Claws of Mercy. Natalie Yacobson
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about all sorts of creepy magic spinners who spin magic threads from people’s blood. What if he dreamed of such a spinster?
The girl in the dream was like a goddess. As if she was the only one missing on the pedestal in the unfinished mansion of oligarch Vereskovsky.
The night passed like a fog. A strange, mournful song drifted down the corridor. Ruslan couldn’t make out the words, as if it were sung in a foreign language. But it was definitely Russian. The song was warning him about something.
Ruslan had had a headache since morning. The words of the night song echoed in his ears. He could not make them out. It was strange to hear the words and not understand what they meant.
The blinds on the window were raised. The morning light was streaming into the room. It was a cloudy morning. Probably there will be a thunderstorm soon. Construction sites are chaotic in a thunderstorm. I wonder how the work is going now. According to the pretty nurse, he’ll be back on the site in three days to check it out. Two days to be exact. He slept for one day.
Ruslan wiped his eyes. One light eyelash remained on his finger. Perhaps he should make a wish. Ruslan wished to get out of the hospital as soon as possible.
The window overlooked the stairs leading to the hospital portal. The winged statues were still standing on it, but their postures seemed to have changed slightly. Perhaps it only seemed that way when viewed from a different angle. The marble angels had an ominous look, as if they were angels of death. There must have been a lot of dying in this hospital. The local morgue occupied an entire wing.
Ruslan noticed a familiar haircut. Could it be Valentina Vladimirovna Verbina? She was wearing a strict business suit and no jewelry. She had also washed off her makeup and had somehow become duller all at once. Valentina had a large bag in her hands.
“She had an appointment for a consultation at the plastic surgery department. It’s in that annex!” Tamara suddenly approached from behind and pulled down the blinds. “You should be resting.”
“I was just noticing an acquaintance.”
“I figured as much,” Tamara smiled disarmingly. “Only she didn’t say she wanted to visit you.”
“Does she know I’m here?”
“Everyone knows you’re here.”
“Who is it?”
“Not many people live here. News travels fast.”
Tamara frowned, as if she were hiding something. Tamara had an unhealthy pale complexion, but she was very beautiful. It was a shame that she was only in contact with Ruslan because she had to take care of the patients. If they had met on the street, at a disco, in a bar or in a theater, she would not have noticed him.
Valentina Vladimirovna didn’t even want to visit him. Of course, she was a casual acquaintance, but he was her husband’s architect after all. She could have shown some elementary politeness, since she came to the hospital where he was lying. Or Valentina Vladimirovna is hiding her visit here? After all, plastic surgery is a compromising thing. It’s embarrassing to admit to someone that your beauty is artificial, not innate. And if Valentina Vladimirovna is going to have a face-lift, she doesn’t want to admit it to anyone.
Ruslan wondered how old Valentina Vladimirovna was. She looked about twenty-five to thirty, but looks can be deceiving. Many young women who are too busy at work often look forty, and fifty-year-old models can easily pretend to be minors. It all depends on the living conditions and care of appearance. Rich slackers often look amazing, because they have the opportunity not to be tired at work, vacation at expensive resorts and travel to beauty salons. Women are like flowers, the more fertile the soil in which they grow, the more beautiful they become. But plant a flower on a dusty road far from water and it will wither.
“How old are you?” Ruslan spontaneously asked Tamara.
She was embarrassed for some reason.
“It was an insensitive question.”
“Why is it?”
“The younger I am, the less experience I have.”
Tamara started rummaging through her toolbox and pulled out a vial of pills.
“Just don’t give me sleeping pills.”
“It’ll help you calm down and sleep until the doctor is available. He’s on overload right now. You’ll have to wait.”
“I feel perfectly healthy.”
“The stitches from your wounds will need to come out soon anyway.”
“Did I get stitches?” Ruslan was genuinely surprised. “I don’t remember.”
“You were unconscious when they brought you here.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I wasn’t hooked up to any machines. Imagine if when I woke up I’d found out I’d been in a coma for years,” Ruslan joked. The joke was ridiculous. Tamara didn’t even smile.
“Time flies by here,” she fluffed the pillow on the bunk.
Nothing was visible under her uniform but her threadbare pantyhose. It would be nice to see at least the edge of her skirt to see what she wore when she wasn’t working. Ruslan tried to imagine Tamara in jeans and a T-shirt or a short summer sundress and couldn’t. But it was not difficult to imagine her in a chic evening dress. Tamara has the appearance of a refined aristocrat. The nurse’s uniform she was wearing seemed temporarily borrowed from someone.
Ruslan would rather believe that Tamara was the daughter of Vereskovsky or some other oligarch than that she was on the hospital staff. Could he be being played? He’d never seen a nurse like her before.
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