Monk Vsevolod Filipiev
ANGELS ALWAYS COME
A story-parable for those who have found hope
About the unfortunate and happy, about good and evil,
about fierce hatred and holy love,
what's going on, what's going on in your land -
everything in this music, you just catch it.
(From the song of the group "Resurrection")
"Angels always come."
(Gerontissa Gabriel)
Chapter first
STRANGE OCCASION
My joy, keep my shadow
and let me stay alive.
My joy, I am calm
I know traitors by sight.
("Night snipers")
The incident, which happened at the very beginning of August 2006 in the center of Moscow, did not leave eyewitnesses indifferent.
It was hot in the afternoon. The city center was seething with streams of people and cars.
A nun dressed in a black apostle and cassock came out of the building of the Belorusskaya metro station. Passers-by followed her with their eyes, not only because a nun in a city crowd is a rare phenomenon, but also because the grace and special beauty of the girl impressed. Having crossed a small street at a red light right in front of the signaling car, the nun turned into an alley. It was here that something unusual happened, even for worldly-wise townspeople.
The ambulance overtook the nun and, having caught up with her, braked with a squeal. The doctor jumped out of the car. He blocked the path of the nun, begging to help a man dying in the car. The nun agreed, although she tried to argue that the dying man needed a priest, not a nun.
After the nun and the doctor hid in the ambulance, a woman's cry was heard from there, and then the nun, in a knocked-down apostle, jumped onto the sidewalk with a frightened face. A paramedic and a doctor followed her. Having caught up with the girl, they twisted her arms and roughly squeezed her back into the car. At the cry of the nun, a military man arrived in time, followed by several curious passers-by. The doctor in a business tone explained that the girl was mentally ill - she dresses in monastic clothes, and then does various indecencies, therefore, at the request of her relatives, she must undergo inpatient treatment in a mental hospital.
The astonishment of the crowd did not lessen, but no more questions were asked. The ambulance with the siren turned on moved through the streets of the city, with difficulty making its way through traffic jams.
* * *A few blocks from the place where this incident happened, in one of the apartments of house No. 28 on Tverskaya Street, two women, who could be mistaken for mother and daughter, were busy in the kitchen.
“Angelinochka,” the older one turned to the younger one, “cut the radish, please.” She's in the fridge. And get some kvass. Let's do a little. Here comes Neonilla. And in such heat, okroshka is just right. Neonilla loves her.
Chapter Two
Hello mother,
bad news,
the hero will die
at the beginning of the story.
And leave me
your doubts
i will write about it
poem.
(Zemfira)
The beginning of August 2006 was sultry in New York. The stone vents of the streets were heated to such an extent that the asphalt under the soles became supple and soft. It was possible to escape from the heat only in houses and cars with air conditioning.
Agnia, holding back the high-speed Mustang, moved along Columbus Avenue, trying not to miss the right turn. As she drew level with West 70th Street, the girl turned left towards Central Park. It was her first time in this place.
In appearance, Agnia could have been twenty-five years old. A waterfall of red-red, highly curly hair, harmonious facial features, like angels in Pre-Raphaelite paintings, pale skin with barely noticeable naive freckles on her face and hands created an attractive and disturbing image.
A special detail in this portrait was made by wide dark glasses, with which Agnia never parted. Glasses in a beautiful frame played the only role - they hid a small but rather ugly ulcer that cut through the right eyebrow. Around the ulcer there were traces of plastic surgery, which, however, could not completely eliminate the deformities. Without glasses, Agnia was usually not seen by anyone around, so even close acquaintances would find it difficult to answer what color the girl's eyes are.
Agniya found the right house, but there was no parking place near it. I had to drive almost to the end of the street to park. Prestigious mansions and apartment buildings rose on both sides. The place turned out to be shady and calm, which was especially pleasant after the Manhattan fever.
She walked back to the three-story mansion from gray stone, in Victorian style. The front porch of the mansion protruded forward. The steps of a wide marble staircase with a massive portico led to it. Agnia went to the semicircular wooden door and tried to turn the shiny handle in the form of some kind of mythical head, but the door was locked.
