Sergey Dovlatov - reserve. Sergey Dovlatov: Reserve Reserve summary

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Sergey Dovlatov - reserve. Sergey Dovlatov: Reserve Reserve summary

To my wife who was right

Published with the kind permission of Elena and Ekaterina Dovlatov

S. Dovlatov (heirs), 2001, 2012

A. Ariev, afterword, 2001

LLC "Publishing Group "Azbuka-Atticus"", 2013

Publishing house AZBUKA®

At twelve we arrived at Luga. We stopped at the station square. The girl guide changed her elevated tone to a more earthly one:

- There's a place on the left...

My neighbor sat up with interest:

- You mean the restroom?

All the way he pestered me: “A six-letter whitening product?.. An endangered artiodactyl?.. An Austrian skier?..”

Tourists came out into the light-filled square. The driver slammed the door and squatted down by the radiator.

Station... A dirty yellow building with columns, a clock, trembling neon letters discolored by the sun...

I crossed the lobby with a newsstand and massive cement trash cans. Intuitively identified the buffet.

“Through the waiter,” the barmaid said languidly. A corkscrew dangled from her sloping chest.

I sat down by the door. A minute later a waiter with huge felt sideburns appeared.

-What do you want?

“I want,” I say, “for everyone to be friendly, modest and kind.”

The waiter, satiated with the variety of life, was silent.

– I would like one hundred grams of vodka, beer and two sandwiches.

- With sausage, probably...

I took out cigarettes and lit a cigarette. My hands were shaking ugly. “I wouldn’t drop the glass...” And then two intelligent old women sat down next to me. It seems to be from our bus.

The waiter brought a decanter, a bottle and two sweets.

“The sandwiches are out,” he said with false tragedy.

I paid. He raised and immediately lowered the glass. My hands were shaking like an epileptic. The old women looked at me with disgust. I tried to smile:

- Look at me with love!

The old women shuddered and moved. I heard indistinct critical interjections.

To hell with them, I think. He grabbed the glass with both hands and drank. Then he unwrapped the candy with a rustling sound.

It became a little easier. A deceptive elation was emerging. I put the beer bottle in my pocket. Then he stood up, almost knocking over his chair. Or rather, a duralumin chair. The old women continued to look at me in fear.

I went out to the square. The park's fence was covered with warped plywood panels. The diagrams promised mountains of meat, wool, eggs and other intimate items in the near future.

The men were smoking near the bus. The women sat down noisily. The girl tour guide was eating ice cream in the shade. I stepped towards her:

- Let's get acquainted.

“Aurora,” she said, holding out her sticky hand.

“And I,” I say, “are the tanker Derbent.”

The girl was not offended.

- Everyone laughs at my name. I'm used to it... What's wrong with you? You are red!

“I assure you, it’s only outside.” Inside I am a constitutional democrat.

- No, really, are you feeling bad?

– I drink a lot... Would you like some beer?

- Why are you drinking? – she asked.

What could I answer?

“It’s a secret,” I say, “a little secret...

– Have you decided to work in the reserve?

- That's it.

– I understood right away.

– Do I look like a philologist?

– Mitrofanov saw you off. An extremely erudite Pushkin scholar. Do you know him well?

“Okay,” I say, “on the bad side...

- Like this?

– Don’t attach any importance.

– Read Gordin, Shchegolev, Tsyavlovskaya... Memoirs of Kern... And some popular brochure about the dangers of alcohol.

– You know, I read so much about the dangers of alcohol! I decided to quit... reading forever.

- It’s impossible to talk to you...

The driver looked in our direction. The tourists took their seats.

Aurora finished her ice cream and wiped her fingers.

“In the summer,” she said, “they pay quite well in the reserve.” Mitrofanov earns about two hundred rubles.

“And that’s two hundred rubles more than it’s worth.”

- And you are also evil!

“You will be angry,” I say.

The driver honked his horn twice.

“We’re going,” said Aurora.

The Lviv bus was crowded. The calico seats heated up. The yellow curtains added to the stuffy feeling.

I was leafing through Alexei Vulf's Diaries. They talked about Pushkin in a friendly, sometimes condescending manner. Here it is, proximity that is detrimental to vision. It is clear to everyone that geniuses must have acquaintances. But who will believe that his friend is a genius?!

I dozed off. Some extra information about Ryleev’s mother was indistinctly heard...

They woke me up already in Pskov. The newly plastered walls of the Kremlin were depressing. Above the central arch, the designers strengthened an ugly, Baltic-looking forged emblem. The Kremlin resembled a huge model.

In one of the outbuildings there was a local travel agency. Aurora certified some papers, and we were taken to “Gera” - the most fashionable local restaurant.

I hesitated - to add or not to add? If you add, tomorrow it will be very bad. I didn’t want to eat...

I went out onto the boulevard. The linden trees made a heavy and low noise.

I was convinced long ago that when you think about it, you immediately remember something sad. For example, the last conversation with my wife...

“Even your love for words, crazy, unhealthy, pathological love, is false.” This is just an attempt to justify the life you lead. And you lead the lifestyle of a famous writer, without having the most minimal prerequisites for this... With your vices, you need to be at least Hemingway...

– Do you really think he is a good writer? Maybe Jack London is a good writer too?

- My God! What does Jack London have to do with it?! The only boots I have are from the pawn shop... I can forgive anything. And poverty doesn’t scare me... Everything except betrayal!

- What do you mean?

