Three Stars. FAIRY TALES FOR CHILDREN AND YOUTH

Three Stars

FAIRY TALES FOR CHILDREN AND YOUTH

Elena Speranskaya

© Elena Speranskaya, 2019

ISBN 978-5-4496-1496-4

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Three Stars

My story begins with the birth as for all people who are more or less versed in the laws of nature. Falling leaves were in full swing, causing positive emotions among passers-by. Wonderful days of the height of autumn were coming to an end, but there was no doubt that winter would overshadow the withering nature with its lace blizzard and bitter frost with extraordinary beauty and force.

Fortunately, the maternity hospital was located not in another city, but in the very center of one of the oldest cities on the Volga river with a rich past, a large number of merchant houses, squares, parks and cultural monuments. But for the child such a disproportion in the development of his external data and antiquity did not matter. The baby did not harbor hatred or resentment towards his already mature parents, but enjoyed the fact that he was born in the family of the great racer and hero of the battle of Khalkhin Gol – Sergey and two “naive” adults who already have a first-grader son.

These husbands and wife agreed that if a boy is born, they will give him up for education in an orphanage, and if a girl is born, into a decent family, meaning that they are loved, so that in the future she can return to her father’s house and become a support for her old and retired parents. They have long been looking for a female donor, to whom a tenth pregnancy would be a burden, in order to equip their family nest with the least cost. The husband and wife swore real relatives that they would raise a girl in the best Russian traditions, since this served as a weighty argument in choosing a home from where she was born. The mother-woman stayed in the hospital, and her husband, a race car driver, could not take care of the baby, because he constantly trained and participated in international competitions, defending the honor of the country, so he would look for an intelligent couple who would care about the unborn child.

Trustees did not appear immediately. At first they lost some of their money while traveling around Europe and the world, and then in one of the restaurants in Stockholm met an elderly pregnant woman with a rather attractive husband-racer, who repented in conversation that he was very busy at work.

“Can you imagine how much work you need to get drunk,” he said, imitating the famous artist Filippov.

“No, we don’t imagine,” said an intelligent, middle-aged man, moving a plate of potatoes sprinkled with dill and tasting food with dignity to himself.

“And we represent,” their partners said in opposition, feeling their destiny in the world of grief and violence.

“We already have a son,” a senior-looking woman suddenly emerged with a Siberian behavior and an experienced soldier. “We have a little son. He is now in the kindergarten, but when we return, we will take him for good.”

“Dear compatriots,” Sergey immediately turned to her bluntly, “could you shelter a small miracle. My wife and I want to find her guardians.”

“We agree,” an intelligent man of about forty-five, the husband of a female soldier in a uniform tunic, supported the conversation. “Let’s celebrate this event with a glass of champagne.”

“We don’t have champagne,” Sergey said sedately. “That’s when I win the champion title, and then we will swim and pour champagne. This will happen in exactly one year.”

“Then we will set a date of birth and meet at the central maternity hospital,” his companion said. “We seem from the same city.”

“Excellent, but these issues are not resolved so quickly. It is necessary to formalize the adoption through a lawyer’s office,” the intelligent man – the husband of an outright soldier with the manners of a Siberian woman – made the proposal.

“Here we go back home, and immediately go down where necessary. We can even fly to the moon,” the pregnant lady calmed down, hitting everyone with her appearance and sensual hands. An intelligent middle-aged man thought that she was already his wife, and not a proud military woman, hurrying to buy property in any part of the planet, just not to be a “driven horse”, as she herself said before, admiring the old monuments of the capital of Sweden.

A group of tourists came out of the restaurant and headed towards the bus, passing forward the guide.

“We’ll see the embankment and the granite gilded tomb of the ancient Norman ruler – Vasa. And then we will return by the same route,” the guide announced to the megaphone.

The pacified parents of their young son, the future first grader, found a way to negotiate with their lawyer and patronage sister in their free time from the searches school uniform in the “Child’s World” store for their first child, brought to a one-room twenty-five meter private house from a 24-hour kindergarten. He dreamed of learning the basics of a primer.

“So, it’s done, you can start saving money for the next trip abroad,” the former military servicewoman correctly hinted to her faithful spouse.

“I accept your wishes with great pleasure, but we must take into account our needs for food and rest. My finances sing luxurious daisy romances.”

“Then start your own business or open a dictionary in order to understand how many unused words we have to describe the anthology of all family traditions and travels,” the former military servicewoman, introduced the rationalization proposal.

“A great idea,” the husband admired with the manners of a secular lion and continued reading the stale press left in the mailbox, but got it right after coming from the Scandinavian cruise.

Disorderly adults took the initiative and honestly took the girl home after the previous agreement, almost losing along the way, periodically pressing two children to the wall of the maternity hospital or to the trolley bus seat. But it soon turned out that the child had neither a father nor a mother. A week later she was sent to an orphanage with the police, so that adults who walked in honor of the birth of the girl did not lose a helpless baby in a fit of joy.

