The Man Who Sold The World

Like all the months before it, May arrived unexpectedly.

No, I checked the calendar every day — the surprise was that once again, I hadn’t noticed the changes around me. The trees had suddenly turned green, the ground had dried out without warning, and the sun had grown scorching. Last year, I’d promised myself: "Next year, I’ll definitely catch the moment these damned leaves unfurl." I hadn’t. But the calendar month announced itself unmistakably, so I walked to school without a doubt that today was the first of May.

The day began rather ordinarily. "Began" being the key word — otherwise, it would’ve remained just "another day in the endless cycle of gray weekdays and even grayer weekends."

So, the last lesson of the day was Life Safety. May Day turned out to be hot, and the classroom, packed to the brim with students, had all its windows wide open. But instead of a cool breeze, all that drifted in was the scent of blooming lilacs from the bushes nearby. That smell used to make me dizzy. Now, it was just pleasant and unmistakably spring-like.

Since we’re on the subject of Life Safety, a few words about the teacher are in order. You know those dull personalities who drone through their lessons, maintain discipline more or less successfully, and introduce themselves so blandly it’s as if their name means nothing— as if it doesn’t even matter, because a teacher’s job is simply to parcel out knowledge in 40-minute increments and part ways with students at the end of the year without any sentimental attachment. Because teaching isn’t supposed to involve personal connection. At least, it shouldn’t.

Well, our Life Safety teacher was not one of those gray personalities. Who was he, then? Two words: former military. That alone might be enough to picture the neat appearance, the disciplined demeanor, and all the usual trappings. But such was this country that here, military men bred military men and were ruled by military men. You could walk into a cafeteria and learn from the cook ladling out borscht that he’d spent three years fighting on some enemy’s soil and by sheer luck returned with all his limbs intact, save for a handsome diagonal scar on his left cheek. Or hear from a bus driver that he was the one who bombed that very oil pipeline the news had gone on about. Others might’ve spent their entire service in reserve, occasionally taking potshots at defenseless targets. In short, there were all kinds of stories of varying credibility. So you see, without a detailed description of our particular ex-soldier, this wouldn’t work.

So, our teacher was a retired colonel, memorable from the very first lesson when he introduced himself by slowly savoring every syllable of his name — twice. He immediately warned that mispronunciations or misspellings wouldn’t go unpunished. This drew laughter from the class, and the most amused were promptly marked with sharp finger-snaps — his version of a "yellow card." These warnings were recorded in a small black notebook, and collecting three, he claimed, would lead to "interesting consequences." Though, thankfully, no one in our class ever got to experience just how "interesting" those were.

I, too, once earned a mark. It happened at the start of a lesson, which always began with us standing at attention and reciting, "We wish you good health, Comrade Instructor." And during this greeting, some joker in the back row had muttered —   softly but unmistakably—"Comrade Stalin" instead. Some of us, myself included, desperately tried to stifle our laughter, while others outright burst into giggles. Our entire row got penalized, but the sudden accuracy of the comparison kept a smirk on my face for a long time. Yes, this trim man in his fifties, with graying dark hair and a neatly tucked-in shirt, bore no physical resemblance to Stalin. He was always clean-shaven and wore glasses that dangled from a dark cord around his neck when not in use. But his habits — ah, his habits!

Despite these quirks, discipline in his class was ironclad. And his teaching was... livelier, for lack of a better word. His delivery was excellent — no denying that. But I absolutely couldn’t fathom what drill training had to do with life safety. And while I puzzled over it, our grades kept filling up with marks for turns, marching, and other absurdities that made my hair stand on end.

In short, this very man was now leading the lesson, veering off into another tangent—something that sometimes took up a third of the class. I wasn’t listening, lost in my own thoughts.

Today’s lesson had started with us standing at attention longer than usual. The instructor paced between the rows, assessing the straightness of our backs, the placement of our hands, and a dozen other utterly meaningless details. I got a "B." Whatever—but today wasn’t an ordinary day. So when the grades were recorded and we were finally allowed to sit, I raised my hand in response to the standard "Any questions?"

—Yes? The instructor looked at me with mild surprise, removing his glasses.
—I have a question. Deep breath. What does drill training have to do with life safety?

