Читать книгу 125 RUS. The Far East novel - Анна Ефименко - Страница 9

…Recalled the happy times being students, when we went hiking along the area, sang with a guitar beside the fire, fed mosquitoes and roasted on the sun like savages on the sand of Yemar Bay, which was called Yumora, unlike Shamora or Feldgauzen Bay…

(The city on Muraviev Amursky’s peninsula

by V.K.Karinberg)

…Now, Christina lived looking forward for Valerka’s vacations. She was dreaming about summer. She dreamed how they would go for a holiday somewhere to Shamora, or to the Three Little Pigs Bay or to Yemar, simply called Humora – vibrant beaches in Shamora and Humora Bays, the legacy of the Japanese staying in Primorye…

(When you call me by V.V.Turenko)

Tonight Mira was killed.

Or not Mira. You must agree, when someone is killed next door of your hotel room, you can’t help recalling the events of the last criminal chronicles on television or the recently read detective. And I’ve heard so much over the past few days that, as Carthage must be destroyed, Mira must be killed, that I haven’t been particularly impressed with the doctors were scurrying back and forth along the corridors, people in uniform and frightened Chinese, who stuck their heads out of their rooms, attracted by noise.

To be honest, I even expected something like this. Woken up in the middle of the night, got nervous and smoked in the window, as promised in my last epistle to Marina. All the windows were wide open, staring with teary windows at the Amur Bay where the cold and otherworldly evil was coming. The ink sea proved to be infernal, promising. I smoked and waited for some small earthquake, something that would break the silence.

Time stopped. My watch does not have a second hand, so I could not see it with my own eyes, but I counted the seconds. At last I heard this damn popping sound. It broke the silence.

I was able to exhale, the forces of evil retreated, the sea boiled with waves, the mobile phone’s display blinked. Mira was killed next door from me. Or someone else. Do not ask me to describe the deafening firefight – at first it seemed as if a heavy book fell on the floor in the next room. “Walls made of cardboard,” this was my first thought, not aware of the coming chaos. I grinded out my fourth cigarette and went to bed.

With respect to the detective genre, I was awakened by a deafening cry of the maid in the morning. After half an hour several dozens of feet were stumbling along the corridor. Officers of the law also looked at me to ask if I had noticed something suspicious at night. Oh, yes, Comrade Senior Lieutenant, what about the ocean standing still for a few minutes?! I tried to convey this to the other person, demonstrating porsh pretzels in the air with my fingers and silently opening my mouth, like a fish grabbing air bubbles. “Ah, he is a deaf mute,” man in uniform waved his hand at me. Deaf mute person brought more benefits than mute in my case. You could pretend to be a dummy as much as you like, and it should work in this situation. I was stuck to the door eye for a good half an hour.

The Chinese chattered fearfully. The prosecutor’s office and police ransacked the ill-fated room 912 for evidence and other interesting things. Finally, the doctors took away the stretcher with a cold corpse from the guest house, which was my neighbor or female neighbor just yesterday. Having put on the face either the expression of madness or foolishness, worthy Yushka (hello, Platonov!), I looked out into the corridor.

For a split second, I was immediately shown two proofs of my spurious theory. First, the female arm hung down out of the cellophane film, which the doctors wrapped the body in, and helplessly waved in the air as the stretcher moved. Hence, it was just a female neighbor. Secondly, the film covered only the face of the victim, but not the entire head. Why it happened, I didn’t not know, but I could only say that I saw a strand of tangled and wrinkled red hair. I put my own life at stake that it was Mira! No one else should be there. And it was more prudent for me to return to my room and wait for a happy moment.

Getting down on the carpet, I picked up the harmonica which Mira gave to Anya a thousand years ago. Coming back to the city, I managed almost immediately to clean the instrument from rust and discover the inscription engraved on it: “Protège Anne du silence des bois.”15. I fixed the harmonica next to Marina’s long-time gift to me, echoing almost synchronously: “I’ll save Ajax from Poseidon’s trident”.

