Acoustic journey

From the festive archives of freedom

Ivan Tolstoy : We compiled today's festive program according to our archives. When almost the entire sound world is assembled on old films in 60 years, there is something to listen to. Let's start the acoustic journey since 1995. Tales and holy stories recorded by Katya Metelitsa in our Moscow studio. I turn on the recording of 20 years ago.

Katya Metelitsa: The microphone in Moscow Katya Metelitsa. On the air "on top of the barriers." The Christmas issue opens a new fairy tale Lyudmila Petrushevskaya. Reading copyright.

Lyudmila Petrushevskaya : The fairy tale "Ivanovich".

Once Ivanovich decided to fly in parachute and for this purpose climbed onto the tower. He climbed for a long time, climbed, climbed up, the tower was tall. Then Ivanovich stopped resting, putting the cow, drank milk and again began to climb up. Along the way, Ivanovich spent the night, in the morning again he triumphed a nearby cow, drank a jar of milk and arrived up the day, at the parachute warehouse.

While he chose the parachute thicker, he flew a helicopter, sat on top of the tower and began to steam it powerfully back and forth. Ivanovich cried out “Rusts from here!”, But because of the loud chatter of the wings, the helicopter did not hear anything, she only looked at Ivanovich through her huge blue glasses as non-normal, and then starred and flew away.

Ivanovich was terribly worried, he triumphed another cow with a strong tower roll, even managed to drink a jar of milk in such a swinging position, after which he calmed down and began to pick up his parachute thicker. Ivanovich chose a parachute for himself, took it out of the nest and flew, only the heels flashed. He flew high, and the peoples greeted him, and then Ivanovich’s parachute decreased and sat down in the alien regions, on the other side of the path.

Immediately, Ivanovich was surrounded by local residents and, with a cry, “red, red” led somewhere, and they themselves were black-presidential and small, such a country, apparently.

“I got to Africa,” Ivanovich decided.

The Black Queen, however, affectionately accepted him and asked him about his red people, she was quite large, even higher than the Dyujoye Ivanovich, and lay on pillows, smoked and saw.

Ivanch liked her.

He was supplied with a jar of local milk and carried out on the return road.

Ivanovich did not walk for long, because there was not a fool, he was looking for the nearest parachute tower. Finding this tower, he did not drink milk brought with him, but climbed upstairs. Having reached the top after two days, the very weighty Ivanovich no longer dared to take his parachute thicker, but pulled out with great difficulty small, took it over and flew like fluff! He reached his native country on the other side of the path, entered his house and asked for a meeting with the red -haired queen. Having bowed, he presented her with a jar of foreign milk and said that he would now write a textbook on parachute flights for redheads. The queen of redheads, a huge person, also lay on pillows and also smoked and drank (apparently, a feature of the ruling circles).

She immediately thought out the words of Ivanovich and said that it would be necessary to recruit a parachute-"-haired regiment of redheads for the war with the Blacks, and Ivanovich would be taken into the army with a sergeant for leadership, they would take a general, but he still does not have a rank. Ivanovich was dumbfounded and piled that he was a simple traveler and was not worthy of honor to be a sergeant, moreover, he must write a book and he will need for many years. The queen spat, called Ivanovich an enemy, hit him on her neck and kicked him out, and he walked and did not know whether to rejoice or cry. But then I decided to rejoice, not to write any book, not to lead in anything, to remain a simple red ant in the team of milkmaids at the herd of aphids, to admire nature and drink milk, otherwise you will invent something and not to pass the wars of red and black.

And Muravy Ivanch really liked the Black Ant Queen and, in general, this Africa behind the path in the jungle of plantain. And he also decided to never climb on the dandelions again and not fly on fluffs: maybe someday, at retirement, when there is no risk to be a sergeant in the army.

It was a fairy tale about the ants “Ivanovich”

Katya Metelitsa : Lyudmila Petrushevskaya reads her new tales.

