Rhapsody on a theme of Rachmaninov

It was in early autumn, although all signs hinted at the approaching winter. The air was filled with cold sparks, which were rhythmically hitting faces with every blow of the wind, filling all reddened empty spaces with freshness. Everything was electrified with the inevitable change, which was just about to happen. It would extinguish all the fond memories of the past summer, as if it had never even happened and couldn't have happened. Winter was coming into power and had already started giving its orders all over the earth. Elated mood was inevitably disguised by dejection; worry substituted joy. The entire world was plunged into forced sleep, where day replaced day, but was nothing unusual in their sparkling glimmer. Life was covered with mediocrity and spiritual indifference. It seemed as if nothing, even the brightest, most prominent circumstance could alter the settled atmosphere or awaken the voice of nature amidst autumn. But it was not quite like that.


Lighted lanterns gleamed through her window, followed by lights oozing from windows of neighbouring houses. But she feared them, she feared being noticed at that late dark hour. She feared that her inner turmoil would betray her and percolate outside together with her reflection in the window. And because of that her little cold body hid itself in the farthest corner of the room, where she chained herself with his passionate accords. No, he wasn't like other, maybe even more skilled lovers. There was no false sweet pretence, characteristic of men, whose main objective is to possess a woman's body.  Such men are distinguished with great patience , worthy of respect. And all of it because they do not tolerate mistakes, don't take chances. Every word sounds like a prayer. Everything breathes with their fear of being neglected, losing in the game, that hasn't been even started yet. Piles of presents, flowers and false declarations are poured on a prey with a perceivable sense of artificiality. The prey is blinded with the usual "you're worth it", is instantly captured and is now at his feet, offering her soul together with her head. Having separated from her soul in hope for love, she is disillusioned to have found the limit of his lies, veiled up as love. Poor silly girls, who once were worshipped as goddesses, are now entrapped by themselves, worshipping their lords out of their deep vengeance and mourning for true love.


But this kind of love wasn't made for her. There was no need to try and waste time on sweet rivers of words. And while she was rejecting others, she couldn't hide from him. They barely if ever talked, and there was hardly any reason for words. It was all in his look, the look that burned through the recesses of her. And then, not stopping to ponder, he would masterfully throw her gown down, rip it into pieces and not giving her a moment to change her mind, lock her wrists in his palms and twine his long pianist fingers like serpents around her bare flesh, vibrating to the sound of his music. Writhing, she was desperately trying to regain her soul back but her soul surrendered to his will fully. Sweet rivers of words were useless. He possessed her and he was very well aware of that. Icy flesh-cutting wind rushed into her room and melted tiny icicles on her burning hot lips. However, not even the wind was able to cool the blasts of passion. He took her again. Over and over. All of her. Completely. He strangled her. He tortured her. He speared her and enjoyed the sight of her tortured flesh in ecstasy. Drowning in his sweat, he was still unsatisfied, and so he'd start it all again, from the very first score. And now exhausted, drowning in her, he was covering her with a veil of his weightless kisses. As the night grew wider and darker, her wounds would gleam with angelic pollen. Excited pulsating blood was filling with the sweet sound of his name. Sergei... Everything dissolved in this name. Silence was hanging over her as a dull curtain. Lanterns were off. The wind died down. The world ceased to exist, all that remained were just decorations, funny pictures...and the aftertaste of his passion.

