Kitabı oku: «Navalyayev. Non fictional stories», sayfa 4

"Ah, but to whom did you leave us…"

Like feet, clothed in worn sandals, expressed an acute desire to live. The glass mountain stirred, scattering the teardrops of broken vessels in all directions, and the rounded back of Callistratus Ippolitovich appeared from under the collapse.

"My God, he's dead!" Everything, everything, this is the end!

Naraylyaeva-mother tightened.

– Yes, that you are my mother, he is alive, look gracious courtesy.

Sympathetically, stroking the hand of a neighbor, the woman Varya said.

– Costume! The costume died! He was still wearing his father!

She sobbed, rushing to the aid of the quarter.

With the assistance of Myasnikov and Krysyuk, Kallistrat Ippolitovich was taken from the rubble and broken glass, and delivered to his own apartment.

"Look, look at who you look like!" Tomorrow I'll call Aunt Rae, and you'll go to her, at the clinic and immediately hand over the feces and urine. I want to see what's there for you, so to speak, a general picture of your organism, undermined by systematic drunkenness!

– But Mom.

"And do not mum the mine!" Where were they beaten?

"But…"

– Answer!

In the orderly tone, mother exclaimed.

– I met an amazing woman…

"Wh-what?" Wh-what did you say?! Were you with the woman?!

– Well, Mom, she's not a woman…

– Close your mouth and listen to the one that you gave not just life that built your destiny, which made you a man, and who, when the time comes, will find who will make a man out of you!

Strictly she said, reproachfully looking at the tattered, crumpled and scratched son.

– I was able to carry the flames of your father's talent in my palms and light my home from it… My God, could I then know that my son, my own son, will become a womanizer, an alcoholic, a ladies' man and a whip!

– But Mom…

"Do not mumble!" This is serious! I will etch with bleach, castor oil, sleeping pills and laxatives this gangrene! I'll sharpen you into a closed-type holiday home and compulsory treatment! I'll put you on a debilitating diet and assign bucket enemas! I'll whip you with a belt and put it at the corner on the grupka! I will deprive you of sweet, at last.

Doomed, she uttered, collapsing into a rocking chair.

All week long Navalyaev walked like a "beaten dog". At home he hid from neighbors and even his mother. At work I avoided meetings with Greta Adolfovna, and did not dare to raise my eyes at the grinning colleagues who shared with him the smoky space of the office. Gretchen began to go out into the yard, smelling fragrant Bulgarian cigarettes, in the company of the foreman Lancelot Ozerny. They chuckled after Callistratus Ippolitovich, without even trying to hide irony and charity. At the celebration of the First of May – Labor Day of all countries, all women joked with Navalyaev: "Callistrat Ippolitovich, or maybe me, will you go home? Comrade Navalyaev, I also love lilies of the valley… ", and the most disgusting thing is that while malicious Lancelot and the happy mocking Gretchen burst into loud laughter, looking down at him with a haughty glance. Dirty hints pestered the unfortunate bookkeeper, he became silent, closed, and when the fall foliage fell, he took on Dostoevsky.

However, one day, at eighteen zero-zero, after the end of the working day, when he as usual pretended that something was very busy, to leave later and not meet in the corridors of the housing office with numerous colleagues, an unforeseen thing happened. When footsteps and voices subsided in the communal catacombs, he removed his armlets, put on an unpleasant coat and a worn hat, tied around his neck a woolen scarf tied around his neck, provoking an absurd color, and walked off to the exit with a dull, shuffling gait. A damp November wind blew into his face when he smiled, dropping drizzly rain, went into the yard. But suddenly his idyllic state was disturbed by female sobs and conversations in elevated tones. Navalyaev looked around. In the smoking-room, on the bench, near the cast-iron garbage can, he saw Greta's tear-stained Adolfovna, something with obvious irritation, expressing Lancelot Arturovich:

"You are a scoundrel, a scoundrel and a scoundrel!" I did believe you, but you used me!

Ozerniy, wincing, answered carelessly:

– Come on, wipe it. We slept only twice, and you already imagined!

"But you promised!"

– Come on, you promised. What am I going to do with you and your brood?

Navalyaev's hands began to shake, and his head began to spin. But making efforts on himself, he made a confident step toward the bench.

– Oh, Ippolytych drew himself!

Lancelot exclaimed with a grin. Greta, with a trembling hand, pulled out of the crumpled bundle of "Stewardess" a curved cigarette, trying not to look at Navalyaev.

"You are a scoundrel, Comrade Ozerny!" You have dishonored a woman! I demand from you satisfaction!

