Meanwhile, at the Vitebsk station, smelling of coal, fresh newsprint and coffee from the buffet, Gene York and Jake Madison, having jumped out of a cab, slowly headed for the ticket office. Their route lay to Tsarskoe Selo, and despite the Spartan nature of the upcoming trip, both were in good spirits: Jake from the anticipation of a country feast and hunting, and Gene from the opportunity to escape, at least for a day, from the St. Petersburg whirlpool of affairs and visiting cards.
"We're not going to save the empire," said Gene, squinting, "we're just shooting partridges. But I must admit, I'd prefer these birds to the Duma sessions. At least they don't interrupt."
They approached the third-class ticket office, where there was no line. Gene, not considering it necessary to demonstrate his status, pulled out his wallet and bought two tickets to Tsarskoe Selo. Jake bowed playfully:
"This is true equality. A general, a lawyer, a high school student - all are riding in the same carriage, if they are riding without their wives.
"And most importantly, without governesses," Gene chuckled, taking a ticket. "In a carriage with governesses, the conversation isn't about pheasant, but about handkerchiefs and ladies' gossip. And here we have fresh air and Baron Buher with rifles."
They walked onto the platform, where the coal stack of a short train was already smoking under a canopy. Employees in greatcoats scurried past with teapots and newspaper stacks. Somewhere in a distant booth a barrel organ was playing. Gene and Jake climbed into the carriage and took their seats by the window. The train shuddered, lay still, and a minute later, smoothly but steadily moved forward, breaking away from the platform like a man who had decided to have a long conversation.
The carriage rocked rhythmically, and the heavy rhythm of the wheels, as if coming from the very earth, lulled the passengers, but did not allow them to fall silent. There was a smell of felt boots, uniform wool, cheap tobacco and - barely perceptible - the scent of women's scarves, although there were no women in the carriage. The officials, having taken off their gloves, rubbed their palms and, lounging on the seats, carried on a conversation, not so much among themselves as for themselves, in a half-voice, but with the expectation of being heard. Someone drank tea from a travel mug, someone chewed dried toast, fishing crumbs out of his pocket.
"The Count had a special gun back then, I remember," one of them said, crumpling a handkerchief in his hands. "A French one, with an engraving, a gift... Either from the Duke or from the Minister. And everything would have been fine, but there was a meaning to it - like a stick in a swamp. You know, he went out to the edge of the forest, thinking - now it's going to hit. And the snow was falling, like in the story - no den, no trace. The huntsman said to him: "Your Excellency, wait, we'll go around now and have a look." And the Count said: 'No,' he said, 'I feel it. Here it is, the beast.'"
The officer with the moustache, who had been listening in silence until then, nodded.
"So he shot at the pine tree. They say that tree sap splashed his collar, and he later told everyone that he saw the bear run away in fear. And what happened next - it was no longer a hunt, but a war. The beaters were driven from all over the area, like a recruiting party. They rode in a cart, some with pitchforks, some with shafts - as best they could. They walked for two hours, waist-deep in snow, their feet were stuck, their hands were bleeding."
"Yes, yes", the third one, with high cheekbones, in a uniform jacket without insignia, picked up. "I was in those parts then. Towards evening - there was a roar, as if an army was coming. They were shouting, blowing the whistle, shooting. They lured that bear out, but he... How can I say... He turned out to be smart. Not smart in our way. He flashed once, and that was it. Where did he go - as if through the ground. And the count at that time was already sitting by the fireplace, with Burgundy. They served him jellied meat, veal aspic, black caviar - as if at a reception. His fast, you see, was only in words."
"They caught the bear after all," someone responded from the far corner. "The next day. In the village. He came straight to the cattle barn, looking for something to eat, apparently. The peasants surrounded him, and he roared like a man, not understanding what was happening. So they shot him. Then they carried him away like a hero, on a sledge, his paws spread out, his muzzle all bloody and frosty. And the Count... Well, what about the Count? He didn't even bat an eyelid. He just raised his glass and said, "Well, finally."
"Well, finally," Gene repeated thoughtfully, as if out of place, and then, frowning, he turned to Jake: "And what did you say about Buher?"
He leaned a little closer, shielding himself from the other passengers with a half-turned shoulder, and lowered his voice, as one does when talking not about something forbidden, but about something ticklish. His lips barely moved, but there was a special tone in his voice - not condemnation, not admiration, but that strange respect that a person has for those who have managed to get along in life in spite of circumstances, and not because of them.
"The Baron", he began quietly, "you know, a figure in his own way is exceptional. He did not start with high birth. A Protestant from the Baltic Germans, and even those, they say, not of the first line. But his head is like a merchant at auction. He moved to Russia before Menshikov's resignation, made his way through the services, maneuvered, converted to Orthodoxy - and suddenly became one of them. Not right away, of course. First as a translator, then as a sworn attorney, and then he reached the noble class. But the most interesting thing is not that."
Gene didn't interrupt, he just nodded occasionally, as if prompting: continue, I'm listening.
"And the interesting thing is", Jake continued, squinting slightly, "that he set up a school. Not a simple one, but a private commercial one, with the rights of a state one. Formally, to prepare young people for trade and accounting. But in fact, it is a shelter for the offspring of those who do not want to fall, but also cannot hold on. There, they do not ask why you were kicked out of the Marine, why you were thrown out of the cadet corps. They ask one thing: do you pay for the year in advance."
"So," drawled Gene, moving away a little, "do they issue certificates?"
"Yes", confirmed Jake. "They used to laugh at court - they said that a baron's diploma was like a certificate from a pharmacy. But when one of Countess Rzhevskaya's nephews got into the ministry with it, and then wormed his way into a senator's position - the laughter quickly stopped. Everything is legal. The seal is real, the papers are in order. And how they teach there is no one's business."
There was a brief pause in the carriage. Frosted trees flashed past the windows, as if the very air trembled with the cold memory of a summer gone by. Gene leaned back, looking out the murky glass, but his eyes were looking inward, not outward.
Gene leaned back, looking into the cloudy glass, but his eyes were looking inward, not outward. Surprise flitted across his face - not a showy, theatrical look, but the kind that comes when a familiar picture suddenly cracks, revealing another, unexpected one.
"It's strange," he said slowly, not taking his eyes off the reflection. "I've never even heard his name before."
Jake, who could not stand doubts about the seriousness of his own words, straightened up and spoke with a little pressure, as if scolding a student:
"Because you only read Revue des Deux Mondes and the local news diagonally. But here in the province, they trumpet about him in almost every issue. The Baron is a notable figure. He is not just a director with the right to print: he is a philanthropist. A shelter for the widows of naval officers in Novaya Derevnya? His money. Scholarships for the talented, but 'unfortunately born' - from him. And most importantly - all accompanied by reporters. Not a single ruble of his goes without a newspaper line. And this, mind you, is not a reproach at all. He does good with such taste that he applauds himself."
Gene turned his head, a half-smile touching the corners of his lips.
"So the form is equal to the content. And his taste for charity is like that of an old dandy for cufflinks. I understand. It's like throwing a ball not for the guests, but for the reporters."
