Knives. Найля Копейкина

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      Clara gave her address.

      “Yours police officer is still working,” the attendant answered with mocking intonation. “Just a moment.”

      He came back in five minutes with the number of district police officer. Clara reluctantly dialed the number and told what happened. District police officer introduced himself as Gleb Borisovich and arrived in fifteen minutes.

      “So he saved you from death?” – asked the police officer, fingering the kitten. “Did you give it a name?”

      “Not yet.”

      “I think,” said Gleb Borisovich, picking up the kitten, “you should call him Savior if this is a male, and if it’s a female… This is male,” he interrupted himself. “So small. Wrap him with something wool. It would be even better if you put him in a box. As for the knife, it was no longer in the tree when I checked. What was it like?”

      Clara told him.

      “So a ruby drop. Was it glued on top?”

      “It was inlaid, that is, located in the handle itself.”

      “Not convex?”

      “I don’t think so. Sorry, I don’t remember exactly. But it was a beautiful knife.”

      As soon as Leonid crossed the threshold, he grabbed Clara by the shoulders and, anxiously looking into her eyes, asked:

      “Are you all right?”

      Clara shrugged.

      “Fine. I told you everything is fine.”

      Leonid impulsively embraced the girl, squeezing her with an unexpected wheeze. Clara examined the face of her beloved for a moment, and a picture from early childhood suddenly surfaced in her memory: same expression on her mother’s face, same hug, same question: “Did you hurt yourself?” Clara remembered that she was wearing new red shoes with hard slippery soles. She was almost in the middle of the metal game ladder when the shoe slipped, and the leg fell off.

      Leonid’s hugs lasted longer than usual welcome hugs. Then, a long time ago, mother’s hugs were also longer than usual. The deliberate inspector’s coughing made Leonid and Clara pay attention to him.

      The men introduced themselves, talked about the knife, about the kitten, about the likelihood that a bully boy could have thrown the knife and then ran away, frightened. Gleb Borisovich made some notes and seemed to finish his visit, but Leonid delayed him.

      “Gleb Borisovich,” he turned to the precinct tone of a man seeking support, “I think it’s not safe for Clara to stay here. It would be better if she moved to me.”

      Gleb Borisovich carefully looked at Leonid and silently nodded. He made five nods, then turned to Clara. Clara wanted to say something in protest, but Gleb Borisovich was ahead of him:

      “Yes,” he said firmly, “I think it’s better for you, Clara, to move to live with mister Izmailov, at least temporarily.”

      Seeing the praying Leonid’s look, Clara, pondering the words of the district officer, unexpectedly said:

      “Why move temporarily? I’ll move permanently then.”

      Leonid had long asked Clara to move to him, but Clara wanted to first legalize her status.

      “Permanently would be better,” Gleb Borisovich confirmed. “Better do it today.” Without giving either Clara or delighted Leonid the ability to say something, as if considering this matter settled, he turned to Leonid: “Leonid Aleksandrovich, leave your address and phone number. Do you live far from here?”

      Inspector found out everything he wanted and left. Immediately after his departure, Leonid grabbed Clara in his arms, began to kiss her on the lips, eyes, nose and cheeks. Moreover, in the intervals between kisses he whispered rustle and exhausted words. These words circled the room. In the midst of a word circle, the question suddenly arose: “Did you call your parents?” The question did not circle in the air, but froze asking for an answer.

      “What for?” Clara asked fearfully. She did not want anyone else to know about this, because, in fact, nothing happened, and she did not want to bother anyone else.

      “I don’t know,” Leonid shrugged, “but I believe your parents should be informed.”

      “Leonid,” Clara said reproachfully, with a plea in her voice, “why bother them?”

      “Clara, I think it’s worth calling them: maybe Yuri Vladimirovich knows something about this.”

      “You think so?”

      “No, I don’t think anything yet, but I think that it would be better.”

      “Okay,” Clara surrendered, “whatever you want.”

      Leonid called Yuri Vladimirovich and told him about the incident.

      “Was that an assassination attempt?” Yuri Vladimirovich asked after a pause.

      “We don’t know that.”

      “Did you call the police?”

      “Yes, Clara called a district police officer.”

      Yuri Vladimirovich raised his voice.

      “District officer!” He was indignant and asked to give the phone to Clara. He began to instruct his daughter not to go anywhere, and reproached her with the fact that she did everything herself and refused other people's services.

      “Dad, I can’t stay at home all the time. I think they were just hooligans.”

      “It doesn't matter who kills my daughter – a hooligan or a gangster. I want my daughter to be alive and well.”

      Yuri Vladimirovich, accustomed to the fact that everything in his life is settled, predetermined and stable, suddenly felt a terrible excitement caused by several feelings at once. The first feeling was fear. Fear of losing his daughter, who was the subject of his father’s pride and a constant source of life energy. It wasn’t just because Clara reminded him of his beloved wife: the image of the deceased was vague and no longer attractive. But Clara herself, with her clear mind and refined beauty, with her restrained inner energy, exalted her father and, despite the rudeness surrounding Yuri Vladimirovich in life, kept him within the intellectual, in a very narrow sense of the term. The second unpleasant feeling was anger caused by the insult which, he believed, someone dared to inflict on him by attacking his beloved daughter. And, of course, other feelings included resentment, anxiety and some other vague feeling that arose from the thought of a possible or past death of a loved one. Yuri Vladimirovich asked Clara to immediately move to live with them, but Clara refused and told about her decision to move to Leonid.

      Katia invited some school friends. Four girls – Katia and the three guests – were sitting at a beautifully furnished table when the phone rang.

      “Mom, call me back. I have guests,” Katia said and made a short gesture to hang up, but the phone stayed by her ear. Apparently, what she was told was very important and very alarming to her. Suddenly she alarmed, bit her lower lip, as she often did when she was being accounted for at school, СКАЧАТЬ