Read t Ustin's gravity full version. Earth gravity download fb2. Tatyana UstinovaEarth gravity

"Earth Gravity" is a detective novel by Tatyana Ustinova, which is read with great enthusiasm until the very end. It does not look like the usual novels of the writer, in which there is one main character. There are four main characters here. However, the language of the writer is recognizable by the atmosphere that she creates in the novel. There is not only a detective investigation here, but also interesting secrets and a love line.

A strange murder took place in the city of Tambov. At first, everyone thought that the director of the library just died of a heart attack, but it turned out not to be so. Four people from different parts of Russia receive special signs, by which they understand that they must go on a difficult task. A pilot from the group of the Ministry of Emergency Situations, a fashionable young artist from Moscow, an art critic and healer from Altai. Who brought them here and for what purpose? What can these different people have in common? What knowledge and talents do they have? What secret must be revealed? Who opposes them?

Four people appear before readers, each of whom has his own life. Each of them has its own past and hopes for a good future. Everyone has losses and experiences behind their backs. They have not only advantages and remarkable abilities, they also have disadvantages, their actions cannot always be justified. But maybe in this dangerous situation they will be able to find their salvation, not only by revealing secrets, but also by finding love and getting to know themselves better?

The work was published in 2017 by the Eksmo publishing house. The book is included in the series "Tatyana Ustinova. The first among the best." On our site you can download the book "Earth Gravity" in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format or read online. The rating of the book is 2.89 out of 5. Here, before reading, you can also refer to the reviews of readers who are already familiar with the book and find out their opinion. In the online store of our partner you can buy and read the book in paper form.

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- Higher, and higher, and higher we strive for the flight of our birds, and in each propeller the calmness of our borders breathes! ..

At the "borders" a bunch of keys fell out of the lock and rattled under the porch. The castle swayed on the shackle.

- What is it! .. - Svetlana Ivanovna, who had just cheerfully hummed "March of the Aviators" under her breath, marveled at the castle, leaned over the railing and began to rummage around with her eyes. There she is, a bunch of something! .. Look, you galloped far! ..

Svetlana Ivanovna descended from the porch - the boards creaked - picked up the keys, aimed at the lock, and only then realized that it was open! .. It turns out that the director was already in place, arrived before her, an unheard of thing! ..

... Let me, how - on the spot? If the lock is threaded into loops and dangles on one shackle? What is it, the director unlocked the door, he himself leaned somewhere, and left the whole library economy wide open? Did you cover only one bow?

Svetlana Ivanovna became agitated, hurried, the porch under her began to tremble. She unhooked the lock, put it in its usual place - on a carnation on the right side, - flung open the door. From the inside immediately pulled the smell of dust and old books.

- Pyotr Sergeevich, are you here? .. Or where?

Nobody responded.

The librarian somehow propped up the door sheathed in old leatherette with a flower pot of geraniums. The door was propped up in the fall with an old cast-iron iron, probably half a pood in weight, but in the spring with a pot of geraniums.

The trouble started right away. It was as if a paper river was flowing under Svetlana Ivanovna's feet. The librarian gasped and clutched a giant oilcloth bag to her chest.

The river consisted of newspapers and magazines, and all of them were crumpled, as if trampled, they covered the entire floor in the corridor, so that even the carpet path was not visible.

“Fathers, lights,” muttered Svetlana Ivanovna, and her chin trembled, and her breath hitched.

In the pocket of her bag, she found the medicine, squeezed out a tiny red ball and threw it under her tongue.

Stepping along the paper river, she cautiously looked into the "subscription" and closed her eyes in horror - here everything was upside down, all the books were pulled out, turned out, as if they had been beaten and raped. Shelves that look like skeletons without books are shifted from their place, even flower pots are overturned! ..

“Fathers,” repeated Svetlana Ivanovna, and she thought: it would be nice to faint now, but she didn’t know how to faint.

The body of a man lying on the floor behind a table with drawers pulled out and gutted did not seem so scary to her.

It should have lie there, and it lay.

“Pyotr Sergeyevich,” Svetlana Ivanovna called and leaned over the body. - Petya! .. What's the matter with you? Why are you lying here?

It was quite obvious that the director of the library would never be able to answer her, that this was not even the director, but what was left of him - an empty shell, no longer needed and not too much like the director and similar! ..

Svetlana Ivanovna made an awkward convulsive movement, and pens, a purse, a stupid mirror with a picture on the lid, eye drops, a vial of dark glass, a strip of plaster, and spare socks rolled into a nylon bundle fell onto her body from her giant bag.

She rushed to collect them, but everything continued to fall out of the bag, and when she accidentally touched Pyotr Sergeyevich's hand with a hot sweaty palm, it turned out that it was cold and hard.

"That's it," said Svetlana Ivanovna, and gropingly sat down on a chair. - That's all.

