are you staring at?" the "pirate" wasn't particularly polite. "It says here, 'I don't want to live like everyone else,' idiot, completely forgot the language..."

"Sir, I don't understand!" Zhen said in desperation, because he really didn't understand anything, and he also felt awkward in front of the group of girls who, like kindergarteners, followed Walter between the rows, while he, not knowing what to do, just circled between the fluorescent exhibits.

"Maybe it's some other Zhenya, 11 years old?"

To this, the shop assistant just laughed loudly, releasing smoke like a boiling kettle and revealing countless gold crowns. When his laughter subsided, he continued:

"The first time you came in here with your aunt and signed this. Then, at 13, you came because you fell behind your classmates at art school. Next time, five years later, with your girlfriend Elizaveta, you wanted to buy her a wandering cat with blue eyes. But you never bought it, and in general, you miser, you never bought anything in the store! Is this supposed to be an art gallery?... Alright, a year later, you showed up with Natalya, and then with Lenka, but she stayed here for a long time. And seven years ago, you stumbled in here drunk as a skunk, and even wanted to blow your nose into a T-shirt, for which you got it from me later, you don't remember that either, 'Zhenya, 11 years old'?"

The professor felt sick and incredibly ashamed of these accusations, especially since the group was trailing behind:

"Well, even if all that was me, what do you want me to do now? If it upsets you so much, let me buy something..."

"I'll manage," the "pirate" cut him off, but apparently, his anger turned into mercy. "And now, are you happy with your life?"

Zhen focused on the question but again didn't understand what was expected of him.

"Well, didn't you want to be 'unlike everyone else'?"

"Suppose I didn't want to..."

"So here you go, monsters and kisses in the corridors."

"Monsters and kisses, how do you even know?..."

Smoke blew into his face again.

"You know what, Zhenya, don't bother me, leave the bag, take the girls to the metro, you're a teacher after all! And come back."

"Why do you need me?"

"Well, we've known each other for a while... Don't get excited, I don't live here, and they kicked you out of the apartment." The neon shopkeeper summed up almost kindly and tossed a bunch of keys at Zhen.

Under the impression of the strange conversation, or perhaps from inhaling the poisonous fumes, Zhen completely lost his will. Shoving the keys in his pocket, he led the unfortunate girls and the thoroughly exhausted Walter out of the "Cat's Belly" and dragged them to the subway. After a touching farewell, he wandered the area for a long time, squinting his eyes, which couldn't shake off the fluorescent light. His head was in chaos. Eventually, it started raining, and it got significantly colder. Then Zhen remembered how obediently he had left his bag with the neon "pirate." "Goodness!" and Professor Zhen turned back to the "Cat's Belly," even though he would have preferred to freeze and die right here, in the middle of the street. The "Belly" turned out to be already closed, and Zhen went for the keys. Sure enough, no one was there. The crazy smell of sandalwood, black walls, sparkling hookahs, cats, and T-shirts. Amidst this madness was an old cot. Suddenly, Zhen felt like crying. How did he come to this point in life? A forty-year-old man with two higher educations should not be sleeping in the midst of a stinky hipster store. Surely, wanting to "live differently" at 11, and at 40 it came true! And now he wanted to eat, bathe, and change clothes, finally! But all he could do was lie down on the cot and quietly fall asleep. But about an hour later, he opened his eyes because of a fairly lively conversation about thirty meters away from him, and Zhen could swear that the shop wasn't that big. Sitting up in his cot, he saw a table with four creatures sitting around it, they simultaneously resembled animals and humans. That is, either they were people in very lifelike animal costumes, or animals that had been trained to sit as partners in a whist club. At the table sat a cow, a tiger, a monkey, and an elephant, and they were indeed playing and drinking tea. Moreover, they all emitted a steady fluorescent glow, just like everything else in the "Cat's Belly." If the professor could strain his eyes, he would distinguish that the cards were exactly like those Indian ones from room 350, with the only difference being that they depicted humans, not animals. Meanwhile, the players had apparently been engaged in conversation for some time:

"But what does 'not like everyone else' mean?" the cow asked her colleagues.

"It's hard to say what he meant at 11," the elephant drawled nasally.

"First, we need to figure out who 'everyone else' is," the monkey laid down a card and continued. "One thing is me, another is him." And the monkey nodded to the tiger. "We're different, so how can we all be the same?"

"That's not the point," the tiger parried with a low, velvety growl, tossing the dice to the cow. "He wanted more!"

"Old good wolves and sheep, either you or you," the cow said sadly, and the tiger smirked.

"Not quite, rather there are two ways here: either you make big bets, or you're a small-time player," the elephant folded his cards.

