The Persistent Angel

Sorokina died in a pool. Quite recently we were students and not mature enough to grasp this. How did she die? And why in the pool? Drowned? No, her heart suddenly failed. The girls with whom we studied, confusedly tried to grasp the absurdity of this news.

She studied with a different group, but I remember her vividly. She was tall and very slim, but not skinny. And modest. So humble, that I did not know her first name. Everybody called her Sorokina. Luxurious black eyebrows and long white hair - by herself she was bright, with no frills. And very modest. Sorokina died ... in the pool ... some nonsense! Alas, no nonsense ...

Persistent  Angel of Death has caught her up yet! Struck in the heart, hit his second attempt - I know, already had one. And I remember that flight, that terrible peak. The sign has been.

Yes, I remember! Yes, the messenger of death has hovered over her. At the very end of our education we were sent to the construction of dormitory. The five-storey building was almost ready. A brick chimney of a boiler room is being built nearby. The chimney is almost ready; the masonry is quite near the roof. We lodge bricks to the mason. The girls who are below, load a special elevator. With tragic scratch, with a shrill squeal the cargo is reaching top. We accept with Sergey and also with about a dozen girls. I am close to a bricklayer, on some platform with a handrail, and Sergey - right at the lift on the roof. We slightly do not reach one another. The girls are lined up in a chain in attic, and by long way, through the skylights, the load swims quite leisurely to the chimney. A bricklayer works like a nimble robot, and even encourages us. It is a gray day, it’s cold. Cold winds are freely and easily walking on the roof. It's disgusting to wait until our entire conveyor is established. Unload finally, give the master a lot of work and we with Sergey climb into the attic to get warm.

And a bricklayer already turned blue, but does not go away – makes money. But sorry for the bottom girls - they have nowhere to hide, but down there is no such a wind.

Again, our lifting platform is grunting, squealing and howling. With Sergey, we crawl out into the wind - here is the brick, here is our mason, already waiting, but our girls are only preparing - some disappeared at all, someone yet are not able to rise from their hard-set places. They are calling  each other, telling  jokes, but we are standing.

Once or twice the bricks were thrown directly. Immediate unloading. The girls liked it very much, and mason too, though for the order he swore. And it is better for us – we freeze less and even it is pleasant to throw bricks, it's like to play with dumbbells.

Plump white brick with clear sharp edges. We took off mittens. Sergey shouts: "Catch!" Short takeoff and it dutifully comes into my right hand. Quite instant interception and by left hand I lay it to the chimney. "Catch!" - and my right hand again meets nice white load. Is it dangerous to throw this way? What kind of danger? It's close. We are completely sober. Careful and collected.

Again we are two. Again: "Catch! Catch! Catch!" I am, like a juggler, playing with white bricks. A beautiful flutter of identical objects in white! And the platform is empty. Sergey tries already to get into the attic. But girls have just collected their chain. I just prepared to make a fun of them, but suddenly again instruction: "Catch!"

I lunged, tripped my hand... From where else is brick? It was flying as usual - flat, narrow face forward, but still the command was too late. At half a moment. The brick - it seemed to me – was not quite normal, slightly shiny, as if it was made of good Chinese porcelain. It very smoothly, as a spacecraft for docking, approached the palm of my hand, but yet from the opposite side.

I realized already what would happen.

It even seemed to me that this white flying brick stood briefly in the vicinity of my hand. Something is obviously wrong with the very course of time and with me. The brick still cools my knuckles and, as a released bird, it does not believe in inherited freedom, the anticipation of terrible excitement from the free fall is beginning to boil in it, - it’s just preparing to become alive.

But I became like stone. I managed to catch up Sergey’s quiet horror. Below us on the ground near the platform is a heap of sand. And in the middle of this heap Sorokina sat down to have rest. All others are at a distance. Why did you leave them? After all, we... but we ... Sorokina! Why are you here now?

A brilliant white stone flatwise and very slowly cast off from the palm. Why, why everything is so viscous and prolonged?

