Читать книгу Puzzled - Seraphima Bogomolova - Страница 4

London, UK, 24 December

Outside, big fluffy snowflakes silently swirl in a magical dance. In the windows of an Edwardian house across the street a tall Christmas tree is visible. Hanging on its prickly paws are golden apples and walnuts, red bows and coloured nets with sweetmeats. Glittering in its glory, the tree twinkles merrily at me.

The church bells chime in the distance. I move away from the window. An aroma of pine tree and oranges wafting in the air, I throw a pleased glance at the Christmas tree, flickering in the dimness of my living room. A big shiny bauble on a lower branch catches my eye. The snowy Rockefeller Square1 is skilfully depicted on it. I think of my friends scattered around the world. ‘What are they up to right now?’ I think and, taking my iPad, curl up on the sofa.

My inbox has new messages. I scan them quickly, mostly Christmas wishes but one email stands out. Intrigued, I click on the message. It opens up.

The doorbell rings. I leap off the sofa and rush out into the hall.

The door opened, a frosty wind blows a handful of prickly snowflakes into my face. At the doorstep Nicolas stands, a Russian ushanka-hat on his head and a bottle of French wine in his hands.

‘Hey, you’re early.’ I say.

‘Right on time, as agreed, at seven.’ he replies, presenting me with the bottle.

‘Thanks. I must have been in my dreams then.’

‘Yeah, you must have been. The happy don’t keep account of time, as one of your Russian classics said once.’

‘Do you mean Alexander Griboyedov2?’

‘Yes,’ Nicolas says, pulling his hat off, and walks in, ‘that phrase is the only legacy left to me by my ex, a devotee of Russian classics.’

‘And the hat?’ I ask with a smile.

‘And the hat too …’

I leave him in the hall and head to the kitchen.