But Jake didn't catch the sarcasm, or perhaps he deliberately ignored it. He just bowed his head slightly and, rubbing his glove on his knee, spoke in the tone of a teacher introducing a lazy student to a long-discussed topic:
"So that you understand the scale: Buher's school is not just a school. It is a whole provincial story, only with sturdy bindings and bright covers. It has everything. Imagine: a boy enters there at the age of eleven, as expected, and ten years later he is still in the fifth grade. But already married. Sometimes with a child. There was a case when a father and son studied in the same building: daddy in the sixth, son in the first. And both with uniform caps, notebooks and report cards."
"It can't be," Gene chuckled, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Are you saying that this isn't a myth? That such a club of eternal students seriously exists?"
"It's as serious as it gets," Jake confirmed, narrowing his eyes. "And you're not the first one who doesn't believe it. A prosecutor I know, upon hearing about it, vowed to go on a tour to make sure there wasn't a crèche in the teachers' lounge."
York laughed, not loudly, but with that clear, liberating relief that people experience when they have kept their backs straight for a long time.
"Se non è vero, è ben trovato!"
Jake frowned.
"What? Your Latin again? Or is it in Greek now?"
"In Italian," Gene explained softly. "Take it, brother, as 'A wonderful invention.'"
Jake's expression changed: the smile faded, his gaze dimmed a little. He glanced briefly at his companion, leaned back without saying a word, and the next second, as if by an inner impulse, changed the subject.
"Okay, you know how to laugh. But do you know how wars start?" he asked, in a subdued voice, with the tone that sounds like a reproach to a friend who allowed himself to mock at the wrong moment.
York turned his head towards him without answering. And Jake, looking down at the edge of the bench, began to speak with restraint, almost sparingly:
"It was before anyone shot. Morning, winter, in Peterhof. Nikolay, our sovereign, is getting ready for an important meeting. A train of adjutants, notes, coffee. But it's not the reports that worry him. He walks around the office, strokes his moustache, and thinks about Japan. He says that Korea is teeming with foreigners, and the Japanese newspapers are all in a frenzy. And then Mr. Shtryumpel bursts in. Do you know who that is?"
Gene frowned, but nodded: the name was familiar - it had flashed through the chronicles, like an anecdote.
"He himself is neither a diplomat nor a military man. He is a tailor. But not a simple one - a great one. The States, Schleswig, London - they knew him everywhere. He dressed emperors, chose buttons for them, explained where to hang the ribbon of an order if you were the chief of some battalion in Stettin. He was respected because he did not meddle in state affairs. But he spoke about them inconsistently, as only those who are at court but outside the game can."
Jake paused, as if checking to see if his interlocutor was listening. He was.
"So. Strumpel arrived that day to teach Nikolay how to properly wear a cuirassier uniform - a Prussian one, with red cuffs and shiny linings. Everyone knew that the Tsar was listed as the chief. And so they stand, Nikolay by the mirror, Strumpel fastens his buttons, and casually says: I heard, Your Majesty, that the Japanese are grumbling - your road is not to their liking. And they even hinted, they say, that you would sell them something from the left bank of the Amur."
York raised his eyebrows but did not intervene.
"And Nikolay..." Jake continued, lowering his voice even more, "just looked at him in the mirror, settled his moustache and said: 'If they're so worried, then it's time to make a move and show who's boss here.' Without shouting, without pressure - calmly. But then - an order, mobilization, a business trip to the east. That's the beginning. No advice, no discussion. A joke in a tailcoat - and the company is on the move."
Jake's voice died away. Gene was silent. Only the wheels, as if feeling the weight of the pause, rumbled a little louder. The train shuddered one last time, as if stretching after a long nap, and braked smoothly. The buildings of the Tsarskoye Selo station appeared through the window glass - stone, weathered, with eagles on the gables darkened by winter.
On the platform, cleared to a shining dryness, a man stood out, to whom the glances of the passengers who had stepped off the steps were immediately drawn. Baron Buher stood like a monument to confidence: a massive figure in a luxurious fur coat, the buttons of which gleamed dully but with dignity, like ancient officer's orders.
In his plump hand he clutched a cigar, curved like a sickle, and the warm smoke spread near his head, not daring to obscure either his face or his gaze. The engraved ring, massive and heavy, flared up when the baron waved his hand - as if a sign that before you was not just a man, but the head of his own coordinate system.
His face, framed by neatly trimmed sideburns, exuded cheerful courtesy. There was no servility in his smile, broad, almost familiar, but there was something theatrical - like an actor playing the role of a "hospitable host" for the thousandth time, but still enjoying it.
The thick, warm aroma of a Havana cigar curled between the fur and the collar, intertwining with the subtle, confident scent of English perfume - noble, restrained, almost ecclesiastical in its heaviness. It walked ahead of the baron, like a footman with a business card.
Under his open fur coat, a tailcoat of the color of bluish-black wine gleamed, on which along the lapels a garland was visible - not of flowers, no - but of badges, medals, tokens: gifts from boards of trustees, merchant guilds, pedagogical congresses. On the plastron, dazzlingly white and stretched like a sail, pearls shimmered evenly, without insolence - like an ingratiating compliment to an old lady.
Seeing Gene and Jake, the baron headed toward them with a semi-military wave of his cigar, his boots rustling on the crust of the platform, and on his face was the same smile with which he probably greeted both the Minister of Public Education and the head of the district fire department. Servants were bustling about nearby - at least six men, all in identical short overcoats with bias-fastenings and hats with fur lapels. Two of them were holding hobbled dogs on short leather leashes - tall, predatory, with yellow eyes and pointed ears. The animals, as if understanding that serious business lay ahead, did not growl or pull, but stood there, springing, ready to rush forward at any moment.
One of the servants, young, agile, with a face not yet spoiled by service, carried the baron's rifle in his bent arms. The carved gun seemed heavy, but he carried it with respectful ease, as if he were handing over a cherished gift.
The baron opened his arms to greet the arrivals, his voice rolled over the platform, thick and sonorous:
"Gentlemen! You have arrived at the most opportune moment! The wolves - shameless, impudent bastards - have once again come out to the very edge of the Aleksandrovsky forest. They are frightening the peasants, slaughtering the cattle, even the coachmen are trembling! But we - the baron paused dramatically - we will not leave this like this! We will go where the darkness is and show the fanged bastards who is the hunter here!"
Jake chuckled briefly, and Gene was about to answer, but at that moment his gaze caught on a figure to the side, massive, with a straight, motionless posture, like a sculpture carved from a woodpile. Morris Creighton. He stood as if emerging from the ground, his arms crossed, his eyes narrow, a network of tense muscles under his skin. His face, weathered, as if wrinkled by sea salt, did not change. Only his lips moved into a thin line when he said, muffled, like spitting on a stone:
"You arrived just in time, although we would have managed just fine without you."
There was no triumph or challenge in the voice, only contempt, well-worn and unjustifiable. Gene looked back, level but attentive, not looking away until Creighton took a half-step back, turning to the side.
The Baron, not noticing or pretending not to notice either the sarcasm or the heaviness of the silence, loudly clapped his hands:
"Gentlemen, let's not argue! The wolves are not waiting for us to choose the eldest! I ask you to the crews! The weather is clear, the spirit is high, and the hunt promises to be glorious!"
The Baron strode confidently, his spurs jingling and his teeth whistling softly, as if he were commanding a battalion in peacetime. Jake and Gene walked on his right hand, holding their pace so as not to get ahead of their master - etiquette here was not a formality, but a long-practiced choreography. Behind, about ten meters away, Morris Creighton stomped along, accompanied by two officers, one of whom had a face that still bore traces of yesterday's revelry, and the other - with an expression of eternal bewilderment that young staff captains with literary inclinations suffer from.
