Author's note

Also featuring: classics of American sci-fi, classics of British rock, sex, political incorrectness, drugs, alcohol, angst, mentions of mafia ties, slight Japanese kinks, gay rights riots, the complete amorality of our main characters, and a wholehearted homage to Ray Bradbury and Robert Heinlein.

Translator's note

This is a time-travel AU story.

Warnings: Non-con elements, drug abuse, period-typical homophobia.

The blue haze of twilight was already deepening outside when Arthur slipped out of the house, pulled his hat all the way down to his eyes, put his hands in his pockets, and walked towards the subway.

He was officially on his way to visit his grandmother in the Lower East Side, and actually, the knit hat he was wearing happened to be dark red. All he was missing was a basket with pies and a bottle of oil. Arthur smirked at that thought and felt in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. The crap that sometimes popped into his head, jeez.

In reality, he wanted to get out of the house as soon as he could, away from the wonderful, positive, almost doll-like atmosphere of the rich house where he lived with his nauseatingly wholesome and very successful family. As expected of a Jew from Riverdale, Arthur was the son of a dentist and a psychiatrist and lived in a stately Georgian-style mansion. Not too long ago he used to walk down lovely winding avenues to his elite private school, admiring the stunning views of the Hudson River along the way.

Now Arthur was a freshman at Columbia University, at the School of the Arts—he wanted to become an Architect. No matter how much his father wished for him to become a lawyer or an economist, or, even better, a dentist, his dreams were not meant to be. Arthur remained a hipster to the tips of his fingers, starting with his Ray Ban Wayfarer sunglasses and his plum-colored shirts with large polka dots (paired with skinny pants), and ending with his worship of Canon cameras and his roaming over rooftops, abandoned lots, and sites of urban decay in search of unique photo subjects. Photo hunting was Arthur's secondary obsession—his first was fashion hunting. He was well known to the salespeople of expensive boutiques, as well as vintage stores such as Beacon's Closet. Arthur was one of those people who, if he ever wore a scarf, absolutely had to wear glasses with a frame the same color as that scarf.

Last summer he'd spent days on end hanging around Williamsburg, taking pictures of real hipsters. Not the trend-chasers who modeled their style after fashionable looks posted on Instagram, but careless bearded intellectuals in plaid shirts. He also took photos of abandoned factories and warehouses, as well as the trendy lofts located in some of them, and tiny book and music shops where you could sometimes discover a genuine bibliophile's or melomaniac's treasure at the price of a crappy cup of coffee. Here you could still find sounds of jazz coming from the windows, and the sweet smell of weed floating through the alleys. But real estate prices were rising relentlessly, and enterprising agents were already snooping around everywhere, which meant that this hipster mecca was about to become the newest gentrified, and then upscale, neighborhood. There were still buildings here that looked like genuine hippie squats, but even their rent was starting to get pricey. Brightly painted, showy oyster bars were springing up in place of bars with no signs and painted-over windows styled after Prohibition-era speakeasies. Pedicure salons were crowding out casual pubs. Bohemianism was on its last gasp even in this neighborhood.

But for now... for now it was like Arthur fell into an alternate reality, where even the yellow cabs disappeared, and he could enjoy the jazzy-weedy atmosphere to the fullest. He was crazy about the 70s, and his parents' stereotypical tendency to hoard the contents of their closets until doomsday only made his obsession worse. His dad had hung on to Ray Ban sunglasses from their first year of production, flashy, brightly-colored suit jackets and mind-blowing shirts which were now a perfect fit for Arthur, who was whip-thin. He didn't even have to go rummaging through flea markets, though he still made an appearance there, of course—for research purposes.

Overall, Arthur didn't give his parents any grief. Even though he had no intention of becoming a lawyer, doctor, or stock broker, even though he might have spent too much time on putting together his elaborate wardrobe, even though he sometimes smoked pot and crawled over rooftops with a camera slung around his neck, even though his head was full of a silly mishmash of ideas he'd picked up from arthouse cinema, beatnik literature, and social media—in spite of all this, he remained their nice, clean, golden boy. He always did well in school, and went on to become one of the top students in college, even if it was only the School of the Arts. The friends he kept were always pleasant, the girls he dated always serious, innocent-looking and so refined they practically floated on air. So his family didn't have much to worry about.