Lyudmila Petrushevskaya : “Kozhaka”.

One Kozyavka decided to change the place of residence and hung an ad:

"I will buy a seed of cucumber."

Immediately there was a seller, and Kozhavka hired two working ants with ropes, sat in the cabin herself, and they brought and unloaded the seed.

Until now, the Kozhavka family lived in bread crumbs, but over time the family has grown, and I was tired of sitting only on one bread and water. Now it has become easier. They lived in the former house, and went to dinner in a new one, and some already slept there right without furniture, only ran to their mother for bread. Thanks to this, the family grew up again, all eighty children married, everyone had eighty more children, even grandchildren started, so soon, two hours later, it became crowded again, and Kozhaka hung a new announcement:

"Exchange. I change the cucumber seed to coconut. Without surcharge. "

And below, Kozhavka added:

"Do not offer remote areas"

Because she was told that the coconut is growing in Africa.

It was the fairy tale "Kozhavka".

A fairy tale with a heavy end.

Once the lunar night walked, walked, wandered, wandered, staggering along the bushes, swamps, and lost a button from the sleeve.

The lunar night was angry and began to check: all night she rummaged through the forests and fields, climbed into all wells, buckets and boots, shone in the windows, under the beds, in pots and pots, sensed kettles, pans, cups and thimbles,

She even looked into the mouth of a cat, when she screamed especially loudly on the roof - all in vain.

So the lunar night and went to sleep with nothing, wet and with a dangling sleeve.

And her button was found by workers at a construction site in a foundation pit and handed over their find to the museum, specially drove an excavator.

She now lies there in a window with the inscription: "Do not touch with her hands. Meteorite. Weight is sixteen tons."

It was a fairy tale with a heavy end.

Katya Metelitsa: The end of the fairy tale turned out to be really heavy as a meteorite. But not bad. This is impossible - a bright holiday. A happy or at least just a prosperous end is a prerequisite for a Christmas fairy tale, as well as a holy story.

Lyudmila Petrushevskaya: “Donkey and goat”. Fairy tale.

One person returned home on the bus and sat so that he did not notice how some old woman hung over him.

And when this man was about to go out, he saw her and stood up with polite words: "Sit down, please."

In response to what the old woman said:

- Since you are so polite, then let everything you wish today will be fulfilled!

And she sat down with triumph in the vacant place.

At first this man walked home calmly, but then he went much more careful: he thought, and suddenly someone wants him to “fall to fail” or, better, “to lift you and slammed”.

Or as his witty wife told him the other day:

- Yes, so that your spirit is not here at all over the age of centuries, - this is when he slipped into the kitchen to eat a pies before everyone, - hungry, from work.

Can you imagine?

And when he made her a remark that it was impossible to rush like that dog at people, and yet he took a pie, she answered even worse: “Yes, so that you choke on this pie!”

With such terrible thoughts, he went home very carefully, went around everyone, giving way to women with bags and especially women with children (everyone knows how they get tired and do not answer for themselves if someone rises across the route, and especially a free man in a hat).

And so, very carefully and politely, he got to the house, sat there quietly and modestly in the TV chair, turned on his favorite football, but very and very carefully, because he knew that his wife, who also ran away from work with bags and now stomping in the kitchen, has a very strange habit: on the one hand, she does not like it terribly, when her husband just sits like a fir -tree and on the other hand, and on the other hand, and on the other hand, and on the other hand, and on the other hand, and on the other hand, and on the other hand, and on the other hand, and on the other hand, and on the other hand. He doesn’t tolerate when he puts it into the kitchen with his advice and supposedly wants to help, asking: “And what stinks and what burned” or “What are you, blind, now you will have milk.”

Therefore, this person did not know how to live tonight to live tonight, especially since the children, a boy and a girl were about to come like the last hooligans, from the street where their sonorous voices were heard, and they will surely need to switch football to “Spokukha” or to a horror film.

