Made in Russia

Chapter One: Nocturnal

Chapter One: Nocturnal

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Again: as the profound calm which only apparently precedes and prophesies of the storm, is perhaps more awful than the storm itself; for, indeed, the calm is but the wrapper and envelope of the storm; and it contains it in itself, as the seemingly harmless rifle holds the fatal powder, and the ball, and the explosion; so for the graceful repose of the line, as it silently serpentines about the oarsmen before being brought into actual play--this is a thing which carries more of a true terror than any other aspect of this dangerous affair.

I slam the book shut, my mind reeling, struggling to understand the concept of the passage that I just read.

Earlier this week, I splurged and bought myself a copy of the ever prevalent Moby Dick. I'd seen it time and time again at the independent book store that I spend far too much of my valuable time hanging about at. It's a beautiful old copy; bound with worn black leather and engraved with golden letters. I truly indulged myself. It is a treasure well worth the precious thirty five dollars that I paid for it.

My eyes wander and eventually focus on the clock that hangs on the wall opposite me. 2:23 AM. I glance at my brother, who is passed out in the double bed to my right. It's difficult and very rare for him to be able to sleep like this. His insomnia keeps him up most nights.

So why am I awake? It is the sound of New York City that truly keeps me up at night. Unwisely, I chose to live in the city that never sleeps.

My fingers subconsciously trace the intricate book cover as I glance about my small room, illuminated only by the light of a nightstand lamp, wondering what I could possibly do to make myself tired.

I give up after a few moments and fall backwards onto my uncomfortably warm pillow. A small black spider has found its way to the ceiling and is steadily creeping towards the opposite side. It reaches its destination within a few seconds. Remarkable, really, how such a tiny creature can move with such speed.

I quickly grow bored and throw my blanket off with a frustrated huff. I pick up the book and tiptoe out of the room, cautious of waking my brother.

In the kitchen, I place the book down on the countertop and open the outdated green refrigerator. Milk. Apple juice. Leftover Chinese food. Peanut butter. A half a bottle of expired salad dressing. This concludes the complete list of the contents of our refrigerator.

I stare at the almost empty refrigerator for a moment more before snatching the apple juice container and forcefully slamming it down on the countertop.

I am angry at the refrigerator for not being filled with food. At myself for not being able to afford any. I regret my impulsive actions only a few moments later when my brother comes out into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes.

"Ollie?" he mumbles, sounding confused.

"Sorry," I whisper clumsily. "Go back to bed."

He runs his fingers through his blond hair. "Why are you up so early? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I insist. "Go back to sleep."
After a giving me a questioning look, Yuri turns and heads back into the bedroom.

I take a deep breath, sit down at the little plastic card table, and open the book.

For, when the line is darting out, to be seated then in the boat is like being seated in the midst of the manifold whizzing of a steam-engine in full play, when every flying beam, and shaft, and wheel, is grazing you. It is worse; for you cannot sit motionless in the heart of these perils, because the boat is rocking like a cradle, and you are pitched one way and the other, without the slightest warning; and only by a certain self-adjusting buoyancy and simultaneous of volition and action, can you escape being made a Mazeppa of, and run away with where the all-seeing sun himself could never pierce you.