Зачем, Зачем

Die Drei Geliebte Geschwister from Alexeyevka sang it,the greatest precision one ever heard.

Ah, persons who hardly ever care of rough, faraway distance, they were. They were born on rough, faraway roads. Father of theirs, a tough, hard headed violinist from Biryuch, who met his long lost companion born in Sertolovo.

The companion played harps and piano. It was a warm, snowy day back then in Sankt Petersburg, when they met.

A glass of kvas, a piece of khlyeb, were what brought them together.

A glass of warm kvas and a piece of khlyeb, were what he wished he could just have every single night, against the freezing wind of the Palace Square.

Petersburg was a beautiful yet cruel passion. Yet there he was, a nobody's boy from the deep indigeneous land of Siberia, striving for a glint of glory with a violin on his right hand, a rusty long coat his father, the peasant shepherd gave, surviving from the humblest mean of famine each passing day to earn that title of du baccalauréat de la musique

Oh he thought he could play the greatest violin in Volgograd Oblast. But here in the majestic city of the north, mere a talent was not good enough. Those classmates of him, would never have to be feebled in recital examinations just because of the cold... hence producing those sweet, abundant amount of sounds from the strings were always taken for granted.

His scholarship was hardly enough. It was not seldom that sometimes he skipped not only obyed but even uzhin... regardless how uzhin to be something you could offer your enemy. Oh, brot et butyer... what he could indiffer slightly back then at home, how luxurious and sweet could it seem now!

On fortunate days, he could get half, three kopyejkis at night, when people seemed to be happy enough to pay attention to his violin playing at the Square. It was usually the beginning of each month. Typically when it was approaching the end of months, people became more indifferent, ignorant than ever, and sniffing towards what they used to call 'beauty in music'.

But brot and butyer, each costed nearly three kopyejkis, so to anticipate the broke times, he would ate the same bread each two days in a row, and thank God that during seasons like this, he could just light up his match to melt some snow and thus that made him his source of water.

It was snowing in Petersburg that night, when it seemed to be not a really fortunate day. He only had half a kopyejki in his pocket, heading towards his way home, a tiny, rusty chamber behind a ghetto, nearly 15 km away.

And he walk, and walk, and walk... and he stumbled. In front of the gate of a little cottage just around the corner.

A maiden stepped out of the front door, wearing full-dress and a robe, for it was far too cold for her thin, hardly fleshed-figure. And as she opened the front fence, the fully-loaded garbage plastic bag on her hand almost got to the stumbled body of the man, whose violin with a carved emblem of N.A. Rimsky Conservatory laid helplessly beside him, even the instrument looked as hungry as the master. 

The maiden knew him. They were of the same origin, as what came first to her mind when she first saw him playing la sonata de Katerina Maier.

She saw him the other days, playing music in The Square during the summer and fall, pigeons cheerfully chirping around him, coins hardly piling besides him. But he continued playing nevertheless.

She saw him sipping his kvas another day. A bird told her that kvas probably the only thing fulfilled his skull-bulging figure an entire day.

Kvas? she whispered cautiously towards the lying body.

The body's eyes turned towards her. They entered the front door together, right after the maiden got rid of her garbage.

That was the sweetest kvas he ever tasted.

And thus that was how he named each of his future children; Kvasiana for a girl, Kvasch for a boy.

Thus the middle maiden names of The Three Beloved Sister: Kvasyana, Kvaszyana, and Kvashina.

Who would be related to Ricardovich?

The eldest daughter.

The Draniki

The Pilgrimage was scheduled to take place between the middle of the spring to summer in the present estimation of Saxonic calendar. Such an extreme hobby for an old couple, but both of them chuckled indifferently by the possibility that one of them would have to bury the one dies prior to another, no matter how hard the consequence would be.

The first morning about 50 km of Orsha, towards Smolensk, was started by a bunch of draniki, and, to lead a softer, more American version of breakfast, the husband added a glint of mapple syrup on the draniki on his plate. The wife chuckled.

'Kardo, you're such a honey,' she poured in warm milk she just brewed from the portable advanced magnetic stove one of her grandson handed them two years ago.

It shall end in two and a half months. On the first month after the scheduled finish, they would have to spare time for one of their dearest granddaughter would have her debut, one they would not want to miss. It would be special, since it would be her birthday, too.

So, you know... the wife had quite a root in Lithuania and Latvia, and the husband had best friends from Poland and Ukraine. Both of them loved and wanted to end the journey around Smolensk, hence concluded: The Belarus as the main road to wander.

Diophantine Above The Mountain of Caucassus (3)

It was not the picture of any site near Abkhazia, where the town they temporary stayed settled. It probably was the picture of... well, Tiflis is more likely, thought Signore Fortissimo, frowning. Since Tkvarcelli, no matter how famous Roses' Lair had been, was merely a site less important than a city found in the fifth century and had always been the central of trade. There must have been many painters residing there and immortalized their impression within their works.

