Читать бесплатно онлайн книгу автора  Homer’s Golden Chain. Dreams of an alchemist

Sergey Solovyov

Contents

Any coincidence with real people is accidental, and was not part of the author’s plan.

Who is unhappy

Happy is always cruel, he

He pays for his past tears…

Euripides, “Iphigenia in Tauris”

Prologue

Nicholas was sitting at a desk on the top floor of a tower that had been built far from New York. It worked so well here, no one itched or interfered, it was quiet and calm. The waves of the ocean broke on the granite gouges of the breakwaters, everything was covered in darkness, and his light was burning, it seemed to illuminate this hill. On the wall of his chambers hung a clock, but not alone, but twenty-four, showing all the time zones of this big world.

In excitement, he wrote down in a notebook only those thoughts that came to him. He did not encrypt his ideas, this notebook served as a draft, a mirror of his restless brain. Everything that he could imagine was written there, so that later he could process this data and not forget anything. He studied microwaves, and most of the inventions were related to them. Nearby lay on the table and “The Golden Chain of Homer,” the great alchemical book.

— Maybe you were right, and gold synthesis is quite possible. Only a different approach is needed, — the great scientist said to himself, — microwave study may help here.

And again he began to write down his thoughts in a clean handwriting. He went to a coffee pot heated with alcohol. He looked at him for a long time, moved his fingers in the air, proving to himself an unconscious thought.

— What if my unit? — and looked at the newly made device, shiny with steel on his table.

Nikolai looked at the table of chemical elements of the Russian scientist Mendeleev, and whispered silently, putting his index finger on the name, which had the root name of the great Newtonian. This was the basis of his ideas, his confidence and research. Newtonia was the ubiquitous ether, that golden chain connecting everything in this huge world.

There was a deafening call in this oppressive silence, the phone rang, over and over.

— Niccolo at the apparatus… Yes, sir, all the energy generated by the substation will be needed… No, experience will not take much time, how can you?… I have never let you down… Well, I need just that much and no less!

Nikolai put down the phone, and began to look at the black night outside the window… Time dragged on very hard, and the scientist could no longer read or write. It was necessary to wait until 23—00, when he could get the necessary electricity. He rose from his chair and went to the table.

“I’ll make coffee now…

It was the day of June 29, 1908

Skinny Boy

The boy, painfully thin, lovingly turned the pages of an old book, Kuhn’s Myths of Ancient Greece, with his long thin fingers. He adored this rustle of paper, beautiful illustrations copied from antique vases with images of gods and heroes — incredibly beautiful and brave, simply amazing. Some things clung to him more than others — for example, the witch Medea and her magical compositions that give strength and health to sick people. Denis broke away from reading, and looked at the window of the room, in which his face was reflected, but it seemed to him that the sorceress from Colchis herself was looking at him with her big black eyes, grinding, running her huge nails through the glass.

He dreamed that, just like this woman, he would cook an extraordinary composition, and cure his mother of all her endless ailments. He himself was also not too healthy, which was the reason for the endless ridicule of evil peers. Denis’s greatest joy was reading, and chemical experiments, which he conducted secretly from his parent.

He looked at his watch, he had to go to the store and peel the potatoes for his mother’s arrival. The boy quickly gathered, went to the store next to at home, bought potatoes, and at home put Bush’s legs to stew, and polished potatoes, their usual food. Mom earned a little, not in Gazprom or Mosenergo worked, as they said in these offices — “They are not rubber, not enough for all places.”

Here, it seems, the pan with potatoes boiled. The boy salted, removed the foam, stirring the contents with a spoon. The long-awaited doorbell rang, Denis opened, and his mother, Anna Ivanovna, came in. The woman smiled, kissed her son on the cheek.

“There are cakes in the bag. Carry it to the kitchen.

— Great. Potatoes are ready, chicken too, — the son warned his mother.

— Thanks. Sit down, now I’ll wash my hands and change my clothes.

They ate their unwise dinner at the table, brightened with mustard and ketchup. The cakes brought by my mother were really great. Denis finished his share, mom smiled, seeing a joyful son.

— Well, how many fives did you bring?

— One.

“What about twos?”

— No, only three in mathematics.

“Try hard. Should I help you?

— No, everything is done. The lessons are uncomplicated.

“I’ll go lie down a little,” said Anna Ivanovna.

At school, everything was really funny, so much so that the director was going to call Denis’s mother to school.

***

Denis’s relationship with classmates did not work out, he was weak, quickly tired on the physical, especially his skis, choked. I didn’t like to fight either. Then at school another round went — spitting each other with chewed paper from tubes. A number of subjects, especially music, suffered from this, but it is clear that physics and mathematics were higher than these brawls, so that teachers kept hooligans in line. Denis dodged spitting, so successfully that Filev’s chewed paper fell into the forehead of the class strongman Adosin Mikhi. Mikha expressively waved an impressive fist to Filyov and Shiryaev, hinting at an early reprisal. They just shrugged, expressing their complete misunderstanding of what had happened. But Kirill Filev repeated the same gestures towards Denis, smiling nasty.

The next was a physical education lesson, and Kudrevatov had a leak in his stomach, he imagined that he would still start restless and evil, like a ferret, Filev. The bell rang, the change ended quickly, and the bell rang at the physical. Denis dressed quickly, and one of the first flew into the gym. First there was a run in a circle, then pull-ups, then high jumps with scissors. Others jumped twenty meters high, even thirty meters. He could not jump to the top three. He saw him being laughed at and so did the girls. Is it a shame? Yes, I don’t give a damn. Everything was very familiar.

