In this story, all names, events, places, and linguistic analogies have been altered beyond recognition for political reasons. Nevertheless, the people whose story I am telling are just as influential as they were before, if not more so. And yet, this is about something very symbolic, almost religious, and the truth simply should not be made public. What remains true are the relationships between people and objects, although even the objects themselves have been replaced to avoid any possibility of drawing parallels between real events and this tale.
Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there lived a young man named Anton. He was very shy, quite overweight, and very insecure. He dreamed of fame, recognition, and of making his girlfriend proud of him. Well, as it often goes.
His girlfriend, Zhenya, loved the guy and adored him completely. She didn’t care about his build or career. The most important thing was that she felt happy and warm with him. The girl had a wealthy and influential father who, despite not being part of the group of rich people who had seized power in the country, was still powerful enough that his daughter didn’t have to worry about patriarchal nonsense like the necessity of marrying someone rich and successful. She called her boyfriend “my Round Sun,” which only embarrassed him more.
And one time, after taking his girlfriend home in a taxi, he returned in the same car. Yes, they could have taken one of her dad’s many cars with one of his numerous drivers, but the guy felt it would be awkward not to show some independence even in dating, and the girl didn’t want her dad’s drivers discussing her relationship later. You never know what might leak out, and paparazzi are always on the lookout.
As I mentioned before, he was on his way home, calm and lost in his thoughts. He had no idea that his taxi was being watched by his father’s bodyguards, as his father loved his daughter very much and didn’t want anything to happen to her boyfriend. Suddenly, the young man’s hand brushed against something lying next to him on the back seat. He immediately recognized by touch that it was some kind of inlaid notebook, and his gaze was already prepared to take a closer look at it.
In the darkness, the details of the inlay were not visible; only in the center of the cover could one make out a round, shiny, transparent stone. On the first page, the title “Viracocha” was written in calligraphy, and as I flipped through, it became clear that the entire notebook was a handwritten book containing some kind of poem. The text was clearly poetic, but it was too dark to see.
Anton took the notebook for himself. When he got home, he saw that the round stone was amber, with some insect trapped inside, as if it were trying to take flight. Around the stone, it was written “ROUND, SUN.” Just like that, with a comma. The text inside turned out to be a poem, some kind of epic about the Inca king, how he seized power and what a bloody dictator he was. The text contained references to the stone on the cover and to the insect that had tried to fly, which had become trapped and for which time had stopped. Just like in the Inca empire, which existed for many hundreds of years without visible progress.
“She probably left this on the back seat,” Anton thought, “it seems she wanted to give it to me.” But he couldn’t develop that hypothesis any further. That evening, Zhenya was dressed in clothes that didn’t have pockets or any place for them. And there was no room in her handbag even for a makeup pouch. Moreover, the motive for such a gift was unclear. It was more likely that he could give her this poem, as the plot featured a beautiful nobleman’s daughter who genuinely fell in love with a simple guy, who, in turn, was searching for a way to achieve greatness in his life to become worthy of her love.
But I need to ask Zhenya. Besides, she knows I don’t like it when she calls me “Round Sun.” And what’s with the comma? And why does the “E” in “Round” look different from the “E” in “Sun”? But that’s a minor detail. So, the notebook was tucked into the inner pocket of the jacket, waiting for the next meeting between Anton and Zhenya.
The next meeting had been planned a long time ago. Zhenya’s father, Arkady Mikhailovich, invited Anton over, suggesting they get to know each other better in a relaxed setting and play golf at his country estate. Anton was very nervous. Zhenya’s dad was the kind of person who completely determined Anton’s fate. Anton loved Zhenya very much. He couldn’t even fathom the extent of the happiness and luck that came with the attention of a girl, especially a beautiful girl, and especially Zhenya herself. However, Anton also understood who the Alpha was in this pack. He both feared and respected, as well as loved, Zhenya’s father. All he could dream of was not to fall flat on his face.
Zhenya’s father understood Anton’s feelings very well; he found Anton’s awkwardness and extreme embarrassment amusing. However, he had no intention of making things difficult for Anton. Instead, he wanted to tame and calm him while maintaining a hierarchical distance. Knowing that Anton was a good person, he didn’t expect any meanness or low behavior from him and forgave all of Anton’s blunders and mistakes in communication in advance. Arkady Mikhailovich remembered his youth, and the least he wanted was to create obstacles to his daughter’s happiness.
