Eduardo saw this movie for the first time, but, to be honest, he was now deeply fuck all the actors in the world. He looked at Mark's relaxed hands, lit by the poisonous green light of the Jedi swords, beautiful, very masculine, and swallowed. And every time Mark said something, his words vibrated near his ear, making Eduardo tremble and goosebumps. Feeling like a heated sticky mass, plasticine, from which Mark could, if desired, roll out any shape (whatever he wants).
What Eduardo saw mostly that evening was his clear, unmistakably Jewish profile, the cap of curly hair and the deep dimples below the cheekbones. But even from this he was already out of his mind, not understanding what was happening to him, and how it could have happened.
The history of the relationship of the founders of the Facebook network based on the film "The Social Network".
Eu i vose is the name of a song by Brazilian singer Ana Carolina, which means "Me and you".
A dictionary of Portuguese expressions can be found at the end of the text.
In truth, it was pure coincidence that he was brought to a lecture on the history of architecture. However, the saying "curiosity killed the cat" was definitely about Eduardo. It's just that in his second year, he decided that he could be like other people's lectures from time to time if the topic was interesting. His father was also involved in real estate, so Eduardo decided to listen - maybe with the secret hope of impressing him, if necessary.
A fair-haired guy sat next to Eduardo, who from the very beginning somehow endeared himself. He had a pleasant smile, and, word for word, right at the lecture they started talking - in an undertone so as not to disturb the neighbors. However, the voice of the lecturer, a portly woman with the appearance of an opera singer, reached such decibels that it was not really worth worrying about. It's funny, but a new acquaintance also came here just like that, out of curiosity, although it was his first year at Harvard.
After exchanging the most basic information about themselves, after a couple, he and Chris decided to have lunch together. The common room was always so noisy that Eduardo suggested going to the cafe on the corner of the square. There, at least, it was possible to hear the interlocutor. It was more expensive, of course, but he was not used to being so constrained in his means. Poor people did not send their children to study at Harvard, and his family, even against the background of the environment, was very wealthy.
Chatting to Chris, he would prick thick pieces of feta on his fork - there was always a salad for lunch, because my mother believed that a rich boy from a good family should be handsome and thin. Eduardo was skinny, too skinny, so his pants always sat terribly low on his hips unless he pinned them up or wore suspenders. But my mother thought that it never happened too much, and he was not used to arguing with his parents.
"Listen, Eduardo," Chris asked with a slightly nervous smile, "I'm not so sure, but my gut tells me we have something in common, besides an interest in history and college.
"I understand what you mean," Eduardo looked away. He had never discussed it with anyone before, but now, with Chris, he was tempted to say so.
- Mm, so what? I'm right?
Chris made no attempt to glue it together—Eduardo could tell that for sure. He didn't even flirt, which was comforting. Eduardo was always nervous when one of the guys began to clearly show interest, because he didn't really know how to behave, and what was generally expected of him. If the ritual of courtship with girls was completely understandable, then ... how is it?
He coughed, pulling back the tight collar of his buttoned-up shirt.
- Not really. In Brazil they say about my case "barca da cantareira".
- And what does that mean? Chris stepped forward. - I mean, I guess, but... come on, tell me, I love this kind of stuff.
- Well, that's the name of the ferries that carry passengers from Rio to Niteroi across the bay. There is not a very long distance, fourteen kilometers. What else to tell you? Eduardo wanted to laugh. - The fare costs two reales. It's better than being stuck in traffic on a bridge. The ferries are old, still in the sixties, but they work reliably.
- Everything, everything, I understand, - Chris snorted, - then, you know, I never even sailed from my shore.
Eduardo did not know who pulled his tongue, but somehow it happened that he said:
- I haven't really swum yet. Well ... at a safe depth, perhaps. It's just, well... it's all clear anyway.
- It's good that it's understandable, - Chris nodded seriously. - Some actually suffer for half their lives, and only then it comes.
- I... I just haven't met anyone else that's important.
Eduardo wanted to seal his mouth with duct tape. He honestly did not understand why this almost unknown guy made him talk about himself so intimately. Natural gift, nothing else. Or maybe it's all because he felt that Chris was really interested. What he will say. But it was mutual. Chris, with his freckles, infectious open smile, tactful, observant and well-read, probably would win over anyone.
Eduardo could not boast that he had many friends. To be honest, there were none at all - so, acquaintances, neighbors, friends, but not friends. Therefore, when Chris, contrary to what was expected, went out of the cafe and not only gave him a pen, but told him where he could be found, Eduardo was terribly happy. Kirkland wasn't that far from his own "home" so he thought he could stop by often. Well, as far as decency permits. Of course, he wasn't going to bother Chris.
***
Eduardo felt guilty, but on the Monday he and Chris agreed to, he didn't make it. The next day they had a seminar, and they asked so much for it that it was unrealistic to relax in the evening. They hadn't exchanged phone numbers yet, so Eduardo couldn't even warn him, which was lousy.
The seminar (well, at least some benefit) went well, he actively participated, because he really prepared. However, he always prepared, because his father sent him here to study, and not to a fashion show, as he liked to remind. Not that Eduardo has ever forgotten.
On the way back through the park, he sat down on a bench—it was sunny even in Boston in October, and Eduardo just wanted to sit with his eyes closed for as long as he could.
- ABOUT! Dustin, shut up just a little. You see, this is Eduardo, do you remember what I said?
Squinting into the light, right in front of him he saw a guy with red hair sticking out in all directions, who was squatting near the bench. Chris sat down next to him, nuzzling him on the shoulder in greeting.
- And I thought where you are! It's Dustin, by the way." He pinched the redhead's nose, smiling at him with such open adoration that Eduardo immediately thought he was Chris' boyfriend.
- Ai! Chris, don't use your hands here. Otherwise, instead of a nose, there will be a schnobel, like Mark's.
Eduardo smiled timidly, looking from one to the other.
- Look, I just couldn't, I'm really sorry-...
- Dude, be quiet, calm, - Dustin patted his knee. - We all understood.
"Yes," Chris confirmed. - I was busy, everything is clear. Yes, but now you're free, I hope? Because Dustin and I... Oh, by the way, - he raised his eyebrows a little, deciding to clarify, - we are roommates.
"I thought…" Eduardo burst out. However, he immediately became embarrassed and fell silent, because - well, what the hell?
- Everyone thinks so about us, - Dustin winked, - dude, it's normal, we are always mistaken for a couple. Do not mind it. Our love is purely platonic. So, if you have any idea of his freckled...
- Dustin! Chris tugged at his hair. - Well, stop fooling around. He's not used to it yet.
But he immediately smiled, making it clear that he wasn't really angry at all. Eduardo caught himself smiling himself.
- Well! Here is another matter. Eduardo, look, we're fine-... Eduardo! Dustin interrupted himself. - Listen, what a long name. I prefer monosyllabic. For example: Chris, - he said, tickling Chris's knee. Well, or Mark. Do you have a nickname?
Eduardo shook his head, he didn't have a nickname. Maybe because he didn't spend much time on the internet at all. And his father specifically gave him a terribly Brazilian name, because he was a patriot.
- Okay, but how are you in the family then? Chris asked as if reading his mind.
- Mom in childhood called Dita. From Eduardito, in Portuguese it sounds like this.
- No no. Not good, - Dustin shook his head, thoughtfully pronouncing in syllables: - Ed-war ... War-do.
- Wardo? Chris asked gleefully, clearly enjoying Dustin's ability to form derivatives.
"Wardo," he nodded decisively. - Dude, you'll be Wardo. Then no longer cut, but two syllables okay.
- All right, - he tried to suppress a smile that stubbornly stretched the corners of his mouth, - All right. So what were you going to do today?
- Like what? Beer, pizza, video games. Free evening Kirkland-style, - Dustin stood up, looking down at him. - So why are you sitting there? Went. Yeah, he'll have to be introduced to Mark, too, he muttered under his breath as they skirted around a large group of noisy girls who looked like they were from Boston uni. - Christopher, do you think he will pass Mark's test?
"Umm," Chris said thoughtfully, chewing on his lip. - I would be careful not to make clear forecasts.
- In general, so, Varrdo, - Dustin with obvious pleasure said the name he had just invented for him. Mark is Mark. You just have to get used to it, that's all. So Chris and I are used to it?
- What's wrong with him? Eduardo asked cautiously, frowning. He really, really wanted to fit into their company. - He is idiot? Or a pervert? Or, I don't know, just a stuffy guy?
- A-haha, Creeeis! - Dustin neighed in his voice, - No, well, what an accuracy of characteristics! And he didn't even see Mark! Wardo, will you be very shocked if I tell you that he is both, and another, and the third?
"Dustin, shut up," Chris answered, obviously holding back his laughter, with a deliberately serious mug. - No, to some extent he is even right. But it's not all bad. Mark, he's very smart, but yes, he's an idiot. An emotional embryo, I would say. A pervert too, because...
- ... If he says that he fucked all night, then he means the program, or hardware, well, in general, not a living person, - Dustin continued in his tone. - And yes, he is quite a bit stuffy. In the sense that if you object to him, he will immediately give you ten thousand one hundred and fifty-three arguments against.
"Oh," was all Eduardo said, "a nightmare.
- That's actually exactly what Chris said about me when he found out we were roommates. So...
- So maybe you'll love Mark again, - Chris shrugged his shoulders, - No, what if?
Eduardo sighed, determined to be very tolerant of the unknown Mark. Although, judging by the looks the two exchanged, he should have prepared for the worst.
***
Two hours later, Eduardo was sitting sandwiched on the couch between Dustin and Mark, and instead of video games, they were rewatching the next (released in the spring) Star Wars, namely the second episode. Thanks to Dustin, now he also knew almost everything about Natalie Portman, including her real name, full biography and current filming schedule. Dustin, I must say, did not shut up in principle, but now it was a salvation. Because Eduardo really needed something to distract himself, urgently, right now.
It was terrible, but he just couldn't stop looking at Mark. Throwing sidelong glances furtively and frankly staring at those moments when it seemed to him that he was fascinated by viewing. Because to say that he liked Mark was an understatement.
Eduardo was simply mesmerized - his face, consisting of solid angles, his bony, pale wrists. His abrupt, abrupt way of speaking. He died every time he said "B-warrdo" in a deep, low voice, barely touching his knee or shoulder.
Mark was not rude. He just wasn't sentimental. And, which was obvious, he did not like it when people think for a long time. Eduardo, to tell the truth, could hardly keep up with his reasoning; he had to be very focused and attentive all the time in order to talk with Mark on an equal footing. But it was worth it.
In the half hour since he had crossed the threshold of their room, Mark had asked him all the uncomfortable and indecent questions that could be asked."So you are the son of a rich dad and in general, you don't need to work? Are you circumcised? Have you slept with girls yet? Are you not cutting computers at all? Who do you like more, Chris or Dustin?"
He felt defenseless, completely naked, sitting in front of Mark sprawled on the couch, forcing himself to answer each of these terrible questions - honestly, as himself. Apparently, he wanted exactly this, because after a while he nodded with satisfaction and stopped this torture, giving him the opportunity to breathe again.
"Wardo," Dustin whispered in his ear, leaning over the couch, "relax, man, you're through." Here, have a drink, - he shoved a cold bottle of beer into his hands, going back to Chris, in his corner. Eduardo opened it and drained it literally in one gulp. And he didn't care that it looked funny.
But Mark didn't laugh. He... Eduardo had never seen this before, some combination of clumsiness and arrogance. Mark moved closer to him, feeling the fabric of the suit as if he were shopping for clothes. Running his hand through his hair - who does this, just getting to know a person? And then he generally moved closer and poked his cold, like a dog's nose into his neck. Sniffing it like animals do.
Eduardo was already half-fainted from such treatment when Mark stood up and said:
- Okay. Now, Wardo, would you mind if we watch the movie?
He nodded hastily, thinking absolutely nothing, with his head as empty as a Halloween pumpkin. He liked Mark. That was all he understood now, all he could think about. When Mark stuck a disc into the player and, unceremoniously moving Eduardo, pressed his hot side and knee, he involuntarily closed his eyes, thinking that it would be good to die right now. It would be a very pleasant death.
Pupsiki (Mark called Dustin and Chris with this word, Eduardo was almost used to it) commented on what was happening on the screen with such enthusiasm, as if it was not already a fucking show. Chris thought Hayden Christensen was very good. Dustin assured that if he ever finds a good Jewish girl, she will look like Natalie.
Eduardo saw this movie for the first time, but, to be honest, he was now deeply fuck all the actors in the world. He looked at Mark's relaxed hands, lit by the poisonous green light of the Jedi swords, beautiful, very masculine, and swallowed. And every time Mark said something, his words vibrated near his ear, making Eduardo tremble and goosebumps. Feeling like a heated sticky mass, plasticine, from which Mark could, if desired, roll out any shape (whatever he wants).
What Eduardo saw mostly that evening was his clear, unmistakably Jewish profile, the cap of curly hair and the deep dimples below the cheekbones. But even from this he was already out of his mind, not understanding what was happening to him, and how it could have happened.
When the movies, beer, and topics for discussion were over, he got up, straightened his jacket and, throwing one last, very last look at Mark, went to the door. Chris and Dustin were escorted to the door, but Mark was not, he never got up from the couch, and it was a disaster. Eduardo immediately understood what he meant by that - he was not interested. Well. Looks like he won't be coming here again...
Eduardo was already adjusting the strap from his bag over his shoulder, opening the front door and awkwardly muttering that yes, of course, he was also very happy and all that, when he heard shuffling footsteps. Such a sound was made by synthetic soles of slaps. Looking up, he saw that Chris had stepped aside, smiling reassuringly, and Mark was standing right in front of him. Confused, he blinked frightened and often, not knowing what to expect.
The corner of Mark's lips twitched, and in the next second he smiled - at him, Eduardo, with such an open and sincere smile that he was simply speechless. And Mark - well, that's for sure, in order to completely finish him off, stretched out his hand and ran two fingers from Eduardo's elbow to his wrist, saying:
- Wardo. Come back Friday, we'll do it again.
He swallowed, nodding, unable to utter a word right now, after which Dustin simply pushed him out the door, grumbling that they hesitated to already hang out on the threshold, blowing on his legs.
When Eduardo stepped out onto the porch, he was shaking. Sitting right on the steps, on the side, so as not to interfere with the people to pass, he sat there, covering his mouth with his hands. He wanted to yell at the top of his lungs, he wanted to stand against the wall, burying his fiery forehead in the cold bricks. Of course, he guessed what it was called, but... Eduardo had never experienced anything similar in his entire life.
" Mark said that you are adequate!" - a text message came from Dustin's number, followed immediately by the second: " In his language, it means you're just fucking Wardo!"
Dustin did not use commas on principle, and Eduardo immediately decided that this was convenient in terms of identifying his redhead personality. He already thought that was it when Chris wrote.
"Just don't say that you have a crush on Mark! You know, if you like the direction of "masochism", then you better choose Dustin. Mark is still too much.
Chris wasn't Dustin, so the exclamation mark (only one) meant a real panic. Eduardo stood up, brushing wet leaves off his trousers and finally finding the strength to walk off the Kirkland porch. And as he walked down the dark alleys to Eliot, he dialed, hitting the glowing buttons of the phone with difficulty, in reply:
" I'm afraid it's too late, Chris. The ferry has come ashore."
" You're 2 BRL ," he replied immediately, and Eduardo laughed, a tremulous, nervous laugh, rapidly typing: " You in coins or banknotes?" I'll give it to you when we meet."
***
Friday came right after a painful Wednesday and an unbearable Thursday. Yes, in that order. Pupsik constantly wrote him all sorts of garbage; Mark, although they exchanged phone numbers, remained silent.
"Here, take this," he sniffed, smoothing a slightly wrinkled blue bill on his kris knee. - Well, how do you take it?
Hughes cocked his head, looking up, as if to say: "Well, you're in trouble, my joy."
- Oh, yes. Take this, too." Eduardo placed a ten-centavo piece in his copper-coloured palm.
- Yeah. For tea, - Chris pursed his lips knowingly, turning it in his fingers and stuffing it into his shirt pocket, - I understood that you are glad that you were taken to the right shore.
Meanwhile, Mark, returning from the tour from the computer to the bathroom and back, already deftly grabbed a banknote and sat down at his desk with it, examining it this way and that under a two hundred watt lamp.
- Robber! - Chris said indignantly, - not even, not like that, Possessor of Alien Property! Wardo promised me this, so please return it.
"Not until Wardo tells me about the Brazilian monetary system," Mark replied lazily. - Wardo, you can start. Let's say... enlighten me on what the hell is on the back.
- Bissa, - Eduardo said smiling, and without waiting for the question, he explained - a sea turtle weighing half a centner.
- Aunt on the obverse?
- Statue of the Republic. Something like your Statue of Liberty.
- Mm. A little cuter than President Jefferson.
- Yes, in any way, - Chris snorted, having nothing to do, tossing a coin in his palm so that it flashed with a golden glare.
- It's shorter than a buck, in my opinion. Centimeter and a half.
You are absolutely right, Mark.
- Wardo, tell him this as often as possible, and Zuckerberg's callous, furry heart...
- What does my heart have to do with it? This is an objective fact, - Mark poked at the open tabs with the Wikipedia icon in Mozilla. - The buck and real have a difference in width of one and a half centimeters, and I don't understand, Christopher ... - he ran out of steam a little before the end of the phrase, but this was no longer significant.
- Return my two reals, - Chris took advantage of this moment of weakness, adding peremptorily, - Wardo promised them to me.
- Yeah? Mark drawled. - It is very interesting. And for what, if you may ask, services?
- Of a personal nature. Personal , I said, not intimate," Chris quickly added, noticing what a vile smirk began to creep on Mark's lips.
- War-do! - he exclaimed with mock surprise, - We have known each other for a week, and you have already managed to establish economic relations with Chris? Is this normal?
- For an economist? I suppose so, - Chris correctly spoke out, dragging two reals from under Mark's nose, stuffing them into his breast pocket and fastening it with a button, for safety.
"Wardo," Mark said, drumming his fingers impatiently on the table and staring unblinkingly into the depths of Wikipedia, "the Brazilian monetary system.
- Listen, but why do you need me to tell if it's all right in front of you? You can read it," Eduardo said gloomily, immediately shivering uncomfortably at how touchy that sounded.
- Since Dustin is on the lab, I'm for him, - Chris resolutely cut in, declaring in a terrible theatrical whisper: "MARK! HE IS JEAL OF YOU FOR WIKIPEDIA!"
Startled in surprise, Mark, however, quickly pulled himself together, peacefully explaining:
- It's not worth it. I'm already closing it - see?
Finishing the wiki with two clicks, Mark spun in his chair, turning around to them, sitting with their feet on the bed, and politely, like a good boy, asked: -
Wardo, pleasetell me this denomination saga. Cruzeiro, Cruzado and all that stuff. Although no, no, wait. I'm going for Red Bull.
"It's what's in Mark instead of bodily fluids," Chris explained kindly. - And by the way: should I leave or what?
"Ask Wardo," Mark said with a grin and left, leaving him to blush and laugh it off. Like Chris was an idiot and didn't understand what he really wanted.
***
Chris, seeing the question "what should I do what should I do?" constantly jumping in Eduardo's eyes, once said, putting his hand on his shoulder:
- You just be there. He will only really appreciate it, because, in fact, Mark is a fucking owner. And you don't need pizza so often - he will take exactly one piece from it, and that's it. And, you know, I don't want Dustin to get fat in his freshman year.
Eduardo couldn't understand if Mark knew what he felt for him. Having heard enough from the little ones about his phenomenal unresponsiveness in terms of emotions, he honestly tried to stay away. But, probably, Zuckerberg still sensed something, because he did not leave him alone. It was expressed simply - when he left, he always said something at the door, giving a reason to come again. About a week later, Mark also started texting him, always so directive that Wardo's lips would dry up when he read them. It was some kind of special art - to formulate phrases in such a way as to demoralize him more forcefully with the help of words alone. Very soon, Mark reached unprecedented heights in this.
" I want you to leave the lecture right now. Because I need you here."
"I need to know what you're doing right now, and why the hell aren't you in Kirkland yet."
Eduardo struggled all the time to understand why he is still so interesting to the brilliant, witty, self-confident Mark. Maybe to predict when this interest will decline. And he will definitely go - Eduardo had no doubt about that.
Chris, of course, scoffed, making all these jokes about a heart overgrown with fur, but Eduardo really really wanted to impress him, to attract his favorable attention. He could hardly imagine how this could be done, so he invented the most ridiculous ways.
Once Mark came into his room and in the corner of the shelf he saw an entry-level C++ textbook bashfully filled with other books. And also a dictionary of computer terminology and a white, new-looking thick three-volume Knuth. Eduardo bought them and kept them, leafing through them like the Tanakh and the Torah in Hebrew (the language of programming textbooks was a real darkness for him). Naively hoping that reading these sacred books (or at least possessing them) would make him better in Mark's eyes.
Eduardo squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, expecting a taunt, but Mark - he just swallowed and smiled at the corners of his lips. They do it when it's funny, but you can't show it. Well, for example, a stupid note was stuck on the teacher's jacket, but he does not see.
Mark could have destroyed him with one sentence, because Eduardo, the economist, didn't know a damn thing about all these things, listening to what he said, as if Mark spoke in Quenya. But he wanted to understand. So madly wanted to speak the same language with him ... He just thought that Mark would definitely like him this way, that this was the right way. And Mark himself did not even notice, because it sounded natural in his environment - all the terms that Eduardo memorized, all their programming words.
Then he just jerked his head, driving away an inappropriate grin, and said:
- Wardo. Come here.
He approached without looking up and sighed without a word. But Mark reached out and brushed his knuckles across his cheek. And it was so much from him that Eduardo had to take deep breaths to keep himself from doing something particularly embarrassing right now. To somehow survive his affection.
***
When Eduardo caught himself constantly skipping his lectures because he went to Mark's lectures instead, he felt sick. The knowledge of the material depended on the presence in the audience, and academic performance depended on it. His father demanded only A+ from him, without any buts.
But the whole horror of the situation was that Mark now expected him to be around almost around the clock, despite the fact that Eduardo studied in a different specialty, lived in a different building and had his own needs.
Chris was absolutely right in saying what he should do to be needed by Mark. But only he had no idea what global consequences this would lead to. Now, when it occurred to him that he had not seen Eduardo for a long time, Mark could show up, for example, in the dining room, where he was sitting with the guys from the group, take his wrist and say: "Wardo, let's go." Expecting that he would immediately drop everything and go with him to Kirkland, or to a computer class, or even play snowballs outside.
The worst thing is that Eduardo did just that.
He didn't recognize it right away, but other than that, Mark obviously didn't like it when Eduardo got to know someone. Sometimes he had a panicked feeling that if he could, he would wall Eduardo up in the tower all alone like fucking Rapunzel.
Chris looked at him very, very disapprovingly, only twitching, because you can't put your head on someone else's shoulders. Dustin, in fact, did not care - but he was always glad to see Eduardo, because he was used to him and considered him his own.
And Eduardo - he probably really was a masochist, because in all this, in how Mark dragged him everywhere by the collar, how he drove everyone else away from him, he saw what he wanted so much. In Mark's language, this was called ping . Wardo finally got him to ping, albeit at such a price. And he refused, refused to consider it a failure. What does it matter whether there is something between them in the conventional sense, or not? Right now there was so much between them that it could be cut with a knife into sticky layered layers, like halva. And when he was watching a movie, sitting next to Mark on the couch, and he put a heavy hand across his chest, Eduardo wanted nothing more - just let it be so.
***
He had already lost, it seems, the last remnants of common sense when he allowed Mark to install a Linux distribution on his laptop. Something with a hat icon. Eduardo basically did not understand why all these ugly, user-friendly alternatives, when there is a normal operating system, for people? When is Bill Gates considered a genius? Who at all here at Harvard (besides the freaks from the computer class) heard from Linus Torvalds, who invented this Linux?
But Mark's eyes were so shining when he pushed his laptop towards him (where everything became unfamiliar and frightening) and listed the advantages of open source with such genuine enthusiasm that Wardo simply could not help but smile in response.
- But? - Mark, who was sitting next to him on the floor, asked warily, preparing to immediately put up a counter-argument against his weak lamer arguments.
"But... what am I going to do with this thing if you're not around to set it up, or install a fresh version?" It is, as you said, rapidly developing.
- How? I mean, why won't I be around? - Mark raised his eyebrows incomprehensibly, - I don't want it to be like that.
"I don't want to either," Eduardo said slowly, realizing what he had just heard. - But I'm afraid that someday it will be so.
"Then we must agree with you. If for some reason I'm not there - I'm not a prophet, and I can't say now what could be the matter - you just wait for me, okay? Just wait.
Knowing Mark, he could tell with certainty that he was terribly nervous - his lower lip was trembling, and his cheeks were speckled with a feverish blush.
- Wardo, promise me... well? - he persistently tried to catch his eye, moving the bangs from Eduardo's forehead.
- I promise, Marcinho.
Eduardo grabbed his hand and pressed it to his cheek, smiling with his eyes closed.
- As you said?
- Marcinho. It's "Mark", in Portuguese only.
He so wanted to kiss his fingers now, one at a time. His stupid fingers, all calloused, with short nails cut to the root. He couldn't even breathe, waiting, calming down, because next to Mark he always had to control himself.
He really, really wanted anything from him other than the occasional touch. But he did not dare to demand, and also to ask, because it would be completely wrong. Eduardo daydreamed that someday Mark would want to himself, and somehow let him understand it. He was ready to wait as long as necessary - and not even because he was just such a victim by nature. No, he just now understood that such, as he had with Mark, happens only once in a lifetime. And it doesn't matter if it falls on your head at twenty - it doesn't change the essence.
Maybe it won't be mentioned in official sources. This will not be written on the wiki (if suddenly she and Mark do something worthy of mention there). But Eduardo decided that he would remember Mark like this - pale from lack of sleep, with red eyes, sitting on the carpet with a book. And he will always remember how afraid he was even to move, so as not to frighten away his hand, carefully stroking the back of his head.
Are you looking for Eduardo? - a dude in a white shirt with rolled up sleeves declared in a loud, cheeky, drunken voice. - You need to find Zuckerberg first. The dude is still glued to him.
Mark turned around - damn it, it's hard not to do this when you hear your last name. The two at the bar, of course, did not notice him point-blank.
- You mean glued, Bobby? - raising his eyebrows, asked the second.
- Right, James. On super glue, yo. Yes, and ahead of your question - where to find Zuckerberg, the guys from the computer class know. All. Good luck, - Bobby slapped his friend on the shoulder with such feeling that he was already skewed.
He's definitely seen them somewhere before. Mark was simply bad at remembering the appearance of people. What can I say, at first he even distinguished Chris from Dustin on the basis of the "light-dark" principle. It was only later that the signs were added - Chris was a little boring and gay, and Dustin was straight and a slob. Beautiful, visual difference - Mark was just delighted. A small blue square and a large red circle, like in an intelligence test.
James poured another pint of light, looked around, apparently looking for Eduardo, and then spat and went to the exit of the bar. Mark, of course, was not going to help him; moreover, the thought that he would find Wardo after all was unpleasant. He already communicated with a whole bunch of different people, and Mark, in fact, was not at all enthusiastic about this. To be completely honest, Mark just hated it. You write to him: "Wardo, we'll be here in half an hour," and he replied: "I'm sorry, but I promised Lisa ...". Mark, of course, was deeply indifferent to whom he promised and what he promised. It was just basically annoying when his... his Eduardo was going to spend time with someone else.
When this happened once, twice, a third time, it began to dawn on Mark that a new, very insistent desire to have Wardo always at hand could be a disturbing sign. There was clearly something wrong with him. Mark classified this as a temporary imbalance, hoping that things would straighten out soon.
Mark's self-esteem was not low or high. Just adequate.
He knew his IQ (138), was convinced many times that he had excellent both crystallized (what people call erudition) and fluid intelligence (the ability to quickly and effectively solve the tasks set by life). In the mirror, he also somehow saw himself (not a freak). All. No more information was required.
His own desire not to waste resources also seemed adequate to him. Your attention, time, strength, emotions - whatever. That is why Mark stopped listening to the interlocutor as soon as he understood what the whole conversation was about, or decided for himself that this conversation was not of interest to him. And that's why he dressed the way he was used to, and not according to the season, like everyone else around - it was still not enough to spend precious time on this.
Sleep and food were very strong irritants. Mark knew these were vital needs, ones that could not be ignored without causing significant damage to his physical shell. But - as with the clothes, he still minimized the effort. He simply forbade himself to get sick (at the level of the imperative), and he considered having a relationship with someone the most colossal and ridiculous waste of resources possible (well, judging by what he observed on the example of others). Courting, seeking, proving your feelings, taking you on dates... No, no, no.
In everything related to interaction with other people, Mark was guided by exactly the same principle - cutting off the excess. Mom, father and sisters had long been accustomed to, and he didn't care about the opinions of the others. All of them were just speed bumps, knocking down the speed with which his mind, his essence of the demiurge, was rushing.
The "social conventions" column (politeness, rituals, competitiveness, craving for approval, what else?) was labeled in its entirety as trash for Mark. This is what he did not want to spend himself on at all, well, not at all. This is why he had a huge advantage over those who thought that you should stupidly follow all these stereotypes imposed by society. If you ask Mark, he would simply say that most people spend their energy on the wrong things. But only he, long before college, swore off discussing this topic - perhaps because every time he tried, he only once again became convinced how right he was in every point of his own charter. After all, no one seriously discusses with a refined hippie why he prefers to spend his life in a drug dope, shaking his unwashed head in the rhythm of reggae.
Mom somehow hit the nail on the head, dropping at breakfast that Mark must have been a Buddhist monk in a past life. He immediately, immediately, opened the laptop and reached into the wiki, because the expression on her face with which she said this was very motivating. Having skipped all the religious and artistic nonsense and pulled out the main thing from the article - the renunciation of desires, he only silently nodded, closed all the pages and again took up his fork.
Yes, and by the way - his parents were golden in this regard. Unlike the others, they did not expect anything from Mark, except that he would soon get off their neck and provide for their needs on their own. And he was going to do this in the near future anyway.
Из паба он сразу пошел к себе. Эти двое пупсиков смотрели кино на диване, Марка даже никто не доставал, и все было просто идеально. Если бы только не это мерзкое, гложущее чувство, которое не давало толком сосредоточиться. Он промаялся так два часа, крутясь на стуле и делая невнятные почеркушки в линуксовском блокноте-приложении (слава свободному программному обеспечению, потому что почерк Марка часто не мог разобрать даже сам Марк). И только когда в прихожей скрипнула дверь, и в гостиную просунулась голова Вардо, он понял, в чем было дело. Все это время Марк просто ждал его. Надеясь, что у Эдуардо не будет сегодня дел ни с кем. Ведь готовиться к своим семинарам он отлично мог и в Кёркленде, сидя на его постели. Или на широком подоконнике, если постель не устраивала.
- Привет, ребята, - улыбаясь, Эдуардо расстегнул пуговицы на длинном пальто и повесил его на плечики в прихожей.
- Вардо, чувак! Ты сегодня припозднился, Марк заждался уже, наверное!
- ...Да? - растерянно заморгал Эдуардо, посмотрев в его сторону. - Ну, слушай, прости, ладно? Я не думал, что ты заметишь.
Марк немедленно сделал вид, что у него на мониторе как минимум три варианта захвата мирового господства, и вообще он их не слышит и не видит. Дастин был просто казнью египетской. Нет, Марк отлично сознавал, что тот как-то слишком, ненормально к нему лоялен — в любых перепалках, даже шутливых, Дастин вставал на его сторону. Но вот язык без костей - это был какой-то пиздец.
«Я не думал, что ты заметишь» — отлично, просто отлично. Может быть, он также думал, что Марк не замечал, как на него, как на мухоловку, налипают все эти девки — даже в прачечной, даже в библиотеке! А вечеринки в «Альфа Эпсилон Пи», на которых на него пялились и парни тоже?! Он понятия не имел, с кем Вардо провел последние три часа, после того, как у него закончилась последняя пара, и это просто выводило из себя.
- Марк? - Эдуардо подошел совсем близко, оперевшись ладонью о стол и нависнув над ним. И это его «Марк» было таким мягким, певучим, шершавым, до озноба вдоль спины, что он даже глаза прикрыл, переживая ощущение во всей полноте.
- Что тебе, Вардо? - сглотнув, выговорил он — как можно суше, буквально выжимая из себя хотя бы видимость безразличия. Хотя бы это. - Заняться нечем?
- Почему? - нахмурившись, отодвинулся тот. - Я просто шел мимо, и подумал...
- Да ну? И что же ты подумал, Вардо? - с закаменевшей шеей спросил Марк.
- Что ты будешь рад меня видеть? - как-то уже тихо и неуверенно ответил Эдуардо, и Марк, даже не глядя на него, знал, что тот сейчас теребит галстук у себя на шее. - Но, конечно, если я мешаю, то я могу в другой раз, окей, хорошо, я пой-...
Он сделал шаг назад, всерьез намереваясь уйти. Не глядя, Марк схватил его за рукав, не дав даже дернуться.
- Стоять. Я не говорил, что ты можешь уйти.
- Хорошо, Марк. Я останусь, если ты хочешь.
Не поворачивая головы, он слушал, как Вардо вытряхивает сумку на незастеленную кровать, как снимает ботинки, устраиваясь там с толстенным учебником под тусклым светом бра. Марк запретил себе пялиться на него, а потому ему оставалось только неподвижно смотреть на темно-синие панели файл-менеджера, отслеживая смутное отражение.
- Можешь читать вслух, - буркнул он какое-то время спустя. - Меня это не отвлекает.
- Правда? Ладно, я буду негромко, - улыбнулся Эдуардо, и стал говорить — какую-то чушь о фьючерсах, в которой Марк не понимал ни единого слова. Но это было точно так же, как, прислонившись спиной к диванным подушкам, сидеть на полу и слушать с ним Маризу, пока Крис и Дастин смотрели кино. Вардо вставлял один наушник себе в ухо, а второй доставался Марку.
Эдуардо любую фразу произносил экспрессивно, очень по-португальски (с какой-то затаенной глухой страстью), даже если это был параграф из учебника. Марку просто нравилось слушать, как он звучит. Эдуардо был его музыкой, его live-радио. Когда он был в комнате, вот здесь, рядом, говорил с ним или для него, Марк чувствовал, что абсолютно, фантастически всем доволен. У него мог не компилиться файл, могли слезиться от недосыпа глаза или мерзнуть ноги. Но это все не имело ровно никакого значения, если он мог сказать «Вардо» и в ответ услышать «Да, Марк?».
At first, Mark was unaware. And, if Dustin hadn't blabbed, he wouldn't have known in his life that Eduardo was being teased. Yes, that's as stupid as shkolota bullies each other.
When he entered, Dustin enthusiastically rubbed Chris:
- Well, so, and he says: "Listen, Zuckerberg's wife, where are you in such a hurry? I'm no worse!"
- Shit, - sadly Chris propped his head up in his hands, - poor Wardo.
"And by the way, he didn't even blink an eye," Dustin said admiringly. - No, he says, you are no match for him. And seriously, it is. The dude's gone nuts. And then Wardo was like this...
Seeing him, Dustin completely caricatured, with a thump, his jaw shut and fell silent.
"Okay," Chris shrugged. - He heard everything. Yes Mark?
He just nodded, fighting back the smile that was creeping up on his lips. It turned out bad. He was stuffy, hot with some kind of abnormal joy bubbling in his blood like soda. Wardo, sir! It is a pity that he was not there and did not hear it.
- Because of you, by the way, they don't give him any passage there, - Chris folded his arms accusingly on his chest. - He just doesn't tell you because he doesn't want to strain you.
- And what is my fault, Christopher? Mark tilted his chin. - I don't have the right to just go somewhere with a friend?
"Oh," he rolled his eyes. - Have you ever noticed how you "just walk" with him? Here it is, for example, - and Chris tenaciously grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand down. Just like Mark used to hold Wardo's hand.
"Oops," Mark rolled his eyes, remembering what else could have made Wardo so famous.
And he's holding him by the neck! Dustin butted in, happy to have something new to say. - Two fingers, like this. And if not by the neck, then by the waist he embraces.
Mark could tell that he was really lucky not only with his parents, but also with roommates. Neither Chris nor Dustin ever said anything offensive to him, although, God knows, he ran up a lot. And yet, they were both exceptionally tactful about their friendship with Wardo . But only now, Mark directly felt how his ears were starting to burn from their glances.
- I... I have an art history test tomorrow. Yes. So that's it, I'm not for anyone.
- What, and for the wife too? Dustin asked in a humble voice.
Chris choked on his beer and, judging by the sounds, almost died. But Mark couldn't be with those jerks anymore. He just needed to hide in a corner, at his desk, turn on the computer - it calmed him down. Looking out the window, at the brick wall covered with ivy, which turned brown from the cold, he smiled from the top of his head. Because Wardo was his, and finally, finally, it became noticeable to everyone. Hallelujah.
The audience was crowded, so they had to sit literally on top of each other. But who is to blame for the sudden desire to listen to such an abyss of people about social psychology? However, Mark did not complain. Because…well, Wardo was leaning sideways on him, his hands folded awkwardly in his lap and, from time to time, turning his head and smiling — just like that, for Mark. Such a gentle, special smile, from which he simply took his breath away.
What the economics student was actually doing in this lecture, instead of visiting his couple according to the schedule, Mark preferred not to think about. After all, it was none of his business. And if for some reason Wardo wanted to come, he was only glad. Once, Mark even noticed books on IT in his room. But, apparently, it was just curiosity - Eduardo was not really interested in this area, it was clear from everything.
The elderly professor only read the introduction, basically listing his papers on the topic, and they used that to talk. Not aloud - as soon as everyone sat down and Wardo began to tell him about his day in his ear, they immediately hushed at them, so they had to tear a piece of paper out of a notebook and write on it.
"How are you, Marcinho?" - wrote Eduardo and pushed the sheet to him.
Only when looking at his scribbles did Mark want to smile again - so much that he had to bite his lips. And it's also his Marcinho. A special word invented to confuse him.
"Yesterday I found out that I, it turns out, have a wife."
Watching Wardo out of the corner of his eye, he noticed how he flinched and lowered his head. And, nevertheless, I understood what it was about. Thinking and pondering the transparent cap of the pen in his mouth, he quickly wrote something and shoved the sheet in his direction.
"You're not happy about this?"
Mark was so taken aback that he didn't even know what to say. He was sure everything was clear.
"I'm glad, of course ," he brought out and, after thinking, added, "Everyone would like to have such a wife."
"I know =) They told me."
Mark frowned as he read it twice. Eduardo, it seems, even the handwriting was flirtatious.
"Who?"
"Many, Mark."
"Who exactly, Wardo?"
"I was just complimented. What is it?
"WHO?"
He realized how angry he was only when the pen ripped through the paper. Throwing it back on the desk, Mark turned away and closed his eyes, trying to calm down. His heart was literally jumping out of his chest, he was pounding all over, so that even his fingers were trembling. And it must have been two or three agonizing minutes before Mark froze as he felt a gentle touch on his hand under the table.
He turned, looking in shock at the serene face of Eduardo, who seemed to be listening to the lecturer very attentively. But in fact - not at all, because he touched Mark's hand - no, stroked, squeezed his wrist under the cuff of his hoodie. Touching him like you've never touched before. Closing his eyes, Mark allowed him to do this, clearly encouraging him with his inaction.
He could hardly concentrate on what the teacher was saying. I didn't even try to write it down - it was pointless. Because all Mark wanted was for Wardo to keep doing what he was doing. Explore the palm from the inside with the pads of your fingers, squeezing his hand in yours. To caress his brush so frankly and greedily that Mark was covered with perspiration.
At this point, the fact that he is left-handed came in very handy. Without removing his hand, Mark was able to write:
"Do you do this to others too?"
"Only with you," Wardo scrawled in response.
But he could no longer correspond. He could not and did not want to, answering him by stroking Eduardo's hand in response. Slipping your fingers between his, and squeezing, saying without a word: my my my.
Mark turned his head. Wardo was sitting next to him, all red to the ears, with a brilliant, fixed look in his eyes. And then he thought that he did not have so many desires, in fact. And maybe it wouldn't be too brazen to want Wardo to be around, if possible always.
- Chris, where are you, huh? whined Dustin. - My whole body is shriveled.
- Met a friend, - he answered evasively, judging by the tinkling, passing him a couple of packs of beer.
"Ah-ah," Dustin mimicked in a languid voice, "an acquaintance. And how closely do you know each other, mm? Krrristoferrr? Is it closer than with me?
"Back off," Chris snorted, smiling from ear to ear. Mark was aware that he was flattered by the constant teasing, even if he didn't admit it. By the way, are we alone?
- Look at the hanger.
- OU. All right, - said Chris, - let's go to the living room. Let's not interfere with them.
Hearing this, Mark began to get a little angry. It is not clear what is wrong if he processes sociometric data in SPSS, and Wardo is sitting on the floor nearby. So what if he hugs his leg. Maybe he's more comfortable that way.
And these were the details that Mark would now send to hell with everything and everyone, but would not budge. Not now, when Wardo pressed his warm socked foot against his bare foot, his cheek against his thigh. They actually piled into the living room, and it was even better. With no witnesses, Mark could afford to say something. Not too obvious, lest Wardo imagine. Just stroke his hair, run your nails along the back of his head so that he closes his eyes.
Eduardo was somehow especially quiet today. He said almost nothing, only kept clinging to Mark, crawling under his arms like a spoiled cat.
- Hey, Wardo, - Mark asked quietly, - what are you doing?
He silently lifted his head, looking at him with very sad big eyes.
- No, seriously, what's the matter?
- Holidays are coming soon. My parents are waiting for me in Miami," Eduardo explained with a heavy sigh.
Mark involuntarily twitched, with a half-conscious movement, pressing him by the neck to him. He completely forgot that there is such a thing as holidays. He didn't even think about what that meant to him. But what could be done here?
Swallowing, he looked at Wardo, only now realizing why he'd acted this way all evening. He said, of course, - a hundred years ago, that he would go to his parents for two weeks, bask in the sun. But then - then Mark did not even think that very soon he would not be able to do without him.
- What will I do without you there? Eduardo said in an unhappy voice.
- You will write letters to me. And sms. And talk to me.
- That's very little, Mark. I won't have enough.
His voice trembled a little, and Mark broke down, giving up on all his carefully cherished principles and stroking Wardo on the cheek. On a gentle fluff along the upper lip.
He gasped, pressing his hand to him, kissing his palm. And thinking about unnecessary desires that need to be cut off did not help. Mark still wanted, really wanted more. Watching Eduardo bite his wrist, peering out from under his eyelashes, how, emboldened by desperation, he pulls his fingers into his mouth.
- Wardo, what are you doing? he said weakly, choking on a gulp of air as hot lips closed around her, caressing and tenderly. Eduardo said nothing, sitting in front of him on the floor with his eyes closed, sucking on his fingers. Mark just couldn't look at him - that hungry expression, sunken cheeks - he sucked his fingers like they suck a dick. And Mark immediately got up from this, resting against the hard fabric of his pants, so he squirmed in panic.
Reclining his head on the headrest of the chair, he did not even understand how he made this terrible sound - some kind of painful whining.
- Mark, Wardo, how about playing...? Oh fuck. S-sorry guys.
"Dustin, go away," was all Mark could say.
He was the last one to restrain himself so as not to press Wardo's tousled head to himself, not to press his face right there, into his groin, where everything ached so much from every gentle touch. But Eduardo, it seems, wanted it himself, because he was so poking his nose into his thigh, putting his whole fingers into his mouth and biting already at the knuckles, that Mark was afraid that he was about to get fucked from all this.
- Wardo. Come to me.
He didn't even understand how it came out of his mouth. But Eduardo crawled up to him on the floor, and somehow got up, leaning on the chair. He was shaking.
- Come here, sit on me, - Mark hugged him with both hands, sitting him on his knees. Somewhere in the background, he could hear Dustin and Chris talking, but he didn't care, he didn't care now. Because Wardo, clasping his hands around his neck, closing his eyes, with a completely happy smile, rubbed right on his cock, pressing his cheek to cheek. Mark did not even try to kiss him - maybe because for some reason it was firmly hammered into his head that then it was no longer friendship. As if what they had now was normal for friends.
Wardo squirmed at him quite unashamedly. Mark did not even think that a decent, polite, correct Eduardo could be like that. With a wild blush, his lower lip bitten to scarlet, whimpering indistinctly when he pressed him to his waist.
Putting his hand into his hair, Mark pulled his head back, looking into the impenetrable black, dilated pupils. Enjoying the way Wardo was, to his stand-up undercoat, for him.
"I want to," Wardo said in a whisper, looking straight into his eyes. - I want you.
Mark did not expect this, so he let go of the edge of the table in shock. The chair abruptly drove off, stumbled upon the system unit left here in the morning and with a terrifying roar overturned on the floor.
Mark was in almost no pain. Well, maybe a couple of bruises on the coccyx. He didn't give a fuck, because he was lying on the carpet, hugging Eduardo to him, shamelessly wrapping his legs around him and breathing wetly into his neck. They just wanted to finish what they started, it was already impossible to stop. It was very quiet, and he perfectly heard Dustin say:
- No, Chris. If so smart, go there yourself!
Neither he nor Eduardo made another sound, trembling, clinging to each other and experiencing this very first time of theirs. Mark had no idea if friendly sex existed, or what they had. Wardo lifted his head with a soft laugh. With an expression like he was shocked by himself. However, Mark would not be surprised if it were so. He didn't think very well right now.
- How will I live without you for two weeks? - Eduardo asked indignantly, rising on his elbow - Your Internet is garbage. I want to touch you, you know?
- The case will end with the fact that I will not let you go anywhere, - Mark answered gloomily, clasping his cheekbones and stroking his fingertips. He really didn't know what he would do without his best friend for fourteen days.
- Mark! Are you alive there at all? Chris asked worriedly.
- We are there! he shouted, not even bothering to sound less overtly smug. Eduardo somehow got up and stood, straightening his shirt, which had come out of his trousers, looking so eloquent in his crumpled suit that Mark covered his mouth with his hand.
He wanted to make sure it was all real. Unbutton his trousers, ironed with arrows, and stick his hand in there to feel how his fingers stick together. Bring it up to your nose and inhale - Mark wanted to know what kind of smell he had. With Wardo, he constantly, constantly wanted proof, which he did not think, and he really belongs to Mark, completely.
- What did I say! Dustin promptly chimed in. - And in general, Mark, Wardo, come out already, huh? I might be envious. What, Chris? At least I'm not ashamed to admit it!
- Listen. I need to go to my room, - said Eduardo, smiling a little sadly, as if he did not want to leave.
- Shower, huh? - asked Mark, not looking at him, - Okay. But are you coming tomorrow?
- Mark. Are you out of your mind? Well, how can I not come?
And then Mark allowed himself to smile - with dimples, that rare, sincere smile that only close people saw. It was probably at that moment that he decided that if there should be any relationship in his life, then let it be Wardo. The one and only exception to the rule, is it not so scary?
- Wardo? Well, where are you? Dustin asked from behind him, only sighing as the front door slammed. - Mark, don't be so greedy. So what are the manners?
Mark lifted the fallen chair, put the system unit in a corner and sat in prostration in front of the computer, sitting in the headphones until almost a hundred songs from the playlist were played.
Mark thought he would be bored, but Wardo just wouldn't let him. In the morning, his eyes wide open from the crackling of a mobile phone crawling on the table, he shielded himself from the bright winter sun with his hand and read:
"I would bury you whole in the sand so that you don't get burned, and drink cocktails through a straw."