The boys, galling, fell into the locker room, changing into biology. Filev, still walking around the locker room, in some shorts, and picturesquely strained his biceps, now on his left hand, now on his right. There was a broken chair in the corner. Cyril, not thinking much, not for the first time, grabbed Denis’s panties, intending to pull him off, and push him into the corridor to laugh at the weakling. Sports shorts made of artificial silk were strong, and only therefore did not succumb to such pressure. Filyov’s company laughed, Shiryaev gave, as it seemed to him, reasonable advice. Kudrevatov pulled back Filyov’s hands and shouted:

— Enough, not funny!

— Nothing is enough… And it will be funny later! Kirill said, and tried to pull off his clothes from Kudrevatov.

As if darkness rolled over Denis’s eyes, and he, grabbing a broken chair, hit the offender on the head, so much so that he broke the chair and only a strong leg remained in his hand. He beat again and again, and then, grabbed the lying leg, and threw it down the stairs, so that the body turned over, it remained to fall on the landing of the flight of stairs below. And here, too, no one was going to help or interfere, only the girls screamed piercingly. Denis’s thumb was knocked into the blood, and beautiful new shorts were stained with Filyov’s blood.

Finally, a sportsman and a Trudovik came running, surveying the battlefield. They picked up Cyril and carried him to the doctor’s office. The head teacher and the headmaster hurried to the scene, but tried not to switch from a quick step to running, so as not to dust their authority. The clock on the wall ticked piercingly, as if measuring the remaining time, it was so quiet here. But the teachers’ faces were whiter than white and their hands were shaking.

— Kudrevatov. To the director’s office. Fast.

— Well,” the boy agreed.

Denis did not even add always — “What?,” Roughly understood the consequences. The boy collected his briefcase quickly, although he caught a strong tremor. The shift did not immediately get inside the portfolio, but only the fourth time. Also, with difficulty, he put on pants and a shirt.

— Okay. We have to go, “he said to himself. And he swam, and sat on a stool, waiting for a call to the office.

The briefcase lay on his lap, like an exemplary student, and he reflexively adjusted the cuffs of the sleeves and collar, buttons on the jacket.

— Kudrevatov, come in, — the secretary called.

He entered the office, where the head teacher and the director were sitting at the table, in front of them lay sheets of paper and pens.

— Well, Denis, tell me, why brutally beat Filyov Kirill?

The boy shifted his eyes from one woman to another, and began to understand that they wanted to make him guilty.

No one cares that he was viciously mocked, no one was going to interfere, but a terribly beaten schoolboy and his rich parents are something else. Okay…

— He wanted to rape me,’ Kudrevatov said harshly, raising his lowered eyes, ‘and this I demand to include in the protocol my testimony in the case.

The eyes of the headmistress and the head teacher became like tea saucers, only the golden border was not enough.

— No, Denis may have had an inappropriate joke… — the head teacher began.

— Well, yes, he wanted to pull off my panties and grab my penis. Perhaps it seemed funny to him. An inspector from the police nursery would make that laugh too, I suppose. The lawyers will decide the matter, and they will not forget themselves. And you shouldn’t hang dogs on me. I, as I understand it, Filyov’s parents want to demand that we pay our vile son? Let the police be called then. If they don’t pay me, I will report their son for attempted rape, and you, Mr. Director, will not be an ice either.

— It’s not very good, Denis…

— That’s right, it’s not good to pull off panties from others… — the boy remarked quietly.

The door opened and a well-dressed lady, Kirill’s mother, came in.

— Hello, Denis. Cyril is now nauseous, his nose is broken, his arm is dislocated, his knee is knocked out. I have to call your mother.

— Call, — the boy agreed, — and do not forget that then your son will meet with the juvenile affairs inspector, and what he decides there… You probably heard everything… I would propose to resolve the case by agreement of the parties.

— You’re smart beyond your years…

— Where to go… Poor man, from a poor family…

Denis sat and dozed in the chair, waiting for the lawyer. The chair was well-known — soft and deep, unusually comfortable. Finally, the matter was resolved. An attorney arrived, with a thick leather folder, and a great sense of self-importance on a well-fed face. The witch was right, the guardian of the law was very solid in appearance, and not just painfully thick. He snot and sighed and gasped and gasped. listening to what had happened, and everything threw cunning eyes of a pig’s eye at the boy.

Finally, he began to draw up documents, sticking his tongue out from diligence to work. Here are two papers and were ready. Denis, with a ruler in his hand, as he saw in the movies, read everything to the letter, did not miss a comma, and was satisfied. Filyov’s mother, Klavdia Matveevna, was also sitting nearby, she also read papers.

— Well, what? Everyone agrees?

— Yes, — Klavdia Matveevna nodded her head.

“Perhaps,” the head teacher agreed.

“Okay,” Denis agreed.

Filyov’s mother moved the envelope to the boy, he raised his eyebrows, looking at the money.

— It will be better, it’s yours, — added Klavdia Matveevna, — but everything will remain secret.

***

It was night over the Atlantic coast. The place chosen by Captain Schulze was excellent — deserted, without blinding lights of searchlights, and snooping with their rays on the ocean waves. Even the little fishing boat guarding this slice of land from Hitler’s malevolent agents hid in a cove where old sailors warmed themselves with sips of Kentucky whiskey. Henry looked ashore through the eyepieces of his battered Zeiss, examining the landing site.

A team of top sailors also stood nearby. They were five dozen guys dressed up in great American clothes, bought in Cuba for fake dollars. The faces are unshaven, but not overgrown, trimmed and even washed with the last water from their submarine. Nothing should have influenced the success of the ope