Вадим Иванович Кучеренко
The Strait of Death
– Anton, my boy, – the old man's voice trembled. – What are you up to?
– Nothing, old fellow, – he smiled tightly. – It was just interesting for me to talk to you about the sea. I will never know it the way you do. For real.
– When are you planning to start your voyage?, – asked the old man and even turned to him with his ear that was able to hear better, fearing not to hear the answer.
– Probably tomorrow. Autumn storms have already detained me so much in the port, and there is perishable freight on board. It has never happened before that I couldn’t manage to fulfill the terms of the contract and did not deliver the freight on time.
– Are you going to sail through the Strait of Death? – the old man even hoarsened from a sudden guess.
Anton tried to smile as convincingly as possible shaking his head. But the old sailor did not see his smile. When he heard his stingy “no”, he guessed right.
– Anton, my boy, – the old man suddenly choked with excitement and, overcoming a cough, croaked. – You must take me with you, do you hear me? You must!
The old man's voice was almost begging. Anton lowered his head to hide the tears that involuntarily came to his eyes. An invisible imperious hand squeezed his throat and for some time he could not utter a word.
– My boy! – the old sailor continued in an agitated patter, fearing not having time to say everything he wanted. – I'll help you, do you hear? I remember everything as if it was yesterday. We have sailed through the Straight of Death the farthest who has ever tried to do it in the hurricane season. That's why I managed to survive then, the strait had almost released our schooner from its deadly clutches.
The old man's voice faltered and died down completely. He finished almost in a whisper.
– I have to try again. Go out to sea for the last time …
Uncle Egor's head was powerlessly thrown back against the back of the chair, and he stared at the plank ceiling of the terrace with his sightless eyes. But the old blind sailor saw not the plank ceiling covered with lime – but the endless sea, and the billows rising on its surface, like a woman's breast, sighing deeply and excitedly in the rush of feelings…
A tear fell on Anton's hand and burned it as if it were red-hot. He raised his head sharply, wiped his eyes with his palm in one decisive gesture and said:
– Okay, old man. Get ready! Tomorrow either two days later, we go out to sea.
He easily got up from his chair , which creaked piteously without listening to the grateful words of the old man, gently stroked Uncle Egor on the dry shoulder, not daring to kiss him on the hard and sunken unshaven cheek, since the old man did not like such a manifestation of feelings, calling them "womanish" and unworthy of a sailor. Then he walked quickly from the terrace. Only when he stepped onto the stairs leading down from the terrace to the foot of the hill on which the house was built, he looked back for a moment – and if the old sailor could see, he would have guessed the unspoken word "goodbye" by his trembling lips. But he did not see and even more he couldn’t hear what wasn’t spoken out loudly.