I leaned down and stared at this white death - the solemn stone very, very slowly and tilted slightly, moved straightly to the head. Sorokina-a-a!!! Whistling in my ears ringing. As if at a distant sawmill the circular saw sang. Slowly, mournfully, with a shudder and softly. U-u-u-i-i-i... U-u-u-i-i-i...

This is a singing of Angel of the Death ...

Sorokina sat up in the serene pose - leaning back on the straight arms with head thrown back. Her lush hair is like a bright flower in the center of the sandy flowerbed. I could see how convincing are the breasts. Yes, from above her beauty is more visible. Eyes closed, as if she tans, as if she catches some special rays through the veil of dark snowy clouds.

U-u-u-i-i-i... U-u-u-i-i-i...

The white stone is gently descending. I'm with it. I contract rough, wood railing - just I want to steer away from the terrible path. It’s ringing in the ears. Now I shall crush the railing. U-u-u-i-i-i... Some inaudible flutter at the white spot, some rustle of wings.

... I've heard such an exact ringing already, heard in my early childhood. When drowning in the river, when I slurped and suddenly last time, having clearly flashed, took off, turned over the familiar green shore - ascended to nowhere. U-u-u-i-i-i... Plangent-singing of Angel, The Angel of Death! But then I woke up. Already in the hands of my brother, on the bank. I remembered that sound ...

The brick slightly swayed, trembled a little as a float at the very beginning of a bite. Who pulls the invisible thread in invisible spaces? Projectile tilted even more, but firmly sticks to course.

There is a beatific languor in Sorokina’s face. And did she also hear prolonged this angelic appeal?  

I imagined the Day of Judgement. No judges. Only her parents. Standing and staring!

What a spot, which looms nearby? U-u-u-i-i-i...

... And once again I heard this bewitching and overflowing whistle. I was driving my car. With my wee son, with my wife and even with her mother. Wide road. The left lane, overtaking all. And a big truck is speeding up forward also in the left lane. Its bodywork is filled with sheets of metal. And the top sheet, bigger in area than my car breaks down in flight. Something flashed over the windshield, like a shadow of a huge bird... and called directly from the sky as an angel. Exactly the same way. And even vaguely like: "... give re-e-st!" Like a rustle of thin metal. And strike at once of thick rolled steel out there, somewhere behind...  

The brick descends in some light vortices. I can not slow it anymore, I can not guide it.

But where are you, where are you, the Guardian Angel?

We have clearly seen with Sergey as the rock, suddenly, almost at the very head already shook slightly as a piece of paper in the air, slightly swayed to the side and sharply, by the spike entered the sand. Yes, yes, the sand! Yes! A little behind her!  

Sorokina could run her hand along smooth face of brick. Even as if asleep. But caught something. Her eyes rummaged around and she yawned sweetly.

Yes,yes, the sand, but not the head!

What did she see in slumber, what did she hear?

And suddenly time went to normal rhythm. My throat dried up, pounding in temples and my fingers did not come off the railing. Then there was the noise, legitimate cry of superintendent, but this was not at all the Day of Judgment.

It seemed more terrible that even Sergey could not make out why the polished brick appeared in his hand. And why he threw so suddenly? When we went down, the sand was empty.

I still wanted to talk to Sorokina. Just do not know what would I say.

Now it’s impossible to say anything. This Persistent Angel had time to talk to her before. Again sang over her and whispered, put to sleep. Nobody prevented this in the pool.

This Angel’s singing, all of us one day will hear. I think I recognize at once.

