Viktor was angry. Not about the
Politsiya agents pounding at the door. This was an anger that had plagued him
since adolescence - the anger of the escaped sneeze. Born into poverty, the
youngest of nine, Viktor’s childhood possessed few luxuries. His clothes wore
the scars of older brothers; food was scraps he begged for or stole. But one
pleasure, one he didn’t share or fight for, was a pure, free, unstoppable
sneeze. Something he could own. When he’d escaped Siberia’s frozen steppes for
Moscow’s domed cathedrals and mighty processions, to forge and betray
alliances, he’d treated this natural function almost religiously. He’d learned
to slow his breathing, feel the quiver of nostril hairs, savour the explosive
climax.
Now, as an acetylene flame traces a molten rivulet in the steel door,
he remembers a particularly satisfying sneeze at the Bolshoi, sat with the
Kremlin’s elite. A lifetime of memories captured in handkerchiefs. After Viktor
had made millions, then billions, exploiting the Soviet Union’s downfall,
acquiring and bribing, embezzling and defrauding, this simple comfort still
brought such happiness. But it could be stolen. A turn of the head, an
unexpected sound, and the moment was all but lost. He’d discovered that by
closing his eyes and facing the sun, he could often snatch it back from oblivion.
Sometimes his technique failed, and all the wealth that had bought power and
changed nations, crushed royalty and empowered capitalists, he’d trade in an
instant.
So it was that when the Politsiya
broke into Viktor’s panic room, they found Siberia’s richest man, surrounded by
Picassos and antique Qingbai wares, Brancusi sculptures and gold-plated AK47s, stood,
staring blindly at a fluorescent strip light, desperately searching for that
one pleasure that beat them all, the one craving his wealth could never
satiate, the power of the sneeze.
* * *
Flash Fiction - 300 words.
