LITMIR.BIZ

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like a nightingale trill is wafting through the air.

      “I hope this hospital isn’t private?” Ruslan noticed only now that he was alone in the room, as if he were in a suite. It was too luxurious for a hospital. The room has a floor clock in a walnut case, a table with a porcelain set, and even some kind of painting on the wall.

      “It is private, of course.”

      “I hope my employer pays for my stay.”

      Why shouldn’t Vereskovsky pay for his architect’s three-day stay in a fancy hospital? The oligarchs have a lot of money. It will be bad if the employer is greedy and doesn’t want to bear the cost of the accident.

      “He won’t have to pay. It’s a charitable institution,” Tamara explained. “The hospital is for anyone who needs emergency care and is out of our reach.”

      “Is it for you? You mean for the hospital staff?”

      Tamara nodded silently.

      “And the treatment is free?”

      “They won’t charge you for it,” Tamara replied streamlined. “But you’ll have to take blood for analysis.”

      “I don’t like to pay with blood.”

      “It’s for the good of science.”

      “And you like to joke!”

      Tamara smiled back with just her lips.

      “I haven’t seen a charitable institution in a long time. No one treats without a medical policy or insurance. I didn’t bring my policy with me when I went to the construction site.”

      “We don’t give out bulletins, but we do help you get better.”

      “Now you’re not a nurse, you’re a nun who helps out between prayers.”

      “There really was a convent in the left wing.”

      For some reason Ruslan felt sick at the thought. Where there are monasteries, there are burials. The presence of a monastery nearby indicated that many people had gone straight to the other side of the world from this hospital.

      Tamara guessed his thoughts and explained:

      “Centuries ago, cholera epidemics and war casualties were treated here. The monastery and the hospital were built at the same time on the donation of the prince, who owned the surrounding lands and thousands of serfs.”

      And now the same lands belong to an oligarch! Almost nothing changes over time, except the names. There was one feudal lord, now there’s another.

      “Don’t tell me that you also do plastic surgery for free,” Ruslan remembered the oligarch’s wife, who was concerned about her appearance.

      “If people need it,” Tamara nodded, “but if it’s not absolutely necessary, a monetary contribution is welcome. However, it is not obligatory.”

      “You’re crazy!”

      “We just want to help.”

      Ruslan thought it was strange that Tamara didn’t specify who exactly she wanted to help: people or someone else. Maybe she was a foreigner and could hardly speak Russian? No, it didn’t sound like that. Her speech is no accent, but the meaning of her words is strange.

      The picture in the ornate gilded frame on the wall was also strange. Ruslan looked at it for a long time, but he couldn’t understand what it depicted. It was a complete mess! Pyramids, angels, corpses, clawed hands reaching out of the sand, and some creatures stuck in layers of earth. Such a mix of eras and symbols reminded him of Salvador Dali’s museum.

      “I don’t like surrealism,” Ruslan admitted.

      “You just don’t understand it,” Tamara glanced at the painting. “Surrealism has a cipher in it, like a rambling dream. Everything that seems abstract actually hints at something complex.”

      “It takes a very clever head to understand and decipher it all.”

      “And your head is sick,” Tamara teased.

      “I just bumped my head. It’ll feel a little sore and then it’ll go away.”

      Ruslan felt something like a bump on the back of his head.

      “Lie still!” Tamara told him to lie still.

      Heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor. It seemed as if an iron robot was treading the floor, not a human being. Was it the doctor?

      Tamara shuddered.

      “I’ll be right back!” She promised, jumping up from her stool.

      “But… wait!” Ruslan wanted to stop her, but he couldn’t get up from the bunk. And the heels of the nurse’s shoes were already clacking in the corridor. She even forgot to close the door of the room. She was in such a hurry. The doctor didn’t even call her. Where was she rushing off to? Who can understand these women? One minute they’re flirting with you, the next they’re running away from you like a monster!

      Speaking of monsters! Ruslan noticed an ugly shadow in the corridor. He couldn’t see much from his bunk. He should have propped himself up on his elbows to get a closer look, but he didn’t have the strength. Tamara must have sedated him in time. Sleep was intolerable. Ruslan fell asleep.

      Locked up

      In the corridor at the receptionist’s desk, a television was on. On the screen there was a glimpse of some creepy and beautiful footage of some kind of battle, in which winged creatures were participating. Probably they were angels. Beautiful voices were saying something incomprehensible. They sounded like music. Ruslan watched what was happening through the slit of the opened door of the ward. Curious, who opened the door? Had Tamara not closed it when she left? Or had someone else visited him while he lay unconscious? His room was the last one in the hallway. It was worth opening the door and you could watch everything that was going on in the reception, but his head ached so much that forced espionage was not pleasant. Soon Ruslan’s eyelids began to droop. Consciousness fell into darkness.

      Was he dreaming? Or was it a fragment from a movie that repeated itself in his dream? There are dreams with a repetition of events experienced in reality. This is when the brain of a tired person could not relax and shut down for a good rest. Then a person dreams that he is still working or sitting at school. But can a watched movie be repeated in a dream?

      In a dream, Ruslan could walk and even participate in the events. A beautiful woman, whom he had already seen a glimpse of on TV, led him to the locked doors. The beauty was wearing a scarlet cape, something like a Japanese kimono embroidered with dragons. Or was it a robe? Keys jingled in her hands. Something rustled beneath the cape, as if the fabric were hiding wings.

      “His head is in there! You can talk to him. But don’t get too close,” she instructed in the tone of a mentor. “I saved the head long ago, but it still breathes fire. Stay away from his lips. If he doesn’t like your question, he’ll burn you. If you don’t offend him in any way, he will foretell your future.”

      “Whose head is it?”

      “It is Michael’s. His winged body is gone, but I kept his head.”

      “You locked it up?” Ruslan was surprised.

      “He held me prisoner for centuries, and now I’m holding him. Karma is karma. In every next life, the rapist will become a victim himself,” the beauty’s tone became instructive.

      On a pedestal in the gloomy room there was the blond head of an angel. It was alive. Ruslan shuddered. He had seen such a face on frescoes in temples, and now he saw it on the severed head.

      The beauty was tearing strands from the blond head and weaving them into something. Under each torn strand, the wounds bled. The hair was torn off with nothing but skin and blood.

      The head

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