''Splash...Slash...Lash...Ash...Sh-Sh-Sh...''

By Igor A. Bagrov

The book is of fantasy,suspense and adventure genres and is written for teenagers and young adults.
It hints on our very limited,if not altogether wrong, vision of the world around and suggests a stunningly new view.
It is good reading for those who ask "eternal" questions:who are we? why are we here ?what is our mission on this planet Earth?what happens to us after this short earthly life?
I just hope that my young readers will enjoy this little book.
Good luck, dear Truth seekers!
The Author

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 25, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462829002

Igor A. Bagrov

Mr. HuiChun Chen, a successful businessman, proud father, and happy husband, finds fulfilment in writing poetry. Mr. Stan Xiao is a talented English-speaking Chinese translator who lives in Taiwan. Mr. Alyosha Chen applied his many skills—translator, editor, and designer—to this project. Dr. Igor A. Bagrov, an ambitious American educator in Taiwan, is currently working on his Bilingual Books Library (BBL).

Book preview

PART 1

S P L A S H

PROLOGUE

Now, all of a sudden, with a piercing clarity, I understood what Faya meant by her enigmatic remark Time is running out".

It is MY time that is running out, my time here, in this tragic circus show. My part is over, and it is time to retreat, to go backstage. Backstage? Never! No! No! No! I have just moved away from the fake, poorly made up by limitations of the human brain reality to the REAL LIFE, real unity with the Absolute, to the complete vision and understanding of everything. So, how can I leave this treasure now? I must at least try to share as much as I can with those who may benefit from it.

But the funny thing is that now, standing on the brink of ALL-KNOWING, needing only one little step forward and then a jump, a splash, I feel – and the feeling has just cut through like a relentless laser beam – that no matter how much I may try, I will never be able to explain everything, I will never stand a chance to put all my awesome findings and revelations on paper: I will simply drown in the ocean of clumsy meaningless words, too common to express the Uncommon . . . A very sad realization, with a tinge of finality and irrevocability. If not now, when? If not me, who?

I see myself still seated at my desk, still writing these very lines, but it looks pretty much like a performance of a robot. The real me, still seeing (with what?), still feeling (with what?) is moving (how?) farther and farther away . . .

And now, like a diver in the deep of the ocean, who has caught a glimpse of shimmering light far above, I rush upwards, to the surface, where the warmth of the eternally loving Sun is awaiting me . . ."

1

DROWNED? AT HIS OWN DESK?

Mag’s call came very early on Sunday morning, when I was lingering on the verge of reality, still clutching at the unspoken sweetness of the early morning dreams.

Wake up, Hon! Something’s happened! Professor Groves is dead!

Is it a joke or what? I was still trying to overcome my best friend Morpheus’ tight grip, and my sleepy brain just dismissed the gravity of the message: Professor Groves dead? Our dear GG (that was the easiest of the nicknames – we just borrowed his initials, Gary Groves) is dead! Impossible! I just talked to him the other day after the class ( Mag and I were taking his Creative Writing course), enjoying his dry humour, racking my brain in search of answers to his always challenging questions . . . Dead? Impossible!

True, he was not a young man any more (pushing seventy, I guess), but the very label old did not suit GG altogether. Often, I felt that his heart, thrust open for his students, was much younger than mine, touched with the mould of cynicism and selfishness . . . While I was getting over the initial shock, Mag went on:

You remember Stephanie? That little mouse of a girl? She lives next door to the professor. She just called me and said that the ambulance and police cars had arrived, and then they took away the body covered with a sheet. Stephanie said it was taken to the coroner’s . . .

But why . . . he is . . . he was quite healthy . . . I mumbled fighting the tears.

Well, I don’t know . . . Steph was very brief; she did not tell me much . . . Let us go and talk to her. See you at her place . . . She hung up.

What should a real man do in such a situation? Emotional outbursts would not help ; any logical rationale would not work, either. So, I got up (thirty seconds), got dressed (thirty seconds),brushed my teeth and splashed some water on my still sleepy face (thirty seconds), and – voila! – there I was, all set to go.

Of course, dead people need not any of our rush, nor do they need any of our tearful condolences. All they need is our love, no matter how stupid or irrational it may sound. Professor Groves, surely, had and would always have our unconditional love and devotion. GG was the kind of man, who would win your heart once and for all, and you would follow him without any reason or purpose. You would just follow him, and that is it!

As far as I knew, he had no family, except for a sister (he kept her picture in his office and mentioned her a couple of times, when we discussed family ties) who lived overseas and his friends, scattered all over the world. All were not within an easy reach, though he managed to keep in touch with everyone of them, sending them old-fashioned, hand-written letters by air mail. He lived all alone, and I often thought of his lonely days and nights, though he never complained of lack of attention and care. No wonder, he treated us, students, as his family, and many of us, who understood that, gave GG their love in return.

In about fifteen minutes I was standing by the door of Stephanie’s flat (perhaps, an American – and very misleading, too! – term studio would be more appropriate to describe her tiny room with a cupboard-size bathroom). She rented the place next door to the professor’s and would often have a cup of tea with him or run some errands for him. Surprising as it was, he rented the same kind of studio, though he had never been a penny pincher: he would gladly treat students to the most sumptuous meals, would give the best of us prizes, would take us to museums and theatres, paying for all out of his pocket, of course. His explanation of his choice of living quarters was simple: he used to say, chuckling, that his greed very much exceeded his need, but now he learned to tame the beast.