Throughout the following week, Professor Zhen didn't show up to work. New Year passed in a classic manner: salads, the wife's relatives (all of them accountants), naive hopes that the upcoming year would be better than the last. Zhen preferred not to dwell on what had happened to him and the Grand Master on that last working day. After all, if he were to think about it, he would have to decide what it actually was. If everything that appeared before his eyes was a hallucination, a dream, a vision, then what was happening to him? Zhen wasn't a hypochondriac, but issues with his own body threw him off balance. Should he run to some Freudian doctor with silly pictures? And if it was happening in reality, then how should he go on living? It would mean that life wasn't just simple, but rather something else with all sorts of possible outcomes. But what kind of life and what kind of outcomes, Zhen couldn't imagine, and so he dismissed these meaningless ponderings.

It's worth noting that during these days, Professor Zhen began to fear the darkness and unexpected sounds, especially in the evening. Surprisingly, the presence of his wife, the accountant, by his side every night, calmed him greatly. For years, he had suffered from this domestic companionship. Her beloved mobile phone's light, her giggles as she scrolled through feeds, her glasses with golden frames and little gems, her synthetic blend straps on her sharp shoulders, the threats of shared intimacy, which Zhen perceived much like his work, burdensome yet obligatory. And yet, with her mobile, her glasses, her attire, everything was familiar and so realistic that no university horrors could assail him. In her presence, he fell asleep peacefully.

When it was time to return to work, his fears were practically dispelled, especially since they hung everything on him that the seasoned professors didn't want to deal with. So, without straightening his proud Asian back, the professor lived through a few more working days. Moreover, a couple of times, he encountered the Grand Master in the corridor. But the conversations were about nothing. Until one day, after lunch, Professor Zhen lingered in the department, sorting through and scanning through the next volumes of meaningless and endless university life. And then it turned out that another martyr had been sent to help him, namely the Grand Master Max.

Outside, it was getting dark, they sat facing each other on the floor, like two ancient gods, the papers seemingly endless, their hands synchronously moving them from one stack to another, barely glancing at them.

"Why didn't you try to help me when that creature attacked me with a knife?"

Yes, it was the very thing Professor Zhen didn't want to think about. Why, for heaven's sake, did he, a grown man, freeze to the ground and not move when some monster circled his student, still just a kid?

The pale round European eyes of the Grand Master stared directly and sternly into Zhen's black, slanted Asian ones. Zhen surrendered and honestly replied:

"Because I'm a coward."

At that moment, the door creaked open, as if deliberately, to rescue our heroes from the awkward situation. In the doorway appeared a tall, smiling lad who spoke in Ukrainian:

"I apologize, sir... Mr. Professor... In ten minutes, I'll turn off the lights, we're on an economy mode, so turn on your flashlights or light some candles for romance..."

And he shamelessly chuckled after his wit. Even if the guy had no need to memorize the name of any teacher, he himself was a rather popular figure in their institution. Working twenty-four-hour shifts as a guard, his name was Walter. And that was his real name. Whether his dad adored adventurous English literature or his mom preferred German firearms, it's not known, but they brought forth Walter, who, combining modest external reserves from both sides, came into the world as a handsome fellow. True, he wasn't a star in academics, and he was even ousted from the modestly intellectual designer establishment. After trying his hand as a local model (not showing any talent even in this purely mindless profession), Walter hadn't found anything better than sitting on guard duty, replacing tired old guard dogs every fourth day, causing significant traffic jams at the entrance each time. Female students flirted with Walter, and he shamelessly reciprocated without much discrimination. The management threatened with punishment, but the model was above them in both literal and figurative senses, and besides, it couldn't affect him, given that his own mother chiseled him every day just the same.

Neither Zhen nor the Grand Master found anything to counter the rudeness and simply glared maliciously at the thug Walter. The degree of bad mood increased, and they continued to throw papers at stacks with even greater fervor, but no order was achieved; on the contrary, only paper mountains multiplied.

Suddenly, under one of the stacks, an old cardboard box with patterns appeared. "Probably from the sixties, judging by the drawn elephants, Indian..." thought Zhen, the design connoisseur. Max shook the box in his hands, then removed the lid; it turned out to be a board game, probably never seeing the light of day after packaging. Under the master's knotty fingers, cards with pictures flickered, and soon they found a yellowish piece of paper with instructions. Max glanced over it and began to read excerpts:

"The cards are laid out face up, three in each pile... dice are thrown... If cards with numbers come up, there's a turn change; if with animal parts (cow, elephant, monkey, tiger), throw again; the first to assemble a creature with four correct parts (head, back, front legs, hind legs) wins, the combination also serves as some kind of prediction..."

Max muttered all this barely containing his boredom, then suddenly said to Professor Zhen:

"I'll forgive you if you play this game with me, Professor."

"He'll forgive me, what a statement, who is he to forgive anyway?" ran through Zhen's mind, but he just grunted:

"Set it up."

And then, of course, the lights went out. The Grand Master was about to turn on the flashlight on his phone, but Zhen pulled out a lighter from his pocket, one he had pilfered from his stepfather long ago. It was majestic in a beautiful metal case with a hinged lid, nothing like the local disposable plastic lighters. Honestly, Zhen hadn't parted with this little piece of homeland since that fateful evening. The lighter cast a soft yellow light, outlining the playing area. The Grand Master laid out the patterned board and started throwing cards into piles. The professor threw the dice first, and he immediately got a card with an animal, it was a cow's hoof. As soon as the card landed in its rightful place, there was a knock on the door.

