By Yuri Shymanovsky.
Translated from Russian by Glen Evans.


Azure, The Submarine
***
Usually the most mysterious stories are stories that
can neither be explained nor exposed.
If the mystery is solved you instantly lose any
interest in it. However, if you get information about
some certainly impossible event, you will look at it
with skepticism. But when there is a puzzle and some
explanation with a lot of doubt then the mystery of
the story will bother you for years and years.
And this is the kind of story I'm going to tell you.
Well, I have plenty of proof: stories of eyewitnesses,
people who could just not make up all of that.
On the other hand... the old man was possibly mental
with age, and the monk could have had "rum fits".
I think the extraordinary photo that I have, is very
strong evidence, as well as what I have seen with my
own eyes, yet a skeptic would find thousands of
explanations why all these events should be counted as
nonsense or mystification. Judge it yourself.
***
For me, as for most other people arriving here, the
N-City started at the local bus station.
Dragging with difficulty my enormous easel, I climbed
out of the stuffy bus, took a deep breath of moist
salt air and started making my way through a crowd of
old women who were holding signs "An Apartment for
Rent, Next to the Sea".
I don't know what had been written on my face, but I
could not get through the throng.
They hemmed me in, and circled around, as if I was a
May-Pole.
For some reason, they didn't look at me, as there was
no me at all, and they would just have an after-lunch
walk.
"An apartment... Next to the sea," sounded a tinny
trembling voice.
"All utilities... three pieces, immediate occupation,"
the other old lady echoed with bass.
"With a personal phone line, an inexpensive
apartment," the whisper announced. "Next to a shop."
I slowed down, hesitating. I truly did need an
apartment. A room at least, but a very cheap one and
only for three days.
Suddenly my look halted on an old lone man, who was
shyly standing aside.
"An apartment," he said quickly and lowered his eyes
with a guilty expression.
The circulation around me had stopped as if by the
wave of a magic wand. The old women stood still,
waiting.
"An apartment," he repeated. "Very cheap. Yet not next
to the sea, but what a wonderful view, and the air!
Not like the air is down here."
As if to confirm his words, the bus next to me started
its engine and tossed a black haze of smog at me.
"Look, it's there." The old man stretched his arm
upward. I lifted my head.
Along the very steep mountain slopes the
one-store-housed streets were full of natural
splendor, hidden in the greenness of the apricot trees
and vine wreathes.
From my view they looked vertical. I could not imagine
how the houses were placed onto the sheer hillside.
The labyrinth of buildings crowded one over the other
was mixed with steep narrow ladders.
And there, almost beyond the clouds, an ancient
bastion crowned the mountain. It had gloomy-looking
crumbling walls with battlements. The crenellations
and merlons looked like teeth, and the machicolations
were narrow.
"A Genoa citadel of XIV-XVI century. It has been
referred to in the famous book "The Journey Beyond the
Three Seas" by Afanasi Nikitin," pronounced the old
man, sounding like a tourist guide. "You should take a
look, it's very close to my house."
This fort argument was the last straw.
What could an artist dream about! Even a professional
one, not an amateur like me.
Sitting there, up on the hill with my easel. Walking
on the Middle-Aged steps. Spending a few days
wandering in the maze of the narrow green streets with
a wonderful view!
"Let's go," I said and held up my enormous easel, and
the old ladies behind my back let out a sigh of
disappointment.
We walked out of the plaza and turned into an alley
that shot up without any warning. The asphalt road had
ended and it was now a very real cobblestone path as I
have seen before only in movies.
Sometimes along the way we climbed some steps. Up, up,
up...
A few minutes later I was panting, unable to keep up
with my old guide. He was walking easily and
effortlessly. From the first sight it was visible that
he was a local guy and used to this.
We met some Navies. Their appearance surprised me.
Everybody looked worn out and dirty. When it was an
officer - he had a red nose. When it was a private -
the same, and he was looking for the cigarettes.
But I was most impressed by the view of the apricots
rolling down along the avenue.
"Tell me," I asked. "Is it normal that the apricots
are on the street?"
"Too much of them," the old man replied. " Nothing
anybody can do. Every July it's just like a flood."
Something rustled above my ear. Smack! This beautiful
orange ball patted onto the road next to my feet and,
jumping on the steps, it started its journey towards
downtown.
