Margarita Island

And now, ten years later, when Andrei's heart, torn in two, had healed crookedly and worked roughly but without pain, he asks and asks himself the same damned question: did he love Yulia? And he cannot find an answer.

Sometimes it seems to him that what was between them was less than love, sometimes—that it was more, but one thing was clear to him—their connection, their life were granted by heaven, and the fact that their feelings did not develop into love was his, Andrei's, fault.

It was he who was often inattentive and callous, unsociable and sullen, and even demonstratively lonely, he kept his distance where this distance was needed by no one, and, first and foremost, by himself.

Oh, with what pleasure and happiness he would now intertwine his fingers with Yulia's, inhale the scent of her hair, accept her bowed head on his shoulder. That is, all the things he didn't do before, simply because he didn't know how to do them. He didn't have much experience with women, he hadn't learned to feel them even tactilely, and he himself was afraid to open up emotionally and physically, as if hiding some shameful secret within himself—perhaps an imperfection of the body or his small penis. Or maybe something else, but he was always tense, fatally tense and wary, afraid to open up and trust. And he unconsciously masked this tension with his coldness.

Well, and then on April 13, 2013, Yulia returned thoughtful and distracted from the shoe repair shop, where she had taken her spring boots for repair.

And then she suddenly said:

— Can you imagine, he's so unhappy and lonely. Old, sits in the basement all day, tapping and tapping with his silly hammer.

— Who—oh?" Andrei was surprised.

— That shoemaker. And he pretends to be stern, but he's unshaven and funny. He reminded me of a Domovoy.

— So what?" Our hero shrugged.

— Nothing, just," the girl became thoughtful again. And suddenly she raised her shining eyes to Andrei:

— And he says to me: have you noticed how the icicles sparkle in the sun today! How bright, colorful, complex the rays are. Simple water, but they shine like diamonds.

— Why are you telling me all this?" Andrei wondered, rinsing the teapot, "'rays, water.' What's the point of all this?

— Well, isn't it wonderful? He sits in a dark basement himself, but sees diamonds in simple icicles?!" Yulia tried to ignite her companion with her interest, but he wouldn't ignite. Andrei sulked and was annoyed with himself for not understanding his girlfriend.

— Your shoemaker comes out as too lyrical somehow," the young man sighed.

— Yes, imagine. He's well-read, is into Spanish culture and adores Lorca.

— You know that too. Did you have heartfelt conversations?

— We didn't have conversations, I understood between the lines. And he also said that a person is the sum of their circumstances and everyone has something to love them for.

Yulia often baffled Andrei with her sudden revelations. And throughout all their time, they never once had a heart-to-heart talk. But he knew all the lines on her small, pretty palms and consoled himself that if she, God forbid, fell ill, he would point out her Life Line, which has a short break but then deepens and goes right into the pulse. And that means she would live a long time.

And now, when our hero remembered this, he also thought that he was essentially not stupid, he could feel, he appreciated beautiful metaphors and precise rhymes, once he had a soul. He loved music and poetry, but why, why, why with her was he so criminally closed off?!!

And then, already in spring, Andrei and Yulia were walking in the park, and she suddenly asked him:

— Do you know that far, far away in the ocean there is Margarita Island? There are white beaches and a turquoise tide, and seagulls, when they fly over the bay, they don't scream, they sing—it's so wonderful to live there!

— Margarita Island?" Andrei frowned, "haven't heard of such a thing. Where is it?

— In the Caribbean Sea. Let's go there?

— Goodness, Yulia, how are we going to go there? I can't find a job, you work anywhere, the apartment isn't even ours, with what money will we go? Be a realist already. Stop daydreaming.

On the internet, Andrei looked up Margarita and learned that such an island indeed exists, a significant part of it is a sandy, white desert with large cacti sticking straight out of the sand. They bloom rarely but wonderfully. Tourists from all over the world come to see their bloom as if to a festival.

Well, and then Andrei finally found a job, got hired as a watchman in the house-museum of a famous composer.

The schedule was one day on, two days off. And often, sitting at night on the steps of the old oak staircase of this deserted house, he looked at the stern portrait of the owner—the composer, at the portraits of his friends—also composers, and couldn't understand at all how it happened that he, Andrei, once a successful journalist, had sunk to such an empty position as a night museum watchman, understood that frequent drinking binges were to blame and swore that he would pull himself together, put his life in order, make Yulia happy. He would decide, he could, he would gather his will into a fist.