"Wardo ," he typed, lying on his stomach in bed, "admit it, you just want to put something in my mouth."
"Thanks, Mark ," came the reply. - "Now my something does not fit in swimming trunks!"
Wardo wrote to him during the day, two lines at a time, but often. As often as he crawled out of the beach into the house, to the laptop, typing all this on it, probably with fingers sticky from sweet cocktails, and filling the keyboard with sand.
"Marcinho, I'm all alone here in such a huge bed. Only my mother kisses me, at breakfast on the forehead. Is anyone kissing you?"
Sighing and shaking his head, as if Wardo could see it, he quickly typed back, missing the keys:
"I installed a widget on half a monitor. Desk calendar that counts down the days until you return. Come and kiss me wherever you want."
Eduardo did everything he promised, except for one thing - he did not call. In an apologetic tone with a bunch of sad emoticons, explaining that he can't do it, because his ears are all around, and it will be impossible to say what you want. And that really sucked because Mark missed his voice, his weird accent.
And he listened - for hours, to complete stupefaction, all his favorite music found on the net. Everything in a row - tracks from capoeira communities, sertanejo performers (something like Brazilian country music), all fado performers up to Amalia Rodrigues. Even already starting to recognize some especially frequently repeated words by ear. When everything became boring, Mark broke into Eduardo's room in Eliot (the locks on the doors were flimsy, and, in fact, with the necessary skills, they did not differ from each other) and stole Vitor and Leu's disk from him - the very one that he kept in sealed box, like a rarity. The very first in this group. Father gave.
This one turned out to be the best, because Mark still remembered how they were sitting on the floor with their backs against the soft bottom of the sofa, listening to it together, and Wardo in an undertone explained what each song was about.
At the very end, already rabid from himself, Mark went to his mother for a couple of days.
Once at dinner, when Donna and Ariel had already gone to her room, and Randy was rinsing the dishes and still did not hear anything, he sat down to her and asked: -
Mom. But what if not all desires can be cut off?
"Ah, so that's why you're here," she nodded. - OK. If you are asking me about this, it means that the moment has come when it is not necessary to cut off. Only, Mark, - she sighed, shaking her head, - I'll tell you one thing. You will regret it no matter what you do.
He just sighed and hung his head, strongly suspecting that his mother was right.
On the evening before Wardo's return day, Mark caught a glimpse of the two babies arguing in the living room. In general, they were usually an endless source of positive, because, on the one hand, they sometimes endured each other with difficulty, and on the other, they secretly adored each other. But now there was clearly some kind of discord.
"Take it and ask it yourself," Chris hissed, and Mark could just see him angrily blowing his bangs off his forehead.
- Yeah, now. Somehow I don't want to die in my prime from a direct hit by a screw on two gigabytes!
- He's not himself right now. It's not certain that it will.
- Chris. Well, you are the most polite and tactful of us, damn it, is it difficult for you to ask a question?
- It's a very personal question, Dustin. And don't look at me like I'm Obi-Wan Kenobi, your only hope!
- Well, he's already tomorrow. Well, Chris, well, honey, what can I do to make you agree? If it doesn't really trample on my heterosexual morality. A?
What else is the moral? She wasn't there and isn't there, - Chris answered gloomily, accompanying this with such a heavy sigh that Mark could not stand it, leaned out from behind the monitor and asked: - Well,
what's the matter already?
- Here. I told you! Dustin pointed accusingly at him.
- Okay, - Chris stared at Mark with unblinking eyes, for some reason gaining air, as if he was about to jump from a ten-meter tower. - Mark. What's up with Wardo?
Having mentally laid all the mats on them, he choked, spun in his chair in complete confusion and froze, slowing down with slaps on the carpet. This was not a situation to just send to dick. Because Chris and Dustin - they were not strangers.
Mark couldn't even raise his eyes to look at them. Of course, they asked him for a reason. Well, in fact, it's normal in general - just yesterday friends, and today already ... that's all. But what could Mark do? He thought it all this way, didn't he?
"I... I don't know, Chris," he said lostly. - He is my friend, and not only. Doesn't that happen? Well, you had a lot of stuff. I mean, I don't mean to say that you... Oh my God, my head is such a mess.
- No, why not, - he said gloomily. - It even happens. Only the whole crap is that one person usually considers it a friendship, and the second ... well, you understand. As a result, the scenario is obtained, as in Happy Tree Friends. And, you know, I wouldn't want that for you.
"Me too," Dustin said. - You somehow already decide, huh? Well, there's still time until tomorrow.
Mark buried his face in his hands, being in complete disarray. Cutting off desires. This concept worked just fine until Wardo came into his life. But, but. After all, he knew that Wardo really wanted to see him. Wants him. And what was he supposed to do?
The mobile phone shuddered in his pocket, and Mark froze in horror, reading the incoming SMS:
"You haven't changed your mind, have you? I just missed you crazy. Only you are in my head."
He threw the phone away as if he had been burned. How, how can you say no when you are offered your whole self?
- So what? Chris asked, looking at him frowningly. - Are you friends with Wardo?
"No, not anymore," Mark stammered. And he didn't like the way it sounded at all.
"I don't even know if I should be happy about this, or how," Dustin scratched his chin. - Your tone is very shitty.
At night, when he tossed and turned on the damp sheets, dreaming that Wardo would come and kiss at least on the forehead, calm, comfort, another SMS came.
"Mark?"
He swallowed hard, imagining such a familiar face, the crease between the brows, the soft outline of the nose and lips. How Eduardo silently stares at his phone, as if waiting for a verdict. And, having made up his mind, he typed in response:
"Everything is in force. I am waiting".
At the other end, he could see how Wardo finally exhaled and fell flat on the bed, smiling and clutching the cell phone to his chest.
Eduardo did not wait for the morning and went to Kirkland right after his arrival. Mark himself opened it, and Eduardo, stepping over the threshold, stood like a pillar, not really knowing how to behave with him now. I wanted to hug, but - will he allow it? Seeing his obvious confusion, Mark himself stepped forward, awkwardly pulled him by the waist with one hand, and they stood like that for a while, silently, as if re-establishing a broken connection.
When Eduardo wanted to sit on the couch with everyone else, Mark did not let him, pulling him towards him and sitting him on top, and even tightly clasping him with both arms crosswise. Eduardo was terribly uncomfortable - firstly, because of the way Chris and Dustin looked at them, snorting and looking away. And secondly, he perfectly saw that Mark had not changed his mind, and everything was in force. It couldn't have been any clearer—Eduardo could feel through his trousers how Mark was standing, he could feel rapid breathing on his neck. And he could not help himself, helplessly excited and fidgeting, forcing him only to press him tighter, holding him in place.
- Wardo, sit still, - Mark said unhappily, squeezing his knee, as if not realizing that this is pure mockery, that Eduardo does not know how to behave, because Mark paws him in front of everyone. And he can't even hide how it is rushing to him. Mark's conscience was absolutely absent, because he suddenly put his heavy hand on top and squeezed the stretched width of his trousers so confidently and imperiously that Eduardo bit the inside of his cheek, arching in his hands.
- Mark, fuck, - Dustin said in silence with some fear, - well, you give. Now, if porn was filmed like that ... Really, it inserts.
"Porn is directing," Mark chuckled. - We really have everything.
Chris did not say anything at all, silently picked up the backpack from the floor and dumped it somewhere on the street, but Eduardo could still see his indignant look - it really was already too much. And Mark - he, as if nothing had happened, sat and reasoned, continuing the thought he had begun.
- You see, such a thing as privacy should cease to exist altogether.
- Why is this? - Dustin tried to pretend that they were just talking, and Mark did not stroke Eduardo's parted thighs at all.
- Dustin, all information about a person's life should be publicly available. What he prefers... What he wants, what he likes.
Eduardo's self-control was completely gone now, and he just couldn't hold back any longer, squeezing Mark's knees and letting him press his cock right into the seam of his trousers. He sobbed - it was unbearable in silence.
- What do you like, Zuckerberg, I see very clearly.
Dustin could be as straight as he wanted, but Eduardo could now hear from his voice that he was very partial to this show right under his nose.
- So it should be - slightly out of breath, continued Mark. - If something is important to a person, really interested, everyone should be able to see it.
- What, that's absolutely everything? Dustin asked, swallowing.
- Yes. Because if you are ashamed or hiding something, then you just need to stop doing it. You can easily do without it. It's clear?
"More than," breathed poor Moskowitz with difficulty. Eduardo closed his eyes, feeling his cheeks burn - he was very ashamed, but he could not do anything now. Because he wanted Mark.
Squeezing his chin with two fingers, Mark touched his lips - insistently, forcing them to open, and suddenly whispered in Eduardo's ear:
- Take it in your mouth, Wardo. You did so well.
He did not think or reason, taking his fingers with his lips and letting them slip further; already insane, because Mark jerked him off without even undressing him, and the silk lining of his pocket rubbed slippery against the grease-soaked swimming trunks. Mark was breathing so hard behind him, hot and broken, that Eduardo couldn't even hold back his groans.
"No, fuck you," Dustin rushed out of his seat, slamming the bathroom door loudly and turning on the tap so that he couldn't be heard.
Mark seemed to know how Eduardo excites when his mouth is busy. Then, before the holidays, he himself could not restrain himself and climbed up to him. And now it was, in general, revenge. Conceptual revenge, because Mark was moved by this lack of privacy.
Eduardo bit his fingers, trying to resist at least that way. But Mark took them out, wiped them on his pants and, without saying a word, threw him back on the sofa. Eduardo did not have time to come to his senses, as Mark was already lying on him, between his spread knees, pressing both wrists to the armrest. And then he fucked Eduardo like he would have a girl with very strict parents - without taking off his clothes, driving him crazy with just this sweet friction.
Eduardo came under him in two minutes, and when Mark exhaled convulsively and tears, his heart was pounding and his breath broke.
Mark sat down on the sofa nearby, silently stroking his shoulder and biting his lips - as if apologizing. Eduardo could only sigh. Definitely, next time you will need to drag him to you. Because in Eliot, Eduardo had a private room, and there was no need to worry about privacy in principle. In vain he knocked her out, or something, from the headman ...
He half rose, and Mark stared expectantly into his face, biting his lip.
- You know that I'm yours, - Eduardo said in a whisper, looking reproachfully into his eyes, - don't do it like that, huh?
- But why? His nostrils quivered angrily and flared. - I want everyone around to know too.
"They have known for so long, Mark. Both Chris and Dustin. And everyone else. I already have a stamp on my forehead, I guess! Luminescent, as they put on the wrist in bars, - Eduardo breathed nervously. - Property of Mark Zuckerberg, damn it.
- Great, - Mark jerked his Adam's apple. - That's the way it should be.
- Do you think so? Eduardo frowned, vaguely realizing that this was not entirely normal.
"Just like that," he nodded stubbornly, pursing his lips irreconcilably.
- Mark, tell me...
- What? Mark twitched, lifting his shoulders.
- You after all... You won't give up on me, then?
- No "later", - Mark shook his head with a deadly serious expression, - no, Wardo, never. Unless you leave me alone.
- I?! Eduardo widened his eyes. - I - you?
- Okay, - Mark allowed himself a restrained smile, - I'm just arguing. Basically.
When Mark got drunk, the dialogue with him almost inevitably mutated into a monologue. Moreover, Eduardo knew that this was not because Mark wanted everyone to shut up and listen to him. It was something else. For the same reason, he could be late for a couple, hammering an idea that came into his head into his favorite Tomboy, reacting to reproaches and shouts with a laconic "Wardo, a thought!".
Eduardo didn't even try to get a word in, even though he was tempted to. This time, Mark talked about what, in his opinion, he really could not know. With animated gestures (which made him look more like an articulated doll), Mark said:
- You know that twenty-year-old girls experience very weak sexual sensations? They may look like whores and act cheeky, but their sensuality is not yet awakened. All they want is to have a boyfriend to look after and take care of them. He covered it with his jacket when it was cold. Gave bears from Hallmark tall to their waists. I watched a movie with them when they got sick, gave flowers and hugged in public.
- But... But, Mark! Eduardo couldn't resist. - Don't we all need care-...
- And when you fuck her, this girl feels almost nothing but tenderness for a stupid, horny animal. It just gives way. Dimly realizing that if she allows it, she will receive bears and ice cream in return, - not paying any attention to Eduardo's remark, Mark finished his thought.
- Look, how do you know that? Eduardo asked helplessly. - You've never had a girlfriend.
- Right. No, - Mark nodded, raising an eyebrow with some comical surprise. Then he immediately fell into thought, as if he had not heard the question.
- So where? Eduardo didn't hesitate.
- Read researches on sexology, - he dismissed. - Everything has been studied for a long time, Wardo, all materials are openly available on the net, and it is enough to show a little curiosity.
- Usually, those who are interested in girls show curiosity... Meeting them? Eduardo shrugged angrily.
"That's a good way, too," Mark agreed, finishing his beer from the bottom of his glass in one gulp.
- You don't want to use it? Eduardo squinted at him, not understanding what all this was for, and already slightly annoyed. He did not like Mark's craving for experiments (for example, how much time can you spend without sleep? And on some energy drinks?). True, his own jealous desire to limit these experiments did not please him even more. Maybe it was the result of dealing with Mark, because... Eduardo had never felt such a painfully tangible sense of possessiveness towards another person before.
"I'll think about it," Mark said lightly, calmly reaching out for his beer and taking a sip.
And Eduardo could not even tell with certainty whether he was mocking or speaking seriously. But that was a given, because he had managed to contact Mark. And although everyone around broke off relations and started them again with amazing ease, with the motto "this is a college!", Eduardo knew for sure that he could not do that. He can't, no matter what Mark does. And he could only hope that Zuckerberg was not aware of this.
Это было правда пугающе — со временем обнаружить, что сухой, безэмоциональный тон комментариев, неуловимо быстрое мелькание пальцев по клавишам, и то, как Марк облизывает губы, сосредотачиваясь на какой-нибудь закавыке в коде, его волновало. Эдуардо был почти уверен, что Марк заметил это (может, даже раньше него самого), потому что он делал все, чтобы Эдуардо мог видеть его таким почаще.
В Кёркленде это было еще терпимо — когда Марк, после часа сосредоточенного стука по клавишам, начинал мусолить во рту пластиковый дротик от дартс, Эдуардо всегда мог тихо позвать. И тогда Марк, если хотел, сохранял то, чем был занят, чтобы повернуться на кресле и с понимающей ухмылкой подманить его к себе.
А вот командные соревнования по спортивному программированию — то, чем Марк развлекался время от времени, были сущим кошмаром. Мало того, что это были марафоны, длящиеся по несколько суток. Там Эдуардо не мог сделать вообще ничего, кроме как принести сэндвич или питья, к тому же, чувствуя себя очень недалеким на фоне всех этих ребят. Большинство из них даже не учились на соответствующем факультете — как и Марк, а просто интересовались этим. Хобби, увлечение. Эдуардо среди них ощущал себя не в своей тарелке — его увлечения лежали совсем в других областях, а сюда он приходил, чтобы... ну да. Чтобы просто смотреть на Марка — хотя бы издали, из-за плотного круга сдвинутых стульев, на которых сидели участники команды и желающие за них поболеть. Чтобы смотреть и гадать, что же Марк в нем нашел — ведь Эдуардо не умеет ничего такого, а Марк Цукерберг — хакер от Бога. Так говорили все (с восторженным придыханием).
- Почему? - спросил он как-то, когда счел это уместным. Марк накануне выспался и только что позавтракал — момент был самый подходящий. - Почему ты хочешь меня, я же не такой умный, не такой, как они все?
Дастин сидел рядом, но только их отношения — в смысле, их, включая Дастина и Криса, уже давно были настолько открытыми, что Эдуардо не стеснялся. Понятие «личное» (к большому удовольствию Цукерберга) как-то понемногу перестало для них существовать, сойдя на нет.
Марк от неожиданности моргнул, а потом разулыбался, кусая нижнюю губу.
- Вардо. Во-первых, ты очень умный, и это, сам знаешь, не лесть. Во-вторых, - Марк пригладил ему прядку на виске, - ты не думал, что мне не нужен такой же, как я?
- Нидабоф! - с набитым ртом выпучил глаза Дастин. - Вардо, они бы друг друга просто сразу поубивали! Лужа крови, и все такое.
- Ты думаешь, я не в курсе, что со мной трудно? Что я невыносимый зазнавшийся тип? - вполголоса спросил Марк, легонько гладя Эдуардо по шее. - В курсе. Меня бы мало кто смог терпеть так, как ты.
- Во-во, Вардо! Смотри: я прогер, а Крис обожает историю и прочую гуманитарную хрень. И что? Видите, он мне браслетик подарил!
Дастин оттянул на запястье красный резиновый браслет, и Марк с уважительным видом потыкал в него пальцем.
- Да, кстати. Наглядный пример.
Вздохнув, Эдуардо почесал бровь.
- Ну-ну, хватит мне тут, - Марк взял его за подбородок и поцеловал — коротко, просто по ходу дела. При всех.
Дастин даже ухом не повел — но это, возможно, потому, что в своей собственной комнате уже насмотрелся такого, что поцелуи были на этом фоне просто фигней. Эдуардо чувствовал, что жар приливает к мочкам ушей — Марк не стеснялся того, что они вместе.
- Марк, время, - постучал по часам парень с длинными светлыми волосами, собранными на затылке в хвост. - Контест через четыре минуты.
Кивнув, Марк встал, отряхивая со штанов крошки.
- Дастин, хватит жрать, ё-моё! Отдай и пойдем.
Он не сказал больше ничего и ушел, не оборачиваясь, но Эдуардо все равно сидел на идиотском пластиковом стуле у стены, с недоеденным сэндвичем Дастина в руке, и улыбался.
Он не предупреждал, что придет — просто, когда заканчивались самые насущные дела, шел в Кёркленд, иногда заскакивая по дороге за чем-нибудь съестным. Этот маршрут был уже настолько знакомым, что кажется, завяжи ему глаза — и Эдуардо дошел бы все равно. (Примерно так, как достигают конечного пункта назначения перелетные птицы, не рассуждая, не думая).
Апрельские сумерки дышали прохладой и свежестью, и он вдыхал полной грудью, улыбаясь. За день Эдуардо всегда успевал соскучиться по Марку, как бы это ни было глупо. Подходя, он уже видел белеющие в темноте пилястры Кёркленд-хауса, чугунный балкончик над крыльцом, когда из двери пулей вылетел кто-то, в ком он при ближайшем рассмотрении узнал Криса.
Подбежав к нему и тяжело дыша, Крис уперся ладонями Эдуардо в грудь:
- Вардо, стой. Не ходи туда.
- Но почему? - вытаращился он. - Что случилось? Что-то с Марком?
Панически вглядываясь в его лицо, Эдуардо пытался понять, так ли это, — но нет, Крис не был расстроен. Крис был чертовски зол. Сказать по правде, он никогда не видел, чтобы флегматичный от природы Хьюз был в таком бешенстве.
- Да, что-то с Марком, - ответил он, скрипнув зубами. - Что-то у Марка с головой, если точнее.
- Но почему мне нельзя...- начал Эдуардо, но тот перебил, не слушая.
- Потому что я тебя все равно не пущу. Вардо, пойдем. Мы поговорим, не здесь, где-нибудь, давай найдем паб и сядем там.
- Ну, хорошо, - Эдуардо растерялся от такого напора. - Но там-то ты мне, надеюсь, скажешь, в чем дело? Что-то мне все это не нравится.
- Поверь, когда узнаешь, тебе не понравится еще больше, - с досадой выдохнул Крис. И, не сдержавшись, сказал то, чего Эдуардо ну никак не ожидал услышать.
- Вардо, у него там девушка.
После четвертого по счету пива Эдуардо впал в состояние такой безнадежной тоски, что Крис явно жалел, что ему приходится иметь с этим дело. С девушкой, Марк, как оказалось, виделся уже несколько раз — зная Марка, было понятно, что он даже не думал это от ребят скрывать. Эдуардо понятия не имел, нормально ли это — вести себя так, или нет. Но только ему было очень тошно, тошно и обидно. Марку было мало его — так, видимо, это следовало понимать. Ему понадобилась еще и Эрика — ну, так, для комплекта.
- Я ему не нужен на самом деле, да? Крис?
- Нужен. Даже не сомневайся, Вардо.
- Да? - слабо рассмеялся он, ставя кружку на стол — руки дрожали. - Заметно. Я бы пришел, а он с ней там. Интересно, что бы он сказал.
- Я тебя в окно увидел. На подоконнике сидел, учил, - помолчав, сказал Крис. - И как-то подумал, что лучше без шекспировских драм. Вы с ним должны встретиться и нормально все это обсудить, Вардо. Там, где нет лишних ушей.
- Да мне плевать. Пусть бы при ней. Если он вдруг решил, что ему надо... на другой берег.
- Но ему не надо! У него пять по шкале Кинси, я сам видел. То есть - может быть, раз в столетие. Вардо, Марк на девушек смотрит, как на пустое место! Это все какой-то фейк, понимаешь?
- Фейк? - сощурился Эдуардо.
- Именно. Вот это меня и бесит больше всего. На хуя он это делает? Экспериментатор, - Крис подвигал челюстью. - Ведь понятно, что ты бы все равно узнал рано или поздно. Я говорил же, что эмоционально он бревно, да? Вот, полюбуйся. Бревно как есть.
- Это не так, Крис.
- Отлично! - всплеснул руками тот. - Я даже не сомневался, что ты его и сейчас будешь защищать.
- Я не защищаю. Просто он вовсе не железный дровосек с прикрученной к башке масленкой, - грустно улыбнулся Эдуардо. - Только я не знаю, зачем Марк делает это со мной. За что.
- Я тоже не знаю, Вардо, - Крис со вздохом откинулся на спинку стула. - Но одно скажу, мне паршиво наблюдать. Дастину тоже не по себе, я вижу — но он как всегда, слова Марку поперек не скажет. Ну, ты знаешь.
В тот вечер Эдуардо был таким уставшим и измученным, что не стал ничего выяснять, писать, звонить, и так далее. Марк молчал, видимо, считая, что все это в порядке вещей.
За целые сутки размышлений от самооценки у Эдуардо остались одни развалины. Версий было так много: Марк решил оставить его, потому что вообще изначально они были друзья, и он вовсе не планировал что-то, кроме. Потому что у них не совпадали интересы. Потому что они были из разных социальных слоев. Потому что у них с Марком так и не было секса, в общепринятом смысле слова (а видимо, должен был быть).
Он ждал на самом деле только одного — что Марк напишет смс о том, что все, в смысле, у них с Эдуардо все. Объяснять он, естественно, ничего не стал бы — это было понятно. Но Марк не написал. И весь этот жуткий, тоскливый вечер Эдуардо провел, валяясь на кровати и ненавидя себя за эту слабость, за то, что позволил сделать это с собой, и готов позволять дальше — только бы Марк не бросал.
«Он хотя бы спрашивал обо мне?» - написал Эдуардо в конце концов Крису.
«Нет, но вертится, как уж на сковородке», - пришло в ответ.
Он тяжело вздохнул, закусив костяшки пальцев. Все-таки, не все равно. Ну, хоть что-то.
- Эдуардо, ты чего, там один так и сидишь? - поскреблась в дверь соседка по этажу, Хейли. - Хочешь, приходи к нам с Пэм. Все равно скучно.
Он встал и подошел к двери, высунув голову в щель:
- Спасибо, ласточка. Но нет, не хочу.
- Что случилось? Ты бы себя видел! Так что?
- Слушай, я не очень хочу это обсуждать, - он понизил голос, - но... можно сказать, мне изменили. Я не знаю, что делать.
- Как что? - воздела руки Хейли, - Если бы я была на твоем месте, я бы пошла и с ним познакомилась! Ведь нельзя же судить по голым фактам. Может, все не так плохо, как тебе кажется.
- Господи. Ты что, серьезно? - приоткрыв дверь пошире, уставился на нее Эдуардо. - Но что я ей скажу?
- Так это она? - недоверчиво нахмурилась Хейли. - Но я думала...
- Вот и я тоже так думал, - отвел глаза он. – Но, очевидно, был неправ.
- Слушай, но это даже к лучшему, - подумав, заверила его соседка. - С девушкой будет проще договориться, мы по природе сговорчивее. И потом... Не уверена, что она захочет встречаться всерьез с парнем, у которого уже есть парень. Тем более, ты говоришь, девица из Бостонского... Гонору у них вечно!
- Окей, - Эдуардо поднял руки, - встречусь с ней, как только смогу. И, Хейли, - он постарался улыбнуться, - спасибо за совет.
- Борись, Эдуардо, - стукнула она его в плечо кулаком, - не будь тряпкой.
Он только кивнул, захлопывая дверь, и задумчиво подошёл к окну. А потом вынул из кармана пиджака, лежащего на стуле, телефон, и набрал один из номеров, висящий на быстром наборе.
- Дастин, - сказал он, - мне нужен мобильный телефон и адрес общежития Эрики.
- Не вопрос, - сказал Дастин. - Как только, так скину тебе в почту.
Он ни о чем не спрашивал, и в этом — вдруг подумал Эдуардо, и было преимущество дружбы. Готовность помочь по умолчанию, если тебя об этом просят. А если учесть, что хакерские наклонности Дастина были столь же явными, как и у Марка, это было для него не просто скучной обязаловкой, а интересной и увлекательной тактической задачей.
«Только не нужно душить ее галстуком», - пришла через пять минут смс от Криса. - «Странгуляционная борозда, я считаю, смотрится очень уродливо».
«Постараюсь обойтись без видимых следов на теле», - счел нужным ответить Эдуардо. Он все же был обязан Крису слишком многим, чтобы не уважить такую мелкую, незначительную просьбу.
Естественно, долго он не продержался, отправив Хьюзу смс, что зайдет ближе к вечеру. Просто чтобы тот был в курсе, если был так против жанра «драма». Крис написал, что он вообще удивлен, что Эдуардо хватило аж на целых два дня. Эдуардо ничего не ответил, потому что было, наверное, понятно, чего ему это стоило.
С Эрикой он поговорил утром. По телефону она оказалась милейшим существом — абсолютно уравновешенным, тактичным, и они без проблем назначили встречу на вечер пятницы в ее студенческом городке. Эдуардо счел, что некрасиво будет заставлять девушку тащиться из Бостонского в Гарвард, потому что, в самом деле, это ему было надо, а не ей.
Но то было утром, а к вечеру Эдуардо плюнул на все и пошел к Марку.
- Здорово, Вардо, - встретил его в дверях Дастин, спросив шепотом. - Ну как вы там с Эрикой?
- В пятницу, - лаконично ответил он, разуваясь.
Дастин кивнул и отошел, пропуская его в комнату.
Крис приветственно помахал со своей кровати, на минуту оторвавшись от учебника, а потом показал пальцами знак «виктори», и Эдуардо немного взбодрился. Его все поддерживали. Все, включая эту самую Эрику, которая на слова «мы с ним встречаемся» ответила вовсе не «твою ж мать», как предполагалось, а прохладное «о, что-то в этом роде я и подозревала».
Марк торчал за компом. Как всегда, и это было не удивительно. Удивительным было то, как, заслышав шаги Эдуардо, он вздрогнул и шевельнул рукой на мыши так, что экран тут же стал тускнеть и погас, войдя в защитный режим. Марк встал с кресла, повернулся к нему лицом, и, оперевшись руками о стол, присел на краешек.
- Вардо, - сказал он хрипло, - Вардо, я... я соскучился. Иди сюда, ко мне. Ну?
Эдуардо мог сказать: «Обнимайся со своей Эрикой», и еще много чего. Но он сказал только: «Правда?» с интонацией восторженного идиота, и, подойдя, ткнулся Марку носом в теплую щеку.
- Конечно! - сказал Марк возмущенно, глядя на него снизу вверх, осторожно гладя плечи и руки Эдуардо. Так нежно, что он даже не мог ничего с собой сделать, сейчас — когда Марк заглядывал в глаза, улыбаясь ему этой своей несмелой, зажатой улыбкой, которую Эдуардо так любил.
- Я думал, тебе не до меня, - вздохнул Эдуардо, уже сдаваясь, целуя его в висок, в кудрявую голову, дыша им.
- Мне всегда до тебя, - раздельно и четко сказал Марк, будто выделяя слова ярко-желтым хайлайтером, чтобы он запомнил.
Он ничего не ответил, прижавшись к нему, вздрагивая оттого, как Марк, не стесняясь, ласкал его через одежду. Трогая губами стоящие под тонкой рубашкой соски, гладя между ног сзади, царапая короткими ногтями через ткань. Через минуту они целовались взасос, отрываясь только чтобы вдохнуть чуть-чуть, и не могли остановиться.
Как же это было классно — запустить обе руки ему под футболку, ощущая под ладонями его торчащие ребра. Марку нравилось — это было видно. Запрокинув голову, Марк прижимал его к себе, весь такой потерянный, с полуоткрытым ртом, что у Эдуардо все вылетело из головы. Все, что он хотел — это видеть Марка таким, слушать его полузадушенные стоны. Чувствовать, как Марк подается навстречу — с безумным взглядом, цепляясь за его плечи.
Все закончилось так быстро, что это было даже обидно. Потому что в те минуты, когда у них был секс (ну ладно, что-то вроде секса), Марк так откровенно в нем нуждался, был таким ласковым, таким открытым, что это было чистой интоксикацией. И Эдуардо не мог представить, кто, кроме Марка, мог дать ему такое.
Эдуардо извинился и ушел к себе, потому что ходить липким до ночи не хотелось, а душ в Кёркленде был ни к черту. Лейку давно пора было заменить, но всем же было лень! Он вернулся обратно через сорок минут, застав мокрого взъерошенного Марка в трусах и футболке, который тут же подвинулся на кровати и похлопал по одеялу, чтобы Эдуардо сел рядом.
Он был уверен, что счастливее быть просто не может.
Весь вечер Марк не выпускал его из рук, трогая и тиская, действительно соскучившись — тут он не соврал. Тычась носом за ухо так, что никакое кино Эдуардо смотреть, конечно, не мог. Это было вообще смешно — то, что с первого дня он сидел на этом диване, пытаясь смотреть что-то рядом с Марком, и каждый раз терпел в этом постыдное поражение. Фарс, и не более того, что всем было абсолютно понятно. Крис смотреть фильм отказался, сославшись на то, что это Дастин обожает Портман, а не он. И дурацкое кино про киллера, когда коллоквиум на носу, он пересматривать не собирается.
Но, перед тем, как уйти к себе на койку учить, он тронул Эдуардо за плечо, и со вздохом облегчения прикрыл глаза. «Слава богу. Я так рад за вас» - так и читалось у него на лице. Эдуардо прикусил губу, смущенно улыбаясь в ответ, и благодарно сжал его руку чуть пониже локтя. Он всегда помнил, что, если бы не Крис, они с Марком вообще бы не познакомились.
Фильм был отсмотрен примерно до середины, когда он услышал тихое «Вардо!» и почувствовал, как Марк тянет его руку к себе, уже заранее понимая, чем все кончится. Ведь он по Марку стосковался не меньше. Под пальцами у Эдуардо сейчас был такой недвусмысленный стояк, что он запрокинул голову, мысленно моля бога о милосердии. Марк его хотел. Он прижимал к себе его руку — сначала молча, без слов прося, чтобы потрогал, с закушенной губой глядя, как Эдуардо его ласкает. А потом, приобняв его за шею, шепнул:
- Вардо. Хочу твой рот. Пожалуйста.
Этого у них еще не было. Марк не был таким, как те парни, о которых рассказывал Крис, когда перебирал лишнего. Он не тащил его в койку, не требовал ничего. А самому Эдуардо рядом с ним нужно было совсем немного — его волшебных рук и поцелуев вполне хватало. Поэтому, когда он услышал это, влажным прерывистым шепотом на ухо, у Эдуардо было ощущение, что он словил тепловой удар.
Прижав ладонь к щеке, он указал глазами на Дастина. Тот, правда, реально не обращал на них внимания. На экране Матильда, с бледным строгим лицом в обрамлении темного каре, неловко признавалась своему Леону в любви. Дастин же, очевидно, мысленно признавался в любви Натали Хершлаг, более известной как Портман.
Стараясь не особо задумываться над тем, что делает, Эдуардо расстегнул свой вязаный джемпер, передав его Марку в руки.
- Накрой меня, - сказал он тихо-тихо, но тот услышал и, набросив джемпер, как плед, ему на голову и плечи, отрезал Эдуардо от мира. Оставив только наедине с собой, как они оба и хотели.
Расстегнув на джинсах Марка натянутую молнию — медленно, чтобы не вжикнула, Эдуардо обмер, когда в тусклом свете, пробивающемся сквозь плетение вязаных петель, увидел торчащий из плавок член. Он сам так хотел взять его в рот, что просто слюны не хватало сглатывать. Задыхаясь под плотной, душной тканью, чувствуя, как Марк гладит обеими руками по голове, словно умоляя продолжать.
Оттянув резинку трусов, Эдуардо высвободил его - тяжелый, горячий наощупь, когда сжал в руке. Он не думал ни о чем сейчас — ни о технике, о которой читал на сайтах, мигающих пошлой рекламой. Ни о рефлексах, ни о Крисе с Дастином и, конечно, ни об Эрике. Он только хотел сделать Марку хорошо. Только это.
И Эдуардо целовался с его членом, потираясь о него щекой, вбирая в рот и позволяя Марку просунуть чуть дальше, когда он хотел. Быстро поняв, как ему нравится, и сжимая губы плотнее, когда они охватывали разбухший конец, Эдуардо истекал сам, как влажная хотящая девочка, - то, что он делал с Марком, возбуждало просто чудовищно.
Марк там, над его головой, судя по звукам, кусал свое же запястье. Чтобы не выть вслух.
- Да ебаный ты в рот! - выдал очень уместную фразу Дастин, по-видимому, оторвавшись ненадолго от фильма и заметив, чем они с Марком занимаются. Эдуардо подумал, что двигающиеся под джемпером голова и плечи вовсе не напоминали Дастину о разворотной фигуре биржевого тренда. Скорее, они напоминали о том, что Эдуардо сосет у Марка, прямо вот на этом же диване. Выражение лица Марка сейчас он даже не мог представить. Ну, если только примерно.
Но Марк был откровенным извращенцем. Эксгибиционистом. И потому, вместо того, чтобы умереть от смущения, будучи застуканным, он вцепился Эдуардо в волосы, буквально надевая его рот на свой член. Так, что Эдуардо чувствовал скользкую головку, тычущуюся прямо в свод гортани.
- Крис, я больше не могу! - во всеуслышание объявил Дастин. - Я ушел дрочить!
Крис ничего не ответил, и Эдуардо сильно подозревал, что лишь потому, что предусмотрительно заткнул уши хорошими наушниками. Жизнь научила.
Он даже не успел подготовиться к тому, что рот затопило вязким и соленым, и едва успевал сглатывать. Хотя не все — по подбородку щекотно текло. А потом снова стало можно дышать, потому что Марк снял с его головы проклятый джемпер и притянул к себе за шею, целуя с такой страстью, что их зубы то и дело стукались друг о друга.
Марк только положил сверху руку. Просто положил, ничего не делая даже — и этого было довольно. Гудящее, как провода под током, тело, сотрясло такой мощной разрядкой, что у Эдуардо на полминуты попросту наступил блэк-аут. Ну, а когда он очнулся, ему только и оставалось, что смотреть вниз, на вторые уделанные за этот вечер штаны от модной итальянской фирмы Армани.
Марк прижимался к нему боком, уложив растрепанную, всю в крутых завитушках голову на плечо. Уже когда-то умудрившись застегнуть штаны.
- Ты просто охуенный, Вардо, - сказал он, на этот раз выражаясь вполне доступным человеческим языком. Что, конечно, было невиданным прогрессом.
- Лучше всех? - спросил он, шмыгнув носом, не глядя на Марка.
- Для меня — да, - несколько раз торопливо кивнул тот.
- И что мне за это полагается?
- Ну, как минимум, - с серьезным выражением заявил Марк, - завтра я пойду в CVS и куплю лейку. С разными режимами, как у тебя, хочешь?
- Да. А как максимум? - затаил дыхание Эдуардо.
- Вардо, - сказал Марк, с неописуемым выражением лица стирая пальцем потек у Эдуардо на подбородке и слизывая это с пальца, - ты что, не понимаешь, что я тоже хочу? Давно.
- Но почему ты?... - начал Эдуардо, завороженно следя за его действиями.
- Да потому, Вардо, потому, - покачал головой он. - Тебе разве это незнакомо? Когда ждешь до самого последнего момента. Сдерживаешься. А потом просто тормоза срывает.
- Знакомо, Марк, - кивнул он, - более чем.
- Ну вот, - пожал плечами тот, без перехода сказав, - о, привет, Московиц. Добро пожаловать в суровую реальность.
- Уйди от меня, с-сука озабоченная, - замахал руками Дастин. – Нет, ну я не понимаю, как можно оставаться натуралом, когда вы с Вардо тут все время...
- Да кто тебя принуждает-то? Не оставайся. Крис, наконец, перестанет бегать к своим дастинозаменителям. Да, Вардо, да?
Марк снова тискал его, щипля за худые бока, где, по сути, не за что было щипать. Марк не умел выражать свои чувства даже так примитивно, как девочка Матильда двенадцати лет, но ему все равно все было понятно.
Главное, нужно было постараться не думать о том, что он мог вот так же прикасаться к кому-то еще. О том, как смеется Эрика, рассыпая каштановые блестящие волосы по плечам. В письме от Дастина был аттач с картинкой, стыренной из ее университетского альбома. Может быть, поэтому не думать было особенно трудно. Но Эдуардо все равно пытался.
In August, it was the usual heat outside of Boston, so Mark pulled on the thinnest T-shirt he could find. Within a few years, he'd gotten used to it, because he'd been at the Boston Academy before college. He never liked the cold winters here, but for some reason in both cases - with college, with school, the pluses outweighed this obvious minus. There were famous round tables at Philips Exeter - the newfangled, most progressive at that time "Harkness method", when everyone communicated on an equal footing. For Mark, it reminded Plato of conversations with his students. Cool stuff. Well, and Harvard... What idiot would refuse to study at Harvard?
Of course, those guys from Microsoft considered him a simpleton when they thought to get their hands on Mark's media player first, and then himself. But even then it seemed to Mark that he was worth much more than these figures offered the schoolboy (otherwise PC Magazine would have devoted two whole columns to them and Adam "Synapse"). And someday he wanted to see how they would come to that same Zuckerberg to bow. Little ambitious minds that are not alien to any of us, right?
Mark knew he was talented. Because when dad gave up and invited a friend of a teacher named Newman to study with a teenage son, he always complained (in a low voice, in the hallway) that such a student was too tough for him. Painfully smart for an eleven-year-old boy, and disgrace not for long. Mark agreed on this, although David was cool. The lecturers at the evening courses at the college he attended generally tried to avoid his questions. The students crowding around made the situation just embarrassing, because the teachers often could not answer. Mark laughed and stopped. It was a pity for the adult stupid uncles, besides, he could perfectly reach everything himself.
Now, for the second course, he was ready. Ready to try to make some serious product. Something that will be a breakthrough, will be really useful to people. A year of freelancing while still in college had paid off, and his resume was impressive. Visual Basic, VBsscript, C, C++, Java, Javascript and ASP - in short, so. But the priority direction was still not chosen, and so Mark walked, tormented by contradictions and nervously biting his nails. Something had to be decided.
He and Christopher happened to be walking along the sedge-covered banks of the Charles, when a noisy, hooting crowd of freshmen poured out of Eliot's gate. Apparently they were celebrating their stupid start to the semester. Faces painted with red and blue stripes left no doubt about it. When they began to sing (if it could be called singing), Mark defiantly plugged his ears.
But Chris seemed to like it. When those creepy girls and boys passed by, he tugged at Mark's sleeve.
- I'm wondering why in the song of Eliot's house every second line in the verse: "Well, what do you say, Mark?"
"Your question is absolutely ridiculous," he frowned. - I can even give a similar example. "I wonder why my full name is Mark Elliot Zuckerberg." And, Chris, the reason we're having this conversation...
"The reason arrives in six days, I already know," Hughes patted him on the shoulder. - Don't be so nervous.
- I didn't think so, - putting his hands behind his back, Mark moved away from him, narrowing his eyes looking at the glare on the water. I did not want to develop this topic. He was very uncomfortable - he and Wardo had not seen each other all summer, only exchanging news by email. Mark had no idea if the settings were saved in the relationship, or if everything flies to default.
A chorus of voices in the distance chimed out of tune:
"For Eliot, for Eliot we will raise our glasses,
To the house on the river bank, where you left your heart!"
Meeting Erica to fill the wait with something might not have been the best idea.
"Hi, Mark," she slyly bowed her head to her shoulder. Pushing back his chair, Mark sat down at a small table. Erica loved those French coffee shops where everything cost three times as much and the portions were mockingly tiny.
- Hello.
He looked into her face, thinking it impolite to look at the rest - after all, Mark was not really her boyfriend. They were just dating. But purely mechanically, he nevertheless noted how tanned she was, and how great the straps of a white T-shirt looked on her thin shoulders.
- What's happened? She smiled at that look and reached across the table, touching his clenched fist. Have your preferences changed over the summer?
He just snorted, shrugging.
- Rather, you quit your fitness.
"Affordable," Erica laughed, straightening her knot of hair at the back of her head. Her biceps could really be envied. Mark didn't have those even a year ago, when he was still engaged in fencing.
- How did the le-...
- Mark, you have to tell him... - they said at the same time and fell silent, staring at each other.
He honestly tried to find some kind of neutral topic for conversation, but with Erica it almost never worked (it was time to get used to it). It seems that she liked to find sharp and painful topics, to put the question squarely, to push points of view. Just like Mark liked it. Perhaps that is why it was interesting to communicate with her, but at the same time - very exhausting. Like now.
- You have to tell him. Eduardo, I mean," she continued stubbornly. - If you're going to keep dating girls. You're being ugly, Mark.
Biting his lip, he shifted in his chair, already sensing that this was a bad start to a conversation. Very bad. Because politeness and tact have never been his forte.
- It's beautiful - it's generally for women, - Mark folded his arms on his chest, throwing his head back. - It's always uncomfortable, you know? Creepy heels that twist the ankle. Underwear, as an instrument of torture...
- Mark, - Erica screwed up her eyes unkindly. - It seems to me, or are you trying to distract me and change the topic of conversation in this way? I'm talking about Edua...
Why are you even talking about him? Mark asked angrily and clenched his teeth, breathing through his nose. - What do you care about him? And you mean dating girls? Not with you?
"That's right," Erika said. Because I've had enough. This is the appearance of a normal relationship, you understand? I want to date a guy for real! Don't be a guinea pig for him.
- But you could...
- No, Mark. I couldn't. Because I'm not you, and I think it's mean to date one person behind another's back. And about Eduardo," she said forcefully, "I say because he would give you his kidney if you politely asked." Erica shook her head, not taking her eyes off him. - Do you even understand that such an attitude towards yourself is worth appreciating?
"So," Mark summed up. "You refuse to date me because you feel sorry for Wardo. But this is absurd!
"Absurd or not, Mark," she said coldly, "this is our last meeting.
Erika opened her wallet, ready to pay for herself, as she always did, out of principle.
- And I hope you still will not be such a bastard in relation to the person who you ...
- So, stop, - Mark squeezed her wrist. - I got your idea.
"It would be nice," she said almost with hatred, shaking off his hand. And Mark couldn't remember why Erica had seemed nice to him six months ago. Now it felt like she was about to grab her nails into his face.
- Is that all? he asked in confusion after a while, watching Erika straighten her hair, with deliberately careful, economical movements that betrayed suppressed rage.
"Exactly," she nodded, hairpins clenched between her teeth. - I hope your study of the female gender on the example of my person has given you at least something.
Mark silently nodded as he watched her rise from her chair, straighten her skirt and, with a last look, walk out onto the porch flooded with the setting sun. He was sad. Mark didn't plan on ending it like this.
"And yet," he thought immediately, "it really was useful." The psychology of sex, an advanced course, if you will. Mark was aware that this direction is a priority in modern science, which was clearly expressed in the form of grants and campaigning for students and young scientists.
He couldn't explain it properly to Erica, and certainly not to Wardo, but for his future project, Mark needed to know how to capture the attention of the entire audience. All, and not some of its disparate sectors. And that was part of the master plan; the reason why Mark applied for psychological, and not somewhere else. The reason he dated Erica. He just wanted to know how women's heads work; is it so immoral?
Mark still hadn't ordered anything, so the waitress was leaning expectantly at him, leaning against the pastry display. Shaking his head in annoyance, Mark stood up, almost knocking over his chair, and left, slamming the door.
Weaving between passers-by, pushing someone with his shoulder and not even apologizing, he thought hard. How was it that she was worried about Wardo, but not at all afraid of hurting Mark's feelings? What right did she have to talk to him like that? After all, Mark did nothing wrong! He was so angry that he even caught himself muttering under his breath all those caustic, hurtful phrases that he could have said to her if he had been found in time, and this bitch had not run away so quickly.
However, this was not a problem. Everything that Mark did not have time to tell her in real life can be said on the Internet. Well, of course! And he was going to formulate his opinion in such a way that she would not imagine that she could just put a person down like that.
By the way, for all the time that he and Erica talked, Wardo himself never said a word. Mark knew from Dustin that he had gone to Boston that spring. Erica also did not hide the fact of meeting with him. But other than that, Eduardo didn't notice that the situation bothered him in the slightest. And Mark himself was not going to start a conversation - he painfully could not stand all these showdowns.
Пьяным людям в целом присуще обостренное чувство справедливости. Это было верно и для Марка. С каждой выпитой за этот вечер бутылкой пива он все больше сознавал, как подло обошлась с ним эта Олбрайт. Ведь она была единственной, для кого Марк старался быть лучше, чем он есть. Говорить на интересные ей темы. Не ссориться и быть корректным; в принципе придерживать язык. Но нет, ей нужно было непременно выставить Марка каким-то уродом и вот так вот разорвать отношения. Немыслимо. Марк не представлял, какова ее логика.
Все, что он хотел по этому поводу сказать, уже красовалось в виде нескольких постов в его блоге. Это был хоть какой-то выход пара, потому что с Крисом на тему Эрики говорить было вообще нереально, а Дастин не особо сопереживал проблемам Марка. В смысле, ему было абсолютно похер. В начале этого года Московиц как-то подозрительно перестал даже делать вид, что интересуется противоположным полом.
Устал, должно быть.
Марк был один, в смысле - наедине со своими заморочками, потому что Вардо все еще не вернулся из Майами. И может быть, именно потому его особенно тянуло заняться какой-нибудь хренью. Например, посравнивать девчонок из Гарварда между собой, чтобы парни оценили, какая более сексуальна. Это было забавно - процесс взлома баз, когда Дастин пихал в плечо, восторженным шепотом подсказывая еще варианты. Марк просто обожал это — обходить установленные правила, добиваясь того, чего хотел.
Спустя один час двадцать минут от возникновения идеи у Марка на винте были фотографии студенток всех двенадцати домов Гарварда. Нужно было только придумать систему ранжирования. А точнее, позаимствовать ее у Вардо, который подробно рассказывал в письме о той штуке, что провернул в июле с нефтяными фьючерсами.
Марку не было завидно; 300К это, конечно, неплохо, но он не сомневался, что сможет не хуже. Просто его время еще не пришло. А вот алгоритм... Он беспокойно поерзал на кресле, скрючив пальцы, неосознанно пытаясь схватить то, чего ему так недоставало. Если бы только Вардо был уже здесь...