Near the door hung a fuzzy cord in the old fashion. The girl pulled the cord. A bell rang inside. The door opened, but there was no one behind it. Agnia entered, the door closed automatically.
The hallway was empty. It was pleasantly cool. Agniya did not have time to really look around, when she heard an appeal to English language, which met all visitors to the mansion today:
- Greetings. The general audience will begin soon, which will be announced later. Please feel free. If you wish, meet other guests and look around the house, but please do not go higher than the second floor. Coffee and refreshments in the living room. Have a great time. Thank you.
Having obeyed the "voice", Agnia began to inspect the house. During the inspection, she met several people, just like her, wandering around the house in anticipation of an audience. The girl greeted them, but avoided further communication, her attention was completely absorbed by the amazing house. The spacious building of the mansion contained many rooms. What was not there.
An endless variety of large and small collectible dolls from all over the world; stuffed animals and skins of animals; a variety of musical instruments - from the harpsichord to the zurna; live birds in cages; many artificial and natural flowers, among which there were unknown and outlandish ones; firearms and cold antique weapons; statues and figurines of Greco-Roman, Oriental and African gods and goddesses; busts of Socrates, Mozart, Washington, Lenin and others historical figures; theatrical masks, from classic Pierrot and Harlequin to kabuki theatre; meter-high Chinese vases and expensive screens inlaid with mother-of-pearl; pictures of mystical content, among which Agniya recognized one, the brush of Roerich - all this was combined into an incredible labyrinth.
In some places, the "maze" resembled a farcical "room of horrors", since any object could suddenly start moving or talking, controlled by invisible mechanisms. Especially often this was done by dolls or stuffed animals. Sometimes music suddenly began to play, for example, Chopin's Funeral March, Khachaturian's Saber Dance, or Beatles songs; then the music just as suddenly stopped. All windows in the house were tightly closed. There was only artificial lighting. In general, I was impressed by the thoughtfulness of the light and color illumination of the premises. There were surprises: the spotlight could flare up sharply, blinding the eyes, or, conversely, in some corner the light could completely go out for a while.
In addition to numerous shelves, showcases and racks, there was no ordinary furniture in the house. The only exception was the living room, which was turned into a chamber hall with a low stage. The living room was decorated in a classic style. Pot-bellied, rickety chairs upholstered in burgundy cloth lined up in three rows in front of the stage, the elaborate curtain was lowered.
The “voice”, inviting guests to the hall, by the beginning of the audience, found Agnia in one of the far rooms, and she hurried back to the living room. There were already several people there. The girl sat on the edge. Behind her, others pulled up, more than ten people gathered in total.
The lights in the living room went out, like in a theater before a performance. And when a powerful spotlight illuminated the center of the stage, the curtain was already open. In the beam of light, in the air, not touching the floor, hung an armchair with a skillfully carved back. A man sat elegantly on it. He was a middle-aged man, dressed in the style of a nineteenth-century English gentleman: dark suit, bow tie, white winglet collar, high buttoned boots, gold pince-nez. The face is strong-willed, although somewhat withered: a long thin nose, cheerfully and defiantly laughing eyes, a thick mustache, slick dark hair, separated by a clear parting in the middle.
Current page: 1 (total book has 25 pages)
Abstract
Holding the book “Angels Always Come” in your hands, you are at the edge of mystery, because this book is about the mystery of choice, the mystery of the contact of earth and sky, the mystery of human and inhuman love.
The action-packed narrative takes the reader into the events of our days in Russia and North America, which have parallels with the past. The plot of the book is connected with the well-known story of the monk Vsevolod "The Head of Silence". However A new book self-sufficient. Acquaintance with the characters can begin with her.
Monk Vsevolod is a writer, poet and theologian who lived for a number of years in the Russian diaspora in America, now continuing his monastic and creative way in Russia.