There. Every word clear, without a stumble. I’d rehearsed the question in my head twenty times, stripped it of anything superfluous, honed the intonation down to each syllable. Now, I waited for the answer.

The class was definitely surprised. She especially, turning fully toward me with wide eyes. But I kept my gaze fixed on the instructor, whose expression flickered first with surprise, then — inexplicably — something like delight, before settling into blank neutrality.

—What does it have to do with it? Hm. He walked over and rested a hand on my shoulder. You know what, son? Stay after class, and I’ll explain it all. The connection. Hm.

The instructor sniffed sharply, as if inhaling something, jerked his head to crack his neck, and returned to his desk. I sat there, completely thrown. Not even by the "son" — he called everyone that. I just hadn’t expected a private chat. And on the last lesson of the day!

So, I sank into unpleasant speculation while the instructor, as if nothing had happened, resumed his lecture. I spent the rest of the class lost in thought, cycling through possibilities—from a simple reprimand to those mysterious punishments my literature teacher had once threatened me with. When the bell rang, I snapped to attention like everyone else, and after the "Dismissed", slung my backpack over my shoulders, pushed in my chair, and planted myself between the teacher’s desk and the door.

From the stream of exiting students, she broke away and stepped close to me. Surprised, I looked up. Her face was oddly radiant with amusement.

—Well, good luck with our "clean-shaven Stalin."

—Oh yeah. I just hope the "Comrade Instructor’s" reprisals are as Stalinist as…

—…his mustache, she finished my thought and suddenly squeezed my hand.

My breath caught, and tiny electric jolts seemed to crackle through my skull, radiating down to my heels. By the time I recovered, she was already halfway down the hall. I turned to find the classroom empty except for the teacher and me, the door now closed. He stood by his desk, arms crossed, squinting.

—Sit down. He jerked his chin toward the desks, and I unsteadily made my way back to the same seat I’d left a minute ago.

The teacher, meanwhile, slowly walked between the rows to the far end of the room, running his palms over the smooth desktops and occasionally tapping out some rhythm. The sound of wind and rustling lilac leaves outside filled the silence. Reaching the last window, he fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out with a lighter, and leaned halfway out to exhale smoke toward the iron fence. Still, he said nothing, as if he’d forgotten I existed. With nothing else to do, I studied the posters on the walls. Some schematically depicted resuscitation procedures: artificial respiration, chest compressions, first aid for sunstroke, fainting, and so on. Others showcased various weapons — the proud inventions of the Republic’s mighty engineering. The remaining posters were filled with reminders and painfully obvious advice (Wash your hands before eating!, Don’t read at the table!).

I was examining a poster detailing the technique for a precordial thump and shuddered involuntarily. Restarting a heart with a fist strike… Brutal, but effective, if the text was to be believed. And believing printed words was often dangerous. Unfortunately, the Health Ministry hadn’t issued any warnings about that yet.

Running my fingers over my xiphoid process and marveling at the fragility of the ribcage, I didn’t notice the teacher had finished his stress-relief ritual and now stood right beside me. He pulled out a chair from the opposite desk and sat, blocking my view.

Finally, the silence broke:

—You wanted to know what drill training has to do with life safety?

I nodded. A tremor started deep inside. The cozy distraction of posters was over—no more delays. That familiar feeling of helplessness and slight fear returned—the kind where you know everything’s about to happen here and now, not in some distant later, even if that later is just ten minutes away. Even a minute before the inevitable, you still cling to hope for escape. I’d never managed to shake that feeling. Maybe it wasn’t worth trying.

—Drill training, the instructor began in a flat, almost colorless voice, is an exceptionally useful—I’d even say indispensable—thing. It enforces discipline and cultivates an astonishing capacity for obedience. Picture a well-trained dog. It’ll never attack without the command "sic!" and will stand its ground even under gunfire.

—Under gunfire… Something was clicking into place in my head.

—Exactly. What else does a true warrior of the Republic need, besides unwavering obedience under gunfire and cutting-edge weaponry? Unquestioning loyalty to the state and the conviction that its cause is just. The certainty that dying isn’t painful or scary—sometimes, it’s even honorable. Honestly, son, I think human life is overvalued these days.

—I’m surprised. It’s the 21st century—I thought wars weren’t won by brute force and morale alone. I tossed my head and met his gaze.