"See him?" Gene said quietly, leaning slightly toward Jake. "Our oak friend with a face like he'd been hit over the head with a shovel all his youth."
"How could I not notice," Jake responded, "he's walking like a disgruntled monument. What, also going after the wolves?"
"The wolves, poor things, have no idea who they're dealing with. Creighton is the kind of man who, if he goes into the woods, does so with a cast-iron frying pan and a tin megaphone. Do you know where he comes from?"
Jake shook his head. Gene chuckled without looking back.
"Philadelphia. Southwest. Poor Irish neighborhood. Until the age of fifteen - barefoot, in just a shirt. Worked at the slaughterhouse: cleaned up slops and scraps - everything that went to feed the pigs. His mother kept about six, and sometimes a calf. The whole neighborhood knew 'Morris from the Gutter.'"
"This one?" Jake glanced over his shoulder. "Amazing."
"Yeah. And his name was just Morris Creighton. Then, when his mother died, he announced that he would take her name for himself. He called himself Morris Melia Creighton. A curtsy to his mother, so to speak. Poetic. Romantic. Even then I was touched. But..." Gene paused, smiling slightly - then he got an office, cuffs, a wife with a surname as long as a Persian carpet... And 'Melia' suddenly disappeared. Only 'M' remained, you would never guess what it was. In letters - just Morris Creighton. And in correspondence with the treasury - completely M. Creighton."
"I understand," Jake nodded, "it often happens: you fall in love with your wife, but you're embarrassed by your mother."
"Exactly", Gene chuckled. "Apparently, he decided: one love for life is enough. Otherwise, they will think that his heart has too many rooms, and with echoes of a pigsty."
And then, as if responding to the mockery, a drawn-out howl rang out over the edge of the forest - thin, viscous, as if the wind was choking on pain. Then a second, and a third. Then a sharp, almost croaking bark. The dogs rushed forward, pulling on their leashes, uttering short, angry growls. The baron, not having time to raise his hand, only shouted: 'Hold the line!' - but it was too late.
From behind the tree trunks, from the gray thicket, wolves seemed to emerge - not run out, not jump out, but emerge. Black, gray, one with a red tan. They moved not one by one, but simultaneously, like links in a single spring. One darted toward the dogs, the other toward the hunters' left flank. A shot rang out - one, the second - muffled, hasty, a miss. The horse neighed and reared. Someone yelled.
Creighton whirled and raised his gun, but his hand shook: the first wolf had slipped to the side, the second had jumped. Morris fired, the bullet had gone into the void. The wolf had struck him in the chest, knocking him off his feet, and both had rolled across the crust. Creighton screamed, his voice hoarse like a broken instrument. One of the officers rushed toward him, but the pack had closed in a semicircle, cutting off his path.
"Help!" came a hoarse voice through the barking and cracking of branches.
Jake turned around and instantly pulled the rifle from the nearest servant, no longer looking whose weapon it was, and ran, pressing himself against the barrels, trying to go around the circle. His face darkened, his steps were heavy but quick, like those of a cavalryman accustomed to maneuvering.
Gene remained where he was. He did not move, only pressed his lips together and looked in the direction from which the screams came. His hand was already holding the trigger, but he did not raise the weapon. His hat had slipped slightly on his forehead, a shadow fell over his eyes. The dogs were running around, the people were screaming, the bullets were tearing the bark off the tree trunks, but he stood there as if he was chained.
And Jake, pushing through the snow and the whips of the branches, could see the picture in full clarity - too clear. Morris, defeated, was struggling, thrashing, growling, his face covered in blood, his hands clawing at the air, missing their mark. One of the wolves had grabbed him by the thigh, the other by the shoulder. They worked together, with a savage, purposeful cruelty, not in rage - in craft. Another moment - and one of them tore out his throat.
"Back!" Jake roared, raising his gun, but at the same moment, ahead of him, Baron Buher, standing on the other side, a little higher, at the fork in the path, raised his weapon. His face remained calm, even, perhaps, cold, like that of a hunter who cares not for the action, but for the result.
There was a single shot, loud and heavy, like a cannon. The bullet hit the chest of the largest wolf, the one with the black mark on his forehead - he was the leader. He yelped, shot up as if struck by lightning, and immediately fell into the snow, leaving a trail of dark spots.
The pack wavered. A moment - and the wolves, without breaking into panic, but as if on command, turned and disappeared between the trees. All that remained was the cracking of branches and a hoarse silence.
Jake ran to the body. Morris was lying on his back, his arm flung out like a stage actor who had fallen in the last act. His face was bruised, his mouth was open, his eyes were glassy, frozen in reproach.
"Dead," Jake said without turning around.
The Baron slowly approached, shaking cigar ash from his sleeve.
"Alas, when a wolf marks his prey, no rank can save him," the baron concluded, examining the weapon and wincing slightly from the smell of fresh blood breaking through the cigar smoke.
Gene York emerged slowly from the forest shadows, about fifteen paces away. He took off his hat, bowed his head, and raised his shoulders slightly, as if the weight of the air were enveloping him. He crossed himself slowly, with a wide amplitude, almost theatrically, and sighed with relief, like a man who had received a letter with long-awaited news.
"Thank God," he said, looking at the body. "Someone must have heard my prayer for profit."
The Baron turned to him with a questioning look, but said nothing. Jake, straightening up, gave Gene a sharp, narrowed look - one in which skepticism is already ready to become reproach.
York caught the look. Without changing his expression, he adjusted his collar, frowned with moderate sadness, and, lowering his eyes, said with a quiet sigh:
"He crossed himself... Because... he had a poor family. He left his children orphans. His wife... A widow. It's sad. Very sad."
His voice sounded with the right hoarseness, his gaze was slightly moist - skillfully. Only Jake, who had known him for many years, saw that it was all a mask, light as a veil, pulled over relief and hidden triumph.
Especially knowing that Gene didn't care a fig about the Creightons. Morris's wife was a woman he always found pompous, and his son was a brash fellow who tried to pick on his daughter every time they met, and did so with the kind of bravado that only a rich fool can do.
...666...
But Karen didn't. Karen couldn't do that: not notice, not feel, not think. Even now, walking along the slippery pavement, she remembered how Lily Creighton had squeezed her fingers in the enfilade of the Bolshoi Theater during Giselle - as if she had found not a friend, but an anchor that could keep her afloat amidst a series of duties, poses, receptions. Too loud, yes. Too perfumed. But not angry. And certainly not ready for widowhood.
Karen walked quickly, too quickly for such shoes - several times the heel almost slipped off the cobblestones. Her hat, made of black velvet, did not protect her from the wind, only flapped its ribbons against her cheek. In the bag, which she pressed to her chest, lay Josephine's gloves - why she took them, she did not know. Just like that. Her hand reached out on its own as she walked away, as if to be sure.
He didn't answer, she thought, over and over again. Gene. No telegram, no note, no line from the servant. He was staying with Buher, with Jake, the coachman had told her when he returned without him. "The master said the hunt was too late." Yes, the hunt... When there was death in the city. When there was news in the city. When the newspapers, even the ones Gene called "yellow trash," carried the death of a man they had sat at the same table with only a week before on the front page.
