Ticket for a paper boat, Anastasia Drobina. Paper boat ticket

- This is Tatyana. Fedor is dead. At night. Heart attack.

The funeral took place three days later. At the cemetery, I followed my grandfather, even though he insisted that I stay at home. The Kotlyakovo cemetery was usually sparsely populated, and I was very surprised to see how the patch in front of the church was filled with about four dozen cars. The cars were expensive, shiny, despite the Moscow winter mud, almost all of them were foreign cars, which were not so many in Moscow at that time. My grandfather and I were late for the funeral: six men were already carrying the coffin out of the church.

The coffin with Fyodor floated under a gray sky along a snow-covered alley. A crowd was pouring behind the coffin - all men, young, not very old, in expensive leather coats and jackets for those times, short sheepskin coats, mink and wolf hats in their hands. Of the women, there was only Tatyana, crying and ugly beyond recognition, she was sobbing all the time into a wet crumpled handkerchief. Her bronze hair, sticking out from under a black scarf, stuck to her face, but Tatyana did not remove it. When the coffin was lowered, the grandfather went up to Tatyana (they apparently recognized him, they let him in) and said in an undertone:

“Let them come...if they need more.”

"It's necessary, Ivan Stepanych," Tatyana said hoarsely. - Thanks.

The next day she came to us, still in black, pale, several years older, with her hair tied up in a severe knot. Following her, a tall dark-haired boy with bright eyes stepped into the hallway. He only glanced at me, but even that brief glance made me uneasy. That's how the Skipper came into my life.

Hiding behind the kitchen door, I examined the visitor. Something in his sharp face with a heavy chin and dark, as if smoky skin seemed familiar to me. Looking more closely, I realized: this guy was very similar to Fedor. Two more followed him. One was quite young, most likely a Tajik or a Turkmen with impudent black eyes, quite handsome. The second was huge, shapeless and unwieldy, like a wardrobe come to life, with a flat face and thick eyelids, from under which narrow brown, not at all stupid eyes were barely visible. They stood silently at the threshold.

Grandfather, looking intently at the Skipper, apparently also drew the necessary conclusions, but did not ask questions. They talked behind closed doors for no more than five minutes. Then they left. The skipper quietly said a few words to the others (they listened without interrupting), and grandfather turned to me:

“You will go with them to Soha. Let them live for a couple of months.

- Tomorrow? I rejoiced at the prospect of skipping school.

- Now. - Grandfather turned to Skipper: - Go with Sanka. Mind you, asshole, if there's anything wrong with her...

The skipper looked at Stepanych in such a way that he did not continue and, with a sharp wave of his hand, went into the kitchen. I rushed to get dressed.

Two hours later we were sitting in a cold, almost empty train. It was a long ride, more than three hours, and I pulled the Master and Margarita out of my backpack. Behind the intensified reading, I hoped to hide some awkwardness: during the journey to the station, I did not exchange a single word with my companions. They were talking in an undertone to each other, and those two were talking mostly, and it was noticeable that they were very worried. The skipper was silent for the most part, he even seemed to be dozing in the subway, but already at the station square he turned to the guys and said something briefly. I didn’t hear anything, because I was just picking up tickets at the box office. But Ibragim and Boatswain (as they introduced themselves) noticeably calmed down, lit a cigarette, Ibragim even began to tell some obscene anecdote, but the Skipper pointed his eyes at me, and he fell silent. In the train, these two fell asleep, as soon as the train moved away from the platform. It was clear that they had not slept for several nights before.

I hoped Skipper would fall asleep too, but he didn't seem to have any of that in mind. Sitting at the window, he drummed his fingers on his knee, looked at the snow-covered forest rushing past, was silent. The Skipper's face was absolutely serene, but it seemed to me that something was hurting him. And it hurts a lot. I began to feel such things at the age of five, I took it for granted and, as a rule, I was not mistaken, but to ask the question “Where does it hurt you?” unfamiliar adult man? .. In the end, I buried myself in a book, not being afraid to seem impolite. It was then that Skipper turned his head.

- What do you have?

I flinched, almost dropping the book. She said angrily:

- Don't you see it yourself?

- I see. Let me take a look. And come on "you" better, otherwise the nerves hurt.

