Summer is over

One. Two. Hattie froze in bed, silently counting the lingering, slow beats of the courthouse chimes. Sleepy streets lay beneath the tower, and the city clock, round and white, became like the full moon, which at the end of summer invariably flooded the town with an icy glow. Hattie's heart skipped a beat.

She jumped up to look around at the empty alleys that marked the dark, motionless grass. Downstairs, the porch, disturbed by the wind, creaked barely audibly.

Looking in the mirror, she loosened her tight teacher's pussy, and long hair cascaded over the shoulders. The students would be surprised, she thought, if they happened to see these brilliant black waves. It’s not bad at all if you are already thirty-five. Trembling hands pulled out of the chest of drawers several small bundles hidden away. Lipstick, blush, eyebrow pencil, nail polish. Airy pale blue dress, like a cloud of fog. Pulling off her nondescript nightgown, she threw it on the floor, stepped barefoot on the rough material, and pulled the dress over her head.

She moistened her earlobes with drops of perfume, ran lipstick over her nervous lips, shaded her eyebrows, hastily painted her nails.

She stepped out onto the landing of the sleeping house. She glanced apprehensively at the three white doors: would they suddenly open? Leaning against the wall, she paused.

No one looked out into the corridor. Hattie stuck her tongue out at first one door, then two others.

As she descended, not a single step creaked on the stairs, now the path lay on the moonlit porch, and from there to the quiet street.

The air was already filled with the night aromas of September. The asphalt, still warm, warmed her thin, untanned legs.

How long have I wanted to do this. She plucked a blood-red rose to stick in her black hair, hesitated a bit and turned to the curtained eye sockets of the windows of her house: - No one will guess what I'm going to do now. - She circled, proud of her flying dress.

Bare feet trotted silently along a line of trees and dim lamps. Each bush, each fence seemed to appear before her anew, and from this bewilderment was born: “Why didn’t I dare to do this before?” Stepping off the pavement onto a dewy lawn, she deliberately paused to feel the prickly coolness of the grass.

The patrolman, Mr. Walzer, was walking down Glen Bay Street, singing something sad in his tenor. Hattie slipped behind a tree and, listening to his singing, followed his broad back with her eyes.

It was quite quiet near the courthouse, except for the fact that she herself hit her toes a couple of times on the steps of a rusty fire escape. On the upper landing, by the cornice, above which the city clock gleamed silver, she held out her hands.

Here it is, below - a sleeping town!

Thousands of rooftops gleamed from the moonlight snow.

She shook her fist and made faces at the night city. Turning towards the suburbs, mockingly pulled up the hem. She danced and laughed silently, and then snapped her fingers four times in different directions.

In less than a minute, she was already running with burning eyes across the silky city lawns.

Now the house of whispers appeared before her.

Hiding under a very specific window, she heard two male and female voices coming from the secret chamber.

Hattie leaned against the wall; only whispers, whispers reached her ears. They, like two moths, trembled inside, beat against the window glass. Then there was a muffled, distant laugh.

Hattie raised her hand to the glass, her face in awe. Above upper lip beaded sweat.

What was it? shouted the man behind the glass.

Then Hattie, like a cloud of mist, darted away and disappeared into the night.

She ran for a long time before stopping again at the window, but in a completely different place.

In the light-flooded bathroom, which was the only lighted room in the whole town, stood a young man who, yawning, was carefully shaving in front of a mirror. Black-haired, blue-eyed, twenty-seven years old, he worked at the railway station and took ham sandwiches in a metal box to work every day. After dabbing his face with a towel, he turned off the light.

Hattie hid under the crown of a centuries-old oak - clung to the trunk, where there is a solid cobweb and some kind of plaque. The outer lock clicked, the gravel creaked underfoot, the metal lid clinked. When the air smelled of tobacco and fresh soap, she did not even have to turn around to understand that he was passing by.

Whistling through his teeth, he moved down the street towards the ravine. She followed him, running from tree to tree: either she flew behind the elm trunk with a white veil, then she hid behind the oak tree with a moon shadow. At some point, the man turned around. She barely managed to hide. With a beating heart, she waited. Silence. Then again his steps.

