And this is my second, if not, the first being.
In this incarnation I am a novelist and a poet Juan Miramar, and here`s my (his) life story.
Juan Miramar is a descendant of Spanish immigrants. His grandfather, Horacio Miramar, immigrated to the USSR in 1930s, after the defeat of the Republicans.
Juan Miramar graduated from the Military Institute of Foreign Languages. He served in Africa and in the Middle East. Now he lives in Moscow.
Something in it is true, and something is not. For instance, I live in Kiev.
And the name of our city is Fedor Kuzmichsk
…and before it was Southern Depots,
And still earlier – Moscow.
Tatyana Tolstaya, “Kyś”
Rudaki left the cellar, when the fourth sun had almost set. It already became cold and, having stopped before the door, he wrapped his neck in a scarf and even thought to raise the collar of his coat, but then changed his mind and only slightly readjusted his backpack.
The fourth sun was moving close to the horizon all day, but now, before the setting it seemed to be rolling over the ground, peeking from between the walls. He took a deep breath of cool air.
It is the beginning of my first novel, A Few Days after the End. This novel is about people who survived the catastrophe, lived through the collapse of their customary life values, customary lifestyle… After reading the novel, those who are now over thirty will understand, that the book is about them.
The headquarters of the South-Eastern group of troops was located in the former police department of the Islands, a three-storey building of the 14th century, which was situated next to the Upper Gardens.
Once it was the residence of Spanish knights, and above the entrance, there still was their coat of arms with a unicorn. By the broad steps leading to the high wrought-iron doors there was an elegant marble fountain, also with a unicorn head. Near the fountain soldiers liked to take pictures though it was strictly off limits.
Now, at night neither the emblem, nor the fountain could be seen – the building loomed as a dark solid cube against the sky that had already begun to lighten.
Sentries stood at the door barely illuminated by dim lights. Having cast a cursory glance at the passes, one of them – big Negro, said:
– Evening, Russians! Welcome on board.
Usually in such cases Ariel was sure to say that they were not Russians but, on the contrary – Ukrainians, however, this time he said nothing: maybe it was his reaction to the remark of Jose or he braced himself for the meeting with the bosses.
This passage is from my second novel, The Secret Employee: which is about military interpreters. The entourage is fantastic, but it seems anyone, on reading the novel, will realize that it is not a matter of the entourage. Anyhow, I wanted this novel to be more than just a story about the fight between the Union of the Faithful and the Christian Coalition…
My third novel, Personal Time, is about the time that each of us has of his or her own, his or her "personal time", it is about a person who penetrates into the past, where he feels good.
Here are some lines from the novel:
– I always make up something,- Chiromancer was meanwhile saying, - when I bathe my brother. While he is lying in the bath, blowing bubbles, I make up something and ask the Man what he thinks. He always comes to me – the Man – when I bathe my brother, – stands by the door, saying nothing, just nodding sometimes, and then I understand that I think in the right way.
– Who`s the man? - Rudaki asked
– He couldn`t be described in our language, just the Man – standing and listening, - answered Chiromancer and continued - So, yesterday I told him about the ark of reincarnation, and he nodded. It means I was right. And it`s rather simple. He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and gave it to Rudak., – Here, look.
Rudaki took it and looked at the drawing.
– Looks like a coffin.
– But it is a coffin, - said Chiromancer, - just think, why people are buried in coffins. And I got it: because a coffin is an ark of reincarnation; in it people are sent to other life. It`s a machine, a vehicle,got it?
The name of my last published novel is The Lion of Judea.
The novel is neither about lions nor about Judea, although you will find there a little of both. It is about the terrible disease of mankind – fascism, when people are discriminated against language, colour of skin, skull shape, or age.
In the same book, there are some funny (it`s my opinion), stories about interpreters working in a foregn country: Istanbul Stories.
Some critics with "americanized" brains say that my novels are fantasy. “Don`t argue with a fool”, said a classic. Indeed.
At the moment, I`m writing yet another novel with a tentative name The Time Warp. Eventually, I hope, it will also appear on this site.
And now welcome to the world of my last novel The Mercenary that talks about Russian military officers in the depth of the Black Continent.