He would take out a bottle of strong "Okhota" beer from under the antique piano, press it to his lips, suck in the thick, foamy drink in a long gulp and wipe his juicy lips with his hands, drilling deep and frequent belches into the semi-dark space, to which the sullen piano responded with an indignant hum of its strings.

The drunkenness came on thickly and imperiously, Andrei wandered thoughtfully through the floors and halls, sometimes penetrating beyond the chains that fenced off the relics, sat in the composer's chair and imagined himself famous and talented, flared up, grew bolder, liked himself and immediately dimmed. He already knew that nothing in this life happens just like that, that success is never accidental, and too often where you expect bread, you get a stone in your hand.

Three and a half years ago, he and Yulia moved from the provinces to Moscow, hoping to realize themselves, to become happy. Andrei wrote well, in his hometown he was considered a talented journalist, and he decided to move to the metropolis precisely for his beloved Yulia, she really wanted a capital life, beauty, glitter, service, big opportunities.

But after several years of unsuccessfully knocking on the doors of editorial offices and publishing houses, Andrei understood that there were a great many like him. That no one needed him with his stories, hopes, and abilities, that "all the warm places are taken," and his place was on the back platform of a tram.

The jobs he got were increasingly petty, he started drinking, and he slid downhill, reaching this museum bottom.

He wanted to pity, love, and please Yulia. But there was no resource for that.

There, in the museum darkness and dust, the drunken Andrei sadly remembered how he once got a job as a flyer poster. And in winter at that. He bought glue at his own expense and stuck those stupid pieces of paper on building entrances almost around the clock. He had seriously decided then to earn money and buy Yulia a warm down jacket, hers was already completely weightless and old. He ruined two pairs of gloves in that damn glue, but he was cheated. He came a month later for his pay, and the office was gone without a trace. He spent a month washing that glue off his hands afterwards.

And there was also some underground website where he wrote news. Then that resource got into criminal trouble, the poor news writer barely got out of there with his life. A lot had already happened...

Well, and then, already in June, a fourth watchman was hired at the museum, our hero's schedule suddenly changed, and he returned home at an unusual time, namely in the evening. Although according to the plan he was supposed to work that night. He got an advance and on the way bought Yulia's favorite flowers—white gladioli and "Raffaello" candies. In fits of tenderness, he was unjustifiably generous, although later, which also happened, he stole money from Yulia's wallet for drinks. She was still at work. Andrei brewed himself strong tea and sat in the kitchen. He still remembers that he didn't feel like eating at all that evening. He seemed to sense something on that memorable June 17th. Oh, if only he had known WHAT he would see that cursed evening.

The sound of a key being inserted into the door was heard. Yulia. Andrei rose to meet her, but heard male and female voices behind the door and, without thinking, rushed into the free room, grabbing his sneakers from the hallway on the way.

He closed the room door and listened. Yulia entered the corridor with some hoarse man. They spoke quietly but very quickly. Andrei's heart beat terribly, interfering with listening, he literally pressed his ear to the keyhole.

— Have a bite?" Yulia asked her companion.

— Later," he hurried, taking off his shoes. "I want to see you, I've been pining away.

— Is he blind?" Andrei wondered behind the door, "he sees her already.

— Then—a shower. I'm first, dibs," Yulia laughed.

— Go, just not long," the man rasped.

— And you?

— I'm clean. Washed specially," the guest replied.

He felt some strange strength of this stranger, not even physical... It was something more.

And in the kitchen, the tea was still steaming and the chalk-white gladioli sadly bowed their heavy buds.

The guest went into the bedroom. What he did there, Andrei didn't see. Yulia fluttered out of the shower unusually quickly. She usually loved to lounge in the bath, lay in it for hours. But here, literally—sports time. Grabbing something from her purse on the fly, she also rushed into the bedroom and closed the door. Andrei cautiously stepped out into the corridor. It smelled thickly of cheap, "non-local" cologne.

— Well, come to me, my sea star," the man rasped. "Let me look at you, let me feast my eyes to my heart's content, my girl. I'm starving to death.

— Wait," Yulia laughed, "let me dry off, I'm wet. My hair's a mess.

Andrei knelt before the door, directed his gaze through the keyhole. Before them, some careless people lived in this apartment, they took out all the handles from the doors, and they gaped with large holes.

