Dedicated to Bora
“There is not a single person on earth who can say who he is. No one knows why he came into this world, what his actions, his feelings and thoughts mean, and what his true name, his enduring Name in the list of Light..."
Leon Blois
Soul of Napoleon
- Then a fan, eh, Zhuka? - he said, smiling into the phone and imagining her patrician, hook-nosed face in a halo of blue haze. “We’ll stick a fly on your cheek, and you’ll go out onto the balcony of your almshouse to fan yourself like some kind of fly, a vigorous root.”
- I don’t need anything from you! - she said obstinately.
- Bona how. “He himself was as gentle as a dove.” - Well, okay... Then I’ll bring you a Spanish broom.
– What kind of Spanish? – she muttered. And I got caught.
– What other plane does your sister fly there? - he exclaimed, rejoicing, as in childhood, when you fool a simpleton and jump around shouting: “What the hell are you stupid!”
She hung up, but it was no longer a quarrel, but a thunderstorm in early May, and she could leave with a light heart, especially since the day before the quarrel he went to the market and filled his aunt’s refrigerator to capacity.
All that was left was round off one more thing plot which he has been building and developing (vignettes of details, arabesques of details) for three years now.
And tomorrow, finally, at dawn, against the backdrop of turquoise scenery, made of sea foam (therapeutic resort, note, foam), will be born new Venus with his personal signature: the conductor’s last stroke, a pathetic chord at the end of the symphony.
Taking his time, he packed his favorite soft suitcase made of olive leather, small but sturdy, like a soldier’s knapsack: you can compact it to capacity, at most, as Uncle Syoma said, I can’t - Lo and behold, the second shoe still fit.
When preparing for a trip, he always carefully thought through his outfit. He paused over the shirts, replaced the cream one with a blue one, pulled out a dark blue, silk one from a bunch of ties in the closet... Yes: and cufflinks, of course. Those that Irina gave. And those others that Margot gave are a must: she is perceptive.
Here you go. Now expert dressed with dignity for all five days Spanish project.
For some reason, the word “expert”, uttered to himself, made him laugh so much that he laughed, even fell face down on the ottoman, next to the open suitcase, and laughed loudly, with pleasure, for two minutes - he always laughed most contagiously when alone with himself.
Continuing to laugh, he rolled to the edge of the ottoman, leaned down, pulled out the bottom drawer of the wardrobe and, rummaging among the wrinkled panties and socks, pulled out a pistol.
It was a convenient, simple design of the Colt Glock system, with automatic firing pin locking and a slight smooth recoil. In addition, with the help of a pin or nail it could be disassembled in one minute.
Let's hope, my friend, that tomorrow you will sleep through the entire important meeting in your suitcase.
Late in the evening he left Jerusalem towards the Dead Sea.
I didn’t like driving down these loops in the dark, but recently the road was widened, partly illuminated, and the camel-shaped humps of the hills that previously squeezed you on both sides, pushing you into the desert funnel, seemed to reluctantly part...
But beyond the intersection, where after the gas station the road turns and goes along the sea, the lighting has ended, and the disastrous darkness, swollen with salt - the kind that only happens near the sea, this one sea,” it fell again, hitting me in the face with the sudden headlights of oncoming cars. To the right, the black rocks of Qumran were sullenly piled up; to the left, a black expanse of salt could be discerned, with a sudden asphalt gleam, behind which the Jordanian shore was tearing up with distant lights...
About forty minutes later, a festive constellation of lights soared out of the darkness below and scattered: Ein Bokek, with its hotels, clinics, restaurants and shops, is a shelter for a wealthy tourist, including a poor Chukhonian. And further along the coast, at some distance from the resort village, the gigantic Nirvana Hotel, lonely and majestic, spread out its white, brightly lit decks into the night - in the five hundred and thirteenth room of which Irina, most likely, was already sleeping.
Of all his women, she was the only one who, like him, if she had given her free rein, would go to bed with the cocks and get up with them. What turned out to be inconvenient: he did not like to share his dawn hours with anyone, he saved his reserve of springy morning strength when there is a huge day ahead, and his eyes are sharp and fresh, and his fingertips are sensitive, like a pianist’s, and his head cooks perfectly, and everything works out in the smoky haze over the first cup of coffee.
For the sake of these precious dawn hours, he often left Irina late at night.
Having driven into the hotel parking lot, I parked, took my suitcase out of the trunk and, slowly, prolonging the last minutes of solitude, headed towards the huge carousel blades of the main entrance.
-Are you sleeping?! – he jokingly barked at the Ethiopian guard. “And I brought a bomb.”
