The rhythm was pleasant to it, and, wiping hands a towel, he has sung on motive kukarachi: "Not as at Nik-sona, not as at
Nik-sona..." The towel was stale. Under shlepantsem has grunted and the tile which has taken off from the nest has
crackled. It has bent to insert it into place and has seen in a corner under the battery the Old woman. A turtle peacefully
dryhla, having picked up paws and a thick short black tail. There and then rolled also it kakashki, similar to the large commas
which have fallen out of any text.
Lines knows, in what condition the house! - he has told loudly. Silence has suddenly ceased to be pleasant to it. Night
wadded silence. Wadded, but - private. Personal. Personal... Aeriform twilight of sounds. Shades of sounds. Phantoms... It
was loneliness, here that it was such.
He has felt a fever and has hasty pulled an old knitted dressing gown, has wrapped up floors, hardly prepojasalsja a silk
cord. The dressing gown smelt slightly...
The dressing gown smells slightly. Towels - stale. A tile everywhere povyvalivalsja.
Bath - red, a toilet bowl - grey. Not as at Nixon... It has returned to a bedroom, villages on bed and, without laying down, took
in hands listing. There remains it is not read still pages ten, it has looked through two last.
"... Its Manuscript: the smallest letters-biserinki, equal as on lineech - ke, scrupulous vjaz, arabesques - at all it is even not
similar to the text, apparently, and in a head could come - to read nobody the such.
To consider - yes: in a magnifier, holding the breath, as consider an ancient ornament as the philatelist studies favourite
mark. But not to read in any way. Once I have dared to ask it: "That you write, sensej? Memoirs?" There was a strange
conversation, is more exact - a monologue. At first he has some times repeated: "Memoirs... Hm, memoirs... Memoirs?." - it as
if tasted this word. And has then said with strange and it is unexpected - nym neglect: "But after all memoirs - same... You
understand, Robert: it - something the past. This already taken place. I to you not the historian any. What to me business
before the past. I write the future..." He and has told: "I write the future". Simply. prostenko. With vseju frankness. And at all
without flaunting. As the artist would tell: "I write a pond". As the bookkeeper would tell: "I write the quarterly account". I do
not know that he meant.
I, certainly, did not read its manuscript. Only once, casually, through its shoulder, has seen two lines on new page: "If you
want, that in hundred years something in this world has changed, - begin right now.
The divine mills grind slowly ".
Thirty hours I have spent also thirty pages nastuchal (on klaviatu - re, certainly; I mean "nastuchal on the computer
keyboard") that only to repeat that already thirty times different people spoke to you earlier. I know nothing about it. Anybody
and knows nothing about it. It as if does not have past. It anywhere. And it - anybody.
Enthusiastic cynic Tengiz considers as its last Magician on our Earth, and here this last from magicians has got a false idea
itself(himself) capable to return a tribe of the disappeared wizards - the people knowing the main talent, that is why
beskompleksnyh, quiet, assured, self-sufficient, kind. It produces in their tens annually and in any way will not understand (or
does not wish to believe?) that the life goes trace as the pig behind a thin cart, and selects, mills all of them the nasty jaws:
splits up, crushes, breaks, korezhit, buys, kills...