"Come in!" Zhen said with all the professorial dignity.

A woman in a white robe partially opened the door, not in a hurry to speak. She dignifiedly studied the scene before her. Two men sat on the floor amidst piles of papers playing Indian Monopoly. Apparently, this satisfied her.

"Dear designers, oh, it's so good that you're still here, all our chemists have already left work, and I just managed to boil the kettle..." The woman in white swayed her hips. "Come with me, to the second floor!"

After the offer, Zhen and the Grand Master exchanged glances, and Zhen was about to politely decline, but his wife intervened.

"As you wish," she said casually and slammed the door. After a minute's pause, Zhen threw the dice again, but he got a card with the number "4", and Max also got a "3", and after a few more such turns, the master finally got his first animal, it was the back of a monkey.

After that, there was another knock on the door, but this time the woman in white didn't wait for an invitation and entered herself, holding a tray in her hands, on which there were cookies, a sugar bowl, and even a sliced lemon. The white lady approached the players and gracefully sat down to place the tray on the floor. Her soft bend, more clearly outlined by the modest work robe, brought the neckline into the embrace of the professor's gaze, causing him to delicately avert his eyes, while Max, on the contrary, snorted sternly. The woman stood up, straightened her robe, and abruptly announced:

"I won't carry tea anymore, follow me, Professor."

Zhen obediently followed the chemical woman, first through the designer corridor, then turning onto the stairs, pondering on the way that he really didn't want to go to the second floor, didn't want to leave Max alone, and if anything, he didn't even like tea, he'd rather have a cup of coffee, which he's been drinking since he was 10. Since he's Chinese, he's supposed to drink tea, right? On the second floor, the woman suddenly stopped abruptly and, approaching Zhen, switched to Russian:

"You have the blackest hair in the world. Blacker than the night."

And as if to prove it, she ran her hand through his hair, then kissed Zhen on the lips. He felt nothing, or rather, he really wanted to feel something at that moment, but felt nothing. His soul seemed to have left his body, swirling nearby, either panicking or euphoric... But Zhen never understood how it all happened. Then the woman abruptly stepped back and disappeared into one of the cursed second-floor offices. The professor didn't move. It was dark, awkward, and unreal. "Blacker than the night..." The woman appeared suddenly, silently handing over the tea cups, and then slammed the door. In the light of the mobile phone, he saw her again and almost screamed in surprise. It wasn't her, but her honorary stand. The beauty in the robe was also hanging in this ugly corridor, which sucked in the worst designs of all times: the stiff thirties, the indifferent seventies, the rowdy nineties, and the shameless new twenties. Layers of paint, linoleum, bad pots with dried-up plants, faded flags, and right in the middle of it all, the goddess of Golden Hollywood. His legs were weak, but the professor climbed up to his designer floor, almost spilling his tea. The Grand Master, as always, skeptically glanced at Zhen, he clearly wanted to say something, but silently threw the dice. He got a five, took a card, and took a sip from the cup; Zhen followed suit. The tea was sickly sweet and viscous, like liqueur. He got a seven, and he passed the dice to the Grand Master.

"And you're easily tempted, Professor Zhen," the Grand Master finally voiced his thought and got in succession a cow's head and a tiger's hindquarters.

Professor Zhen remained silent and cautiously felt his lips, searching for remnants of the Hollywood chemist's lipstick, but only felt blood seeping from his lip. He licked it and threw the dice, getting an elephant's head.

"I don't think that's any of your business."

Next was a five and a turn to Max.

"Do you just not care who you get involved with?" During the subsequent move, accompanied by a sip of liqueur-like tea, blood dripped from the master's finger onto the game board. "Scratched myself on these damn old cards," the professor thought, handing a wet wipe from their lab supervisor's drawer.

"I'm sorry, Max, but you're also clinging to me. Even though you act like a misanthrope. And I know why."

Max looked angrily straight at the professor.

"I'm listening."

"Simply put, you, like your gay acquaintances, are deathly afraid of people. And yet, I'm still your teacher, and won't chase you away, even though you've annoyed me to death..."

The professor didn't want to say this and so he lowered his eyes to the board. Then there were a few more moves in silence, accompanied by cuts, likely from the edges of the cards. Blood smeared on the players' hands, accompanied by silent curses and washed down with tea.

"I won!," Zhen announced childishly, licking another cut on his knuckles. The Grand Master, licking his wounds, leaned over the board. The Indian cards showed a complete animal made up of four parts.

"So, let's see, an elephant with cow hooves and six cards with numbers..." Max delved into the search for an answer in the yellowish rule sheet and soon triumphantly declared, "Ah, here it is! You'll soon be left without a roof over your head and die a painful death!" But seeing the professor pale with nothing but scratches, like a tabby cat, he added, "But you've won, and I forgive you!"