Они все повернули головы, когда по обыкновению незапертая дверь в прихожей скрипнула, и Эдуардо, прямо в ботинках, зашел в гостиную. Он выглядел странно взбудораженным, так, что Марк даже отвлекся от монитора, рассматривая Вардо с жадным вниманием. Он был почти такой же, как до лета. Ну, плюс загар и отросшие волосы. Вардо это шло.
- Марк, - спросил тот, снимая обувь, - вы поссорились с Эрикой?
- Откуда ты знаешь? - брякнул он, не подумав. Хотя ответ был очевиден.
- Читал твой блог, - пожал плечами Эдуардо, подходя к его столу и быстро спрашивая, - А вы тут чем занимаетесь?
Кажется, манеру переводить стрелки он перенял от Марка.
- Сравниваем девчонок, - ответил за него Дастин, до нелепого виновато оглянувшись на Криса.
- Зачем? - удивился Вардо, продемонстрировав двойной подбородок, которого у него на самом деле и в помине не было.
- Мне так хочется, - покосился Марк, а потом сказал то, что, собственно, собирался:
- Ты мне нужен, Вардо.
- Я весь твой.
Он не задумался даже на наносекунду. Марк прикрыл глаза, сглатывая, вспоминая вдруг с отчетливой ясностью, что означает у Эдуардо это выражение лица, в какие моменты он его видел; пытаясь прийти в себя, и желательно поскорей, потому что он вовсе не об этом просил.
- Да, но мне нужен твой алгоритм.
Эдуардо отпрянул назад — взъерошенный, словно голубь, что ударился грудью о стекло, не заметив оконной рамы. Отступил еще на два шага и, медленно кивая, сказал:
- Конечно, Марк. Вот, смотри.
Взяв из стакана маркер, он шагнул к окну. Экономистов приучали визуализировать информацию, поэтому Вардо любил доски. Но, поскольку доски тут не было, темный фон окна и белый маркер сочетались как нельзя лучше. Стараясь, чтобы линии были ровными, Эдуардо выводил формулу — сосредоточенно, ни на кого не глядя. Маркер едва слышно скрипел по стеклу.
И хотя Марк чувствовал, что сказал что-то не то, что это надо исправить, он просто не знал, как. Извиняться было не за что — ведь он просто попросил помочь. Ведь так? Вардо дописал и, отойдя в сторону, зябко обхватил себя за плечи. Его худая спина, обтянутая пиджаком, отчего-то казалась воплощенным упреком.
Марк не знал, как нужно поступать в таких случаях, а потому просто вбил оба его уравнения в консоль, задав алгоритм для ранжирования фото. Больше он не смотрел никуда, кроме как в монитор. У него был интересный проект, так что Вардо и все вот это вполне могло подождать. Фейсмэш рождался прямо сейчас, у него под пальцами, и это было так волнующе, восхитительно, что Марк ни о чём не мог больше думать.
Когда в четыре утра сетка предсказуемо легла под наплывом посетителей сайта, Эдуардо попрощался и ушел к себе, за что Марк был ему ужасно признателен. В том состоянии, в котором он был — пьяный, захлебывающийся слюнями восторга от собственных подвигов, было бы негуманно вступать с ним в какие-либо беседы. А потом было заседание руководства колледжа по поводу проекта Марка, и это тупое дисциплинарное взыскание. Вардо подождал его тогда на крыльце Дадли-хауса. Они прошлись немного вдоль корпусов, обсуждая только и исключительно тему Фейсмэша, и не затрагивая, слава Богу, никакие другие. Эрика, и что это было, с ней. Их отношения - как это называется, и что это значит. При одной мысли о том, что вот сейчас Вардо покашляет в кулак и начнет, Мрак чувствовал, как покрывается липкой испариной, как при ознобе.
Иногда он размышлял — смутно, полуосознанно, отчего же он уродился таким трусом. Таким косноязычным, не умеющим складывать нужные слова в предложения, трусом, который все видит, все чувствует, но ничего не делает.
У них больше не было секса (и ничего похожего на секс). Они просто были вместе — на лекциях, в Кёркленде, и иногда, случалось — в пабе с ребятами. Дрейфовали рядом, как пустые лодки, которые забыли привязать, и их отнесло от берега течением и ветром. Вардо не девался никуда, был где-то рядом, за плечом. Но к этому Марк как раз давно привык, и не представлял даже, что может быть иначе.
Порой очень хотелось просто притянуть его к себе, обхватить руками, не отпуская. Зацеловать его бледные губы до того, что они станут яркими. Но Марк не знал, как к нему подступиться, когда все в его лице, позе, движениях так и говорило: «нет, нет». Когда Вардо еще хотел его, все ощущалось в точности наоборот: изгиб длинной шеи, румянец на скулах, зажмуренные глаза — все говорило «да».
Он больше не слышал нежного, с придыханием: «Marcinho».
Крис и Дастин довольно явно избегали Марка, проходя к себе в угол и там переговариваясь вполголоса. Эдуардо же все время был ужасно вежливым, и говорил этим своим тихим, грустным голосом. Марку хотелось взять его за лацканы пиджака и как следует встряхнуть, чтобы он немедленно перестал. Он вообще не мог понять, почему в окне компилятора синтаксические ошибки, выделенные цветом, править так легко, а ошибки, допущенные в отношениях — так невыносимо трудно.
Мать оказалась абсолютно права - это была ситуация «lose-lose».
Дни шли за днями. Марк по-прежнему надеялся, что это напряжение между ними уйдет само, стечет, как дождевая вода в водостоки. Но ничего такого не происходило. Однажды, слушая музыку за компом у себя в комнате, он машинальным жестом потрепал сидящего рядом Эдуардо по затылку. Тот вдруг как-то странно застыл, а когда поднял голову, глаза у него были большими и влажными. И Марку от безысходности хотелось побиться головой о системник, потому что он правда не понимал, как ласка может ранить. И почему Эдуардо так смотрит на него.
Настройки - он правильно боялся, за лето у них слетели все целиком. И если тут и был какой-то выход, то лишь в том, чтобы попытаться вручную заново проставить каждый параметр. И потом жать кнопку «Сохранить изменения», молясь, чтобы не упала вообще вся система. Судя по тому, как обстояли дела, этого резонно стоило опасаться.
Он только что закончил делать сайт для заказчика, парня, продающего кондиционеры. И, судя по переписке в мыле, тот остался вполне доволен как видом, так и функционалом. Наконец расслабившись, Марк выдохнул и потряс кистями. От однообразной деятельности пальцы и запястный сустав у него порой плохо сгибались и болели, но Марк считал это нормальным. Ведь ходят же те, кто работают ногами — балеруны или танцоры, с вечной болью в плюсне и щиколотке. Обычные издержки профессии.
В комнате было очень тихо, слышно было только шуршание кулера и отдаленное клацание по клавишам - Дастин тоже что-то там колбасил. Марк развернул кресло, отъехав от компа, и тут же замер, вцепившись в подлокотники. Потому что Вардо, подложив себе под щеку папку с заданием по кейс-методике, спал без задних ног на его койке — прямо так, в пиджаке, галстуке и всем остальном, в чем был.
Марк слез с кресла, потерев ноющий копчик, и на цыпочках подошел к кровати. Лицо у Вардо было сейчас таким расслабленным, кротким. Марк очень давно его таким не видел, поэтому сейчас смотрел, как зачарованный. Чуть приоткрытый рот, перекатывающиеся под веками глазные яблоки — Эдуардо что-то снилось. Марк осторожно вынул у него из-под головы жесткую папку, подсунув вместо нее край подушки. Вардо что-то невнятно промычал, тяжело вздохнул и перевернулся на спину, раскинув руки в стороны.
Марк смотрел на него, кусая пальцы, не зная, как справиться с этим желанием — обнять, прижать к себе, уткнуться носом в шею, вдыхая знакомый запах (когда он сказал, что не переносит парфюмерию — еще давно, зимой, Вардо перестал ей пользоваться, совсем).
Воровато оглянувшись, Марк плюнул на всё и осторожно, стараясь не разбудить, подвинул Эдуардо с края кровати, укладываясь рядом. Теперь они оба лежали на боку. Марк даже не дышал, когда старался притереться с ним паз в паз, так, чтобы между ними не было расстояния. Обняв Вардо рукой поперек груди, он уткнулся лицом в затылок и так замер с закрытыми глазами, пытаясь унять заходящееся сердце. Не получалось.
Он даже не понял, как так вышло, но это было просто нереально — удержаться, когда Вардо был в его руках, здесь, и его тело не транслировало больше этот назойливый сигнал «нет, отойди, не трогай». Судорожно вздохнув, Марк поцеловал его за ухом, зарывшись носом в волосы, и переплел свои пальцы с его.
Того, что случилось дальше, просто не могло быть (потому что во сне, в такой глубокой фазе, все тело расслаблялось). Но Вардо стиснул его руку, прижимая к груди, с мукой сведя густые брови. Так до сих пор и не проснувшись. Марк сглотнул, в шоке глядя ему в лицо. То, что хотел сказать ему спящий Вардо, было совсем другой историей. А во сне люди не лгут.
Приподнявшись на локте и нависнув над ним, Марк повернул к себе лицо Эдуардо и, склонившись, коснулся мягких, сонных губ, тут же напрочь забыв, что собирался только прилечь рядом, и все.
Вардо отпустил его руку очень неохотно.
Расстегивая неподдающиеся пуговицы на пиджаке дрожащими пальцами, он чувствовал себя нелепо — как наглец, который пытается воспользоваться тем, что девушка надралась и не вяжет лыка. Но ведь это не так - твердил он про себя, просто они оба идиоты. Особенно он, конечно. Упертый, не умеющий просить прощения идиот.
А сейчас он мог показать Эдуардо, как сильно жалеет, что ляпнул тогда про алгоритм. Как хочет его назад, чтобы все было, как раньше. Марк закусил губу, решаясь. Трус или нет, он должен был хотя бы попробовать. Хотя бы попытаться. Эдуардо сглатывал во сне, как будто ждал, когда же Марк закончит рассуждать и уже что-нибудь сделает.
Кусая губы и обдирая с них зубами подсохшую корочку, он расстегнул пряжку у Вардо на ремне — так, что она даже не звякнула. Потянул за язычок молнии, пока она не разъехалась до конца, так что стали видны его серые плавки. Марк не мог больше ждать, он просто сполз вниз и, обняв Эдуардо руками за бедра, уткнулся лицом в пах. В горячую кожу, в этот охренительный запах, от которого у него весь рот тут же заполнился слюной.
А потом, окончательно обнаглев, Марк залез рукой под рубашку, трогая гладкий живот с дорожкой щекотно колющих ладонь волосков. Вардо лежал тихо, и оставалось только надеяться, что он не убьет его, когда проснется и поймет, в чем дело.
Касаться его ртом, выдыхая и чувствуя, как у Вардо наливается и встает под плавками член — это было просто охуеть что такое. Марк чуть не тронулся умом, мягко сжимая его губами, задыхаясь от желания иметь это во рту, прямо сейчас. Он хотел Вардо, и никогда не переставал хотеть. И был уверен, что так будет даже квинтиллион лет спустя. Хотя ни одну из этих вещей Марку бы не хватило духу сказать вслух.
Он зажмурился, и, оттянув нетугую резинку, просто взял его губами, надевшись ртом и сглатывая от счастливой слабости, от которой немело в подвздошье. Марк больше не думал о том, чтобы не потревожить сон Эдуардо. Ему было не до таких благородных мотивов — сейчас, когда он наконец мог сосать его член. И он делал это с таким самозабвением, что даже не сразу услышал, как Вардо тихо охает где-то там, над головой. Слепо шаря рукой по постели, чтобы наткнуться на копну курчавых волос и немедленно в них вцепиться.
Марк совсем не был против. Вообще-то, он не мог оторваться ни на миг, жадно заглатывая член Вардо до самого основания, чувствуя, как волосы у него на лобке уже склеились от слюны. Тем более, когда он начал стонать — глухо, изнемогающе, приподнимая бедра на постелью так, что Марк давился. Но это было неважно.
В ушах слышался медный гул - как тот, что бывает слышно зимой в Сочельник. Не шевелясь, не разжимая губ, Марк сглатывал, хотя ему уже нечего было сглатывать. Боясь поднять голову, боясь, что этот момент пройдет, и ему придется говорить словами. Ведь нужно же было хоть что-то сказать, хотя бы сейчас.
- Марк, - сказал Эдуардо шепотом, и его пальцы разжались, гладя по голове.
Он мог только вздрагивать, не понимая даже толком, что с ним творится. И почему вдруг стало невозможно вздохнуть.
- Марк, - начал Вардо снова, в этот раз тронув его за плечи, - не надо, слышишь? Не трясись ты так. Я все понял.
«Что ты понял?» - хотелось спросить Марку, пока он лежал, с горящим от стыда лицом, в мокрых штанах. Постепенно приходя в себя и осознавая, как же это все жалко и нелепо.
- Я тебе нужен, да? Не только мои формулы, правильно?
Марк только сильнее прижался к нему, вдавившись лицом в бедро, надеясь, что Вардо знает ответ.
- У тебя кошмарный характер, ты знаешь? - спросил Эдуардо, силой вздергивая отпихивающегося Марка выше и укладывая головой себе на плечо.
«Я знаю, я все знаю», - отвечал он хватающими Эдуардо за руку, гладящими пальцами. - «Я не хотел тебя обидеть».
Они лежали, уместившись вдвоем на узкой постели. Не разговаривая, потому что в этом сейчас не было нужды.
- Слушай, - сказал вдруг Вардо, дыша ему куда-то в макушку, - пойдешь со мной на крышу в Элиот? Оттуда здорово все видно.
- К-конечно. Да, пойдем!
Марк все еще дрожал, — может, потому что от окна тянуло холодком. Но Эдуардо был здесь, рядом, он шептал ему что-то ласковое в волосы. И снова был Marcinho, и еще «мой хороший», и «не отдам никому».
Марк думал, что просто умрет от благодарности.
- Как, по-твоему, какого цвета купол?
Было пять утра, и они с Вардо торчали на крыше главного корпуса, под башней. По этой башне Элиот обычно узнавали на фотографиях. Марк отвел глаза, глядя на свои руки на белой каменной оградке.
- Ну, Марк? Мне кажется, бирюзовый.
- Боюсь, что я не знаю, что такое бирюзовый, - сказал он, наконец, поднимая голову. - Я дальтоник, Вардо.
Марк не собирался этого говорить — Крис заметил и так, сто пудов рассказал Дастину, а больше никому знать было и не нужно. Он уже наелся всего этого в школе, когда малолетние имбецилы тыкали пальцем, дразнились и спрашивали: «А костюм у миссис Торнтон какого цвета?» Он просто боялся — того, что Эдуардо будет так же, как все, считать его каким-то неполноценным уродом, достойным жалости. Или как-то так. Но сейчас решил сказать.
- О, - уставился на него Вардо. А потом сглотнул и выдохнул, явно справившись с первым шоком, - Не видишь зеленые оттенки?
- И красные тоже, - приподнял брови Марк и начал обкусывать с ногтя заусенец.
- Ага. Понятно, - он кивал, марионеточно, как всегда, когда очень терялся. - То есть, нет. Объясни пожалуйста, Марк.
- Хорошо, - облокотившись на оградку, Марк задрал голову, глядя на купол. Для него он был такого же цвета, как облака, плывущие над головой. Ну может, чуть потемнее. - С чего начать?
- Да с чего хочешь, - кинул на него осторожный взгляд Эдуардо.
- Окей. Красный, зеленый и коричневый для меня выглядят примерно одинаково. Я узнал о том, что дальтоник, в тринадцать лет - надел на баскетбол разные носки. У Криса глаза и губы одинакового цвета, но я знаю из культурного контекста, какие это цвета, потому что Крис — не альбинос.
- Обалдеть! - выдохнул Саверин, неверяще покачав головой. - А еще?
- Самый богатый оттенками цвет — синий. А вот эти кусты внизу и стены для меня абсолютно одинаковы.
- Да. Все довольно логично, - кивнул Вардо, глядя на него прищуренными глазами и от волнения грызя кончик большого пальца. - Но как тебе удается делать, чтобы люди не замечали? Я понятия не имел...
- Ну, я избегаю упоминания прилагательных, обозначающих цвет, - пожал плечами Марк. - Покупая шмотки, беру те, что потемнее, и обращаю внимание на надписи на этикетках. Это помогает. Светофор — ну это просто, ведь каждый знает, что красный — тот, что сверху. Для веб-дизайна использую таблицы цветов - там все подписано.
- Получается, ты даже мое лицо видишь каким-то... серым? - он помотал головой. - Марк, но это, наверное, некрасиво.
Он открыл рот, чтобы возразить, но в итоге только обхватил Эдуардо за пояс, притягивая к себе, утыкаясь носом ему в ямку возле ключицы.
- А... Ладно, - сказал тот, явно улыбаясь, - тебе нравится, ясно.
- Да, мне нравится, Вардо, - сказал Марк, сделав над собой усилие и улыбнулся тоже. Пожалуй, он был тем человеком, которому стоило знать.
- Спасибо, - Эдуардо обнял его крепче. - И знаешь, я бы хотел как-нибудь увидеть все твоими глазами. В этих других оттенках.
- Это если у кого-то дойдут руки написать эмулятор, - зажмурился Марк, потираясь щекой о его плечо. – Но, окей, если увижу что-то подобное, обязательно покажу. Ну, или кину в тебя ссылкой.
- Нет, но это же получается, что ты большей частью видишь все в цветах сепии, - выдал Эдуардо, хлопая себя по лбу. - Не так и плохо.
- Спасибо, не жалуюсь, - сухо ответил Марк, заслужив тычок под ребра.
Они с Эдуардо постояли так еще — уже просто рядом, молча глядя с высоты на открывающуюся панораму - крыши корпусов и буйно разросшиеся кусты жимолости вокруг. Изгиб реки, блестящий синей шелковой лентой, ряды застывших фонарей вдоль расходящихся переулков.
- Почему у вас в Элиоте такой дурацкий гимн? - он прикрыл глаза ладонью, как козырьком, потому что солнце начало подниматься. Слепящее, яркое - золотая колесница Гелиоса, которая вдохновляла еще греков.
- Да ладно, тебе наверняка нравятся слова, - фыркнул Эдуардо, и затянул вполголоса (к его чести, довольно чисто):
«А на втором сдружились мы,
Ну что тут скажешь, Марк?
А на втором сдружились мы,
Казалось, счастью не было конца.
За Элиот, за Элиот поднимем мы бокалы...»
- Ты закончишь на год раньше, - задумчиво сказал Марк, перегнувшись через ограду и глядя на булыжники мостовой внизу. - Что будешь делать, пока я торчу тут?
- Мне кажется, дополнительный год в Гарварде мне не повредит. В медицине и бизнесе это вообще обычная практика. Отец точно не будет возражать. Выпустимся оба в 2006?
Марк вздохнул, ткнувшись в прохладный камень подбородком.
- Было бы здорово, Вардо. Реально, я бы хотел так.
Эдуардо обнял сзади, просунув руки под футболку, и Марк закрыл глаза, чувствуя, как солнце пробивается даже сквозь сомкнутые веки.
Марк лежал на боку, подперев голову ладонью, пока Эдуардо, примостившись на койке рядом, показывал ему свои бразильские фотки. В июне он с родителями ездил ненадолго в Сан-Паулу. Дед Жайме хотел видеть всю семью хотя бы раз в год. И хотя Штатах стояло лето, там, на другом полушарии, был разгар зимы, и улицы тонули в зябком сыром тумане. Эдуардо хорошо снимал.
Еще до Гарварда он как-то в письме спросил, куда лучше это все залить. Марк сказал — Photobucket или ImageSnack. На всякий случай Эдуардо погуглил про оба хостинга, которые и появились-то только в этом году. Он совершенно случайно заметил, что штаб-квартиры обоих — в Калифорнии. Марк тогда ответил, что это же понятно — все успешные стартапы в области интернет-технологий сейчас появляются там. Инвестиции, средиземноморский климат, сосредоточие крупнейших университетов — чего еще желать?
Эдуардо не мог понять, почему его так корежит при этих рассуждениях, но только каждый раз, когда Марк начинал петь оды Кремниевой Долине, его начинало подташнивать. Причем буквально, а не метафорически. Последний раз с ним такое было, кажется, когда отец с матерью всерьез думали о разводе.
- Давно не видел столько счастливых людей сразу, - Марк потер глаза, откидываясь на спину, и стал глядеть в потолок. - Они все такие же богатые, как Саверин-старший?
- Да, примерно да. Хотя некоторые даже более успешны.
- Хм. Тут все одеты очень просто, никто не выпендривается. И видно, что им нравится проводить время вместе.
- Людям вообще нравится видеть знакомые лица. Тех, кого они знают лично и уже очень давно, - пожал плечами Эдуардо.
- В самую точку. Так, погоди, давай-ка разовьем мысль. Я тебе тоже расскажу кое-что, - он приподнялся и сел, опираясь спиной о стену.
- Давай, - моргнул Эдуардо.
- Когда я еще учился в «Филипс Эксетер», у нас там была такая фишка. Фотоальбомы для обязательного ознакомления. Фото для них присылались заранее, с пакетом документов для поступления, как неотъемлемая часть программы. Так вот, смотри. В течение первого семестра тебе в руки непременно попадал этот альбом, толстенный такой, знаешь, в тисненом кожаном переплете. Там от первой до последней страницы были фотки и имена, ничего больше. Все люди, которых ты видишь каждый день, с которыми постоянно сталкиваешься в коридорах. Одноклассники и те, кто на год старше, учителя, лаборанты, все.
- Ага, - кивнул Эдуардо, - интересно, наверное, было.
- Да. Но если парни их пролистывали всей комнатой за сутки, то девчонки — те могли держать у себя дня по три-четыре каждая! Ты представляешь? Им было реально не оторваться, даже в класс с собой таскали.
- К чему ты это?
- К тому, что ближе к выпускному один чувак из школьного совета, Теллери, попросил меня сделать альбом доступным в сети. А если точнее, под это дело они создали целое IT-отделение. Адрес сайта был .edu/facebook. Онлайновый фотоальбом, просто фотки, и все. Так вот, он был в закладках браузера буквально у каждого в нашей школе.
- Хорошо. Так в чем же идея?
- Это пока не идея, Вардо. Пока еще нет. Но очень близко.
- Могу уронить на темечко яблоко, - покусал Эдуардо губы, давя улыбку.
- Не-не, - улыбнулся Марк. - Давай просто подождем немного.
- Давай. У тебя все получится.
- Само собой, Вардо, - широко зевнул тот, - само собой.
Эдуардо сделал над собой усилие и не стал это комментировать. Хотя, честно говоря, ему было очень не по себе. Он не мог понять, откуда в Марке столько самоуверенности — при том, что он на целых два года младше Эдуардо. Да, в семье на Марка надышаться не могли — единственный мальчик в семье, да еще такой умненький.
Но Эдуардо вообще был единственным у матери с отцом, наследником состояния и фамильных традиций. И это почему-то абсолютно не играло роли. В неполные двадцать один сам Эдуардо еще не имел даже приблизительных целей или задумок в отношении собственного бизнеса. Поэтому, когда Марк начинал рассуждать о своих планах, он испытывал одновременно восхищение и панику (которую тщательно в себе давил). Потому что в глубине души вовсе не был уверен, что сможет угнаться за Марком. И вот это пугало просто до холодных рук.
В ноябре Эдуардо срочно отозвал в Майами отец — тётка Мариана была совсем плоха. Настолько, что тот счел уместным прервать учебу сына на неделю — разумеется, пояснив все в официальном письме руководству колледжа. Впрочем, Элиот, где Эдуардо учился, негласно считался «больше Гарвардом, чем сам Гарвард». Туда попадали сливки, элита. Люди, для которых семья и клан значили очень многое. Конечно, Саверинам пошли навстречу.
Он правда не хотел уезжать, потому что Марк в последнее время вел себя странновато. Как-то раз Эдуардо видел его возле паба с двумя здоровенными лбами, явно не из Кёркленда. Судя по виду, это были уже выпускники. Цукерберг им с обычным своим азартом что-то впаривал, и Вардо, проводив эту троицу взглядом, так и остался стоять на другой стороне улицы. Он подумал тогда, что, если это важно или хотя бы интересно, Марк сам расскажет ему.
Но тот ничего не говорил, по большей части уткнувшись в комп и печатая с такой скоростью, как чуваки в фильмах про компьютерных гениев, спасающих человечество. Так же как и они, кажется, вообще не используя клавишу «пробел». Эдуардо не приставал, обычно он просто устраивался на кровати Марка, устало вытягиваясь поверх его одеяла и заложив руки на голову. Когда Марк был таким, к нему было лучше не лезть — все равно только на грубость нарвешься.
Так он и отбыл в аэропорт — в полной неизвестности, даже не поговорив с Марком. Но это было в самом деле трудно сделать, когда у человека, с которым ты хочешь перекинуться парой слов, на голове строительные наушники для подавления шума. И в ответ на твои робкие попытки привлечь внимание он, не глядя, показывает тебе средний палец. Нет, Эдуардо, конечно, попросил ребят присмотреть за этим Спинозой, но на душе все равно было как-то неспокойно.
Когда по приезду он, еще не очухавшись от фальшивых соболезнований и душной атмосферы похорон, пришел в Кёркленд, Марк готов был с ним говорить. И даже более того — при виде Эдуардо он снял с головы это свое дебильное приспособление для прорабов на стройке и встал из-за компа.
- Ну, как ты тут пожи-... - начал Эдуардо, улыбаясь — он все-таки соскучился по этому засранцу.
- Вардо, мне нужна твоя помощь.
- Да? - спросил Эдуардо, ощущая дежа-вю, от которого его начало мутить. - Какая именно, Марк?
- Финансовая.
- Тебе нужны деньги на твой проект?
- Точно. Мне понадобятся сервера, которые будут держать сеть.
- Сеть? - наморщил лоб Эдуардо, чувствуя себя довольно глупо.
- Да, Вардо. Я делаю социальную сеть для студентов Гарварда. Эксклюзив. Только реальные фотки, полная инфа о человеке. Возможность знать предпочтения, телефоны, адреса. Все, как на ладони.
- А... ладно. Хорошо, - растерянно выставил ладони Эдуардо. - Сколько денег нужно, Марк?
- Штука. Ну... то есть, я не знаю, но пока так. Этого бы хватило на оборудование. Я тут нашел хостинг всего за восемьдесят пять баксов в месяц. Просто шикарно на первое время.
Эдуардо прикрыл глаза, выдыхая. Это была дурацкая, нереализованная пока мечта — разделить с ним все, отдать всего себя без остатка. Сейчас, если бы Марку было надо, он бы без раздумий вручил ему любую сумму из тех денег, которыми располагал. Но до того Марку нужны были другие вещи, а вот сейчас, наконец, он нуждался и в его сбережениях тоже.
- Вардо? - наклонил голову Марк, и Эдуардо рассмеялся — нервным, с захлебывающимися вдохами, смехом, потому что — если бы он только знал.
- Сейчас, Марк. Сейчас я выпишу чек.
- Отлично, - не меняя выражения лица, хлопнул его по плечу тот. - А теперь мне нужно работать. Дел невпроворот.
Марк плюхнулся в кресло, после чего снова надел наушники, развернувшись к лэптопу. Эдуардо еще попереминался рядом с ноги на ногу, но, поняв, что тут ловить нечего, грустно кивнул и пошел к Крису. Ну, или к Дастину — ему было без разницы.
Они оба были у себя, сидя каждый на своей кровати с учебником. Дастин пихнул к нему свое кресло, чтобы было, куда сесть.
- Вардо! Эй, ну ты чего как в воду опущенный? - он сочувственно нахмурил брови.
- Чего-чего, - поджал губы Крис, сидящий с упаковкой мармеладок напротив. - Хреново это, когда человек, которого ты... кхм, не обращает на тебя внимания. Вардо, будешь червяков?
- Слышь, но он же его не просто игнорит. Марк классную штуку делает, серьезно!
- Помолчи, а? Глупая ты рыжая морда.
- Ладно, давай парочку, - вздохнул Эдуардо, протягивая руку к липкому пакету. - Ну, я пойду, ребят. На третьем курсе знаете, какой завал? Ужас сколько задают.
- Давай. И не расстраивайся совсем уж, ладно? - попросил Крис, тронув его за плечо. - Все образуется. Не забывай нас, ага?
Он хотел ответить, но смог издать только какое-то горловое бульканье. Как, ну как можно забыть, если смысл всей его жизни был здесь, в этой комнате?
- Ой, бля, - задумчиво сказал Дастин шепотом, когда Эдуардо уже надевал ботинки. - Слышь, Кристофер, ползи сюда ко мне, а? В тесноте, да не в обиде.
- Ладно, - покладисто отвечал тот, - двинь задом тогда, что ли.
Поначалу Эдуардо думал, что у Марка это просто временное. Текущее увлечение — такое же, как этот его Синапс или игрушки по Греции и Риму, что Цукерберг писал буквально на коленке в старших классах. Как Фейсмэш. Как он понял уже потом, думать так было очень наивно.
«Не приходи Вардо», - падала смс от Дастина, - «это чмо вообще уже на прерывания не реагирует». И Эдуардо послушно менял маршрут и вместо Кёркленда шел в библиотеку, где, вообще-то, и должен в это время был сидеть, готовясь к докладу. Если бы только он мог нормально сосредоточиться на этих терминах: размытие доли, ангельские инвестиции. Эдуардо вообще не мог понять, что церковные термины делают в светской науке.
В библиотеке Вайденера стояла звенящая тишина, пропитанная слежавшейся книжной пылью. Возвышающиеся над головой ряды полок скалились со всех сторон прогнившими зубами томов. Студенты — такие же задроченные, как и он, корпели каждый над своей темой, забивая нужные цитаты в ноут, что-то сканируя и распечатывая. Это было как раз нормально для Гарварда.
А вот то, чем занимался Марк, выходило за все рамки, и Эдуардо уже очень хорошо это понимал. Его планы были грандиозны, и, даже если сейчас тот о них не распространялся, то это потому, что был слишком занят написанием кода.
Цукерберговский проект назывался «Фейсбук». То самое жаргонное словечко, которым школьники обозначали альбом с фотками. Звучало просто, понятно и отлично подходило по смыслу. Но когда Эдуардо думал, какое место он сам может занимать в этом проекте, у него перед глазами начинали прыгать строчки, отпечатанные безупречным типографским шрифтом с засечками. Он доставал из нагрудного кармана телефон и перечитывал смс Криса — ту, самую первую, где он говорил, что Марк — это все-таки слишком. А потом утыкался лицом в ладони, ожидая, пока сердце станет биться тише, и можно будет снова делать вид, что все нормально. Что это не конец света, и Эдуардо, серьезно, очень интересуют все эти ангелы, демоны и остальной бестиарий.
"Wardo help is a pipe" - came to his phone when Eduardo turned it on again after the lecture. With this teacher, he used to sit in the front row - it was simply impossible to hear higher than the old man. The time of departure was one hour twenty ago.
Over the past three weeks, Eduardo, of course, had seen enough of everyone. Mark throwing slippers. Mark, who spilled a full can of Red Bull, so that later he could immediately go in cold blood and rip Dustin's clav out of the socket. But it seems to be something more serious. In principle, Eduardo has not appeared in Kirkland for a week and a half, and he could well have missed something. Sniffing and bracing himself for the worst, Eduardo mentally kicked his ass and scrambled his things into the bag, zipping it up with mags and slung it over his shoulder. Dustin never bred a panic from scratch.
He forgot his gloves in the audience, but did not return. To hell with them. It was already freezing outside, and bare hands, even stuffed into pockets, were freezing. And if Mark had the audacity to complain about the climate, then a guy named Eduardo Luis Saverin, half Brazilian, in theory, should have been even worse.
- Well, what's the matter? - he opened the door, out of breath after running from the gates of the educational building. - Come on, lay it out while I undress.
"Brived," Dustin beamed. For some reason, he had a soft rubber paper clip on his nose.
- What the hell is this? he stared, taking off his boots and hanging his jacket on a hook.
- Well, bonibayez, Barg is not a boydza.
He blinked at Chris standing a little way off. He waved his hands guiltily.
- Your mother, - Eduardo shook his head, - what, in all this time, you never went into the shower? Seriously?
- Yeah, - Chris removed this device from his friend's nose. "Actually, Wardo, this isn't fucking funny. Dustin, of course, is playing the fool, but this is simply from impotence. We cannot force him. He has this stupid Facebook, and that's it, fucked up, even though the grass does not grow. Only in the toilet and runs back when he stops.
"Nightmare," was all Eduardo said, clutching his head, "how can you bear it?
- But how do you tolerate it, huh? Dustin asked a counter question. We are just friends to him.
"Listen, you don't need to pour salt from a salt shaker right into a wound like that," Chris asked. - If I were Wardo, I would climb the wall. And he's still holding on, by the way.
- Que merda, - Eduardo rubbed his forehead against the jamb, - where is he?
- Well, where can he be? So many options," Chris snorted. - By the way, I can borrow a clothespin.
- Yes, thank you. I'll manage.
Mark sat at the computer, bent over with the letter Z, and looked just creepy. With a face shiny with sweat, obviously greasy hair, he smelled sour of an unwashed body and most of all resembled a bum from the New York subway. The same sloppy spots on the pants and T-shirt, a sullen look at one point. Eduardo winced. Well this is what you had to bring yourself to!
And then he noticed something else. Mark's overgrown cheeks somehow completely sunk in, and his eyes sunk into their sockets. Exhaling into his clasped hands, he blinked his eyes to compose himself.
- So... guys, did he eat anything at all?
"I don't know, Wardo," Chris said and put his hand to his mouth. - Dustin brought him drinks from the fridge when he asked...
- So you don't know, do you? Eduardo narrowed his eyes, immediately bending down to inspect the contents of the wastebasket by the table. - So, just so you know. Not a single muesli bar wrapper or sandwich sandwich wrapper! - he angrily turned the basket upside down, pouring out a pile of crumpled post-it leaves.
"Wardo, seriously, we had no idea he was such an asshole!" Dustin shielded Chris.
- You don't need excuses. Just help.
- Okay, - he readily nodded, - you just tell us what to do.
Eduardo exhaled through clenched teeth.
- Chris, turn on the water, and see if there's a towel in there... shampoo. Well, in general, everything. Dustin, you take off his headphones and save. I drag Mark into the shower.
It was easier said than done.
- No, fuck no! - Mark almost whined, grimacing in a painful grimace, when the two of them tore off his hands from the armrests of the chair, - don't, bitches, I'll lose my thought!
Eduardo didn't even want to listen.
When they dragged him to the bathroom, Mark did not even fight back - he simply did not have the strength. Why, he couldn't even stand upright, but fell into the arms of either Wardo or Dustin. The shower was noisy behind the curtain. Eduardo suddenly thought that being with a completely sick Zuckerberg is probably bad for the brain. With that thought, he pulled back the curtain, exhaled, picked Mark up in his arms and stepped into the tub with him. Just like that, in a suit.
- Wardo? - Chris asked confused, fenced off from them by a layer of transparent oilcloth with penguins. - Are you out of your mind?
"Back off," Mark suddenly said weakly, "it's none of your business at all. Wardo, hold me, otherwise I'll fuck now.
Chris slammed the door.
"Take off this horror of yours," said Eduardo, holding him with one hand and propping him up with his hip. The second he tried to lift up Mark's T-shirt, which, with their combined efforts, they somehow succeeded. It was easy to pull off Mark's pants and underpants - all you had to do was squat down. The socks fell off on their own, and Eduardo had only to pick them up and throw them out of the bath.
- You hold on to the shelf, okay, - he asked, taking a sponge and soap, spitting out bangs that were creeping into his eyes, - and I'll wash.
The soaked trousers and jacket were so heavy, hanging heavily on him, but Eduardo just didn't care. It wasn't before.
"I feel bad, Wardo," Mark suddenly said plaintively, clinging with all his might to the corner metal shelf where they had all sorts of gels and shampoos. - It's dark in the eyes.
- So, quietly, - Eduardo began to stroke his neck, persuading him in a half-whisper, - be patient, everything will pass now. A couple of minutes, and everything will be okay, you hear?
- Hold me.
- I'm holding. Tilt your head back, yeah, that's it.
He did not really remember how he scraped it off from that layer of dirt with which Mark was overgrown. How I washed his head - to clean, transparent water, snaking in streams over his shoulders. He soaped and shaved his cheeks, doing this for the first time in his life and being afraid to cut himself. And then he caught and wrapped in a large terry towel - naked, wet and helpless, like a child.
When it was over, they both sat under the covers, wrapped up to their ears and shaking like zutsiki. Chris put the kettle on and went to the bathroom to sort through their clothes. Dustin was soon to bring something to eat.
- Mark, - Eduardo sighed, stroking his forehead with already moving rings, - promise me that you won't do it again.
"I can't," he said wearily. - I need to have time to start the project, Wardo. You see, this is the only chance in life. I can't fuck him.
- Do you understand that this is not possible? Eduardo pressed him to him, kissing the back of his head. - You are alive, the body needs rest, food, water. Well, what am I with you, as with a little one?
Mark was so emaciated that his ankles, sticking out from under the blanket, were like those of an Auschwitz prisoner.
- I need it faster. Nosebleeds to be finished by early January. I have already registered a domain name. Not quite what I wanted, but...
- Are you listening to me at all?
"Yes, Wardo," his voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. - I know I'm acting like a pig. You would just be patient.
He bit his own fist to keep from going limp like a girl, but he gave himself away by sniffing anyway.
Together, they managed to pour a pint of drinkable yogurt into Mark. He couldn't eat anything else just like that. Dustin swore he would buy water for him, not just energy drinks, and feed him at least a couple of times a day if Eduardo couldn't come. Chris guiltily averted his eyes, repeating that, they say, he overlooked.
Mark from fatigue could not even sleep. He lay looking at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes, and Eduardo sat on the floor nearby, wrapped up in a blanket so as not to catch a cold, and told all the nonsense that came to mind - in a low voice, hoping that Mark would doze off in due course. He whispered to him about gold mining in the Amazon, about how the Portuguese took quinto from them, melting the royal brand into ingots. About how the gold reserves once ran out, although the green flag still flaunts a golden rhombus. Auriverde , Eduardo spoke, and Mark moved his lips, repeating the new word.
He retold the well-known story about the pau-brazil tree, from which the name of the whole country came. It was completely cut down, all the groves along the banks were loaded onto ships, five thousand barrels each. And they took them away, trimmed to smooth logs, from which they later mined crimson paint for the clothes of the nobility in the metropolis.
"Everything comes to an end sometime, doesn't it, Wardo?" Mark suddenly asked hoarsely. - Resources. Reserves. And you'll run out of patience too. Yes?
"Perhaps," Eduardo agreed sadly, sighing.
- But you remember that I can't do without you, okay? Even if I act like an asshole.
- Oh. I'll try, Mark, - he yawned, resting his head on the edge of his pillow, - but, you know. We'll see how it goes.
Дни сливались в сплошную грязно-серую полосу — точно как поверхность беговой дорожки на скорости восемь миль в час. Он зубрил и сдавал, зубрил и сдавал, как одержимый. На третьем курсе, сейчас, Эдуардо вообще не имел права облажаться. Плюс приглашение Феникса, которое он не мог позволить себе игнорировать. А значит — их унизительные ритуалы посвящения, и весь это геморрой часами — попасть туда хотели очень многие.
И оно было еще терпимо — стоять в снегопад перед памятником, и даже безумие с курицей. Могли бы попросить что похуже — слухи об этих ритуалах ходили такие, что ого-го. Они могли бы измерять его телом Гарвардский мост, раздев догола — и это зимой. С шутками и прибаутками, что сам президент национального Института Стандартов, прославленный мистер Смут, делал то же самое, и ничего, жив и здоров, сука.
Марк брезгливо кривил губы, слушая назойливое квохтатье, и чихал, когда ему на плечо плавно оседала пара легких куриных перышек. Эдуардо казалось, что Марк просто не понимал всего этого. Просто не врубался. Что так надо, что Эдуардо не может иначе. Разочаровать отца, для которого репутация — все.
А Эдуардо — он уже даже ничего не ждал, приходя в Кёркленд просто по привычке, и зависая тут, за неимением других возможностей проводить время с Марком. Сидя по-турецки на кровати Дастина или Криса и с нездоровой жадностью пялясь на приподнятые над клавиатурой кисти, на сосредоточенный профиль. Хотя это отдавало какой-то дешевой мелодрамой — скучать по человеку, с которым часами находишься в одной комнате.
- Everything, - Mark tore off the headphones, hanging them around his sweaty neck, and wiped the face of a hollow T-shirt. - I did it, your mother! - he said with such an expression on his face, as if he did not believe himself. - Yes go look already.
In the blink of an eye, all three of them were near his chair. Dustin rolled his wheelchair with a bang, Chris perched on the edge of the table, and Eduardo leaned over to get a better view of the flickering monitor.
"Wow…" Chris spoke first, shaking his head. - Mark, how cool! Very tempting.
- Little blue, - Dustin snorted, clapping Mark on the shoulder, - well, yes. Clear stump, I thought so.
"Now try to use your head ganglia, Dustin," he poked his forehead into his palm. - Do you seriously think that I picked up such a palette only because I myself am color blind?
Moskowitz was ashamedly silent, because, obviously, that was exactly what he thought.
"Well, the answer is no," Mark continued in silence, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temples. - It's a Harvard social networking site. A site for everyone who studies here. And, probably, it is clear that I am not the only one with such a feature of vision, right? So, the design of Facebook should be pleasing to the eye of any person.
"No question," Dustin nodded. - Why such a shade?
"A moderate greenish blue," Mark shrugged. - This option is just nirvana for the brain. He does not concentrate on himself, so the content becomes the main thing. I want people on my site not to be bothered by anything. No colors, no fonts, no intrusive advertising.
- You have a reason for everything, don't you? Chris smiled.
- Of course. I dug up a study of some guys here - they call themselves "Color Lovers". According to him, the vast majority of commercially successful sites have blue as their main design color. The second is red. By the way, my notification system will be red, even though I can't see it, Dustin!
"Sure," Chris bit his lip. - Can I see the navigation? Works?
- Yes. For God's sake, - Mark drove off a little in his chair, and Eduardo only now noticed how his hands were shaking, lying on his knees.
He would really like to say something good, encouraging right now. But the wave of bile, rising to the very throat, did not give, and he just stood there, clutching his neck over the tight collar of his shirt. So this is what it looked like, for the sake of which Mark had not actually talked to him for a month, did not touch, did not look. On what Mark killed all the time, strength and energy. Here is this site, with a very simple interface - some kind of incomprehensible mug in the header against the background of the binary code. And the signature is still in the same neat font at the bottom: Developer - Mark Zuckerberg.
Eduardo flinched at the touch on his elbow.
- Wardo, - Mark looked at him from the bottom up, - but this is about you and me.
He clicked on something below and Eduardo saw it. Two of their names side by side and two positions in a company that hadn't even been established yet. General and Financial Director. And this is about Mark, who is nineteen, and about Eduardo, who will turn twenty-one only in March. Plague.
He froze with his mouth open, closing his eyes to compose himself.
- But Mark, those Google guys - you know, right? - he began, involuntarily gesticulating - words were not enough.
- Yes. I am aware that being the general at my age is considered a notorious epic fail. That Page and Brin, for these reasons, caved in and invited Schmidt. But, Wardo, - he narrowed his eyes, - my company will be run by me alone.
- When is the launch? Dustin interrupted, drumming his fingers impatiently on the table. I can't wait to see how people will react.
- Yes, even now, in principle, - suggested Mark, but Eduardo saw, felt how terribly tense he was, how he was all on edge. Mark was already barely holding on, exhausted by this unprecedented code marathon of his. Eduardo himself was shaking. From nerves, from anticipation of inevitable success - after all, all of Mark's early, even still immature projects were successful. And from the painful expectation of something very bad, from which he could not get rid of.
- And also, - Mark swallowed loudly in silence, - in March I have a meeting with Sean Parker. In NYC. He himself wrote to me on soap.
- Mother of God! Dustin raised his hands, - Do I even sleep or what? Sean Parker, founder of Napster?!
"He said he understood that a social network could be most successful in a closed elite community like a college," Mark said in an unnaturally even voice. - And he is ready to cooperate with us.
- Where is he anyway? In NYC? - Chris moved the keyboard towards him and clicked on all the menu items in turn.
- Nope. He now lives in Palo Alto, - on the lips of Mark appeared this familiar, dreamy smile. - Sean says, there you go out to walk to the cafe, and literally at every step - the headquarters of the monsters. Oracle, Sun, Yahoo.
- Wait, so you also want to go to Vysoko-Palkino? Dustin kicked Mark in the shin. - So, what?
- Just today I sent letters to realtors. Yes, and we'll need to recruit more interns.
Eduardo stood, clutching the back of his chair with both hands, waiting for an acute attack of dizziness. With closed eyes, because everything in sight was spinning unstoppably like a top. So that's where it all went. That's what it all meant - Mark would leave him for his evergreen sequoias and card blue skies. And Sean Parker, not him, will be helping Mark build this company. Because he is an adult and cool, he has already gained experience. Who is Eduardo? A half-educated student who barely manages to master the academic program in full. Not to mention being the financial director of an Internet project. Funny.
Mark froze in his chair, like an idol, without turning his head in his direction.
- Well, - he said in a businesslike tone, - I think the historic moment has come. It's time. Wardo, I hear you're in Phoenix. Tell me someone's soap from there. You have to start somewhere.
By the time he had to go to New York, Mark was already so twitchy that he only remembered it thanks to an alert on his computer, which he himself had installed in advance. But now, sitting in the restaurant opposite Sean, waiting for another cocktail, he could say with certainty that it was worth it. All this bickering with Chris about his insensitivity, Wardo's wounded looks. A five-hour road - at night, in a shaking municipal bus, a morning rush in the subway. And even idle work on the site for a whole day. Because what he could get in the end was disproportionately more. Parker was his karmic offset for some unknown merit, you can't say otherwise.
The waitress carefully set wide glasses of cocktails in front of them, and Sean, immediately taking a sip from his, continued:
- Well, you probably heard about the story with the Metallica drummer. It didn't work out well, of course.
"Yeah," Mark took a sip of the sweet translucent green stuff that Parker had ordered for both of them. - To launch a song in a peer-to-peer network on the eve of the day of release - you and Fanning annealed it.
- Well, the goat Ulrich sued us. On this, Napster, consider, died. Auctioning bankrupts, reselling, converting to a paid service. Complete necrophilia. I don't even want to talk about it. Well, then I tried to start all over again in Plaxo...
- Yes, I know how it all ended, - Mark eased his suffering. - Read.
- Yes, you are well-read, kitty , - Sean said, bowing his head to the shoulder, in the voice of a pimp from a cheap Mexican brothel.
Mark snorted into his glass. He really liked Parker. No, not in the way Wardo feared (he might not have spoken, but Mark wasn't exactly an idiot). Sean was just wonderful in terms of their similarities with Mark in life positions. And besides, he was very technically savvy - at sixteen he was swept up by the FBI when he exercised his hacking skills on government portals. And Sean has been programming since the age of seven, and at nineteen he wrote a thing that turned the entire music industry upside down.
Mark couldn't claim it was completely asexual, but he was absolutely in love with his brain. Something similar Mark once felt for Adam D'Angelo, a girlishly handsome descendant of Italian immigrants, with whom he shared a room at the Academy. But then he still confused it with attraction, which was shameful and embarrassing for the completely natural Adam. Which, by the way, Mark seriously planned to invite to work with him when everything settled down in Palo Alto. Dustin was an amazingly talented programmer, but as a head of technical department, he was no good.