He was whistling "June Night".

A rainbow of lights perched over the edge of the cliff hurled his own shadow right at his feet. Hattie was within arm's reach, behind a century-old chestnut tree.

Stopping for the second time, he did not look back. Just sniffed the air.

The night wind brought the scent of her perfume to the other side of the ravine, as she intended.

She didn't move. Now was not her move. Exhausted from her pounding heart, she clung to the tree.

It seemed that for an hour he did not dare to take a step. She could hear the dew submissively disintegrating under his boots. The warm scents of tobacco and fresh soap wafted in close by.

He touched her wrist. She didn't open her eyes. And he didn't make a sound.

Somewhere in the distance the city clock struck three times.

His lips covered hers gently and lightly. Then they touched the ear.

He pressed her against the trunk. And he whispered. Here, it turns out, who was peeping at him through the windows for three nights in a row! He touched his lips to her neck. Here, then, who was stealthily following him on his heels last night! He peered into her face. The shadows of thick branches lay softly on her lips, cheeks, forehead, and only her eyes, burning with a living brilliance, could not be hidden. She is wonderfully beautiful - does she herself know this? Until recently, he considered it an obsession. His laugh was no louder than a secret whisper. Without taking his eyes off her, he slipped his hand into his pocket. He lit a match and raised it to the height of her face to get a better look, but she pulled his fingers to her and held it in her palm along with the extinguished match. A moment later, the match fell into the dewy grass.

Let it go, he said.

She didn't look up at him. He silently took her by the elbow and pulled her away.

Looking at her untanned legs, she walked with him to the edge of a cool ravine, at the bottom of which, between mossy, willow-covered banks, a silent stream flowed.

He hesitated. A little more and she would have raised her eyes to make sure of his presence. Now they were standing in a lighted place, and she diligently turned her head away so that he could see only the flowing darkness of her hair and the whiteness of her forearms.

He said:

The darkness of the summer night breathed in her calm warmth.

The answer was her hand reaching out to his face.

The next morning, descending the stairs, Hattie found her grandmother, Aunt Maude, and Cousin Jacob munching on their cold breakfast on both cheeks, and were not very happy when she, too, pulled out a chair for herself. Hattie came out to them in a dull long dress with a blank collar. Her hair was pulled back into a tight little bun, and on her carefully washed face, her bloodless lips and cheeks looked completely white. There was no trace left of the summed up eyebrows and painted eyelashes. Nails, one would think, had never known glitter polish.

In every man, even if he is unaware of it, even if there are no such thoughts, the image of a woman whom he is destined to love is glimmering. From what her image is woven - from all the melodies that sounded in his life, from all the trees, from childhood friends - no one dares to say for sure. Whose eyes she has: if not his own mother, whose chin: if not a cousin who swam with him in the lake a quarter of a century ago - no one is allowed to know this. But read, every man carries this portrait with him, like a medallion, like a mother-of-pearl cameo, but he rarely brings it to light, and after the wedding he doesn’t even touch it to avoid comparisons. Not everyone happens to meet his betrothed, unless she flashes in the darkness of a cinema, on the pages of a book or somewhere on the street. And even then after midnight, when the city is already asleep, and the pillow is cold. This portrait is woven from all dreams, from all women, from all moonlit nights since creation.

Girls, when they are in love, only seem stupid, because they do not hear anything at that time.

Ray Bradbury. Summer morning, summer night

Ray Bradbury. Summer morning, summer night

You will never know how this girl at some point suddenly becomes a trot. This is where the man gets caught.

Ray Bradbury. Summer morning, summer night

Some consciously choose this fate: they crave like crazy for the view outside the window to change every week, every month, every year, but with age they begin to realize that they are only collecting worthless roads and unnecessary cities, no more solid than movie scenery. , and see off with the eyes of mannequins that flicker in the shop windows outside the window of a slow night train.

Ray Bradbury. Summer morning, summer night

Perhaps the time will come when people will learn to recognize the maturity of character and will say: this is a real man although he is only fourteen years old. By chance and fate, he became a mature person who soberly evaluates himself, knows what responsibility and a sense of duty are. But until that time has come, age and height will serve as a measure.

