***
Next day I went down to the city. Despite the early
hours it was very hot. The bay beneath me was still
covered with the morning fog.
Yesterday's story stuck in my mind, yet I was thinking
about it in a more relaxed way, without the grim
impression which had been left upon me by the midnight
tale.
``My host is simply nuts,`` I told myself. ``And a
wine-bibber as well. He made this scary story up to
have a reason to throw down some tipple. Perhaps he's
ashamed to get plastered all by himself in front of a
stranger. He probably says the same story to all his
tenants, a perfect trick. On the other hand, who did I
meet yesterday? They really were odd.``
Something rustled in the air. Smack! A ripe apricot
fell next to me and rolled down along the road. The
day promised to be good.
I just wandered around for a few hours, looking for
the most famous places of the city.
One of them, for sure, was a bar on the sea front
named Azure. The sign showed the silhouette of a
submarine on the background of the rising moon.
I got confused, does it mean the old man told the real
story? What if some mystery is hidden deep in the bay
that peacefully splashes its waves next to my feet?
***
That afternoon I spent uphill, to the fortress, with
my easel, and with the evening twilight I hurried back
home.
"Wanna wine?" was the first thing Sergey Petrovich
asked me. I shrugged.
"You have not tasted the REAL wine yet!" he urged
emotionally, seeing me hesitate. "It was just "alley
juice", but if you would like to check out my cellar!"
He led my to the basement.
The cellar was very roomy, and had tall shelves with
bottles, flasks and jugs.
"Here!" excitedly rattled my host. "Any that you want!
As many as you wish! May I recommend this..." He
rubbed the dust-stained surface of a bottle.
"Cabernet," he explained. "Nineteen-Eighty-Two.
Special, for guests only. Even I, a master, drink
it... not very often."
We returned to the verandah.
"How's your vacation going?" asked the old man,
pouring the wine. Did you swim in the sea? If you
would like to, better go to the open part, behind the
cape, not in the bay. The water in the bay is turbid.
By the way." A glum wrinkle pleated the skin on his
forehead. "Nothing strange has happened to you today?"
"No. Why?"
"I mean after yesterday's event... Anything could
happen... Not for the first time. Take Fedor for an
example. Nobody can explain exactly what happened to
him, but I overheard something..." He gulped his wine,
and stared toward the bay.
"Fedor, nicknamed Red Hook, comes from a family of
pirates. Simply a bandit. Was imprisoned for a few
times for heists. His mother was a jailbird as well.
His grandfathers were local bandits. He got his
nickname as he had ho left hand, but an iron hook.
People say he lost his hand by a boozy bet, playing
cards, when he was a youth. After that he became even
worse. When he was dry, he wasn't too bad, but when
loaded - it would have been better not to meet him.
Pie-eyed, he bullied everybody he met. And all the
time he would have tried to get his foe's face with
his rusty hook.
"So, about fifteen years ago something happened to
him. Something related with Azure. He ridded
chug-a-lugging off, and now he's living in the
monastery, here behind the citadel. Reads a lot, walks
nowhere. Nobody knows what happened to him. Gossip
says - something terrible. Like, he saw this submarine
next to him... I'm an old man, I have seen a lot, I
can say for sure - it would be a very tough event to
change one's personality.
"It's a fact. But he was lucky. He's alive. Not like
the others."
The old man stopped, and in the silence of the night
it would be possible to hear the chirp of the
crickets. A distant clank sounded from the bay.
"In our city, in the seventies, there was a man, name
Zaigralin. Did you see a square downtown?" suddenly
asked my host.
"Of course, Zaigralin square. 'He died a heroic
death...'"
"Oh, yeah. That Zaigralin was the First Secretary of
the City Committee of the Communist Party. And he was
a real bastard. He harassed girls, and if any
complained, he sent that person to the KGB. He had
relatives in the Kremlin, close to Brezhnev's workers.
Every summer they came here for fun.
"One night they got loaded as usual, and went for a
cruise across the bay. They got a boat, vodka and
music, and some hoochies. The vessel was great, a
motorboat, very speedy. They flew through the
darkness, shooting colorful rockets. Because of the
nighttime, the lights were visible from far away. But
suddenly - oops! The lights disappeared at once. And
the music stopped.
"About a half an hour later the militaries realized
that something bad happened. They sent a patrol ship
with a searchlight. Only pieces of the boat were found
floating. Like a bomb had exploded. No bodies was
around. They found only one doll, stark naked, and
drunk as a skunk. She said the boat was bashed with a
submarine that was surfacing. It had no lights and
they saw it just before the crash. Sure the boat had
been shredded.
