#I was surprised though given the kettle situation in the Uk | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

anncanta · 2 years

Text

Euphoria. Part 1. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Score. Agogics

A score is a musical notation of a polyphonic musical work intended for performance by an ensemble, choir, or orchestra, in which all parts (voices) are given one above the other in a certain order.

Agogics (from Ancient Greek ἀγωγή – ‘withdrawal, entrainment’), in musical performing arts – small deviations (decelerations, accelerations) from tempo and meter, subordinate to the goals of artistic expressiveness.

Benedict dressed slowly, as always after the session, allowing his thoughts to wander calmly and relaxed, not dwelling on anything. Picking up a crumpled shirt from the floor, he grunted, looking at it, and going to the cupboard built into one of the walls just for such an occasion, opened it and, thinking for a moment, pulled out a simple white sweater. Not that it was an ideal solution, but taking into account the fact that no new meetings are expected today, was probably suitable. Nodding contentedly to himself, Benedict threw the sweater on the bed and closed the cupboard.

Sitting half an hour later in his office for a cup of tea, Benedict mentally returned to a recent conversation with Edward Ettinger.

He liked Edward. Not only because with such fury bordering on fanaticism, Edward defended Linda Silverton, whom Benedict himself, like any of his clients in a similar situation, would defend to the end, using any means available to him, but because Edward, unlike many of those who could be in his place, found in himself the ability to listen and hear.

Benedict leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, recalling their conversation again.

...‘And yet it’s hard for me to imagine that …’ Edward fidgeted in his chair and shook his head, ‘that no matter who, especially a man, can do what you do.’

Benedict smiled.

‘You will be surprised how many young people actually aspire to this profession – most often, due to the banal ignorance of its realities or just vanity. Although, mainly, of course, due to lack of money.’ Benedict reached out for the cup and grabbed it with his fingers. ‘Look at statistics for the UK.’

‘I'm not sure I need it,’ Edward muttered, in his turn sipping fragrant tea. ‘But for you, it seems that none of this is a problem?’

Benedict was silent for a moment.

‘Money, to one degree or another, is a problem for everyone, and those who say otherwise are most often cunning. But yes, I do not do this art for the sake of earning.’

The word ‘art’, flew off Benedict’s lips with such ease as if he was talking about a musical group or dramatic production, a bright butterfly flashed in silence, making Edward startle.

‘You are in prostitution,’ he said very slowly.

‘Exactly so,’ Benedict confirmed.

‘And you call it art,’ Edward said with uncertainty.

‘More or less,’ smiled Benedict. ‘I would say that the word ‘art’ for me is closest to what I do, but if someone can find a more correct term, I will be glad to use it.’

If so far Edward was able to restrain himself, then this seemed to be the last straw.

‘How can you feel so comfortable selling your body?’ Straightening upright in an armchair and setting aside the cup, he rapped out.

‘I am not selling my body,’ Benedict didn’t react at all to this flash, as if not noticing it. ‘I do what I like.’

‘Is that a way to pick up women?’

Benedict burst out laughing.

‘Oh yeah. Ineffective, though, given the fact that I reject ninety percent of the profiles that come to my mail.’

‘And still, there are enough of them,’ Edward reached for the kettle and poured himself tea; he was already ashamed of his intemperance.

‘For work,’ Benedict stood up and, pressing the apparatus button on the table, said, ‘Mary, bring more milk oolong, please.’

‘What bothers you?’ He gave a short look to the embarrassed Edward and added, ‘My relations with clients are absolutely voluntary.’

‘Why are you rejecting so many profiles?’ Edward muttered, clearly not wanting to go into the details of his own condition. ‘Do you choose the best?’

‘Sifting out those I can't help,’ Benedict corrected. ‘Women go to escort services for various reasons,’ he explained, seeing that Edward was looking at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Some are out of boredom, others out of a desire to prove something to themselves, others in search of a convenient sex toy. None of them is my clients.’

‘Because –’

‘Because their requests are not to do with sexuality,’ Benedict smiled.