- Your eternal drunkenness. Yours... I don’t even want to say... You can’t be an artist at the expense of another person... This is vile! You talk so much about nobility! And he himself is a cold, cruel, resourceful person...

– Don’t forget that I’ve been writing stories for twenty years.

– Do you want to write a great book? One in a hundred million succeeds!

- So what? Spiritually, such a failed attempt is equal to the greatest book. If you want, morally she is even higher. Because it excludes remuneration...

- These are words. Endless beautiful words... I'm tired... I have a child for whom I am responsible...

– I also have a child.

“The one you’ve been ignoring for months.” We are strangers to you...

(There is one painful moment in a conversation with a woman. You present facts, reasons, arguments. You appeal to logic and common sense. And suddenly you discover that she is disgusted by the very sound of your voice...)

“I didn’t do any harm intentionally,” I say.

I sat down on a shallow bench. He took out a pen and notepad. A minute later he wrote down:

My poems were somewhat ahead of reality. There were a hundred kilometers left to the Pushkin Mountains.

I went into a hardware store. I purchased an envelope with a picture of Magellan. I asked for some reason:

– You don’t know what Magellan has to do with it?

The seller thoughtfully replied:

- Maybe he died... Or they gave him a hero...

I pasted the stamp, sealed it, lowered it...

At six we arrived at the tourist base building. Before this there were hills, a river, a vast horizon with a jagged edge of forest. In general, the Russian landscape is without frills. Those everyday signs of him that cause an inexplicably bitter feeling.

This feeling always seemed suspicious to me. In general, the passion for inanimate objects irritates me... (I mentally opened my notebook.) There is something flawed in numismatists, philatelists, avid travelers, lovers of cacti and aquarium fish. The sleepy long-suffering of a fisherman, the fruitless, unmotivated courage of a mountain climber, the proud confidence of the owner of a royal poodle is alien to me...

They say that Jews are indifferent to nature. This is one of the reproaches addressed to the Jewish nation. Jews, they say, do not have their own nature, but they are indifferent to someone else’s. Well, maybe so. Obviously, I have an admixture of Jewish blood in me...

In short, I don’t like enthusiastic contemplators. And I don’t really trust their enthusiasm. I think love for birches triumphs at the expense of love for humans. And it develops as a surrogate for patriotism...

I agree, you pity and love a sick, paralyzed mother more keenly. However, admiring her suffering and expressing it aesthetically is baseness...

We arrived at the tourist base. Some idiot built it four kilometers from the nearest body of water. Ponds, lakes, a famous river, and the base is in the sun. True, there are rooms with showers... Occasionally - hot water...

We go to the tour desk. There's this lady sitting there, a retiree's dream. Aurora handed her the waybill. I signed and received lunch vouchers for the group. I whispered something to this curvaceous blonde, who immediately looked at me. The look contained an unyielding, cursory interest, business-like concern and slight anxiety. She even straightened up somehow. The papers rustled more sharply.

-You don’t know each other? – Aurora asked.

I came closer.

– I want to work in a nature reserve.

“We need people,” said the blonde.

There was a noticeable ellipsis at the end of this remark. That is, we need good, qualified specialists. But random people, they say, are not required...

– Do you know the exhibition? – the blonde asked and suddenly introduced herself: “Galina Aleksandrovna.”

- I've been here three times.

- This is not enough.

- Agree. So I came again...

– We need to prepare properly. Study the manual. There is still so much unexplored in Pushkin’s life... Something has changed since last year...

- In the life of Pushkin? – I was surprised.

“Excuse me,” Aurora interrupted, “tourists are waiting for me.” Good luck…

She disappeared - young, alive, full-fledged. Tomorrow I will hear her clear girlish voice in one of the rooms of the museum:

“...Think about it, comrades!.. “I loved you so sincerely, so tenderly...” Alexander Sergeevich contrasted the world of serfdom with this inspired hymn of selflessness...”

“Not in Pushkin’s life,” the blonde said irritably, “but in the museum’s exhibition.” For example, they took a portrait of Hannibal.

- Why?

- Some figure claims that this is not Hannibal. The orders, you see, do not correspond. Allegedly this is General Zakomelsky.

– Who is this really?

– And in fact – Zakomelsky.

- Why is he so black?

– He fought with the Asians, in the south. It's hot there. So he got tanned. And the colors darken over time.

– So, it’s right that they removed it?

- What difference does it make - Hannibal, Zakomelsky... Tourists want to see Hannibal. They pay money for this. What the hell do they care about Zakomelsky?! So our director hanged Hannibal... More precisely, Zakomelsky under the guise of Hannibal. And some figure didn’t like it... Excuse me, are you married?

Galina Aleksandrovna uttered this phrase suddenly and, I would say, shyly.

“Divorced,” I say, “what?”

– Our girls are interested.

– What girls?

- They are not there now. Accountant, methodologist, tour guides...

- Why are they interested in me?

- They are not by you. They are interested in everyone. We have a lot of singles here. The guys have left... Who do our girls see? Tourists? What about tourists? It’s good if they have an eight-day period. They come from Leningrad for a day. Or for three... How long will you stay?

- Until autumn. If all goes well.

-Where are you staying? Would you like me to call the hotel? We have two of them, good and bad. Which one do you prefer?

“Here,” I say, “we need to think about it.”

“A good one is more expensive,” Galya explained.

“Okay,” I said, “there’s still no money...

She immediately called somewhere. I spent a long time trying to persuade someone. Finally the issue was resolved. My name was written down somewhere.

- I'll accompany you.

It has been a long time since I have been the object of such intense female care. In the future it will manifest itself even more persistently. And it will even develop into pressure.

At first I attributed this to my diminished personality. Then I became convinced of how huge the shortage of males is in these parts. A bow-legged local tractor driver with the locks of a train station whore was surrounded by annoying, rosy-cheeked fans.

- I'm dying, beer! - he said sluggishly.

And the girls ran for beer...

Galya locked the door of the tour desk. We headed through the forest towards the village.

– Do you love Pushkin? – she asked unexpectedly.

Something trembled in me, but I answered:

– I love... “The Bronze Horseman”, prose...

- And the poems?

– I really like the later poems.

- And the early ones?

“I love the early ones too,” I gave up.

“Everything here lives and breathes Pushkin,” said Galya, “literally every twig, every blade of grass.” You just expect him to come out around the bend now... A cylinder, a lionfish, a familiar profile...

Meanwhile, Lenya Guryanov, a former university informer, came around the bend.

“Borka, you walrus horseradish,” he yelled wildly, “is that you?!”

I responded with unexpected cordiality. Another bastard took me by surprise. I always have trouble concentrating...

“I knew you would come,” Guryanov continued...

Subsequently they told me the following story. There was a drinking party here at the beginning of the season. Someone's wedding or birthday. A local state security officer was present. They started talking about me. One of our mutual friends said:

- He is in Tallinn.

They objected to him:

- No, it’s been a year since I’ve been in Leningrad.

- And I heard that in Riga at Krasilnikov’s...

More and more versions followed.

The security officer was intently eating stewed duck.

Then he raised his head and spoke briefly:

– There is information – he is going to Pushkin Mountains...

“They’re waiting for me,” Guryanov said, as if I was holding him back.

He looked at Galya:

- And you’ve gotten better. Did you put your teeth in?

His pockets bulged heavily.

- What an asshole! – Galina said unexpectedly. And a minute later: “It’s so good that Pushkin doesn’t see this.”

“Yes,” I said, “that’s not bad.”

The first floor of the Druzhba Hotel was occupied by three institutions. Grocery store, hairdresser and restaurant "Lukomorye". I think we should invite Galina for all her services. I took negligible money. One sweeping gesture threatened disaster.

I said nothing.

We approached the barrier behind which a female administrator was sitting. Galya introduced me. The woman handed over a heavy key with the number 231.

“Tomorrow, look for a room,” said Galina, “maybe in the village... It’s possible in Voronin, but it’s expensive... It’s possible in one of the nearest villages: Savkino, Gaiki...”

“Thank you,” I say, “they helped me out.”

- Well, I'm off.

The phrase ended with a subtle question mark: “Well, did I go?..”

- Should I escort you?

“I live in a microdistrict,” the girl responded mysteriously.

Then - clearly and clearly, too clearly and clearly:

– You don’t have to see him off... And don’t think that I’m like that...

She left, nodding proudly to the administrator.

I went up to the second floor and unlocked the door. The bed was neatly made. The loudspeaker made intermittent sounds. Hangers dangled from the crossbar of the open closet.

In this room, in this narrow boat, I sailed to the unknown shores of an independent bachelor's life.

I took a shower, washing away the ticklish residue of Galina’s troubles, the patina of the humid crowd of the bus, the scab of a multi-day feast.

My mood improved noticeably. The cold shower acted like a sharp shout.

I dried myself off, pulled on my gymnastics pants and lit a cigarette.

The sound of footsteps could be heard in the corridor. Music was playing somewhere. Trucks and countless mopeds rustled under the windows.

I lay down on top of the blanket and opened the gray volume of Viktor Likhonosov. Finally decided to find out what kind of village prose this is? Get yourself a guidebook of sorts...

While reading, I quietly fell asleep. Woke up at two in the morning. The pre-dawn summer twilight filled the room. It was already possible to count the ficus leaves on the window.

I decided to calmly think things over. Try to dispel the feeling of catastrophe, dead end.

Life spread around like a vast minefield. I was in the center. It was necessary to divide this field into sections and get down to business. Break the chain of dramatic circumstances. Analyze the feeling of collapse. Study each factor separately.

A man has been writing stories for twenty years. I am convinced that I took up my pen with some reason. People he trusts are ready to testify to this.

They don’t publish you, they don’t publish you. They don't accept you into their company. To your bandit gang. But is this what you dreamed about when you muttered the first lines?

Are you seeking justice? Calm down, this fruit doesn't grow here. A few shining truths were supposed to change the world for the better, but what actually happened?..

You have a dozen readers. God grant that there are even fewer of them...

You don't get paid - that's what's bad. Money means freedom, space, whims... Having money makes it so easy to endure poverty...

Learn to earn it without being a hypocrite. Go work as a loader, write at night. Mandelstam said that people will save everything they need. So write...

You have the ability for this - you might not have it. Write, create a masterpiece. Cause emotional shock in the reader. For one single living person... A task for life.

What if it doesn't work out? Well, as you said yourself, morally, a failed attempt is even nobler. If only because it is not rewarded...

Write, since you’ve already taken it, carry this load. The heavier it is, the easier...

Are you depressed by debt? Who didn't have them?! Do not worry. After all, this is the only thing that truly connects you with people...

Looking around, do you see ruins? This was to be expected. He who lives in the world of words does not get along with things.

You're jealous of anyone who calls themselves a writer. Who can pull out the ID and document this.

But what do your contemporaries write? In the writer Volin you discovered:

“...It became extremely clear to me...”

And on the same page:

“...With infinite clarity, Kim felt...”

