Red dwarf

*  Перевод на английский язык моего  рассказа "Красный Карлик. Эволюция звезд"

Оригинал на русском языке здесь:
http://stihi.ru/2025/11/25/5619


The long stage career of Mafusa;l Fedorovich was coming to an end.

Age and the stage make an intriguing pair.

He grumbles, urging her to quit the career at last and go treat the osteoarthritis.

She preens (acts younger), tries to turn the heads of young rakes, and is absolutely convinced that old age has nothing to do with her.
He had gone all the way—from a smiling supplicant to a pop star—acquiring connections, crafting an image, gaining a couple of generations of loyal fans, and developing such a deep aversion to the underbelly of the music world that it finally hardened into a permanent immunity.
Having reached the summit, she looks into the black mirror of truth, painfully realizing that what stares back is something quite different from her girlish dreams on the morning of her life.
M.F. often drank vodka alone, scratching his scalp crusted with dandruff. He recalled his eternally young pals who had crashed against this life — as well as those who had jumped off the artistic stage in time, dissolving into the vast ocean of reality…
One of them had vanished for good into the Altai taiga, to his grandfather’s remote hunter’s cabin near Listvyanka. There he hunted sables and martens, and once even joined the men from a neighboring village on a winter bear hunt…
Mafusail poured himself another shot, slowly drinking himself into numbness.
Vodka brought him a peculiar kind of comfort whenever his thoughts drifted back to his childhood friends — now deputies and other triumphant figures of the perestroika era. From the murky depths of his not-so-distant past, there rose scenes of riotous revelry at the birthday of one such favoured son of fortune, held at his ancestral estate of Pustodeevo. In the youth of that once spry fellow Pustodeevo had been little more than an abandoned settlement — and has remained so ever since.

In later years, having attained everything a man could want, he raised an actual palace on the outskirts of the settlement. It became his habit — his little quirk — to invite celebrities there and pay them astronomical fees merely for the sake of entertainment. He fancied himself a patron of the arts and gladly supported creative souls, Methuselah Fedorych among them.
Ah, money… the more of it a man has, the more indispensable it becomes. And so Methuselah would gather his troupe and set off to pay his respects, to bear witness — and, of course, to partake in the grand celebration of life. This celebration stretched for an entire week and featured vodka fountains, naked ladies drenched in chocolate, and a performance delivered in nothing but his well-worn underpants, amidst a grove of real palm trees in the magnate’s private conservatory.


Outside, a severe frosty night pressed against the windows, yet the star-spattered sky was invisible from within: the glass reflected only the palms, the spotlights of the improvised stage, and the wavering flames of a thousand candles, obligingly held by footmen costumed in authentic eighteenth-century livery.


Inside reigned tastelessness, vulgarity, and the stomach-turning opulence of the old reprobate who owned the place — a man the guests fawned over and from whom they ceaselessly begged for money, for he never refused.

On such thoughts he would drift, pleasantly tipsy, in the evening after yet another exhausting concert.
The years of stage activity brought Methuselah Fedorovich steady fame and the image of the leader of the national idea. His poems were read by a generation of contemporaries, published abroad and self-published at home, as in the 90s, and also sung to the same vodka in many Russian home kitchens around the world.
The new generation, however, no longer entered into his songs, as well as into everything else that made up the meaning of the previous era. And it was clear that the end of his career would have purely demographic and biological reasons.
But this did not change the current orbit of MF in any way. Tours, endless shifts of jazzmen, frontman debugging, set lists, tinkering with producers, soundchecks, as well as an entourage of helpful crooks serving all this - the obligatory companions of any brightly burning pop star.
Age… Your inner fuel runs low, the temperature of inspiration drops fast — and here you are, a star that now glows only with the fading red light of its former potential. And in the hundreds of orbits around you drift the fragments of your youth — the pop-trickster promoters, comrades, friends and foes — and the countless asteroids of your fans, long stripped of their faces and no longer respected, though it is they who have carried you through your comfortable life.
And with all that emotional cargo on his back, Methuselah Fedorovich sat drinking vodka alone in his vast, opulent hotel suite, late in the evening after yet another concert of the tour.
He kept drinking, ignoring the insistence knocking at the door. It was well past midnight — who could possibly be visiting at this hour? He had strength left only to pour and swallow. He ignored the knocking; it came again.
To the great annoyance of the star — dazed and half-feral from fatigue and vodka — the door opened a crack without permission, and a long, politely intrusive nose slid inside. It belonged to Misha Teufel, the fixer-in-chief (handler-in-chief, the man who ran everything), the man in command of the endless service crew and the stern gatekeeper who kept all uninvited petitioners at bay.
Methuselah pried his sticky eyes open a little wider and finally called out:
— Mishanya, come in. What’s happened?
Teufel slipped through the door, adjusted his glasses on the intelligent bridge of his nose and whispered:
— Methuselah Fedorovich, there’s a situation… It really can’t be postponed… Such a fabulous offer that, fully aware of how inappropriate this is, I still dared to disturb you… Believe me, it’s worth it… Just take a look at the contract… Five minutes of your time… And a signature, if you would be so kind…
— Mishanya, stop dithering. What is it? Just say it.
— Methuselah Fedorovich, it’s a proposal from Zvyagintsev. In N-burg he’s asking to add a young performer to the program. You do remember him — an exceptionally talented lad, a warm heart, a fine musician and a decent fellow. Young, yes, but sharp. Petrusha Zvyagintsev — his son, that is…
Teufel hurried on:
— Well, Methuselah Fedorovich, you and I understand how things are… One must make room for the young… Here, please have a look — the Zvyagintsev clan is offering money… eye-watering sums … Joint tours with the young talent… and after that — a well-deserved rest… Or however you choose to see it. I only mean — you’ll make the right decision…
He faltered, then added:
— For instance, today only half the hall was filled… No, the audience did warm up, they stood, everything was brilliant, as always with you… But still, my dear sir, one has to think about what comes next…
Sensing his boss’s irritation, Teufel hurried on:
— Well — tomorrow, tomorrow! We’ll discuss it tomorrow after lunch, if now is not the right time!
— Mishanya, why the hell did you barge in at night with this nonsense? I remember that idiot. He never hit a note in his life. A moron — Zvyagintsev’s creature. God, how I despise the whole lot of them!
Methuselah Fedorovich actually felt a surge of strength from his righteous anger. But he did not take it out on the lackey. He poured himself another shot and knocked it back in one gulp.
— Go, Mishanya. Get some rest. Let’s sleep on it. Tomorrow, tomorrow… Out of my sight.

And Methuselah Fedorovich was left alone again. He looked himself over in the too-honest palace mirror opposite him. The bags under his eyes, the sagging face, and the swollen fingers filled their owner with a sharp mix of pity and disgust. Damn this old age! And he poured himself another shot.
The next morning he woke early, against the natural order of things. He got up at once and began pacing the room nervously. Then he started making calls — bargaining, arguing, shouting into the phone — and finally hurled it into a corner.
The indestructible phone model withstood yet another outburst of the star’s rage. Misha Teufel knew exactly what kind of tech to buy for his boss.
At noon Teufel himself slipped in with a cup of coffee. M.F. said flatly that there would be no contract. Confusion flickered across Mishanya’s face; he went pale with the surge of feeling and grew so drawn that nothing seemed to remain of him but his nosy, probing nose, framed by the thin wire of expensive glasses…
It was a refusal no one in the tightly linked chain of people bound by the logic of backroom loyalties had expected. An irrational, impulsive decision. One that violated all the unwritten laws of that world. But M.F. was perfectly calm and unyielding.

After a short vacation in warmer climes, spent in the company of two young escorts — whom, however, M.F. did not once visit in their luxurious suite with its enormous grand piano — the pop star returned to his duties.
On the morning of the first day of the next tour, his heart suddenly clenched with a frightening, aching tightness, and pain flooded his mind.

M.F. demanded his drops — or whatever it was the doctor had prescribed. The medicine helped; the pain eased, though a dreadful weakness remained in his legs.
Before the concert, in the dressing room, they were dressing him in red with bells — some sort of fantastical outfit dreamt up by one of his sleepless image-makers. The mirrors reflected him without mercy: a pale, bloated face slick with cold sweat.
He took the guitar in his hands, gently ran his stiff fingers over the strings, glanced at the set list, understood which song he was to sing first, and stepped onto the stage.
The hall greeted him as one. The concert began.
During the third song his heart seized again with a sudden pain; his voice weakened, and he staggered. The musicians, sensing something was wrong, turned up the volume and slipped into an improvisation, making it seem as though the break in the song had been planned as part of the staging…
He barely dragged himself through to the end of the concert on autopilot, drawing on decades of stage habit: sipping water laced with heart drops, taking breaks, playing and singing almost in a whisper the old songs — songs of youth, the warmest ones, the ones that mattered most to the people in the hall.
Looking  into the hall, he saw only a blurred sea of light reflected off faces, in which it seemed that the sounds of music, the words, and he himself were all drowning…

The hall was calling for an encore; flowers flew, people were climbing onto the stage to shake his hand, but the guards on duty were none too gentle as they shoved the eager ones back into the hall.

Toward the end, the fire-starters in the front rows led the way — the hall rose to its feet, swaying, singing along, chanting the choruses of familiar hits…
A success! Then the audience began calling out song titles — and he obediently sang that one, now without the orchestra, seated on a plain chair someone had brought out, not part of the stage inventory…
At times he dropped to a whisper, as if pleading with space itself for a miracle, for a glimpse of a truth that had eluded him for years — dissolving into the cosmic void, freezing in the black, soulless mirrors of the watching world.
Mr. Zvyagintsev was sitting  in the second row, his face set in stone. Methuselah Fedorovich, however, failed to pick him out of the crowd — his eyesight had long since deteriorated. So the stony face and the interlocked fingers of the influential boss had no effect at all.
The star shone with a parting red light and still held minds and destinies within its field of gravity… Zvyagintsev burned with impotent rage, hatching his crude, two-step plans — how to bring him down, take revenge, and triumph.
But M.F., thank God, never learned any of this.

