... in which friendship, family values, an axe, and most importantly, a burgundy-upholstered pouf with Arabic patterns are put to the test, but Marina comes alive and Veksel finally relaxes
Marina sat on the sofa, calmly staring ahead and swaying her head slightly from side to side. Her face and hands were still unnaturally pale, but her rare small movements no longer had the previous doll-like mechanicality, and her gaze seemed meaningful, albeit a little detached.
The girl clenched her blue fingers several times and carefully moved her wrists, which were bound with tape, then looked at Veksel.
"Did I do something wrong?" she asked, meeting her father's tense gaze.
"What do you mean? Don't you remember anything?" After a long pause, the man replied with a question, his voice trembling. "Do you remember who did this to you, Marinochka?"
"I... I don't know..." The girl frowned, straining her memory. "No one in particular." And everyone together," she closed her eyes. "I remember that I was cold. Very cold. The boss said we had to stay at the spot to hand out flyers to people coming out of some movie theater. He didn't know there would be such a sharp cold snap. Or maybe he just didn't think about it. We had to wait more than an hour, and I was already freezing. I was hoping to sit in the cafe near the cinema, where there was also something like a bookstore, and I could wander around aimlessly and look at the shelves... And the guy... Who was he... Some kind of bartender or barista. He didn't open the door, just silently nodded through the glass door and turned the "closed" sign around. They were having some kind of event for invited guests... And no one wanted me hanging around there in that stupid fox costume.
"Immoral louse," Veksel muttered through clenched teeth.
"No..." Marina opened her eyes and looked calmly at her father. "It's not his fault. He has his own boss. Why would he want any trouble? What if I wanted to shove my papers at him and spread them out on the counter? And, to be honest, I wasn't even planning on buying coffee. I only had enough money left for the bus fare. So... I would have stared at the books. Warmed myself until the session ended... But this guy... He didn't do anything wrong. He just turned the sign over and left. Maybe he wanted to watch a movie too... And I went back to the park nearby. I remember that the bench was already covered with snow. I brushed it off with my "paw" and sat down. It was very cold. I couldn't feel my legs anymore. I probably should have jumped up and down or something, but I was very tired. I wanted to sleep," the girl lays down on the sofa cushion, curled up and put her hands under the head, " just like that. And I just fell asleep. And then I woke up... Here.
Marina looked at her father. Tears glistened in his eyes.
"Don't be upset, Dad... Everything's fine," Marina sat up and held out her hands, which were wrapped in tape. "Maybe you can untie me now?"
Veksel turned hesitantly to Roman Sergeyevich, who was standing slightly behind him. The doctor's face and entire posture betrayed his tension, but, grabbing the axe, he nodded affirmatively. The old thief slowly opened the knife and carefully cut through the several layers of tape. Marina rubbed her withered wrists, on which the edges of the tape were clearly imprinted.
"Thank you. That's much better," the girl said calmly, then got up and walked around the room. At that moment, it seemed to both men that an invisible but palpable trail of cold air was moving behind her. Marina stopped at the window, as if peering into the yellowish haze that covered the entire cityscape outside, and touched the glass with her fingers. Immediately, a frosty pattern began to form and spread in all directions.
"I'm scared," Marina said in a low voice, as if talking to herself. "Something's wrong with me."
"What is it, Marina?" asked Veksel, his anxious gaze fixed on his daughter.
"I don't know. It's hard to explain." They're trying, but I don't really understand yet," the girl looked at the doctor, who was still standing in the doorway with an axe in his hand, ready to react at any moment. "They say I'm not dangerous now. At least, not in the way you think..."
"Who? Who are you talking about, daughter?"
"Oh, the voices."
"You hear voices? But there's no one here."
"Voices. There are many of them," Marina repeated calmly and smiled that smile that Veksel had known for so long. "They're not ghosts. And, of course, they're not here. You just can't hear them, but I can." That's how my head works now... Like a radio receiver.
"Oledga, she's not herself!" Roman Sergeyevich finally broke his silence.
"Wait!" Veksel interrupted his friend and looked at his daughter again. "How long have you been hearing them?"
"Ever since I woke up here."
"And what do they say?"
"A lot. Mostly screaming and moaning. As if they're suffering, like in hell. But they're not to blame for anything either. It's just that their minds are still asleep. They'll wake up for sure, just like me. But for now, they're just making noise... Like radio interference. But they're not doing it out of malice. That's how those who speak explain it."
The girl looked sadly at the frosted window again and suddenly sank to the floor, pressing her back against the radiator and shivering slightly.
"Are you cold?" Veksel asked solicitously.
"I don't know. They say I'll need more warmth now."
"Maybe you want something to eat?"
"No. But I could use something hot to drink."
"Tea?"
"Just boiling water is OK."
"Please bring some," Veksel asked Roman Sergeyevich.
He nodded in agreement, but before leaving the room, he whispered:
"Be careful with her."
Veksel waved his hand irritably and, despite his friend's admonitions, moved closer to his daughter. Now she seemed completely normal to him. She was the same Marinochka for whom he was ready to sacrifice his own life. How could she do anything bad to him? Veksel crouched down in front of the girl and, looking closely at her pale but familiar face, asked:
"And who else is talking to you?"
"A stern man. Someone like a military man. He knows more than anyone else. There's also a little girl. I think she's his daughter. There are other people too... They keep appearing... On the air. Many are frightened. They don't understand where they are. Some have lost loved ones. The girl is trying to calm them down. She says that everything will be fine...