At that moment, they both turned around to find Walter in the room, for how long, it was unknown. He was as always glowing with health, happiness, and simplicity.

"Excuse me, can I have a cookie?" the warden decided to break the ice, sitting down and reaching for the plate of cookies.

"If you say 'excuse me,' it means you're excusing yourself," Max unfriendly moved the cookies further away. "Go downstairs to the chemists-pharmacists, there's a lady in white just pouring."

Sometimes Max spoke in a ridiculous, frivolous manner, under which, probably, he wished to hide his burdensome intelligence. Walter got up, looked at the scratched players, and with tender concern said:

"You guys should be more careful..."

After the warden left, Max noticed a stray phone lying next to the stacks of cards.

"Did he leave it on purpose?"

"Why would he? I don't think so... Probably grabbed it on his way home... Go get it!"

"I won't!" Max proudly replied. "Am I his cleaning lady?"

"And you'll order me?" Zhen wanted to add "to go there..." but didn't want to dig up the subject. And suddenly the professor seemed to be scalded. He remembered the name of the chemical beauty on the stand, and for some reason, it seemed terribly significant to him. Galina Sergeyevna Borgia. "Okay, let's go together."

A couple of minutes later, the players would find the owner of the phone and discover how he and Galina Sergeyevna Borgia were kissing.

They were beautiful, not like those kissing couples in the subway or on the street, where someone is old and fat, or some creep who manages to grab his beloved in an uncomfortable place while kissing, and she's not so happy about the unexpected display of affection, but there's nothing she can do about it anymore. No, miss Borgia and Walter were indeed beautiful, like the characters in Francesco Hayez's "The Kiss": she was a white alabaster beauty, delicate and fluid, like colorless flame, which writhes in one's hands, and, of course, Walter, tall and broad-shouldered, with a waist no wider than that of a ninth-grader, with long red bangs and in a black uniform that never looked so brilliant on any living warden...

"What a beautiful couple!" Zhen exclaimed aloud, forgetting entirely that less than half an hour ago he himself was in the warden's place.

"Yeah, not like you and me!" the Grand Master supported this thought in his own way.

"Why?" Zhen perked up, turning around.

"Well, I'm an ugly red-headed rascal in funny clothes, and you're just an old Chinese man!"

Zhen bristled like a wet bird:

"Why 'old'? I'm only forty years old!"

"Wow! Forty? I thought you were younger!" The Grand Master was sincere as a baby.

"What do you mean, 'wow'?" Zhen rapidly lost his sense of humor. "And why are you comparing them and us in the first place?"

The Master wanted to say something, but the smiling Walter approached them, once again left alone, as his alabaster friend disappeared again.

"How's it going? I saw her for the first time! Didn't even say a word, and she..."

"Professor Zhen, tell me, are you gay?"

Actually, both Professor Zhen and the Grand Master himself were Russian speakers. However, it was good etiquette (and practically the only acceptable option) to communicate in Ukrainian in all the capital's institutions. "Grand Master," as Zhen called him, whose real name was Max, a first-year master's student in the graphic design department, came from a small town in the east, almost on the border, where practically no one spoke the country's language, and the professor himself was from an even further east. He was born, frighteningly to say, in the Celestial Empire. When the future Professor Zhen turned 10, his mother remarried, and her son, who, it must be noted, constantly fought and studied fiercely, found himself entirely out of place in the new family, and he was sent to a distant relative who had studied on an exchange program in the eighties and then settled in our capital. Zhen had only fragmentary memories left of his native small town, which he so thoroughly mulled over, practically laminated, and framed, that it was unclear whether he actually remembered it or embellished it in his memory. Red and yellow houses, lots of sun, bus windows, wooden market tables with some nonsense... Would he recognize the city now, I doubt it... In any case, having been in our capital since childhood, he also almost forgot Chinese; his aunt sternly insisted on a speech therapist so that the child spoke only Russian, which was not frowned upon at the time, while completely forgetting his native language, otherwise "he would remain lisping...". With the new language, the future Professor Zhen reached the tenth grade in a comprehensive school, where, surprisingly, much to his aunt's delight, he practically stopped fighting. Surprisingly, absolutely intolerant to anything in the nineties, our young compatriots avoided Zhen as if he were not a foreigner but some kind of incomprehensible disease, so he was practically not touched or laughed at. And he also unexpectedly gained, if not favor, then a feeling close to respect from his classmates, the best of whom could only draw a naked woman with a ballpoint pen on the desk, while he had already convincingly drawn a ninja turtle in third grade for a reward, drew caricatures of teachers in fifth grade, and in eighth grade created a series of his dream sneakers. In general, the future was predetermined, and the new language, which was not essential for a graphic artist, eventually became almost native for university admission. In the course, Zhen was, of course, quite noticeable, as he was everywhere, but as an artist, he didn't reach for the stars. However, university is not school, and people with mysterious places of birth interested the most progressive students, who loved to stand out with their quirks, tried to make friends with him briefly, took him with them to hangout spots, clubs, and various establishments. Zhen, partly understanding his special position among new friends, partly hoping that he would indeed not be superfluous among them, tried to meet expectations in everything, joking about his own "Chineseness" when appropriate, and inserting sophisticated sentences from "Conversations and Judgments" (which, it must be noted, he specifically tried to memorize by heart for this purpose). Thus, being in the capital's Russian-speaking crowd in the early 2000s, he almost did not speak the language of the country, although gradually began to master it in written form, because to the surprise of his aunt and his own, he entered graduate school. But, having drummed there and receiving a candidate of art history degree, he unexpectedly felt his true roots like never before. He was not expected in any decent institution. And although the hissing stopped and the native language was almost forgotten, no one in creative circles was interested in the abandoned by his homeland, the diploma-holding art historian Zhen. Lowering his requests to an office worker, and then to a salesperson, Zhen was still like a sore thumb in any establishment. And in the end, he was washed ashore and found a job in a restaurant. And the most humiliating thing was that it was a Japanese restaurant. And he worked there as a Japanese, because he cooked poorly (and out of remnants of patriotism, he couldn't stand sushi with miso soup), and the most shameful thing was that in the restaurant where he ended up, the kitchen was located in a glass showcase so that visitors had no doubt that the food was prepared by a genuine native of Yokohama. Zhen did not show any creativity or the special diligence attributed to his nation in those days, and being a fatalist, he wandered from Japanese establishments to Thai ones, superficially acquainting himself with all of Asian cuisine, which he hated more and more. But from the depths of fish broths, he was unexpectedly saved by a former friend, also stuck after graduate school at his alma mater, who desperately needed professional personnel in our unsettled times. So, from Japanese chefs, Zhen unexpectedly turned into "Professor Zhen," because calling him Zhen Ventszyuanevich was beyond the power not only of the students, but also of the experienced teaching staff. That's what everyone called him now, and he smiled with a slight bow and tried to respond according to the rules, in Ukrainian.