This farewell magic of the Master lasted a long time. M.F. was exhausted, pushed to the very limit, yet deep down he felt a true triumph — the genuine feeling of a winner who had become a stage idol by right: for his ability to touch human hearts and inspire hope and the desire to live and to create, even in the darkest times.
That night, he did not let the nurse in.
As was his habit, he drank vodka before bed, lay down without undressing, and stared at the ceiling. He did not much hope for sleep, but he was glad to end the day in silence, without prying eyes.
Solitude was necessary for him for the final sacrament —
the Sacrament of Death, which had come.
M.F. understood it, gazing with detachment at the hotel-room ceiling, burdened with absurd stucco and an idiotic, heavy crystal chandelier.
He met this inevitable fact with complete indifference.
In this indifference to Death lies the advantage of stars, for the death of a star is a natural matter — in a sense, the culmination of its evolution. No matter how long a red dwarf drags out its endless years on stage, the moment comes: stubborn smoldering gives way to a final contraction, the light fades and weakens, passing from red to blue and then to white. Yet the star remains a star to the very last instant and dies by stellar laws — and by no others.
Gradually, passion fades, meaning dies…
Yet reflections of light still remain — countless, in eyes and hearts…
They continue to glimmer for some time after the star itself is gone,
until the darkness of time absorbs them too…
And these songs, already echoes of a bygone era, linger for a time, before dissolving into the sounds of the next day
And only the endless change of generations and formats holds any hope of renewal and novelty.
And only the acceptance of this cosmic order of things is the best way to part with the world…

M.F. was already drifting into unconsciousness… He was slipping away, life melting out of his aged body. His breathing grew ragged; his gaze no longer focused.

So Mephisto, as usual lurking behind the drapes, was forced to lean close to Methuselah’s very face and speak his name…
The dying man's eyes cleared for a moment:
- Ah, it’s you, Mishanya…,” the dying man whispered. “Leave me… go away…

- Come now, Mafusail Fedorovich,- the Evil Spirit rasped, - how could you mistake me for your man of affairs on Earth? My services are of a very different nature.




With these words, Mephisto moved his fingers in the air and scattered some white powder. MF came to his senses and saw his interlocutor. A doublet with shoulder puffs, a red-lined cloak, parchment in thin fingers. The eyes... the black drops of strangeness under the sharp eyebrows were quivering…
- You? What took you so long? I called for you thirty years ago… I would have gone to any lengths?

- I did come, you know. Don’t you remember? Here it is — the contract you signed. And I brought an extension. Unexpected, right? No need to be afraid — just relax and take a fresh look at things. It’s coming to an end. And I’m offering endless tours. Other worlds, different audiences. Just like old Goethe in Part Two of Faust… And there will be Helen of Troy! We can fly to Greece on Pegasus — right now.

- You horned devil… If you only knew how sick I am of you producers. There’s no creature more vile or more persistent. And you show up at my deathbed. I didn’t call for you. What do you want, spirit of darkness?

- Spirit of Darkness’? That’s a bit harsh, Mafusailushka. No need to rush into labels. You know perfectly well what I need in return. The heavenly bureaucracy is conservative, my friend. And what do you need it for anymore? You drank it away long ago. Come on, don’t play hard to get, darling. I’ll just scratch your finger with a claw — sign it — and off we go. New worlds, new tours, hm?


Methuselah Fyodorovich took a deep breath, opened his clouded eyes, struck by the sudden lightness he felt throughout his being, and casually remarked to Mephisto, slipping once more into his role as a stage god:

- No need to hustle, clerk. Work wearing you down, is it? You’ll survive without your bonus. All these extensions of yours make me nauseous. To hell with the lot of you. Since you’re already here, hand the old man some water, would you.

Mephisto sighed sympathetically and poured water from the carafe on the bedside table into an old-fashioned cut-glass tumbler — one that had known far better drinks than plain water.

- Well then, goodbye, old idiot, - Mephisto smiled affectionately, unaccustomed to losing in this particular part of the human tragedy.
M.F. took that final gift and sipped the water. It was pure — the sweetest, like a sacrament of absence, like the last breath of being. With the final sip, he felt forgiveness and acceptance — something rarely granted to people in these last two centuries.
His body fell silent; his eyes settled and opened wide…
The unsigned Contract lay on the bedside table.
Mephisto set the glass back on the bedside table, straightened up, stretched, opened the window, and climbed onto the windowsill. He sat there for a while, gazing into the night sky, tracing in his mind the route to the star he needed. Then he quietly unfurled his velvet wings and flew into the darkness.
His face was lit by a faintly sardonic smile. In the end, the goal had been achieved, for when the tally is made, the victory, as always, will belong to Satan. For pride remains a mortal sin! And in any case, Mephisto would soon meet his client again on his own territory — that is, in Hell. And there, at last, the stubborn man could be made to sign the Non-Negotiable Contract in exchange for a somewhat more comfortable cell in the underworld.

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