Наталья Соколова – LIMBO (страница 3)

The field of view expands, the picture on the sides spreads wide, as if I'm rising above the ground. Here are small blue lakes glistening in the sun. Here are tiny villages. Apples are already ripening on the trees in the orchards. Here, spotted cows mill about on a large pasture. And here's a noisy high-speed highway running to the north. Cars glide along the dusty heated asphalt like on oil, trying to catch up with our train. My gaze also glides forward. It rushes somewhere faster than all possible vehicles. There, in the distance, something scarlet looms, and it beckons me. I tense up like a string.

Could it be that I will finally satisfy my hunger! Where is he, this person radiating the red glow? Whatever he's planning, I'll stop him!

Or maybe I won't stop him. Because there are no people here – not a single living soul. The red matter drifts lonely over the ground above wrought-iron fences and tilted crosses.

It's getting cold, and I slow down. My black shadow circles anxiously above the road. Who could think to run a highway so close to an active cemetery!

A barely noticeable silhouette suddenly appears out of nowhere in the middle of the highway. Right now there are no cars yet because a couple of miles from here, a traffic light is glowing red. But very soon it will switch, and the impatient driver will joyfully accelerate his steel horse with all his might, unaware of the danger. The road is smooth – perfect for racing. When he arrives here, the speedometer will already show a hundred per hour, if not more. Seeing a ghost on the way, he'll mistake it for a living person, get scared and brake sharply. He'll turn the wheel, roll onto the shoulder and crash into a thick lamppost with a colorful funeral wreath. It seems this case is far from the first one here…

"Go away!!!" I shout.

The picture spins in a "spiral." I descend. Sharp black edges shatter the ghostly silhouette, for seconds it collapses like a cracked mirror, then gathers again and again. I'm getting angry. The feeling of hunger becomes unbearable.

The feathers ruffle, blur, change shape. Now my body flows like incense smoke. For a moment, fire flashes as if someone struck a lighter. There's a hiss. The flame, absorbing the phantom along with the red clot of its energy, goes out.

And suddenly – very close – the screech of brakes. Damn! The smoking wing rushes upward. In an instant, I soar above the trees as if pulled by an invisible fishing line.

The roar of the engine falls silent. A powerful car with a horned ram on its shiny logo stops half a dozen feet from that very lamppost with the wreath. The driver, unfastening, gets out to look around. He thoughtfully surveys the peeling spikes of crosses in the cemetery, then raises his eyes upward, but he can't see me anymore – I'm too high.

The lucky guy sighs. He leans against the wide hood of his big ride and takes something out of his pocket. A lighter clicks – this time a real one – and a long cigarette begins to smoke in his fingers.

Are you serious, man?! I just saved your life, by the way – and you immediately shorten it with a dose of nicotine. "Cool"! You don't have to thank me…

The stuffy resinous smell is felt even at a height of a hundred feet. My breath catches. I take a deep gulp of air and, unexpectedly for myself, open my eyes.

"Miss, are you alright?" it was the hand of the train attendant in a white glove that landed on my shoulder. "Did you have a nightmare? Would you like some tea?"

Okay, I get it, so I was screaming in my sleep again.

"Coffee would be better," I blurted out hoarsely. "And a sandwich. Thanks."

Chapter 2: Déjà vu

After leaving the station, I opened the link with the institute's address that Dad had sent me in the messenger. The map marker was placed on the building of St. Isaac's Cathedral8. Strange. It must be some kind of mistake, right? Surely an institute can't be located inside a tourist attraction?..

While I was waiting for clarification, my trolleybus arrived, and I decided to "walk" along Nevsky Prospect at least this way – looking at it from the window. My suitcase is small but heavy, it's difficult even to lift it into public transport, let alone drag it on foot for several miles. In short, I took a free seat at the end of the cabin, pressed my bag against the wall, and now was gazing around, studying St. Petersburg.