I am also, of course, part of the entire web of story lines. At least, for this reason I can declare that the killed one was called Mira and that this is Mira coming out of our stories. Yes, yes, ours, because I have already copied most of them from the record to the notebook. And this means that my Mira was killed last night; I had a premonition, got out of bed and smoked a few cigarettes. Even the sea held its breath, intrigued by the fact whether Mira would be finished or not. I got into someone else’s story, sorting out mess created by someone else and trying at the same time to be a know-it-all. But somehow, according to unknown mystical laws, the voice recorder turned out to be just at my place. What will I get next?

Bible. Book of books.

…I’m a foolish Yushka, with an unbuttoned and twisted collar, with my eyes clapping and saliva splashing out from blissfully smiling corners of my mouth, a harmless deaf mute jerk, who went out to the corridor again few hours later taking rubber gloves with me.

“The room is sealed.” But there’s nobody inside. And there is nobody on the floor. No newcomer pulls his belongings on wheels, no guest goes out to make his noodles in a cup. Let the surf outside the window quiten down again and let me slip away unnoticed. And if I pop out noticeable – so what, this dumb disabled person has just mixed up the numbers and got the wrong door, you see? Is it possible to blame a flawed person, whom nature dealt short, for such a misbehavior or bring him into custody?

There was nothing left in room 912. I kept looking in vain for red hair on the pillow. I vainly moved the furniture, fearing to tear gloves and leave prints for hypothetical fingerprint identification. I found nothing to go on, anything that even more grotesque theories of total involvement could be developed. Finally, I remembered about the warm winter blanket, which was stored on the top shelf of the wardrobe in every room of the hotel, and then I had finally some luck. I grabbed a heavy Bible in a strict black cover out of the depth of the wardrobe. Perhaps, the Holy Scripture was of no interest to the law enforcement bodies. Unlike me, who instantly caught the importance of the printed text and got even more frightened.

What was hidden under the blue-black leather binding with the golden cross in the middle? No, there were no letters or diaries (even though let it be considered my prerogative). So what did I discover by opening such a great book? Only letters and lines. Such as, for example: “Au commencement, Dieu cré le ciel et la terre.”16 That’s right, heaven and earth. Then the Lord was ready to create the blessed city of Vladivostok on the shore of the Sea of Japan. And how many women lived in this city during the hot June in that year? Approximately half the population. Whom of these women wear long red hair? Two-thirds are crossed out immediately. Finally, who of them speak French? Who is capable to read the Bible and make inscriptions on a harmonica? And now, let someone try to prove to me that the murdered one was not Mira!..

My speculations were interrupted by someone’s uninvited footsteps, approaching the door of the room 912. My heart began to pound. Of course, I instantly climbed under the bed and figured out from there what I would tell the sign language interpreter in the nearest police station. The shadow of the unknown stopped on the threshold and did not come inside, as if he was expecting something. Everything looked like a low-budget thriller, I already imagined the Shadow or Someone coming through the door and leaning towards me ominously. Yeah, if Mira was killed tonight in this very bed, what would you expect being here? What the hell am I doing in this place? Being curios? Seeking for truth? It sounds ridiculous. I covered ten thousand kilometers on air, arrived to the land of unprecedented beauty. A woman was killed next to my door. I secretly sneaked into her sealed room and now someone creepy came after me – that sounds like a grotesque truth.

The shadow disappeared. I stuck my head out under the bed, instinctively fearing that an ultralight, noiseless invisible, quietly climbing onto the bed during this brief time limit, was about to grab my hair and yell into my ear, “Aha! Gotcha!” But there was no one else in the room or outside the door. The shadow was gone. I listened to her outgoing step wishing to calm down. Clack, clack, she was definitely going away. Aha, heels! Looks like, it was another mysterious stranger. Someone I already know. Oh, God, I’m such an idiot. Who could come here except her?!? What a holy fool I am, why couldn’t I guess earlier?