“Are you really going to play in a jacket like that?” Arkady Mikhailovich asked, pointing his golf club at Anton’s chest.
“Mm… no, probably not,” Anton almost whispered, mentally adding another +1 to his list of mistakes for the day.
— Dad, don’t embarrass Anton! Let me take your jacket inside; you’ve changed, but for some reason, you put the jacket back on. Don’t worry! — said Zhenya, taking the jacket from the blushing Anton. Anton was in a panic. How could he have messed up like this? And once we start playing, it will be obvious that I’m a beginner. Those 20 lessons I took won’t make me a master. Of course, Zhenya’s dad was aware of the 20 lessons. This knowledge fit perfectly into the mental image of Anton that Arkadiy Mikhailovich was forming in his mind, and it was 100% accurate, as Zhenya’s father was very good at reading people.
Yes, yes, Zhenya felt something dense and rectangular in her jacket. Yes, her curiosity got the better of her upbringing, and she took it out and opened the notebook. She saw the author’s name on the cover, written around an amber with an insect inside. She realized that this was a gift for her, as Anton would never have referred to anyone else as “Round Sun.” What about the comma? Maybe a scratch? The letters were clearly embossed on a copper base, and a hammer or a letter from the cash register could have slipped…
While the men were playing golf, Zhenya read a poem. She really liked the style, the richness of metaphors, the beautifully veiled story of her relationship with Anton, and the epithets he used to describe her and her father. She realized that Anton had been carrying this notebook with him for a long time and was just too shy to give it to her.
What to do? Consulting with Mom was out of the question. She had always been against her relationship with Anton, believing he wasn’t “their kind.” Although, if you think about it, Mom herself was once considered “not their kind,” and it was only Arkadiy’s strong stance that allowed her to marry him, despite his parents’ opinions. Dad is currently busy with Anton, so I can’t ask him. Anton will never make a move if he hasn’t done so by now. Well then.
“What’s that heavy thing in your jacket?” Zhenya asked, hugging Anton and pressing her chest against his jacket. “Is it a bulletproof vest?”
“Come on, what body armor?” Anton blushed again.
“Come on, show me,” insisted Zhenya.
— Oh, by the way, I was just about to ask you… — Anton whispered as he handed the notebook to Zhenya.
— Is this for me?! Zhenya’s eyes lit up so much that Anton couldn’t have answered anything other than “yes.” Of course, Zhenya had been practicing this “genuine reaction” for the entire time until Anton returned from the game.
“Mom, Dad, look! Look what Anton gave me! My Round Sun!”
Anton was at the peak of embarrassment. He had no idea what was happening. Either Zhenya had slipped him this notebook to later claim it as a gift for herself and elevate her status in her parents’ eyes, or it was some other conspiracy or a monstrous coincidence. He didn’t know how to react. He had lost the power of speech. Fortunately, he didn’t have to say anything; a shy smile and glances in response to the praise, compliments, recitations from the poem, and suggestions to publish it in a large print run were enough.
Later, Anton tried to find out from Zhenya if she was the one who had slipped him the notebook, but Zhenya honestly admitted that she had found the notebook in his jacket and, realizing that he wouldn’t dare to present it as a gift, she had provoked the situation herself. After all, Anton is a true poet. Such powerful poetry, such talent!
Then came the time of glory. Zhenya’s father hardly had to do anything to promote the book, advertise it, and position it as intellectual reading “not for everyone,” precisely so that “everyone” would want to join the ranks of readers and admirers. Autographs, interviews, fans, and shouts of “I want your children!” The poem was very popular among the youth, and as often happens, people found political meaning in it. Quotes from the poem became slogans for student protests. The bloody king of the Incas began to be associated with the First President of the country, who had ruled for far too long, clearly longer than the people’s patience. Repressions began.
