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Rodion Vanzarov - 2
Billiards is different from all other games in many ways. This is the only entertainment that combines business with pleasure. The pleasure of a billiard game lies in the fact that the player, distracted from everyday trifles and squabbles, surrenders for some time to the noble feeling of sports competition with others in dexterity, speed, intelligence and a pleasant spectacle for himself, as the ball he launched, as if alive, carries out his instructions : hits other balls and forces them, in turn, to carry out the will of their master and, having done their job, stand in the exact place that was previously mentally determined by the player.
School and rules of billiard game according to the method of the famous Russian player S.F. Dokuchaev, Pokrovsky and others.
Billiard, although in appearance it is a simple and understandable instrument for everyone, but in the depths of its simplicity it keeps many, many secrets.
As you know, nomadic tribes went to Europe for new experiences and fresh women. It's hard to blame the wild hordes for this. Well, what entertainment in the steppes - wasteland and melancholy all around. And there is a complete lack of female population. Where, tell me, can I find any young lady, let alone a pretty one, in the steppe? Mares, heifers and feather grass. So the nomads were driven from their pastures not by a historical mission, but by a purely practical task: to have fun with the conflagrations of conquered cities, while at the same time looking for two or three wives or slaves.
But what kind of infection turns city residents into crowds of wanderers and drives them to the countryside is unknown to science. Firstly, there are no impressions outside the city: the mosquitoes and dirt are the same. As for catching wives in the lap of nature, existing spouses are already inclined towards innocent entertainment without the proper breadth of views. To put it bluntly, they are one-sided and unkind. In a word, nowadays there is nothing for a civilized person to do in the countryside. Sit at home in front of the window, inhale the fumes, swallow the dust and be happy.
And yet the arguments of reason have not yet stopped anyone. Every May, the fathers of the family lead raids by predatory household members on nearby peaceful settlements, in which they settle with all their belongings, children, dogs and supplies, so that then for three months in a row they go to work every morning on crowded trains, and rush back in the evening in the bustle.
But for any happiness there comes retribution. August comes, and with it the end of the summer season. And then the average St. Petersburg man turns into a small fish, which the whole school has been caught in the net. The fish are rushing around in horror, swarming, poking from side to side, but there is no escape - the net is pulling behind it. Before the coming autumn, everyone is supposed to break into pieces, but bridle the herd of family problems.
Oh, how many there are!
The average person in St. Petersburg is obliged to find and rent a new apartment so that the family can survive storms and frosts under a safe roof until the new spring. He is also obliged to find a decent school for his growing children, providing them with everything necessary for acquiring knowledge. And the wife definitely needs to buy new furniture, tables, or damned wardrobes, or at least a couple of chairs - because in August it is customary to buy new furniture, when else. In addition, no one relieved him of the indispensable obligation to crash, but to get tickets to all the fashionable premieres and benefit performances of the upcoming season, otherwise his adored little wife would have nothing to discuss with the guests and she would pour all her love for art onto his already guilty head. And so the unfortunate man rushes about like a mad fish, and thinks only about one thing: how to get ahead and outrun the same slaves of duty.
But what are these trials compared to the delight that August gives! It’s as if wings grow behind the back of the hunted man in the street, as soon as a magical aroma spreads across the capital, which cannot be confused and has nothing to replace.
“Dead Ball” is a new dangerous case of a St. Petersburg police official, the charismatic detective Rodion Vanzarov. Very young and inexperienced in everyday life, this time he must plunge into the whirlpool of deadly passions: thoroughly learn all the secrets gambling play billiards, study down to the smallest detail the life and customs of the brothels of St. Petersburg, walk along the very edge of vice - like a dead ball hovering over a pocket. As soon as you touch it, it will fall, and all hell breaks loose. And at the same time, do not lose your own dignity and do not sacrifice your honor.
Beautiful women are dying - seductive, cunning and risky, in love with the same man. Coincidence of circumstances or the subtle cold calculation of a maniac?
Vanzarov never dreamed of such passions. His faithful friend and brilliant forensic expert Apollo Lebedev comes to the aid of the young hope of Russian detectives.
A complex, exciting puzzle - from one of the most interesting authors of modern Russian literature, Anton Chizh!
The work belongs to the Detective genre. It was published in 2011 by Eksmo-Press publishing house. The book is part of the "Interesting Detective" series. On our website you can download the book “Dead Ball” for free in epub, fb2, pdf format or read online. The book's rating is 4.05 out of 5. Here, before reading, you can also turn to reviews from readers who are already familiar with the book and find out their opinion. In our partner's online store you can buy and read the book in paper version.
Anton Chizh
Dead ball
Billiards is different from all other games in many ways. This is the only entertainment that combines business with pleasure. The pleasure of a billiard game lies in the fact that the player, distracted from everyday trifles and squabbles, surrenders for some time to the noble feeling of sports competition with others in dexterity, speed, intelligence and a pleasant spectacle for himself, as the ball he launched, as if alive, carries out his instructions : hits other balls and forces them, in turn, to carry out the will of their master and, having done their job, stand in the exact place that was previously mentally determined by the player.
School and rules of billiard game according to the method of the famous Russian player S.F. Dokuchaev, Pokrovsky and others. St. Petersburg, 1899
Billiard, although in appearance it is a simple and understandable instrument for everyone, but in the depths of its simplicity it keeps many, many secrets.
As you know, nomadic tribes went to Europe for new experiences and fresh women. It's hard to blame the wild hordes for this. Well, what entertainment in the steppes - wasteland and melancholy all around. And there is a complete lack of female population. Where, tell me, can I find any young lady, let alone a pretty one, in the steppe? Mares, heifers and feather grass. So the nomads were driven from their pastures not by a historical mission, but by a purely practical task: to have fun with the conflagrations of conquered cities, while at the same time looking for two or three wives or slaves.
But what kind of infection turns city residents into crowds of wanderers and drives them to the countryside is unknown to science. Firstly, there are no impressions outside the city: the mosquitoes and dirt are the same. As for catching wives in the lap of nature, existing spouses are already inclined towards innocent entertainment without the proper breadth of views. To put it bluntly, they are one-sided and unkind. In a word, nowadays there is nothing for a civilized person to do in the countryside. Sit at home in front of the window, inhale the fumes, swallow the dust and be happy.
And yet the arguments of reason have not yet stopped anyone. Every May, the fathers of the family lead raids by predatory household members on nearby peaceful settlements, in which they settle with all their belongings, children, dogs and supplies, so that then for three months in a row they go to work every morning on crowded trains, and rush back in the evening in the bustle.
But for any happiness there comes retribution. August comes, and with it the end of the summer season. And then the average St. Petersburg man turns into a small fish, which the whole school has been caught in the net. The fish are rushing about in horror, swarming, poking from side to side, but there is no escape - the net is pulling behind it. Before the coming autumn, everyone is supposed to break into pieces, but bridle the herd of family problems.
Oh, how many there are!
The average person in St. Petersburg is obliged to find and rent a new apartment so that the family can survive storms and frosts under a safe roof until the new spring. He is also obliged to find a decent school for his growing children, providing them with everything necessary for acquiring knowledge. And the wife definitely needs to buy new furniture, tables, or damned wardrobes, or at least a couple of chairs - because in August it is customary to buy new furniture, when else. In addition, no one relieved him of the indispensable obligation to crash, but to get tickets to all the fashionable premieres and benefit performances of the upcoming season, otherwise his adored little wife would have nothing to discuss with the guests and she would pour all her love for art onto his already guilty head. And so the unfortunate man rushes about like a mad fish, and thinks only about one thing: how to get ahead and outrun the same slaves of duty.
But what are these trials compared to the delight that August gives! It’s as if wings grow behind the back of the hunted man in the street, as soon as a magical aroma spreads across the capital, which cannot be confused and has nothing to replace. The aroma spreads in a wide flood, and soon it seems that there is no corner, street or entrance that does not smell like freshly made jam.
Oh, jam! How much you mean to a St. Petersburg resident! In you alone he finds rapture and joy on long winter evenings, when frost breaks through the windows. In you alone the soul finds peace when there is no other left. You alone contain delight and voluptuousness. It is absolutely impossible to live without jam in St. Petersburg.
Do you love jam as much as they do in the capital? No, you don't love him like that. You don't have that kind of passion for him. In some southern city like Moscow, Paris or Baghdad, there’s a shovelful of sweets, all kinds of Turkish delight with sherbets. But in the Northern capital there is nothing but jam. One local poet even wrote the line: “I love you, Petra jam...”, but the typesetter at the printing house mixed it up, and the result was a “creation.” They left it that way.
Anyone who lived in this gloomy city will understand what a joy it is to open a jar in cold or bad weather, inhale the aroma of strawberries, raspberries, cherries, wild strawberries, blueberries, and my God, anything else, pick up a sugar berry with a spoon, shining with a precious ruby, and send it to mouth and feel such bliss and inspiration, such strength and fire that cannot be described in words. No jams, confitures or jellies can arouse such unrest. That’s why they eat so much jam in St. Petersburg that, as usual, there’s never too much. No, it’s impossible to tear yourself away from the jam... And the foam!
So, something got carried away in the wrong direction. In order not to fall into sweet languor, let us repeat after old Apuleius: “Let’s begin our fables, listen, reader, you will be pleased.”