He perked up, glared with the whites of his eyes and distrustfully stretched a white harmonica of a smile in the darkness:
- Yes la-a-bottom...
They knew each other by sight. In this hotel, crowded and stupid, like a city, standing apart from the resort village, he loved to arrange business meetings, the last, the final ones: that very final chord of the symphony, to which interested person You still have to cut along a strong road, between rocky teeth hanging over the sea, tightened with the clamps and mesh of a gigantic dentist.
And rightly so: as Uncle Syoma said - You won’t trample, you won’t burst.(However, uncle himself stomp I would never have been able to with my orthopedic boot.)
Here it is, number five hundred and thirteen. The silent, brief intercourse of the lock slot with the electronic key obtained from the frantic attendant: you see, I don’t want to wake up my wife, the poor thing suffers from migraines and goes to bed early...
He never had any wife.
She did not suffer from any migraines.
And he was going to wake her up immediately.
Irina slept as usual - wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, like white cheese in Druze pita.
He’s always packing up, burying himself, and tucking him under his sides—at least hire archaeologists.
Throwing his suitcase and jacket on the floor, he pulled off his sweater as he walked, kicked off his sneakers, and collapsed next to her on the bed, still in jeans - the lock was stuck on a bumpy break in the zipper - and a T-shirt.
Irina woke up, and they fumbled at the same time, trying to free themselves from the blanket, from their clothes, moaning in each other’s faces:
-...you promised, shameless, you promised...
– ... and I’ll keep my promise, you’re a man in a case!
-...well, why did you attack like a wild one! wait... wait a minute...
– ...I’m already standing, don’t you hear it?
-...ugh, impudent... well, at least give me...
-... who doesn’t give it to you... here you go, and here... and here... and... wow...
...In the open door of the balcony, the lemon moon, in solidarity with him in rhythm, either soared over the railing with its big-eyed shameless “Bravo!”, then sank down, first slowly and smoothly, then faster, faster - as if carried away by this swing, new to her, – either increasing or decreasing the scope of the rise and fall. But then she froze at a dizzying height, balancing as if in last time looking around the heavenly surroundings... and suddenly she took off and rushed, accelerating and accelerating the pace, almost suffocating in this race, until she groaned, began to struggle, shuddered freely, and - did not calm down, hanging in exhaustion somewhere in the outskirts of heaven...
© D. Rubina, 2015
© Publishing House "E" LLC, 2016
* * *
Part one
Chapter One
1
Before leaving, he nevertheless decided to call his aunt. In general, he was always the first to seek reconciliation. The main thing here was not to ingratiate yourself, not to coo, but to act as if there was no quarrel - just nonsense, a slight spat.
“Well,” he asked, “what should I bring you?” castanuelas?1
Castanuelas - castanets ( Spanish).
- Then a fan, eh, Beetle? - he said, smiling into the phone and imagining her patrician, hook-nosed face in a halo of blue haze. “We’ll stick a fly on your cheek, and you’ll go out onto the balcony of your almshouse to fan yourself like some kind of fly, a vigorous root.”
- I don’t need anything from you! - she said obstinately.
- That's how it is. “He himself was as gentle as a dove.” - Well, okay... Then I’ll bring you a Spanish broom.
– What kind of Spanish? – she muttered. And I got caught.
– What other plane does your sister fly there? - he exclaimed, rejoicing, as in childhood, when you fool a simpleton and jump around shouting: “Oh-ma-nu-ly fool-ra-ka on what-you-re ku-la-ka!”
She hung up, but it was no longer a quarrel, but a thunderstorm in early May, and she could leave with a light heart, especially since the day before the quarrel he went to the market and filled his aunt’s refrigerator to capacity.
* * *
All that was left was round off one more thing plot which he has been building and developing (vignettes of details, arabesques of details) for three years now.
And tomorrow, finally, at dawn, against the backdrop of turquoise decorations made of sea foam ( medical resort, note, foam), will be born new Venus with his personal signature: the conductor’s last stroke, a pathetic chord at the end of the symphony.
Taking his time, he packed his favorite soft suitcase made of olive leather, small but sturdy, like a soldier’s knapsack: you can compact it to capacity, at most as Uncle Syoma said, I can't, - lo and behold, the second shoe still fit.
When preparing for a trip, he always carefully thought through his outfit. He paused over the shirts, replaced the cream one with a blue one, pulled out a dark blue, silk one from a bunch of ties in the closet... Yes: and cufflinks, of course. Those that Irina gave. And those others that Margot gave are a must: she is perceptive.
Here you go. Now expert dressed with dignity for all five days Spanish project.
