Test by sea. Online reading of the book by G.G
We - cadets - are in the first (torpedo) compartment. We lie down on the ground and suddenly, following the bilge sailor who jumped out of the compartment with crazy eyes, a column of sea water bursts into the compartment! At this depth, the pressure outside is 6 atmospheres. The compartment is instantly filled with a mist of water spray. The inhabitants of the compartment - the sailors and we - the cadets, get lost and literally jump onto the upper tiers of canvas bunks suspended above the racks of spare torpedoes. The compartment commander, an officer who barely had time to shout into the speaking tube a report to the central post: “There is a hole in the first compartment!”, also jumps onto the bed after us. The boat, having blown out the ballast, floats up in an emergency, but water continues to flow into the compartment, although without crazy pressure. Violating all instructions for sealing, brigade commander Kalinin bursts into the compartment. He jumps like a cat to the high pressure air valve and, having opened it, that is, creating back pressure in the compartment, dives to the “hole” - into the hold. Something iron flies out of the hold with a roar. The flow of water into the compartment stops. We, looking at each other in embarrassment, “slid” from our bunks onto the deck. The Hero of the Soviet Union also rises from the hold. He shakes his finger at us and shows his fist to the compartment commander. Then the captain of the 1st rank, muffledly uttering a series of intricate naval curses, retires to the central post. The task continues to be processed. The emergency alarm has been cleared. What was it? But the fact is that in those days, boats, like surface ships, were equipped with logs (water speedometers showing the distance and speed traveled by the ship), which had devices reminiscent of a screw pulled out from the bottom. This device, in accordance with the “Schedule for laying on the ground,” was supposed to be pushed into the compartment in front of this very laying by the bilge sailor, but the bilge operator completely forgot about it. So the brigade commander had to personally repair the “hole.” Instructive? I think yes.
Well, one more curiosity, this time connected with the difference in the thinking of the boss and subordinates. We did our internship on a cruiser "Chapaev" The cruiser was standing on barrels in the Kola Bay. The water in this bay of the Barents Sea, as in the sea itself, is very cold even in the hot summer. It is believed that a person caught in it can die from hypothermia without spending even half an hour in it. However, for some reason that summer, a kind of dangerous “fashion” appeared among the sailors on the ships of the squadron. Having received a scolding from the boss, such a sailor jumped overboard, pretending to commit suicide, as a reproach to this boss. So on that day, when I, as a backup member of the crew of the duty boat standing at the side of the cruiser, tried to sleep and sunbathe in this boat (it is known that a cadet wants to eat and sleep constantly), the signal “Man overboard!” sounded. It was one of these offended sailors who threw himself overboard. While the duty boat rowed up to him, he managed to wave the “fathoms” at quite a considerable distance and could well have suffered from hypothermia and drowned. In a word, we approached him and began to drag him into the boat, but he wouldn’t give in! Pushes our hands away and dives periodically! Here I made an unforgivable tactical, and perhaps strategic, mistake. I proposed no more and no less - to stun the “drowned man” with a blow of an oar to the head and, having already lost consciousness, to drag him into the boat. After such a proposal, silence reigned in the boat, and the “suicide” quickly climbed into it. Leaning on the oars, in silence we drove the boat towards the cruiser. Already on the deck of the ship, I, having caught the prickly glances of the sailors, heard very unflattering statements addressed to me, in particular, and to all future officers in general. They say they will become officers and begin to “rot” their subordinates.
I remembered this incident when I heard a very correct thought from my company commander at the school: “Your consciousness, guys,” he said, “will turn 180 after you fasten the last, fifth button on your jackets.” So that. And he was right. A couple of years later, standing in line in the assembly hall of the school with bated breath, we listened to the order of the USSR Minister of Defense to award us the rank of “lieutenant of the naval service” and received from the hands of our teachers the coveted golden shoulder straps, diplomas and daggers.
The fifth button was buttoned! And you can read about officer service in the stories and essays collected here.
BLUE SEA, WHITE STEAMER
From July 15, 1956 to September 1, 1957, 8 submarines project 613 and 611 made the transition from the Northern Fleet (Polyarny) to the Pacific Fleet (Petropavlovsk), 6 boats returned for technical reasons.
“Looking around, he saw in the lilac darkness two small figures rising along the embankment. Balaganov was returning to the restless camp of the children of Lieutenant Schmidt. Kozlevich wandered to the remains of the "Antelope" ...
Well that's all for today. I turn off the microphone attached to the semicircle of the frame above my sofa bed. This is a radio broadcasting device specially installed by radio operators for me personally.
Late evening in September 1957. I am the assistant commander of the medium-sized submarine "S-235", which is making, or rather completing, the transition along the Northern Sea Route from the European part of the country to its Far East, that is, to the Pacific Fleet.
And they installed a microphone for me because the whole crew knows my “pernicious passion” for the immortal works of the great authors - Ilf and Petrov. So the political officer decided that it was quite possible to combine a pleasant rest between shifts and classes with useful cultural work for me. However, I didn’t resist. I enjoy rereading aloud, for an hour a day, chapters from “The Twelve Chairs” and “The Golden Calf” via in-ship broadcast. However, it’s time to get ready for the shift. As usual, maneuvering between the refrigerator, the lower tier of sofas and the dining table, I easily “land” on a piece of the deck of the second compartment: my bed is in the second tier of the officer’s wardroom. This six-person “cabin,” which is essentially an enclosure, periodically turns into a dining room, a bedroom, or even an operating room.
If this continues, I reason, I’ll have to batten down its lid and stand under the RDP in the surface position. On the next wave I am already jumping up on a kind of water cushion that has rolled under my heavy boots, already filled with salty slurry. I mentally praise myself for the fact that, having heeded the advice of more experienced sailors, I traded the Murmansk firefighters for their magnificent belts for the “world equivalent” - 0.8 liters of hydrolytic alcohol. For some reason, supply standards did not provide for such belts for medium boats. Now only the carbines of the indicated belts, fastened to the brass handrails of the bridge and wheelhouse, prevented me and the signalman, sitting in his “nest” a little higher and behind, from being washed overboard.
The unpleasant roar of the propellers exposed in the depressions between the water shafts, which in these cases switch to the “propeller” mode (diesel engines began to operate in a mode close to “spreading”), complements the impression of getting to know the “swimming theater” that is new to us.
I snort from the next portion of “pickle” that hit my face and dripped from my mustache, which I recently let loose for the sake of respectability. Out of habit, I try to get away from dark thoughts, to hide from them behind a wall of humor.
I remember the catchphrase of actress Maria Mironova in the film “Volga-Volga”: “And how well it all started!..” For some reason, a cheerful tune of a children’s song is spinning in my head:
“Blue sea - white ship...” Oh yes! It was this song that came to mind after reading the order of appointment to the Black Sea Fleet after graduation. The fact is that after three internships on ships of the Northern Fleet, most of the cadets of our platoon class enjoyed an internship in the “tangerine” Black Sea Fleet. Having visited the Caucasian and Crimean submarine bases of this fleet, we could compare them with the bases of the Northern Fleet. The comparison was clearly in favor of the South Sea.
Now the tune of “Bessame-mucho” started spinning in my head. It was to the melody of this mid-fifties hit that my partner and I swayed rhythmically in the Revolution Hall of the Frunze School (our First Baltic club was under renovation) at the night prom... Oh, how rosy the future service on the warm southern sea was then!
There are seas and oceans beyond the Neva: History of the Frunze Higher Naval School / G.M. Gelfond, A.F. Zharov, A.B. Strelov, V.A. Khrenov. - M. 1976.
And it really began there in the late autumn of 1954. By the summer, most of us were already commanders of combat units on boats under construction. Vadim and I got on a boat intended for the Black Sea Fleet. I didn’t even think about the possibility of “rattling” to the Pacific Ocean. The crew was formed from Black Sea residents, the boat was supposed to be based in Tuapse. Here is the “S-236”, it was purely “Pacific”. The crew for it was formed in Vladivostok, and the guys knew that after construction they would go to the Pacific Fleet. But we are another matter! We are Black Sea people! The frivolity of youth!
By the end of April, factory and state tests of the ship were completed, the act of acceptance and entry of the boat into the Navy was signed. While waiting for the transition to Tuapse, we, that is, the officer “Fendriks”, were looking forward to celebrating May 1st with one of our acquaintances from Sevastopol, but... On April 29, 1956, the entire crew was announced that on May 1st we would begin moving... to the Pacific Ocean!