A brother of school age was limply watching the cussing and fighting of wife and her husband for the right to nurse the doll. They wondered what happened to the newly born baby, occasionally offering the frightened first grader to smell the bread.

But when, after a long training and competitive period, Sergey returned, he was fortunate to find that the child feels perfectly well under the shelter of an orphanage, under the careful care of professional nannies. This state of affairs calmed him down, but he did not lose hope of becoming the father of his son for the umpteenth time in order to raise himself a replacement in a race on a car that was in his garage.

“Consider that we have invested heavily in the birth, upbringing and care of children,” the guardians tearfully explained in court to experienced lawyers, when they deprived them of their parental rights, calling them “careless adults.”

“We hope that our heroic past will rush you and dot the ‘i’. Remember how much blood your wife shed for two and a half years of participation in the Patriotic War. Yes, her husband has a real arsenal of positive qualities,” the young lawyer instructed, wishing to move up the career ladder and become sometime a referee at sporting events and receive huge fees.

“Forgiven, but not a slave,” fearing that he would seem foolish, her husband was furiously indignant, quoting a classic.

“So, one more negative response or complaint and your old age will be under threat,” the lawyer said, narrowing his eyes and straightening his tie, defiantly looking at the board of trustees in the person of the district staff.

“We will correct, look here,” the guardians with despair tore at their last shirt, lied, dodging, like snakes, hoping for leniency of a judge with extensive experience in law enforcement organizations and guardianship councils, solving the most difficult life issues. A wife in a dark raincoat, put on top of an elegant, yellow, crepe de chine dress, gazing out from under the eyebrows at the judge, pushing her husband in the side, whispered frantically:

“We will correct her appearance beyond recognition, then it’s not bad to lose money on expensive trips abroad or the purchase of jewelry, which I don’t have yet, but over time will be as much as no other millionaire in the world. You understand now that we are facing a whole galaxy of adventurers, dealers of stolen diamonds and entrepreneurs.”

“Entrepreneurs won’t scare me. I studied them in Italy. They have a siesta every day,” her husband quietly answered her, standing in a dark blue drape coat. He squeezed enough worn leather gloves in his hands, bending from back pain when he was barely pulled out from the next world after a bullet wound and a serious operation to remove the projectile from a soft tissue made by his sister-surgeon during a truce between the Entente and Russia.

The guilty assured of something the judge in the black mantle, but they themselves did not believe in what they said, hoping for God’s help or transfer of money from abroad from non-existent relatives, whom they had only dreamed of, indulging in postwar sprees, walking through restaurants and cafe, intending to seem respectable and capable of heroic deeds. In those happy days, unsuspecting, the little son was in the “focal”, that is, around the clock nursery, kindergarten and naughty about the same as all babies of his age.

“Well, we will give you a time to think it over,” promises pardon, the judge completed her directed, fiery speech. The husband and wife, remembering that they did not have breakfast, rushed to the nearest canteen, ordered the entrecote with fried potatoes in debt, but then, noticing the policeman’s approach, gave the wristwatch with inlay for lunch, so as not to recall the passed, dangerous adoption enterprise. However, they immediately had to return home in order to forget themselves in sweet dreams and thoughts about the current moment, where to get the necessary banknotes for the purchase of a TV, washing machine and refrigerator.

At home, the surprised couple did not find them left in the care of the mother-in-law, babies. The patronage sister carried the girl to the same orphanage exactly for a year, where the serene years of their son or stepbrother passed, hoping that her father would remember the existence of a baby. There the girl was brought to life, aftercare, stitching, wounds and abrasions left by the guardians.

After participating in racing and popular championships and competitions, racing driver Sergey finally won the recognition of the public, the title of champion and three golden stars, winning in all team heats of Europe, World and the Olympic Games.

After winning, he bought a new Ferrari racing car, a boat for his wife, an apartment in the center, and headed a column of winners with the developing flags of the Union republics, intending to travel across the city on a motorcycle. But he was wrapped up and sent to the maternity hospital where he had a daughter, adopted by guardians. Now, exactly one year later, he had a son, who was supposed to once sit on a car, continue the tradition of winning in all weather conditions.

Final rally

Small Violin

Four dry, but slightly pasted, cracked and shabby violins – the two most minimal for elementary music school classes and two for adult orchestra soloists – were stored in thick cellophane next to a lot of paper bags of guitar strings in a wrinkled brown volume dusty bag under a beaten rain coffee table on the balcony. This pitiful picture would have dismayed the violin makers, who had spent more than a single month of making art objects.