Arkady Mikhailovich quickly realized where the wind was blowing from and stepped back from Anton. Anton, not wanting to harm Zhenya, asked her not to get involved with him for the time being. He missed her deeply, and she missed him too, but it was unthinkable to even entertain the idea or let it be known that behind this, as it turned out, seditious poem stood an opposition oligarch whose well-being depended on a delicate balance of compromises and agreements with the current authorities.
Anton has changed a lot. For the better. Glory gave him confidence, he started exercising, lost weight, and built muscle. Now his handsome chiseled profile was so recognizable that T-shirts featuring his silhouette were bound to hit the market. His nickname “Round Sun,” which they decided to keep for the book’s print run, no longer embarrassed him; on the contrary, it added to the context. The word “round” was interpreted as fullness, perfection, much like in the expressions “straight-A student” or “complete idiot.” Anton embraced the game and enjoyed being a symbol of revolutionary thought. He was invited to meetings, quoted, and his opinions were valued. Deep down, he secretly wished to be the one to overthrow the First President, believing that this person had done a lot of harm to Arkadiy Mikhailovich.
When Anton learned from Zhenya’s father that he was going to be arrested, he had no time to do anything. They would have found him at the airport; he could have managed to run away at a jog, being someone who runs marathons once a week, but then what? And most importantly, his image as the ideological inspirer of the protest did not match at all with the cowardice of a fugitive.
Anton faced the gallows. To tighten the repression, a law was enacted that deemed insulting the President equivalent to treason. No one intended to insult the President, and the law seemed stillborn. However, as dog trainers know, to teach a dog not to do something, you must first allow it to do so, only to punish it afterward. Apparently, God had the same approach when telling Adam and Eve which tree’s fruit they should not eat. The authorities needed a public example, and Anton was just the right candidate. Embracing his role, he attended, of course, unauthorized rallies, delivering speeches, quoting poetry, and calling the tyrant King of the Incas to account. Everyone understood exactly who he meant. This was even more important and gratifying than fame. It was the very feat he sought to prove to Zhenya, and ultimately to himself, that he was the best.
The process was long and noisy. The lawyers secretly hired by Arkady Mikhailovich were doing their job, but a fair trial under the rule of the First President did not exist. Everyone understood that the King of the Incas was the First President, and such a comparison was clearly an insult to the President. And so, Anton sits in his cell, waiting for the rejection of his appeal for clemency, the last formality before his execution.
In prison, there were also his admirers, and the guards even fulfilled his request and showed him the square with the gallows. Anton needed to rehearse his Last Words, which he would say in front of those allowed to witness the execution. Should he admit that the poem wasn’t his? That was out of the question. And what about Zhenya? How could he allow himself to be seen as a fraud in her eyes? Besides, no one would believe him anyway, and such a confession would come across as a cowardly attempt to escape death.
On one of those long days filled with the dreary anticipation of the finale, the window in the cell door opened after the clanking of locks and bolts.
“Visitor for you!” the guard said without any emotion. Strange. Anton had no one who could come to see him. Who could it be, Anton wondered, automatically turning his back to the cell door and extending his hands through the slot so they could put the handcuffs on him.
In the meeting room, a middle-aged man was waiting for him. To be more precise, he was probably around Anton’s age or a little younger.
“Who are you?” Anton asked, forgetting to greet.
— Hello, Anton, I’m Kruglov.
— Who?
— Kurglov, the visitor repeated, showing his ID card through the glass. Yes, Nikolai Kurglov, born in Solntsevo. Anton’s vague suspicions began to crystallize into hypotheses and, finally, a theory. Kurglov, Solntsevo… a comma under amber. But…
“I was stamping my name and the place of manufacture for the engraving and inlay when the letter ‘B’ broke. A piece chipped off, and it stopped stamping its right edge, resulting in something that looked like ‘E,’ which you read. So, I stamped all the other letters, got to the ‘B’ in the word ‘Sontsovo,’ and took a taxi with my notebook to the master who was supposed to carve me a new ‘B’ just like the broken one. Unfortunately, on the way back, I lost the notebook, and I don’t even know where.”
— In a taxi…
— Yes, probably in a taxi. By the way, here’s a gift for you. Nikolai showed a mirror-image letter “V,” which ended in a little anvil that you had to hit with a hammer to stamp the letter onto metal. I’ll pass it to you through the security. They will hand it over. After all, transfers are allowed, right?