Union of Pechatnikov Street was empty, as it only happens in St. Petersburg at the end of winter: as if people, like mice, were hiding in cracks until it got warm. Karen slowed her pace by the lamp, threw back her veil and looked up. The tower of St. Stanislav's Church showed through the haze, smooth and calm, like a palm raised in blessing. The snow that had stuck to the cornice melted and fell in drops to the ground - evenly, like time.
"Lord," she whispered, "what are you doing?"
It wasn't a prayer, not a challenge, just a question. Without an answer. Like a letter, folded and forgotten. She didn't know why she was going. Or rather, she knew - to talk to Father Mattson. Not as a spiritual father. As a man with a quiet voice. And to whom she could say, "I'm scared" - not out loud, but so that they would understand.
At the corner, by the shop, a boy with a knapsack slid by quickly, looking askance. Karen instinctively clenched her fingers, but immediately felt ashamed - he simply walked past. Not Xander. He never ran like that. He never looked at the floor. But Jerome Creighton - yes. She remembered how he once deliberately smeared Delia's ribbons with chalk - and laughed when the governess got alarmed. "Look, the young lady has a blue tail now!" he shouted. And Delia stood there, white, clasping her hands. Not a tear. Only later, at home, she buried her face in her side and asked: "And if I don't become a lady, then he won't touch me?"
Karen stepped under the arch. The entrance to the temple was in the shadows. The door was not yet open - it was early. The service would not begin for another hour. She leaned her shoulder against the wall, searching for support. Her legs were shaking. Not from the cold. From an incomprehensible feeling - as if everything familiar had suddenly become shaky, like ice under her heels. War. Death. The silence from Gene. And something else, still nameless.
She closed her eyes. And as soon as she took a step away from the wall, she heard a light cough from the side - not rude, not intrusive, but the kind that immediately identifies a well-mannered person. Turning around, Karen saw a familiar figure: in a black coat, with a neat felt hat, from under which gray strands were sticking out. Doctor Lou Hastings, still as good-natured in appearance, with that warm, as if always slightly smiling look.
"Mrs. York?" he said, bowing his head. "I'm sorry if I startled you. I was coming from the other side, and I confess I didn't expect to see you here."
"Good morning, Doctor," Karen nodded, a little stiffly, but politely. "I... I was just walking."
"Of course, of course," he nodded sympathetically. "Like all of us. We're all going somewhere. Sometimes we even know why. Sometimes..." he paused, as if biting the thought, "we just don't want to stay in one place."
Karen nodded her head slightly in response, but said nothing. Hastings, as if sensing this, leaned forward slightly, pretending to look not at her, but in the direction of the temple:
"See, there, behind the rector's gate? There used to be a vacant lot there. And now there's a tower. A small turret, like an observation tower. It was built by Mr. Lyulyukov. Yes, yes, the same one who sits in the Ministry of Railways. How could... How could I not recognize him?"
He spoke evenly, almost cheerfully, with that special nuance that is used to tell urban tales that have stood the test of time.
"He built that tower about five years ago. And he put a telescope on top - a monstrous one, imported, almost ordered from London. The servants say: it stands on stilts, like on chicken legs, and the lens is the size of a gymnastics hoop, no smaller. He would sit there until dawn. When he got tired of everything earthly, he would order a tray - sprat, herring, a loaf of black wine and a glass - and look. Not out the windows, no. At the planets. Either he was running away from work, or from himself."
Karen listened in silence, not giving in to either a smile or sympathy. She still held her bag tightly to her chest, as if the one she was looking for here was not behind the temple door, but under her gloves, hidden in her heart.
"And just recently", the doctor continued in the same tone", he invited three friends from the detective department. Well, you know, those who like to admire the structure of the earth at the same time. They brought a bottle or two with them, sat down - and it was cramped in there, and frozen. And someone, they say, touched the tripod with his elbow. Bang - the glass went. Burst. Now instead of Mars there is fog."
He spread his hands with a slight smile:
"Here are all stars."
Karen nodded slightly, but her face did not change. Everything that would have caused a slight smile in others, in her pulled the thread inside even tighter. At such moments it seemed to her that the whole of Petersburg - with or without a telescope - did not see the main thing. Everyone looked up, but the trouble was right there, underfoot.
Karen was silent for another minute, looking down at the wet pavement. Then, unexpectedly even for herself, she laughed briefly, dully, but quite sincerely - as if she had forced herself to push aside a heavy, chilled blanket.
"Excuse me, Doctor," she said, looking up. "But why are you telling me all this? The story... Well, excuse me, it's just like a joke. Although, you must be a good storyteller.
Hastings narrowed his eyes, grinned, but shook his head seriously:
"A joke? Oh, madam, this is not a joke at all. Unfortunately. All this is sad everyday life. You see, I am treating Mrs. Lyulyukova, the wife of this very heavenly caretaker."
He paused, as if searching for the right expression, and then continued with the tired condescension with which an old teacher explains the obvious to an uncomprehending pupil:
"She is a capricious, haughty lady, and... And completely healthy. Her heart is like a factory supervisor's. Her stomach is like a horse's. Nerves? Well, maybe my husband's nerves, and that's due to my oversight. But alas. Mrs. Lyulyukova loves to be ill. To be ill in the highest class. Consultations, prescriptions, procedures... She loves to be looked after, discussed, looked at sympathetically and said: "Oh, what a sensitive nature!" And we, doctors..." he spread his hands", we make things up.
Karen looked at him slightly reproachfully, but remained silent. Hastings, noticing this, sighed:
"Yesterday there was another consultation. My colleagues, luminaries, all of us - we gathered as if in an opera. With expressions on our faces like angels at the last sound of the trumpet. And I, in the role of an archangel, made a diagnosis: exacerbation of imperial melancholy with a transition to climatic asthenia. Don't be alarmed - this means that madam needs a rest. A long one, at least six months. In Yalta. Or in Carlsbad. Or in Geneva, if you really want to be godlike."
He chuckled, but his eyes remained serious.
"Do you know what she said?" he leaned a little closer. 'My God, Doctor, it's almost like being sentenced... To rest!' and she clasped her hands, as if this was the most comforting news all winter. But her husband, Mr. Lyulyukov..." here the doctor's voice became soft, almost mocking, "he, on the contrary, almost went grey. After all, a six-month vacation is not, you know, tea and bagels. These are special expenses. Particularly unaffordable. We'll have to, as they say, dip our paw into the government purse. Deeper. Seriously. Up to the shoulder, if not up to the ear."
He shrugged, as if apologizing for his cynicism, and added:
"So, Mrs. York, this is not a joke. This is a chronicle. Only without a moral.
Karen, who had been silent until then, suddenly stepped sharply to the side, as if a chill had run down her shoulder blades. Her eyes flashed, but her voice remained restrained, almost indifferent - and therefore especially firm:
"Forgive me, doctor, but what you just described... This is not medical practice. This is a comedy. Not even funny. How can you indulge such a fool? Why not tell her straight out that she is healthy? Why waste your time, your knowledge, your - forgive me - dignity on her?"
Hastings did not flinch. He listened calmly, his head slightly bowed, as if listening to the echo of a long-familiar melody.
"You know, Mrs. York," he said after a pause, "people will do a lot for the sake of vile metal. Not all of them, but many. And sometimes even those who didn't think they would. I'm not telling you this as a hero of a novel, but as a person who knows how much it costs to cure a child if he has no pedigree or connections."