I remembered how early on the morning of May Day we walked along the ships lined up for the parade in the Sevastopol bay, how, after casting farewell glances at the Monument to Lost Ships and the Tarkhankut Lighthouse, we went to Zhdanov, where we stood at the transport dock and walked along the Volgo-Don Canal for the long haul ", pulled by river tugs...
I remembered wintering in Molotovsk (now Severodvinsk), preparing the hull for sailing in the ice in Rost. Here it is now before our eyes - a “horn” welded to the stem: if necessary, they were supposed to rest against the stern fender of the icebreaker. Now that ice navigation is behind us, this “horn” begins to irritate with its unaesthetic appearance.
Yes, navigation in ice according to the principle “Wait patiently - pass quickly,” familiar to every sailor who sailed the Northern Sea Route, is behind us. I can’t even believe that just yesterday it was possible to watch how a huge walrus with her calf lay imposingly right at the edge of an ice floe broken by an icebreaker. How this “noble family”, lazily raising their heads, watches the boat passing by with an indifferent gaze... However, one day, while parked in the ice among the islands of Komsomolskaya Pravda, a huge walrus-crank suddenly tried to get on board the boat. He scratched the side, slippery from the frozen ice, with his giant tusks, sighed noisily and looked at the people who had come running to the aft superstructure about this, frankly speaking, with far from indifferent eyes. This walrus, obviously, was once very annoyed by a person, and now he was literally incinerating us with the gaze of his mad reddish eyes. In any case, when the first mate tried to “get” him on the head with his foot, the walrus managed and managed to tear off the “elephant” type galosh from his felt boots, after which, with a contemptuous snort, he dived under the ice with it. It turns out that not only crocodiles from Korney Chukovsky’s poetic fairy tales adore galoshes! Sometimes a polar bear with cubs could be seen very close to the ice fairway. Usually we saw them “in the back”, proudly moving away from the caravan of ships somewhere towards the horizon. Life has taught these smart animals not to approach a person within shooting distance... I couldn’t believe that it was already the third month since we left Polyarny. Moreover, there were only about a month of running days! The rest of the time was spent standing in the ice, waiting for the ice shell to discharge. Many years of pack ice could not be destroyed either by the veteran Ermak who guided us, or by more modern icebreakers and ice cutters.
The northern lights spread like crimson rays across the polar sky. The icy mountains sparkled with bright splashes of multi-colored stones. The silence around was dead and cold.
A bear sleeps on a transparent ice floe. He pressed his ears to the back of his head, hid his sharp, lean muzzle under his wide paw and slept. He is warm in his white fluffy fur coat. No one will disturb his peaceful sleep. Only occasionally will a booming sound be heard, like a cannon shot, and Mishka realizes in his sleep that the ice mountain has split - he will only shudder slightly, move his ear and again serenely plunge into his sensitive sleep.
And the waves of crimson rays shimmer in the vast expanse of the polar sky, in bizarre, wondrous curves, scattering bright sheaves of gold and purple, playing on the ice floes. They spread out in long chains across the fantastically illuminated horizon, now in the form of sharp jagged mountain ranges, now in ridges of hills, now in soft wavy outlines, now piled on top of each other in chaotic disorder. And all of them shimmer with multi-colored lights against a common dark blue background. Here the whole pink ice floe sparkles, raising its bright spitz high to the sky. But the Gothic tower rises sternly, surrounded by orderly rows of through arches. Filled with waves of light, it will either flare up with rows of formidable loopholes, then, reflecting the radiance within itself, it will be crushed by its rays and fade for a moment.
Suddenly the bear growled and woke up. And why, it seems? No one woke him up, he would have slept. No, apparently it’s not okay, he’s too hungry. He scratched his heroic shoulder blade, shook himself, grumbled and suddenly pricked up his ears. A long howl reached him, barely audible. And Mishka shuddered, stretched out his neck, moved his nostrils and came to life. His eyes flashed, his claws straightened. Quietly he descended from the cliff and crawled...
A small boat nestled against a steep icy cliff. It is decorated with ice garlands and tassels, shimmering in all the colors of the rainbow. It looks lonely with its frost-covered sides and high upturned nose. A dead, unshakable silence reigns all around, and it reigns on the ship as well. It froze and blackened motionless in the icy air.
And there, in the depths of it, in a cramped cabin, the soul of God departs into a new, distant, unknown world. A reddish light crackles quietly in a hot furnace. Stern and emaciated industrialists sit silently around and look at the fire. So Uncle Stepan bent down, picked up two logs, looked at them from all sides, as if he had never seen anything before, and threw them into the oven. The fire began to sparkle on his gloomy face, and his shaggy beard began to turn silver. Uncle Stepan sighed, leaned his elbows on his knees and froze. Vaughn Mitrich is a joker and joker. Yes, he has no time for words. A burning, inexorable melancholy grabbed him by the throat and closed his lips. There's Grishka-varnak Varnak is a convict or former convict. with his longitudinal scar on his thin cheek. His small gray eyes look blankly, not a single muscle of his wasted, pale face moves. And there Vanyukha himself is a handsome hero. You can’t recognize the guy: his beauty has turned black. He scattered about on the deer skins, his large, black eyes sank and strangely glowed with an ominous light. Bad for Vanyukha.
During the breaks, the shaggy little dog Ryzhik yelps barely audibly in his sleep. She is curled up at Vanyukha’s feet and sleeping sweetly. Apparently, she seems to be imagining the wide street of their native village, she is chasing after a barefoot boy and, in excitement, unable to restrain her spasmodic barking, she twitches her paws and moves her tail. When he wakes up, he looks around at all the gloomy faces, squints at the fire and, fussily hiding his beautiful little face, hurries to move far, far away from here.
A breeze rose and began to hum through the rigging. Vanyukha woke up and tried to move his swollen tongue. Industrialists surrounded him, bowed their heads, listening.
- Brothers! If anything... Bow to Mother... Parana...
Tell me - always... There in the bundle... the earrings are from me...
Quiet. Uncle Stepan, the senior member of the artel, knitted his eyebrows.
- OK. Yes, you, Vanyukha, are not that... Everything is in the will of God. Why bother making “if something happens”, you’ll get up yourself! – And he lowered his head even lower.
Vanyukha is delirious, delirious about the Murmansk suffering, the first fishery... He imagines camps, spread out in a long chain along the entire Murmansk coast, under the warm rays of the summer sun. Although the guy is not used to fishing work, this is his first time! - and does not lag behind the elders. The shaft falls on the elastic oars, and the fragile shnyaka flies Shnyaka is a small flat-bottomed, undecked sailing fishing vessel. cast a seine into the open sea. The sea sways, and the shnyaka dives like a loon, then flies up to the gray top of the shaggy shaft, then slides into the open abyss. The feedman admires the guy and praises him. And Vanyukha is happy from the old man’s praises, and terribly... Vanyukha is delirious. There are battles with the Norwegians, fierce storms, and bears. And more often he imagines Paranya the sweetheart. He admires her, whispers affectionate and loving speeches...
And the wind still whistles through the rigging and moans through the cracks. It's still scary for industrialists. In mortal anguish, they crowd around the patient and sit motionless, freezing in the cold of the polar night.
Suddenly an ominous, iridescent crackling sound was heard. The industrialists shuddered and perked up. At once they realized what was going on. Uncle Stepan grabbed Vanyukha with his powerful hands, threw him over his shoulder and rushed onto the deck.
With a squeal and a groan, the “Paranya” bent over, more and more, convulsively spreading its boards and sides around, as if bristling. Varnak was gaping - the mast flew at him, entangled him in the yards, and crushed him. Yes, thank you - Uncle Stepan freed him and helped him out.
The Paranya was crushed by converging ice floes, crushed like a shell, only chips remained... Uncle Stepan, a seasoned, seasoned old man, thought about it, then looked around and sent Varnak for picks. And he himself began to call Mitrich the joker.
Mitrich is sitting on his haunches, not far from Parani, right on the ice, with his head in his hands, not moving. Uncle Stepan called out to him again - Mitrich did not turn around - he sat like an idol. The old man got angry, spat and got to work. He hauled logs and boards, covered them with skins, placed the barely alive Vanyukha on them, and covered them warmly. Then Grishka came up with two picks and a crowbar.