Ray Bradbury. Summer morning, summer night

The kiss is only the first note of the first measure. And then a symphony will go, but a cacophony can happen ...

Ray Bradbury. Summer morning, summer night

And he thought: sing under the windows, sing under the apple trees, sing in the yard until the guitar chords reached her ears, until she shed tears. Make a woman cry - you've won. All her pride will be removed as if by hand, and music will help you with this.

Ray Douglas Bradbury

Summer morning, summer night

Summer is over

One. Two. Hattie froze in bed, silently counting the lingering, slow beats of the courthouse chimes. Sleepy streets lay beneath the tower, and the city clock, round and white, became like the full moon, which at the end of summer invariably flooded the town with an icy glow. Hattie's heart skipped a beat.

She jumped up to look around at the empty alleys that marked the dark, motionless grass. Downstairs, the porch, disturbed by the wind, creaked barely audibly.

Looking in the mirror, she loosened her tight teacher's bun, and her long hair cascaded over her shoulders. The students would be surprised, she thought, if they happened to see these brilliant black waves. It’s not bad at all if you are already thirty-five. Trembling hands pulled out of the chest of drawers several small bundles hidden away. Lipstick, blush, eyebrow pencil, nail polish. Airy pale blue dress, like a cloud of fog. Pulling off her nondescript nightgown, she threw it on the floor, stepped barefoot on the rough material, and pulled the dress over her head.

She moistened her earlobes with drops of perfume, ran lipstick over her nervous lips, shaded her eyebrows, hastily painted her nails.

She stepped out onto the landing of the sleeping house. She glanced apprehensively at the three white doors: would they suddenly open? Leaning against the wall, she paused.

No one looked out into the corridor. Hattie stuck her tongue out at first one door, then two others.

As she descended, not a single step creaked on the stairs, now the path lay on the moonlit porch, and from there to the quiet street.

The air was already filled with the night aromas of September. The asphalt, still warm, warmed her thin, untanned legs.

How long have I wanted to do this. She plucked a blood-red rose to stick in her black hair, hesitated a bit and turned to the curtained eye sockets of the windows of her house: - No one will guess what I'm going to do now. - She circled, proud of her flying dress.

Bare feet trotted silently along a line of trees and dim lamps. Each bush, each fence seemed to appear before her anew, and from this bewilderment was born: “Why didn’t I dare to do this before?” Stepping off the pavement onto a dewy lawn, she deliberately paused to feel the prickly coolness of the grass.

The patrolman, Mr. Walzer, was walking down Glen Bay Street, singing something sad in his tenor. Hattie slipped behind a tree and, listening to his singing, followed his broad back with her eyes.

It was quite quiet near the courthouse, except for the fact that she herself hit her toes a couple of times on the steps of a rusty fire escape. On the upper landing, by the cornice, above which the city clock gleamed silver, she held out her hands.

Here it is, below - a sleeping town!

Thousands of rooftops gleamed from the moonlight snow.

She shook her fist and made faces at the night city. Turning towards the suburbs, mockingly pulled up the hem. She danced and laughed silently, and then snapped her fingers four times in different directions.

In less than a minute, she was already running with burning eyes across the silky city lawns.

Now the house of whispers appeared before her.

Hiding under a very specific window, she heard two male and female voices coming from the secret chamber.

Hattie leaned against the wall; only whispers, whispers reached her ears. They, like two moths, trembled inside, beat against the window glass. Then there was a muffled, distant laugh.

Hattie raised her hand to the glass, her face in awe. Beads of sweat appeared above the upper lip.

What was it? shouted the man behind the glass.

Then Hattie, like a cloud of mist, darted away and disappeared into the night.

She ran for a long time before stopping again at the window, but in a completely different place.

In the light-flooded bathroom, which was the only lighted room in the whole town, stood a young man who, yawning, was carefully shaving in front of a mirror. Black-haired, blue-eyed, twenty-seven years old, he worked at the railway station and took ham sandwiches in a metal box to work every day. After dabbing his face with a towel, he turned off the light.

