A man of about thirty was working in a room filled to the brim with various historical artifacts and museum antiques. His handsome face was spoiled only by a long aquiline nose and relatively thin lips. His short blond hair was combed back and fixed with hairspray - when working in the archives of the British Museum, it is advisable not to scatter your hair everywhere, you never know which restorer left a painting to dry without covering it. His manly eyebrows sometimes wrinkled when some sentence was difficult to understand and translate correctly, then relaxed when he found a way out. He was studying an ancient Sumerian clay tablet with cuneiform writing, on which were... the calculations of the merchant Brahim. Yes, whatever you say, but bureaucracy really is eternal, because the tablet was about five thousand years old, according to radiocarbon analysis. This man in white fabric gloves, a green tweed jacket and brown trousers was the leading specialist in Sumerian writing at the British Archaeological Museum, Vladimir Pearce. He got this name thanks to his maternal grandmother, an immigrant from the Russian Empire, now the USSR. However, they did not have much choice, because since they were descendants of Count Ignatiev, it was unlikely that anything good awaited them under the Soviet regime.
"Vlad," after a knock on the door and permission to enter, a very young guy entered the archive room, working as an errand boy - a courier, assistant and just a fetch and bringer. However, the guy did not take offense at such treatment. As an intern in the history department of the University of London, working in the museum was simply manna from heaven. Moreover, many museum employees were happy to help the young talent with questions if he did not distract them during working hours. "Good evening, you have a visitor. And he is... strange.
- Strange? - Vladimir was not at all offended by such a familiar abbreviation of his full name, he was already used to the fact that the English had a hard time pronouncing his name.
- Yes, he came in a robe of an old cut, however, although he looks quite nice, I would even say handsome, his gaze is creepy, - Karl shuddered from the goosebumps that ran like a herd across his body.
- Well, okay, where is your strange and terribly handsome guy? - Vladimir smiled, teasing the guy and taking off his gloves. - By the way, why did he come to me? And how does he know me?
- He didn't really come to you, - the embarrassed guy hesitated a little. - He asked our best translator from Sumerian.
- And you told him everything so easily? Especially since the museum is already closed, why did you let him in at all? - Vladimir was surprised. No, if the person was familiar, then there would be nothing wrong with it, despite the fact that the rules forbid bringing strangers after closing. But bringing a complete stranger is nonsense.
"I… I don't know, sorry," the guy answered confusedly, then rubbed his temples, as if suffering from a headache.
"Okay, who hasn't? You didn't think about it, there's nothing wrong with that. But remember for the future - visits are prohibited after eight o'clock. I'm okay, but Johnson will skin you alive if he finds out," Johnson is the director of the museum, famous for his equally fair and strict character. Leaving the young man to ponder his actions, Pierce went out into the museum hall, passing between the display cases with history. The history of human civilization, which is more than five thousand years old. However, the most ancient exhibits are much older than even such a huge period, compared to the fleeting human life. It was at such moments, when twilight descended on the earth and there were no other visitors in the museum, that Vladimir felt a special atmosphere, as if each object was trying to tell its own story, unique to the others. Who knows what the Greek kopis that Vladimir passed by survived? Or the clay tablet that he was studying? These are not just antiques, these are priceless casts of stories about our ancestors. Proof that there were myriads of generations before us, with their own lives, everyday life, sorrows and joys, wars and reconciliations.
- Hello, Mr. Pierce. Or should I call you professor? - an ingratiating, captivating voice pulled the polyglot out of the depths of his thoughts. Yes, a polyglot, because in addition to Sumerian, Latin and the basics of ancient Egyptian, he also knows French, Spanish, Russian, German, Chinese, including ancient Chinese, and Japanese. As he always said, with languages, as with any business, the hardest thing for him is not to start, but to stop.
"Not yet, but I hope my dissertation will be appreciated. But how do you know? I haven't talked about it much," Vladimir was surprised.
"Everyone has their secrets, Mr. Pierce," the man thought that his interlocutor's green eyes suddenly stretched out and became like a snake's. But he blinked and shook off the illusion. "Forgive me for disturbing you at such a late hour, but the matter is urgent. If you don't mind, I'll skip the conversation about the weather and not waste my time or yours."
"I don't mind, I don't like this English trait myself."
"Well, it's pleases. You see, fortune smiled upon me and, by coincidence, a book fell into my hands... in ancient Sumerian. To my regret, despite my many talents, I, alas, do not speak this language. And if you find time to help me, you will not be offended, believe me.
- A book? Not a tablet? I'm afraid you have been deceived, mister...
- Gaunt, call me Mr. Gaunt.
- So, the Sumerians kept their records on clay tablets. No, cuneiform was also found on papyrus and leather, but these finds were extremely fragmentary. Moreover, in ancient times, scrolls were used, not books.
- It doesn't matter to me at all, - the man smiled, looking at the translator with a bit of hidden arrogance. As if an adult and experienced person was looking at an ignorant child. Vladimir caught this nuance, but did not show it. The owner is a gentleman, as his grandmother used to say, and if Mr. Gaunt offers him the appropriate fee, he will translate even the inscriptions on the fences. - Your task is to translate the text as accurately as possible, for which I will pay two thousand pounds. However, if, without losing the quality of the translation, you can do it in a couple of months, then I will double the reward.