Monk Vsevolod Filipiev
Chapter first
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter twenty one
Chapter twenty two
Chapter twenty three
chapter twenty four
chapter twenty five
Chapter twenty six
chapter twenty seven
Chapter twenty eight
chapter twenty nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter thirty one
chapter thirty two
chapter thirty three
chapter thirty four
chapter thirty-five
chapter thirty six
chapter thirty seven
chapter thirty eight
chapter thirty nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter forty one
Chapter forty two
Chapter forty three
chapter forty four
Chapter forty five
Chapter forty six
Chapter forty seven
Chapter forty eight
Chapter forty nine
Chapter Fifty
chapter fifty one
chapter fifty two
chapter fifty three
chapter fifty four
chapter fifty five
chapter fifty six
chapter fifty seven
Chapter unwritten
Monk Vsevolod Filipiev
ANGELS ALWAYS COME
A story-parable for those who have found hope
About the unfortunate and happy, about good and evil,
about fierce hatred and holy love,
what's going on, what's going on in your land -
everything in this music, you just catch it.
(From the song of the group "Resurrection")
"Angels always come."
(Gerontissa Gabriel)
Chapter first
STRANGE OCCASION
My joy, keep my shadow
and let me stay alive.
My joy, I am calm
I know traitors by sight.
("Night snipers")
The incident, which happened at the very beginning of August 2006 in the center of Moscow, did not leave eyewitnesses indifferent.
It was hot in the afternoon. The city center was seething with streams of people and cars.
A nun dressed in a black apostle and cassock came out of the building of the Belorusskaya metro station. Passers-by followed her with their eyes, not only because a nun in a city crowd is a rare phenomenon, but also because the grace and special beauty of the girl impressed. Having crossed a small street at a red light right in front of the signaling car, the nun turned into an alley. It was here that something unusual happened, even for worldly-wise townspeople.
The ambulance overtook the nun and, having caught up with her, braked with a squeal. The doctor jumped out of the car. He blocked the path of the nun, begging to help a man dying in the car. The nun agreed, although she tried to argue that the dying man needed a priest, not a nun.
After the nun and the doctor hid in the ambulance, a woman's cry was heard from there, and then the nun, in a knocked-down apostle, jumped onto the sidewalk with a frightened face. A paramedic and a doctor followed her. Having caught up with the girl, they twisted her arms and roughly squeezed her back into the car. At the cry of the nun, a military man arrived in time, followed by several curious passers-by. The doctor in a business tone explained that the girl was mentally ill - she dresses in monastic clothes, and then does various indecencies, therefore, at the request of her relatives, she must undergo inpatient treatment in a mental hospital.
The astonishment of the crowd did not lessen, but no more questions were asked. The ambulance with the siren turned on moved through the streets of the city, with difficulty making its way through traffic jams.
* * *
A few blocks from the place where this incident happened, in one of the apartments of house No. 28 on Tverskaya Street, two women, who could be mistaken for mother and daughter, were busy in the kitchen.
“Angelinochka,” the older one turned to the younger one, “cut the radish, please.” She's in the fridge. And get some kvass. Let's do a little. Here comes Neonilla. And in such heat, okroshka is just right. Neonilla loves her.
Chapter Two
AGNIA
Hello mother,
bad news,
the hero will die
at the beginning of the story.
And leave me
your doubts
i will write about it
poem.
(Zemfira)
The beginning of August 2006 was sultry in New York. The stone vents of the streets were heated to such an extent that the asphalt under the soles became supple and soft. It was possible to escape from the heat only in houses and cars with air conditioning.
Agnia, holding back the high-speed Mustang, moved along Columbus Avenue, trying not to miss the right turn. As she drew level with West 70th Street, the girl turned left towards Central Park. It was her first time in this place.
In appearance, Agnia could have been twenty-five years old. A waterfall of red-red, highly curly hair, harmonious facial features, like angels in Pre-Raphaelite paintings, pale skin with barely noticeable naive freckles on her face and hands created an attractive and disturbing image.