The word is turned upside down. The contents spilled out of it. Or rather, there was no content. The words piled up intangible, like the shadow of an empty bottle...

Ah, that’s not what we’re talking about!.. How tired of your eternal tricks!..

It's impossible to live. You have to either live or write. Either a word or a deed. But your business is your word. And you hate every Business with a capital letter. There is a zone of dead space around it. Everything that interferes with business perishes there. Hopes, illusions, memories perish there. A wretched, unquestionable, unambiguous materialism reigns there...

And again - not this, not that...

What have you turned your wife into? She was simple-minded, flirtatious, and loved to have fun. You made her jealous, suspicious and nervous. Her constant phrase: “What do you mean by that?” - a monument to your resourcefulness...

Your outrages reached the point of curiosity. Do you remember how you came back around four in the morning and began to unlace your shoes? The wife woke up and moaned:

- Lord, where to go this early?!

“Really, it’s a little early, a little early,” you muttered.

And then he quickly undressed and lay down...

What can I say...

Morning. Footsteps muffled by the scarlet carpet. Sudden intermittent muttering from the loudspeaker. The splash of water behind the wall. Trucks under the windows. Unexpected distant cry of a rooster...

As a child, summer was sounded by the sounds of steam locomotives. Suburban dachas... The smell of station burning and heated sand... Table tennis under the branches... The tight and ringing sound of the ball... Dancing on the veranda (your older brother entrusted you with starting the gramophone)... Gleb Romanov... Ruzhena Sikora... “This song for two soldi, for two pennies... ", "I dreamed of you in Bucharest in reality...”

A sun-scorched beach... Hard sedge... Long underpants and traces of elastic bands on the calves... Sand packed into sandals...

There was a knock on the door:

- On the phone!

“This is a misunderstanding,” I say.

– Are you Alikhanov?

I was taken to the sister-hostess's room. I picked up the phone.

- You slept? – Galina asked.

I objected heatedly.

I have long noticed that people react to this question with excessive vehemence. Ask the person a question: “Do you have binges?” - and the person will calmly answer - no. Or maybe he will willingly agree. But the question “Did you sleep?” most experience it almost as an insult. Like an attempt to convict a person of crime...

– I agreed on the room.

- Well, thank you.

- In the village of Sosnovo. Five minutes from the camp site. Separate entrance.

- This is the main thing.

- The owner really drinks...

- Another trump card.

– Remember the last name – Sorokin. Mikhail Ivanovich... You will go through the camp site along the ravine. From the mountain you can already see the village. The fourth house... Or maybe the fifth. Yes you will find it. There's a landfill nearby...

- Thank you, honey.

The tone changed abruptly:

- How sweet am I to you?! Oh, I’m dying... Darling... Please tell me... I found my dear...

Later, I was more than once amazed at Galina’s instant transformations. Lively participation, cordiality and simplicity were replaced by loud intonations of offended chastity. Normal speech - in a shrill provincial dialect...

– And don’t think anything like that!

- Never like this. And once again - thank you...

I went to the camp site. This time it was crowded. There were colorful cars standing around. Tourists in resort caps wandered around in groups and alone. There was a line at the newsstand. From the open windows of the dining room came the clink of dishes and the squealing of metal stools. Several well-fed mongrels frolicked here.

At every step I saw images of Pushkin. Even near the mysterious brick booth with the sign “Flammable!” The similarity ended with the sideburns. Their sizes varied arbitrarily. I have long noticed: our artists have favorite objects where there is no limit to scope and inspiration. This is, first of all, the beard of Karl Marx and the forehead of Ilyich...

The loudspeaker was turned on at full power:

- Attention! This is the radio station of the Pushkinogorsk tourist base speaking. We announce the order of the day for today...

I went to the tour desk. Galina was besieged by tourists. She waved her hand for me to wait.

I took the brochure “The Pearl of Crimea” from the shelf. I took out cigarettes.

The guides, having received some papers, left. Tourists ran after them to the buses. Several "wild" families were eager to join the groups. They were handled by a tall, thin girl.

A man in a Tyrolean hat approached me shyly:

- Excuse me, can I ask a question?

- I'm hearing you.

- Was this given?

- That is?

- I ask, was this given? “The Tyrolean took me to the open window.

- In what sense?

- In direct. I would like to know if this was given or not? If you don't give it, say so.

- I don't understand.

The man blushed slightly and began to hastily explain:

– I had a postcard... I am a philocartist...

- Philocartist. I collect postcards... Philos - love, cartos...

– I have a color postcard – “Pskov distances”. And so I ended up here. I want to ask - was this given?

“In general, they did,” I say.

– Typically Pskov?

- Not without it.

The man walked away, beaming...

Rush hour has passed. The bureau is empty.

“Every summer the influx of tourists increases,” Galina explained.

– The prophecy has been fulfilled: “The sacred path will not be overgrown!” Distorted quote. Pushkin has a “folk path”.

It won't overgrow, I think. Where can she, poor thing, get overgrown? It has long been trampled by squadrons of tourists...

“It’s a terrible mess here in the morning,” said Galina.

I was again amazed at the unexpected variety of her vocabulary.

Galya introduced me to the bureau instructor, Lyudmila. I will secretly admire her smooth legs until the end of the season. Luda behaved smoothly and affably. This was explained by the presence of a groom. She was not disfigured by the constant readiness for indignant rebuff. While the groom was in prison...

Then an ugly woman of about thirty appeared - a methodologist. Her name was Marianna Petrovna. Marianna had a neglected face without defects and an imperceptibly bad figure.

