"Олег Малахов. Inanity" - читать интересную книгу автора

лишь прикоснуться к своему взгляду и осталась той загадкой, разгадка которой
останется тайной. Может быть, ею была Патриция. Или у каждого художника есть
своя Мона Лиза. Или у каждой Моны Лизы есть свой Фабрис.

Выдержки из записной книжки, которую Он постоянно таскал с собой,
закончились, им не нашлось места в его книгах, но он делился своими записями
со мной, и многие из них я даже заучивала наизусть, проговаривала, чаще по
ночам, мучимая бессонницей или рассматривая звездное небо, отвлекаясь от
звучания радио и заоконных звуков.

I was a little school-girl living in romantic love sickness seeing
senior popular boys, talking to girl-friends discussing dates. I never could
think of meeting the one I met one day when the summer holidays were over
and I became a high-school-girl. It was in the internet club I used to hang
over in for hours writing letters to my boy-friend from Lithuania. I was a
little bit tired and had no money to stay on-line longer. At the very moment
I wanted to stand up he was standing hanging over me and asked me whether my
work was over and I was leaving the place. He repeated it once again as I
was not quite sure if I heard his words right and he noticed that. I saw a
face of that man I thought once in my life before and it seemed as I felt as
if it was quite common for me to see his eyes and answer his simple
questions. I told I was just going to leave and proposed him to take my
place. He behaved so as if he knew me for years and his manners were easy
and natural. I got slightly afraid of his attitude toward me. Nevertheless I
did not even think of stopping that unexpected acquaintance. There was some
oddity covering his personality and giving charm to any gesture and phrase.
Though at the same time its irregularity and rareness could frighten and I
really felt confused time after time. But could not stop letting him
swallowing me. We stayed in a cafГй for an hour. When I took a cigarette and
lit it he looked at me with a tiny smile of a slight irony. Generally he was
not happy with my smoking. He ordered a strawberry shake but later suggested
to drop in at the bar nearby to drink some posh beer as he said assuring
there was no better beer in the whole city. That offer and the way how he
made it were those essential details contributing to his mystique. Later on
very occasionally he could lose that mysterious way of behaviour and turn
into helpless and lost infant but I think the cause of those transformations
lied in the deepest essence of his being I could hardly decode. I remember
how he looked at me saying nothing. I got embarrassed and asked him to stop
looking at me that way but he just smiled and could tell me he just liked my
eyes and it was a great pleasure to see me confused. I got uptight but
realised that the man who was looking at me saying such things few minutes
ago was unknown to me and I still knew nothing of him to feel offended. I
even didn't know his name by the time he involved me in his own web.

Черепичные крыши. Шорохи улиц. Тротуары блестят дождем. Пропитываются
его серостью и спокойствием. Люди вооружились зонтиками. Банальными
желаниями не промокнуть. Кто-то же бежал под дождем с развивающимися
волосами, взлетая над лужами и забрызгивая одежду. Дождь торопил прохожих.
Пугал бездомных животных. Закрывал летние кафе. Он шел на встречу со мной
своей обычной стремительной походкой. Он улыбнулся, как мне показалось,