A special detail in this portrait was made by wide dark glasses, with which Agnia never parted. Glasses in a beautiful frame played the only role - they hid a small but rather ugly ulcer that cut through the right eyebrow. Around the ulcer there were traces of plastic surgery, which, however, could not completely eliminate the deformities. Without glasses, Agnia was usually not seen by anyone around, so even close acquaintances would find it difficult to answer what color the girl's eyes are.
Agniya found the right house, but there was no parking place near it. I had to drive almost to the end of the street to park. Prestigious mansions and apartment buildings rose on both sides. The place turned out to be shady and calm, which was especially pleasant after the Manhattan fever.
She walked back to the three-story Victorian-style gray stone mansion. The front porch of the mansion protruded forward. The steps of a wide marble staircase with a massive portico led to it. Agnia went to the semicircular wooden door and tried to turn the shiny handle in the form of some kind of mythical head, but the door was locked.
Near the door hung a fuzzy cord in the old fashion. The girl pulled the cord. A bell rang inside. The door opened, but there was no one behind it. Agnia entered, the door closed automatically.
The hallway was empty. It was pleasantly cool. Agnia did not have time to really look around when she heard an appeal in English that met all visitors to the mansion today:
- Greetings. The general audience will begin soon, which will be announced later. Please feel free. If you wish, meet other guests and look around the house, but please do not go higher than the second floor. Coffee and refreshments in the living room. Have a great time. Thank you.
Having obeyed the "voice", Agnia began to inspect the house. During the inspection, she met several people, just like her, wandering around the house in anticipation of an audience. The girl greeted them, but avoided further communication, her attention was completely absorbed by the amazing house. The spacious building of the mansion contained many rooms. What was not there.
An endless variety of large and small collectible dolls from all over the world; stuffed animals and skins of animals; a variety of musical instruments - from the harpsichord to the zurna; live birds in cages; many artificial and natural flowers, among which there were unknown and outlandish ones; firearms and cold antique weapons; statues and figurines of Greco-Roman, Oriental and African gods and goddesses; busts of Socrates, Mozart, Washington, Lenin and other historical figures; theatrical masks, from classic Pierrot and Harlequin to kabuki theatre; meter-high Chinese vases and expensive screens inlaid with mother-of-pearl; pictures of mystical content, among which Agniya recognized one, the brush of Roerich - all this was combined into an incredible labyrinth.
In some places, the "maze" resembled a farcical "room of horrors", since any object could suddenly start moving or talking, controlled by invisible mechanisms. Especially often this was done by dolls or stuffed animals. Sometimes music suddenly began to play, for example, Chopin's Funeral March, Khachaturian's Saber Dance, or Beatles songs; then the music just as suddenly stopped. All windows in the house were tightly closed. There was only artificial lighting. In general, I was impressed by the thoughtfulness of the light and color illumination of the premises. There were surprises: the spotlight could flare up sharply, blinding the eyes, or, conversely, in some corner the light could completely go out for a while.
In addition to numerous shelves, showcases and racks, there was no ordinary furniture in the house. The only exception was the living room, which was turned into a chamber hall with a low stage. The living room was decorated in a classic style. Pot-bellied, rickety chairs upholstered in burgundy cloth lined up in three rows in front of the stage, the elaborate curtain was lowered.
The “voice”, inviting guests to the hall, by the beginning of the audience, found Agnia in one of the far rooms, and she hurried back to the living room. There were already several people there. The girl sat on the edge. Behind her, others pulled up, more than ten people gathered in total.
The lights in the living room went out, like in a theater before a performance. And when a powerful spotlight illuminated the center of the stage, the curtain was already open. In the beam of light, in the air, not touching the floor, hung an armchair with a skillfully carved back. A man sat elegantly on it. He was a middle-aged man, dressed in the style of a nineteenth-century English gentleman: dark suit, bow tie, white winglet collar, high buttoned boots, gold pince-nez. The face is strong-willed, although somewhat withered: a long thin nose, cheerfully and defiantly laughing eyes, a thick mustache, slick dark hair, separated by a clear parting in the middle.
There was a general sigh.