... A young, unceremonious paramedic arrived at the ambulance, who kept talking on the phone and only waved his hand to questions - don't you see, I'm busy, - but as soon as he looked at the body, he turned green all over and jumped out into the front garden, and Pyotr Sergeyevich was loaded onto a stretcher by bristly, hungover orderlies and carried awkwardly, clumsily.

- Quiet there, drop it! Svetlana Ivanovna shouted at the orderlies, and Galya sobbed.

“Yes, it doesn’t matter to him, mother,” one of the hangovers responded.

The district police officer Igorechek, whose only name was due to his youth, wandered confusedly through the sea of paper and muttered to himself that the authorities were about to drive up, and until they drive up, you can’t touch anything in the library. Runaway neighbors were talking and smoking under the windows - the Novikov-Priboy library was located in the "private sector", all around were gardens and in the depths of the gardens - wooden houses under iron roofs.

“And how he knew, how he knew,” repeated Svetlana Ivanovna. Tiny red balls - the medicine no longer helped, she was breathing heavily, intermittently, and it was as if a steam hammer was pounding in her chest - bang, bang. - After all, he told me how many times: if I die before you, do me a favor, call Moscow, tell them there ... He himself is from Moscow!

“Yes-ah-ah,” Galya pulled and sobbed.

- What, yes, well, yes, because he is a very young man! - Svetlana Ivanovna spoke through force. - Last year, the anniversary was celebrated, fifty years, is this really age! .. I laughed at him, it happened: you, Pet, you will catch a cold at my funeral!

- So he is not himself, Svetlanochka Ivanovna, he was ... killed, right? Was it killed?

The old librarian waved her hand at Galya.

An ambulance snorted in the yard, for some reason sounded a siren, Svetlana Ivanovna clutched her heart.

- Galya, look for a phone in your bag. It is necessary to call, since the deceased ordered. Lord, I can’t even pronounce it, Pyotr Sergeevich is ours - the deceased! Also glasses and a notebook. Look there, Galya ...

Glasses and a notebook were in a bag, and the phone lay on the floor under the table.

Svetlana Ivanovna put on her glasses, for a long time, not distinguishing anything in front of her, leafed through a little book - some pieces of paper fell out of it, Galya picked them all up and put them on her knee.

- Here you go. Written by Petya's hand. Notify Raisa Vasilievna Gorbukhina. And the phone, Moscow, must be. Four hundred ninety-five ahead - this is Moscow?

Galya shrugged.

Svetlana Ivanovna also took a long time to dial the number, and when a long buzzing sounded in the receiver, she straightened up with all her might and turned to stone.

- Raisa Vasilievna Gorbukhina? They are calling you from Tambov. We've had trouble. Pyotr Sergeevich ordered that in case of an accident, the first thing to do is inform you, so I inform you ...

The general hung up, sat motionless, and then, not knowing what to do with his hands, placed them on the back of his head.

The news was extremely unexpected and ... unpleasant. Something happened that could never happen, he knew from experience that it could not happen.

“It doesn’t happen,” the general said loudly and did not recognize his own voice in the room’s silence, “it doesn’t happen like that, but it’s like that.”

He knew exactly what to do, but all his life he was sure that he would never have to do this. The general was not afraid - he was almost never afraid of anything in his life - but in order to get down to business, he had to gather his courage, but so far he has not succeeded.

…What could happen there? Something went wrong?..

It was stupid and unprofessional to ask himself - he did not know any details, did not see anything with his own eyes and knew that he would not see - but he asked anyway.

…What could he be wrong about? What didn't you learn? What did you calculate wrong?

Pushing off, he gently rolled in his chair, rested his hands on the window sill and looked out into the street. The sky hung over Moscow, a black-bellied snow cloud fell, and it was difficult to breathe from its weight.

“I didn’t know it would turn out like this, Pet,” the general said, and again he didn’t recognize his own voice. - Yes, I'm not talking about me! Where were you looking? What could you miss?!

Then he realized that he must drink immediately, glanced briefly at his watch - it turned out that it was just nothing, eleven in the morning - walked to the sideboard, gurgled a lot, almost half of it into a heavy glass of whiskey, and drank it in two long gulps.

Nothing more could be done.

He returned to his desk, picked up the receiver, paused, and pressed the button.

"Get a group," he ordered. – The code is orange.

They didn't seem to hear it, because he had to repeat:

- Orange!

OK it's all over Now. Now nothing depends on him.

With a firm hand, he closed the sideboard door, put an empty glass on the table - then they would remove it, take it away, - he walked around the office, sat down in an armchair and began to look at Moscow. The wind was breaking through the windows, driving uneven trembling streams in different directions along the glass. In the rain, the city seemed huddled under wet iron roofs.

“Higher and higher and higher,” the general muttered under his breath, “we strive for the flight of our birds ...

In the morning, Khabarov quarreled to the fullest in the control room with Nechitailo himself, so much so that the long-eyed Tomka, who was serving as a secretary, an assistant, and a waiter, although she was listed as an employee of the border service, jumped out of her closet into the street in one tunic.

- Put on your overcoat! the duty officer yelled at her. - The cold of the dog and the wind is stormy! Where are you going!?