Roman Sergeyevich appeared in the doorway again, still clutching the axe. Glancing at Marina, he handed a mug of hot tea to Veksel, who silently nodded his thanks to his friend and passed it to the girl. She literally clutched the warm porcelain with all ten fingers and began to drink the hot liquid greedily, taking large, frequent sips. Quickly emptying the mug, Marina placed it on the floor next to her and looked at the doctor.
"Thank you, Roman Sergeyevich..." The girl winced for a second, as if she had heard something unpleasant and was now thinking about how to react, but after a short pause, she spoke. "They told me that you dissected your wife and child in vain. They won't be able to wake up..."
Looking at Marina with horror and hatred, Roman Sergeyevich turned red and began to shake:
"Shut up! Shut up!"
"You're angry for nothing," the girl continued calmly, looking away. "It's just mechanics. The laws of nature. You rushed into it yourself. No one is to blame..."
"Veksel! I beg you! Make her shut up, or I can't guarantee what I'll do!" the doctor shouted, no longer listening and waving his axe menacingly.
"Enough! Enough! Both of you, shut up!" The old thief instantly appeared between Marina and his friend, who was already red with rage, grabbing the axe handle with both hands. "Enough! Stop it!"
"Who are you defending?!" Roman Sergeyevich croaked, finally lowering his weapon. "She's not your daughter anymore!"
"Now you, shut up, Roma. I know better..." Veksel replied dryly, throwing the axe into the far corner of the room.
Marina approached her father, placed her hand on his shoulder for a second, and slowly walked past the two men into the hallway. Even in that brief moment, Veksel felt a chill from her fleeting touch, as if it were sucking all the warmth out of him. With sad regret, he looked at his friend, then also headed for the apartment door.
"Where are you going?" the doctor suddenly asked. "Did you see what's going on in there?!"
"Don't worry, Roman Sergeyevich, nothing will happen to us," the girl replied, then paused and added, "It's all because of pain and fear. I remember those feelings, even though I don't experience them anymore. And I'm not angry with you... I could even tell you how to get your family back. But now we have to go, and you'll have to find out for yourself."
Veksel looked at his friend reproachfully once more and left the apartment, following his unexpectedly revived daughter.
It was still gloomy and cold outside. Everything around them, within a dozen meters, was sinking and blurring in thick fog. Yellowish clouds swirled above the dark houses so low that they seemed to lie on the roofs. From somewhere above, above the level of this cloud blanket, snow fell in rare but large flakes. It fell smoothly and slowly, covering the empty roads, non-functioning traffic lights, abandoned cars, and figures of people wandering somewhere...
Veksel looked around, subconsciously expecting someone to attack him from behind, but the staggering silhouettes seemed not to notice him. They appeared silently from the white veil, like ghosts, shoveling the loose snow with their feet, sometimes shuffling and stumbling, passing by silently, and dissolving again into the thick haze. Two tall men in orange jackets carried something past a door. Another, moving along the house stretching out in the fog, monotonously and somewhat lazily adjusted and replaced overturned trash cans.
"Don't be afraid," said Marina, who had unexpectedly disappeared into the fog and reappeared just as unexpectedly. "They won't touch us. They have their own business now."
"What business?" the old thief asked distractedly and looked at the girl.
"Their own," she repeated vaguely.
"But they're... dead... How do they know what to do?"
"Consciousness arises in inanimate matter. It has happened before." And it will be again," replied the girl, taking a couple of steps to the side. "Stay here. Don't go anywhere. Otherwise, you'll get lost."
Veksel had no intention of going anywhere. He just kept looking at his daughter, afraid of losing sight of her and constantly wondering if everything that was happening was real, if he was asleep, or if he was already dead. Meanwhile, Marina closed her eyes and, holding out her hand with her index finger extended, began to slowly spin in place, as if she were a little girl playing some game with her friends in the yard. After three or four turns, she stopped abruptly and blurted out:
"Over there!"
She grabbed her father's hand and confidently dragged him somewhere into the fog. Veksel remembered that this was exactly what little Marina used to do when she urgently wanted to drag her dad to an ice cream stand or a shop window displaying the latest toy. So now, feeling the cold touch of her pale hand, he decided to simply trust his memory and follow her.
* * *
Still unable to find an answer for his friend, Roman Sergeyevich stood motionless in the hallway of his empty apartment for a while longer. Now there was no one left beside him except antique vases and paintings, mirrors in gilded frames, and sofas with expensive upholstery. He had no answers to the many questions tearing at his brain.
Looking at all these interiors with undisguised hatred, the doctor walked around the apartment several times in search of the pistol, but never found it. "It seems that old bug, Veksel, stole his own gift," Roman Sergeyevich finally decided. Thoughtfully, he looked at the heavy crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling in the living room. Hooks for chandeliers that are screwed into concrete often come loose. Roman Sergeyevich knew this well from his medical practice. So he took the axe that Veksel had left behind from behind the sofa. He tied his old belt to the middle of the blade. Then he returned to the hallway and, opening the bathroom and toilet doors to face each other, placed the axe on top of them like a crossbar. The remaining space was just enough to squeeze in a miniature pouf with burgundy upholstery embroidered with Arabic script. Roman Sergeyevich took off his cozy slippers and, remaining in his socks, stood on the edge of the pouf, which sagged heavily under his weight. Then he put the belt around his neck and pushed off lightly with his feet.