“Nothing special,” Agnia thought. - The effect of false mirrors. The chair stands on a pedestal lined with mirrors. The mirrors are set at an angle and reflect some kind of dark coating. To the observer, the mirrors blend into the dark background of the rear curtain, giving the impression that the chair is suspended in mid-air. Let's see what will happen next…"
* * *
The lamps on the walls of the living room lit up again, but only at full blaze. The man on the stage cast a long and attentive look around those present and spoke:
My last name is Marshall. You all have an audience for today. I congratulate you on the fact that you were able to come to it. All of you passed the same way hard way. Try to finish the job. Be frank, honest and courageous. Do not look suspiciously at the others present, do not be ashamed of each other. This is your chance to enter the chosen number, embark on the path of truth and escape from the networks of the crowd. You were told what to talk about at the audience. Get to work, friends! Let each one in turn stand up and, from his place, state the reasons that prompted him to seek a meeting. Let's start in order. Please, you,” Marshall nodded to the man sitting on the opposite side of Agnia. “You don’t need to introduce yourself, it doesn’t matter yet.
A heavy-set man of about sixty, who got up from his seat, looked like a French bulldog with his sad eyes and swollen face. He began without a hitch:
- I stopped going to church like that. At first I tried to explain something in confession, but the priest told me about pride. Then in front of me at communion stood an untidy old woman who disgusted me. And finally, after communion, I periodically suffered from indigestion, as with food poisoning. I didn’t go to the church anymore… I don’t believe that eternal knowledge is kept there. And I want to have access to it...
The fat man was silent.
- Something else? Marshall asked.
- No, that's all ... You know my desire.
“Hm,” Marshall said thoughtfully and meaningfully. - Next.
Next was a pleasant Hispanic woman with a roving eye, who spoke exaltedly and nervously.
“Um, for example, I went shopping the other day,” she said haltingly. - And what? I parked. When I went to the supermarket... There is such a large square in front of it. A mother with a child was walking towards me. I thought: what if I now wish that this child would fall? And what?! He fell! He just sprawled out on the pavement. I rushed to help, and I myself was frightened, but also delighted. Here! It is clear that I am suitable, because it is clear that I am special. I have abilities.
“Very happy for you,” Marshall smiled skeptically.
The next to speak was a young man in his twenties, with dyed green hair, a pacifist tattoo on the outside of his palm, and an amulet in the form of an Egyptian scarab beetle. His speech and gestures resembled the style of a rap artist:
They are teaching me about love. What about yourself? I'll be better evil, but honest. I'm allergic to sermons. Zadolbali! All these religious preachers are moral abusers. Solid moral spam. Down with spam! Religion is hype. It should be banned. No Jesus billboards! No crosses on churches; the church is a public building. Why is normal drugs not allowed, but religious drugs are allowed?! I am for normal drugs and against religious ones. Enough. Religious nonsense was imposed on me since childhood. In general, parents should be forbidden to pray in front of a child, and even more so force him to do so. This violation of freedom must be stopped. If the president and the police do not want to follow this, then volunteers are needed. I'm ready.
Then a shaking old man with watery eyes and poor diction took the floor. He spoke incoherently and obscurely, but with inspiration. The old man meditatively swayed from side to side and poetically raised his hands:
"There's something particularly scary about it." But sorry, it's not new trick when the simple and apparently harmless becomes the most terrible. Prosperous old America, which is symbolized by cute old men, a stable old-fashioned life in the house of an aunt, who most likely simply does not exist at all. But all this only emphasizes the complete collapse of the heroes who lost their lives. All this is terrifying, as evidence of the horror hidden in our own genetic roots; horror, which was prepared for us, long before our birth ... I have everything. Thank you.
“And I thank you,” Marshall replied courteously. - Sit down please. Your point is very clear.