- There. - Breaking through the turnstile, Tomka pointed to the street with her chin. - I'm human too! I don't want to listen to their color music anymore!

The attendant followed her with his eyes.

Outside, the wind blew so hard that the girl staggered and grabbed the handrail with both hands. Long black hair, which was proud and admired by the entire Civil Air Fleet and the military at the same time, rose by itself and stood on end. The tunic, fastened with one button, fluttered open, fluttered, puffed up, it was almost torn off.

- From a crazy woman!

The attendant got out from behind the table, pushed open the door with an effort, and, almost falling into the wind, dragged Tomka into the glass porch.

She choked and widened her wild eyes.

- You are the first day in Anadyr, or what, I don’t understand ?! Said wind! No, it's gone! Mata can't hear anymore! Stay here, since you are so tender, you can’t hear him here, mat! ..

- Here I have this your mat! - Tomka, breathing heavily, drank her hand down her throat. She furiously tucked her wind-torn blouse into the waistband of the other. - It gets bogged down in my ears, and day and night are the same, as if it’s impossible to talk like a human being!

- What about yourself? the attendant inquired, returning to the table. - Do not swear, dove?

Khabarov finally sent Nechitailo away with his fuel and petty bureaucratic soul away, fell out into the corridor, slammed the door and lit a cigarette.

“We don’t smoke here,” the duty officer said and laughed, “the decision of the government and the State Duma.

Khabarov also sent the Duma and the government, but not as sweeping and flowery as Nechitailo. Finished smoking, stubbed out the cigarette butt on the sole and threw it into the corner.

- If anyone needs me, I'm in the billiard room! he snapped. - Although I drive balls, than with such ... with you ... talk! ..

- And what is it?

“Nothing, your mother!” I have to go to Egvekinot, but he has limits on fuel! ..

- Where to go, the wind is thirty meters per second and across the strip!

- Yes, you all perish! Khabarov roared at full strength again. - This one has limits, that one has wind! The weather service gave a forecast - it will settle down by evening! And there are three patients! And the child!

- Lyosha, - Tom, who had drawn near the table, quietly said, - do you want me to make you some tea? I have tiled, tundra, you love ...

The men looked at her. She was already all tidied up, neat, her eyes kept down, her fingers twisted the iron button on her tunic - a wonderful marvel! ..

- I don't need anything! I have to work, you understand that?!

- Lyosh, there is lard, real, homemade. Grandma sent. They have their own house in Kalach, and chickens, and a wild boar ... I can make sandwiches.

- Do it for me! - the duty officer jumped up, and his face became touching. - Do you know how much I love salo?

Khabarov waved his hand at them and moved along the corridor with a wide step.

The door to Nechitailo's office opened slightly, a raglan flew out of it and landed on the chairs that stood along the corridor wall. Toma ran up, picked up the raglan and rushed after Khabarov.

- I'll make a sandwich, right, Lyosh? And a seagull? Sweeter, you love sweet to! ..

Khabarov took the raglan from her, put his hands in the sleeves and suddenly grinned:

- Kalach - what is it?

- So the city is like that, Lyosha! .. - Toma chattered. - Kalach-on-Don, I myself am from Volgograd, and my grandma and grandpa live in Kalach, and they have a house there, and a garden, and what not...

“Wow,” pilot Khabarov said under his breath, “I didn’t know such a city!”

Tom followed him with her eyes. They were affectionate, truthful, speaking so frankly that the attendant grunted and turned away.

She reached the door to the office, looked around, but no Khabarov was already there. She caressed his invisible trace with her eyes, sighed and entered. From there immediately came the discontented bay of Nechitailo, however, it soon subsided.

The duty officer shook his head and once again grunted in frustration - that's all, that's how it is, up to one woman is drying up on flyers, what's wrong with them ?! Unless raglans, but in management everyone is in raglans, not only flyers! Why do they get a woman's love?!

The wind subsided as suddenly as it had blown, as if it had never existed - as always, in Anadyr. Khabarov, exhausted from the clatter of billiard balls, savory anecdotes - not a single new one, all learned by heart long ago - shag smoke and brick tea, similar to a potion, went to the strip.

"Annushka" in its usual place seemed to him unexpectedly cheerful, and Khabarov thought to see her sad - after all, sweaty Nechitailo yelled at both of them early in the morning! splashed into my eyes so that I had to swoop dark glasses on my nose.

The engine is covered, the wires are reinforced so that the winds of the airplane do not blow away into the Anadyr Estuary, and these wires seem to confirm that you will not fly anywhere today, and you will just hang around! ..

Something flashed below, a gloved hand seemed to throw up - Khabarov knew what it meant. This means that the outbred airfield dog Marat came running to say hello.

- Great, great, - said Khabarov and scratched Marat behind the ear.

Marat furiously twisted his tail, like a propeller, and again and again tossed Khabarov's hand - he was bored.