"During the next week they were picking up remains.
The KGB started an investigation.
The boat was inspected, and the examination confirmed,
yes, it was a collision.
But with what? All the ships were in their places. No
outside vessel could have come into the bay. The mouth
is under control, and it had an anti-submarine net.
The depth in the place of the crash is forty meters.
"Then the hunt had began. They told the residents that
it was a military training event, but everybody knew
they were after Azure for sure. They trailed the bay
with nets. They used the newest searching equipment.
After a few days a helicopter was hanging in the air
above the water, looking for something. It finished
with nothing. And everybody who had known of this
story was gone. Most of them moved somewhere. Perhaps,
the KGB did it to avoid the gossips.
"I know this story from my known warrant officer. He
gave an oath where he promised not to tell anyone
about it, but my hooch freed his tongue... Well, let's
go to sleep. And... Be careful, just in case." he
added and left, clinging to the wall.
From far away, in the murkiness, a ship siren sounded,
and again - this muffed clank.
***
In the morning, I took my artist stuff and went to the
fortress. But today it wasn't that place that was on
my mind. I skirted it on the edge of the cliff and
went farther, following a twisting path.
Soon, as I expected, I reached the local monastery. It
was a small church, built straight onto the vertical
hillside. That part of the slope was speckled with
many big and small windows and openings. The cells and
rooms had been built inside the rock of the mountain,
and, I guessed, were connected with each other with an
inner system of steps and corridors.
Next to the church a tall lean man was brooming the
walkway.
"Hello," I said.
The monk lifted his head and was still, waiting.
"I'm sorry, I heard a man lives here... He has no left
hand, and his name, perhaps is Fedor."
"Yes, he's here," confirmed the cenobite.
"Could I talk to him?"
The monk shook his head. "He won't talk to anyone. He
doesn't need it. He talks to God."
"Well, could you tell him? You know, I'm an artist..."
"Ah, an artist!" the cenobite replied, gladdened. "Why
you didn't say so?"
He left his broom, and disappeared into the church,
and I stayed, waiting outside, having a slight
suspicion, that it was some misinterpretation.
The door of the church opened, and a man, tall and
broad shouldered came out. About forty-five-fifty
years old, he was wearing a cassock.
The low part of his face was hidden with long thick
beard, and his long, touched with gray, loosened hair,
down past his collar, was tossed back.
His features were big and roughish, but his expression
impressed me the most. Awfully deep, his look seemed
targeted into eternity. He had no left hand.
"Where is Vasily?" he asked, looking through me, as if
I was transparent.
"I beg your pardon..."
"Where is Vasily?" repeated the monk. "He promised to
bring me new paintbrushes from Simferopol City." No
muscle stirred on his face. His voice sounded
indifferent, and his look was fixed on something far
away behind me.
He waited for a while, then started to turn to leave.
"Wait!" I recovered my wits. "You misunderstood. I'm
an artist, I'm here only for three days. Here, take a
look."
I don't know why, but I showed him my drafts of the
fortress. Suddenly the monk relented, and even browsed
the papers.
"Not bad," he said finally. "I'm an artist myself, but
I'm painting icons. I thought it was Vasily. He
promised me new paintbrushes. Mine are very tattered.
Well, if you've already dragged me outside, let's take
a seat here, on the bench. What business do you have
with me?"
The bench was a wide stone lawn seat, built straight
in the rock of the mountain. A pellucid creek flowed
from the hillside into a little pond. Above, on the
wall, one could see an ancient relief picture, showing
Saint George. A small palm was on the edge of the
pond.
"I'm very sorry," I started again, when we were
seated. "I'm a tourist, and I'm very interested in
your story. Maybe you don't want to talk about it, but
I promise, tomorrow I'll be gone, and nobody will know
a thing."
"You're funny," said the monk softly. "HE sees
everything, nothing can be hidden from HIM. Well, what
do you want to know?"
"I'd like to know, what is connection between you and
Azure? What happened fifteen years ago?"
"Fifteen years ago..." It seemed that the cenobite
tried to recall something. "Fifteen years ago Fedor
Red Hood died."
"Died?" I was horrified.
"Yes," confirmed the monk calmly. "He died. I was
born."
"Ah." I understood. "So, what happened to Fedor?"
"I can't be responsible for others."