For some reason, the word “expert”, uttered to himself, made him laugh so much that he laughed, even fell face down on the ottoman, next to the open suitcase, and laughed loudly, with pleasure, for two minutes - he always laughed most contagiously when alone with himself.
Continuing to laugh, he rolled to the edge of the ottoman, leaned down, pulled out the bottom drawer of the wardrobe and, rummaging among the wrinkled panties and socks, pulled out a pistol.
It was a convenient, simple design of the Colt Glock system, with automatic firing pin locking and a slight smooth recoil.
In addition, with the help of a pin or nail it could be disassembled in one minute.
Let's hope, buddy, that tomorrow you'll sleep through your important meeting in your suitcase..
Late in the evening he left Jerusalem towards the Dead Sea.
I didn’t like driving down these loops in the dark, but recently the road was widened, partly illuminated, and the camel-shaped humps of the hills that previously squeezed you on both sides, pushing you into the desert funnel, seemed to reluctantly part...
But beyond the intersection, where after the gas station the road turns and goes along the sea, the lighting has ended, and the disastrous darkness, swollen with salt - the kind that only happens near the sea, this one sea,” it fell again, hitting me in the face with the sudden headlights of oncoming cars. To the right, the black rocks of Qumran were sullenly piled up; to the left, a black expanse of salt could be discerned, with a sudden asphalt gleam, behind which the Jordanian shore was tearing up with distant lights...
About forty minutes later, a festive constellation of lights soared out of the darkness below and scattered: Ein Bokek, with its hotels, clinics, restaurants and shops, is a shelter for a wealthy tourist, including a wretched Chukhonian. And further along the shore, at some distance from the resort village, the gigantic Nirvana Hotel, lonely and majestic, spread out its white, brightly lit decks in the night - in the five hundred and thirteenth room of which Irina, most likely, was already sleeping.
Of all his women, she was the only one who, like him, if she had given her free rein, would go to bed with the cocks and get up with them. What turned out to be inconvenient: he did not like to share his dawn hours with anyone, he saved his reserve of springy morning strength when there is a huge day ahead, and his eyes are sharp and fresh, and his fingertips are sensitive, like a pianist’s, and his head cooks perfectly, and everything works out in the smoky haze over the first cup of coffee.
For the sake of these precious dawn hours, he often left Irina late at night.
Having driven into the hotel parking lot, I parked, took my suitcase out of the trunk and, slowly, prolonging the last minutes of solitude, headed towards the huge carousel blades of the main entrance.
-Are you sleeping?! – he jokingly barked at the Ethiopian guard. - And I brought a bomb.
He perked up, glared with the whites of his eyes and distrustfully stretched a white harmonica of a smile in the darkness:
- Yes la-a-bottom...
They knew each other by sight. In this hotel, crowded and stupid, like a city, standing apart from the resort village, he loved to arrange business meetings, the last, the final ones: that very final chord of the symphony, to which interested person You still have to cut along a strong road, between rocky teeth hanging over the sea, tightened with the clamps and mesh of a gigantic dentist.
And rightly so: as Uncle Syoma said - you won't drown, you won't burst. (However, uncle himself stomp I would never have been able to with my orthopedic boot.)
Here it is, number five hundred and thirteen. The silent, brief intercourse of the lock slot with the electronic key obtained from the frantic attendant: you see, I don’t want to wake up my wife, the poor thing suffers from migraines and goes to bed early...
He never had any wife.
She did not suffer from any migraines.
And he was going to wake her up immediately.
Irina slept as usual - wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, like white cheese in Druze pita.
He’s always packing up, burying himself, and tucking him under his sides—at least hire archaeologists.
Throwing his suitcase and jacket on the floor, he pulled off his sweater as he walked, kicked off his sneakers, and collapsed next to her on the bed, still in jeans - the lock was stuck on a bumpy break in the zipper - and a T-shirt.
Irina woke up, and they fumbled at the same time, trying to free themselves from the blanket, from their clothes, moaning in each other’s faces:
-...you promised, shameless, you promised...
– ... and I’ll keep my promise, you’re a man in a case!
-...well, why did you attack like a wild one! wait... wait a minute...
– ...I’m already standing, don’t you hear it?
-...ugh, impudent... well, at least give me...
-... who doesn’t give it to you... here you go, and here... and here... and... wow...
...In the open door of the balcony, the lemon moon, in solidarity with him in rhythm, either soared over the railing with its big-eyed shameless “Bravo!”, then sank down, first slowly and smoothly, then faster, faster - as if carried away by this swing, new to her, – either increasing or decreasing the scope of the rise and fall. But then she froze at a dizzying height, balancing, as if looking around the heavenly surroundings for the last time... and suddenly she broke free and rushed, accelerating and accelerating the pace, almost suffocating in this race, until she moaned, thrashed, shuddered freely, and - no fell silent, hanging in exhaustion somewhere on the outskirts of heaven...