- "We should have appeared on the board of directors more often, Sean," Parker quoted someone in a squeaky voice. "It would do you good." By the way, Mark. Mind you, I can be a complete ass for life alone. Yes, an irresponsible, lazy ass that needs a good kick from time to time. But," he held up a finger, "not when it comes to business. Here you can completely rely on me. So what's your strategy?
- Harvard is already covered by eighty percent, if not more. I think it makes sense to expand, - Mark began to expound, worried. - I decided that it would be Stanford, Dartmouth, Columbia and Yale - as the most prestigious. Then the wave rolls on.
- And you do not be shy to invent new gadgets, so that people hawal, - Sean looked frowningly. - Don't let them leave the monitor at all! Let them stick around on Facebook all day, scoring everything. This is your main task.
- I know, I know, - Mark breathed, - I have ideas, I already understood what people need. Every day I understand everything more clearly. And I will also make my own photo hosting, so as not to depend on the Harvard "i2nub". You should have seen - the traffic is just crazy. Here's a typical case, Sean: twenty identical redneck photos of her drunk as hell hanging on her girlfriend - and she needs to pour everything.
- No, well, listen, - Parker clicked his tongue, - it's brilliant, what you came up with, dude. When Amy showed me this, I almost pee in my pants for joy. Such a startup! I will, but I'll wrest full control of the firm for you when it comes to VCs. Although we will start, of course, with the angels. Til will be interested, I'm more than sure. He has a flair for this business, like a hound, believe a knowledgeable person.
Mark sat and smiled like a moron - with Sean it was just super. They understood each other perfectly. Mark even managed to use his Napster at one time - in those two years, until the shop was closed - downloading Shakira's recordings from Tour Anfibio in exchange for early versions of Creedence hits, which he digitized from his father's cassettes. For Mark, Parker was almost a legend, and at the same time - his on the board. He definitely needed to hold on.
- They write to you, - Sean showed his eyes at the mobile phone moving on the table. - Young woman?
- No, - Mark shook his head, looking at the screen, - this is mine ... Well, you have Amy. I have Wardo.
- Oh, Wardo. Understood, - predatory smiled Parker. - The same Eduardo Saverin, about whom I have heard so much. Worried about me getting in your pants? Well, of course. It is also good if he says it directly, and not in Aesopian language.
"You could at least call when you got there ," was in the SMS. - "And filter everything that this horseradish from the mountain will tell you. You see him for the first time."
Mark bit the tip of his thumb - he did not really understand how to explain to Sean the essence of his problem, if anything. And this "if anything" was obviously brewing - Eduardo, to his amazement, did not agree to go to Palo Alto, insisting on an internship and searching for advertisers in New York. Mark couldn't understand at all what it was like for Wardo to be against being with him.
But for now, the party simply merged outright, because Mark could no longer revise his current plans. And every enthusiastic cry "Girls, he added me!" from the window of the building opposite, each pop-up notification about how many people want to "be friends" with Mark personally, only strengthened his intentions. Facebook promised to become a really worthwhile thing - what he dreamed of as a teenager, full of ambitious plans.
But Wardo. Mark, for the first time in his life, did not know what to do with Wardo, because their conflict was not resolved by sex. Eduardo walked around like a zombie, with a dry, feverish look that made Mark feel sick in the stomach. And he himself felt infinitely guilty, was lost and for a long time could not find an idea. Which was catastrophic, given the current time pressure.
- My God, my God! It's even worse, - Sean continued to demonstrate his deductive skills. - He's jealous of your site. It's rubbish, buddy. And I'm not talking about personal life. Your sweet amigo, I'm sorry, can ruin us all to hell.
Mark choked on the half-melted ice chips because it sounded like a pretty clear warning.
- Shawn, but you don't think it's going to come to...? He didn't believe he was asking that. In fact, wondering what he should do if Wardo's position would really threaten the interests of the freshly baked business. Parker thoughtfully bit his lower lip, looking absolutely serious, sober eyes, and then sniffed and, leaning towards Mark, whispered confidentially:
- Well, I have a couple of ready-made solutions in stock. You don't think it's legally insurmountable, do you? Moreover, as I understand it, your findir has significant gaps in knowledge and lack of desire to fill them.
Mark shifted in place and nodded. God knows he didn't want it to come to this. If only he knew how to reconcile the most important person in his life and his best business project. The last thing Mark wanted to do was choose between them. Although... You can't protect yourself from everything, and he just had to tell Sean. It doesn't matter that Mark felt so shitty at the same time that words can't describe.
- And you, by the way, take an indefinite academy, - advised Parker. - If you want, then finish your studies ... Pirate of Silicon Valley, gee.
Mark couldn't help but smile as he remembered that epic geek movie. The actor who played Jobs was even nothing. And Sean, with a snap of his fingers, called the waitress, who, for some reason, was not at all embarrassed by such an address. If he knew how to charm investors in the same way, it would be just super. In the meantime, Mark had to somehow get a couple of months to Palo Alto, where in June a house with four bedrooms and a pool would be waiting for him. Not that he would have time to chill on the side; the bullshit was that in California all the houses were with a pool. Just default. And this was exactly what Mark wanted for so long.
- And remember, cat: the predominant quality of a successful gene should be ruthless selfishness, - Sean quoted word for word their favorite book for two.
Mark rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. This communication genius always knew what to say and when.
- Kevin, come on! - the long-haired girl squealed a little behind Mark, excitedly pressing her fists to her chest. Probably Kevin from Lowell was her friend or boyfriend, for fuck's sake. True, Mark already clearly saw that he was lagging behind the rest, which means that it was pointless to root for him. But the calf didn't know that.
- Why should they drink, Mark? Chris asked in bewilderment, scratching his head. - This after all concentration of attention reduces.
- To me, in potential employees, something else is more important, - he crossed his arms over his chest. - If they manage to pass this quest with alcohol in their blood, it means that they really want to be on the Facebook team. Well, no - so you can always get rid of this concentration of yours, pussycat.
- Go to hell. What kind of pussy am I to you? How many of you came up with this stupid word?
"Dustin, who else," Mark chuckled. - In fact ... - he looked around, not wanting anyone to warm his ears, - he just wants to call you affectionately. And he doesn't know how. The poor animal has a limited vocabulary.
Squinting at Chris, Mark broke into a smirk - it was all so funny. He seriously could never understand why everyone thought he was some sort of bot incapable of recognizing human emotions. It was downright annoying.
Chris was sad to look at. He couldn't even afford to expand on the subject, naively thinking that Mark didn't know about his Dustin rooftop. And at the same time, Chris was dying from the desire to hear something else in the same spirit, because he hoped. Against common sense, he hoped that Moskowitz would one day get his head out of his ass and understand everything. It was sad and funny at the same time - to see them with a redhead every day, to watch the painfully awkward tenderness that simply could not be in the relationship of two friends. Mark wondered how stupid these two were. But I didn't fit in, because I had enough of my own problems.
The door opened a crack and, turning his head, Mark saw Wardo, clearly out of his lecture, because it was too early for the end of the class. He pulled himself up, biting his lip nervously, not really knowing what to expect.
- Hi Mark. Chris, hi." Eduardo walked over and stood next to Mark, looking at the circle of shifted tables, where the competition was in full swing. - Are you very busy right now?
"No, no," he shook his head, not looking at Wardo. - What's the matter?
"Here," he handed him that thick envelope made of wrapping paper. Mark felt it by touch - with a pad of pimply polyethylene. "I deposited another eighteen thousand into the company account. Do you have enough for the summer?
His voice trembled a little, and Mark couldn't, just couldn't bring himself to look Eduardo in the eyes. It was all too much. He knew how Wardo felt about the subject of Palo Alto and the prospect of his departure in general. And suddenly this is it. Mark's chest constricted.
"Of course," he nodded, turning away and blinking so he could see clearly again.
Chris looked at them wide-eyed. He understood as well as Mark what it cost Eduardo to go to the bank and deposit money into the account. Knowing what they are for. Knowing that the contract with the landlord has already been signed and the date of arrival has been agreed.
- Will you take it to us? - asked Mark, shoving a package at Chris. - And then where am I with him.
- Not a question, - he nodded, - well, I went.
The door opened a crack, letting in a streak of light into the dim classroom, then slammed shut again. There were whistling and yelling all around - the second round of this homegrown contest that she and Dustin and another guy, Ari Hasid, had just begun to select their candidates. But now Mark has completely dropped out of it all, because Eduardo was standing nearby, at a distance of less than a step - not looking at Mark, not touching. But what was the point when he felt everything with his skin. As from Wardo and rushing with this sick, dark desire - on, on, take me all, turn me inside out.
Before meeting him, Mark did not even imagine that this happens. I didn't think that such an open, sensual, vulnerable person like Wardo would choose him. From the outside, it looked absurd - Mark, in terms of character, did not suit him at all. But now it didn't matter at all. She and Wardo were a couple. Meu bem , Eduardo told him in a whisper, kissing his closed eyelids, touching his eyebrows with his lips.
- Can you wait until the end? Mark asked, swallowing dryly. - Half an hour, no more. I promise.
Eduardo turned his head, silently looking at him, and Mark cursed through his teeth in a whisper, hearing the silent "I want." It filled his ears, resonating endlessly, sounding as clear as if Wardo had said it aloud. And Mark could almost feel the taste of his salty skin, saw how frantically throbbing the wreath near the clavicle. There was no longer any strength to wait for the moment when "I" and "you" would be smeared, spread along the edges and the border between them would disappear.
Minutes stretched into agonizing seconds, breaking and falling on the top of his head in heavy drops. Eduardo didn't breathe beside him, touching Mark only with bent knuckles.
Opening his eyes, Mark blinked, but this did not help - everything was seen as if through a stained polyethylene film, which is covered with construction objects. Raising his hands to his face and looking at his fingers as thick as sausages, ugly swollen from the heat, he rubbed his eyes. They wept with pus. Mark hadn't slept for more than three days the day before, and ended up passing out, banging his forehead against the palm rest on the keyboard. It was necessary to work on the functionality of a new cool feature, which he called the "wall", right now, without delay, because it was just a godsend. The insight that came down to him as a reward for all the torment - with rent, interns, Wardo, Sean and parents who were seriously worried that Facebook would not be another failed dot-com. There were plenty of examples around. And he had already told them he was quitting Harvard.
Shaking his head like a dog out of water, Mark peeled off his sweat-soaked T-shirt from his chest and looked around. All three interns in the room were busy. The guys sat and sausage, without straightening their backs - in headphones, so as not to be distracted by external stimuli. Having tried to stand up, Mark instantly felt how his whole body ached disgustingly, and sucked in his stomach. His head felt like it was filled with wet sand.
With a sigh of martyrdom, he nevertheless tore his ass off the chair and went to the refrigerator, taking the last bottle of beer from there - there was no Red Bull left at all. There he did not dare. The song "California Dreaming" by the talented group "The Mamas And The Papas" sounded mockingly from a boombox somewhere in the bushes. "Wanted sun and a pool?" He mentally kicked himself in the liver. - "Well, then, bitch. Get it. There it is, your fucking pool."
Mark stood with his back against the wall, mentally repeating to himself: the body is not important, the main thing is a functioning brain. Which was pretty stupid. Even a dead phone battery needed a full charge, not to mention an order of magnitude more complex organic matter, to which Mark still attributed himself. And, no matter how insulting it was to admit it, writing code in the near future did not shine for him. First, I had to come to my senses.
Taking out a bag of ice cubes from the freezer and holding it on his forehead, Mark returned to his seat and sat down to sort through the mail, since he was not capable of anything more productive. Screams came from the yard, and then there was a joyful girlish squeal, from which the eardrums almost burst in his ears. But Mark didn't give a fuck - it couldn't be worse physically anyway.
Pointing at the bat icon in the corner, he opened the client, drumming his fingers impatiently on the table, waiting for mail to load from the server into his inbox. A minute later, the bold number in front of this folder stopped growing, and Mark clicked again, revealing his correspondence. And he almost bit his tongue in surprise.
His email, the one that Mark had listed as a way for Facebook users to get in touch with complaints and suggestions, was littered with emails. And no, it was not spam and not mailings that could accidentally fall into the wrong box. These were real letters, from people. Everything is the same, with the heading "advertising" written in different ways - in a regular font, in caps, with an underline and with exclamation marks.
Pointing at the first thing he saw, Mark read:
"Hello. My name is Claire, Harvard, second year. Mark, I really like your resource! Sent the link to all my friends. But could you do something about the ads? My eyes hurt a lot."
Scrolling down the page, he opened the following letter:
"Hi. I'm Ted from Columbia. Listen, you have a cool site. But the ads are FUCKING! It ripples in my eyes. Take it away, otherwise people will start to leave you.
Pressing his hand to his mouth, Mark bit his fingers in panic. There were ninety-two letters in total. For eight days - he looked at the dates. Rising, he walked on unbending legs to the room in which Adam was sitting. And stood on the threshold to think again before opening his mouth.
Adam studied here in California at Tech. In the first year. But when Mark found his number, called and explained everything about Facebook, he dropped out of college without hesitation. And that was really cool. More than what Mark had hoped for, so he couldn't yell at his high school friend right now. I could not, without understanding for a start what was the matter.
"Adam," he asked, trying to make it sound reasonable, "tell me, who put up banner ads on the site?" And who sent them?
Obviously, sound sane did not work. Which is not surprising - Mark was just furious. Adam stared at him:
- Put Ari. And links to them were sent by Eduardo Saverin, your findir. Did you agree on that, Mark? Yes?!
"No, Adam," he answered through gritted teeth. - Unfortunately no.
- What kind of kipesh, boys? Parker entered the room, wiping his blond curls with a towel over his shoulders. - Is there something wrong?
- Eduardo sent inconsistent modules, and we delivered them. They've been spinning for a week now, and Mark just found out," D'Angelo explained reluctantly. Only because Mark himself was silent, at the moment simply wanting to kill all people.
"Oh la la," Sean raised his eyebrows. - Mark, I'll be quiet, okay? You are my smart one. You already know everything.
Mark knew. And therefore, although he was an atheist, now he mentally asked the unnamed god of his ancestors so that Parker would be wrong. That he was not quite a prophet. And so that Mark does not have to apply a couple of ready-made solutions to his closest person.
Exhaling and getting up from his chair, he asked:
- Adam, do the mailing. Notify all of ours: there are no ads on Facebook. And it won't be for the next two years. So we do not accept any modules from anyone. At all.
"I understand, Mark," he closed his eyes. - I'll do everything I can. I'll remove it without a trace. What else?
- Don't think it's too much. But Adam. Could you fish out Chris and tell him to write personally to each user who complained about the service? One or two lines of apology, copy-paste, nothing complicated. But it needs to be done today.
"No question, I can do it myself if he doesn't come back by tonight," suggested D'Angelo. You are nothing, but I still sleep at night. I don't break.
"Thank you, bunny," Sean answered seriously for him, blowing a kiss to Adam. - You'll be fine.
Still no longer affected by the shock, Mark pulled the nearest laptop to him and, logging into his personal account, opened a new letter, typing in the headline: "Wardo, why do you hate me so much?". It left without content - with one helpless ellipsis in the body of the letter.
The sun was already setting in Palo Alto; Boston was three hours ahead. This is probably why, after a certain time of stupid sitting in front of the computer, the answer fell into the mail. Opening it, Mark saw a sheet on at least two Word sheets. Two sheets of nonsense, the very fact of their existence confirming that Wardo didn't understand a damn thing. Mark slowly moved the cursor to the corner of the letter and clicked on the "delete" button.
Then Dustin, who had already managed to get into the course of all these sad events, mercifully soldered him with some unfamiliar energy drink from his mug. Holding your chin so you don't choke. And it wasn't right that he wasn't cared for by Wardo, but by another person. While Wardo ...
Thinking about it was so terrible that Mark stumbled downstairs, went out into the yard and, leaving his slippers on the side, completely in a suicidal manner collapsed into the water, raising a huge cloud of spray. The water was warm and smelled disgustingly of chlorine. Spreading his arms, swaying against the wall lined with small tiles, Mark felt how the wet T-shirt and shorts were being heavily pulled down, and with some indifference he watched what would happen next.
Further on, Dustin's comically serious mug loomed over his face.
"Don't even think about it, Zuckerbug," he told Mark. - We will catch you with the pussy anyway, we will wring out and hang out to dry on the balcony.
In response, Mark pinched his nose with his fingers, drowning himself with his head. Life was definitely not kind to him.
Most of all, as a background sound, rain was suitable for work. Mark loved the sound of heavy, suffocatingly dense rain that, after a period of drought, falls on the city and pours continuously, for hours, without abating. And here, in a quiet cul-de-sac on Jennifer Way, there were no other sounds outside. Only a whisper, a rustle, a uniform ringing beat against the roof tiles and the murmur of water in the gutters.
After the stifling heat, when the thermometer rose to over forty-five Celsius - and this was in unventilated server rooms, the rain was just a blessing. And Mark, probably for the first time since his arrival here, really managed to relax. He felt inspired and uplifted - what the creator feels when his life is at least somewhat adjusted and organized.
Mark was so engrossed in his work that he jumped in surprise when there was a knock on the door of his room.
"Listen," Dustin's head poked through the crack, "here Wardo arrived. Come on down, live. He vomits and thrashes.
Saved, Mark slipped his feet into his slippers and jumped up to rush down the stairs at a brisk pace. Because he forgot. I completely, completely forgot about the fact that Eduardo himself offered to meet him right at the San Jose airport and take him home. That he appointed a specific time to meet with him. And now Mark screwed up and ruined everything. And he didn't know how he would look Wardo in the eyes now.
He heard them as he walked down the steps, Sean's caustic voice and Eduardo's angry, frustrated voice. They were arguing about something, which was bad in itself. Mark was waiting for his arrival, he was looking forward to it, and he wanted everything to be peaceful. For Wardo to like it here. Maybe then he would be able to persuade him to move - at least for the summer, like Chris. Yes, he certainly could live without Eduardo, but it was not at all the same. A dreary semi-existence, from which Mark is already rather tired. All those rare phone calls - with silence and pauses where you could just hug, press your forehead against his forehead and stay like that. Do not torment each other with quarrels and showdowns, which at a distance could not end in anything good. But it all seems to be going to hell now.
Mark stepped down the stairs. Eduardo, in a raincoat to the floor, with a snow-white shirt collar peeking out from under him, looked wild against the background of their mess. However, he also hardly expected to see all this. Mattresses on the floor, dirty mugs of stale noodles scattered all over the place, and Amy's girlfriends giggling silly on an old sagging sofa. Least of all it looked like the headquarters of Facebook , as Mark in conversations positioned it.
Seeing him, Sean fell silent in mid-sentence. Mark made it a rule not to get into their fights with Amy, even if they were yelling like crazy all over the house. Hitting Mark casually with his shoulder, he went to the refrigerator, and, opening the door, reached for a beer. It was hot and humid because of the rain, so Sean went around the house in his shorts. Mark suddenly thought that against the background of Wardo, he looked simply defiantly undressed.
- Mark! But you promised! Eduardo barked, and Mark flinched, raising his head to look at him. It was just fucked up - tired, tortured, Wardo was also soaked to the skin. Hair stuck to her cheeks, and a puddle had already flowed from her boots to the floor. Mark closed his eyes; he had nothing to say in his defense.
He approached and... only had enough strength to blindly bury his nose in Eduardo's wet neck, clasping him with both hands. He was so bored that now he simply could not help himself, clinging to his wet clothes and looking lostly into his face, looking for at least a semblance of a smile.
"I forgot," Mark said repentantly, kissing him on his prickly chin, from which water dripped. - Earned. How are you Wardo? What is heard in New York?
Everything went wrong. Everything was very bad, because Eduardo never hugged him back. Without looking at Mark, he asked in an unnatural voice ringing with tension:
- What is he doing here? In the house I rent? You never once said you lived with him.
"If it comes to that, I'm a lot more useful, buddy," Sean couldn't hold his tongue. - Mark needs investors, and I am able to provide them. What did you do to develop the company? Come on, here are the facts. A?
- Mark, - Eduardo flared his nostrils, - can I say a few words to you?
- Certainly. Of course, let's go. You're right, we need to talk, - Mark almost stuttered from excitement. Because seriously, I never even thought that everything would come to this. The door to the hallway slammed shut and they were alone.
"May I ask why Parker is doing investor meetings?" Who is he anyway? After all, I'm the CFO, Mark!
Eduardo stood opposite, leaning against the wall. Without even trying to get closer or touch. And it was so creepy and wrong, after weeks apart, that Mark reached into his pants pocket with a trembling hand, pulling out a torn bag of Twizzlers. He just needed to calm down. Put something in your mouth the way nannies put silicone pacifiers in babies. After biting off the transparent worm and chewing, he exhaled nervously:
- Because you're not here, Wardo.
There was a lot more he would have said if his throat hadn't spasmed. Eduardo was silent, staring darkly at his boots. Not agreeing, not giving in, and Mark couldn't help it.
"If this continues, you may be left out," he said hoarsely, dangerously close to tears because it was true. - Please, Wardo, move to California.
"You know what," he said after a pause, "it's all just words. You, I see, are doing very well on your own. I've been overboard for a long time already, what's there, - he swallowed, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall. - Mark, you don't need an advertisement that I found for you with such difficulty. I don't need me myself - otherwise you would have met me at the airport, as we agreed. You just...
- What? - already almost in a coma from horror, asked Mark.
- You just want my money. Were needed. Until pretty Sean offered more," Eduardo said bitterly. - My bet is beaten, right? All Mark?
He could only shake his head. No. Not all. But Wardo was no longer listening. He simply adjusted the bag on his shoulder and, passing by Mark and pushing him against the wall, flung open the door.
- I'm going back to New York.
Eduardo didn't even have an umbrella with him. It was so funny to think about the umbrella now, when Wardo ran off the porch and walked away without looking back. His silhouette kept getting farther and farther away until he was completely out of sight in the impenetrable veil of rain. Mark stood on the steps, hugging his shoulders, swallowing the salty water running down his face. He didn't want to, couldn't believe that everything between him and Wardo was really coming apart at the seams. Who knows, maybe this mishugen will return to his New York, cool down and eventually realize that his place is here. Next to Mark.
Eduardo sighed, rocking from toe to heel, looking down at the glittering parquet underfoot.
"Mrs. Casey... Andrea," he called softly, in the vain hope that the tutor, chatting on the phone during office hours, would give him a minute.
Eduardo stood behind him, hearing her laugh into the phone, seeing the glint of diamond chips on the rims of her earrings. They didn't pay any attention to him. As if he were just background noise that filled the New York branch of the Leaman Brothers bank. Like the sound of a printer sucking up new sheets of paper, or the whispering of young tellers.
- Mrs Casey! - Eduardo said louder, stepping around her, - sorry, I want to take time off. I have to go.
- What? - the arches of her perfect eyebrows crawled somewhere on her forehead - expressively, as in a comedy series. - Beth, wait, I'm being pulled here. No, intern. Don't lose your mind, I'll call you back soon.
Eduardo looked away, biting his lip. Andrea looked annoyed.
"Wait a minute," she narrowed her eyes, "you mean to tell me that you won't stay until the end of the working day?"
"My father," Eduardo knitted his eyebrows plaintively, "I need to see him. Urgent now. It is important.
- Yah? Casey tilted her head. - More important than an internship in one of the most prestigious banks in the country? Tell me, did you come for two interviews for this, convinced Henry that you could handle it? Swearing that the investment is yours?
Eduardo pressed his nails into his palm - it seemed that things were going to some kind of ultimatum. This is what he was afraid of.
"I'm sure family circumstances can wait. Unless, of course, your father is dying, - Andrea coldly measured him with her eyes. - Get back to work.
He shook his head; that was out of the question. From the moment Papai flashed on his phone , and his father said in a familiar, slightly tired tone: "Eduardo, son, I'm in New York. Need to talk. Come where usual, I'm already there. See you".
From Times Square to the Viennese cafe on Fifth Avenue, it was a half an hour drive - taking into account evening traffic. And my father didn't wait any longer. Eduardo knew from his own experience how much he values his time.
No, Mrs Casey. I can not. Please allow me to leave, this is really very va-...
"Saverin," she squinted. - Stop fooling around. I think I made it clear that I do not give my consent. So either you stay or you can get out of here. We have dozens of such boys waiting in line. They beg to be given a chance. Decide.
"Good," Eduardo swallowed. - Allow me to pick up things. My briefcase, raincoat and... also an umbrella, yes.
- Idiot, - she grumbled, intercepting the phone more comfortably, - all in his dad, probably. Yes, for God's sake.
After picking up all his belongings from the booth next to him, he approached Casey again. Apparently, now she could not get through, because she was frowning, biting her lip and pressing the phone to her ear.
- With such an attitude towards people, your bank will one day burn out, - Eduardo said seriously and weightily, resting his gaze on the bridge of her nose. - Remember me when the assets are being sold. Best wishes.
Walking to the exit, under the surprised and disapproving glances of the employees, he distantly thought that he had probably just set a record for the shortest internships. The glass door with a heavy steel handrail slammed shut, and Eduardo found himself again in the stuffy pre-stormy atmosphere of New York. The huge stone letters of the bank's sign were bathed in light reflected from the building's glass walls. He stepped to the side of the road and began to vote, almost immediately seeing a yellow cab pulling up to the curb.
Eduardo raised his hand, squinting at the gleaming face of his watch. He still had a chance to make it.
- Are you in a hurry? - raised an eyebrow taxi driver, an elderly mulatto with gray curly hair.
"Hurry, please, sir," he said, panting a little, dragging a long, dangling cloak onto the seat. - I'll pay.
- No problem, - he nodded, - you will have time to your sweetheart.
- Так чем ты планируешь заняться? Расскажи. Нам с матерью все-таки интересны твои ближайшие планы.
Эдуардо смотрел, как зубчики десертной вилки погружаются в дрожащий треугольник чизкейка, и силился подобрать слова. Уже смутно подозревая, что ответ его не устроит.
- Ну... весной мы с Марком и еще одним парнем, Дастином, учредили общество с ограниченной ответственностью. Сейчас Марк...
- Диту, - почти ласково попросил отец, - не сбивай меня с толку. Я спросил, чем будешь заниматься ты. Не Марк Цукерберг, а ты. Мужчина должен иметь свой собственный бизнес. У меня их пять.
«Тебе пора завести хотя бы один» — повисло в воздухе, не произнесенное вслух, и Эдуардо заморгал, пытаясь устоять перед этим натиском чужого превосходства. Получалось так же, как обычно с Марком. То есть, никак.
- Но я хотел пройти стажировку, - начал он, тут же обрывая себя сам. Не то.
Отец смотрел на него преувеличенно внимательно, всем своим видом показывая, что глупость наследника утомляет. Он даже слегка улыбался - иронически, словно рядом сидела мама, и он не хотел ее обижать. Его рубашка была слегка расстегнута, оттеняя шейный платок. Светлый костюм-тройка, явно стоящий сумасшедших денег, даже тут, в пафосном кафе, смотрелся перебором. Друзья в Майами, посмеиваясь, называли это «колониальный стиль», намекая на манеру португальцев разряжаться в пух и прах, оставленную потомкам в наследство.
- Ладно, - уперся кулаками в стол Эдуардо. - У меня нет идей. Совсем. Как по-твоему, что это могло бы быть?
- Используй то, что у тебя уже есть, - посоветовал отец, пригубив кофе из маленькой чашки. В Café Sabarsky он ходил исключительно потому, что тут варили настоящий бразильский, а не ту кошмарную разбавленную жижу, что везде в Штатах. Эдуардо и сам не мог брать это в рот.
- Что ты имеешь в виду? - довольно жалко переспросил он.
Услышав вопрос, отец совсем сник. Эдуардо хватал воздух ртом. Это было самое непереносимое, самое болезненное — видеть его разочарование так наглядно.
- Папа... - Эдуардо прижал ладонь к кадыку, глядя в стол.
- Подумай и скажи мне, чем ты отличаешься от своего Марка - как некая абстрактная личность.
- Он родился в семье среднего достатка. Я — нет. Он «американу», а я бразилец.
- Недурно. Ну, давай дальше, - подбодрил тот.
- Ему не важны приличия, манеры. Мне — да.
- Да вы с ним просто как надпись на флаге. «Порядок и прогресс», - сухо усмехнулся отец.
Эдуардо почувствовал, как щеки начинают теплеть. Это был полный идиотизм, конечно, но, когда кто-то говорил «ты и Марк, вы с Марком», что-то у него внутри таяло, как сливочное мороженое, стекая сладкими потеками в солнечное сплетение. Слышать это от родителей было приятно вдвойне — таким образом они давали понять, что признают текущую ситуацию и не против их с namorado отношений.
У Эдуардо даже не было никаких тягостных разговоров на эту тему. Никаких камин-аутов, как это называли тут. Мама сказала однажды, что у нее есть глаза, и объяснять ничего не нужно. Отец не говорил вовсе ничего — и это при том, что на каникулах Эдуардо таскал фотографию Марка в бумажнике, только что с ней не целуясь.
Иногда он думал, что, будь родители гомофобами, он мог бы сосредоточиться на бунте и не думать о том, что он из себя представляет. Чего хочет от жизни, и насколько у него сформировано собственное мнение. Но увы — никто не указывал Эдуардо, с кем спать. От него требовали только стать уже, наконец, взрослым. Тогда как он не был к этому готов.
- О чем ты узнал больше всего за последний год? - побарабанив пальцами по столу, спросил отец.
- Социальные сети, - не задумываясь, ответил Эдуардо, вдруг осознав, что это и в самом деле так. - Я, что... могу сделать свою социальную сеть?
- Почему нет? Сейчас все эти интернет-компании - очень популярная тема. Только ответь себе сначала на вопрос: для кого она будет? Помнишь, чем ты отличаешься от своего друга? Используй это.
Уронив пару купюр на стол, отец встал.
- Мне пора. Но в конце месяца я все же надеюсь увидеть результат твоего мозгового штурма, - он улыбнулся, похлопав по спине. Эдуардо смотрел во все глаза, с облегчением понимая, что ему дается еще одна попытка.
- Я постараюсь. Сделаю все возможное.
Тот кивнул и, пригладив серебрящиеся виски, развернулся и направился к дверям. Эдуардо смотрел вслед, склонив к плечу голову - его отец все еще был очень видным мужчиной.
- Что-нибудь для вас, сэр? - подошла тут же официантка, убирая посуду и салфетки на маленький поднос.
- Двойной эспрессо. И самый жирный кусок торта, какой у вас есть, - смущаясь, выдал Эдуардо. - У меня стресс, понимаете? Нужно что-нибудь...
- Заесть горе, ясно, - рассмеялась девушка, глядя на него почти с умилением. - Окей. Ваш торт будет сию минуту.
- Встретить тебя, мм? Напомни, ты куда прилетаешь? Сан-Хосе? Супер.
Он валялся на постели, сжимая телефон в руке, и мечтал о Марке, одновременно с ним разговаривая. Марк был на другом конце страны, и все, что Эдуардо мог иметь — это его голос. Хриплый от обезвоживания, дрожащий низкими обертонами от того, что они не виделись черт знает сколько времени. Не спали вместе. А еще Марк хотел его встретить, лично сам.
- Ты точно сможешь? - наморщил Эдуардо лоб, припоминая, как тот описывал свои будни, - Я и самостоятельно добраться могу. Не проблема.
- Вардо, я приеду. Даю слово.
- Ладно, - он вздохнул, вдруг услышав где-то на заднем фоне: «Марк, пива?»
Эдуардо знал этот голос уже очень хорошо. И ненавидел его всеми фибрами души, потому что так звучал Шон Паркер, тот самый скользкий тип, который в последнее время стал для Марка непререкаемым авторитетом.
- Спасибо, чувак, - радостно ответил в трубку Марк, как будто бутылка дешевого пива была каким-то божественным нектаром. - И чипсы, кстати, давай сюда.
- Все, что угодно для нашего гения, - засмеялся тот, кинув в него шуршащим пакетом, и Эдуардо сердито отодвинул телефон от уха. Это все пиздец злило — их непринужденное заигрывание, явная близость, от которой у него сползала с лица улыбка.
- Так о чем мы? - позевывая, спросил наконец Марк. - Извини, отвлекли.
- Шон, я слышал, - мрачно обронил Эдуардо.
- Ну да, он просто... в гости зашел. Господи, Вардо. Почему ты так сильно ревнуешь? - удивленно спросил тот, - я же говорил тебе сто раз, он только друг.
- Да, конечно, - облизнул пересохшие губы Эдуардо. - Друг, которого я почему-то постоянно слышу по телефону. Которого ты видишь полуодетым. Плещешься с ним в бассеине, я не знаю! Это же твоя мечта была просто — Шон Паркер, солнце, Калифорния. Твой, блять, рай.
- Так, прекрати нести эту ахинею. Сейчас же, - неприязненно сказал Марк. - Ты что, не понимаешь, что у меня вообще ни на что времени сейчас нет? Или для тебя то, что я делаю — пляжный отдых? Расслабон с пивком, пока все остальные вкалывают?
- Так все-таки нет времени? Что тогда насчет встречи в аэропорту? - медленно сказал он, ненавидя всю эту ситуацию целиком. Они с Марком опять ссорились — потому, что он не мог слышать Паркера и не сходить с ума от своей дурацкой, перекручивающей все кишки, ревности.
- Вардо, ты это нарочно? - взбешенно спросил тот. И, не дождавшись ответа сразу, повесил трубку. Да, вот так — просто взял и повесил, не став с ним дальше разговаривать. Переключив внимание на свой драгоценный Фейсбук, на Шона, который наверняка сейчас был совсем не против поглумиться над Эдуардо. Хрустя чипсами и попивая пиво, пока Марк жаловался на то, какой придурок у него бойфренд, и как он от него уже устал.
Поморгав, Эдуардо стал глядеть в потолок, припоминая — осознанно, в порядке психотерапии, какое письмо прислал отец, когда он кинул ему линк на их с Начо сайт. Как было здорово — придумать концепт этого Оркута для богатых и знаменитых, разработать дизайн. Красивый градиент в ахроматических тонах, намекающий, что все всерьез. Сайт назывался «Светская жизнь».
Название придумал Начо — сын маминой лучший подруги, который учился в Бостонском. Они с Эдуардо знали друг друга с десяти лет, вечно сидели вместе в школьном автобусе, делились завтраками. Не то чтобы особенно дружили — просто были хорошими приятелями, и сейчас тоже. Связаться с ним и договориться вести общий бизнес оказалось совсем несложно.
И пусть Марк думал, что без него Эдуардо — пустое место, и ничего из себя не представляет. Неважно; это был уже только его проект, о котором он не собирался даже рассказывать. Социальная сеть исключительно для бразильской элиты, гениальная нишевая альтернатива гугловской сети Оркут (которая распространялась там просто с колоссальной скоростью). Проект Эдуардо подразумевал исключительность — примерно в том же смысле, что клуб Феникс в Гарварде. Одна только плата за сервис составляла восемьдесят реалов в месяц. А кроме того, в сеть не могли войти лица с доходом ниже трех тысяч ежемесячно.
У них с Начо был более чем ясный план монетизации сайта, и пока все шло просто отлично. Наняв штат программистов, дизайнера и пиарщика, они справились в кратчайшие сроки. Это начинание было успешно; может быть, не в той мере, что Фейсбук, но — тем не менее. И Эдуардо мог бы собой гордиться.
Мог бы, если бы Марк хоть немного уважал его, как личность. Считал способным на большее, чем просто отстегивание бабла, чем слепое следование его стратегии. А ведь он даже не дал запустить ему рекламу на сайт, хотя Эдуардо приложил все усилия, чтобы ее получить. Марк вообще его не слушал. Единственный человек, чье мнение для него сейчас было важно, был не он. А эта льстивая, пронырливая сука Паркер, который прямо сейчас, скорей всего, нависал над сидящим за компом Марком и расточал дифирамбы его интеллекту, деловой хватке и хуй знает чему еще.
Эдуардо слабо приподнялся на локтях, уперевшись в стену гудящим затылком. Он избегал даже думать о сути происходящего, отвлекаясь на все, что угодно. Но он терял Марка — неотвратимо, неизбежно, и с этим совершенно ничего нельзя было поделать.
Это была какая-то злая шутка, не иначе. То, что «солнечная Калифорния», как ее всегда именовали в прогнозах погоды, встретила Эдуардо проливным дождем и свинцовыми тучами. Он видел это еще до того, как сошел с трапа, в иллюминатор — людей под зонтами, мокро блестящий асфальт. Из вещей у Эдуардо с собой была только легкая сумка. Закинув ее на плечо, он поднял воротник плаща повыше, и быстрым шагом направился к зданию аэропорта. Дождь был косым, и он ежился от струек, стекающих по шее, бормоча себе под нос: «Любитель прогнозов хренов. Мог бы и глянуть заранее».
В ночном аэропорту было душно, шумно и пахло пережаренным маслом из закусочных, располагавшихся по всему периметру. Эдуардо сонно моргал — в Бостоне сейчас тоже была рань, всего шесть утра. Пройдя мимо ряда кресел, ближайших от входа, он поискал глазами Марка, его голову в кучеряшках, футболку с дурацкой надписью «Code monkey». Ничего такого в поле зрения не наблюдалось. Эдуардо задрал голову, глянув на часы. Его рейс не задержали, и он прибыл минута в минуту. Стало быть, это Цукерберг опаздывал. Ну что ж, можно было и подождать.
Выбрав место подальше от ноющих и канючащих малолетних детей, он приземлил свою пятую точку и достал телефон, чтобы набрать Марка. К его несказанному удивлению, трубку никто не брал. Там бесконечной чередой шли длинные гудки. Опешив, Эдуардо потерянно озирался по сторонам; Марк же сам это предложил...
Выяснить, в чем дело, можно было только одним способом. Нет, на самом деле не одним, но надоедать Крису с Дастином своей паранойей он не хотел. Поэтому Эдуардо вышел из здания, залез в машину к ближайшему же таксисту и зачитал нацарапанный на форзаце блокнота адрес. Все это нравилось ему все меньше и меньше. Включая тот факт, что Эдуардо уже успел капитально вымокнуть, и к концу дороги начал чихать. Он звонил Марку несколько раз и из машины — результат был тот же. Nada.
Высадив его возле дома, таксист рванул назад со скоростью болида Феррари — мерзкая погода была ему только на руку. А Эдуардо смотрел на освещенные теплым светом окна, моргая склеенными ресницами, надеясь, что это все — какое-то дурацкое недоразумение, и они с Марком просто разминулись. Бывает.
Взойдя на крыльцо, он позвонил в дверь. Первые две минуты ничего не происходило, а потом дверь открылась и Эдуардо нос к носу столкнулся... да, с Шоном Паркером. Он точно знал, как Шон выглядит, потому что прочитал про него весь интернет. Просто охренев от неожиданности, Эдуардо отступил на шаг, тщаясь найти хоть какие-то слова. И не мог.
Паркер был полуголым — в одних коротких шортах, и взгляд Эдуардо уже невольно бродил по его телу. Он ненавидел этого человека до мозга костей. Но если даже его при виде накачанной загорелой груди кинуло в жар, то что же чувствовал Марк? Марк, который Шона боготворил? Эдуардо тяжело сглотнул и с усилием отвел взгляд. Попробовал отвести. Если бы не эта сережка в соске...
- Вардо! - ликующе воскликнул Паркер. - Что же ты раньше не почтил нас своим присутствием? Ты не поверишь - тут без тебя столько всего произошло! Тиль обещал крупную сумму. Марк тебе разве не рассказывал?
- Где он? - спросил Эдуардо, заставляя себя посмотреть ему в лицо. Лицо не должно было отвлекать. Блядское воздержание. У него прямо сейчас стоял на Шона Паркера, и это было пиздец как унизительно - особенно, в свете текущих событий. Но лицо Шона не помогало. Оно было ехидным и привлекательным. Белозубая улыбка, уверенный и наглый прищур светлых глаз.
- Наверху, я так думаю. Делом занят, - смеясь, пожал плечами Шон, - а ты чего ожидал?
На этом месте у Эдуардо просто кончилось терпение. Грубо оттеснив его плечом, он зашел в дом, тут же заметив Дастина, который что-то втолковывал парню помладше.
- Вау, Вардо! С ума сойти! А разве Марк... - недоуменно глянул тот, тут же добавив, - так, стой здесь, сейчас его позову. И плащ сними, ты ж мокрый весь!
- Выпить хочешь? - Паркер стоял в дверях, опираясь затылком о косяк и бесцеремонно его разглядывая, - Или не стоит? Некоторые в пьяном виде делаются сентиментальными прямо-таки до слез.
- Пошел на хрен, - процедил Эдуардо. - Я не в гости к тебе пришел. Это вообще-то мой дом.
- На хозяина, извини, не тянешь, - пожал плечами Шон. - Ты же не контролируешь происходящее. А финансовым директором в теории быть нельзя.
Сверху послышался топот, и по лестнице, запыхавшись и скользя рукой по перилам, сбежал Марк. Эдуардо молча смотрел на него, уже растеряв все слова. Тот так же смотрел в ответ, закусив губу, словно выжидая, что вот сейчас он уступит и опять спустит все на тормозах.
- Ты же обещал, Марк! - сказал он, уже с трудом держа себя в рамках. Эдуардо трясло.
Шон, выйдя откуда-то из-за спины, на пути к холодильнику задел Марка голым плечом. И это было так интимно, что у Эдуардо язык онемел во рту. Он даже пошевелиться сейчас не мог, парализованный таким явным, очевидным предательством. Как будто это было в порядке вещей — то, что Марк был физически близок с кем-то, кроме Эдуардо.
А потом Марк открыл рот и начал объяснять. Разумеется, он забыл. Потому что все, что угодно, было важнее. Эдуардо был просто банковским счетом, с которым он не хотел расставаться. И, вероятно, потому сейчас так за него цеплялся - при насмешливо наблюдающем весь этот цирк Паркере, которому только ведерка с попкорном в руках не хватало.
Он попросил о разговоре наедине, хотя тут же понял, что это уже ничего не меняет. Марк стоял напротив, разговаривая с ним, как со слабоумным, не понимая, что Эдуардо и так уже до всего дошел сам. Конечно, он остался за бортом. Теперь у Марка был Шон, и он не нуждался в друзьях по колледжу, у которых даже не было связей среди инвесторов.
У Эдуардо было четкое, до зубовного скрежета ощущение, что его держат за дурака. Марк над ним просто издевался, иначе что это? «Пожалуйста, переезжай в Калифорнию». Будто бы для Эдуардо здесь было место — рядом с Марком, или в Фейсбуке. Он так мечтал, что снова увидит его, а сейчас не мог себя заставить даже прикоснуться. Парализованный каким-то странным отвращением то ли к себе, то ли к Марку. Сглатывая сентиментальные слезы, которые стекали по задней стенке гортани безо всякого алкоголя.
Это было невыносимо. До такой степени, что Эдуардо просто не мог тут оставаться. И он ушел — обратно в ветер и дождь, потому что это было лучше. Лучше, чем стоять напротив Марка и слышать, как он произносит очевидные вещи.
Пока он был в доме, полило только сильнее. К тому моменту, как он выбрался на шоссе, Эдуардо сотрясался в нервном ознобе, стуча зубами. В конце концов он, конечно, поймал попутку.
- Куда подвезти? - участливо спросил этот парень, глядя, как он отводит с лица приклеенные ко лбу мокрые пряди.
- Сан-Франциско, - хрипло попросил Эдуардо.
Сан-Хосе был ближе, а офисы «Банка Америки» даже в Пало-Альто были на каждом шагу. Но ему надо было подумать. Хотя бы попытаться оценить ситуацию трезво. Сжав руками виски, он снова и снова слышал их голоса — Марка и Шона, согласно вторящие друг другу, как в оперном дуэте.
Они миновали аэропорт — шумный и забитый под завязку из-за отмененных рейсов, с истерически мигающими табло. Мокрый асфальт с акварельными пятнами огней шуршал под колесами, но он не просил притормозить. Прежде чем вернуться, Эдуардо должен был поставить точку. Завершить гештальт, как любил говорить Марк.
Сквозь мутное от дыхания стекло был видел штормовой залив, небо и волны глубокого тревожного цвета, которому Эдуардо даже не мог бы дать названия. В конце концов, он принял решение — где-то в районе Хантерс Пойнт, глядя, как перед глазами проплывают темные палубы грузовых судов. Может быть, взрослый, ответственный человек никогда бы не сделал то, что он собирался сделать. Но Эдуардо было плевать.
Он как раз вышел из студенческого паба, натягивая перчатки на зябнущие руки, когда телефон заиграл «Chasing cars». Мелодию, что у Эдуардо стояла на Криса и Дастина одновременно. Ребята из «Snow Patrol» еще даже не выпустили сингл - запись просочилась раньше, и ее слил в сеть Гарварда кто-то из фанатов.
- Да?
- Вардо, привет. Я раньше хотел позвонить, но эта рыжая морда! Я вообще телефон из рук не выпускаю.
Его смех, теплый и счастливый, был таким нереальным. Эдуардо не видел Криса вживую, наверное, с ноября. По понятным причинам обходя Кёркленд стороной — он больше не мог выносить вида этого корпуса. А на лекциях они с Хьюзом не пересекались. На четвертом году обучения нужно было полностью сосредоточиться на профильных предметах. Тем более, что он уже точно брал дополнительный год, как и обещал отцу. К тому же, их с Начо сайт...
- Привет. А как вообще дела?
- Сессию сдал. По работе ужасная запара, но справляюсь. На каникулах еду в Калифорнию. Но я чего звоню-то - давай встретимся в начале семестра? Ну, если хочешь, конечно.
- Можно. Позвонишь, как вернешься?
- Ага. Супер. Ну, давай.
Крис был самым тактичным из всех, кого он знал. И Эдуардо был ему страшно благодарен - за то, что тот просто оставался человеком. Не скрывал, что у них с Дастином все хорошо (в отличие от). Не отмораживался, как Московиц, а просто звонил иногда, чтобы поболтать, не делая из этого всего проблемы.
Эдуардо старался не сидеть совсем затворником - порой выбирался куда-то с однокурсниками, на выходных мог съездить развеяться в Бостон. Иногда виделся с Эрикой - так получилось, что они продолжили общаться (что было трагикомично - закрытый клуб бывших Марка, или что-то вроде). Эрика училась на педиатра, вечно не досыпала, и даже кофе теперь пила на ходу, обжигая себе язык. Не говоря уже о том, чтобы с кем-то встречаться. По молчаливой договоренности они не упоминали о личности на букву М., и потому могли нормально разговаривать.
Эрика подарила ему на Рождество флакон «Angel for men» от Терри Мюглера, со словами «теперь уже можно». Он как-то видел рекламу на уличном щите - парфюм был модной, ожидаемой новинкой-2005. Эдуардо не распечатывал упаковку.
Он купил для нее годовой абонемент в только что открывшемся фитнес-центре в Бостоне. Если не было времени, Эрика всегда могла заморозить карточку. На полгода, как было сказано в контракте.
На самом деле, он не желал видеться с Крисом и слушать его красочные рассказы про Пало-Альто. Но то, что у него было к Марку, наверное, еще не подохло до конца, трепыхалось. Он все еще хотел знать, как там это чудовище, даже если ни разу не позволил себе спросить.
