City of other people's stories

PROLOGUE

I somehow found myself in a situation that I hate: you arrange a meeting with a person, at the last moment he writes about force majeure and postpones it for 2 hours. So I’m standing on Bolshaya Vasilkovskaya and thinking where to go. It’s not a long way home from the center, and sitting for two hours in “Ander Wander” is boring and wasteful. So I decided to take a walk along Khreshchatyk, drink coffee from Brown Cup and think about the mortal and the sublime. You know, that mood when you feel like Margarita with a bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums, only without the chrysanthemums.

In general, it’s 4:00 p.m., the sun is still high, I have hot chocolate in my hands, and right in front of me is a free bench under one of the already balding Kyiv chestnut trees. As I sit, pick at the lumps of chocolate at the bottom of my glass, ponder questions for the interview, I notice that my privacy is fading in real time.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a couple of men sitting on a bench - typical Bessarabian tramps. Usually in such cases, I try to retreat to another location so that our auras do not touch. But then I decided to stay on principle. Firstly, I had already warmed up, and secondly, the distance between us was not critical and, in principle, by turning away, one might not even notice the invasion of personal space. A minute later, from the same corner of my eye, I see one of the men saying goodbye and leaving. While the other one turns and begins to look at me silently. I can’t resist and turn around. Suddenly a dialogue breaks out:

-Girl, hello.

- Hello.

- My name is Volodya. I am a future director. “I live in this house on the corner,” says my casual acquaintance and points to the corner of T.G. Boulevard. Shevchenko. “It’s starting,” I thought, but still decided to take a look at my interlocutor. There was a lot of time, and the opportunity to talk with a person from a different worldly formation did not arise often. The future director Volodya was dressed sloppily, but, to his credit, not tastelessly. A worn-out jacket over something dark and warm was buttoned with the only surviving button, dusty trousers were scuffed in places to a shine, and on his head a hat with the embroidered inscription “Turgeneff” was crumpled in the brim. Still, I imagined the bohemia of Khreshchatyk differently.

The future director Volodya extended his hand to me and asked:

- What’s your name?... you.

“Maria,” I answer and mechanically extend my hand, which Volodya decided to kiss. I was a little taken aback, hesitated and he succeeded. In his other hand, my new acquaintance was clutching a small bottle of cognac, Pepsi and several plastic glasses.

- Maria. What a beautiful name. That was my mother's name. - Volodya nostalgically raised his eyes to the sky, then looked first at me, and then at the bottle:

-What wonderful eyes you have. You have... Just like cognac. Super color. I would watch and watch. By the way,” my neighbor realized, “do you want it?” he asked, turning his gaze to the cognac. “Maybe this is for an acquaintance?”

At that moment I thought that perhaps I had allowed this whole conversation to happen in vain. “Now the tramps are offering me a drink... Mde...” I thought and politely refused, already thinking about where to go next.

- Do you want shawarma?

-No, thank you.

“Yes, okay, do you want to buy it?” the future director continued, which, I must say, pretty much surprised me. I refused, citing the fact that I was not hungry. He didn't insist anymore, thank God.

- You are it. Don't look like I look like that. I got a split lip here. I'll go to the hospital tomorrow.

- Why not today? “Not in the right mood?” I decided to be sarcastic for some reason.

“Yeah,” Volodya said and smiled. - It's good that you have humor. I love these.

Meanwhile, my new acquaintance had already managed to uncork cognac and Pepsi. And, having mixed the two ingredients, he took a sip, having just before clinked his glass with the glass of hot chocolate that I was holding in my hand. And suddenly our conversation took an unexpected direction.

REVELATIONS OF VOLODKA BESARABA

It turned out that the future director, as befits a creative person, had been wandering and searching for himself for several years.

- I write plays and paintings. “And I love cinema,” my interlocutor confessed. “Well, yes, well,” I thought, “And where does such people come from with this desire to blame themselves.” But I didn’t say anything out loud, I just listened.

— My last name is Bessarab. Volodya Bessarab. This is a pun, you know: I live opposite the Bessarabian market and have this last name. But I'm not lying. There were even several articles about me published in the Fakty newspaper.

“Now this is interesting,” I thought:

- And what kind of articles?

- It was a long time ago. About 12 years ago. I then helped my relative take her apartment away from swindlers. But I remember the title of only one article: “The more expensive the apartments, the cheaper our lives.” This is exactly the house I live in now. The hostess let me in as a sign of gratitude,” Volodya said, mixing a new portion of cognac. After a pause he continued:

“Do you know the film “The Children of Captain Grant” from 1936?” Bessarab asked me. “Lord, how do you know him?” flashed through my head. I knew him. Back in the fifth grade, we listened to overtures from there in music class, and I watched the film itself even earlier. At one time it was shown on the Culture channel.

- So here it is. This apartment belonged to the Romanovs. They were actors. We met during the film. He played the captain, and she - I don’t remember who. We met, which means we got married. Their daughter Masha was born. It was I who helped her out. She was left an orphan at the age of 15. His mother died at 54, and his father died six months later from grief. But in general, these are all Jews, I think. When he was artistic director at Lesya Ukrainka’s theater, they rotted him there,” my casual acquaintance continued to amaze me with a set of details to the very heart.

“So, after the death of her parents, Aunt Masha got this apartment. But in the early 2000s, it was terrible what was happening here. Owners disappeared, apartment locks were changed, people were killed. In short, banditry began. Aunt Masha was sent to a mental hospital, but that means someone else has already found an apartment for themselves. At that time, it was valued at $300,000. Crazy money. Of course, they were covetous, and they floated away the aunt on the sly. As soon as I found out, I immediately came to find out. He discharged her from the hospital and cut off the locks. Is it really human to do this?

- Of course not.

- Well, that’s what I decided. Are you sure you don't want shawarma?

- No.

“Don’t look that I have a broken lip.” This is not always the case with me. In general, I want to write a book about what was happening in those days. So that everyone knows. I have many stories. Do you know who could help me? If anything, I play the piano in front of the Nike store almost every day. When it's cold or raining we don't play, but in general you can find me there. Volodya Bessarab. I think that since Kuprin could unload watermelons here here in his youth, and then wrote “At the Bottom”, “The Pit”... Then it will work out for me too. The time just hasn't come yet...

EPILOGUE

I already had to go. After saying goodbye to my new acquaintance, I ran into a cafe, opened my laptop and started Googling. I really found information about the actors Mikhail Romanov, his wife Maria Streletskaya, and their roles in “The Children of Captain Grant.” And their daughter really is Maria. And the article in “Facts” is on the website, and Vladimir Bessarab is mentioned there.

Only now Maria’s apartment was taken away. I read that she lived at the station for some time, then she seemed to return, but again ended up in the hospital. A couple of years ago, the Life Lover Foundation even raised funds for her to restore her vision. But then he said that she had developed dementia and her vision could no longer be restored.

There is a high probability that Volodya lied about his home, the chronology of events, or something else. But in general, the facts agreed. There was a sense of nobility in him. And these parallels with Kuprin. Perhaps he found himself “at the bottom” due to circumstances, weakness of will, or something else. And I don't make excuses for him. I just hope everything goes well for him.

There are many people around us who have reached the top in society, but deep down in their souls they have remained “bottom”. Therefore, I think Volodka Bessaraba still has a chance.