CHAPTER 22. A LABORATORY EXPERIMENT.

February 22, 1997.

It was getting late. Martin Oliver, a young Scottish scientist, wrapped tightly in a long, dark coat, was hurrying home. In his hands, he held a truly lovely cream-colored bouquet of 21 Dutch Avalanche roses. Step by step, as he moved closer to his house, he was also steadily approaching an event that his whole being yearned to complete as soon as possible: a scientific experiment. People on the street looked at him with caution—they saw him as something he was not. Martin Oliver didn't even grant them a glance; perhaps for the first time in his life, he wasn't interested in people as a social phenomenon. It should be mentioned that previously, this follower of the cult of Athena had often devoted a significant amount of his time and attention to studying these representatives of the human race, so diverse in their monotony. He loved to observe them while remaining hidden, unknown, often even to himself… “Dolly again! Everyone everywhere is talking about Dolly! About the creation that I helped to make!... Humans! What contemptible creatures! They are much more interested in arguing about Dolly’s origin and nature than about the origin and nature of the atoms of which Dolly is entirely composed!... If I had a penchant for poetry, I would ridicule my contemporaries, like Alexander Pope in his glorious ‘Dunciad’!” Such were the thoughts wandering in the mind of a man who, in the opinion of most modern scientists, was inferior to many of his contemporaries in talent, yet in reality was at an unattainable height in relation to them, which, in turn, gave rise to such opinions.

In a very familiar manner, Martin Oliver opened the door of his current home, which, it should be noted, consisted of one room. He paid the rent with pedantic precision to the kind soul who had once sheltered him during a difficult time—the time of his banishment from his parents' home. The person who had offered him this sincere support was his mother’s sister. With a special contempt, he looked at the 21 Avalanche roses still in his hands and rather dismissively threw the bouquet onto the wooden desk, where he had often formally defined thoughts of truly extraordinary properties and immeasurable depth. What were the flowers guilty of? Did they, with their delicate beauty and exquisite scent, awaken such feelings in his soul? Why did they, which had once embodied the warmest feelings, now personify everything that aroused hatred in his soul? The very matter that he had once so lovingly bestowed with adoring glances was now not even worthy of his thoughts. The very matter whose beauty a once-unusually diligent bee gave the greatest thanks to in the form of a dance, after which it took what it considered most valuable from it; the very matter that was as it was… and for each inhabitant of this world, it held value in what they wanted to see in it. For someone, it was a receptacle of pollen; for someone, a lovely scent and an equally lovely shape; and for someone else, a place of peace and rest, as, for example, for a dragonfly or a butterfly.

A moment later, he was at the table, giving his full attention to the flowers. What did he, Martin Oliver, do wrong?! He had thought through everything, to the smallest detail, as if he were preparing for his next laboratory experiment, but, alas, events occurred that went beyond his pre-planned scheme. Anastasia Sutford worked as an administrator at the car wash where he regularly removed the dirt from his pristine white BMW E39. Martin Oliver fell in love with Anastasia Sutford at first sight. Desperately wanting to express his feelings, he devised a plan to win the very guarded heart of the twenty-four-year-old woman. Martin Oliver was a stranger to simplicity, though it embodied naturalness; his plans were always characterized by a considerable amount of intricacy, which, of course, when realized, could not fail to awaken delight in people’s souls. Martin Oliver's plan was as follows: by leaving a letter on the front passenger seat and a bouquet of 21 Avalanche roses on the back seat, he desperately wanted to find out if Anastasia had any feelings for him. It should be mentioned that they had only met five or six times, during which Martin Oliver thought he had discerned some latent, intuitively palpable hints of mutual sympathy in his beloved. The letter on the front passenger seat of the young scientist’s car read as follows: “If you trust me, then read this—if not, simply consign these words to oblivion and destroy the matter that contains them. Take the flowers as a sign of my being's recognition of your divine beauty—if you find this attention repulsive, leave them in the car, thereby rejecting the attention of one in whose soul you have, for a considerable number of days, with the constancy of the sun, invariably awakened genuine admiration, and in whose mind, the greatest human thoughts!” The agonizing, but long-awaited, hour arrived. Before meeting her, he could not sleep for a long time. Martin Oliver prepared for it like a conscious criminal prepares for a conscious crime: every detail excites and worries him—but globally, he is only concerned with the goal, not the desire to be exposed. Wanting to see her beauty as soon as possible, he was as happy as he was miserable, realizing that he would have to see her again. Handing her the keys, he, in a state of inexpressible embarrassment, quickly left this very peculiar kingdom of Poseidon, not at all hoping for success, but not hoping for defeat either. Two hours later, upon returning to the car wash, he did not find Anastasia there: the keys to his car were on the windshield, and the letter and flowers were in their previous place. The envelope had been opened but subsequently resealed. Trying to look untouched, it was not untouched. She had made her choice… It is many times more pleasant not to know who gave you flowers than to know!... But what to do with the roses? Throw them away? Give them to the first woman he meets? No! A laboratory experiment should be conducted on them: every day, he would observe how they, like his feelings, would wilt, fade, and lose their scent and strength. He would study their nature, just as he would study the nature of his gradually departing transient feelings! Yes, that's right! He would observe the gradual wilting of the roses—but not the roses that were accepted by the addressee, but the very roses that remained with the sender after the rejection: these are no longer the same roses! Their very essence, their very nature, changes! The life of roses that are accepted is permanently maintained with the help of a certain amount of moisture—they wilt pleasantly, they fade painlessly, they lose their scent gradually. The life of roses that are the embodiment of rejection is short, like the existence of a mayfly butterfly. Looking at the roses once again, he—the one who was able to give her what she would never be able to get from anyone else—suddenly realized the cruelty of reality: the roses were now on his desk, not in his beloved's vase. Another moment, and his lips, as if forever, like a seal, left a gentle kiss on the creamy essence of the Avalanche roses. He felt their scent; he felt their taste. I wonder what her lips taste like? What scent do they have? Of roses? Are they just as gentle and fragrant? He imagined kissing her instead of the roses—at this second, his head began to spin, after which a certain brilliant, undoubtedly in his understanding, thought arose in his mind: Martin Oliver would conduct a slightly different laboratory experiment today. His eyes shone, and his body trembled. He was completely immersed in the inexpressible charm of a state of genuine, and therefore inhuman, inspiration.