- Sergey Rosedkin -
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NANOSECOND, 1995, № 2.	Prototypes The story 1 To look through newspapers I begin always with last strip. And at once — from obituaries. So has got used. Pulls for some reason first of all to learn — who from acquaintances has played a box, has given an oak, okochurilsja, has rejected the fads, skopytilsja, it was bent, has kicked the bucket, has died, opochil, has joined the majority and has ordered to me to live long. However, it I so, through force, am strained vykabluchivajus, I pretend to be before myself the cynic, thick-skinned hohmachom. Actually these surnames in black frames on last strip of "the Local life» — and especially the surnames, habitual to sight, hearing, heart — each time force me to strain, not to shudder almost, speed up my pulse and knock of the heart which have worn out already, prick a brain fear and melancholy. That here strange — age, illnesses, weariness. And black frames — modestly flat, kvadratno solid or at times even extended by a column through all page and from a photo inside — appear literally in each number of the regional newspaper. Yes not on one, and blocks on five-six pieces. And it is very frequent, it is disturbing often surnames in them acquaintances, surnames behind which in memory concrete persons at once emerge, figures, voices of the people connected with you in tens, hundreds vital threads flash. Yes-a-a, our city not Tokyo, not Rio de Janeiro and at all Moscow; not a city — the big village. Every second of passers you learn, every third you greet. And so, and this evening I as usually, I develop «the Local life», already over tea, having a rest from burdens of the grown hateful service. Here that me enrages, here that reduces my life! I am a writer. I write very much and recently often I am published, and literary earnings in our damned days — suffice unless on bread yes liquid pivko. So for butter for a sandwich and vodka for mood it is necessary gorbatitsja in institute publishing house, to edit any pseudoscientific textbooks of methodics and the dissertations which have been cooked up by illiterate senior lecturers in the majority and professors. Surprisingly ignorant people! Through all newspaper page the fat mourning framework blackens. With bad propechatannoj photos the long flabby person with a thick chin and dim tin eyes — familiar, as they say, to a pain looks. I push away a cup, I stick into lines of the obituary. «Ivan Aleksandrovich Filimonov has untimely died (All surnames, names, patronymics hereinafter, certainly, are changed.) it was crystal the fair and diligent person, the basic communist, and last years and the democrat. It put all soul in service business to the people, the Native land, parties. As the head and the fair basic democrat it brought the big mite in business of education of rising generation in the spirit of democracy and pluralism, the example private life …» set youth. The obituary — long, bitter, surprisingly false on lexicon and style. Yes-a-a, skapustilsja Ivan Aleksandrovich, companion-mister Filimonov, has died. And so suddenly, suddenly. If the mourning message tisnuli today, means, the poor fellow, at least, yesterday has died? What was it occurred-has happened to it? And the wife as to spite is not present the house — can, she heard what details? I rush to phone. Toljan Tulin, the reporter of "the Local life», already at home. What? How? When?. Roofing felt, certainly, knows all to last detalechki. It appears, Filimonov came back the day before from the mother-in-law from village on "Muscovite", there was an ice (it and now is, and more long — podi till the April — will be), here and — failure. Ivan Aleksandrovich, all know, the goer tihohodnyj, superaccurate, yes here was not saved: has brought on it "KamAZ" with the trailer. The multiton lorry has covered filimonovskuju legkovushku, as a whale sardinku. Poor Ivan Aleksandrovicha's remains got from spljusnutogo "Muscovite" by means of autogenous cutting, scrubbed away from a seat and a steering-wheel... To admit, on a back a snake — the fever, heart squeezes: death terrible. And let I disliked Ivan Aleksandrovicha Filimonova — and strong disliked! — but death I to it, especially such sudden, unexpected, at all did not wish. However, I repent, repent and repent: once I already... Has killed him, Ivan Aleksandrovicha Filimonova. Yes-yes, has killed, has killed brutally, it is ruthless: has shot from a fowling piece sawn-off shotgun. The matter is that from it, from Ivan Aleksandrovicha Filimonova, I have written off one of the nasty heroes. In that story I, against usage, very naturally, extremely authentically, to a limit am recognised have depicted in the hero of a prototype — this  I.A.Filimonova. I in accuracy have reproduced its appearance, up to a thick woman's chin, its manner to speak, many facts of its biography. I even have left to it its trade — the journalist — and absolutely hardly have changed a surname. In a word, I entirely, zhivehonkim have inserted Ivan Aleksandrovicha Filimonova into the story, have spent it on peripetias of a plot and in the ending have ruthlessly killed-has shot hands podportvejnennyh maloletok, wished to drive on it, Ivan Aleksandrovicha-to is, fie, the character of the story, the car. That thing of all month to how it pojavilas-left in the collection of my stories and stories. I know, that Ivan Aleksandrovich, having heard about the prototipstve, have already found a case the story to read, though the book washing widely is not on sale yet, to small towns of our of capital publishing house has not reached yet. However someone from those to whom I have had time to present-sign the child, has hastened to please Filimonova. Usually prototypes of villains try not to learn themselves, to keep mum in a rag. Ivan Aleksandrovich somehow at a meeting in the street has not sustained, has jumped up to me, has hissed: — SHCHelkoper! Bumagomaraka too to me it was found out! Has mocked on all light — as to me to people now in eyes to look?! I have not had time to react, tell at least: «Pshyol!» — as he zaogljadyvalsja on passers-by scaredly, has pulled a coat collar, has retired to the background. It in general recently, during our seething not clear time, has somehow drooped, has grown dull, podrasterjalsja though tried to be arranged, walk in a foot, podemokratnichat. And before o-o th what there was an eagle-Egyptian vulture. As he quickly jumped on career steps, shaking, as the admission, the party membership card as it is opened, voluptuously and remorselessly farisejstvoval... Though, that to repeat: I all it has described in the story which at last was published one month ago. It is necessary to tell, what is it a rare case in my writing, especially now — here so for certain to expose the live person in a narration. Before I only schitannye times, by a youth, not having writing experience, wrote off, copied acquaintances, copied them to the smallest hyphens, fondly believing; the pier, the naturalistichnee, fotografichnee, the more artly, zhivee leaves also the character. It I now, under an old age, have started to understand-feel: exact copying of a life of creative result hardly you will reach. No, down with receptions ocherkistov and feuilletonists! Long live divine imagination, yes the conjecture and fiction are well!. When the wife comes from job, I am direct on a threshold I ask: — You know about Filimonova? — Yes I know, I know, — it is angry waves away Bringing down. — you in pleasure, likely. The wife not in the spirit of. It in general recently chronically not in the spirit of. And who, tell, in ours shizofrenicheskie days in the spirit of? Unless businessmen hapuzhnye, shopkeepers impudent yes cranky democrats homebrew. Have fun emeli — their week. — Yes that you, tipun to you! — I sharply break. — here and so soul not on a place. — Well