С Марком они не виделись с июля. Эдуардо жалел тогда, что заморозил счет, поэтому не отказал ему в просьбе оформить официальные бумаги в момент учреждения новой корпорации. Подписал все четыре пакета документов - в присутствии юристов, как и положено. Марк только помахал ему рукой издали, с другого конца своего нового офиса, похожего на самолетный ангар. И не подошел даже поздороваться. Не захотел.
Это было просто смешно, но Марк ведь его даже не бросал. Не говорил ни разу, что им нужно расстаться, что Эдуардо ему надоел. Или что он нашел себе кого-то другого. Да нет, Марк не общался с ним больше, забыв, что он вообще существует. Эдуардо выпал из списка его приоритетов, банально перестал быть интересен. И это было настолько в духе Цукерберга, что он даже сердиться на него толком не мог. Так подросток, стыдясь, запихивает в самый дальний угол шкафа замусоленного медведя, с которым спал в обнимку все детство.
Было неважно, сколько он делал для Марка и его сайта. Похер, сколько часов Эдуардо потратил на переговоры с рекламодателями и дорогу в метро - результата ведь почти не было. В этом была вся маркова философия, и в отношении них двоих тоже. Он не стоил его времени и усилий. Отсечение лишнего - это было указано у Марка даже в профиле, как интерес.
Эдуардо закрыл глаза, стоя под медленно падающими хлопьями снега. Ему просто хотелось знать, вспоминает ли о нем Марк хоть иногда. Или только он по ночам грызет подушку, задыхаясь от тоски по его запаху, дыханию рядом. Упругим завиткам волос, обвивающим пальцы.
Добредя до своего корпуса, он поднялся по лестнице и, открыв дверь комнаты, поставил сумку на стол. Эдуардо не пользовался своим аккаунтом в Фейсбуке, добавив туда, кроме Марка, еще десятка три человек — в самом начале, просто по инерции. Но сейчас он хотел попробовать снова туда зайти — сам не зная толком, зачем.
Раскрыв лэптоп, он навелся на адресную строку и нажал на клавишу с буквой «ф». Мозилла тут же подставила «фейсбук», подгрузив сине-белый favicon. Новостная лента пестрела поздравлениями и картинками с елками и санями. И Эдуардо только на миг отвлекся, пропустив момент, когда наверху всплыло новое сообщение:
Марк Цукерберг желает счастливого Рождества всем, кого любит и ценит.
«О чем вы думаете?» - искушала фраза в пустом поле для статуса. Эдуардо напечатал, о чем, и шлепнул по клавише «ввод».
Эдуардо Саверин уже догадался, что не входит в число этих людей.
Время под статусом обновлялось: минута, две, пять. Цукерберг молчал, хотя и был прямо здесь, на сайте. Хотя мог написать ему фразу или две — руки бы не отсохли. Эдуардо провел пальцами по бровям, глубоко дыша, силясь успокоиться. Кликнул на марков ник, перейдя на страницу профиля. Как и прежде, в графе «статус отношений» значилось: свободен. Глядя на хмурое лицо на маленькой аватарке, Эдуардо вздохнул и сказал шепотом:
- Удачи тебе, Марк.
Шторы держали плотно задернутыми — в июле в Пало-Альто было просто адово пекло. В душной, пропитанной запахом пота комнате их набилось семь человек. Кроме Марка, тут был Ари и Эзра Каллахан — сосед Шона по комнате в Северо-Восточном, которого тот привел спустя неделю. Дастин и Крис, Шон и Адам — тут собрались все, кто стояли у истоков. Вот таким — среди коробок с засохшей пиццей и системников со снятыми боковыми панелями, суждено было быть их самому первому совету директоров.
Кресла и стулья — разномастные, потому что с мебелью было хреново, расставили полукругом. Марк нервозно кусал нижнюю губу, прислонившись спиной к стене. Он был тут босс. И в данный момент это обстоятельство просто ненавидел.
- Я так думаю, все в курсе о ситуации с нашим, с позволения сказать, финансовым директором, - начал Шон, сидя в большом плетеном кресле с ногами. - Если нет, я всегда готов изложить свою версию.
- Не стоит, господин Президент, - насмешливо покосился на него Адам. - Далее слово передается нашему...
- Дорогому «образцу шесть два шесть», - хихикая, закончил за него Дастин, тут же прикрыв руками голову. Потому что Крис совершенно неподобающим образом лупил его свернутым в трубку журналом по башке. Британским «Linux Magazine», кстати сказать, еще запечатанным в целлофан — читать Марку было совсем некогда. Даже при том, что это был пилотный номер, со свежим дистрибутивом, приклеенным к обложке.
Все по мере сил старались сидеть с серьезными рожами, но получалось не очень. Марк и сам прикрыл рукой рот, не сдержав улыбку — это все был тот дебильный мультик под названием «Лило и Стич» который, не отрываясь, смотрели Дастин и Шон. В часы отдыха, само собой.
Всего два полнометражных фильма и еще 65 серий по 20 минут — не так и много, если подумать. Но у Марка было ощущение, что он уже с любого момента может пересказать диалог гавайской девочки Лило и ее синего друга-пришельца, маскирующегося под собаку. «Образец шесть два шесть» или Стич имел восемь лап, пасть, полную острых клыков и был задуман для уничтожения всего живого. Марк понятия не имел, почему, но очень скоро это стало его подпольной кличкой. Чем-то вроде инсайдерской шутки - он даже привык.
- Так, к порядку, - звучно похлопал в ладоши Паркер, видя, что от директоров айти- и пиар-отделов толку мало. - Дело в том, ребятки, что повод собраться у нас весьма печальный. Но таковы правила игры — если кто-то злостно им не следует, мы отбираем ведерко и совочек.
- Шон хотел сказать, что на повестке дня у нас — вопрос исключения влияния Эдуардо Саверина на дела фирмы, - мрачно сказал Марк, скрестив руки на груди. Обстановка, как обычно, была легкомысленная и идиотская, но повод собраться — хуже не придумаешь.
Повисло молчание. Лица у всех вытянулись — может быть, каждый примерял на себя, каково было бы ему на месте незадачливого финдира. Это была мука — самому принимать конечное решение, но только с Марка никто эту ответственность не снимал. Они с Паркером говорили целую ночь, споря до хрипоты, но реальный выход в сложившейся ситуации по-прежнему виделся только один.
Припоминая разговор под утро, он так и слышал голос возмущенный голос Шона: «Обалдеть! Вместо того, чтобы работать вместе с тобой над развитием сети, наш Вардо решил отожрать пусть крошечный, но вкусный сегмент потенциального рынка. Ну и хреновый же из него партнер, я тебе скажу. Если бы не слухи и та поездка Адама в Нью-Йорк, мы бы вообще о его возне не узнали. И кстати — а кто такой этот Начо Гальего?»
На Марка смотрели выжидающе — все те, с кем он работал, жил под одной крышей, делился идеями и планами. Его команда. Собравшись с духом, он сухим, протокольным языком перечислил, почему Эдуардо должен быть устранен — как лицо, в числе прочих ответственное за принятие ключевых решений. Изначально, еще на стадии акционерного общества Вардо был обладателем тридцати процентов акций. И даже сейчас, после того, как в долю вошел Тиль, Паркер и остальные, процент все еще был очень высок.
Но Шон недаром говорил, что ему близок архетип Локи — благодаря разработанному плану беспечность и доверчивость Эдуардо оборачивались против него. Задумка была безупречна. Марк знал, с пугающей уверенностью знал, что Вардо ничего не заподозрит. Что он приедет и подпишет все, что угодно — несмотря на то, что они не обменялись ни словом с той памятной ночи. И все равно был вынужден поступить так — ребята из «Accel Partners» хотели полной ясности перед тем, как вложить в Фейсбук 12,7 миллионов долларов. Фиктивный финансовый директор, которого никто в глаза не видел, их категорически не устраивал. Для себя Марк уже решил, что следующим назначит Эзру — до того, как взять академ, тот учился на экономиста.
- Все поняли, что именно мы делаем? - спросил он, обведя глазами загорелые, осунувшиеся лица. - Доля Саверина будет размыта до трех десятых процента. Таким образом, он больше не сможет влиять на политику компании.
- Но, Марк, - нахмурился Крис, - мы же не можем вот так лишить человека...
- Если до кого не дошло, дело не в деньгах. Точнее, не в той сумме, которую в итоге получит Эдуардо. Разумеется, он останется в числе акционеров. Более того, я даже настаиваю на выплате компенсации за... скажем так, моральный ущерб. Честно говоря, хотелось бы уладить вопрос мирно.
- Мирно? - уставился на него Хьюз. - Но это же... я не знаю, нападение без объявления войны.
- Да ну? А кто тогда опа так и закрыл счет без предупреждения? - поинтересовался Дастин. - Но Марк... слышь, он же тебе не простит. Да блин, ты себе не простишь.
Он не хотел об этом думать, не сейчас. Марк переводил взгляд с одного на другого, видя на лицах все то же - смесь осуждения и сочувствия. Ясное дело, на его месте сейчас не желал бы оказаться никто. И варианта получше парни тоже не предлагали. Каллахан глядел в пол.
Марк, наверное, и правда был для них «образцом шесть два шесть», монстром, который не остановится не перед чем. Но только на деле он чувствовал себя одиноким и брошенным, как Стич в том детском мультике. Марк ведь точно так же очень хотел быть хорошим. Но почему-то получалось быть только плохим.
Стояла глухая ночь — слышно было только, как вода с тихим журчанием сливается в решетчатый сток по краю бассейна. Марк сидел на улице, отдыхая от жары и духоты. Складное кресло, ножками вкопанное в землю под деревом, было его любимым местом вне дома. Здесь он проводил часы, когда уже не мог писать, но и заснуть был еще не в состоянии. Пожалуй, это было самое продуктивное время. Сидя в полном одиночестве, тишине и темноте, Марк не просто продумывал вчерне структуру будущего кода — он охватывал мысленным взором целые масштабные куски, тут же связывая их между собой в кластеры более высокого порядка. Больше того — ему удавалось сразу видеть, как это будет выглядеть на сайте, для пользователей. Просчитывая, какие последствия принесет то или иное нововведение — а идеи для новых завлекалок у Марка просто не иссякали.
Работа собственного мозга в такие моменты восхищала до немоты — он функционировал будто бы отдельно от слабого, несовершенного по своей природе тела. Иногда Марку казалось, что это состояние — то самое, для чего Шон употребляет запрещенные федеральным законом вещества, рискуя нарваться на крупные неприятности. «Ваша реальность — это отстой», - говорил Паркер, утирая текущий нос. - «Все ужасно тормозит и виснет. Как вы в ней живете?»
Но только Марк мог добиться этого и так. Впасть в своеобразный транс, когда код складывался в строчки сам, без его сознательного участия. Должно быть, так Шекспир создавал свои катрены с их упорядоченной строгой красотой. Высшее проявление творческого гения, мгновенная вспышка нервного импульса, связывающая цепочки нейронов в созвездия смысла.
Марк не знал, что бы он делал без возможности уходить с головой творчество и хотя бы на время забывать об остальном. О том, что у них с Эдуардо. Раньше он еще имел слабую надежду, что Вардо все же поймет важность того, чем Марк занимается, и поможет. Но когда, придя в банк, он обнаружил аннулированные счета за оборудование, которое было Фейсбуку жизненно необходимо, Марк понял — нет. Этого не будет. Эдуардо ненавидит его проект и не хочет быть рядом с ним. Пора принять это, как факт.
Он сжал руки в кулаки, ощущая знакомую, почти животную беспомощность. Марка буквально тошнило от чувства вины, какие бы логические доводы он себе не приводил. То, что он сделал, вне контекста было чистейшей воды предательством. Хоть Эдуардо пока был даже не в курсе, под чем он поставил свою подпись.
Марк и сам уже понимал, что это была глупость — назначить Вардо финдиром, сделав одним из самых влиятельных лиц после себя — только потому, что тот вложился в Фейсбук на начальном этапе. В качестве благодарности, о которой Вардо даже не просил. Но только на ум тут же приходило несколько отличных стартапов, загнувшихся в самом начале из-за недостатка финансирования, и Марк осознавал — его поступок был оправдан не столько сантиментами, сколько деловым расчетом. Привязать человека к проекту, заручившись его материальной поддержкой. Ведь до вкладов инвесторов еще нужно было как-то дотянуть.
Оставалось только гадать, сколько времени потребуется Вардо, чтобы внимательно прочитать оставленные у него на руках соглашения. Полгода, год? Паркер откровенно глумился, предполагая такие сроки, но Марк с тоской понимал, что тот не так уж далек от истины. Эдуардо, с его фантастической способностью уделять внимание декоративным деталям и упускать главное, скорее всего, обнаружит изменение своего статуса очень нескоро. И Марк не мог даже предположить, что тогда будет.
Но с дальновидностью у него и у самого было неважно. Потому что иначе Марк был сумел понять еще тогда, до запуска сайта — Эдуардо это не интересно. Он мог добыть денег как-то иначе; в конце концов, пойти и попросить взаймы у родителей. Но Марк не стал. Упертый и самонадеянный, как все начинающие предприниматели, он каким-то чудом все же сумел удержаться на плаву. Правда, при этом полностью похерив самые важные в своей жизни отношения.
Марк помотал головой, пытаясь вернуться к реальности. На улице было хорошо — вода бассейна светилась призрачным сиянием до самого дна. На деревьях, смутно белея во тьме, раскрывались бутоны гардении. Не хватало только грудного голоса Мамы Кэсс, выводящего «Stars shining bright above you». Если бы он только мог наслаждаться всем этим, а не только регистрировать, как факты. Но увы — все радости для Марка в последнее время сводились только к Фейсбуку. Он работал над совершенствованием сайта столько, сколько не работал ни один новичок в хай-тек бизнесе — но и результат, правда, был налицо.
Они сошли с крыльца, переговариваясь вполголоса. Шарканье шлепок Дастина и чуть сутулый силуэт Криса Марк узнавал сразу и безошибочно. Ребята прошли мимо, даже не посмотрев в его сторону. Остановившись чуть поодаль, возле лестницы в углу бассейна, оба замолчали. Дастин смотрел словно бы выжидающе, переминаясь с пятки на носок. Крис опустил голову, тряхнув выгоревшей до белизны челкой.
- Слушай, можно я тебя спрошу кое-о-чем?
- Давай. Конечно, - шмыгнул носом Дастин, засунув руки в карманы мешковатых шорт. Кадык у него дергался.
- А ты... ты бы вот мог поступить со мной, как Марк с Вардо? Если бы это очень-очень нужно было для дела, а?
Марк задержал дыхание, закрыв глаза от накатившего приступа дурноты. В траве приглушенно стрекотали цикады.
- Не, - прикрыл глаза Дастин. - Я б лучше сдох.
- Что, правда? - спросил Крис так обалдело, будто бы это было новостью.
- Если бы ты сказал, что не поедешь в Калифорнию, я б остался тоже. Спроси Марка.
- Так значит, ты хочешь быть со мной? - полуобморочно спросил Крис, прижав ладонь к щеке.
- Я... да. Очень хочу.
И Дастин, вечно тупящий Дастин вдруг подошел так близко, что Марк больше не видел бирюзовой светящейся полоски между ними. Он положил одну руку Крису на шею, а другую на талию, притягивая к себе, и поцеловал прямо в губы. Крис, который мечтал об этом два года, только судорожно вздохнул и прижался к нему всем телом.
Марк вытер запястьем испарину над верхней губой. Вода монотонно плескалась о бортик, снова и снова.
- Это у меня глюки от жары и воздержания, - невнятно сказал зацелованный, совершенно невменяемый Крис. - Ты чего все лето ждал, черт тебя дери? Мне уезжать через неделю.
- Думал, не дашься, - ответил Дастин, гладя его обеими руками поверх майки, - Какие у тебя губы-то сладкие...
- Да потрогай ты меня, - задыхаясь, попросил Крис и засунул его ладони за отстающий пояс шорт, - Тут все равно никого нет.
Марк закрыл лицо руками, и со вздохом сполз в кресле ниже. Не, в душе он, конечно, радовался за этих двоих придурков, и все такое. Марк еще помнил, как это — ведь когда-то у него тоже был шепот и поцелуи украдкой. С Вардо.
Глаза слезились как-то очень сильно. Будь он обыкновенным раздолбаем девятнадцати лет, а не генеральным директором корпорации, Марк послал бы все на хрен, пошел к Паркеру и попросил отсыпать дорогу и ему. Старший товарищ знал, что говорил: иногда реальность и правда была полным отстоем.
Поначалу Марк не мог поверить в этот простой факт, но Шон всегда оказывался прав. Был ли это жизненный опыт, наблюдательность, способность зрить в корень — так или иначе, прогнозы Паркера сбывались на сто процентов. Он сказал, что даст Марку четыре континента — так оно и вышло. Несмотря на то, что в Латинской Америке был мерзкий гугловский Оркут, а в Африке — Миксит, основанный даже раньше Фейсбука чуваком из Намибии. Фишка была в том, что социальных сетей было много, а Фейсбук — один. Больше чем сайт. Секта.
Прошлым летом, когда все только начиналось, Джонатан Абрамс написал, что хочет купить компанию за 10 миллионов.
- Френдстер? - подергал себя за ухо Шон, - слушай, я знал Абрамса лично. Марк, он одаренный программист, но стратег просто никудышный. Поверь, они еще недолго протянут. У них уже сейчас серверных мощностей не хватает, чтобы расширяться с нужным темпом. Для соцсети это каюк. Вот и трепыхаются из последних сил.
И хотя Марк не представлял, что может сделаться Френдстеру, который был намного крупнее его проекта, после слов Паркера он уже не сомневался — предложение рассматривать не стоит.
Сейчас на дворе стоял апрель 2005, и «Accel Partners» таки дозрела до сотрудничества, обещав перевести средства на счет Фейсбука в течение месяца. Попутно сообщив Марку, что суммарная стоимость компании была оценена их экспертами в сто миллионов долларов.
Сто. На порядок больше.
К этому моменту Марк уже научился вести себя относительно прилично на деловых встречах, и потому высидел все до конца с абсолютно непроницаемым лицом. И только сходя со ступенек бизнес-центра понял, что лыбится во весь рот. Шон лукаво подмигнул. Он один стоил десятка экспертов, и Марк, несмотря на все недостатки, очень его ценил.
- Ну что, Цукерберг, живем! - объявил Шон, с наслаждением затягиваясь сигаретой прямо на ходу. - Первый инвестор, не являющийся частным лицом. За ними и остальные подтянутся. И погоди, тебе будут предлагать куда больше, чтобы ты продался с потрохами. Миллиарды, Марк. Да чтоб моего дилера депортировали, ежели вру. Но... ты же знаешь, как нужно дядям отвечать?
Марк знал. Но все же показал фак с локтя, для наглядности.
- Умница, - поцеловал сложенные бутоном пальцы Паркер. - Люблю тебя.
Он покосился благодарно, несмело улыбнувшись. Хотя эти слова Марк хотел бы слышать вовсе не от Шона. И даже не от мамы, которой, как и прежде, звонил по писку напоминалки в телефоне, раз в месяц. Он очень боялся, что однажды забудет, как их говорил Вардо - задыхающимся влажным шепотом, возле самых губ.
Они как раз сидели и думали над фирменным логотипом с парнями из «Cuban Council», когда в дверях замаячила кудрявая башка Паркера. Марк поднял брови, взглядом спрашивая: «Важно?» Но тот как-то странно хмыкнул и покачал головой. Стало быть, дело могло ждать.
- Прошу прощения, - поморгал он, - так что у вас с концепцией?
- Мистер Цукерберг, письме вы указали, что сделали цвет сайта синим, потому что, цитирую: «Это показалось мне правильным». Наше кредо таково: мы создаем дизайн, который смотрится правильно для большинства людей в данный исторический период времени.
Марк кивнул, решив, что ему такое подойдет. Эту фирму из Сан-Франциско они нашли по рекомендации Наоми, девчонки из крисова отдела. И Марк пока не пожалел. Джо Крэл и Питер Маркатос торчали у них в офисе с самого утра, терпя его неуклюжие попытки объяснить, что он вообще от дизайна хочет и глядя, как Марк рисует на заляпанном кофе листочке в клетку некое подобие своей идеи. Кривое, но, как ему казалось, симпатичное. В качестве шрифта было решено оставить все тот же Klavika — Марк использовал его с самого начала работы сайта.
Он уже по опыту знал, что многим неуютно находиться в помещении со стеклянными стенами, где на тебя, как на рыбину в аквариуме, могут пялиться все проходящие мимо люди. Но эти двое не жаловались, что Марку тоже очень импонировало. Парни были больше увлечены его идей, чем тем, кто и как на них смотрит. В общем, в итоге они договорились без проблем.
Дождавшись, пока секьюрити проводит гостей до выхода из здания, Марк мотнул головой, зная, что Шон наверняка ошивается где-то поблизости и увидит. Так и вышло.
- Ну, что там? - спросил он, не отрывая взгляда от консоли.
- У тебя, вроде, день рождения скоро? - невинно поинтересовался Паркер, и Марк уже знал, что дело дрянь. Потому что Шону было срать на дни рождения вообще, и на марков в частности. Он сохранился, отъехав на кресле и приготовившись решать очередную неотложную проблему — Паркер с другими к нему и не приходил.
- Вардо тут вспомнил о тебе, - поднял солнечные очки на лоб Шон, - и решил поздравить.
Он помахал перед носом у Марка каким-то конвертом и половинкой бланка. Взяв их у Шона из рук, Марк разложил всю эту хрень перед собой, в шоке глядя на жирные оттиски штампов в углу. На них значилось: Федеральный Окружной Суд. Северный Округ Штата Калифорния. Дрожащими руками он достал из ящика стола перочинный ножик и вскрыл конверт. Внутри лежала копия заявления по гражданскому делу, написанного до боли знакомым аккуратным почерком. Чуть неровно оторванный бланк был официальной повесткой — с перечислением документов, которые Марк был обязан предоставить к указанному сроку.
Истец, Эдуардо Луис Саверин, требовал встречи в суде с ответчиком, Марком Эллиотом Цукербергом.
Согласно дате на бланке, первое слушание было назначено на пятнадцатое мая. Марк даже сообразил, что у Эдуардо только вот закончился весенний семестр, а раньше было никак из-за сессии. Чертовски логично. Но он смотрел на Паркера и понимал, что не то что говорить — дышать сейчас не может. Ведь это была не просто точка в их отношениях. Это был контрольный в голову.
- Э-эй. Да забей, мы справимся, - с грубоватой нежностью погладил Марка по макушке Шон. Наверное, у него было что-то не так с лицом. Марк хотел сказать, что он в порядке, что это ничего, но получалось только разевать рот. У Шона расширились глаза.
- Кристофер, это я, - сказал он в интерком, - Он опять. Да, твою мать! Все брось и сюда, живо.
Дальше Марк помнил не очень отчетливо. Звуки уплывали куда-то, оставляя его в ватной тишине, в режиме mute. Как в тот раз, когда Вардо приехал в Пало-Альто подписывать документы. Марк тогда их до смерти перепугал.
Он обнаружил себя на диване, лязгающим зубами о край стакана с водой. Шон сидел перед ним на корточках, обеспокоенно заглядывая в лицо.
- Ну ты как? Получше?
Марк сглотнул, откинувшись затылком на мягкую диванную спинку.
- Бедный мой, - услышал он голос Криса за спиной, тут же почувствовав прикосновение прохладных рук к вискам. - Ну, хотя бы увидишь его. Ты же хотел.
- К-конечно, - кивнул Марк, на автомате добавив, - Но нам нужен хороший пресс-релиз.
Второй по счету судебный процесс по сути не менял ничего. Марк четко понимал, что сайту это уже не может повредить. Судиться с близнецами Винклвосс, которые с большим скрипом запустили свой жалкий ConnectU, было даже забавно — у этих ребят явно был один мозг на двоих. Суетливый Нарендра, слащавой физиономией напоминавший болливудского актера, был просто уморителен.
Судиться с Вардо — Марк не мог даже думать об этом, потому что боялся, что с ним снова будет то же самое. Паническая атака. Подруга матери из Сан-Франциско называла это так.
Эрин взяла с него совсем немного денег за две консультации, и назначила флуоксетин, 20 мг в сутки. Марк уже десять месяцев глотал одну двухцветную таблетку за завтраком, а чаще — вместо него. У него никогда не было особого аппетита, а сейчас — пропал почти вовсе. Секса тоже хотелось гораздо меньше.
Так было даже проще — Марк мог полностью сосредоточиться на работе над сайтом.
Эрин тогда предупредила, что ему больше нельзя пить Ред Булл — стимуляторы и антидепрессанты мешать не стоило. К счастью, Крис был не в курсе, а больше никому и дела не было. Шон сам употреблял такое, и в таких сочетаниях, что Марк с дурацким прозаком мог просто убить себя об стену.
В маминых учебниках (стоявших у него на полках вперемешку с античной литературой) говорилось, что паническими атаками страдают люди, которые с трудом выражают свои чувства и говорят о собственных потребностях. На форуме для психиатров Марк с горем пополам осилил весь тред о них целиком. Хотя для того, чтобы читать, ему пришлось хакнуть ресурс — в Американской Психологической Ассоциации каждый специалист с ученой степенью имел свой регистрационный номер.
«Марк, это вегетосоматическое расстройство,» - говорила Эрин, опираясь подбородком на сложенные руки, - «Твоя психика защищается от травмирующего воздействия, но паталогичным путем. Ты упорно избегаешь разрешения конфликта.»
Марк, разумеется, понимал, что это значит в переводе на человеческий язык.
Оторви задницу, Цукерберг. Сделай что-нибудь.
Марк бы, наверное, мог — если бы в самом деле не был таким позорным, обделавшимся трусом. Которому проще сделать подлость, чем набраться мужества и еще раз попробовать поговорить. Не слушать Паркера, который в жизни никого не любил. Купить билет в Нью-Йорк и на коленях просить Вардо переехать в Калифорнию.
Это было бы куда менее унизительно, чем подсунуть заведомо неверно составленные документы и прятаться за чужими спинами, в буквальном смысле слова. Он понимал это сейчас, спустя время. Вспоминая, с какой неприкрытой жалостью смотрели на него Крис и Дастин... черт, да даже Шон. Даже Шон.
Если бы Вардо тогда подошел, Марк вообще не знал, что бы с ним было. Однажды в «National Geographic» он прочел, что животные могут умирать от страха — еще до того, как им будет причинен какой-либо вред. Он бы мог, серьезно — если бы Эдуардо встал рядом, с соглашением, где тонкой перьевой ручкой было обведено: .03%.
Теперь он не смел с ним заговорить. Просто не считал себя вправе — даже в Рождество, запостив этот убогий статус, где не обращался к Вардо напрямую. Хотя имел в виду в первую очередь его (ну, и еще свою семью). Марк тогда чуть не чокнулся, увидев, как страница перечиталась и сбоку появилась его аватарка. И написал первое, что пришло в голову, боясь, что вот сейчас Вардо разлогинится и будет поздно.
Когда в ленте появился его ответный статус, Марк прочел, осмыслил и помертвел, закрыв руками лицо.
Наверное, это было не очень вменяемо и здорово, но Марк правда хотел увидеть Эдуардо снова, даже если это будут показания под присягой. Потому что страх, парализующий мышцы гортани вплоть до риска задохнуться, имел под собой основание. Марк до икоты боялся, что вместо отсечения лишнего он искромсал в кровавые лоскуты жизненно важное.
- Как оно продвигается? Ого. Ну ни хрена ж себе!
Он вздрогнул и промазал по тачпаду, случайно перейдя по ссылке на сообщество «Minha Música». Пришлось кликнуть «назад» чтобы вернуться к просмотру фотоальбома. Подняв глаза, Марк увидел Криса, который стоял над ним, зажав рукой рот и качая головой.
- Ты что, зарегился в Оркуте? - спросил он, усаживаясь рядом на диван, хотя и так видел узнаваемый розовый кружок, - Может, у тебя и гугловский аккаунт теперь есть? Слушай... а это что за пацан у тебя тут? На Вардо похож...
Марк виновато отвел глаза — Крис много раз просил его завести долбаный аккаунт, объясняя, почему так будет лучше с точки зрения их пиар-стратегии. Он завел его только вчера. Чтобы залезть в Оркут, найти там Ракель Саверин и послать ей запрос на добавление в друзья. Просто на всякий случай — в успех Марк, понятное дело, не верил.
Личное сообщение при запросе можно было редактировать. Марк думал, наверное, полчаса и в итоге отослал неуклюжее:
«Миссис Саверин,
Я догадываюсь, как вы ко мне относитесь. Но мне дорог ваш сын, даже если я не всегда умею это показать. Разрешите мне общаться с вами.»
Отправляя это, он был уверен, просто уверен, что она удалит, не читая. Судя по тому, что говорил Вардо, у них с матерью были довольно близкие отношения. Марк ничего не ждал.
Эдуардо на своих детских и подростковых фотках был с такой открытой, нежной, доверчивой улыбкой. Марк не мог работать уже часа четыре — было просто не оторваться. Это было вообще забавно — то, как его осенило идеей, где можно искать родственников Эдуардо. Оркут был самой популярной социальной сетью Бразилии, а ведь его родители полжизни прожили там, и переехали в Майами только когда Вардо было девять. Он мог бы догадаться и раньше.
- Знаешь что? Я пойду сварю нам кофе, а ты, - ткнул его в плечо Крис, - подумаешь и скажешь мне, какого хрена тут происходит.
Марк издал какой-то скулящий звук, не тянущий на возражение. Да, он был у себя в офисе, но это ни разу не спасало от этого административного террора. И чего он хотел меньше всего — так это думать о том, чем занимается. В альбоме Ракель было 631 фото. Марк, правда, за утро долистал только до середины, бесконечно зависая над каждой картинкой и сохраняя все себе.
Он не знал, почему мать Вардо добавила его в друзья. Ведь Марк сейчас никого не обманывал и данные в профиле указал свои. Святая, должно быть, женщина.
Но что тут можно сказать, он абсолютно не знал. Да и на кой черт были нужны объяснения — Крис же все время был рядом. Он снимал для Марка на видео, как Эдуардо в мантии выпускника вручают его «magna cum laude». Пытался привести в чувство, когда Марк часами смотрел на контур с голубой заливкой, сидя перед гугл-картой. Заливки было так много — 15200 километров между конечными точками маршрута.
На одной из сессий Эрин сказала ему разделить листок пополам и написать, какое зло они причинили друг другу. С точки зрения Марка и той, другой стороны. Получилось по семь пунктов — они были квиты. Не считая того, что восьмым у Вардо шло «не хочу тебя видеть больше никогда» сказанное на языке не слов, а действий. Марк ему просто позорно сливал. В этом, по крайней мере.
Но не в бизнесе.
В начале лета Терри Сэмел из Yahoo предложил за Фейсбук миллиард (шонова дилера, Хуана из Пуэрто-Рико, так до сих пор и не депортировали). После Френдстера их пытались купить MTV Network и Viacom. Фак с локтя был устоявшимся ответом, хотя Крис всякий раз настаивал на вежливой форме отказа.
Фейсбук рос, как на дрожжах, и это была не просто метафора. Цифры и графики доказывали: сравнение буквально. Они продолжили захват самой активной аудитории, в сентябре 2005 пустив в сеть старшеклассников. А вот у Гугла, напротив, вышла неувязка — Оркут полностью забанили в Иране, заменив на местный Cloob. Марк не то чтобы особенно радовался, но Дастин говорил, что злобная ухмылка в стиле «шесть два шесть» выдает его с потрохами.
Не далее как весной «Грейлок Партнерс», «Меритек Кэпитал» и еще пара инвесторов помельче вложили в Фейсбук 27,5 миллионов долларов. В их проект хотели вкладывать деньги и другие серьезные фонды. Паркер, смеясь, говорил, что однажды Марк сможет проводить тендер среди инвесторов. Вынужденный этой зимой официально уйти из фирмы, Шон все еще состоял при нем на должности пророка.
К лету 2006 Фейсбук имел 7 миллионов юзеров. Аудитория сайта Вардо составляла не более полумиллиона — очень неплохо для локального проекта. Но если бы только Эдуардо поехал тогда с ним в Пало-Альто, они бы могли...
- Держи, - поставил перед ним чашку Крис, - ну так я тебя слушаю. Марк, вот скажи, что ты сейчас делаешь?
- Потакаю своим фетишам? - спросил он в надежде, что это прокатит. Строго говоря, все так и было. В наушниках у него звучала расслабляющая «Concrete Jungle». А кроме того, Марк пил бразильский кофе и смотрел на смеющегося Вардо с ободранной коленкой. И, может быть, еще прикидывал, как можно поблагодарить Ракель.
- Ты не понимаешь — к нему не нужно больше лезть, - тяжело вздохнул Крис, - Вардо же... только-только в себя пришел. Пожалей его и оставь в покое.
- Не оставлю, - покачал он головой, повторив такие привычные на слух слова, - Estou com saudades dele.
- Отлично, - накрыл Крис голову огромной диванной подушкой. - Просто супер. Ему сказать не пробовал, хотя бы раз за последние пару лет?
Совсем отпустить Эдуардо Марк не мог и не умел. Перед глазами стояла его спина — ровная, напряженная, и как он вздрогнул, когда Марк подошел в коридоре, после слушания. Не касаясь, потому что у него уже не было на это права. Но потом Марк все же сделал шаг вперед — осторожно, боясь спугнуть, и Вардо подался к нему тоже. Совсем немного, так, чтобы он просунул руки подмышками и обнял.
Марк не мог поверить, но он все еще хотел этого. Эдуардо едва дышал, гладя его запястья — молча, без единого слова. Они стояли там, возле окна, очень долго — пока из кабинета не вышли поочередно все участники заседания. На них смотрели — Марк чувствовал эти взгляды затылком. Но ему не было дела ни до чего; это было прощание, последний раз, когда Вардо разрешал ему к себе прикасаться. И он понятия не имел, как заставить себя расцепить руки.
В конце концов, их разнял Эдуардо. Марк только тогда понял, что совсем ничего не видит из-за слез.
- Только вот не надо сразу прыгать по постелям, - со своей всегдашней прямотой сказала Эрика, когда они пили кофе в Старбаксе внутри Кеннеди. - Этот способ деструкции не лучше остальных.
Эдуардо не спрашивал, откуда такие сведения — за то время, что общались, они успели рассказать друг другу тонну личного. Он знал, что речь о том бойфренде, что бросил ее прямо на школьном выпускном. Сейчас Эрика ходила с ним смотреть заумное европейское кино, под настроение. Чувак, кстати говоря, имел мозги размером с Александрийскую библиотеку (и это еще было преуменьшение).
Элайджа, с которым Эрика встречалась вот уже почти год, тоже был отличным парнем. Уровень интеллекта у него был выше среднестатистического примерно настолько же, насколько Эйфелева башня выше обычного дома с мансардой. Марк, серьезно, без вопросов вписывался в эту компанию, проходя по основному критерию отбора.
Зато первые полгода колледжа умница Эрика, во всем раздрае подросткового отчаяния, делала именно то, от чего его предостерегала. Парни — белые, черные, какие только попадались в барах Манчестера и Бостона; она принимала их, как Адвил, запивая глотком воды из стакана на ночном столике. До тех пор, пока не начало тошнить от самой себя.
- Торжественно клянусь, что скотства не будет, - заверил он, прижав руку к груди.
- Смотри мне. А то прилечу в Сингапур и по заднице надаю, - подергала Эрика за кончик свисающего галстука.
Эдуардо уже умудрился обмакнуть его в стакан с фраппуччино, потому что, собираясь утром, забыл про булавку. Теперь галстук имел креативный дизайн из пятен и брызг, и продолжать носить такое было стыдно. Впрочем, салон бизнес-класса в Боинге-747 был настолько просторным, что присутствие соседей можно было попросту игнорировать. Что он и собирался делать все двадцать c лишним часов полета (и это если не считать дозаправку во Франкфурте).
Больше удалиться от тех географических координат, где находился Марк, было нельзя.
Отец выразил полное одобрение, когда Эдуардо письменно изложил ему причины, по которым хочет основать инвестиционную компанию в Сингапуре. Достаточно было краткого списка; Саверин-старший не хуже него знал об особенностях этого города-государства. Вечный дефицит территории, который подталкивал к бизнесу, требующему мозгов, а не земли. Законодательство, направленное на облегчение финансовых вливаний со стороны иностранцев. Стабильность местной валюты, которой они добились в сравнительно короткие сроки после отделения от Малайзии.
В Сингапуре было жарко и влажно, как в Бразилии, а редкие сильные грозы кончались так быстро, что на перекрестке не успевал переключиться светофор. А кроме того, там был лучший уровень сервиса во всей Азии. Рассматривая странички их отелей в сети, Эдуардо только щипал себя за подбородок — в любом из них не побрезговал бы остановиться его собственный отец. Или отец Начо. Обслуживание, правда, было королевским. После исполнения судебного решения он легко мог позволить себе шиковать (компенсация в чистом виде).
На самом деле в решении сбежать достоинства не было ни на грош. Но удивляться было нечему — Марк всегда заставлял его терять разум, стыд и совесть, как долбаная femme fatale.
- Так, ну хватит бормотать себе под нос, - вздохнула Эрика, - твоя жизнь скоро станет цукер-фри, помнишь?
Эдуардо поднял глаза, чувствуя, как горло снова пережимает от воспоминаний. Марк, уткнувшийся носом ему в шею — он чувствовал горячие выдохи даже сквозь ткань рубашки. Его руки — Господи, его руки. Марк обнимал так крепко, сцепив пальцы в замок — он не мог бы шелохнуться, даже если бы захотел. Тогда, стоя с этим предателем на третьем этаже здания окружного суда, Эдуардо понял — он должен что-то сделать. Что-то, чтобы перебороть желание просто сдаться (остаться в его руках, как набитое опилками чучело, как трофей).
Он опустил голову, кусая губы, чувствуя себя ужасно от невозможности контролировать свои эмоции. Если у девушек такое было каждый месяц, то Эдуардо искренне им сочувствовал.
- Слушай, - предупреждающе сказала Эрика, - не вздумай мне сейчас раскиснуть. Иначе придешь к стойке регистрации с распухшим носом.
- Скажу, что бросила невеста, - улыбнулся он, моргая, - тогда все перестанут стремно смотреть и проникнутся ко мне сочувствием.
- Да с тобой и так все будут носиться, как с принцем, - фыркнула та, откидывая волосы за плечо - это же Сингапурские Авиалинии, помнишь? Азиатские девушки готовы идти за тобой, как крысы на звуки дудки.
- Я что, виноват, что ходячий фетиш в их культуре?
- А я-то думала, в чем дело? Большие глаза, костюм, вежливость — и все, эти дурочки готовы.
Она всегда умела рассмешить. Эдуардо вытер глаза и щеки, очень близкий к тому, чтобы сказать «спасибо». Вот только кому — Марку, за то, что тот начал с ней тогда встречаться? Но другого повода для знакомства у них не было.
- Спасибо, что провожаешь.
- Обещай, что будешь любить себя, - попросила Эрика, глядя в глаза и сжимая его руку своими. - Будь к себе добрее, Эдуардо, у тебя ведь больше никого не осталось.
- Знаю.
Как и Марк, она никогда не парилась над тем, чтобы хоть немного приукрасить реальность.
Кислый леденец таял на языке, и Эдуардо едва ощутимо тянуло куда-то вниз — они взлетали. Белый, сияющий рядами лампочек огромный салон наводил мысли о трансфере в рай. Он полулежал в своем кресле, сняв обувь, в одних мягких носках, которые им выдали в комплиментарном наборе еще при посадке. Завороженно глядя на экран бортового навигатора, где маленький светящийся самолет мигал над восточным побережьем страны.
Им предстояло пересечь одиннадцать часовых поясов. Боинг, приспособленный для полетов на особо дальние расстояния, согласно маршруту, направлялся через всю Атлантику — на восток, пересекая Европу, южную оконечность России, Индию и Бенгальский залив. Это могло бы быть самым захватывающим приключением в его жизни — если бы не повод.
- Спасибо, Марк, - сказал он с горечью, укладываясь затылком в удобное углубление кресла, - ты так много для меня сделал.
Эдуардо даже не приглушал голос — он, черт возьми, имел право разговаривать сам с собой. Никого не должно было это беспокоить — ну, если человек, конечно, не буйный. Он был вполне вменяем.
В иллюминатор лезла гряда пухлых кучевых облаков, словно сошедших с полотен времен эпохи Возрождения. Вечереющее небо было режуще, нестерпимо синим. Кажется, этот оттенок назывался «электрик блю». Марк бы сказал точнее.
- Так ведь для всех лучше, да? У тебя больше никто не будет путаться под ногами.
Стюардесса, идущая по широкому проходу между кресел, кинула на него быстрый внимательный взгляд и вдруг остановилась. Эдуардо моргнул и уставился на нее в ответ. Эта девушка-азиатка была не просто хорошенькой — нереально красивой. Такой, что ты смотришь и сомневаешься, что это совершенство не на компьютере отрендерили. Нежно-голубые тени бабочковой пыльцой лежали в складках век. Остановившись рядом с ним, она склонилась, опираясь о спинку кресла.
- Все хорошо?
Эдуардо, наверное, бредил, но на мгновение ему почудилось искренее желание помочь. Как в хриплом голосе мулаток из Сан-Паулу, произносящих округлое: «Tudo bem?» Они спрашивали с улыбкой, вот так же наклоняясь к нему и протягивая кокос со вставленной трубочкой. Тогда, много лет назад, он еще был Диту.
Эдуардо покосился нерешительно и дернул плечом — так, что один наушник выпал и повис, покачивясь в воздухе.
«You told me you loved me,
Why did you leave me, all alone?»
Голос Тимберлейка, слабый, но различимый все равно, доносился из динамика, на припеве взвиваясь до драматичного фальцета. Эдуардо бы вообще такое не слушал — если бы Эрика буквально в последнюю минуту не вынула из сумки записанный для него диск. В этом плей-листе каждая песня была про расставание — наверное, поэтому у Эдуардо был настолько несчастный вид.
Он покачал головой, жалобно глядя на стюардессу — какое там «в порядке». Удивительно было, что он вообще собрал себя в кучу и на рейс не опоздал.
- Кристи Ли, - шепотом представилась она, указав пальцем на небольшой лейбл на блузке, где черным по белому было это написано.
- Эдуардо. Саверин, - он протянул руку, и Кристи слегка пожала его пальцы.
- Ты такой грустный, бэби. Кто тебя обидел?
- Тяжелый разрыв, - чуть приподнявшись в кресле, сказал ей на ухо Эдуардо.
Это было безумие — вступать в беседы с персоналом. Как будто девушке больше делать было нечего — да у них наверняка тут все было расписано по минутам. К тому же, пассажиры салонов бизнес-класса обычно были требовательными засранцами и гоняли стюардесс почем зря. Он вздохнул, понимая, как сейчас жалок. Вроде тех пожилых одиноких людей, что могут ни с того ни с сего начать разговаривать с незнакомцами в парке или кафе (просто потому что надо выговориться).
- Она уже жалеет, что тебя бросила. Точно говорю.
От этого у него так позорно задрожал подбородок, что Эдуардо на миг отвернулся, пережидая момент.
- О. Так ее любишь? - комично расширила она узкие блестящие глаза.
- Его.
Кристи сочувственно кивнула. Ситуация была просто крейзи — он, честно, не думал, что стюардессам вменяется беседовать с пассажирами на личные темы. Но она первая начала! Тимберлейк сменился на Тиган и Сару, и из наушника раздалась «Nineteen». Эдуардо был сейчас необыкновенно солидарен с Марком, негодующе думая: «Эрика Олбрайт — сука».
Лысый одышливый дядька через проход от него помахал рукой — с недовольным выражением, намекая, что хотел бы внимания к своей особе сию минуту. Кристи подошла. Эдуардо виновато почесал нос — лучше было молчать, ну на кой хрен ей сдались его проблемы? Отвлекает от работы только.
Всем раздали горячий ужин (который он не стал даже брать). Потом Кристи и ее напарница снова стали развозить на тележке напитки, интересуясь, что кому налить. Эдуардо следил за ними краем глаза, невольно задаваясь вопросом, не болит ли у девчонок рот столько улыбаться.
- Не скучай, сладкий, - подмигнула Кристи, поравнявшись с его креслом. - Надолго летишь в Сингапур?
- Насовсем, - решительно свел брови Эдуардо.
- Быть не может! - уперла она руку в бок, - А ручка у тебя есть?
Торопливо сунув руку внутрь пиджака, он отцепил от кармана подаренный отцом коллекционный паркер, снял колпачок и протянул Кристи. В ответ та одарила его таким взглядом, что Эдуардо вспомнились диснеевские персонажи с вылетающими из глаз сердцами. А также мизантропичная рожа Марка, на одной из вечеринок впервые открывшего в себе расиста — хихикающие азиаточки подходили клеить Эдуардо каждые пять минут.
Она сложила плотную салфетку вдвое, написав что-то, и протянула ему. Эдуардо прищурился, сразу же опознав код Сингапура. За ним шли еще восемь цифр.
- Захочешь компании — звони, - ее ногти на мгновение впились в лацкан.
Убрав салфетку во внутренний карман, Эдуардо сидел, притихнув, наблюдая, как внизу, под ними, блестит гладь залива Святого Лаврентия. Было уже темно, и огни катеров и яхт у берега искрились, вспыхивая, как россыпь самоцветов на переливчатом шелке. Кристи, проходя мимо, жестом показала ему «спи», прижав сложенные ладони к щеке и прикрыв глаза. В ответ Эдуардо улыбнулся, и она просияла, катя тележку с пустыми стаканами дальше и лукаво оглядываясь через плечо.
В Нью-Йорке близилась полночь, и Эдуардо понемногу начинало клонить в сон. Впереди было много часов полета над океаном, и он решил, что пожалуй, проспит хотя бы восемь из них. В салоне приглушили свет, перейдя на ночной режим освещения. Надвинув на глаза выданную в комплекте маску, Эдуардо постарался расслабить тело и отключить мозги. Последним, что он различил, был тихий смех где-то над головой.
Привыкать к новой жизни Эдуардо начал прямо в аэропорту Чанги, стоя посреди терминала и оглядываясь вокруг в полном изумлении. Сплошь увитый тропическими растениями, с искрящимся бликами бассейном, Чанги поражал воображение. Он был спроектирован, когда прежний, Пайя Лебар, построенный для нужд Сингапура как военной базы, перестал справляться с нагрузкой. Википедия подсказывала, что при строительстве было разрушено 558 зданий, выкопано около 4100 могил, снесена пулемётная установка и изменены русла трёх рек.
Этот подход ему смутно что-то напоминал. Кого-то. Но, видимо, некоторые люди считали, что цель всегда оправдывает средства.
Обменяв немного долларов на местные синги, Эдуардо взял такси до своего отеля. Отель, как и пара сотен других городских объектов, носил гордое имя основателя Сингапура, колонизатора Стэмфорда Раффлза — ему здесь едва ли не поклонялись, как божеству. По прибытию он обнаружил, что все было именно так, как на промоушн-видео с их сайта. Безупречно.
С офисом для вновь учрежденной фирмы и людьми, которых для него наняли, не возникло никаких проблем. До работы Эдуардо мог дойти пешком, что он и делал, ежеутренне наслаждаясь этими маленькими прогулками в разношерстной толпе. В Сингапуре многое было непривычным — их деньги, похожие на евро, их дурацкий закон о квотах. Согласно ему, распределение квартир в только что отстроенном доме происходило в строгом соответствии с процентным соотношением населяющих остров национальностей. Самыми многочисленными и влиятельными тут были хуацяо (так назвали выходцев из Китая). В Сингапуре они занимали все ключевые посты.