‘I do not –’

‘Mr Ettinger, why do you think my schedule is completed a month in advance?’ Benedict raised his head and, nodding to Mary, who entered the room with a new tray of tea, again turned to him, ‘Any ideas?’

‘I don’t know, probably there's a lot of people who want to,’ Edward muttered wearily.

‘Well, sort of,’ Benedict laughed. ‘But in fact, everything is much more prosaic. The fact is that I work with no more than one client once a week, and this is the maximum that I and they can stand.’

‘Why?’

Benedict was silent for a moment and then pointed to the folder that Edward was holding in his hands.

‘That is why. When I was just starting to work, as I already told you, my assistant and I managed to make as many mistakes as they could be made. But the main one was that we had too little idea who we had to work with. We did many things intuitively, agreeing to proposals that then turned into difficulties not so much for us as for girls, and at some point, I realized that this should be stopped.’

‘And you came up with?.’ Edward also glanced at the folder.

‘No, this is my assistant`s idea. Once, after another dubious incident, he said that the only way not to make mistakes is to try to learn as much as possible about the girls. Compile a dossier on them, for example. Of course, it was a joke, but I liked the idea. After the girl sends an application by mail and fills out all the necessary documents on the site – and among them, as you may have noticed, there is not only a profile with a list of personal preferences (with the light hand of the same my assistant, in the second or third week of work we began to call it a rider) and a kind of autobiography, but also tests for psychological stability, and a medical record – if all the papers are filled out correctly and nothing in them raised questions, my assistant and I decided to invite the girl to the interview.

Edward gasped.

‘Don`t you dare –’

‘Indeed,’ Benedict watched with pleasure his reaction. ‘And, I can say that five months after the start of this practice, the number of women dissatisfied with our work fell to almost zero.’

‘Sounds like a commercial offer from some IT company,’ Edward said wearily.

‘So it is,’ Benedict laughed. ‘I make an offer to women, and they must decide whether they are ready to work with me or not. If I do not find some things out right away, then we will all have problems. And a few unpleasant minutes that I will have to go through if a woman whom I did not bother to learn as much as possible, including – before agreeing on a session, meeting her in person – will leave in the middle of the session or throw something in my face, cannot be compared with the probability of getting a psychological trauma of being fucked by an indifferent and rude stranger.’

Edward thought for a moment.

‘Isn't that what they want? I mean,’ he thoughtfully rubbed his nose and squinted at his cup of tea, but didn’t drink, ‘isn`t that why they come: anonymous sex, someone they know nothing about, complete freedom and no questions on no one's side?

Benedict shrugged.

‘Just like in the case of money, it almost never happens that no one has any questions. Even if you tell someone, even a prostitute, that you just want to have a good time, or just realize old fantasies, or just be a passive partner, on whom nothing depends, it is not at all necessary that you say it to yourself.’

Edward nodded slowly.

‘But you have a very dangerous job then.’

‘Incredibly dangerous,’ Benedict smiled. ‘But I can handle it.’

‘There is no doubt,’ Edward finally relaxed and, throwing a folder on a table next to him, reached for tea.

…

The sound of the door opening distracted Benedict from his thoughts. Raising his head, he greeted the tall young man with curly red hair who had appeared on the threshold.

‘You're late today.’

‘I knew that you were working,’ the young man went into the office and, sitting in a chair by the table, asked with a smile, ‘So. How did it go?’

Benedict closed his eyes lazily.

‘I suppose you're not talking about a client.’

‘Of course,’ the sly physiognomy, in whose features joyful impudence and mild shyness blended (a cocktail to those who knew the young man recently made a truly overwhelming impression – fortunately, not to Benedict), blossomed with self-righteous delight. ‘How exactly did you neutralize him? Ettinger, I mean. I want to know.’

‘Tony, I didn’t neutralize him,’ Benedict opened his eyes and looked tiredly at his friend. ‘We pretty easily found a common language. By the way,’ he interrupted himself, suddenly remembering something, ‘Mary asked me to clarify how your name is spelt,’ he looked at his vis-a-vis merrily and did not hide the gloating. ‘She's not sure she understood correctly.’

