Юлия Красинская – The Hodgson’s Dossier, or Shadows over Adyar (страница 7)

"The truth is," the seer continued, paying no attention to the commotion that had arisen at the table, "that more than half of you will not see the dawn."

"What kind of… absurdity?!" Lord Whitmore sputtered indignantly, choking.

The commotion caused by the broken glass was replaced by a wave of indignation at the absurd predictions.

"I will not listen to this nonsense anymore!"

"Yes, this is really too much!"

"Go to your families," Blavatsky continued imperturbably, "and embrace them! If you have time…"

The next moment was etched into the memory of those who survived that terrible night. In the cellars of the "Eunomia," among the crates of gunpowder being transported from Athens to Alexandria, a stray spark ignited. Within seconds, the gunpowder detonated, and a veritable hell began on board. The salon floor buckled like the back of a leviathan. The walls collapsed in an elegant bow, as if making a final curtsy to perishing luxury. Velvet curtains flared with a scarlet sunset, showering the guests with ashes of gilding. The air filled with the aromas of a nightmare.

Next were eight minutes, allotted by fate for acceptance, resignation, or a miraculous rescue.

Always composed, Major Crowley, screaming and flailing his arms, tried to organize a rescue operation, seating the ladies in the lifeboats that survived the explosion. Nearby, clinging to a single life vest, the Sinclair brothers were arguing. The staircase leading to the cabins had collapsed, burying Countess Zubova under the debris. Lord Whitmore Sr., pushing everyone aside, scrambled towards one of the lifeboats. Ignoring the chaos around her, Lady Chadwick stood proudly and motionlessly in the burning salon amidst the wreckage of a grandfather clock, her face pale, her eyes reflecting a cold terror. She clenched her hands into fists, trying to maintain her dignity in the face of imminent doom.

The "Eunomia" slipped into the ocean depths with the grace of an intoxicated dancer. Cold water surged into the salon, kissing the gilding, extinguishing candles, carrying away silk slippers and sins that were never destined to find absolution.

Screaming and panicking people were swept away by the icy wave.

The crystal chandelier, miraculously spared from the explosion and destruction, and still shining like a crown, plunged into darkness with a mournful chime.

Major Crowley, finding himself in the seawater, frantically tried to grab onto floating pieces of the ship's hull. His soaked uniform treacherously pulled him down. He was unlikely to stay afloat on his own for long. Beginning to choke on the salty water, the major saw her. Blavatsky was floating among the debris, not attempting to struggle – her arms outstretched like the wings of a scorched bird. Her unbound hair trailed across the water like a black train, and there was neither fear nor panic in her eyes.

"Who… are you?!" was all he could utter with lips numb from the cold.

In the next moment, a wave engulfed him. The last thing Major Crowley saw before darkness consumed him was the slowly drifting body of the Russian seer suddenly illuminated by bright moonlight, bathing everything in a silvery glow. And then came absolute silence.

Chapter 3. "Web of Lies"

Hot air hit his face like a damp, heavy sheet, permeated with smells that London did not know and could not endure. Spices, decay, sandy dust, and the salty air of the sea. Richard Hodgson froze on the gangplank of the steamer "Gwalior," clutching the railings, as the crowd of passengers rushed down to the pier of Madras port.

Life seethed below, fierce and colorful. An incessant din filled the air. The voices of the coolie porters, interrupting each other in Tamil, the ringing laughter of children, the piercing cries of water and fruit vendors, the neighing of horses, the creak of carts pulled by emaciated oxen. The sun, not yet at its zenith, scorched everything in its path, reflecting dazzling glares off the massive grey walls of Fort St. George.

Hodgson removed his fedora and wiped his brow with a handkerchief, which instantly became damp. After a brief look around, he descended the gangplank into the teeming crowd. He was immediately surrounded by coolies in loincloths, their sinewy bodies the color of dark copper, vying to offer their services. Their eyes – quick and appraising – flickered over his European suit, dusty, rumpled, but still impeccably tailored.