— I don’t know… By the way, how did you get in here? I thought they only let in family and that sort of thing…
— I just signed up and they gave me a date for a visit. People are standing in a rally under the prison, by the way, day and night in your defense, but it seems no one thought to sign up for a visit, thinking it was banned anyway.
— It would be better if they had broken up. Now the authorities can’t just back down and make concessions. If everything had been quiet, they probably would have let me go.
— I don’t think you want to be let go. Otherwise, you would have told the truth about the book a long time ago. It’s ironic that you are like that fly in amber right now. You seem to be flying, but you have no freedom of choice. You’re trapped on all sides. Let me guess: are you rehearsing your Last Words?
“Are you not afraid to come here? After all, our conversation is being listened to and recorded right now.”
— No, I’m not afraid. First of all, those who are listening don’t have the authority, and by the time the system gets its gears turning, I’ll be long gone. Secondly, the date of your execution has already been set; at least, that’s what the newspapers are saying.
— When?
— The day after tomorrow. Thirdly, they need a showcase case; they need to demonstrate strength and determination. And fourthly, the poem is not about the First President, and I’m saying this right now so that those who are taking notes will write it down. The poem is in support of the First President, and the cruel king of the Incas is an allegory for a bloody cannibal dictator in one of our former colonies. This can be easily guessed, since the name Viracocha is the supreme deity of the Incas, and it’s also the surname of our president with the syllables switched around. So, the King of the Incas is a cruel ruler subordinate to him from wild and distant lands. I wanted the President to use his power to stop the atrocities and bloodshed. Yes, 15 years ago I was more naive and thought that our President was an honest man ready to fight for justice. Oh yes, I still think that, the guest said, glancing at an imaginary eavesdropper.
— So why did you come to me then? Are you claiming authorship? Now?
— God forbid! My life is precious to me! I just wanted to say that you completely misunderstood the metaphors in the poem and, on top of that, you gave it a vulgar political meaning in a totally inept way.
— But it’s not me…
— Oh, just leave it. I’ve seen your speeches at the rallies. Well, goodbye! I wish you a round of applause on the scaffold!
The guest, Nikolai Kruglov, stood up and left without looking back. Anton saw him approach the guard, hand him a letter, and with a nod of his head indicated for whom the delivery was intended.
The final words that everyone had been waiting for were not spoken. Anton simply climbed up onto the scaffold, lowered his head, and without looking at the crowd, allowed them to place a black hood over him.
The execution of Anton—the Round Sun—did not calm the people; it only added fuel to the fire of the revolution. Anton’s funeral turned into mass protests, and the protests escalated into civil disobedience. The first President was already prepared to take particularly harsh measures to suppress the protests, ready to fill the prisons with political prisoners, ready to order the shooting of peaceful demonstrators, but then the protests were led by the Princess.
Yes, that’s right, the Princess. The granddaughter of the last King of the country, who abdicated the throne and handed power over to the First President. The people, dissatisfied with the First President’s rule, saw in the Princess a glimmer of hope, and in the restoration of the monarchy, a chance for a better future. It was impossible to arrest the Princess due to her immunity. After the reaction to the execution of Anton, the First President was hesitant to eliminate his rivals, and the situation gradually moved towards a logical resolution.
After the First President resigned in exchange for immunity for himself and his relatives, Parliament voted to amend the constitution and restore the monarchy. The princess became the Queen, and her crown was adorned with a round amber stone containing a fly that appeared to be taking off. The fly in the amber became part of the new national emblem, symbolizing both the country’s ancient heritage and its aspiration for progress. A passage from the poem “Viracocha” was chosen as the new anthem and set to music.
Nikolai Kruglov basically knew what topic he was invited to discuss, if you could call it that, given the three grim-looking guys in suits, dark glasses, and with wires from their earpieces. He didn’t know who he would be meeting or what they would offer him or ask. But he knew it was about the inlaid notebook. He was prepared for this meeting, as he understood that the conversation in prison couldn’t have gone unheard. Especially since the power had changed.