Paru raz kirpich kidali napryamuyu. Mgnovenno razgruzhali. Devchatam nravilosʹ i kamenshchiku tozhe, hotya on dlya poryadka i rugalsya. I nam tak luchshe – menʹshe mërznem i dazhe priyatno pokidatʹ kirpichiki, vrode kak gantelʹkami igraeshʹ. Tolstenʹkiĭ belyĭ kirpich s chëtkimi ostrymi rëbrami. Rukavitsy snyali. Sergyeĭ krichit: «Lovi!» Korotkiĭ vzlët i on poslushno vhodit mne v pravuyu ladonʹ. Mgnovennyĭ perehvat i levoĭ rukoĭ kladu k trube. «Lovi!» – i pravaya opyatʹ vstrechaet priyatnyĭ belyĭ gruz. Opasno tak kidatʹ? Kakaya zhe opasnostʹ? Vedʹ eto ryadom. My sovershenno trezvye. Vnimatelʹny i sobrany. Opyatʹ vdvoëm. Opyatʹ: «Lovi! Lovi! Lovi!» YA, kak zhonglër, igrayu kirpichami. Krasivoe porhanʹe rovnyh, belyh tel. Vot i pusta platforma. Serëga primeryaet·sya uzhe zaleztʹ v cherdak. A devochki kak raz tolʹko sobrali tsepʹ. YA prigotovilsya uzh poshutitʹ nad nimi, no snova vdrug: «Lovi!» Rvanulsya, podstavil ruku… Otkuda zhe yeshchë kirpich? On letel kak obychno – plashmya, uzkoĭ granʹyu vperëd, no vsë-taki komanda zapozdala. Na polmgnovenʹya. Kirpich – mne pokazalosʹ – ne sovsem obychnyĭ, slegka blestyashchiĭ, kak budto iz horoshego kitaĭskogo farfora. On ochenʹ plavno, kak dlya stykovki kosmicheskiĭ korablʹ, priblizilsya k moyeĭ ladoni, da tolʹko k vneshnyeĭ storone yeë. YA vsë uzhe ponyal, chto budet. Mne dazhe pokazalosʹ, chto etot letayushchiĭ belyĭ kirpich nenadolgo zastyl vblizi moyeĭ ruki. Chto-to yavno sluchilosʹ s samim hodom vremeni i so mnoĭ. Kirpich vsë holodit kostyashki palʹtsev i, kak otpushchennaya ptitsa, yeshchë ne verit vypavshyeĭ svobode, v nëm tolʹko zakipaet predvkushenʹe zhutkogo vostorga svobodnogo padenʹya; on tolʹko duharit·sya na polët – gotovit·sya ozhitʹ. A ya okamenel. Uspel poĭmatʹ Serëgin tihiĭ uzhas. Pod nami na zemle, vozle truby kucha peska. A posredi nyeë prisela otdohnutʹ Sorokina. Drugie vse poodalʹ. Zachem zhe ty ushla ot nih? Vedʹ my zhe… von chego… Sorokina! Zachem ty zdesʹ syeĭchas?! Blestyashchiĭ belyĭ kamenʹ medlenno, plashmya otchalil ot ladoni. Nu, pochemu vsë tak tyaguche i protyazhno? YA peregnulsya vniz, vperivshisʹ v beluyu smertʹ – torzhestvennyĭ kamenʹ ochenʹ-ochenʹ medlenno, chutʹ nakrenyayasʹ, shël pryamo v golovu. Sorokina-a-a!!! V ushah svistyashchiĭ zvon. Kak budto na dalëkoĭ lesopilke zapela tsirkulyarnaya pila. Protyazhno, zaunyvno, s drozhʹyu i negromko. U-u-u-i-i-i… U-u-u-i-i-i… Eto penie angela smerti… Sorokina uselasʹ v bezmyatezhnoĭ poze – otkinulasʹ, opershisʹ szadi na pryamye ruki i zaprokinuv golovu. Pyshnye volosy svetlym tsvetkom po tsentru peschanoĭ klumby. YA razglyadel, kak ubeditelʹno kruglyat·sya grudi. Da, sverhu krasota yeë yeshchë vidnyeĭ. Zazhmurilasʹ, kak budto zagoraet, kak budto lovit kakie-to osobye luchi cherez zavesu tëmnyh snezhnyh tuch. U-u-u-i-i-i… U-u-u-i-i-i… Belyĭ kamenʹ snizhaet·sya plavno. YA vmeste s nim. Szhimayu derevyannye, shershavye perila – rulitʹ hochu chutʹ v