Тающая Печать

1. ◀ ДЛЯ ЧТЕНИЯ НА РУССКОМ ПРИ ОБНОВЛЕНИИ БРАУЗЕРА (F5) ВЫБЕРИТЕ "RUSSIAN" ▶

The auction is in full swing. Two pink vases of the Guan dynasty have already gone under the hammer at a price that surprised not only the auction participants, but also its organizers, the lucky winner of the bronze statuette, andre Lacombe, cast by himself, tried to quietly erase a tear that suddenly came with happiness when the auctioneer invited all investors in the hall to prepare for the battle to decorate the auction - the work, made with acrylic paints by Magimel Laramie, who left this world early.
But all this was just a prologue. The audience held their breath when the auctioneer, a white-haired man whose voice had generated millions in sales over a thirty-year career, stepped forward to announce the night's premier lot.
«Ladies and gentlemen», — the voice of the auction host easily echoed over the quiet hall, — «lot number forty-seven. The subject you've all been waiting for».
The silence that came was so complete that it seemed to absorb the sound itself. Even the usual rustling of programs and the creaking of chairs have completely stopped. It was a moment that attracted collectors from three continents, the reason why private jets descended on the city like metal birds of prey.
The canvas under Mazimel Laramie's latest painting appeared from behind the crimson velvet curtains as a revelation. Painted with bright acrylic paints that seemed to pulsate with their own inner light, it depicted a scene teetering on the line between sleep and nightmare. Laramie completed it a few days before his mysterious death, and it was rumored that it contained secrets far beyond mere artistic technique. The surface of the painting reflected the light of the auction house and returned it transformed, as if the pigments themselves were alive.
Two of the world's most prestigious museums entered the bidding with confidence, their representatives armed with acquisition budgets that could be financed by small countries. But when the numbers rose above the stratosphere and reached the level of the impossible, they withdrew from the auction with dignity, leaving the field to the two final contenders.
The first was an inconspicuous man who seemed lost from another century. Old and wrinkled, he sat hunched over in his chair like a question mark incarnate. Opaque black glasses hid the top half of his face, making his expression completely unreadable. His hands, twisted and stained with old age, lay motionless on a cane. But there was something about his stillness that resembled a compressed force, like a snake preparing to strike.
His opponent could not be more different from him. She was the embodiment of youth and beauty, barely past the twenty-year mark, with radiant skin and perfect facial features that spoke of excellent genetics and even better cosmetic work. Every detail of her appearance — from diamond earrings that caught the light like locked stars to a silk dress that probably cost more than most people's annual salaries, — with the subtlety of a brass band, announced her husband's wealth. She married a rich man just two months ago, but has already developed a taste for spending money on beautiful things that will increase in price and decorate her many homes.
A passionate struggle is now being waged between two, apparently the richest investors - an inconspicuous, withered old man, half of whose face was covered with impenetrably black glasses, and a bright person who had barely parted with her girlhood, the size of the condition of which could be guessed without much difficulty.
The auction house was buzzing with the electrical energy of serious money changing hands. Crystal chandeliers cast a prismatic light on the assembled crowd, whose faces were masks of calculated indifference, hiding a fierce thirst. The air itself seemed to flicker with greed and ambition, so thick that they could be felt on the tongue like copper coins.
Two pink vases from the Guan dynasty have just been sold at a price that has caused a wave of surprise even among the most sophisticated collectors. The hammer dropped three times higher than the estimate, and the auction house employees, hiding their professional composure, exchanged surprised glances. In the third row, the proud new owner of the bronze statuette of Andre Lacombe — the work he had been looking for for fifteen years — quietly wiped his eyes with a scarf with a monogram. This sculpture was the completion of his collection, the last piece of mosaic that took decades of his life.
But all this was just a prologue. The audience held their breath when the auctioneer, a white-haired man whose voice had generated millions in sales over a thirty-year career, stepped forward to announce the night's premier lot.
«Ladies and gentlemen», — his voice echoed without difficulty through the fading chamber, — «lot number forty-seven. The subject you've all been waiting for».
The silence that came was so complete that it seemed to absorb the sound itself. Even the usual rustling of programs and the creaking of chairs have completely stopped. It was a moment that attracted collectors from three continents, the reason why private jets descended on the city like metal birds of prey.
The canvas under Mazimel Laramie's latest painting appeared from behind the crimson velvet curtains, like a revelation. Painted with bright acrylic paints that seemed to pulsate with their own inner light, it depicted a scene teetering on the line between sleep and nightmare. Laramie completed it a few days before his mysterious death, and it was rumored that it contained secrets far beyond mere artistic technique. The surface of the painting reflected the light of the auction house and returned it transformed, as if the pigments themselves were alive.