still! Perhaps it because of you suicide has terminated a life, can, he under the lorry has called in. I silently look seconds ten on its red small twisted kudelki, on foolishly turned by handles downwards fashion glasses with tolstennymi the glasses doing a sight constantly derisive, on its sharp pale nose. — Cease, the silly woman! — I shout. I even scream — neighbours for certain hear. — eternally mood you will spoil! I rush from a hall to the room-kletushku, with scope I bang a door. And — a wild cat's cry. This simpleton Fursik, our red kotjara, slipping after me, certainly, has forgotten a tail at doors. The wife — in shout. Or, howl, a roar. Heart — a hammer on edges. Fie you, lines! Evening job — nasmarku. And after all urgently it is necessary to finish the new story: from the same to "the Local life» called already — ask-wait for litpolosy, worry. I throw out the red knave in the general room, I rush about minutes five on the kabinetiku — three steps there, three back, — I pump up-excite myself... All! I jump out in a corridor, I get on a jacket, I suffice a cap i-for a door. And all of you have gone! I get the finance from a breast pocket of a jacket, I recalculate at dim light of a lonely lantern at an entrance — on pivko with interest will suffice. To Drink like and does not pull, but not on streets to loaf in such holodrygu, to slide and fall on March naked ice. Still rasshibeshsja to death and — vdogonochku for Ivan Aleksandrovichem Filimonovym. Br-r-r! 2 Nearby beer is found out only in "Field". This pribazarnaja a snack bar and without that is always overflowed dirty pjanju, and this evening and not to force the way at all. However, the turn to a hole in a wall from which there are full mugs, is not so great: constant clients already zatarilis, and have a drink the majority of them taken with themselves vodjaru and ink. Before closing gadjushnika even an hour — to be in time it is possible. Having defended the, I take three mugs almost absolutely bespenistogo beer, in loading — a piece zarzhavlennoj jack mackerels. I look back, I look out in a sigaretno-fusel haze for a free corner, as suddenly: — Andrjusha! To me from a corner of hands Savkin is invocatory waves. Frankly speaking to dangle-communicate during this moment of hunting it is not enough. It is necessary to me in loneliness, for pivkom with concentration to think, vykovyrjat from consciousness bowels any else not clear splinter-thought — it burns, disturbs, pricks. But how not to respond to call of the acquaintance? Our damned pseudo-intelligence, our numbed conventions stir to us directly in fiziju to annoying, importunate person to bellow: «Yes you have gone!» Crookedly having grinned a salutatory smile, I squeeze on a bench edge to Savkin. That runs from a meeting into delight, starts to mutter and splash a saliva. It is one of dompechatovskih types. Once it served in the newspaper, and having retired, continues to live in the press House — writes zametulki, makes crossword puzzles, earns additionally the proof-reader that in one, in other edition. Savkin hasty dohlebyvaet the mug and with desire directs a faded look on mine. I with a sigh move up to it a full vessel, I nod and on trupik jack mackerels: — Be treated, Semyonych. Semyonych, with greed having taken a sip of a gratuitous swill, sticks the semidecayed yellow canines into the fish remains. Hums. — Has heard, Semyonych, about filimonova? — And as! Recently still knew — on fresh. Though and sklizky there was a person, and it is a pity. Was a little, poorly. Also did not drink, the fool. And it is not without reason told: veselie the person of Russian is pitie. So here! Savkin, is felt, walks since morning, is very much felt. However, it almost always goes in the encouraged condition. — I here that wish to tell, Andrjusha, — it suddenly frowns bushy eyebrows. — you do not take offence at the old man: I as the person very much even respect you, but here your story... Yes, yes, I have already read it, had a case. You understand, I once in edition of this worked — gold denechki! And you have derided all, obsmejal, excuse the old man for a word — obkakal. You served in this newspaper, how all is possible so foully to deride? Here a reptile! My beer drinks also me rinses. The alcoholic worn-out! — Whether you see, Semyonych, I just on personal experience, as though from within and have described, in what vile, rotten atmosphere it was necessary to me to work and create, being the correspondent of that newspaper. And atmosphere mean, pharisaic and smelly in edition was created just by yours hvalenyj genosse Filimonov. What, you will tell, I it am not truthful, have not authentically represented? — Yes I of that — anything, — droop under my pressure Savkin, being mown on other full mug. — only you too have exposed it, is absolutely cruel — have directly killed him. — Ha, "has killed"! — me this inspiring fear nevznachajnoe again scratches a mot. — I have killed him not in a life — on a paper. It should, should die! According to the logic of a plot, on an action course. I could not differently. I should kill him. To-about-olzhen! And I have killed him, the villain such! Neighbours-drunks look back: who it there whom has settled-has terminated? I go out, deeply I inhale filched traktirnogo a smog, I drink off half-mugs. Semenych pulls out from the emptied glass fleshy, grey, all in a time-punctures a nose, it is mild-with captation looks at me the faded muddy eyes, but suddenly vozrazhajushche croaks: — All the same badly, Andrjusha. You here in a narration for the fun have finished off it, and it here take, and to lives to the God a soul give. In the world all vzaimostsepleno, you believe to the old man. To us it is not allowed to foresee, whether you see, how our word will respond. Unless has forgotten? In intoxicated purulent sight Semyonycha probleskivaet something strange — usmeshlivoe, multiple-valued, sober. I jump, I push away the reduced by half mug. — Finish drinking, the philosopher zadripannyj! I have gone — home it is necessary... You Stir bosh drunk! In the street metelit sleet. I pull a jacket collar on a nape, I screw in a head in shoulders, I drop a cap on eyes — skukozhivajus. Te-e-ek-with, at me still naskrebetsja tughriks on a vodka glass-one and a half. From market beer in a mouth it is nasty, the stomach discontentedly mutters. I look in restaurant, I decant at a rack a portion of any import rubbish, taste similar to castor oil, zadavlivaju a nausea a cold cutlet and I trudge home. Slightly on a shower it is easier. In a head as if linen in a washing machine, any thoughts, scraps of memoirs spin on a circle. Something persistently tries to emerge from a memory whirlpool on a surface, but breaks and breaks back in darkness. And here, already rising in the lift on the floor, I seize those prickly thought-memoirs for a tail — Pashka Bathhouse attendants! Ridiculous stunning death of my friend to the childhood of Paul Banshchikova. 