storonu ot strashnoĭ traektorii. Zvenit v ushah. Syeĭchas ya razdavlyu perila. U-u-u-i-i-i… Kakoe-to nevnyatnoe porhanʹe u belogo pyatna, kakoĭ-to shelest krylʹev. …Takoĭ vot tochno zvon ya uzhe slyshal, slyshal v rannem det·stve. Kogda tonul v reke, kogda uzhe hlebal i vdrug v posledniĭ raz, otchëtlivo melʹknuv, vzletel, perevernuvshisʹ, znakomyĭ zelënyĭ bereg – voznëssya v nikuda. U-u-u-i-i-i! Protyazhnoe penie angela, angela smerti! No ya togda ochnulsya. Uzhe v rukah u brata, na beregu. YA vspomnil etot zvuk… …Kirpich slegka kachnulsya, chutʹ zadrozhal, kak poplavok v nachale klëva. Kto dërgaet nevidimuyu nitʹ v nevidimyh prostranstvah? Snaryad yeshchë silʹnyee nakrenilsya, no tvërdo derzhit kurs. V litse Sorokinoĭ blazhennaya istoma. Poslyshalsya i yeĭ protyazhnyĭ etot angelʹskiĭ prizyv? Predstavil strashnyĭ sud. Bez sudyeĭ. Odni yeë roditeli. Stoyat i smotryat! Chto za pyatno, kotoroe mayachit ryadom? U-u-u-i-i-i… …I yeshchë raz potom ya slyshal etot charuyushchiĭ i perelivnyĭ svist. YA yehal s yuga na svoëm pikape. S synom-krohoĭ, s zhenoĭ i dazhe s tëshchyeĭ. Shirokaya doroga. Levyĭ ryad, vseh obgonyayu. Navstrechu, tozhe v levoĭ polose, mchit krupnyĭ gruzovik. Kuzov napolnen listovym metallom. I verhniĭ list, pobolʹshe ploshchadʹyu moyeĭ mashiny, sryvaet·sya v polët. Melʹknulo chto-to nad lobovym steklom, kak tenʹ gromadnoĭ ptitsy, i… angelʹski pozvalo pryamo s neba. Vot takzhe tochno. I yeshchë nevnyatno, vrode: «…upoko-o-oĭ!» Kak shelest tonkoĭ zhesti. I srazu zhe udar tolstennogo lista prokata tam, gde-to pozadi… Kirpich snizhaet·sya v kakih-to svetlyh vihryah. YA bolʹshe tormozitʹ yego ne v silah, ne v silah napravlyatʹ. No gde zhe ty, gde zhe ty, angel-hranitelʹ?! My yasno videli s Serëgoĭ, kak kamenʹ vdrug, pochti uzhe u samoĭ golovy, slegka motnulsya, kak v vozduhe listok bumagi, chutʹ kolyhnulsya v storonu i rezko, ostriëm voshël v pesok. V pesok! Chutʹ pozadi nyeë. Sorokina mogla by provesti rukoĭ po gladkoĭ grani. Yeshchë kak budto dremlet. No ulovila chto-to. Posharila vokrug glazami i zevnula sladko. V pesok, a ne v visok! Chto videla v drëme, slyshala chto? I vremya vdrug poshlo svoim normalʹnym ritmom. A u menya zasohlo gorlo, viski stuchat i palʹtsy ot peril nikak ne otorvut·sya. Potom byl shum, razborki, zakonnyĭ krik proraba, no eto daleko ne strashnyĭ sud. Strashnyee pokazalosʹ, chto dazhe sam Serëga nikak ne mog ponyatʹ, otkuda u nego v ruke voznik otpolirovannyĭ kirpich. I pochemu on tak vnezapno kinul. Kogda spustilisʹ, pesok byl pust. YA vsë hotel pogovoritʹ s Sorokinoĭ. Tolʹko ne znayu, chto skazal by. Teperʹ uzh ne skazatʹ. Upornyĭ etot angel uspel pogovoritʹ s nyeĭ ranʹshe. Opyatʹ nad nyeĭ propel, proshelestel i usypil. Nikto ne pomeshal yemu v bassyeĭne. I eto penie yego my vse yeshchë uslyshim. YA dumayu, uznayu srazu.

Picture of Nicolai Provotorov

Другие произведения автора:

Бросить курить

Страсть земляничная

Старый адрес