“Come, kid, look at what Mitrich is stuck with,” said Uncle Stepan and, approaching the icy rock, he swung his pickaxe backhand. Ice splashes rained down and work began to boil.
- Mitrich, oh Mitrich! Go help! – Grishka shouted, tugging at his comrade’s shoulder.
He shuddered, shrank and buried his face between his knees even deeper.
- Mitrich! What do you want, huh? Get up! You'll freeze.
Suddenly Mitrich raised his face, slapped his knees and shouted wildly, furiously:
- Ah, Norway, brothers, Norway!..
Grishka was taken aback and took a step back.
- Mitrich, stop it, leave it! Let's go cut down the hut! What do you want, huh?
- Norway, brothers, Norway! – Mitrich screamed even more furiously and hid his face between his knees.
Varnak's legs buckled and he ran to Uncle Stepan.
- Uncle, uncle!.. Mitrich has made up his mind!
Uncle Stepan threw the pick and they approached together.
- Mitrich, get up! You'll freeze, you damned dog, go help!
Mitrich clicked his teeth and squealed:
- Norway, brothers, Norway!..
- That's enough for you! What a Norway, get up!
Mitrich grabbed onto Uncle Stepan and repeated with horror:
- Norway, brothers, Norway!
Uncle Stepan pulled out his leg, looked at Grishka, and he had turned white, was shaking, and could barely stand.
- Let's run, uncle, let's run! - he mutters with his lips, and he ducks down.
Something went wrong with Uncle Stepan too. It hit him like a crowbar to the head, a frost ripped through his bones, he trembled, turned green and rushed away. Instantly he grabbed a long sled from the wreckage of the Parani, threw everything he could get his hands on, hurrying, stumbling, falling, and Varnak went crazy, ran after him even more and repeated, sobbing tearfully:
- Oh, hurry up, uncle, hurry up!
“Look, if you don’t freeze,” said Uncle Stepan, nodding at Mitrich, and added: “What is there to be sorry for, build a fire and cover it, maybe he’ll wake up.”
Grishka obediently set to work, assembled a huge fire, struck fire, and a wide flame blazed, blazed and brightly illuminated all five: Vanyukha with his wasted, blackened face, Uncle Stepan with tufts of eyebrows and unkempt beard, Varnak with an expression of torment and dull melancholy in inflamed eyes, Mitrich the joker also lit up. As they dragged him, he remained by the fire, with his face on his knees; Ryzhik was also illuminated. They sit silently, in dull oblivion, waiting for Vanyukha to die.
Throughout the expanse of the polar sky, bright stars are drowning, sparkling and shimmering with rainbow lights. Smoke from the fire rises in a black column, spreads in wide clouds in the thin air and melts in the wind...
The emaciated, starved, barely alive industrialists do not spare fuel - apparently they sense that a frosty bright night has engulfed them overnight in the far north - they have lit their tree, they too celebrate the Nativity of the Savior, and their tree flares up wider and higher, rising towards lush beauty - queen - Polar Star...
“He died...” said Uncle Stepan.
Varnak looked around - Vanyukha had turned blue, was not breathing, black blood was caked on his half-open lips.
Heavy tears dripped down his calloused cheeks. Eh, Lord, Lord!.. The poor fellows sigh and stand over Vanyukha in deep thought. Finally they took him, carried him to the boat, and put him overboard. Uncle Stepan, the senior man in the artel, knelt down, took off his hat, and behind him the warnak. Uncle Stepan read the “Our Father” and the funeral prayer, prayed, covered the deceased, sighed, put the barely alive Mitrich in a sleigh and the two of them ran, dragging the sleigh, urging each other on...
Ryzhik howled, sitting at Vanyukha’s feet, did not leave his owner, remembers his caresses, remembers how he shared a piece of black bread with him, remembers how he stroked his furry muzzle and talked about his beloved Paranya... Ryzhik pulled off the sail, put his paws on the broad, heroic chest that warmed him during stormy, snowy times, and with intermittent squeals licks the dead man, otherwise he will again raise his head and howl pitifully...
The industrialists go further and further, dragging behind them long sleighs, on which Mitrich the joker is nestled among the barrels and boxes. He doesn’t see or understand anything, he put his face on his knees, wrapped his arms around them, and fell silent. Uncle Stepan walks measuredly, firmly, and Varnak does not lag behind - the industrialists arch their backs, go further and further...
Vanyukha did not die, he woke up. He opened his eyes - only Ryzhik was barking joyfully. Horror attacked Vanyukha. With pain in his heart, he raised his head, grabbed the broken side - it was quiet, deserted all around... Only there, far, far away, it was as if a sled was moving... He tried to scream - a hoarse, inhuman groan escaped and froze in the icy air.
The guy's head dropped onto the furled sail, his eyes closed, and his lips whispered incomprehensible words. And suddenly he sees... His native village, the sun is shining brightly, warmly. Here is my dear little hut. The mother is standing on the threshold and washing his little sister’s little hands with snow. He'll be happy! It's high time! The poor thing lost weight, waited for the breadwinner, he left from Candlemas and disappeared without a trace on a distant fishery...
Christmas is just around the corner. The measured strikes of the village bell echo loudly through the air, they buzz throughout the entire village, calling baptized people to prayer.
Vanya is in a hurry, he stumbles... Now he’s already nearby... now his mother has seen... Heatedly she fell to him, crossed herself even more fervently and whispered a prayer...
The stories started... He takes out gifts, money earned with sweat and blood. It was difficult. It seemed small to him to catch cod and the “beast of a young lady”, the guy wanted to turn around with all his heroic might, to earn money for the wedding - he assembled an artel, equipped a boat and waved for a whale beyond Spitsbergen!.. After catching a rich one, they turned back, but hesitated with the blubber. Tea, about two weeks had already passed since the Exaltation, they were already heading back, and they had already bought gifts on the oncoming merchant ships... they had already seen the Matka!.. As luck would have it, a storm happened, broke them, beat them, and took away the rudder. And they were driven north again, no matter how hard they fought. The wind drove them for a week, then another, the ice appeared again - whole mountains, the frost began to creep through. It's all around, and there's no end in sight to this damned ice. And the frost is getting stronger. He rallied the icy mountains, bound them tightly, damned, - in some places only water survived. At this point the hard labor began, and it seemed there would be no end to it. At first they thought about holding “Paranya”, Vanyukha was too eager and didn’t want to spend the winter. Well, they fought, broke ice blocks, tore them with gunpowder - the guy worked for ten!.. After all, what a strength!.. If it weren’t for him, they would all have long ago thrown down the crowbars and surrendered to the will of God... They resigned themselves - it was painfully worn out. We settled down for the winter... Industrialists were buried one after another, the frost did not spare them. Well, why anger God! - they got out, although not all of them, but they got out!.. His mother listens, tears flow.
And here Paranya looked out. Vanyukha’s heart began to beat! She stands in front of him, rosy-cheeked, joyful, her chest rises in waves, her eyes cast down in shame... Her boyfriend hasn’t forgotten either... where can I forget! - He takes the earrings out of the scarf, real gold ones.
They stood there, hugging each other, as if they had fallen asleep... She pressed her high, girlish breasts against Vanyukha’s heroic chest...
The fog appeared hopeless, as if night had fallen. Paranya began to float away from his hands further and further. Vanyukha’s spirit was taken away, his breath stole... And Paranya called him, holding out her hands. Farther and farther she floats, everything becomes darker and darker, you can hardly see her... Vanyukha wants to scream, pincers have engulfed his throat...
He rushed and froze...
The polar bear climbed on board, twitched his ears, moved his nose and with thieving steps began to come closer and bolder... When Ryzhik saw him, he bristled furiously, growled and grabbed his shaggy fur coat. Mishka waved Ryzhik aside! I didn't attack that one! The baby is fighting with the giant: go away, don’t touch me!
Beware, Uncle Stepan, beware, Grishka the runaway, beware, Mitrich the amusing man! New troubles, new grief, bad luck for you, poor people, Mishka is hungry!
The radiance has faded, everything is quiet all around. Only Ryzhik, raising his muzzle, howls pitifully. And this plaintive, mournful, soul-piercing howl rushes, and disappears into the distance unanswered.