Vito Fortissimo, in his late thirty first age, had served , although as mercenary, two of the wars in Europe. The first one, of which he remembered as mere luck and far from admirable he thought, was the Battle of Wissembourg. He managed to escape with quite a severe wound and survived. What carved more impression and maybe, a little bit of pride about his achievement so far within his still rare experience of war to call him such a senior of war, was his second battle in the Russo-Turkish War; the Battle of Svistov. He was one of the more than 24000 soldiers who won the fight against the Ottomans, and vaguely he could still remember Ivanovich Dragomirov himself poked him on his shoulders while beaming.

Up until present he wondered as what reason kept him alive so far. Yet what kept him alive to work as he did now. As a matter of fact, here he was now, got acquaintanced by chance to whom was probable to be one of his company leader of the next siege. He was welcomed quite so warmly to the Colonel's resting cottage for at least a week here in Tkvarcelli, where it was just the three of them stayed there: he, Fortissimo, the Colonel himself, and his mistress, Alaleh, the sea-blue-eyed Persian who learned to become an abacist.

Of all the things there might exist, it was mathematics which brought the three of them in common. Alaleh loved to learn abacus, Fortissimo had been quite fluent in it, and in fact, he was the descendant of his family whom paternally learned abacus and how to become an abacist. But among them, it seemed that the Colonel had the most profound experience in the science. Not only he knew how to count quickly, he seemed to come from the root of algebraic branch... or worst, the number theory.

Vito glanced for a moment to the dark night outside where there was only a vast land of Caucassian forest and a surrounding of little village. This was his second night here, since his first acquaintance to the Colonel the night before, a night full of wines and mead. Alaleh was busy cooking dinner in the kitchen, he could smell roasted deer from the hickory-stove. Grigorovitz entered the room where Vito was. He had warned Vito not to speak a single thing about the current war in front of the Persian maiden; in case she was another Ottoman spy.

But what made you think it is safe for you as a Colonel to take a trip around here all by yourself? Vito asked him.

This town is already sieged by Lorei's army, Grigorovitz answered casually, biting an apple. I was of course, told to better off stay at the camp with the rest of the troops, but there is no way I would skip the leisure of Roses' Lair, he chuckled. So I told the general to take a trip here, just the two of us would know it. It could hardly predicted by the enemy that such a Colonel of the alert Russia strolls all along by himself. We are in such a truce after all...

Vito knew that the Colonel was actually gambling. But he just shrugged, at least he could catch the sense partially... the nearest Ottoman's post around Abkhazia nowadays does indeed could be reached on three days tank journey. Given that the town is already surrounded by Lorei Mikhailov's army, any escape attempts by those Turks soldiers back then in Roses' Lair would only grant themselves a direct death penalty.

Which also meant that seven days would not be their true length of time of staying here. He had better not unpacked his bag, for they could depart any moment now.

You seem to know General Mikhailov quite well,Colonel, said Vito, seated himself.

Grigorovitz smiled. You see this jacket of mine? He pointed at the coat of arm he showed the Guards of Roses' Lair the other night. This coat of arm could be your passport anywhere in Russia and its diplomatic-related countries. Lorei as well, comes from an equal family just like I do.

What about if someone fake it? asked Vito.

Grigorovitz laughed. You don't underestimate the network of Roses' Lair... they know more how to handle relation with royal families of Europe.

Alaleh emerged from the kitchen. She talked to Grigorovitz in German. Grigorovitz followed her to the dining table, gesturing Vito to also come with him. The dining table had been set gracefully, and Vito felt like it was very much Transylvanianish. Indeed---they were Transylvanian dinner! Vito felt, once more, really grateful for the fate he had tonight... he had no idea when else the time during the upcoming battles would he be served something so delicious yet stuffing. He had never been to any Transylvanian restaurant before, but he recognized some of the dish... the Persian mistress turned out to be really good in cooking. He could see shimmering goulash, besides what he was sure to be grilled potatoes and mititeis he smelled on the hickory stove. For the carbs one can choose oily-glazed polenta or herbs-scented pilaf, and she didn't even forget to make Romanian-style chocolate truffles for dessert.

Grigorovitz turned out to be not really care about manner. He simply said, just tuck in, Vito, and grabbed him everything he could reach to fulfill his plate,then start eating. Vito seated himself and took a truffle while Alaleh busily pouring in warm milk to each of their glasses. He was surprised to know that the truffle, indeed, tasted good.

You bought it, didn't you? he casually asked Alaleh in German. Alaleh flinched and scolded. First, she was surprised to learn that not only this paid private was quite intelligent in abacus, he also spoke German as well. She felt a little intimidated now to see someone who barely had enough money to be her roommate turned to have so much skills and abilities. Yet she could not understand one single English he spoke to Master Grigorovitz! She felt a little defeated...And now, he thought she bought the delicious truffles instead of making it herself!

