The collection
was the church a full peace, not as the absence of noise, but cotton wool in his ears. The rotor, which led to the altar swallowed, the slow steps of the Pyotr Sergeyevich Kozlov, who stole, ducking his head and dripping coat forward.
"Father -" His voice filled the little church. Like a little He sounded young, so he felt like. A bright little head she had called him only two years ago he had left the Lomonosov. But pale around the nose, it had become since he had returned to the arms, the tired, maternal Novodvinsk. It had fallen considerably difficult to fit into the family, and the old facility appeared only at the sound of other cities in his ears: New York, Madrid, Berlin.
"Father," he asked again, breathless. This he had long recognized, but only now turned off the tabernacle and Pyotr looked frowning. His eyebrows were finely pointed and his face and he was darker than the stahläugigen ladies who were with him at the fair, and thinner than the well-fed gentlemen who like to eat it as exported.
"What can I do for you?" He asked softly, his voice wove its net over all corners of the nave. Pyotr would prefer reversed, would have his dripping coat and its contents beyond just done it again, but he was already hanging in the netting of which he was sure.
"I ... there was a problem," he muttered and wiped the wet hair from his forehead, and he nodded toward the confessional.
The father nodded back and unceremoniously passed the first row to stop Pyotr the door. Then he walked around the confessional, sat down on his own bench and pulled the door behind him.
Pyotr stopped before it had begun, for he heard nothing more than his own breath. The walls, the ceiling, the floor seemed to be shod with the sound, they were lathered thick and stuffed him nose and mouth with a bitter foam. When he finally breathed, he narrowed his eyes and began to feebly
"In the name of the Father and the Son and of the -.. Holy Spirit Amen"
"God, who enlightens our hearts, give you the true knowledge of your sins and His mercy."
"Amen." Again stopped Piotr. Still, he wondered why the confessor never took the word 'Amen' in the mouth. But all too quickly pushed aside the issue more pressing things. "Father, I - I have sinned. I ... "His breathing him locked up." Father, I have the Domaschnewa ... With her I've got two time And as I lay in bed, I took out of the box ten thousand rubles. Dirty money from Domaschnew. I wanted to do something good - I had to go to Berlin! I have to. Later, she noticed it and Domaschnew knocked on my door. I wanted to let him talk to him for tea with honey. A mistake. My God, I wanted to go to Berlin ... "
A final, tremulous breath filled the chamber. Pyotr could not breathe, pure, do not get out. His face was hot and wet, and he held his breath until it dull from him.
broke out "Domaschnew is no more."
Ringing went to the bag, and the well-fed men and women stahläugigen between clouds emptied their pockets of their own breath, to the dark bottom of the bag hinaufleucheten and silver colors. The father took back the bag and set it aside without having to look inside it, during the last organ showers are pathetic, trembling crept into the corners. The people rose from their benches, bent old man slipped on the carpet out, while laughing with many rings on her fingers, with his father chatted, exchanged invitations and assured an excellent sermon. Her hands were times together, sometimes apart, sometimes changed a thing the owner.
It was always half an hour, until the church was empty, at least. The father did not look at the clock when he threw his scarf over his shoulder and with raised shoulders to the side door stumped. Very probably he saw Sergei in his fur coat, who stood motionless under the slightest hint of snow on the facade and smoked.
He drew the curly head and fixed him on principle alone for a long, silent time. The silence, however, which was in the air was as restless as a bunch of climbing over each other to fly.
He finally let the cigarette fall, it was not necessary to withdraw them. Instead, the dying head sticking out of the white powdered front yard.
"Father," he said finally, his Mouth with rage always hanging down, "Piotr was last with you. Where is he now?" The curled end
abated somewhat before the wrinkles deepened a bit. For now, the father of his hand buried in his coat pocket, a fist like a half apple distinguished himself from under the fabric before he released his hand out again.
"I do not know," he said then gently. "I saw him three days ago to confession since then -. Nothing." Approach, he shook his head. "I can assure you, however, estimated Sergei, now in the collection he was not." The
Grimm, who had their fingers in Sergei's face hung low, lowered it a bit and let it slowly . Flutter A haze of air collected at this, from the deep caverns staring out gray, deaf eyes up to the Father, before Sergei versa turned on his heel and went off in quick steps.
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