On the night of December twenty-fifth, an expedition of a private American society was underway, sent to search for the steamer Jeanette, under the command of Captain Groys. She met Uncle Stepan and Grishka, who were attacked by a polar bear. At the very first shot, the bear took to a rather brave flight. They asked Uncle Stepan and Grishka - how, what and where. They told everything: about Vanyukha’s death, and about the fact that Ryzhik remained with his dead owner. The captain had already given the order to set off, and at that time our venerable compatriot, Doctor Struzhkin, solemnly announced that, as a member of the Russian Society for the Protection of Animals, he would not allow the death of the little dog and would save her at all costs...
“I don’t care about the laws of your society,” Groys exclaimed, “the laws of humanity are more important to me, according to which I am obliged to rush to find the crew of the Jeannette.”
“Captain,” said Struzhkin, without raising his voice, “for me, the laws of God are more important than the laws of humanity, and according to the laws of God, good cannot be measured!” Forward!.. - And the doctor whistled at the dogs. They picked up the sled and rushed him north.
Imagine the surprise of the captain and all the expedition members when the doctor’s sleigh brought Vanyukha’s body. But even greater surprise and joy on the part of Uncle Stepan, Grishka and Mitrich, who had come to his senses, was caused by the doctor’s message addressed to the captain and his crew. Finishing his heartfelt story, and it turned out that Vanyukha was still alive and could recover, the venerable doctor said:
- Captain Groys! Gentlemen Americans! Nineteen centuries ago, the Savior showed us the foundations of true goodness, and until now we are still inclined to get carried away and repeat, like Judas: “This woman would have done better if she had sold the oil for three hundred denarii and given it to the poor.” Captain! This unfortunate man still has a spark of life, and he owes it only to the fact that this faithful little dog, without further ado, surrendered not to the “laws of humanity,” but to the laws of love and self-sacrifice. Where love triumphs, reason also triumphs...
At the same moment, as if by magic, the entire sky was filled with a continuous fire of the northern lights...
What's going on here?! - The physics teacher stood on the threshold, defending herself with a class magazine.
They mopped the parquet floor and moved the teacher's desk into place. The lesson has begun.
It was natural that Seryozhka was asked to come to the board. The teacher saw him in a spectacular fight and now wanted to know whether he would win in another, more modest field.
While Seryozhka was grieving at the blackboard, Lisapeta the Second, flushed with excitement, scribbled on a blotter “THIS IS HORROR!” - and showed it to Vera, sitting next to her.
And Vera was now more worried about Seryozhka than about the pugnacious Zheka. Seryozhka could get a deuce in the quarter.
Lisapeta the Second scribbled even larger: “THE JUK WILL BE LAUGHED NOW!”
This message already had some meaning. Vera quietly turned to Zheka.
He sat hunched over - elbows on the desk, fists under his hardened chin - his gaze fixed on one point. Fenced off from everyone, closed off, locked in place... Just a savage, a Bigfoot, and that’s all.
After classes, Zheka headed to the nearby metro station.
The crowd carried him into the lobby; on the right there were cash registers and change machines, and the left wall resembled an exhibition. There were portraits of film artists stuck there with duct tape - the same ones over which there was a fight in class.
Under the color portraits there is a folding table with a transparent plastic pinwheel on it. Rising and falling, the tickets were mixed in it.
All this had an intriguing effect on the crowd.
What kind of fair is this? Ask, citizen, ask!..
The actors are being played. There, on the wall.
Lord, good pie! I thought, what are they selling? The people have survived: they rush at everything!
Can't you buy it? Excuse me, I say: you can’t buy it? Without tape measure? Humanly?
The cold and hoarse saleswoman, turning away from the draft, monotonously shouted:
Only to be played!.. Only to be played!.. Sets are not available for sale!.. Special edition!..
Zheka weaved his way into the crowd, emerged at the table, and handed the saleswoman some change. He started playing without preamble or hesitation. The edges of the pinwheel flashed and the tickets danced. We stopped.
Zheka put his fingers inside, took out the ticket, and tore it. On the inside, along the delicate mesh pattern, there was a red inscription: “NO WIN TICKET.”
Zheka crumpled it up and threw it in the trash. The iron urn was specially placed here - for losers. Its size suggested that life does not consist of continuous gifts of fate...
Having shaken out the remaining change from his pockets, Zheka counted it and again handed it to the saleswoman.
Things are not going my way? - she asked, coughing. - But you won yesterday? I remember you won!
So what?
Happiness in a row... ha-kha... does not fall out.
She held the coppers and waited for Zheka to change her mind. Nice aunt. He is in such a dog-like position, but his heart is kind.
“I need to win,” he said.
Why do you need a second set?
Yesterday's one is missing. Because of an accident.
They danced, tickets fluttered. They were reliably camouflaged - absolutely no different from each other. But Zheka fixed his gaze on one - who seemed happy - and did not let him go. It's no joke: the last pennies are at stake.
He took out the ticket and tore it. In red on the grid: “TICKET WITHOUT WIN”... Lucky luck does not fall in a row, that’s true.
Zheka threw the ticket into the almost filled trash can and began to make his way - meeting the flow of people - back to the street. He was in the mood to hang himself.
Tomorrow or the day after tomorrow the lottery will end, and you won’t get such portraits anywhere. All.
Crossing the square, he entered a square that seemed littered with autumn leaves. The wind was cold, the leaves were wet. In the middle of the square there was still a fuchle, the fountain was still working. The carbonated stream flew up and unfurled like transparent palm branches. Icy splashes bounced on the sides of the granite bowl.
A long bus stopped at the square, tourists poured out of it, unfastening their camera cases as they went. The tourists posed very busily against the backdrop of the jets: splashes rained down on their heads, but the tourists endured it. Then someone threw a coin into the fountain, performing a traditional ritual, and everyone quickly ran to the bus.
And Zheka froze in a hunting stance. I looked into the fountain bowl.
The water was boiling there, white with bubbles; Drowned leaves and pieces of candy were dappled dimly at the bottom. But here and there the dirty bottom sparkled - so clear, silver...
Last year, we talked about the scientific and sports expedition of the East Kazakhstan Regional Committee of the Komsomol, whose participants crossed two grandiose deserts of our country on foot - Kyzylkum and Karakum. Recently, the expedition completed a new route, and it was again unusual: on inflatable boats across the Aral Sea. Finally, when the material about this brave journey was being prepared for publication, the guys completed an ultra-marathon ski run Ust-Kamenogorsk - Moscow, 4500 kilometers long.
By boat across the Aral Sea? But, sorry, this is madness! No, no, it's impossible, believe me. You think that since the Aral looks like a big lake on the map, that means it really is like that. Quite the opposite. This is a stormy sea. Especially now, in the fall. Our fishermen are now afraid to go far from the shore...
She stopped to take a breath, and I, taking advantage of the pause, repeated:
“The fact remains: ten days ago my friends left the pier in Aralsk and went out to the open sea in seven rubber boats. According to calculations, you should have them today.
She shook her head again reproachfully and incredulously:
“My whole life has been spent here, on these shores.” My father is a fisherman, I myself have gone to sea more than once, but I have never heard anything like this. And anything happened. A few years ago at this time, our steamship Verny was capsized by a storm. And you say, on rubber boats... No matter how bad things happen, that’s what. We need to warn the fishermen.
Anxiety was clearly visible in the eyes of the secretary of the Muynak district party committee, Damen Kozhakhmetova. Strange, but I was much less worried. Perhaps because in his pocket he held the last radiogram received yesterday from the sea: “Everything is fine with us. 30 miles to the coast. We hope to finish soon. Head of the expedition Didenko."
I left the district committee. The October sun shone softly on the pale blue sky that had been burnt out over the summer. Not far away, behind the sand dunes, the sea shone silver with the lines of ships on the horizon. An old man in a huge hat trotted leisurely past on a donkey. Everything was the same as yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and a hundred years ago. I stopped and thought that for the people who live here, the action of these guys, rowing across the Aral Sea, apparently looks extremely reckless and ridiculous. Indeed, why cross the sea on a fragile boat if you can do it on a comfortable steamer? The logic is just killer, that's true...