“Higher, and higher, and higher,” Khabarov sang and stroked the dog’s head to the beat, “we strive for the flight of our birds, and in each propeller the calm of our borders breathes! ..

A technician in a warm blue jacket and cotton trousers came up from the hangar. We talked about Nechitailo and the damned limits, about the forecast for tomorrow, about the fact that there would be a new movie in the House of Officers in the evening, and then dancing. This is the newest movie Khabarov saw on the mainland last summer, but did not upset the technician.

- What are you toiling about, Alexei Ilyich? Regularly you will go to Egvekinot on Friday, maybe both the weather and kerosene will be ...

“Perhaps,” Khabarov agreed.

A strange feeling that something was about to happen and he would not have to go to Egvekinot on Friday "regularly" suddenly formed in his head, and Khabarov even looked around, checking.

Around everything was familiar, long studied, nothing new.

“And I’m driving the engine on Friday morning,” the technician continued, “our machine has stagnated! ..

The airfield dog Marat dragged an ancient soccer ball from the hangar with a deflated camera and a dent on its side, put Khabarov under his feet. He took aim properly, succumbed, the ball spun, flew. Marat danced with impatience, and then rushed to catch.

The pilot and technician followed him with their eyes, and then the technician told a joke - not just with a beard, but right with a gray beard! - and then Khabarov said that he had known this anecdote since the time of the Kachinsky flight school, and even then it was as old as the world.

The technician, grunting: “Well, please,” left, and Khabarov threw the ball to Marat several more times.

…Something must happen. Today. Right now.

- Marat, come on, drag the ball! Well?! Where did you leave it?

The ear caught a distant roar, growing rapidly, an airplane emerged from behind a hill - it was flying at low altitude, it came in from a distant drive, as if it was about to land.

Khabarov shielded himself from the sun with a deflated ball, tried to examine the identification marks.

The roar of the engines covered him, Marat barked - inaudibly because of the roar - and some object fell on the concrete about a hundred meters from Khabarov.

The plane made a circle over the airfield, began to gain altitude and went towards the hills.

Technicians were running from the hangar.

Khabarov looked after the plane for some time, and then he also ran and picked up the object. It was a small canvas bundle, packed according to the rules.

- Guys, who spotted, whose board? Where did he fall out from? No, did you see it?! Well, he wasn’t there, and in the morning they didn’t let out a single side on a storm! From the other side he came! Yes, it was coming from behind the hill, I copied it on the approach!

The technicians all spoke at once, and Marat barked from time to time.

- Lyosha, what did he throw off? You've seen?

Khabarov put the package in his pocket and there, in his pocket, held it with his hand.

“I saw it,” he said under his breath.

…Here you have a regular flight to Egvekinot on Friday!

- I'm on the tower, - said Khabarov and waved his hand in the direction of the KDP. - Come on, guys!

- Come on, Lyokha, what is there in the bag ?! Gold reserve? Where did you go?!

Khabarov, who was rapidly moving away, looked around and waved his hand. The dog Marat thought and rushed after him.

– Some amazing weather for April, right? asked the lady, who sat so that she could see the sea.

She had been sitting for a long time, not reading or talking on the phone, only looking and from time to time sipping her coffee in small sips.

Max glanced at her. He didn't like strangers talking to him.

The lady entirely corresponded to the place where they were. In an old hotel on the very seashore, Max dined every Thursday. The restaurant was too crowded, and food was brought to him here, in a spacious, quiet, marble-bronze lobby bar, with all windows overlooking the sea. He always sat facing the high window, and the waiter invariably pulled back the thin white curtain.

In the lobby bar, and throughout the hotel, there was a restrained chic, not newfangled, for show, but as it should be - antique furniture, paintings, properly trampled marble slabs on the floor, a fireplace in which a cypress log was placed for smell. Crystal chandeliers, from time to time a little gray in the depths, like a snowdrift settled by spring, barely warmed, oozing with a pleasant calm light.

As a rule, there were few people here, and they never spoke to each other! ..

“However,” the lady continued, “it is impossible to predict the weather in the Baltics. Especially in the spring.

Max thought about keeping silent this time, but still answered:

- I agree with you.

And rustled the newspaper again. He basically learned the news exclusively from newspapers - not from the Internet or TV. Every year it became more and more difficult to get newspapers, but for Max they got it.

- Do you rest here? the lady continued. – In Kaliningrad?

“I live here,” Max admitted.

The lady looked at him.

- Does not look like it.

- And yet.

... She can be as old as she wants - thirty-eight or fifty-five. Dressed stylishly and without any challenge. Diamonds in the ears and on the finger, just right for lunchtime - not too big and not too small. A small handbag contrary to fashion - just huge ones are in fashion - not at all new, Jane Birkin would be proud that a handbag with her name has been worn for years.

Fine, Max decided, and stared at the newspaper.

There, a certain journalist, constantly referring to his blog, talked about the imminent collapse, the end of time, the finish line of civilization. Max was always entertained by such reasoning.

