raining. Whenever it rained at Saint Anselm, there would be small puddles everywhere from the holes in the roof. On Father Klimsov’s desk, a tin bucket was half filled with water.
“Pyotr, this is Dr. Tretiak,” said Father Klimsov as he stepped into his office.
After more than six years at Saint Anselm, it was his first time in Father Klimsov’s office.
Pyotr didn’t like Father Klimsov. He was an obese, cruel old man.
“Dr. Tretiak is the president of Moscow Technological Institute. It is the most prestigious educational institution in all of the Soviet—I mean, in all of Russia.”
Tretiak had a kind smile on his face. He extended his hand to shake Pyotr’s, but Pyotr did not return the gesture.
“I heard you were shy,” said Tretiak, laughing. “It’s all right. I don’t bite.”
“Dr. Tretiak brings good news,” said Klimsov.
“Yes, Father,” said Pyotr.
“You have been granted entrance to Moscow Technological Institute,” said Klimsov. “Next fall, you shall move to Moscow.”
“You’re a very smart young man,” said Tretiak. “But then, you know that already, don’t you?”
Pyotr didn’t move, but not because he was scared, or rude, or indifferent. Instead, it was because he was transfixed by the sight of an object on Klimsov’s desk.
“Yes, I know,” said Pyotr, staring at the object.
“What do we say when someone compliments us, Pyotr?” asked Father Klimsov.
Pyotr didn’t look at Klimsov or Dr. Tretiak; instead, his eyes remained fixed on the thing on Klimsov’s desk.
“It’s not a compliment if it’s the truth,” said Pyotr.
* * *
That night, after curfew, Pyotr snuck into Father Klimsov’s office, where he turned on the computer, only to be thwarted by its demand for a password. It took almost a month’s worth of nights for Pyotr to guess it. But once he did, it was like stepping out of a cave and suddenly seeing the world for what it was. He read and read and read for what seemed like forever, newspapers and magazines from all over the world. He stared mesmerized at photos of places he had never heard of. And then, at some point, at the sight of an error screen, he went behind the Web site into its code base. He studied it for hours, then returned a night later and studied it more, going back and forth between the code and the Web site. He could never explain what happened then, but one night, at the sight of the white screen filled with meaningless symbols, words, and spaces, he suddenly felt it all coalesce. He could see vague outlines in the code of what was being created visually. Soon, he could pore over a wall of computer code and know exactly what would be created by its code.
Within a few months, Pyotr taught himself enough programming to hack into the Union Bank of Sevastopol, where he established a bank account and then stole $25,000 from an account inside the bank. He used the money to buy a laptop computer and a wireless router, which he arranged to have delivered to the post office down the street from the orphanage. After splicing the Internet cable that came into the building, he added the router to the orphanage’s dusty utilities closet. It was his escape hatch. Every night, he climbed through it, venturing out into a world beyond Saint Anselm by the Sea, beyond Sevastopol, beyond the shores of a country that had bequeathed to him a destroyed and hateful heart.
Sascha was the only person in the world who knew him from the orphanage. Sascha was the only one who knew the truth about Cloud’s father. That he hadn’t killed himself. That an American had done it, a man with a scar.
He trusted him because when you are orphans together, something happens between you that is stronger even than the ties of siblings. It is what you have when you combine self-hatred and anger, when violence and deceit are inflicted upon you at the youngest of ages; it is the feeling of trying to scratch an itch that will never go away, the itch that is
“Pyotr, this is Dr. Tretiak,” said Father Klimsov as he stepped into his office.
After more than six years at Saint Anselm, it was his first time in Father Klimsov’s office.
Pyotr didn’t like Father Klimsov. He was an obese, cruel old man.
“Dr. Tretiak is the president of Moscow Technological Institute. It is the most prestigious educational institution in all of the Soviet—I mean, in all of Russia.”
Tretiak had a kind smile on his face. He extended his hand to shake Pyotr’s, but Pyotr did not return the gesture.
“I heard you were shy,” said Tretiak, laughing. “It’s all right. I don’t bite.”
“Dr. Tretiak brings good news,” said Klimsov.
“Yes, Father,” said Pyotr.
“You have been granted entrance to Moscow Technological Institute,” said Klimsov. “Next fall, you shall move to Moscow.”
“You’re a very smart young man,” said Tretiak. “But then, you know that already, don’t you?”
Pyotr didn’t move, but not because he was scared, or rude, or indifferent. Instead, it was because he was transfixed by the sight of an object on Klimsov’s desk.
“Yes, I know,” said Pyotr, staring at the object.
“What do we say when someone compliments us, Pyotr?” asked Father Klimsov.
Pyotr didn’t look at Klimsov or Dr. Tretiak; instead, his eyes remained fixed on the thing on Klimsov’s desk.
“It’s not a compliment if it’s the truth,” said Pyotr.
* * *
That night, after curfew, Pyotr snuck into Father Klimsov’s office, where he turned on the computer, only to be thwarted by its demand for a password. It took almost a month’s worth of nights for Pyotr to guess it. But once he did, it was like stepping out of a cave and suddenly seeing the world for what it was. He read and read and read for what seemed like forever, newspapers and magazines from all over the world. He stared mesmerized at photos of places he had never heard of. And then, at some point, at the sight of an error screen, he went behind the Web site into its code base. He studied it for hours, then returned a night later and studied it more, going back and forth between the code and the Web site. He could never explain what happened then, but one night, at the sight of the white screen filled with meaningless symbols, words, and spaces, he suddenly felt it all coalesce. He could see vague outlines in the code of what was being created visually. Soon, he could pore over a wall of computer code and know exactly what would be created by its code.
Within a few months, Pyotr taught himself enough programming to hack into the Union Bank of Sevastopol, where he established a bank account and then stole $25,000 from an account inside the bank. He used the money to buy a laptop computer and a wireless router, which he arranged to have delivered to the post office down the street from the orphanage. After splicing the Internet cable that came into the building, he added the router to the orphanage’s dusty utilities closet. It was his escape hatch. Every night, he climbed through it, venturing out into a world beyond Saint Anselm by the Sea, beyond Sevastopol, beyond the shores of a country that had bequeathed to him a destroyed and hateful heart.
Sascha was the only person in the world who knew him from the orphanage. Sascha was the only one who knew the truth about Cloud’s father. That he hadn’t killed himself. That an American had done it, a man with a scar.
He trusted him because when you are orphans together, something happens between you that is stronger even than the ties of siblings. It is what you have when you combine self-hatred and anger, when violence and deceit are inflicted upon you at the youngest of ages; it is the feeling of trying to scratch an itch that will never go away, the itch that is
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