The Germans started speaking on their native impossible Munich dialect, having begun to guff and hissing the sounds "ich" and "isch".
- Well, let's go!
Friends bowed and went out to the porch. Acacia was heady blooming and bumblebees flew slowly like thick kiddies. They hardly began to close the small art history gate, when suddenly they heard the unique voice of Uncle Rosenberg, like the old violin with one string. They both plunged into darkness, where smelled blue pots of aloe vera from pain.
- I'll help you.
*
Colonel and Thomas began telling their ideas. Thomas was saying long words, such as “Herzkreislaufwiederbelebung” and Colonel tried to simplify in vain his speech with the people's fragmentary German.
- Yes, I don’t, actually, understand the science - said Uncle Rosenberg. - Come on.
They proceeded to the dark bedroom. There was only an iron bed, and there was nothing on the walls except the big ancient embroidery. There was a plan with a Gothic inscription on it: “die Kolonie Schaffhausen”. Uncle Rosenberg took out from under the bed a suitcase "Samsonite" a solid dark blue American trunk of the last century. He began taking out of it different things, like a fakir, and he seemed to forget about the visitors. Uncle Rosenberg took out, for example, a brown leather hat with a wide brim and with rhinestones, a bag with a 9-mm cartridges, a Mauser 712, with the monogram "Schwarz" on the handle, the bonds of the USSR of 1952, 1954 and 1956 of 25 rubles. Colonel and Thomas with great interest were looking at that. Finally, Uncle Rosenberg took out a yellowed parchment with water marks. Probably, it was an address.
- Let's go!
*
The night was falling. Taxi was driving around Würzburg and drove at the highway seven. A Mercedes nestled up to the ideal concrete, like a cumulative projectile. German iron soul opened than the conceivable limits of man and car at a speed of two hundred and forty kilometers per hour. And only on turns our ears were slightly blocked, flashed lights, villages and cities. We drove in silence, and only Uncle Rosenberg, who was sitting on the passenger’s front seat, sometimes spoke about everything with the driver. At night the car left the motorway to Augsburg to the eighth and began dodging along the fabulous copses of Swabia, lit by the large full moon.
- Here we are, - Uncle Rosenberg said in a low bass.
Uncle’s relative’s house near the forest was extremely impressive, with a narrow road, numerous buildings, with an enclosure for horses. Such big houses exist on the homesteads of the respected Bauers. But the luxury facade with ancient mosaics showed the outlines of a small palace. The alley of strong marble gnarly planes was phosphoresced by the mysterious moon gleam.
Rosenberg pressed the button, on which there was a sign: Ohsenkocklinekeweg 1, Augsburg and at the bottom Gustav Jost von Rosenberg.
- Probably another Old Testament Rosenberg - Thomas quietly said through his clenched teeth.
A few minutes later came the porter with the galoons.
- Great! - two young men exchanged glances.
They moved on down the avenue. The moon illuminated by the deathly pale light seemed to be ready to move from the Earth's orbit to leave forever to the endless space. Silhouettes of common pipistrelles were coming out of the dark and the trio instinctively went faster.
*
They placed in a spacious lobby. Soon, there came the host. His thin, pale refined aristocratic noble appearance was quite rare on this earth. His tired blue shining cold eyes seemed to penetrate into the interlocutor’s soul, examining the triad with cautious curiosity. He reservedly smiled the distant east-relative.
- What do I owe your visit to, gentlemen?
The three conspirators spoke unanimously, sometimes interrupting each other.
Thomas angrily told about his invention in Colorado, the computer stealing, and how his work came to bad people. He raised his voice, often correcting glasses and his face darkened.
Colonel shouted that he was ready to catch the villain, but he needed help. His impenetrable look did not promise anything good. It was a dangerous mix of Genghis Khan’s descendants, spontaneous Cossacks, farmers, with a touch of royal blood. With a terrible accent, confusing German synthesis and words, he was pathetically telling the legend about Kolchak’s White Guardist, who had reached the country Belovode, about immortality secret developments in Tibet, about the dark planet and the woman in a sorrow-pyramid.
Uncle Rosenberg with an understanding look widened his eyes and openly mocked at those bachelors. Then he darkened and asked his second cousin, where was the refrigerator. In the village he was called Victor Bloom. His long, lean legs turned in battle into a deadly scissors, and his cold blue eyes popped out to madness. At that moment he felt no pain, no suffering, turning into an obvious berserk. He was a representative of the German community Povolozhye. Many of his relatives were killed by short crowbars in head and put into the ice hole of reddened Volga because there was an order not to waste bullets on the Germans. He went through a mournful wandering in concentration camps of Irkutsk and settling in the village in autumn 1944. Then local residents with surprise discovered that the Germans did not have horns. That winter, at night, they dug up and ate frozen potatoes in the vegetable gardens. Injustice and fights guaranteed him an eternal prison. Probably, he was saved by the incredible cruelty and merry cynical humor, which has been respected in Russia long since the Tartar yoke.
Uncle Witold Rosenberg brought everybody aromatic tea and delicious sweet German knot-shaped biscuits. There was late night.
*
Gustav’s Jost von Rosenberg speech was incredible. They found out the secret of good and evil. And they got knowledge which mere mortals don’t have.
Already early in the twilight, they went out to the porch. Birds woke up, a pair of grey frightened rabbits was rapidly running away from bizarre plane trees, young fresh air breathed out and rustled in the woods. Amazing, forever beautiful Germany played with the first sun rays.
Gustav listened inattentively to the chatter of the boys. He knew in advance what they would say and about would ask. He saw as young men has been peering, for the whole night, into the darkened spacious library, where gleamed tomes of ancient manuscripts. Those modern barbarians, existing in quickening civilization can not physically get the life-giving flickering spirit, unable to separate and to understand the dust of the old knowledge closets. In a moment they seemed not to be people. Thomas looked like a smart rabbit. Colonel looked like a primitive anxious beta macho. And his wonderful second cousin Witold Elpidiforovich looked like unreal Animation, internal skeleton- cuticula ready for everything.
Second cousins Rosenbergs were not similar, but at the same time they were united. They were invisible smiling curious sages. The representatives of the wonderful people whom simultaneously suited Wagner cap, a German uniform, colored tattoos on the nose, wood carving crèche for Christmas and sniper shooting at cameras at the highway.
*
The truth swayed like a glass of pure sparkling wandering wine on the ship. It was impossible to catch her, but it was somewhere nearby. Majority of the people couldn’t fully drink the cup of poison and grief called "temptation". Passed route traveled of the spirit reflected madness, digging, suffering, crime like on the board. And forever young wiser Germany will sing a song Lorelei again and again.
- You will be the first of the uninitiated - said Herr Roseberg. - The human ordinary psyche can not suffer everyday flight. The devices of the third generation are the symbiosis of time and psyche ... -
He hardly began choosing the word they could understand.
Someone said:
- Torsion.
- So let it be. An invisible warm blanket of space, the living and the deceased states.