3 Village in Siberia where I lived and grew in the childhood — populous, district. So know all boys of the age I could not. Here and with Pashkoj we have met for the first time on a school court yard, on a holiday «Hi, school!» And he lived already for five streets from me, on October. We have got with it to one class, bystrenko sdruzhilis-skorefanilis and all ten school years grew almost that unseparable. Though in us more roznogo was available, than the general and pulling together. I am a taciturn person, is sluggish, the thinker, liked to sit on one place, to esteem. Could read hours, greedily. Pashka — it is talkative over a measure, span juloj, to reflect was not mastak and books hated. At it and appearance any restless was: hudjushch, legs-handles — trostinochkami, boltajutsja-are loose, the light rare hedgehog fervently puffs up on a head, a nose vostrenky, grey eyes, small, round — there-here, there-here. The God knows, how we were was on friendly terms-communicated long years, practically — here the miracle — not quarrelling. As Pashka to reflect did not like, forward did not look also veins not that that one day — minute, second flowing, it and got eternally to histories, vljapyvalsja in adventures. Still when he did not drink, in the detsko-boyhood most still, he is already easily skilful to be raised, as though to become tipsy, urging on the nerves, inflaming itself(himself) on business and without any business. I remember, for example, such here a case. In a class collision with Hrulyom has occurred a pole, whether that, at us. In honour of something it on us with Pashkoj, botaja on present patsanskoj the hair dryer, has driven. Any verbal skirmish-skirmish, business has flashed on change, can, has reached and pushes under rebryshki. Under ours with Pashkoj, certainly, rebryshki. And it is necessary to tell, Hrulyov this already fairly podnadoel almost to all class. Nasty tricks priblatnennogo the messmate and its two-three spongers continually heated atmosphere at lessons and changes, called powerless tears and insults. Have given in Hrulju and we. I in general was not the fighter, the silent honours pupil, and Pashka at all it ershistosti and a spring ability at heart nevertheless was shaky and rather weak in knees. But the patience collective has burst and against tyranny Hrulja spontaneous revolt has blown up. It have tired out all kagalom — and was us, boys, in a class the person twenty — in not completed garage behind school and have surrounded with a terrible ring of avengers. Associates-on-delniki decayed Hrulja were washed off-have escaped, and it stood one against everything, having nestled on a dirty brick wall a back, that is more pale than a lime not for fear, not that from powerless rage. Its fists szhalis-were double up to posinenija, but it did not lift them to the person, was not protected. However to beat a heap of one, a way even stervozu Hrulja, was not in customs rural. In those days was not found yet, at least at us, in Siberia, present shakalskih the laws allowing seven together to beat and trample one. And here us with Pashkoj have started to urge on, inflame, push in a circle: a pier, at you the freshest insult on Hrulja, you have just obtained from it — to you and maps in hands. And well, vmazhte on steam of times to a reptile! Well, give, give, break to it sopatku that knew! Yes be not afraid, hardly that we podmognyom... The moment was created mean and shchekotnyj. I repeat: I at all did not like and was not able to wave fists. And now, having lived already considerable life, I in general have never struck other person on the person. For me the nose raskvasit is easier, probably, to itself. Here and then, twitching from tychkov and podtalkivany in a back, encouraged by hot schoolmates, I rested, refused inertly, not vozzhigal in myself a torch of a blood-thirsty revenge. I could not strike Hrulja, and knew, that it is impossible, in no event it is impossible to beat him here so, at support of crowd, defenceless, not risking from its part anything. And I eventually distinctly also have firmly declared: — I will not be. But Pashka razduharilsja seriously. It in a cock way undertook to jump up to Hrulju and at first to wave kulachonkami at that before a nose, inflaming itself(himself) hysterical vskrikami: — Ah you a reptile! I will show to you shchas! You at me blood will wash! I you shchas razudelaju, as the God a turtle! On! Pashka has swung and pripechatal Hrulju on a nose. Spectators have approvingly given a grunt. Hrul has pulled a head, has even more painfully turned white, but hands for protection and has not lifted. It has only put a finger to one nostril, to another and has beaten out on building dust scarlet jushku. Has then looked derisively at Paul. — Well, that you, give still, time such brave. Only the Bathhouse attendant, then after all you will regret... — Ah you the swine! — podkipjatil itself Pashka. — Still to threaten has taken in head! Receive! This time it has greased executed a sonorous slap in the face and has jumped aside. — Give, give to it!. On a mug turn back!. Under dyh sadani, to more feasible!. Councils thirsty blood of spectators-witnesses have set on Pashku, and it still time has stuck three Hrulja with a fist into a stomach and has kicked under a knee. But as Hrul continued is pliable to stand, painfully smiling, Pashkin the fuse has started to die away, cease, be dissolved. — Look at me, Hrul, — he has terribly warned at last, obtrjasyvaja as if after dirty job of a hand, — once again will earn — in general razudelaju. Do not come across to me more on a way! Children approvingly patted Pashku on shoulders: a pier, molodchara, the Bathhouse attendant, you are able to stand for yourself — not that that some. "Some" are, clearly, about me. Hrul has got Pashke on a way very soon — minutes through fifteen. Home to go to us with Pashkoj about half-roads was in one party. We went through the young park broken by anniversary of the Victory in the centre of village. I was silent, suppressed, the friend wash swung a portfolio and a free hand, telling-recollecting a recent feat: — Ke-e-ek I harm to it! You saw, how it was a coward at once? And chyo it is many Hrulja are afraid, it... Words have got stuck at Pashki under kadychkom — because of terry dense fur-trees has jumped out on path Hrulyov. I as has seemed because of trees Sashka Borchikov — the huge guy-eight-grader have not had time to be frightened plainly also, intimate hrulyovsky the friend. I have understood: it will be now sick. Also has prepared for blows. And Pashka, poor creature Pashka, having screamed for horror, has thrown a portfolio and has rushed zigzags in depth of park. Borchikov, it is furious oshcherivshis, has gone to my party, but Hrul, suddenly having interrupted the throw for an escaping victim, has thrown to the partner: — It do not beat! Adhere only. With what there adhere. Who it me would force to run to the aid of poor fellow Pashke if, first, that does not resist, secondly, enraged Hrul and with two us would consult one left, and thirdly, Sashka Borchikov could, without exaggeration, zashibit me on a place click. So I stood, stroking conscience, near to the guard, and we twirled by heads every which way, listened to vzvizgam and to shouts that in one, in other corner of tiny park. Hrul continually overtook Pashku and pulled out. Soon got drunk blood Hrul left on a path, has threatened me for ostrastki with a fist: «Look to me too!» — and, happy, has nodded Borchikovu: — Have gone. Pashka it has appeared is more whole, than it was possible to assume on its shouts and crying: blood from a nose bubbled, the shiner was poured under the left eye yes a jacket sleeve has burst on a seam. Pashka smeared tears on the person, mixed them with blood and what for before me it was exposed: — I still will show to it! It at me will cry!. * * * Pashka spilsja amazingly quickly. We began together. Already in the senior classes before school parties, on holidays or during fishing with nochevoj for vivacity and to spirit we were accustomed to crush a large bottle of port the person on five. To me, podrasterjavshemu by then glory of the honours pupil and getting an aura of the in a board of the guy, those binges were given hard. Damned bormotuha seemed to me is not more sweet some kerosene. I convulsively, through cannot, pushed a smelly poison into an organism, very much tried to keep there, but more often the stomach my boyish and gentle revolted, boiled and splashed out poisonous slops. Pashka in this business at once it otlichilsja-was allocated: drank a glass portvesha or vermuti valiantly, with prichmokom, zanjuhival uharski the back party of a palm and with feeling of the superiority shouted at us, ninnies juvenile, not able to drink. The matter is that