Читать книгу A Man from the Future. 1856 - Евгений Платонов - Страница 22

Dmitry slowly got to his feet, feeling his knees tremble. The man in the worn frock coat steadied him by the arm.

“Careful, sir,” he said. “Looks like you took quite a knock. Should we call a doctor? Or shall I take you home?”

“I… no, I’m fine,” Dmitry mumbled.

How is he addressing me? Sir? So he’s taking me for a nobleman. Or maybe that’s just how he addresses everyone who’s decently dressed?

He looked around once more – more carefully this time, trying to understand where he was. The street was clearly a St. Petersburg street – narrow, gloomy, with tall buildings on both sides. In the distance the dome of some church was visible. It smelled of the Neva – he recognized that smell, specific, riverlike, with a hint of industrial runoff.

St. Petersburg, he understood. I’m in St. Petersburg. But what year? What part of the city?

“Excuse me,” he said to the man, who was still standing beside him, curiously examining his strange clothes. “Could you please tell me what today’s date is?”

The man looked at him in surprise:

“The date? It’s October seventeenth, sir. Monday.”

“And the year?”

Dmitry began feeling the curb and stones on the road, trying to understand if this was a set, maybe a prank.

Now the man looked at him with obvious bewilderment, even with alarm:

“The year? Why, it’s eighteen sixty-five, sir. Are you sure you’re all right? Should I really call a doctor?”

“1856,” Dmitry repeated to himself. “October seventeenth, 1856. Dostoevsky hasn’t written Crime and Punishment yet. The assassination of the tsar is still sixteen years away. The revolution – fifty-two years.”

His head spun – not from physical weakness, but from the realization of what had happened. He really was here. In the past. In the real, actual past.

“Thank you,” he said to the man. “I really am fine. Just… a bit dazed.”

“I can see that,” the man agreed. “And if you don’t mind my asking, sir, where are you from? Your clothes are… unusual.”

Clothes, Dmitry caught himself. Yes, I need to change immediately. Otherwise they’ll think I’m insane or escaped from a psychiatric hospital.

“I’m… I’m a foreigner,” he quickly lied. “From America. Just arrived. That’s how we dress there… fashionable.”

“From America!” the man whistled. “Well, that’s something! You’ve come far. But you speak Russian so pure, without any accent at all.”

“I studied for a long time,” Dmitry mumbled.

I need to leave, he thought. I need to find somewhere to collect myself, figure out the situation. And find clothes urgently.

“Excuse me, I have to go,” he said, and quickly walked down the street, not knowing where he was headed.

The man in the worn frock coat watched him go with confusion, then shook his head and went on his way.