Читать книгу The bride of the silver dragon - Dmitry Nazarov - Страница 5

When all the kids are washed, combed, changed into their pajamas, and put to bed, I take a quick shower, change into jeans and a loose, warm sweater, gather my hair under a baseball cap, and linger in front of the mirror for a minute to assess my appearance. It’s “casual” enough to get lost in the crowd without attracting attention.

– I’ll call you if anything happens, – Jeanne says, alerting me to my request. I seem to repeat myself too often. – Everything will be fine, Margarita Alexandrovna. And you need to rest.

That’s really true.

I was in the middle of a conversation, and a nasty little voice inside reminded me of the idea that it was possible to negotiate. And a nasty little voice inside reminded me that I’d been thinking, even if only briefly, that it was possible to make a deal with the moonshiners. And not because they are your little sister’s husband.

Fortunately, the truth came out before I could make the unforgivable mistake that would eat me for the rest of my life.

I leave the house through the back door, then through the wicket in the little garden, which, if the winter isn’t too harsh, will be a lush flower paradise next spring. I check to make sure the lock is secure, and, lifting the collar of my sweater high, I walk briskly down the street. In front of the night store with a burned-out letter “K” in the neon sign “Coteyanya” is a familiar black Mercedes. As soon as I slip into the yellow circle of light illuminated by the lantern, the door next to the driver’s seat opens as if by itself.

I quickly climb inside, slam it shut, and look around the absolutely deserted street with disbelief for a while. This part of St. Petersburg is not the most comfortable place for a cultural walk, but I don’t know what.

Only after making sure no one has seen me, I take off my cap with some relief and look at the young man behind the wheel. As usual, he hands me a large glass of americano with milk. I immediately take a sip of the still-hot coffee, lean my head back, and close my eyes. I don’t like to “languish” like this, because as soon as I allow my body to relax, fatigue covers my head, reminding me that even my restless inner resource is not endless. Nor is it eternal. And in this age of high technology, diluted with all sorts of lunar stuff, the elixir of youth prolongation has not yet been invented. And let it be, with the elixir, decent energy drinks that do not kill the liver and nervous system – and those do not.

In the silence of the cabin I hear a deep sigh through my nose, quickly swallow a new cup of coffee and squint at the guy behind the wheel.

– Is there something… wrong? – I definitely took a bath, and despite my hipster look, I didn’t cheat on my favorite Coco by Chanel.

– You smell good, – he smiled and leaned forward, sucking in air next to my temple. – Is that cinnamon? And vanilla? Almond flakes?

– And a pinch of nutmeg, – I suggested, realizing once again how different these, god forbid, moonshiners are.

One of them almost got Kondratius from the smell of cinnamon today.

And the other sniffed me with the look of a sweet tooth, who had been on a strict diet for a year.

But the most ridiculous thing about all this is that I, Margarita Sheremetieva, a well-known activist against the dominance of moonbats in all spheres of human life, meet with one of them. And he’s also seven years younger than me.

– I got tickets to the movies, – my romantic lunnik shows me a couple of pieces of cardboard with the name of the most expected premiere of the season, and I manage to notice the time of the show – in twenty minutes exactly. If we hurry, we can still make it. – But you look so tired.

I don’t even try to deny it, and I barely blush when my stomach rumbles loudly, protesting the movie. I’m even without lunch today, and I had a couple of spoiled muffins for breakfast, most of which went for crumbs anyway.

– I get it, – the moonshiner smiles. – You need to be fed.

– Oh, yes, – I blissfully squinted, – preferably something horribly non-vegetarian and ungodly caloric.

As my young moonshiner backs out of the car, I scramble to get all the way up on the seat. From this vantage point, while he’s driving, he can be quietly viewed. And I, despite the very uncertain status of our relationship and my “more of a no than a yes,” still enjoy looking at his face. It’s very handsome, if you take the classic look of popular models on magazine covers as an ideal: blond elongated hair cut in jagged strands, a thin, perfectly straight nose (I’m pretty sure plastic surgery was involved, but who said it was bad?), full, slightly messy lips that give his image exactly that note of realism, without which all this beauty would make me want to cross my eyes and run away so as not to soil it with my sinful presence.

– What?” He notices my gaze and absently runs his palm across his perfectly shaved chin. – Just the way you like it, Margot.

I guess I’m one of the few women in the world who gets annoyed by stubble. A man should be brutal in his actions – in the office, giving orders to his subordinates, or storming a mountain peak, or saving someone’s life, or anything else that shows his strength, self-confidence, responsibility… so many things. And the per diem “prickles” sticking out on his cheeks show nothing but that the man hasn’t shaved in twenty-four hours.

– You look great, – I told him the truth, realizing too late that I had opened Pandora’s Box.

– Well, if I’m so good, maybe you can stop running to me on secret dates and finally introduce me to the sisters?

The thought of officially showing up on the arm of a lunatic almost ten years younger than me instantly dispels the spell of his unreal beauty.

– I’m sorry, Sh’Irene, but you’re too good-looking for a cynical and perfectly ordinary old woman.

Whoever his family is, they’re moonshiners. Purewomen. And they certainly wouldn’t be happy about such an alliance. And I, though I deeply dislike all these “aliens,” am not prepared to ruin one of them – this one in particular – at all.

– You know I don’t like it when you call yourself old, – Shar’ereen frowned.

I know.” He says it all the time, keeping his impeccable manners and perfect upbringing in mind. Though that’s a characteristic of almost every Lunnick I’ve ever met. Nana’s hubby seemed to be the only one of them from whom I’d heard swear words a couple of times. And in such combinations that sometimes it looked almost like coherent and almost harmonic speech.

Yes, in addition to being a cynical and overripe woman, I am also one of those people who do not cover their nose with a handkerchief when they hear references to the reproductive organs in strong language. And – yes, yes – sometimes I use those same words in my own speech. And what do you do when the lives of fifty innocent children who turned out to be of no use to their own parents depend on you?

But I’m in a special mood today, and fatigue and Mr. Big Liar are to blame. I still can’t believe I almost didn’t believe in his… nobility.

– I’m sorry, Shea, – I intentionally shortened my young moonshiner’s name just the way he liked it. – I’m just a little tired. But I promise not to bring up the subject of age today.

He stopped at the traffic light, looked questioningly and expectantly in my direction, and I gave up.

– And the subject of our age difference, too.

– I’ll pretend to believe it, – he smiles.

No, definitely, for all his other virtues and handsome face, if Shi weren’t a moonshiner, I’d be ready to seriously consider the future of our relationship from all angles.

Too bad he’d never stop being a moonshiner.

But it was a good thing that Shea was still too infatuated with me to agree to a secret affair.

Everyone needs an outlet, even me.