Hattie hid under the crown of a centuries-old oak - clung to the trunk, where there is a solid cobweb and some kind of plaque. The outer lock clicked, the gravel creaked underfoot, the metal lid clinked. When the air smelled of tobacco and fresh soap, she did not even have to turn around to understand that he was passing by.

Whistling through his teeth, he moved down the street towards the ravine. She followed him, running from tree to tree: either she flew behind the elm trunk with a white veil, then she hid behind the oak tree with a moon shadow. At some point, the man turned around. She barely managed to hide. With a beating heart, she waited. Silence. Then again his steps.

He was whistling "June Night".

A rainbow of lights perched over the edge of the cliff hurled his own shadow right at his feet. Hattie was within arm's reach, behind a century-old chestnut tree.

Stopping for the second time, he did not look back. Just sniffed the air.

The night wind brought the scent of her perfume to the other side of the ravine, as she intended.

She didn't move. Now was not her move. Exhausted from her pounding heart, she clung to the tree.

It seemed that for an hour he did not dare to take a step. She could hear the dew submissively disintegrating under his boots. The warm scents of tobacco and fresh soap wafted in close by.

He touched her wrist. She didn't open her eyes. And he didn't make a sound.

Somewhere in the distance the city clock struck three times.

His lips covered hers gently and lightly. Then they touched the ear.

He pressed her against the trunk. And he whispered. Here, it turns out, who was peeping at him through the windows for three nights in a row! He touched his lips to her neck. Here, then, who was stealthily following him on his heels last night! He peered into her face. The shadows of thick branches lay softly on her lips, cheeks, forehead, and only her eyes, burning with a living brilliance, could not be hidden. She is wonderfully beautiful - does she herself know this? Until recently, he considered it an obsession. His laugh was no louder than a secret whisper. Without taking his eyes off her, he slipped his hand into his pocket. He lit a match and raised it to the height of her face to get a better look, but she pulled his fingers to her and held it in her palm along with the extinguished match. A moment later, the match fell into the dewy grass.

Let it go, he said.

She didn't look up at him. He silently took her by the elbow and pulled her away.

Looking at her untanned legs, she walked with him to the edge of a cool ravine, at the bottom of which, between mossy, willow-covered banks, a silent stream flowed.

He hesitated. A little more and she would have raised her eyes to make sure of his presence. Now they were standing in a lighted place, and she diligently turned her head away so that he could see only the flowing darkness of her hair and the whiteness of her forearms.

He said:

The darkness of the summer night breathed in her calm warmth.

The answer was her hand reaching out to his face.

The next morning, descending the stairs, Hattie found her grandmother, Aunt Maude, and Cousin Jacob munching on their cold breakfast on both cheeks, and were not very happy when she, too, pulled out a chair for herself. Hattie came out to them in a dull long dress with a blank collar. Her hair was pulled back into a tight little bun, and on her carefully washed face, her bloodless lips and cheeks looked completely white. There was no trace left of the summed up eyebrows and painted eyelashes. Nails, one would think, had never known glitter polish.

You're late, Hattie, - as if by agreement, they all stretched out in chorus, as soon as she sat down at the table.

Do not lean on porridge, Aunt Maud warned. - It's already half past nine. It's time for school. The director will give you the first number. There is nothing to say, the teacher sets a good example for the students.

All three glared at her. Hattie smiled.

You're late for the first time in twenty years, Hattie," Aunt Maud insisted.

Still smiling, Hattie did not move.

It's time to leave, they said.

In the hallway, Hattie pinned her straw hat to her hair and unhooked her green umbrella. The family did not take their eyes off her. On the threshold she flushed, turned around and looked at them for a long time, as if preparing to say something. They even leaned forward. But she only smiled and ran out onto the porch, slamming the door.

big fire

On the morning when the big fire broke out, the household was powerless. My mother's niece Marianne, who was staying with us while her parents were traveling around Europe, was engulfed in flames. So: no one managed to break the glass of a fire extinguisher in a red casing installed on the corner in order to turn on the fire fighting system and call firefighters in iron helmets by clicking the toggle switch. Flashing brighter than a cellophane wrapper, Marianne went down to the dining room, let out a scream or a groan, flopped into a chair and barely touched her breakfast.