...Then Irina splashed around in the shower, every now and then switching the hot stream to the cold one (now she’ll show up in bed - wet as a drowned man, and let’s warm her until she’s blue in the face), - and he tried with his eyes to follow the microscopic movements of the pale, puffy luminary in the window, his recent partner in sin.
Finally he got up and went out onto the balcony.
The gigantic hotel was in a numb sleep on the edge of a shimmering salt lake. Below, surrounded by palm trees and the polished lid of a piano, lay a pool in which a brittle yellow moon was jumping. Three dozen meters from the pool stretched a beach with arthropod pyramids of plastic sun loungers and chairs collected for the night.
The chilly flicker of salt in the distance imparted an icy silence to the motionless night, something New Year's - like the expectation of miracles and gifts.
Well, it won't be about gifts.
-Are you crazy: naked on the balcony? – a cheerful voice was heard behind him. – Do you have any basic shame? People are all around...
Sometimes I wanted not only to turn it off, but to turn down the volume slightly.
He closed the balcony door, drew the curtain and turned on the table lamp.
“You’ve gained weight...” he said thoughtfully, collapsing on the bed and looking at Irina in the open terry robe. - I like it. Do you look like Dina Verni now?
- Wha-o-o?! What kind of woman is this?
- Maillol's model. Take off that stupid robe, yeah... and turn your back. Yes: the same proportions. With a thin back, a strong, expressive hip line. And the shoulder now rises so smoothly into the neck... Ay-ay, what a nature! It’s a pity that I haven’t picked up a pencil for a hundred years.
She chuckled, plopped down in the deep chair next to the bed and reached for a pack of cigarettes.
- Well, go ahead... Tell me something else about me.
- Please! You see, when a woman gains a little weight, her breasts become more graceful, more generous... more smiling. And the color of the skin changes. A delicate layer of subcutaneous fat gives the body a more noble, pearlescent hue. There is such a... mmm... transparency of the glazes, you know?
He was no longer averse to taking a nap before dawn for at least an hour and a half. But Irina lit a cigarette and was cheerful and assertive. Looks like he will again demand a sacred sacrifice. The main thing is not to start sorting things out.
“And then, you know...” he continued, yawning and turning on his side, “this measured swaying of the hips, seen from behind and from above, it drives you crazy, if you also use your palms...”
- Cordovin, you bastard! – leaning over, she threw an empty cigarette pack at him. “You’re just an evil siren, Cordovin!” Some kind of Casanova, a vulgar seducer!
“Nope,” he muttered, falling asleep uncontrollably. – I’m just... in love...
All this was absolutely true. He loved women. He really loved women - their quick mind, earthly intelligence, keen eye for detail; I never tired of repeating that if a woman is smart, then she is more dangerous than a smart man: after all, ordinary insight then also acquires emotional, truly bestial sensitivity, catches - from above, by traction- something that cannot be overcome by any logic.
He was friends with them, preferred to do business with them, considered them more reliable comrades and in general - the best people. He often certified himself: “I am a very feminine person.” He always knew how to warm up and always found something to admire in each one.
* * *
He woke up, as usual, at five thirty. For many years now, some zealous and inexorable angel had been sounding a wake-up call somewhere in the upper barracks, and minute after minute - no matter what dream he had, no matter what fatigue fell upon him two hours ago - at five-thirty he would open his eyes doomedly... and , cursing, trudged into the shower.
But before that, today he again showed the tin.
It seems like he is getting up, moving his torso with effort - in these in dreams, everything always happens with an inevitable series of painful movements - he sits up in bed, barely opens his eyes... And sees: on the hotel coffee table - costs. Oh, you honest mother! - it’s the same one, crumpled tin... No, he says to himself (everything follows the long-memorized script of the damned dream), - not a tin can, you such a brute, but a Saturday silver cup, an old family thing, although - yes, slightly dented on the side; but that’s because he fell off a truck. And Zhuka, an orphan (war, winter, evacuation), was not afraid, she reached under the wheel herself and got it! And you, bastard, scumbag and scoundrel... went and sold it to an antique auction house without batting a shameless eyelid. And, most importantly, now I would have read it a long time ago - what was stamped there in a circle. In those years I couldn’t, I didn’t understand the strange squiggles, but now I could easily read it, because it was probably Hebrew?