“Bring me some more coffee and perhaps a limoncello,” the lady said to the waiter who came up.

“I’ll also have coffee, sparkling water, ice and lemon,” Max ordered and met her gaze.

…She needs something from me. It just won't let her go.

“You are Max Sheinerman,” the lady stated, confirming his thoughts. - Right?

– Absolutely. Do we know each other?..

She smiled. Her teeth, oddly enough, she had her own, not plastic.

– Anyone who is interested in art in one way or another knows what Max Sheinerman looks like.

- Thank you.

She slightly shrugged her shoulders.

This is not a compliment, but the pure truth. My name is Elizaveta Khvostova. I collect Lev Bakst.

Max smiled.

- Exclusively Bakst?

“Among others,” Elizaveta Khvostova answered quickly. - You are the most authoritative expert on artists from the World of Art, and God himself sent you to me.

Max glanced sideways at the newspaper with arguments about the collapse of civilization, sighed, put it aside and made a listening face.

“They showed me a wonderful portrait,” the lady began, “perfectly luxurious and in excellent condition!” Experts say that this is Bakst, nine hundred and two.

- Whose portrait?

- Countess Keller.

Max was surprised:

- The portrait of Countess Keller is very well known, it really is Lev Samoilovich Bakst and indeed the year 1902, it is stored in Zaraisk, in the Zaraisky Kremlin Museum. Well, if not kidnapped, of course, but I don't know anything about it.

“You are right,” said the lady, “but I managed to find out that two portraits were painted. Two! One is really in the museum, but the second remained in a private collection and is now for sale.

“Two portraits of Countess Keller?! Max was amazed. “And one of them is in a private collection?”

Coffee was brought, and they were silent as the waiter silently placed cups and glasses on the tables. The sea - green, shaggy, icy - thumped into the granite of the embankment. Where the sun fell on it, it was almost emerald, and in the shade - malachite, into blackness. Couples strolled along the embankment, children rode bicycles, girls with flying hair were photographed.

“Help me with this portrait, Mr. Sheinerman,” Elizaveta Khvostova asked when the waiter left. - Of course, all examinations will be carried out in the most thorough manner, but I need your opinion.

– I can express my preliminary opinion. The story is absolutely incredible.

The lady glared at him.

Goldfinch, dandy. The suit is made to order, a cane is leaning against the armchair - that's how it is! .. A handsome man - dark hair, bright eyes, sharply defined cheekbones, an expressive nose. No Slavic uncertainty and blurring of features. Everything is skillfully molded, as if it was also made to order!.. When ordering a face for yourself, you can hardly get better than this. Surprisingly young, looks older in photos. He is condescending, but wary, however, as it should be.

Max let her explore. He was intrigued.

– Is the private collection you are talking about located in Moscow?

Elizabeth shook her head.

No, in Paris.

"It's amazing," Max muttered.

- If you agree to give an opinion, I will, of course, take care of all the expenses - flight, hotel, stay. Do you have time now?

He laughed and clarified:

Are we already in agreement?

“Listen, you are an expert with a worldwide reputation! .. I would never have got you if we had not collided today in this ... nice place. I will stay here for two more days, I have a short vacation, and I try to always visit the Russian Baltic in the spring. Then I will fly to Moscow, and from there to Paris.

- All this is wonderful, - said Max, - but I actually work only on the recommendation. Which art historian do you know? Maybe curators?

- Of course, many! Elizabeth exclaimed impatiently. - If you want, I will make a list and send it to you by mail.

- If you mean electronic, then I don’t have it. I do not use such means of communication.

- Why?..

He shrugged.

- I do not like. With your permission ... - Max got up, fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette case. - I'll be back in five minutes.

It was windy and sunny on the embankment so that I had to close my eyes. The sea seemed to beat at the feet - bang, bang! - and then rustled on the stones, retreating. The wind threw a tie over his shoulder, disheveled his hair. Max grabbed the railing with both hands and looked into the water.

… Incredible story! Two portraits of Countess Keller, one of them in Paris!.. Khvostov's surname did not tell him anything, and Max knew all the more or less significant collectors by sight, by phone numbers and by the names of their wives! However, now every minute, as if out of thin air, there are new collectors and connoisseurs, who will not be there tomorrow, and their hastily assembled collections will be just as hastily sold out.

… The new Bakst is interesting.

Deciding that he would not smoke, he slowly climbed the wide steps - the porter opened the door for him - sat down in his place and told Elizabeth that he would think about her proposal, but recommendations were still needed.

- How careful you are! exclaimed Elizabeth, not too pleased with him.

“Experience,” Max threw up his hands. “I would be wasting a lot of time if I worked without recommendations.

The waiter came up and respectfully placed a business card in front of him.

- Asked to deliver.

Max looked at the card. I thought a little and turned it over. On the reverse side were written two letters and a number. Max slipped the card into his breast pocket.

…What a strange day today.

He finished his water, asked for the bill and ordered to bring a coat.

- So? Elizaveta Khvostova asked.

