On his thirtieth birthday, he was given a multitude of gifts. They were all wonderful, but he expected something entirely different, something completely impossible. He wasn't thrilled by a sports car, nor were he drawn to new skis or a trip to the Alps. He couldn't pinpoint what he was expecting, yet this vague desire haunted him. He wanted a gift no one had ever received before. Those gathered marveled at his inability to revel in the splendor surrounding him. Immersed in a mountain of gifts, he stood alone among a hundred people. During the banquet, his thoughts drifted to the gift of his dreams, trying to determine what it might be. His conversations with friends were polite, yet perfunctory and superficial. Around midnight, he decided to slip away unnoticed and slowly moved toward the exit. Suddenly, he noticed a new face; the stranger was walking toward him. The stranger watched him closely. Blue eyes dragged the enormous bulk of his body behind him with difficulty. He moved slowly, ponderously squeezing his way through the dense mass of people. The closer he got, the more familiar he seemed. They met halfway into the banquet hall, surrounded by a crowd of guests engaged in conversation. They stared at each other for a moment, and suddenly he recognized him – it was Jan. They had shared a desk in their first two years of elementary school. Then he transferred to another, better school. It was difficult to recognize his former classmate's features in his face, profusely covered in fat and with jelly-like chins. He was very fat, must have weighed about 120 kilograms. Dressed very simply, yet cleanly, he stood out, contrasting with the opulent outfits. The skin on his bald head reflected the light of the enormous chandelier hanging above. Only his pale blue eyes remained unaffected and identified their owner. "
Hello, Alan," Jan said, extending his hand in greeting. "
Hello, Jan," he replied. "
I knew you would recognize me, despite the changes. I came to give you a gift, even though we hadn't seen each other for so many years; this surprise was yours." It's a complete coincidence, but I'm glad it was you.
Alan looked at the man with a sneer. He can't surprise him, give him something special.
You come after years and bring me a gift. And that's good. You could have given it to the first homeless person who comes along. Look at this pile of junk, these are gifts from my friends. Do you think they forgot something, left something out? There's even a declaration of love there. Bottled, two words from a woman more beautiful than an apple tree in bloom in spring. I'll tell you more, they mean nothing to me, these things and empty words. You understand, these are all appearances; we live in them and create them ourselves, obligated by culture. You do this, go now and choose anything from the pile, then party until morning, drink to my health. Let's forget about the gift for me, because I'm the one giving you the gift.
"Mine is different, not like this worthless junk," Jan said, holding out a crystal goblet. "
All you have to do is drink the champagne from it and smash it."
Alan burst out laughing, drawling his words as he said, "
What a gift you're giving me. I told you, I'm the one giving out the gifts today. Take them all and give them to whoever you want, just leave me alone." The fat man spun around uneasily and said, "
This is the gift you're dreaming of. No one has ever seen or received what I'm giving you. It will change everything, it will allow you to break away from your roots, you will become free. You will be the first to ascend to the next level.
Who are you to know what I desire?" Alan opened his mouth wide and watched the newcomer intently. But the newcomer was already drifting heavily through the crowd and disappeared through the door. He noticed the cold goblet in his hand after the newcomer had disappeared through the door. He stood there for a moment, stunned, then slowly began to back away.
Half an hour later, he sat in his armchair with a gift filled with a silver liquid, pondering. Was this madness? Why and where had it come from? What absurd coincidence was this? Finally, he pushed all these questions aside, deciding he had nothing to lose. He drank the delicate, sparkling liquid. He felt the tickle of bubbles flowing down his throat. The champagne was perfect. He hurled the empty glass forward. He sat surrounded by thousands of shards of broken glass, which sparkled at him with the glow of reflected light, awaiting transformation.
Morning greeted him with a slight headache; he felt strange. Blaming the banquet, he dressed and decided to go for a breath of fresh air. His sharpness of perception astonished him. He felt as if, until yesterday, he had only half-seen the entire world. Observing the architecture, he was horrified by the makeshift nature and shortsightedness of human culture. The whole, based on fragile foundations, ultimately presented a grotesque image of society, culture, and technology. Watching the quarrels of strangers, he realized that we are incapable of understanding difference. Even among our own people, we isolate and stigmatize difference as a disease. Therefore, there is no question of compromise, among us—what if there were another civilization? All of this, moreover, is tinged with the interests of individuals, sometimes grouping together. The imperfections offended him. He felt a change within himself, knew he saw the world differently. However, he couldn't pinpoint the essence of the changes that had taken place within him. He also didn't know if this state of affairs suited him. The strangest thing seemed to him the lack of scruples, which he suddenly felt strongly about. He was also normally characterized by calculation, but always feigned and carefully camouflaged. He appreciated his uncompromising nature, and for the first time, he liked this purity.