Были и забавности — например, местный фрукт дуриан, пахнущий просто омерзительно. На вкус он был нежным и приятным, но вот запах... Достаточно было сказать, что в городе законодательно запрещали провозить его с собой в метро.
В «Городе Льва» нельзя было даже прилюдно ругаться матом, а за гамбургер, съеденный на улице, полагался штраф в пятьсот долларов. За распространение наркотиков казнили. Как поведал один словоохотливый коллега, такими драконовскими мерами власти вернули Сингапуру приличную репутацию — на момент выхода из состава Федерации он был просто сосредоточием наркоторговли и организованной преступности. Впрочем, в соседней Малайзии за воровство до сих пор отрубали руку, и Эдуардо думал, что у этих людей в принципе такие нравы. Это вам не христианское всепрощение.
Еда была непривычной, невообразимо острой — уровень «медиум» означал, что человек будет просто дышать огнем. Но к концу первого месяца он уже осмелел настолько, что пробовал ее на улице, прямо с лотков. Ребята с работы в один голос уверяли, что tuan пропускает все на свете, питаясь европейскими ланчами, и Эдуардо, попробовав, был вынужден согласиться. Он часто даже понятия не имел, что он ест и как это называется. Карри и куркума, паста из креветок, кокосовый крем — все это ошеломляло (так, что ты не думал ни о чем, чувствуя, как горит рот).
Эдуардо нужно было отвлечься.
Он просто хотел снова дышать, идя по мосту и чувствуя, как ветерок треплет волосы. Смеяться — просто так, без повода, запрокидывая голову к ночному небу. Пробовать как-то жить без него.
Покидая Штаты, Эдуардо удалил свою учетную запись на Фейсбуке, в процессе наглядно увидев, как именно Марк борется с утечкой пользователей. «Вы уверены, что хотите отключить аккаунт?», шел вопрос по верху страницы, а ниже... Ниже были полноразмерные фотки самых частых контактов из списка друзей. Немногих, только самых близких. На одну фотографию он смотрел особенно долго.
«Марк Цукерберг будет по тебе скучать». Эдуардо перечитывал автоматически сгенерированную подпись снова и снова, до тех пор, пока не зарябило в глазах. Ему так хотелось, чтобы это было правдой. Потому что сам он скучал по Марку просто невыносимо.
There were almost more sex shops in Singapore per square meter than eateries. A couple of months after the arrival, having already recovered a little, Eduardo looked into the one that was closer to the hotel. He attracted the attention of passers-by, invitingly flashing a neon sign in the form of a blossoming orchid. These flowers were everywhere in Singapore, even on banknotes.
The girl at the checkout with a smile gave him an opaque bag that contained everything he needed for health. No perversions, just useful things (like... like dental floss or deodorant). Living with constant sexual frustration was stupid. After all, from the time he received his diploma, he could no longer dig into textbooks to the depth of industrial oil production.
Thank God, none of those with whom Eduardo kept in touch, did not give advice, even hinting at "get yourself someone."Start . How to get a budgerigar or a hamster. In fact, he was sick even at the thought. Every single day, another Malay, Chinese or Indian, head down, called out on the evening street, teeth gleaming friendly in the dark. Eduardo just shook his head, saying "Tiada". It's impossible, no. "Tidak baik, kalau manusia itu seorang diri saja," he often heard in response. One bartender did translate into English, when he once again shrugged his shoulders, not understanding. It meant: "It is not good for a man to be alone." Eduardo nodded dejectedly - these guys simply could not know what kind of hospice he had inside.
In fact, he wanted sex - that is, his body would not really mind if Eduardo with someone could. A couple of colleagues in the office - big-eyed Arjuna and Malay Rashid, looked at Eduardo with obvious interest. But the relationship, any, was unacceptable, and he wandered thoughtfully along the night Orchard road, looking at the tall building rising into the sky like a giant pillar of fire.
Orchid Tower - everyone in the city knew about it, guidebooks wrote, guides told. During the day it was clubs, offices and places to eat. At night, the tower turned into a place where anyone could find satisfaction for their sexual needs. "Four floors of sensuality and vice," seemed to say the pamphlets that were fanned out in the lobby of Ascott Raffles Place. Eduardo stared at the statuettes of lions with mermaid tails at the entrance, wiping his sweaty hands on his jacket. He had heard a lot about the local boys who were ready to caress, suck and lick as you wish. Illegal immigrants, whose main capital was youth and a strong body - there were many of them in the Orchid Tower. Any skin color, eye shape.
He walked along the brightly lit alleys, listening to the multilingual lively conversation, someone else's laughter, and looked dejectedly at his feet. Eduardo would have given it all for a single hug with him - like then, near the window overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge.
- Anything else, Mr. Saverin? - his assistant lowered the blinds, forcing the office to plunge into semi-darkness. A fountain gurgled softly on a decorative hill in the corner. Eduardo liked to listen to this sound and look at the wet, mossy stones.
- No, - he raised his eyes, - thanks, that's all for today. Go.
Ching Ling, with a delicate blush, as if she had stepped out of a Chinese print, waved goodbye to him. Eduardo had only time to see a swirl of shiny black hair darting through the doorway. After a pause, he pressed the blue slanted oval, launching a diabolical contraption of Estonian programmers. Chatting with Chris on the phone was nowhere near as cool as Skype with video.
Chris' nickname wasn't on the online list, and he unbuttoned a couple of buttons on his jacket and leaned back in his chair. Eduardo moved to Singapore four years ago, and all this time he had to teach himself a truly Asian virtue - patience. The clock on the wall opposite showed eight in the evening; this meant that the sun had not yet risen in California.
Sometimes he called Chris from tomorrow, because that date had not yet arrived in Palo Alto.
Hughes was the only one with whom he continued to communicate - despite the lawsuit and moving to Singapore. It was hard to explain logically, because Chris was dishonest with him just like Dustin was. None of them warned, although they could. But maybe it was because Eduardo knew that Chris was worried about him from the very beginning of their acquaintance and was on his side, while Dustin was more likely to belong to Mark's team. However, it all seemed rather idiotic - given that Chris and Dustin actually lived together.
For the most part, Hughes didn't tell him what Eduardo really wanted to know. How is he. But what slipped through the conversations was enough to understand in general terms. And besides, Chris didn't mind when he asked how Randy and Karen were, Donna and Ariel, or how they spent the weekend with the redhead. These were allowed topics.
Until 2007, Chris officially worked for Mark, and therefore Eduardo simply could not put too much pressure. Words such as, for example, corporate ethics popped up in my head . If anyone, anyone in his own circle, leaked information about how many times Eduardo watches each interview or press conference with the head of Facebook on YouTube, he would definitely be fired immediately.
Chris didn't want to let me down.
The irony of the situation was that Eduardo remained part of the company - it was a right that he returned to himself then through the courts. Therefore, news, notifications and updates regularly rained down on the corresponding mailbox - he was more than aware of what was happening on Facebook. So, Eduardo was among the first to know that in September 2006 they were going to launch a "news line" - something that no competitor had yet thought of. I read Mark's official apology three days later (not everyone liked the innovation). The current composition of directors and managers, the list of potential investors - Eduardo had everything at a glance. He even learned about two hundred million from Digital Sky Technologies in 2009 six months before the official conclusion of the deal.
Eduardo's hands were trembling as he thought that maybe, on the other end, Mark wanted him to know about everything. Deliberately giving full access to information "only for their own", although there was no need for this.
Since Chris left for General Catalyst Partners, the two of them have even more in common. After the presidential election, which brought him fame and name, Hughes worked in an investment venture firm. Eduardo was the CEO of a company with exactly the same profile. A year earlier, Dustin founded his Asana, also leaving Facebook. Eduardo began to think that it was already possible to ask about the former boss. But all the same, he dragged on as long as he could, as if instinctively trying to protect himself from unnecessary information.
The very first time he did it, drunk, barely mumbling words into the microphone, it was not particularly pleasant to remember. He didn't even like alcohol. Just that day, Eduardo had seen enough of the head of the Facebook corporation, his speech about concluding an agreement with Skype. Zuckerberg in the video was in a simple T-shirt and shorts, and looked awkwardly into the camera, frowning his burnt to golden eyebrows. Replay, replay - Eduardo pressed this button again and again, with his mouth open, watching Mark speak (in the end, he just turned off the sound).
That evening, when Chris finally awoke on the other side of the earth, Eduardo ventured to ask. It was a morbid, masochistic curiosity, because Zuckerberg had every reason to have a lover or boyfriend over the years. He was absolutely free from obligations, and those who wanted, for sure, were a dime a dozen.
- Listen, does... Mark have anyone? Eduardo asked, completely out of place.
"Wardo," Chris swallowed and covered his mouth with his hand, "are you serious?
- Yes seriously. Is he sleeping with someone? He looked frankly imploring, raising his eyebrows.
- Don't tell me you're... Fuck, I can't believe it. Do you still have no one?
Eduardo shook his head silently - everyone knew how bad things were with his personal life. But only my mother dared to blame how he wasted his best years (when he answered the phone). Persistent invitations to come to the States to see him live, Eduardo invariably turned down.
- Mark... he does. But you know, - Chris let out a nervous laugh, - it honestly seems to me that he is just checking to see if everything works for him there. Well, how do people print a test page on a printer.
- And often he...? No, don't talk.
Eduardo bit his fingers. Now, not quite sober, he was unable to hide his reactions, and Chris could see everything. Hughes looked at him with genuine horror - because most of the time he succeeded, really managed to imitate a kind of coolly detached curiosity for a project that was left in the past, in his distant youth. To the initiator of this project. And now...
- You're just fucked, - after a long, very long pause said Chris. - Both. And I don't even want to get into it. You know, in San Francisco, someone put up a sign: Don't fall in love. Jump off the bridge - it won't hurt so much." The police, however, removed on the same day - and so they do not have time to catch juvenile idiots.
- Golden Gate, - Eduardo nodded, as if in reality seeing a suspension bridge in a foggy haze, - Ellis, who did all the calculations, is not even included in the nameplate of the builders. Bad relationship with the chief architect, like we have with... like we have.
He wanted to laugh because it was really funny, but he couldn't. Eduardo didn't even know what the hell he'd asked, it only made things worse, only more painful. But even after he pressed the End Session button in the dialog box, he tortured himself for a long time, remembering the commanding gesture that Mark liked to pull his thighs to him. Eduardo swam away from it immediately, trying to catch his lips, to press his hands to him.
Now Marcinho was doing it with someone else.
To unbalance Mark even now cost nothing - it was enough for the assistant to bring another envelope with an invitation to a meeting of shareholders. This one came every financial quarter, and Eduardo began to get nervous chills just from the mere sight of the blue and white logo. However, he never asked Ching Ling to get rid of these invitations. And he himself, with his own hands, slowly shoved the envelope into the shredder, stoically ignoring the desire to open it.
He was no longer a boy who is being provoked.
The smooth cuttings, which Eduardo then poured out of the pallet, could no longer tell him anything. Seeing Mark, talking to Mark again—it was impossible, he wasn't going to do it. Never again, he promised himself, sitting in a chair with his back to him in the courtroom. With a shudder, feeling how disgustingly the shirt sticks to the back. It was impossible to look at Zuckerberg - his huge, remorseful eyes, quivering lips, pale face. Deliberately brazen answers designed to disguise it all. Eduardo no longer understood who was here and whom he was judging. He only persuaded himself: "Well, a little more. Two more hours and that's it. Never ever." And he even gave evidence, turning away from the lawyers and talking to the window frame.
He forgave Mark for his blurring of the stake even before signing the non-disclosure papers. Just visually seeing that Zuckerberg is even worse off than him. And all the time he was forced to restrain himself - so much he wanted to take Markov's cold hands in his own, kissing his knuckles.
It was four years ago. Now the envelope lay before him again, a mute reminder that Mark existed. That somewhere out there he walks along the paving stones of his yard, covered with leaves dried from the heat, with a ball under his arm. And, like a kid, he tries to score a goal in a basket attached to the fence. Chris showed him how Mark lives - after a whole week of persuasion, when Eduardo had already exhausted all the arguments.
He viewed these photographs as, probably, archaeologists look at someone's dusty tibia, which gives the right to a significant scientific discovery. His living room. Driveway. Arbor in the shade of trees. Three satellite dishes sticking out on the roof. It was Markov's house - the first one he bought, and did not rent, as before.
Mark was still wearing his stupid Adidas flip flops. He squinted, shielding himself from the sun with his palm, and sometimes smiled into the camera - not on purpose, but just like that. Eduardo watched, thickly painting over the sharp angles of his collarbones, the gap in his stomach above the waistband of his shorts. And he wanted so badly now not to be that he should have simply annihilated - if only the Universe would hear him.
They were sitting in a cafe in the central building of Ngee Ann City, which consisted entirely of fashion galleries and boutiques, filling up the space around them with bags. Christie snatched him straight from work - fortunately, their security guard already treated her like his own daughter. When Ching Ling knocked and came in, saying that Miss Li was waiting at the reception, perky dimples played on her cheeks - Christy was loved here. Maybe because with her appearance, the boss began to smile at least occasionally.
Today Miss Li was thinking of taking a ride on the Floating Singapore. This Ferris wheel, built two years ago, was the largest in Asia so far. From it one could see not only the whole of Singapore, but even neighboring Malaysia and Indonesia.
- Why so gloomy? - her hairpin aggressively buried in the instep. - All because of the invitation? Well, he calls, so why don't you go instead of hanging around here?
Eduardo just averted his eyes, disgustedly putting down his glass - thick as smoothie puree now did not go down his throat.
It's just a formality, you understand? He has nothing to do with it. We ended a long time ago.
- Noticeable, - snorted Christy, and collected her brightly painted lips in a rose. - I don't know how it is with Zuckerberg, but you haven't completely finished.
- How do you know?
- Where? - she threw up her hands, - Yes, from the first minute of our acquaintance you only talk about him. We met, God forbid, in 2006. Now it's 2010, Eduardo! Do you have anyone, well, anyone? Boy, girl, dog? RC robot?
- Again you about this. And maybe we won't go to the wheel? And so the head is spinning, - grimacing, he rubbed his forehead.
- No. We will go to it. And you will turn your back on me and talk to me, as if you and your Mark are in the booth, - Christie slapped her knees and stood up, straightening her fitted jacket, - I can't stand all this shield anymore, Saverin. Speak up, damn you. Open the abscess.
He just watched silently, really feeling like one huge boil.
"Come on, Eduardo," she said, looking into his eyes, and that was it. He couldn't resist anymore.
- W-okay, okay. And... thank you.
"There's nothing to say thank you for yet," Christie glared. - All right, let's go before I change my mind. Don't forget your shopping, hero.
The illuminated fountains at the entrance to the building were as if carved from rock crystal. Eduardo cocked his head, staring at the giant metal letters above his head. None of the locals called this complex "Ngee Ann City". They said "Taka" - on behalf of the main owner, Takashimaya.
For one and a half pieces of sings, they passed without a queue, only the two of them, forcing the crowd around to talk animatedly and point fingers at them. Eduardo thought it looked like this to them: local beauty and white, orang putih. First date, kisses in the sky, romance. Christie, following him into the cockpit, waved her hand, shocking onlookers. She really liked to draw attention to herself.
The magnetic doors closed, and the transparent cylindrical capsule with them began to slowly lift off the ground. Eduardo knew he had forty-five minutes to spare (if, God forbid, this thing didn't break). In time - half a standard psychotherapy session. He pressed his damp palms to the glass, resting his forehead against it. None of them turned on the light in the cockpit. Everything was almost the same as then, in the plane - darkness, a scattering of lights, the earth remaining far below.
Eduardo wanted to tell him so many things that he just didn't know where to start.
Chris and Dustin had brought a case of pot-bellied bottles with narrow necks braided with straw since morning. Miguel took care of everything else. Mark could only wait for it to infuse, sitting with an ancient manual on IT management in the shade of a canopy. Sangria - sweet and tart, with juicy pieces of fruit, they always turned out right. After arguing with my sibling (okay, CMO) and the hassle of the ConnectU court cases, sitting out in the yard drinking with friends was pure bliss.
And if it was necessary to come to terms with Randy, as with a fact (relatives are not chosen), then dragging through the courts was exhausting to the point of madness. No, just think, this couple of greedy rowers of someone else's dough set out to row 65 million! Mark was sure that even if he really stole the code from them, this dim-witted couple would not earn even a tenth of what they claimed.
- When will this crap end? - Asked a rhetorical question Chris, tracing with his eyes the wisps of thick bluish smoke floating in the sky. There was a distinct smell of burning in the air - so you could not even watch the news that was constantly played on all channels.
"Sir Terminator has already notified the government," Dustin shrugged. Everything south of Santa Barbara has been declared a disaster area. They say that in order to cope with the fire, even criminals will be released from prisons. Well, all sorts of small crooks, not those who stabbed my grandmother in her sleep. No, you can guess, right? Zuckerberg, and that's why we moved to California!
"Better be quiet," Mark answered lazily, dangling the pieces of peach in his glass. With his bare heel, he drove along the rough grass, breaking through at the junctions of stone slabs. We all know what you moved for.
- Yes, - Miguel echoed in a bass voice, - you can't hide an awl in a bag.
Hughes didn't know what to do with his eyes. Sitting on the ground and laying his disheveled head on his knees, Dustin was so frankly thrilled that even his own were embarrassed. Chris silently stroked his hair. They only had this weekend; after Chris had to leave for New York to take up the presidential campaign.
"Precisely," the redhead said quietly, closing his eyes and kissing his pale knee, "that's how it was.
Pressing his lips together and fidgeting, already blushing to the very freckles on his cheekbones, Hughes asked:
- Get away from me, huh? I'm so... I can't concentrate at all.
- But honestly, - Mark saluted with a glass. - But, back to the topic: Google probably still sucks. Even if we have this, then what do they have there in Mountain View?
"And there's no sky at all," his landlord said, taking a decent sip. - These bastards there, go, go in respirators.
Mustachioed portly Miguel was the owner of a local network of gas stations; his family has lived here since the annexation of California. Mark has been renting a house from Miguel for a couple of years now, without bothering to buy real estate. He treated him like a son, considering him silly, but glorious. For Mark, the good-natured Mexican had long been his own; his Conchita handed over delicious savory snacks to them every single time.
They were silent, savoring the wine. Mark grimaced, his eyes stinging from the smoke. Seasonal fires, the scourge of these places, in the fall of 2007 became a real disaster for many. People were forced to leave their homes and belongings in a hurry, picking up the phone and hearing an automatic notification of an approaching wall of fire. California suffered millions of losses. And it wasn't arson, it was the hot Santa Ana winds blowing from the mountains.
The green juicy grass from them shrank into dry bunches and died. In conditions of low humidity, Santa Ana became the breath of death. A smoldering ember was enough - and a violent hurricane wind inflated it so that whole hectares of chappral burned out.
Palo Alto has bypassed all this so far.
Putting down his glass, he leaned back in his chair, closing his heavy eyelids. Mark was tired at work. In general, things were going well, but the latest innovation brought unexpectedly a lot of hemorrhoids. They called it Beacon, a beacon - the application allowed you to track the user's purchase history. The online stores that Facebook advertised were clickable, and a lot of people were already used to them. Mark really thought it would be a good idea. Who knew that everything would turn out like this.
Fucking privacy. It turned out that Facebook invaded privacy, because now the bride, for example, could know in advance about the ring bought for her by the groom. Click on the link, find out the price, compare with other available models. Draw conclusions. In a word, the idea failed, and already a month after the launch of Beacon, Mark was forced to turn it off (with an official apology for a whole page, of course). People just weren't ready yet. But the distribution of advertising along the social graph seemed to him an impeccable strategy.
However, from a financial point of view, it was all insignificant. Mark had not yet seen the annual reports and did not delve into the statistics in detail, but he could still say with confidence: the company's income at the beginning and at the end of the year differed by an order of magnitude. Now they have used all types of site monetization - flyers, social networks, sponsor groups and virtual gifts to users. Now it was appropriate. Now, but not then, in 2004.
Crap.
He hit the back of his head on the wooden headrest of the chair, again, for the umpteenth time experiencing a sharp attack of despair, like asthmatic suffocation. Wardo did everything, everything well and correctly - just at the wrong time.
- Mark, - Chris was already standing over him, shaking his shoulders, - what did Erin tell you? Come to yourself. Look where you are!
- Yes, you leave him, for God's sake, - as always, Dustin interceded, - well, when else to grieve, if not drunk?
Mark cracked his hands on the armrests, shaking, completely out of control. Neither Chris nor Dustin had any idea what it was like to regret every step they took. About every choice that changed the entire chain of probabilities of events. If only it was possible to restore that letter from Eduardo, worn from the hard drive, and read what he thought then about advertising ...
Mark did so many things wrong. He could spend hours creating a numbered list in his head.
All sessions with Erin resulted only in the fact that Mark no longer pressed "backspace" to the point of absurdity. Erasing the possibility of meeting Wardo, getting into Harvard, and even being born. And so, Chris could not worry - Mark was well aware of where he was. He was sitting in the courtyard of his house in the town of Palo Alto. Santa Clara County, California, United States of America. Mentally, Mark turned and turned the zoom wheel, going out to the scale of the continent, again seeing tons of blue fill - simple, without any gradient.
Wardo was still so far away that he couldn't even see the horizon.
- Шон? Привет. Угадай, с кем я сейчас ходил на прогулку.
Стоя возле кадки с лимонным деревом, он гладил тонко пахнущую пупырчатую кожицу. Улыбаясь, как больной, когда проходящий мимо Московиц неслабо пихнул плечом — Марк ощущал эйфорию. История пока не стала достоянием прессы, но весь офис Фейсбука за его спиной уже обсуждал то, что сегодня произошло.
- Брин кинул свою польскую кралю и позвал тебя на свидание? - зевнув, предположил Паркер.
- Не-а, - закусил губу Марк. - Вторая попытка.
- Такой голос, черт, я счас кончу. Зная тебя, это может быть только нежный поцелуй в эго, - резонно заметил Шон. - И если не Гугл, то... Гос-споди, неужели это Майкро-...
- Угу, - всхлипнул в динамик совершенно счастливый Марк. - Я просто чуть под стол не сполз, когда Бруна сказала: «Мистер Цукерберг, вас хочет видеть Стив Баллмер. Очень просит к нему выйти.» Бля. Шон.
- Тихо-тихо-тихо, - зашептал Паркер, сам явственно задыхаясь от восторга, - давай, расскажи как все было.
- Ну, встречает он меня, значит, у входа в офис. Такой, знаешь, гора горой — ну ты видел, даже Гейтс рядом с ним вечно задохликом смотрится.
- К делу, Марк, - фыркнул тот, - меньше лирики.
- Берет меня за плечо, приобнимает и говорит: «Добрый день, Марк. Я думаю, у меня есть для вас интригующее предложение. Не хотите размять ноги?»
- В этот момент главное было не сдохнуть от самодовольства, - Шон уже откровенно хихикал на том конце.
- И вот ты представь: тенистая аллея, сплошь обсаженная цветущими деревьями. И Баллмер меня, как барышню, прогуливает. «Марк», - попытался сымитировать чужой голос он, - «а вы не думали, что дошли до конечной точки в развитии компании, установили на вершине флажок? Мне кажется, вам интересно было бы заняться уже чем-то другим.»
- Ста-арый лис, - протянул Шон, - с твоей выгоды начинает. Ну, и что?
- Да я б его с удовольствием просто послушал. Ну, ты понимаешь — каждое слово, как бальзам на душу. Мы, говорит, оцениваем стоимость Фейсбука в пятнадцать миллиардов долларов. И, скажу вам откровенно, прямо сейчас готовы выплатить всю сумму наличкой.
- Охуеть, - сглотнул Паркер. - Вот это я понимаю, голливудский финал. За Синапс-то жалких два миллиона предлагали. А ты что?
- А я: «При всем уважении, эта компания — по сути мой ребенок, и Фейсбук я никому доверить не могу. Однако, в сотрудничестве заинтересован и готов продать вам, скажем... один процент акций.»
- Ну, шесть два шесть, даешь. Как его там удар-то не хватил?
- Да понятия не имею. Он весь надулся, как прыщ, покраснел, посопел. И вдруг такой: «Два процента».
- И что, вы так и торговались? Как Лаван и Иаков, сколько лет служить за Рахиль?
- Ну, а чем еще заняться двум евреям из Гарварда в погожий денек? Я значит: «Полтора». А он: «Один и шесть. Двести сорок миллионов чистым налом, Марк. По рукам?»
- Так он согласился на твои условия сделки? - неверящим голосом спросил Шон.
- Точно.
- Так, а что взамен? Ежу понятно, что они интеграции с Фейсбуком хотели, а не просто роли акционеров.
- Реклама, в том числе международная. Им нужна была наша прицельная фокусировка. В конце концов, сошлись на том, что оформим контракт на три года. Я Баллмера так охмурил перспективами сотрудничества, что он даже ушел, насвистывая. Так что, теперь будем заодно против Корпорации Добра.
Паркер там еще что-то гнал — про то, что, когда приедет в Сан-Франциско из своего Нью-Йорка, Марк будет должен ему грандиозную вечеринку. Да он даже не возражал. Сейчас, в данный конкретный момент, Марк был настолько рад и счастлив, что собирался рассказать о сделке всем. И да, отметить со своими, потому что сделка с Майкрософт было его личной победой. Баллмер наверняка уже предвкушал, как это будет смотреться в отчетах отдела корпоративной стратегии и поглощения. Фейсбук должен был стать «женской компанией» — или, на их жаргоне, той, которая уступила, продалась. Легла под более сильного.
Момент был действительно незабываемый, но, повесив трубку, он вдруг осознал, что в этом блюде отчетливо не хватает соли. Марк просто изнывал — физически, от желания каким угодно способом связаться с Вардо и прямо сейчас рассказать ему. Пусть рациональной частью сознания и понимая: тот все равно не позднее чем завтра прочтет обо всем в официальном пресс-релизе, в новостях. И, может, даже порадуется за Марка. В смысле, хотелось бы верить.
Официальные приглашения на мероприятия именовались RSVP. «Répondez s'il vous plaît», по-французски — «ответьте, пожалуйста». По сути просто форма для заполнения, предназначенная для удобства организации. Все знали, что никаких реальных причин своего отсутствия на бланке указывать не нужно.
Электронные формы, приходящие в ответных письмах Эдуардо, были образчиком юмора — но такого, что Марк сглатывал горькую слюну, разглядывая окно почтовой программы. «Мистер Эдуардо Саверин сожалеет, что по причине отсутствия в городе в этот день вынужден отклонить ваше любезное приглашение.»
Скорее, ввиду отсутствия на континенте, Вардо.
Он не хотел иметь с Марком ничего общего (хотя читал корпоративную рассылку, это было легко отследить). И Крис только морщился, как от зубной боли, в очередной раз проходя мимо и заставая одну и ту же картину: Марк, раскрытое письмо и фотография их некогда общего друга, стоящая фоном на десктопе. У него на столе было три огромных монитора, как у художников и дизайнеров. Так можно было смотреть на Вардо всегда.
Последнюю фотку — совсем свежую, с каким-то чудовищным разрешением, Марку прислала Ракель. Ему оставалось только отрезать улыбающуюся азиатку, что была на снимке рядом с Эдуардо. И, надо признать, использование опции «cut» в меню Гимпа еще никогда не было таким удовлетворяющим.
Личных ассистентов обычно находили вовсе не так. Марку было достаточно позвонить главе своего HR-отдела, Ричарду Чо, и грамотно сформировать запрос. Но вышло так, что девушку, без которой Марк уже давно был как без рук, нашла для него Ракель.
В то субботнее утро они болтали по скайпу, обсуждая всякие мелочи вроде того, какие отношения у Вардо были с кузинами. Матери всегда приятно поговорить о своем ребенке, так что Марк, в некотором роде, имел идеального собеседника. Сам он готов был говорить о Вардо до второго пришествия (но еще больше любил слушать, и неважно, относилось это к прошлому или настоящему).
Слово за слово, и Марк упомянул, что его нынешний ассистент никуда не годится, и что было бы здорово в следующий раз нанять девушку, которая заодно могла бы разговаривать с ним на português brasileiro. Марк учил его — медленно, старательно как первоклассник, начав с самых основ и постепенно, за пару лет дойдя до уровня Intermediate. Частный преподаватель, с которым Марк занимался, не уставала поражаться его мотивации, говоря, что никогда не встречала такой решимости освоить абсолютно чужой язык. Марк только пожимал плечами — он бы даже не начинал учить, если бы язык был чужим.
- Что, если бы твоя ассистентка была носителем? - спросила Ракель. Когда задумывалась, она машинально разделяла пальцами волосы на пробор — Марк теперь знал, откуда этот жест у Эдуардо.
- Было бы супер. Но мне нужен опытный профессионал, потому что объем работы будет зашибись.
- Послушай, у меня есть на примете одна — будешь смеяться, родом из Сан-Паулу. Сейчас живет в Саннивейле. Бруна очень переживает, что осталась без работы. Не хочешь ее посмотреть, menino?
Мать Вардо называла его «менину», мальчик — просто потому, что Марк для нее и был еще одним ребенком. Он принимал это ласковое обращение с дикой благодарностью, поскольку не заслуживал ни ее бесконечной доброты, ни терпимости, ни сострадания. Решение попроситься в друзья к Ракель было одним из самых правильных в его жизни — без этого Марк бы уже давным-давно загнулся от тоски и ненависти к себе.
- Хочу, - не раздумывая, сказал он, - а можно мне ее контакты?
Если честно, Марк готов был поехать в Саннивейл лично — он был всего-то в двадцати минутах езды. Ради возможности встретить девушку, которую рекомендовала лично Ракель. Ради того, чтобы убедиться — с ней действительно можно говорить не только по-английски.
- Я тебе перед сном напишу, ты как раз пойдешь с работы. Думаю, Бруна без проблем подъедет на интервью.
Марк и Бруна встретились через два дня — в Пало-Альто, в его любимом кафе «Blue chalk». Девчонка была удивительно толковой — за все время общения он не услышал ни одного глупого или просто некорректного вопроса. Марку начало казаться, что такой вполне можно доверять. Не говоря уже о том, что между ними сразу возникло чувство взаимного расположения.
После колледжа Бруна три года проработала в частной юридической фирме, и была уволена лишь потому, что жена генерального директора оказалась ревнивой сучкой. Между тем как повода ревновать не было — хозяин фирмы все равно никого, кроме новой супруги, не замечал.
Бруна, ростом ему до плеча, не была умопомрачительной красавицей — вроде тех длинноногих, блестящих от масла девиц, что показывают в передачах про бразильские карнавалы. Ее кожа была очень смуглой, но ведь Бруна и означало «темная». Ее тело было крепко сбитым, с массивными бедрами, потому что Бруна с детства привыкла носить на себе детей. В семье Кордейру их было еще шестеро.
Они проговорили около получаса, и Марк даже немного поупражнялся в языке, когда понял, что точно берет Бруну к себе на работу. Марк уже заранее знал, какую волну глума и подколок это вызовет — все были в курсе, насколько их босс сдвинут на теме одного конкретного государства в Латинской Америке. Но Марку было все равно — Бруна была его личным ассистентом, которого он имел право подбирать в полном соответствии со своим вкусом.
If Facebook were a country, then Jakarta would be its capital. The largest city in Indonesia dominated all other cities in the world in terms of the number of network users - in Jakarta there were 15 million of them. In the end, everything turned out so that in October 2010 Mark had to go there on a business trip.
Sitting in front of a full-screen map, he stared and stared at the bold line of the route map on the Singapore Airlines website. Mark simply could not stop himself from taking a ticket to Singapore from there. One and a half hours of summer - at six he would have boarded the plane, and at half past eight he would have already been in place and could spend the whole day in the city where Wardo was.
No, he wasn't going to do anything. Mark promised Raquel - at the very beginning that he would not touch him (unless he himself wants to communicate again). And Mark did not think to break this word - Wardo, however, deserved a calm and happy life, without him. But... he never went somewhere just to relax, and not to a press conference, the opening of an office, etc., since the start of the site. the most powerful dos-attack, everyone unanimously insisted that Mark must unwind at least a little.
Chris and Dustin, as well as Adam and half of the firm's former staff, were no longer with him. That is why no one could say anything about obsessions, thank God. In addition, Mark had reasons - in addition to Indonesia, he had to visit neighboring Malaysia as well. This winter, they bought a promising start-up there called Octazen Solutions, which develops technologies for importing contacts.
Just one day - he had the right to it.
Only Bruna knew that he was going to deviate from his stated travel route (Jakarta - Kuala Lumpur), and Mark was not going to tell anyone else, not even Raquel. Especially Raquel. The last thing Mark wanted was for her to be nervous for fear that he would not keep his promise and hurt Wardo again.
Thinking about it, he could not even imagine what he would experience walking along the same streets that Eduardo walked, entering the same cafes and shopping centers (Mark made a list of all these places in advance to set the route in the phone's navigator). Everything swam before his eyes, because this was the hotel where Wardo lived for the first two years, and this is the even more luxurious hotel where he lived now. "Crown Plaza Changi" was directly connected to the third, newly built terminal of the Singapore airport; flying somewhere, Eduardo almost directly got from his room to the check-in hall for the flight.
Wardo had favorite restaurants, favorite dishes in them - and Mark went into one of them and tried it too, immediately blushing and immediately sneezing from the abundance of hot chili. The locals only squinted smilingly, looking at the white tourist, clearly unaccustomed to local food. He had no idea how one could get used to this, although Raquel assured him that Wardo liked it.
Mark spent the longest time near the fountains in front of the central building of Ngee Ann City. Eduardo's office was in Tower B, on the sixteenth floor. Standing near the shiny metal merlions, he looked up at the terracotta building with polished marble lining. Against the background of him, Eduardo and that Asian woman were photographed most often.
Mark rummaged through tons of information on the net, finding out everything about his company. 360ip was an intellectual property investment firm around the world. Her annual turnover was so impressive that it no longer made sense to compete with Eduardo - the score had long since become equal. Mostly "360ip" dealt with Asian countries - China, Korea and Japan, and practically did not interact with North America.
It didn't take a genius to see the obvious implication in this.
People walked back and forth past him, talking, dangling branded bags on rope handles. It was just crazy to know that all Mark had to do was enter the building, go down the corridor to the right and take the elevator to the right floor. Eduardo was upstairs somewhere in his office (at an old-fashioned desk with an apple-shaped glass paperweight).
Mark's desk in Facebook's office was made of solid red sandalwood, the same pau-brazil. The trick was that over time, its wood only looked richer, acquiring a royal purple-raspberry hue (as an employee of a furniture company said). Mark couldn't see a damn thing in those shades, but that wasn't the point, of course.
After splashing his hoodie with the water of the fountain, because he was too staring at the high-throwing jets, Mark hung out in the sun, seriously wondering if he was completely already or could still be hoped for. The fact that someday they will be able to talk - about nature and the weather, well, just like old acquaintances at least.
Of course, he understood that Wardo could not have anything like that with him. Some kind of unearthly perfection looked from the photographs - Mark just stopped breathing every time. From his dark shaved strip above his upper lip, the elegant tie knot under his shirt collar.
Wardo had soft pink lips in the pictures - Mark was sure that he was constantly smearing them with some kind of balm. When he was left in the office all alone, he looked at his photographs for a long time, dreaming of licking off this balm (hopelessly, like a nerdy schoolboy dreams of a chic model on the spread of a magazine). Eduardo, the most desirable Eduardo in the world, of course, met someone - he did not even ask Raquel about it. Why, when everything was obvious. She would only feel embarrassed to tell Mark, knowing how he would feel to hear it.
He tried to do something with his sex life himself, but he did not progress beyond the occasional hookup at Shaun's parties. Only shaking his head when the drunken Parker generously offered to suck out love poison so that the infection would not go further.
In the evening, Mark did not go to the hotel, wandering around like a typical tourist, with a camera around his neck and capturing everything - the streams of cars at the intersection, skyscrapers, merchants' shops. Even the same Ferris wheel, next to which Wardo was photographed for the last time. Mark so wanted to take at least a particle of it with him, as a souvenir - this is the only thing he had. The largest approximation - the zoom was no longer spinning.
In the end, he bought a ticket at the box office with inscriptions in Chinese, Malay and English and for almost an hour looked at Singapore at night from a height. Wardo looked tired but pleased in the photo by the booth, and Mark thought he must have enjoyed it. Maybe that's why he wanted to try it himself.
Upon arrival, Mark threw everything on the hard drive, from there the gulf directly into a new photo album. Of course, I immediately received whole sheets of comments that I didn't even bother to read. He was, in general, do not care who and what thinks about this trip. For himself, he summed it up with a laconic status:
Mark Zuckerberg would like to stay in Singapore longer.
It was a regular notification from Facebook - Mark received several hundred of these a day. And he had already moved the mouse, habitually going to select everything and delete it with one click, when one line caught his attention. Mark had a feeling that all the blood rushed to his face.
It just couldn't be.
Clicking on the heading, he opened the letter, rereading the same thing again:
Eduardo Saverin likes your status.
He moved away from the table and, closing his eyes, rubbed his eyelids. Mark didn't understand what was going on. His heart was pounding as if he was determined to break his chest and exist without him, autonomously.
- Wardo? Mark said in a whisper as he clicked on the link to the profile that was still stored on their server. The time of the last visit was not displayed - somewhere in the year 2005 they considered it redundant and simply removed it. Now Mark really regretted it - he just needed to know when Wardo was here. How long he had been here while Mark was doing something much less important, although he could have caught him on the site.
Now Eduardo was not online. Mark sat up straighter in his chair, trying to process it all. No new statuses or photos. Clicking the "Like" button under his last post was the only thing Wardo did during his time there.
But he wanted to tell him something so many times, to share news, a joke, something important for both of them. But now, looking at the field with the blinking cursor, Mark couldn't remember anything. The brain was completely formatted by the fact that Eduardo decided to go back to Facebook. The fact that he again interacted with Mark - after all, it could be called that?
He bit his lower lip, panicking about what to do. Mark promised Raquel that he would not climb again, spoil everything again, knock down his life plans. The taste of blood on my tongue was a little comforting. Now, in 2010, he would rather hurt himself ten times than Eduardo once.
Mark could not be sure that he wanted to communicate again. Maybe it was all about this visit to Singapore, and Wardo just liked that Mark did not leave his city indifferent. But the hypothesis still needed to be tested.
After spending the rest of the day in the office, Mark went out into the street and, accidentally throwing a glance at the traffic light, suddenly realized what to do. At home, having found the necessary link in the bookmarks, he, with bated breath, published:
Mark Zuckerberg promised to show how he sees colors. .ch
The link led to a color blindness emulator designed to visually demonstrate this concept to people with normal color vision. Mark accidentally found out about it in 2007, a year after the development of this program at the Zurich Institute of Cartography. After installation, it made it possible to look at your own desktop through the prism of a person with the corresponding anomaly. Options included all three, including the rarest tritanopia, the inability to distinguish shades of blue.
Once upon a time, on the roof of Eliot's building, Wardo said that he would like to see everything through his eyes. So Mark was just keeping his promise.
The program was presented for all operating systems - macOS, Linux and Windows, and no matter what Eduardo uses now, this was not a problem. Yes, he knew perfectly well that the java archive was still too complicated for Wardo. But after all, there were probably people in his company who understood more about computers and software than the general director - after all, one could always turn to them. This was partly a point - to see if Eduardo needed it enough to overcome at least minimal resistance.
The last thing Mark wanted now was to make a mistake and wishful thinking.
- Mr. Zuckerberg.
Leaning over the table, Bruna placed a cup of tea in front of him that smelled of brewed herbs.
- A? What? - Mark jumped up nervously, raising his disheveled head.
His patient assistant just sighed. Bruna brought him melissa tea only when Mark was in a panic. In her language, it was something along the lines of, "Calm down, boss."
Wardo did not comment on his Color Oracle status. He must have just been uninterested.
- Mark, - Bruna called, and he again looked away from the monitor, blinking incomprehensibly, - at what interval is a page reread?
- It's a push technology. As soon as something new appears on the page, the server issues this pol-...
- I'm not talking about that, - Bruna interrupted. - You still click "refresh" more often.
Mark looked at her plaintively, involuntarily following the dark curl that escaped from under the headband and slipped onto her chest. Albeit very vaguely, he was still aware that he came to the office at five in the morning and spent all this time continuously updating his news feed on Facebook. Although not; I think he was still walking from wall to wall, wringing his hands. He sat on the floor with his head on his knees.
Above his head, as in a bank or stock exchange, hung three large dials. With exactly the same meaning - one had local time, and the other two showed what time it was in Miami and Singapore. And given that it was noon in Palo Alto, Wardo had three in the morning. Fak! He simply could not wait so long - until he wakes up, gets to the office, rakes the main things. What if Wardo wasn't going to visit the site at all? What if...
- Mark, - Bruna touched him on the shoulder, - my advice: talk to someone on the phone. It doesn't matter with whom; I can just dial a random number from the top contacts. And then, you know, it's not long to get under way with the mind.
She'd always been honest with Mark—more honest than Chris, without all that wailing diplomacy.
When Mark was about to leave work, Mark still could not stand it, clicking on the tab with a plus sign in the mozilla - fortunately, the default was his own friend. Clenching his hands into fists and numb with ecstatic horror, he read the inscription, which had already slid down to the middle of the page:
Eduardo Saverin found that when both green and red components are removed, blue shifts towards mauve. This site has a purple header, Mark.
- Your mother. Where are you going, Zuckerberg! Sheryl exclaimed, looking at her gray office dress, which was beautifully splattered with cupcake cream on her chest. In her hands was an open cardboard box.
- I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, - Mark frequented, reminding himself of a particularly stoned Parker, - I didn't mean to, really. Subtract it from my salary!
He was already at the door when Sandberg adoringly said,
"Here's a freak. Why is he so happy?
Eduardo was very glad that he had already released the assistant, and she could not see this shame. Because he was hunched over in his chair, chewing on his own fingers like a nervous teenager. Miss Li on the other end must have known what state he was in, but she was no stranger to it.
- He noticed, Christy. He noticed.
- Naturally! What did I say! Did Mark write to you?
- Well... strictly speaking, not me. I mean, he didn't apply directly. I posted a link to an applet that allows you to see colors as if you are color blind. I once asked to show, a hundred years ago, even when we ...
- Go crazy! Christy screamed. - Do you even understand what that means, Saverin?
"No," he said honestly, "I have no idea. But I downloaded, installed and now I'm sitting looking at my page like a fool. It's all... purple.
- Yes, listen here. This guy has guilt the size of the Malay Peninsula! Judge for yourself - he was in the city all day, went around all the places where you can be, but did not even try to make contact. Of course, and now does not apply directly. But he wants you to answer, Eduardo.
"I can't." He rubbed his cheek with his hand, unable to calm down, fidgeting in his chair so that it spun from side to side. - I don't know how to answer correctly. I'm not at all sure that Mark is me.
- Who else? No, well, imagine if he wrote "Wardo" in the appeal and got zero response. It's just a healthy instinct for self-preservation, that's all. Write something!
"Later," Eduardo shook his head. - Now nothing comes to mind. And in the morning I'll think for sure.
- Don't delay, - Christie advised, - otherwise your Mark will decide that you are ignoring him.
- Don't say "your Mark", okay?
Let's not start over, shall we? Keep in mind, I heard all your revelations, baby.
- All right, all right. Tomorrow I will publish the status and see what happens," Eduardo rubbed his forehead with his palm.
- Keep me informed. Everyone, come on. And then my partner is already looking askance at me.
After ending the call and placing the phone in the cradle, he spun in his chair. The hair must have been greasy by now from running it through his fingers so many times, a stupid, neurotic habit from college. Fucked up styling. But the whole point was that no one, no one could tell him what to do now and how it would be better to act.
The master plan included an imovan pill, a shower, and sleep. Falling asleep just like that after watching that same Singaporean album was not possible. Mark, with a completely defenseless, uncertain expression on his face, looking at him from every photo, turned his brains into mush. A liquid homogeneous porridge like the one that is given to small children for breakfast.
The first thing he saw in the morning when he clicked on the Facebook tab was the number 2 at the top, above the message icon. Biting his lip, Eduardo opened the first one. Immediately recognizing the addressee by the style of presentation - for this it was not even necessary to look at the avatar.
"Wardo answer be a man mark on wild treason ! just talked to him."
Eduardo put his hand over his nose and mouth in something like shock. Dustin never spoke to him at all . He only loomed vaguely behind Chris when he Skyped Happy Thanksgiving. Without even trying to get into the middle of the camera view and say something funny. Moskowitz did not know how to formulate his motives at length and at length, but, honestly, it was clear that way. He has always been devoted to Mark. Eduardo could be offended as much as he wanted, but he respected him for it all the same.
The second letter was predictably from Chris.
"I didn't think you would ever dare to do this, Wardo ," was the message. " But, nonetheless, glad. Burying your head in the sand will not solve the problem. My thoughts are with you, K.
He could not help smiling - both of them were in their repertoire.
After walking around his office for another half an hour and banging his head against everything, Eduardo finally decided that one of them should do it. I mean, contact directly. And if Mark really is so afraid, then he has nothing to lose.
Posting a new status message, Eduardo swallowed, reread, and closed the page. Yesterday was already irretrievably lost - it was not enough even today to stare senselessly at the monitor. He had something to do, after all; a pile of documents at the elbow, prepared for sighting, required attention and concentration.
Eduardo did not sign any more contracts, only after running his eyes diagonally.
By the middle of the working day, he was all twisted, thinking what Mark would answer. Sighing and lamenting his complete lack of willpower, Eduardo opened the damn Facebook. Only to immediately freeze, clutching the mouse in his palm.
Eduardo, eu quero me aproximar de você novamente.
He blinked and reread it, once, twice. The status was public.
"It seems that I missed something in this life" - scratching behind his ear, he immediately wrote a message to Dustin, "and has Mark known Portuguese for a long time?"
The Skype call squealed towards the end of the working day, when Eduardo was almost able to pull himself away from the computer.
"Just don't tell the pussy," Moskowitz said in a terrible whisper, disheveled and rumpled in the morning, with a potato nose. - That's specially got up neither light nor dawn, so that he did not set me on fire. So what did you want to know about Mark?
Eduardo licked his lips as he collected his thoughts.
Did he really learn the language?
Yes, he has been teaching for a couple of years now. Now he already speaks, in my opinion, decently - he chatters with his assistant so that words cannot be inserted.
- Seriously? - Eduardo choked, - another bzik, like the language of Homer and Ovid?
- No, it's not bullshit. It's ... worse, - he shook his head, - but he was terribly funny, especially when he was just starting to teach. Somehow, I remember, on principle he refused to speak human language all day long, and do whatever you want with him. Walked up to Lea from the legal department and was like, "Você é uma mulher bonita." She almost fell off her hairpins when kind people translated.
"I see," was all Eduardo could say. He didn't know he'd missed him so much, that sense of belonging he had with Chris and Dustin. In order to somehow participate in Mark's life, to know what is going on with him in general. Then, having left him for thousands of miles, he did not even fully understand how he was punishing himself. What will be deprived.
- By the way: did you answer him anything? Dustin asked worriedly.
- Nope.
"I understand," he nodded sadly. - We went to visit him in the evening, so Mark didn't climb the wall. Listen, you just don't say a word, okay? Otherwise, he will kill me, - Dustin looked around in panic, and again turned to face the camera. - Wardo, tell me honestly, why did you start all this? Rematch or what?
