The Observer Effect. November 2

In the afternoon, they went to the gompa — a small local monastery clinging to the cliff face like a wasp’s nest.

The road to it led steeply upward, past stupas draped in faded flags and flat stones carved with mantras. Inside, it smelled of yak butter, juniper, and centuries. In the half-light of the main hall, lit only by narrow windows beneath the ceiling, statues of deities gleamed dully with gold — many-armed, wrathful, and serene. Their faces, veiled in shadow, seemed to watch the newcomers with an inhuman calm. On the walls were rows of prayer flags, faded to near transparency, and murals where the colors had long ago bled into a single ochre palette. In the corner sat a bronze drum, upon which a local was softly beating a rhythm resembling a heartbeat.

Dmitry Stanislavovich and Natalya Sergeevna walked around the hall in reverent whispers, consulting the guidebook and trying to read the names on the thangkas — ancient scrolls depicting scenes from the lives of saints. Sergey photographed everything on his phone, complaining that it was too dark without a flash. Polina just stood in the middle of the hall, feeling the weight of this ancient, alien faith pressing down on her. She didn’t just feel like a stranger here — she felt transparent, insubstantial.

When they stepped back out into the blinding light, Alexey fell into step beside her.

“I noticed you have a book,” he said quietly, barely parting his lips. “Are you reading it?”

Polina started in surprise.

“I brought it for the trip. My grandfather wrote it.”

Alexey was surprised, even stopping for a moment.

“Your grandfather? I’ve read that book. I really liked it.”

“In my youth, I also thought it was something special,” Polina replied. “Now I see it differently. My mother told me that grandfather wanted to write a screenplay after watching some Chinese movie. He thought about it for a few years, and then suddenly wrote the first ‘micro-novel,’ then the second, and then the third — literally in a couple of months, as if someone was dictating to him.”

Alexey nodded, looking off toward the snow-capped peaks.

“May I borrow it to read? Maybe I’ll look at it differently now, too. When I read it, for some reason, I imagined my grandfather in the place of one of the characters. He was in science, physics. And then, after a few strange incidents, he dropped everything and withdrew into himself.”

He fell silent, then added with a wry smile:

“I suppose we don’t choose our paths; our paths choose us.”

At that moment, they were approached by the village elder, Tashi-Tobgyal — a tall, withered old man with a face like a baked apple. Trotting beside him was a huge, shaggy dog resembling a bear cub. Padma was holding onto its tail like a rope, giggling.

The elder began to speak, helping himself along with gestures. Natalya Sergeevna, peering into the phrasebook, translated with pauses:

“He says… on the television… they are reporting strange things. All over the world… communications failures. And their TV is acting up, even though it’s new. Sometimes… instead of a color picture… it’s black and white. And sometimes the screen just… fades.”

As he spoke, the dog suddenly froze. The hackles on its neck stood on end. It growled low in its throat, staring into the void, and then, bolting from its spot, dashed somewhere down the trail with loud, panicked barks. Padma was about to dart after it, but the elder stopped her with an authoritative gesture.

“He says… stay with the white people,” translated Natalya Sergeevna. “They will take you home. He’ll find the dog himself.”

The old man nodded to them, turned around, and with a swift stride that belied his age, strode down the trail following the barking, which grew further and fainter until it died away completely. Padma obediently remained beside them, but kept looking in the direction the dog had run. Her face was grave and guarded.

November 2 →
← A Road of a Thousand Years
← Paths
← The River