Printed from cont. - Papuan from Honduras (continued).

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│  PRINTED WITH CONTINUATION.  │
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 (R) Fedin Pavel


 V. Shinkarev

		      Papuan from Honduras.
			 (Continued)



 CHAPTER THREE.

                Death of an unknown gentleman.


   On the screen is the same dining room in the palazzo of Lord Chron (although
stage a play based on this adventurous film).

   In the dining room there are still the same ones, and two new ones, apparently introduced
viewers in the previous episode (only there is no cheerful captain -
Maybe he was eliminated for his knowledge?  ).

   The character John Vitorgan, Lord Chron's attorney in affairs, with
with a face as sharp as an axe, he barely suppresses irritation:

   - God knows, lord, I don’t understand why we need to initiate
the purpose of the expedition is anyone?

   - Damn me!  - exploded, all red, McDunkel,
puffed up in his suit trimmed with Brandenburs, - Thousand
devils!   He doesn't understand!   He doesn't understand that without a leader
A Scot is not a warrior!   (McDunkel has a slight burr and
It’s somehow not scary to swear: you can’t beat me).

   - God knows, the functions of a leader may well be taken over byyourself
Lord Chron, - answered with calm, noble irritation
Vitorgan, moving the nodules on his cheekbones.

   “Lord Chron will be the informal leader of the expedition,” wearily
said Frau Margaret Morgenstern, “but a formal one is also necessary.”

   - Damn you!  A thousand devils!  Thousands of wild ones
sheep!  What the hell is an informal leader?  - C
he shouted with fierce fury at Frau Margaret McDunkel.

   “Well, you’re a yaryga, God knows,” Vitorgan calmly told him, “
Why are you yelling at everyone?  What do you want?

   -  I  ?   Me, damn me?  A thousand devils!  A thousand volleys
in my ass!   I want you all, the devils tear you apart,
shut up, shut up, shut your mouths and listen to me!

   - Well, speak up, we are listening to you, God knows.

   McDunkel, growling and wheezing a little more, slammed his fist
on the table and said:

   - We need the devils to tear us all apart... That is, the devil
take it, I say, a thousand devils, a thousand volleys at you
ass... Damn!   - Lost in thought, he slammed his fist on
table.

   - If you, sir, cursed less, you would be able to
express your thoughts coherently.  - noted Frau Morgenstern.

   -  A?   Crap!  You want to teach me, little chicken?  "If only, yes
if only"?   Once you've squinted, bite it so that it pops out!  Morgen fri -
Wipe your nose!  Be silent while your teeth stick out!  Listen to everyone!  We needMcDrummond's... Yes, damn it!  We need to send messengers throughout
Highlands of Scotland and call all the MacDrommonds and gather
all the O'Briens, O'Panks, unfurled their banners and sang menacing songs
came down from the mountains to be followed by poets like O'Hapkin and
sang them, so that, damn it, they walked, fiercely typing their step,
across the plain, burning out the Vigamur nests with a hot iron, so that, damn
damn... - In a delight of inspiration, McDunkel slammed his fist
on the table with such force that Lord Chronya splashed out of his plate
All soup is julienned.

   “All this is very instructive, sir,” said Frau bitterly.
Margaret, - but your planned massacre of the clans of the Highlands is not
will help us in our search for the diamond.

   - Yes, let’s return to discussing the issue of the expedition to the island,
- Vitorgan began in a businesslike manner.

   - Let's invite Jacob Kulakin in charge.  - unexpectedly
said the glorious, but silent and ugly lady Elizabeth Chron.

   Everyone looked back at her in bewilderment, assessing their
considerations.   In the ensuing silence you can only hear the Lord
Chron, slurping with appetite, slurps the julienne soup.

   - Fell in love? - Frau Morgenstein clarified, narrowing her eyes.

   The nice girl blushed like a poppy.

   - What kind of Kulakin is this, the devil would he take him and tear him apart?
Isn’t this one of the New Gate Kulakins, so that they all get excited?
and spanked?

   “It’s him, he’s hanging around here,”Vitorgan said, moving
nodules - I know this, God knows, little one.  From a good family
but stupid as a Papuan.

   - Jacob is very smart!   - the nice girl said hotly.
Yearning, she looked for the necessary arguments, - Modest... he is real
Argonaut!

   - What, it hurts really bad?  - Lord Chron asked sympathetically
interrupting the meal.

