Читать книгу Very bad English / Очень плохой English - Яна Варшавская - Страница 8

«I have no idea what you're talking about, Taska!» Eva said when, suspecting her of pandering, I called her without really understanding the essence of this strange and mysterious letter.

«Well then fine! I'll figure it out myself. The only trouble is… my English is very bad! Or, like they say: „I speak English a little!..“»

«Hey, bogey, send my best to dad! By the way… Mom was very upset that you did not call her. That's true, Taska! She has recently become some kind of sentimental,» Eva added before saying goodbye.

Having put the phone in the side pocket of the bag carefully imitating leopard leather, I returned to the letter.

I can't help myself, but this familiar crony American «Hi!» mocks me, to say the least. That is how the letter I received began. And then, despite the fact that the meaning reached me from the second or third reading, the hair on my head stirred.

At least it seemed to me.

There were two lined leaflets torn from a notebook and scribbled in small handwriting. However, despite the fact that it was written in block letters, it was incredibly difficult to perceive the text. I was tormented by a constant question, which distracted me from reading… Who was this? A man or a woman?

That's it, I won't torture myself like that anymore! After copying the letter, I sent it to an online translator. The translation was clumsy, but quick!

So:

«Hello!

I'm afraid to frighten you if I say straight away that I know you.

I'll just tell you one story today:

The Adriatic coast is far behind, with its deserted beaches and incredible shade of turquoise water. Bronze skin and light brown hair bleached under the sun are a reward for hours spent under the rays of the gentle August sun. I am among other tourists. There is some tour planned, most likely a boring one.

I am tormented: to go or not to go? Curiosity, or, I will not flatter myself, ordinary interest prevails.

I'm coming.

Museum. Just an ordinary museum. Our Romanian guide, Justin, is sincerely surprised. I ask:

„Is there something unusual? Moving pictures? Maybe revived statues?“

„No, can you imagine, He will accompany us through the museum.“

„Who's He?“ I ask, almost yawning.

„The director of the museum himself. They say for the first time in many years. Well, why?“ Justin says, still continuing to bewilder.

Foyer of the Museum of Local Lore. We are invited to go to the first hall. Suddenly I get a persistent feeling that we were placed inside a huge velvet box. Ripe cherry walls are decorated with swords and spades. Glass cases contain jewels and crowns.

Everything sparkles and shines, as it should. Insanely expensive and beautiful!

No one noticed him entering.

There's a tall man of about forty-five. Black hair, barely touched by a noble gray, dark blue suit, dazzling white cambric shirt.

As soon as I looked away from his elegant neckerchief, I immediately ran into his gaze…

It was not just interest in his eyes, there was something else. It happens when you suddenly realize that you have a representative of your clan, your like-minded person. A man who understands everything without words.

I don't know how much time has passed: an hour, a minute… I can't remember. I stayed behind the group, listened to the interpreter, poorly understanding the broken speech. The tour was drawing to a close. We were thanked for patience, and we headed for the exit.

„I want to show you something completely unique,“ he suddenly addressed me only in the purest Russian language, gently guiding me towards the sculpture of young Grace standing in the distance.

I listened to the vibrations of his voice and, as if under hypnosis, answered something.

Our guide, who counted everyone on the bus on their heads, and who did not count one, returned to the lobby. Seeing us, he was dumbfounded, and turned into a „salt pillar“… His face immediately expressed a whole gamut of feelings. When, finally, he restored the ability to move back, he grabbed my hand and literally dragged me from the hospitable museum director.

„Printesa, sunteti invitati si-au dat acordul. Mai mult decat nimic nu are sens![1]“ I heard…

„I studied the ancient dialects of our language, but I don't understand this one well. Where did you learn Romanian?“ Justin asked me, sitting down on the next bus seat.

„Are you kidding? We spoke Russian. He told me that many visitors rubbed Grace's foot to fulfill their cherished desire. It's a sign or something. Me too,…“ I suddenly stopped short, understanding what the last words said by the Grand Duke meant.

„I agreed…“ I whispered…»

This story seemed a little more romantic than the one that happened to me, but… My God, I again felt the light breeze playing with my hair and felt my heart fall down when our bus was looping around the Carpathian serpentine, rising higher and higher into the mountains. Everything was exactly like the unknown author stated, sending this letter to me…

In any case, the guide's name was Justin!

In addition to this mysterious letter, the envelope turned out to be an old newspaper folded several times…