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125 RUS. Anna Efimenko
Читать онлайн.Название 125 RUS
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9785005315151
Автор произведения Anna Efimenko
Жанр Ужасы и Мистика
Издательство Издательские решения
The shadow disappeared. I stuck my head out under the bed, instinctively fearing that an ultralight, noiseless invisible, quietly climbing onto the bed during this brief time limit, was about to grab my hair and yell into my ear, «Aha! Gotcha!» But there was no one else in the room or outside the door. The shadow was gone. I listened to her outgoing step wishing to calm down. Clack, clack, she was definitely going away. Aha, heels! Looks like, it was another mysterious stranger. Someone I already know. Oh, God, I’m such an idiot. Who could come here except her?!? What a holy fool I am, why couldn’t I guess earlier?
The heels clacked reaching the hall, a bell tinkled, an elevator arrived. At first I wanted to go after her, paint words with my fingers in the air and give her voice recorder and her other belongs back to her. Then I imagined how ridiculous it would look, and decided to leave it as it was. I got up, dusted myself, trying to breathe smoothly, standing in a cursed place and pressing the French Bible to my chest with cold hands.
She left a present. While I was scared trembling under the bed, she pushed a photo under the door. It was old-old, black and white with vintage yellowish, shabby corners, discolored with time. In the photo, a group of young people were located near a cliff on the seashore. Two young men were putting up a tent, three girls smiled in the lens. The guys were dressed for camping: sweaters, sports pants, sneakers. One of the girls who looked older than the rest was wearing a summer dress with a flower pattern, the other was wearing a knitted sweater and jeans, the third one was dressed in a long cloak. The one in the knitted sweater hugged another young man who was holding a guitar in his hand, wrapped in a plastic bag, but not in a case. In general, it was an ordinary shot of a camping trip of young people. I turned the photo, on the back side it was signed with soft pencil: «L’Emar – L’Humour – La Humora.»
Next to the photograph under the door there was a small package consisting of several sheets. Unfolding the package, I was stunned: Japanese symbols. That was all I need for entire happiness. I learned Japanese myself and could translate basic texts. But I didn’t have a dictionary with me – nothing… Great, damn it! To solve this grotesque thriller they needed no one other but a dumb polyglot. That doesn’t make it any better. I left Mira’s room, carefully folding one trophy into another: photo of teenagers and a package with Japanese riddle was hidden between the pages of the Bible. Coming back to my room, I took out the key. Suddenly I was seized by a wild fear that, and most important, who could have visited my chambers? Some strange things were going on here, and I didn’t want to go back to my place for the moment.
Instead, I went down to the bar lit by a languid neon, where Seryoga poured me some whiskey. While my body being intoxicated, the mind was getting more and more sober, fear gradually gave way to alertness. Someone was playing strange games. One person had already been dead. Hence, the game was vicious. After a while, I showed the photo to Sergei. He turned it in his hands, looked at it, then gave it back.
«If it isn’t Yumora,» said the barman holding back an old crumpled photo to me. «This is Yumora.»
* * *
Yumora Bay was a truly magnificent sight in the rays of the setting sun. I climbed onto a steep rock and watched the green waves rushing onto sharp stones and breaking into smithereens. In the evenings, as always, the sea was like mint jelly. Yumora (officially called Yemar) was a wonderful place for camping. Everything was breathing freedom here.
I breathed freedom, standing on top of a steep rock, and the wind blew in my face. I closed my eyes and breathed freedom into my lungs, where there was still space free from detective puzzles and psychotherapy sessions. This space is still vacant, blown by the ocean breeze, wide open. Is this a place for the heart? I just have to put my right hand to my lips, and then to my heart: that’s all the love in my language. Plus ten letters of confession being written. And what is in return for such insignificant labor? Tenderness, caring and affection, songs, poems, a cozy joint routine, the excluded possibility of being a black sheep or save face.
But I step aside.
My favorite characters of my childhood are asocial and rugged… Heathcliff who ruled Wuthering Heights with an iron fist, it was possible to get on the right side of him, he wasn’t evil, he was in love. It whitewashes him and justifies all the horror he has arranged. Heathcliff stands on the mountain, his heavy gaze is directed far beyond the horizon. Heathcliff wanders through the heathland with his cloak fluttering in the wind…
Perhaps, Ajax stood on top of a cliff on Yemar as if in a black and white movie with a crackling sound and blue clouds thickened over his poor head. His brain was haunted by the events of the mad day.
Ajax shuddered. The wind got stronger. The sea, which suddenly got still last night, was vicious and was nearly boiling – so these high waves looked from above. It was boiling mint jelly somewhere down there… Mint of Yumora. There was Old Yumora on the yellowed photos.
Ajax got a mobile phone out of his pocket, which was disparagingly silent during all days of his staying in Primorsky Krai. One incoming message. Ajax covered his blue-green eyes in a picturesque way – we really need a real tragedy! – and clicked «Read». No, no, it was not a message in French. It had nothing to do with today’s worries. Everything was much easier,
«WHERE HAVE YOU GONE? PLEASE, COME HOME, BOY.» My mouth was dry. The weather was getting worse, another wave crashed against the rocks with a deafening roar. My father always knew how to choose words. When I was in a boarding school, he wrote me letters on sheets of paper torn from business diaries, «Get dressed properly, it’s already frosty outside.» And I thought, heaven forbid, just do not cry out in public on the word «frosty». Frosty. Boy. How touchy.
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