In addition, they sometimes chopped music at full power before rattling the viscus on the chandelier and glasses in the bar (when there was nothing to watch on TV or when the mother drove off the lessons)-and then, if you stick to the children with a request to do it (otherwise the commentator’s voice is not heard), then you can find out that you will find such a wishes in some terrible places, thanks to today kindness of the old woman from the bus.

So, without looking into the future, he simply pushed his chair closer to the TV, acquired it and bent to him with his ear, and did not even hear how the young replenishment came home and that they shouted to his mother and that his mother screamed at the top of bliss, ours won two-one.

And the children, apparently, had already moved to the kitchen, there were pounded spoons on the plate, the day ended, and our poor owner of the house also slipped into the kitchen, where he received a ration of bread, a portion of pasta with meat and a glass of compot, as if he were in the fleet, and was so happy with a quiet family evening that they started a conversation with the kids, and that they would wish for their folder at night.

The children were also delighted and shouted in one voice:

“Good night to you

pleasant sleep

We wish you to see

donkey and goat

a donkey to midnight

goat until the morning

Good night to you

pleasant sleep! "

He went to sleep in a pleasant mood (everything seemed to cost), and as a result he was busy all night: until midnight he was dragging somewhere with a donkey, the donkey did not want to start and stood as if they were dug up, and he had to climb under him and twist something there, so that as a result in the tank the donkey opened, and at exactly midnight the poor sleeping person woke up, and he went through his hands, and washed his hands after such a case. And I did not have time to go to bed again, like Nate: everything was repeated the same, but now with the participation of a goat.

Until the morning, he lay under the goat, repairing it, then started a goat, twisting his tail, then dragged him by the horns and was so wicked that he barely woke up.

And, of course, in the morning he rode to work standing, remembering the old woman, and even inferior to everyone his standing place, but in crowded transport you will not be very unfolding, and as a result, some nervous woman was swept away: “Get off my sick leg, donkey!”

A dream is in the hand, the poor man thought.

But the adventure did not end there.

Returning home from work, he ran to the grouping of children who sucked beer from jars and asked him to smoke.

He answered politely that he was not, and in response he received: “Well, the swarm from here, goat, until the horns were broken!”

“Again a dream in the hand,” the man thought.

But when in the evening he did not endure and went to the kitchen to tell his wife, how he was predicted to the performance of all the wishes yesterday and what happened from this, and who else will you tell such a thing? - then the wife answered him with all her heart (and she fried the fish): “Yes, so that you die!”

Apparently, a woman was detracted.

And this man thought: and what happiness is that that old woman rewarded him with fulfilling all the wishes for only one evening and only yesterday!

And, happy and calm, he grabbed a piece of bread from the table, the tail of the fish from the frying pan and went to watch TV, all the same.

Katya Metelitsa: Everything ended well with Lyudmila Petrushevskaya.

Ivan Tolstoy : We continue the acoustic journey in 1995.

Katya Metelitsa : For the festive Moscow issue “On top of the barriers”, Viktor Polevin handed over his new story “Holy Cyberpank or Christmas Night- 117 Dir”. Reads the author.

Victor Pelevin:

http://pelevin.nov.ru/rass/pe-kiber/1.html

Katya Metelitsa: Well, the light at the end of the tunnel. Victor Pelevin has as many as two tunnels with light, a double promise of happiness. A real holy story.

Ivan Tolstoy : And we will take another step into the depths of the past and move to 1977. The New Year's-native program is conducted by Mikhail Roshchin. Under this Radio Machine hides Leonid Mahlis.

Mikhail Roshchin : I invite all those who are sitting at the radios now for a few minutes to Paris. Tens of thousands of Russian emigrants have found refuge outside the Soviet Union in recent years. Among them is the writer Andrei Sinyavsky, who divided the fate of the Soviet political prisoners relatively recently. He emigrated the liberation field to France. Sinyavsky regularly appears in our microphone in programs, which are united by the general name "We are abroad." Now you will hear a small fragment of one of these programs. Maria Rozanova takes part in it. Christmas Paris through the eyes of Russian emigrants.

