Margarita and Luca, book 1. Julia Alex A.

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      She stopped for a moment. The reminiscences were still fresh.

      A thin man fastens the belts on her waist, she thrusts her legs through the straps and a small rivet clicks. Two hooks are being joined to the parachute. Two tiny pegs. “What the fuck is that? They are not even soldered!”: a panic thought passes through her head… few metal things which she entrusted her life with.

      “Go!”: shouts a lively Afro-American to the other and the cutter starts with a jerk. The cloth gets smoothed dramatically and next second her feet come off the board. The boat rushes again, up to the heaven the parachute soared. Higher and higher! Now the sea is far underneath. The flimsy construction is dangling in the air. The strap she is sitting on starts to shift. There is mere beauty around, but the girl sees nothing, but the hooks. Each of them is the same size as her little finger. They are the only things that attach her to the cloth. If one of them has a flaw, the girl will fall down, tumble against the water.

      The steersman yells grinning: “Three hundred feet!”. Horror chilled her fragile body to the bone. She will plop down dead against the waters of the Caribbean sea, which’s been dreaming to see… She has always thought that death can be not only tragic, but also inimitable. For instance, if you have given the Q-sign because of liver inflammation after an unforgettable week in the capital of love Paris… Having visited the most fashionable restaurants and tried the best food, the famous pumpkin soup or scallops, and got pie-eyed with the best French vintage wine in Lido while enjoying international dances performed by absolutely beautiful women with resilient bare breasts and buttocks. This would be a perfect death, wouldn’t it?

      She is trying to relax: “There is no sense in being shriveled with eyes screwed during the last minutes of my life. Since I’m here, I should open my shoulders out and revel in the moment”. The girl opens her eyes wide and looks into the distance. An imposing white castle reveals itself through the density of leafy trees and palms as if it were a prince’s palace. The endless sea changes its colour from turquoise by the shore to deep blue in the main sea. The cutter turns back to the bay. The wind pulls the parachute. The strap nearly slips from under her bottom. Margot’s heart is wrung with fear, the fingers awkwardly clutched at the damned hooks. And there is nothing poetic in the moment. You can’t even think straight, but feel adrenalin which stones every centimeter of you body and, it seems, your soul too, if it exists. The brain is turned off: no pondering over your life. Nothing.

      The Afro-Americans release the blond down and seat her to the bench. Margot senses that her body is strongly trembling almost as if she was having an epileptic seizure. Her movements are nervous and inaccurate, but she is carrying it off, smiling. Two hours in a row.

      Finding herself overland, with Shtirlez’s self-control she thanks the sailors and heads to the bar. The girl comes up to the boiler, hands shivering, hot water splashing over her legs. Mint tea doesn’t help.

      – How’re you doin’, beautiful lady? – sings a merry afro-American guy in a deep voice.

      – Can I have a shot of tequila and a piece of lime, please…

      The man smiles broader, protruding his first finger in the sign of approval. They made a lot of use of the gestural language there, especially during the beautiful animation nights at the hotel bar: reggae, multinational audience, Caribbean breeze… On seeing you, the barman gives a signal. In a few minutes the same cocktail you’ve had last time is in front of you, on his clean-shaved brown head. The wind was oddly strong that evening. The refreshing breeze from the sea in heat was like a gulp of life. On coming back to Russia a week later, she learnt tsunami on Cuba had carried away about three hundred lives that night.