I explained the purpose of my visit. Smiling skeptically, she invited me into a separate office.

– Do you love Pushkin?

I felt a dull irritation.

So, I think, it won’t take long to fall out of love.

– Can I ask – for what?

I caught myself with an ironic look. Obviously, love for Pushkin was the most popular currency here. What if, they say, I’m a counterfeiter...

- So how? - I ask.

– Why do you love Pushkin?

“Let’s,” I couldn’t stand it, “let’s stop this idiotic exam.” I graduated from high school. Then - university. (Here I exaggerated a little. I was kicked out of the third year.) I read something. In general, I understand... And I only pretend to be a tour guide...

Luckily, my harsh tone went unnoticed. As I later became convinced, elementary rudeness came off easier here than imaginary aplomb...

- And still? – Marianna was waiting for an answer. Moreover, the answer that she knew in advance.

“Okay,” I say, “I’ll try... Well, listen.” Pushkin is our belated Renaissance. As for Weimar - Goethe. They took upon themselves what the West adopted in the 15th–17th centuries. Pushkin found expression of social motives in the form of tragedy characteristic of the Renaissance. He and Goethe lived, as it were, in several eras. “Werther” is a tribute to sentimentalism. “Prisoner of the Caucasus” is a typically Byronic piece. But “Faust,” let’s say, is already the Elizabethans. And “Little Tragedies” naturally continues one of the Renaissance genres. The same is true of Pushkin’s lyrics. And if it is bitter, then not in the spirit of Byron, but in the spirit, it seems to me, of Shakespeare’s sonnets... Am I expressing it in an accessible way?

– What does Goethe have to do with it? – asked Marianne. – And what does the Renaissance have to do with it?

- Nothing to do with it! – I was completely furious. - Goethe has absolutely nothing to do with it! And Don Quixote's horse was called Renaissance. Which also has nothing to do with it! And I obviously have nothing to do with it!..

“Calm down,” whispered Marianna, “how nervous you are... I just asked: “Why do you love Pushkin?”

– Loving in public is bestiality! – I yelled. – There is a special term in sexopathology...

With a trembling hand, she handed me a glass of water. I pushed it away.

-Have you ever loved anyone? Some day?!.

Shouldn't have said that. Now she will burst into tears and shout:

“I’m thirty-four years old, and I’m a lonely girl!..”

– Pushkin is our pride! – she said. – This is not only a great poet, but also a great citizen...

Apparently, this was a deliberately ready answer to her stupid question.

That's all, I think?

- Read the manual. And here is a list of books. They are available in the reading room. And report to Galina Alexandrovna that the interview was successful...

I felt embarrassed.

“Thank you,” I say, “I’m sorry I was intemperate.”

I folded the manual and put it in my pocket.

- Be careful, we only have three copies.

I pulled out the manual and tried to smooth it out.

– You asked about love.

- No, you asked about love... As far as I understand, you are interested in whether I am married? So, I’m married!

“You have deprived me of my last hope,” I said, leaving.

In the corridor, Galina introduced me to the guide Natella. Again - an unexpected flash of interest:

– Will you work for us?

- I'll try.

– Do you have any cigarettes?

We went out onto the porch.

Natella came from Moscow, driven by romantic, or rather adventurous, goals. She is a physics engineer by training and works as a school teacher. I decided to spend a three-month vacation here. She regrets that she came. There is a crowd in the reserve. The guides and methodologists are crazy. Tourists are pigs and ignoramuses. Everyone loves Pushkin. And my love for Pushkin. And love for your love. The only decent person is Markov...

-Who is Markov?

- Photographer. A complete drunkard. I will introduce you. He taught me to drink Agdam. This is something fantastic! He will teach you too...

- Thank you very much. But I’m afraid that in this matter I myself am a professor.

- Let's give in somehow! Right in the bosom...

- Agreed.

- And you are a dangerous person.

- That is?

– I felt it immediately. You are a terribly dangerous person.

- Drunk?

- That's not what I'm talking about.

- Didn't understand.

“Loving someone like you is dangerous.”

And Natella almost painfully pushed me with her knee...

God, I think everyone here is crazy. Even those who consider everyone else abnormal...

“Drink Agdam,” I say, “and calm down.” I want to relax and work. I don’t imagine any danger to you...

“We’ll see about that,” Natella laughed hysterically.

Then she flirtatiously waved a canvas bag with a picture of James Bond and walked away.

I headed to Sosnovo. The road stretched to the top of the hill, skirting a dismal field. Boulders darkened in shapeless piles along its edges. To the left was a ravine overgrown with bushes. Going down the mountain, I saw several huts surrounded by birch trees. Monochromatic cows wandered off to the side, flat as theatrical scenery. Dirty sheep with decadent faces languidly browsed the grass. Jackdaws flew over the rooftops.

I walked through the village, hoping to meet someone. The unpainted gray houses looked shabby. The stakes of the rickety fences were topped with clay vessels. Chickens scurried around in pens covered with plastic. Chickens performed a nervous cartoon gait. The shaggy, squat dogs yelped loudly.

I crossed the village and returned. He paused near one of the houses. The door slammed and a man in a washed-out railroad tunic appeared on the porch.

I asked how to find Sorokin.

“My name is Tolik,” he said.

I introduced myself and explained once again that I needed Sorokin.

-Where does he live? – asked Tolik.

- In the village of Sosnovo.

- So this is Sosnovo.

- I know. How can I find him?

- Timokhu, or what, Sorokina?