Andrei Sinyavsky : There are not so many believers in France. But it would be an insult to everyone who believes and everyone who does not believe, to neglect, say, the day of the Ascension of Christ, not to mention the Trinity, about Easter, about Christmas. All the French, regardless of beliefs, celebrate Christmas for 3-4 days. And even in general they leave for two weeks for Christmas holidays, Paris is empty. Workers do not work, shops are closed. Still! Christmas, New Year - holidays.

Maria Rozanova: So, by the New Year you need a Christmas tree. But where to get it? When we lived at home, in Moscow, everything was simple. In the middle drawer of the desk, in the Iron Box of the cookies, where the most important family documents were stored-diplomas, a military ID, a certificate of death of the mother, the birth of a son, so among all this farm there was one piece of paper, another document-an invoice for a Christmas tree. This invoice said that we bought a Christmas tree from the state in a completely legitimate way, and after that we are not afraid of either the police or the patrols of the warriors, dulling the trains before the New Year. And no one will take away from us, no one requisitions this Christmas tree. And suddenly we found ourselves in a world, where the holiday is, where the Christmas tree is not a problem. The streets of Paris are in rows of Christmas trees: at flower shops, at grocery shops, in all markets. Any. If you want - big, you want - small. And there is an incredible, inaccessible to understanding world - a holiday without problems, without tension, without an eternal question: where to get it? And a month before Christmas, a month before the New Year, Paris turns into a continuous New Year tree. Illumination, outfits, gifts. In stores - buy, just buy! - mountains of toys, sparkling balls and sweets. And a kaleidoscope of posters, posters, advertisements show you with needles of congratulations and wishes. But for some reason, no one reminds you of the labor exploits of the last year and the fidelity of the French government in the future. Only about the house, only about happiness - about your private house and about your private happiness.

Andrei Sinyavsky: The face of the bazaar, the physiognomy of the market, I really learned only in France. Probably in Rus', in principle, something similar is possible. But we were young or hungry, or not curious to such spectacles. In the markets and near the markets, according to our concepts, they speculated. Of course, here, as everywhere, everything is done for money, but the spirit of the game and fun is surprised by which this uncomplicated process is shrouded in: you are, I am to you. The bazaar is always, not even on the pre -holiday, but on the worst weekdays, already a holiday, a masquerade, a carnival, a theater made to an area where all the audience, and sellers, and buyers are already. Why in the market, it is on the market that you see the people as something integral and colorful? The people are like a bouquet that they present to you. As if they themselves, they are all, both sellers and buyers, did not really believe in the seriousness of what they were doing. It’s not about them the formula “money-money-money”. Without giving the report themselves in what is happening here, they play the performance of the sale, like a comedy del arte. And you begin to remember from books, according to the paintings that we, in Rus', once celebrated the fair as a wedding. And why, one wonders, came to the fair? What-buy-sell a bag of potatoes? Naturally. Well, more? Why did the carousels spin at the fair, when the head is already spinning? Why gypsies with a bear and a chain -handler with a parrot? Is it not in continuation and not in the development of a cheerful theatrical spirit of sale? And he did all this and the people were inspired by this. With all economic concerns, he did this with a laugh, as if not in concerns the main self-interest and need, but in something else. Where does the humor come from for selling and buyers? Why so many people? What, the beef did not see? They saw beef, but it is necessary in combination with onions, with pepper, with bananas and crabs, under the howl of merchants. It is necessary that everything together and all together. So we met at the fair, in Shrovetide, on their own Christmas.

Mikhail Roshchin: It was an excerpt from the program "We are abroad." Are you listening to the radio magazine "What are we talking about"? Before we say goodbye to you today, since the time allocated for the radio journal is coming to an end, we offer you to listen to Alexander Galich’s song “New Year's Bingle”.

( Alexander Galich "New Year's binge")