Raskolnikov is quite used to research, a man suited for hours buried in books and letters. He can devote himself to learning everything there is to learn about a single topic with the sort of stubborn tenacity that might be more suited for a mule than a man. But things are different here in America, the books in the library in all the wrong places and the locals supremely unhelpful. As much as he hates to admit it, he is out of his depth.
The person he’d seen — the person he’d been — in that…hallucination had been entirely unfamiliar. Not Russian, either; the clothes, the voice, even the mannerisms had been distinctly American. The phone he’d been holding in the first vision, the flickering light he’d seen in the second — neither of those had existed in the Saint Petersburg he’d known. But they do exist in Sweetwater, and so that had been the beginning of his search.
It’s late afternoon, shadows stretching across the town. Raskolnikov enters the library with a distinctly bleak air about him — he’s been here twice before already, and isn’t expecting to find anything on this third expedition. But he doesn’t know where else to go. Neither the church nor the town hall had given him any information worth using, giving him vague niceties while casting him mistrustful glances.
His mood only worsens when he sees that there is someone in his usual table in the corner, piles of papers and books practically obscuring him. He almost turns around to leave then and there, but then he sees the title of one of the books. It’s in Russian, in the strange way all of the text here is, and reads History of Maryland. That could be useful, he thinks, and reluctantly makes his way over.
With stilted politeness, he asks, “may I borrow that?”
1c
The person he’d seen — the person he’d been — in that…hallucination had been entirely unfamiliar. Not Russian, either; the clothes, the voice, even the mannerisms had been distinctly American. The phone he’d been holding in the first vision, the flickering light he’d seen in the second — neither of those had existed in the Saint Petersburg he’d known. But they do exist in Sweetwater, and so that had been the beginning of his search.
It’s late afternoon, shadows stretching across the town. Raskolnikov enters the library with a distinctly bleak air about him — he’s been here twice before already, and isn’t expecting to find anything on this third expedition. But he doesn’t know where else to go. Neither the church nor the town hall had given him any information worth using, giving him vague niceties while casting him mistrustful glances.
His mood only worsens when he sees that there is someone in his usual table in the corner, piles of papers and books practically obscuring him. He almost turns around to leave then and there, but then he sees the title of one of the books. It’s in Russian, in the strange way all of the text here is, and reads History of Maryland. That could be useful, he thinks, and reluctantly makes his way over.
With stilted politeness, he asks, “may I borrow that?”