Well, Zhu-ka, he moaned, as always (the scenario is moving, the dream is rolling downhill, or rather, painfully rolling uphill), “I’ve forgiven a hundred times... I realized... I was looking for it!” Why are we quarreling again, by God: here he is - standing! It stands - dark, massive, not cleaned for a long time - so that the boat is indistinguishable - on its silver skirt...
And he stretches out his heavy hand, with an effort like water, overcoming the thickness of sleep. He stretches his hand, pulls... finally grabs a heavy goblet, twirls it in his fingers, brings it to his eyes. And a three-masted galleon floats on three light waves, and angular - and now so understandable - letters curl along the silver skirt: “The train to Munich leaves the second platform at 22.30.”
And then I just woke up. It seems like he woke up. Lord, how long... Sorry, Zhuka!
He stood for a long time under the burning lashes of water, then abruptly switched to cold water and for a minute, groaning with pleasure, rubbed himself with a hard washcloth, which he carried everywhere with him.
Then he shaved, slowly, whistling quietly, so as not to wake up the boa constrictor there on the bed ahead of time... A nice plump boa constrictor, whose elastic rings, pulsating so sweetly, squeeze... hmm. Still, there is no need to let her gain weight further.
Carefully shaving his protruding chin (this is the main torment of every morning shaving - a chin as steep as a hard apple with a hard-to-reach notch under the lower lip), he carefully examined himself in the spacious bathroom mirror.
And you’ve dried out a little, guy... Uncle Syoma would say: got close. In his youth he was rather strong. Often he was even mistaken for a boxer. Now he has thinned out, according to the image. The nose is somehow... ossified, or something... Aristocrat, sir, motherfucker.
Only the crew of thick black hair (a family stable pigment, he casually responded to compliments) and the same resin eyebrows, straight and almost fused over his deep-set gray eyes, were the same. Yes, there are also these vertical lines in the corners of his mouth, which always gave his face an expression of childish friendliness, an eternal readiness to stretch his lips in a smile: I I love you, my huge good world ... Yes, this is our trump card. Maybe this is your only trump card, eh, guy?
When he tiptoed out of the bathroom to take a shirt and suit out of his suitcase, it turned out that Irina had woken up too - damn, how inopportune her early nature was! - and lies in her cocoon, shaggy, in a disgusting mood and in full combat readiness.
“You’re running away like a coward,” she said, carefully and mockingly watching him dress.
“Yeah,” he smiled broadly at her. - I'm terribly afraid! In general, I am very afraid of you and slavishly curry favor with you. Look at these cufflinks. Do you recognize? I love them, I show them to everyone: “a gift from the woman I love.”
- My beloved woman. Yes, you have a hundred of them in every city.
- One hundred?! Why so much, oh my God! “Who needs this, and who can stand it,” said my Vinnitsa uncle Syoma...
– What a bastard you are, Cordovin! We decided that now we will always travel together.
This is in vain. The vile communal articulation – “we”... Lifelong mooing, soap-making soap of love... Not a good symptom. Will we really have to transform her from a mistress to a friend? It's a pity, she's fine, Irina. In fact, over the course of these three years, things have developed with her. perfect life, without any mean “we”... “us”... Helps us, baby, to build and live. it is our lonely sensitivity, wolfishness, the fluttering of the wings of the nose in anticipation of the taken trail. What kind of “we” is there?
“Don’t make me take off my pants again, boss,” he said in a stupidly pitiful manner, “my ass is getting cold!” See, I'm already in the belt.
And yet he went up to the bed, lay down - right in his suit - next to her, sleepy, unhappy, groped and mercilessly pulled out her bare hand from the blanket bundle, began to kiss, rising from her fingers to her shoulder: in detail, efficiently, centimeter by centimeter, saying something humorously doctoral.
His rule was: no diminutives. All only in full, sonorous, beautiful names. Female name sacred, to shorten it is blasphemy, akin to blasphemy.
And she softened, laughed from the tickling, and pressed her bare shoulder to her ear.
– You smell delicious: jasmine... green tea...What kind of cologne is this?
- "Lexitan." They foisted it on me at duty free in Boston. The saleswoman there was so diligent and worked conscientiously. "Old company, old company... bottles self made" I bought it so that I can lag behind. “He sat up in bed and glanced at his watch. – Listen, my joy, seriously: don’t be upset. Well, what fun is it to hang around at a university conference with the sad title “El Greco: un hombre que no se traiciono a si mismo”?
- What does it mean?
