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Serbia is addicted

Mikhail Berg: A country that Russia could become, but will never become

Update: 17-10-2014 (23:16)

From the site "Kasparov.ru".

Serbia, which Putin had recently chosen to satisfy painful ambitions, hoping a warm shower to warm up before the cold, really looks like Russia: but this improved version, a country that Russia could become, but never become.

Let's start with the similarity: the lime plaque of the imperial syndrome lay on the enamel of Serbian culture, like nostalgia for Great Serbia. And they give him his due officials, politicians and ordinary people. But the similarity ends on this.

Because everything else that seems like is a careful examination is different. Intelligentsia. A couple of stories.

First . I’m going with a young Serbian colleague, and he tells me that his classmate, so it happened, has recently become the Minister of the local chemical industry. In our "Rosneft". Compare. As the Russian man commented on the news that his acquaintance became the Minister of the Bread industry itself: in, he was the guy, now he will be drunk. What a colleague told me, with whom I managed to talk about ten days and understand how far the idea of ​​exaggeration is, and not painstaking accuracy. So my colleague rubbed his forehead with concern and said: his friend is very puzzled, this is such a responsibility, very afraid - will he do it?

I was amazed, although I did not give me a look: unenfianized seriousness - a person was entrusted with a matter, he thinks if he can cope with him, and does not think about rollbacks?

History is second. I am talking with the Belgrade translator, who has translated modern Russian literature into Serbian for many years. I am at her house, lives more than modestly, but, not a word of complaint about life and injustice. I don’t remember how the conversation went to the fees: how much does the famous translator receive for the translation of the Tolstoy Scientific Book? Three hundred dollars, she told me, and did not add: well, you can imagine how gang publishing houses profit from me, or: how can you live on such tears? Nothing of the kind, calmly, with a sense of meaningfulness of his field - translates the modern literature of the neighboring large state for compatriots.

The scene is the third. I am in a large writing company, among which, it happened, the most famous Serbian writers like Milorad Pavich, plus officials from the culture of the highest category. We arrive in a tiny town on the Romanian border, where we are going to perform in the district library.

The first meeting of the director of the library and authorities from the capital (nearby, I recall, known, if not cult writers). Of course, I understood little from a quick conversation, but all the more I was attentive to intonation and facial expressions. No belief, frightened and obsolete deflection, no press of embarrassment of the provincial and the fat flatteness of the subordinate: people completely equal in level speak a mutually interesting topic. Equal with equal.

The fourth scene. I am walking along an empty rural street, the dusty heat of the south, a rustic old woman with a straight back and a brown face of a face is moving towards me, noticed from afar; Having caught up, she calmly looks into my eyes and says, as a friend, how people in New York greet it: "added, sir!" “Good afternoon,” I answered, hiding fright and surprise; And he remembered how the twin neighbor from the St. Petersburg ceremonial, for many years they looked away at the meeting, pretending that they did not see and did not remember me.

The story is fifth. The same delegation in the night service in the monastery seems to have forgotten the female. A multilayer pie of polygonized singing, sometimes forcing you to forget about fatigue, then long gatherings with singers and flocks behind Rakia and wine. And again, an amazing and familiar equality, dignity without a challenge and an aplomb, a gaping lack of a struggle of ambitions and show -offs, no pedaling religiosity, although we drank with a church choir; Orthodoxy, but completely different.

By the way, there was one funny detail when I was curious, where are the origins of the Serbian polyphony? They looked at me incomprehensibly: this is our Serbian, exclusively Serbian tradition. The age was named. I wanted to say that any tradition develops another, and these are like waves that have no beginning. But I decided not to spoil the impression of an inappropriate cultural hairpin. I’ll tell you: most likely, this is the influence of Byzantium, which has preserved ancient Greek polyphonic traditions preserved by Turkey - they also sang on the voices there.

The story is sixth. We go through Belgrade with a friend, philologist and poetess, I have a problem: the watch strap broke off, that part of the fastener was broken and lost, without which the strap is dead. We are looking for an hourly workshop. We go into the road to the trading outbuilding, among the routine luxury and brilliant glass, we quickly find a clock shop. My friend asks to look at the clock, and he talks lively with the watchmaker, who first rummages in her boxes in search of the right part, and then sets her up to the strap. The conversation is alive, loud, although people of completely different social and intellectual levels: but no protective frowning, no snobbery or, on the contrary, rudeness from shyness: they chirped cheerfully about something of their own, sometimes, probably, in rhyme.

But the clock is ready, I fasten the strap, take out my wallet, wanting to pay. What are you, a friend waves at me, he did it for free, this is a gift: as it turned out, from one village, he is very flattered to him that his fellow villager was educated, and even more so he writes poetry, he even asked to read something of his own, I read the quatrain, but he was all the more pleased to help him, well, you understood.

I realized: in this country, people, called simple, respect education and educated, are proud of their successes, read and listen to poems. Capitalism did not turn them into greedy, offended, all dissatisfied creatures, who have one on all the saying: if you are so smart, why are you so poor?

The story is seventh. We are walking around the city of Novi-Sada, who was bombing the Americans during the war with Milosevich and passing by the destroyed buildings. It is very similar to Belgrade and teeth, an even row, then a pass - a tooth was pulled out (the building, it seemed, it seemed, the Ministry of the Interior, fell inside), nearby is an even picket fence again. And I listen to the story: they were very worried about the animals when the sound of an airplane on a shaving flight was heard, the animals panic and sought to get somewhere away. People were not afraid, the bombing was quite accurate, but many lost their pets - if the door was not accidentally locked, the animal ruined and then it was difficult to find it.

I don’t remember how I asked about resentment and memory: a calm studying look - for the most part people want to Europe, whoever was offended here, because the war went exactly until the minute was given a go -ahead from Moscow to give up. The idea was simple: to tear Serbia from other republics and slow down entry into the European Union. If Miloshevich had not had a war, all the republics would have gone to Europe one after another, almost instantly. And so the borders were drawn with blood that had to be stepped, Milosevich was a doll, and the puppeteers were in the Kremlin.

My picture is one -sided: I have not seen a single supporter of the great Serbia - not because there are not enough of them among the educated class. Yes, and how much can be understood in a foreign country, even such an improved copy of my own, which it will never be.

Why? I will not resort to the instrument of reasoning. Another picture: Early morning, I will crazy along the streets of the yawning Belgrade, which are washed with cold water from the hoses of numerous janitors. The water flows down the profiled groove, next to the open cafe, where early visitors are at separate tables: some are viewing fresh newspapers at a cup of coffee, others simply read without ordering anything. And no one will say to them: "Master, can you order a hundred grams that sitting and taking a place in a dry one?"

Coffee culture. Breath of the Mediterranean, warm.