Rei eventually got what he wanted — Mark was in the car. It was fairly easy — pure mechanics: he simply blocked his son's way out and cut off access to the Swallow. Though it cost him a dozen nerves and a gas. But controlling the uncontrollable had always been Rei's favorite pastime. Yes, he never admitted it.
— What are you doing here? — Mark grumbled and dropped onto the back seat with deliberate defiance — at least this way, he could keep things under watch.
— You have an interview at eleven, — Rei said irritably, waving his cigarette-stained hand.
The entire car reeked of eight milligrams of damned nicotine per cubic meter of air. But the man didn't seem to care. It was as if he had become part of the smoke himself — and wanted to wrap Mark in it so that his son would clearly feel his choking dominance.
The younger Evans coughed, squinting reflexively, and quickly rolled down the window. As if the air he'd once traded for cigarettes had suddenly turned into his only salvation.
This incorrigible smoker had inherited nothing from his father but bad habits — yet he couldn't stand his father's cigarettes to the point of convulsions. They were so bitter and cloying that Mark felt sick just from the smell alone.
The entire car interior reeked of them — the air freshener simply couldn't keep up with Rei's doses. The elder Evans hated opening the window — he did it rarely, and only while smoking. Occasionally. As if he was perfectly content with that suffocating stench.
Mark was certain his father bought those cigarettes purely for the price and the name. Imperative — commander, order, demand. Perfect for the ego.
Mark couldn't even conceive of any other reason to like that crap.
— Old man, it's about one o'clock, — Mark sprawled in the seat, inhaling the fresh air deeply.
— Exactly, — Rei turned, jabbing a finger at his son. —Which is why we're getting you dressed like a decent human being — and heading straight there, — he slammed the pedal, and the car shot forward as if no other vehicles existed on the highway.
— This makes no sense! — Mark leaned toward his father's seat, fists clenched, as if trying to knock some sense into him.
— Oh no, there's always a purpose! Do you have any idea what it took me to get this position? — Rei shot back, as if it really had cost him something.
— I didn't ask for this, — Mark scoffed, rolling his eyes. His father's constant meddling drove him insane.
— As if you'd ever ask for something like that, — Rei chuckled, coughing and almost choking on his own smoke.
— Of course, you get a kick out of making my life difficult, — Mark drawled, crossing his arms and turning away, though he still eyed his father sideways.
— No gratitude! — Ray barked, but it wasn't despair, more a long-established pattern.
— I didn't ask for it! Hear me! — Mark planted his hands on his father's seat, shoulders tight, as if his body could wrestle back even a shred of control.
— I care about you, idiot! — Rei snapped, whipping around and locking eyes with Mark. He jabbed a finger at his chest. — I'm your father!
— All you care about is your money! — Mark rubbed his fingers together, imitating the rustling of banknotes. "You do what's profitable for you. You are Colligopecunia, — he said, slightly offended, his heart beating wildly. He didn't want to believe what he said. But he did.
— Quaere feminam, Mark, clavis omnium, — Rei sighed, on the verge of despair. — Maybe life will fix your brains a bit, — he tried to flick the cigarette into the ashtray, missed, bent it, and tossed it at the closed window.
Mark froze, watching — his heart shrank from a mix of horror and amazement. His father's antics didn't surprise him much, though they still stunned him. A man who didn't respect even his own car — why would Rei respect people?
— I'll go like this, — Mark said sharply, straightening the collar of his robe.
— In a robe? You want to cause me problems? — Rei snapped, drumming his finger on the panel beside the wheel.
— You created it yourself... — Mark whispered and added with a barely noticeable smile, as if the devil was playing through his words. — On that hot night, ha-ha...
— You look smarter with your mouth closed. Keep that in mind at your interview, — Rei said, keeping his cool. He'd long grown used to his son's provocations, and his only task now was to knock some sense into him.
Finally, they reached their destination. Rei, out of breath, managed to dress his son in something decent, though the process had dragged on for over an hour. The consultant was ready to quit that very day.
His stiff facial muscles and that forced smile practically screamed: 'Get out of here already'.