Mom and dad recoiled - an unbearable heat blew on them.

Good morning Marianne.

AND? - Marianne looked through them and said absently: - Ah, good morning.

How did you sleep, Marianne?

In fact, they knew that she couldn't sleep at all. Mom poured water for Marianne, and everyone waited for steam to rise from the glass in the girl's hands. Grandmother, seated in her dining chair, studied sore eyes Marianne.

Yes, you're unwell, but it's not a virus, - she concluded, - You can't even see it under a microscope.

I'm sorry, what? Marianne asked.

Love is the godmother of stupidity,” my father said inappropriately.

Everything will pass, - my mother turned to him. - It just seems that girls are stupid - because love has a bad effect on hearing.

Love has a bad effect on the vestibular apparatus, - said the father. - From this girls fall straight into the arms of men. I already know. I was almost crushed by one young lady, and I can say ...

Hush you! - Mom, looking sideways in the direction of Marianne, frowned.

Yes, she does not hear: she has a stupor.

He will drive up in his carriage now, - mother whispered, turning to her father, as if Marianne was not around, - and they will go for a ride.

My father dabbed at his lips with a napkin.

Was our daughter like that, Mommy? - he asked. - I forgot something - she has been independent for a long time, she has been married for so many years. I don't remember her being that stupid. When a girl is in such a state, her mind is not noticeable. This is what captivates a man. He thinks to himself: “A pretty little fool, she dreams of me, I’ll marry her.” He got married, and wakes up the next morning - daydreaming is as if it had not happened, out of nowhere brains appeared, junk has already been unpacked, bras and panties are hanging all over the house. That and look in strings and ropes you will get confused. And the husband from the whole world is left with a tiny island - a living room. He reached for honey, but fell into a bear trap; rejoiced that he had caught a butterfly, and looked closely - a wasp. Here he begins to invent hobbies for himself: philately, Freemasonry, and something else ...

Enough is enough! Mom screamed. - Marianne, tell us about your young man. How is it there? Isaac van Pelt, right?

I'm sorry, what? Ah… yes, Isaac.

All night long, Marianne tossed about in bed: either she grabbed a volume of poetry and sorted out ornate lines, or she turned over from her back to her stomach to look out the window at a sleepy world flooded with moonlight. All night long, the scent of jasmine tormented her and she was tormented by the unusual heat for early spring (and the thermometer showed fifty-five Fahrenheit). If someone looked through the keyhole, he would see a half-dead moth in the bed.

And the next morning she stood in front of the mirror, clapped her hands over her head and went downstairs to breakfast, almost forgetting to put on her dress.

At the table, grandmother laughed at something every now and then. Finally she could not stand it and said aloud:

You have to eat, baby, otherwise you won’t have the strength.

Then Marianne nibbled off a piece of toast, turned it over in her fingers and bit off exactly half. At that moment, a klaxon howled outside the window. It's Isaac! On your carriage!

Ouch! - exclaimed Marianne and flew out from behind the table like a bullet.

Young Isaac van Pelt was invited into the house and introduced to his family.

When Marianne finally drove away, my father sank into a chair and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

Well well. This is no gate...

Why, you yourself said that it was time for her to go on dates, ”my mother teased.

I don’t know who pulled my tongue, ”said my father. “But she’s been hanging around here for half a year, and there’s still the same amount left. So I thought: if she could find the right guy...

- ... and marry him, - grandmother grimly croaked, - then she would quickly move out of us, right?

Generally speaking, my father said.

In general terms, - repeated the grandmother.

The further, the worse, - the father could not stand it. - The girl is flying around the house with her eyes closed, singing something, spinning these records with love songs, damn them, and talking to herself. There is a limit to human patience. By the way, she also laughs for no reason. I wonder if there are many eighteen-year-olds in the psychiatric hospital?

Seems like a decent young man, - said my mother.

It remains only to trust in the will of God. Father took out a glass. - For early marriages!

