Behemoth

Was it a coincidence that Behemoth felt an insuppressible urge to empty his stomach of his half-digested dinner right the very moment the fateful (or rather fatal) question was uttered? Daisy, a young woman of 30 or so, delivered her question, for some reason, very ingratiatingly. For one, it could be that she, surrounded by all these elderly gentlemen (not counting Behemoth himself, who was ancient as he used to enunciate with an air of self-importance bordering on narcissism), had a pressing concern that her life was passing by and she didn't want to stay a forever secretary loaded with a vast and vague list of responsibilities ranging from making coffee for these balding gentlemen to keeping their weekly meetings efficient enough for the clients not to choose Scumbag & Sons over their company by reviving the periodically fizzling out conversations at the round table with unimportant and sometimes honestly stupid remarks or questions. These men in front of her were the men of power, quite limited power, she knew that, but the staircase to success is made of steps, and she is well aware that one needs to climb them up one (maximum two) at a time. Daisy wanted a manager's chair. And then she wanted to become the company director eventually. She wanted a malleable and preferably also rich husband, a summerhouse at the seaside, and all imaginable life comforts because, well, she deserved all these. That's what the purring obsequiousness in her voice could mean. Or it could altogether be something completely else. Women are mysterious creatures.

The meeting started with Eddie's presentation. Just like it was always with Eddie's presentations, the wall in front of them, irradiated with bluish light from a beamer, speckled with disgustingly colorful diagrams, graphs, bullet points, and other undoubtedly indispensable attributes of a high-quality presentation. Eddie was a businessman, but also he was a scientist of a sort, and he never missed a chance to show it to everyone. One particular graph brought about extremely heated polemics in the circle of these usually calm and disciplined gentlemen. When the fervor of the disputants cooled down to the normal room temperature, everybody found themselves too exhausted to continue with the discussion, and silence fell in the room.

That was when Daisy's vocal interference would dispel the silence and save the company's future. Again and again, she kept performing this magic trick every week, hoping that her selfless act of verbal outpour would be noticed, appreciated, and eventually rewarded.

And so it happened right that very moment, right after Daisy broke the silence. Behemoth apologetically grunted "Yep!" and then discharged. And again, a baffled, affronted silence entered the room. What also entered the room was the smell of chicken broth and vomit. Behemoth all shrank, and his face acquired this beautiful color of embarrassment that poets would describe as cherry blossom or sunset over the moors. Not for the first time in his life he suddenly became aware of the absurdness of his name. It's the most silly name for a cat. Behemoth by all means respected Bulgakov; he admired the man's literary genius, but the writer's decision to create the demon character in the image and likeness of his own pet was an overkill that cost dearly to Behemoth as his parents absolutely lacked common sense and were rebels in their own way—a terrible combination. As a matter of fact, the name itself did sound quite magnificent, but good Lord, it does not suit a cat. It suits a big and clumsy hippo. It even suits a humanoid elephant with a beer belly. Behemoth stumbled on the word hippo and could not suppress a silly smile on his face, his hippocampus fishing out a rather inappropriate picture of that cartoon.

The only thing that slightly comforted Behemoth was that if there is some truth in the Book of Job (which is hard to believe though), his skinny-bony self would have a lesser chance of becoming food for the righteous when the world ends. What is wrong with God in that book anyway?

Silence in the room was broken by Andrew. His body shaking epileptically, the old boy started laughing hysterically. A merry and cheerful laughter from the depths of a sixty-year-old mouth was by far the healthiest response to the incident, and everyone else, starting with Daisy, decided to follow Andrew's example. Behemoth smiled abashedly and bowed, for which he was cheered with applause. The embarrassing situation seemed to resolve on its own. Daisy sighed with relief. She really liked Behemoth and secretly wanted to make him her pet.

And it could be the end of the story. As a matter of fact, it became such in particular for Andrew. It was epilepsy after all. Nobody noticed it, including Andrew himself, who was laughing so dedicatedly that he could hardly see anything besides a heap of vomit and Behemoth's blushing face. When he did notice, it was already too late. He thought that he had lived a long and adventurous life.

He regretted nothing.