Yesterday was Arthur's eighteenth birthday.

Today he, ever the obedient grandson, was on his way to see his favorite grandmother, to receive some special gift from her. He harbored no illusions about its supposed 'specialness', and he was way past the age when you look forward to presents from your relatives without a feeling of quiet dread. But this was Grandma, and Grandma was sacred.

His grandmother's name was Esther, and she was a stately Jewish lady, still slim and straight-backed. She had long, black, curly hair which, when unbraided, must have reached down to her waist. But Arthur never saw it in anything but a severe updo. Whenever they walked down the street together, Esther floated along like a proud frigate, parting the crowds like waves, and Arthur was honestly surprised that no one bowed to them, or at least tipped their hats, like they did in old movies.

They frequently took a walk through the Lower East Side, and always ended up on Houston Street. Here they would spend some time at Katz's Delicatessen, which has been selling huge sandwiches with smoked meat and pickles since 1888 (the enormous dining hall looked like it had never been remodeled since that time, and they still used tickets to take and pay for orders); or at the deli store Russ & Daughters, the sight of whose fish counters was enough to make a hungry person faint (as one journalist put it); or at Yonah Schimmel Knish Bakery, where gloomy, introspective older customers consumed potato knishes, home-made soup, and the special-recipe yogurt. Back in the day, Trotsky used to stop by here, and this fact meant something to Arthur's grandma—she was a Russian Jew who emigrated after the Revolution, first to Poland, and then to the States. Although when they passed the apartment building called Red Square, on Norfolk Street, Grandma always sneered with contempt. A statue of Lenin, brought here from the Soviet Union in 1989, stood on the roof and peered thoughtfully at the New York skyline. Next to 'Ilyich' a clock with scrambled numbers stared blankly at the world.

Lately, Grandma's life was being thoroughly disrupted by arthritis, so their traditional walk was canceled. That's why Arthur was coming to see her in the late afternoon, when it was already getting dark.

Esther lived on Orchard Street, in a big red brick apartment building, covered all over with the ubiquitous fire escape ladders. Arthur had always been interested in the Lower East Side, the way it had absorbed the colorful and piercing shards of history throughout the years. He still couldn't claim that he knew all its streets and alleys, from corner to corner, even though he'd spend a lot of time wandering there. Which is why he brought his Canon along today, regardless of the darkness.

His grandmother received him with grandeur, seated regally in her armchair like a duchess on a throne. She wore heavy, dark amber in her ears and on her fingers, and her eyes and lips were carefully made up—in full battle readiness, prepared to greet her favorite grandson. They sat and drank Turkish coffee made in an antique cezve, and Grandma spent the entire time reminiscing. She was actually very old and could recall the times before Orchard Street was cluttered with discount stores, and Rivington Street—with expensive boutiques and Cuban restaurants, and the Tenement Museum near Williamsburg Bridge was part of living, breathing history, not an artificially preserved relic. Back then, immigrants crowded that building: bachelors would rent a corner, with a cup of coffee for breakfast and dinner included, while a two-room apartment could house a family with six children, and six boarders on top of that. In the hot, humid summer nights, when the air inside the overcrowded rooms seemed to get sucked out into nothingness, hundreds of people slept on the roofs, on sidewalks, and in parks, and the Lower East Side became one big flophouse.

Arthur always listened carefully: Grandma often gave him good ideas for his photo hunting. He'd even sold some of the shots to major magazines, always adding historical captions to each photo in the series, stories which hardly anyone knew nowadays. Normally, to dig them up he would have had to do full-scale journalist research, but Arthur had his grandma, who was much better than endless archives and files. For example, he once photographed old coffee shops, which he'd found on long-forgotten side streets. In the beginning of the twentieth century, Jews used to stop by here to exchange the news. These cafes used to be the cultural center of a noisy, diverse immigrant ghetto, and there were more than 250 of them in the Lower East Side alone.