"No," he shook his head, "I just really want to talk to him again."
- Phew! Moskowitz sighed with obvious relief. - And then, you know, sometimes all sorts of garbage climbs into the head. Well, what type do you now want to avenge the desecrated honor, as in a book about Monte Cristo. But you won't, right?
- ... Is he really worried?
- Yes pipets - rested his tongue on the cheek Dustin. - Tell him something, huh? "Yes", "no", "I don't know" - it's all the same, Mark can't even sleep like that.
- Can I? Eduardo was outraged.
"Listen," Moskowitz stared at him, "it's not for nothing that the little pussik always told me not to get in between you. I'm going to go make myself some coffee.
- OK. Thank you for everything, - he squeezed out of himself, immediately after hearing the characteristic Skype "sound of the collapse of the universe." So Mark. He had to write something to Mark. However, now Eduardo's answer was ridiculously obvious:
Bem, concordo em tentar.
А он ведь совершенно забыл, как это бывает с Марком. Теперь же весь рабочий распорядок и даже время сна и отдыха были порушены. Разница во времени только усугубляла, потому что, вставая под утро просто отлить, Эдуардо затем брал со столика телефон и забирался с ним в постель, чтобы прочитать очередной статус Цукерберга.
С некоторых пор они все до единого были обращены к нему.
Впрочем, все было честно – вечером, когда он, уладив все рабочие моменты, отпускал Чинг Линг и садился писать Марку, у того тоже было что-то около пяти или шести утра. Он представлял его так ясно в эти моменты – сонное выражение лица, всклокоченная кудрявая башка, пальцы, с трудом попадающие по клавишам. Это не умещалось в сознании – то, что Марк делал то же самое ради него. И продолжал делать на протяжении вот уже двух месяцев.
Они по-прежнему не разговаривали. В смысле, никакого чата, скайпа или смс. И по правде сказать, Эдуардо это устраивало – так можно было подумать, осмыслить и спланировать, что ему написать. Получалось так, что все эти статусы были непримечательными по характеру содержащейся информации, но очень личными по сути. Как, например, в случае, когда Марк выкладывал ссылку на видео, освещающее детали банкротства «Лиман Бразерс» два года назад. Да, о нем уже была статья в википедии, но только Марк мог знать, что это значит конкретно для Эдуардо.
В ответ он вешал Марку на стенку клип их некогда общей любимой группы. Песни Витора и Леу год от года все больше походили на хиты. И Эдуардо временами даже мечтал как-нибудь побывать на их живом концерте, а не только смотреть видео с зареванными девчонками на заднем плане. Мама говорила, что в Бразилии эта новая волна народной музыки сейчас на самом пике популярности.
А еще в один прекрасный момент у кого-то из его френдов Эдуардо увидел ссылку на сайт, где люди учили язык онлайн. Ссылка вела прямо на марков аккаунт. Все выполненные с начала курса упражнения хранились в легкодоступной вкладке; наверное, поэтому ему повезло наткнуться на одно из начальных. Предполагалось, что на момент выполнения человек знает еще очень немного слов.
«Опишите самого важного для вас человека», говорилось в задании. - «Как он выглядит?»
Версия Марка была такой: «Ele é alto, Brasileiro, tem cabelos castanhos e olhos da cor de mel.»
Эдуардо понятия не имел, целиком ли это выдумано, или Марк описывал одного из тех, с кем у него... было. Он старался на этом не зацикливаться. Ну какой смысл понапрасну себя травить?
Когда Марк все же хотел сказать что-то личное, он всякий раз переходил на португальский (используя его, как курсив, как шепот на ухо). Последняя такая фраза всплыла в новостной ленте, когда он уже совсем было расслабился, привыкнув к этому их ежедневному ритуалу. Там осторожно, очень осторожно для Марка говорилось, что он бы хотел увидеться.
Эдуардо не отвечал несколько дней, просто не зная, что сказать, разрываясь между двумя полярными желаниями — не видеть Марка больше никогда (как и собирался) и наконец увидеть снова. И мучился бы еще бог знает сколько времени, если бы вскоре на его столе не оказался традиционный конверт. Близился второй финансовый квартал, наступавший после Рождества — это было просто следующее приглашение на встречу акционеров. Придерживая собственный локоть, чтобы не так дрожала рука, он поставил галочку в поле «возможно, буду присутствовать». Просто оставляя себе лазейку на тот случай, если все-таки передумает в последнюю минуту.
Электронная форма, присылаемая для надежности, ушла Марку в тот же день. Но новых статусов у него не появлялось, и Эдуардо уже начал думать, что он, наверное, совсем не верит этому шаткому «может быть». И думал так до тех пор, пока на мобильник не упала смс от Дастина: «А ты не знаешь, чего это Цукерберг сияет, будто в системе Альфа Центавра наблюдается мощный прирост числа пользователей?»
Сингапур давно был очень приличной страной; последнюю легальную курильню опиума тут тихо прикрыли году этак в сорок шестом. Но это, само собой, не означало, что малолетние китайцы не жаждали приобщиться к своему культурному наследию. Эдуардо видел опиатную ломку – узкие, с булавочную головку зрачки, холодный липкий пот, покрывающий тело. И как их трясет от холода, тоже насмотрелся. То, что происходило с ним сейчас, в салоне Боинга-777, было много хуже. Да хотя бы потому, что Эдуардо накануне ничего не употреблял.
И это было даже не на уровне рассудка – так-то он, конечно, хотел бы быть прохладно-вежливым, отстраненным и снисходительным. Но еще на таможне, когда он минут пять не мог застегнуть снова собственный брючный ремень, не попадая металлическим язычком в прокол, Эдуардо догадался: не получится.
Лайнер был уже над Тихим Океаном, и, он смотрел вниз, на бескрайний синий простор, бликующий под полуденным солнцем. Когда-то давно Эдуардо обещал себе, что никогда не полетит этим маршрутом. Наивный.
Он достал из нагрудного кармана телефон, взвешивая его тяжесть в ладони. Меняя мобильник в последний раз, Эдуардо взял себе тот, что с андроидом – совсем свежий, только недавно вышедший (в США, по плану, продажи начинались только через полгода). HTC он выбрал потому, что знал: именно его предпочел бы Марк. Яблочными iвещицами тот просто брезговал, как гламурным фуфлом, а все, на чем стояла винда, и вовсе не считал за технические устройства. А вот ради такой прелести бы даже поступился своей ненавистью к Гуглу.
Админ с работы таки сумел сломать ему прошивку и сделать там, чтобы все ставилось не только на телефон, но и на карту тоже. А потому туда влезало все – органайзер, навигатор, куча полезных бизнес-утилит, «Angry birds» и огромная куча фоток. Эдуардо гладил кончиком большого пальца телефон, долистывая до своей самой любимой. На ней Марк слегка улыбался. Щеки у него там были слегка порозовевшие, а взгляд – совсем немного расфокусированным. Он смотрел и смотрел, вдруг поймав себя на том, что стукается лбом о толстое стекло иллюминатора.
Марка хотелось поцеловать. Так сильно, что он, опьяневший от налитого стюардессой на толщину пальца коньяка, поднес телефон ближе к лицу, дыша на экран, касаясь его губами. Проходящая мимо малайка умилённо разулыбалась и погладила его по волосам. На работе или нет – местные девушки редко могли удержаться от этих аффективных проявлений по отношению к нему – Эдуардо уже привык. Он даже не поднял головы, полностью поглощенный своим почти медитативным созерцанием. Потому что во взвешенном, солидном бизнесмене, каким он смотрелся со стороны, все еще жил тот длинный, нескладный мальчишка, который закрывал глаза, вдыхая запах горячей потной кожи Марка, и обтирался щеками о жесткую ткань его джинсов.
- Вардо! - вдруг заорали откуда-то слева, и он повернулся, уже с чемоданом в руке и висящей на плече сумкой, чтобы увидеть Дастина. Он радостно махал ему, стоя чуть поодаль от ленты транспортера, и Эдуардо чуть не треснул по шву, улыбаясь в ответ. Колеса чемодана издали гулкий катящийся звук, когда он повез его за собой.
Эдуардо остановился буквально в двух шагах, рассматривая Московица. Вживую это было совсем не то, что в камере скайпа, куда влезала только половина его лица. Было совершенно очевидно, что в последние годы там было слишком много пицц (к которым Эдуардо уже не имел никакого отношения). Но что еще очевиднее, весь его облик излучал расслабленное довольство жизнью – то, которое не подделаешь, как ни старайся. У рыжего явно было все хорошо.
- Bау, - покачал головой тот, расширенными глазами глядя на Эдуардо, - и я еще типа считал, ну тогда, в колледже, что ты выглядишь круто, - он присвистнул, рассматривая его с головы до ног, - Матерь божья! Я думал, парни вроде тебя вообще чистый фотошоп.
Эдуардо только нервно улыбнулся, смотря вниз, на стрелки своих брюк, на ботинки, в которых отражались косые ромбы пола. Он просто был... в порядке, почему Дастин так говорил?
- Крис не с тобой? - спросил он, - потому что, кажется, они договаривались встретить его в аэропорту вместе.
- Да не, он, - Дастин отвел глаза, сделав неопределенный жест рукой, - выполняет свои непрямые обязанности. Ну, неважно. Все равно через час дома будет, я ему сказал, чтоб как штык.
Учитывая то, что Эдуардо о них знал, это скорее Крис три раза напомнил Дастину, во сколько он прилетает и лично выпихнул его из койки и затем из дома, снабдив к тому же пачкой напутствий. Бронировать отель он не стал, о чем все еще малодушно жалел, потому что это могло быть не самым лучшим решением. В последний раз они виделись черт знает как давно и сейчас могли просто, ну... не притереться. Эдуардо ни в коем случае не хотел быть для ребят обузой. Но эти двое так усердно убеждали, что нет, все будет супер, все будет отлично, что он просто сдался и согласился пожить эти пару дней у них. В конце концов, за двое суток по любому нельзя сильно утомить, ведь так?
К тому же, их компания была для него чем-то вроде заземления, учитывая то, как закорачивало от одной мысли, что они с Марком увидятся. К концу полета Эдуардо уже всерьез начал подумывать об успокоительном, хотя вообще-то искоренял в себе чисто американскую тенденцию, чуть что, глотать пилюли (даже не пытаясь справиться с ситуацией самостоятельно и решить саму проблему). Так бы он, вместо того, чтобы подать на Цукерберга в суд, мог, к примеру, валяться на кушетке и ныть аналитику о том, как его, бедного, обидели.
Сидя в машине рядом с Дастином и вполуха слушая его болтовню, он смотрел на мелькающие, неузнаваемо изменившиеся пейзажи и вспоминал, как все было тогда. Время действительно очень многое меняло – сейчас в нем не осталось ни горечи, ни стыда, ни сожалений. Все выветрилось – с такой же неизбежностью, как выветривается твердый базальт горных пород.
Да, все было кошмарно, неправильно и несправедливо, но черт побери, это все-таки реальная жизнь, а не диснеевский мультик. Главное, что Эдуардо поступил так, как следовало, имел достаточно решимости, чтобы сделать выбор. Честно говоря, он был уверен – Марк бы его просто не уважал, если бы он проглотил все молча. А его уважение – это собственно все, что у Эдуардо сейчас было. На самом деле, не так и плохо, учитывая, как он отчаянно добивался этого в первые месяцы знакомства.
- Wardo! Damn, it's really you... - Chris was squeezing him so much that he seemed to wrinkle the jacket of both himself and Eduardo. But he didn't give a damn - he, however, didn't know himself that he missed these boobies so much. It already hurt his cheeks to smile so much - especially when the three of them sat down on their sofa (Eduardo in the middle, as the guest of honor). The sofa was somehow unrealistically soft, and he immediately guessed that this was the very place where Moskowitz lay his sides.
While Chris was asking him about what they talked about over Skype - all sorts of details of life, Dustin merged into the kitchen with the most mysterious look. He returned some time later, and Eduardo sniffed the vaguely familiar scent coming from his hands.
"I'll make focaccia," he shrugged. - In an hour the dough will rise. Pusey and I love, but will you try with us? Goes great with wine.
He bit his lip expectantly, giving him a completely puppy-like look. It was impossible to resist.
"I'll try," Eduardo nodded, thinking that this was what he came to Palo Alto for. Try. It just so happened, it applied to everything.
- It's great, - Dustin leaned closer, by the side. - I do it with sun-dried tomatoes and mozzarella. Focaccia is actually the big sister of pizza, if you want to know. So this is like my upgrade since my student days!
He turned to Chris, but he wasn't looking at Eduardo at all. And looking at his face, peaceful, somehow smoothed at the corners, he realized that yes, it happens. When people don't have mud fights without rules, like they do with Mark. They just love each other and don't hurt.
- Wardo, what are you doing? Dustin squirmed, looking anxiously into his face. Chris, what is he?
- It's all right, - Eduardo held out his palm, - I just haven't seen you for a long time. Weaned.
Chris just sighed and gently stroked the back of his head. Just like when he was just a bumbling sophomore desperately falling for his roommate.
Then they drank three bottles of Chianti - Dustin, it turns out, in recent years has discovered his passion for Italian cuisine and everything Italian in general. It was hilarious, of course—he baked his own focaccia now, kept olive oil and sea salt in the kitchen, and was such a foodie that Eduardo couldn't help but chuckle drunkenly. It was the same Dustin who, along with Mark, ate tuna in his own juice right from the can, squeezing ketchup into his mouth.
Leaning the back of his head against his shin and sitting on the floor, Eduardo allowed himself to ask what Parker was doing now, and in general, whether they were in a relationship with Mark. If these two were to be believed, it seemed that Parker, who lives between New York and San Francisco, was something of a faithful girlfriend to Zuckerberg. It was funny, but for some reason Eduardo believed. If Mark did sleep with him, they wouldn't lie to his face like that.
Both Parker and Thiel, whom he remembers, were among the investors of the Founders fund, an investment fund investing in IT technologies. In addition, Sean had his own project, a European music service called Spotify. It was rumored that he was going to buy the record company "Warner Music" - the same one that once helped to bury his Napster.
And what was even more ridiculous, not so long ago, he and Dustin together came out in support of the so-called "Nineteenth Amendment", a bill on the legalization of marijuana in the state of California. And not just in words - Sean allocated 70 thousand to the support fund, and Dustin is also about that. The initiative was voted down by local residents, and Moskowitz said that they then got together and consumed some grass together. Well, as a reminder. Parker was also sad.
Eduardo didn't have the courage to ask who Mark was with now - even drunk, he couldn't bring himself to talk about his love life. It was a terrible fawn, and yet Eduardo didn't want their pity now.
He sat in his place in front of the podium and the huge plasma screen, looking around nervously, listening to the rustling whispers. Chris assured that no one in the current composition of the firm had any idea who he was. Maybe they vaguely remember the name from official documents, but nothing more. It seemed to be true, because Eduardo himself did not know anyone here. It didn't feel very comfortable, especially since Chris and Dustin weren't working there anymore and couldn't keep him company.
The color scheme of the space was now completely wild, reminiscent of a developmental center for children - bright yellow, dark blue, scarlet caught the eye, disorienting and distracting. Mark, of course, did not care - due to color blindness once, and because of the complete focus on work two, but what was it like for everyone else? Or was it considered a kind of mental stability test? Before the start of the official part, he managed to look around a bit, to look at the famous "wall", covered from top to bottom with hundreds of different handwritings. Admire the sweeping graffiti on the brick walls. It was simply unrealistic to believe that this is the office of a multibillionaire.
The same office where he once signed the founding documents... Chris said that Mark called it "the bunker". However, now about two thousand people already worked here, which was already too much for a bunker. From next year, they were to relocate to a new office in Menlo Park. Mark's new home, which he saw in the photographs, was strategically very well located, only ten minutes away.
It must have been another ten minutes after the official start of the meeting, when everyone's heads turned back to where two people were walking along the wide aisle along the chairs - the Facebook CEO and his assistant. Eduardo looked too, feeling the sweat on his palms.
Mark, the same Mark Zuckerberg who walked around in chilly Massachusetts in flip flops, shorts and a baggy hoodie, was now dressed as befits the head of a large company. And, with his eyes open, tracing the lines of his tailored dark blue suit, Eduardo thought that someone should have warned him. That... that would just be humane.
He simply could not look at Mark's face - it was too much, like looking at the sun hanging at its zenith. It hurts the eyes, squinting in an attempt to defend themselves. Time passed, and although Mark had been on the podium for a long time, nothing happened. Opening his eyes, he found that the people around were talking, looking expectantly to where their general stood.
Looking up, Eduardo immediately choked on a sigh because Mark was staring straight at him. With such a lost expression on his face, as if he had just forgotten all the words. He swallowed in panic; judging by the way his assistant whispered something into Zuckerberg's ear, standing on tiptoe, that's exactly what happened. Eduardo pressed his hand to his sternum, through his shirt, feeling the hard protruding bone, massaging it weakly. As if it could help now, to calm the beating of the heart, in which systole and diastole went to hell.
He was some, maybe ten steps away, all this - pale reddish curls of hair, an anxious smile. And Eduardo's whole being was drawn towards him - closer, he wanted to see all this closer, side by side. Seeing, touching, feeling fluffy soft rings under your fingers. Fak, yes, his palms were already itching from the desire to touch.
It was a reaction of such force that Eduardo simply was not able to suppress. Just give up, sitting silently in front of the podium and not taking his eyes off Mark, the meaning of whose speech eluded him. Did Mark himself understand what he was saying? There was no certainty about this - as far as he knew from the experience of his colleagues, reports for such events the day before were carefully memorized to create a feeling of smoothness, impeccable refinement of the wording. At some point, people around laughed at once - obviously, it was a pre-prepared joke built into the speech. Mark continued to speak without the slightest pause, seemingly just trying to complete the playback of this audio file.
Eduardo couldn't understand why he always did this with Mark. Whether he was drunk watching a movie on the sofa in Kirkland, or was completely sober at the quarterly shareholders' meeting. The sensations were the same. Animals usually expressed them very simply - falling on their backs in the dust, wagging their tails and exposing the most vulnerable parts of their bodies to the opponent.
He and Mark also usually did without words - earlier, when Eduardo pulled his hand towards him, lying on his back on an unmade bed. Only whining and fidgeting excitedly when Mark pressed down with himself, biting painfully on the neck.
When it was all finally over, Eduardo slowly peeled himself off the seat and stood up straightening his clothes. He was so hot under that suit. He was on fire - his lips were parched with a dark crust, as happens at a temperature. And Eduardo was also feverish, because Mark, his closeness made him sick, in any sense of the word.
And Mark just stood at the end of the aisle, one hand wrapped around his wrist with the other - as if he was holding himself back from something, and waited for Eduardo to come up. And with every step towards him, he understood - this is the very moment that he had been dreaming about for a long time, thinking that these were just dreams. But only sweat stains from the sides of the shirt and uncontrollable chills - everything was so real that there was simply nowhere else to go.
"Hello, Mark," said Eduardo, shamefully not even owning his own voice, "Tudo bem? he extended his hand.
At first, he just blinked, as if he was completely sure that Eduardo would never shake hands with him again. His eyebrows rose like houses - this was only the case when Mark was immensely surprised by something. Eduardo's hand was already clearly trembling.
"Eu estou tão feliz de te ver novamente," Mark said.
- Eu tambem estou.
Mark squeezed his fingers, but not in a businesslike way. He squeezed Eduardo's hand with such force, as if he was drowning and holding on to him. Eduardo looked into Mark's face and couldn't even move. He didn't make a single move to free himself, and Mark never let go.
Instead, he pulled on his arm and brought his brush to his lips. Then he closed his eyes and planted a wet kiss on the back of his hand. Eduardo closed his eyes helplessly, clearly realizing that he was just living for this moment - all the last years, when Mark was just a collection of colored pixels for him.
He would so much like to say something smart, to the point now: "Did you pick up such manners from your Parker?" But Mark stepped closer, leaning his head against his neck and sniffing the scent, and Eduardo lost the ability to speak or think at all. He, as always, did not have any perfume, and his body, enraged under the onslaught of adrenaline, did not smell like perfume at all. But only Mark, clinging to his hand in a death grip, was so obviously happy, inhaling all this - God, he even showed damned dimples.
- Let go, huh? Please, - asked Eduardo in some shameful, breaking whisper. He simply felt that if he did not break the contact this minute, all the microcircuits would explode and the wires would melt.
"C-of course, Wardo," Mark nodded hastily. - Everything, you see, I do not hold.
The fact that he released his vise made it no easier to take his hand away. Maybe because Mark was still holding it with his fingertips.
In the street, standing by a clay tub with a fragrant lemon tree, Eduardo looked at his palm with red longitudinal folds for a long time. He wished they never left at all (or that Mark didn't listen to him). Staring blankly at the flat, poorly rendered California sky, Eduardo thought the back of the picture sucked, superimposed on the foreground. And the hands should be torn off by those who put this in the background.
In the morning, when Dustin had already left for San Francisco, Chris spent an hour and a half with him, bringing him out of a state of complete coma. Erin was on holiday in Peru with her family. But Mark was so out of touch with reality that it never occurred to him to hire his own analyst. And Chris called himself, knowing all too well the ins and outs of the situation. Just to see how things are going.
Things were bad. Instead of getting ready, getting dressed and going to work, Mark sat on the bed, pulling his knees up to his chest and shivering. He could make risky strategic decisions without blinking an eye, he could tell people in the face absolutely everything he thought. But from the prospect of seeing Eduardo live, all his hamstrings were shaking. Mark was so guilty before him.
- Quiet, quiet ... - Chris hugged with both hands, squeezing him like a crying boy, and kissing his forehead. - He's scared too. He is also scared to get close to you.
"B-but…" his chin was twitching so that it was hard to speak, "wh-how should I behave so that Wardo doesn't run away right away?"
- Keep a little distance. Mark, he has to decide for himself what he wants... if he wants it at all.
- Fine. I'll try, okay. Can I come to you today, huh?
- No. Wardo should feel safe. Wait one day. He will not arrive at all, do you remember what time it is? What did Raquel tell you about this?
- Never mind. She doesn't know at all, - Mark sniffed.
- What? I mean... wait, this is the first time he's been flying to the States and he's not even going to Florida?! Mark, but this...
He wet his forehead, looking inquiringly, because he himself was no longer able to process information effectively. Something was clearly slipping.
"That means he came all this way just to see you," Hughes finished in a whisper and pressed his knuckles to his lips in shock. - Mark, your mother! I don't really understand what you're going through here! So... wait. SMS.
Reaching into his pocket, he fished out his cell phone, jabbed at the notification, and they both saw the redhead's smiling face on the screen.
"I met Wardo, everything is ok, don't get stuck at 626 for a long time"- was at the top, in the inbox. As Adam once noted, in a past life, Dustin was definitely a signalman. Killed by a stray enemy bullet and obviously not completing his mission. Dustin himself only liked this version.
- F-fuck! - Mark clasped himself with both hands, - he has already arrived ...
- So, - Chris straightened his jacket, - so that now he would get ready and march to the office. Everything is great, it just couldn't be better. And so that we don't have your spirit today.
Mark just rolled his eyes, those commanding tones Hughes picked up in New York. But, to hell with him - they have already heard this from each other in their entire lives. He was simply not at all sure that he could fulfill this request.
- Mark? - Chris seems to have seen right through him, - listen, I'm seriously telling you, today I won't let you on the threshold.
He only sighed heavily and waved his hand - it was, of course, a critical matter who was allowed into his house and who was not. Well, what can I do - Mark just adored these idiots anyway. He's had "Loura de Oura" for a hundred years now, a funny and pretentious song about a guy who dries over a blonde in the house opposite. Bruna was very confused the first time she heard it.
At half past six, for lack of a better way, Mark left the office. Everyone, literally everyone around so diligently pushed him out of there, as if they had agreed. However, Bruna kindly clarified the situation, noting that a little more, and he will begin to resemble the head of Apple - the same radiant bald head.
- Well, thank you, - he grumbled, - that at least not cancer of all organs.
"Steve's appearance is considered by many to be very charismatic," she raised an eyebrow. But, of course, it's up to you. Either go home and calm down, or prematurely go bald right in front of the team.
- No, well, what should I do, tie my hands behind my back? he said frustratedly, pulling out curly hairs stuck between his fingers.
- Babies are swaddled. Otherwise, they can scratch their whole face, - Bruna spoke out and, not particularly interested in his opinion, leaned over Mark and chose "end the session" in the options above. He didn't have the strength to protest today.
Mark wandered around the lobby a little longer, watching the newly installed peripheral vending machine in action. The guys from the corporate development department came up with this feature only recently - after all, from time to time someone spilled coffee on the keyboard, lost a flash drive. And so everything was at hand - just lean your badge against the scanner. Everything was there - phone cases, wires, headphones, chargers. During the time that Mark drank his glass of Mountain Dew, eight people approached the machine. It was useful information - on a normal day, he would not have crawled out of his office in his life.
Driving home, Mark somehow found himself in the driveway of Chris and Dustin's house. And, since he was here anyway, he went out, slamming the door, wandering thoughtfully along the alley of orange trees and kicking small pebbles. Fifteen minutes later, the window in the room upstairs flew open and Moskowitz's head stuck out. Without wasting much of a word, he just silently crossed his arms. Apparently telegraphing Mark to get the hell out of here.
Stubbornly thrusting his hands into his pockets, he stared back at Dustin - there was still a small chance that he would give in and let him in. But he only shook his head sympathetically, pointing his finger behind his back and picturesquely his own soul. Well, here everything was clear and without pantomimes: "I can't do it, the pussy will kill." Mark knew this, in general, and so - for nothing that the pusik expressed himself very clearly.
It was all terrible. He knew that there, in their living room, Eduardo was sitting - alive, real. Most likely, he drinks with them the eternal Dustin's Chianti and eats these pieces of dough. As he paced the tiled path in front of their house, he felt like a tomboy deprived of sweets for some fault. He wanted more than anything to be where Wardo was, even if it was their focaccia and sour European stuff again.
"Do you want me to invest the same amount in Asana?" - in a fit of desperation, he texted Dustin. Six and a half million dollars was just bullshit - in fact, Mark would have given a lot more now, just to see Eduardo even for a glimpse.
I had to wait about ten minutes - apparently, until he seized the moment and was able to write him an answer.
"If the pussy divorces me, this will not console me !"
The argument was valid, and therefore Mark hung his head - nothing shone for him today. After wandering some more, he sat down right on the ground, habitually burying his head in his knees and exposing his bony back to the sun. Hoping very much that maybe Wardo will smell something and decide to go out himself. Brad, of course, but his condition now, in general, could not be called sane.
The window upstairs banged open again. He turned around; Dustin was standing there with the phone, and after a while, an incoming text message squeaked on his knees:
"Mark! Go home and POR FAVOR!"
Standing up, he dusted his jeans and hands from the reddish fine dust, and climbed back into his Lexus. And only grabbing the hair on the top of his head in a handful and tearing it out a little again, he realized that it was urgent to cut off the power supply. He already knew what to do in such cases - he just needed a healthy, sound sleep until morning. He only had to hold out until tomorrow - and tomorrow Mark already officially had the right to see one of the co-founders of his company.
Mark, of course, did not even dare to hope that Wardo would agree to come. Still, he decided it wouldn't hurt to have a decent pair of suits just in case. Chris squirmed as he hung out with him in the fitting room in San Francisco, remembering the Google account case and a dozen others. Mark diligently pretended not to understand his hints. Well, what if Eduardo had a... special influence on him?
- Mark, stay still for a minute. Here the buttons are very small, and the loops are tight. I can't fasten it right away with my fingers.
He held his breath and even drew in his stomach for some reason as he watched Bruna fasten the stiff starched collar. It was very difficult for Mark to imagine how Wardo walked in this every single day.
- Well, that's another matter, - she sighed with satisfaction, - now a tie. Is that the shiny one, or the darker one?
The color of the tie (as well as the suit), thank God, was not discussed by anyone. But what else did you have to choose? Mark honestly thought they were supposed to have two. Well, about like dresses for an honest girl - for every day and to church. He considered the one on the way out to be brilliant, so he silently jabbed his finger at it.
- Fine. Now stand still and I will tie your beautiful ascot.
Mark hated to flaunt his ignorance, so he humbly remained silent, not asking what the word she cursed was.
- Who chose this for you, Mark? - Hiding a grin, asked Bruna. - Ascot ties are traditional for a wedding suit. The fluffy knot looks very elegant.
He tried to turn away so that she wouldn't notice how he threw in the paint.
- Well ... in general, for me this is also a very solemn occasion.
"I can imagine," she nodded, looking seriously with her dark, veiled eyes.
Mark jerked his Adam's apple, involuntarily interfering, because in fact he was just terribly nervous. He had no idea what Eduardo would think about this performance of his - maybe he would consider it too unnatural? But he was consulted by so many knowledgeable people that it seemed impossible to screw up. In theory, everything should be fine; Chris, so he generally assured that from now on, such a form of clothing should become familiar and everyday for Mark, because this is how a person with his position and position in society should dress.
But he didn't listen. The opinions of colleagues, reporters, journalists and snobby neighbors did not bother him in any way. (The president most likely didn't give a damn about how Mark Zuckerberg dresses - he just really didn't want to break protocol at that time.) But for Wardo, he wanted to look good, beautiful. And if beautiful in his terms meant this - okay, Mark agreed without talking.
"Well, well, Mark," Bruna smoothed the curls on his forehead, "you don't have to worry so much. You look wonderful!
He just whined unhappily, alone with her without even trying to be the Chief, the Head and so on. Why, when right now he was only a "Sample 626" who really, really wanted to raise his level of goodness. So that he would at least get to an acceptable level, and Wardo would want to look at him again.
This could have been predicted in advance, but everything, everything went down the drain. He had only to see Wardo in the middle of the second row, his narrow silhouette, his hair upturned and shiny at the temples. His eyes are wide, following him across half the hall, a white spot on his collar.
Standing in front of a whole crowd of people on dais for solemn speeches, Mark for the first time did not find what to say. Wardo no longer looked at him, sitting with his eyes closed. Probably, all this nonsense with the costume was still unnecessary and superfluous ... Mark struggled to remember at least the first sentence, feeling like in a distant childhood, in Ardsley. Then, I remember, they were forced to learn the verses of the stupid Robert Frost, which were a little more than completely meaningless.
He had a microphone clipped to the lapel of his jacket, but all that could be heard so far was his spasmodic, uneven breathing. Out of the corner of his eye, Mark saw an assistant looking at him with concern. But only Bruna was not just there for a long time - she understood everything herself. And without too much panic, she simply approached, whispering the first phrase of the prepared speech into his ear. Bruna, as always, knew her as well as Mark himself.
But Wardo still looked at him. He looked - bewilderedly incredulously, slightly frowning dark eyebrows and opening his mouth. Mark voiced the very beginning - and then the words poured out by themselves, because he repeated this text an unthinkable number of times, memorizing the score like musicians. Although, what was happening was monstrous - he opened the meeting of shareholders, in fact, he was not even present at it. Being in complete prostration because an event was happening, statistically very unlikely. People used to call it a pipe dream.
Then, sitting down in his proper place on the front row, Mark looked at his twisted hands lying on his knees. With a completely wet neck under that suffocating stand-up collar. Turned into a naked bundle of nerves, electrified by his presence. All Chris's calls to behave decently went to hell - Mark, however, did not even know what would happen when the meeting was over. Well, unless Wardo escapes first, of course.
Who and what knew about him and Wardo, Mark was now absolutely indifferent. After listening to the last speaker, looking around and seeing that Eduardo was still behind him, he hastily got up and stood right in the aisle between the rows of chairs, not paying much attention to what was bothering everyone. Mark just couldn't miss it now. When he came close, it became completely unbearable to restrain himself - he so wanted to hug.
He held out his hand in an impeccable, polite gesture. Like the pictures in business textbooks that explain how business partners greet each other. Partners, which they never essentially were, did not know how, could not.
- Hi Mark. Tudo bem?
His voice trembled a little, and Mark with bated breath recognized these intonations. Eduardo also spoke to him in their language, the one Mark had learned especially for him. And a simple phrase in response was more pleasant than doing even the most difficult test. Because all this was only for the sake of this moment - for him to look like this from under his eyelashes and let him kiss his hand. He let me inhale his scent - so exciting and exciting, and freeze, standing next to me. At least that way, if not otherwise.
- Let go, huh? Please," he suddenly said, moving his fingers weakly.
Eduardo wanted to leave him, and Mark could not keep him by force. Therefore, he looked at his back, realizing with bitter irony that, being a multibillionaire, he could not get the only thing he needed. Just because it can't be bought.
The evening of that day turned out to be unusually gloomy for their town - when he parked next to Chris and Dustin, clouds were gathering overhead in an expressive shade. This happened to them relatively rarely. But it was all the more cool to breathe in the ozone-saturated pre-storm air, seeing short flashes of lightning sparkling here and there.
Mark didn't ask anyone's permission this time. Standing on the porch of their house, he rang the bell and crossed his arms over his chest in nervous anticipation. Mark had every right to see Wardo - exactly the same as Chris and Dustin, and no one could deprive him of this right!
Hughes opened the door.
"Oh, it's you," he sighed and stepped back, holding the door. - Well, come on, what.
Entering and taking off his shoes, Mark walked cautiously into their living room - of course, to immediately see Wardo on the sofa. He, already dressed in trousers and a simpler shirt, sat and stared straight ahead, as if frozen. Chris pulled up his pants to keep them from wrinkling and sat down between him and Moskowitz.
- Great, six two six! - the redhead was delighted.
- What is "six two six"? Eduardo immediately spoke up. - I have never heard. Will you tell me?
- Well, you give! What, no one really told him that? Dustin looked around in surprise.
Mark stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do with his hands or where to look. There was no room for him on their little couch. But Mark decided that he would make it anyway, and so he walked around the sofa and leaned on the soft cushion over Wardo's head. Nearly losing my mind when I inhaled the scent of his hair. No one was looking at Mark right now, and therefore it was possible to poke his nose behind his ear, clinging to the sofa with his nails - it was just fucked up from Wardo.
He sat very quietly, for some reason not objecting or complaining, and Mark gently touched the delicate skin behind his ear with his lips, kissing.
"Someone tell me," Eduardo asked, and his voice was so low and sensual that Mark had to press his hips into the sofa. The exhalation fell right into his ear, and Mark felt the trembling through Wardo's lips, his whole body.
- Yes, what to tell? - Chris was surprised, - this is a cartoon, it needs to be shown. I'll put the disk in now.
There was a calm before the storm, so they all heard at the same time how abruptly, suddenly, jets of water falling from the sky hit the ground. A downpour began - that rare, strong, sometimes lasting for several days, which sometimes visited their places due to an avalanche of cyclones that had come.
While Hughes shoved the disc into the slot and selected a series, Mark was smart enough to move away from the couch and put on an indifferent face. Though his cheeks were warm and he felt like a teenager who's been busted for jerking off under the covers. It's good that the back was high - after all, he was standing there, pulling on his jeans, so it was embarrassing to appear.
- Mark, what are you doing? There is no truth at the feet, - having finished, Chris turned around, - do you want us to move?
- Not. I don't want to, - Mark answered, finally taking his former position. - I've already sat through the day.
Everything was exactly the same as always - Chris, Dustin, and he and Wardo were watching a stupid movie. And these were already the details that their home theater cost as much as an airplane wing, and the income of all four was calculated in crazy numbers. It didn't change the essence of what was happening. Dustin's red head still lay comfortably on Chris's lap, and he and Wardo...
He was always like that, as long as Mark knew him - he could not help but return the caress. Maybe that's why it was so terrible and so definitive then, on a rainy night in 2004. But now, here, sitting in the smell of tomato paste with basil, flushed with wine, Wardo nevertheless answered him. Not explicitly, so that someone notices, no. But Mark knew him. And all this - the arched neck, dilated pupils, when Eduardo threw back his head, spoke more clearly than words.
On the screen, the girl Lilo chose a dog in the kennel, preferring to all others an alien infection, only pretending to be a harmless mongrel. In reality, he kissed Eduardo's forehead and cheeks, softly, stroking his neck as far as his buttoned collar allowed. He touched his tickling eyelashes with his lips. With a fingertip, a half-open mouth, parched from intoxicated grape juice.
The rain outside the window, roaring down the drainpipes, was just some kind of fatal background.
The first series ended so quickly that Mark was barely able to pull himself together and unstick himself from the back, to which he was already glued too literally. Wardo had had a silk pillow on her lap for a long time, and she, too, was hardly lucky. At least judging by the fact that he, with the scarlet tips of his ears, allowed himself to unbutton his collar and bite on the back of his neck.
- Well, I understand why it's about Mark? - Dustin raised his head, - poured out, huh?
"I-I agree," Eduardo said, doing his best to pretend that he was actually watching it.
Mark stood as if drunk, staggering slightly - he had never experienced such a powerful physical attraction to anyone in his life. Such that it completely demolishes all barriers, overturning "possible" and "impossible".
- Guys, move, tired of standing, - he said decisively, and Dustin, not really objecting, sat Chris on his lap.
Mark simply sat in the corner, squeezing himself between Wardo and the wide armrest, frozen in shock for half a minute as they touched, hips, shoulders, knees. Eduardo was staring at the floor and biting his lip, his shirt slightly damp as Mark touched the cloth-covered lower back.
"War-do," he called softly, leaning sideways against him and leaning his cheek against his hot cheek.
In response, he turned around and looked at Mark's breath. Huge, pleading eyes, clenching his bitten lower lip between his teeth.
- Went outside? Mark turned his face towards him. As if he had some rights to Eduardo and could touch him like that.
He only nodded, silently grabbing his hand, and stood up, dropping the pillow on the floor.
-E! Hey! Where are you in the rain? - Chris shouted after him, and Mark heard it in a muffled voice, - Well, you think, as they were, so they are crazy.
Passing the darkness of the corridor, Mark unlocked the lock on the entrance, which did not give in to Eduardo, and opened the door. They both went out onto the porch under the plastic awning, closing it behind them. Wardo stood by the wall with his frightened look, all red with caresses, with his fly pulled tight. And Mark, finally, was able to snuggle, completely all, pressing his back against the hard wood paneling of the wall. Wardo, half-closing his eyes, spread his legs wider, allowing his thigh to slip between them.
Mark lifted his head, meeting his lips halfway. And he choked, rubbing himself through the thin half-woolen fabric of his trousers, sweetly sweet. The fingers themselves fell into the dimple at the base of the back of the head, Wardo wrapped his arms around his neck and for some time they again became one whole, as then, before - until the boundaries were completely blurred.
- Are you sorry? - Mark asked with a lump in his throat, looking into his eyes and hugging him with both arms.
- No! What are you! - Eduardo shook his head, - What are you, Marcinho, - his hands gently stroked his head and Mark closed his eyes, squeezing even closer, although it was impossible to get closer.
- Do you have, - Mark said somewhere into his wet neck, - boyfriend... friend, boyfriend? A? He's asking you for it, right?
"Mark," Wardo looked at him like he was mentally handicapped.
- Well? - Mark rubbed his nose on his shoulder, - I can't ask anymore?!
His own voice sounded so hysterical that he immediately fell silent, swallowing, ashamed of his senseless and ridiculous jealousy. Who was Eduardo? Ex, with whom something was once in his youth?
- I understand, - he said in a fallen voice, - it's just ... an episode. It's just...
- Yes, Mark! - Eduardo suddenly shook him by the shoulders, - you hear, you had episodes! And maybe now there is too, I don't know, no one tells me! And I have ... pictures only. And then with a not very high resolution, and you don't upload your others to Facebook. My God. What do I carry.
- So you don't? - blinking, Mark stared at him, not fully understanding the meaning of what he hears. According to his ideas, Eduardo had to change hands all the time, like a sacred fire in Jerusalem.
- So I don't! Wardo teased him angrily, tugging at his hair to make it more expressive. "Guess why…"
He stared wide-eyed.
- So you... are you still? - Mark asked, touching his bare smooth back under the straightened shirt.
Eduardo just nodded, lowering his eyes.
- And I was sure that you were with someone ... - Mark began, squeezing his relaxed wrists.
Wardo just laughed, not resisting, allowing his nose to be poked into his favorite spot, where his collarbones protruded under the skin.
- Well, you said to wait if you can't be there, right? I even have Linux on my laptop, and do you know which ancient version? Oh-oo...
- So, let's go, - he took Wardo's hand, seriously fearing that the skin on his face would just burst to smile like that. - We'll give you an update. Debian just released a fresh distribution the day before yesterday.
- Gosh, they're back! Dustin announced, poking Chris, who was crouching next to him, in the side with his elbow.
"Yes, I kind of see it," Hughes glared at him, surveying their extremely dubious appearance but, thank God, keeping his valuable remarks to himself.
- What's the plan? - Dustin yawned, - I turned off this canoe about Stitch, we watched it two hundred million times.
"I'll update the Wardo distribution," Mark declared with an independent look, sitting on the floor and taking the bag with him literally in his arms, like a baby.
- And I'll see that they don't give me anything superfluous, - Wardo shrugged his shoulders. - Otherwise, just leave this sample alone with the laptop ...
He sat down on the couch behind him, squeezing Mark's sides with his knees. Mark stroked his leg, because he was still completely free to control the touchpad with his left hand. That is, in the literal sense of the word.
- I'll put you Squeeze, - he lifted his head, explaining, - this is the last update of Debian, in the sense of the operating system. And as a medium, Kurumin will go. I myself sit under it, this is ... mm, the local version.
Yes, I understand, Mark. Curumin - this is the indigenous population, Indians from the shores of the Amazon.
- Yeah. There is a logo - something like a fork of a tree and a man with a bow. Well, you'll see.
His fingers were already running over the keys - first, it was necessary to demolish the junk that Wardo had here, and only then it was the turn of the system, the environment, and resuming everything needed from the repositories. Eduardo watched the process patiently over his shoulder, occasionally making some personal choice. Well, like, he likes Gnome or KDE more. Although, the theme for the desktop suited the first one that came across - it was a Tux penguin on a dark background with matrix green numbers, wrapped in a Brazilian flag.
Dustin brought homemade sliced pizza on a tray, thin and fluffy, even better than the one Mark had once eaten at Pizza Hut. He still didn't consider it food, but he still couldn't resist trying it now, watching Wardo munching on his piece with pleasure. However, judging by the way his jacket dangled in the morning, he still adhered to the same diet, namely, lunch and that's it.
Thinking about all this, he was a little distracted from the laptop, rubbing his head against his leg. Enjoying the way Wardo runs his fingers through his hair and strokes back. Mark really missed it.
- Dustin, oh my! - Chris said loudly and indignantly, - stop shoving me already, I have ribs there, if you don't know! I understood everything - it was written on them with a spray can for graffiti.
- Wardo, what time is your plane by the way? - Dustin suddenly asked, wiping his hands on a piece of paper towel, and Mark froze, not bringing the piece to his mouth.
Well, yes, exactly. Airplane. Eduardo had to return to where his life, work, home were.
"Registration starts at noon," he answered reluctantly, sighing and straightening up on the couch, "so I'll probably get up, have breakfast and go there right away.
Mark felt - his hands gently touched his shoulders, stroking and, maybe, apologizing. He didn't move, his head bowed low. Mark was rightly served - for pride, for stupidity, for arrogance, for everything.
"Then... I'll drive you myself, okay?"
"All right," Eduardo said in a shaky voice. - If you want, then of course, come on.
He just scratched his cheek, wondering why every step they take always turns into a drama. After all, Chris and Dustin have always had a romantic comedy. The one where at the end the two smile at each other and hold hands.
In the end, Chris, with the moral support of Dustin, simply dispersed them with Mark around the rooms, like naughty children. It is quite reasonable to note that Eduardo will fly for a day, and before that it would be good to get a good night's sleep. Mark, looking frowningly, reluctantly obeyed. I mean, two meters away from him.
- Pus, don't you see, he's bluffing! Dustin wrinkled his nose in amusement.
- Mark, no tricks, - Chris narrowed his eyes, - no, what should I do, lock Wardo with a key?
- No, it's better to negotiate with him peacefully, - the redhead giggled, - otherwise he will climb up the ledge.
Mark's mouth twitched in a smile. But he immediately frowned, looking defiantly at Chris. They all knew from college that this approach wouldn't work with Zuckerberg.
- Wardo, tell him yourself. He will not listen to us, - Dustin crossed his arms over his chest, looking curiously from one to the other.
Mark immediately lifted his head, fixing him with unblinking eyes. He swallowed hard, realizing that he felt everything perfectly, even without words. I did not want to part at all - to the point of silent hysteria and the desire to cling to Mark with both hands.
- Well, we'll see you tomorrow, okay? I'm used to getting up early anyway, never longer than eight...
- Okay, - he nodded woodenly, - then see you tomorrow.
Turning sharply, he walked down the corridor, and Eduardo followed him with a dazed look until Mark turned onto the stairs.
"Wardo, well... whatever happens, good luck," Chris said awkwardly, looking sympathetically.
Eduardo closed his eyes and nodded. Knowing that they are really worried and want the best.
- I bet six two six before we all wake up? Dustin poked him in the shoulder.
- Yes, there's nothing to argue about, - Chris chuckled, - and so it's clear. - All right, Wardo, good night. We are going.
He did everything right - took a shower, changed clothes and climbed under the covers. In the darkness, only the bright rectangle of the window stood out, behind which the downpour was still noisy, without ceasing. Maybe it was the weather, but Eduardo fell asleep almost immediately. Having fallen into a dream, as in childhood, in Manaus, he fell from a tree - through all the tiers, into the damp litter of the selva.
After washing up and smoothing down the swirls sticking out of sleep with his hands, he, as he was, in trousers and a T-shirt, went down to the kitchen, following the smell of coffee. The rain stopped in the morning and the morning trembling radiance flooded everything - so I had to squint my eyes. The glazed doors of the wooden cabinets were dazzling with reflected light, and Eduardo covered his eyes with his hand.
How much sugar are you putting in your coffee now? - He heard the voice of Mark, shuddering in surprise.
He was standing by the coffee maker, leaning on the corner of the table with his hip.
- Three spoons per cup. Terrible, I know, yes.
- No. Not horror at all. Dustin drinks about five of himself. Listen, I made an omelette here, - Mark looked somewhere to the side, not at him, - no, I know that you don't eat in the morning. But maybe with me...?
- OK. Let's.
He stepped closer to look at the sun, which was tangled in small curls around his head in an iridescent halo. By breakfast, Mark came out in trousers and a bright blue shirt, rolled up to the elbows. His chin was no longer smooth, as it used to be, now framed in light, soft stubble. And that island above his upper lip...
Eduardo stood by, listening to the noise of the coffee maker, and stared, not even realizing that he was staring. Until Mark stepped closer, standing up a little, and kissed him on the lips. Quite innocently, immediately pulling back and looking searchingly from under his brows.
Eduardo could only swallow, confused and confused when he breathed in and when he breathed out. He spun awkwardly in place, resting his hands on the tabletop. But Mark, of course, got it right. Caught by the waist and pressed to him, pressed himself - somewhere with his nose in the back of his head.
Let's go eat, shall we? And then everything will cool down, - he said in an undertone directly into his ear, putting his hands under his armpits and squeezing him, half asleep and still hot from sleep. Touching his belly under his t-shirt and nuzzling his ear. Eduardo immediately swam, wanting him so much that his whole body ached. Biting her lips to keep from saying anything out loud.
- Let's go, - Mark pulled his hand, turning it to him, and kissed it again. In the chin.
