Operation Red Book

Chapter 382: A simple Russian poem

Holmes' words were light, but they were as heavy as a bronze axe on Ivy.

She felt a little uneasy and wanted to concentrate and carefully examine the red book in front of her, but her fingers holding the pages were shaking, and countless emotions surged up in her head, occupying all her reason.

She understood that Holmes was angry, but Ivy didn't know why he was angry.

Was it because I was too close to the devil? Was it because I was a slut that he didn't expect? Or was it because I was too loud last night and disturbed him...

But no matter what, it’s none of his business, right?

Who is he? He is just an NPC from another world! He is not her lover, husband, brother, father, or even a made-up uncle! Why should he care about her?

"Let's go to SCO."

As he was thinking, Holmes suddenly spoke.

Ivy's back trembled violently, and the iron wall that had just been installed in her heart shattered and turned into rancid sour water.

She slowly got up, slowly put on the coat at the door, and slowly took the black umbrella at the door.

Holmes went out the door before her, and the sudden sound of the door closing was so crisp that Ivy was startled.

The rain fell softly on the streets, casting a hazy veil over London.

Black pedestrians and carriages passed by Ivy quickly. She couldn't see their outlines or the trajectory of their movements.

The only person who could be seen clearly was not holding an umbrella. He walked quickly into the rain and disappeared around the corner.

Looking at the dark sky, Ivy was suddenly overwhelmed with a surge of sadness. Her eyes turned red and hot tears fell on her chest.

Endless grievances spread in my heart, half of which came from Holmes's indifference, and the other half came from my mother whom I hadn't seen for a long time.

Holmes's angry attitude is exactly the same as his mother's when she is angry.

Don't talk, don't look at you...

We are doing the same things as usual, but the distance we keep is completely different from usual.

You can't see the expression on their faces, they are always so calm, natural and harmonious...

But once you look into their eyes, the biting indifference will explode and shatter your self-esteem into pieces.

Others might resist, but Ivy has been living with such expressions for more than ten years.

Every time my mother gets angry, Ivy becomes helpless and feels uncomfortable...

There is no use apologizing, crying, kneeling...

Even if he slashed his wrists again and again, all he got was more indifference and disgusted looks.

So Ivy learned to remain silent, and this time was no exception.

She walked quietly on the streets of London, and the falling raindrops replaced her tears of grievance and sad sobs.

It was not until Ivy finished a whole cup of steaming caramel macchiato at Johns' newspaper office that Holmes slowly walked out from the drizzling rain.

Obviously, he left before Ivy. This guy is really weird. I hate him...

After pushing the door open, the two looked at each other quickly, and then looked away at the same time.

Ivy's eyes were red, and she pursed her lips, trying her best to endure the tears falling and the sobs in her throat.

I finally managed to regulate my emotions, and I can't let that person affect me again.

Ivy decided to divert her attention first, after all, she still had a lot of things to do.

She put down the empty cup in her hand and walked towards Victor who was looking out the window while flipping through the red book.

"What does the Russian written here mean? Can Mr. Victor help me translate it?"

Ivy handed the red book to Victor. On the brand new pages were five lines of Russian poetry:

cmnpehhыn пapyc pы6apen,

tвoeю пpnxotью xpahnmыn,

ckoль3nt otвaжho cpeдь 3ы6en:

ho tы в3ыгpaл, heoдoлnmыn,-

n cut tohet kopa6лen.

“aлekcahдp cepгeeвnч Пywknh…”

Victor calmly spoke a long string of Russian. Although the Russian was obscure and difficult to understand, Ivy immediately guessed that it was a string of names.

"Is that the name of the man who wrote this in Russian? Do you know him?"

Victor nodded, then closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Huh?" Ivy tilted her neck in confusion.

"Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin..."

"Pushkin!"

A resounding name, and Ivy heard it clearly this time.

She exclaimed in surprise and looked at the red book with more disbelief.

Victor nodded in response, then put his hands behind his back and continued to look out the window.

"Mr. Pushkin is a treasure of Russia. He is a great man. His poems are as brilliant as his spirit... In the hearts of us Russians, he is an unyielding soul and an immortal flame..."

Ivy slowly raised her eyes and looked at Victor's profile.

His face has obvious Slavic features, with a high and upturned nose, thick and wide eyebrows, revealing a high-latitude melancholy and reservedness.

Most of the silver-white eyelashes had fallen from her eyelids, and there were some crystal water droplets on them, the surface of which reflected the admiration and loneliness in Victor's eyes.

"Unfortunately, he died young and left the world early. He climbed the ladder to heaven surrounded by angels. While heading to a place with lush grass and water, he left behind countless treasures..."

Hearing this, Ivy immediately had some questions.

"Is Pushkin no longer alive?"

To be honest, Ivy has never had much interest in literature or history.

For her, these are all secondary issues. Successfully applying to the university of her choice is the most important thing for her at her age.

Her brain capacity is really limited. It is already good enough for her to remember that Pushkin is a great writer. If she is asked to know the life and representative works of each writer in detail, it would be better to shoot her.

"Yes, he died when the sun was at its highest point... As expected, the French are not only filthy bulls who change their sexual orientation twice a day, they can also kill the sun in the hearts of Russian people without blinking an eye..."

"Oh! My Lord! My Russia! My homeland... the land I love... but... the cold snow has buried me... the land I love... has abandoned me..."

As he was speaking, Victor suddenly shed two lines of tears, but unfortunately Ivy didn't care at all and heartlessly interrupted his sobs.

"Alright, alright, go cry to your Mr. Johnson later. I won't be here to comfort a middle-aged man in his forties."

Hearing Ivy's ruthless words, Victor stopped crying immediately, although he shed more tears than before.

"Can you translate this poem?"

Victor nodded, and as he slid his finger over the verses on the red book, he read them softly in English:

The gentle sails of the fishermen,

With your willful protection,

To sail bravely among the waves;

But when you are overwhelmed and can't control it,

Large groups of ships would be destroyed.

It’s a very beautiful poem. Ivy discovered the key while feeling deeply moved.

She looked at Victor and said what was on her mind: "Is this poem about the sea?"

Victor nodded calmly and replied: "k mopЮ..."

"The title of this poem, translated as..."

"To the sea..."