Then a sporty girl stood up. She was confident, spoke good English, but with a German accent:
“Dear Chairman, Mr. Marshall, I am endlessly outraged when religious fanatics and extremists say that representatives of sexual minorities are all perverts unworthy of walking the earth. I would answer them that the Church is a real expanse for perversions. Same-sex love is not the fruit of satiety and hedonism. I understand that someone wants to try this kind of love, following fashion or out of satiety, but a huge number of representatives of sexual minorities were born this way. I speak from my own experience. We naturally have this attitude. And are we to blame? We are constantly reminded of what we can not. At the same time, they don’t talk about what is possible. The servants of the One whom everyone reveres as the Creator are persecuting us, and yet He Himself created us like this… So where is justice, or at least elementary logic? And the logic here is this: either those who are persecuting us are not true servants of the Creator, or the One Whom they serve is not the true Creator… And I was once an activist of the Youth for Christ organization! But now I only want to be with those who accept me for who I am. I need a religion that allows me to live without deleting life from the list, a religion that appreciates my unique individuality ...
The word was taken by a woman who looked like an ordinary respectable middle-class American. She blushed, lowered her eyes and never looked up.
- It's not very convenient for me to talk ... It's a delicate matter. In short, I fell in love with a person. I am no longer young, and he is young, good-looking, and also has a wife and children. Our union is impossible. But I can't live without him.” She pulled a handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed at her eyes. - At night I wake up from tears, and then every cell of my body screams and calls him. I need help, I agree to any conditions. Neither psychologists nor registered clergymen could help me. I came to you with hope. Help me get his love.
Marshall hurriedly closed his yawn with his palm, nodded his head approvingly and commanded:
- Next.
A man stood up who looked like a university teacher, or at least school teacher. He was a tall mulatto with noble features.
“I need help too,” he began pleadingly. “A year ago, I seem to have sinned as never before ... At least as far as conscious sins are concerned. My wife asked me something for her peace of mind. She was worried about our little son, in connection with my so-called fanaticism; I am a member of the Baptist congregation. So, she asked: if because of my faith in God our son was in danger, would I save my son or prefer faith? I, realizing the importance of my words, replied that I would have saved my son. And immediately after that, it began to dawn on me that I had renounced. I deliberately blasphemed God. It seems that he only renounced outwardly, and not in his soul ... But in the time of pagan emperors, some Christians were offered only outwardly, for appearances, to renounce, but they did not agree and accepted death. Shame on me! That's how I simply gave up. It didn't even threaten me. Not so much for myself as a shame, but for Him. After all, I offended the person who loves me the most. And not just a man, but God, Who suffered so much for me and still suffers. And just like that, I gave up. And now the Lord will deny me... After all, it is said that one must love the Lord more than one's neighbors. I know my sin will never be forgiven. Now everywhere in my life I see strange coincidences, confirming that there is no way to forgiveness. I see indications that I don't fit the parable of the prodigal son. But are there any other ways?
- Of course have! - fervently interrupted the speaker Marshall. “For example, you can hang yourself,” he laughed. - I'm kidding, I'm kidding, of course. Thank you for coming, - Marshall winked friendly at the mulatto and signaled to the young woman waiting in line.
- Don't worry. I can hear you perfectly,” Marshall replied.
- Yes? The person shrugged her shoulders. - OK then. And what do I have in my pedigree? And the game is a passion. I am from an ancient and wealthy family. Oh yeah! As she spoke, she rolled her eyes coquettishly. But I want to play and win. Roulette, cards, dice, even billiards. Oh yes, I can play billiards. And also hide and seek. Didn't try to play hide-and-seek for money or for... Well, you get the idea! She showed slight embarrassment on her face. - Play for the sake of play! Oh, excitement is life and death, that's all. This is where the elusive face of life opens up. Today it is light, tomorrow it is dark, the day after tomorrow it is unknown what it is. A swift and inevitable fate! You don't need a lot of money, you don't need paper bills. In the game, everything can become money: a thing, an estate, a body, fidelity, meanness, love, life! I never believed in God, but if I did, I would like to play with Him. Here is a worthy opponent who does not mind losing, but it is even more interesting to win, - she giggled lightly. “I came here to play your game.