The day in the first half of August 1895, as expected, was saturated with the smell of various jams. By the way, it’s high time to change this month from the unpatriotic Roman-Caesar month into a generally pleasant one: Varen. So that after July immediately Varen. And then, look, September.
So. The heat gave way to the first autumn chills, so that a cool breeze carried hot clouds of sweets. All living things, abandoning their work, took up copper basins and bags of sugar. Berei and blichnitsy, without straightening their backs, dragged full baskets into the city, and the greedy belly devoured mountains of ripeness, demanding new offerings. It’s sad, but in the capital, just about anyone makes jam. It's better not to know how it was prepared.
For example, the Apraksin market, which usually sells all sorts of rubbish, has turned into one big kitchen. Women who have not washed for a long time peel mountains of berries and, without sprinkling them with water, throw them into cauldrons that have never seen soap or a scraper. They stir the jam with the first stick that comes to hand, and whatever falls into the basin, a fly or snot, depends on what happens. And this kind of folk art is bought by cunning traders straight from the fire, poured into pound jars that honestly hold three-quarters of a pound, affixed with shaped labels and brazenly demand thirty kopecks apiece. What audacity!
Name: Dead ball
Format: MP3, 44.1 kHz, 96 kbps
Executor: Ivan Shevelev
Playing time: 11:57:49
Description: The novel “Dead Ball” is a continuation of the affairs of the brilliant detective, the favorite of young ladies, Rodion Vanzarov and his friend, the great criminologist Apollo Lebedev. August 1895. In the summer home of the famous billiard player Neil Borodin, a rich and influential man, an emergency occurs: a human eye floats up in a bowl of jam. It is unknown who lost his eye. Police authorities ask that the case be handled confidentially. The investigation of the unpleasant incident leads Vanzarov through the closed world of the capital's brothels and billiard games, plunging deeper and deeper into the dark pool of someone else's family history. There, where a secret is hidden that can cause a lot of trouble. To find the answer, Vanzarov will have to fight with fate itself, which once condemned King Oedipus to torment. Who will win in an unequal fight? For what purpose was the eye taken out? What does the curse of the Borodin family hide?
Billiards is different from all other games in many ways. This is the only entertainment that combines business with pleasure. The pleasure of a billiard game lies in the fact that the player, distracted from everyday trifles and squabbles, surrenders for some time to the noble feeling of sports competition with others in dexterity, speed, intelligence and a pleasant spectacle for himself, as the ball he launched, as if alive, carries out his instructions : hits other balls and forces them, in turn, to carry out the will of their master and, having done their job, stand in the exact place that was previously mentally determined by the player.
School and rules of billiard game according to the method of the famous Russian player S.F. Dokuchaev, Pokrovsky and others.
Billiard, although in appearance it is a simple and understandable instrument for everyone, but in the depths of its simplicity it keeps many, many secrets.
As you know, nomadic tribes went to Europe for new experiences and fresh women. It's hard to blame the wild hordes for this. Well, what entertainment in the steppes - wasteland and melancholy all around. And there is a complete lack of female population. Where, tell me, can I find any young lady, let alone a pretty one, in the steppe? Mares, heifers and feather grass. So the nomads were driven from their pastures not by a historical mission, but by a purely practical task: to have fun with the conflagrations of conquered cities, while at the same time looking for two or three wives or slaves.
But what kind of infection turns city residents into crowds of wanderers and drives them to the countryside is unknown to science. Firstly, there are no impressions outside the city: the mosquitoes and dirt are the same. As for catching wives in the lap of nature, existing spouses are already inclined towards innocent entertainment without the proper breadth of views. To put it bluntly, they are one-sided and unkind. In a word, nowadays there is nothing for a civilized person to do in the countryside. Sit at home in front of the window, inhale the fumes, swallow the dust and be happy.
And yet the arguments of reason have not yet stopped anyone. Every May, the fathers of the family lead raids by predatory household members on nearby peaceful settlements, in which they settle with all their belongings, children, dogs and supplies, so that then for three months in a row they go to work every morning on crowded trains, and rush back in the evening in the bustle.
But for any happiness there comes retribution. August comes, and with it the end of the summer season. And then the average St. Petersburg man turns into a small fish, which the whole school has been caught in the net. The fish are rushing about in horror, swarming, poking from side to side, but there is no escape - the net is pulling behind it. Before the coming autumn, everyone is supposed to break into pieces, but bridle the herd of family problems.
Oh, how many there are!