"Oph, finally we're here!"
The old man pushed open the miniature gate invisible
with the wilts of vine, and I found myself in a small
court in front of a house, very cozy and panoramic.
As it was placed on a steep hillside, the court was
almost vertical. The cobbled, carefully built steps
led in all directions.
The diminutive lots of horizontal soil were propped up
with moss-covered walls.
All the ancient court had an appearance of a
timberland.
We went into the house where I had the honor to be
introduced to my room.
"Here is the verandah", said my host. "You could not
find a better view of the sea. By the way, my name is
Sergey Petrovich."
I stepped out into the verandah. The old man did not
lie: the view was magnificent.
Down, far beneath me, I could see the city, bristling
with the dark arrows of the cypresses and a little bit
farther, squeezed by craggy banks, a broad bay
stretched a few kilometers far and wide.
The water in the bay was spotted; some places were
dark-blue, some - bright green. The green spots - the
sand of the seabed, peeking through the water. The
blacks - the underwater rocks and seaweed.
The only thing that hurt my eyes was bunches of
military ships, lined along the brinks. Small and big,
new, bright-colored and old and rusted. Here were some
barges, cargo, and a few other vessels.
"Well," said the old man, understanding my thoughts.
"Our city is small, but it used to be a military base.
A few years ago no outsiders could come here. And the
citadel is here." He showed me the way. "Don't forget
to check it out. No archeologist has set foot in there
yet. By the way, do you want some wine? I have a lot.
I make more than I'm able to drink."
I refused politely, and announced my wish to walk to
the fortress with my easel.
***
The stronghold was simply colossal. It was so huge
that I even got perplexed. I would have to spend
months just to sketch all that I wanted. So I chose
another, a way not permitted. I took a photo camera
and shot the entire roll of film. I would draw later
using these photos.
After I sat on a broken panel covered with mysterious
roman letters, and with my pencils I made a few close
up drafts of the most impressing views.
Buried in the work I noticed that evening had come,
and when it became dark I went back to the city, tired
but satisfied.
I found my way easily. The only street led down -
"Rocky Street".
Not far away from the house where I stayed, I met a
group of sailors; a few navy-privates with an officer
in charge.
"Hey mate," he called me.
Honestly, my life experiences told me that in the
nighttime you should not answer such a call, but get
away as fast as you can. But the sincerity sounding in
his voice filled me with trust, and I stopped without
having a cow.
The officer, a handsome black eyed man, approached and
repeated:
"Mate, if you would, don't go down this street. If
it's necessary, better to take this avenue." And he
pointed to an alley aside.
"Why?" I wondered, searching my night interlocutor.
"It's dangerous," explained the officer. "Better not
wander here at night time."
While we were talking, the navy-privates drew close
and stood by us.
Amazing, how they were different from those military
sailors that I met this day.
Dandyish looking, wearing impeccably clean uniforms,
they appeared like some heroes from a movie. The
officer had a short sharp-formed beard, and he held a
long aromatic cigar. His old-fashioned coat with the
stand up collar looked a little out-of-date, but
impressing, especially in with the combination of his
fancy belt and revolver.
'Azure' I read the name of the vessel printed on the
cap of one of these navies.
``What a wonderful name for a ship!`` I thought. ``How
great that they started again, like in the old time,
write the names of the vessels on the cups. In the
Soviet Time they wrote just "Black Sea Fleet" or even
worse. For example, Navy High School named after the
Admiral Nakhimov, shortly NHSAN. It seemed not like an
abbreviation, but some kind of abracadabra...``
"Thank you," I said. "But I'm not going down. I'm home
already."
"Sorry then," replied the officer. "But if you would
like to take a walk, do it at morning, sir, may I
suggest."
"Gotcha," I answered. "Good night."
"My honor." The officer saluted and turned to his
people.
Fumbling in the darkness, I got into my room, went to
the verandah, and smoked.
"How was the citadel?" the voice of my old host
sounded behind the wall.
"Great!" I replied.
"By the way, I forgot to warn you against night walks
on our street. Too many hooligans. Did you meet
anyone?"
"Only Navies," I answered.
"Navies? Strange, today's not a furlough day. And
anyway it's well after "lights-out". Were they
privates or officers?"
"A group of privates and an officer."
"Ah, it must have been a patrol," said my host.
"No, patrols must have a special bandage on their
sleeves. They did not."
"Then I have no idea... Wanna wine?"
"No, thanks."
I was siting on the verandah and thinking that life is
interesting. Only yesterday I was in a huge noisy
polluted city. I was going to work on a stuffy city
bus. I was arguing with my boss. But now I felt myself
in another dimension.
The sea, mountains, Middle-Aged fortress seemed to
have no connection with the everyday world.
Especially that young officer, looking like a movie
hero. Such polite talk! Like a Count or even a Prince.
And the cigar... Interesting, why did he look so
different from those navies that I saw before?
Suddenly a thought appeared into my mind.
"Sergey Petrovich," I called my host. "Are you
sleeping?"
"Nah-ah."
"What is the ship Azure?"
"Azure... A famous ship. I'll tell you tomorrow."
"I just wanted to ask, does it belong to Russia or
Ukraine?"
"Heh-heh-heh," a muffed laugh sounded behind the wall.
"Why did you ask?"
"Those navies that I met had the Azure name on their
caps."
The laugh behind the wall turned into coughing, then I
heard some stuff falling, sounds of barefoot steps,
and Sergey Petrovich, wearing only his underpants,
came on the verandah. I grew cold when I saw his
appearance; the old man was as pale as death.
"Are you gonking me?" he murmured. "Are you telling
the truth?"
"Yes, what's the matter?"
"Where were they?"
"Right here, a few steps from the gates."
The old man leaned through the window up to his waist,
and looked down.
I glanced as well.
Nobody. An empty street.
Exhausted, Sergey Petrovich lowered himself into a
wattled chair, mumbling something and wildly moving
his eyes like crazy.
"Well, could you explain..." I started.
"Wanna wine?" interrupted the old man.
"Okay." I gave up.
Sergey Petrovich shoved his arm down somewhere, and a
moment later a jar with red wine and two glasses
appeared onto the table.
"Made last year," the old man explained, pottering
about the table. "God bless this drink..." he toasted,
lifting his glass.
The wine was pretty good. The old man drank two
glasses, and stared into the night. His eyes slowed,
and his cheeks blushed.
"People tell this story," he started suddenly. "About
eighty years ago, during World War One, our city was
taken by Germans. Not for long, but anyway. You can
see for yourself that the mouth of the bay is very
tight. Almost the complete Russian Fleet was here. So,
the Gerries blocked the bay with a huge armed ship,
and demanded the Fleet surrender. All the vessels gave
in... Except the Azure.
"It was a submarine, torpedo boat. All the ships
showed white flags except the Azure. It cast off and
went underwater in full view of everybody. They did
not want to have the shame of becoming prisoners of
the Gerries. But there was no escape. The Germans at
once blocked the mouth of the bay with a special net
against submarines, and waited. Azure would have to
come up, they had no choice. Now a submarine can be
underwater for months. Not then, they could stay under
less than a day. They would run out of air. But Azure
did not come up. Two days went by. Only a periscope
came out sometimes. The third day Azure torpedoed that
scurvy armed ship. It went down, sank.
"The Germans got mad. They flooded the bay with
military ships, they bombed all around, they used
special scanning machines to search for Azure. They
mined the mouth of the bay. But Azure did not come up,
only its periscope. Later, even it disappeared. The
submarine disappeared in the bay forever. Soon the
Germans left our city."
"Sad story," I said.
"Sad, but..." The voice of the old man trembled.
"People claim, you can see its periscope here in the
bay sometimes. People see it. They say, it means
either good or bad luck. Depends on the viewer. If it
is a good person he will be lucky for the rest of his
life. But if not... His life will be short."
The old man drank more wine, and still, looking
thoughtfully into the darkness, toward the bay,
invisible in the dusk.
"Do you believe this legend?" I broke the prolonged
pause.
"It's not a question of believing, these are facts.
But let's go to sleep. What if they are listening to
us."
"Who?"
"THEM."
The old man got up, and seeing the look on his face, I
realized that he was not kidding. He said good night
to me, drank wine again, and left.

(Part 1 of 2. To be continued.)
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