Ivan Davydov. Below

Below is a thousand words
Ivan Davydov

Publication date: July 24, 2001

I understand that the publication of this text will forever doom me to experience the hatred of the entire population of the cultural capital reading (this publication). Criminal. Northern. And others. Moreover, it is one and the same. Brilliant, according to the little-known and now deceased poet Nikolai Agnivtsev, St. Petersburg.

I don't know what to say in my defense. I love both cities mentioned in the text. I lived in both for a long time. In both, I was not a local. And so on.

And most importantly, there are no conclusions in the text, only a set of stories from life. And I am responsible for each, there are witnesses to everyone.

All this is true, all this happened, as someone Albert Likhanov once said.

So.

Muscovites

“Muscovites,” Sergei Shnurov reports in an interview with a fashionable local newspaper, “they generally travel.”

A traveling Muscovite is slightly amazed by the fact that his appearance in any company forces all the natives to talk only about what is better - Moscow or St. Petersburg. Then it becomes alarming. A traveling Muscovite tries to remember whether he has ever encountered something like this in his usual habitats. I didn't have to.

Literary company. Spontaneous drinking in a second-hand (!) bookstore. Around, according to the assurance of the great Russian poet, who brought the traveling Muscovite to this secret place, there are exclusively cult people. Muscovite is trying to identify the names. Only Vladimir Sorokin is discovered, however, an artist. A well-known translator is discovered who has translated almost all the books the traveling Muscovite has read over the past couple of months. “Your Abish is magnificent,” the Muscovite says sincerely. “You know, I don’t really like your city,” the St. Petersburg resident successfully retorts.

Ballet company. “Yes, your Bolshoi! Yes, when the Mariinsky dances in Covent Garden, the Bolshoi dances in the outlying recreation centers for dockers.” - “Well, maybe I don’t understand this, you know better, I believe you.” - “No, you don’t understand, your Big One!” - "Yes I understand". - "You're kidding me. He's kidding me. He thinks - Big is better." - “I’m not mocking. I believe. I have no hearing at all. I don’t even like ballet.” - “Okay, think what you want about your Big one. But if you’re interested in my opinion┘”

Journalistic company. The prim lady scolds Moscow for a long time. Moskvich does not react. Basically, he doesn't care. “However,” says the lady, “the province has its own charms. Fresh blood, spontaneity...” “That’s why,” the tired traveler thinks angrily, “I’m taking away the third person from this city.” But he doesn't speak. He understands that then the prim lady will hit him on the head with a mobile phone, which is not particularly expensive, like everything else in this city, and weighs, accordingly, two hundred grams. He excuses himself and goes out to smoke. Because they don't smoke at Rico's Coffee Shop.

Drinking establishments

The entrance to the fashionable club "Griboyedov" is tightly blocked by a fat policeman. “We should go in,” the traveling Muscovites say timidly. After thinking, the policeman says that he should call the administrator. Presses the call button. Ten minutes of agonizing waiting. The administrator does not appear. The policeman is deep in conversation with a lady sitting at the entrance. A timid reminder. Call. Ten minutes of agonizing waiting. And so on. Finally the lady intervenes: “Don’t bother the administrator, he’s happy there.” Then the administrator finally appears and spends a long time examining the travelers, who clearly raise doubts in his mind. Then he gives out a couple of pieces of paper that look like Dutch non-postage stamps.

The window with the inscription "Cashier" is closed. A knock and ten minutes of agonizing waiting. Then a sleepy, shaggy, presumably male head pokes out of the window and exchanges stamps (with an additional charge) for crumpled entrance tickets.

The window labeled "Wardrobe" is closed. A knock and ten minutes of agonizing waiting. The same head takes the jackets and asks: “Should I hang them on one?” "Well, yes". "Then nine rubles." Moving away, a traveling Muscovite asks his companion: “What would have happened if not for one?” The head, sticking out of the wardrobe window, yells after him indignantly: “Then it would be eighteen!!!”

Having squeezed past the security guard, travelers find themselves in a hall that is a little dirtier and a little smaller than the hall at the OGI. They sell almost nothing inside, and there’s no point: no one buys anything. Everyone is enjoying the very fact that they managed to get into the fashionable Griboedov club. This is how elites are formed.

“Thank you,” says a Muscovite to the waitress in the rather nice restaurant FX-017. “PAAAAAA please,” the waitress replies with indignation and hatred, accepting the tip.

In the Marko coffee shop on Lev Tolstoy Street┘ An explanation is required here: there are an unusually large variety of coffee shops in St. Petersburg. It seems coffee is becoming the national drink. Bartenders in coffee shops are called a special word “barristo” and articles are written about some of them in newspapers. On the doors of most stores there is a sign: a steaming cup with a cross crossed through it. A traveling Muscovite does not immediately realize that this is an analogue of the inscription “No lunch break.” At first he thinks it's "No entry with coffee allowed." This doesn't surprise him. Residents of a city with so many coffee shops should also walk the streets with cups of coffee in their hands. So, in the “Marco” coffee shop on Lev Tolstoy Street, someone is sitting with a cigar and a microscopic cup of coffee, immersed in reading a French newspaper.

“You couldn’t think of anything more bad taste by the standards of our, of course, merchant settlement,” thinks a traveling Muscovite. And on the table in front of him is a bright piece of paper with a question written in large letters: What is a toucan doing on Nevsky? The question remains unanswered to this day.

Nevsky

Moskvich slowly moves along Nevsky. He is looking for his own. He takes out his mobile phone, dials the number and says: “Hey, bro, where are you?”

All passers-by within a radius of twenty meters turn around and look with undisguised condemnation.

The same Nevsky, but at three o'clock in the morning. A Muscovite and a friend are slowly moving in the direction of already explored drinking establishments. Meeting them is a typical Moscow couple. A small-time bandit who had been on a spree with his girlfriend. "Bratello, is this Nevsky?" - asks the person you meet. The extended “a” is pleasing to the ear. Smoke of the Fatherland. "Nevsky, Nevsky." - "Cool!"

A friend from St. Petersburg who has settled on Trubnaya calls in the morning and finds out where the nearest decent store is. What do they call a decent store? Returning from Tverskaya, she tells her friend: “I was on the local Nevsky, very so-so.”

Words

A journalist from St. Petersburg is compiling a special glossary to make it easier to achieve mutual understanding with a Moscow friend.

Dictionary:

Grater - business negotiations.
Bro is a universal appeal to a loved one.
Brother - the same.
The old one is the same.
Loot is money.
Crazy money - big money.
If you don’t get it, you don’t like it, you don’t need it, there is no need.
A dear father is an incredibly close person whom you can count on day and night, day and night.
Ilya Igorevich - Dear Father.
A boy named Denis is Old.
The great Russian writer - Levkin.
Levkin - Great Russian writer.
Elsa is Denis's roommate.
Denis's roommate didn't resist.

In general, that's how it is. This is enough for a happy life in Moscow. A journalist from St. Petersburg, with the help of a traveling Muscovite, is gradually becoming convinced of this.