Читать книгу A Man from the Future. 1856 - Евгений Платонов - Страница 18

At the end of the second room he noticed a small door – old, dark, with a tarnished brass handle. Beside it hung a sign: “Staff Area. Admission Forbidden.”

I wonder what’s in there? Dmitry thought. Probably a storage room or something.

He was about to move on, but suddenly heard a strange sound – quiet, barely perceptible, like a whisper or breathing. The sound came from behind the door.

A hallucination, he decided. Or maybe a draft.

But the sound repeated – and this time he clearly made out the words, spoken quietly but distinctly:

“Enter… enter…”

Dmitry went cold. He looked around – there was no one in the room. The museum clearly wasn’t popular, and he was the only visitor.

I’m losing my mind, he thought. From stress, from exhaustion, from all this shit that’s accumulated in my life. I should go home, take something to calm my nerves. I haven’t even picked up that prescription the neurologist or psychologist gave me, whoever knows about these things anyway…

His hand reached for the door handle of its own accord. He turned it. The door opened – easily, silently, as if it had been waiting for this moment.

Beyond the door was a small room – no more than three meters long and wide. There was no window, but somehow it was light – a dim yellowish glow came from nowhere in particular, as if the walls themselves were emitting a soft radiance. In the room stood one single object – an old writing desk with drawers and a green leather desktop. On the desk lay an open book – a thick volume in a worn leather binding.

What is this? Dmitry wondered. Some kind of strange exhibit? Why lock visitors away from just a table and a book?

He stepped into the room – and the door silently closed behind him. Dmitry turned around, tried to open it again, but the handle wouldn’t turn.

It’s jammed, he thought irritably. Damn it. I should call the attendant.

But instead of calling for help, he somehow walked over to the desk and looked at the open book. The pages were covered in small, old-fashioned handwriting – ink, pen, with curlicues and flourishes.

He tried to read the text but couldn’t – the letters blurred before his eyes, formed into incomprehensible patterns. Then suddenly one phrase became readable, appeared bright and clear:

“He who has lost himself in the present may find himself in another time.”

What nonsense is this? Dmitry thought. Some mystical garbage.

But his heart suddenly beat faster. Because these words – they were addressed directly to him. Lost himself in the present. That was about him! He really had lost himself – that Dmitry who dreamed, who loved history, who wanted to live for a reason.

Find myself where? he repeated to himself. How? What does that mean?