"No, Grand Master, I'm not gay, unfortunately...," unexpectedly added Professor Zhen. He had been married for a long time, although he was permanently on the verge of divorce. It was an old-fashioned marriage by arrangement. In his youth, Zhen, due to his Chinese appearance, was not particularly popular among local girls and settled for short-lived secret romances "under the cover of night," completely in the spirit of Cupid and Psyche, and was generally satisfied with his fate as a mysterious lover without obligations and hopes for continuation. The only one who was not happy with this situation was his caring aunt, who was convinced (although she herself was married three times) that it was impossible to profitably convert noble Asian looks in our lands, and found some provincial girlfriend who wanted to marry off her daughter to the capital as soon as possible. Marina was 7 years older, stubbornly loved her profession as an accountant, and, to put it mildly, was not a beauty, so two matchmaker friends decided that she and Zhen were the perfect match. The Japanese chef husband initially didn't interest Marina much; they agreed not to have children and clearly divided the territory: he cooks, she counts the money. Romantic.

"I apologize," (in this favorite Ukrainian expression, Zhen still gracefully lisped), "but why are you interested?"

The conversation took place in the teachers' lounge, where besides the Grand Master and the professor, there was no one, only flower pots that the master, who was working part-time at the department, needed to move, and Zhen, who desperately didn't want to go home, kindly offered to help.

"Do you understand, Professor, I have been very... popular among them lately," - rummaging in his Russian-speaking memory and not finding a Ukrainian equivalent, Max stated.

"Really?" Zhen couldn't hide his surprise.

Max was not of particularly attractive appearance. He was not tall, slender, with unhealthy skin, straw-colored hair, which he tied in a short ponytail. The tense gaze of his gray eyes painfully betrayed him as an honor student, and was neither enticing nor mesmerizing. He dressed even less advantageously, resembling an offended nonconformist simultaneously from different fashion decades from the 60s to the 2000s, a leather biker jacket from a child's or woman's shoulder crowned the retro image in any weather.

"I think they are interested in me because they consider me unattractive and can't count on female attention, so I agree with them. And also because I won't let them take advantage of me..."

All this was said by the master, leaning on the table and at the same time embracing a pot with a Dutch hyacinth. Yes, Max remains a dry analyst even in such matters, thought Professor Zhen. Honor student.

"And yet, why did you, Professor, say 'unfortunately'?"

He obviously wanted a direct answer, not the kind of response Zhen usually gave in any situation.

"I'm unlucky with women."

"Excuse me, Professor, but you're married, as far as I understand..."

"That's the point, it didn't work out," smiled Zhen.

Max thought.

"But you're popular among the girls here."

"And what of it? They're students. There's an impenetrable pedagogical wall between us. I won't be that creepy old guy who hangs around young girls."

"What about those third-year students from the interior design program?"