“So, see you tomorrow,” Max answered kindly. - I will come here specially at the same time, you will point out to me people from the art world with whom you are familiar, and I will contact them. That's all. This will be our first step.

She nodded and looked out to sea again.

Very good!.. And mysterious. It is a pity that nothing will come of the joint study of the unknown work of Bakst, and we will never see each other again.

Max put on a coat, put a cane under his arm, nodded to the waiter and slowly walked along the embankment.

“Higher, and higher, and higher,” he sang under his breath, “we strive for the flight of our birds ...

A fire burned in the hearth, smoke curled around the post and went up under the blackened roof into a special hole that was never closed. Frightened women and children in warm jackets and trousers were sitting on the benches in the left half of the women's quarters, although it had been stoked since morning and it was warm in the village.

The youngest, with a yellow face from sunburn and narrow black eyes, rocked a baby in her arms. The baby started screaming, arched his back, as if trying to escape from the tight bag in which he was swaddled.

Out of fear, the young woman spoke only Altaic, and Jahan did not understand everything.

“He has been screaming for two days,” Jahan translated to herself. - Doesn't eat. Yesterday I drank water with sugar, but today I didn’t drink it. Fire burns. The forest spirit instilled a disease in him. I took him to his mother in the village through the pass. And on the pass someone dabbled. Fired from the ignition, close. The horse is quiet, but then it got scared, shied away. And I have a child tied behind my back. I hold it, and then they fired again. And I didn’t pray at the pass, I didn’t tie the ribbon! She didn't ask for permission to move on. And the next day he got sick.

Jahan took the sweaty, writhing child from her hands, placed it on the wooden boards of the table and began to unfold it. The child screamed and arched its back.

The neighbors said you are the best doctor. All hope is on you. Talk to the spirits, ask them to forgive my son, it’s not his fault, it’s my fault, I didn’t stop near the Burkhan!.. The neighbors said you are the only one who still knows how to talk with the spirits.

The women on the benches chattered and nodded, confirming that Jahan was the last hope.

The child was wrapped in several blankets, was exhausted from the heat, and the first thing to do was to give him a drink.

“Just don’t say that you need to go to the hospital,” the mother continued, and tears suddenly poured from her eyes. - How to get there, to the hospital? The most muddy road, and the husband went fishing on a boat. The mother-in-law said that her son would not return alive from the hospital. She won't let me go to the hospital. Talk to the spirits, healer. We will not remain in debt, just beg them! .. So that the son's illness will let go.

The child, freed from blankets and exhausted from screaming, calmed down a little and now only wept exhaustedly, whined like a puppy.

Jahan took down a tambourine from the wall - in one second, as if on cue, the women fell silent, and the children fell silent, it became audible how the coal in the hearth crackled, crumbling, how water gurgled in an aluminum kettle.

Jahan closed her eyes and gently shook her tambourine. The tambourine rustled in response to her, and it became even quieter. The baby sobbed and whined again:

- Woo, woo...

Jahan evenly shook the tambourine, gradually and very slowly approaching the table on which the baby was lying, putting her feet in a special way, as if dancing. The tambourine beat louder and louder. Jahan began to sing along with the tambourine, the sound did not even come from her throat, but as if from the depths of her body, low, uterine.

Finally approaching, Jahan began to beat on the tightly stretched skin of the tambourine right above the child's head. From time to time she circled around with a tambourine, and it seemed that in the semi-darkness of the village a fiery trail stretched behind him.

The dancing and singing stopped abruptly. Jahan froze, and the tambourine in her hands froze.

“Go away, everyone,” Jahan said in Altaic, without turning around. “And don’t come back until I call.”

The children rushed to the exit, the women behind them, the door creaked in fright, then the lock rattled.

Jahan looked back. Nobody.

She carefully laid down the tambourine and said to the child:

- You are my good, now, now ...

And she pulled out a medical case from a huge forged chest. She laid out her suitcase on the table, grabbed a stethoscope and a thermometer.

Having completely unswaddled the baby and found a completely modern diaper on him, Jahan grunted under her breath:

- To the hospital, so you can’t, but diapers, then you can? ..

After listening to the lungs and heart - everything was clean everywhere - she put the baby in a thermometer, poured the powder into the bottle, diluted it with water, twisted the nipple and gave the baby a drink. The child greedily drank water with powder, blushed from the effort, gathered his strength and yelled again. Jahan gave him more water.

“He drinks well, what are you telling me - he didn’t drink, he didn’t drink! ..” she muttered to herself under her breath.

She felt her stomach, checked the lymph nodes, tore open the sterile bag, pressed her tongue with a flat stick and looked down her throat.

“What a fine fellow you are,” Jahan said, “what a big good boy you are, your aunt will not take you to the hospital, everything is clear to your aunt even without a hospital.

The baby was well-fed, heavy, all in folds and constrictions, and he smelled good - a baby body and a little sheepskin.

Jahan deftly and quickly wiped it with a sponge, after pouring warm water with vinegar into a clay bowl, then took out a syringe and made an injection.