Surprised, I held out the book. The skipper opened it at the beginning and calmly began to read. I watched him with growing astonishment. I had no doubt that a bandit was sitting in front of me. But - a reading gangster? Moreover, “Master and Margarita”? .. From the words of my grandfather, I knew that this book is not easy, that it’s too early for me to read it at my thirteen and that people treat it sharply polarized: either the novel becomes a favorite for life, or it doesn’t completely acknowledge. I have not yet figured out what type of reader I am, because I got stuck somewhere on the twelfth page.

Listen, can I read? Skipper asked without looking up.

- Now you! – I was indignant. What am I going to do for three hours?

- Take care of your eyes, young yet. Sleep out.

“I don’t want to, I slept all night!”

Do you want another lady?

- Do you have a warehouse? I quipped.

The skipper silently put down the Master and Margarita, reached into his bag and pulled out... Camus' Plague.

– Did you read it?! I hurried.

The skipper smiled somewhat embarrassedly.

– Bought recently in the market. Didn't understand a damn thing, quit. Maybe you can figure it out?

- And ... why did you buy it?

- I liked the title.

I was silent, not knowing what to answer. The skipper, meanwhile, took up the Master and Margarita again. I hesitated and held out my hand.

“Give it back, you won’t understand anything here either.”

- Why? - Light, not quite gray, not quite greenish eyes looked straight ahead, and I felt uneasy, although the Skipper was smiling. - It's fine here ... It's clear for now.

- How many classes did you finish? I asked sarcastically.

"Five," the Skipper replied calmly. - And those through the ass.

I got lost. It looked like he wasn't lying. But then we still lived in the not yet collapsed USSR with its compulsory and free education for everyone: at the very least, even the children of our alcoholic neighbor graduated from eight classes. For the first time in my life I saw a man with "five classes through the ass" and worriedly thought: was he offended by me?

- Well, okay, read to the twelfth. And then we'll be together.

As the train approached the tiny Krutichi station, Skipper and I reached page two hundred and twenty-seven. The cruel procurator of Judea, the equestrian Pontius Pilate, was administering his court. I was completely cold, but I didn’t even realize at what moment the Skipper put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me to him. Many years later, he, laughing, convinced me that he also did not notice how it happened. The most interesting thing is that it was like the truth. I felt someone else's hand on my shoulders only when I woke up and Ibrahim neighed:

- Earned money from the youngsters, Skipper ?!

I immediately, albeit with some regret, freed myself (Skipper felt warm under his arm), the Skipper grumbled something about the goat and the idiot with one straight convolution, but neither of us felt any embarrassment. The skipper at that time was clearly occupied with completely different thoughts. And to me, a little fellow, something could not have occurred to me in relation to the old uncle, whom the twenty-five-year-old Skipper seemed to me at that time.

Sokha lived in the village of Krutichi, Kaluga region - a complete wilderness, where buses do not even go. For as long as I can remember, my grandfather sent me there for all the holidays. From the age of eight, I traveled on my own, on May 31, getting into an electric train at the Kievsky railway station and on August 31, returning to Moscow, blackly tanned, dusty, with burnt hair. Plow was the same integral element of my childhood as Stepanych, Milka, gypsy neighbors, books, piano. Like my grandfather, I called her in the eyes - Egorovna, behind the eyes - Sokha, and it never occurred to me to find out who she actually was to me. In addition to her, four ancient grandmothers lived in Krutichi, to the asphalt highway it was necessary to walk five kilometers in fields, to the station - almost the same amount of forest, and on three sides the village was surrounded by a dense forest with elks and bears. The narrow river Krutka ran along the outskirts of the village, overgrown along the banks with brooms, behind Krutka lay an immense meadow, overgrown with all kinds of grass and fragrant so that all the surrounding bees flocked to it, and behind the meadow a swamp and forest began.

One evening Skipper and I were sitting on the veranda of the Sorella restaurant in Lido, Italy. It was late, the tired little orchestra was languidly playing out a tune from The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, the white veranda with bouquets of camellias on the tables was almost empty, and I took off my shoes under the table.

“The floor is stone,” Skipper said without turning in my direction. - Get in back.