- Who cares? This means "El Greco: the man who did not betray himself." Pointless topic, another pointless conference. Toledo, in general, is a gloomy city, and even in rainy April... By God, it’s better to sunbathe here. Do you still need to throw some money at these baths... well, made of seaweed? “Madam is on vacation, madam has the right.”
This was one of their favorite phrases, of which a lot had accumulated over three years: a remark from the seller of an expensive store in Sorrento, where Irina tried not to let “terrible money go to waste on her purse.”
She laughed and said:
- Okay, get lost. When is your flight?
He now looked openly and worriedly at his watch:
- Oh... I'm running, running! Otherwise you won’t have time.
He jumped up, grabbed his jacket and suitcase, turned around at the door and smacked the air in the direction of the bed. But Irina is already tightly packed again, only the disheveled top of her head sticks out from the blanket. My poor you, abandoned…
He quietly closed the door behind him.
Having gone down the stairs to one floor, he stopped and listened to the silence of the still sleeping hotel: somewhere below, by the pool, the cleaners were talking loudly and serenely, heavily dragging boa rings of rubber hoses across the wet concrete. Leaning back against the door, he opened the zipper on the suitcase and pulled out two things: a knitted blue glove on right hand- a strange one, with slots for the fingertips, - and his still sinless automatic Glock.
However, why bother so much right away...? He put the gun in his jacket pocket, pulled on his glove, moving his fingers like a pianist before the first bravura passage, then took out his cell phone and dialed a number.
- Vladimir Igorevich? Didn't you wake me up?
In response, a grateful wave rolled:
- Zakhar Mironovich, dear! Hello! It's great that they didn't disappoint. And I’ve been on my feet since I was six and can’t find a place for myself. So when is convenient for you? I'm in room four hundred and two.
“Well, great,” he responded. - I'll come in in a minute.
And the pistol again dived into the toothy crack of the suitcase zipper: such excited, respectful gratitude as sounded in the client’s voice is difficult to imitate. And he had the sharpest, bestial hearing and eye for shades and intonation.
And it’s true: Vladimir Igorevich, polished to a shine, his belly trembling, was waiting for him in the open door of the apartment. I wonder what cherished paths he makes his way with a razor every morning among all his warts? And why won’t he let his beard grow - or in the unspoken code of these new cuts Is a beard, like concealment, a sign of secret intent?
- Not over the threshold! – the fat man exclaimed, retreating and holding his palm at the ready with a spatula.
According to some roundabout information, the newly minted collector owns some factories in Chelyabinsk. Or mines? And not in Chelyabinsk, but in Chukotka? God knows, it doesn't matter. Archangel Gabriel bless everyone who invests money in a piece of canvas coated with casein glue and covered with oil paints.
Indeed, I was waiting and worried: in the open bedroom door I could see a bed neatly made like a soldier.
The painting, a canvas stretched on a stretcher, was waiting in the wings, facing the back of the sofa.
How touching these amateur collectors are. They all tremble before that first moment when the picture is pierced by the X-ray eyes of the expert. They also sometimes throw a white sheet over the sofa or chair where the painting is placed in order to protect precious vision connoisseur from the annoying color environment. Colored antiseptics for the operating room or a children's game Close your eyes tightly, you will open them when I tell you!
In this case, dear Vladimir Igorevich, you will now hear a short lecture about the insignificance and ephemerality of this very nobility.
He lowered the suitcase to the floor and threw his jacket on top of it.
- Is it okay that I hold out my left hand? – he asked, awkwardly shaking (he should have twisted and extended his palm from behind his back) the collector’s plump paw and smiling one of his most open smiles. – Many years of arthritis, please excuse me. Sometimes I scream out of pain like a woman.
- What are you talking about! – the fat man was upset. – Have you tried “Golden Mustache”? My wife is very complimentary.
– I tried everything, let’s not talk about it. Did you just arrive yesterday?
- Certainly! As soon as you said that you were flying away today and that this was the only opportunity to catch you, I immediately booked a room and, like that tenor in the opera, “as soon as it’s light, it’s at your feet!”
Where did he hear such an opera? I wonder. Maybe in your Chelyabinsk? No, darling, God forbid you lie at my feet...
On the coffee table there was a bottle of Courvoisier and two glasses of cognac, but it was clear that the poor fellow was already exhausted: he did not offer to sit down or have a drink. This is passion, I understand...
“Well, let’s get started,” Cordovin said. – I really don’t have much time.