The baby, who felt better, no longer screamed or whined. He used up all his reserves of strength and almost fell asleep, only from time to time opened his dark narrow eyes, but sleep overcame him.

Jahan dressed him in overalls and woolen clothes, stroked his stomach - he was sleeping - and began to eliminate the traces of her medical activities. She slipped the wrappers, bags, and syringe into the pocket of a sheepskin coat that hung on the wall - do not forget to throw it away later. She carefully returned the stethoscope and thermometer to the suitcase, and the suitcase to the chest. For conspiracy, she piled a heavy tyurkhan on top of the chest - a blanket made of sheep's wool. She looked around - everything is in order - she took the tambourine and gently shook it.

Tatyana Ustinova

Earth gravity

* * *

- Higher, and higher, and higher we strive for the flight of our birds, and in each propeller the calmness of our borders breathes! ..

At the "borders" a bunch of keys fell out of the lock and rattled under the porch. The castle swayed on the shackle.

- Pyotr Sergeevich, are you here? .. Or where?

Nobody responded.

The trouble started right away. It was as if a paper river was flowing under Svetlana Ivanovna's feet. The librarian gasped and clutched a giant oilcloth bag to her chest.

The river consisted of newspapers and magazines, and all of them were crumpled, as if trampled, they covered the entire floor in the corridor, so that even the carpet path was not visible.

“Fathers, lights,” muttered Svetlana Ivanovna, and her chin trembled, and her breath hitched.

In the pocket of her bag, she found the medicine, squeezed out a tiny red ball and threw it under her tongue.

“Fathers,” repeated Svetlana Ivanovna, and she thought: it would be nice to faint now, but she didn’t know how to faint.

The body of a man lying on the floor behind a table with drawers pulled out and gutted did not seem so scary to her.

It should have lie there, and it lay.

“Pyotr Sergeyevich,” Svetlana Ivanovna called and leaned over the body. - Petya! .. What's the matter with you? Why are you lying here?

"That's it," said Svetlana Ivanovna, and gropingly sat down on a chair. - That's all.

- Quiet there, drop it! Svetlana Ivanovna shouted at the orderlies, and Galya sobbed.

“Yes, it doesn’t matter to him, mother,” one of the hangovers responded.

“Yes-ah-ah,” Galya pulled and sobbed.

- So he is not himself, Svetlanochka Ivanovna, he was ... killed, right? Was it killed?

The old librarian waved her hand at Galya.

An ambulance snorted in the yard, for some reason sounded a siren, Svetlana Ivanovna clutched her heart.

Glasses and a notebook were in a bag, and the phone lay on the floor under the table.

- Here you go. Written by Petya's hand. Notify Raisa Vasilievna Gorbukhina. And the phone, Moscow, must be. Four hundred ninety-five ahead - this is Moscow?

Galya shrugged.

Svetlana Ivanovna also took a long time to dial the number, and when a long buzzing sounded in the receiver, she straightened up with all her might and turned to stone.

- Raisa Vasilievna Gorbukhina? They are calling you from Tambov. We've had trouble. Pyotr Sergeevich ordered that in case of an accident, the first thing to do is inform you, so I inform you ...

The general hung up, sat motionless, and then, not knowing what to do with his hands, placed them on the back of his head.

The news was extremely unexpected and ... unpleasant. Something happened that could never happen, he knew from experience that it could not happen.

“It doesn’t happen,” the general said loudly and did not recognize his own voice in the room’s silence, “it doesn’t happen like that, but it’s like that.”

…What could happen there? Something went wrong?..

It was stupid and unprofessional to ask himself - he did not know any details, did not see anything with his own eyes and knew that he would not see - but he asked anyway.

…What could he be wrong about? What didn't you learn? What did you calculate wrong?

“I didn’t know it would turn out like this, Pet,” the general said, and again he didn’t recognize his own voice. - Yes, I'm not talking about me! Where were you looking? What could you miss?!

Nothing more could be done.

He returned to his desk, picked up the receiver, paused, and pressed the button.

"Get a group," he ordered. – The code is orange.

They didn't seem to hear it, because he had to repeat:

- Orange!

OK it's all over Now. Now nothing depends on him.

“Higher and higher and higher,” the general muttered under his breath, “we strive for the flight of our birds ...

- Put on your overcoat! the duty officer yelled at her. - The cold of the dog and the wind is stormy! Where are you going!?

Tatyana Ustinova

Earth gravity

Higher, and higher, and higher we strive for the flight of our birds, and in each propeller the calmness of our borders breathes! ..

At the "borders" a bunch of keys fell out of the lock and rattled under the porch. The castle swayed on the shackle.

What is it! .. - Svetlana Ivanovna, who had just cheerfully hummed “March of the Aviators” under her breath, marveled at the castle, leaned over the railing and began to rummage around with her eyes. There she is, a bunch of something! .. Look, you galloped far! ..