Every thing must go through periods of novelty, obsolescence, and trash. Therefore, no one had any business, which once played on these musical artificial instruments, since there was no evidence, but only a wooden base. Bows, pegs, stand for the strings, earrings, chin rest, screws, tail rods and rosin were also absent. Viola, mandolin, cello, horn, double bass, poshetta would cry if they saw this deplorable picture of abandonment and dilapidation, and the restorer would rejoice and take up the restoration of the former glory of this musical instrument, despite their sad, and sometimes incommensurably magnificent sound, jealously squeezing in his busy hands.

These four restored violin frames could serve as a leisure time for a family of Italian winemakers, where everyone from childhood dreamed of getting at least something like that, or a vain, greedy, “mean” antiquarian. He could bargain and sell them at an auction much more expensive, and then sell his other goods, profiting from any display of generosity from honest citizens.

“It seems that they want to cure me,” the most original of all its friends, the skeleton, babbled.

“Do not worry,” the most frayed full frame assured, looking at the thin figure of the reasoning little similarity. “We will lie down and sleep until you turn into a real beauty that any child can take in hand, wishing to learn to extract a fabulous melody with a bow.”

“My upper deck also requires gluing. A randomly tired violinist sat at me so that I would be silent forever,” the second full frame continued melancholically.

“Let’s not cry in vain, but recall the festive past concerts and performances, as we usually did before,” said the second quarter-frame. “How many cute creatures admired us?! How many tears and dreams we had previously caused in the parent audience in the spacious halls.”

“There isn’t enough wishbone for my vibration,” the first talking quarter body of the outdated product shook with the hoarse laughter of an elderly gentleman, and coughed.

“But I have a wishbone,” the full body without a crack began to boast. “I remember an ambitious young man. He kept me from time to time and even gently put in a hard case to give me a rest, and then get down to business again. But then my place was taken by the famous French violin, and I no longer performed concerts or showed my curl.”

“What a tune without a wishbone. No fullness, no liveliness,” taking seriously what his friend said, he was supported by his neighbor – a full corps. So they continued to talk, until the elderly woman got from the balcony an old wrinkled bag from under a black and white from the rains and winds of a plywood coffee table. She carefully wiped the dust, unwrapped the cellophane, and went over the strings for the guitar. Then she laid out four violin shells – two of the smallest and two full – on the floor and, taking a brush, dropping it in the appropriate lacquer paint with shades of maple and pine, put light strokes on all the products, fastening the cracks with varnish. When the varnish dried, she again painted the obsolete parts of the violin musical products, which once served faithfully to her admirers.

“It seems that I have serious rivals,” she thought, penetrating the illusion that these things would ever become fashionable and get to the future of Stradivari, Guarneri, Amati, or just go to the violin museum in Venice.

“Let my varmint-grandchildren grow up. If they want, they can best learn to play any musical instrument, extracting a melody, curing melancholy and amusing the soul.”

The next day, an elderly woman made an appointment by cell phone to meet the violin maker at the conservatory. He had his own workshop with various second-rate musical instruments that were out of order, lying on the shelves and waiting for repairs. Taking both small bodies with her, she showed her skills to the specialist.

“Let’s try to do something,” said the violin master, a lanky man who resembled Paganini in his appearance. “Leave this model to me,” he continued, carefully examining both brilliant hulls, pointing to a modest little hull, which already had some similarities with the fragile boat floating on the lake surface.

Two days later, when the wind direction was inspired by the song Solveig from Edward Grieg’s “Peer Gynt”, the music master called the visitor and offered to meet him in the workshop to deliver an urgent order – a long-awaited restored little beauty with all the necessary attributes – to her personally. The woman happily agreed.

The musical master met the woman in his workshop and demonstrated the abilities of a small violin. He touched unexpectedly appeared strings stretched by him on the tailpiece. The little violin issued a sparkling high tone, like a spring drop or a small babbling brook, hurrying among the stones of a mountain gorge, causing tears of joy to a woman. Paying for such trifles, the woman brought home her treasure, from which it was already possible to extract any fabulous sounds of melodies and tunes. Bow and rosin had to look for separately. It took a lot of work, as the seller in the musical instrument store first recorded the woman’s order and suggested that she call a month later when the necessary things appeared in the warehouse right there on the right side of the counter where all sorts of pieces of music masters stood proudly, how many are capable of making wonderful sounds and rhythms: clarinets, cellos, trumpets, timpani, cymbals, drums, button accordions, accordions, full violins and quarters, guitars, ukuleles, Kasio and Yamaha electric piano, synthesizers and something else that it was impossible to gaze immediately.

On the shelves under the glass were strings of different pitch. The bows were neatly folded on the rack, but the configuration was not there, as luck would have it.

“Don’t worry,” said the young salesman. “Once a month we always have receipts of the required goods. Now the beginning of the school year, and all the little fiddlestick bought up. Therefore, I will order a bow for you specifically and call you on the cell phone as soon as it goes down for sale.”