ancestor Pashkin was the boozer-professional, and my friend-friend almost with detsadovskih times has started to be treated at daddy that with a beer drink, a wine thimble. So when I only rose to alcoholic tests, Pashka already it is a lot of in this business understood. After school at first zabrili Pashku — it on half a year has overtaken me aged, — and through two delays, in one and a half year, has gone to serve and I. Then the destiny has withdrawn me from darling places at first to Moscow for study, then on distribution I have got to a provincial city in the central Russia, ran to Siberia only off and on. More shortly, we saw Paul seldom. Tried first, in a youth, to correspond, but what correspondence in our dry computer century can long last? Years from twenty five Pashka it has started to be treated. But, having tried the next method — that pricks hypnosis "torpedo", — it, having held on is sensitive, broke necessarily. In our rare meetings I found its that in chronic hard drinking — eccentrical, intolerable, dirty, sick; that, on the contrary, is sterile sober — boring, grieving, nervous... * * * And so, to what I all it rassusolivaju? Once from my head popyor the story, where the protagonist — spivshijsja very much. The story was torn, vypochkovyvalsja, was born from me, all fabulnye turns were looked through, all subject flesh was already clear to me, only the shape of the protagonist did not appear in any way from an imagination fog. And here I have suddenly thought — Pashka! And at once — bright light, sharpness of a shot, ease of the letter. I have exposed in story Pashku alive. I have given to the hero appearance of the friend to the childhood to microscopic details, up to a birthmark under the left ear. I too completely also have entirely presented character Pashkin to the hero, and character it was known by me as own. On a story course its hero perished. It was drank up before, that to it any creature in the form of a dirty cat who as if has lodged in its apartment has started to be dreamt. He, my hero, that is as though Paul Banshchikov, but with other name, bethinks, tries to be treated — is filed. However eventually the sober world in its present condition does not accept the hero, and it vyhlebyvaet a vodka bottle, knowing, that from it there and then skonchaetsja-will come to an end... The story has turned out. Then — and minulo to that years five — I in Moscow was not printed yet, the book did not publish, went in young and beginning. But in regional our newspapers me already welcomed. Here and this story the editor of "Provincial messages» has seized straight off. «The dirty cat» is Literally in couple of days — so it was called — was to the world in a hot of this weekly journal. Acquaintances congratulated me on a creative success, someone from brothers-writers of the beginnings crookedly to grin at a meeting... A month later I have received the letter from mother. Among other different news she informed: «Your friend school Paul Banshchikov has died. He has drunk the whole bottle of overseas spirit« Grand piano », whether that, and has poisoned. It have found only for the fourth day, under coast, you know, there, where the farm was. It half laid in water, it is visible, wanted protrezvitsja — all vspuh and has turned black». I then, not having read up the letter, cried. It was a pity Pashku, its ridiculous transient and senseless life... And now, having remembered all it, I feel certain fear. Strange nevertheless coincidence. Pashka, as well as Filimonov, has died at once after... After... Strange, not clear coincidence! 4 The wife grumbles from a threshold supposedly again derjabnul, again prichastilsja in the middle of a week. But me not before scandals. Hardly having dumped a jacket and having thrown off boots, I hurry in the kletushku, to book racks, to my shelf. On it the first publications of my things sobirajutsja-are stored. Most of all here it is restricted the flattened newspapers, there are four magazines, three "cans" — the collective collection, steam of thin books of local publishing house and collected works ornament — the first my present, Moscow, the book pleasing an eye in the thickness and a jacket. To admit, each time as I take it in hands, in podvzdohe at me pleasantly tickles. I begin impatiently, but attentively to look through all newspapers, magazines, books, not hoping on memory. Aha, is! In magazine "Sports" I look through pages with the story "Superplayer". It is first my publication in the central edition. And still the story has been written to times ony when I went in studiozusah. Then, after the second year, I have got on practice to Sevastopol, in the city newspaper. And here there I was amazed with one guy — Volodja Petrov. It worked as the correspondent in sports department, itself — sverhsportiven, is combined as Oat-flakes, and was sluggish-is quiet to incredibility. We soshlis-have become friends with it: I admired with its force and coolness, it — my ability to find a theme and dexterously to splash out them on a paper. Once on a beach in Chersonese, in a poorly populated corner, to us has become attached kompashka smoked blatarej. I, by itself, struhnul: have surrounded us the person eight, muzzles — criminal. And Volodja, having crossed on-napoleonovski hands on a naked torso, it is lazy-is quiet has warned: — Children, I in perfection own karate. I would not like to stack you in hospital... He plainly has not finished speaking, as the nearest mutnoglazyj obormot has gasped its fist in the person. More correctly, wished to gasp, movement has made, but has punched only emptiness and has there and then lain down on hersonesskuju the hot earth, was double up and has begun to wheeze. Two more gladiators have rushed in fight, but have there and then flown away in the parties, have crashed down ozem. The others, escaping, long and fussy looked back... And here when — hardly pogodja — the semifantastic history about the superperson who has trained a body to such degree began to dawn in my imagination, that it started to live several times faster, I and have recollected Volodju Petrov. I have started to squeeze, push its powerful nature into frameworks of my story. The hero it, having solved for the sake of the beloved to earn additionally money in sports, to the full extent uses the supergift, excites itself each hockey match against the stop. As a result — heart rupture... With Volodej we from that summer more never saw, and the story has appeared in "Sports" only two years to that, having travelled preliminary on tens editions and publishing houses. * * * Having put magazine aside, I continue audit. Fortunately, live acquaintances among my characters while any more does not come across. By itself, shtrishki, separate hyphens of appearance, characters, destinies of my acquaintances I find out that in one, in other hero. I presented them at times and the presents, pravdashnimi with surnames. But basically nevertheless the people occupying the world created by me, are thought up, imagined — gomunkulusy. I already with relief take breath, as suddenly in the ledger, under a jacket, I will come across the small story «All world under a sight». My God, I have absolutely forgotten about it! And after all in this small povestushechke lives the short literary destiny the same Hrul — Boris Hrulyov. He, by the way, after school has strange become staid, has finished with blotju, after army has returned in general the person, has gone to serve in militia, married, became the father of two children. It even has made a feat: one has detained-has braided three robbers, was thus wounded. About him the regional newspaper wrote. In a word — the person has regenerated. I with it, in the arrivals home, communicated willingly — for former school insults and a trace do not remain. And I was more and more convinced: vzbrykival he in the childhood, clashed