I involuntarily shuddered, remembering how a few days ago I left Aralsk on a large, fast boat, trying to catch up with the expedition members. At first everything went well. We rushed across the blue sea, and the shore quickly turned into nothing - melted into a blue haze. The wind struck suddenly. The boat seemed to stumble once, twice, and began to fall steeply from side to side, and the captain shrugged his shoulders guiltily. He had already shifted the helm to the opposite course. With difficulty we managed to take refuge in the harbor. A storm struck...
I stood on the sand not far from the water and peered into the sea. It was already past noon, and the boats were still not visible. I felt in my pocket a crumpled piece of paper with the text of the radiogram...
So, another journey. Again, as during the desert expedition in 1972, the group was led by Vladimir Didenko. I’m seeing off on the road the expedition’s meteorologist Volodya Kozlov, navigator Seryozha Volkov, radio operators Misha Suleimenov and Tolya Efremov, Komsomol organizer Pasha Fadeev, journalist Edik Krivobokov. The remaining seven people are beginners, but they are all experienced, strong guys; you can rely on them.
Before the start, Didenko was in Moscow and visited V.G. Volovich, a famous researcher who studies issues of human survival in an extremely unfavorable environment. Together they clarified the last details of the scientific experiment that this unique expedition was at the same time. Part of the experiment, which was carefully designed by scientists from the Institute of Medical and Biological Problems, boiled down to the fact that all participants, divided into three groups at sea, consumed different amounts of food and fresh water. So, four guys from the first group were given 500 grams of water and 350 grams of caramel per day. The diet of the second group differed only in that they were allowed to drink 300 grams more water. The remaining five people made up the control group, which served as a kind of “background” for the study - these lucky people ate the usual diet: sausage, cheese, bread, canned food, sugar, water. All members of the expedition were allowed to eat raw caught fish in unlimited quantities. Looking ahead, I’ll note that, alas, no one caught the fish...
In addition, doctors, as last year, studied the dynamics of psychological compatibility and the impact of stressful situations on body functions. In fact, the guys voluntarily chose the fate of the shipwrecked. However, finding themselves in such an unusual situation, they wanted not only to “save themselves,” but also to extract the maximum benefit for those who suddenly find themselves overboard against their will.
“When sailing from Aralsk, we did not expect that there would be so many mourners,” says Pavel Fadeev, a literature teacher from Ust-Kamenogorsk. “The entire shore was covered with people.” The speakers made speeches. The orchestra struck up a march. We took up the oars. The shore with the crowd, with the piers, with the white houses slowly floated away. People waved at us and shouted, “Happy sailing!”
The doctor announced: “We’re going out to sea, we’ll drink water for the last time and begin the experiment.”
The sea greeted us with almost complete calm. It was easy to row. Behind us were hundreds of kilometers traveled along the Amu Darya - this was the preliminary stage of the journey, and it served us all well. The first blisters from the oars are long gone. We tested our boats (and - most importantly - believed in them). We tested navigation instruments and radio communications.
By noon I was already pretty tired. I felt thirsty. Yes, and it would be nice to have some food. Continuous work on the oars, no matter what you say, develops a beastly appetite. The “controllers” swam up to each other, huddled together, took their supplies out of rubberized bags and demonstratively began to crush them. And what about us! I was in the second group. He took a sparing sip from the flask and put a few caramels in his mouth. I thought: how many days can one survive on such meager rations?
Said Fazylov, our cameraman, shouts from his boat: “I’m trading the smell of bread for the fish you catch!” Volodya Kozlov supported the joke: “I’ll trade today’s rations for a fair wind.”
Yes, the wind... It appeared, but unfortunately it was a counter wind.
The wind seemed to mock us,” the expedition’s meteorologist, Vladimir Kozlov, continues the story. “According to all forecasts, it would have been high time to blow out the northern tailwind, but it kept hitting us in the face and greatly slowing down our progress. After all, we were counting on sails...
By evening it became sharply cold. I completed my three-hour watch and handed over the oars to my partner, Misha Suleimenov. Crouching on the bow, he tried to doze off. But the splashing of the waves and the cold interfered. Then, in two days, I will sleep like a log even with strong anxiety. And then, that first evening, I couldn’t sleep.
Night fell on the sea silently and quickly. Far, far to the south, astern, the lights of Aralsk flickered. The commander gave the order: the boats should moor and the crews should sleep. We connected our “ships” into one large raft and settled down. The boats rub their rubber sides against each other, creaking, groaning. My heart is anxious. As soon as I dozed off, there was a crackling noise, like a gunshot. And a heart-rending cry: “The rope has broken!” Incredible, but true: the strongest nylon rope broke like a rotten thread. The waves instantly scattered us in different directions. Well, there was a moon, there was still some visibility... They gathered together again. The wind is getting stronger, the waves are getting steeper. Cold, uncomfortable...
“And I decided that the best thing in this situation was to sit down at the oars and continue moving along the route,” says Didenko. - So they did. From that moment on, our navigation became around the clock. Passive drift was never allowed again. One is sleeping, the other is rowing. So, alternating ten days and nights, working with oars for twenty-four hours, we crossed the Aral Sea.
In this sense, our experiment is unique; even in world practice it has no precedent. Its second feature is the large number of participants. Still, fourteen people for such a difficult route means something. After all, the Aral is a serious sea. Here is what the official reference book says about it: “The climate of the Western Aral Sea region is characterized by stormy winds, especially frequent in October - December... The waves are characterized by small size and high steepness, they develop suddenly. Boatmasters in the Aral Sea must always be prepared to sail in rough sea conditions.”
By morning the wind changed direction - it became tailwind and died down a little. I took out a rubberized bag with a diary from a tightly sealed radio probe (we kept all the things that were afraid of moisture in them). According to the conditions of the experiment, diaries were required to be kept by all expedition participants. Oh, and we used unkind words to remember the doctors when we had to take notes! The boats are rocking, splashes are flying, numb fingers have difficulty holding a pencil - what kind of diary is this...
“What should I write down? - I think. - Maybe about the sea? What an extraordinary space! This can only be compared with the vast expanse of the Arctic. But the polar silence is pressing - I have noticed this more than once. And at sea I want to sing...”
“Our boss is strong,” smiles expedition doctor Rudolf Goetzel. “Personally, I didn’t want to sing, but unlike Volodya, I was on full rations. Is it about songs? It’s dog cold, icy splashes in the face, the oars fall out of your hands from fatigue, your head is spinning... You become dull from the monotonous, exhausting work. I'm in a bad mood. And there are still hundreds of miles, storms and hardships ahead. Be patient, doctor...
I've never been to the sea. Never. At first I was afraid whether the boats would hold up. After the Amu Darya, confidence came: they will survive. But here's the first good storm. I hesitated a little with the oars, the boat reared up, my heart sank somewhere down my throat... In a word, with one good wave all my confidence was completely knocked out. Yeah, it's a storm. Good entertainment for thrill seekers. The boats either take off on the crests of the waves, or fall somewhere into the abyss. Everyone is wet from head to toe, but no one lets go of the oars.
My responsibilities included conducting a complex of medical observations according to a special scheme. This is, firstly, the daily collection of tests. Secondly, measuring blood pressure, pulse, thermometry. Thirdly, every morning I pester everyone with the same questions: general well-being, mood, appetite, soybeans, dreams, complaints, condition of the skin, oral cavity, etc., etc. The guys eagerly confess to me, and I carefully write down their answers. "Dreams?" — I ask Didenko. “What kind of dreams are there,” he answers irritably, “I didn’t sleep a wink all night.” - “Desires?” - I ask. “So that a fair wind always blows,” Volodya answers. “I want to warm up” - this is Side Fazylov. “Drink, drink and drink!” — Sasha Antonenko. “Right now I would willingly eat pilaf, noodle soup, tomatoes, and drink dry wine,” Pasha Fadeev answers my questionnaire. “It would be quicker to feel solid ground under your feet,” Ivan Volkov. “Complete indifference,” Yegorov waves his hand languidly.
I slept especially poorly on the third night. Something worried me, depressed me. In the morning it turned out that Krivobokov and Lobanov, both from the second group, were seriously ill. The boys are shivering and both have a high fever. A cold is especially scary if the body is very weak. I make a decision: to remove the patients from the experiment, that is, to transfer the guys to a full ration. Our patients also need to abstain from fun for now - let them rest...
