Ophelia

"In this example, we can see how the real-life behavior of a person from the Decembrist circle presents itself to us as a kind of encoded text, while the literary plot functions as a code that allows us to penetrate its hidden meaning."

— Yuri M. Lotman, The Decembrist in Daily Life

It was a bright, gentle day. The last remnants of gray snow had long since given way to fresh green grass, just waiting for the sun to spur its wild growth. The first flowers were blooming in the flowerbeds, ready to delight the busy city folk all summer long — roses, roses! White, velvety, red — magnificent! The glorious sun sent its rays in every direction, spreading the good news of warmth, while a light breeze filled the air with freshness and carried the scent of flowers—mingled with exhaust fumes—even to the top floors of the tallest skyscrapers (such is the price of life in a metropolis).

On such a day, Scott was walking to school — a short, somewhat unhealthily lean brown Labrador. Despite the pervasive warmth, the seventeen-year-old teen was bundled up tight in a leather trench coat, as if he'd forgotten winter was long gone.

Yet spring's influence had touched him too: this time, the Labrador broke his usual routine and didn't head down into the subway, choosing to walk instead. A mysterious smile played on his muzzle, one that seemed to promise mischief and pranks; his semi-pricked ears twitched with amusement.

All around, idle lovebirds scurried about, parading their overflowing affection; parents strolled with their kids, glued to their gadgets more than to each other. Vacations and breaks had already started for many, and even the perennial loungers felt they'd finally been given a free pass for idleness.

Scott, however, paid no mind to any of it. Usually a sensitive canine who loved to capture every new stir of nature with his trusty old camera, he hurried past this celebration of life with striking indifference. He didn't even stop to watch the geese back from their winter grounds or to listen to the mockingbird — though under normal circumstances, you couldn't drag him inside until he'd taken at least twenty shots.

"Scott?" It was someone he knew — one of his parents' acquaintances. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in school... did you miss the bus? Scott... Scott, hey!.."

The dog just flashed an even wider, almost guilty grin and quickened his pace.

***

At last, the teen appeared at the threshold of the school — a gray box lost in the shadow of skyscrapers, whose windows mirrored the bright sun. Before the steps, flags fluttered proudly on their poles: the Stars and Stripes of the greatest country in the world, and the blue emblem of New York State.

The student smirked involuntarily at the sight.

Inside, he found himself in a spacious school hallway lined with rows of lockers on both sides. Another corridor cut across it right down the middle, forming a cross.

Not a soul. Not a sound. Only the persistent hum of fluorescent lights reached the Labrador's sensitive ears, casting a sickly, hospital-like pallor over the white floors and walls. Classes had long since begun; everyone had scattered to their classrooms.

Silence.

Scott walked forward, placing his paws carefully and silently. It is common knowledge that dogs are born hunters.

Creak.

The dog pricked up his ears. Sounded like someone had opened a squeaky locker door.

Step.

The teen crept to the middle of the corridor, turned left, and soon found himself near a stocky, spotted hyena who was busily rummaging through his locker.