It was May. Those are his days when spring imperceptibly becomes summer. The greenery had already reached its riot, the nightingale tour became an indispensable attribute of the silence of the night, it was not yet hot, and the cold weather was already gone.  seemed like fictions worn out by the thickness of the centuries.

      And on such a quiet Saturday day, when there were few people left in Moscow, my friend and I were driving in a blue  branch of the Moscow metro, I don't remember for what need. Everything, absolutely everything, was overshadowed by the miraculous phenomenon that happened to us, the witnesses of which we were chosen by fate.

      The metro train was approaching the Smolenskaya station. In the carriage dozing, except for us,  eight people. The speakers announced the name of the station. The train stopped, braking. "Smolenskaya"  the blue line, as well as its clone on the blue line, are by no means the most crowded stations. And on that quiet evening, there were no people at the station at all.

      We were chatting about something. With the noise that gave birth  the echo that went into the empty station, the doors opened. There was a short silence.


      And then events took place, forever engraved in memory, leaving a bright trace in the soul, the beautiful radiance of which could become evidence of outgoing grace, a radiant frame of a miracle that appeared to us, a vale of light and impeccable beauty.

      Then we could argue for a long time about how it began, whether or not there was  a soft flash of mountain light, whether there was thunder from an avalanche in the distant mountains ...

     We could argue for a long time, recalling more and more new details, refuting apocryphal fictions, adding and refuting each other, recreating and inventing new colors and strokes ...


       And just a young god entered the car.


      Dressed in a light, almost white, light suit and exquisite shoe shape, this  an envoy of Olympus or Shambhala, a resident of the world sent on a business trip to the capital, a bearer of revelation, gracefully entered the carriage and lightly sat down opposite us. Putting a briefcase-diplomat on his knees of unprecedented form and elegance, he straightened the blond curls of poetically long hair. His face, no doubt glowing in the dark, could hardly be called handsome or handsome. It was the standard of excellence. With a gentle, refined movement, he opened the diplomat and pulled out a distinctly old tome written in the ancient language of disappeared peoples. Finding the right page, he plunged into reading.

      Only here the ability to process the received information returned for a short time. We looked at each other, noting the width of each other's open mouth and eyes. The rest of the awakened inhabitants of our car, just as defeated by this divine descent, just as  touched and stunned looked at the stranger.

      The train started, but everyone was no longer up to what station would be next. We, along with everyone else, peacefully absorbed the grace of this solemn splendor.

     Time stood still, car-rail knocks and rattles gave way to unbearably beautiful sounds, born in the air, filling interatomic distances.

       The knowledge and conclusions of the exact sciences became unsuitable for life, turned out to be superfluous and unnecessary. We found ourselves on the threshold of the kingdom of tender love, sensitive kindness and absence of pain ...

      This could go on forever. After all  in paradise, where we, unworthy, were taken in an inscrutable way, the clock is not observed ...


      And the handsome young man, meanwhile, turned the page of the book. His thin Paganin's fingers, which belonged to the ideal shape of the hand, smoothed the page and, with delightful grace, found themselves near the chin. The eyes carefully and fluently read and comprehended the meaning of the ancient manuscript unknown to mortals.

      Meanwhile, graceful fingers reached the chiseled nose and imperceptibly penetrated it. The main work was done by the big and the index. The rest, so as not to interfere, were slightly retracted and raised up. Everything that happened next was mechanically fixed by all our senses.

      Finally, geological exploration in the nose was rewarded. Large  and the index, moving smoothly and dexterously, left the nose and, without ceasing to make rounded movements, already with the help of the  slightly to the side of the brush, nimbly, but without fuss, they began to give a round perfect shape to what was between them.

      We, without breathing, watched what was happening.

     Reading was not interrupted. The eyes of the emissary of the absolute were still fixed on  books.

      At this point, the scriptures seem to have given the reader a new twist in the story. He stopped for a second. More precisely, the Bolshoi and the Index have stopped.

   The pause ended inevitably. Then everything happened in a rapid change of the highest degrees of the most diverse feelings. We have eyewitnesses who are already prepared for the further apostolic mission.

     Big and Pointing, having rolled a ball of acceptable characteristics, finished circular movements. Now they have taken the form that precedes the birth of the Schelban.

       Our heightened religious feelings in these moments underwent a serious test.

      Vestibular sensations conveyed an increasing acceleration, whether it was a fall from heaven, or the braking of a train.


       But what had to happen happened. The fingers straightened sharply, sending a projectile of dead white blood cells into ballistic flight.

     The train stopped. A voice from above announced the name of the station. Trying not to look at each other, all the participants, witnesses of what was happening, pulled out of the car. Disqualified, demoted from the gods, but, it seems, did not feel anything, the passenger drove on. The book was interesting.

      In general, we have the most reading people.   


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