He resembled an old man watching a forest burn, muttering: 'Well, it's burning, so let it burn'. Mark thoroughly shredded the poor guy's nerves — Rei, for reference, he had rattled it even before that. First, he launched into a lecture for the salesman about the origins of the suits, declaring that he was "far from a respectable man" who ought to wear them. Respectable — meaning not a trader of souls for money, like his father. Mark made that point painfully clear. Twice.
First, he said it pompously:
— Mercator animarum, indignus nummis.
Then he repeated it more humanly — more directly. In other words, completely bluntly:
— I don't count myself among those merchants unworthy of their own currency.
He articulated it with the calm of a philosopher who had embraced agnosticism, indifferent now to all these mortal, worldly concerns.
It was plain on Rei's face — if he were drafting a will, Mark would be struck off that very day. And with what utter delight!
The first line would certainly read:
'Not a damn thing goes to my son.'
The main thing was to emphasize which one.
The consultant first listened attentively to Mark's lecture, then to their argument, then tried to pull them apart, and finally, resignedly, chose a suit. For a whole hour. Naturally, Mark called every first option merchant-like or 'peccator-like'.
The salesperson didn't understand what the latter meant, but from the look on Mark's face and Rei's rolled eyes, he guessed. Nothing proper.
At last, they found a suit. But here was the snag — Mark decided to go all in white.
Rei smirked crookedly:
— You're not the one conducting the interview, if you haven't figured that out.
Mark's smirk spoke volumes: they weren't the ones taking him — he was the one observing.
He might've just wanted to fool people with his so-called holiness — so that against it, his sinfulness would feel all the heavier.
The consultant, wearing a strained smile, only confirmed that it was a 'bold choice for an interview'. Rei gave a short snort. Mark caught the scent of desperation and started behaving even more insolently.
One way or another, they finally reached the interview venue — though not without casualties. Moral and nicotine ones.
[Well, as in life: everything comes at a price — only the category differs.]
Rei stubbornly escorted Mark all the way to the elevator of the building where the interview was to be held. Not a single word. His burning stare said everything for him. He didn't even bother to ask whether Mark needed company.
Even the air around him made it obvious — Rei was angry. Very angry. Even passersby instinctively stepped aside, as if afraid to catch his corrosive energy. He was angry and relentless.
[Had a cyclist turned the corner — would've run him over. Alright, author's personal trauma.]
Mark, by contrast, was perfectly calm — as if he hadn't just driven everyone crazy and recited Latin curses at the suit consultant. He walked with lazy arrogance, wearing the face of a man who had already mastered Zen.
[The only people Mark didn't torment were baristas. He had a soft spot for them — he practically kissed their hands, not literally, of course, but with such charm they could feel it. He liked bartenders too. In short, bartenders and baristas: they never ask stupid questions, they just pour. What is that if not a kind of bliss?]
In any case, standing beside his tense father in front of the elevator witnesses, Mark handed him the card, keeping an icy composure with a faint, millionaire-like smirk.
— What's this? — Rei frowned, and the tension in the air thickened, as if he had just received a formal reprimand. It was the first time the card was handed to him personally — usually, he was the one handing it out. Such a reversal of roles, you know, hits the nerves and bruises the ego.
— You do like suits, think, you'll need it. As the story goes, it's business-etiquette, — Mark replied seriously, with a trace of offense. His smugness suddenly disappeared, leaving a peculiar weight in his gaze.
— Where did you...? — Rei first tried to recall when Mark had managed to get the card from the consultant, then clenched his teeth in irritation at his mockery. He exhaled heavily, rubbed the space between his brows, and said: — I'll wait downstairs. And remember: don't answer questions unless asked, — sharply cutting the topic off, unwilling for his son to throw him off and ruin the special tasks related to getting the job.
— I'll go out through the back door, — Mark muttered with the grin of the last diablo, as if speaking pure truth.
— Do I look like an idiot? — Rei asked, visibly shocked by his son's brazen audacity, who was outplaying his intentions so directly. And all this under the mask of a clown.
— Self-critical, — Mark didn't slow down. Perhaps he felt it added to his peacock-like charm.
— Don't test me, — Rei responded with clear irritation.