“Just one word,” Vladimir Igorevich said, nervously rubbing his palms, as if screwing one into the other. - This is necessary... You, Zakhar Mironovich, have to deal with a variety of people - now even outright rednecks know what to invest their money in. And I can imagine your disgust towards such forced acquaintances as ours. Don't mind, I know! But, you see, Zakhar Mironovich... my collecting age is really infancy - before there was no opportunity to collect art, where does the money come from for an ordinary Soviet engineer-inventor? But I am an experienced lover of painting, from my youth. I remember when you arrive in Moscow, on a business trip for three days, take your suitcase to the hotel - and then you trot to Pushkinsky, to the Tretyakov Gallery... It’s embarrassing to admit, I myself dabble a little with paints... Well, I read a lot of things. I also found your book “The Fate of Russian Art Abroad” on the Internet and read it. I would be happy to invite you to my place.
Dedicated to Bora
“There is not a single person on earth who can say who he is. No one knows why he came to this world, what his actions, his feelings and thoughts mean, and what his true name is, his enduring Name in the list of Light...”
Leon Blois
Soul of Napoleon
Part one
Chapter One
Before leaving, he nevertheless decided to call his aunt. In general, he was always the first to reconcile. The main thing here was not to ingratiate yourself, not to coo, but to act as if there was no quarrel - just nonsense, a slight spat.
“Well,” he asked, “what should I bring you - castanuelas?”
- Go to hell! - she rapped. But there was some satisfaction in the voice that he called, called after all, and didn’t rush off there to flap his wings.
- Then a fan, eh, Zhuka? - he said, smiling into the phone and imagining her patrician, hook-nosed face in a halo of blue haze. “We’ll stick a fly on your cheek, and you’ll go out onto the balcony of your almshouse to fan yourself like some kind of fly, a vigorous root.”
- I don’t need anything from you! - she said obstinately.
- That's it. - He himself was as gentle as a dove. - Well, okay... Then I’ll bring you a Spanish broom.
- What kind of Spanish? - she muttered. And I got caught.
- What other plane does your sister fly there? - he exclaimed, rejoicing, as in childhood, when you fool a simpleton and jump around shouting: “What the hell are you stupid!”
She hung up, but it was no longer a quarrel, but a thunderstorm in early May, and she could leave with a light heart, especially since the day before the quarrel he went to the market and filled his aunt’s refrigerator to capacity.
All that remained was to wrap up one more case, the plot of which he had been building and developing (vignettes of details, arabesques of details) for three years now.
And tomorrow, finally, at dawn, against the backdrop of turquoise scenery, from sea foam (therapeutic resort foam, we note), a new Venus will be born with his personal signature: the conductor’s last stroke, a pathetic chord in the finale of the symphony.
Taking his time, he packed his favorite soft suitcase made of olive leather, small but flexible, like a soldier’s knapsack: you can compact it to capacity, but, as Uncle Se-ma said, I can’t—lo and behold, the other shoe still fit.
When preparing for a trip, he always carefully thought through his outfit. He paused over the shirts, replaced the cream one with a blue one, pulled out a dark blue, silk one from a bunch of ties in the closet... Yes: and cufflinks, of course. Those that Irina gave. And those others that Margot gave are a must: she is perceptive.
Here you go. Now the expert is dressed adequately for all five days of the Spanish project.
For some reason, the word “expert”, uttered to himself, made him laugh so much that he began to laugh, even fell face down on the ottoman, next to the open suitcase, and laughed loudly, with pleasure, for two minutes - he always laughed most infectiously alone with yourself.
Continuing to laugh, he rolled to the edge of the ottoman, leaned down, pulled out the bottom drawer of the wardrobe and, rummaging among the wrinkled panties and socks, pulled out a pistol.
It was a convenient, simple design of the Colt Glock system, with automatic firing pin locking and a slight smooth recoil. In addition, with the help of a pin or nail it could be disassembled in one minute.
Let's hope, my friend, that tomorrow you will sleep through the entire important meeting in your suitcase.
Late in the evening he left Jerusalem towards the Dead Sea.
I didn’t like driving down these loops in the dark, but recently the road was widened, partly illuminated, and the camel humps of the hills that were previously squeezing you on both sides, pushing you into the desert funnel, seemed to reluctantly part...
But beyond the intersection, where after the gas station the road turns and goes along the sea, the lighting ended, and the disastrous darkness swollen with salt - the kind that only happens near the sea, near this sea - fell again, hitting in the face with the sudden headlights of oncoming people. cars
Dina Rubina’s novel “The White Dove of Cordoba” arouses the admiration of many readers. The writer’s language is very laconic, she knows how to write in such a way that it seems as if you yourself are one of the heroes of the book and see everything as if in reality.