‘The problem with new secretaries is always the same,’ Tony pretended to sigh, ‘They all have to be taught.’ Reaching out to the telephone on the table, he pressed the button and said, without changing his tone, ‘F, a, k, – Fak – remember, Mary, and don’t ask again. No, not u, but a,’ with a slightly more irritated tone than the one required to believe in his seriousness, he added. ‘Yes thank you.’

After listening to the secretary's inconsistent comments, which could be either words of gratitude or an expression of extreme embarrassment, Tony pressed the end button.

‘Are you happy?’ looking at Benedict, he asked.

‘Quite happy,’ Benedict answered with a grin and stretched out with pleasure. ‘Consider yourself rehabilitated.’

Tony chuckled indignantly.

‘So much noise, and all because I was mistaken with the secretary.’

‘You were not mistaken with the secretary,’ Benedict corrected, ‘you hired a girl who had no idea what she would have to do. For what I had to go through during our first meeting when she burst into tears and tried to assure me that she never had a desire to work in a brothel, you should have been forced to pay with something more substantial than a couple of uncomfortable situations like this,’ Benedict nodded to the phone. ‘But I am a very kind person.’

Tony smiled.

‘You must agree, she's perfect.’

‘Because she didn't send you to hell? She simply believes that you are already punished enough, given the last name you have. And I completely agree – with her – to reward you with another fuck would be cruel.’

‘You two just cannot appreciate the subtlety and depth of my nature,’ Tony pouted.

‘Sure,’ smiled Benedict. ‘And we definitely intend to continue to remain as deaf to the manifestations of your high spirit. What do we have for tomorrow?’ he asked, changing the subject.

Tony shrugged.

‘The usual. I have selected several candidates for you, you’ll see them in the morning. I don’t know about you, but I would take everyone.’

‘You would, if it were your will, make me have everything that moves,’ muttered Benedict. ‘And I still have lectures.’

‘The lectures can wait,’ Tony answered with dignity.

‘If I obey your advice, their turn will never come,’ Benedict said sceptically. ‘By the way, in the morning I have two then.’

‘Whatever you want, boss,’ his friend answered complaisantly. ‘Meet me after lunch. I will ask Mary to print all the documents by then. What to do with the dossier of Linda Silverton?’

Benedict, tossing cigarettes and a lighter into a drawer, looked briefly at Tony.

‘To the archive. However, no,’ he thought. ‘No. Better collect all the materials and send her a courier. The electronic version – delete.’

‘It will be done,’ Tony smiled. He watched as Benedict left the table and, having thrown on a light summer jacket, goes to the door. ‘Still, they are damn lucky with you,’ he said thoughtfully.

Benedict raised his head.

‘I would rather say that I am lucky with them,’ he said calmly. ‘But, in the end, it's just a matter of point of view.’

Friendly nodding to Tony goodbye, he turned and left.

***

Dean of Psychology, School of Arts and Social Sciences, City University of London, Konrad Dieterich, stood at the window in his office and reflected on the vicissitudes of fate.

Fortunately, there were not so many vicissitudes that it was worth falling into despondency because of them.

Dieterich ran a hand over the glass and sighed, watching the tall figure of a blond-haired young man in a brown sweatshirt slowly crossing the courtyard. Suddenly, as if sensing that he was being watched, the young man raised his head and, finding Dieterich`s eyes through the window of the head office of the college, smiled cheerfully and waved his hand. Conrad kindly nodded, making it clear that he had noticed the gesture, and took a step back into the cool darkness of his refuge. Sitting at the table, he tried to put his thoughts in order. Here is a vicissitude that you cannot just take and set aside, he pondered. Something needs to be decided.

But what?

When a few days ago, one of his students in a casual tone, as if they were talking about something ordinary and not worth special attention, told him that the professor of psychology at the School of Arts and Social Sciences, Benedict Terrington, PhD, runs an escort agency, in which he himself is the only employee, so, he is engaged... provides... uses... In this place, Dieterich’s thoughts stopped, giving way to emotions that were violent and uncontrollable.

