Memory-Snow

They say that alcohol is repelled by memory. There is even an expression: "get drunk to unconsciousness." I have a different experience. The hero of Marseille Proust returns to childhood thanks to the taste and smell of a butter and linden tea. My time machine is wine. But not only wine.

I have been living in Prague for many years and often go to Vienna, where I always go to the Museum of the History of Arts. In the X hall of this museum, a picture of Peter Bruegel is exhibited

"Hunters in the snow" (1565 g). Five hours by train - and you are again nearby, speaking highly, with a "fragment of eternity." How the meeting with “Eternity” will end, I know: where are the Dutch hunters, there are bloody meat, and where is the bloody meat, there is junver juniper. It can be asked in any Viennese bar. Better with ice or in a frozen glass.

Half an hour with a juniper in the Vienna Bar after visiting the museum is one of the most intense fragments of my mortal life. I return to the XYI century again and again, I hear the crunch of snow, the heavy breath of the dogs, the crack of the flame, the ringing of bells, the rustle of bird wings. Junction is honed by the acoustic and visual relief of winter day, which is forever inscribed in the calendar of European culture. More about winter. Winter has names, right?

One of them was named by Natalia.
And there was a flicker in her, a secret,
Both cold and blue.

In the late 60s and early 70s of the last century, I visited David Samoilov and his wife Galina in Opalikh near Moscow. I was lucky, I’ll say right: I was lucky. The master was generously related to my poetic experiments and from time to time invited to visit. Honestly, Galina was an amazingly smart and insightful interlocutor. David Samoilovich kept almost in the shade. But he readly read new verses. Often he sat down to the piano and played something. Maybe Salieri? He then prepared a publication about Salieri and was going to introduce the music of the great Italian readers and listeners of the magazine "Old Road". The love of this "Pushkin" Russian poet of the mid -twentieth century to Salieri was touching. I later realized what, at least for me, the lesson of Samoilov was: he never grabbed the truth by the chest, but approached it in circles, leisurely, a slight step. It must be not to frighten her.

And there were days, and snow fell,
Like the warm fluff of winters foggy.
And this winter was called Anna,
She was more beautiful than everyone.

Sometimes we drank together, clouded with small glasses with vodka. After dinner, he escorted me along the creaky snow to the train. It was dark, drearyly barking village dogs. I was silent because I could not find words conveying unrest and joy. The stars spoke for me.

I have not been drinking strong drinks for many years. But sometimes, when a red salmon caviar or pickled mushrooms on the table, I pour a glass of vodka, clink with friends, take several sips. And then verses are returning:

But the power is so hidden in memory,
What returns images and multiplies ...
Noisy, without silent, memory-giving,
And memory-snugs flies and cannot fall.