Mag and Stephanie were already waiting for me: at the crucial moments, even the most emancipated females find the presence of a strong male leader most reassuring and comforting (does it sound male-chauvinistic enough?). Of course, I tried my best not to show them how much shocked their undoubtedly strong and unquestionably male leader was.

Stephanie told us that the police interrogated her (quite unceremoniously, though: they barged in her place about 6 a.m.).They said they had received a phone call from a very young girl (judging by the voice), who asked them to rush to the professor’s place, because, as the caller put it, he might not be among you any more. The police asked Stephanie, if she had any idea who that girl could be. They also asked her to identify the body and took her to the professor’s room. Doctor Groves was sitting at his desk with the lights on, clutching his favourite fountain pen in his hand. Our dear old-fashioned GG never used a typewriter, God forbid a computer! All his manuscripts – and he was quite a prolific writer – were hand-written; sometimes, in the elaborate Italic script, sometimes, in its sloppy imitation And only after he had put the last big full stop (which, as he said, was the writer’s wild dream, but never a down-to-earth reality), he condescended to having his surprisingly not so voluminous writing (over which he would pore for months on end) printed out, usually with the help of some volunteer students.

As Stephanie recalled, the professor was sitting at his desk with his head slightly turned upwards, as if, in the process of writing, something (or somebody?) distracted him Sobbing and in fear ( that was the first death she witnessed in her short eighteen-year-old life), at the request of the police, Stephanie identified the body and hurried back to her room. The last thing she saw was the shockingly unexpected gush of water (or some other liquid) from the mouth of the deceased, when the doctor forced it open. That was more than the poor girl could bear, and with a wild scream she rushed out of the room. Later, the police told her that though it was Sunday, they might have another conversation with her and gave her the contact phone number, just in case she would recall something special. But Stephanie did not and could not recall anything special. She was sitting on her bed, the only chairs in the room being occupied by Mag and myself, swaying from side to side, repeating as if in a trance, Poor Professor Groves . . . poor Professor Groves . . .

Mag was the first to snap out of it.

Well, if it were water in his mouth, as you said, it means he might have drowned . . . or might have BEEN drowned.

Drowned? At his own desk? Rubbish! I snorted. It happens only in cheap thrillers: the murderers drown their victim somewhere and then drag him home to dupe the police.

Wait, Stephanie seemed to have recovered from her trance. Professor Groves was writing something before he died. I saw a pen in his hand. Maybe, that is the clue to what happened last night.

Maybe yes, maybe no. I just shook my head: a healthy dose of a man’s skepticism should sober the girl’s imagination fuelled by the ghastly scene. GG always writes . . . wrote something. He used to say he is a man of letters, of words, of sentences, of books. So, his writing may have no connection to his death. But the water . . . very strange. Do you think we should inquire about the cause of his death?

The police won’t tell us. We are not relatives, we are nobody, Mag, the clear head, reminded. Of course, asking does not hurt . . .

Silence fell, heavy and hopeless as November rain.

Remembering my status as a self-proclaimed leader, I cleared my throat, but Mag was the first to speak.

Steph, do you still keep the keys to the professor’s flat? I remember you said the professor asked you to tend to his plants when he was away. He must have given you the key. I just thought, we could get into his room and check out, what he was writing, and whether it might have any connection to his death.

Yes, I still have the keys, but . . . Stephanie was obviously not so enthusiastic about Mag’s idea, . . . what I mean . . . it is against the law . . . we cannot do it. If we are caught . . .

 . . . we all will end up in prison! Mag grinned and looked at the poor Stephanie with the undisguised contempt.

Well, come on, girls, our GG would hate to see us arguing. After all, we just want to know the cause of his death, and there is nothing criminal about it. I stepped in, finally. If the police do not want to tell us, we should do our own investigation

Are you qualified enough, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Jr.? Mag, the tricky mind, had, in fact, the same ideas, but with the only difference: she preferred to keep the role of the detective to herself delegating the role of Watson to me.

Well, guys, I am still not sure, if we should do it . . . I still have doubts . . . What would GG say? Stephanie whined.

And GG would certainly say <> You know it pretty well. I nailed in every word triumphantly.

We agreed to meet at night, after Stephanie’s conversation with the police (there was a glimmer of hope she would be lucky to fish out some information from the officers) was over, after all normal people went to bed, and even the passers-by in the street were rare (the fewer the witnesses, the better).To tell the truth, I was even happy to embark on our independent investigation: I could not believe that GG died of natural causes. I also wondered who that midnight caller might be.A little girl, they say? But how on earth did she get to know about GG’s death? What, if that was not a girl at all? Any voice can be easily faked nowadays. I thought of GG. Did he have any enemies? Most unlikely. He never quarreled with people, never tried to fight for a higher position, bigger wages or anything. Though some people envied his talents and expertise, he just shrugged his shoulders: There is nothing special in what I do; others can do it even better. When somebody reproached him for not keeping distance from students, he would again smile and say: They are my children, and they make me happy, so how can I possibly keep any distance? And why should I?

True, there were some people who disliked him. In fact, they could not accept his inner freedom, his complete independence, his total disregard for the absurd political correctness – a real thorn in the flesh of our society nowadays – which he considered to be nothing but hypocrisy in disguise. They disliked him because at heart they were slaves.

But of course, their dislike was not strong enough to push them to committing a