- His name is Michal Ivanovich.

– Timokha died a year ago. I froze and succumbed...

- I would like to find Sorokin.

- Apparently, he didn’t give in enough. Otherwise he would have survived...

- I would like Sorokina...

- Not Mishka by any chance?

- His name is Michal Ivanovich.

- So this is Mishka. Dolihi son-in-law. Do you know Dolikha, tied crookedly?

- I'm a newcomer.

- Not from Opochka?

- From Leningrad.

- Oh, I know, I heard...

- So how can we find Michal Ivanovich?

- A bear?

- That's it.

Tolik openly and busily urinated from the porch. Then he opened the door and commanded:

- Ale! Goofy Ivanovich! They came to you.

- From the police, for alimony...

Immediately a crimson mug poked out, generously decorated with blue eyes:

- This is... Who?.. Are you talking about a gun?

- I was told that you have a room for rent.

Michal Ivanovich's face showed extreme confusion. Subsequently, I became convinced that this was his usual reaction to any, even the most harmless statement.

– A room?.. This... Why?

– I work in a nature reserve. I want to rent a room. Temporarily. Until autumn. Do you have an extra room?

- The house is matkin. Registered under his mother's name. And the uterus is in Pskov. Her legs are swollen...

– So you don’t rent out a room?

– Last year Jews lived. I won’t say anything bad, they are cultured people... No polish, no cologne... But only white, red and beer... Personally, I respect Jews.

“They crucified Christ,” Tolik intervened.

- That’s when it happened! - shouted Michal Ivanovich. - This was before the revolution...

“A room,” I say, “are you renting or not?”

“See the man out,” Tolik ordered, buttoning his fly.

The three of us walked along a village street. An aunt in a man's jacket with the Order of the Red Star on her lapel stood by the hedge.

- Zin, lend me a fiver! - shouted Michal Ivanovich.

The aunt waved it off:

- You'll get drunk from the wine... Did you hear that a decree was issued? Hang all the drunks on a rope!..

- Where?! – Michal Ivanovich burst out laughing. - There won't be enough iron. Khan will come to our entire metallurgy...

- That's an old whore. You will ask me for more firewood... I work in the forestry - a friend!

- Who? – I didn’t understand.

- I have a chainsaw... “Friendship”... A dick - and a gold piece in my pocket.

“Friendly,” the aunt grumbled, “you’re friends with wine... Don’t get drunk to death...

“It’s difficult,” Michal Ivanovich even seemed to complain.

He was a broad-shouldered, stately man. Even torn, dirty clothes could not truly disfigure him. A brown face, thin powerful collarbones under an open shirt, an elastic, clear step... I involuntarily admired him...

Michal Ivanovich's house made a terrible impression. A lopsided antenna was black against the background of the clouds. The roof had caved in in places, exposing uneven dark beams. The walls were casually covered with plywood. Cracked windows are covered with newsprint. Dirty tow stuck out from countless cracks.

The owner's room smelled of sour food. Above the table I saw a color portrait of Mao from Little Light. Gagarin smiled broadly nearby. Pasta was floating in a sink with black circles of chipped enamel. The walkers were standing. The iron, which replaced the weight, touched the floor.

Two heraldic-looking cats - jet-black and pinkish-white - coyly walked around the table, skirting the plates. The owner scared them away with a felt boot he had turned up. The fragments clanked. The cats flew into a dark corner with a mad roar.

The next room looked even uglier. The middle of the ceiling hung menacingly. Two metal beds were littered with rags and stinking sheepskins. There were white cigarette butts and eggshells everywhere.

Frankly speaking, I was a little confused. To be honest: “This doesn’t suit me...” But obviously, I’m still an intellectual. And I said something lyrical:

– Do the windows face south?

“To the very, very south,” Tolik assented.

Outside the window I saw a dilapidated bathhouse.

“The main thing,” I said, “is a separate entrance.”

“The passage is separate,” agreed Michal Ivanovich, “only boarded up.”

“Oh,” I say, “it’s a pity.”

“Ein moment,” said the owner, ran up and kicked the door.

- How much to pay?

- Not at all.

- So how? - I ask.

- And like this. Carry six bottles of poison, and the square is yours.

– Is it possible to agree more specifically? Let's say twenty rubles suits you?

The owner thought:

- How much will it be?

- I told you - twenty rubles.

– What if we translate it into kir? Four rupees each?

– Nineteen bottles of “Rosé Strong.” Belomora pack. “Two boxes of matches,” Tolik said.

“And two rubles - lifting,” Michal Ivanovich clarified.

I took out the money.

– Would you like to look at the toilet?

“Later,” I say. - So, we agreed? Where do you leave the key?

“There is no key,” said Michal Ivanovich, “it’s lost.” Don't leave, we'll run away.

- I have business at the camp site. Next time…

- As you know. I'll go to the camp site in the evening. We need to give Lizka an asshole.

-Who is this, Lizka? - I ask.

- My grandmother. I mean, wife. She works as a sister-hostess at a camp site. We separated from her.

- So what, are you going to beat her?

– To whom?.. It’s not enough to hang her, but I don’t want to get involved. They wanted to take the gun away from me, as if I was threatening to shoot her... I thought you were talking about the gun...

“I feel sorry for her cartridges,” Tolik intervened.

“Don’t talk,” agreed Michal Ivanovich, “I’ll strangle her with my hands if necessary... In winter I meet her, this and that, in an amicable way... She shouts: “Oh, Mishenka, I won’t, oh, let me go...” Major Jafarov calls and speaks:

"Your last name?"