Surprise me that you can not do it yet you are think I can not do it either, she replied furiously in stuttered English. Grigorovitz smiled and Vito felt amused. He started to like this girl as a new toy he could tease every time he had the time now.

Ah, great attempt, Miss! he replied naughtily. But I think what you did was merely Englishening your German, now! Grigorovitz and he laughed heartily.

Milady, don't sweat it, Grigorovitz stroked Alaleh's cheek and pulled her to her seat beside him. You have cooked a great deal and this gentleman here is no other than falling for you.

I heard the other night Sir, that you were talking about Diophantine's equation, Vito changed the subject to the thing made him so obsessed to know the Colonel.

Ah, that old story, the Colonel chuckled, chewing his potato.

When exactly did you learn Math formally, Sir? Vito asked eagerly.

Grigorovitz laughed. It is nice to hear such a condescension, Young Man. If you happen to not get it right, I shall foretell you right now... that Russians, I mean the noble blooded as I am, tend to learn mathematics in advance by our private tutors. I had been taught since I was six under the great Ostrogradsky himself.

He happened to have one of the copy of Galois' manuscripts, he continued while savouring his mititei. The one lost within the hand of Cauchy himself.

What about it? asked Vito.

Lyapunov once told me he felt something about the manuscript regarding the preceeding Diophantine equation, said Grigorovitz. When I asked him what, he simply copy it for me and I saw something so peculiar... Galois said something so essential yet so beautiful, about the theory of representation.

Vito was getting more excited, his ears he felt were shaping such a conic. He never heard about it before... this he felt, will lead him to the esoteric part as he wished someday he would be listening to such stories.

Well, I have not fully understood it, but I have such an intuition that Fermat and Galois somehow have a connection to Diophantine equation, Grigorovitz continued. It has been so long since I touched my pen and paper to do some ideas linking.

The rest of the dinner ran far too quickly for Vito Fortissimo.

He followed the footsteps of the Colonel walked away to the darkness of the forest outside, guarded by five military-dressed young men, right after the dine.

Suddenly he felt the time to go was eagerly due.

Diophantine Above The Mountain of Caucassus (2)

Suddenly the scenes of the Battle of Wissembourg flashed back before his eyes. He saw his 24-years old himself, exhausted, in a supposed to be pretty sunny morning, at about 11.00. The small fir and pine forest outside the hamlet of Wissemborough looked menacing and however sweet and fragrant they might seemed, the odour of Death himself fulfilled the air.

The garrison in which he joined in was preceeded by the Crown Prince force of Prussia to reach Wissembourg. His company was destroyed, he himself was injured near his upper abdomen. The rest of his garrison fellows ran for each of their lives,out of town, or trapped and killed within the commune... luckily he was able to drag the body of one of his mercenary fellow, Giorgio Accardo.

Luck, it was merely luck was he able to escape the little parish. Being mercenaries, he and Giorgio were always dispatched in the frontest line of the garrison. Especially Giorgio, whose adrenaline rushed so vibrantly he led the company. The first bullet of the enemy transpired his chest in the silent circumstances of the village's gate, marking the first victim of the French and should have alarmed the other members of the companies... but Vito Fortissimo reacted the swiftest among his fellows. He quickly grabbed the falling body of Giorgio's and hid themselves behind the nearest wall before he squatted there. He was very fortunate to find a big, quite thick iron lid he used it as a shield.

What followed was the bombardment of more bullets and cannonballs in their surroundings. Vito managed to shoot two Prussian soldiers but he got shot he bled his abdomen. Being hurt, he quickly found another wall for a shield and found himself facing the edge of the pine and fir forest. He silently escaped as fast as he could... he could not really remembered how, but he managed it. He arrived there at the inner side of the forest, somehow he brought along Giorgio.

Giorgio did not make it. Vito Fortissimo could still smell the soil of that forest, where eventually he fell down, Giorgio's body beside him.

***

Vito Fortissimo was awaken from his thought. Then he scolded, for the third time tonight, as his Russian fellow grinned while offering him his hand. For God sake, now that he was able to forecast the last eleven steps of his checkmate!

I'm done, Vito sighed. His Russian opponent laughed, swigging his last big drop of his eighth mug of mead. Then kissed his Persian mistress.

Vito Fortissimo went asilenced. To see the kiss, suddenly he lost in the land of mortal Goddeses... where the creatures living were auburn-haired or blue-eyed, playing their lethal harps to whoever heard it, that those who remain complacent might need not know whether they play the dice between life and death.

Signore Fortissimo observed the Russian. He said his name was Viktor Grigorovitz... such a masculine name, yet his skin was such as he was freshly born, so smooth yet fair. Yes he knew that he must be someone with high rank in his batalyon, given his choice of mistress. He emerged from the Chamber of The Virgins, the highest paid room and roomates one could get in Roses' Lair. And look at those pair of sapphire blue-eyed miss he got...not to mention he was the first one for her.

