Страна : Россия
Я всегда любила писать и переводить и не представляю свою жизнь без этого. Это мой способ самовыражения. В детстве у меня были исписаны многочисленные дневники, а сейчас я всегда ношу с собой блокнот, чтобы делать заметки о мире вокруг меня. Я много и упорно учусь, чтобы стать переводчиком. Я думаю, что это одна из прекраснейших профессий.
И самое лучшее, что в ней есть — безграничные возможности.
Country : Russia
“O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken”
William Shakespeare
There was nothing in the world that the maestro disliked more than rain. Probably, painful memories of childhood, spent in damp labyrinths of town streets are to blame. Or perhaps it’s just because rain has no voice, but only faint, inexpressive drum. Nevertheless, in the early morning of October, overflowed with soggy sounds, the maestro didn’t seem to notice either a sullen sky above his head or squishy puddles under his feet or sly raindrops seeking to make their way behind his collar.
The old town was still sleeping. Sleeping soundly and serenely, as it should be in a cloudiness like that. Morning appeared to be perfectly quiet. Ever so quiet that one, if listened to, could hear the smooth breathing of the streets, hushed by a humble lullaby of rain. But for the gloomy patrol-fog that took over the streets, the town might have seemed desolate and lonely from above the skies that were watering the ground with tears. It glided along the sidewalks softly and soundlessly, conscientiously observed every corner, left no gateway behind and proudly spread clouds of vapor around. Even though the fog had sharp eyes and a nice ear, it hasn’t noticed a wanderer that came out of the blue at the end of the main street.
Love was walking around town. It was her, without a doubt, because only love could put in an appearance in the most unsuitable moment and in the most unexpected place with such tranquility. Only love could proudly climb over the highest fence, enter any old house without being invited, turn someone’s world upside down and do it secretly enough so as nobody would have a hunch about anything before the time comes.
No matter how inventive people were, love always appeared to be craftier. Having rummaged through the time’s pocket, she always found a key even to the most stable screwed up door. That’s because the ways to open the doors to the people’s hearts were just the same at all times.
She was cold-hearted and naughty as all beautiful creatures drunk with sense of self-uniqueness are. She loved nobody but not because she didn’t want to. Nobody had taught her. And when the maestro first took her in his hands something inside that senseless body skipped a beat. She felt the touch of his skillful hands and melted, singed by the fire of his endless love. No one has ever touched her with such reverence. He felt her magnificent body tremble under his hands and triumphed. Her trembling became his trembling, they entwined in a sensuous cocoon. Then he started to play. She began to sing. The maestro hadn’t heard a voice that amazing before, and from the minute he saw her first, these delightful sounds got a hold on his mind. He knew them, he sensed them, he understood them. She sang, and that was the voice of love herself, tart and deep, as her very essence.
Days, weeks, months and perhaps even years went by. The hourglass of life kept on turning from one side to another and calmly measured time. Time couldn’t be bought or stolen. And everyone who obtained the grains owed, carefully and scrupulously collected them in a bag and then hid somewhere safe. One was aware that life gets much easier when you know for certain that you still have time.
The maestro didn’t keep his time in a bag. He spent it without thinking and without looking back. Where love was involved, any parsimony or calculations didn’t stand a chance, thus, the maestro payed for his present pleasures generously by future ones.
They hardly ever were apart. They were together day and night. Him and her. The musician and his violin. Bonded by invisible thread, they were parts of each other. He inhaled, she exhaled. He played, she sang.
Every evening the maestro went out to the old town square, and the townspeople swarmed around the enchanting hive of pleasures like bees to regale themselves with honey-like sounds. As if charmed, they stood up in a close circle and reached out for him with their eyes and hearts. Everybody wished to get his piece of free hope, whose bright chords flitted from under the bow like butterflies.
Once there was a fire in the old town. Ancient buildings burst into flames one after another like strands of straw that were infected by deadly fever in no time. The fire was approaching the town with a mercilessness of plague. Having a fiery mouth opened wide, it ate up everything on its way. As any other force of nature, fire accepted no argumentation. It was relentless. The old town was going down in flames of hellfire, and the darkened skies above it were crying out in pain. They scintillated and sparkled like a bloody-red ruby. But for the screams of terror and despair that shook the hot air, the view would have been truly spectacular.
The smell of death was in the air. The smell was disgusting. Having flown over the raped land, it spread its massive fetid wings and, an ugly bird, it went ahead, filling the surroundings with its ghastly cry.
Bad news reached the maestro when he was on his way. He was returning from a nearby town and he started with joy every time he thought about the one who was waiting for him at home. He noticed the ugly bird from afar. It came after him like a tornado and badly hit him in the heart. The maestro fell and gave a gasp of terror. Black blood flowed from his wound. Frightened and exhausted, he hardly made it but stood up and ran. Hope protected him from a sharp beak and ravenous claws of poisonous despair like a shield.
The fire has already taken over the house. It strolled the shabby floorboards, swung on the curtains, ran across the ceiling. The house was covered in hideous burns. It moaned miserably and cursed his torturer.
The maestro groped his way up the stairs. And the higher he went up, the louder his desperate prayer became.
She was sleeping peacefully so she didn’t hear the walls around her collapse with terrible cracking. The maestro took her with his trembling hands and held her close to his breast as carefully, as if his own heart was on his palms. Carefully he carried her to the way out.
The fire sneaked up on him and, all at once, attacked. Devouring the runaways with its greedy eyes, it stretched out its deadly arms to them. Sticky forks of flame whirled around the maestro in a devil roundelay and laughed malevolently. Scarcely had he succeeded to escape from the gates of hell, when the fire suddenly whipped his hands. Everything froze.
And then there was silence. They were sitting in a dark room in front of each other saying nothing. He was in his corner, she was in hers. There was no bridge between them anymore. Ruthless blank walls grew instead of it. The maestro begged her to sing, but the violin that was offended deeply, remained silent. He asked for healing but she didn’t have a medicine for him. The maestro yearned for love, but the violin didn’t want to love because he was no longer able to play. Love took his hands away. The maestro listened to the quietness for ages and there was no sound louder in that hopeless eternity than the silence of the indifferent heart. He didn’t blame her for it. Indeed, a violin as all perfect creatures wanted worship and tenderness and violinist’s dead hands couldn’t give them to her anymore. So they sit, exhausted, and a cold sea of misunderstanding splashed between them. Wave by wave, it washed the islands of love, broken into pieces, and carried last of her grains away, into a dark oblivion.
Time was slipping away – the maestro heard its loud steps outside the window. He was observing indifferently the ashes of his life and suddenly burst into tears. They ran down his dried cheeks and fell on his burnt hands. There was no anger, sadness or sorrow in them. Just tears. Last tears of life that were flowing out from the fading body. When the maestro died, a greater stillness fell. The violin suddenly groaned in the dead silence. It was a piteous sound, coming from the very depth of the petrified heart. Her voice wasn’t as limber and smooth as it used to be. There was only mourning, stiff like a wire. The strings of the violin snapped, and this sharp, discordant accord broke the silence, scattered in trembling sounds of melancholy and disappointment and stopped, struck by the irreversibility. And that was the shortest and the saddest song in the world.
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