"Kaminsky, Stuart M. - Rostinov - A Fine Red Rain" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kaminsky Stuart M)

The crowd under Gogol's statue was growing and would soon spill into the street, tying up traffic.

"Pushkin praised Gogol's depth of feeling and poetry. Tolstoy called Gogol a genius," said Rostnikov.

"I'm not questioning his genius," insisted the old man. "Who's questioning the genius of Gogol? Did I question his genius?" the old man asked. "What I said was"

"Who is a genius?" interrupted a portly, well-dressed woman with a little mesh bag full of vegetables. "That one's a genius?" She nodded at the ranting man perched on the statue.

"We're not talking about him," corrected the old man. "We're talking about Gogol."

"Of course he was a genius," said the woman. "Who said he wasn't?"

The old man pointed at Rostnikov. "He did."

Rostnikov made up his mind and sighed. "I'm a policeman," he said.

"Then that's different," said the old man, walking in one direction while the well-dressed woman with the vegetables headed toward the metro station.

The word fly came wailing from the man on the statue through the sound of gentle morning rain, heavy traffic, and the gathering curious. Rostnikov watched a young uniformed MVD officer push his way through the small, but growing, crowd. If the rain were to stop, the crowd would become a circus. The young policeman called out something official sounding to the man on Gogol's head, but the man laughed. The police officer looked confused, and someone called advice from the crowd. Rostnikov sighed and trudged across the square and Gogol Boulevard, holding out his hand to stop an advancing Moscova sedan that seemed determined to roll over him. At the fringe of the crowd, in spite of the rain, an enterprising man with a sad face badly needing a shave had set up a makeshift fold-out stand and was selling, or trying to sell, vegetable seeds.

"Five for a kopeck," he shouted. "All from Africa. They'll grow as big as your fist."

Business was bad, but not terrible. A familyman, woman, and two young boysthat seemed to be from the country began to talk to the seed salesman without taking their eyes off the man on the statue. Rostnikov lumbered past them and made his way through the crowd.

"Don't shove," said a young man with long hair. He was wearing American jeans and holding the hand of an equally young girl with practically no breasts who was also wearing jeansand a white T-shirt that had "The Police" written on it in English. Rostnikov momentarily pondered the meaning of the message. Was it in support of the police? A subtle challenge? Why was it in English?

The rain had slowed, but not stopped, as Rostnikov pushed through the front row of the crowd and beard the police officer shout up at the man blasphemously atop Gogol, "You are disrupting traffic and failing to display proper respect to a national monument. Come down now."

The man moved down to sit on Gogol's shoulders and hugged Gogol's neck and laughed at the sky and the rain.

"Come down?" he shouted, the rain dripping down his dark face. "I can fly down. I flew up here and I can fly down. I am a flyer."

Rostnikov examined the man above him. He seemed familiar, not familiar like a friend, or even like the driver of a bus one sees over and over, but like a face one has encountered, examined. He was in his forties, wearing neat, wet-dark pants, a heavy gray shirt, and a jacket mat almost matched the pants. He was well built, like an athlete. He seemed to have some secret that he shared only with the sky and the ear of the statue, which he leaned over to whisper into.

"Officer..." Rostnikov said to the policeman.

He responded, "Back, stay back."

"I'm Inspector Rostnikov," Rostnikov explained, wiping rain from his brow.

The police officer turned quickly, came to attention, and then relaxed openly, pleased to have a superior take over a situation that was beyond him. The officer, hardly more man a boy, had reddish cheeks and a pouty lower lip.

"Yes, Comrade Rostnikov, I recognize you," he said. "This man..."

"Officer?"

Tunis Korostyava," the officer said.

"Korostyava," Rostnikov said, looking up at the man above them, "get some help and move the crowd back. Tell them they'll be late for work. I'll deal with the man who flies on statues."