with the world — from surplus of internal force. There was for it that superpride, contempt of force for imperfection of the surrounding validity, for weakness of people, them prinizhennosti and shyness, which pripodymali it over crowd. In the story I have intended to show, how today one ordinary person means nothing and it is not necessary, as it is powerless before shizodebilnoj the validity as him at any moment I can humiliate, crush, kill, can rape his wife directly in the street in clear day, to destroy the child at it on eyes... But even during these mean times — I wished to show in the story — the person proud, the person who is not recognising with the small insect, is capable to become sudiej, the author and the executor of a sentence to the offenders, in a condition itself to punish the biped jackals who have encroached for his life, a life of its family. I have made the character of the story Boris Hrulyova. Even a name has not changed. At Boris is in product — three villains iznarhatili the wife. Having convinced, that anybody, neither the militia, nor justice, do not hurry to punish criminals, the character of the story takes business in hand. The plot turns so, that Boris begins to kill any more only bastards, personal enemies, but also others — already superfluous - people. On last page Boris it is doomed itself looks in a bottomless hole vintovochnogo barrels — in black emptiness... * * * Night I sleep badly. Yes that there! At all, it is possible to tell, I do not sleep. I turn on a folding bed, I creak on all night world damned springs. Only unyrnu in bessoznanie — nightmares. One is especially affectionate, leans again and again: Pashka, Paul Banshchikov, the friend of the childhood and adolescence, pulls the black swelled fingers to my person and speaks hoarsely failed razverstym a mouth, ominously making mischief: «Both! You — and!.» And it razdutoe, ready just about to burst the cyanotic body shivers with a terrible uterine laughter... I shudder, I twitch as from blow by a lash and I jump out from a dream in a reality. Lines! Perhaps to Valentina to get over under a blanket — everything, you look, not so it will be terrible. However, viscous enveloping apathy pulls together a body and soul. The rigid hoop squeezes-compresses heart. I understand depths of a brain: any knowledge falls upon me, it will turn all my life. It will crush me, it will crumple my destiny. Really finita?. I turn and turn, breaking continually in a precipice filled with cadaveric visions, being terrified and crying in a dream from melancholy. From malicious inescapable melancholy. 5 As soon as at the neighbour behind a wall begins bubnit radio, I shake from myself delusions, I reject a blanket, overcoming an ache and a pain in all body, I get out of bed on the wrong side. I feel: the temperature has jumped up. Only the inflammatory fever now also does not suffice me! Not having washed at all, I shake up the archive in table boxes, I am dug in old notebooks. And — it is final, the meanness law! — that necessary, a student time, the book not at all. Well there is no also all! Ah yes, it is necessary to search for the address in cuttings. Fortunately, my vanity, washing early bent for to glory all my newspaper articles, sketches, feuilletons and even tiny zametulki force me to collect and file scrupulously. I find a folder where among other my journalistic fruits of creativity cuttings from «Glory of Sevastopol» are stored also. I look through. Indeed: extensive my reporting from "arteka" have placed then a cellar on the third strip. On the back cuttings — all phones of edition. It is necessary to wait and wait still, and to wait — only for half seventh. Perhaps to scribble while the letter to Siberia?. Yes that to sense: mum has died last year (I shudder, I run mentally a chain of the heroines — is not present, thanks God, mother has avoided a prototype role!), and sister, Nadja, on my messages does not answer — integrally does not like to write letters. It is necessary to reserve negotiations. I go to wash, I have inertly breakfast, I drink slowly and is long strong-bitter tea. We do not talk to the wife almost. About what to speak, when there is no mood and it is lived-is tormented together fifteen years? It leaves on the penal servitude — in school. To nine still time a great lot. I suddenly recollect: at us tincture pepper — for colds is stored somewhere. Time most now! I without effort find a bottle among linen lots in a wardrobe and a volley vyglatyvaju almost full glass. Hardly has counterbalanced. To nine bottle of medicinal drink it is emptied on two third. I am ready to negotiations. At first I reserve Siberia (the direct communication is not present), and then I am accepted to Taurida. Te-e-ek-with, the mister the author, well cut the literary imagination, the literary knowledge of a life. There have passed so much years! If Irina Vasilevna — at it in department of culture I passed then to practice — in the newspaper for certain has already grown to zamredaktora. I heat-utaplivaju phone buttons, I try-try to break through the snow-covered-blizzed woods, fields and dales in far dank now the Crimea which has become suddenly by abroad, but only turns of short hooters shoot and shoot all my efforts. At last, when even the plainly-Japanese telephone set, apparently, just about will begin to squeal from irritation — darlings to hearing long call signs have gone: tr-r-rl-l-l!. Tr-r-rl-l-l!. Tr-r-rl-l-l!. — To Alla! Edition, — I through noise and rattle of the telephone world once hear a voice familiar to me. — Irina Vasilevna! — I shout as announced, having frightened Fursika. Is I, Andrey Nazarov! Remember me? — And as, as, Andrjusha! — I hear sincere pleasure in a voice of the former mine shefini. — You whence call? You where now?. * * * Then, in that summer, I was young, ardent, become stupid from the sea, the sun, the south, bubbling still the shy literary inspiration, raised by possibility kazhdodnevno to give vent on a paper to the rough-chaotic thoughts and the feelings, made dizzy by the first praises and editorial awards. And, certainly, I have fallen in love then with Irina Vasilevnu — vtjurilsja seriously and as to me it was thought, for a long time. It has overtaken me all for six years, was looked young, was the beautiful that refined slender beauty with what I in imagination turgenevskih allocated heroines. On birthday I have presented to it a flaring bouquet of crimson roses and after a glass «Crimean madery», remained with Irina Vasilevnoj for a minute together in department, have started to murmur something about the feelings and it turgenevskoj to beauty... But here her husband — high gallant kavtorang with a pitch forelock from under a uniform firm peak-cap — and everything was declared, the fool, has spoilt. I did not like its husband. My feelings to Irina Vasilevne have reeled and have cracked after the severe insult from its party. I have dared and have offered in the newspaper the story «Adult life». The story about love, about jealousy, about the first crushed feeling of the young little girl-studentochki. She has become pregnant and dares on terrible — the child from the hated person who has deceived it, right after births to destroy... I, as well as all beginning fiction writers, suffered terrible bashfulness, shyness and extreme legkoranimostju. And Irina Vasilevna — oh this Irina Vasilevna! — took and has grinned: a pier, Andrjusha, the story to write, it not the reporting to give out from pionerlagerja. And in female psychology, say, you nichegoshenki do not understand... Having digested this terrible click, having sated with insult, I have decided to revenge severely. I took and have copied the hand a line at line Ivan Alekseevicha Bunin's masterpiece «Easy breath». I have only changed the title to «the Pure voice», a name of the heroine and everywhere