“Mr. Marshall,” the next speaker began respectfully, a pot-bellied bourgeois in glasses, a white shirt and a checkered tie, “I admire your patience. I'm not a curmudgeon, but honestly, most of what I've heard is some kind of baby talk. The Lord of Darkness is not Charlie Chaplin, and therefore we can’t scold him even in jest! I am sure that he will find a way to explain to all the virtual villains who come here that evil without real deeds is dead. And if you're not ready to cut your own mother's throat for a great idea, then don't you dare take the name of that idea in vain...
- Wait a minute! Marshall stopped the speaker with a wave of his hand. You are violating the meeting rules. Discussion of those present is not in your competence and does not do you credit. Either speak to the point, or I will give the floor to someone else.
The bourgeois turned purple, but restrained himself.
"As you wish," he answered bitterly. – I hope that at least I can talk about myself here business negotiations but frankly?
- Of course.
- Then here it is. I want to become a beast. I want to put things in order. Establish a police state dictatorship. Introduce a strict regime, a curfew, punitive detachments. How long can you endure these rubbery smiles and how long can you smile back yourself, nodding your head like a Chinese bobblehead? This is my strategic plan. And the immediate goals: to manipulate others, to eliminate competitors, to defeat women with your charm, to be irresistible, to take someone else's. Well, and connect to the money egregor at the same time. What's up!? He looked triumphantly at Marshall.
“Not bad,” the chairperson replied peacefully. - Thank you.
The next to speak was a pensive man with a thick, neatly trimmed beard, long hair gathered in a ponytail, and bulging eyes like those of a fish:
- Hello. My name is Father David Brown.
“Very nice,” the chairperson nodded discontentedly. I repeat: no need to introduce yourself. Speak up.
- I sincerely sympathize. And thank you for your trust,” Marshall replied.
Agnia's neighbor was next in line - a young girl, about seventeen or eighteen years old. Narrow eyes, prominent cheekbones, and straight black hair with curly ends at the shoulders betrayed Asian blood in her. There was something predatory in the manner of holding and speaking, although it was brightened up with traditional oriental courtesy. The Asian woman greeted the chairman and everyone present with short nods and spoke with a clattering accent:
“I hate my father. I can’t tell him everything I think yet, but the hour will come and I will tell him: “I will live, but not the way you lived. I will live in the exact opposite way. I hate what you loved. I will disbelieve what you believed. I will destroy what you created. I will throw your favorite books out of the house. I will stop watering your flowers so that they dry up. I will never touch the restaurant food you ordered. I will cease to be myself, because you conceived, raised and loved me. I hate you!" Here is the speech I prepared for him. Unfortunately, I'm still not strong enough and independent. But I came to you to draw strength, to become bold and decisive and fulfill all my plans.
Agnia did not want to delve into the words of the Asian in order to have time to prepare for her performance. But she did not succeed in not delving into it, because what was said touched a nerve. Agnia even felt uneasy, because she loved her father. And, we can say, I came here partly because of this love. But it was unthinkable to talk about it after such a bright performance by an Asian woman, which the presiding officer clearly liked, judging by his reaction. As a result, Agnia became agitated, the prepared words flew out of her head, and when her turn came, she said briefly:
- I do not trust people, no matter what words they hide behind. Life has treated me cruelly and mercilessly. I want revenge.
At that moment, without expecting herself, Agnia took off her goggles. A whisper swept through the hall, so unexpected and shocking was the deformity - an ulcer above the eye. In addition, I was surprised by the unusual color of Agnia's eyes - light gray, almost colorless. Shaded with fiery hair, the eyes seemed completely transparent and luminous.
“Greetings, wounded beauty,” Marshall said with the air of a connoisseur who has found a masterpiece.
After this, he declared the audience over, thanked those assembled, and concluded by saying:
- Your applications will be considered. You will be notified of the results. Wait. Please don't be too active: don't bother us with questions, don't try to visit here uninvited, and don't give this address to anyone. The specificity of this place is such that, even knowing the address, it is impossible to find a house if you come here without our invitation. But if you still dare to find this house on your own, then in the near future you will develop brain cancer. After the lights go out and on, everyone is free. The girl who spoke last, please linger. Thank you.