"Sir! Luggage, sahib? Carry? Very cheap! Very good!"

The voices merged into a persistent hum.

Hodgson chose one, younger and less insistent. The man took his Gladstone bag, and they headed towards a horse-drawn carriage standing nearby – a shigram.

"Where want to go, sahib?" he asked, carefully placing Richard's belongings on the seat.

"Guest house in Adyar, please."

Hodgson sat in the carriage. The leather of the seat burned his thighs through the thin fabric. The carriage lurched forward, bouncing over the unevenness of Mount Road, carrying Richard away from the noise of the port and into the depths of colonial Madras – a city of contrasts, where the luxury of the White City's villas stood alongside the shacks of the Black, and the shadow of the British Empire covered the ancient, inscrutable land of India.

Hodgson had heard about the division of Madras into two worlds back in London from Professor Rogers. But he could not have imagined how un-metaphorical this division was. West is West, and East is East; the white masters lived in the White City, and their black servants – in the Black. The two worlds were separated only by a narrow strip of parade ground.

The pavements of the masters' city, paved with cobblestones, were almost deserted, only occasionally broken by figures in white attire, hurrying on the Empire's business. The houses, built in the European style, looked like strange, alien fragments of a distant northern land against the Indian backdrop. Gas lamps stood in silent formation along the road. The cleanliness was deliberate, almost aggressive, accentuated by bright green lawns and perfectly trimmed bushes.

But even here, the tropics had their way: lush vines tried to strangle the neat hedges, and large, neon-green lizards froze on the sun-warmed white walls.

To the right lay the Black Town. The transition was abrupt, like an unexpected slap. Narrow, winding streets resembled more the crevices between houses made of grey, unfired brick, bamboo, and palm leaves. The small houses clung to each other, overhanging the roadway and almost touching roofs. The noise from this side of the street was deafening and multi-layered: the cries of merchants, the squeals of playing children, the clatter of looms from dark workshops, loud curses in Tamil, the mournful singing of beggars. People. There was a sea of them here. Women in bright saris – fiery red, emerald, saffron – carried pitchers or bundles of firewood on their heads. Men in simple dhotis sat by their huts, pretending to be busy with something important. Life here flowed on its own course, making no pauses and trying to please no one.

Sacred cows, thin and sun-worn, with indifferent eyes, ambled in the middle of Mount Road, forcing the carriage to swerve from time to time. When the urban landscape ended, groves of coconut and banana palms flashed by on either side. The road became dusty and bumpy.

Adyar was ahead.

Outside the city, the air, filled with the scent of flowering shrubs and damp earth, became cooler, almost silky on the skin after the city's inferno. The sun, crawling towards the horizon, became soft and benevolent. Somewhere in the darkness of the banyan thickets, cicadas chirped, and occasionally the cries of exotic birds could be heard – sounds that created not an irritating noise, but a soothing silence. The road ran along a small, winding river, from which emanated coolness and tranquility. In the distance, a manor appeared – a complex of low white buildings with tiled roofs.

"This is the Russian madam's house," the silent coolie said, seeing Hodgson's questioning look in the rearview mirror. "It used to be Huddleston Gardens estate. Now, for several years, it's her. Your house is a few steps away."

The carriage turned through stone gates entwined with vines.

At the porch of the guest house, two Indians in white clothes waited, their faces serene, illuminated by the warm light of a lantern hanging above the entrance.

"Welcome, Mr. Hodgson. We've been expecting you!" one of them said in English with a soft accent, performing a respectful namaste with his palms pressed together at his chest. His voice was quiet, calming, like the rustling of leaves. – "The journey was long, you're probably tired."

Inside the guesthouse, it was cozy and cool. The faint light of oil lamps cast flickering shadows on the teak wood walls. Through the open shutters came the chirping of cicadas. The room he was led to was spacious and clean: a bed with a canopy of light fabric, a writing desk, a rocking chair, a wardrobe. On the table stood a pitcher of water, a cup, and a plate of fruit.