In principle, Nikolai had nothing to fear, so he behaved freely, showing neither fear nor arrogance in his demeanor. A calm business conversation between professionals smoothly transitioned from discussing the weather to the matter at hand. In the large, spacious office, there were three other people besides Nikolai. One stood with his back to the group, intently studying a map of the country, participating in the conversation more passively and simply indicating his presence. The second person sat on the couch next to Nikolai, actually leading the discussion, while the third sat in an armchair in another corner of the room—or rather, the hall—and supported the second speaker with occasional remarks. The authority in the speaker’s words and gestures was palpable, stemming from some natural reasons, as if it were a given. Throughout the conversation, he consistently used the word “we,” making it clear that he was not alone.
— When we realized that the First President was a spent force, I continued, deliberately speaking slowly and quietly to make it difficult for Nikolai’s interlocutor to grasp, — we needed to think about the transition of power. It was essential to ensure that the people chose the new leadership we would present to them. The problem was that the public would only be willing to support opposition candidates. Any opposition leader who wasn’t arrested the day after any public appearance would be too suspicious and would come across as a provocateur or a plant. And that’s where the Princess came in. She became the perfect leader, and we were able to formulate an offer for her that she couldn’t refuse, and she didn’t refuse. We took everything from the poem that worked in our favor and wove it into the fabric of the “legend,” and it all worked out for us.
“Not everything,” Nikolai interjected, eager to stop being an NPC in a game he didn’t create.
— What else? Arkady Mikhailovich, look, we didn’t invite the guy here for nothing. The man at the card table nodded without turning around. — So, spill it, what do you have up your sleeve?
— Well, for example, the stone in the Queen’s crown is not real. It’s a copy, made almost entirely of rosin. When I was working on the cover, I replaced the stone with a replica to avoid damaging the original. The copy had to be very precise, as the fine and detailed engraving needed to harmonize with the story about the fly in amber that the poem refers to.
“Excuse me, are you a poet?”
— No, a mint worker. A good mint worker. So, here it is – a real stone. Nikolai took a stone wrapped in a piece of suede, which is used to clean glasses, out of his pocket and placed it on the table, unwrapping it first.
— Strongly. You will allow us to replace the stone in the Queen’s crown with this real one, won’t you? The question was asked in such a way that there was no option to answer incorrectly.
— How will you replace it if any jeweler can spot the difference in the photos of the formal portraits? The copy may be good, but the color is slightly different, and the flaw is different, and…
— For example, we will destroy the first stone in front of the public, as a result of some accident or, even better, a failed assassination attempt, and then we will insert the original, claiming that we miraculously found a similar stone.
— But then it will definitely be clear that the stone is not the right one!
— Yes, but if they start digging into the history, it will eventually turn out that the stone is indeed the one, while the rosin, as you put it, will no longer be worshipped by anyone. Especially since, besides us, the walls in this room are listening too, and the truth will come to light sooner or later. So let it be the truth-truth, not the truth-untruth.
“I’m completely confused,” Nikolai admitted.
“Don’t pay attention,” came the voice of Arkady Mikhailovich, still standing with his back turned. We, though cynical rulers of this world, also have sentimental feelings towards symbols and admire and quote the poem. For me, for instance, this whole story is personal. In any case, a symbol belongs where it should be. In the crown of the Queen. How we will do this is not your concern.
“So, you knew what I would bring to this meeting?” Nikolai asked, half-questioning, half-stating.
— Practically. We knew that the amber wasn’t real; we knew that the genuine stone existed. There wouldn’t be so many references to, as you put it, “a piece of rosin” in the poem. And we suspected that you knew where the original was.
— Is that all you called me for?
“No, of course not,” said the man from the armchair in the other corner of the room. “Now Sergey Grigoryevich will explain it to you.”
“The problem is that the poem has become a symbol of national identity for the people. However, the meanings it conveys are detrimental to the idea of power itself. They are revolutionary and do not lead to societal stability. And once again, we were helped by chance; it turns out the meanings in the poem are different and it was written for another purpose. Don’t you want justice in our former colonies?”
“Does she really exist?” Nikolai doubted.
— For now, it’s beneficial for us. Read Plato! — interjected the man from the armchair.
— So, here’s the plan: we want to reveal the truth and show that Anton stole the poem from you and that you meant something entirely different. We aim to direct public outrage outside the country. For uniting the people and boosting patriotism, we really need a small just war on foreign soil. And the poem about the bloodthirsty Inca leader will be just perfect for that.
— And you agree with us that Anton’s deception must be exposed and that a liar cannot be a hero? Arkady Mikhailovich added with a kind of inappropriate malice towards Anton, who was seen by everyone as a demigod, a martyr-hero, which struck Nikolai as odd.
— Yes, of course, I agree, especially since I have no other options.
“Well, there are always options,” said Sergey Grigoryevich. “I just suspect that you won’t like them.”
— Well, I feel the same way.
— That’s great, so we have an agreement. You know, I’ve always been, and now more than ever, a fan of your work, and I am amazed by the depth and complexity of the metaphors in your poetry. May I ask you a question?
— Of course…
— Well, in the second chapter of the poem, it says, “and a tear will flow like a waterfall of flowers.” Yes, it’s very rich. I pondered those words for a long time. We thought about it for a long time. We even had a very lengthy debate about it. Sergey Grigoryevich glanced slyly at the armchair, but the other interlocutor in the corner didn’t react at all. But I’ve always been curious, what exactly did you mean by that?
“Is that really what it says?” Nikolai asked uncertainly.
— Don’t you remember what you wrote? The tension in the office became palpable. Arkady Mikhailovich turned sharply and stared intently at Nikolai.
“Did you write this?” he asked, emphasizing the word “you.”
Nikolai realized that continuing to play was extremely dangerous and deliberately reacted in a relaxed manner:
— I never said that I wrote it.
— Right now, Mr. Kruglov, you are walking on very thin ice. You probably don’t realize who…
— Arkady, stop, — the man in the chair interrupted him nonchalantly. — This is actually better; we have no options anyway, and under these circumstances, Mr. Kruglov will keep quiet for the rest of his life about what he heard today and what we agreed upon. Right?
“Of course,” Kurglov replied as calmly as possible, wiping the sweat that had formed on his forehead with a napkin from the table.
“Well, what if a real poet shows up?” asked Sergey Grigoryevich.
— He won’t show up. He definitely won’t show up, — Nikolai replied as convincingly as possible.
“Please explain,” Arkady Mikhailovich was still angry.
“I told you from the very beginning that I am not a poet, but a engraver. You simply didn’t give me a chance to explain. That’s why I wasn’t afraid to come to the prison to see Anton, and even now I spoke with you without fear because I wasn’t the author of ‘Viracocha.’ But you just didn’t give me a chance to clarify. I think something similar happened with Anton long ago. A bright, straightforward, and honest person, as the people remember him, simply couldn’t be a thief.
So, the poet is a good friend of mine. When he was writing the poem, he told me about every detail and every meaning hidden in the words and metaphors. As we agreed, I was supposed to create the cover for the poem. We wanted to present the poem as a gift to the First President to motivate him to restore justice in the former colony. My friend didn’t mind that I signed my work as an engraver. I tried to be modest—just my last name and city. After all, it was our joint idea.
As you know, I lost the book. My friend was, of course, upset, but he knew the poem by heart and started to make a second copy. This took time, as the book had to be calligraphic and handwritten to stand out from the piles of paper that the First President surely receives in abundance. My friend was very talented and passionate. Unfortunately, he didn’t manage to finish the second copy before he fell ill with this new virus and died in the hospital. A couple of months later, I saw ‘Viracocha’ for sale under the name ‘Round Sun.’
After the initial wave of outrage and acute feelings of injustice subsided, I came up with a cunning plan: to wait until the book and the author gained popularity, and then offer the author my silence or even collaboration in exchange for a percentage of the royalties. I had important evidence—a piece of amber with an insect inside. But the longer I waited, the more I saw that the story was taking a turn I didn’t expect and that the poem was understood differently than we had thought.
It was becoming increasingly dangerous to assert my authorship, and at the same time, it felt more absurd. The country was overtaken by revolutionary ideas, and the First President was no longer the person he once seemed to us. In fact, I felt ashamed back then that I had ever voted for him. So now, I am at your service,” Nikolai concluded, offering the attendees an inviting smile. “When will the first press conference be?”