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Nikolai is looking up at the sky again. Understandable, the weather’s fair, the blue is the kind that doesn’t hurt your eyes, cool and calm, and the cotton-puff clouds crowd the edges. It’s a fine sky to marvel, but the absence of the birds amidst such blissful atmosphere – Nikolai frowns upon it. Fair enough, the pigeons are busy eating off crumbs from the ground in the main plaza, where Nikolai is currently standing on as he waits for Fyodor. The whole scene irks Nikolai his nerves tingle uneasily under his skin, that the birds, which are supposed to be flying up sky high, are busy pecking on the ground for food that shallow humans throw at them. He only hates ostriches once, thanks to their awful large bodies all they can do is run around fenced lands like a bunch of idiots, but now he hates pigeons as well. Ground-licker crumb-lover servant birds.
Hence, he’s looking up at the sky, because nothing in its face reflects to him the humanity that surrounds him. He doesn’t hate people, he just doesn’t like how they walk through the world not thinking about what they’re thinking – okay, maybe he hates more than half of the human population.
Perhaps, other people might have noticed how he’s craning his head up, and probably judging not only his current occupation but also his outrageous clothes of mismatched pants and top hat. But maybe they are too preoccupied with their own lives to even notice.
“What’s so interesting about the sky?” In the end, only Fyodor notices, and if it is because he cares enough or not, Nikolai likes to think it’s the latter. How Fyodor speaks and acts don’t always give away how he feels about someone, except if they question what he believes in. He is teetering between indifference and obligatory interest, or sometimes with mild interest but it’s too tiny to catch and if you blink, you will miss it.
Nikolai asks, “Why aren’t the clouds tied down to earth? Why are they always above?” His eyes squint in genuine wonder.
“There is something called fog, you know.”
“Yeah, but that’s a totally different case.” He waves his hands at Fyodor. “There’s something about the sky that feels territorial, like it’s a whole new place, you know. What are the secrets of the elements in the sky that keeps them from being tied down by earth’s gravity?”
“I think science books can explain that,” Fyodor points out.
“I think you’re right.”
Fyodor’s appearance only means his secretive business – something he emphasized he wouldn’t share right after he asked Nikolai to come with him – was done. They step off the main plaza and begins walking along the busy pavements of St. Petersburg. They’re still in Russia, not hurrying to go to Japan as things are going well according to plan and schedule.
Still, Nikolai hasn’t taken his eyes off of the sky that he would almost bump into someone, or even a post, if it weren’t for Fyodor nudging him right before an impending accident. Though most people along their path pick up that one of the two strange men walking right up to them are busy looking up to even see what’s in front of him, and they have the enough common sense to sidestep.
“But do their secrets extend to humans?” Nikolai queries. Fyodor keeps his silence as it feels like Nikolai has only started talking, and indeed, the clown continues. “I mean, well, yeah, humans have pretty much invented airplanes and hot air balloons. And we even reached the moon! Did Russian win that one?”
“I believe it’s the Americans who landed on the moon first.”
“Drat, I thought it was the Russians,” Nikolai sighs as though Russians not being able to land on the moon will affect his whole future. Majestic columns of clouds stand high up in the blue sky, slowly gathering to the center. “But if the Americans have gone to the moon, let them watch me go to the nearest galaxy. Who knows, I might witness a supernova in real time there.”
“Gogol, I think you will die before you can get to the nearest galaxy.” Nikolai stops in his steps. He isn’t looking up at the sky anymore, he’s frowning on the ground underneath his shoes. Fyodor bites his lips at his sudden interruption of Nikolai’s train of dreams. He looks over to his shoulder, at Nikolai who is slouching.
“Dos-kun, do you think I will die before I can get what I wish for?” His tone is somber, too quiet, a circumferential contrast to his loud and cheerful sustenance as he blabbered on awhile ago. Fyodor almost feels bad, but he and Nikolai have talked about it, went through it so many times the story feels more of a legend than a plan.
“I think your wish will succeed in your death.” Nikolai lifts his head up and gazes back at Fyodor, his left un-patched eye blank. Fyodor smiles at him, reassuring, “I’ll make sure of it.”
Nikolai smiles wide, but the vacancy in his eyes doesn’t dissipate into the edges.
Fyodor doesn’t usually let others touch him but in some instances, especially at this moment, Nikolai grabs his arms too quickly before he can protest. From a gloomy tone it transcends seamlessly into a different and higher bar as though Nikolai never showed such despair in the first place, he quips, “Don’t make me like you more, Dos-kun~ You know what happens to people I like, right?”
“They disappoint you later on?” Fyodor suggests innocently.
“No~” Nikolai chants out. “They always die.”