I shrugged and put on my shoes again. She looked over Skipper's shoulder at the black invisible distant sea, completely dotted along the coast with multi-colored lights. There was a strong smell of flowers and salt water. My martini in the glass was exhausted and stood sad, without bubbles, with a sour cherry at the bottom. Shkiperovskaya vodka in a thick glass behaved well and calmly waited until it was finished off. The skipper, however, was in no hurry, smoking, shaking the ashes over the fence. A candle in a blue crystal vase on the table illuminated unevenly his face with a slightly protruding chin, deep wrinkles on his forehead, heavy drooping eyelids. When the Skipper, without changing his position, suddenly looked at me, I flinched. For so many years I never got used to his look.

He guessed and averted his eyes. Very light, gray, on a dark, swarthy face. The skipper might even have seemed attractive if it weren't for the look in those eyes. Or rather, its complete absence. As I grabbed my martini, I thought that the Skipper must be aware of the impression his eyes make. That's why he rarely looks people straight in the face - unless, of course, he sets the goal of unbalancing the interlocutor.

Listen, are you afraid of me? – as if guessing my thoughts, he asked in a low voice.

Surprised, I told the truth:

- Not afraid.

- Have you ever regretted it?

- What contacted you? I clarified.

I shrugged. I thought. The skipper, holding a glass of vodka in his hand, glanced at the lighted pool below.

- Listen, Pashka, did I have any options?

“Well…” imitating a deadly insult, he put the glass on the table and even took a cigarette out of his mouth. “When did I put a pen to your throat?”

“All my life,” I muttered, finishing my martini in one gulp. Choking on a cherry, she coughed, and a semblance of a smile appeared on the Skipper's face.

- Well, all your life, let's say you rested from me.

- You're lying! – I was indignant. - Yes, you ... Yes, you ...

He raised his hand, interrupting my clucking, and asked in a businesslike manner:

How did it start, do you remember?

“I remember, do you?”

He didn't answer. I pulled a scarf off the back of the chair (it was at the end of August, in evening dress it was getting chilly), wrapped her shoulders. Thinking, she asked:

Have you read The Queen of Spades by Pushkin?

To my surprise, Skipper nodded.

Do you remember the beginning?

- Well, it's - I'm sorry ...

- "Once we played cards with the horse guard Narumov."

“Ah, there you are…” The skipper grinned and took out a new cigarette. - Now I'll smoke, and let's go ... Only they didn't play with the guardsman. And you and Stepanych.

I sighed. The skipper glanced briefly at me, silently began lighting a cigarette. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.

That winter evening, the windows froze from the cold. It's shallow outside. At a round table, under a green lampshade, sat my grandfather Stepanych, grandfather Kilka and Fyodor. Regular Friday poker had already gone on for four hours. At that memorable game, I was present, my friend Milka and Tatyana, Fyodor's mistress. Milka and I are thirteen years old, Tatyana is twenty-two. We are strictly forbidden to chat during the game, and therefore, fighting a yawn, I quietly play Rosenbaum's Waltz-Boston on the piano, Milka plays Houndstooth solitaire for the hundredth time, and Tatiana just sits, running sharp nails in bronze curly hair, and looks at Fyodor. He is completely focused on the cards, he doesn’t notice Tanka’s glance, and once again I’m surprised: what could such a beauty, a graduate of a choreographic school, thin, with gorgeous hair, find in an old bald criminal who was almost her grandfather? Fyodor's baldness gleams mysteriously in the light of the lamp, the tattoo patterns on his hands seem black. His whole dry and sinewy figure is tense, as if before a jump, and on his sharp face there is such indifference, as if Fyodor has a square of kings in his hands. He looks like Mephistopheles.

Grandfather Sprat is not so calm: he is unlucky today, he is already gambling and is noticeably nervous. Black eyes, shining like those of an animal, darting over the faces of partners, from time to time Sprat curses in a whisper in gypsy.

“God, it’s great again…” Milka mutters, looking askance at him. - Wait, it will be blown into a flap, and tomorrow it will begin: “Milka, give your grandfather a beer ...” And I have millions straight!

“Paz,” says Kilka.

“Pass,” says Stepanych.

Fedor slowly turns over the cards. He has four of a kind kings. Kilka gasps and clasps his hands, but Fyodor does not notice him. He looks straight at Stepanych. In his usual cracked voice, he says softly:

- "American".

- What?! - Stepanych jumps up, knocking over a stool. This is so unlike him that I lose time, and Milka drops the entire deck on the floor. Only Tatyana is calm, like a well-fed boa constrictor.