in the text instead of "cross" have entered "obelisk" and "monument", of the grammar-school girl the heroine have made the schoolgirl, and the Cossack officer, and the militian lieutenant kills her not. I expected result of experiment, but all the same it has stunned me. — Excuse, Andrjusha, — Irina Vasilevna, — but nevertheless the literature, prose — not your path has grievously expressed. And new your story is unsuccessful — will stretch, is boring, language is poor, style to hell. And to take an image class rukovoditelnitsy, the old maiden — what for it in general is necessary? Absolutely superfluous... I have shown maps. Irina Vasilevna strongly was confused, zaalela with cheeks and was inflated. However, through a week we again each other smiled, and as I did not tremble any more it other my Crimean denechki were lived by us amicably, in easy pleasant dialogue, and I even have kissed her at farewell on its soft tasty sponges, have kissed hot, seriously, painfully. * * * Now, under all laws of a human hostel, in gratitude for pink youthful love it would be necessary poobshchatsja-be talked to Irina Vasilevnoj, porassprosit about its life-byte... But me not to conventions. And the counter somewhere there, on telephone stations, without restraint rotates, winds not coupons and grivnas — roubles. I inconsiderately interrupt vorkotnju in a tube: — Irina Vasilevna, tell, Volodja Petrov still in edition? — Volodja?. Petrov?! Ah, you do not know — Volodja have died. Two years ago. — How has died? From what? — A heart attack. From a heart attack. And it is silly so: has on a bet raised redock of editorial "Volga" — and heart was broke off... Far Irina Vasilevna still speaks something, explains, smears. I am cautious, being afraid to hurt it, I attach a tube on the device and I stiffen in prostration. To think of what it would not be desirable. I nasharivaju on a table a bottle, throw back the swelled head and you-bulkivaju in myself the rests of a bitter medicine. I look for about a minute at the disturbed nervous cat and I bellow: — Well cannot, cher-r-rt poberi, it to be! Cannot! 6 Having thought suddenly, I tinkle on service: say, was unwell, it is necessary to rest in bed. The heads discontentedly sigh, but democratically bless on treatment, advise not to neglect health. Well, to receive medical treatment still I wish — pepper mixture from long storage with another's stopper obviously oslabla, has evaporated-has let out the degrees. Eh to get drunk, whether that, to disconnect and unload a poor wretch?. But — is not present! By the moment of conversation with Siberia I should be in shape: to think and remember. Only Nadja it would appear at home... Prohodjat-are stretched viscous two hours. All this infinite space of time I, tormenting heart, absorb the thickest coffee and I am engaged shagistikoj — I measure and I measure a diagonal of the big room. Fursik, feeling mine vstoporshchennost, it is not confused, as usually, underfoot — it was buried in depths of an armchair, has represented from itself a red ball and with detachment dozes. At last a trill mezhdugorodki. — Nadja, Nadja! Hallo! -Chyo happens, Andrey?! — alarmed sister cries out, in turn: telephone conversation through all country today, as a rule, tragical necessity. — Nadja! To explain there is no time — then, in the letter. Tell, Boris Hrulyov live? Borka, it in militia works, I with it studied, remember? — hrulyov? Yes you chyo? How you have learnt? It syodni buried — by our house funeral went... It is so much Wreaths, the orchestra was... — Nadja, Nadja, wait! — I shout with melancholy. — what's happened with it? From what? — So, speak, the pistol cleaned and is casual strelnul — prjam in a mouth to itself. Two days still was-suffered, yes here and has died... I sit at a table, I look stupidly at phone which has fallen asleep again and I am surprised to the calmness. I had a presentiment, I knew even before conversation with sister about Boris Hrulyova's death. About silly and premature death. Though any death is premature, if to age not minul a century or at least years ninety. But the point in terrestrial destiny of each person is put not by it, let and zalazit at a loop by a head or is shot, and at all other person — the murderer or the executioner. Terrestrial term of each of us somewhere there, in an office of heaven, is already fixed since a birth. Term — is exact; the way of leaving from a life — is casual. And at what here I? To what this improbable, wild, foolish coincidence?! These are coincidence? Or... There is a convincing legend about Pigmalione, recovered a fruit of the creative imagination. But that the creator by means of the creative imagination destroyed live people?! And why — I?. I stoop on a chair, I move-roll in a head heavy ridge thoughts, I try to reduce the ends with the beginnings, to find a support point... As suddenly the sharp rusty thought-needle sticks into a brain and muffles all incoherent round dance of thoughts — "Allergy"! To me have called from magazine «Russian bulletin» about three months ago and have informed, that my story goes at last in one of the nearest numbers. So, so, so!. What to do? The brain generator has hooted with redoubled zeal. It would be necessary to plan-think over the plan, but — there is no time. After all today — Friday, time absolutely is not present. Urgently — to stop! To detain! To remove! To forbid! I again disturb phone, have become enraged I hollow by buttons: failure! Failure! Failure! And — long hooters. Ah, lines! At them a dinner already... So, means, while — on mail. I vyskrebyvaju money from a grist and run. By telegraph I, having been out of breath, fill with jumping lines the form of the urgent telegramme: «My story« Allergy »to print I forbid all details by phone. Nazarov». And suddenly — absurd, a discomfiture: at me does not suffice to pay off for the telegramme — roubles fifteen. — The girl! For God's sake! — I am begged-am humiliated. — here my literary certificate. I — local, I here near live. I will bring these ill-fated fifteen roubles in the evening... "Girl", the madam of years of forty five, quite unexpectedly pours over soul my covered with wounds by balm. — It's nothing, that you! I know you. I in «the Local life» always-always read your stories. I and your book have bought on a tray — for four thousand. Very much it is pleasant to me... — Thanks, thanks! — I flash. — It is not necessary to pay extra anything, that you! Tell, if not a secret, and what's happened with the story "Allergy"? There is no time to explain, of course, and the sense is not present, but I to admit, for the first time I face such direct response to my writing. It is necessary on a course sochinitelstvovat: — Whether see, I took, and have invented a new variant of this story — much more, in my opinion, the best. Here also I wish to replace. The telegraph operator reverentially listens to me. I would go all the day to other time Gogol or at least Kuprin, however now to me not to an author's swagger. It is necessary to operate. But telecommunication and after a dinner is not born: anybody a tube there, in Moscow, also does not think to lift. At last, having tried all numbers and having heated to furiousness, I zakontachivaju conversation as it is found out, with the granny-cleaner. — I-i-i, milok, they nikogoshenki also are not present. One number new cherednoj have let out, here and have a rest nonche, celebrate... Means, number left! Really — in him? My God! I understand: circumstance you will not surpass — it is necessary to wait. To be jerked and jump up it is useless. I poeliku take possible myself in hands, I come back in the validity, to every day wordly cares. Fursik fingers me dissatisfied mjauchim shout, plaintively groans: a pier, you, the owner, itself do not guzzle, do not burst, but me do not forget to feed up! Having picked up ogolodavshuju zhivotinu