Наталья Соколова – LIMBO (страница 17)

"Four bosom friends went missing in St. Petersburg."

Chapter 10: The Bloody Instrument

The photograph was black and white, but I could easily make out the faces of my nighttime acquaintances. I quickly skimmed through the news text: disappeared a week ago, police report filed, search operations initiated. The old car had been stolen but was found abandoned yesterday in the suburbs of St. Petersburg. The mother of one of the missing men gives an interview, describing what a good person her son was – he helped animals since childhood, studied diligently, led a healthy lifestyle, and had achievements in boxing. Yes, that same bald guy who had been shaking his phallic attribute in front of me turned out to be a dutiful mama's boy, and they were waiting for him at home…

I suddenly felt nauseous. I must have noticeably paled at that moment because the teacher asked, puzzled:

"Nicole, what's wrong? Did you not practice the exercise at home?"

"I… no, I…" I bleated weakly.

"You're unpleasantly surprising me. This is the first time I see a phoenix unprepared for a Geography lesson – it's your major subject, after all. I'll forgive you this once, don't turn pale. But I must warn you: if this happens again, I'll have to report your poor performance to your curator."

My voice immediately returned, and even color, judging by my flushed cheeks, rushed back to my face.

"Don't tell the curator!" I exclaimed. "I did prepare! Just a moment, Mr. Walker!.. I just need to… get in the right mindset."

A minute later, I did get my well-deserved A, but my mood was irreparably spoiled, and for the rest of the class, I couldn't think of anything except that newspaper. As if on purpose, Jake and Liz weren't called to the board, and right after the end of the lesson, the teacher stuffed the evidence into his briefcase along with the other papers and left – faster than I could tell my friends what I had read.

"You don't believe me again?! Let's catch up with him!!!"

"Antipova, quiet, don't yell," Charm stopped me. "I suppose that wasn't the only copy of the newspaper in existence. Did you remember its name?"

"No," I exhaled.

"Then we'll go to the newsstand today and look through all of them. Not now, but after the fifth lesson."

"I'm not going to Black's class!" I started trembling inside again. "I can't face him! Don't you understand?! This was real! He's a murderer!"

"But what if it's still a coincidence?" Jake asked quietly. "Well, they disappeared because they're drug addicts, they're just hanging out somewhere. Gone today – found tomorrow. In any case, I won't risk skipping Mr. Black's lessons now, and I don't advise you to either! Better tell me, did anyone read the first paragraph in his study guide?.."

Only by the beginning of the fifth period did I understand why almost all our girls had come to class today in miniskirts. Apparently, every self-respecting first-year female student considered it her duty to try to hook up with the young curator. Flirtatious whispers constantly echoed throughout the classroom. Legs in high-heeled shoes provocatively peeked out between the rows of desks.

Mr. Black seemed to notice none of this outrage. With a confident gesture, he removed the violin case from his shoulder and surveyed the room. From the female half of the group, his attention was drawn only to Lizzy, who was dressed modestly today and had even chosen humble hazel-brown contact lenses:

"Charm, what are you doing here? If my memory serves me right, you were sent to the Astronomy elective, following in your mother's footsteps?"

"Your memory serves you right, Mr. Black," she drawled in an angelic voice, jumping up from her seat. "That's correct, you didn't put me on the list, but I came anyway. I just really… really!.. want to attend your course. I'm not at all like my mother. I'm drawn to Art, you see? I feel it's my calling!.."

Mr. Black twisted his lips in a semblance of a smile. In my opinion, he barely held back from laughing sarcastically, but still pulled himself together and said:

"Well, Charm, if you've weighed everything carefully and this is your conscious decision…"

"Couldn't be more conscious, Mr. Black!"

"Keep in mind, I won't let you go back in the middle of the semester."

"I don't need to go back," Liz chirped enthusiastically. "I swear, I'll go with you till the end! I…"

"So be it," Mr. Black unceremoniously interrupted her. "Let's begin. Today we are to practice the technique of passive connection."

