«Privet. Kak dila?» – получила я в личку моментальный ответ, набитый латинскими буквами.
«Нормально, а ты?»
«Ti est Viber? Whatsap? Gja xatiel tibie zvanit…»
Я сделала глубокий вдох и выдох. Не задавая глупых вопросов, несмотря на то, что за все эти годы ничего, кроме салата из морепродуктов, курицы и кофе, между нами не было, написала Паше свой номер.
И буквально через пару минут получила следующее:
«Gja skoutchal za tibie. Otchin-otchin pravda…»
Я встала с кровати. Включила ночник. Достала карты Таро и вытащила две: «Дьявол» и «Рыцарь Кубков».
«Ты это МНЕ пишешь?»
«Tibie, Alis, da. Patsimou gavaris tak? Zvanit mozna?»
Он не дождался моего ответа и позвонил.
Я сбросила звонок.
«Прости, я сплю. Спокойной ночи…» – написала я и сразу же отключила телефон.
Матрица капитально глючила.
Я подошла к письменному столу у окна и задумалась: «А что бы я сделала здесь, если бы у меня в наличии оставалось не 39 вечеров, а целых 12 месяцев?»
1. Devil’s Trill
It was the first of the forty literary parties of the Union of Writers I was to hold in the legendary Mansion, behind the Left Door, where the Portal to Another Reality still operated in the 21st century. The presentations had been agreed back in September, however, the epidemic caused a time shift – we waited for the start of mass vaccination in order to obtain permits for cultural events. So Autumn imperceptibly disappeared from the scene, giving way to Winter.
«Hello, the Queen!» the Guardian of the Portal called out to me as I went up to the inner cafe. There, in the museum hall, combined with a coffee shop, our forty parties would be hold.
Yes, some people jokingly, and some mockingly, called me «the Queen». Once I won the «King of Poets» tournament, similar to Igor Severyanin in the Silver Age, a century before ours, and on my father’s side (his grandmother and grandfather, the Writer’s friend, owned some mansions in the city center, however, taken away in their time) I was practically a princess, but «here and now» I was interested in a completely different thing – the local Portal…
Each literary party traditionally (once upon a time I had hold similar events in other places) consisted of two parts: presentation of a contemporary poet / writer book and, after a smoke break for autograph session and familiarity, the Open Microphone for guests. Actually, everybody flocked to the Open Mic like moths to the light, and without it one could hardly count on the presence of masses in the first part of «le ballet de la Merlaison», because in the 20s of the 21st century, almost every person on Earth learned letters and wrote something, but there were almost no readers left.
***
I opened our first party at the Mansion introducing a mysterious writer with a collection of stories titled «The Devil’s Trill», in which the characters actively changed souls and bodies, got stuck between our and Other Worlds, summoned the Devil, and, quite possibly, already beyond the stories, made love spells in cemeteries in thirst for human mutual love, and, not getting it, they reveled in blood, turning into vampires…
While I was revealing the author’s identity, asking tricky questions to the guests and to the author herself, acting as a bridge-guide (however, even children would immediately guess that the writer was a real Witch, not a fake one, in fact, all writers are magicians), the Guardian of the Portal was silently watching me from behind the counter of the already dormant cafe, located directly opposite the stage. The main museum rooms, which we had no official access to, were sighing behind the curtains to the right of the stage, and the Giant Mirror stared at us from the left.
«It’s funny!» I thought, glancing at the Guardian. «He recognized my Gloves…»
«It’s funny!» the Guardian thought. «She brought me those Gloves…»
On the stage, in addition to me and the Witch, there was a chair, occupied by the local black Cat of enormous size. I was sure he pretended to be snoozing, meanwhile in fact…
«So, did you really practice magic?» the question came from the audience.
«Well…» the Witch gave up, «I should confess! Yes, I graduated from the School of Magicians!»
«Did you practice the transmigration of souls, as in your story?»
«No!» she was embarrassed.
«Is it true that it is easier to settle spirits in the intoxicated people?»
«Does the Season of Sand exist only for Evil Spirits?»
«Have you ever been to the Other World?»
I sighed, remembering Ray, and closed my eyes. Then I opened them again… And…
«No! That can’t be true!!!»
Instantly forgetting about the sharing of spirits and the exchange of souls, I stared at a painfully familiar man: right in front of me, at the cafe counter, to the left of the Guard, appeared… Roman.
Everything that happened next seemed like a dream. I remembered only I announced the break, and the guests of the party pounced first СКАЧАТЬ