I dedicate to You the first prelude to my edited novel and all the following chapters as well, to the end, thanks for my life.
A novel for You.
AND I HOLD ASTRONAUT PETERS IN HAND
FOREWORD: Disaster threatens 28 degrees North latitude and 43 degrees west longitude.
In the morning they had cold milk instead of tea. The captain forbade to start a fire.
The boats came within range. Three men jumped ashore from each. They were only lightly armed, without muskets. They were all dressed the same, in leather pants, tucked into high boots and smooth leather jackets.
-Like fishermen from the north, the Captain thought.
Time passes in a long silence before Señor Alvarez finally declares restrainedly: -It could ruin my plans! –
The captain sat on the sand, listening to the radio with his headphones on, his crystal.
He fumbled with his hand for a moment, as if conducting a concert. His eyes were narrowed, his straw mustache was in danger of catching a cigarette that hung forgotten between his lips.
-Guys-he spoke towards us-You shouldn’t work because work kills. They broke a stone in one quarry. They drilled a stone, inserted a dynamite cartridge, and before they lit its cigar, the trumpet player blew his horn, which means everything had to run. At that moment, an engineer thought that he had forgotten the lulka there and returned for it. Naturally, he disappeared from the world. So you see, work kills, you shouldn’t work, and that’s it. Next time I will tell you about Hungarian salami. That it won’t go wrong, either in the heat or at sea. I will also tell you that if I had a ton of Hungarians, I would not be afraid to walk around the world, and nothing would happen to me.
- What about the nutmeg lounge? „Eileen said.
The Muscat Lounge was the Captain’s invention, actually just its name. At one end of the morning dining room, Eileen built a three-walled greenhouse and stuffed the geraniums so that the geraniums tasted and sniffed every morning for breakfast, and the Captain sat in a wicker chair in the greenhouse to read the Times in the cold morning sun.
Hujer sat in the kitchen, his hands folded in his lap, staring blankly through the dusty window on the street. The deceptively cold morning sun woke the blue fly prematurely in a crack. She hit the glass and buzzed irritably.
-I should open it and let her out — he thought- but let him get cold there, bitch.-
Bearded Arabs with white turbans, screams, summons – everything disappears in the hiss and smell of carbide lamps.
The typewriter button sticks to my final long bony fingers, which sweat upset when I write these sentences! Suddenly my eyes seemed to petrify into a pillar of salt, but here a new voice, inside my own head, told me.
-It’s behind you. You’ve gotten above it. That’s it. People can overcome everything.-
-Mhmmm.-I thought.-If I were a girl, I’d be naive.-
The tape reels began to rotate slowly. Mysterious patterns of geometrically arranged patterns are formed on hundreds of X-rays, unwinding from several coils.
He looked at the radio and remembered his father, an ear pricked on the receiver, longing for the plight of England, pleased with the distant catastrophes.
The captain weighed his revolver.
There was a heavy, undisturbed silence.
Hujer stubbornly returns to the thoughts of the fly.
The captain then wiped the table top with his rag with his other hand and brought a map from the ship.
-Look.-He unfolded it. It was big, bigger than the table. The whole world, known at the time, could fit in on her.
They looked at the colorful continents and the light blue sea. In places where the map was translated, someone taped it with a gray canvas. It shone through the cracks in the paper into the continents and the sea. The world was divided by the canvas into gray-lined rectangles, and somewhere, some were missing.
-Here we are.- said the Captain.-We could set sail for their help- He suggested and leaned over the map.
End of overture.
Začátek napsán více jak před deseti lety, zkusím najít originál. Jakákoliv shoda jmen a postav a situací je náhodná.
Každopádně bude co zlepšovat, takhle to začíná. Bez střihů, zvukových efektů, kouzel…jen čtení, Ty a já .
Chvílemi bylo opravdu těžké se ovládnout, na tom se bude muset zapracovat, nemůžu za to, že mám takovou fantazii, celou scénu jsem viděl z první řady a nešlo se nerozesmát.
Poet Audio Novel…ne, tohle je jiný projekt .