- You will not get it! I told you - don't wait! - my grandfather growls right into Fyodor's imperturbable face and knocks on the table with his fist. Cards, money, bones from the roach are pouring under their feet. - I have Sanka! You understand - I have Sanka!

Grandfather Kilka instantly understands that it is time to run off, and moves in reverse to the door, grabbing his granddaughter by the sleeve along the way. Milka does not resist, but manages to whisper to me:

- You'll tell me tomorrow.

I nod. The gypsies are disappearing. Tatyana gets up. Without looking at Fyodor, he takes the keys to the car from the shelf, pulls from the hanger in the hallway his luxurious mink coat and, without putting it on, goes out. Until the door slams behind her, Fyodor and my grandfather stand silently at the table and drill each other with their eyes. Then they turn to me and say in chorus:

Ten minutes later I am lying on the bed in the room, looking at the portrait of my grandmother on the wall opposite and listening to Fyodor and grandfather arguing in the kitchen.

- You don’t have clean ones, you bastard! Sit your crook wherever you want! And I have Alexandra! Child! She needs to study! And so all my life, like turnips in the garbage, no one needs!

While I am wondering as I comprehend Stepanychev's last phrase (Am I a turnip? Am I in the garbage? .. Am I not needed? ..), Fedor quietly, convincingly says:

- Ivan, if you think that I'm taking you to the "American" ... Yes, I'll be a fraer, I don't care about her! Forget! Consider - I was joking! I’m just asking like a sidekick… I really need it! Highly! When did I ask you what?

- Never. - Grandfather is silent for a while, but then he firmly says: - But don’t ask about that either. If I'm alone, at least bring a shobla and arrange raspberries here. And I have Alexandra. All. I'm sorry.

A minute later, Fedor leaves. And for a long time I listen to my grandfather pacing around the room, coughing, smoking, drinking water from a kettle, muttering something in an undertone. Curiosity eats me up, but it's pointless to ask Grandpa questions.

My grandfather, Ivan Stepanych Pogryazov, is a great man in all respects. He was two meters tall, and to me, a little one, he always seemed huge, like a fairy-tale hero. Broad shoulders, powerful chest, strong clumsy arms, like a miner's. It is impossible to determine by such hands that the grandfather is a surgeon. When in our entrance one of the male neighbors got drunk and began to rage, their wives first of all ran after Stepanych. He silently walked to the scene of the crime and sometimes did not even use physical force: drunks sobered up at the mere glance of his blue, icy eyes, like those of an ancient Viking. If this did not help, the brawlers rolled down all the steps of the stairs and flew out of the front door straight into the snowdrift. This savage method worked flawlessly, and usually our driveway drunk, even drunk, behaved decently. Stepanych himself never drank, and when I was in his arms, he even quit smoking, because it was harmful for the child.

“The floor is stone,” Skipper said without turning in my direction. - Get in back.

Listen, are you afraid of me? – as if guessing my thoughts, he asked in a low voice.

Surprised, I told the truth:

- Not afraid.

- Have you ever regretted it?

- What contacted you? I clarified.

I shrugged. I thought. The skipper, holding a glass of vodka in his hand, glanced at the lighted pool below.

- Listen, Pashka, did I have any options?

“Well…” imitating a deadly insult, he put the glass on the table and even took a cigarette out of his mouth. “When did I put a pen to your throat?”

“All my life,” I muttered, finishing my martini in one gulp. Choking on a cherry, she coughed, and a semblance of a smile appeared on the Skipper's face.

- Well, all your life, let's say you rested from me.

- You're lying! – I was indignant. - Yes, you ... Yes, you ...

He raised his hand, interrupting my clucking, and asked in a businesslike manner:

How did it start, do you remember?

“I remember, do you?”

He didn't answer. I pulled off the scarf from the back of the chair (it was the end of August, it was getting cold in an evening dress), wrapped my shoulders. Thinking, she asked:

Have you read The Queen of Spades by Pushkin?

To my surprise, Skipper nodded.

Do you remember the beginning?

- Well, it's - I'm sorry ...

- "Once we played cards with the horse guard Narumov."

“Ah, there you are…” The skipper grinned and took out a new cigarette. - Now I'll smoke, and let's go ... Only they didn't play with the guardsman. And you and Stepanych.

I sighed. The skipper glanced briefly at me, silently began lighting a cigarette. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.

That winter evening, the windows froze from the cold. It's shallow outside. At a round table, under a green lampshade, sat my grandfather Stepanych, grandfather Kilka and Fyodor. Regular Friday poker had already gone on for four hours. At that memorable game, I was present, my friend Milka and Tatyana, Fyodor's mistress. Milka and I are thirteen years old, Tatyana is twenty-two. We are strictly forbidden to chat during the game, and therefore, fighting a yawn, I quietly play Rosenbaum's "Waltz-Boston" on the piano, Milka plays "Houndstooth" solitaire for the hundredth time, and Tatiana just sits, running her sharp nails into bronze curly hair, and looks at Fyodor. He is completely focused on the cards, he doesn’t notice Tanka’s glance, and once again I’m surprised: what could such a beauty, a graduate of a choreographic school, thin, with gorgeous hair, find in an old bald criminal who was almost her grandfather? Fyodor's baldness gleams mysteriously in the light of the lamp, the tattoo patterns on his hands seem black. His whole dry and sinewy figure is tense, as if before a jump, and on his sharp face there is such indifference, as if Fyodor has a square of kings in his hands. He looks like Mephistopheles.

“Paz,” says Kilka.

“Pass,” says Stepanych.

- "American".

- What?! - Stepanych jumps up, knocking over a stool. This is so unlike him that I lose time, and Milka drops the entire deck on the floor. Only Tatyana is calm, like a well-fed boa constrictor.

- You'll tell me tomorrow.

I nod. The gypsies are disappearing. Tatyana gets up. Without looking at Fyodor, he takes the car keys from the shelf, pulls his luxurious mink coat from the hanger in the hallway and, without putting it on, goes out. Until the door slams behind her, Fyodor and my grandfather stand silently at the table and drill each other with their eyes. Then they turn to me and say in chorus:

Ten minutes later I am lying on the bed in the room, looking at the portrait of my grandmother on the wall opposite and listening to Fyodor and grandfather arguing in the kitchen.

Anastasia Drobina

Ticket for paper boat

“The floor is stone,” Skipper said without turning in my direction. - Get in back.

Listen, are you afraid of me? – as if guessing my thoughts, he asked in a low voice.

Surprised, I told the truth:

- Not afraid.

- Have you ever regretted it?

- What contacted you? I clarified.

I shrugged. I thought. The skipper, holding a glass of vodka in his hand, glanced at the lighted pool below.

- Listen, Pashka, did I have any options?

“Well…” imitating a deadly insult, he put the glass on the table and even took a cigarette out of his mouth. “When did I put a pen to your throat?”

“All my life,” I muttered, finishing my martini in one gulp. Choking on a cherry, she coughed, and a semblance of a smile appeared on the Skipper's face.

- Well, all your life, let's say you rested from me.

- You're lying! – I was indignant. - Yes, you ... Yes, you ...

He raised his hand, interrupting my clucking, and asked in a businesslike manner:

How did it start, do you remember?

“I remember, do you?”

He didn't answer. I pulled off the scarf from the back of the chair (it was the end of August, it was getting cold in an evening dress), wrapped my shoulders. Thinking, she asked:

Have you read The Queen of Spades by Pushkin?

To my surprise, Skipper nodded.

Do you remember the beginning?

- Well, it's - I'm sorry ...

- "Once we played cards with the horse guard Narumov."

“Ah, there you are…” The skipper grinned and took out a new cigarette. - Now I'll smoke, and let's go ... Only they didn't play with the guardsman. And you and Stepanych.

I sighed. The skipper glanced briefly at me, silently began lighting a cigarette. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.

That winter evening, the windows froze from the cold. It's shallow outside. At a round table, under a green lampshade, sat my grandfather Stepanych, grandfather Kilka and Fyodor. Regular Friday poker had already gone on for four hours. At that memorable game, I was present, my friend Milka and Tatyana, Fyodor's mistress. Milka and I are thirteen years old, Tatyana is twenty-two. We are strictly forbidden to chat during the game, and therefore, fighting a yawn, I quietly play Rosenbaum's "Waltz-Boston" on the piano, Milka plays "Houndstooth" solitaire for the hundredth time, and Tatiana just sits, running her sharp nails into bronze curly hair, and looks at Fyodor. He is completely focused on the cards, he doesn’t notice Tanka’s glance, and once again I’m surprised: what could such a beauty, a graduate of a choreographic school, thin, with gorgeous hair, find in an old bald criminal who was almost her grandfather? Fyodor's baldness gleams mysteriously in the light of the lamp, the tattoo patterns on his hands seem black. His whole dry and sinewy figure is tense, as if before a jump, and on his sharp face there is such indifference, as if Fyodor has a square of kings in his hands. He looks like Mephistopheles.

“Paz,” says Kilka.

“Pass,” says Stepanych.

- "American".

- What?! - Stepanych jumps up, knocking over a stool. This is so unlike him that I lose time, and Milka drops the entire deck on the floor. Only Tatyana is calm, like a well-fed boa constrictor.

- You'll tell me tomorrow.

Ten minutes later I am lying on the bed in the room, looking at the portrait of my grandmother on the wall opposite and listening to Fyodor and grandfather arguing in the kitchen.

- You don’t have clean ones, you bastard! Sit your crook wherever you want! And I have Alexandra! Child! She needs to study! And so all my life, like turnips in the garbage, no one needs!

While I am wondering as I comprehend Stepanychev's last phrase (Am I a turnip? Am I in the garbage? .. Am I not needed? ..), Fedor quietly, convincingly says:

My mother, the daughter of Stepanych, died in childbirth, nothing is known about my father, except that he studied with my mother in the same medical course and, learning about her pregnancy, immediately transferred to the Leningrad Institute and disappeared from her life. Stepanych and grandmother Rebekah, whom I hardly remember, received me from the maternity hospital, because when she died, I was three years old. The only thing that reminded me of her was a portrait hanging on the wall in my room, painted in oil by one of my grandfather's friends. A black-haired beauty with a biblical appearance languidly and slightly arrogantly looked at me from an oval frame, folding her thin fingers on an elegant embroidery. As a child, I remember, I was afraid of her, becoming older - I began to envy. I was very much like my grandmother, but at the same time I seemed like a caricature of her: thin, tall, awkward, with dark skin, with sharp cheekbones, with a hard shock of hair that could not be combed by any comb and an incredulous look in black eyes. By the age of twelve, I was finally convinced that Babkina was not shining for me, and resigned to the fact that for life I would remain Black Sea Galka.

The first thing I remember from childhood is my grandfather singing in the kitchen. He loved to sing, he had a beautiful, though not very strong bass, and a very unusual repertoire. So, for example, in a bad mood, he performed: “Oh, the boss, the key-teapot, let me go home ...” If life was more or less tolerable, grandfather loved to sing Vertinsky, “The moon rose over the pink sea”, Pyotr Leshchenko, “ You are driving drunk and very pale…”, old romances. Grandfather's thieves' lyrics organically fit into my ideas about beauty. However, he rarely sang thieves' songs, and he never talked about his life in the zone, even when I grew up and impudently began to ask questions. In the same way, he stopped talking about the war, although he went through it all, from Moscow to Berlin. “There is nothing good there, and there is nothing to talk about.”

In the strict sense of the word, my grandfather was not involved in my upbringing: he had no time to do this, he worked in a hospital, often, in order to pay more, took on extraordinary duties, and on holidays I never saw him. We never had guests, except for grandfather's regular card partners, and I learned to play poker before I could read. Stepanych taught me literacy when I was four years old - however, for purely selfish purposes: he was tired of me constantly asking me to read a book. It took him two weeks to do this, but in the future I simply took what I wanted from his shelves and read as much as I wanted: in literature, my grandfather never limited me. Stepanych himself read at every opportunity. If he was not on duty at night, then he sat in the kitchen until morning with some volume. Looking at him, and I learned to read at any time of the day, in transport, at school under a desk and standing at the stove with a ladle.

I was six years old when Stepanych sat me on his knee and said sternly:

“Alexandra, remember, I will not repeat. For you, for you and without you, no one in this life will do anything. Do I make it clear? Repeat. And remind me - where is the free cheese?

"In a mousetrap..."

"Well done".

I never had problems with memory, and my grandfather was pleased, despite the fact that the meaning of these maxims fully reached me ten years later. In the same year, Stepanych took me to a music school without even asking my consent. However, it never occurred to me to object: I always obeyed my grandfather, and there was no greater authority for me.

I also knew Fedor from infancy and only recently began to understand who he, in fact, is. Almost forty years ago, grandfather and Fedor met in the zone, which was Fedor's home, and grandfather got there just before Stalin's death in the case of murderous doctors. Then Stalin died, grandfather was almost immediately sent to a settlement, and soon they were rehabilitated (I know that Malenkov himself insisted on this). Fedor remained in the zone for another five years, but, having been released, he immediately found his grandfather in Moscow. Why they became friends there, in Siblag, which could have connected the thief in law and one of the best surgeons in Moscow for many years, I did not know, and it never occurred to me to ask Stepanych or Fyodor about this. Poker on Fridays was quite common in our house, even when my grandmother was still alive. The years passed, Fyodor's mistresses became younger, but he himself did not seem to change. During the years of wholesale shortages, we always had meat, sausage, imported canned food in our house; a peasant of indeterminate age brought them in a shopping bag, handed the bag to the indignant grandfather and, not listening to questions and curses, rolled down the stairs. On Friday, Fyodor appeared, neighing and pretending to be surprised.

"I do not know anything! No, not my job! Ivan, take it back, not mine, I say! You don’t want to mess around yourself - feed Sasha, she needs to grow!

At the mention of me, grandfather usually gave up, and the products from the string bag migrated to the refrigerator. Stepanych already thought that I spend too much time in lines for my tender age.

I began to feel Fedor's patronage from the day when, at the age of twelve, I rushed home in the evening all in tears: I was caught in the gateway by a company of half-drunk boys, with one of whom, Yashka Zhamkin, I even studied in the same class and lived on the same staircase site. They did not cause me serious harm, but they scared me half to death, tore my dress and shoved my sticky hands in all possible places. Fortunately, Stepanych was not there, he was detained in the hospital, but for some reason Fyodor ended up in the apartment. Looking at me, he immediately understood everything and, while I was crying and washing in the bathroom, he called someone on the phone and said a few words. I didn’t hear the conversation, completely forgot about it and wouldn’t have remembered it if the next day two of yesterday’s raiders hadn’t blocked my way at the very entrance. I clenched my fork in my pocket, deciding to sell my honor dearly, but this time the guys were in no hurry to encroach on my innocence. Yashka, standing in front, squinting to the side, muttered:

And they fled into the alley. And I, completely dumbfounded, continued on my way. In fact, no one has ever bothered me again. And for a few more years, these court kings met me in the gateway, greeted me discordantly, or, if I was walking too late, they were indignant:

"Where are you fooling around, fool? You get into something, and then you prove to us that you are not camels…”

I entered the position and tried not to be late.

But who did Fyodor want to “settle” with us? One of your bandits? It is unlikely that he would never have involved Stepanych in his affairs ... So without inventing anything, I closed my eyes and indulged in my favorite pastime before going to bed: I began to summon a green ball. As a child, this activity seemed very funny to me, I imagined a tiny green dot that gradually grew, eventually becoming the size of a soccer ball, and I physically began to feel the warmth coming from it. The ball glowed and moved, it was possible to drive it all over the body, upside down, from one hand to the other, and at the same time feel how pleasantly it warms the skin. What this meant, I did not yet know, I was absolutely sure that such balls appear before going to bed for all people, and therefore I did not talk about it with anyone. That would be as stupid as discussing the fact that every person has two hands or one nose.

After playing with the ball, I rolled over on my stomach and fell asleep peacefully. And in the morning I woke up because Stepanych was shouting in the corridor:

- How? When?! What did you give him, fool?! What prick? What does “didn’t have time” mean, I told you a hundred times, I had to go to the ambulance !!! Your mother!!!

For the first time in my life, when I heard my grandfather swearing, I, in one shirt, barefoot, flew out into the corridor. The handset had already been thrown down, hanging on the untwisted cord and beeping languidly. Grandfather sat bent over on a stool. When he saw me, he said hoarsely:

- This is Tatyana. Fedor is dead. At night. Heart attack.

“Let them come…if they need more.”

"It's necessary, Ivan Stepanych," Tatyana said hoarsely. - Thanks.

“You will go with them to Soha. Let them live for a couple of months.

- Tomorrow? I rejoiced at the prospect of skipping school.

- Now. - Grandfather turned to Skipper: - Go with Sanka. Mind you, asshole, if there's anything wrong with her...

The skipper looked at Stepanych in such a way that he did not continue and, with a sharp wave of his hand, went into the kitchen. I rushed to get dressed.

- What do you have?

I flinched, almost dropping the book. She said angrily:

- Don't you see it yourself?

