Cyber-Tavern

Cyber-Tavern

Alexandr Piatkov


Taking a tiny sip from a large glass of slivovitz—just enough to catch the flavor

and stretch the drink across the entire evening—he leaned forward slightly,

trying to tune into the conversation.


They were talking about solitons, wave behavior, and the nature of dark energy.

This endless discussion, as inexhaustible as energy itself, trickled sluggishly

like plum brandy from bottle to glass. It dripped onto the tongue, filling it

with the heaviness of dark matter, yet leaving behind the unforgettable taste of

ripe plums, the aroma of an old tavern, and an atmosphere through which pure

reason could delight in the spectacle of the starry heavens above and marvel at

the moral law within that bounded it.


When the pink sunset finally left the philosophers alone with the stars, Borukh

Moiseevich appeared with his old, cracked violin. He began to play his favorite

melody, spinning a tale of infinity and the brokenness of all existence. A

certain dissonance lingered in the tune, twisting the consciousness backward,

turning it toward the abyss, toward the slimy darkness, and causing an almost

physical ache.


"Crap," the philosopher muttered. He freed his hand from beneath someone's heel,

fumbled for the cell phone in his pocket, and crawled out from under the table.

Rejecting the incoming call, he looked around and realized that solitons no

longer interested him in the slightest. He simply needed to get some air and

light a cigarette to mask the unbearable taste of plums that had glued his

parched tongue to the roof of his mouth. He felt as though the entire universe

were trapped inside him; this dark, unmapped mass, sitting well above his center

of gravity, made his torso sway. Only by focusing every ounce of willpower did he

manage to reach the drafts of fresh air bursting through the wide-open door.


The number dangling from the key tag read 315—a hint that bed was near, though

the digit "3" promised a trek up six flights of stairs. "Man pays for everything

himself, and that is why he is free." This sprawling thought lasted him exactly

until he reached his room door. Another couple of steps, and his heavy body sank

into the whiteness and crisp freshness of starched sheets, while a Black maid in

a white apron began to pull the patent leather shoes from his feet.




Publication & Translation Details:
;Author: Alexandr Piatkov
;Original Title: Киберкорчма / Cyber-Tavern
;Original Publication Certificate: №214011000297 (2014)
;English Translation: AI-Assisted Translation (2026)
;Copyright: © Alexandr Piatkov, 2014