A teacher at his college is engaged in prostitution. Conrad took a deep breath and exhaled, feeling very relieved. Saying these words at least to yourself, formulating clearly the essence of the incident, which haunted him and ruined the rest of the weekend on the eve of the start of the school year, was itself a step forward. Alas, so far the only one: Dieterich had absolutely no idea what to do next and how to behave taking into account the information that was revealed. There was no opportunity to fire Terrington without giving reasons, firstly, because of the need to subsequently solve problems already with the legislation and unions, and secondly, simply because …

Dieterich took a pause at this thought. Just because he didn’t want to fire him. Suddenly coming to the conclusion, which, in truth, for a rather long time he tried not to let into his consciousness, either out of fear to feel incompetent, or simply not wanting to look too sentimental in his own eyes, he smiled. Whatever the reasons, the fact remained: he did not want to fire Benedict Terrington and intended to do everything in his power to prevent this from happening. On the other hand, it flashed through Dieterich’s head, perhaps, nothing would have to be done. Terrington was an excellent teacher, the university leadership had no complaints about him, and what he did in his spare time was none of anyone else`s business.

What, then, made Dieterich sit here and suffer for the past hour in doubt? What made him call Benedict and ask him to come, although there was still at least two weeks before the start of classes, and even more so until his own schedule became finally known? Separate classes with an additional group could not be considered, it was the initiative of Benedict and his students since last year. It was difficult for Dieterich to admit to himself such a weakness but he still had to do it – to be completely honest, he was simply curious.

He leaned back in his chair and looked at the massive oak door, from behind which the subject of his intense thoughts would soon appear.

Benedict Terrington was one of the young teachers who came to the faculty eight years ago, when, as a result of the internal reform of the university, its staff was almost completely changed within a very short time. Strictly speaking, of the newcomers, Benedict was the eldest. Making a decision on an experiment, Dieterich, who had just got the Dean’s position that year, recruited brumbies, active doctoral students, who he hoped could find a common language with the students quite better than their retiring colleagues, and among these new people, the youngest of whom was barely twenty-five, the thirty-year-old Benedict Terrington seemed almost a solid adult researcher.

Which he wasn't, by the way.

Well, no, he was the researcher, and not bad, that wasn't a problem.

Dieterich sighed again and reached for a glass of water, standing next to him on the table. After taking a few leisurely sips and putting the glass back in place, he again looked thoughtfully at the door. As far as he knew Benedict Terrington, his research talent, leading the students he taught regularly to the top or, on the contrary, at the very bottom of the university’s academic rating, could easily lead him anywhere, even if most people would be uncomfortable, awkward, strange and lonely in such a place. Especially if that was the case. In this sense, one was not surprised at the fact that Benedict had another profession. And even what kind of profession it turned out did not play such a significant role as ... Dieterich thought about it.

‘Benedict, tell me, you deliberately put the leadership of the faculty and those you teach in a position where it is impossible to close your eyes to what you do for a living except teaching and at the same time to show that we know it makes us unceremonious and rude?’ Conrad was surprised at the relief that gripped him when a question that haunted him for the past few days finally reached the ears of his addressee, which had just appeared at the door.

‘I love it when you think out loud,’ Benedict gave Dieterich a cheerful smile and, obeying his inviting gesture, went inside.

‘If it will go on like this, I would need the help of specialists,’ Dieterich sighed, pointing Benedict to the chair by the table. ‘And the faculty will remain without a leader at the very beginning of the year.’

‘Thank you, Professor Dieterich,’ Benedict sat in the soft velvet seat and asked as if nothing had happened, ‘It was Andy Thornton, I suppose?’

‘Yes,’ Dieterich nodded. ‘But it does not matter. What is important is what should we do and how we will get out if the rector finds out about all this.’

‘We?’ Benedict raised his eyebrows.

‘Don`t you think I will leave you alone to deal with this?’ Dieterich grimaced angrily and tapped his fingers nervously on the table. ‘So, what are your suggestions?’