Рапсодия на тему Рахманинова

Стояла ранняя осень, хотя по всем признакам она, скорее, напоминала раннюю зиму. Воздух был наполнен холодными искрами, которые с каждым дуновением ветра ритмично били по лицу, заполняя раскрасневшиеся пустоты свежестью. Все говорило о неминуемой перемене, которая вот-вот должна была произойти и стереть собой воспоминания о лете так, словно его никогда и не было и даже быть не могло. Зима входила в свои права и уже принялась эгоистично раздавать команды на земле. Приподнятое настроение непременно маскировалось унылостью, а тревога отбирала место у радости. Все погрузилось в вынужденный сон, где день сменял день, но их блестящее мерцание вдруг стало обыденным. На жизнь легла завеса посредственности и душевного равнодушия. Казалось, ничто, даже самая яркое обстоятельство, не могло переменить сложившейся атмосферы, и пробудить голос природы посреди осени. Но это было не так. В ее темную комнату лились подсвеченные фонари, сопровождаемые огнями из окон соседних домов. Но она боялась их света, боялась быть увиденной в этот поздний час. Боялась, что ее душевное смятение просочится наружу вместе с ее отражением в окне. А потому ее маленькое холодное тело забилось в самый дальний угол комнаты, куда она приковала себя его страстными аккордами. Нет, он вовсе не был похож на других, быть может, даже более искусных, любовников. В нем не было ложного сладкого притворства, столь свойственного мужчинам, чье главное желание сводится к овладению телом женщины. Подобных мужчин отличает достойное уважения терпение. Все потому, что они не преемлют случайностей. Каждое слово звучит как заклинание, во всем есть страх ошибиться, проиграть партию, даже не начав ее. Перед женщиной с искусственной заботой демонстрируют вереницу подарков, цветов и ложных признаний. Все взвешено, и каждый поступок обдуман. А жертва, одурманенная уже столь привычным "ты этого достойна", падает к ногам ее покорителя и вместе со своей головой отдает ему и душу. И, расставшись со своей душой, она невольно встречают предел лжи, завуалированной под любовь. Бедные дурочки, которых воспевали как божества, сами падают в ловушку и теперь уже из чувства мести начинают воспевать своих хозяев, одаривая их своим безграничным вниманием. Но такая любовь была не для нее. Не стоило тратить время на сладкие, как кисель, речи. Но, избегая прочих, от него она не могла скрыться. Они не говорили, и не было повода для слов. Все было во взгляде, который прожигал ее насквозь. А затем он, не раздумывая, властно сдергивал с нее платье, рвал его в клочья, и не дав ей времени передумать, приковывал ее запястья к своим ладоням и обвивался вокруг них своими длинными пальцами, которые как змейки яростно вились по ее обнаженной, вибрирующей в такт его музыке, коже. Она билась, отчаянно надеясь вернуть свою душу, но душа предательски отдавалась ему. И все сладкие увещевания уже были ни к чему. Он владел ей, и ему это было прекрасно известно. В комнату врывался леденящий плот ветер и топил льдинки на ее горячих губах. Но даже ветер не мог остудить порывов страстной любви. Он снова брал ее. Всю. Целиком. Душил. Терзал. Пронзал ее насквозь и наслаждался видом ее кровоточивой плоти в экстазе. И взмокший от пота, он все еще не был удовлетворен, и начинал все снова, с первой ноты. И теперь он, сам истерзанный, утопающий в ней, укутывал ее вуалью невесомых поцелуев. Раны светились ангельской пыльцой. Взбудораженная кровь наполнялась сладким звучанием его имени. Сергей... Все растворилось в этом имени. Тишина вновь нависла глухим полотном. Погасли фонари, стих неугомонный ветер. Мир перестал существовать, остались лишь декорации, смешные картинки..и послевкусие его страсти. (С) Категорически запрещена перепечатка, копирование и воспроизведение материалов.

Pickles

- Woman, woman! Yes, yes, I’m calling you! Look, your bottles with pickles have broken and are all around the ground. Take them away, clean up! You’re blocking people. You make it impossible for them to pass.

After all, what a strange way it is of referring to a representative of female sex, as “woman”. Almost as if she, the one who is being called that, doesn’t have a clue of that herself, thus all the people surrounding her seek to remind her of that.

“Woman, your tights are torn! Woman, your mascara is running down your face! Woman, let me pass!” and now this “Woman, your pickle jars are broken!” – that has become the last drop in the kaleidoscope of the disorders of her life.

The woman to whom it was referred, was walking through the city market, loaded with countless string-bags. Her face was seemingly bearing no expression at all, which made it difficult to define the nature of her thoughts and whether she had any. It was one of many detached, snatched from the crowd faces, looking at which we pass by blankly.

The woman was of undefined age. At first glance she could be thirty, forty or even fifty. And just like many other women of undefined age she was wearing a baggy-looking, oversized trench coat and a pair of comfortable black boots. Everything in her appearance was so plain, so unremarkable as if she made a special effort to look like a shadow smeared on the dark street.

The day when the woman’s pickles made an accidental escape on the street, attracting much of undesired attention to her, the woman was just on the way to her little booth, where she year after year sold her home-made jams, salted mushrooms and, naturally, pickles. And that day destiny, which has never been favourable in her regards, was very cruel to her. All the prickles she was going to sell that day, all of them made their way to the dirty sidewalk in the middle of the market.

“Woman!” – a loud, ringing voice, causing gnashing of teeth, shot through the market cackle. “Pick up your pickles! It is impossible to walk on the sidewalk! Come on. Don’t just stand there!” Some other “women” of the same constitution and of the same gnashing voice decided to join the first loud ringing voice and form a chorus. Now the chorus was repeating the same request almost as if they were singing. Glancing at each other, as if the whole scene had been previously rehearsed, they kept interrupting each other, yelling and drawing incomprehensive figures in  the air. The “woman” felt herself suddenly a spectator, an interloper among these “women”. After some time other “women” who earlier had only been watching, decided to interfere and joined the chorus. The chorus was increasing. And there was such a rich linguistic diversity that passers-by automatically stopped to join in the heated discussion. The newly arrived were quickly given the overview of the whole scene and they in their turn, made sure to pass on the awareness. The chain of the dissatisfied was steadily growing, just like cucumbers after storm. Some claimed, broken pickle jars were entirely government’s fault, others blamed magnetic storms. It even came down to bringing in the paranormal activity, blaming an unburied politician for all their misfortunes.