on hands, that this ognenno-red impudent fellow adores very much, I bear him grunting from pleasure, on kitchen, I plant to begin with a spoon sgushchenki. I become suddenly terribly kind and sentimental. I look, as a cat, this our March grown thin cat with tows of a fading wool on red sides, greedy drinks up syrupy milk, and on eyes my tired run cleaning burning tears. I saw off a grain knife a weighty piece of a frozen pollack and plastic cow pechenki, I soften them under a stream of hot water and I throw out Fursu under a nose. Kastratik ours has gone crazy looks at me to steam of seconds, being afraid of a dirty trick, jumps up from voluptuousness and with rumbling sticks canines into delicacies. I, having changed clothes, continue gonoshitsja on kitchen, to invent a supper more non-standard. To arrival Bring down a refrigerator capitally raspotroshen. On a table saucers and plates are restricted: salad from fresh kapustki, morkovochki, topinambura, an onion-repki and garlic under mayonnaise, circles of sausage and small squares of fat with a marinaded horse-radish, there and then — the ripped up jar of a pate shprotnogo; and on hot — a liver with mashed potatoes under a tomato sauce... — That it you? — The wife in my sober soft eyes suspiciously looks. — that happens? — Anything especial, — it is mild I speak. — has decided here hardly to brighten up a weekend — is tasty to have supper. And, — with a smile and on business I invent, — have called today from «Russian bulletin»: my story goes. You know, how I always dreamt to appear in this magazine. By the way, they ask to arrive urgently, on Monday: imposition directly in edition to subtract — time already is not present. The idea about imposition has jumped out at random, of subconsciousness, but in time. Really, that on phone to hope. When already we are accepted to a meal. Bringing down unexpectedly osharashivaet: — Perhaps then also we will drink a little? — No! — I scaredly scream. — at me from this pepper a heartburn then. — At what here the pepper? At me dry the bottle is. We clink glasses, we drink warm sourish "Rkatsiteli", we eat-chew and on a habit we keep mum. But conditions, atmosphere somehow tickles, pushes to dialogue. Very long ago we here so in a kind way, without haste and mutual irritation not sizhivali for uzhinnym a table. — What is it Fursik asks nothing? — The wife on «the leader red-skinned» looks, is full heating humming on a radiator. — I already have overfed it. — A-a-a. Again — communication loss. Trudnyohonko at once to be adjusted on a wave each other. I furtively look on I Bring down, I consider... And that, to it ryzhinka in hair to the person. Probably, the grey hair undertook to make the way, here and is tinted. Both a cat red, and the wife... Has grown thin as! Pale... At me in comparison with it is job not job, and paradise... It is necessary to pull out it during week-end from the house, absolutely light Divine does not see... — Val, — I call softened as a butter, a voice, — I heard today by radio: on Sunday in the main cathedral the archbishop of our mayor will address. We will go? — Oh! — the wife flashes. — the truth? Have gone, certainly. In church since autumn, podi, were not, and with the mayor interestingly as there will be. — And tomorrow, — I magnanimously continue, — since morning together uborochku we will turn, and on Quay to walk and in picture gallery we will glance, somewhere coffee with cakes nalopaemsja... And? Valentina — in a trance. Target — as red days. Earlier from them only the headache remained also gurgle-boiling in a shower from infinite scandals, skandalchikov and quarrels. And we have this time a rest it is tasty, thoroughly. We walk on solar pools, we look naive Japanese cinema about the revived dinosaurs, we consider an exhibition nashenskih homebrew Brjullovyh and Maleviches. On Sunday we admire in a temple on an operetochno-doll ceremony blagoslovlenija the lord of again selected mayor of a city on a kingdom. Zaskakivaem we and on station, buy to me the ticket to Moscow. Bringing down allocates money already for a compartment — strashennaja simply the sum. And already houses counts to me in road also chubby pachechku bank notes. — Whether it is not enough, — speaks, — that... These two nights we sleep together. Even — we do not sleep … we do not sleep Almost. As if our, hot honeymoon has returned suddenly, and unexpectedly. — Andrjusha, — whispers shy and happily Bringing down, having dug by me under the mouse, — and I thought: our family is not present more... Be always such, and!. Hot children's babble of the wife overturns in me heart. Painfully. Painfully and terribly. 7 Train prikatyvaet to Moscow ranym-very early. However kiosker in a "Rospechat" box-aquarium at station already vozjukaetsja, displays-exposes the motley goods. On the most visible place — "Mr. Iks", "Sensuality", "Eros", "Certificate" and other coarse obscene pornuha. In the heart of a booth, on a back wall, find the place and normal newspapers-magazines. Among them — fresh «Russian bulletin». — Give! — I scream, having knocked impatiently in glass. — give «Russian bulletin» — the train departs. Without delivery! Mordatyj the pornoshopkeeper bends an is dissatisfied-menacing mine, but, having beheld a five-thousandth denomination-bedsheet in my hand, favourably slightly opens a shutter and throws out magazine. I, having paid for an input, find in a waiting room on the second floor an empty seat in a distant corner, I flop and more minutes five I am the magazine book in a lap, strong having pressed a palm. There are no forces to open... But — destiny you will not wait. I jerky plough up interiors of "Russian bulletin» and at once I see in a table of contents: A.Nazarov. "Allergy". The story. Pr-r-roklja-and-and! I look through journal pages with my ill-fated, my fatal product. As I dreamt, as I asked the God as I thirsted to see the surname in this magazine-king of our serious literature... And here now I am ready to squeal from powerless fury, for horror of an event: my story is printed in «Russian bulletin». It was published. My eyes slide on acquaintances to a comma, to a liked numerous dash to lines: «Victor hated it. He hated its red small twisted kudelki, it foolishly turned by handles downwards fashion glasses with tolstennymi the glasses doing a sight constantly derisive, it was hated by its sharp pale nose... ... She died hard, painfully, terribly — of a cancer of lungs. When she, choking and rattling, called him is asked waters or still that, it, having squeezed a teeth to onemenija in cheekbones, sat on kitchen and with hatred thought: «More soon! Ah, more soon!» She has died in the spring... » I rumple-crumple magazine, I bury in it the person and, not paying attention to station neighbours, vzvyvaju in a voice. I suddenly and clearly, each section of a brain and heart understand: and anybody, except Valentina, at me on all this world is not present... Nikogoshenki! How I will live now?. 8 ... Here half a year minulo already-was dragged. The wife washing, Bringing down, has died in the beginning of April — of a sharp pneumonia. Damned doctors! Even such trifling hvor cannot overcome... However, Bringing down a flu has standing transferred: as, final examinations soon, it is possible unless sredneobrazovannyh to throw the pupils-blockheads during such moment! Well and, of course, complication on lungs was threw — has burnt down in some days... And I, I here at what, and?! I begged her to be treated, with its medicines stuffed, looked after it when has fallen ill, from a spoon fed-gave to drink... I did not want, that she died. Did not want! And as she did not want. Last day, more correctly, night, has risen from the last silenok from a pillow, has clasped me for a neck istonchennoj a hand, to a pain has squeezed. — Andrey, Andrjushenka! After all only just to live have begun! I