Such a fine dawn, Grigorovitz said. His blue sky eyes gazed sharply towards the depth darkness of the forest outside. To had spent at least his one last month here, Vito fairly memorized it so well all the cusps of the panoramic laid there. It was quite a generous sight of the whole Caucassus mountains... the flat green hills of local grass interspersing the vast, mighty white snowy mountains where sometimes one could observe the horde of deers on their journey.

Master Grigorovich... you said we will discuss my abacus lesson, the Persian mistress curled her head on Grigorovitz' shoulders.

Vito flinched. He bent his back towards Grigorovitz. You... talk abacus? he asked.

Grigorovitz laughed.

The Persian mistress turned her head towards Vito, as though she had just realized that he was there all along.

You seem to be really surprise, my friend, Grigorovitz smiled thinly. It shall not be as special as it might seem, actually.

My great-great grandfather moved to America as an abacist! Vito said outloud, almost shrilling. Why--- who are you actually?

Viktor Grigorovitz got to his feet while igniting his pipe from his pocket. Interesting, he said. Not many young men I have seen appreciate such a name came from hundreds of years history. Allow me, my friend, to introduce myself, he offered his hand welcomed by Vito directly, as it shall seem I to be your next commandant in battle. Colonel Viktor Grigorovitz Braunsimov...

Vito Fortissimo did not really recognize the name, but now he could see the face of his commander for the next siege in Kars. He became so excited. Pleased to see you, Colonel, he said.

Diophantine Above The Mountain of Caucassus

Antonina Agnessa Braunsimova suddenly awaken in the middle of the night on November 1876. She barely could believe that she had been no longer dreaming... as the dream preceeding took her somewhat so much real.It was a snowy night outside the grand bedroom of hers, where the servants put in bunches of flowers in the summer, mostly tulips.

She forced her fading memory of the recent dream of hers... what was it? The impression was so strong she felt affected that she passed it already.

Yes now that she remembered... she became such a princess in the land of nowhere... where she dressed in a silvery gown. She was surrounded by silvery, white fog. She felt cold. Suddenly came a dark-haired woman so beautiful she could diminish all the cold just by her presence. Lady Antonina knelt before her as the beautiful shall recite to her a very important message...

You see that figure? the dark-haired lady pointed towards a direction, somewhere, Lady Antonina knew it was due south. Lady Antonina automatically stood to her feet and ran towards the direction.

Eventually there shaped a tall, slender figure with dark hair. A man. Lady Antonina had no idea of who he was.

Kill him! said a voice appeared in her head. It was, Lady Antonina knew, the same voice she heard from the dark haired woman... she should kill the man because then she would be granted a present for her lifetime... she should kill the man otherwise the man shall rob her happiness away...

Out of the blue it was, Lady Antonina acquired herself a silvery knife. And silently, without further hesitation... she stabbed the man on his back she knew would rip his heart out.

The dark-haired lady appeared after the dead man's body... and suddenly they were surrounded by light. The dark haired lady handed her a present... a beautiful, tender-looking baby... as she finally realized it was her most precious treasure she got on Earth, her son... Dmitri Mikhailov with his shining blue sky pair of eye.

***

It was such a clement afternoon down the town of Tkvarcelli, near the Black Sea. The gentleman shone in his walk, excited that he was once more given the chance to breath the air of the Land where the guardian of the Holy Land's Kingdom resides.

The Land of the Ottoman, as already represented by the fragrance of his name, did not prohibit the practice of slavery. The gentleman, as he came from the noble blood himself in his country, knew as where the men of his leagues took their leisure time in this particular land, in this particular city.

The place was called The Roses' Lair. Outside, it looked like other buildings surrounding it, only... that not just anybody could enter it.

He showed his coat of arm on his jacket to the guardian outside it.

The next steps were a poem of amour. The female procurer bowed at him, then asked him to wait in the lounge.

Then she asked him to enter a chamber with twelve most beautiful feminines she had.

The gentleman casted his eyes with utter carefulness upon each of the females' postures. His desire tonight should be satisfied with the best...

His sight stopped upon an auburn haired, wistful-eyed maiden with such a touch of Persian gesture and Scachrezade charm shining out of her body.

His moment stopped.

He met his long-lost lover from the other time.

He approached the maiden. Embraced her to his chest, and whispered in her ear,

Persian? Abacus...

The maiden quietly responded, Ja...

Ordinary men and women on Earth, if they have the knowledge already, would translate it as a conversation in Prussian...

The gentleman chose her.

The procurer bowed once more to him, admiring his choice once more. A man from the Braunsimovas surely has the greatest taste of virgins.

Silently he escort her to the room of his choice in Roses' Lair.

***

Vito Fortissimo had become the night's consecutive champion of chess games held between the gentlemen in Roses' Lair. But he was yet to sip his first red wine.

His gaze fell upon a semi-dark-and-brownish-haired man emerged from the Chambers of The Virgins. He happened to be the last man in the room he had not challenged in the game. The man seated himself with the auburn-haired mistress of his tonight on his lap, ordering a glass of honey-flavored-tea.

The Fortissimo gentleman suggested one of the waitress to order him a glass of iced red wine with a note to challenge him for a chess. The gentleman with his mistress glanced at his new acquaintance that night, Signore Fortissimo. He smiled and thought, that during these uncertain hours when he would be summoned to his post in no time, one or two games of chess would be maximizing his spare times after women. His side, Russia, was not going to win easily anyway... he could defend and win back his country on chess table. He gently asked his Persian lady to get him a cup of coffee before then gave him company to Fortissimo's table.

It was such a peaceful night during the era of the War of Russo-Turkish. Italian, Russian, and even the Turks soldires gathered together before tomorrow heaven knows when Ezrael shall greet them. Playing chess, slept with the could-be same women in turn, drunk by wines both red and white.

In The House of Roses' Lair, the average sides existed were the neutral zones. Tomorrow they might end up killing each other in the battle field.

Signore Fortissimo had his defeat for three consecutive chess games that night. The defeater, Viktor Grigorovitz from the Land of Russia as he knew him, was drunk by eight mugs of mead while bragging about his vision on Diophantine equation. Checkmate, checkmate, checkmate...

Fortissimo had his goosebumps for the first time in his chess life. He was barely drunk.

The Kiss

Lady Yelena Agnessa Fedorova had for so many years fallen in love with her distant cousin, Dmitri Mikhailov. She was captured by his calm, poise manner and thin smile, his cold blue eyes, his dialectic proficiency, his beautiful violin playing, his waltz dancing, his horse riding... his everything. The fragile princess was actually the one true heir of her Father's weavery business around Kudryashovskiy. If only she had not been that fragile, his father would be really pleased to introduce her to the whole detail of the job... but he just couldn't.

The fragile lady did not excel at school; Master Fedorov just reckoned it as another misfortune of his, that the only child he got from his beloved late wife inherited the 'slow brain gene' (he called it) of the whole family. She could not play good piano but one two songs, her body was quite weak she could move no gracefully nor merrily in the kitchen. The Father has run out his wit; he was even fullheartedly willing to 'sell' his daughter's body, the only possession he thought the lady has left, to any gentleman he thought would be prominent enough to be his son-in-law. No, he doesn't have to be really rich, just steady job would do just fine. He has to be caring enough or else, pity his daughter enough to take care of Yelena at least Mr. Fedorov would not feel really guilty towards his wife.

(Being an Orthodox Catholics, quite a pious man, but not really into the church, he did not remarry and concentrate some of his time to manage some private schools for disabled children)

However so, he never let his daughter knew what he really thought about her. For Lady Yelena, their relationship remained just fine... and she really wished she could make her father proud. In her opinion, she could not excel at academic life because she was sick so often she could not catch up with the materials. She did not really like to play music, just to listen to anybody else playing it would be enough for her.

But however hard it was for her memory to keep up wih her biology recitation, sequences of mathematics formula and algorithm she must cope up with, she memorized it so well all the details of her first encounter with cousin Dmitri.

It was March 9, 1884. A spring celebration was held among the Braunsimovas(family from her Mother side)in the family Grand Citadel in Novosibirsk's country side. And she saw the cold blue eyes as innocent as Siberian cat... at that moment she knew why The Braunsimovs were called The Russian Sky Blue. His mother, Lady Antonina, introduced him to her. She smelled the fragrance of masculine lavender the time the boy kissed her hand.

She was about 4, and the boy was about 9. But until the next 23 years, never did the fragile lady stop dreaming to be his bride.

During those times, Dmitri Mikhailov maintained such a cordial cousinship between them. He was, as usual, loving and caring for his families, of course including her. But however there exist already many tease and gossips towards both the Lady and the Gentleman to be wedded, since many other family member noticed how Dmitri concerned a lot about Yelena...

Dmitri married another lady. Who bore him a son, Ricardovich.

Yelena was sad. She locked herself in her room for so many nights as she managed to keep nobody noticed.

She maintained good relationship with Duscha, Ricardovich's mother, and became one of the persons the boy loved most. She did not marry anybody else. She just could not stop praising Dmitri.

Until one night, that very night that gave Lady Yelena a chill to the history of her heart. She was in Dmitri's citadel for her usual visit.

She usually wandered around at the northern tower to observe the sky with her little telescope. When her step died suddenly as she passed Dmitri by. He was sweating, and his eyes looked so sad. Yelena knew something has strucked him so bad. Only once did she ever observe his eyes looking as such...

And suddenly, tenderly.. Dmitri held her tight in his chest. And kissed her.

That night would never be forgotten by Yelena. It was the night when Dmitri Mikhailov proposed her, made her Madame Yelena Agnessa Braunsimova.

Meanwhile, Mr. Fedorov could not believe the fact. Yelena gained such a strong position before him. He became to love his daughter very much for obtaining such a fine husband. And he could no longer stare towards Dmitri's eyes. He inherited his business to Dmitri who then manage it on behalf of Yelena.

And so the kiss... became such a local legend the society around loved to speak about. About a girl who finally reached her desired love after a long wait. After a long submission.

Due To Raden Saleh

Dmitri Mikhailov was a fine gentleman in his early 35. Young but barely felt, his wealth expands from the heart of middle land in West Siberian Plain to Nanjing, Shanghai, Hongkong, Erdenet, and Irkutsk in the East, Toolonlahti, Amsterdam, Den Haag, and Braunschweig in the West, which then would he use all of them as his milestones to conquer the Lands of the South.

A prominent noble man from Russian Empire himself, as one true Heir of The Great Braunsimov dynasty, he was of course served with the best in almost every western country he stepped on that Russia has good relationship with. One of the most progressive lobby towards him came from the Netherlands' dynasty of Van Rijkmaar.

It was a warm summer morning on the bank of the River of Ob, where he could see a pair of naughty fox beneath his favourite hawthorns grown near the transparent white door of his study. Seeing those foxes together disturbing the little squirrel before they both chase and savour it, again, he knew, together-- reminded him of how he once struggled to establish such a dream family of his own. A family where... the wife and child would be so close to him. Yet so obligant.

Master, a knock on the door across the hall sounded, and Dmitri sipped his tea. He pressed the button beside his left hand, ringing the little toller above the knocked door suggesting he was ready to receive whoever coming. It was Bogdan, his 54 years old Head of Household.

There is a present for you, said Bogdan, with a chuckle. From Lord Van Rijkmaar in Netherlands. Apparently he still tries to offer you Lady Marianne Wilhelmina...

An African-European man entered in, bringing a vast rectangle wrapped in brownish paper. He opened it in front of Dmitri before then dismissed himself out of the room.

It was a portrayal of two beautiful young ladies, daughters of Lord Van Rijkmaar himself. The Dutch left a note saying that it was painted by the notable Raden Saleh, the great artist from the Land of The South where Dmitri planned to invest. Marianne Wilhelmina, was of course, the prettier. And the prettiest among the two. The Lord had repeatedly asked him to marry her. What made him still so reluctant to deal was that he knew the history of the old Lord. His family had long he knew to have strangling debt resulting from his speculative deals in the wars for the ownership around East-Indies. Thus to marry the daughter meant that he had such a morale obligation to help the old Dutch with his debts.

However, my master... doesn't she grow all this time? Bogdan said while preparing to hang the portrait in the gallery. The Braunsimovs have long been known as Russia's most notable collector.

Dmitri remained silent. Indeed that he planned to travel to Netherlands imminently, to observe his tobacco business there... but the present was as though adding him more obligation to visit Van Rijkmaar family.

The face of the more beautiful than before Marianne Wilhelmina lingered over his mind.

He could just make her his concubine, he had more than enough power to do it. He doubted that the old Dutch would mind it, but he had not too much idea of this girl Marianne. Once they met five years ago, she was this timid 13 years old little blonde girl, she barely even dared to steal a glance towards him.

He thought about his son, Ricardovich, from his legitimate betraying wife, Duscha. Those little blue eyes were each day being more and more overcasted than ever, one could hardly believe that it belonged to the young face of the Heir of the mighty Braunsimova dynasty. Ricardovich was only five but he never smiled, or laughed, as other five years old did. Dmitri knew that the child missed his parents.

But Dmitri could not look up to the little boy's face. It reminded him too much of Duscha, those bright blue eyes... of the love they once shared, of the betrayal she did, with that bastard. It reminded Dmitri too much of how sick his heart was to love Duscha so much to receive her betrayal in return.

So Dmitri made up his mind that indeed, Ricardovich would never be his successor. That boy would only grow as lame, coward man just like his mother, and, ha ha ha... Dmitri chuckled bitterly alone, it was indeed, maybe his unconscious mind driving him to create such a disadvantageous, uncomfortable circumstances that Ricardovich grew up in.

So The Readers saw the aftermath, unfortunate condition could a boy like Ricardovich endure because of the decision the mother once made.

The Father was at present prepared his journey to the Netherlands to find himself a new wife, to provide him a new son, a new Heir for what supposed to be Ricardovich's throne.

The Shiny Pathway

Anthony could still remember the shiny pathway that led one following it to the Grand Citadel of Stanislav-Andrei Markov on the bank of the River of Ob, West Siberian Plain. It was spring 1977. She, Jo, Dave, and Mom, and Papa were taking a short trip to the land of their Ancestors, The Soviet Union.