The next morning, Marianne, hearing a car horn, rushed out the door like a fireball. The young man did not even have time to climb the porch. Only the grandmother, crouching at the living room window, saw the couple rush off into the distance.

Nearly knocked me off my feet. The father smoothed his mustache. - What's happening? Are brains melting? Oh well.

By evening, Marianne came home and danced across the living room to the record cabinet. The needle of the gramophone hissed. The song "Ancient Black Magic" ["That Old Black Magic" (1942) is a popular song by Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer; performed by the Glen Miller Orchestra, Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Marilyn Monroe (in the movie "Bus Stop") and many others.] was played twenty-one times, and Marianne, singing "la-la-la", with closed eyes circled the room .

AT own house not enter the living room, - complained the father. - I retired to smoke cigars and enjoy life, and I have to watch how this weak creature curls and buzzes under the chandelier - my niece.

Hush you! - mum shushed.

For me, this is a life collapse, - announced the father. - It's good that she just came to visit.

You understand what it means for a girl to come to visit. Far from home, it seems to her that she is in France, in Paris. She will leave us in October. There is nothing left.

It's like looking, - said the father, having estimated something in his mind. “Maybe I won’t make it a hundred and thirty days until that time and I’ll leave you myself - to the cemetery.” - He jumped up from his chair and angrily threw away the newspaper, which froze on the floor like a white tent. - Honestly, Mommy, now I'll tell her everything.

With a decisive step, he went to the doors of the living room and stopped, watching the dancing Marianne.

La! she sang to the beat of the music.

Coughing, my father stepped over the threshold.

Marianne! he called.

- "Ancient black magic ..." - Marianne deduced. - I'm sorry, what?

He followed the smooth movements of her hands. Dancing past her father, she suddenly glared at him.

I need to talk to you. He straightened his tie.

Da-dum-dee-doo-dum-de-dum-dee-doo-dum, she sang.

Can you hear me? the father asked sternly.

He's such a sweetheart," she snapped.

I do not argue.

To think he bows and opens the doors for me like a doorman, and plays the trumpet as well as Harry James, and brought me a bunch of daisies this morning!

Let's say.

Him blue eyes She looked up at the ceiling.

Father did not see anything remarkable there.

And she kept looking at the ceiling, where there was not the slightest leak, not a crack, and danced without stopping, even when her father came very close and repeated with a sigh:

Marianne.

We ate lobster at a restaurant by the river.

Lobsters are understandable, but we don't want you to be overtired, exhausted. Someday - that's right tomorrow - stay at home, help Aunt Mat cut napkins.

Yes, sir. - As in a dream, she floated around the room, spreading her wings.

Did you hear what you were told? - the father went out of himself.

Yes, she whispered. - Oh, yes, - And again, without opening his eyes: - Yes, yes.

Uncle. She tilted her head back, rocking from side to side.

So will you help your aunt? - shouted the father.

"...cut napkins," she purred.

That's it! Returning to the kitchen, my father sat down on a chair and picked up a newspaper from the floor. - Not someone, but I put her in her place!

Nevertheless, the next morning, before he could get his legs out of bed, he heard the deafening screams of a car horn, under which Marianne ran downstairs, lingered for a couple of seconds in the dining room, threw something into her mouth, hesitated at the bathroom door while she thought she would vomit her or not, and then she slammed the front door - and the carriage rattled along the pavement, carrying away a couple singing out of tune.

The father put his head in his hands.

They cheated with napkins, sir,” he muttered.

What are you talking about? Mom asked.

“Duliz,” said the father. “I’ll stop by the Duliz early in the morning.

“The Doolees doesn't open until ten.

Then I'll lie still, - decided the father and closed his eyelids.

All evening and seven more crazy evenings, the hanging bench on the open veranda played its squeaky song: back and forth, back and forth. The living room was occupied by my father: you could see how he puffed on a dime cigar with vindictive pleasure and the cherry light illuminated his inescapably tragic face. And on the veranda, a hanging bench creaked measuredly. Father was waiting for another creak. Outside, he heard some whispers, like the fluttering of a night moth, muffled laughter and sweet, insignificant words intended for delicate ears.