I sighed.
"Sorry that I disturbed you then. I won't hold you.
What a shame though. Two days ago I met a navy officer
with a group of a privates..."
"An officer with a beard?" The monks came back to
reality.
"With a beard."
"With a cigar?"
"Yes!"
"Yes indeed, lad, you have a crystal soul if you're
alive since that event." Suddenly his expression
changed. His look became bright and thoughtful, and
the voice sounded different. "In that time I was
living on Rocky Street. It counts as most dangerous
place of the city. It placed the way that it is the
shortcut from the citadel to the city. The local
outlaws use this advance. In the summertime a lot of
tourists are here. Many of them go to see the citadel,
and go back when it's dark. Well, I was doing that
also. I often was after the walkers to rib them up.
Was canned a few times for that.
"In that night I was boozed as usual. I heard someone
walk toward me. I saw a group of navies. An officer
and privates, about five or six men. The officer with
a beard, smoked a cigar. I don't remember the others.
"Cock-eyed, I started to call them names. 'You
ninety-day wonders!' I said. You're gobs, eh? You're
not sailors, you're geese! I'm an old salt as are all
my forefathers, but who are you? You sprogs, have no
idea what the sea is! And stuff like that...
"The officer stopped and said to me very politely:
'You don't know us, sir, why are you profaning us?
Would you like to go with us to our ship? If you're
not afraid of course.' He was so polite; he even
called me 'sir'! Yes, I said. I wanna go! I'm afraid
of nothing!
"We went to the bay. There is a very old dock. So old
that no one uses it anymore. Too dangerous. The boards
are rotten, many of them are missed. But we walked to
this landing pier. And I saw a submarine. Well, I
faltered. I even sobered up for a while. I knew the
story about Azure since I was a kid. I felt uneasy.
Night, the abandoned dock, my odd escorts... I
thought, well, men, if you are going to trick me
somehow, I'll get you all, be sure.
"They led me straight onto the landing pier. The
boards under my feet were shaking and trembling, the
dark water was glistening. The officer was very
gallant; he took out a flashlight to show me the way.
And he was marching with a slight smile, without
watching his steps, like on parade. And the privates
were not afoot but flying.
"We went to the end and I saw the name of the
submarine. Azure. A ladder with tarpaulin handrails
connected the vessel and the moorage.
"I grabbed the tarpaulin unable make a step. My legs
became weak with fear. They gently pushed me forward,
well, go, mate!
"I stepped to the deck... Seaweed and seashells
covered it. It seemed like a carpet, and I feel crabs
running under my feet.
"I saw - the land start getting farther as the
submarine cast off. My escorts led me to a deck-cabin.
And the officer told me: 'Go in, mate. We'll go down.'
I looked inside the hatch. It was dark as a grave, no
lights, and smelt like seaweed. I glanced back. The
officer was not smiling anymore. He tossed his cigar
aside and put his white deadly cold hand on my
shoulder...
"I don't remember how I jumped into the water and
headed to the shore. During my swim I swore if I
survive, I'll start a new life. I'll get a job, I'll
finish my education. I'll get baptised for sure, I'll
go to church. When I reached land, I died."
The monk fell silent. Again his expression changed.
His appearance sharpened, and the look became out
wordly again.
"Go in peace, young man. God bless you," he pronounced
in a monotonic voice. "You shall not be afraid." He
stood up and moving majestically went to the church
not looking back.
***
For a long time I sat on the bench, then very slowly I
walked back.
Somehow I went to the fortress, and up onto the
battlement of the Genoa tower.
Standing in a merlon, I was looking thoughtfully at
the abyss underneath.
Something was going on in my soul. Perhaps something
inside me the same as that monk, has died, and
something was born. Something timeless and wise like
these ancient stones.
***
Sergey Petrovich met me at home.
"Wanna wine? My God! What has happened to you? I told
you!"
"What?" I asked indifferently.
"You look strange."
I shrugged, and went to my room.
"Well, what about wine?" my old host called me.
"No, thanks. I'm tired"
***
Next day I left N-City.
I could finish here, but!
A few days later a happening related to this story
took place.
I printed the film with photos of my voyage. I made
big color pictures.
One of them shows the bay, spotted with black and
green. The black spots - seaweed, green - the sand of
the seabed.
And on one of these green spots it is possible to see
a lancet silhouette of a submarine.
Maybe you are surprised, but I was not.



(C) *** JES 1999 *** Yuri Shymanovsky
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