Even the 5-years old Ann could understand the tension happening during their visit. Papa said that she couldn't cry there or hug Mommy too tightly as usual... she should not trouble everybody else. It was a very strange trip, since after they dropped themselves out of Helsinki, Papa drove all of them inside a rotten-looking jeep for six days in a row, and suddenly they arrived in a freezing, serene pine- wood where there shaped a five hundred yards flat snowy space. A helicopter picked them up, and a military-dressed stewardess,Anthony felt she would poison them no matter how beautiful she might seemed, offered she who curled anxiously on her brother's lap a cup of hot chocolate. She reluctantly gave it a little sip now that Jo sipped it first.

When they arrived, eventually she felt a little better. It turned out to be quite a spring down the town they supposed to head. They stayed for one and a half month in a building(she later knew it to be the Novosibirsk Legislative Provincial Building) where she, Jo, and Dave played cricket every morning in its backyard. Papa and Mommy always tried to smile but Ann, as well as her two brothers, knew how worried they really were.

And it was so strange that during the last three nights, Anthony kept on dreaming of this heavy voice, calling her name down a foggy alley. Anthony, in this dream, followed the voice and suddenly she arrived to a fog-shaded tall, big figure she could not see his face.

But she knew the figure was smiling at her.

On the forty-seventh day, another military-uniformed one, this time a blonde, cold-eyed man guided them heading towards this place... where the gate towards the main building was shining beneath the spring sun. Jo was the one standing next to her little steps, holding her left hand tightly. The guiding man, turned out to be leading them towards a mighty citadel she always dreamed of to be castles Mom told her in stories some nights before she slept when she was 3 years old. The story was portraying Vassilisa The Brave, a name of a girl whose legend so famous her uncle, Fadev, made it his daughter's name.

More military-guys emerged and the five of them was guided to a high-ceiled, medium-sized chamber where Papa and Mom busily signed some papers and documents. The bored little Ann silently slipped her legs away and strolled around the surrounding alley near the chamber. Luckily Jo saw her, and quickly followed her.

What's up Ann? You can't trouble us, you see... Jo whispered in her ear. He raised her in his arms.

Jo... I heard a voice! Ann whispered back.

That moment, they arrived in a deserted alley with a wide, empty semi-dark creak with a broad window importing a ray of sun light to the room. Jo smiled, shaking his head. Oh, it must be Ann's another imaginary friend...

It's calling me, Jo, from here!

Ann, we'd better get back...

But as he turned his body around, Ann frantically pulling his ear, Look Jo!

Jo turned back to the wide empty creak. He was stunned.

A transparent figure of an old, bearded man with an early 1900 Russian-style tux was beaming peacefully towards... Ann. He waved his hand, and slowly melted within the morning ray of sun-light.

For a moment neither he or Ann spoke. Then slowly Jo turned his head upon his sister, who yawned. I miss Mommy, Ann said while curling her head on his shoulder.

Silently the still-shocked Jo walked with Ann in his arm, back to the chamber where Mom, Dad, and Dave were still struggling with papers. Seemed that nobody noticed that both of them were missing for a moment.

The family eagerly packed their bags and headed home. To Nantucket.

In the airport in Helsinki, Jo told Mom that Ann and he saw the mysterious old, transparent figure. Mom told Dad, and he was beaming. So strange that the smile reminded Jo of the old figure's .

That was your Great Grandpa Dmitri, he patted his head. You know what, Jo... he finally accepted us.

Jo casted his gaze upon the bright blue sky that also shared by the Baltic Sea. He remembered all the six days cruise in the jeep, the tension for one and a half months in the building where they lived, the papers signed, their taken photograph in order to validate their family's ownership to the tourism of the citadel.

So that was his Great GrandDad Dmitri, the one who was notoriously known in their circle to be the man who was disgraced by the marrying of Grandpa Ricardovich and their beloved Grandma, Brendamilikan.

Eye of The Golden Horses

The Readers might always find the happy frames of Brownsimov's daily lives.

But not The Clan of The Hidden Horses. What they usually observe are blood, plot, and big pictures. They shadow the every step of Anthony's. Every move Davidovich made. Every place Joshev be.

Once there said that Fritz Novozybirsk Braunsimov, one of the Great Great ancestor of the current Brownsimova who lived circa 1500's made his journey to the Land of The Vast Desert in the Far East... where there said that there lived The Ancient Wise who mastered the art of conserving talent. Yes however weird and cheap it must be, he sold talents in shape of children, or baby, to whoever desired them.

Fritz bought this Eurasian little boy who had so much traits of the mighty Genghis Khan himself inside his blood. That time, rarely anybody could understand the method of Fritz' extrapolating one's potential. The Eurasian boy was seen to be this lame guy by his surrounding.

Until, Fritz bought him and cure him, but more on that, maybe later.