Kallistrat Ippolitovich said in a trembling voice.

"What about?" What do you want?!

He rudely interrupted the accountant. Navalyaev closed his eyes and gave the brigadier an awkward slap in the face.

"Oh, you reptile!" I decided to fight?!

Ozerny jumped up and hit Navalyayev in the face, causing him to fall into a puddle, stretching out on the wet asphalt.

– If you once again polezesh, you'll have a rest in traumatology!

Disdainfully spitting, hissed Ozerny.

"They'll poke fools, there's nowhere to spit!"

He smelt his coat, walked briskly toward the gate, which led to the street.

"If marriages take place in heaven, then he is obviously a skydiver."

Wiping her tears, Greta said softly and followed him. She cried all the way home, tortured by one thought alone:

– Is it really just an idiot, maybe a normal man?

Chapter 2
"ANTHEM OF THE WORLD"

One morning, when the country of the Soviets was mired in next feasts, this time called May holidays, which spilled over the heads of carefree citizens by a series of days off, pompous parades, agricultural work in country areas and, of course, cruel drunks, Comrade Navalyayev took up business. After resting from the yesterday's parade-the prodigious drunkards that swept by the avalanche along the glorious Khreschatik, where they advanced along the stands with the slogans "Peace, Labor, May", who placed the party celanders towering above their heads, who entrusted Kallistrat Ippolitovich with the poster of the "gray cardinal" Brezhnev era, Mikhail Andreevich Suslov, (For which we were supposed to make a five-ruble increase to the salary) – our hero took up a puzzle called chess.

In the children's room, which was occupied by Comrade Navalyaev (why she actually bore such a name) from 9 o'clock in the morning, a chess battle ensued, in which the queens were crossed by A. Alekhine and M. Botvinnik at the International tournament in Nottingham, in 1936. Botvinnik, as usual, declared himself Comrade Navalyaev. The role of the opponent, which, this time, was Alyokhin, was performed by the permanent vis-a-vis of our home grandmaster – the bronze bust of Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinsky. During the time of Kallistrat Ippolitovich's involvement in chess, Iron Felix, as Navalyaev's eternal adversary, although it was more correct to say that the grandmaster whom our hero declared himself, showed himself on the best side, showing extraordinary steadfastness, adherence to principles and unyielding, especially when it concerned non-standard rallies and the opening of the Sicilian defense. Today, turning the board "Botvinnik's side", Navalyayev did not deny himself the pleasure to think here for about five minutes in order for his partner to understand what he was going through – Botvinnik-Navalyaev, when his rival, Alekhin-Dzerzhinsky, on the thirteenth move, played D6. At the moment of reflection, Kallistrat Ippolitovich slyly looked at Edmundovich, playing playfully Uldino's aria, from the opera "Attila", which sounded from the dynamics of the radio "Morning", which broadcast from the cabinet,puled from mother's room. But just the same, he reached for the polished head of one of the chess figures, as the broadcast from the Bolshoi Theater was interrupted, and the dry voice of the speaker said: "Dear comrades, listen to the announcement." Then the enthusiastic woman, singing, screamed – "Dear friends! Today, when the whole planet celebrates May Day! When the world proletariat rejoices on the Day of Workers of All Countries, loudly proclaiming to the world its victories! I want to exclaim: Peace to the World! May – May! Labor – Work! Glory to the CPSU! These calls sound like a hymn! Hymn to work, peace and prosperity, which, with its festive sound, is called upon to carry freedom, equality and brotherhood to enslaved peoples, vegetating in capitalist countries!… ". At this howling lady, it seemed, bouncing at each exclamation from unrestrained happiness and bursting pride broke off, and the speaker began to speak in verse, still in the same indifferent male voice. "Dear radio listeners, today, on May 2, 1969, we announce that in Kiev a competition is announced among amateur collectives of the republic, for the best song about the world -" The Hymn of the World ". Anyone can take part in the competition. The winner awaits a reward. The anthem written by him will be performed in the Kremlin Palace of Congresses, at a gala concert in the presence of members of the Central Committee of the Party.

The world wants peace, light needs light,

If you are a singer or composer in the soul,

Let the collective farmer or student,

In the country of the Soviets you will become famous.

Send your letters to the address: Kiev-001, Khreschatik Street 26, Gosteleradio. Competition – "Anthem of the World"»

The voice of the announcer drowned out some unpleasant sounds, after which the broadcast resumed from the Bolshoi Theater, where the party of Attila was already heard, from the opera of the great Verdi of the same name.

