Very bad English / Очень плохой English. Яна Варшавская

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СКАЧАТЬ fairy tale and, perhaps, under the influence of «Twilight»… Is that possible? Sure.

      Now I get this letter…

      Taking an envelope and raising a magnifying glass to it, I began to carefully study the small stamp of the sender's address in the upper left corner of the letter. The firm conviction that someone deliberately smeared the print so that it was impossible to make out anything other than the last name strengthened with every single minute.

      D. Frost.

      Funny, because the name Frost can be interpreted as Russian 'Morozov'…

      Well, dear storyteller, it means we are also namesakes!

      But my address was written very carefully, as if a person was afraid that the letter might get lost or fall into the wrong hands.

      What an intrigue.

      My mysterious stranger can also be a good psychologist. After all, if he sent a letter to my email address, there's a probability of two hundred per cent that I would consider it to be spam and delete it, despite the fact that some signal word would be indicated in the subject of the letter, for example, «Important» with three exclamation points. Noone likes spam.

      But I love paper letters. Of course, not official ones, with the text known in advance, or maybe with rare exceptions…

      As for trendy Postcrossing, oddly enough, it inspires me little. I'm offline most of the time, unless I make purchases on my favorite Victoria's Secret[2] website.

      So it turns out that the most reliable option is unreliable!

      Sending a letter by mail. And just in case, the letter looks like this: beautiful, solid, with a newspaper with colored photos in it… And, of course, more «I LOVE YOU!» stamps.

      That's all!

      I swallowed the bait, as if hypnotized. And since at the end of the letter there wasn't any «I am waiting for your reply…», I could not calm down until this situation cleared up.

      I spent the rest of the weekend reading an old book, constantly distracting and thinking about the letter. Suddenly an unexpected thought literally pierced me: «Is that old newspaper put into the envelope just for weight?» I expanded it, and stumbled upon an article dedicated to the Oscar award, which Leonardo DiCaprio had never received again as the leading actor in «The Great Gatsby». The interview was circled in red marker…

      I looked at the sofa. The open book of Francis Scott Fitzgerald in red hardcover was waiting for me. What can I say?

      It was «The Great Gatsby»…

      I felt helpless. It was like someone was studying me under a microscope, just like me recently, trying to read the return address on an envelope with a magnifying glass. Someone knew more about me and my addictions than I knew… And now, he was gloating!

      Unless…

      Unless he was trying to say something, but carefully dosed the information. I was completely confused. I turned off the light and cried. And when I fell asleep, I persuaded myself in a dream that all this was an absurd, a stupid dream. The next morning, waking up, I would not find any letter.

      Such a naive.

      The letter did not go away in the morning. It lay on a windowsill on top of an open novel. I defiantly pushed back the curtains, warmed the kettle and had my breakfast.

      I tuned in on Monday, dressed, fed a starving flock behind the aquarium glass as it chatted about the weather, and rushed outside.

      Indeed, it was drizzling in the morning, adding colors, or rather, depths to the surrounding landscape. Trees and flowers, washed and elegant, could be depicted on a canvas… I was again agitated by the thoughts of my abandoned painting and saved from other thoughts of an unknown author.

      Opening the laboratory doors, I finally calmed down. Strangely enough, I didn't remember about the damn letter until the evening…

      Eva's diary:

      August 23, 1998.

      Sunday.

      It can be very difficult to start a conversation, even with the closest.

      It seems like the words are stuck in the tongue, clinging to its papillae, and the only thing left is to swallow them.

      Mom, I hope you never read these lines.

      I write all these words, because otherwise I will suffocate or burst under the pressure.

      They are so prickly.

      I hate myself because I allow these thoughts appear.

      «The world is full of surprises!» you reassured me when I was bored. You made me believe in the most incredible stories in order to cheer me up.

      You gave me new books, believing that they could distract me from sad thoughts…

      Chapter 4

      Something That Remains

      August pampered with warm weather. I lived in anticipation of a wonderful trip. I Googled and chose the most interesting tours. A tour to Croatia was my most tremulous and crystal dream.

      Actually, I like traveling. All the money I save thanks to my Spartan lifestyle I spend on this particular type of human activity. I also make small sketches and photograph monuments or landscapes from an unusual angle. I collect impressions, writing down the very first thoughts that come to mind, as soon as I set foot in a new country.

      Nothing overshadowed my preparations for departure. Nothing extraordinary or even a little unusual. No letters or calls.

      Silence.

      I decided to drop by Doremi the next day to say goodbye, and arrive to Moscow in two days. I would spend a night in Izmailovo, and get on my next plane in the morning. This time straight to Dubrovnik!

      Long live the sea, relaxation, new experiences, meetings and again…

      Long live the sea!!!

      In the most joyful and carefree mood, I opened the doors of the university dormitory without even paying attention to some kind of a dull blow behind me. Behind the doors leading to my abode…

      He was still alive when I came in. The man was lying on the floor. His eyes turned to the sky were open. In fact, the sky was replaced by the high ceiling of our five-story dormitory.

      Perhaps this was some last impulse… He extended his hand to me and said:

      «Now the thread is broken!»

      His hand trembled, and he somehow immediately changed his face, as if petrified.

      I stood at the door, unable to move. This stranger was the first dead man I've ever seen…

      The spiral staircase is not the most successful invention of mankind. It rushes up, steep and narrow.

      Oddly enough, I was not sick, and there were no unpleasant sensations. I looked at СКАЧАТЬ