Listening to Marshall's warnings about the invisible house and brain cancer, Agniya began to think that this was just a clever psychological trick, but then she was taken aback by the words of the man in the chair, addressed directly to her ...
Fixtures on a short time went out. When the hall was filled with light again, the curtain on the stage, as before the beginning of the audience, was tightly closed.
Chapter Three
LAZARUS
Do not look at me,
I do not remember anything.
Do not look at me,
I do not know anything.
("Semantic hallucinations")
On August 17, 2006, a soft, damp southern night descended on the city of Sochi, as usual. The evening city shimmered with lights and from a height resembled the smoldering embers of a cooling fire. In the center of the city and on its outskirts, near the coast, sparkled night life: restaurants and bars beckoned with music and smells, tanned shoulders and faces of vacationers shone in the reflections of the lights. Peace reigned in other parts of the city. It was deserted and quiet there.
The city panorama was contemplated by someone standing alone on the observation deck. From the hills of the Zarechny microdistrict, a delightful view of the city opened up. In the center of the city one could discern the silhouette of the Assumption Church. The cicadas sang, and there was a fragrance of freshly baked bread - a bakery was located just below the observation deck.
At the same time, at the other end of Sochi, on one of the beaches, someone was standing ankle-deep in sea water, peering intently into the shimmering darkness of the city landscape. The observer did not pay attention to the night swimmers who were on the shore.
The two - on the observation deck above and by the sea below - seemed to be looking for someone with their eyes. At the same time, they froze, seeing something. And they started moving...
* * *
A few hours before, monk Lazar arrived in Sochi from Abkhazia - a man of unusual fate. For business and criminal Russia, this was the authority of Jean Zamoskvoretsky, who was killed in one of the Moscow restaurants in early 2002. A small circle of monks in the Abkhazian mountains knew Zamoskvoretsky as the recently tonsured monk Lazarus. It was known that Lazar had secretly come to Abkhazia more than four years ago with the old man Arkhipych. There were rumors among the brethren that Lazarus was related to criminal world, but repented and was now forced to hide. The full story of Lazarus was known to the confessor of the hermits, Hieroschemamonk Salafiel, but he did not tell it to anyone.
Upon arrival in Abkhazia, Arkhipych and Lazar confessed to Elder Salafiel and received a blessing to stay. They equipped a cell for themselves in the cellar of a destroyed house in a mountain village that had died out after the Georgian-Abkhazian war. There Arkhipych and Lazar lived in seclusion, spiritually guided by the advice of Father Salafiel. In the spring of 2003, Arkhipych died peacefully. After that, Lazar moved to the wilderness of the elder Salafiel, who lived with his disciples in the virgin mountain forests. In the autumn of the same year, Father Salafiel tonsured Zamoskvoretsky to monasticism…
Now monk Lazar was in a small Sochi apartment on the first floor of a five-story building, provided by one monastic acquaintance.
It smelled of dampness and earth. From a nearby window, a conversation between a woman and a Caucasian accent was heard, who were clearly tipsy. The cry of a child, whom the woman began to lull, was periodically wedged into the conversation. The monk was reclining in a stuffy room on a narrow sofa, his powerful body barely squeezing into it. One of his hands was thrown behind his head, the other mechanically went through the rosary. He thought. Four and a half years had passed since he had died to the world, and now the world was forcing him to return. How long? But it was impossible not to return. He was on his way to Moscow. The plane took off the next day.
* * *
At that moment, two people approached the house where Lazarus was from different directions. The southern air, heated during the day, trembled again from the piercing cry of a child.
Chapter Four
AT THE OLD
And when I turn around at the door
I will say only one word "Believe!".
(Victor Tsoi)
Five days earlier, on the morning of August 12, 2006, on a mountainous Abkhazian road, near a steep slope covered with deciduous trees, a UAZ stopped. From here began the area called "Wet Forests". A young, ruddy-faced novice Alexander briskly jumped out of the car, followed by a portly hieromonk Seraphim.
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