Birthday. Twenty five years. One of last summer nights, already filled with a presentiment of a September cool. The verandah sinks in a cigarette smoke, have lighted candles, persons began not to disassemble, noise, din, loudly suffered and Chris Norman groaned, someone has suggested to open windows, but have not opened, long-legged Bazhenov has settled on a table among bottles and salads, declared: "I of the Ork, a whale-murderer" then has immediately fallen asleep. It have dragged on the second floor, there too something was ready, someone has left, candles, having a shower bath stearin tears, have burnt down to a wooden candlestick, that has charred, light has grown dim, and all has little by little calmed down.
       It has opened eyes and has looked at hours. Figures in a green rectangle, and a zero three forty five were replaced with a zero three forty six. The risen bad weather condensed a pre-dawn twilight; pulling a sports jacket, it has approached to a window - to disassemble nothing, layered dregs, only is audible, as below, under a terrace, waves break about artificial rocks and under a floor concrete piles shudder. It is necessary to gather. Money copeck, and to what now money, but in a luggage carrier untouched sandwiches plus a thermos. It would be possible to tell so: to death remains five sandwiches.