A sad female voice sang:
Oh I still remember
Your hazelnut eyes,
The mem'ry you left right beside me.
Oh how I regret
That I couldn't disguise
The flame that's still burning inside.
They say it's a sin
To decide your own fate
And run after hopes that are hopeless.
I couldn't predict
That it's true in my dreams
And only in them you will be mine.
My sight was deceived by
The heavenly light.
It seems you were born with that blessing.
I will not forget
All the words you won't shed.
And happiness, a mystery.
We had our last brief seconds to listen to it until the end and the door opened. I heard the sound of a shoe slam my case.
– Sasha, goddammit, who have you brought?
I rushed to stand up from the stool but then I decided that it'll be for the best if I sit down again. Sasha hurried to put the record away and ran towards the one who came in.
– Dad, this is my friend. We study together.
– I told you not to touch my records. When will you learn to leave them alone? Okay, I'll take a look at your friend now.
A man entered the kitchen, tall, with barely noticeable grey and messy facial hair. He left his second coat in the hallway and now he wore a suit vest upon his shirt. It seemed he ironed his pants several times. Tobacco resonated from his clothes.
– Is that your friend? – He pointed right at me. – I thought he'd be your age. – Now he looked me in the eyes. – What mad men study at school?
– Hello. I'm Alexander.
He shaked my hand without any visible desire.
– Sergei Mitrophanovich. Violist.
– Nice to meet you.
Sergei Mitrophanovich's lip twitched.
We didn't have time to finish the conversation; someone rang at the door. That someone was very dedicated and wanted to get to us bad.
Sergei Mitrophanovich unlocked the door. The creature entered the hallway, and it wasn't less elegant.
A rich short fur coat, pearls in ears and on neck, vivid makeup. Pale ginger hair in a bun. An evening dress can be seen from underneath the furry ones who died and left their heritage.
– He-ello, – she took her time with her vowels. – What are you do-oing here? – She looked all over me, hungry for knowledge. – Whose co-oat is this? Yours? – She pulled my wardrobe item by its fabric.
I wanted to destroy her. I wanted to show her that lacking big sums doesn't mean lacking dignity.
Sasha rushed from the kitchen.
– And who-o are you, what's your name?
– Alexander. I study together with Sasha.
– Alexa-ander, – she smudged my name wistfully. – Ali-isa Sergeievna. – She didn't even hand out her skinny arm in a leather glove. I felt like she was ready to spit on me. – Please, get o-out with your sque-eaker. Alexandra Sergeievna needs to stu-udy.
My arm twitched abruptly, my throat closed. I said something inarticulate, not wanting it.
Suddenly Sasha, who stood behind me all that time, grabbed my arm with hers.
– Yes, I will. Just let me take my "squeaker."
Alisa Sergeievna opened her mouth and moved. Sergei Mitrophanovich sighed.
When I walked out of the building, it seemed to me I heard a cheerful voice. It was true.
– Alexander Pavlovich!
I lifted my head.
– Sasha! – She wiggled her legs that were hanging out of the metal balcony cage.
– Don't sit in the cold for too long.
– Don't worry. Catch!
I put the case on the ground and barely had time to catch a bottle of something.
– It's a gift for your patience.
– Who was that grumpy lady? Your father's friend?
