Cleopatra Hunting. Анатолий Изотов
gets shaken by storms. Their approach can be seen from afar: usually from the north, across the horizon, a towering black wall starts approaching the city, gets inevitably nearer and nearer, absorbing everything in its path. A tense silence reigns upon its path and you can clearly see the hundreds of small, protruding tornados «marching» in dense rows. Like a row of Roman legionaries, escaping from underground, they are striding confidently, without a fuss, united by one goal: to raise into the air and destroy houses built by man. And yet the hurricane hits the city unexpectedly, immediately trying to lift it into the air. In the beginning, you can hear the slamming of doors and the ringing of broken glass, then the rattle of roofs, the banging of broken slate, the whistling of wires and balcony grades, joined by the deep groans of houses, and finally, everything merges into a hellish roar and continuous rumble. The day gets replaced by twilight, which turns into night. The hurricane rages for hours, sometimes for days.
No matter how well the windows and doors are caulked and plugged, in the middle of the hurricane storm, the wind still discovers all the cracks and searches every part of the house up and down, filling it with the fine-grained sand. The sand gets everywhere: a dense sand veil hangs in the air, it lies in even layers on the floor, on furniture, on faces of sleeping people and covers the souls of those who are awake. Especially disgusting snowstorms come in winter, bringing with them the cold that invades houses and takes residence, reigning over people, despite the powerful heating. Every apartment at this time gets dirty, dusty and uncomfortable. When the storm subsides, there comes a short period of stunning purity and calmness in the air. And this is not a deceptive perception caused by the contrast between the lingering noise and the long-hoped-for silence – not at all, the eye is pleased with the high dark blue sky, the colorful horizon with the predominance of yellowish tones up close and the violet ones in the distance, and with the transparent air, electrified by the already fading lighting strokes. Unfortunately, the sky soon becomes opaque, the horizon gets gray, and the tornadoes rise up in the air again, with moving clouds of dust that bite your nose. The desert returns into its usual state.
Today’s sandstorm was unlike any other: it brought a rain that began late at night, when almost everybody was already asleep, and ended in the morning when almost everyone had not woken up yet. Maya woke up suddenly because of the deathly silence, coolness and a feeling of impending joy. Sometimes she managed to escape the heat and rest in the maternity ward like this, thanks to the only operating air conditioner in the entire hospital. But to sleep in your own apartment is way better indeed!
Discovering a thin layer of dry soft dust everywhere, she did not feel upset, like she used to. On the contrary, the perspective of upcoming housecleaning seemed pleasant. She brightened up, and asked herself: «Do you want to marry Klyuchitsky?» – and in the next breath she realized the absurdity of the question, and laughed loudly and decided that she feels so good today due to the wonderful weather, because the nature has brought the time when she will live in the Mainland a step closer, the time, when she will have her own apartment, furnished with her own furniture.
When Maya came out into the street, she saw a couple of small puddles and immediately imagined how she’d pass over the wide streams of muddy water in the spring flood season, merging into the majestic rivers filling up the vast seas. Suddenly she felt like she was already living there, in that bright future, while what was happening now, was in fact just a fleeting reminiscence of this hot desert and all the things that happened to her while she was here.
Maya looked forward to seeing Klyuchitsky with a sublime feeling of sorts. She carefully wiped the books, the fridge, the armrests of the armchair, the headboard of the sofa bed and all the surfaces which might gather dust; she moped every floor in the apartment and on the wide sunroom balcony, prepared the ingredients for the Russian salad, cold snacks and the pot-au-feu stew, which was her specialty. That done, Maya took a bottle of Georgian «Five Stars» cognac from the cupboard and put it on ice, then checked out the sweets brought from Moscow, and, satisfied with the results, set to work. Maya wanted to treat her guest to a delicacy, but after getting started, she suddenly lost her inspiration, so she only mixed the salad, deciding to cut the ham and cheese upon Klyuchitsky’s arrival. All the fuss with meat and potatoes she decided to keep for a later moment, hoping that the feast would take longer and she’d get in a proper mood.