With genuine interest after listening to the message on the radio, Navalyaev looked at the pile of rubbish lurking beneath a thick layer of dust on the old closet, which was set in the corner of his room. Looking at the worn case of the trophy German accordion "Hohner", which my grandfather brought back from the war, our hero involuntarily opened his mouth, thrust his finger into his nostril, thinking about the eternal. Eternal, which included music, painting, sculpture, literature and architecture, something that, according to Kallistrat Ippolitovich, was not subject to time.

Not being a person who has the ability to write, whatever, our hero decided to replace the lack of talent – inspiration, and everything else that can be scooped everywhere, where they sound, exhibit and demonstrate masterpieces of world culture. Having worked out the plan of events, Comrade Navalyaev immediately started the business, rushing along the route, where it was possible to scoop up inspiration or even ideally to catch a muse that guarantees the desired result.

The most affordable, based on the modest means of our hero – the junior accountant, were museums, often providing interested masterpieces, without requiring for their viewing with fans of painting a penny, which immediately outlined the priorities of Comrade Navalyayev. Without analyzing the difficulties and not going into the exposition in particular, our hero rushed to plow museums, exhibitions and all the accessible vernissages of his native city without exception.

Having visited many such establishments, Callistrat Ippolitovich made a rather unexpected discovery, noticing something he had not paid attention to before, admiring the pictures of famous masters aimlessly, staying in tranquility and contemplative complacency. He suddenly realized that around world masterpieces another, full of poisonous hypocrisy and frank ignorance is boiling, in which the first violin is played not by the creators of the creation, but the so-called specialists and the average ignoramus, not related to their creation, but frantically discussing and mercilessly criticizing every smear of the author. They are like flies, not taking the slightest part in cooking, are trying to actively invade the process that results in any catering enterprise. And though flies separately, and cutlets separately, from harmful and importunate insects it is impossible to get rid. But in order to understand the essence of this problem, one should go back to the origins and remember where it all began.

"Let's deliver art to the masses," this epoch of Soviet enlightenment began with this remarkable slogan. Here and then started up, an important philistine, spared the people's power from the shackles of illiteracy, through the temples of art, in order to see, distinguish and pronounce a verdict, what is the true masterpiece, and what is so – daub. And now, fanning his cheeks, the proletarian, the collective farmer and the official, they prowl through the deserted rooms of the museums, rounding their eyes and twisting their lips, hissing into each other's ear: "But this Monoliza does not grow. Aunt yourself any, sho in her this? ". Looking at the canvases of the masters, each of the eye-witnesses, without fail, assesses how much work and time the artist spent, "shob otto nayvat," trying to find out whether the labor was worth the years and years of this misfortune. No, of course, money is recognition and fame, they have not bothered anyone yet! But it would be good to be like this right away, without these creative tortures and procrastination with the execution, the masterpiece itself. And then just like that, paint, sculpt, write hundreds of pages, and it's not known what's going to happen in the sho? Of course, looking at some kind of gray, feathery and other monet, there appears his own triumphal procession in the rays of glory, to the sound of fanfares and timpani. And it's nice and quite acceptable. But here's the Schaub here so, alone, for years, without exclamations and kisses of recognition, in some poor basement to sit and day after day to scrape! Nope, it's not it. Such thoughts lead to the inability to spend years on an absurd occupation, proving only the wretchedness of creators, utterly insane, unadapted to the normal life of insane people. All this is so. But it burns a cursed ambition. And so, lined up in front of the wall of the picture gallery, the philistine rises above the authors, showing his importance, favoring choosing the one that has attracted. "Do you like this one?" Who is it, Repin? Well, you, it's a decadence. I prefer Van Dyck. Painter your Van Dyck! Only Rubens, Rubens and Rubens. And you're just a fool, no better than Levitan! Левитан мазила! I want Velasquez! "Everyone who touched the mention of the work and the name of the author can consider himself to have contributed to the creation of a world masterpiece – a painter, sculptor, writer. Much nicer, and most importantly, faster, shake the air of museums and galleries, and even better at the festive table, authoritatively declare the greatness and worthlessness of this or that master. And do not need long winter nights, standing at the easel, in an unheated workshop, warming your stiff fingers with hot breath. Do not cut the stone, building the desired set of lines. To sculpt a master model from plasticine, working the finest details with the finest stack. All this is not required. The main thing with your eyes closed, authoritatively and categorically argue about art in yourself, in the presence of the crowd, citing the example of some wretched and gray Van Gogh, always haughtily scoffing at the unhappy. And the phrase "I will not cut myself with my ears" is to point out my own undeniable genius, having risen one moment above those who have laid the whole life on the creation of the masterpiece.