Exile from paradise

In front of the general public, mocking villainy ripens. The public boils. Some greedy oligarchs (they are also developers) encroached on the famous reserve of domestic literature, to the glorious Peredelkino. These disgusting developers (that is, the oligarchs) intended to build some buildings and structures here, where each tree and each path were covered with the memory of those who created or, expressed poetically, tirelessly forged ...

By the way, do we remember today that it was here, in Peredelkino, that was launched? No, let's not remember right away. These are the mankurts, compraders, mamluks, as well as Ivana who do not remember kinship! .. Only the most erudite of us, dotting his forehead with deep wrinkles, will name the novel “Doctor Zhivago”. Only the most musical of us, without falsehood, will whistle the "last trolley". Yes, everything is so. It was here, in a quiet literary backwood, that Boris Pasternak and Bulat Okudzhava created.

Two great names are two large houses. We add for reinsurance several more worthy names (and several one -story residential buildings), I am irresponsible with me. It will turn out like a small lane. And all the other? Literary Peredelkino is still a decent settlement in hundreds of houses. Somewhere in these boots, the prophetic shadows of the numerous galaxy of the creators should scratch, the word of which illuminates, warms and fester our grateful hearts with an unquenchable lamp! Still, hundreds of houses, thousands of flower beds, to serve with their hand to Moscow, in the bushes of the nightingale, nouveau riches take away cottages of ten thousand “greens” per month. It cannot be that with such luxurious real estate - and such a shortage of geniuses.

Alas, maybe. If on the facade of each house to hang out on the list of works created in its walls, then some will be completely empty, and such rubbish will come up on others that it would be better not to surge. For statistical purity, I also recall that Mikhail Bulgakov wrote “Masters and Margarita” not here. Probably, I would like to, remember what words he found for a sweaty dance hell in the mass. But Peredelkino neither then, nor then it was rubber. There was no place for Akhmatova, nor Mandelstam, nor Platonov, nor Tsvetaeva, nor Solzhenitsyn, nor Shalamov, nor Vysotsky. In general, the list of those writers to whom in the housing and communal department of the Little Fund issued a warrant on Square in Peredelkino, and a list of those writers whom the story recorded on their tablets does not coincide in a striking way.

In 1932, Grand Stalin, according to Gorky, wrote to the writers the village of Peredelkino, Moscow Region. I would know the best friend of physical education and playwrights, how much today there will be one weed of Peredelkino soil - he would have had a bite to eat from annoyance that tube that he quietly sucked, listening to the “girl and death” so admiring his bike.

Or maybe I would not have a bite. Whatever you say, and the effect of Peredelkino turned out to be fantastic. Perhaps he even surpassed the expectations of a far -sighted Kremlin highlander. In the formation and heyday of socialist realism, Peredelkino made a much more significant contribution than all the catching up and cleaning the propaganda. For those workers of the pen, who was badly remembered in his report, swimming with fat and bile Zhdanov, at least some chances of surviving were preserved. Orpheles, expelled from Peredelkino Paradise, were doomed. All the rejected and rejected, they fell into depression, went into binges and disappeared - with ends and forever.

The prestigious house in Peredelkino became a gold medal for the conquest of the literary Olympus. From the sunny terrace in Peredelkino Goethe and Folkner seemed a head below. People whose names are now so firmly forgotten that the very reading of them today will seem to us a waste of time, the works that were doomed to the Stalin (state) prizes in advance in the Central Committee of the degrees were magnificent. In the morning, writers went for walks, massaging the hands. The engineers of human souls were part -time. The main profession, according to which payment was the blacksmiths of socialist realism.

But no matter how abundantly they create in Peredelkino - there were two more types of social activity, which the local people indulged in a completely self -consultant torture. I mean intrigue and drunkenness. Sometimes they merged into a single channel, sometimes again poured into separate sleeves, but never dry out. According to the one who drinks with whom, who continues to drink with whom and who has stopped drinking with whom, knowledgeable people drawn the most difficult trajectories of ripening intrigues, whether it was a question of circulations, reviews, personnel nomination or writings of writing delegations.

In general, the very idea of ​​collecting in a single place for everyday, contact being hundreds of creatures, by the very nature of greatness, envy, painful conceit, readiness, insomnia, lack of money, constipation from a sitting life, seizures of painful pessimism and no less painful optimism - such an idea could not come into a good head. All this would undoubtedly end with a huge collective poor, if it were not for more powerful instinct that interrupted everything else. It was the instinct of the owner in his highest, most pure manifestation: the instinct of freebies.

People received property in Peredelkino slowly, gradually, but inevitably. At first it was just “House number five”. Then - "The fifth house, where the Sartakovs." And finally, without any numbers and very simple: the Sartakov House.

Who are the Sartakovs - do not even ask. Knowners and so know, it is not to do not need. The most golden feathers of domestic literature, sub -partisan chroniclers, bald Komsomol members and windshields with inserted poisonous teeth made up the backbone of Peredelkino self -government. Even Chubais was a cute baby, and not a sworn enemy of the working people, still at all factories and factories of the country there was a single voucher, which the state plan was completely owned, and literary functionaries already deftly and harshly sawed the general Poselkino. So by the time the vouchers appeared, it remains just to privatize the already accomplished. The replacement for those who, with their fussy “blockade” and unbearable “Siberians”, gained the quiet hatred of schoolchildren, their departure came - without poems and novels, but with a clear awareness of their hereditary rights. It today yells on behalf of the legitimate old -timers of the Stalinist literary paradise.

But in the country there are too many toothy individuals in order to make a memorial with pampered heirs of the once formidable tigers, hyenas, jackals and cobra. New predators tear the trembling body of the literary reserve, eagerly grabbing pieces of torn flesh on the fly.

Well, what's next? In expressing poetic high -part, my pen in longing and anxiety froze over paper. Honestly, I won’t know what is true in Peredelkino, but not. We did not have a simple, calm and honest separation with the communist past. “We will recall by namely those who raised their hands,” so Alexander Galich threatened the persecutors of Boris Leonidovich Pasternak in his famous song. Nothing came of it. “Those who raised their hands” - this is the backbone of the owners of Peredelkino. Leave them as a reward for the abominations of the fathers, even an earth at a milling one at a price of millions of bucks? Isn't it oily?

But also the other, the extraovitarian side is far from instructive fiction. You can not teach at Peredelkino the oligarchs-deelopers with their smelly, clanging excavators. These are already juried instantly. They do not care who composed a multi -volume “Siberia” there and what the forgotten “white birch” of all the prizes M. Bubenov’s laureate was no longer noisy. Developers will expel everyone, pay for the hectare to the ruble, will resell ten times for a year and get their usual five thousand percent of margins. Also not beautiful.

Well then, maybe returning to the state? Where did they take what, they put it there? The state, of course, will quickly sweep everything there. Then there everything will overgrow sedge. Then a swamp will arise, which the state will not drain the money. Then the national leader will come and arrange in Peredelkino Pikalevo. A port, instead of a pack of developers, will appear one favorite scout-oligarch.

The last tool remains: a selective approach. Thoughtful. Individual. Collective. From the current owners are the heirs of Siberia. From the oligarchs - developers. From the national leader - those who silently stood behind the leader in Pikalevo. As a result, only two houses will be demolished for development. Boris Pasternak's house. Well, the stump is clear, the house of Bulat Okudzhava.

Photos from Novayagazeta.ru website, passino-lad.ru