Karen looked at him with a heavy gaze. Nothing moved on her lips, but it was as if a curtain had fallen in her eyes.
"Forgive me," she said quietly. "But it's still... It's shameful. Both to hear and to know. I thought you weren't one of those. After all, you're an intelligent person. Honest. I... I'm ashamed of you."
The doctor smiled slightly, not defiantly, but with weariness.
"Thank you for your trust," he said calmly. "But practice, Mrs. York, is where a doctor's strength lies. The more patients, the more mistakes. And the sooner he learns not to make them. A young doctor after university, forgive me, knows less than a paramedic. Someone who has been at a bedside for five years is no longer a theoretician. He knows when to say "healthy," and when it's better to remain silent. For the sake of the family. For the sake of the home. For the sake of peace in the house. Sometimes - even for the sake of that fool's husband."
He spoke quietly, without pressure, as if he knew in advance that his words would not find a response.
Karen was silent. No surprise, no answer. She only took a deeper breath, as if from damp air, and again turned her gaze to the temple door, still locked.
"You should go to Vyborg Side for real knowledge, doctor," she said, still looking ahead. "There are no ladies with telescopes there. There are children with fever and mothers who don't remember the last time they ate. That's where your real practice is, if you want to know."
Hastings nodded slightly, not offended - more like a man who had heard this before.
"Of course, Mrs. York. But here's the problem: the patients there can't even afford a bandage, let alone belladonna extract or laudanum tinctures. And when medicine is a luxury, they don't go to me, but to those who brew from bark and herbs. Healers, chiropractors, 'mothers' from near Narvskaya - they don't ask for prescriptions, but they do ask for a copper coin. Cheap, simple and... And most often useless."
Karen turned to him, her voice reproachful, her eyes demanding:
"But a doctor can also come with medicine. Not empty-handed."
"Maybe," Hastings said calmly. "But you, Mrs. York, try going up to a chemist and saying, 'Please give me ten bottles of the mixture for free - I'll take them to the sick.' He'll nod politely... And raise the price on the other twenty."
"But you're a doctor," Karen persisted. "You're not a shopkeeper. Can't you treat people like that for free?"
"I can treat," he replied. "But the medicine doesn't come out of thin air. I'll tell you more: treating the poor for free is not nobility, but a path to the abyss. If every doctor buys it himself, he won't last long. And in the end, the same poor man again, only without a doctor. No, Mrs. York. For a real, sustainable practice, money is needed. Only money that doesn't smell of rot."
Karen looked down. The doctor's words did not sound brazen or cruel - rather, with that cold reasonableness that makes you feel ashamed that you hadn't thought of the obvious before.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I... I didn't think about it."
Dr. Hastings smiled slightly, but not ironically, rather with weary understanding.
"And I, Mrs. York, have thought it through very well. I have thought it all out long ago. I fly here - yes. I treat idlers, those who suffer, as they think, from obesity, nervous exhaustion or 'heartache'. I write them diagnoses that are scary to hear, but harmless in essence. They get scared, thank me, take out their wallets. And I - take them."
He turned slightly sideways to her, looking not at her face, but at the gray sky, as if his confession could be justified there:
"I don't save this money. I throw it away like leaves. On the Vyborg side. Where there is real need. Where people are really sick, Mrs. York. Where a child with measles lies on a torn mat, and his mother smears him with lard - because there is nothing else. I bring at least a little light there. At least a little sense. At least a drop of real medicine."
Karen listened, her gloved hands clenched, not responding. He continued:
"Conscience? No, it doesn't hurt. Because I deceived the lady, who was sure that her liver had become heavy from wine and hazel grouse? So be it. It's not even a deception - it's an exchange. They give me the opportunity to save others. Real ones. Those who live not on the pages of the society columns, but on the edge."
He suddenly raised his eyes and looked straight ahead, calmly, but there was something harsh in his voice:
"Believe me, Mrs. York, it is these people who will one day turn everything upside down. Not us, not them - they. Those who are silent now. They are still sleeping. But when they wake up... Oh, how the chandeliers will crack over their heads."
He was silent for a moment, then, as if shaking himself, added more softly:
"And I... I'm already starting. Little by little. At least this way - I'm tearing them out of the hands of charlatans. I teach. I help. Not as I would have dreamed, but as best I can. And, you know... Sometimes that's enough.
Karen was silent for another moment, but then said firmly:
"And sometimes it's too dangerous. You're walking a fine line, Doctor. With such a double life, you can end up between two stools. You'll be rejected by the rich when they realize you're fooling them, and by the poor if they suspect you're not one of them. I couldn't do that. Not a step to the left, not to the right. Only forward. I always go straight to the goal. The shortest way.
Hastings chuckled and shook his head, looking towards the heavy, impenetrable clouds:
"A straight line is beautiful... In drawing. In geometry, on paper, in logarithmic tables. But in life, Mrs. York, the straight path is often the most crooked. Only it is not a path, but a ridge of hills, ravines and tricks. And whoever follows it stumbles just as much as he who winds."
He turned to face her:
"But what about it? If you succeed, I am sincerely glad. Really. The world rests on those who can walk straight. And also on those who know how to go around a swamp without drowning in it", Hastings said, and bowed slightly in a farewell gesture, moving to the edge of the sidewalk.
Karen didn't respond. She only gave a brief nod, avoiding eye contact, and stepped toward the temple door, subtly quickening her pace - as if trying to outrun the doctor's words before they sank too deep. The door creaked, and the cool dimness of the vestibule enveloped her, like a sharp change in the air.
She paused beneath the stone vault, hesitating before moving further, her gaze worn and fixed on the floor. The temple smelled of incense, cold stone, and old books. The silence here wasn't just the absence of sound - it hummed. Tall stained-glass windows, their colored panes forming stern saintly faces, let in scant light, casting a mosaic of red and blue patches on the floor. In the corner of the vestibule, near a side altar, a few people whispered, their voices swallowed by the echoing hum, while the scent of wax and damp clung to their clothes.
"Why does he treat the poor?" The thought struck her suddenly.
Hastings was one of them. An American. Like Jean. Like Jake. Like the late Morris Creighton. All of them outsiders here. But why would he - a doctor, an educated man who knew the value of his time - choose the Vyborg side? Treating those who could barely pronounce his name. Who brought neither money nor gratitude, and often never returned.
Was it not medical generosity? Did he have a motive? Connections? In Russia, pity too often masked something else. And then Karen flinched at her own thought: What if he's a spy?
Not just a spy - but someone tied to those… what were they called… Essers? Or Bolsheviks? Yes, that sounded right. Though she wasn't entirely sure who was who - were they the ones throwing bombs, or the ones wanting to seize factories from their owners? Or perhaps they were all the same? Anarchists. Chaos and dust on the streets. She'd overheard talk in the drawing room: "Those Bolsheviks will only make things worse." Or better? Someone had argued.
"It doesn't matter," she thought. "What matters is that these are people without God, who operate through base means. Through destruction. And Hastings… maybe he was just hiding it behind his kind face?"
Karen nearly sneezed - the temple, as always, smelled of damp, candle soot, and something elusive, like old wax and rain-soaked coats, though there was no rain outside. The air was cool, almost fresh, but made her want to shiver and pull her collar higher. The stone walls echoed faintly even with her steps, and Karen, entering almost silently, still heard her own heels as if someone were walking beside her, mimicking.
