Each literary party traditionally (once upon a time I had hold similar events in other places) consisted of two parts: presentation of a contemporary poet / writer book and, after a smoke break for autograph session and familiarity, the Open Microphone for guests. Actually, everybody flocked to the Open Mic like moths to the light, and without it one could hardly count on the presence of masses in the first part of «le ballet de la Merlaison», because in the 20s of the 21>st century, almost every person on Earth learned letters and wrote something, but there were almost no readers left.
I opened our first party at the Mansion introducing a mysterious writer with a collection of stories titled «The Devil’s Trill», in which the characters actively changed souls and bodies, got stuck between our and Other Worlds, summoned the Devil, and, quite possibly, already beyond the stories, made love spells in cemeteries in thirst for human mutual love, and, not getting it, they reveled in blood, turning into vampires…
While I was revealing the author’s identity, asking tricky questions to the guests and to the author herself, acting as a bridge-guide (however, even children would immediately guess that the writer was a real Witch, not a fake one, in fact, all writers are magicians), the Guardian of the Portal was silently watching me from behind the counter of the already dormant cafe, located directly opposite the stage. The main museum rooms, which we had no official access to, were sighing behind the curtains to the right of the stage, and the Giant Mirror stared at us from the left.
«It’s funny!» I thought, glancing at the Guardian. «He recognized my Gloves…»
«It’s funny!» the Guardian thought. «She brought me those Gloves…»
On the stage, in addition to me and the Witch, there was a chair, occupied by the local black Cat of enormous size. I was sure he pretended to be snoozing, meanwhile in fact…
«So, did you really practice magic?» the question came from the audience.
«Well…» the Witch gave up, «I should confess! Yes, I graduated from the School of Magicians!»
«Did you practice the transmigration of souls, as in your story?»
«No!» she was embarrassed.
«Is it true that it is easier to settle spirits in the intoxicated people?»
«Does the Season of Sand exist only for Evil Spirits?»
«Have you ever been to the Other World?»
I sighed, remembering Ray, and closed my eyes. Then I opened them again… And…
«No! That can’t be true!!!»
Instantly forgetting about the sharing of spirits and the exchange of souls, I stared at a painfully familiar man: right in front of me, at the cafe counter, to the left of the Guard, appeared… Roman.
Everything that happened next seemed like a dream. I remembered only I announced the break, and the guests of the party pounced first on the writer, who had obviously managed to bewitch them getting the opportunity not to gift, but to sell «The Devil’s Trill» with a personal autograph, and then on the Cat, dozing on the chair…
They all remained in some other dimension.
Across from me there was a man who reminded me of Ray, but I was afraid to approach him, as if he might easily disappear, just as Ray had gone once, disappearing in the Other Reality.
«Are all the writers of the Union in league with the Devil?» the Guardian suddenly snapped me out of my stupor.
