"Unlucky in Law" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Shaughnessy Perri)

PROLOGUE

Christina’s Story

Monterey , California , 1966

HER FRIENDS CALLED THEIR FATHERS “DAD” OR “DADDY,” BUT HE wanted Christina and her little brother to call him Papa because he had called his father Papa. His mustache drifted below his mouth at the corners, tickling her when he kissed her cheeks. When he was sick and lying on the couch in his study, he liked to sing to her. At bedtime he read her stories, like “Masha the Bear,” which was a lot like “Little Red Riding Hood,” and the story of “The Crow and the Crayfish.” Sometimes she persuaded him to read her favorite.

“‘The Snow Maiden’ again, Papa.”

He groused and teased, finally pulling out a tattered book and finding the page. “‘Everyone else was building snowmen. “Why not build a snow maiden?” the old lady asked. And so they did. When they were finished, they stepped back to admire her.’”

“She came to life,” Christina said, excited. “Like Pinocchio!”

“‘She smiled!’” he read, “‘and she began to move her arms and legs. How her grandparents doted on her. White as the snow was Snyegurochka, with eyes like blue beads. Blonde hair dangled all the way down to her waist. She had no color in her cheeks, but cherry red lips made of shiny ribbon. She was so beautiful!’”

He read on. Finishing the story, he leaned over to touch her cheek. “You, my little princess, have pink cheeks, nothing like this pale girl made of ice who melts in a bonfire.”

“Why did she jump over the fire?”

“She didn’t want to hide by the icy river anymore. She forgot she was made of snow, and dreamed she could be something she was not.”

“I’ll be like her. Brave. Jump over the fire.”

“No,” Papa said. “Remember, she lost her life for this dream.”

He shut the book. “Tomorrow, I will play some music for you, something you will like.”

“What is it?”

“Music for the snow maiden, based on the story you love so much,” he said, “by a man named Rimsky-Korsakov.”

“Okay.” Her eyes drooped. “Papa?”

“Yes, my princess.”

“I can’t sleep.”

He kissed her forehead. “One last story,” he said, “the true story of a boy in Russia. Then if you can’t sleep, you will have to count sheep.” He thought for a moment. “I warn you in advance, it’s tragic.”

“Does the wolf tear the goat to bits?”

“Yes and no,” he said.

“Is it sad?”

“Yes, some of it is sad.”

“Put your blue egg in the story, the one you keep in your study.”

“All right.” He laughed.

“Does anyone die in it? I don’t want them to die.”

“In true stories, people die, Christina.”

“Not me!”

“Everyone.”

She digested the information silently, then said, “Tell me your story, Papa. I promise not to cry.”