   “Sir,” Vitorgan muttered with irritation, “the term
"Argonaut" is not so directly related to the term
"alcoholic" as you imagine it.

   - Talk the talk, don’t teach the scientist!

   - Father, he won’t put it in his mouth! - Lady Elizabeth intervened.

   Lord Chron hummed his lips in roseate disappointment.

   - Uh-uh... Nonsense!  What kind of Kulakin is there?  - Frau caught herself
Morgenstern, let's talk seriously and finish this matter.  I have
I have a suitable person in mind - Montahu McCormick.

   - Bald Montahu?   But this is a real robber, -
Vitorgan answered calmly.

   - But... wonderful external data, - it’s somehow strange
objected Frau Margaret.

   - What does external data have to do with it?  And what are his external appearances like?
data?  Pockmarked face, bald.

   “You can’t drink water from your face,” Frau Margaret quickly retorts.

   - Well, God knows, this is the only argument.  This Montahu
such a good fellow that he’s not just for diamonds - for
You can't send it in a bottle.

   - Well, then I propose the candidacy of John Glebb.- Stop, damn it!   John Glebb?  Is he from Scotland?
I don’t remember something like that, a hundred volleys in his ass!

   “Obviously, he’s a highway bandit,” moving his nodules,
Vitorgan said biliously, “he’s not a Scot, but an American.”
And not even an American, but a German.  More precisely Georgians.

   Frau Margarethe von Morgenstern glares angrily.
Vitorgan continues to mutter something irritably, and the camera
The cameraman is suddenly transported to the attic of the Lord's palazzo
Chronicle, where on the floor, with his ear to the crack, lies Bald Montahu.
Since the viewer is not familiar with him, this is what is written on the screen:
Bald Montahu McCormick.

   The gap in the ceiling of the dining room, and, accordingly, the floor of the attic, -
is small, and Montahu is hard to hear and almost impossible to see.  He
took out a knife and began to widen the gap with furious blows.  From the ceiling
a layer of plaster fell off and fell straight into Lord Chron's plate.

   In accordance with the best traditions of the comedy genre, the entire
Julienne soup splashed in the face of the already constantly enraged
McDunkel.

   McDunkel sits completely motionless, clenching his teeth tightly and
closing my eyes.  What's happening to him now?  I know.

   OK.   Lord Chron pulled out a piece from the plate with his hand
plaster and placed it on the tablecloth.  After thinking, he took it and threw it on
floor

   - What do you mean, your alconaut?  - he turned to his daughter.

   - Kulakin, father, JacobKulakin!

   Frau Margaret blew her nose, stood up and left the dining room,
taking a torch from a half-naked black man.

   She walks up the stairs to eerie music - there are sparkles towards her
yellow teeth, a knife and Montahu's bald head.

   - Aren't you cold in the attic?  - Frau asked carefully
Margaret, shivering from the wind blowing down the black, damp
stairs

   “Oh you...” Baldy, having forgotten himself, shouted at the top of his voice.
Montahu and she hastily pressed her hand to her gaping mouth.

   He began to hurriedly whisper something to her, expressively squeezing
fists;  she listened to him, chattering her teeth and shaking her jaws,
like a shark.

   After some time, Frau Morgenstern began to listen to
something below and then, lifting her hem, ran down the stairs,
loudly clicking his heels.

   Suddenly more footsteps were heard from above, and in front of Montahu
an elderly man appeared - about forty-eight years old - a man of average height,
discreetly but tastefully dressed in a dark blue camisole with long
cuffs, high sea boots with graceful lowered
lapels, black and gray cloak, in harmony with the camisole.
A muted white wig crowned the stranger’s brow (triangular
he held his hat in his hand).  The unknown gentleman had several
heavy but intelligent face, penetrating sad eyes, but
mournfully clenched mouth.

   Bald Montahu grabbed from his wide patch pocket
revolver and point blankshot - an unfamiliar gentleman, not
without uttering a sound, he fell dead and rolled down the stairs, and
without having time to become a character in a TV movie.

   Yes sir, yes!    These are the cruel laws of realism - in
some superficial adventure story with a hero
nothing, not even one bit fatal, will happen until the very end.
And I am forced to part with this, perhaps my most beloved and
a carefully thought-out character right away (at least everything went further
through the stump-deck).

   Yes, it’s rightly said: a TV movie is a direct reflection
the reality around us in highly artistic images.

   No, not even: the TV movie is a direct reflection of the environment around us.
reality in highly artistic images.

   And even much cooler.

      .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .