36 Yalta Boulevard

Начало книги

It was the smell that would stay with him when he remembered this moment: grass-yes, and flowers. Strong, musty. Then a glut of syllables. Rough tones. Eyes still closed, he tried to manage the sounds into words, then sentences.

“ Stehen Sie auf! ”

Guttural, crisp. Behind the voice, birds twittered.

And in his head something thumped, but the pain was manageable; he could hold it in his hand and squeeze it into submission.

“ Sie sind Nicht tot, oder? Nein.”

Pressure-fingers gripped his shoulder, then shook. First hesitantly, then with confidence.

“ Kommen Sie.”

He waited, because… he didn’t know why. He only knew he should wait, a few seconds, before opening his eyes and proving that he was, in fact, awake.

Now.

A bright sun and, as he suspected, grass. His cheek was buried in freshly trimmed blades, arms spread out. Hovering above, a heavyset man in a strange uniform smiled and scratched his mustache.

Читать дальше →