"An intriguing story of religion and its roots. Chernozemsky’s novel themes around Christianity, reincarnation and the links between the teachings of many other religions. Dark Side is an amazing penetration into the ‘past’ as it is happening ‘now’ and maybe ‘tomorrow’ -- a possible key to our future..."
-- Fanny Tzurakova
Mystery Author, A Missing Person
“An engaging, fascinating exploration into spiritual yearnings and contests between good and evil. As in his previous novels, the prolific Chernozemsky delves imaginatively into timeless subjects and concerns affecting the lives of everyone in different ways in different ages.”
-- Small Press Book Review
“An imaginative and ambitious novel, which attempts to substantiate reincarnation and unity under One Deity. It blends Japanese theater, well-researched Egyptian history, Christian conspiracy theories, and deep philosophical concepts -- and is full of mysticism, mystery and interesting plot twists.”
-- Book Review.com
“Highly recommended. Yet another example of Vladimir Chernozemsky’s captivating style of writing, employing a plot that is both interesting and thought provoking. The characters are drawn with great passion and intensity, as is needed in this story with such a universal theme. Chernozemsky never belittles the reader, constantly forcing us to think and behave as an active participant in the story.”
-- Allbooks Reviews
“Fiction, full of intrigue and adventure as it explores the age old reasons behind good and evil.”
-- MyShelf.com
Excerpt from Chapter One:
In the eyes of a 9:00 to 5:00 worker, the life of a drifter might seem adventurous. At the same time, a drifter is looked upon as a subject of deprecation. It takes a certain amount of courage to drift in the void. Gordon Bates gradually followed such a path without really intending to. Then it turned into a habit and the habit took possession of him.
He never finished his archaeology classes. After he had left for college, his parents decided to start a new life and simply left him and the country to do so. Gordon decided to assume the Aristotelian logic, the doctrine of syllogism, to emphasize the empirical and particular - or to be scientific rather than meta-physical. As his roots disappeared, he let everything Platonian be purged out of his system.
He left college behind him and became a day laborer, going from job to job. The South American wetbacks hated him for taking the jobs they might have had and made his existence quite difficult. Thanks to some knowledge of martial arts he had very few fights — still he had to watch his back. Because of his darker complexion, one could agree that the presence of some African blood ran through his veins. He couldn’t care less, but not claiming to be a minority deprived him of any chances for better paying jobs. He just made the most of what he had.
Gordon’s love life wasn’t particularly tidy. Desiring to remain unattached, he simply turned to chance meetings void of responsibility for either party. Prostitutes were repulsive to him, especially those with sad stories. He harbored hostility toward men, which he never tried to understand. He didn’t try to make friends and no one tried to befriend him.
Now, in the last days of the old millennium and the coming of the new, a final denouement was generally expected. To Gordon, it meant nothing. The year 2000 was just another number.
He had learned neither to hate nor to love — he was a complete bystander.
Even bystanders have to eat, especially after a day of hard labor. He was familiar with the little plump black waitress in the hot-cafe kitty-cornered from the building where he rented a dirty, furnished efficiency. In Memphis, Tennessee, a tenement of this kind didn’t cost much. The long hot summer combined with the steady humidity of the mighty Mississippi made all faces depressed and sweaty.
The black waitress, with her forgotten African ancestry, peered at him mournfully. He stirred in her nothing more than a mild interest.
“The same as usual?” she asked.
“Same as usual.” Gordon drawled.
Her low-drawn voice cracked as she looked toward the hot grill with the eyes of a martyr and asked, “A cold beer?”
“Make it two. You need to cool off too.”
The girl sighed and wiped her fleshy face with a musty kerchief. “Gawd’s my witness I do.”
She marched toward the kitchen dragging her feet and her extra large buttocks stuck to the wet fabric of her skirt provocatively. Gordon, mildly interested, wondered how old she was. He pondered her heavy bosom, her full lips always half open, the corners pointing down like a tragic mask from a Greek play. He had never seen her smile. Maybe she wasn’t young at all, or perhaps age didn’t matter to her — a timeless wench, straight from another millennium.
She watched him eat, sipped from her beer. As their eyes locked sluggishly, she seemed to read his thoughts. “I’m finishing my shift in half an hour,” she flatly proposed.
Without seeming to react, Gordon went on with his overdone beefsteak, washing it down with the cheap beer. Thank God it was icy. “It’s a damn hot evening,” he finally observed.
“So it is. It might get cooler after midnight,” the waitress responded coyly.
Gordon pushed his plate back, nibbling on the last French fries. “No...it won’t. It may get even more stuffy.”
The waitress made a try for a smile. It failed. “You don’t look like a white man, but the sun will kill you, college boy.”
His thick dark eyebrows knotted over his large nose. “I’m no college boy. I dropped out long ago. What is your name?”
“Steffy,” she giggled.
“Don’t you have an African name?” Gordon pushed.
She looked at him slightly shocked. “What are you talking about? My family’s name is Steward.”
Gordon glanced at the bill and left ten dollars in the little tray. “Too bad... I thought you’d have an exotic name, like Mouamba, Luanda or something like that.”
She took the bank note and put it between the impressive swellings of her breasts.
“Why?... I don’t even know anybody that’s been to Africa. Now, tell me, what’s your name?”
Gordon brushed a few crumbs from his lips, “You can call me Bates — like the guys on the job.” Gordon continued to probe Steffy. “You dislike your race?”
Her voice became brisk and defensive, “Well, it is said that I’m from Egyptian stock. My people served the pharaohs. Some of them in a high capacity.”
Gordon fought a belch and lost the battle. “Pardon me... By the way, Egypt is in Africa.”
The young waitress picked up his dirty plates and silverware with great clatter. “You’re a very boring person.”
He caught her wrist at the moment she was ready to leave. “I’m sorry...I didn’t... Can we make peace?” Gordon cajoled.
“Why?” Steffy sniffed.
Gordon consulted his watch and commented suggestively, “You’ll be out in a few minutes.”
Steffy, looked at him more closely, then with a slightly exaggerated sigh said, “You live around the corner?”
Gordon pushed a toothpick between his front teeth and nodded curtly.
The girl pondered a bit, then, “Just for a short time. I don’t like boring men.”
She did like boring men.
***
The next day was Saturday and Gordon slept in late. The night before was rather a blur. He had passed most of it with that so called Nubian Egyptian. It didn’t matter one way or the other. The telephone rang several times but went unanswered. Someone seemed desperate to get in touch with him or more than likely it was for the guy in the next room. They shared the same line.
Gordon rose from the bed and faced the full-length mirror. As usual he had slept in the nude. On Saturday mornings he was the last to stir. As he stood in front of the wide-open window, it didn’t occur to him that his nakedness would offend his neighbors. His neighbors thought that hedonism was his only stimulus in life. The powerful sunlight played over the smoothness of his tight skin. His heavy-boned, large-muscled body had no fault. Though a little bit heavy for his height, a careful inspection showed no trace of fat. The same auburn hair, curly and unruly over his head, sprinkled his well-sculpted body. He flexed his back and pectoral muscles, then his biceps, hunched his mighty shoulders and admired his beautiful bodybuilder’s figure.
Last he looked at his face — that part of the show he didn’t like a bit.
Under dark brows, two brown eyes glared at his reflection with a certain amount of cruelty and suspicion. The nose was large and not quite straight over a full sensuous mouth. The wide cheekbones, seemingly much too large in proportion to the face, tried to harmonize with the girth of the neck.
His rested body craved some vigorous action. The best thing he could think of on a hot summer day like this was running to the river for some splash diving and swimming with the other guys.
The telephone rang again. Gordon hesitated. Another wrong number? The ringing was insistent. Oh, well, what the hell…
“Hallo!” he shouted into the receiver.
The voice on the other side was neither friendly nor disagreeable, “My name is Dr. Peter Moughabee.”
Gordon waited but nothing more was forthcoming. “What can I do for you, Dr. Moughabee? Mo-ga-be — is that how you say it?” Gordon was becoming impatient.
The voice came back again, “Steffy didn’t tell you?”
“Steffy? Oh, yes, the waitress, well she might have been telling me things, but I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention. I’m not used to smoking pot and she insisted. I’m really sorry, Dr. Moughabee. Wait a minute…something’s coming back to me…it was about some kind of a job.”
“Archaeology” Dr. Moughabee stated abruptly.
