Translated material
Swim across the Bosphorus
Essay on everyday life
Essay on everyday life
Masha Traub
The fact that the best friend of my best friend Olya was going to swim across the Bosphorus, I learned in the winter. At that moment, I was feverishly planning, as my husband said, an “eventless and hassle-free” vacation with children in Bulgaria.
- The sea is like a puddle, slides, buckets, a quiet hour and lights out at nine in the evening. Ahh, I'm going to die of boredom, I complained to my friend.
“And we will go to Istanbul with Lilka to swim across the Bosphorus,” Olya said.
The Bosphorus was to be crossed by Lilka, and Olya was traveling as a cheerleader.
While Lilka, with a special watch on her hand, which showed the number of kilometers flown, cut paths in the pool, Olya bought outfits in which she was going to support her friend from the shore.
Lilkina's achievements were followed by half of Moscow, without exaggeration. Because it's not to go to Bulgaria with children, but to swim across the whole Bosphorus. I must say that there were more than a thousand applicants, as reported on the site, which was open on Lily's computer both day and night. She passed all medical examinations, quite honestly, and received certificates that she is physically and mentally healthy, she does not have fungus, pediculosis, venereal diseases and other diseases that can pollute the Bosphorus or be transmitted to other participants.
At this time, Lilka remembered half of Moscow.
“And some go to Istanbul, yes, yes,” a friend of our mutual friend said to her husband, who was about to go to his mother’s country house.
“And Lilka will swim across the Bosporus,” I said to my husband, who asked, “what the hell am I missing for happiness.”
As a result, in our family, the Bosphorus has become a household word.
Can I go to meet my classmates? I asked, for example.
“You should go and swim across the Bosphorus,” answered the husband.
- Can we send the children to their grandmother's dacha?
— Bosphorus.
That is, the Bosphorus has become a symbol of freedom, youth, adrenaline and female happiness.
A month before the start, Lilka set her own record and, under pressure from Olya, bought a new swimsuit and glasses, because who swims across the Bosphorus in the old one?
Finally, Olya and Lilka arrived in Istanbul.
On the day of the start, they got up early, ordered a taxi, Olya dressed up in smart clothes, Lilka spat on her swimsuit for good luck and went to the start. The taxi driver drove them forty minutes to the starting point. There were flags fluttering, the press was crowded and even a helicopter was flying. But ... there was not a single swimmer.
— Where is everyone? Lily asked.
“At the finish line,” the organizers replied.
- How is it at the finish line? Lily didn't understand. - Already gone?
- No, they haven't arrived yet. At the finish line, registration is given, numbers are given, and then everyone is brought here on three ships to sail.
Lilya shuddered all over the body of the swimmer and was about to rush into the Bosphorus to get to the finish line, register and sail to the start, like everyone else, on the ship. Olya offered to call a taxi. The organizers caught a sobbing Lilka from the water, who plopped into the water in a dress, holding glasses with a swimsuit in her hand, and pulled Olya out of the hands of a random Turk in a car, who did not believe her luck in the form of a luxurious blonde, who rushed into his car, promising everything that whatever.
Lilya, wet, shoved printouts from the site up the nose of the organizers, where it did not appear that the swimmers were supposed to arrive at the finish line and only then at the start.
Finally, the press began to fuss, cameras snapped, the helicopter entered a new circle. Ships with joyful swimmers appeared on the horizon. They were all with beautiful numbers on their swimsuits, excited and enthusiastic.
Lilya clung to the main organizer and sobbed on his shoulder.
The first to be let off the ship were two disabled swimmers, one-legged, one without an arm, and one with Down syndrome. Everyone was smiling and waving at the reporters.
“Lil, even the down understood that we must first go to the finish line,” Olya remarked completely politically incorrect.
Lilya sobbed with renewed vigor on the shoulder of the organizer.
“And the one-legged ones also understood that they had to go to the finish line, and the one-armed one understood, only you didn’t understand,” said Olya, a girl, I must say, intelligent, tactful and educated.
The swimmers lined up and jumped into the water. Lilya also tried to rush after her in order to drown herself with grief, but she was again restrained.
The whole next day, everyone sent Olya text messages asking how the Bosphorus was doing there, subdued or not? Olya at that moment was treating her and Lilkina's nerves in a huge shopping mall.
Lilka still certainly wanted to have dinner at some restaurant, buy a bagel and a bag from Louis Vuitton at the Grand Bazaar, but one that could not be distinguished from the real one.
Somewhere between the donut and the purse, they noticed a man with a bag with the symbols of the “capture of the Bosphorus”. Olya and Lilka tried to break away from the persecution, but the man did not lag behind. The girls broke into the restaurant.
The man stayed outside. He pulled out a sheet of paper from his bag, scrawled something on it and waved it like a white flag, pointing at Lilya.
- Shall I go out to him? Lilya asked either herself or Olya.
“Go,” Olya replied, always cautious, suspicious and sensible, I must say.
The name of the man was written on a piece of paper and a request to find him on Facebook. In clumsy English, he explained to Lilka that she was the most beautiful woman in his life, that he was ready to marry her even now, and that he would drown himself in the Bosphorus if she did not write to him.
... Now she is corresponding with him on Facebook. Lilka posted her photo in a swimsuit that was never used for its intended purpose and in swimming goggles. He almost went crazy with happiness.
And half of Moscow, its female half, sighs heavily with envy and, shredding cabbage for borscht for her husband, quietly whispers: "Bosphorus, Bosphorus."