— Sorry, I'm not Shurassako, the kind you'd like, — Mark said with sharpness and contempt. There was no anger, no offense, not even his usual provocation. It felt like an admission. As if the episode with the wallet and the fireplace had lodged in his eyes like a lump.
— You're its devourer, — Rei growled through his teeth, pointing a finger at his son. His jaws and shoulders were nearly breaking from tension.
— Not today, — Mark snorted, snapping his fingers toward Ray, and added with a grin: — Today — you.
— What nonsense are you spouting? — Rei muttered, a nearly imperceptible fear slipping into his voice, his pupils quivering slightly.
— I'll put it in your language: gasoline-suit-lunch. In total… hmm… check the expenses on the card yourself! — Mark patted his father on the shoulder and strode confidently toward the elevator.
— So you can count? But not when it matters, — Rei frowned, moving closer to his son.
— You are counting money, I am not counting, ha-ha, — Mark seemed to find this amusing. It seemed like it was the joke of the day in his head.
— You ought to learn! — Rei shouted, and the echo of his voice rolled through the corridor. Yes, both of them had clearly forgotten about the witnesses. The tension between them was rising like the euro on the stock exchange.
— Yeah? Teacher, I suppose you've already calculated the time the swallow will be at the stop, — Mark pressed on. It seemed his task for the day was to drive his father to a heart attack, and he intended to do it using Senior Evans' own methods.
— What... Give me the keys! — Rei finally realized. He seemed completely on edge.
— Shush! — Mark shouted sharply and leapt into the elevator that had just arrived, disappearing behind the crowd of silent witnesses.
— There you are! — Rei shouted after him, his hand suspended in the air, tense and helpless.
Mark rode the elevator in silence, sensing the suspicious gazes of the witnesses. He leaned against the wall nonchalantly, showing indifference, as if immersed in his own nirvana. He had punished his father, yet it brought him no satisfaction.
Suddenly, a woman of about thirty, who had just come down from one of the floors, rushed into the elevator. Mark instantly became fixated on her, as if he had been struck by electricity. His consciousness shifted — but it was neither passion, nor lust, nor sympathy, nor interest. It was some kind of anomaly. She knocked him out of his thoughts, yet he couldn't characterize her in any way. His gaze kept returning to her, yet it was neither predatory nor full of interest — it was… rather strangely familiar.
The lady wore a strict suit and massive heels, speaking on the phone about business. Confidently and sharply. To Evans, it looked obviously comical, and he could barely suppress a laugh. Oh, this business-like nature of business-etiquette!
"Can such a pro not allow himself to ride the elevator in silence? If so… is it even worth it?"— flashed through his mind.
But he remembered. She didn't care if anyone heard her. She didn't care about conventions or norms, even if refined.
The girl turned to Mark and fixed her hair, barely brushing it with her fingers. Mark immediately sniffed out her liking — he was a natural predator, and such nuances were instinctive for him, not a learned skill.
He looked at her obliquely in response and immediately filed her under: attractive, but not my taste. When did Evans manage to become an analyst?
The elevator's ringing added yet another significant deduction to his internal rating. Mark pictured Rei in a female form — a person of control. And control is a threat to chaos. And if, excuse me, there is no chaos — then Mark's life is pure decay!
Yes, yes, he didn't like her even before she started speaking his 'language' of the common man. Mark was categorical — his libido was not for anything half-hearted.
The girl left, but looked back once more, casting a glance at Mark filled with some grievance and reproach. It was strange.
Mark stepped out after her. Once she had walked away, he pretended to be speaking on the phone, laughing loudly as he said:
— Yes, business! Yes, work! Stocks, investors! Yes, yes, money-money, connections-money, — imitating the hustle and bustle of business.
Employees and passersby exchanged glances, snorted, and puzzled: what the hell is this guy doing, and who even is he?
Mark had merely sensed an anomaly in the form of a business servant and decided it was worth letting those around him see that he had noticed it.
Yet at the same time, he felt pity for them... these people, mere cogs in someone else's game. Mark instantly realized just how neglected everything was here. Nevertheless, he had already arrived at the correct office.