“On the morning of the fifth day, I woke up and was literally stunned by the sight of my companions. Dejected, tired, thin, pale... I reached for the movie camera. This had to be filmed. You don’t see this in everyday life,” recalls cinematographer Said Fazylov. — The guys automatically lowered the oars into the water, made a stroke, lowered the oars again... Their faces did not express anything. A sharp north wind was blowing. The excitement was five. I myself probably didn’t look any better from the outside. Then, after the finish, during a medical examination it turns out that I lost eleven kilograms in weight. But that’s later... And then, in a boat, in the middle of the Aral Sea, I caught the gray faces of my companions through the peephole of the movie camera and thought that our journey, perhaps, was too much like rescuing those in distress during a shipwreck.
“Yes, by the end of the experiment we lost a lot,” confirms the expedition’s caretaker, Ivan Egorov. — The sweets stuck in my teeth and did not satisfy my hunger at all. I literally physically felt the absolute emptiness in my stomach. Perhaps only three of us - Didenko, Kozlov and Suleimenov - were still cheerful: sometimes we sang songs and rowed as if nothing had happened.
I was filled with anger: why are there sweets in our diet and not crackers, for example? Why aren't there any fish caught? Why?..
The clear water of the Aral, its exclusively blue color, noted in all reference books, was no longer pleasing. Vanity thoughts disappeared, as if washed away by the waves: if I swim across the sea, then nothing in life will be scary. Everything has become dull...
Much later, on the shore, when everything is over, a huge, incomparable satisfaction will come. Yes, I managed to overcome the sea and survive! This is such a joyful feeling!..
“Our voyage was coming to an end,” says expedition navigator Sergei Volkov. “But I still haven’t gotten used to the inconveniences that filled our life in abundance.” Terrible cramped conditions. The inflatable boat has a width between the sides of 0.6 meters and a length of about two meters. And almost all of this space is filled with cargo. In addition to personal belongings, the boat contains an emergency supply of food and fresh water, a box with a sextant, some film equipment, a gun, and life jackets. You have to sit and lie in the most incredible positions. In addition, you must constantly remember not to fall overboard. Swimming is not recommended: water temperature is ten degrees, air temperature is five to six degrees. Another difficulty: in order to get any item, you have to untie and tie several knots of our waterproof bags in succession each time. Fingers hurt...
Didenko tries to drink sea water. I follow his example, but immediately spit back: bitter, disgusting. Doctors allowed us to drink Aral water in small doses. In my opinion, apart from Volodya, there were no more people willing to take advantage of this permission. The guys chose to experience the hellish pangs of thirst...
The main radio operator of the expedition, Tolya Efremov, transmitted the last radiogram: “Everything is fine with us. 30 miles to the coast...”
— Suddenly, a strong east wind blew, and our “squadron” began to drift to the west. We were already running out of strength, but we had to lean on the oars again, says Sasha Antonenko, an engineer, and an assistant cameraman in his expeditionary position. — On the morning of October 14, far to the south, we saw the shore and houses. My partner Said was fast asleep. I also closed my eyelids for a second, without letting go of the oars. Instantly, sleep overcame me too. I really don’t know how this happened. I woke up when one of the guys poked me painfully with an oar. It became awkward: it turns out that they shouted at me for a long time, trying to wake me up, they splashed me with water... Nothing like this had ever happened to me before.
And the shore was already very close. Didenko took out the card for the last time. Yes, it is: the east wind blew us to the west, and we finish on the southern coast, about fifteen kilometers from Muynak. Cape Tiger Tail is what it's called on the map.
Without waiting for our vessel to hit the shore, I jump into the shallow water from the boat and am amazed: I’m staggering like a drunk, I’ve completely forgotten how to walk. To avoid falling, you have to hold on to the boat. The last meters of a 500-kilometer swim. People are running from the houses towards us. Of course, now they will ask where we came from. And of course, they won’t believe it when we answer that we’re from Aralsk...
This question is not even asked. They just help.
“No,” said Seryozhka. - You really are. Our Pavlik, in general,
normal. She’s just too keen on poetry, and she... what’s it like, according to Pushkin?
Should she be stupid?
“Only rudeness on my mind,” said Pavlik.
SECOND CHAPTER
about the coin
thrown into the fountain
about letters without a return address,
about loneliness and
about wonderful music
Ray Coniff
1
from under his brows, his coarse hair stuck out like a visor above his forehead.
And his name was appropriate - Zheka. There is something restrained, purely masculine in
this name.
None of his classmates knew what he was interested in or how he spent his time.
He didn’t invite Zheka to his home and didn’t indulge in revelations. That's all it was
It is known that he cannot stand girls. The most terrible punishment for him
it was - to sit with a girl at the same desk or to be on duty together in the classroom.
He always returned from school alone, shooing off his annoying fellow travelers. This
surprised many. Now is the era of contacts, continents and countries
they stretch out their hands to each other - and then a reclusive amateur appears.
Classmates did not suspect that Zheka had other eccentricities.
For example, in recent months he has developed some kind of ridiculous morning
ritual.
Going to school, he did not choose the shortest route - through courtyards, through fences,
like normal boys - but, on the contrary, he made an extra circle. He will definitely
walked to the next street.
This street was shabby, sad - several wooden houses,
waiting for demolition, blank fences around the pits. Dirt, disorder...
The only bright spot, the only decoration of this street were the post office
boxes - orange and blue - hanging on the corner house.
Zheka stopped not far from the boxes and waited. Did the rain fall, fog
whether it was smoking, whether the chilly wind was rattling iron on the roofs - Zheka doesn’t care
was on guard.
At about half past eight, a humpbacked pickup truck with
"CONTACT" sign. He dived on potholes, shaking his smoky tail. Braked for about
boxes.
A woman with canvas bags was getting out of the pickup truck. "Clink!" --
With a trained movement, the woman pushed the iron frame of the bag under the box. AND
immediately - invisible - letters poured into the bag, it swelled and became heavy
eyes. "Clink!" - The second bag was being filled.
While doing this work, the woman turned to Zheka. Smiling and nodding
to him, as if he were a friend:
- Did you leave the letter?
Zheka blinked and turned away.
- And he’s probably sad! - the woman chuckled. - And she is shedding tears!
He thinks it’s the post office’s fault!..
Zheka did not respond.
The woman climbed into the pickup truck and, when he, growling with a cold, slowly
turned around and said to the driver:
- It looms like a watchman on pay anyway!
“There are a lot of weirdos among them,” the driver noted. -- Main
weirdos - pensioners and the younger generation of children...
- I can’t imagine why he should be on duty here!
The pickup truck, swaying creakingly, was hiding in a maze of fences, and only
After that, Zheka headed to school.
2
Lysapeta the Second, rushing between the desks, touched him with her elbow; briefcase,
turning over, he hit the floor.
Ballpoint pens, some nails and screws rolled out of it, and also
- a stack of large color portraits scattered like a fan.
With unexpected fussiness, Zheka rushed to pick them up, pushing them away
curious. But someone managed to pick up several glossy sheets. AND
began...
- Guys, he's out of phase! He collects artists!
- Oh, really! Movie stars!!
- Dear girls, he is suffering from Vertinskaya!
- Yes, he picked a full bouquet! All sorts of swells here!..
Clenching his lips until they turned white, glaring from under his brows, Zheka tried to take away
portraits. And they were thrown from desk to desk, passed around -
the children's game "Come on, take it away!" began... Lisapeta the Second stood on his desk
bottle of mascara. He was knocked over, and the slate, greasy mascara splashed
several portraits.
Then Zheka started to fight. He climbed like a blind man - without choosing the right and
guilty, not counting how many opponents there are in front of him. A brawl was brewing
seriously: the girls ran away with a squeak; the teacher's desk began to rumble;
pieces of chalk crunched under his heels.
Seryozhka jumped into the deep end and caught Zhekino’s wrist:
- Are you going crazy?! Because of the rot, because of this millet!..
Zheka flared his nostrils; his captive hand twitched mechanically, like
the frog's leg under current was trying to pry Seryozhka.
-- What's going on here?! - The physics teacher stood on the threshold,
defending himself with a cool magazine.
“They showed a movie here...” Lisapeta said in an iridescent voice.
Second.
They mopped the parquet floor and moved the teacher's desk into place. Has begun
lesson.
