Sensei of Shambala. Book III. Anastasia Novykh

dodged the strikes surprisingly easily and playfully repelled his attack. Then, he improved the occasion by throwing Volodya up in such a way that the latter somersaulted several times in the air and took a swift flyer, risking to break his neck. But Ariman aptly spotted for him. Owing to it Volodya landed on the sand softly and tenderly, without any traumatic consequences. It wasn’t enough that Ariman helped him to touch down safely, he squatted next to him and inquired: “Well, how’s that?”

      Volodya, staggering slightly, assumed a sitting position out of the recumbent one, closed his eyes tight and shook his head: “Now that’s enough alright!”

      “Well, enough is enough,” replied Ariman merrily.

      He clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly way. Apparently, out of politeness, considering the condition of his last opponent, he stood up and made a ritual bow to him and to Sensei.

      Our excited audience gave a storm of applause at the scene. By his mastery, courtliness, lack of malice, and sparing technique Ariman simply won the hearts of the young fighters. A heated discussion commenced, during which the guys began to set themselves to rights.

      “Fantastic!” out “activists” kept crying contentedly. “Wouldn't it be great if we learnt to perform like that? Ariman didn’t even soil his shirt. Such mastery!”

      The hero of the occasion put on his tie, jacket, and hat unhurriedly, even though the heat was sweltering.

      “Great! Your technique is the same as Sensei’s,” Stas observed, addressing to Ariman.

      “Well... We had one Teacher, you know.”

      This notion of Ariman aroused genuine interest among the whole group, as it was the first time we heard something about Sensei’s Teacher. The elder guys exchanged glances. Meanwhile, Victor asked Sensei: “Sensei, would you by chance wish to spar with Ariman?”

      Sensei smiled, looking at Ariman.

      “I would and for a long time. But no matter how many times proposed him, he just wouldn’t accept.”

      Everyone looked at Ariman in a mute amazement.

      “No way,” he replied with a smile, straightening his tie, “gramercy. It’s an honor for me, of course, but... to each his own in this world.” And, evidently, so as not to develop this topic further, he said hastily: “Well, as the Germans say, you can postpone a war but never a lunch. I see that everything’s already set. Ladies and gentlemen, I kindly ask you to dine with me.”

      Everyone turned around with wonder following Ariman’s welcoming gesture. We completely forgot about the lunch with all the excitement. I frankly considered Ariman’s return offer as a joke to Eugene’s clownery. Even if my mind suggested a possibility of realizing this idea, it would produce an imaginary picture of some table with snack sandwiches, sausages, soft drinks, and fruits at most, brought over from the yacht. That’s, so to say, the furniture of my impressions, picked up from the movies about thrifty rich folks. But what we saw just took us aback, for it surpassed any of our expectations.

      Not far from our camp there emerged an entire comfortable installation in the form of a huge stretched marquee of pink silk, set right on the shore. The top of the marquee was silvery lustrous, as if covered with some thin foil. Behind the translucent silk there could be seen a big white table, covered with colorful dishes. We did not believe our eyes. Our breath took a walk with such a beauty. The only person among our group, who was not surprised at this decoration, was Sensei. He simply sighed, looking at the marquee, and said to Ariman with a smile: “Well, you’re always in your usual style.”

      The man smiled contentedly at the impression produced on the company and answered Sensei with laughter: “I can't help it. It’s my habit.”

      “This all is, of course, splendid, thank you, but... You picked the right time to arrive. It’s as if you knew it’s my fasting day today,” Sensei said half in jest.

      “Really? Oh, that’s a pity,” Ariman uttered, keeping his smile. And slightly raising his hands in a give-up motion he added: “Knowing you, I don’t even insist. But at least stay at the meal for a while, let the guys taste my treats. I bet they’ve never tasted those things in their lives yet!”

      “That’s for sure!” Sensei smiled ironically and, shrugging his shoulders, he uttered: “It isn’t hard for me, I’ll stay… And they are already mature and have the right to decide for themselves.”

      Ariman smiled contentedly once again. Letting a glance at our amazed company, listening to the talk, he spoke in a quick and, as it seemed to me, deliberately loud manner: “Don’t worry, I’ve considered everything, there will be no alcoholic beverages there.” Addressing the guys, either in jest or seriously, he uttered: “Honestly speaking, I’m glad that I’ve finally chanced upon a non-drinking company. I’m so tired of all those endless presentations, fourchettes, dinner parties, and business meals. You can’t imagine how sickening it is to see all those moneybags drinking till beastly drunk, all those carpet elite dying of boredom. Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin said well regarding this in the seventh chapter of ‘Eugene Onegin':

      ‘But all in the drawing room await

      Talk that is vulgar, stale and flat.

      All is so pale and indifferent,

      That even the slander is drear and spent;

      In dry and fruitless interchange

      Questions, news, rumors seem to range

      But stir not a thought through the whole day,

      Not even by chance or accident.

      The languid mind is never wakened,

      Or emotions roused by a joke half meant.

      And even amusing idiocy

      You will never meet in “Society”.’

      “Haw, those centuries or this one – nothing has changed in this environment… So, dining with your company, guys, believe it or not, is an honor and a big pleasure for me.”

      Ariman, what they call it, zinged us with his remark. I even felt for this man in a sense, so satiated with high society that he had a longing for engaging in common life. But at the very moment of our fascination for Ariman’s words, Eugene produced another howler. He nodded his head in a dignified way and spake with emotion, rubbing his hands in anticipation: “Why not dine? Eating, especially at somebody’s expense, is always a pleasure.”

      Everyone, including Sensei and Ariman, burst our laughing again.

      Suddenly, we heard a beautiful, invigorate music, coming from the yacht. The cantilena was played by fiddles. Like a mild, playful light breeze it resounded around the entire coast.

      “Oh?! Mozart, ‘Little Night Music’,” Sensei uttered with a smile and looked askance at Ariman.

      Ariman made a helpless gesture and, as if justifying himself, said: “It’s been two hundred years already, but it always sounds like for the first time.”

      We headed towards the shining marquee walking past our tents. Compared to this aerial chic installation, our camp, with all those sweaters and trousers hung for drying and Kostya’s attributes of civilization, looked like a “tramp refuge.” The shame was overwhelming, and, probably, it was not only with me. The other guys, seemed to feel somewhat embarrassed, gazed now at the ground, now ahead, avoiding the sight of our beggary, squalid camp. The contrast was surely striking.

      Overcoming the minute of shame, we came up to – what Kostya managed to name it – the “alien construction”. Two sailors-stewards stood near the entrance, each holding a big jug in one hand; a towel and aromatic liquid soap in the other hand. So, each one could do a pleasant ablution and dry their hands on a fluffy snow-white towel.

      It should be noted that it was quite hot outside, in fact, it was the heat of the sun. But as soon as we entered the marquee, a pleasant cool fanned our faces. Apparently, there was a noiseless air-conditioner working somewhere in the marquee. In the middle there stood a long square table, covered with snow-white tablecloth. As it turned out later, it was made of