"Alexander Abramov, Sergei Abramov. Journey Across Three Worlds (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

terrifying, could be made on the subject. But what was I to do while I was
on this free trip into the unknown? I wouldn't be let into a hotel. Where
could I spend the night, if my sojourn was a long one? Perhaps at home, or
with friends - after all, the owner of the suit must live somewhere, and he
probably had friends. The cream of the joke would be if they turned out to
be my friends. What if the whole thing were a dream? I slapped the bench as
hard as I could - it hurt! So it wasn't a dream.
For a brief moment I thought I saw a face I knew. Sauntering past went
a broad-shouldered, brawny fellow carrying a cine-camera. I recognized the
tuft of hair falling over the forehead, the massive shoulders and iron neck.
Could it be my neighbour, Zhenka Evstafyev, from flat 5? But why did he have
a cine-camera? He had never snapped a picture with any kind of camera in his
life.
I jumped up and ran after him.
"Excuse me," I stopped him, staring at the familiar face. "Aren't you
Zhenka? ... Evgeny Grigoryevich?"
"I'm afraid you're mistaken."
I blinked my eyes in perplexity: the likeness was perfect. Even the
timbre of the voice matched.
"Well, am I like him?" laughed the stranger.
"It's amazing."
"It happens," and he shrugged and went his way, leaving me in a turmoil
of confusion.
It still seemed to me that all this was some kind of game, or a trick
of fate. In a moment Zhenka would come back and we should have a good laugh
over it. But he didn't.
Later, when I recalled this day, what came to mind first of all was the
feeling of perplexity and confusion. And one thing more - the unbearable
loneliness of being in a city where I'd known every stone from childhood,
yet which had wholly changed during a few seconds of dizziness. I gazed at
the faces of the passers-by in the vain hope of seeing one I knew. What for?
Probably he wouldn't have recognized me any more than Evstafyev had ...
besides, what could I say to anyone who did?
And exactly that happened.
"Sergei! Sergei Nikolaevich!" A medium-tall, grey-haired man hailed me.
He was wearing a suede zippered jacket. (I had never seen this man before.)
"Come here a minute."
I got up. My name really was Sergei, and even Sergei Nikolaevich.
"Just listen to the latest." He took me confidentially by the arm and
said softly: "Hang on to yourself. Sichuk stayed behind."
"What Sichuk?" I asked, surprised. "Mikhail?"
"Who else? We've only one Sichuk. All the worse for us."
I had known Mikhail Sichuk during the war at the front. Now he worked
either as a photographer or as a news cameraman. We weren't friendly, and
never got together.
"What do you mean - stayed behind?"
"What do I mean? He was touring Europe on the Ukraine. You get it,
don't you...?"
I didn't get it at all. But, sensing the circumstances, I acted
surprised.