"Alexander Abramov, Sergei Abramov. Journey Across Three Worlds (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

square was already visible through the flashing interstices between the line
of cars passing by, and I hurried ahead, continuing to glance behind me in
confusion and alarm. I could not exactly recall the buildings that lined
Pushkin Boulevard, though these did not appear to be different - except the
lamps over the doorways weren't the same eye-smacking ones and, what's more,
the street numbers were changed.
Where the green river of the boulevard flowed into the square, I was
literally turned to stone: its mouth was empty. Pushkin was gone. For a
moment, I thought my heart stopped beating. The naked stone bald-spot in
place of the monument frightened me now, rather than alarmed. I closed my
eyes, hoping the delusion would pass. At that moment, somebody passing by
bumped into me, perhaps accidentally, but so hard that I was spun round on
my heels. The delusion really did disappear. I saw the monument.
It stood far back in the square. Pushkin looked just as thoughtful and
severe as ever, his winged cloak negligently thrown over his shoulders - an
image dear to me from childhood. Even if it were in a different spot, it was
Pushkin! I began to breathe more freely, though behind the monument I could
see an utterly unknown building, quite modern, with the huge letters ROSSIYA
across its facade. Hotel or cinema? Only yesterday, there had been a
six-teen-storey building here, with the Cosmos restaurant on the ground
floor, and flats above. Everything was similar, yet dissimilar, familiar
down to the smallest detail, yet it was the details most of all that altered
the familiar look. For instance, I found the chemist's shop in the same
spot, the salesgirls stood behind the counters wearing the same white
smocks, identical queues crowded round the cashier's booth, and in the
optical section they were still selling eyeglasses with the same ugly,
uncomfortable frames. But when I asked a girl for some pyrabutan for a
headache, she gave me a puzzled grimace.
"Pardon?"
"Pyrabutan."
"Never heard of it."
"Well, for a headache."
"Pyramidonum?"
"No," I muttered vaguely. "Pyrabutan."
"There's no such thing."
My stupidly foolish look drew a pitying smile.
"Take these 3-in-one tablets." And she threw a small packet on the
counter - a box I'd never seen before.
In my trouser pocket I found a handful of silver coins - the money
could hardly be told from ours. Later, sitting on a bench by the Pushkin
monument, I made a thorough search of all the pockets in the suit bestowed
on me by a whim of fate. The contents would have stumped any detective.
Besides some change I found a few one- and three-rouble notes that were
quite different from ours, a crumpled tram ticket, an excellent fountain
pen, and an almost new pocket-notebook with only a few pages torn out. There
were no documents or identification cards to give me a hint as to what or
who my double was.
I no longer felt any fear: there remained only a sharp, nervous
curiosity. I tried not to dwell on how long my intrusion into this world
would last, or how it would end - all kinds of conjectures, even the most