She didn't pause - she knew the way. Turning sharply left from the main nave, passing a niche with the Infant's cradle and a slightly dimmed lamp, she headed toward a narrow staircase leading to the second floor. There, in a long corridor with worn tiled floors and light from oil lamps reflecting off stone walls, she noticed a novice in a cassock standing by a window, his expression somber, almost detached. Karen decided he wouldn't ask unnecessary questions.
"Where can I find Father Mattson?" she asked, keeping her voice low but firm.
The novice barely glanced at her, only waving a hand toward the staircase.
"In his room on the third floor, just past the coffins, to the right," he replied with a slight smirk, as if joking about 'coffins' in a church was routine.
Karen nodded and moved on, though the word 'coffins' sent a slight chill through her. On the third floor, however, there were no crypts - just a narrow corridor with low doors and the smell of old wood. Room thirty-seven was a small space, bathed in soft light from a single window, where Father James Mattson - the only person in Petersburg with whom she could speak without feeling every phrase had to be as calculated as a diplomatic speech - sat at a simple wooden desk.
At first she thought he hadn't noticed her. He was sitting half-turned to the window, holding a thick book in his hands, which he was apparently reading out loud to himself, because his lips were barely moving. Karen had already opened her mouth to say hello politely, when suddenly he looked up and... He giggled. Yes, he giggled, the way children laugh when they hide behind a curtain, thinking that no one can see them.
"I'm in my happy place!" he said, and, without any grace, he raised the book above his head like a shield.
Karen froze in the doorway. For a moment she wondered if it was the effects of a long fast or a secret blow to the head with incense. She blinked. The priest remained where he was, holding his book over his head and grinning contentedly, as if expecting an ovation.
"Father Mattson..." she said carefully.
"Oh, there you are!" he said suddenly in a very businesslike tone, quickly lowering the book and slamming it shut. "Come in, Karen. Please, sit down. As if nothing strange had happened, right?"
She hesitated before crossing the threshold, but then she went in, looking around to see if a chorister with a tambourine would peek out from behind the wardrobe. The room, however, was as usual: simple, cozy, even a little disorderly - on the table lay three pencils, an empty teacup, a scrap of some newspaper and a stack of letters tied with string.
"I'm sorry," she said, sitting down opposite him. "I just... You're somehow...
"Not as a respected pastor should behave?" he picked up and winked. "Well, thank God. You didn't come here for canonical restraint."
Karen had already begun to smile, although she was trying to save face. Something in this strange, almost childish prank had relieved her. The tension that had accumulated from the conversations, the guesses, from the whole morning, suddenly eased slightly - as if she had really found herself in a "house" where she could finally exhale.
"I came... to talk to you," she said.
"Very well," he nodded. "Then let's talk. I have two ears, one brain, and zero judgment. Choose where to begin."
Karen laughed softly, for real this time.
"There," Father Mattson said, stroking his chin contentedly. "That's better. Laughter, you know, is like confession. Only less sticky."
Karen settled in more comfortably, but still felt a little out of place. Not awkward, more like... More like a schoolgirl in the principal's office who suddenly started making fun of her. Her gaze slid around the room - at the papers, the candle, the windowsill where someone had left a dried flower, and suddenly stopped at the globe standing in the corner. It was old, with a worn brass axis, but carefully cleaned and polished. The globe was turned in such a way that the line glued with scarlet silk ribbon immediately caught the eye: thin as a hair, but blood-bright. It stretched from the coast of California - from San Francisco - and passed through the ocean all the way to Japan. Nagasaki. Karen, not immediately realizing what it was, suddenly felt a chill run down her spine.
"Is this... Is this the way?" she asked, nodding at the globe. "And what, in your opinion... Will there be peace?"
Father Mattson did not answer at once. He looked at the thin wax candle, swaying slightly in the draft, and his face darkened.
"Peace?" he repeated. "Oh, Karen. Peace is a pretty wrapper they give to fools at Christmas. It doesn't exist. There are only pauses between wars. Or, more accurately, forms of war that temporarily don't require guns. Everything else is just different costumes on the same actor."
Karen involuntarily rubbed her glove over her hand. The candle crackled.
"Then why the globe?" she asked, without looking at him.
"Oh, this?" the priest perked up. "I'm saying this for clarity. Sometimes it's useful to show the parishioners which way the wind is blowing. Look: San Francisco. A beautiful city. The Golden Gate, seagulls, missionaries... And tons of provisions. Now it's a transshipment base. From there, ships, loaded to the brim, go straight to Japanese ports. To Nagasaki, to Yokohama, to Sasebo. Whatever your heart desires: crackers, canned goods, fodder, bandages, even telegraph wires. Everything for the Japanese army. And all from the States."
Karen frowned.
"But... But we are neutral!"
"Neutral as a shark in a goldfish bowl," Mattson chuckled. "All under the president's protection. Our speculators, capitalists, whatever you want to call them, they're all making a fortune right now. The Japanese are buying everything up like sharks when scraps fall off a passenger liner. Only these aren't crumbs. These are whole hangars. And ours are happy to oblige."
He was silent for a second, but his voice suddenly became harsher.
"Do you know what's going on in Texas now? In the slaughterhouses? They drive herds there - cows, bulls, calves - everything. They slaughter them without counting. The workshops are awash in blood. Because they need meat. Canned, convenient, easy to transport. Millions of cans. And all for the Japanese. Our farmers are getting rich, our bankers are clapping their hands, and Japanese sailors on the front lines are unwrapping American canned goods. That's the kind of 'peace' we have."
Karen listened with her lips pressed together. She seemed to be feeling a little stuffy - although the candle had almost burned out, a thin line of soot stretched upward, trembled and disappeared in the draft. Karen sat as if under the weight of everything that had been said - small, straight, with her hands neatly folded in her lap. She was still looking at the globe, at that scarlet thread that now seemed to her not just a route - rather a vein through which poisoned blood flowed.
Father Mattson looked from her to his teapot, as if he was about to offer to make more, but then he noticed her face. Her brows were slightly furrowed, her eyes were looking away, but her lips were pressed together like a child's who had been told there was poison in the gingerbread.
"You look like I just took away your hope," he said softly.
Karen started as if she had just woken up.
"I... I'm sorry. It's just that all this..." She waved her hand towards the globe. "I found out this morning... Morris Creighton died. While hunting. They say it was an accident. But who knows. He was..." she hesitated, choosing her words", he was not the closest person to us, but... Death, so quick, sudden... Sometimes it seems like it's not just like that. That it's like... Like a harbinger."
Father Mattson listened silently. Karen, without waiting for a reaction, suddenly said:
"When I was a girl, at my aunt's house in Cincinnati, we were always told who the Antichrist was. First Napoleon, then, I remember, someone seriously talked about Peter the Great. They even joked that he introduced razors and boots, which means he was definitely Mr.an. And now I think... Can the Antichrist be, well... From just one nation? Does he have to be, say, Russian? Or Japanese? Or..." she suddenly lowered her voice, "a Jew?"
Father Mattson did not flinch or make the slightest gesture. He simply put the kettle back and folded his hands in his lap, leaning back slightly in his chair.
"The Bible," he began, as if retelling a lecture text he had long since memorized, "doesn't say anywhere that the Antichrist will be English, Arab, or Assyrian. Oddly enough," he chuckled, "God has a bad memory for flags. If it were that simple, it would be easier, right?"
