Muse (excerpt)

(excerpt)

1

           The Kiev railway station was met with tedious, cold drizzle, and it seemed to Vike that during the twenty hours of her journey, someone had torn out the summer pages of the calendar, and on this one all the colors except gray had been wiped out. At home it was strawberry season, in the bazaar they sold cherries - buckets, as is customary in the south. Cherry was ripening. On the window sills cooled covered with paper first in the season jars of fragrant jam. Pieces of lemon, in glass saucers, waited their turn to be thrown into an almost cooked compote. And the sun every morning floated out from behind the roofs of new high-rise buildings, only occasionally giving way to cotton, sliding clouds, then instantly dry the traces of the unexpected summer rain.

And here - wet asphalt, gray cloaks, gray buildings that go into the steel, cloud-stained sky, and slowly passing by the trolleybus windows an anthill of Moscow streets, to the noise and bustle of which Vika did not have to get used. She immediately felt as if she was always diving and disappearing into crowds of people in a hurry. She was not annoyed by the traffic and crowds in the subway. She hardly had to ask where to go, because the streets and alleys somehow inexplicably took her exactly where she needed to go. And she liked to pick some inconspicuous street, follow its curves, trying to guess what the next turn would open. The very first night she got into the Big on an extra ticket, and it also seemed to her a good sign. And the next morning it was blossomed, and now only the fresh smell of washed June foliage resembled the recent rain.

Vika walked through the deserted at this noon hour, the alleys of Gorky Park. She tried not to think about the competition, about the result of the first, just passed entrance exam. Suddenly, a boy of about five ran up to her, dark, black-eyed and black-haired, in shufflers and a short jacket with crooked buttons.

- Auntie," he finished, grabbing her by the sleeve of the dress, "you are so beautiful. Give me a ruble. You'll be lucky.

- Luck is exactly what I need most, thought Vika, unbuttoning her bag. She put the bill in a dirty palm, straightened up and shuddered with surprise, finding a group of gypsies behind her. The boy disappeared as suddenly as he appeared, and they, soundless as shadows, surrounded Vika. Their appearance did not cause fear, but it was unpleasant for her. Unkempt bright blouses, tucked in long skirts, and on top - ridiculous Crimplene, others - roughly knitted sweatshirts. Oily hair. And eyes. The look is viscous like oil. One of them - in a red capron with sequins scarf, came close and whispered in the ear - so that the circle of a gold earring touched the wiki face.

- You're upset, you're afraid of something. I see you're a good girl, kind, here's my son a ruble. But you're in trouble. You're not hiding your wallet. You give money, you look, and your worries go away. Don't regret that five. Not the last one.

- What joy would I give you money for? They found a fool, said Vika, trying not to look away from the gypsy. And for some reason gave her five rubles.

The rest of the women were constantly muttering, and it was unclear whether they were talking, or deliberately creating this hum from which they wanted to escape. Vika tried to push the one in the massive earrings. The gypsy woman did not resist, but for some reason Vika could not move. The feeling of her own powerlessness made her sick.

- You've got a torn ten over there. Why do you need one? You don’t want a ragged life, do you? – the paper dissolved in the palm of your hand, pressed with your fingers with broken, bright red nails.

The hum didn't stop. The gypsies tightly wrapped around Vika, and it seemed to her that the smell of their cheap perfume began to soak into her own clothes.

- Oh, not seeing her happy doesn't matter. It does not give money from the heart, an elderly gypsy woman with hair braided in two liquid, long braids breathed in her face with a cigarette stench, and snatched twenty-five rubles from her purse.

- Give it to me, I have nothing left, Vic mumbled.

- And on that rubric of change, she laughed cheerfully, in earrings. Then rummaged through the decolletage of a colorful sweater, pulled out a ruble piece of paper and, juicily spat on it, sealed it to an empty wallet.

Vic threw up on her black, cloth-clad skirt. The gypsy woman cried dirty and, looking Vike in the eyes, hissed, splashing saliva: “You will be cursed for five years, and every birthday you will remember me.” If you tell or complain to someone, you'll be ruined forever. You'll be ugly. ?

- All right, let's split up. Yish, again a flock was swarmed," a male voice was heard, "and Vika saw a policeman making his way to her through a ring of reluctantly dispersed gypsies.

- Do they give you little, Stepan? the young woman asked, correcting her capron scarf. You're showing off a lot.

She walked by, shaking her hips defiantly.

- Go, go, slacker, the policeman murmured uncertainly after her.

- My money," said Vika, wrinkling with a sudden headache, "they took all my money.

- Well, that's why they're gypsies. It's my fault. I bet the crow was counting. Are the papers all right?

- I left it in the dorm.

- Well, at least you're lucky. And earrings on you and watches. You still got off well, he concluded, and after threatening the gypsies, he went in the opposite direction.

Trying not to touch the spit ruble paper, Vika threw her purse into a concrete urn and wiped her hands with wet grass. In the pocket of the dress there was a change on the subway, and in the hostel, in the passport, there was a return ticket and twenty-five rubles, which had to somehow stretch for two weeks of entrance examinations.

Zoe Master.