It was natural that Seryozhka was asked to come to the board. The teacher saw him in
spectacular fight and now wanted to know if he would win in another
a more modest field.
While Seryozhka was mourning at the blackboard, Lisapeta, flushed with excitement,
The second scribbled on a blotter “THIS IS HORROR!” - and showed Vera sitting
near.
And Vera was now more worried about Seryozhka than about the pugnacious Zheka.
Seryozhka could get a deuce in the quarter.
Lisapeta the Second scribbled even larger, “THE JUK WILL BE LAUGHED NOW!”
This message already had some meaning. Faith unnoticed
turned to Zheka.
He sat hunched over - elbows on the desk, fists under the petrified
chin, - his gaze rested on one point. fenced off from everyone, closed off,
latched... Just a savage, a bigfoot, and that’s all.
3
The crowd carried him into the lobby; on the right there were cash registers and change
machine guns, and the left wall resembled an exhibition. There was duct tape there
portraits of film artists were slapped down - the same ones over which there was a fight in
class.
Under the color portraits there is a folding table, on it -
transparent plastic pinwheel. Rising and falling, they mixed in it
tickets.
All this had an intriguing effect on the crowd.
- What kind of fair is this? Ask, citizen, ask!..
- The actors are being played. There, on the wall.
- Lord, good pie! I thought - what are they selling? The people lived to see
everything is thrown!
-Can’t you buy it? Excuse me, I say: you can’t buy it? Without tape measure?
Humanly?
A cold and hoarse saleswoman, turning away from the draft,
monotonously shouted:
-- Just being played!.. Just being played!.. Sets for sale
not arriving!.. Special issue!..
Zheka weaved his way into the crowd, emerged at the table, and handed the saleswoman some change.
He started playing without preamble or hesitation. Flashed its edges
turntable, the tickets danced. We stopped.
Zheka put his fingers inside, took out the ticket, and tore it. By internal
on the side, along the delicate mesh pattern, there was a red inscription: “TICKET WITHOUT WIN.”
Zheka crumpled it up and threw it in the trash. The iron urn was specially here
staged for losers. Its size suggested that life was not
consists of continuous gifts of fate...
Shaking out the remaining change from his pockets, Zheka counted it and again
gave it to the saleswoman.
-- Things are not going my way? - she asked, coughing. - But you won yesterday? I
I remember you won!
- So what?
- Happiness in a row... ha-kha... does not fall out.
She held the coppers and waited for Zheka to change her mind. Nice aunt. On
I have such a dog's position, but my heart is kind.
“I need to win,” he said.
- Why do you need a second set?
- Yesterday's one is missing. Because of an accident.
They danced, tickets fluttered. They were reliably camouflaged...
absolutely no different from each other. But Zheka fixed his gaze on one -
seemed happy - and did not let him go. It's no joke: last pennies
are at stake.
He took out the ticket and tore it. In red on the grid: "TICKET WITHOUT WIN"...
Happiness doesn’t happen in a row, that’s true.
Zheka threw the ticket into the almost filled ballot box and began to make his way -
meeting the flow of people - back to the street. He was in a mood - at least
hang yourself.
Tomorrow or the day after tomorrow the lottery will end, and there will be no such portraits anywhere
you'll get it. All.
-- --
Having crossed the square, he entered the square, which seemed littered with autumn
foliage. The wind was cold, the leaves were wet. In the middle of the square there was still fukal, still
the fountain was working. The carbonated stream flew up and turned around, like
transparent palm branches. Ice splashes bounced on the sides of the granite
bowls.
A long bus stopped at the square, tourists poured out of it,
unzipping camera cases. Very businesslike tourists posed against the background
jets: spray rained down on their heads, but the tourists endured it. Then someone quit
a coin into the fountain, performing a traditional ritual, and everyone quickly ran to
bus.
And Zheka froze in a hunting stance. I looked into the fountain bowl.
The water was boiling there, white with bubbles; the drowned were dimly mottled at the bottom
leaves, candy papers. But here and there the dirty bottom sparkled - it was clear
yes, silver...
Zheka thought feverishly, looking around.
Behind the bushes, painted green, stood a plank shed. In such booths
gardeners store their shovels, rubber hoses and brooms. Now someone
strummed there, tapping on the iron.
The watchman - in an oilskin raincoat with a hood - was repairing a wheel on a wheelbarrow,
hitting him with a hammer.
“Uncle,” asked Zheka, “don’t they turn off the fountain for lunch?”
“Only for dinner,” said the watchman.
There was no room for vegetation under his hood; there was a lot of it.
Beard, mustache, sideburns, eyebrows. A forelock with gray hair. Very sharp eyes
hid in overgrown holes.
- Really, uncle, when do they turn it off?
-- And why do you need it?
- I dropped the key there.
- How careless you are...
- I spun it on my finger... and it fell off.
- An iron key?
“Copper,” Zheka said quickly. - From an English castle.
School physics has come in handy at least once in my life. The iron key is possible
pull it out with a magnet without turning off the fountain...
“Wait until evening,” said the watchman. - I'll clean it in the evening, we'll see
Then.
- Uncle, I can’t get home! What to do?
“Don’t lie,” said the watchman. - There is no such thing in English keys
holes to twirl on your finger. I understand perfectly well what you dropped and
what to pick up... Look, Pinocchio with a key!
No, fate did not spoil Zheka. But if a person is persistent, he and fate
will break it. Zheka thought it was too early to give up. Let the fountain run without
break, but the watchman is not a machine. He'll definitely go out for lunch. You just need
wait, be patient...
Drawing his head into his shoulders, Zheka sat behind the bushes. Sprays were thrown by the wind,
the jacket got wet. Cold. Autumn. Sparrows - and they hid from this
lousy weather.
4
here it has already subsided - in the metro there are also ebbs and flows - and at the lottery
there was no table available.
“Lord!..” the saleswoman was horrified when she saw Zheka. - Under what
did you get caught in the rain?!
“It happens,” said Zheka, chattering his teeth. He was angry, but not from the cold.
The worst thing is when everyone is staring at you. As if they had never seen them wet.
- Run home!..
“Give me the ticket,” said Zheka, counting out the sticky coppers.
Zheka’s appearance made the saleswoman shiver. She herself had a cold. in autumn
In general, it is difficult to maintain health - there are drafts and infections all around. Necessary
take special care. And this boy is soaking wet, in his shoes
slurps. What kind of lottery tickets are there, what kind of movie stars - mustard plasters are needed
buy!
And he, having counted out his coppers, eagerly looked at the plastic pinwheel.
Not noticing that clothes are leaking...
- I’ll get you a ticket myself! -- she said. - I have... apchhi... I have
light hand.
Without waiting for consent, she pulled out and tore the ticket. Of course he was
empty. The saleswoman already knew that one out of a hundred won.
-- Well? - Zheka asked impatiently.
“Won,” she said. - Take your actors now
go home!.. A-apchi!.. Do you have mustard plasters?
He smiled, stretching his blue lips.
- I'm seasoned!
God, what a torment it is with today's children. Both with our own and with strangers.
5
at the post office, where he caused a scandal - the second scandal of the day.
Having bought a large envelope made of wrapping paper, Zheka stuffed portraits into it
actors, taped it up, wrote the address. And then I thought about it.
Visitors looked back at him and walked around him. In a warm room
Zheka’s jacket and pants began to dry out. When water evaporates, it turns into steam.
A light steam hovered over Zheka, perplexing visitors.
But Zheka did not pay attention to those around him. Printing wet marks, he
went to the automatic help installation. These new items are now
posted everywhere.
Zheka found the right button on the remote control and pointed his finger at it. Inside
the unit began to buzz and whistle; under the glass, scanty aluminum
wings - as if a book was flipping through.
The waxing stopped, the wings froze, spread out. "IN SIMPLE AND
YOU CAN SEND DIFFERENT KINDS OF WRITTEN MESSAGES WITH CERTIFIED LETTERS..." --
Zheka saw this text.
It wasn't a very fresh idea. Not a discovery.
Zheka pressed the other buttons one by one. The unit fussed, beat itself
wings - it seemed like it was about to fly up to the ceiling. But there's no point in cackling
it wasn't worth a penny. Zheka did not get the answer he needed.
He whispered to the unit what it was and went, furious, towards
one of the mailboxes.