Here they both laughed. The professor indeed had two particularly enthusiastic admirers. And it was his own fault they worshipped him. Once not a particularly outstanding graphic design student, Zhen firmly believed that even if you paid attention to a completely mediocre student and worked with them, you could bring them up to a decent level. This and other elements of his "rose-colored glasses" in the field of pedagogy made him very outstanding among other teachers. So, these two third-year students, the most talentless, who had long despaired in drawing, Zhen made them draw in large quantities, sat with them at the desk, taught them the basics of art. But these two beauties took it all very wrong. They started drawing poorly, but also started following him around all day, peeking into his other classes, coming to the department with some silly questions, and eventually it became noticeable to others, first to the students, and then to the snake-colleagues. Therefore, Zhen, who already lived a quite isolated life at the university, generally tried not to wander around the corridor unnecessarily and not to linger in the usual habitat area for his kind. And yet, the girls wouldn't give him passage, the little dark-eyed one was still bearable, just staring and saying almost nothing, just walking behind him, but her tall friend, who represented the university in table tennis competitions, was dense, frivolous, and the professor often feared she would just use force to conquer him.

"They're just like everyone else nowadays, anime fans. They probably think I'm Japanese..."

"No, they're just K-drama fans, and they probably think you're Korean. - Max concluded reasonably."

"Who?" - Being not previously identified as Korean, and the concept of "dramas" being entirely new to Professor Zhen, who considered himself fairly knowledgeable about modern culture.

"Wait a minute". - And Max put the hyacinth aside and began to swipe his finger across the screen of his rather expensive phone. - "Here!"

Asian faces flickered before Professor Zhen's astonished eyes. The actors were beautiful, polished, dressed in luxurious clothes, with all the attributes of a happy, unreal life. Zhen had been accustomed since childhood to dressing like all unassuming people, never standing out in unremarkable clothes, and had never had the opportunity to even change his phone.

"It doesn't seem like me at all. And why are you staring like that?"

"Oh, you're joking, it's just for girls..."

"And what are you watching?"

"Revenge horrors." - The Grand Master closed the topic. At that moment, the door opened, and the deputy head, a somewhat grim woman in her fifties, skinny and short, in a long skirt under which appeared the shoes of some unrealistically large size, appeared.

"Well, are you planning to work late tonight?" But looking at Professor Zhen, who, unlike Max, had volunteered to help, she softened her tone a bit. The deputy head behaved very differently next to the new teacher, sometimes trying to teach life even in a somewhat rough form, as she noticed in him infantile traits, and sometimes trying to overcome her natural rudeness and communicating according to her and his status.- "Well, Professor, maybe you should go already, and you, Maxim, still have to move half the office to the 350th". - she addressed the negligent assistant with clear condescension, then she looked around and put some papers in a polyethylene bag, which served her as a bag, and concluded.- "I'll be in the dean's office, that's it, bye!"

It was obvious that she wasn't going to any dean's office, and she was going straight home, and all the junk from the department meeting and her personally would magically end up in another office. Zhen understood that this was the burden of his master, and didn't want to be, in his and his own eyes, a rat leaving a sinking ship.

"Well, let's go then." - after the deputy head left, both men synchronously switched to Russian, although she never switched to Ukrainian, but still, after her departure, there was an ephemeral sense of freedom. Zhen and the Grand Master synchronously took a pot of ficus in their hands and went out into the corridor.

The nature of Zhen's relationship with the Grand Master was quite complex. Max attended every lecture given by the professor, stubbornly did all the assignments, and then even chose him as his thesis advisor, rejecting the previous one. But despite all this, Zhen felt that his master didn't like him too much, and the master himself at first was somewhat unpleasant to his mentor. Max was a meticulous, persistent pedant, whose creativity, despite his dedication to his studies, could never take root. He brought many sketches, over which he spent nights in his dorm room, and Zhen was amazed each time at how such a dry person could draw such colorful nonsense. The professor made corrections every time, not even hoping that they would change anything, and Max carried them out to the letter, which annoyed even more. After all, Zhen, despite his failures in his artistic career, was the epitome of creativity himself. He fantasized about any picture presented to him by students, turning it into something completely opposite, recalling movies, quoting books, just to awaken creativity in his sleepy (as he thought) charges. And of course, most of his guidance and advice were like soap bubbles, flying and bursting, not giving clear tutorials for real action. But despite the differences in creative methods, the two of them started talking a lot. And the topics were often very private, about video games, anime, and sometimes about life, about families. So, Zhen learned that in his school years, his master was mercilessly bullied by classmates, who threw things out the window, beat him up, filmed this nastiness on their phones, and the whole city knew about it. His parents, although they started a fuss with the police, somehow hushed up the case. And Max often complained about the lack of love from his own parents and about his rival, his younger sister, a beauty who, damn her, not only was also an excellent student but also a prize-winning gymnast in their city. Zhen didn't see anything interesting in his real life story, so he fed the young man fictional events that he made up on the fly during their conversation. Their chatter with each other sometimes alarmed colleagues, but the wise deputy head attributed this to the fact that both were born in the summer, the most talkative time.