“How long will I have to wait for the arrival of a new batch of small bows for the fourth of violin?” asked jealously shopper, naively believing that everything is done by magic.

“Maybe a month or two. You do not worry everything in our power.”

“They say that Nora Roberts also played the violin as a child, but she didn’t have a relationship with her teachers, so she quit practicing music and doing needlework,” the customer thought, hoping that her thoughts would not be read by a smart salesman who looked like a real Kapellmeister or a member of a vocal-instrumental ensemble with long curly hair tied at the back with a ribbon. “He probably plays the bass guitar in the evening in a restaurant.”

“I have enough patience. I will wait for your call,” imagining that she has already bought the bow, the selfish woman said, not caring what the entire musical elite of the city would think of her.

“They will call.”

“Otherwise, I will come to you in the week, agreed?”

“Do not even think about doing it. So early bows of this size will not come to us. We must first call to Moscow and find out whether these products came from the factory. If not, they will order in a special workshop. Only when the product passes certification, they will call me, and I will inform you that everything is ready. This is not a simple matter to carve and polish such a small bow, and then pull horsehair rubbed with rosin to slide along the strings better. There are very few such bows, so if they go on sale, they are taken apart instantly.”

“How well you say, clearly explain what I do not understand. And what is behind your back? Doesn’t that bow fit for such a violin?” Asked the customer, pointing to a small bow, located in the corner of a large metal stand.

She pulled out of the paper bag a small body of a quarter-violin without strings, neatly covered with brownish varnish. The one that was next to the finished product.

“I am also shown to the seller. It means that we are quoted in the world of temptation and waste,” the restored building decided, without regretting the absence of strings. “But if I could speak out loud, I would have scolded the seller for genuine sluggishness,” the small corps again indignant to himself, who had brought considerable benefits in the musical upbringing of the child.

“This bow is not yet appreciated. He was ordered a month ago. Today they sent me from Moscow and I need to call the customer. Moreover, it is not suitable for your instrument, but much more and corresponds to the half of the violin, that is, the next in size for this body.”

“Yes, I am the smallest in the violin row,” thought the lacquered corps without strings again, which the customer immediately returned to the bag. Sadly sighing, the buyer showed her regret and hope.

“Thanks for the clarification, let’s hope,” she said disturbingly. All the nuances of flashed thoughts expressively reflected on her face when she left the store.

Two months passed before the music store salesman finally called the customer for the little bow.

The woman completely lost hope of purchase. Delighted and taking with her a lacquered case without strings, she rushed to the store.

“Really sent?!” she thought with delight.

“They take me back to the music class as before. Some kind of philosophical benefit lies in this,” argued the lacquered small case without strings, leaving two full friends and a small violin at home. Looking out of the bag with his curl, it watched large flakes of snow whirling in the air and sticking to the glass of the bus, where the happy customer was traveling, returning home with a bow and rosin.

Finally, these expensive things appeared in the hands of the demanding amateur of musical instruments.

“Hooray! Finally, I breathe and can live among the lovely creatures, surrounded by their care and attention,” thought the little violin enthusiastically when it saw next to her a small bow with taut horsehair, waxed with rosin.

New violin

Thirty Three Greetings

There lived in the world a small skinny boy nicknamed “Thirty-three reverences”, who dreamed of becoming a great man. He went to school, and in his spare time he helped his mother with the housework: he chopped firewood in the yard, brought water from the well, as they lived in the village, looked after the younger sister and brother, went to the bazaar, located under a canopy in an open field. Everywhere he had to bow, so he chose this nickname for himself, and people agreed to call him by that original name. Whenever he passed by the market by newspaper vendors, with milk, fish, meat, fruits and vegetables, they happily hailed him.

“Hi, thirty-three reverences.”

“Hello,” he replied respectfully, taking off his beret.

That’s how he continued to live, helping his family in everything. After school, having matured, he went to study further. He left for the big city, entered the university, began to attend lectures, practical classes and seminars. He had a lot to do on his own in the library after the sports section, as he was an excellent boxer for everything. But it so happened that his friends also called him the same nickname, because he constantly approached the professors table, bowing, or asked interesting questions at the end of the lecture with words of gratitude for what was heard, new for him, scientific data, important information, fascinating information. Although, in fact, he was called by the simple name Slava.

After graduating from university, Slava became a journalist. He also had to travel to cities and villages, write reports for news, and take an interview from builders, engineers, doctors, artists, directors, sailors and all those who stood around the clock at the post. He wandered in distant lands and reserved corners where no man’s foot had stepped, beating off thirty-three reverences in hard-to-reach places. With him on television worked as a speaker girl Marianne.

They became friends and became real responsible assistants of the entire team of journalists of the news channel, proof-readers, operators, broadcasters and the chief editor, who occasionally told them when they met in the morning to discuss the evening issues: