Navalyayev. Non fictional stories

– – We leave.

– Briefly Gretchen, thinking about something Navalyaevu. The automatic doors disappeared with an unpleasant clank. He gently gave her hand, watching the woman overcome the space between the trolley bus and the pavement.

– "And how old are you, Callistrat Ippolitovich?"

– With the experience of the taiga hunter, a well-aimed shot was fired directly at the bull's eye, a spacious, half-empty sheet, biographical data, a junior accountant. Such a question could surprise anyone, just not Navalyayev, who seemed uncomprehending what relation to those who live on the earth can be of age.

– "Thirty-five, it will be in the autumn."

– "Oh, you're still young."

With inexplicable sadness she held out.

– And you?

Greta smiled as if she were talking to a neighbor's child, whom her mother asked to take away from the kindergarten.

"Let's just say I'm older than you." It suits you?

– Of course, I do not really care how old you are. After all, happiness excludes old age. He who retains the ability to see the beautiful, does not age.

– Do you think?

– Yes, I rather not, but Franz Kafka.

Smiling, Gretchen shook her head. They crossed the road and Navalyaev's gaze slid through the ranks of the Khrushchev's that were heading toward the city cemetery.

"I've never been here, do you have an apartment here?"

– No. I, alas, do not have an apartment in Kiev. We rent a room on Blucher Street.

"Gebhart Liebrecht, the one who participated in Waterloo?"

"No, Vassily Konstantinovich, the marshal of the Soviet Union who was martyred in Lefortovo, to the word of his grandfather, the landlord gave the nickname Blyukher, in honor of the Prussian general you mentioned, which later developed into a surname, so that the connection still exists.

"What room?"

– Yes, the komorka, the owner of which is a lonely old man, almost lying, letting me in with two children, just because I promised him to leave. After all, I have two sons, the senior finishes the 10th grade, and the youngest, the 7th, I worked in Sovetsk, too, in school, a history teacher.

– Fine, I love children, and even old people, like Stirlitz, remember?

With annoyance and affection, Gretchen glanced over the baggy silhouette of Navalyaev.

Passing by a pair of young people embraced, and in short intervals between kisses, about something trying to talk, Gretchen took a deep breath.

"I envy the young, I'm so sorry that life went by."

– Are you jealous?

Navalyayev, amazed, tried to dispel Greta's regrets.

"Eternal youth is impossible, if not for another obstacle, self-observation would make it impossible."

– Do you think?

– It's Kafka again.

"Well, what do you think?"

Nervously grabbing a shabby briefcase, he solemnly, like a poem for the New Year, said:

"Do not you know what awaits them?" Have you not experienced all the vicissitudes of fate, and you want to once again plunge into this cycle of passions, falsehood and betrayal. Do not you have enough of those tests that fell to your lot, and you want to double them? Did you not enjoy and suffer the things that the Lord measured out to you?

The woman stopped, looking in amazement at Navalyaev.

– Callistrat Ippolitovich, where in you is it?! What kind of thoughts, where did you dig them? It's not like you at all!

Navalyaev blushed to the tips of his ears, looked down, hiding a stupid smile.

– You are right, an amazing Gretchen, I read it in a book and learned the passage by heart, so that when the right moment comes, impress the woman.

He still did not dare look at her.

"Oh, Kallistrat Ippolitovich, how strange you are. Well, even if everything, as you say, why did you tell me this, because you have destroyed the favorable impression of the dialogue with your own hands? Are women behaving this way?

"But my mother says that we must always tell the truth."

Parting with Greta Adolfovna, for some reason depressing effect on Navalyaeva. He was sad all the way, not understanding what could have offended this beautiful woman. The way home seemed much shorter to him than a voyage to distant and unknown Nivki. Having reached Shevchenko Boulevard, he walked around the Vladimir Cathedral several dozen times before heading to the dark avenue of the Botanical Garden. Having descended the street of Leo Tolstoy, he, in thoughtfulness, stumbled upon a low wooden fence of the playground separating the territory of the Kindergarten from the sidewalk.

"Hey, Vovan, is that you?"

A voice came from the darkness.

"No, it's not Vovan who forgives, you seem to have made a name."

With calling and from this piercing eyes politeness, Navalyaev answered in a low voice. Out of the impenetrable darkness of the Children's Complex, a figure of a tall man emerged, with disheveled hair, evidently resentful, thrown by a challenge, and glaring politeness.

– And you are such?!

– I, let me introduce myself, Navalyaev, Callistrat Ippolitovich.

"And de Vauvan?"

Unable to understand what the stranger was bawling about, the man asked, giving Navalyaev a pungent fume.

"I, you see, did not have the honor to see the esteemed comrade Vovan."

In the intoxicated head, which could be seen above the fence, an awkward thought awakened, rebelling against the sudden loneliness.

"You are… Kalpalit, climb over here."

"Why, may I ask?"

– Let's go…

Strong hand of the unknown grabbed the scruff of Navalyaev, dragging through a low fence. Soon an unfamiliar man fell down on Kallistrat Ippolitovich, who had landed in the flower bed, with barely penetrating blacksmiths.

– What is your name?

Lying on top of Navalyaev, he croaked in his ear, apparently deciding that such a pose, of course, has to get to know each other.

"I already had the pleasure of introducing myself, Callistrat Ippolitovich Navalyaev."

– And, as if Kalvalyaev, I remember. Do you know what kind of memory?! Flint! Anthracite!

They rose to their feet.

"Let's go to the chamber."

"What house?"

– Yellow.

– What for?

– There is a clearing. Vovan You sho pull up.

Without waiting for an answer, the man grabbed Navalyaev by the arm and pulled him into the "housekeeper." Inside the small house, which was full of children's playground, was a so-called table – "glade", in the form of an upturned wooden apple box that was folded upside down, which were stacked in rows in the back door of any vegetable store. The box was covered with the newspaper “Trud”,replacing the tablecloth, under the set of products and a small selection of spirits. As soon as the bottle of vodka was opened, between two strict bottles of Moldavian port, whose dark, almost opaque glass did not allow us to determine the fullness of the vessels, rose above the open can of Azov sprats in tomato, a quarter of the crumbling "Arnaut", melted cheese "Druzhba" and sex -litrovoy can of salad "Spring". The visitor appeared in reply, a Moldovan male from the label, who lifted his glass, as if greeting the newcomer.

After finding himself in such a close but hospitable abode, the stranger handed Navalyaev a glass filled with wine, obviously stolen from the automatic device "divorce."

– For friendship!

He said, waiting for the guest to empty the dishes.

"But, excuse me, I do not drink."

"Shaw, then, do not I drink?" And hto here drinking?! So, for getting to know a couple of drops.

– But I…

– Hosh offended?

– No, well, that you…

– Tada, let's get acquainted.

"Well, if only…"

Navalyaev did not have time to finish speaking, as the man's tenacious fingers rested against the bottom of the glass and the port of burning lava rushed to the larynx of the bookkeeper. Having reached the goal, the stranger drained his glass in one fell swoop, after which, with a rather grunt, extended his hand.

– Ilya.

The soft, plump hand of Navalyaev, was in the steel claw of a man.

– We miners, from Makeyevka, I and Vovan.

He looked around.

"Toko Vovan's a child's gone."

But Navalyaev was already struggling to understand the indistinct murmur of the miner, rising on the weightless veil of port over his sorrows, connected with today's fateful meeting.

From the window of a nearby house there was the song of Bulat Okudzhava from the movie "The Star of Captivating Happiness" – "… the wooden cross or cast iron was assigned to us in the coming darkness…" Ilya suddenly burst out laughing.

– Stupid singing, it is better of course cast-iron, it is more reliable, longer serves, and it is important to look at sho.

Navalyaev looked at Ilya with sad eyes.

– You, dear Ilya – a miner full of eyes.

The miner was the only rightly, as it seemed to him, to interpret the phrase of a defective fat man in a crumpled hat.

– We'll do it.

He rejoiced, he filled the glasses, but suddenly he started, as if missing out in the ritual of "drinking", something archival.

– Maybe vodka?

– You are funny Ilya, and when there is humor and tenderness – depth is born.

– Well, tada, come on.

They drank, after which Navalyaev got on all fours and headed for the exit, into the narrow opening, where the unscrupulous stars were staring.

"Forgive me, of course, I need to go to the air."

Seated next to Navalyaev on the steps of the children's hill, Ilya lit up and began the story.

"Vovan and I are working, we're working… mine 4/5, there… you know how, there, uh, like, a jackhammer 6k and went… anthracite clamps on the teeth, well on weekends this is the case, and" horse "in vain…… he saved me… "

Ilya started to cry.

"Who, excuse me, the horse?"

"What a horse, Vovka!" My friend!

Navalyaev looked warmly and sympathetically at the miner, emotionally spasmodic, deeply and sincerely experiencing his indignation, for whatever reason, and more often without any reason.

– You are terribly incoherent talking, you are probably very interesting to live.

Deeply, Kallistrat Ippolitovich said. In his head ghostly silhouettes, obscure thoughts, causing imaginary activity and indifference, joy and anxiety flashed. When a soft velvet intoxication, replaced by a slight nausea, he remembered about my mother. By his drunkenness Navalyaev was afraid to push Amalia Apollinarevna into the grasping embrace of Alzheimer's, so he categorically did not drink alcohol. But today, when he has experienced a collapse in love, perhaps the last love of his life; When he found friendship, eternal friendship, with the most worthy and faithful comrade who came up to save him from sadness from Mother's womb of Makeyevka land, he allowed himself to delight in his mouth, with a beautiful nectar called port wine, which the Portuguese showed to the world, squeezing the juice of the earth from ripe bunches Valley Douro, and having the same "Moldovan" port as the same as Navalyaev's thoughts had with reality. The monotonous voice of Ilya, all the same broadcasts about the twists and turns of the life, flora and fauna of Donbas, the infidelity of women, about waste heaps, quarries and indecent details of mine workings. The intrusive incessant chatter, a drunken miner, for some reason reminded Callistratus Ippolitovich that sooner or later one would have to return home and dive into the red-hot lava of my mother's morals. At this point, the nausea rolled up to his throat, and he spewed the contents of the stomach through his mouth. Not standing on all fours of his attempts drowned out Ilya's simple rhetoric, but to embarrass the miner, especially to silence him, could not. If not in the eyes, then in the brain of Navalyaev came a certain clarification. He rose from four to two, groped on the steps of the children's hill hat and briefcase, and as a man brought up decided to say goodbye to Ilya. But the miner, like a shaman communicating with spirits, entered a state of trance, noticing anything around him. Navalyaev raised his hat and bowed to the inconsequential miner, who, a minute before, he had mistaken for an unseparable friend.

"I'm very grateful, my dear, but allow me to bow out on this one."

Crying loudly, Navalyaev did not find a handkerchief in his pockets, wiped his lips with the edge of his shirt that looked out from under his jacket. He put on his hat and walked down the street with unfaithful feet.

Going through the windbreak, the bushes and even the devil knows what obstacles, which had never happened on Pankovskaya street, the junior accountant entered the arch of the old four-story house where the great Evgeniy Viktorovich Tarle had once lived, to cope with a small need.