Karen nodded without smiling.
"And so, evil can come from anywhere," he continued. "Even from the southern coast, or from a northern warehouse. Even in uniforms, or in robes, or in breeches."
He straightened up a little and, suddenly with mischief, added:
"You see, Karen, that's the devil's ingenuity. He works on the Rocambole principle."
"Excuse me, for what reason? - she didn't understand.
"There was a writer, Ponson du Terrail, a Frenchman. He invented the hero Rocambole, who fought evil by using decent people, because, according to him, you can't trust scoundrels - they'll betray you. But an honest person, if you convince him that he's doing good, is an ideal tool. And the devil understood this long ago. He's not looking for scum. He's looking for the best of us. Those who sincerely believe that they're doing good."
He looked at Karen seriously, no longer joking:
"Sometimes the Antichrist doesn't have horns. He's just a very persuasive reformer. Or... Or a philanthropist," Father Mattson concluded.
Karen didn't answer. She was looking into the corner where the candle was glowing dimly. The words about Rocambole, about honest people who are used by the devil, were stuck in her head like a burr.
Well, that's great, she thought, if evil can be anyone, then where to look for it?
There was no consolation. On the contrary, something cold and tenacious rose in her soul, like water in a cellar in spring. Karen tried to think logically. A look inside the family - where they usually look for the causes of drafts.
Gene... Everything comes too easy to him. Creighton died, and the firm could neatly, without fuss, intercept all his clients. It wasn't that Gene was overjoyed, but he didn't look particularly down in the morning. He said, "I feel very sorry for Morris, he was a great accountant." An accountant! An hour after the death was announced, he was already "there." As if in mourning for a broken pen.
Delia... The girl is smart, but stubborn, like a Dutch donkey. She argues all the time, doesn't listen, pesters with questions like "why don't the apostles have last names." And then there's this boy. Xander. A servant boy, and she treats him like an equal, even worse - as if he's in charge. They whisper, laugh, make up some games, drag carrots out of the kitchen like two rabbits. And what if this is already starting to... Something?
Karen shuddered. She wasn't a prude, but sharing secrets with the serfs was the beginning of something unstoppable. Then these children would grow up and start putting red flags on the table and discussing how to "destroy class differences."
Josephine... Well, there's nothing to say about that. A person who believes in spiritualists is already a danger. Especially if she wears brooches with symbols that look like they were drawn by devils with poor eyesight. She says that today she's wearing an "amulet against other people's thoughts." Well, thanks, now Karen feels like an "other person's thought." Where did she read that? There were definitely no chapters in the Gospel about how to summon Aunt Martha's spirit.
And finally, Xander. Silent. Always looking up. With a look as if he is about to reveal the secret of the universe or ask for a piece of pie. Always hungry, always barefoot (even when he has shoes on), always next to Delia. Like a shadow. And what is a shadow? The absence of light. Very symbolic.
Karen sighed. Something was definitely going on. It was as if there was someone in the house... Someone else. But everyone was living as if nothing had happened. Eating porridge, arguing about the newspapers, pouring milk into their tea. And only she was walking around the rooms, like a guard in a warehouse, checking to see if the door to something scary was ajar. Everything seemed suspicious - from Gene's too cheerful morning to Xander's too deep looks. And yet, behind this tension, there remained the feeling that she was the only one walking around a stage with the lights out, while the others were playing a farce with the lights on.
At that moment Father Mattson suddenly perked up, as if he had remembered something funny. He turned to her, narrowed his eyes, and with the same half-smile with which he had just lifted the book above his head, said:
"But maybe the Japanese are right."
Karen raised her eyebrows.
"Excuse me, in what?"
"In the way they laugh at our devil. Well, just think about it", he leaned back in his chair, as if anticipating a joke, "in other religions evil is presented... Well, at least with dignity. Some snake goddess, or a cunning spirit with a thousand eyes, or a dancing demon with a head on fire - scary, mysterious, in general, serious. And ours? Half-ram, half-satyr, with goat legs, a tail, warts and..." he hesitated, "with the character of an offended neighbor."
Karen blinked.
"Do you mean to say that... That the devil is stupid?
"Who else is he, if not a fool?" Father Mattson continued excitedly, as if he was enjoying a mental argument with someone very stubborn. "Look: a creature that for centuries supposedly controls the sins of mankind, creates intrigues, wars, temptations, and all for what? To... To spite? To scratch the soul? To take souls to the frying pan? You feel - this is not evil... It is a whim. It is as if the Queen of England declared war on a bakery for a dry cake."
Karen suddenly chuckled, involuntarily but sincerely. Her face brightened a little.
"Excuse me," she said, "but... But 'The Queen of England against the cake' sounds like a headline in the evening paper."
"Exactly!" the priest rejoiced. "You understand me. Even the Japanese, with their foxes, tengu and rain spirits, look at our devil and ask: is this, excuse me, your universal evil? This? I mean, this... Grumbling ungulate? No way. They say: if you are all-powerful, why do you behave like a person with nerves and malnutrition?"
Karen laughed, lightly, almost with relief. She suddenly felt the tension in her shoulders relax. Maybe it was true that if the devil existed, he wasn't the monster from the Bible, but the comical neighbor downstairs who scratched at night and turned on the gramophone at two in the morning. And maybe it wasn't the horns that we should be afraid of, but the invisible habits that sneaked up under the guise of common sense.
She thought: What if evil is just bad taste taken to its extreme?
...666...
While Karen sat in Father Mattson's dimly lit office, thinking about goat's legs and the Queen of England, on the other side of town, on the sun-drenched parade ground near the Tauride Garden, everything was boiling like a kettle on the fire.
The boys were gathering there - students from the Second St. Petersburg School. They all had caps on, combed hair and huge expectations for the upcoming match. Dust was already swirling over the field - not from the balls, but from the stamping: everyone was trying to warm up so that everyone could see how formidable, fast and generally the second Harry from London's Wolverhampton he was.
And along the field, on long wooden benches, as if specially placed for this great spectacle, sat the pupils of the Alexandrovskaya Girls' Gymnasium. All of them were hand-picked: in formal dresses, with ribbons in their hair, with notebooks on their knees, which no one, of course, was going to open.
Among them was Delia. She sat as expected: her back straight, her hands folded, her gaze calm. But if you looked closely - oh-oh-oh! - her eyes were jumping like birds: from one boy to another, from boots to balls, from balls to a familiar black hairdo at the edge of the field. The other girls were whispering excitedly:
"That one in the dark cap is good! He runs like a cat whose tail is on fire."
"And the one with freckles! He has caramel-colored eyes."
"Oh, and this one seems to have looked at me!"
"Of course. He looks at everyone in such a way that everyone thinks he's looking at them. His name is Grisha, and he charms everyone, even the chemistry teacher!"
The girls giggled, covering their mouths with handkerchiefs, but at the same time they glanced sideways at one boy who stood a little apart from all the fuss. It was unlikely that any of them knew his name. He was not wearing a school uniform, but a faded tunic, with rolled-up sleeves and sturdy but worn boots.
It was Xander.
He stood at the edge of the field, not trying to join any team. His face was calm, even a little stony. But there was a shadow in his eyes. He saw how the teams played out, how they shouted out names one by one, how one by one the boys went to their own. But they didn't call him. They simply didn't notice him.