"Mare's cunt..."

They gave me fifteen days, without smoking, without anything... And they are insulting us?.. Sitting is not working... Lizka wrote a paper to the prosecutor, saying, put her in prison, otherwise she will kill her... Why kill her?..

The friends headed to the neighborhood, cheerful, repulsive and warlike, like weeds...

And I sat in the library until closing.

It took three days to prepare the excursion. Galina introduced me to two of the best, from her point of view, guides. I walked around the reserve with them, listening and writing something down.

The reserve consisted of three memorial sites. House and estate of the Pushkins in Mikhailovskoye. Trigorskoye, where the poet’s friends lived and where he visited almost every day. And finally, a monastery with the family burial place of the Pushkins-Hannibals.

The excursion to Mikhailovsky consisted of several sections. History of the estate. Second link of the poet. Arina Rodionovna. The Pushkin family. Friends who visited the poet in exile. December performance. And - an office, with a quick overview of Pushkin’s work.

I found the museum curator and introduced myself to her. Victoria Albertovna could have been forty years old. Long skirt with flounces, bleached curls, intaglio, umbrella – a pretentious picture by Benoit. This style of the dying provincial nobility was clearly and deliberately cultivated here. In each of the local scientists his characteristic feature manifested itself. Someone was pulling a fantastically sized gypsy shawl over his chest. Someone had an ornate straw hat dangling over their shoulders. Someone got a ridiculous feather fan.

Victoria Albertovna talked to me, smiling incredulously. I have already started to get used to this. All the servants of Pushkin's cult were surprisingly jealous. Pushkin was their collective property, their adored lover, their tenderly cherished child. Any encroachment on this personal shrine irritated them. They were in a hurry to convince themselves of my ignorance, cynicism and greed.

-Why did you come? – asked the keeper.

“For a long ruble,” I say.

Victoria Albertovna almost fainted.

- Sorry, I was joking.

– Jokes are absolutely inappropriate here.

- Agree. May I ask one question? Which museum exhibits are authentic?

– Is it important?

- I think so. After all, a museum is not a theater.

- Everything here is genuine. The river, hills, trees are the same age as Pushkin. His interlocutors and friends. All the amazing nature of these places...

“We’re talking about museum exhibits,” I interrupted, “most of them are commented on evasively in the manual:

“The dishes discovered on the territory of the estate...”

- What exactly are you interested in? What would you like to see?

- Well, personal belongings... If there are any...

– Who do you address your complaints to?

– What kind of complaints can there be?! And even more so - to you! I just asked...

– Pushkin’s personal belongings?.. The museum was created decades after his death...

“That’s how it always works out,” I say. First they kill a person, and then they start looking for his personal belongings. So it was with Dostoevsky, with Yesenin... So it will be with Pasternak. When they come to their senses, they will start looking for Solzhenitsyn’s personal belongings...

“But we are recreating the color, the atmosphere,” said the keeper.

- It's clear. Is the bookcase real?

- At least - from that era.

– And the portrait of Byron?

“The real one,” Victoria Albertovna was delighted, “given to the Wulfs... There is an inscription there... How picky you are, however.” Personal things, personal things... But in my opinion, this is an unhealthy interest...

I felt like a burglar caught in someone else's apartment.

“What is a museum,” I say, “without this?” Without unhealthy interest? There is only healthy interest in ham...

– Isn’t nature enough for you? Is it not enough for you that he roamed these slopes? I swam in this river. I admired this marvelous panorama...

Well, why do I think I pestered her?

“I see,” I say, “thank you, Vika.”

Suddenly she bent down. I picked some kind of cereal. It hit me in the face. She laughed briefly nervously and walked away, lifting her ruffled maxi skirt.

I joined the group heading to Trigorskoye.

I unexpectedly liked the guardians of the estate - a married couple. Being married, they could afford the luxury of good nature. Polina Fedorovna seemed imperious, energetic and a little self-confident. Kolya looked like an embarrassed lump and stayed in the background.

Trigorskoe lay on the outskirts. The management rarely came here. The exhibition was structured logically and beautifully. Young Pushkin, sweet young ladies in love, an atmosphere of graceful summer flirtation...

I walked around the park. Then he went down to the river. Overturned trees were green in it. Light clouds floated by.

I wanted to go for a swim, but then a regular bus arrived.

I went to the Svyatogorsk Monastery. Old women sold flowers at the gate. I bought some tulips and went up to the grave. Tourists took pictures near the fence. Their smiling faces seemed disgusting to me. Two losers with easels sat nearby.

I put down the flowers and left. We should have seen the exhibition of the Assumption Cathedral. There was an echo in the cool stone niches. Pigeons were dozing under the arches. The temple was real, squat and graceful. In the corner of the central hall a broken bell gleamed dimly. One of the tourists loudly knocked on it with a key...

In the southern aisle I saw Bruni's famous drawing. There was also a white death mask here. Two huge paintings depicted the secret abduction and funeral. Alexander Turgenev looked like a lady...

A group of tourists approached. I headed towards the exit. Then came:

– The history of culture does not know an event equal in tragedy... Autocracy by the hand of a high-society skoda...

So, I settled with Michal Ivanovich. He drank continuously. To the point of amazement, paralysis and delirium. Moreover, he raved exclusively with obscenities. And he swore with the same feeling with which older, intelligent people hum in a low voice. That is, for oneself, without counting on approval or protest.