"No, life is beautiful, after all!" Thought Navalyayev, when the murmur of the stream was heard somewhere there, at the bottom of the abyss, as if he were standing on the top of Auyantepuy, and below there was an avalanche of the Angel Falls. Without coping with a few buttons of the pipe, closing the entrance to the fastened valve, he waved his hand and staggered, wiping the rough wall of the arch with his sleeve, rushed to the deserted roadway to determine the path through the stars. But in search of a house, the need has disappeared, because from the darkness, like the ghost of the medieval castle Sovinets, the shadow of Amalia Apollinarevna emerged, ominously surrounding the baggy outline of her son. Some are looking for an answer in someone else's words, some in the eyes, Navalyaeva-the mother was looking for in smells, the only manifestation of a human being that can be understood. Actually, her judgments were appropriate to the instincts in which she drew them.

– You are drunk!

Like a ruthless inquisitor, she threw accusation at the crumpled face of an ungrateful fence.

With all his unpresentable appearance, Navalyaev not only confirmed the observations of his mother, he seemed, of course, involuntarily, served as a standard of drunkenness, debauchery and immorality, in her eyes. With an unshakable sternness, she glanced at the offspring who had gone beyond piety.

– You crossed the Rubicon, Callistrat Ippolitovich, you should be flogged!

Navalyaev merely hiccuped instead of answering, and, with his eyes closed, shrugged his shoulders.

"My God, I would have seen you as a father, he would have died again, but before that I would have carved you out, I swear by the tricorne of the magnificent Horatio, I surely would have flung my ass!"

She grabbed her son by the ear.

– Bistro, go home! Bistro!

Not daring to even say anything, Navalyayev obeyed obediently to the dark entrance.

The elevator rose to the fifth floor, carrying in her mother's furiously hissing Amalia Apollinarevna, and continuously hiccating Callistratus Ippolitovich. A heavy iron mesh door, with a loud blow, alerted the whole house of the arrival of late pilgrims. The key turned a few times in the castle, and the smell of the corridor struck Navaliayev, tired of fatigue.

– Come on, just quietly, do not wake up neighbors, they did not see my shame, and they did not experience their triumph.

– Come on, just quietly, do not wake up neighbors, they did not see my shame, and they did not experience their triumph.

For a moment, before Callistrat Ippolitovich dived into the dark corner, where he met with a flimsy bookcase that kept a great many of three, two and one liter cans on its plywood shelves, all the neighboring doors were opened for preservation.

Varvara Nikolaevna, Serafima Samoilovna, and little Romik, who seemed to never sleep, like birds of prey at the sight of prey, waryly goggled the gloom. Amalia Apollinarevna, only for a second, in order to shut the door, released from her hands the unstable body of her son, as she saw the heavy Navalyaevsky ass, leaving farewell in darkness. There is a pause here… so that you can hear, feel the rumble of six-tiered shelving rasterized in chips, comparable only to an earthquake, a tornado, a tornado in the American prairies, a meteor fall and a split of the earth. It seemed that the banks were pouring endlessly, like snow in Lapland, breaking into drift, into large and small pieces.

When everything was quiet, despite the late hour, the neighbors, in full force, gathered at the glass hill, at first frightened, then sympathetically, looking at the burial. The Serpent serpent was the first to voice:

– So I got caught! And then my Anatole, you see, hanyga, and her angel… came, angel!

Embracing his wife, immense Sofu, with a deep sigh, Myasnikov concluded:

– Killed, rebellious.

Baba Varya already plaintively pulled out the farewell-lamented half-hearted:

"Ah, but to whom did you leave us…"

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

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

Naraylyaeva-mother tightened.

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

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

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

She sobbed, rushing to the aid of the quarter.

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

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

– But Mom.

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

"But…"

– Answer!

In the orderly tone, mother exclaimed.

– I met an amazing woman…

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

– Well, Mom, she's not a woman…

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

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

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

– But Mom…

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

Doomed, she uttered, collapsing into a rocking chair.

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

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

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

Ozerniy, wincing, answered carelessly:

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

"But you promised!"

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

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

– Oh, Ippolytych drew himself!

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

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

Kallistrat Ippolitovich said in a trembling voice.

"What about?" What do you want?!

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

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

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

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

Disdainfully spitting, hissed Ozerny.

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 2

"ANTHEM OF THE WORLD"

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

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