Svetlana Ivanovna went down from the porch - the boards creaked - picked up the keys, aimed at the lock and only then realized that it was open! .. It turns out that the director was already in place, arrived before her, an unheard of thing! ..

Svetlana Ivanovna became agitated, hurried, the porch under her began to tremble. She unhooked the lock, attached it to its usual place - on a carnation on the right side, - flung open the door. From the inside immediately pulled the smell of dust and old books.

Pyotr Sergeevich, are you here?.. Or where?

Nobody responded.

The trouble started right away. It was as if a paper river was flowing under Svetlana Ivanovna's feet. The librarian gasped and clutched a giant oilcloth bag to her chest.

The river consisted of newspapers and magazines, and all of them were crumpled, as if trampled, they covered the entire floor in the corridor, so that even the carpet path was not visible.

Fathers of light, - muttered Svetlana Ivanovna, and her chin trembled, and her breath hitched.

In the pocket of her bag, she found the medicine, squeezed out a tiny red ball and threw it under her tongue.

Stepping along the river of paper, she cautiously looked into the "subscription" and closed her eyes in horror - here everything was upside down, all the books were pulled out, turned out, as if they had been beaten and raped. Shelves that look like skeletons without books are shifted from their place, even flower pots are overturned! ..

Fathers, - repeated Svetlana Ivanovna and thought: it would be nice to faint now, but she did not know how to faint.

The body of a man lying on the floor behind a table with drawers pulled out and gutted did not seem so scary to her.

It should have lie there, and it lay.

Pyotr Sergeevich, - Svetlana Ivanovna called and bent over the body. - Petya! .. What's the matter with you? Why are you lying here?

It was quite obvious that the director of the library would never be able to answer her, that it was not even the director, but what was left of him - an empty shell, no longer needed and not too much like the director and similar! ..

That's it," said Svetlana Ivanovna, and gropingly sat down on a chair. - That's all.

... A young, unceremonious paramedic arrived at the ambulance, who kept talking on the phone and only waved his hand to questions - don’t you see, I’m busy, - but as soon as he looked at the body, he turned green all over and jumped out into the front garden, and Pyotr Sergeyevich was loaded onto a stretcher by bristly, hungover orderlies and carried awkwardly, clumsily.

Tatyana Ustinova

Earth gravity

* * *

- Higher, and higher, and higher we strive for the flight of our birds, and in each propeller the calmness of our borders breathes! ..

At the "borders" a bunch of keys fell out of the lock and rattled under the porch. The castle swayed on the shackle.

- Pyotr Sergeevich, are you here? .. Or where?

Nobody responded.

The trouble started right away. It was as if a paper river was flowing under Svetlana Ivanovna's feet. The librarian gasped and clutched a giant oilcloth bag to her chest.

The river consisted of newspapers and magazines, and all of them were crumpled, as if trampled, they covered the entire floor in the corridor, so that even the carpet path was not visible.

“Fathers, lights,” muttered Svetlana Ivanovna, and her chin trembled, and her breath hitched.

In the pocket of her bag, she found the medicine, squeezed out a tiny red ball and threw it under her tongue.

“Fathers,” repeated Svetlana Ivanovna, and she thought: it would be nice to faint now, but she didn’t know how to faint.

The body of a man lying on the floor behind a table with drawers pulled out and gutted did not seem so scary to her.

It should have lie there, and it lay.

“Pyotr Sergeyevich,” Svetlana Ivanovna called and leaned over the body. - Petya! .. What's the matter with you? Why are you lying here?

"That's it," said Svetlana Ivanovna, and gropingly sat down on a chair. - That's all.

- Quiet there, drop it! Svetlana Ivanovna shouted at the orderlies, and Galya sobbed.

“Yes, it doesn’t matter to him, mother,” one of the hangovers responded.

“Yes-ah-ah,” Galya pulled and sobbed.

- So he is not himself, Svetlanochka Ivanovna, he was ... killed, right? Was it killed?

The old librarian waved her hand at Galya.

An ambulance snorted in the yard, for some reason sounded a siren, Svetlana Ivanovna clutched her heart.

Glasses and a notebook were in a bag, and the phone lay on the floor under the table.

- Here you go. Written by Petya's hand. Notify Raisa Vasilievna Gorbukhina. And the phone, Moscow, must be. Four hundred ninety-five ahead - this is Moscow?

Galya shrugged.

Svetlana Ivanovna also took a long time to dial the number, and when a long buzzing sounded in the receiver, she straightened up with all her might and turned to stone.

- Raisa Vasilievna Gorbukhina? They are calling you from Tambov. We've had trouble. Pyotr Sergeevich ordered that in case of an accident, the first thing to do is inform you, so I inform you ...

The general hung up, sat motionless, and then, not knowing what to do with his hands, placed them on the back of his head.

The news was extremely unexpected and ... unpleasant. Something happened that could never happen, he knew from experience that it could not happen.

“It doesn’t happen,” the general said loudly and did not recognize his own voice in the room’s silence, “it doesn’t happen like that, but it’s like that.”