Sitting down at the table, he opened the gradebook and wrote in Lizzy's surname, then in a couple of seconds, as if in passing, marked the absentees with the red pen – without even doing a roll call. Had he really memorized all of us from just one time?!

"As you could have read in the first paragraph, if you had opened it, any work of art – be it music, painting, poetry, or sculpture – is a channel. Through it, you can connect with the author, living or dead, and get much more information than was initially put into their creation. The artist Basil Hallward in Oscar Wilde's novel 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' said: 'I can't exhibit the picture in an art gallery, because I've put too much of myself into it.' And he's not the only one. An author always puts their whole self into any work – entirely, without remainder. Such is the essence of creativity. This is what we intend to use to complete the assignment."

The case locks clicked. What a familiar sound! In Mr. Black's hands appeared a bow – that same one with the black stone handle – and then, a violin made of dark wood.

"Now you will listen to an excerpt from a work by a great composer and virtuoso violinist. Try to open the channel and establish a connection to his personality through the music, using the instructions provided in the first paragraph. Those who didn't deign to study the methodological guide yesterday have about two minutes while I prepare the instrument. At the end of the exercise, I will ask you to tell everything you were able to read between the notes."

Speaking of notes – he had no sheet music with him. Looks like he was going to reproduce the melody from memory. Amazing! Until this moment, I hadn't thought that he could actually play. I wasn't even sure his violin was real. Watching Mr. Black rub rosin on the reddish hair of the bow, I mentally shuddered. Could this thing, besides slicing people, really produce sounds from the strings?

"If you manage to establish contact, don't yell about it to the whole classroom. Keep silent. I will sense those who connect."

The musician stepped to the center of the podium and, standing halfway turned to the audience, lowered the violin onto his shoulder. Touching it with his chin, he closed his eyes. A bracelet jingled under the cuff of his black shirt, a silver cufflink gleamed, his hand with the bow fluttered upward… I instinctively recoiled back in my chair, squeezing my eyes shut. A nervous shiver ran down my spine, and only after the first sounds of music filled the air could I get a hold of myself. Phew! He's not going to kill anyone. At least not this time.

When his eyes are closed, his face becomes different – calm, serene, benevolent. Probably, he loves his violin much more than people. Heeds the melody, completely gone there, and disconnected from the real world. From under the sleeve of his raised arm, the edge of another tattoo is visible – also round, like the one on his neck, but this time he doesn't feel my inquisitive gaze on it. He doesn't notice anything at all, doesn't even hear the admiring whispers of his fan girls. And he certainly doesn't pay attention to the fact that a strand of hair is about to slip out of his ponytail and fall on his face…

Now the girls in the classroom were no longer whispering loudly, but quietly gasping. I chuckled to myself – they'll probably come to the next lesson without skirts at all.

Mr. Black slightly shook his head, removing the stray strand. Though not for long. Soon it again disobediently lay on his smoothly shaved cheekbone, and he gave up. His hand continued to flutter, gently moving the bow across the strings, the violin let out a slow melody that pierced the air with invisible threads. Well, how can you so mercilessly charm students! It seems they've completely forgotten what the assignment was. Even Liz – she also seems to have been enchanted. Leaning forward, propping her chin with her hand, barely breathing and almost not blinking, plump lips parted, eyes dreamily half-closed.

The "charms" didn't affect only me, on the contrary – they irritated me. I probably won't calm down at all until he puts away his bloody instrument.

To somehow distract myself from the frightening pictures that came to mind, I took a few deep breaths and tried to tune in.

My breathing stopped on its own – as during an astral projection exercise. Mr. Black's dark silhouette against the white board blurred, and then flowed along the contour in waves, spreading outward like the surface of a river into which a boulder was thrown. Only instead of a boulder, it was my gaze.