"Kaminsky, Stuart M. - Rostinov - A Fine Red Rain" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kaminsky Stuart M)

"At the moment." Rostnikov sighed. "But I will probably begin to grow impatient and have to call in a truck and ladder."

"If you do," the man announced, "I will simply fly from here." With this he let go with both hands, and Rostnikov leaped forward awkwardly to try to anticipate and possibly break his fall. But the man didn't fall. He clung to the neck of the statue with his feet, leaned backward, and then sat up, arms out, dripping with rain, as the crowd applauded.

Rostnikov turned, found Korostyava, and beckoned for him to come forward. The young officer came at a run, his black boots splashing in puddles.

"You and the others clear the area, break up the crowd," he whispered. "This man is playing to them. He might even jump."

Korostyava nodded, turned, and hurried toward his fellow officers to begin clearing the street if they could.

"What's your name, Comrade?" Rostnikov called up to the man, who watched as the police started to disperse the crowd behind Rostnikov.

"What? My name? Duznetzov, Valerian Duznetzov."

"Duznetzov, what do you do when you are not tying up traffic and whispering to statues?"

"I told you," Duznetzov said. "I fly. I leap. I fly. I bend. I spring. And sometimes, when I can, I drink. Gogol is not answering. You are not helping. It is time for me to fly."

The man began to rise. Keeping his balance with one hand, and in spite of a definite drunken swaying, he managed to stand on the shoulders of the statue. A good wind would send him tumbling backward. In the street a bus or car driver hit a horn, though it was prohibited by law inside the city. Duznetzov touched his forehead in salute to the warning horn and looked down at Rostnikov. The rain had begun to fall harder, sending a chill through Rostnikov, a familiar ache through his leg.

"Why are you doing this, Duznetzov?" Rostnikov asked.

"Because I can neither go nor stay. It's very simple. They give me no choice. They never did."

"They?" shouted Rostnikov. "Who are they?"

"One is the man who sees thunder." Duznetzov laughed as he spoke into the falling rain. "My body can fly but my soul is weak. I shall miss vodka and ice cream, Rostnikov. It would be better if the sun were out. I think I could like you."

"Perhaps we could be friends?" Rostnikov suggested.

"Too late," said Duznetzov with a shrug. "I should have shaved."

Rostnikov was never sure whether it was a gust of wind or a determined leap that sent Duznetzov into a midair somersault off Gogol. Screams cut through the rain behind Rostnikov, who hurled himself forward in a useless attempt to get below Duznetzov, to possibly catch him, cushion his fall. Even with two good legs, Rostnikov knew, he could never have made it, but he tried and almost instantly wished he had not. He splashed behind the statue just in time to witness the leaping man land headfirst on the concrete walkway. Rostnikov stopped, closed his eyes. But he closed them too late. He added the image of Duznetzov's crushed skull to a mosaic of terrible memories from the war and years of dealing with victims and madmen.

There was no use now in hurrying to the body. He let the uniformed police run past him, heard their boots hit the walk as he stood forgetting the rain.

"Keep them back," he ordered, and two of the policemen halted. One, the young one who had been first on the scene, looked at the body and then turned and faced Rostnikov. His face was pale, his mouth open.

"Are you going to be sick?" Rostnikov asked softly so the other two officers couldn't hear.

"I don't know," Korostyava said. "I... he was just drunk."

"Go. Go take care of the crowd," Rostnikov said, and the young policeman began to walk slowly away from the scene without looking back. "And be sure to write your report and turn it in. Include everything that man said. Everything, even if it made no sense."

Korostyava's back was turned, but he nodded like a drunk about to drop into a stupor. >

"He's dead, Comrade Inspector," shouted one of the policemanan older, heavyset sergeantat the body.

"Thank you," answered Rostnikov.