Actively tousling her hair with one hand holding a towel, with the other Yulia clutched the ends of a second towel wrapped around her over her chest. She dodged as best she could from the embraces of the nimble, small man, whose face Andrei couldn't see because of the rays of the setting sun shining sexpornotales.cc through the window. But the sun was setting, gradually clarifying the picture. The smoker's bass of the man seemed much more powerful than his body. Andrei watched and couldn't believe himself—on the guest's head sat a sombrero, askew, wide as a wheel, appearing from who knows where.

For a moment, the peeper even felt amused, but then he was no longer in the mood for laughter, because the bed was already made.

Kneeling, the guest threw the hat aside widely, raised his hands to the girl:

— Reveal yourself, my Creole! Appear, like a Goddess born from foam! Shine, blind your slave, your faithful squire.

— God, he's an old man! Gray and disgusting," Andrei's heart clenched.

Yulia let go of the towel and stepped before the man naked, shyly bringing her legs together.

Andrei saw them both from the side, the image was duplicated three times by different details in the mirrors: the mirror on the wardrobe door, on the wall, and in front of Yulia's dressing table. But still, much of what was happening he didn't see, but felt more, and these feelings were devastating.

Yulia was indeed beautiful, in all her nakedness, shamelessness, and defenselessness. As if Andrei had never seen her so desirable and already inaccessible. This cursed invader in the sombrero seemed to be revealing her to him, and teasing that she already belonged to him.

The treacherous, and apparently vagrant-looking man, crossing his arms on his sunken chest, devoured the girl with his eyes.

— You are perfection! Have mercy, I'll go blind!" The guest covered his eyes with his palm. And he said this already seriously, even with apprehension, as if he really was blinded by the radiance and feared it would burn out his eyes.

And this sharp contrast between his recent playfulness and this sudden seriousness and absolute honesty—that was terrifying.

— My girl, how magnificent you are, you are the best, the greatest thing I have seen in my life," he breathed heavily and rapidly, but continued and continued his temptation, "I think my heart will stop now, how beautiful you are, how graceful you are!

— And how am I graceful?" Yulia playfully raised the tip of a thin eyebrow, and in her voice, in her intonations—everything, everything was so unfamiliar to Andrei.

— Like the most delicate shoe I have ever seen in my life.

— The shoemaker!" A guess dawned on the peeper.

The guest clung to his mistress, embraced her from behind, grabbed her breasts and whispered something hotly right into her ear. Andrei didn't catch it. But she seemed to startle all over from that whisper, as if she opened up entirely, and they greedily merged in a kiss with their tongues.

Andrei knew nothing of such kisses. When lovers stick out their tongues to the limit and suck, rub, poke, and lick with them.

Then he caressed her with the tip of his tongue behind her ears, and she blissfully stretched her neck, threw back and turned her head, allowing him to lick behind her ears, over her cheeks, over her eyebrows, over her cheekbones.

— Open up, don't be shy, surrender to the power of feelings," he covered her from head to toe with some rustling whisper. "Be yourself, delight me, desire sex, it's so natural. Delight, my beloved signora, your enchanted vassal. Don't be ashamed and don't be afraid of anyone. We are alone, just you and I!

He pulled his T-shirt over his head, jumped to his feet, his penis stiffened, filled, and Andrei beheld that hidden, individual, ugly, and shameful thing that is usually concealed, hidden from prying eyes in wide trousers—a crimson glans sat somehow crookedly, as if it had grown onto the penis not at the base but sideways, and on the wrinkled, sagging scrotum, overgrown with coarse, gray hairs, a large, black wart had grown near the root of the penis.

Somehow instantly and at once, her nipples on Yulia inflamed, filled with blood, developed and straightened and turned crimson, like medals.

Following them, her wet slit bulged from her pubis, opened as an inflamed, red socket, ready to receive a ball. The naked girl, the possibility of possessing her whenever he wished, drove the man himself crazy. Unexpectedly, he cast a glance right into Andrei's keyhole, and he involuntarily turned away. The shoemaker's crazy little eyes, like a chameleon's, blissfully filmed over, he muttered something inarticulate, barely moving his lips.

Beside himself, the brute picked up his mistress in his arms (puny, but agile!) and gently laid her on the bed on her back. He knelt