The average person in St. Petersburg is obliged to find and rent a new apartment so that the family can survive storms and frosts under a safe roof until the new spring. He is also obliged to find a decent school for his growing children, providing them with everything necessary for acquiring knowledge. And the wife definitely needs to buy new furniture, tables, or damned wardrobes, or at least a couple of chairs - because in August it is customary to buy new furniture, when else. In addition, no one relieved him of the indispensable obligation to crash, but to get tickets to all the fashionable premieres and benefit performances of the upcoming season, otherwise his adored little wife would have nothing to discuss with the guests and she would pour all her love for art onto his already guilty head. And so the unfortunate man rushes about like a mad fish, and thinks only about one thing: how to get ahead and outrun the same slaves of duty.
But what are these trials compared to the delight that August gives! It’s as if wings grow behind the back of the hunted man in the street, as soon as a magical aroma spreads across the capital, which cannot be confused and has nothing to replace. The aroma spreads in a wide flood, and soon it seems that there is no corner, street or entrance that does not smell like freshly made jam.
Oh, jam! How much you mean to a St. Petersburg resident! In you alone he finds rapture and joy on long winter evenings, when frost breaks through the windows. In you alone the soul finds peace when there is no other left. You alone contain delight and voluptuousness. It is absolutely impossible to live without jam in St. Petersburg.
Do you love jam as much as they do in the capital? No, you don't love him like that. You don't have that kind of passion for him. In some southern city like Moscow, Paris or Baghdad, there’s a shovelful of sweets, all kinds of Turkish delight with sherbets. But in the Northern capital there is nothing but jam. One local poet even wrote the line: “I love you, Petra jam...”, but the typesetter at the printing house mixed it up, and the result was a “creation.” They left it that way.
Anyone who lived in this gloomy city will understand what a joy it is to open a jar in cold or bad weather, inhale the aroma of strawberries, raspberries, cherries, wild strawberries, blueberries, and my God, anything else, pick up a sugar berry with a spoon, shining with a precious ruby, and send it to mouth and feel such bliss and inspiration, such strength and fire that cannot be described in words. No jams, confitures or jellies can arouse such unrest. That’s why they eat so much jam in St. Petersburg that, as usual, there’s never too much. No, it’s impossible to tear yourself away from the jam... And the foam!
So, something got carried away in the wrong direction. In order not to fall into sweet languor, let us repeat after old Apuleius: “Let’s begin our fables, listen, reader, you will be pleased.”
The day in the first half of August 1895, as expected, was saturated with the smell of various jams. By the way, it’s high time to change this month from the unpatriotic Roman-Caesar month into a generally pleasant one: Varen. So that after July immediately Varen. And then, look, September.
So. The heat gave way to the first autumn chills, so that a cool breeze carried hot clouds of sweets. All living things, abandoning their work, took up copper basins and bags of sugar. The berei and blichnitsy, without straightening their backs, dragged full baskets into the city, and the greedy belly devoured mountains of ripeness, demanding new offerings. It’s sad, but in the capital, just about anyone makes jam. It's better not to know how it was prepared.
For example, the Apraksin market, which usually sells all sorts of rubbish, has turned into one big kitchen. Women who have not washed for a long time peel mountains of berries and, without sprinkling them with water, throw them into cauldrons that have never seen soap or a scraper. They stir the jam with the first stick that comes to hand, and whatever falls into the basin, a fly or snot, depends on what happens. And this kind of folk art is bought by cunning traders straight from the fire, poured into pound jars that honestly hold three-quarters of a pound, affixed with shaped labels and brazenly demand thirty kopecks apiece. What audacity!
But what can a St. Petersburg man do: he takes this sweet poison and thanks him. What do you say: stay without jam for the winter? After all, the real thing - Kyiv, the best and most fragrant - cannot be found during the day with fire, for some mysterious reason it is not brought to the capital, no, that’s all. The confectionery jam that the factories produce is, of course, wonderful, but the price is too much to swallow. And buying a molasses-glycerin slop of berry poppies is downright scary. So the St. Petersburg tenant is content with what the markets offer. And what’s interesting is that they don’t get poisoned very often. And even then in winter. Maybe the stomach of a St. Petersburg resident has learned to digest stones? Or got used to everything.
However, the inhabitants of the one-story, but stone mansion, drowned in the greenery of Krestovsky Island, were not in danger of passing the winter without jam. Happily located still within the city limits, but already, as it were, outside it, the house had a backyard on which rose a brick fireplace, covered with a blackened tin, on which a copper basin with a massive handle comfortably fit, gurgling pleasantly and pouring out the aroma of boiling gooseberries into the environment. There was also the main secret of delicious jam: a cook who knew how to cook it. A girl in a simple dress and a dirty apron slowly moved a wooden spoon along the route in which the “s” swam into the “z.” After waiting for one minute known to her, she lifted the basin and shook it thoroughly. The brew smacked sweetly and spread out in complete pleasure. Done, you can shoot.