The old colonel just slapped his thigh, smirked, rocked back in his chair, and spat out:

—Here’s something even more surprising: people once thought the future would be bright and peaceful. Yes, we’re at war. More than others, and more successfully, I’d say. And we have our reasons.

These justifications for mass murder were starting to grate. I sneered and asked, almost mockingly:
—Reasons like what? Freedom?

The instructor rubbed his temple, as if the conversation was wearing on him.

—Freedom? What do you know about freedom? What do any of us know? No. He shook his head. Personally, I know nothing about it.

His tone softened, and he seemed calmer. Maybe I’d steered us toward less explosive territory.

—We know nothing about freedom, and we can’t, because we’ve never been free. It’s not about the regime, the government, or even the war. It’s about people, as usual. The last truly free people probably hunted mammoths and huddled around cave fires—then died or were killed and buried in those same caves. But… would you even call them people in the full sense of the word? We sold this world and our freedom long ago, trading them for progress and chaining ourselves to civilization’s inevitabilities. And there’s no freedom here—just order, rules, and obligations. Not that I’m saying it’s bad. How can you judge freedom if you’ve never been truly free?

Maybe humans can’t be free at all. Maybe we need these fences and barriers to protect our fragile minds from the boundlessness of freedom.

I stared at him with genuine interest. A thought crystallized in my mind, and once formed, it spilled out:

—You can’t judge what you’ve never experienced. But by your logic, we’re unfree from start to finish. So I’ve experienced enough unfreedom to say I don’t like it. But if all humans are like this, then freedom doesn’t exist anywhere—just different flavors of unfreedom? What if another kind, in some country across the ocean, is better than ours? What if freedom is just choosing between unfreedoms? Except even that choice doesn’t exist—not for me, not for anyone here. The borders are closed! No planes, no trains… wait, no—the other way around. I waved my hands vaguely. That, Comrade Instructor, is unfreedom squared!

Only after finishing did I notice I’d shoved my chair back and was now standing, probably flushed from the heat of argument—something that, by the way, had never happened to me before.

The instructor looked at me, sharper than ever:

—And why are you so sure these "flavors" differ? Maybe this "unfreedom" is the same everywhere, just like people? Or maybe the borders are closed because the rest of the world is just fear and horror after the wars and explosions—he made a vague gesture—while the Republic is paradise on earth?

—There’s no paradise, I muttered, pressing a hand to my face. And unfreedom isn’t universal, because I refuse to believe any other country has a ruling party so skilled at creating the illusion of opposition and choice. To hell with the party—and the opposition! Wait, no… keep the opposition. Our leader alone is such an unimaginable bastard that—

—Enough! The instructor slammed his palm on the desk, cutting me off mid-thought. My mind, a boiling cauldron, went utterly blank, and I just stood there between the desks like an idiot. This conversation is over. It’s pointless. And only out of kindness—no, curiosity—I won’t make it public. Ah, but personal interaction isn’t encouraged, is it? So, no disclosure. The last part was more to himself. You’re dismissed. He waved a hand.

For the second time, I pushed in that long-suffering chair, slung on my backpack, and headed for the door.

—Oh, and one more thing. The teacher’s voice stopped me halfway. Yes, we really are the people who sold the world. And the beauty of it? You can interpret "world" however you like. He gestured at a small model tank on the shelf. The glorious, mighty language of the Republic, eh? The strange man winked, standing up and pulling out another cigarette.

All I said was "Goodbye," turned the doorknob, and stepped into the hall. After the classroom’s heat and the cloying lilac scent, the corridor’s dampness felt like a breath of fresh air. What an interesting person you are, Comrade Instructor.

As I walked slowly toward the school exit, another acquaintance fell into step beside me—someone who’d been silently observing the whole exchange:

—Another fascinating talk. So, what now?

—Now? I think the instructor was right about one thing. We care too much about what’ll end the same way no matter what—our lives. So now… nothing special. I’ll live, clinging to happiness.

At the word "happiness," my palm tingled. The image of her in my mind burned even brighter. I was spiraling downward faster now, the whirlwind around me roaring louder. But was that so bad?

—Yeah, live, fishing for joy in every day. I pushed open the school’s front door and stepped into the courtyard, flooded with the blazing May sun.

To live for happiness in this world, sold off long before we were even born.