I’m staring at the portraits: the King gloomy, his eyebrows, the Queen – scowling contempt, their children – in the dark of old-century oaks.
And in this unusual hardness I feel the whole ancient world, all powerless grandiosity and beauty of third youth last noble ages.
This is clear pearl on the banquet of the wild and hungry country.
And I am, an absolute stranger, a bandit – from one terminology and insurgent – from other terminology, I am simply and clearly staring at these portraits and in my soul I don’t have and will never have such anger. And it’s understandable:
I am security officer but I am human too.
Dark night, when beyond the window city nights pass, when blue mist rises above brickyard and citizens, like the mice, go for gateway, in canary-yellow castle, dark night in my incredible closet gathering my friends. This is new Sanhedrim, this is the black commune‘s court-martial.
Then from every single corner peers real and horrible death. Inhabitant:
- Here is living sadism!
I:
- …(silent):
-
On the town’s tower beyond pass is anxiously ringing copper. It is a chime. From a dark field I can hear muted cannonade.
My acquaintances are sitting by a wide table made of black wood. Silence. I can hear only how the station horn is playing his music again. Sometimes you can see insurgents beyond the window.
It’s easy to recognize my friends:
A doctor Tagabat,
Andryusha,
And…degenerate (faithful watchman on the chats).
This is a full black court-martial.
I:
- Attention, please! On the daily agenda we have file about shopkeeper X!
From an ancient chamber come out menials who bow to us like for kings, they are watching us clearly, us – new Sanhedrim - and put the tea on the table. Then they silently disappear, walking on the velvet carpets, into the labyrinth of tall rooms.
The candelabrum for two candles dimly lit. The light doesn’t have enough power to reach even quarter of the room. From the ceiling looms a girandole. In the town – darkness. Here is darkness too: the electric station disrupted.
The doctor Tagabat was lying on the wide settee on the distance from candelabrum, and I can see only his balding head with too high forehead. Behind him in the far distance in the dark is the faithful watchman with the malformed skull. I can see only his mad eyes, but I know: the degenerate has a low forehead, his black dig disheveled hair and flattened nose. He always seems to me lag and I think that he should have been standing in the Department of Criminal Chronicles many times.
Andryusha is sitting to my right, absent-minded and sometimes glancing at the doctor. I know why.
Andryusha, my poor soul Andryusha has been stationed here by the heartless revolution committee, against his own will. And Andryusha, this unhappy communard, when he has to sign the dark conclusion “to kill”, always takes his time, always signs like this: he doesn’t write his own name and surname on the document, but he draws something incomprehensible, something spun like a Chinese hieroglyph.
I:
