Claws of Mercy. Natalie Yacobson

Scandinavian Surt, lord of the fire giants and god of the end of the world. The farther one went, the more ominous pictures and figures one encountered. There were sea monsters, women turning into dragons, rakshasas, and ifrites. A complete set for an apocalypse meeting! If all these gods and demons turned out not to be part of a dead culture, but living beings, they would definitely sweep the world away. Ruslan suddenly felt uneasy. For a moment, he imagined all these creepy creatures coming to life and pouncing on defenseless humanity.

      “Who had the idea of assembling such a gruesome collection?” He wondered.

      “Who is it? It is our oligarch, of course.”

      “Or it is one of his secretaries,” Ruslan suggested. “Who among the bigwigs does not do without the advice of their assistants?”

      “And what kind of collection would you advise him to collect? Are they paintings by Modigliani and Picasso?”

      It was a joke, of course, but Ruslan answered seriously:

      “I mean Shishkin, Aivazovsky, Rokotov, Bryullov, Levitsky.”

      “It would cost too much. What if even an oligarch can’t afford it?” His partner always wanted to make jokes. With the help of jokes is easy to get away from the grim reality, but sometimes reality strikes.

      “Even the merchant Tretyakov was able to collect paintings, which he then gave to the people, and the resulting is Tretyakov Gallery.”

      “You can’t expect that here,” Dima grinned. “The exhibits were brought for a private collection.”

      “But what if the rich man has awakened his conscience and wants to open a free museum here?”

      “It’s too far from populated areas. Gasoline alone to get here would be expensive. And there’s no public transportation to get here at all. So how do we get visitors here?”

      “It is on customized buses, like sightseers. Why are you thinking about technical problems? Can’t our customer afford everything?”

      “Let’s say that’s true. But there’s another problem.”

      “What is it?”

      “Take a look! Look around! What do you see? Beauty mixed with horror.”

      “Some like horror and even surrealism, although surrealist art is the world through the eyes of a madman. In surrealist paintings, all the objects are not in their place, so that it gives the impression of absurdity or madness, but some people like it. It’s not without reason that art connoisseurs throng to Salvador Dali’s villa-museum. I’ve been there, by the way, but for some reason I like it better here, I don’t know why.”

      “Is it because of it?” The partner nodded at the central pedestal with an unfamiliar, but so attractive name of the deity.

      “Yes. It is because of her.”

      Ruslan moved forward toward the shimmering statue. Her golden wings fluttered. How like an optical illusion! It was a play of light and shadow. Ruslan reached out his hand to touch the gilded statue and felt only emptiness. There was no statue on the pedestal. But he had just seen it!

      Had he imagined it? Ruslan wiped his eyes. The pedestal was still empty. He could have sworn that a minute ago he had seen a golden silhouette with wings on it.

      He should get more sleep, and then he wouldn’t have obsessions. Anything can appear to an overworked or tipsy person.

      Dima was worried that there were no beer houses in the neighborhood.

      “It would probably take half a day to get to the nearest pub!” He lamented.

      Ruslan didn’t like the name pub. It was too English, as if it were London, not the distant Moscow suburbs. Nevertheless, the name “pub” could be seen on a pub even in the bedroom neighborhood of Moscow, where Ruslan’s family lived. For some reason, it became fashionable to give the most unattractive-looking establishments foreign names. The service did not improve. And the degree of alcohol was equally high everywhere. Ruslan preferred not to drink at all. That way you would be soberer and spend less money. The museum exposition of the rotunda interested him much more than the presence of drinking establishments in the neighborhood.

      “It’s gorgeous here!” He whistled.

      “Imagine how much more chic it will be when the building is completed and filled with all the imported curiosities that are still on their way,” Dima’s voice was filled with undisguised envy. He could be understood. Who wouldn’t dream of living in his own palace!

      “What a pity that all this luxury will rot here like in a crypt.”

      “What are you talking about?”

      “Such rarities should be put on public display, not hidden in a private collection,” Ruslan, though he didn’t have the skills of an archeologist, could determine that many of the statues of ancient gods were ancient, hastily restored. They belong in the Hermitage, not in the countryside.

      “The public already has the Tretyakov Gallery and the Historical Museum in the center of Moscow,” Dima obligingly reminded him, who himself, if he had ever been to the above-mentioned places, had only been on a forced excursion when he was a schoolboy. He had never visited museums of his own free will. But it didn’t cost him anything to design a blueprint of a museum building.

      “It seems that this mansion is being built for the Tsar,” Ruslan whispered to himself, but Dima heard him.

      “Why is it?”

      “It’s more luxurious than the Hermitage.”

      “Well, the Hermitage is old, it’s been standing on the bank of the Neva River for centuries, but here everything is new and will be furnished according to the latest technology.”

      “And if you look around, you can rather assume that it will be a temple, not a palace. Look how many gods are around!”

      “There were gods and goddesses from all different countries and religions of the world. Only any symbolism related to Christianity was forbidden in the palace, but the owner ordered statues of all the ancient gods. Their names were already carved on the empty pedestals. There were ancient gods, and Egyptian, and Persian, and Indian, and Chinese, and Slavic. All the names belonged to ancient cults. Ruslan studied a little about the culture of the religions of the world.”

      “Will the sculptures be made in the ‘art nouveau’ or glamorous style?” He joked. What else would you expect from a cultureless New Russian? People who got rich by chance did not understand museum values.

      “No, they were all copies of historical figures.”

      Ruslan whistled. It seemed to be the rare case when a rich man could pretend that he was no stranger to history and opera. Probably a concert hall or a private theater, like it was in old Russian estates.

      “Do you need a sketch artist?” Ruslan wanted to recommend an acquaintance.

      “All the figures have already been made. Some have arrived, others will be delivered soon. So we’ll have to hurry with the completion of the wings.”

      On some of the pedestals there were indeed slender figures of Athena, Nemesis and Hecate. The goddess of war was threateningly aiming her spear at those who entered. The three-faced Hecate was conjuring. The Slavic Chernobog squinted menacingly, the leaden face of Loki frightened away with an unpleasant cunning expression, Thanatos was terrifying. The five-headed dragon goddess Takhisis was depicted with one female head and four snake heads. Keto, goddess of sea terrors, crawled across the pedestal dragging a mountain of metal tentacles behind her. Her webbed hands of silvered copper bent over the pedestal and clung to the floor. Ker, the goddess of misfortune, stood between three empty pedestals. Ruslan did not know the Persian gods by name. But the black marble angel made him think of a lie. Was Christian symbolism allowed here?

      The suspicion was premature. The