"Lord, they weigh a ton!" - Max squeaked, weighing the pots and simultaneously closing the door with his foot.

"Yeah, they complained to me in the sports department that you've been without a uniform for 5 years now. And I, by the way, have a palm tree heavier than your succulents."

"No, it's just your age showing..."

"You scoundrel!" - Zhen tried to kick the Grand Master, but he dodged the blow under his knee. It should be noted that the main component of this strange duo was their mutual envy. Envy, in fact, was a fundamental trait of both, but unexpectedly it intersected and turned towards each other. What did the student seem to envy? That Zhen has everything arranged, a profession, stable income, a wife apparently, he's popular among students, especially female students, and, most importantly, he's talented as hell. And what could the senior university lecturer envy? Of course, the youth of the master and his future, where everything is possible, and with his diligence and stubborn pedantry, he can become anything, get everything in the world, but the young blind man doesn't want to see it. But nobody laid their cards on the table. And at the center of this game was the word "freedom" in the broadest sense, which clearly belonged to the rival. Thus, without coordinating, in their conversations they subconsciously tried to prove something to each other, but it was difficult to elicit true feelings.

The lights in the corridors were off due to economy, and the men walked with the light from their phones. When they descended the stairs, on the floor of chemists and pharmacists, a cold wind suddenly blew. It was somewhat unexpected, as the building was closed, but the tangible gust pushed them forward, and they began to walk faster. The master's phone, wedged between the pots, jumped in his hands, and the light danced on the walls, as if there hadn't been any repairs for thirty years, not even cosmetic.

"Hey, Grand Master, take a look at these faces!..."

The stands with the university staff were the only decorations on the sides, if you don't count the faded flags and a few safety posters.

"Tell me, professor, why do you always address me formally? We've been talking for six months, and I feel uncomfortable."

"I apologize, but I'm afraid I can't do it differently. I'm used to addressing everyone like that in restaurants. And there's an old-fashioned ceremony in it that I love so much..."

Max once again suspected the professor of insincerity, but replied:

"Yes, it's beautiful, let it be "you."

"Note: In Russian, there is a distinction between the informal "ты" (ty) and the formal "вы" (vy) forms of address, which can carry different socio-cultural and emotional connotations. In contrast, in English, the use of "you" is universal and does not imply such distinctions based on familiarity or respect."

"Oh, you..." - the professor suddenly switched to "you" - "Max, take a look at this face!"

On the "Our Pride" stand, there was a portrait of a lush woman with red hair, round like a nimbus, under a sharp chin hung amber beads, barely converging on the monumental neck, but the most astonishing thing was the gaze of this pride of the chemistry faculty, not detachedly dreamy, like that of someone posing on such a stand, but naturally fierce.

"Antonina Ivanovna Alakyan, professor, doctor of sciences and honored figure! "- the curious master read.

"She looks like my mother-in-law," - Zhen smiled and went on, but for some reason he looked back at his "mother-in-law" again, and she, in turn, didn't take her angry gaze off him. -" Or even more like Hipsu..."

"What's "Hipsu," professor?"

"Yes, yes, a horrible deity in the local variety of Jainism, with heads of her lovers dangling from her neck."

Max smiled:

"And the body?"

"Well, as usual, she ate it," - Zhen smiled, barely taking his eyes off Hipsu.

They continued moving.

"And this one, professor, also looks like Hipsu?"

In the portrait was a man of solemn demeanor, and although it was a chest-up shot, his figure resembled a mountain, topped by a bald head with thick black mustaches.

Anatoly Gennadyevich Pryshchenko, wow! And he's also distinguished.

"No, Pryshchenko looks more like Radun. "

"Who's that, does he also have lover's beads?"

"No, but he was also a dandy, he dressed in the skin of his enemies."

Professor Zhen did not bother to look at Radun-Pryshchenko.

And he already wanted to pass by the windy area, but the master stopped him:

"I thought these distinguished ones were all over 60, but look, there are younger ones here too! This Denis Sergeyevich Sinepupov looks like a young Frankenstein!"

Denis Sergeyevich seemed to be under 30, he was in a square suit, as if living a separate life, since his thin neck didn't suggest the presence of massive shoulders that could support the structure. The face, though quite wide for a thin neck, was bony, he didn't have eyebrows, but he had a straight, as if drawn with a ruler, rare sandy bangs, which was noticeably longer than the hedgehog of the rest of the hair.

"Not Frankenstein, but the Creature of Frankenstein, or the Nameless Monster by Mary Shelley..."

"Did your local Jains have someone like that?"

"Of course, Pepp, he cut up his relatives who underestimated him in childhood into pieces, and then sewed them together as he pleased. What a fierce cold on this floor have you noticed, Great Magister? Hey, Great Magister, where are you?"

The corridor was windy and empty. "Where on earth did he go, seriously, what a joke." It should be noted that at this time there were no classes in the university for a long time, because the building from the early Stalinist era was not going to be heated, neither physically nor financially, so the chemical-pharmaceutical corridors were empty, the doors were locked, as was immediately confirmed by the slightly puzzled Zhen.