do not want now... — Calm down, — I mumbled, choking with tears, — you will not die. That you! Who dies from such trifles — for a long time the globe would become empty. — The truth? The truth? — It has cheered up hardly, looking in my exhausted eyes with shy hope. — Calm down, of course, the truth, — I, seeing in zatemnevshih pupils have squeezed out her myself and an unsteady shade-reflexion Angela Vechnosti... Half a year all these I have lain on a sofa. From job, by itself, has left: has simply ceased to go there and all — even labour has not taken away. Of money did not think, but they have fallen down: have paid in magazine for the damned story yes suddenly have started in publishing house the second circulation superoblozhechnoj books — have translated me on sberknizhku gonorary. To one — with interest. And here I laid. In the days and at the nights. Slept by fits, floundering in sticky, viscous dreams. There was once a week — to bribe meal-drink. First, from commemoration, has washed down it was strong, has hit in hard drinking, but — has fastened. On excite all pulled to finish off itself, samoubitsja. And I for something else wished to live. Though that condition in what I was, a life to name was slozhnovato. I laid in prostration. Did not wash, did not clean a teeth, had not a shave. I have pulled out phone from the socket and did not react to calls to a door. Has solved: when to crack will be accepted, having begun to worry then I will open. But anybody, is visible, seriously was not anxious. And to whom I, actually, am necessary?. Fursiku, unless. Only because of it I through force rose once again, fed an unfortunate animal, rinsed its tray. Then again with it zavalivalis-overturned on a sofa. Furs chronically slept, I — vospalenno thought. I laid and — thought, thought, reflected, trying to understand, realise the device happened, the mechanism of events. About accidents and coincidence of speech also could not be. Crystal-clear: between death of my heroes and sudden death of their prototypes — prjamejshaja communication. Leaves, I am a murderer?. But I did not know, did not know, oh, damn! I am not ill-intentioned, not deliberately, not rationally sentenced to death of this or that person in my world, in the imagined world... In what then fault washing, My God? And, it is final, being confused in these uncountable «as?», «what for?», «why?», I did not catch at the handle and a paper that habitual written way all razjat on a part, to classify, educate the analysis, to understand. I was afraid of a desk. I am firm, in the first days of the doomed lying, have solved: with literary trash, with writing it is finished once and for all. Yes after all I simply cannot write now!. However time has made the business. pokajannye thoughts, the fear, hopeless melancholy and mystical horror have started to turn over, be digested, perebrazhivat — in fury, in rage, in revolt. I was balanced approximately on the following: with such mortal cargo on heart to me not to live. Without a pen in a hand, without writing to me not to exist. Without movement, without returning to people to me not to be. So — there is nothing and to lose. Or the sir, or was gone. And — here it is correct! — I shivering or the right have a creature? If Someone has given me force and the power in writing, means, Someone and has granted this to me is right to use this force and this power? Means, I am free to solve — to be or not to be!. I admit, from all this krugoverti dangerous and attractive thoughts I slightly was unscrewed, has got under way, has gone mad. And can be, and not slightly. I have dared. Having filled with a bath kipjatkovoj waters, I otmok, was carefully washed from a multilayered dirt. Obstrig obgryzennye nails. Has destroyed a bushy beard. Has combed with a pain drooped on-hippovski hair. Has pulled pure linen on the begun to breathe body. Has drunk two cups gorchajshego coffee. Has cleaned-has wiped from a desk almost vershkovyj a dust layer. And — villages. Excited Fursik has jumped habitually to me on knees, it was extended blissful and it is forgotten partially it is tasty zaurchal. I have decided to write the story. Or the story. The protagonist should die in the end. How? From what? What plot of product?. I imagined it still vaguely, absolutely foggy. I only have defined, who will be the hero. More precisely: I saw clearly a prototype. I knew it many years, once worked with it — rubbish from mrazej. In one of the things I have mentioned him in an episode: has given two-three lines of its impudent appearance, two-three characteristic shtrishka to its vile pharisaic biography. To kill there, in that story, I it and did not think, on the contrary, he on a plot flourished and karerilsja. Now, in a life, its career has broken: it has appeared profneprigodnym, to that was caught stealing, so has departed head over heels from an overbearing armchair. But, as well as all of them from breed of unsinkable scoundrels, my future hero has found, has found to itself quite a cushy job, has emerged and continues privanivat round itself... More shortly, on this individual I have dared to make fantastic experiment, to check up the mad force. I suffered three days. I sat, hours not getting out, behind a table. Went, having chucked out a cat, from a corner in a corner, the remaral of sheets twenty papers — a demon-lez th has flattened out-szheval caps of two handles! Colour did not go. This damned full-eyed prototype shcheperilsja, rested, slipped out, did not squeeze in any way alive into story space. Instead of the live convincing hero something was drawn stilted, manekennoe, kiselnoe. And suddenly I have caught myself, have fixed: in me, in my brain pulses, other history, absolutely other hero is born, torn in an external world absolutely. I at last have heard that disturbing rumble in a shower which just about will start to clear up, be ordered, be shown in words, images, subject courses... But this plot is not necessary to me! I try to struggle with myself, to suppress-muffle torn of depths of consciousness an inflaming creative impulse or at least to turn it in the necessary, necessary, thought over channel. In vain! I am am covered by an uncontrollable shiver of impatience. I rush to a table, I suffice convulsively the handle and I start to cover promptly a paper shroud with nervous jumping lines: «To look through newspapers I begin always with last strip. And at once — from obituaries. So has got used …». I write this story about myself, about events of last year, about the late awful enlightenment. I write with great feeling, with mad inspiration, not coming off almost from a table. Poor Fursik has got furious for hunger and thirst, cries out somewhere there, in a bathroom — I have locked it that did not stir. I write-compose a sad narration about the hero-writer possessing terrible terrible gift and which prototype am I. And I already know, having begun to see clearly all course of a plot, that in the ending of my gloomy story my hero will die... I should write this story. But I do not want, I do not wish — you hear! — I do not want, that it... I am afraid! I terribly wish to live! * (I Remind: all names-surnames in the story are changed. Moreover, detailed descriptions of appearance of the hero-author and the scrupulous pathological description of its death hour are just in case reduced-are cleaned from the text. He has asked to publish me the given thing at least under my surname and with necessary changes. «Differently, — he has told, — I will go mad, I will be derailed». Where now the author and who it — I was obliged not to disclose. It, under its statement, will open in a month after the publication, not earlier. If, of course, will occur nothing...) 1994
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© Rosedkin Sergey Nikolaevich, 2001
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