From then on, he ate raw meat and slept on the floor next to his bed. Meat dripping with blood, still warm, inspired in him a sense of triumph, of victory. As he himself claimed, he drew strength from eating uncooked food.
In a short time, his body hunched and strengthened. Muscles bulged, and hair covered his skin in places previously bare. His jaw, now defined and stronger, strongly accentuated his altered features. To such an extent that he struggled to recognize his own reflection. At night, he often wandered the city. He frequented dangerous neighborhoods, eagerly engaged in fights, and used the services of prostitutes. Everything he did was unrelated to his soul. He felt no hatred for his opponent; he fought to survive, he didn't love concubines; he satisfied his urges. He knew no compassion and knew no scruples. Freedom and individuality gave him impunity, so he gradually explored how far he could go. He burned all the books he owned, and his library was substantial, numbering some five thousand copies, including several priceless ones. He laughed in people's faces when they made him laugh and slapped them when they teased him. He forgot about culture and convention; he himself forged new paths, unrestrained.
Two months later, he understood the essence of change. He had shaken off the muzzle of culture. The champagne he drank washed away two thousand years of human existence. He felt no remorse; he himself established the boundaries of good and evil. He was independent and distinct. Our entire society, with its principles, was built by human hands. He had the ability to build anew without wasting hundreds of years. If scientists, psychologists, and philosophers had learned of his existence, he would have spent thousands of hours on tests, conversations, and research. A person free from cultural conditioning would be invaluable to them. This would allow us to objectively see the world through his eyes, evaluate it, and define new directions for science and human thought. But he had no intention of sharing this gift. He looked at the world and saw its true face. And he would keep it to himself. Only one barrier remained before him, the ultimate test. He found himself in distant Warsaw, previously unfamiliar with either the country or the city. Blind fate had thrown him into this corner of the world. He had crossed an ocean to find himself in this very place. Each time, the procedure was similar: first, he spun the globe, and, stopping it, his finger pointed to Poland. Then, unconsciously, he chose the center, tracing the same finger across the map of Poland. Now he stands over the map of Warsaw, searching for a random street.
Midnight was just approaching when he found the house number the dice had indicated. The sum of the five dice added up to sixteen, and there it was, a massive skyscraper. He still had to choose, from among hundreds of people, the one person he would visit tonight. Getting into the elevator, he pressed the ninth floor at random. He stood before the door, the first one on the right he encountered. He didn't hesitate, he didn't doubt, he simply wondered what he would achieve, searching for the advantage. He gently turned the doorknob, and it offered no resistance—a slight click of the lock, and the door swung open. Slowly, calmly, he crossed the threshold of the apartment. Darkness enveloped the rooms. Pushing through the gloom, he accidentally bumped into something, which fell to the ground. He didn't even flinch, felt no emotion, patiently waiting to see what would happen next. The noise muffled the soft carpet. A moment later, he stood in the bedroom doorway, his eyes accustomed to the darkness, observing the sleeping man. The quiet, steady breathing of the sleeping man could be heard. He pulled a prepared knife from his pocket and moved towards the sleeping man.
He struck blindly, blow after blow. After the first blow, he felt a searing pain in his side that took his breath away. The victim's frantic defense, a random blow, incredibly painful. He didn't stop, in a frenzy, feeling the cold steel sinking, over and over, into the soft flesh of his opponent. Warm droplets spattered his face; he continued to strike furiously. Finally, the man stopped, lying still, only the blows that tore at his body. He watched the white sheets, the red flowing in, and felt triumphant. He went to the lamp, turned on the light, and brightness flooded the room. He looked at the victim, covered tightly with cloth; it had a familiar shape. He felt a prick, a strange spasm, and was terrified. Trembling, he approached the body and reached out to uncover it. An icy chill ran through his body, the mangled man glared at him with bulging blue eyes. A grimace of fear, terror, and disorientation distorted the victim's face; he recognized him; it was Jan.
This was your gift, a perverse, macabre gift. Because of him, you are dead and I am possessed. Did you know what it would lead to? Why did you give it to me, why me? He drawled, gritting his teeth. He hated him for what he had done to him, for showing him the truth. He stood over him, head bowed, tears streaming down the murderer's cheek. He twitched, slightly at first, then faster and faster, more violently. He jumped, struggling, trying to break the invisible strings. His mind, struggling against the manipulation wrought upon him, felt incapacitated and controlled. After a moment, he regained control and looked sadly at the gray Warsaw, lost in sleep.
Involuntarily, a voice rose from his throat—"And the seven angels who had the seven trumpets prepared to sound"—and its sound terrified him. And John's body jerked in a final convulsion. He didn't even glance in its direction. For a moment, he stared at the darkness outside the window, then some force compelled him to go toward it; a moment later, he was running.
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