It got dark in the meantime. The clatter was gradually dissolving in the night. Having discussed all that went wrong in the country in the past decade or so and having stated that someone had to bear the duty of changing the present circumstances, but no one could, the crowd resigned quietly and swept itself away, having completely forgotten about the prickles, the broken jars still lying on the sidewalk and the “woman”.  
And only the “woman” of indefinite age and an indefinite expression in her eyes, was still standing there, on an indefinite street of an indefinite town in an indefinite country, expecting a miracle.

Her face was flooded with memories running down her cheeks in an unstoppable flood of tears. Salted and cold, just like her pickles, the tears were trembling on the edges of broken pickle jars. Memories made her heart rhythm more frequent at times and at other times they would make her heart stop. She felt as if she would take wing and fly so high in the sky, a beautiful starry sky full of enigmas, sky that held the memory of that man whom she fell in love with once. Oh, how much did she want to abandon her own body, stepping out of her own body as if it was an old, worn-out dress, and direct herself towards angels. Could it be that he too became an angel. An angel, who folds his wings beside her booth every day. If only she could become weightless like a cloud, if only she could take off that old and darkened dress, and take off to travel on his wings, there, where stars seem closer and brighter.

“Woman, you don’t feel well?” – a comment from a passing-by market guard. Oblivious to the guard, she was drying her face with a sleeve. She glanced at him and instantly, so fragile and solitary, was overwhelmed by a strong desire of throwing herself into his arms in search of consolation. But in that same instant the guard noticed the pickles and frowned at her. "Are these your pickles lying on the ground? Don’t just stand there! The market will be full of people tomorrow morning, and someone will surely slip on your pickles!" 

She broke off with a little shudder. An unusual for early October sudden cold shrouded her in and made her tears little crystal beads of ice. “Pickles, - she thought, - he loved my pickles so much. Kept telling me he’d never tried such tasty pickles ever before. Maybe that’s why he fell in love with me”. 

Every night he’d come home and find the table already set, with all his favourite dishes on it, including prickles. And at the sight of this, his heart would fill with love and warmth. “You know, Lyuba, I have never felt so good before. You are taking care of me, just like my mother used to do. And I.. How did I deserve you? I’m a homeless tramp, thief, fresh out of prison. And you do not even fear me in the slightest, you feed me, dress me, gave a place to live, even found me a decent job. I don’t deserve you, Lyuba. I’d have to die, to make up for all my sins. I'd have to die to thank you, but you don’t let me. You’re just like an angel, watching me, guarding me” – he used to say while crunching his favourite pickles, washing them down with vodka. And she would gaze at him, smiling through the tears  and say “Would you like another helping, Lyonya?”

Damn the pickles! Damn it all! How is she “woman” to live without him, without his guitar? How is she to sleep at night when he doesn’t snore beside her? All right, he was a thief and did drink a lot, hardly a flaw, for he too was the man who loved her. He even talked about having  a baby. “Its time to change life to better”, - he used to say, -“ it’s a sign from above. You didn’t save me for nothing”. Everything was going to be all right. He even started working as a driver – Lyuba helped. And she too had a job. It’s a universal truth, you can earn more, selling in a market, than working in a supermarket. Everything was going smoothly, calmly. Life just like many others: work, home, guitar, football on Sundays, strolls on a esplanade with friends. And how did she, Lyubka, deserve such happiness? Nights spent fully awake with this thought possessing her mind. She had always feared her own happiness. What if something happened? What if something happened to him? And one day it did… two months ago. Lyonechka was dozing off at the wheel of his truck and crashed.

“Bloody hell!” – instinctive and heart-rending scream came as a thunder. Red veins of dawn were pulsing low in the morning sky. The narrow sidewalk was seized by cold and reminded of guard’s moustache richly splashed with snow.
“Why are you squealing for Christ’s sake? What happened?”

Lyubka was lying in the pool of her own blood. In one of her hands she was still holding a splinter of broken glass, in the other one – Lyonya’s old black and white photo from the army, that he sent her from prison with one of his first letters to her.
“What do you mean "what happened"? Don’t you see it yourself? Broken pickles jars everywhere on the sidewalk”.

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