Two of the world's most prestigious museums entered the bidding with confidence, their representatives armed with acquisition budgets that could be financed by small countries. But when the numbers rose above the stratosphere and reached the level of the impossible, they withdrew from the auction with dignity, leaving the field to the two final contenders.
The first was an inconspicuous man who seemed lost from another century. Old and wrinkled, he sat hunched over in his chair like a question mark incarnate. Opaque black glasses hid the top half of his face, making his expression completely unreadable. His hands, twisted and stained with old age, lay motionless on a cane. But there was something about his stillness that resembled a compressed force, like a snake preparing to strike.
His opponent could not be more different from him. She was the embodiment of youth and beauty, barely past the twenty-year mark, with radiant skin and perfect facial features that spoke of excellent genetics and even better cosmetic work. Every detail of her appearance — from diamond earrings that caught the light like locked stars to a silk dress that probably cost more than most people's annual salaries, — with the subtlety of a brass band, announced her husband's wealth. She married a rich man just two months ago, but has already developed a taste for spending money on beautiful things that will increase in price and decorate her many homes.
Ruth Sutton observed the development of this drama while standing under a tall statue of Leanne Gallant. The sculpture was moved permanently from the main stage of the auction house to this corner of the hall, as it was considered too important to be sold. It often served as an ideal shelter for auction participants, who, for various reasons, preferred to remain unnoticed by both the auction host and its active participants.
Ruth's face was hidden behind a mask of soft silk, chosen, as it might seem to an idle observer, in exact accordance with the latest fashion, but in fact serving a much more practical purpose. Ruth was not here as a participant in this exquisite world of legal art collecting. The rest of the auction participants — wealthy investors seeking to invest their money in items that will inevitably increase in price over time — were strikingly different from it.
There is no doubt that Ruth would prefer to become the owner of a painting by Laramie. The purchase and subsequent sale of such value guaranteed a comfortable old age, and in its most luxurious version - old age, which Ruth occasionally allowed herself to dream of on long sleepless nights. But the amount she would have to pay in this case was as unattainable for her as the closest of the stars. At least if we are talking about the amount earned by legally permitted means.
Only Ruth Sutton was born under a different star, and a completely different muse, in order to euthanize a naughty baby, whispered completely different songs in her ear than those that mothers sang, those who wished their children all sorts of good things. From a young age, Ruth drew inspiration from space for possibilities to which the law was not able to give an unambiguous answer when assessing the actions of the defendant, and the capabilities of this hunter for other people’s savings most often went beyond what was permitted in a law-abiding society.
The family legend, not without pride, insisted on the presence of Viking raiders in the winding branches of her family tree. And Ruth was not at all mistaken about this: she understood that, in fact, these were criminals despised in polite society.
Her childhood was in a state orphanage, where she learned that the easiest way to divide the world into two unequal parts - into predators and their prey. Of the two types of attachment - to her child and to everything else, her parents were more willing to plunge into the impenetrable fog that synthetic drugs controlled. The overdose, which sooner or later was bound to occur, in fact, once hit the participants of spending time together, and became a tragedy and liberation for both of them, at the same time.
The orphanage was a crucible that burned out all sorts of traces of sentimentality and scrupulousness associated with morality from the generally evil girl. Roof came out of the experience with the emotional range of a ruthless tiger shark and a corresponding instinct for self-preservation for survival. Quite soon she lost the luxury of experiencing, from time to time, remorse.
These qualities made it extremely valuable for a certain circle of shadow business clients who prefer to rake in the heat with the wrong hands. Black market traders specializing in the acquisition of works of art with a complex history — those immortal creations that all museums and private collectors wanted without the slightest exception, but they were unable to obtain valuables through legal channels through legal means — they generously paid Ruth for her special talents. For them, it was a bridge between desire and possession, capable, for a good reward, of doing the impossible.
The bidding lasted much longer than anyone could have imagined. What was supposed to end with a brief crescendo became a half-hour marathon with ever-increasing numbers. The competition was reduced to a pure competition in financial endurance, a battle between two bank accounts.
Strangely, the half-dead old man, as it might seem from the outside, gained more and more confidence as the stakes grew. His movements even gained some sweeping majesty as he raised his wand - Ruth paid special attention to this - with a golden knob after each increase in price with the mechanical precision of a metronome. In contrast, his young rival trembled more and more with excitement and excitement. To everyone present that she was one of the biggest losers because she was a player is the biggest sin in using the auction as a market for investment. Her cheeks turned red, her hands trembled slightly, and she fidgeted in her chair, increasingly resembling a racehorse on the finishing semicircle.
Ruth noted with cold professional interest that this diva sincerely enjoyed the waste of money earned by her unfortunate, not yet bankrupt husband due to his wife’s inability to take a break to save more, what to lose.
