За това реших да постна тук един мой фенски превод. Творбата е на един наш много интересен модерен писател - Нинко Кирилов.
Оригиналният текст на български, както и множество негови прекрасни произведения, можете да прочетете в сборника му "Двойници и Животни".
Въпроснияt сборник може да намерите тук: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/19522977 , а също и в по-големите вериг книжарници.
Още за автора, както и блог с (все още) неиздавани разкази можете да намерите чрез бързо издирване на името му в Google. :)
А сега... enjoy!
***
Brahms the Butcher
The lock on the matt metal suitcase makes a
click. The hand with the watch takes it, the man rises, heads out the door of
his flat, turns the key. He gets into the elevator and reaches the underground
garage of the building. The block of flats is itself part of a closed complex,
together with three more buildings; there is a fence and a guard. Now Mr. V.G.,
known in his professional circle as “The Brahms” due to his partiality towards
the German composer, takes his silver Jaguar S-Type under the lifting barrier
and gives a nod to the man behind the mirrored glass. Of course, he cannot see
the guard himself, but he knows that the greeting is returned on the other
side. The car glides softly to the right of the narrow street.
The Brahms’ suit is impeccable – dark grey,
tight, with a thin black necktie over a black slim shirt. Before getting into
the Jaguar, only the top button of the jacket is buttoned, but it gets
unbuttoned with a trained gesture while sitting down. Everything is the same
brand. His shoes aren’t the regular flats typical for a suit, but rather a pair
of plain ankle boots with no ties or zipper. Brahms speeds up and the automatic
gearbox allows his right hand to take the CD out of its case and place it in
the small, but impressive, audio system.
***
He had been called to all
manner of places, because he had the reputation of the best in the business. He
had a few requirements: to be provided enough space to do his job; to have a
really high-quality sound system on which to play a piece by his favourite
composer (he had turned down jobs the moment he realised his client meant a
home stereo from the previous century); the pay. The pay was never low, but no
one had ever disputed it, given the services it provided. The Brahms would
arrive, he’d play the music, he would ask everyone to leave his workspace and
he would start preparing his tools. Collapsible hammer. A short, razor-sharp knife.
A classic cleaver. Two fillet knives of different length and thickness.
Everything – cleaned and neatly ordered in the briefcase. A few pairs of
talcum-powdered rubber gloves, as well as single-use nylon overalls are in a
small package on the back seat of the car. Things were usually over in less
than an astronomical hour. They would lead him to the place, where the pig
awaited. The Brahms was already equipped, his tools hanging on a belt tailored
specifically for him. One of the piano, or violin concertos would start to
play, the pig would give out an annoyed squeal and The Brahms would spend a few
minutes circling around it, hammer already assembled and in his hand. One swift
movement – and he’s behind the pig; a second one – and the hammer falls between
the animal’s eyes and then almost instantly withdraws, together with the hand.
The Brahms takes a few steps back, while the animal stumbles. The hammer is
already hanging on his belt, and the sharp blade has taken its place in his
right hand; a few seconds later the knife plunges into a precisely calculated
spot on the wide part of the pig’s neck. It thrusts in all the way to the hilt.
Then it comes out. The animal falls heavily on its left side. The music plays
and commemorates its final dance. Only then does The Brahms begin working. He
hangs the corpse of the animal on two giant hooks, which he has asked to be
placed close by. He takes out the gas torch and the little hell begins. Then he
takes out the two fillet knives (they are honed before each job) and he
starts making consistent cuts with surgical precision. Sometimes he gets carried away and starts
cutting in rhythm with the piece playing. He takes out the blowtorch (it’s also
provided by the client) and scorches the necessary bits. His work is fast,
clean and methodical. He places the clean, washed meat in separate containers.
He cleans the workspace and his tools. He throws away the gloves and the
overalls. He washes his hands with anti-bacteria soap and scorching hot water.
Of course, the first thing he will do when he gets home is take a long,
thorough shower. But now he receives his pay (always in an envelope as per the
agreement) and he leaves his clients, shocked by his work.The Brahms lives alone in his expensive quarters, the payment for which will be done in a few years. He used to have a serious relationship, but the lady in question could not deal with his unusual profession. They lasted about a year, but things came to an abrupt end, when they went to a symphonic concert, Hungarian Dance started playing, and The Brahms unconsciously snapped off a piece of his chair in an adrenaline rush.
* * *
He drives his car into the huge park of the mansion and slows down next to the butler, who attracts his attention with an elegant wave.
‘I will take it from here, sir!’
The Brahms gets out, buttons his jacket takes the suitcase and the package and then starts walking in the specified direction. A square-built man is already standing in the light of the opened door and gives a restrained smile.
‘Good day, please come in! May I offer you anything? Whiskey? Coffee? Tea?’
After the small hallway, there is a remarkably long bar, at which are sat a few men with glasses in their hands, chatting quietly. When the Client and the butcher pass them by, they all quiet down and stand up respectfully. Their eyes are filled with curiosity, and maybe a cocktail of a little scorn mixed with some fear.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Professional,’ the smile on the silk-robed client’s face grows wider ‘This way, please.’
The men from the bar have followed them to the big wooden doors, which slowly swing open. For some reason The Brahms expects a creaking sound, but it doesn’t come. They step into a large oval room, the butcher’s boots clatter over the old, but meticulously maintained floor.
‘The music is ready. It will take about an hour, correct?’ inquires the client. The Brahms gazes at the pink skin of his future victim. At the very centre of the castle’s large hall.
‘You must be joking.’ he says, looking up at his client.
‘Not in the least. But because of the, hmm, inconvenience I will double the agreed amount. I suppose it would not pose a problem for you.’
Everyone else is silent. The Brahms looks back at the exceptionally corpulent naked man, walking in front of them on all fours and quietly grunting from time to time. The double Concerto for cello and violin starts playing, as if from all around. The Brahms realises the men, stepping back respectfully, are his client’s guards. His face turns to stone, he turns around sharply and starts to leave.
‘Triple’ echoes the calm voice of his client behind him ‘And you will not have to clean up after yourself – it is my pleasure.’
The Brahms stops in his tracks, but doesn’t turn around.
‘I know you are the best. It does not matter to you what the animal is. And I just need its meat.”
And he smiles. The Brahms hears the last words come out of his wide smile. He turns around – he was right. He looks at the victim again – the man continues to circle lightly, shaking his flesh, and his grunts have either died down, or are hidden beneath the unfolding rumble of his forehead. The Brahms then drops his suitcase, which then opens (a few seconds earlier he has thumbed the unlocking sequence). He bends down, before any of the guards have time to react, the two fillet knives appear in his hands and then fly to the throats of the two guards, who have reached for their weapons. The cleaver also flashes, then with two steps and a honed swing it chops off the arm of the next guard, after which it stops at the back of his throat, having gone through the rest as if through butter. The last guard, unarmed, manages to take a few heavy steps towards The Brahms, only to also meet the cleaver – midriff-wrist-throat – and to fall almost silently. The violin crescendos over the cello. The Brahms slowly turns on his heels to face his client. Behind him there is an angry squeal, while the panicked robes flap for a few steps; the sharp blade for The Brahms’ special hit takes flight, and lands between the eyes. The butcher examines his suit – not even a speck. The knot on his tie has loosened from the movements, the shirt has come out of his trousers on one side, but otherwise everything is in order. Now in the hall there are five corpses, himself and...
‘What have they done to you?’ but he only says it to himself. The man-pig doesn’t answer, he lies on his side and lets out quiet, frightened grunts.