The heels clacked reaching the hall, a bell tinkled, an elevator arrived. At first I wanted to go after her, paint words with my fingers in the air and give her voice recorder and her other belongs back to her. Then I imagined how ridiculous it would look, and decided to leave it as it was. I got up, dusted myself, trying to breathe smoothly, standing in a cursed place and pressing the French Bible to my chest with cold hands.

She left a present. While I was scared trembling under the bed, she pushed a photo under the door. It was old-old, black and white with vintage yellowish, shabby corners, discolored with time. In the photo, a group of young people were located near a cliff on the seashore. Two young men were putting up a tent, three girls smiled in the lens. The guys were dressed for camping: sweaters, sports pants, sneakers. One of the girls who looked older than the rest was wearing a summer dress with a flower pattern, the other was wearing a knitted sweater and jeans, the third one was dressed in a long cloak. The one in the knitted sweater hugged another young man who was holding a guitar in his hand, wrapped in a plastic bag, but not in a case. In general, it was an ordinary shot of a camping trip of young people. I turned the photo, on the back side it was signed with soft pencil: “L’Emar – L’Humour – La Humora.”

Next to the photograph under the door there was a small package consisting of several sheets. Unfolding the package, I was stunned: Japanese symbols. That was all I need for entire happiness. I learned Japanese myself and could translate basic texts. But I didn’t have a dictionary with me – nothing… Great, damn it! To solve this grotesque thriller they needed no one other but a dumb polyglot. That doesn’t make it any better. I left Mira’s room, carefully folding one trophy into another: photo of teenagers and a package with Japanese riddle was hidden between the pages of the Bible. Coming back to my room, I took out the key. Suddenly I was seized by a wild fear that, and most important, who could have visited my chambers? Some strange things were going on here, and I didn’t want to go back to my place for the moment.

Instead, I went down to the bar lit by a languid neon, where Seryoga poured me some whiskey. While my body being intoxicated, the mind was getting more and more sober, fear gradually gave way to alertness. Someone was playing strange games. One person had already been dead. Hence, the game was vicious. After a while, I showed the photo to Sergei. He turned it in his hands, looked at it, then gave it back.

“If it isn’t Yumora,” said the barman holding back an old crumpled photo to me. “This is Yumora.”

Yumora Bay was a truly magnificent sight in the rays of the setting sun. I climbed onto a steep rock and watched the green waves rushing onto sharp stones and breaking into smithereens. In the evenings, as always, the sea was like mint jelly. Yumora (officially called Yemar) was a wonderful place for camping. Everything was breathing freedom here.

I breathed freedom, standing on top of a steep rock, and the wind blew in my face. I closed my eyes and breathed freedom into my lungs, where there was still space free from detective puzzles and psychotherapy sessions. This space is still vacant, blown by the ocean breeze, wide open. Is this a place for the heart? I just have to put my right hand to my lips, and then to my heart: that’s all the love in my language. Plus ten letters of confession being written. And what is in return for such insignificant labor? Tenderness, caring and affection, songs, poems, a cozy joint routine, the excluded possibility of being a black sheep or save face.

But I step aside.

My favorite characters of my childhood are asocial and rugged… Heathcliff who ruled Wuthering Heights with an iron fist, it was possible to get on the right side of him, he wasn’t evil, he was in love. It whitewashes him and justifies all the horror he has arranged. Heathcliff stands on the mountain, his heavy gaze is directed far beyond the horizon. Heathcliff wanders through the heathland with his cloak fluttering in the wind…

Perhaps, Ajax stood on top of a cliff on Yemar as if in a black and white movie with a crackling sound and blue clouds thickened over his poor head. His brain was haunted by the events of the mad day.

Ajax shuddered. The wind got stronger. The sea, which suddenly got still last night, was vicious and was nearly boiling – so these high waves looked from above. It was boiling mint jelly somewhere down there… Mint of Yumora. There was Old Yumora on the yellowed photos.