Читать книгу The bride of the silver dragon - Dmitry Nazarov - Страница 3

This woman looks even more belligerent in the photo than her angry social media posts. There she stings my miserable, work and upcoming election carcass like a poisonous porcupine, remarkably combining businesslike officiousness with bile-soaked irony. Also exclusively polite and official, so that even my whole flock of lawyers could not find anything to pick on. Not a single comma.

I threw the weighty stack of pictures on the table, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes and recalled her last verbal outburst. What did she say? – An official with big ambitions and a small conscience? – A lunatic claiming to be the sun? – But it’s all “flowers” compared to my favorite: “A man with a microscopic ‘m.’” Not small, but microscopic, as if in all our lunar brood I were the smallest nothing.

I remember when I read this angry outburst, for the first time in my life I became interested in the author’s hand. Not literally, of course, but I had a real desire to get better acquainted with a woman bold enough not to be afraid to openly attack the future senator.

The election is less than a month away, but its outcome is obvious and logical.

Although, of course, this whole orphanage thing, if it is not covered quietly, can noticeably shake my foundation. It’s already pretty shaken up by the recent “yellow” scandal.

A knock on the door makes me avert my memories of the unforgettable sensations I received along with a portion of another angry outburst from Mrs. Sheremetieva. After a short “yes!” in reply, my assistant appears on the doorstep, once again reminding me that some moonshiners look suspiciously much like shadows: just as lanky, unshapely, pale, and barely alive. If I didn’t know the fellow so well, I would never have believed that such a small body could conceal such an iron grip and a calculating, cynical mind.

– Sit down, – I glanced at the chair across from him. – Where are the others?

I don’t wait for an answer – a line of mossy lawyers follows him, and then there’s Marie, my clever little secretary. If she were at least thirty years old and at least half moonlit, I would probably make an exception for her not to have an affair at work. But at forty plus one, I haven’t even looked at women under thirty in a long time. And the exception made for Valentina’s sake confirmed once again – you cannot go beyond the flags, especially those set by your own hand. If she had been at least thirty-plus, I’m sure our secret affair would not have been made public and the reason A’Lita-my fiancée-would have made a big scandal of it in her favor.

Another rule I will now put on my list, too, is to never make a contract with a woman. Not on any terms whatsoever.

Sh’Irene, my nephew, is the last one to enter the office, and he takes a seat in the chair against the far wall.

You may begin.

– Laurie. – At the answer to his name, my assistant turns visibly pale. – Your comment.

He first presses his thumb to his lips, then clears his throat a couple of times inappropriately. And when he begins to speak, his voice visibly trembles. Which again is a mystery to me, because a couple of days ago this unkempt guy nearly smeared a reporter who snuck into a press conference with a list of unspecified questions with a few strong words.

– I checked all the entries in the cadastre books – the building had long been abandoned and was on the balance sheet of the city.

– Next, – I hurry up, because I guessed it all without him.

– I have all the documents, certified by the man from the mayor’s office…

– … who, by the way, is no longer working, – interrupts my nephew, visibly ironic.

He and Lori are at odds because I didn’t do what the Lun’s family tradition dictates by appointing Sh’Iren as my right hand. The boy, objectively, was not ready, though he was better educated and had a brilliant practice in the law office of my old mate, who certainly wouldn’t “pull” a good recommendation on him just out of respect for me. But Laurie had worked under me for a long time and, one might say, had practically entered the world of big politics with me from scratch. In this campaign, and even with a claim to the senator’s chair, I, after weighing all the pros and cons, decided not to take any chances and not to change a horse at a crossroads.

Who knew that it was the old proven gelding who would do such a dirty deed. Not intentionally, though.

– Mr. Shad’Far,’ Laurie adjusts his glasses, showing that my nephew’s lunge, even if it did reach its target, was not fatal and incompatible with life, ‘this man from City Hall has worked with us for several years. The Tower Project in the City and your bill to impose restrictions on…

I throw my hand up carelessly, making it clear that I don’t care about this confluence of circumstances. Or rather, it is too obvious to blame only Laurie for what happened. It often happens that when it smells fried, the rats are the first to flee the ship.

– At the time the permit was prepared, – Lori continued, -all the paperwork for the building was in order. And the permit from the Architectural Office was in order and completely legal.

– All legitimate, but a little false, – Sh’Irén interjected again. – It’s a world of big money and backstabbing in all its glory.

I don’t pay any attention to what he says this time, because I’m not in the habit of responding to Captain Hindsight’s verbal outbursts. Where other people’s financial and political interests are at stake, the cleaners who play by the rules are the last to the finish line. Sometimes half-dead.

Lawyers together laid out piles of documents confirming the legality of my claim to the building, all kinds of permits from various commissions, approved by the Bureau of Architectural Monuments restoration plan to reconstruct the building, which is a great historical value. There is a great and very ugly irony in all of this – cultural monuments cannot be demolished, there is never any money in the budget for the reconstruction, so it turns out that the beauty is created either by interested oligarchs (like me, for example) or oligarchs who need “to legally flee” from taxes.