The main character of the book is a man of versatile talents, Zakhar Cordovin. To most people, he is a respected teacher, an expert, an adventurer. But at the same time, his personality hides something else underneath. This man loves art with all his soul, he is incredibly talented artist. Zakhar is busy writing fake paintings, however, even experts cannot find flaws and take them for originals. He makes fakes famous works art in order to spread them among people, showing them beauty. Zakhar wants people to learn to see the beauty of painting, to fall in love with it, and to become spiritually richer.
The main character has a story in his past that haunts him. He only thinks about how to correct the mistakes of the past and find those responsible in order to get even with them. Some mystical coincidences constantly occur in his family from generation to generation. Events of the past echo the present, everything is intertwined into some incredible tangle.
Throughout his life, Zakhar constantly travels. The reader is presented with Ukraine, Russia, Italy, Spain, Switzerland, and Israel. The sights of the cities are described in such detail and beautifully that they literally come to life in the imagination, it seems that you have visited all these countries. The author describes works of art surprisingly well, magnificent paintings that evoke awe, one can only admire the richness of the language and the great talent of Dina Rubina.
In the novel you can trace the theme of love for art, travel, detective and mystical plot lines. Main character Although he seems like a smug swindler, he is nevertheless very talented and brings beauty into everyday life through creativity.
On our website you can download the book “The White Dove of Cordoba” by Rubina Dina Ilyinichna for free and without registration in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format, read the book online or buy the book in the online store.
Dina Ilyinichna Rubina is one of the brightest writers of our time. She has written such novels as “Leonardo’s Handwriting”, “Russian Canary” and others. Her work is controversial, and critics are divided into two opposite sides: one believes that Dina Rubina belongs to the “mass”, the other is of the opinion that her novels are distinguished by psychologism of descriptions, memorable characters and artistic skill.
Before us is the work “The White Dove of Cordoba”. The plot is built around the main character Zakhar Cordovin. He was born and raised in post-war Vinnitsa. The book describes the life of a city crippled by the recent war. People different nationalities forced to form a new space and get along with each other. The still bleeding wounds of the post-war destroyed Leningrad are shown.
You can download “The White Dove of Cordoba” in fb2, epub, pdf, txt, doc and rtf by Dina Ilyinichna Rubina on KnigoPoisk
Zakhar Cordovin grew up at this time. He studied art and painting in Leningrad. Lived in Stockholm for several years. He is a gifted artist and expert in the field of painting. He allows himself to be drawn into criminal activity, seduced by Arkady Viktorovich Bosota. Bosota understands human weaknesses and skillfully wins Zakhar over to his side.
Zakhar forges Rubens' painting "Sleeping Venus". His action causes the death of his faithful friend. Burdened with guilt, Zakhar sets himself a goal: to find and punish the murderer of his comrade.
But the hero does not leave the slippery slope. The laws of society are not dogmas for him. Zakhar follows his own value system and believes in the right to rule his own court. He now lives in Jerusalem. To run his business, Zakhar travels all over Europe.
One day in Spain he finds old painting unnamed artist. Zakhar Cordovin forges it and attributes the authorship to El Greco. But in the process of forgery, he discovers the truth. The author of the painting is his distant ancestor - Saccarias Cordovera. A feeling of permissiveness blossoms in Zakhara. He sells a copy to the Vatican for a fabulous sum, passing it off as the original.
Life is getting better. Zakhar Cordovin is a respected teacher and specialist. In another form, he is an adventurer and master of forgeries. Dina Rubina portrays a clever forger. He sells his copies to collectors and even sneaky dealers. "The White Dove of Cordoba" depicts his life in the form of a thriller. Luck favors Zakhar: he gets away with it and gets out of any trouble.
Cordovin goes through life easily, laughing. As a player, he beats everyone and everything. Behind him remain inconsolably in love women, deceived innocent people, broken destinies. If Zakhar lies, he lies to everyone until the end. If he meets an enemy, he hates him with every fiber of his soul and wishes for death. But even in hatred, the fraudster remains calm. “Andrey Viktorovich,” he said in an even voice. - You know, I rarely tell the truth. But now I implore you to believe me and understand: I will kill you.”
Zakhar enjoys his creations; he puts work and skill into each fake. In this way he distinguishes himself from average artists - falsifiers and places himself at the highest level.
You can buy the book “The White Dove of Cordoba” or download it on ipad, iphone, android and kindle - on the website without registration and SMS
The reader of the novel “The White Dove of Cordoba” may wonder: “Isn’t Zakhar ruining his talent?” He could have painted his own pictures, which would have taken a place in painting. He did not create a family hearth, he only broke hearts. Zakhar does not forget about the upcoming revenge for his murdered friend. But sooner or later fate confronts its favorite. Then the hunter becomes the hunted.