Vladimir's face almost fell at such an offer. He received 300 pounds a month, and two thousand was his salary for six months. And four thousand - for a year at once! However, such an offer was too good to be true. Seeing his doubts, the mysterious customer continued.
- Don't worry, this is not a joke and not a scam. If you agree, then as an advance I will immediately give you a thousand pounds.
- Well, I would be an idiot if I refused such a generous offer, and I do not consider myself an idiot at all.
— I like to communicate with smart and understanding people, — having sealed the deal with a handshake, Vladimir felt another oddity of his interlocutor — his hands were too cold. However, the received wad of bills was burning his trouser pocket and made him ignore this trifle.
***
Mr. Gaunt, aka Tom Riddle, aka in the future better known as Lord Voldemort and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, with a displeased grimace on his face, wiped his hand with a handkerchief transfigured from thin air, with which he had recently shaken the hand of a vile Muggle. Oh, who would have known how much willpower he had to exert, just not to apply "Imperio" and make him lick his boots. Alas, there was no desire to test the willpower of a Muggle and constantly test him and cast spells again. It was unlikely, but if there was one thing he knew from life, it was that sometimes the easiest way out turns out to be the most difficult. So he had to turn on his charm, add some transfigured papers on top, and the Muggle was motivated to the brim. Which only further confirmed the future dark lord in the worthlessness of these mistakes of nature. It was even more offensive to understand that the priceless treasure would never be properly appreciated. Although this is not bad, let him consider the magical tome a fake, it is even better. And after doing the job, he will still think about whether to kill him without leaving a trace, or just erase the memory. He did not yet know what mistake he made by handing over the grimoire to an uninitiated wizard.
***
While Riddle, with his inherent grace, poured mental slop on Muggles, including his own father, whom he killed with his own hands, Vladimir opened the gray cloth bundle in which the black book was carefully packed. Beautifully tanned leather was decorated with precious stones - rubies, sapphires and emeralds. The patterns on the cover looked as if they had been pressed, which further confirmed the impossibility of creating this book in ancient times: the imprint was too clear and bright. And the tome itself looked as if it had been made yesterday. However, Vladimir had one trait - if he took on a job, he did it well and to the end. It did not matter how crazy it looked from his point of view. Therefore, having opened it, he began the slow process of translation with many reference books, most of which he created himself in the process of work. Alas, he did not have a perfect memory, and this was a necessity, not a whim. Another oddity was immediately noticeable - the pages, although made of leather, turned out to be very thin, as if paper. Not a single leather tome that Pierce had held before had such a quality of finish. However, more or less odd, what difference does it make? Somewhere closer to the morning, with red eyes from lack of sleep, Vladimir looked at several pages of the translated text. There are about five hundred more, but what there is is enough to shock anyone. No, not by the value of the knowledge, but by the level of forgery. It was necessary to write so much Sumerian text, and real, and not just a meaningless set of signs. In my own words, the book is a grimoire of a Sumerian magician, a master of artifact making of the guild of sixty knowledges Lerakh. There was no systematization in the notes - recipes for some potions, discoveries of true vision, and complaints about his strict teacher were written down all mixed up. However, the work itself captivated him so much that he lost track of time. Fortunately, it was already Saturday and it was time to go home and rest. However, the sleepy mind did not forget to remind him to take the translation and the book with him, because more than once he had to look for the things he had brought with him in the archive or from his colleagues.
So a week passed, then a second, the translation progressed faster, the more had already been translated. After all, the dialects of Sumerian, as well as modern languages, sometimes differed. Not to mention the specific terminology, which had to be left as a direct translation due to the lack of analogies in English or a general misunderstanding of the meaning of words. Vladimir's whole life changed, as often happens in our lives, because of one drunken conversation.
"Jack, I'm telling you, this is just some kind of nonsense. "True vision", "ether", "palms" - all this is the ravings of a gray mare. Some specialist, like me, for the sake of a joke created a pseudo-occult book and played a prank on my client," Vladimir said to his friend from college, taking a sip from a glass of dark Irish ale.
— You don't believe in miracles! What if it works? What are you losing? — a cheerful blond egged him on, as two girls at the next table were making eyes at him. — You're too boring, Vlad.
— What am I losing? My pride, what will I look like if I fail?
— So no one will know? And why do you think it won't work?
— I'll find out! — he replied, taking another sip and biting into his nuts.
— Ugh, life will pass you by. He who doesn't take risks... doesn't get a threesome! — winking at his friend, Jack stood up and with a charming smile went to two pretty girls, a brunette and a redhead, glad that now is not the dark ages of prudes, but the heyday of space, sex and drugs. Having finished his glass, Vladimir decided not to lag behind his friend, who was cooing with two girls, and sat down next to the blonde who nodded graciously to him. The evening and the following night passed wonderfully, and in addition to pleasant memories and a hangover, Jack's thoughts persistently beat in his head. And really, what does he have to lose?