Ловушка для Мыслеформы. A Trap for a Thought-Form. Премия им. М. Булгакова / M. Bulgakov Award (Билингва: Rus/Eng)

Вызывал ли кто-нибудь какие-либо чувства у меня теперь, когда я уже решила уйти?

«Kak ti tam?» – появилось сообщение на телефоне.

«Спасибо, ок»

«Priedou k tibie… xotchis?»

«Прямо сейчас?!»

«Gja xatiel vidit tibie… Ti ni xotchis?.. Da ili niet?.. Skaji minie pravda… I Gja priedou… Ni znaiou kada, nu niet problem priekhat. Kak mozna litat nam, priedou. Gja smatriel Internet – ni mozna litat. Granitsa zakrita, vse zakrita tut… Paidem pit сoffeе s taboi… Skaji ti toje xotchis tak… Da?»

3.

«Funny poster!» the Guardian whispered softly as he helped me remove my furs. «Is it true that the author is a prankster?»

«You didn’t read the poster carefully. His book is called „The Sinner“! Anyway, I haven’t tried.»

Leaving my cup of coffee on the table, almost forever registered for me, I ducked into the next room of the museum. The Guardian followed me.

«Here is a box for letters to the Creator,» he said.

«And the postbox at the door outside?»

«Yes, there is the second one.

«I sent him my poems. Many years ago, Natasha Nikiforova invited me to the action of the „Evening Moscow“ TV to read poetry on the Ponds. It was the similar blizzard as today. The verses I had read, I dropped into the postbox at the Door to the Mansion. I had no pen with me, so I sent poetry instead of a letter.»

The Guardian took a pen and a paper notepad out of his pocket.

«Write it now,» he suddenly whispered, coming close to me.

«Everything has already been decided,» I answered categorically, hanging in thought, «Now what for?»

For some reason, I wanted to hug the Guardian, but I stood like an idol.

«Here it is!!!» I suddenly felt something and took a step aside. «The Portal is here, isn’t it?»

The Guardian chuckled, but he had no time to answer, because the door to the room opened slightly, and the Cat appeared on the threshold.

«Meow?!» he said in surprise.

I left the room without writing anything to the Creator.

***

The Sinner stood embarrassed on the stage, as if in front of Christ. The hall was crowded with women. While the hero of the party was reciting poems, perceived as a divine revelation in advance, the women, in their dreams, already wrapped their arms around his neck and whispered all sorts of tenderness in his ears…

I returned to my table. Roman emerged from the crowd slyly smiling, and I heard his thoughts in my mind.