Pharaoh Ehnaton. Did he belong to the pantheon of gods too?
Dima lagged behind, and Ruslan realized that he was lost in the labyrinth of unfinished halls and corridors. From somewhere far away came the clatter of hammers and quiet chants. The radio must be on somewhere.
“It’s a hymn to Aton,” someone whispered behind him.
Ruslan turned around.
A brunette woman stepped down from the pedestal of the goddess Kali, which had recently been empty. Ruslan recognized her immediately. She was the one he had seen at the medical center they had passed. But where had the nurse’s uniform gone? Why was she dressed like an Indian goddess? Her eyes and lips are thickly lined with scarlet. Instead of medical instruments, a gilded sickle gleams in her hand.
A sickle is definitely not an attribute of the goddess Kali. It would be more like a Slavic midwife.
The girl was barefoot. For a second it seemed for some reason that she was treading not on the floor, but on skulls and bones.
“Who are you?” Ruslan felt his lips go numb. Instead of a question, there was only a whisper. He felt as if he were being frozen like a corpse sent to the morgue’s refrigerator.
The girl wasn’t cold, though; there were droplets of sweat on her bronzed skin. On her naked shoulder, a wound glowed. Did the girl herself carelessly hit with a sickle?
“Shall I call an ambulance for you?” It was probably a foolish question to ask a nurse. She could have already taken some painkillers if she’s not paying attention to the wound. And there’s something tearing out of the wound, like some insect living under the skin and pulling the limbs through the edges of the cut.
“Are you sure you don’t need any help, bandages, medication?”
The girl whispered a couple phrases in an unfamiliar language in response and swung the sickle around. He must be imagining things. Ruslan covered his eyes, and when he opened them, he found that the girl in front of him was multi-armed like a goddess. Second and third pairs of hands emerged from the folds of the sari like white insects. A surgical instrument was clutched in each hand. Ruslan barely dodged the scalpel.
“Ah, there you are!” Dima’s voice brought him out of his daze. There was no girl with a sickle. But on Kali’s pedestal was a multi-armed bronze figure. Had she been there a moment before? She looked ominous. As, indeed, it should be. A necklace of skulls around her neck and bronze skulls under her bare feet added to the sinister image. There’s nothing to be surprised about. Kali is the goddess of blood.
“I hope we won’t be sacrificed to her,” Ruslan joked awkwardly, and immediately felt a strange chill as if all of Kali’s bronze hands had closed around his neck.
“Oh, come on! Who does that now? People believe in something like this just for the sake of ticking boxes or to create a museum like this at home.”
“It’s odd that they dragged the sculptures into an unfinished building. Wouldn’t it have been better to wait until the end of construction?”
“Maybe there was nowhere else to store them. Or maybe we are meant to be inspired to be more creative than just building.”
“Or it could also be that they’re all stolen.”
That’s the most obvious suggestion as to why rarities should be hidden.
Matvey Gennadyevich Vereskovsky, Ruslan’s employer and oligarch, knew a lot about expensive things. But did he know about art? In any case, someone among his relatives or his staff had an excellent knowledge of art.
Ruslan paid attention to the figure of the Scandinavian Loki, who had a cunning expression on his face. It seemed that evil gods were honored here, as well as gods of funerary cults. The statue of Anubis in the corner glittered with gilt. The three-faced Hecate occupied a separate niche lined with alabaster skulls. Several painted wood figures depicted fox demons. The kimono-clad beauties had tails and fox masks in their hands. Looking at the collection, Ruslan approached the empty pedestal in the center again. It was obvious that it had a special place. So there must be a special deity standing on it. It would probably become the head of the local pantheon.
Ruslan stopped near the central pedestal with golden letters and the inscription “Alais”.
“I don’t know of such a goddess,” he admitted.
“It seems to be a goddess from Ancient Egypt,” illiterate Dima suddenly showed erudition. “I saw a teaser of a movie about her.”
So that’s where his erudition comes from! From a primitive movie! Ruslan grinned crookedly.
“Is the pedestal made of real gold?” He was genuinely surprised when he touched the ornament.
“I think so.”
Ruslan whistled.
“When people have easy money, they don’t know where to put it, and everything becomes gold!“444
“A lot of money has been spent on this palace,” Dima agreed.
“My husband doesn’t even give me money for doctors,” a slender blonde woman suddenly came out from behind the column. “But the statue of his favorite will be made of gold of the highest standard.”
The blonde looked enviously at the statue of Alais. Apparently, this blonde is the oligarch’s wife.
Ruslan felt embarrassed. A loose tongue could get him fired and cause a lot of trouble. It’s better not to argue with rich people, they have the courts and the police under their thumb. Everyone knows that the one with the most money is always right. But the pretty blonde was angry at her husband’s spending, so she looked at Ruslan with approval and sympathy.
Usually blondes do not like light-haired guys. They prefer brunettes. But the oligarch’s young wife was not a blonde. There were dark roots in her dyed platinum hair.
“I’m Valentina Vladimirovna,” she introduced herself. “But for you it’s just Valentina when we’re in private. In public, however, you’d better address me by my first name and patronymic.”
And she is a rather prim person. Any young girl would just call herself Valya.
Dima introduced himself and Ruslan. The conversation seemed to take place in an ordinary company of young people, but it gave off the novelty of aristocratic arrogance.
Valentina Vladimirovna had something to be proud of. She had a figure and appearance like a photo model, even better. The sequined dress would have been more suitable for the evening, but she wore it now. Probably she is going to some kind of reception after she’s given the building a hostess’s eye.
“Is your husband going to visit us?” Ruslan asked politely.
“Why is it?” The blonde was genuinely surprised and flapped her painted eyelashes.
“Well, to see how things are going here…”
“There’s a solicitor and managers for that.”
“I suppose you must like the building first and foremost? Your husband’s building it for you, isn’t he? Is it a wedding present?”
“It is more like a temple for them,” Valentina looked at the statues with distaste.
As if they could come down from their pedestals and become her living rivals! Ruslan marveled at the lady’s nervousness. It must be hard to keep a rich husband under her thumb.
Valentina took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her shiny clutch. She wanted to smoke, but for some reason she came to her senses and put everything back in her purse. Either she remembered that cultured men did not approve of women smoking, or she was afraid to smoke in the presence of ancient gods. Probably it is the second. Wives of powerful husbands are often very superstitious. Ruslan would not have been surprised to hear that Valentina traveled to psychics,