Yet, things went not as Maya expected. Klyuchitsky dropped in with two huge heavy bags – they seemed to burst at the seams with all the groceries stuck there. First of all, he carefully arranged the liquors and put them into their designated places: he put cognacs in the pantry, the white wine bottles and the chilled champagne he stuffed into a large saucepan, then covered them with ice and placed on the bottom shelf of the fridge. He then put vodka and non-chilled champagne on the side shelves of the fridge and placed the beautiful bottles of golden Czech beer in the freezer, muttering that they should pick up the beer in an hour. Done with the bottles, and in the same scrupulous way, he arranged the cans of caviar, sprats, jellied tongues, pate and salmon on the fridge shelves. He even found a space for cervelat sausages, cheese and glass jars full of salads.
Closing the fridge, the guest opened a tin can with the red caviar with deft fingers and asked Maya to prepare sandwiches. Meanwhile, he went ahead with the roasting of butterflied grilled chicken. To do so, he took a couple wide pans from his bag, as well as tailor-made pressure weights with wooden lids adorned with practical handles. A cutting board carved from the dark wood with a bizarre pattern of growth rings came next – this thing not only could serve as a magnificent decoration of Maya’s kitchen but also as a precious exhibit in a museum of hand-carved souvenirs made by prisoners of the strict regime colony. Putting the dressed chicken on a board, Klyuchitsky easily squashed it with his heavy palm, rubbed it with salt, peppered, sprinkled with garlic juice, and then placed it on the pan with already melted fresh butter, covering it with pressure weight.
Soon the kitchen got filled with the scent of fried garlic chicken, fueling Maya’s appetite to the point of her hand reaching involuntarily for a pink sandwich. Klyuchitsky immediately seconded Maya’s initiative and poured champagne into glasses, gulping a good half of his drink with a toast: «To our union!» Maya took a couple of big sips – the wine pleasantly tickled the nostrils and burned the esophagus, as Maya began to eat the temptingly delicious sandwiches. They quickly emptied the wide blue plate, leaving only a few grains of caviar, sparkling like precious gems, and finished off the wine bottle. Klyuchitsky turned the stove with chickens on and suggested to sample the chicken salad he brought, while the poultry was being roasted. Maya put the soft meat, marinated in thick green sauce, on small plates, and Klyuchitsky uncorked a bottle of Georgian wine. The salad turned out to be spicy, with an ever so slight smell of garlic and some nice, and yet unknown to Maya, spices, that evoked voracious appetite and raging thirst. Taking a sip of wine, Maya marveled at its wonderful taste and bouquet while an involuntarily thought had crossed her mind – this must be how the divine nectar smells.
Then Klyuchitsky brought the freshly roasted chickens and served more wine. The chickens were a total success: of tender golden color, with an appetizing crust, savory, soft and juicy. Klyuchitsky smeared the meat with a thick garlic sauce, as Maya did the same. She started eating and it felt like she fell into a blissful trance of gluttony to the point of losing the sight of her guest. The girl woke up to reality when her glass got empty, and only the carefully picked bones remained on the plate.
Klyuchitsky ate with the same gusto and self-abandonment. Putting aside the plate with the bones, he quickly refilled the glasses, which were immediately drained, and filled them again. After finishing the wine, Maya felt a slight intoxication, but the nourishing did not end there. Klyuchitsky reached for the cognac, and Maya pushed the ham, aspic, and cheese closer. They effortlessly emptied a bottle of five-star cognac, then moved to a three-star Armenian one. Now the Russian salad, sprats, and liver pate came into play. They ate and drank slowly, obviously prolonging the pleasure.
Maya could drink a lot. Having reached a certain state of inebriation, when her body became light, the head became lucid, and her thoughts and actions bold, she ceased to get progressively drunk. When this happened, only a glass of strong alcohol tossed off in one draught or a whole bottle of strong wine could knock her down. To knock her down, but not to shut down her consciousness. For this talent, Maya once paid with her virginity…
After the second bottle, Klyuchitsky suggested