I have on the veranda, - squeezed out the father. "On my bench," he whispered to his cigar, looking into the light. - In my house. He waited for the next creak. - Oh my God.

Going into the closet, he appeared on the dark veranda with a gleaming butter dish in his hands.

Nothing, nothing. It is not necessary to get up. I won't interfere. It's just here and here.

He greased the squeaky joints. There was darkness - even gouge out your eyes. He did not see Marianne, only smelled her. The scent of her perfume nearly knocked him into the rose bushes. He did not see her gentleman either.

Good night, he said.

Returning to the house, he sat down in the living room: the creak was gone. Only the beating of Marianne's heart reached his ears; or maybe it was the flutter of the wings of a night butterfly.

Apparently, a decent young man, - said my mother, appearing on the threshold with a kitchen towel and a washed plate in her hands.

I hope, - his father answered in a whisper. “Otherwise, I would have let them in, no matter what evening, on my veranda!”

Summer is over

One. Two. Hattie froze in bed, silently counting the lingering, slow beats of the courthouse chimes. Sleepy streets lay beneath the tower, and the city clock, round and white, became like the full moon, which at the end of summer invariably flooded the town with an icy glow. Hattie's heart skipped a beat.

She jumped up to look around at the empty alleys that marked the dark, motionless grass. Downstairs, the porch, disturbed by the wind, creaked barely audibly.

Looking in the mirror, she loosened her tight teacher's bun, and her long hair cascaded over her shoulders. The students would be surprised, she thought, if they happened to see these brilliant black waves. It’s not bad at all if you are already thirty-five. Trembling hands pulled out of the chest of drawers several small bundles hidden away. Lipstick, blush, eyebrow pencil, nail polish. Airy pale blue dress, like a cloud of fog. Pulling off her nondescript nightgown, she threw it on the floor, stepped barefoot on the rough material, and pulled the dress over her head.

She moistened her earlobes with drops of perfume, ran lipstick over her nervous lips, shaded her eyebrows, hastily painted her nails.

She stepped out onto the landing of the sleeping house. She glanced apprehensively at the three white doors: would they suddenly open? Leaning against the wall, she paused.

No one looked out into the corridor. Hattie stuck her tongue out at first one door, then two others.

As she descended, not a single step creaked on the stairs, now the path lay on the moonlit porch, and from there to the quiet street.

The air was already filled with the night aromas of September. The asphalt, still warm, warmed her thin, untanned legs.

How long have I wanted to do this. She plucked a blood-red rose to stick in her black hair, hesitated a bit and turned to the curtained eye sockets of the windows of her house: - No one will guess what I'm going to do now. - She circled, proud of her flying dress.

Bare feet trotted silently along a line of trees and dim lamps. Each bush, each fence seemed to appear before her anew, and from this bewilderment was born: “Why didn’t I dare to do this before?” Stepping off the pavement onto a dewy lawn, she deliberately paused to feel the prickly coolness of the grass.

The patrolman, Mr. Walzer, was walking down Glen Bay Street, singing something sad in his tenor. Hattie slipped behind a tree and, listening to his singing, followed his broad back with her eyes.

It was quite quiet near the courthouse, except for the fact that she herself hit her toes a couple of times on the steps of a rusty fire escape. On the upper landing, by the cornice, above which the city clock gleamed silver, she held out her hands.

Here it is, below - a sleeping town!

Thousands of rooftops gleamed from the moonlight snow.

She shook her fist and made faces at the night city. Turning towards the suburbs, mockingly pulled up the hem. She danced and laughed silently, and then snapped her fingers four times in different directions.

In less than a minute, she was already running with burning eyes across the silky city lawns.

Now the house of whispers appeared before her.

Hiding under a very specific window, she heard two male and female voices coming from the secret chamber.

Hattie leaned against the wall; only whispers, whispers reached her ears. They, like two moths, trembled inside, beat against the window glass. Then there was a muffled, distant laugh.

Hattie raised her hand to the glass, her face in awe. Beads of sweat appeared above the upper lip.

What was it? shouted the man behind the glass.

She ran for a long time before stopping again at the window, but in a completely different place.