- Custom! - he said, slamming the envelope onto the counter.
- Write, boy, the return address.
-- Not required.
- What do you mean “not required”?! Just what is required!
- I want without a return address! - Zheka said adamantly.
- Then send it plain.
-- It is forbidden. There are valuable postcards here. Artistic production.
- Then put the return address.
- I wish to send without a return address! - said Zheka. -- And you
give me the receipt! So that no one cheats!
- This is not a private shop. This is a government agency. Nobody
your letter will not lie.
The girl in the window was offended. But Zheka could not explain to her at what cost
he got portraits of actors. You need to be sure that they won't be lost.
at the post office, they will not be given into the wrong hands.
- I saw how you handle letters! Once they substituted a bag, and
it's full of holes!
“Tell you what, young man: I have no time to argue with you!” Or write
return address, or move away from the window!
- Give me the receipt!
- Stop being a bully!
- Then give us a book of complaints!
Curious people flocked to the window. The postal girl began to call for help
your boss. Zheka took the envelope, pushed the crowd aside and went back to
reference unit.
The aluminum wings fluttered with the same zeal. They also exhibited
one saying: "UNCLAIMED MAIL IS STORED IN
COMMUNICATION ENTERPRISES OF DESTINATIONS ARE ONE MONTH FROM THE DATE OF THEIR RECEIPT"...
Zheka frowned tensely, comprehending the meaning of the answer. You won't understand it right away.
“They keep for a month,” he said. -- So what is next? Do they throw them in the trash?
The unit did not know this.
Zheka didn’t even want to call him names - after all, he’s not capable of being offended,
incubator.
Having scratched out the “registered” mark on the envelope, Zheka put the letter in the post office
box. He couldn't do more.
6
And very rarely did he sit at home alone. The circle of acquaintances of a modern
people are vast - even if you want to be bored without guests, they won’t let you do so.
But tonight was special. Pavlik's father was leaving on a business trip,
and there was a farewell procedure ahead - in a narrow family circle.
Pavlik was waiting for her and envied his father’s endurance. Still a father
amazing person. He's going to Australia, but it looks like he's going to
take a ride to the dacha. No worries, no long preparations. Called a taxi
without a reserve of time, if there is the slightest delay, he will miss the plane.
There is only half an hour left, and the father is leisurely watering the flowers on the window, knocking
fingernail over pots.
- Pelageya, spray the cacti in a week, if you don’t forget.
The message "Pelageya" appeared recently. Nothing offensive about it
No. Nowadays, pet names are out of fashion. Freedom of relationships is valued
ease, humor. And in general it is impossible to imagine that the father
lisped.
- Will you call from there? asked Pavlik.
- I'll try.
Mom said:
- It seems there is a different time zone there? It's day here and night there?
“Everything is different there,” said the father. - Here it’s summer, and there it’s winter. AND
In general, residents walk upside down.
“I hope you adapt easily,” said Mom.
She also kept up with her father and Pavlik. She knew how to joke and understand
joke from your interlocutor. She adored noisy youth groups, was fond of sports,
loved modern music.
Whatever you say, Pavlik was lucky with his parents. No discrepancies in
views and tastes.
It's fun to watch a mother compete with her father for her composure. Calmly
sits, turns a manual coffee mill. The taxi will buzz at the entrance,
the last minutes will remain, but the mother will not flinch - she will make coffee for everyone
rules. With foam.
Father and mother are the same coffee fans.
- Why do they send you abroad? asked Pavlik. - After all, quite
you don't live at home.
“They’re sending him away by inertia,” said my mother.
“Of course,” said the father. - When they sent it for the first time, then
made a mistake. And then they got used to it and gave up.
Father and mother never boasted about their career successes. Can i
was. Traveling around the world, my father managed to defend his doctoral dissertation and
become a professor. Pavlik saw what a respectful invitation was sent to him
from Australia: "To Mr. Anatoly D. Savichev, Professor. Dear
colleague! We hope that you will do us the honor of coming to the congress..."
I want to read such an invitation in a solemn voice.
Mom is also appreciated at work. I have never gone on vacation quietly: then
If they are delayed, they will postpone it until the winter - and the mother urgently sells a resort ticket, and
Pavlik is sent to the camp. It seems that without a mother everything is oil
The ministry is in a fever...
- Reveal a family secret? - asked the father. - You know, Pelageya, your
my mother refused to marry me for a long time. She had a presentiment of everything.
“It’s not difficult,” said mom.
- I was still in my third year. And I believed that, having received a diploma as an agronomist,
I'll go to work in the village. And she said: “Don’t hope! Mark my words -
You’ll spend your whole life lecturing in some Oxford!”
“I think I named the Sorbonne,” said my mother.
- In general, you listen, Pelageya, to her predictions. She
hides, but she has the gift of clairvoyance...
Mother finished grinding coffee and went to the kitchen to work magic on
stove. Her coffee is brewed on a special roaster with sand. And the process
called "black magic".
- Why are you quiet? - asked the father. - Are you sad?
“No,” said Pavlik.
- Keep your tail like a carrot.
They smiled, looking at each other.
7
a draft brought in Lisapeta the Second. The uninvited guest did not feel embarrassed.
- Oh, are you leaving, Anatoly Danilych?! - she admired.
“We need to get some air,” said the father.
- Straight, straight to Australia?!
“Welcome to Konotop,” said Pavlik. - Sit down. No dust.
Finding herself in any room, Lisapeta immediately began
examine. I saw a bookshelf - I rushed to the shelf and pulled out books,
which ones will come across; I saw a plate on the wall - I took the plate off the nail and
I eagerly looked at what was written on the bottom. This could go on forever.
Now, hovering near the door - what's new in the room? --
Lisapeta clicked the locks of her father's suitcase, sniffed the glass
ashtray, casually looked under the chair, scratched the cactus on the window with her finger.
- Did I disturb you?
“Not at all,” said my mother.
“You can talk calmly,” said the father, slowly putting on
coat. - See you later, Pelageya. Don't accompany me, don't.
He raised his hand and shook it, much like he would
Jean Gabin. Or Tikhonov playing Stirlitz.
For a moment Pavlik imagined that a
shadow like cigarette smoke. Maybe for the first time my father regretted that they were interfering
say goodbye.
But no - it just seemed like it. Father did not change himself, he went to the exit with
with a smile. Casually waving a suitcase called a "diplomat". Coat
wide open. The scarf is thrown over the shoulder. Free hand pats clamped in
fist with a glove.
- Have a nice journey, Anatoly Danilych! - Lisapeta shouted.
Pavlik heard the door slam behind his father and a minute later
a taxi snorted at the entrance.
- Well, what, Lisapeta? Shall I give you some music?
- Later, Pavlik, later! First I'll tell you something and you'll just die
out of surprise!
“I’ll die and you won’t get any music.”
-- I'm serious!
Pavlik responded to Lisapeta’s cackling, and he himself imagined how
Father's taxi rushes through the city, skipping intersections. And at the airport
The plane has already been boarded. And the race through the evening streets will be replaced by a race
above the ground, above the clouds... Soon there will be thousands between Pavlik and his father
kilometers.
“I was at the post office, Pavlik, and guess who I met there?” You
you will die: our Zheku!!
-- I died. What's next?
- He was wet as a goose! It was like swimming in clothes! And he sent these
portraits of film actors! Because of which he fought!
- Who did you send it to?
“Now you’re going to die, Pavlik!”
Lisapeta was not a bad girl, there are much worse. But when she
appeared in the room, I immediately wanted to shrink - so she fussed and
rotated. There was a feeling that Lisapeta was in several places
straightaway.
- I died, I died. Let's move on.
- Do you remember that Liza Rakitina studied in our class? Which is to the north
left? He sent portraits to this Lizka!!
-Are you lying?
- Pavlik, I saw with my own eyes: the city of Norilsk, a street, a house, and here
in such letters - E. Rakitina!.. I specifically came closer so that the address
read!
“What a tragedy,” said Pavlik. - She left, he suffers. Well,
We'll laugh in class tomorrow.
- Pavlik, that's not all! - Lisapeta said jubilantly.
-- Yes?
— Lizka Rakitina no longer lives in Norilsk! Moved again!
-- Shine! - said Pavlik.
-- And that's not it!! Zheka sends letters without a return address! They even