Sergey Dovlatov

Reserve

To my wife who was right

Sergey Dovlatov

Reserve

At twelve we arrived at Luga. We stopped at the station square. The girl guide changed her elevated tone to a more earthly one:

There's a place on the left...

My neighbor sat up with interest:

You mean the restroom?

All the way he pestered me: “A six-letter whitening product?.. An endangered artiodactyl?.. An Austrian skier?..”

Tourists came out into the light-filled square. The driver slammed the door and squatted down by the radiator.

Station... A dirty yellow building with columns, a clock, trembling neon letters discolored by the sun...

I crossed the lobby with a newsstand and massive cement trash cans. Intuitively identified the buffet.

“Through the waiter,” the barmaid said languidly. A corkscrew dangled from her sloping chest.

I sat down by the door. A minute later a waiter with huge felt sideburns appeared.

What do you want?

“I want,” I say, “for everyone to be friendly, modest and kind.”

The waiter, satiated with the variety of life, was silent.

I want one hundred grams of vodka, beer and two sandwiches.

With sausage, probably...

I took out cigarettes and lit a cigarette. My hands were shaking ugly. “I wouldn’t drop the glass...” And then two intelligent old women sat down next to me. It seems to be from our bus.

The waiter brought a decanter, a bottle and two sweets.

“We’ve run out of sandwiches,” he said with false tragedy.

I paid. He raised and immediately lowered the glass. My hands were shaking like an epileptic. The old women looked at me with disgust. I tried to smile:

Look at me with love!

The old women shuddered and moved. I heard indistinct critical interjections.

To hell with them, I think. He grabbed the glass with both hands and drank. Then he unwrapped the candy with a rustling sound.

I went out to the square. The park's fence was covered with warped plywood panels. The diagrams promised mountains of meat, wool, eggs and other intimate items in the near future.

The men were smoking near the bus. The women sat down noisily. The girl tour guide was eating ice cream in the shade. I stepped towards her:

Let's get acquainted.

Aurora,” she said, holding out her sticky hand.

And I, I say, am the tanker Derbent.

The girl was not offended.

Everyone laughs at my name. I'm used to it... What's wrong with you? You are red!

I assure you, this is only on the outside. Inside I am a constitutional democrat.

No, really, are you feeling bad?

I drink a lot... Would you like some beer?

Why are you drinking? - she asked.

What could I answer?

This is a secret, I say, a little secret...

Have you decided to work in a nature reserve?

That's it.

I understood right away.

Do I look like a philologist?

Mitrofanov saw you off. An extremely erudite Pushkin scholar. Do you know him well?

Okay, I say, on the bad side...

Like this?

Don't attach any importance.

Read Gordin, Shchegolev, Tsyavlovskaya... Memoirs of Kern... And some popular brochure about the dangers of alcohol.

You know, I read so much about the dangers of alcohol! I decided to quit... reading forever.

It's impossible to talk to you...

The driver looked in our direction. The tourists took their seats.

Aurora finished her ice cream and wiped her fingers.

In the summer, she said, the reserve pays quite well. Mitrofanov earns about two hundred rubles.

And this is two hundred rubles more than it costs.

And you are also evil!

You will be angry, I say.

The driver honked his horn twice.

“Let’s go,” said Aurora.

The Lviv bus was crowded. The calico seats heated up. The yellow curtains added to the stuffy feeling.

I dozed off. Some extra information about Ryleev’s mother was indistinctly heard...

In one of the outbuildings there was a local travel agency. Aurora certified some papers, and we were taken to “Gera” - the most fashionable local restaurant.

I hesitated - to add or not to add? If you add, tomorrow it will be very bad. I didn’t want to eat...

I went out onto the boulevard. The linden trees made a heavy and low noise.

I was convinced long ago that when you think about it, you immediately remember something sad. For example, the last conversation with my wife...

Even your love for words, crazy, unhealthy, pathological love, is false. This is just an attempt to justify the life you lead. And you lead the lifestyle of a famous writer, without having the most minimal prerequisites for this... With your vices, you need to be at least Hemingway...

Do you really think he's a good writer? Maybe Jack London is a good writer too?

My God! What does Jack London have to do with it?! The only boots I have are from the pawn shop... I can forgive anything. And poverty doesn’t scare me... Everything except betrayal!

What do you mean?

Your eternal drunkenness. Yours... I don’t even want to say... You can’t be an artist at the expense of another person... This is vile! You talk so much about nobility! And he himself is a cold, cruel, resourceful person...

Don't forget that I've been writing stories for twenty years.

Do you want to write a great book? One in a hundred million succeeds!

So what? Spiritually, such a failed attempt is equal to the greatest book. If you want, morally she is even higher. Because it excludes remuneration...

These are words. Endless beautiful words... I'm tired... I have a child for whom I am responsible...

I also have a child.

The one you've been ignoring for months. We are strangers to you...

“I didn’t do any harm intentionally,” I say...

I sat down on a shallow bench. He took out a pen and notepad. A minute later he wrote down:

My poems were somewhat ahead of reality. There were a hundred kilometers left to the Pushkin Mountains.

I went into a hardware store. I purchased an envelope with a picture of Magellan. I asked for some reason:

You don't know what Magellan has to do with it?

The seller thoughtfully replied:

Maybe he died... Or they gave him a hero...

I pasted the stamp, sealed it, lowered it...

I agree, you pity and love a sick, paralyzed mother more keenly. However, admiring her suffering and expressing it aesthetically is baseness...

To my wife who was right

Published with the kind permission of Elena and Ekaterina Dovlatov