In the light-flooded bathroom, which was the only lighted room in the whole town, stood a young man who, yawning, was carefully shaving in front of a mirror. Black-haired, blue-eyed, twenty-seven years old, he worked at the railway station and took ham sandwiches in a metal box to work every day. After dabbing his face with a towel, he turned off the light.

Hattie hid under the crown of a centuries-old oak - clung to the trunk, where there is a solid cobweb and some kind of plaque. The outer lock clicked, the gravel creaked underfoot, the metal lid clinked. When the air smelled of tobacco and fresh soap, she did not even have to turn around to understand that he was passing by.

Whistling through his teeth, he moved down the street towards the ravine. She followed him, running from tree to tree: either she flew behind the elm trunk with a white veil, then she hid behind the oak tree with a moon shadow. At some point, the man turned around. She barely managed to hide. With a beating heart, she waited. Silence. Then again his steps.

He was whistling "June Night".

A rainbow of lights perched over the edge of the cliff hurled his own shadow right at his feet. Hattie was within arm's reach, behind a century-old chestnut tree.

Stopping for the second time, he did not look back. Just sniffed the air.

The night wind brought the scent of her perfume to the other side of the ravine, as she intended.

She didn't move. Now was not her move. Exhausted from her pounding heart, she clung to the tree.

It seemed that for an hour he did not dare to take a step. She could hear the dew submissively disintegrating under his boots. The warm scents of tobacco and fresh soap wafted in close by.

He touched her wrist. She didn't open her eyes. And he didn't make a sound.

Somewhere in the distance the city clock struck three times.

His lips covered hers gently and lightly. Then they touched the ear.

He pressed her against the trunk. And he whispered. Here, it turns out, who was peeping at him through the windows for three nights in a row! He touched his lips to her neck. Here, then, who was stealthily following him on his heels last night! He peered into her face. The shadows of thick branches lay softly on her lips, cheeks, forehead, and only her eyes, burning with a living brilliance, could not be hidden. She is wonderfully beautiful - does she herself know this? Until recently, he considered it an obsession. His laugh was no louder than a secret whisper. Without taking his eyes off her, he slipped his hand into his pocket. He lit a match and raised it to the height of her face to get a better look, but she pulled his fingers to her and held it in her palm along with the extinguished match. A moment later, the match fell into the dewy grass.

Let it go, he said.

She didn't look up at him. He silently took her by the elbow and pulled her away.

Looking at her untanned legs, she walked with him to the edge of a cool ravine, at the bottom of which, between mossy, willow-covered banks, a silent stream flowed.

He hesitated. A little more and she would have raised her eyes to make sure of his presence. Now they were standing in a lighted place, and she diligently turned her head away so that he could see only the flowing darkness of her hair and the whiteness of her forearms.

He said:

The darkness of the summer night breathed in her calm warmth.

The answer was her hand reaching out to his face.

The next morning, descending the stairs, Hattie found her grandmother, Aunt Maude, and Cousin Jacob munching on their cold breakfast on both cheeks, and were not very happy when she, too, pulled out a chair for herself. Hattie came out to them in a dull long dress with a blank collar. Her hair was pulled back into a tight little bun, and on her carefully washed face, her bloodless lips and cheeks looked completely white. There was no trace left of the summed up eyebrows and painted eyelashes. Nails, one would think, had never known glitter polish.

You're late, Hattie, - as if by agreement, they all stretched out in chorus, as soon as she sat down at the table.

Do not lean on porridge, Aunt Maud warned. - It's already half past nine. It's time for school. The director will give you the first number. There is nothing to say, the teacher sets a good example for the students.

All three glared at her. Hattie smiled.

You're late for the first time in twenty years, Hattie," Aunt Maud insisted.

Still smiling, Hattie did not move.

It's time to leave, they said.

In the hallway, Hattie pinned her straw hat to her hair and unhooked her green umbrella. The family did not take their eyes off her. On the threshold she flushed, turned around and looked at them for a long time, as if preparing to say something. They even leaned forward. But she only smiled and ran out onto the porch, slamming the door.

• 14.