A series of shops, restaurants and hotels gave way to a bridge over the Fontanka River with restless bronze horses9. It occurred to me that these four horses could well symbolize the four years of bachelor's studies that await me and my coursemates. At first wild – untamed – steeds, like students, gradually become more obedient, well-shod, and a spark of understanding appears in their eyes.

Again a string of boutiques, a small park, Kazan Square drowning in the tender rays of the "golden" hour, and now there's another river under us – the Moika this time – and then buildings of amazing beauty flickered one after another. I was so engrossed that I didn't notice how the trolleybus turned. A little more, and I would have missed my stop!..

The place next to which the map marker stood was on the opposite side from the main entrance to St. Isaac's Cathedral. I had to walk back and forth several times before my eyes distinguished stone steps leading down, and behind them – a dark red oak door.

It's probably some technical utility room, but maybe at least there they can tell me if I've come to the right address or not. My hand touched the old brass handle, and the creaky door opened, inviting me to descend a few more steps lower. There was someone there, in the room, I felt it, but I didn't dare to step over the threshold.

"Hello!" I shouted into the darkness of the doorway. "I'm sorry to disturb you. I'm looking for the institute… LIMBO… do you know where it is?"

"Open your eyes!" came the response. Our concierge, Aunt Betty, had such a voice when she suspiciously interrogated unfamiliar guests. "Look at the sign! What does it say?"

I stepped back. How could I not have noticed! To the left of the entrance, on a gray marble pointer, the engraved letters shone in gold: "Leningrad Institute of Modeling B…"

The inscription broke off there. Someone had pried out the right upper nail, part of the spotty stone was missing, and the sign was slightly tilted downward. Just think – it turns out that there are vandals in cultured St. Petersburg too. It seems I won't know until the end what exactly I'll be modeling here…

"So, this is where I need to be," I exhaled quietly and entered, closing the door behind me.

"Do you have a pass?" the doorkeeper even looked like our Aunt Betty. The same curly, heavily bleached hair and thick gaudy cat-eye glasses covering half her face. The booth where she sat was illuminated from inside with a dim yellow light, but beyond this "guardhouse" nothing was visible. The corridor was drowning in darkness.

"A pass?.. Oh, no. I'm new."

"So you didn't attend the preparatory courses. I see, a failing student. Fi-ine," the woman reluctantly rose from her well-worn seat. "Come on, first time I'll let you in with my pass, but then you should ask for one to be issued at the dean's office."

In the faint gleam, a white card with a shiny round logo flashed. I didn't have time to see what was depicted there. A green light lit up in the darkness, and the security guard pushed me forward.

I stepped into the abyss and immediately stopped – my ears were suddenly so blocked. As if I were flying in an airplane that was gaining altitude, or in a high-speed elevator rushing to the top of a skyscraper. My head spun. Hands tried to feel a wall to hold on to, but there were no walls. Neither on the left nor on the right.

"Well, come on, be bolder," the old woman grumbled discontentedly. "Walk. One, two, three. No need to linger here in the corridor. Inhale, exhale. Swallow your saliva – that's all. Look at you, such a delicate flower!.."

Out of fear, I screwed my eyes shut, and when I opened them, I almost fell again. The huge hall was flooded with bright warm light. Sunbeams passed through the tall, completely glass dome of the cathedral and played with glare on the wrought railings of stairs made of yellow metal, on the stand with the lecture schedule, on the spines of books standing on top of the shelves in the open library.

Hmm. I'm not an expert in architecture, of course, but it seemed to me that from the outside, the dome was still golden, not transparent. How did they achieve such an effect?!..

While I stood with my head tilted back, the "concierge" disappeared. Turning around, I saw two tightly closed iron doors behind me, and in front of them – a turnstile with a magnetic lock. Without applying a pass, you can't get out of here, and I don't have a pass, so I'll have to go search for the dean's office.

Despite the non-academic day, the institute was full of students, mostly upperclassmen. I was almost certain they were upperclassmen – too bold and self-confident. I nervously rolled my suitcase past them, while they, giggling, whispered to each other in low voices: