Professor Zhen`s corridors

"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.