I’m reviewing the documents, which really can’t be compromised. By the way, neither can mine. And all because both sides skillfully exploited loopholes in the law. Because what is the law if there are no loopholes in it?

– R’ran? – I glance at the familiar name of the investment holding company, owned by a notoriously strong lunatic. He’s the last person whose name I’d expect to see in all this legal stuff. But since it is here, and I, thank the moon, have not yet fallen into lunar fever and trust my eyes, it means that a respected fellow-race has a hand in my problems.

– Mr. Shad’Aran’s holding has acquired the rights to the adjoining property,” my lawyer explains. – Technically, part of the building falls within his claim, but we can try to build a process around the misappropriation of the land. I think, and colleagues will agree with me, that it’s possible to find enough… hmmm… suitable projects and development plans for us to…

I raise my hand, calling for silence.

You could hardly call R’ran and I friends, but before he married, we used to hang out at the same boys’ club. No, not shoving hundred-dollar bills into the strippers’ thongs, but mostly chatting about men’s business, sports, life. Last year, for my birthday, he sent me some idiotic, but obviously terribly expensive sculpture of a very alternative moon, and I responded by presenting him with an equally idiotic painting.

Where was I going with this?

R’ran Shad’aran is hardly a man who doesn’t know what he’s doing, quite the contrary. If he’s got his hands on something, I’d wager my collectible Bentley from the First Lunar Eclipse year that it’s no accident, but a coincidence.

The best option is not to guess by coffee grounds, but to find out for yourself, from the source.

– Laurie,’ I stand up, taking the phone from the desk with a blurred motion, ‘check all the documents again, find any formal reason to bargain with this… what’s-her-name…

– Margarita Sheremetyeva, – my nephew prompts.

Very strange, but in my head, this beautiful name absolutely does not fit with the image on the photo, but, to be fair, I’m still an “expert” on ordinary women. I’ve only been in touch with one once in my life, during my youth, blood and moon attacks. The best way to tell how that relationship ended is the fact that I have never been attracted to an ordinary woman since then.

I walk out the door, turn down the narrow hallway to the door to the fire escape, unlock it with my key card. While the phone makes an automatic call, I rummage through my pockets, trying to find cigarettes. This is the week I quit and start again to try to quit again. The end of the campaign season is definitely not a good time to start living a healthier lifestyle.

– I’ll be in touch,” R’ran replies businesslike, though I can clearly hear the children’s laughter ringing in the background. I doubt it’s one of his staff.

– Am I disturbing you? – I ask just in case, when we’ve finished our formal greetings.

– Not if you’re not going to drag me into your election races.

– Hell, – I pretend to be hurt, – I was hoping to make you my top-secret weapon against the competition.

– Even you don’t have that much money. So what do you got?

– Does the name Margarita Sheremetiev mean anything to you? – I’m not going to beat around the bush explaining how I connected their names.

– Um… – R’ran pauses, at the end of which a loud laugh awaits me. – It is my wife’s sister.

It’s all clear.

I look at my reflection in the rain-soaked window, and I really don’t understand why I’m doing this.

I just wanted to quietly and legitimately become a senator, to improve the world and do other things that would benefit me directly, of course, but would certainly not harm others. But ever since I got to the finish line of my absolutely flawless campaign, trouble has been piling up like peas on my head.

– Is it the orphanage? – I hear R’ran’s voice.

– Mm-hmm. – The fifty-three orphans of ordinary people who live in an old, abandoned building, and whose existence I discovered by chance, after my PR people had blown the whistle on the new medical center for Moonchildren.

– Sorry, I can’t help you there. But as a friend, I’d advise you to knock off the building and get out of the way where you might run into Margo. As far away as possible. – He chuckles again, but I’m pretty sure I hear a nervous undertone in that laugh.

I recall the image from the photo again, though I remember only the bright green eyes, as if deliberately illuminated, and the dark strands that had fallen out of the sloppy bundle. I wouldn’t have noticed her in the crowd, wouldn’t have even held my gaze.

What the hell was wrong with this woman?

– The first time Nana didn’t come home for the night… – R’ran cleared his throat as if he felt bad about it. – Anyway, the next morning Margo came to my house. Through the guards. Through the locks. Safe and sound. With a hammer and nails.

My body senses that this story has no humorous overtones at all, because certain parts of my body begin to tighten treacherously, causing me to step from foot to foot in order to regain some comfort.

– Margo told me that if I hurt her beloved little sister, she would nail my junk to the floor. Every nail. There were a dozen or two of them, K’Rraig, and believe me, she wasn’t kidding and she wasn’t exaggerating. Imagine what she’d do for the safety of fifty little assholes from the orphanage.

I shuffled from foot to foot one more time, but I still felt as if Margarita Sheremetjeva was already standing behind me. With nails and a fucking hammer.

What the hell is wrong with this woman?