Today, more than ever, he was all ears: Esther was telling him about an abandoned house behind the famous Economy Candy store. The house used to belong to a well-known local obstetrician, a rich Jewish bachelor, but after his death in the 70s the owners came and went like sand on a sea shore. In the 00s the place was bought out and slated for demolition by some developer, who then went bankrupt in the housing market crisis. So the house was left standing, still awaiting its fate. According to the story, it was luxurious and quaint, so naturally, Arthur immediately perked up. And when Grandma mentioned that for a long time the doctor lived with a certain lady who told fortunes using cards, coffee grounds, and a crystal ball, and that eventually the pair acquired a rather strange reputation... Well, that's when he really lit up with genuine enthusiasm: something chilly roiled in his chest, buzzed under his skin, sent goosebumps all over his body.

The darkness of late evening was pooling in the streets like viscous ink by the time Arthur came out of his grandma's apartment, stuffing a mysterious small package into his bag—he'd promised her that he would only open it after he got home. And obviously, he headed straight for the abandoned house, disregarding all safety precautions. He was a little scared, but it was a special kind of horror—the slightly sweet kind, the kind that inflames your curiosity even more.

Arthur walked quickly and soundlessly, as if stalking someone, although he didn't know himself why: the city was not asleep, the streets were brightly lit, the bars were open and full of people having fun. El Castillo de Jagua on Rivington was still open, which meant that it wasn't even midnight yet—this Cuban restaurant closed at 12:00 am.

But Arthur quickly found himself in some dark alley, beyond the well-lit main streets, and it felt a little off to him. At least he didn't have any trouble finding the house—the candy store turned out to be an easy landmark, although the obstetrician's (and fortune-teller's) former residence wasn't as close as Grandma had described. But Arthur recognized it right away, as if he'd seen it before in some old photos... or in a dream.

It really did have a very eclectic construction—it wasn't a house, but a whole apartment building, and wove together dozens of different styles, among which the most prominent was Neo-Moorish. Clearly built as early as the end of the nineteenth century, it wasn't as tall as the buildings around it, but was also made of brick and contained several apartments. The doctor must have rented them out. Arthur could only imagine how many hundreds of people had passed through them. Now the building was so dilapidated that you could see inside some of the apartments through broken windows and hear the wind blowing through them. The front door was dangling on broken hinges, the staircase had tree saplings growing through the cracks between the stairs, and the walls were partially covered by velvety dark moss. But some of the apartments were surprisingly well-preserved and were now hiding bleakly behind the shutters on the remaining windows.

Arthur went into one of these apartments, pushing open a heavy red door with dully-gleaming brass numbers on it. The door turned out to be in perfect working order, just like in a normal, lived-in building. The apartment was also very well-preserved, and more than that—there was a huge, old, sagging couch in what used to be the living room, and a pendulum clock on the wall. The walls here were painted partially red, and partially green, and an old-fashioned chandelier, black with dirt, hung from the ceiling and tinkled in the breeze.

Arthur illuminated all this with a flashlight, and felt a weird shiver run through him: he shouldn't have come here at night, all alone. But then he told himself that a night shoot at an abandoned house might come out rather original in its eeriness, and he might be able to sell the shots for a decent amount, so he adjusted the settings on his camera and got to work. When the clock started chiming midnight, it took him completely by surprise and filled him with real terror. He started, almost dropping the camera, and couldn't even out his breathing for a long time. He shuddered when he felt cold sweat slither down his back, slow and disgusting, as if it wasn't even his sweat, but someone else's. He quickly capped the camera lens, adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, and hurried out of the abandoned apartment, and then out of the house itself and into the street.

He got back to Riverdale with no further adventures, even though he still shivered now and then, as if he'd seen something truly horrifying in that empty building. But really there was nothing like that at all, and he didn't believe in ghost stories or any other supernatural nonsense. In all this excitement, he forgot all about unwrapping Esther's present. After taking a quick shower, he got into bed and covered his head with the blanket, like he used to do when he was a little boy and got scared of monsters on TV.

Very soon he stopped being afraid—because, after all, he wasn't a child anymore—and quickly fell asleep. But in his dreams, he found himself in the doctor's house again, and again pushed open the same red door—this time from inside the strange apartment with the couch and clock—and came out into the street.

Except somehow the street was not the same.