- I see. Let me take a look. And come on "you" better, otherwise the nerves hurt.

Listen, can I read? Skipper asked without looking up.

- Now you! – I was indignant. What am I going to do for three hours?

- Take care of your eyes, young yet. Sleep out.

“I don’t want to, I slept all night!”

Do you want another lady?

- Do you have a warehouse? I quipped.

The skipper silently put down the Master and Margarita, reached into his bag and pulled out... Camus' Plague.

– Did you read it?! I hurried.

The skipper smiled somewhat embarrassedly.

– Bought recently in the market. Didn't understand a damn thing, quit. Maybe you can figure it out?

- And ... why did you buy it?

- I liked the title.

I was silent, not knowing what to answer. The skipper, meanwhile, took up the Master and Margarita again. I hesitated and held out my hand.

- How many classes did you finish? I asked sarcastically.

"Five," the Skipper replied calmly. - And those through the ass.

- Well, okay, read to the twelfth. And then we'll be together.

- Earned money from the youngsters, Skipper ?!

Sokha's house is blue, peeling, with white trim on the windows and a cockerel on the crown of the roof. Everything is already quite old, but okay and not dilapidated. Around the house - a huge garden of old apple trees, plums and cherries, a garden, half consisting of beds with medicinal herbs, behind a slanting fence - the traditional rows of potatoes, and behind the potatoes - again herbs. Sokha was a well-known sorceress throughout the region, and people even from Moscow came to her for treatment.

At the first glance at Sohu, people usually get lost. Imagine a retired colonel of the guard with a straight back, broad shoulders, a height of meter eighty, with a wrinkled face, gray, coldish eyes, with steel in his voice and inflexibility in his eyes. Dress the Colonel in a long pleated skirt and an old but clean knit blue jacket, tie a scarf in blue forget-me-nots on your head, pull warm boots on your legs. Girdle it with an apron with voluminous pockets, from which some kind of dry seeds and inflorescences constantly spill out. It will no longer be a colonel, but Antonina Egorovna Sokhina, Sokha. In her youth, she was very pretty and looked like Marlene Dietrich, as evidenced by a fifty-year-old photograph pinned above the chest of drawers.

Sokha's house is always very clean, the painted floors are washed to a shine, covered with homespun paths, the curtains on the windows are embroidered with roses and outlandish leaves (Maruska has nothing else to do in winter). Everywhere - on the walls, on the shelves, on the huge bleached stove - herbs, buds, dried flowers. Because of this, Sohi's house always has the smell of a summer meadow. On the wall is a copy of Makovsky's painting "Children running from a thunderstorm." The copy is bad, made by a village drunk-artist. On it, the girl carrying her brother is depicted completely adult girl eighteen years old and very similar to Maruska. On the other wall are bookshelves. One is occupied by various publications and magazines on gardening, floriculture and conservation: Sokha's garden is the best in the village. Village grandmothers are jealous, whispering that all this is due to the fact that Sokha is a witch, that's why everything grows on her own. The fact that the result can be achieved by competent courtship alone does not occur to them. Sokha has a lot of other books, she, unlike the village ones, loves to read and is not lazy to go skiing seven kilometers in the winter to the village of Sestrino, where there is a library. Often I or my grandfather throw books to her, Maruska buys something when she travels to Moscow. But Maruska, who herself never reads, chooses books according to the principle of "solidity": the thicker and more incomprehensible, the better.

“Oh, fool…” Sokha swears, sending some gilded “History of Russian Freemasonry” or “Geographical Atlas of the South Pole” to the farthest shelf. - If only I could look at the title, by God ... I’ll make you read it yourself, you’ll know then! A bunch of money slammed, but no one needs it! It would be better if she took it about love!

“Isn’t it too late for you about love?” Maruska insolently asks. With a squeal, he dodges a well-launched felt boot and jumps with his feet onto my bed. Her green eyes laugh, a blond lock of hair falls on them, and Maruska becomes like a mermaid from Pushkin's fairy tales.

Maruska appeared at Sokha when I was eight years old, and she was fifteen, and where she came from, I did not think. As a child, you rarely ask yourself such questions. It was enough for me that in the summer there was someone to run to the river and the forest with: there were no other children in Krutichi even on vacation. Most often, Sokha sent Maruska and me for grass, we left at dawn and returned, dead tired, already in the light of the moon.