"That scoundrel, pulling such tricks, is totally unlike Max," shifting the palm and phone to one hand, Zhen started pulling all the nearest doors towards himself for a second round. One unexpectedly gave way. In the frosty office, it was not so dark, but the bluish-turquoise light from the windows barely illuminated. With his free hand, Zhen tried to find the light switch, but instead accidentally touched a fragile shelf, which promptly collapsed nearby, worse still, glass bulbs seemed to be pouring out of it.

"You...," renewing the extinguished flashlight, the professor illuminated the office, hoping to catch this robber Max, but in the depths of the office next to the window, he saw a woman with a huge hairstyle, who was staring at him without blinking. "Hipsu!" flashed in the professor's mind, and she majestically said:

"Vacate the premises, Mr. Chinese, I am working here!"

"Excuse me! "- Zhen whispered with a terrible accent and retreated back to the exit. He began to crunch with fragments and could not find the door. "Didn't she notice that I broke her glassware?" Finally, the door revealed itself, and Zhen, clutching the phone and palm tightly, rolled out of the office. "And how does she work in the dark?" The corridor was just as windy, but something had changed, it seemed he was slightly taller? Maybe he went the wrong way? How many years did Professor Zhen study in this institution, he could not remember all these strange transitions from one floor to another, branches, and connections with other buildings. He started moving in the opposite direction, but it also did not remind him of the corridor with Jain professors. "Where the hell did Max disappear to? This is already incredibly unfunny!" The phone flashlight ran along the walls, which depicted strange faded landscapes, one of which was the Great Wall of China, while Zhen pondered the meaninglessness of its presence on the chemical-pharmaceutical wall, under his feet, suddenly, a staircase appeared upwards. The steps were terrible, small, he had to lift his legs often and not high, but there were a huge number of them, Zhen climbed higher and higher, and it seemed to him that he was about to return to their designer floor, but he just kept climbing, when someone started descending to meet him.

"Max?" - he pleaded aloud.

"Anatoliy Gennadyevich, "- muttered the man to himself, either introducing himself or humming.

"Nice to meet you," - forgetting Ukrainian, switching to the Russian language, Zhen whispered back, embarrassed to shine in the face of the descending man, but he already knew that he would illuminate the mountainous figure, the bald head, and the mustache. And yet he couldn't resist and grabbed the back of the descending Anatoliy Gennadyevich. The back was in order, but there was a long trace on the staircase from the legs, either wet or slippery. Zhen didn't consider himself cowardly, rather just impressionable, but this trace completely threw Zhen off his emotional balance. He didn't need to hurry, bend down and investigate the liquid, or call out to his colleague and ask some sobering question. But Professor Zhen only climbed up the stairs, which somehow imperceptibly turned into a mountain or a heap, and now he was simply climbing up, helping himself with his free hand, while the other was inseparable from the phone and palm, when the image of his pale student suddenly appeared right in front of his face. Max looked at him with his white eyes and pressed his finger to his lips, calling for silence. Zhen happily obeyed, and then he turned his gaze in the direction indicated by Max, it was another corridor, fortunately more illuminated, because the old phone, as expected, did not hold a charge. How that heap turned into a corridor again was not clear, but this corridor was vaguely familiar to the professor. It was illuminated thanks to the glass tiles, terribly popular in the first half of the 20th century in such institutions and clinics. The bad thing was that on the floor, and sometimes on the tiles, the very traces of the deserved Radun-Pryshchenko were clearly visible.

The Grand Master, also not losing the pots, moved first along the glass corridor, rather quickly and tensely. Zhen followed the fragile figure in a leather jacket. He wanted to pray for his diploma student, as he was finally not alone. But Max started to move away strangely, and Zhen switched to running, but still he was very far behind when suddenly he saw that at the end of the corridor, which the Grand Master had already overcome, a square figure like a hurricane flew in and attacked Max. Behind the corridor, it was quite spacious, and in the light of Max's phone, which had fallen from his hands and now statically illuminated the ceiling, you could see how the square figure rushed around the Grand Master, who defended himself with vases. One after another, he threw the fiscus at the attacker, but both charges missed. Pepp, dressed in a square suit from the nineties, was armed with a kitchen knife and circled over the Grand Master like a wound-up, not hurrying to strike, but only waving the knife as if showing off to his buddies. The unarmed Grand Master expected a real attack, but Pepp only made air passes.

"Denis Sergeyevich, in our village, we cut relatives! And here we earn money, and give a report on science already, it was supposed to be yesterday!"

Suddenly, a velvety Ukrainian language was heard. Antonina Ivanovna Alakyan-Hipsu, huge, with human heads interspersed with amber, appeared behind Zhen and harshly besieged the unruly colleague. A moment later, both demons passed by the professor as if they hadn't noticed him.

As Zhen and the Grand Master found themselves on the twilight evening street, they couldn't remember.