He did not argue, sitting opposite Mark at a narrow table - they were separated by nothing at all. Eduardo even took a fork and a knife in his hands, with the movements of a somnambulist, cutting a magnificent, steaming omelette lying on a plate in front of him. But it was impossible to eat, because Mark touched the side with his knee and looked - very seriously, as if trying to solve it, like an algorithmic problem.
- What are you? he asked. - Too lazy to eat yourself? - when he smiled, bright eyes became quite radiant.
Eduardo nodded, and Eduardo pricked a piece on his fork, bringing it to his mouth. He took it carefully with his lips, feeling the blood hum in his ears. Perplexed - does Mark not see what is happening to him? It was not noticeable under the table, but even his legs were trembling.
Eduardo reached for his cup of coffee, taking a sip, feeling the familiar sweet bitterness. And took him by the wrist, wrapping it around the stiff cuff. It was impossible to say anything, and Eduardo only silently looked pleadingly, his mouth parted - his breath was no longer enough.
- You want it, right? - Mark asked in a shrunken whisper. And, going around the table, he fell on his knees in front of him, without asking any more, running his palms over his already shamelessly parted hips.
Eduardo just threw back his head, exhaling tremblingly and clinging to the bar of the chair behind him. He thought he was just going to die now, because Mark, without undressing, was kissing and biting him right through those pants. Tormenting - but in a way that he didn't want it to end at all. Mark caressed him so greedily that Eduardo was already wheezing, squeezing his shoulders with his knees when he finally took pity.
Mark didn't even do anything. Eduardo slid slippery into his mouth himself, unable to contain himself at all. And twitched between him and the back of the chair until Mark pressed his hips with outstretched fingers, preventing him from moving.
It was enough for Eduardo to look down at his moving head with curly, quivering curls. On bright lips, tightly covering the cock shiny with saliva. And he shuddered all over, frozen from the piercing sensation of shared intimacy, with both hands pressing Mark to him, by the neck. He only swallowed, silently - but he felt with his fingertips how his Adam's apple twitched.
And then Mark looked up, wild, cloudy with lust, and Eduardo pulled his hand up to help him off the floor. Putting his hand on his lower back and opening his mouth expectantly, there was simply nowhere to be clearer. But for some reason Mark hesitated, and then he himself unfastened the hook and zipper on his trousers, suddenly realizing that he wanted this to death. Because it has always been like this for them - if it's good, then together, if it's bad, then also to both.
Feeling his lips and mouth open was just fucking awesome. God, Eduardo had almost forgotten how to do it. But with Mark there could be no "wrong", never. Since yesterday they had been dragged towards each other so that it was impossible to resist.
He froze when Mark began to push harder and more often, allowing him everything, even pushing towards him, feeling the hard bone of the coccyx with his palm. Lost in sensations, and coming to his senses only when he realized that Mark was kissing him - on the forehead, on the cheeks, in his closed eyes.
"Wardo," he repeated hoarsely over and over again, stroking the back of his head, burying his fingers in his hair, "eu quero só você."
Eduardo just smiled helplessly. He did not know how everything would be when he flew here. But she and Mark could still speak, in either language, it didn't matter. The main thing was to start somewhere.
When he walked away a little, he went and got dressed and they even had a decent breakfast. The cold omelet with cold coffee was unrealistically delicious. Mark didn't let go of his hand, though they still couldn't talk properly.
"Listen," Mark finally said, sighing heavily, as if deciding on something, "I want to show you something. Just don't kill me, please, right away.
- Okay, - he shrugged, only grunting, and relaxed his hands behind his head.
Mark was gone for about ten minutes, returning with a laptop under his arm. Well, of course. Everything he wanted to show could always fit in a computer. They sat down next to him, and he loaded his Curumin - with exactly the same logo as he described yesterday, and then ... then Eduardo was simply speechless. Because in the folder with photographs that Mark opened, there were all, all of his pictures from recent years. Moreover, such careless ones, at home or on the street, he sent only ...
- Mark, where did you get them? Hacked my mail? - his own voice sounded so hysterical that for a moment he even felt ashamed.
- No.
- But then how? I just gave them to my mom.
- Exactly, - he looked askance, - if it weren't for her, I wouldn't know anything about you at all. You went to the bottom, completely.
Eduardo tried to breathe evenly, the way he needed to under stress. But nothing worked. So his own mother and Mark organized some kind of coalition behind his back?!
- And how long have you been talking, huh?
Yes, since you left. I climbed into Orkut to see her, - Mark was biting his knuckles, as he always did, when he was wildly nervous. "I don't know why she allowed it, Wardo. Ask her?
- No, what the hell is that? - he began indignantly, - I now have the feeling that all the closest people have betrayed me!
He wanted to say a lot more, but stopped short when he saw Mark freeze in half a breath. How he lowered his head and hunched his shoulders.
"Wardo, I shouldn't have." He no longer looked at him, speaking in a hollow voice. "I've ruined your life enough already." But don't be mad at her, okay?
"Stop it," Eduardo pleaded plaintively, because listening to all this was unbearable. - That's not what I meant to say.
- That's it, - Mark said dead, - but don't be angry with your mother. She's the only one for you.
"You're the only one with me," said Eduardo without thinking, grabbing him in his arms and impulsively pressing him to him.
- What do you mean? - trembling Mark, trying to move away.
"What do I mean," Eduardo repeated thoughtfully, not even really seeing what could be misunderstood. - What language would you like to speak?
- Nossa idioma, - he asked, and completely quieted down, looking expectantly.
- Eu te amo, Marcinho. - he breathed, stroking Mark under the jaw. Shaking with relief that he finally said it out loud.
- More.
- Minha alegria.
- Tell me more.
- Você é a melhor coisa que aconteceu na minha vida.
- Serio? He looked so trustingly, wide-eyed, that Eduardo could only nod.
- Will you give me your mail? Mark wrinkled his nose. Obviously, consent was of fundamental importance to him.
- Yeah. And skype.
- And will you send pictures so that I don't beg for them from your mother?
- Yeah, that's always the case with you. Give him a finger, he'll bite off the whole arm...
- No. As soon as you yourself allow it, - Mark did this strange thing with his face, which only he could do, at the same time frowning and smiling.
- Okay, write, - Eduardo finally gave up, and while he was standing at the sink, rinsing the dishes, he dictated to him all his appearances and passwords. - I'll let you know when I land.
- Yes. And then we...
- Let's see what we can do with all this, - Eduardo continued the obvious thought to both of them.
Mark just nodded quickly, beaming so frankly that it was clear that he didn't really count on anything at all.
- I don't know what you had for breakfast here, but I would like food! - yawning, said Dustin right from the threshold, bursting into the kitchen.
- Ugh! Chris responded immediately, pinching him on the side. - And if you want food, then make it first!
- Well, let's go, - he whined, - well, you know, I've been nothing since the morning. Well, build us coffee and toast, huh?
- Okay, - Hughes softened, - but so that I sit quietly here.
They didn't ask anything. But Eduardo was sure that this is generally a unique phenomenon of nature - for Mark Zuckerberg to lie like this with his head in your lap, his feet in socks dangling from the sofa. Hugging like a plush toy and sniffing evenly in the side. Comments, as they say, were unnecessary.
- Pus, can take a picture of them on the profile, then? - wiggled, offered Dustin, sitting opposite. For which Chris gave him an extremely unfriendly look. - No, well, what? Look, they lie beautifully, - he sighed.
- And take it off, - Eduardo said unexpectedly, - already quieter, for Mark, adding. - Let everyone know. Yes?
"Yes," he said very firmly. - Dustin, do you have a mobile with you at least? Or are you just wagging your tongue much?
- Yes, you guys. You offend, - he took out the creation of Jobs from his pants pocket. - Just a second... just a second... here, one more time to be sure. All.
"Give it here," Mark demanded, and Eduardo could also see how they looked together. It was such a bewitching picture that I wanted to look at it and look at it. Then Mark flipped to the next one, taken from a slightly different angle. They only silently looked at each other, because it was clear that this would be uploaded to Facebook in the very near future - to both. As the simplest kind of declaration, even before any statuses there.
He unlocked the door, smiling as soft lights flickered on in the hallway. The familiar and the familiar always brought balance. Eduardo lived in a hotel room - but so long ago that it was furnished to his taste. Quite fitting the definition of "home, sweet home". Taking off his shoes and leaving his travel bag in the hallway, he went into the living room. He stumbled into the corner of the couch, pulled out his laptop from the padded case, and plugged the plug into an outlet. Terribly worried and not knowing if they would be able to establish a connection with Mark again - like this, at a distance.
As soon as he went online, he froze with his hands raised above the keyboard. Mark was literally everywhere. There were about five emails in his inbox, and the red-lit number at the top of his Facebook page, when he clicked, also reflected his posts, comments, and likes. Lord, Mark wrote to him even in the jimail chat: "Oi! Como você está?"
Eduardo sat and smiled like a patient, suddenly remembering what Dustin said at parting: "Wardo, if you only knew how he is obsessed with everything connected with you. It's a scribe! Sometimes it seems to me that he lives in the city of Palu-autu . Somewhere in a parallel reality, damn it."
"Oi, Marcinho," he wrote back, wondering if the monster was already asleep. In Singapore it was six in the afternoon, and there, with him - Eduardo opened the tab with the clock - three nights.
Nossa!popped up in the window a second later, "Você está aqui. Como foi seu dia?
They talked for four hours in a row - and this despite all his attempts to move away from the monitor and send Zuckerberg to sleep. Nothing came of this idea - it was much more important for both of them to talk again than to go to bed, unpack luggage and do other useful things.
He didn't know when or how Mark had learned the language so well, but it felt terribly intimate. Not just as a conversation; it was the deepest, most basic level at which one person could know another. Origins, roots, childhood. And Mark himself, of his own free will, wished it, did it for him.
They only finished because Zuckerberg had to go to the office. Do not work in the sense that before - as he said, they started a hackathon on this day, like the "Developer Garage" in 2009. Eduardo from high-tech reviews knew that the most significant difference between Google and Facebook was in its spirit. If Google had an academic one (they had a lot of employees with scientific degrees working there), then Facebook has always been proud of its hacker culture. They had all the management had a technical education - even people like a marketer or financial director.
They said goodbye for probably twenty minutes. Moreover, Eduardo no longer even tried to fight himself, calling him all the affectionate words that he knew. It was a finita - he was already stuck with Mark anyway, in the global sense of the word. So it was possible to be frank, saying the same thing in every way and in all languages (especially since it was mutual for them).
There was no need to change the profile picture on Facebook - Mark had already done it for him a long time ago. He called Christie back at the airport, almost deaf from her squeals. All I had to do was tell my mom. True, Eduardo now had a strong suspicion that this would no longer be news to her.
They spoke every day, every day without exception, without breaking this connection. Eduardo was the first to know that Facebook would have a relationship status option for same-sex couples. Simply because this idea came to Mark right during a telephone conversation. He was aware of the opening of their first office in Latin America - for some reason it was in his hometown. However, if you think about it, it was even predictable - two years ago, Google, tired of redirecting local traffic to itself, opened its headquarters in Belo Horizonte.
Eduardo, making up for lost time, now experienced everything with Mark together - he was glad when the court refused to satisfy the repeated claim of the Winklevosses. I listened to his enthusiastic, confused retelling on the phone when Friendster finally died in May, deleting the accounts of all users and turning from a social network into a global playground.
About the April Fool's joke - polling the audience about whether to make their logo red, he learned the same day that this idea came to Mark's sister, Randy. And he and Zuckerberg were freaking out together, trying to predict user reactions. Reality surpassed all expectations - the righteous indignation of grown-up college students, accustomed to the blue-and-white logo over the years, knew no bounds. People did not understand such jokes, taking Facebook very seriously.
And of course, Eduardo willy-nilly followed their eternal confrontation with the Good Corporation. In early April, it was announced that Schmidt was stepping down because Page and Brin no longer needed adult uncle supervision. And they also promised to make a competing project, also a social network. Mark was seriously nervous, but he could be understood - the game between them and Google was on an equal footing. And those, of course, had to adequately respond to the growing outflow of audience in Brazil and India towards Facebook. As well as the fact that only last year Facebook lured a good hundred of their employees.
But it was all so wonderful - a new, already well-established way of life, where Mark was present quite really, and not just as memories. He let him know every day that he would never betray him again, would not trade him for anything, that he needed him just as Eduardo himself needed him. The conversation with my mother on the subject of why she did this to him was postponed and postponed until the need for it disappeared altogether. In the end, I had to admit - the mother was smarter and more far-sighted.
For long hours of conversations, everything was told to him - throwing, victories, offensive punctures and failures. All that was not covered in any way in official releases. They told each other about their feelings too - at first awkwardly, in fits and starts, then somehow already letting go of themselves and not being afraid to turn inside out. And, it seems, all painful topics have already been discussed - with deadly honesty on both sides. There was one last point.
Mark never tired of repeating how much he wanted to be with him - not like that, in a voice on the phone or from the computer speaker, in a fuzzy image on the video. But really - just like they had in Palo Alto on those unforgettable days together. However, he did not press, as he would have done before, no. Mark gave him time to think, decide what he wants. Therefore, when Eduardo finally decided to talk, he turned out to be extremely informative.
Zuckerberg once again talked about what Dustin did and how they went to the beach when he, completely out of place, wrote: "I can't live in California."
"Why?" - Mark immediately asked, and for five minutes he was just silent, waiting for his answer.
"Call me crazy, but I can't forgive this city, this state, for taking you away from me."
Eduardo was glad that now he was sitting at home, in almost complete darkness, alone. Because while writing this phrase, I had to blink away tears. After all, he refused him - what Mark silently asked for all this time. But only memory vilely threw back, to 2004. And Eduardo understood with eerie certainty that he had forever associated this place with a completely irreparable loss. And not at all with a pleasant climate and best friends.
"I understand ," came the answer from Mark eventually. " You didn't even come to my house. Wardo, tell me, but other options are being considered?
"Certainly", - he typed, wiping his wet cheeks and not getting his fingers on the keys. He knew, although it was not directly discussed, that Zuckerberg, with his dislike of everything Asian, was also unlikely to be able to live with him here in Singapore. Yes, Eduardo would not dare to ask about it now. The pause was so long that he already thought that that was all for today, when another phrase from Mark surfaced.
"I have one idea. I'll send you a song now.
He nodded, and half a minute later he saw a letter that fell into the mail. Opening it and clicking on the triangle on the panel of the audio file, Eduardo immediately rooted to the spot, because the voice of the capoeirista singer loudly output:
Eh, Sao Paulo!
São Paulo da garoa.
Eh, Sao Paulo!
São Paulo terra boa.
"Do you want to live with me there?" he wrote, afraid he had misunderstood. Fading from fear and happiness those few minutes that stared at the inscription "Mark Zuckerberg is typing a message."
"I don't know, Wardo, but why not? If only I can weather the climate. Would you like us to try?"
"How?" he asked, still not fully believing that they were seriously discussing this. It was "bom demais pra ser verdade". There must have been an equivalent in English for this expression, but Eduardo was now unable to remember it.
"We can go there. Like tourists. Let's start with Rio, for example, and see how it goes there. If you want, we'll take Chris and the redhead with us. They miss you too."
"Want. It's a dream."
"Mine too ," Mark replied immediately, "I just realized it just now."
"Why are we always upside down?"
"Now it will be better, Wardo. Meet me in Galeana, you'll see. I heard there is now a global reconstruction due to the championship. It will be interesting to see for yourself."
He could see his smile, a little nervous, and the way Mark twirled his own wrist. Eduardo already knew that he was not at all as morally strong as he seemed. And about the psychotherapist, his seizures and drug therapy. Mark told him everything himself, because it was enough just to ask. But Eduardo just blurted out so many things in the same way - half-forgotten, ashamed that they were quits. However, as always.
"It's true, it's already winter there ," Mark added after thinking.
"Doesn't matter ," he hurriedly filled, -"It's just that if it's less than 25 Celsius, it's a little chilly and you want to put on a sweater."
"The sweater is not a problem. Also, by the way, you will also need to get a yellow fever vaccination. I'm already in February. Okay, Wardo, I'm going to sleep, my eyes are sticking together horror.
"Let's see you tomorrow."
He closed the chat window, sitting at the flickering screen for a long time. With an already warm bottle of yogurt sandwiched between his knees, which he took out of the refrigerator, but did not drink. Eduardo allowed himself to think about it, to imagine what his life might be like in Sao Paulo. Where the water of Billings Lake smells of muddy bottle greens. Where high-rise buildings and power poles are shrouded in a veil of foggy drizzle. To live with him in this city, to call himself "paulista" again - it would be wonderful, like a dream. And Eduardo really hoped that it would come true.
Their flights did not connect in time, but the difference was small - a little more than two hours. Eduardo spent them on a bench in the arrivals hall, reading first, a stromodally paper book, not the Kindle, and then dozing, with the book slung over his knee. "The Time Traveler's Wife" he re-read for the umpteenth time. Partly feeling like this very wife, who always hopes for something incomprehensible, spending her whole life in anxious expectation.
And he was already almost completely asleep, despite the surrounding hubbub, when a text message jingled in his pocket.
"Where are you? I'm right by the coffee machine."
"Already going!"
Slipping the book into his shoulder bag, he picked up his suitcase and rolled it across the marble floor, walking quickly to the other end of the hall, where there were coffee machines and ATMs. Eduardo was terribly worried, because even now he was not sure of anything. She and Mark had not seen each other for almost four months. Garbage, of course - against the background of what happened before, but still it was a decent time.
Eduardo had seen him from afar, recognizing him by the bright pink, completely downshifter cap and wild curls escaping from under it. Mark looked around restlessly, a flattened paper cup of coffee in his hand. In the end, he turned it over and threw it in the trash, shoving his hands into his pockets and staring at the toes of his sandals.
Eduardo approached, slowing his pace, stopping very close. He slid the long handle into the suitcase and called softly. Mark raised his head but didn't move, as if he didn't realize it was him right away. But when he understood, he made some kind of half-strangled sound and threw himself on his neck.
Eduardo has almost lost the habit of public display of emotions - life in Singapore did not have. But now Mark, in front of everyone, was kissing on the lips, tightly clasping his waist, and he did not care. There were only the two of them - the heat of his body, pressed impossibly close, stroking his hands. Mark wasn't shy at all, caressing him so frankly that Eduardo let out a stifled groan. It was simply impossible - he pawed him right there, pressing his back against the plastic side of the sandwich machine, and Eduardo could not do anything about it. Only give in, kissing passionately with him and running both hands under a soft hoodie.
It is not clear how they just broke away from each other, but Eduardo was covered in perspiration, excited to hell, with nipples aching under his T-shirt.
- Well, what do you think, - Mark asked breathlessly, - I'm glad to see you?
On the eve of Eduardo's departure, probably for a day, his brain soared with his paranoia. Which now seemed eerily ridiculous, it was necessary to admit it.
- Wardo, we're twenty minutes from the hotel. And they're still living there. So let's take a break, - said Mark, kissing his sweaty neck.
"Well, I didn't start it first," he said indignantly.
- Listen, what kind of kindergarten - who started it first. There is no difference, - he smiled, for greater persuasiveness, putting his hot hand right on the small of his back.
"It's true," he agreed, acutely feeling how anxiously his body was aching, asking, demanding more of this.
- Let's go already. Well, Wardo? - he took the lapels of his jacket, pulling him to him and shaking. - There, when they give us a number - whatever you want.
Eduardo just swallowed with a dry throat, unable to comprehend that this was the same Mark with whom they chatted online for hours, somehow managing not to touch on erotic topics. Live, I was drawn to him with such irresistible force that "destiny", "sorte" and the rest of the associative array popped up in my head with tags.
It was the middle of the week, and there were not many people here - almost all of them were characteristically swarthy, with curly hair. Locals who just for some reason needed to go to Niteroi. All of them sat on benches inside, without going out on deck - only foreigners were interested in admiring the muddy waters of the bay.
- I can't understand what brought you to this ferry?
Squinting suspiciously, Mark looked from him to Chris, hilarious in his attempts to extract the whole truth. Eduardo didn't want to tell him. And he knew that Chris would not either - it was still their terrible and terrible secret. In addition, it is well aged - approximately like cognac with the XO label
- Tourist attraction, - he shrugged his shoulders, holding back laughter, - in all the guidebooks there are at least a couple of lines about it. Let the guys take a look.
- Wardo, who are you treating? Mark crossed his arms over his chest. - This is something interesting, but you don't tell me, you bastards, - he looked plaintively, just not moving his nose from curiosity. So much like his cartoon counterpart that Eduardo broke down and burst out laughing.
- Listen, what the fuck is this for you? Just an old story about Chris and me... our economic relationship." He rubbed the skin under his nose, glancing sideways at Mark.
He shook his head in annoyance and turned around, meeting only Dustin's puzzled gaze.
"I have no idea what they're talking about," he shrugged.
"Speak up," said Mark, poking him in the side with his fist. The tone was commanding, of course, but Eduardo knew it was really a request.
Chris, can you tell me? he looked slyly at Hughes, although no one's permission was required here.
- Yes, of course, - he nodded, tying the sleeves of a white jumper on his stomach with a knot.
- When Chris and I first met, - he said, absently stroking Markov's shoulder, - I said that I had not yet decided on preferences. And this is how this ferry, while still floating from one coast to another.
- Yes, you did not swim anywhere, - Mark narrowed his eyes skeptically. Yes, I drifted a little.
- Details, - Eduardo clicked his tongue, unable to help smiling - of course, he, like no one else, knew everything about his experiments. After all, he himself told him about his D'Angelo, although no one asked.
- What's next?
- A couple of days later, Chris introduced me to you. Well, that's all - I realized that I had butted in. When I left you, at night, I wrote to him that my ferry had landed on the shore.
- This is all? - Mark pulled him by the waist to him, looking into his eyes.
- No. In those days, a one-way ticket cost two reales. So I gave them to Chris, remember? As a thank you, he leaned over and kissed Mark on the temple.
"So that's what it was," he widened his eyes. - Now it's already four.
- You see, I managed in time, - it was not in vain that he did not want to speak, it was all somehow too much. So that Eduardo could not even look at Mark.
- Well, so, - Dustin intervened, - over time, you value the usual things twice as much.
"Golden words," Chris sighed, glancing at them and looking away.
Mark didn't comment, only swallowing hard and running his hands over his back. By saying this so much that it would not fit into even the most lengthy monologue.
- Pus, come to me, - Dustin called, standing at the very side, - let's look at the water. She, I suppose, because of the channel of this color, right?
Chris answered him something, but Eduardo did not listen especially - he was not up to it.
- Well, how do you like the climate? - he asked, looking at Mark expectantly, - is it good?
- Honestly? When I went outside for the first time, I had the feeling that my heart was working with a double load. Humidity here is immeasurable. Back in that year, I went, well, to open an office - then it was still not so ...
He froze, trying very hard not to reveal his panic. Blinking wide-eyed - as my mother taught me when I was a child, so that tears would not appear. This was to be expected...
- Wardo, what are you doing! Mark grabbed his hand. - It wasn't a no! I agree, I agree!
- Yes, we already know that you agree to everything, six two six. But why shout like that? Dustin teased. All right, we'll go inside, sort it out here ...
She and Chris went inside, probably tired of this endless series without interruptions even for a commercial break.
- Are you serious? Eduardo asked, hiccupping with excitement. - And we'll just take it and move? Do you remember how many people didn't get off the topic of orientation? Now they will also cling, they will say that they are fed up and retired.
- It's you like me ... trying to dissuade, or what? Zuckerberg said in amazement.
He just covered his face with his hand, not knowing what to say or do now. How not to frighten away the desire to move to another continent, to another hemisphere - and all for his sake.
- By the way, about those who have retired. Do you know that Bill Gates has been coming to Manaus for many years to rest? Somehow they crossed paths at a charity evening, so he gathered a circle of interested people around him and broadcast - about the confluence of rivers, the Amazon forest, and so on. No, the dude is a real real fan of these places. True, a couple of years ago it didn't work out well - the crew of the ship turned out to be completely illegal immigrants, and they deported him. But what do you think - after all, he came again a year later.
- Oh, so this is, in some way, fashion? Eduardo chuckled. - But you're not on a tour, you want to live here.
- I want, - Mark confirmed with a nod, - and what the hell is stopping me. I know everything about this city - well, you remember, Bruna. And then, in São Paulo, half of all Brazilian Jews.
- Doa, this is, of course, the most important circumstance, - Eduardo snorted, - noticing that they were already swimming towards the shore - the pier and lush thickets of guava could be seen more and more clearly. The water's edge was decorated with a pattern of soft purple inflorescences of floating hyacinth.
"Okay, you're right," Mark rolled his eyes. "The only reason, Wardo, is you. Satisfied now?
"Very," he admitted honestly. "Would it be very selfish if I asked you to take care of everything before September?"
- Just right, - Mark tried to keep his face, but the smile made its way, like the sun through a screen of clouds.
- You're planning a bunch of things there again, aren't you?
- Well, yes. By the way, Randy will leave me soon. She will have her own firm, RtoZ. Family modesty, you know. The Google idea with circles will have to be somehow implemented on our platform, again, - Mark stroked his sharp chin, - And also video conferencing and a music service ...
- I see. Are you going to come back home? I'm definitely not in the habit of sleeping in the office.
- Of course, - he promised, and Eduardo already knew that these were not empty words. The current Mark Zuckerberg didn't say anything he couldn't vouch for. Life taught them both something.
- Well, come on, - he twirled the curly strand between his fingers, - just don't change your mind.
- No way, - Mark shook his head, and, grabbing him by the shoulders and hugging him, - I already let you go once. I won't be such an idiot anymore.
(See the end of the chapter for notes .)
chapter textThey chatted on Skype as usual. The last five months - since the time of his exodus from California with Wardo, as Moskowitz called it, it was the only way to communicate.
- You know what? I think you belong there, honestly, - Chris wrinkled his nose, obviously holding back laughter. - Not because I'm glad to be away from you, although that too.
- Well, come on already ... cut, - Mark grimaced.
- Yes, you have such relationships in life, you know? Latin American passions all the time. Dustin, tell me?
- How is Wardo in the last status? "Eu não posso viver um unico dia sem você. Você é como a água pra mim," the redhead recited over his shoulder with an expression, "No, you're figuring out, would I like that?
- No, - Chris shook his head, - not in life.
- Wonderful. No private life with you," Mark snorted, rubbing his cheek to keep his crocodile smile at bay. Yes, by the way - and so that the pictures are flooded later. And then other people's statuses do not give rest.
- Mark, phone - Hughes immediately disappeared from view, so that he could only contemplate the back of his chair.
- That's it, six two six. There's a taxi behind us already, - Dustin said, listening. - Photos? No problem. Well everyone, hello privacy.
Closing the skype window, Mark leaned back in his chair, biting his knuckle - he wanted to smile all the time. It even had a name, rustling like sand under the soles of sandals. Felicidade. Maybe he should have added an item like Wardo's to his list of interests.
Flicking his browser open, he stared back at his Facebook page splash screen, a hefty resolution image, in keeping with their new concept. Timeline, the latest innovation in design, made it possible to see a person's entire life at a glance. All important milestones, ups and downs. They were just now about to introduce it everywhere, starting with New Zealand.
In the cutscene, Mark, with tousled hair, was staring straight into the lens. The background was a sea of tropical vegetation - from the height of the Anchieta-Immigranches road leading from São Paulo to the very shore of the ocean, everything was seen that way.
From the height of past years, everything that was before also looked very good.
- Remember, I once said that maybe our names will be in the wiki? Eduardo asked recently, sitting down on the sofa next to him.
- Naturally, I remember. Well, yes, in any article about you there is always me, - he nodded and immediately typed in Google - just to make sure. - Well, look - almost nowhere they lied.
The page displayed the well-known: "Eduardo Saverin (São Paulo, 19 de março de 1982). É um dos co-fundadores do Facebook, juntamente com Mark Zuckerberg e outros." And there was nothing new in this information, but they still stared at the glare screen for about five minutes. And Wardo looked at him in such a way that no statuses, in fact, were required. Because when they kiss you and smile right on the lips, then you have it. What everyone needs is like water.
Eduardo called for him in the evening, as soon as he finished his business. For the head of an investment firm, he still looked unacceptably young, especially in all those fitted suits.
In the Brazilian office, Mark worked for the most part with completely different people. And then no one could remember the case when the boss stayed up late in his office. Because it was enough for him to hear the familiar melody of the call - and Mark was blown up from his place, entrusting the work of his life to others, no less competent than himself.
Brazilian meat restaurants like this one were called "shuraskaria". From "shurasko", a local variety of barbecue. During this time, Mark had already gotten used to it, and therefore he and Wardo often went here. The fee was required only for the entrance (no more than thirty reais from the nose), and they fed here as if for slaughter, frying pieces of meat of all kinds for customers on a baking sheet with coarse salt. The secret was in a special "taste explosion" when salt crystals fell on the tongue. It was impossible to convey the feeling in words, but those who tried it would certainly come again.
While you were able to eat, you had a green sign on the table that said "sim, por favor". When, figuratively speaking, the space on the z disk ran out, it had to be turned over - on the red side there was a request for mercy.
The meat was terribly delicious, but neither Mark nor Eduardo ate as much as the locals. The figure from the constant eating of shurrasco became characteristically dense and stocky - so that the regulars of such establishments could be recognized immediately.
Now Wardo generally lived in his smartphone, from time to time snorting with laughter and rubbing his nose.
- Well, what did you find so interesting there? - he grabbed his hand, - share it already.
- Mark, don't you know the "urban dictionary"? Well, something like a global resource with open access, like a wiki. I typed the word facebook here - so much garbage fell out.
- Let's say it out loud then, or something, - he said, clasping his fingers with him in the castle.
- A role-playing game for socially ill-adapted losers who pretend they have a life too. The goal is to collect as many "friends" as possible. More?
"Read," Mark nodded.
- A place to show your friends how much better your life is than theirs. A place where you add as friends people from the past with whom you have nothing to talk about. A place where you can admire how fat and scary your buddies have become.
He drummed his fingers on the table, interrupting,
"I won't deny it." But you understand: these definitions speak more about their author than about our resource. More?
- An analogue of a prison on the net - you are wasting your time and writing on the walls. Website to distract college students from their studies. Mark, is that enough? When I read to you, for some reason it's not funny anymore ...
"At least something new," he grunted, nodding to the waiter, who was removing a piece of steaming lamb from the ramrod for him. - If everything was so bad, then people in this country would not have created accounts on Facey without exception, abandoning Orkut ... Wardo, can I ask you a question?
- Of course, come on, - he squinted, moving away from himself a plate with blood oozing meat and leaning towards him - the people around were laughing and clamoring so that it was not very audible.
- And what is Facebook for you personally? I have long wanted to ask.
He sighed, dropping his eyes. And then he smiled completely disarmingly, unfolding a napkin with appliances.
- This is what we did together, Mark. What quarreled us and what helped to start talking again. A very important thing in my life, in fact, well ... the most successful social network that exists. Now I'm proud to be associated with it.
He lowered his head very low, only nodding - he needed to somehow cope with himself. Mark knew that this was all true - in the last couple of months, Eduardo voluntarily posted exclusively questions to the public on the topic of their innovations. Well, not counting the private records in which he addressed him. But for some reason, his "we did together" made his throat tickle, and Mark again thought that his monstrous guilt could never be forgiven and justified.
- Amor, - said Eduardo, almost indistinguishable in hubbub and laughter, and raised his hand to his lips, - não se atormente.
He looked up, not knowing what he had done to deserve all this, silently swallowing and looking into his eyes.
- Let's have dinner, okay? Wardo asked. Exactly the same intonation that persuaded him to at least eat a sandwich in college.
"Come on," Mark sniffled. - Oh ... wait, - he took out a mobile phone from his shirt pocket, looking with slight amazement at the avatar with the face of Sean, who decided to call right now.
"Zuckerberg," he began without any preamble, "when are you going to invite me over?" I'm bored, maybe! Also, how long does the honeymoon last?
- Do not think, I saw that you are now engaged, - Mark could not help but smile, - the last sip of freedom, you have to understand? Alexandra took you into circulation?
- Alas, alas. so what? What's the problem, is he against it?
"I think so," he suggested, glancing quickly at Eduardo as he cut open his locket.
- Well, did you try to ask? - Sean was indignant, - to be honest, I don't mind seeing your Wardo at all. Curious to the horror what he is now.
- Okay, wait a minute - he put the phone on the table, gathering his courage. If only these two could communicate, he would want nothing more from this life.
"Wardo," he said, biting his lip, "this is where Sean wants to... pay a visit." No, I understand everything, just express your opinion, okay? Yes or no.
He smiled nervously, clearly taken aback.
- Well, what if so? Do you think it's worth a try? - he asked uncertainly, and Mark no longer doubted, picking up the phone and answering: "Come."
- And what, Saverin do not mind? - Parker asked in shock, - I mean, can I really take it and come to you at any moment?
He looked at Wardo, who pursed his lips and nodded in confirmation.
"Well, if you're not afraid to meet face to face," he laughed, knowing full well what effect this would have on Sean.
- I? Yes, I will be happy! he immediately declared. - I hate it when relationships are like this... underexplained.
"It always seemed to me that everything is clear between you," Mark shrugged.
- But no, Marky, but no, - somehow predatory Sean said on the other end. - If it was, Wardo would send you to hell with such ideas. And he - look, he did not refuse.
Don't even think about it, got it?
- Okay, okay, well, what did I say? - immediately handed over back. - By the way, what the hell is going on with the students there? The second day in the news show.
Sean, of course, knew that very well. After the introduction of a police patrol on the territory of the University of Sao Paulo, students staged a protest. Previously, you could buy any dope right there, but now it has become necessary to run to the favela. These flirtation with the law did not last long - in the end, the boys were dispersed, very carefully, with almost no bruising.
The "news" itself was simply ridiculous. But for Parker, with his desire to legalize weed at least in California, this turned out to be salt in the wound, and Mark had to listen to his laments once again. However, this did not last long - losing patience, Mark hung up, right in the middle of Sean's monologue. After all, how many times he asked not to get his drugs.
"You promised to have a decent lunch," Eduardo said implacably, moving the plate of meat closer to him. - And then I can guess. Oh, let's get a slice for each of his calls to the police, huh?
- No, no, - Mark answered, already with his mouth full, - I don't sew.
In itself, the idea of Parker coming was great. No embarrassment for you - they could chat for hours, interrupting each other, endlessly fucking up, and no one got tired of it. Mark could be happy. But he still perfectly remembered all the confused revelations of Wardo - in a whisper, with narrowed eyes. About how he wanted Parker then, in their first meeting in Palo Alto. Now they had no secrets at all. But when the two looked into each other's eyes, it seemed to Mark that it would be better if he didn't know. It would be possible not to die every time inside, while at the same time depicting lazy calmness with all his might.
Sean now treated Wardo as if he were the wife of a business partner and behaved accordingly.
It was all so ridiculous - if you remember how Parker came out with poison every time someone mentioned Eduardo before. But only earlier Alexandra Lenas was not next to him, a reddish-golden miracle, flowing like mercury. He had only Mark and their strange relationship of mutual dependency. And Sean defended his right to it as best he could - now it was all too obvious.
They lay on a spread out blanket under an awning, because it was so hot in São Paulo in January that they wanted to take off their skin. A groovy samba wafted from a cafe nearby. The wave rolled noisily on the shore, only to recede soon, exposing the wet gleaming sand. Bare feet sank into it, champing and leaving smudged prints.
"Oh, tell him about Randy and the percentages," Sean, lying in the middle, pushed him with his elbow to the side.
- What are the percentages? Is there anything else I don't know about her? - Wardo was surprised, immediately clinging to a short cocktail tube.
- You want me to tell you? - readily offered Sean, - otherwise he was already tired, probably.
- No, - Mark sat down, tucking his legs under him. - Well, it was like that. I was twenty-one years old when my own sister came to apply for a job. She had an option in New York, but her mother said - go to Mark. She, don't be a fool, obeyed.
"Yeah," Eduardo nodded, raising his eyebrows slightly. - And what are you?
- I wrote her salary and percentage of shares on a sticky note. Randy crossed out the percentage and added x2 to the second number.
What do you think about Mark? Parker interjected, leaning his bare shoulder against Wardo and, it seems... burying his nose in his hair at the temple. Or not?
He couldn't breathe. It was even worse than choking on a fishbone—there was no air going in or out. Mark just blinked at their heads next to each other, dark and light. Now he understood exactly how Wardo felt then, that first summer in California. Why were there these endless reproaches and suspicions, although he said a hundred times that he and Sean did not ...
- I think so, insisted on his own, - Wardo looked up and smiled. - He must have said something along the lines of "I know what's best for you." Am I right?
For a minute everyone was silent - Mark because he could not utter a word from the monstrous influx of gratitude. And Sean, because that's exactly what happened. He didn't even have to tell the end of the story. Biting his lips thoughtfully, he stood up and brushed off the sand that had stuck to him.
- So, everything is clear with you. I'm going to go get some cocktails. Take something?
- No, I guess - said Eduardo, - thanks, Sean.
"You're always welcome," Parker replied, not denying himself the pleasure of looking down at Wardo lying down. As far as Mark could tell, surveying ... the views that opened up.
Before Sean arrived, he was clearly told not to let go. And he honestly did not dissolve, yes. But he looked at Wardo with such eyes and spoke to him in such a way that Mark, instead of blood, seemed to have only bile.
He just didn't talk to Parker for too long and forgot that he was always right in his predictions.
A long-standing, vague and half-forgotten attraction demanded satisfaction, resolution - like an unfinished scale. And Mark, he didn't look at Sean like that., never, but now as if I saw from the side. All those muscles rolling under the skin. Fucking blue eyes, a gleam of teeth on a tanned face. He, who had never understood Eduardo's painful fits of jealousy, now fully felt what it was like. Shuddering at the thought: "What if he didn't forgive? What if now he wants to poke into the vulnerable pulp, into the most unprotected place?
But Mark didn't need to consult Erin to realize that it wasn't about Eduardo or Sean. This is him, he still could not forgive himself, and it is unlikely that he will ever be able to. As he warned him then, in a dusty and stuffy August 2004, Dustin, then quite an awkward kid with whirlwinds in all directions.
- Well, you probably know this one too, - Sean opened one eye and still told another joke. - Facebook: what do you think? Twitter: what are you doing? Orkut: where is everyone?
"Oh no," Eduardo said, covering his eyes with his hand. - Personally, I have already met her in three languages.
- Hmm? - he was offended, - well then, can you tell me something that I have not heard yet?
- All right, - Wardo smiled, - so be it. Let me think a little.
It was the evening before Parker's flight back to Estados Unidos. Mark was sitting on the couch with Eduardo's head in his lap, and Sean was reclining on a lush lambskin at their feet.
"Tell him about coca with fanta," he leaned over and whispered into Wardo's ear, barely keeping from kissing his neck.
- Oh, yes. Sean, here we have fanta symbolically representing women. Well, probably because the word laranja, orange, is feminine. So, about people like you, in Brazil they say: "It seems to me that this cola is actually fanta."
Parker shuddered—as far as Mark could remember, they had never directly discussed the matter. And here on you - like this, on the forehead.
"Aptly noted, Saverin," he nodded, smiling wryly. - But I'm going to lead the life of cola.
"I know," Eduardo nodded. - You and Sandra are getting married in March. I'm subscribed to you, remember?
- A? Yes, I forgot, - somehow defocused looking, answered Sean. - Eduardo...
- Mmm? What?
- Can I make amends somehow?
- Guilt? He frowned incomprehensibly. But I have no complaints against you. Not anymore.
"That's not what he's talking about, Wardo," Mark said, stroking his cheek with his knuckles. Not fully believing that all this is happening with him, with him.
- Exactly, not about that. I... underestimated your potential. Made you feel bad. Can I do it right now? - Parker was delicate, like a bulldozer leveling the land for development.
- What are you talking about? - Eduardo asked again, but Mark immediately understood - from his breath, from the way he fidgeted on the sofa, that this was not even a question. That he only thinks about how to agree, not too obviously agreeing. Mark glanced down to see that Sean was grabbing his ankle, stroking his bare skin, just enough to give Wardo a dark blush on his cheekbones.
- So, okay... I'm leaving, - he got up, carefully pushing Eduardo's head off himself and laying him on the sofa.
- No, Mark! Please do not! - he clutched at the T-shirt with both hands, hugging and not letting go anywhere, looking frightened from the bottom up.
"I can't stand it when someone touches you," he said through clenched teeth. Parker, put your hands behind your back.
Inside, everything was bubbling, and Mark probably did not look very sane. Kneeling Sean instantly pressed his elbows to his sides, doing as he ordered.
Wardo, sitting up straight on the sofa, with difficulty unbuttoned the stretched fly of his light-coloured shorts, pulling Sean to his neck with a sob. Mark looked wide-eyed, for the first time, probably, seeing this from the side. To be so wildly, loosely - like an emotional tornado, sucking into a funnel. Not letting go until it's over.
Eduardo was saying something with only his lips. Mark, in general, did not even want to listen. Fingers in Sean's hair, he fucked him in the mouth with a twisted face - until he froze, swallowing, with shiny streaks from sweat in the neckline of his T-shirt. Parker, hands clasped behind his back, slid down, breathing noisily, his forehead poking into his thigh.
Mark got up. He swayed from side to side, his throat was dry, his head was turbid. He went to the bathroom, turned on the cold water faucet and put his head under the stream. Instantly covered with goosebumps of chills from icy streams flowing down the collar.
When, after drying his head with a hair dryer, he returned to the room, there was only Eduardo. At the same place.
Sean is packing. Mark...
- What? - he came very close, very close - so that their knees touched.
- It ended here and now.
- Okay, - his sense of humor suddenly cut through, - you know, I'm not one of the jealous ones.
"Uh-huh," Eduardo snorted, wrapping his arms around his hips and pulling him towards him, "I know. Stay with me, huh?
A little later, Parker flashed through the doorway, immediately recoiling when he saw him.
"Come here," Mark sighed. Don't worry, I won't bite your head off.
- Are you sure you won't? - Squinting gloomily, Sean went around them around the perimeter, - otherwise I just overdid it ... seriously.
"Well, only if Facebook needs it," Eduardo corrected, and they neighed, loudly, to the point of tears welling up in their eyes.
They still had so much to tell each other. And a month after Sean's departure, Mark, perhaps, was grateful to him for completing the gestalt. Wardo was now more of him than ever. Open, wide open - to the point of pain. But Mark wouldn't want to change anything.
Parker promised to come in April - already with his wife. Nothing has changed here - she and Sean were still interesting to each other. Wardo, in fact, also accepted him - without pressure and persuasion. Simply because enough time has passed, and all spiritual wounds have tightened up so that there is no trace left. Those few people who were important - Christy and Erica, Bruna and Raquel, Chris and Dustin were not out of sight. And in order to stay in touch, there were many ways - not necessarily his website.
They trudged along the water's edge, watching the crimson sun sink into the Guarulhos reservoir. Yellow-green "tourist" flip-flops, bought somewhere for the occasion, bogged down in the fine sand.
- Do you know why we moved from here to Miami? Eduardo suddenly asked. - The father's business partner did not share spheres of influence with him. He said that if he did not give in, he would steal me and give me up to the Guarani Indians. That I will forget his very name and will need all my life.
- Well, what's next?
- Father did not believe, but he assigned two to me, to follow. Two weeks later, they tried to kidnap me on the way from school. I hiccupped with tears when I realized that this was all for real. That evening I stood and eavesdropped on the conversation of my parents behind closed doors. He said: "Raquel, we will sell the house, hacienda and horses. Ditu is dearer to me than anything in the world.
- Damn it. I never would have thought, - Mark bit his lip. - I thought he only torments you with all these requirements and quality standards. You always wanted to please him so much. And just like that, he reshaped his whole life for you.
"You and him... have a lot in common," Eduardo swallowed and looked away.
Mark said nothing, but even his ears turned brown.
- I then spoke my native language and also knew how to speak Spanish, quite smartly. I read somewhere later that in the 90s in Miami there were only twelve percent of the white non-Hispanic population. Feels like it's true. I remember the first time I went out into the street and realized that it was not scary here, that everyone spoke clearly. Mom also got used to it very quickly.
- I know. You moved in '91, right? In 1994, Clinton said "basta" to the guys from Cuba, otherwise they would all speak Spanish only one hundred percent ... Listen, and that house of yours - whose is it now?
- I have no idea, Mark. I could not even imagine that I would live on this continent again.
- You just thought you'd live with me. Yes? Somewhere.
"Yes," Eduardo admitted. - I hoped, at least. Didn't want to buy any property because of this. Uh... why did you buy your house in Palo Alto?
I thought about calling you there. An idiotic idea, of course.
They wandered up the embankment, passing garlands of lights glowing in the darkness. Bundles of tiny light bulbs cascaded down from the rooftops, coiled around the trunks of palm trees. The owners of cafes and restaurants so attracted tourists, because of which Sao Paulo looked like a huge cluster of fireflies from a height.
- Would you like to live there again? he asked Eduardo. - Do you remember this photo, where you are eight years old? Sitting at your desk with volumes of O mundo da criança piled up next to you?
- I would, of course. I loved this encyclopedia very much, I read everything from cover to cover. When we were leaving, I had to leave - my mother said that now I will have books only in English, and that I will have to speak it all my life. It was very weird for me, I remember.
- Yours is prettier. But I'm completely biased, so don't listen to me.
Mark could have said, "I love your language and you." But the redundancy of the code has never been characteristic of him.
- I understand, I'm not listening, - Eduardo answered, and put his arm around his shoulders. Because he knew how to read it (together with all the diacritical marks), as no one else could.
Portuguese words and expressions (in order of occurrence in the text):
Barca da cantareira - literally "singing barge".
Marcinho is a pet name of Marcos.
Que merda - that's shit.
Quinto is the fifth part.
Auriverde - green and gold (the common name for the Brazilian flag).
Meu bem is my good one.
Papai is the father.
Namorado - guy in the sense of "boyfriend".
Nada - nothing.
Minha Musica is my music.
Estou com saudades dele - I miss him.
Tudo bem? - How are you?
Eduardo, eu quero me aproximar de você novamente - Eduardo, I would like to be closer to you again.
Você é uma mulher bonita - you are a beautiful woman.
Bem, concordo em tentar - okay, I agree to try.
Ele é alto, Brasileiro, tem cabelos castanhos e olhos da cor de mel - He is a tall Brazilian with dark hair and honey colored eyes.
Eu estou tão feliz de te ver novamente - I am so happy to see you again.
Eu tambem estou - me too.
POR FAVOR - please.
Eu quero só você - I only want you.
Nossa idioma - in our language.
Eu te amo - I love you.
Minha alegria is my joy.
Você é a melhor coisa que aconteceu na minha vida - you are the best thing that happened to me in my life.
Serio? - Truth?
Oi! Como você está? - Hello! How are you?
Nossa! Você está aqui. Como foi seu dia? - God! Are you here. How was the day?
Eh, Sao Paulo!
São Paulo da garoa.
Eh, Sao Paulo!
São Paulo terra boa - Sao Paulo, foggy Sao Paulo. Sao Paulo, glorious land.
Bom demais pra ser verdade is too good to be true.
Eu não posso viver um unico dia sem você. Você é como a água pra mim - I cannot live a single day without you. You are like water to me.
Felicidade - happiness.
Eduardo Saverin (São Paulo, 19 de março de 1982). É um dos co-fundadores do Facebook, juntamente com Mark Zuckerberg e outros.
Eduardo Saverin (Sao Paulo, March 19, 1982). One of the co-founders of Facebook, along with Mark Zuckerberg and others.
Sim, por favor - yes, please.
Amor, não se atormente - my love, do not torture yourself.
O mundo da criança - The world of a child.