Xander seemed to have shrunk in height. His shoulders slumped slightly, his hands clenched into fists. He even looked down when he heard someone whisper from the bench:
"And that one, that one over there... Who is that anyway?"
"Maybe someone's servant's brother? Look, he's wearing someone else's shoes!
"No... He's just... Not one of us."
Delia said nothing. But suddenly she turned her head slowly, so that no one would notice that she was singling someone out with her gaze. Xander was standing at the edge of the field, and their eyes met for a moment. Unsmilingly, seriously, but as if they recognized each other in the crowd.
Xander quickly looked away. He felt ashamed. For his shoes. For the socks that had come loose from his pants. For the hands that didn't have the ball. For standing there like a chair that had been forgotten.
And yet he didn't leave. He stood there like a bayonet. Silently, firmly, as only those who are not invited, but who stay anyway, can do. And all around there was already a cheerful buzz - the game had not yet begun, but the boys were in such a mood as if they had won the cup of the entire Russian Empire.
Somewhere closer to the benches, right in front of the girls, one of the schoolboys - thin, with a lively face and hands that could not find a place for themselves - slapped his palm on his knee and suddenly exclaimed:
"Gentlemen! Before we start, I'll tell you a joke. A naval one. About regulations and honor!"
The boys at the balls immediately listened, and on the girls' benches a curious murmur began to stir. Delia raised her eyebrows, but did not turn around. She simply looked ahead a little more attentively.
"So, there was one sailor..." the schoolboy began, squatting and waving his arms as if a bell was ringing. "Not just a sailor, but a naval genius! He knew the regulations down to the last comma. He could recite by heart who should salute, who shouldn't, how to stand, how to cough, how to blink an eye so that the fleet would be pleased. So they gave him permission to go out into the city - alone! But they strictly warned him: 'According to the regulations, got it? Salute whoever you meet, but don't mix them up! And don't disgrace the uniform!'"
At the words "according to regulations," several girls on the benches automatically straightened up, as if they themselves were being reprimanded. One of them even had her cheeks flushed at the thought that she was about to get a reprimand for her uneven posture. Apparently, discipline at their gymnasium is not so great either.
"And so..." the schoolboy continued with a solemn expression, "a sailor came out into the city. His jacket was polished, his boots were like mirrors, his chest was sticking out. He walked along, so importantly, his eyes narrowed like an officer's. Suddenly - a general! The sailor, as he had been taught, 'bang!' saluted."
"Is 'Bang!' according to the regulations?" one of the girls whispered, and the bench whispered back with cheerful laughter.
"In a naval style!" the narrator winked. "Next comes - a lieutenant! Again - bang! And everything is so decorous, in form, as if the whole street was a parade!"
Xander listened silently, but his face was no longer stony. He still stood to the side, but his lips were touched by the most cautious, barely noticeable smile. Not because the joke was funny, but because everything around was alive, cheerful, real. And because Delia, without turning her head, still did not take her eyes off the field.
Meanwhile, the story was gaining momentum. The high school orator, inspired by the attention, began to speak louder and more importantly, as if he were already standing on a theater stage:
"And then - imagine! - the sailor walks as if on a ruler, and suddenly... And suddenly he sees something. A man in a greatcoat, a belly like a launch, a red face, a stern look. On his head is a cap with a cockade, but it's all crooked, and some kind of order, and in general - everything is like a boss's, only suspiciously... Suspiciously wet. He walks, staggers... Well, clearly an important person!"
"Is he drunk or something?" whispered the girl in blue, dropping her handkerchief.
"Shh!" hissed her friend. "Don't interrupt. This is the climax."
"And so", the narrator continued", the sailor stood up straight - like a stick! His eyes were fixed on the spot, his chest forward, he saluted - like in a textbook. He stood there! And the "admiral" looked at him and... And muttered: 'Oh, you... Well done, greenhorn'. And with such a naval word that even a seagull would blush!"
The benches shook. The laughter didn't explode, but rolled like a wave. The schoolgirls tried to maintain decorum, covered themselves with gloves and fans, whispered "you can't", "it's uncultured", "he did salute after all". But their lips trembled treacherously.
"It's n-not proper... To laugh at military honor," said the most diligent of the girls, the one sitting almost in the center, with a perfectly tied ribbon. Her cheeks flushed like those of a guilty actress, but her eyes still sparkled. "Even if the story does cause..." here she hesitated, "...a joyful excitement."
"Yeah," nodded her friend, lowering her eyes. "Of course... Excitement," only then she covered her mouth with her glove again and snorted.
Even Delia, although she did not laugh, the corners of her lips trembled slightly. Xander, who had been watching all this from afar, suddenly felt... Not separate. He did not understand when exactly it happened - but it was as if the air around him ceased to be dense. The fun was not about him and not because of him - but he seemed to have become a participant in it. Not an observer, not a shadow, not "just standing here - but a boy who also heard a joke. And to whom, if he suddenly wanted, he could smile.
And the ending of the joke, as is expected in a good story, turned out to be so absurd that even the boys, who had been feigning seriousness up until then, burst out laughing.
"Well, and then..." the narrator announced solemnly, lifting his chin, "a real lieutenant comes out to meet our hero! With stripes, with a face like from a drill textbook. And our sailor... "here he effectively froze, "...didn't salute."
"Ouch-ouch-ouch!" the girls whispered in chorus.
"He was frozen in fear! His eyes - pop! pop! - and that's it. And the lieutenant - no fool - gave him a slap on the back of the head. Not hard, in a friendly way. But so he knew what for!"
They were laughing out loud. One boy theatrically pretended to get a slap on the back of the head and swayed like a sailor on a rocking boat. The second one dramatically clasped his hands on his chest, exclaiming: "Sorry, Comrade Commander, I made a mistake!"
"But it turned out..." the narrator did not give up, shouting over the hubbub, "the 'admiral' to whom they were saluting was not an officer at all! But a retired sailor! A doorman in a tenement house! He ordered the overcoat himself, with stripes and an eagle, such that even the staff officers would be envious!"
Here someone almost fell off the bench.
"So!" he concluded, spreading his arms", from then on our hero began to look not only at the shoulder straps, but also at the eagles, and at the braid, and even at the boots! So as not to fall for show-offs any more.
The boys immediately burst into laughter. One of them, agile and tall, leaned over slightly and pretended to give someone a slap on the back of the head. The second grabbed his head and froze in the pose of a startled sailor. The third began to parody the regulation step, comically stretching his legs forward, as if marching on a spring.
A small storm began on the benches with the schoolgirls. Even the strictest of them suddenly grabbed her side - not from pain, but from laughter. One dropped her fan and, blushing, tried to pick it up without raising her head. Another simply buried her face in the hem of her neighbor's dress in order to restrain herself a little.
Delia only smiled slightly, but her gaze softened, as if she herself agreed: yes, it was fun.
And Xander... He suddenly felt something click inside him - but not terribly, just lightly. He laughed. At first timidly, as if checking if he could. Then - a little louder. And then he even clapped, briefly, with his hands - for real. Not for show, not to be noticed, but simply because it was funny, cheerful, and he was here too. Among everyone. Among his own.
The narrator, hearing this clap, glanced at it briefly, but did not react. As if to say, so what - one clapped. There is a whole regiment of them!
But Xander didn't care. Because at that moment he felt like he was not 'on the field', but in the game. Even without the ball. He was still standing in the shade of the acacia, as before - an unwavering observer.