He was called Khaka. He became Fritz' personal bodyguard, was shared some of his stocks in global market in East Japan, and was asked to make his own dynasty.

Khaka married two descendants of the oldest Viking family, and paid his debt of being raised by Braunsimovs by being their paternal bodyguard, which was continued on by his descendants. They called themselves The Hidden Horses before The Brownsimova. Because they operated like the hidden horses inside some puzzling pictures.

So be careful when you wanted to mess with the Brownsimovs... the time you had your weapon ahead of them would be the time some of the Hidden Horses snipers had theirs ahead of you.

La Claire de La Lune

Ricardovich Alexandrov Braunsimov was rather a jittery man at heart when he was younger. Some psychologist might conclude that he suffered a deficit-attention disorder made him insecure all the time, even rarely dare to look straight in his talking partner's eye. His mother died when he was two, and somehow his father, Dmitri Mikhailov, was trembled so bad he kind of forgot who he really was. He never looked straight into his son's eyes. Up until Ricardovich turned 12, his father rarely spoke to him... and Ricardovich could not understand but to swallow it uneasily to his throat to believe that his father remained an arrogant man in front of him.

Ricardovich was tutored privately at home. He was never too brilliant at anything; no matter that how Petrov, his mathematics tutor was one of the best algebraists in Russian history, something just blocked Ricardovich's mind to comprehend the materials he learnt. And it just did not happen in math; he could not excel in everything from Russian literature, geography, history, government... he just hated academic lives so much. The only thing he could bear was music. He had been good in it, being able to master the Hungarian Rhapsody when he was 12.

He always had been happy to play with piano. Every maid and Kruschev the old gardener praised him a lot and seldom did they continue their work when the Young Master played his fingers down the grand piano in the Main Hall inside the manor. For a moment could Ricardovich smiled at himself to listen to his own playing and felt that he worthed something.

Music is the only thing made him dare to stand before his father about his capability.

No matter how his father ignored him, as usual, of him and his talent and his everything.

One day when he was nine, the Grand Piano in the manor's Main Hall broke one of its strings. The bored little Young Master Ricardovich was waiting and waiting for the repairer to fix it so he could continue playing, but it took some time... so he strolled along the alley of the third floor where it was deserted because the maids were busy cleaning in the lower storeys.

He leaned himself before the small window balcony at the end of the alley, quietly humming Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. It always felt night at heart, and the light only came from the generosity of the moon... the music, the only thing he excelled of. He missed his father. He never knew his mother, but Father would never disignore him no matter how good he played the piano.

He casted his gaze around the scenery of the alley behind him. Something looked really strange... but what did? The tapestry on the wall on his right side was silently glued as usual, as well as the reddish empty brick wall on his left side. The empty brick wall, strangely, was different in colours... he just realized it now. Well, he did rarely observe this floor, though...

There were five rows of milder red colour along the left wall.

And inside the rows, there were even subtler periodic pattern of colours... our Little Young Master became quite intrigued to figure it out. His head was only full of pattern of music, if there were any, so he didn't really expect to be able to see some meaning behind the pattern. Gosh, he could barely able to see pattern in simple maths... how could he expect to derive something special of some subtle pattern on the wall he barely see?

So funny how five rows reminded him of five rows in alphabetic music notes(he was quite fluent at it, too)... na na na na na... he could remembered the sequence of the first verses of moonlight sonata... it should be here, here, here... as his hand traced down the rows of different colours

... to be surprised that every finger-tap he made on the different-coloured rows touched his hand upon the subtler colours of the pattern! His heart chilled... how could this happen?

But he started to feel excited. I found something here! The pattern sings Moonlight Sonata the first verses in alphabetical music notes! He anxiously tapped on every following sequences until the end of the wall...

and the wall slid opened!

Anxious but excited, the Young Master stepped inside the medium sized, high-ceiled room where he saw a painting of a very beautiful, strong young lady with a balalaika in her hand. He was strucked at heart by her beauty... it was as though he met his long-lost first love.

But what distracted him from the painting was a gigantic black, Grand Piano slightly covered by dust at the bottom of the painting. He was really happy. Not only was he able to find this secret room all by himself, he also acquires his new friend! Gosh... and this piano is the Boesendorfer Concerto Grand Piano, one that he always wanted! Doesn't any maid and servant here know about this room whatsoever?

He opened the grid and started playing Moonlight Sonata...

Suddenly, his Father appeared behind him with a loud noise.

Ricardovich turned his head around, so anxious that for the first time their eyes met, what the little boy saw was an outraged, furious man he hardly believed it was his Father. The man who should have been loving him all this time...

You tedious prick! the grown up man roared, and slapped Ricardovich so hard on his face.

The maids and servants hurrily ran along to the thunderstrucked Young Master, who sadly wailed before Dmitri Mikhailov.

The Father who should have loved his son.