Ruth put her simple canvas backpack under the seat and finally sat down on the nearest empty seat. She lowered her hand under the seat without looking, and her fingers quickly felt the contents of the backpack without opening or looking into it. She packed it the night before with the methodical care of a surgeon preparing for a complex operation. The main compartment of the backpack was deliberately left empty. Thick wads of cash were supposed to fit there at the very end of the operation. In the side pockets lay everything necessary for the black craft to which Ruth devoted herself. These were objects that, if discovered by security, would inevitably raise the most inconvenient questions.
The hammer struck with irresistibility preceding the judge's final verdict. The winner of the auction was an old man who had become stronger during the auction, whose feelings were impossible to read behind the opaque glasses. Ruth suddenly felt something that people of any conscience called sympathy. As brave as he was, he could do nothing about senile fragility. Ruth suddenly imagined a wind unexpectedly bursting into the half-covered windows, which in her image easily lifted her dry and light body, like tissue paper, and took the old man with her.
The auction has come to an end. The most valuable of all the works of art sold today was sold at a record price. Servants of all stripes, looking out through the holes in the curtain that separated the auction hall from the back room, smiled sarcastically, impatiently waiting for the last participant in the auction to leave the hall to clean it up before leaving home. As for Ruth, her work day was just beginning.
She had no doubt about the route that the auction winner would choose on the way to the car left in the parking lot. She knew this route no worse than her own bedroom. The narrow lane behind the auction house was the shortest route to the nearest parking lot. It was a narrow alley, barely enough for two people to miss each other. Ruth had to follow the old man to the place above which, unlike the rest of the alley, the shadows of early night were gathering. This was due to the used street lamp lamp. Even one endowed with the impressive resolution «fisheye» of a nearby video camera would not be able to answer the question of what exactly happened in a few moments of strange fuss under a disconnected flashlight, the free view of which, moreover, was blocked by a garbage container so inappropriately left by a garbage truck in the most inappropriate place. Here, in a secluded shadow, Ruth stopped, merging with the wall of the alley behind the garbage container.
The old man appeared exactly according to Ruth's expectations. He moved not so much in stingy, but in economical movements with which all elderly people try to prolong their lives. In his hands he carried a cylindrical tube, which architects use to carry drawings. One could not guess what exactly the old man was carrying in his black tube. Of course, Laramie's canvas, neatly rolled up and most likely wrapped in durable tissue paper, which the auction staff offered him out of politeness, so as not to accidentally damage more than a dortog canvas during transportation.
When the old man caught up with Ruth hiding in the shadows, the woman with a backpack over her shoulders came out of the shadows. Her sneakers with springy soles stepped silently along the worn asphalt of the alley.
«Sorry», — Ruth said, and reaching out for the tube in his hand.
What happened next ruined all of Ruth's plans and caused her to seek an answer to the question of how well she knew the reality around her.
From under the old man's coat, with the smooth grace of a body that was never limited by the physical limits of human anatomy, a flexible tentacle burst out. Muscular, flexible, it threw a noose over the woman’s throat with predatory intelligence. This wiry, hand-replacing appendage was covered in what appeared to be scales. They changed color in the dim light cast by the nearby lantern and pulsated in their own rhythm.
Ruth's trained body responded to the attack with the speed of a memorized reflex. But many years of training in martial arts in this battle turned out to be insufficient. The tentacle clasped her neck with the force of a steel cable, and squeezed her with such force that it seemed to the woman that her cervical vertebrae were about to crack.
She opened her mouth to scream, but only a muffled vulture escaped from her throat.
The tentacle's grip gradually intensified, blocking its air access with surgical precision. Panic filled and subjugated Ruth's entire body. Her carefully trained professional composure collapsed in an instant.
Then the end of the process, which compressed her throat, touched the point at lightning speed, which was located two fingers thick from the woman’s collarbone. Ruth had no idea that there was a vulnerable spot on her body suitable for treacherous defeat. The pain exploded in the body at the speed of a hot electric discharge.
The world bent down and circles of flowers blazed in Ruth's eyes. The shabby walls of the alley began to swirl in front of her in the washouts of abstract patterns. Ruth's knees gave way and she felt herself falling on the ruthless asphalt.
When consciousness returned to her, Ruth discovered that she saw someone else's sky in front of her in the window oval. The stars twinkled against the background of too deep blackness, but among them there was nothing reminiscent of the constellations familiar to Ruth from Earth, familiar to her from childhood. The angles of the constellations seemed deliberately wrong to her, the colors impossible, and the very quality of light alien to the one to which she was accustomed.
Professional criminal Ruth Sutton, who hunts careless onlookers, realized that she is no longer on Earth. But there was something else that bothered her even more than this sudden discovery. Somewhere on the very edge of this impossible darkness, someone watched her with patient, albeit unearthly eyes.

◀CONTINUED PUBLISHED ON FRIDAYS ▶