Читать книгу The Ball. Volume#1. “Kuluangwa” - Michael Ouzikov - Страница 11

Dinner went by strangely. Dalma seemed dispirited or upset. But that did not stop her, as always, from sitting at the head of the table and reading the traditional prayer that Diego knew by heart since the age of five. Dalma received this prayer in a letter from her cousin in the United States, on Long Island, with a note that it is «the most blessed prayer that your family can ever receive.» Three weeks later, the cousin died in a car accident. Since then, Dalma has recited the prayer as a testament before each meal.

I do solemnly swear that I will always respect the property of others and be content with their lot, destined in my life by the grace of God. I will always be thankful to my masters, will never complain either of my posited pay or of extra labour, but I will always question myself: «What else can I do for my masters, for my people and for God?» We were born on this Earth not for happiness, but for trial and ordeal. And this ordeal – the burden of Fire – was given to us to cleanse our souls. And if I want to carry this Fire from one place to another, then I must always be an unselfish, sober, and truthful person. I must always be of pure soul, body, deeds, and thoughts… Be full of respect for those whom the Creator, in his ineffable wisdom, has put over me. If I endure this trial, then death will be followed by eternal life and heavenly bliss. If, however, I will not endure, I will forever burn in the flames of hell, the Devil will triumph, and Christ will grieve of me.

Little Diego sat there; his eyes fixated on the eggs. Big Diego, leaning his head to one side, was looking admiringly at Diego’s mother. Then, while the boy was working on his thrice-heated omelet with pieces of coarsely chopped red bell pepper, the father and mother quietly discussed local news. Behind the wall, the younger sister, Maria, dropped off her blanket in response to the heat.

«People in the city are losing their minds. They say there’s a maniac who kills children at night. Here, listen,» Dalma smoothed the pages of the local newspaper, the Buenos Aires Review, on the table, «…Police Chief Don Rodriguez warns the local population of La Boca district, especially parents of young children. „Do not allow children out in the evening. Or look after them yourselves…“»

«Buenos Aires is slowly turning into Mexico City,» the father nodded.

«This maniac,» continued the mother, sighing and pushing the paper aside, «beats the poor things to death just like that, and then cuts off their ears and sends them to the police station… by mail, in a parcel. It’s as if he’s saying „catch me, police! Here I am!“»

«Yes, I heard parents from some schools in the lower city are doing night patrols on the streets. But how can you keep watch of everybody?» said the father, sitting on a creaking wicker chair, sipping Mendoza.

«Son, you shouldn’t run around so late in the evening. This may be happening in La Boca and not in our hood, but better to be safe than sorry,» Dalma stroked Diego’s ruffled, curly hair.

«That’s right, Diego. Until the police track down the bastard, come home before dark! That’s an order!» grimly asserted his father.

«Don’t worry so much, ma-papa,» the boy hurriedly blurted out, pushing aside his plate, and planting a kiss on his mother’s cheek. Already fleeing to his room, he added, «It’s not like I go out alone in the evenings, I’m always with friends…»

Diego undressed, turned off the old desk lamp and climbed into bed. Outside, cicadas itched in a monotone voice, the neighbour’s window slammed shut, and a car passed by, rattling on potholes. An empty bucket suspended from the chassis characteristically tapped on each bump in the road. Cats cried out occasionally. The huge city was slowly preparing for sleep. For a while, Diego lay motionless. Behind one wall – his parents were talking quietly, behind another – Maria was turning and muttering something in her sleep. On the table among the books, the black and white sides of the gift Diego received from his father gleamed in the moonlight. Diego crawled out from under his blanket and while making a step in the dark, suddenly stumbled and nearly hit his head on the table. Stooping, he picked up his little black ball. Diego stood still in the middle of the room; his head leaned to his shoulder. At this moment, tears began to flow down his cheeks. I’ll never leave you, Kuluangwa! Never! He swung and fell on his bed, hugged the old ball tightly and with it turned towards the wall, pulling his knees to his chest.

Pressing the ball in his palms made him feel light, almost electric bites. He was already used to them. They appeared every night. Completely painless at first, they gradually became more and more insistent. However, Diego was not afraid of them. On the contrary, he waited for these sensations with unconcealed trepidation and deep joy. At this point, a hard, warm lump always appeared in his throat, making him want to cry – to weep bitterly. That’s what the boy often did, firmly wrapped in his blanket. He tore off the blackened patch off the palm of his left hand. Curled in pain that he suffered every night, he whispered, «Now, now, wait…»

Clenching his teeth, Diego pressed his right thumb on the wound. He was so twisted in pain that he grabbed the edge of the pillow with his teeth, holding back a moan. A large drop of blood emerged from the cut and spread out over the palm of his hand. Carefully, so as not to stain the linens, he put his hand to the ball. The small hand went into the black surface, like into melted wax, and the soothingly warm ball firmly accepted it into its fold. It will hold Diego’s palm until the morning, caressing and massaging it until the bleeding will stop. Now the boy was asleep. A happy smile roamed on his lips.