‘None,’ Benedict spread his hands. ‘Do you think they are needed?’

‘Terrington,’ the Dean looked reproachfully at Benedict, ‘be serious. You perfectly understand what will happen when the rumours about your hobby go beyond the faculty.’

Benedict shrugged.

‘Firstly, this is not a hobby,’ he said calmly, ‘and secondly, there are enough people outside this faculty who know what I am doing.’

‘Your clients,’ Dieterich could not resist.

‘First of all,’ Benedict smiled. ‘But besides them, believe me, there are enough witnesses. In order to prevent information from spreading, I would have to kill a dozen or two of my friends. And this is not counting those who visit my site on the internet daily.’

‘Are you working under your own name?’ Out of surprise, Dieterich even forgot about what made him start this conversation.

Benedict's silent nod was his answer.

‘What for?’ moaned Dieterich. ‘No, don’t tell me,’ he immediately interrupted his colleague who opened his mouth, ‘I value my mental health.’

‘Don`t be so upset, Conrad,’ Benedict smiled again, ‘believe me if you had at least one reason to do this, I myself would have written a letter of resignation a few years ago. But – I don’t know, for the better or not – nobody really cares.

‘There are rumours among students!’

‘There are always rumours among students,’ Benedict shrugged. ‘This does not mean that my or someone else's life should depend on it. Please calm down,’ he added, seeing that Dieterich was trying to say something else, ‘people tend to exaggerate the importance of things that are not really worth a damn. If you do not encourage them in this, they will soon forget about me.’

‘Forget about you, yes,’ grumbled Dieterich. ‘The third-year student – not Andy Thornton – asked me today whether it is true that one of the teachers in our faculty is a prostitute, and does this mean that he is conducting psychological research while working in a brothel undercover?’ he said wearily.

‘Hustler,’ said Benedict.

‘What?’ did not understand Dieterich.

‘Hustler,’ his interlocutor repeated clearly and with the same calm expression on his face.

‘What is this?’ Dieterich felt that he began to get tired of all these new terms and details.

‘A hustler is a slang word meaning a man who is engaged in prostitution, mainly working on the street and not too picky about clients,’ Benedict politely explained. ‘I use this term because it is convenient for dispelling some romantic illusions, which my clients sometimes still have.’

‘Hustler,’ Dieterich said slowly. ‘Hustler. Is this word written on your business card?’ He asked kindly.

‘Of course,’ Benedict answered. ‘And on my site, and in the contract that I sigh with women who come to me. Isn't that logical?’

‘It is,’ Dieterich nodded and suddenly burst out laughing. ‘Terrington, I should hand you over to the police,’ he said with a laugh. ‘For violation of the university charter and encroachment on public morality.’

‘You're too smart for that,’ Benedict answered with a smile. ‘But even if someone else were you in your place, it would not work. Because …’

‘Because to be engaged into a discussion with you …’ Dieterich waved his hand tiredly. ‘One wouldn`t ruin their peace of mind.’

‘That's it. Actually, Dean,’ Benedict’s eyes flashed knowingly, ‘I came to you to say that if my assumptions are correct, this year I will have two first courses.’

‘Yes,’ his counterpart nodded. ‘And I am already afraid of their mental health.’

‘Don`t be,’ Benedict laughed. ‘It seems that during the time that we work together, you could be sure that I am not involved in poaching,’ he said, rising. ‘Even when it comes to piranhas.’

‘Especially when it comes to piranhas,’ the Dean answered with an affirmative shake of his head. ‘But I'm worried anyway.’

‘Treat this as the cost of your work,’ Benedict winked cheerfully at him and added, heading for the door, ‘and do not listen to those who haven`t drunk the kool-aid yet. I am sure that even without you they have someone to train their uncompromising attitude.’

With these words, he took on the door handle and, once again smiling at his Dean, went out.

Dieterich carefully watched him go and sighed. The year would seem to be interesting.

However, as always.

#euphoria #my original fiction #my original characters #my original writing #Benedict Terrington

0 notes