Fly, dig, cut, give up

How did I end up in Sicily? This is all Soviet power. Remember this? It was she who drove me to the island. And although the old woman herself did not reach the present day, her secret passions live and win in the affairs of the descendants

For example, passion for everything foreign. I was five years old when she first blazed in the body. I stood on the sun -flooded bridge, connecting the shore of the Great Russian River with a ship full of Germans. A postcard shone before my eyes. It seems with Iris. It was not in him, but in fat, like a cream, gloss, in thick, but flexible paper, in poisonously bright, to the rubs in the eyes, paints, and most importantly, in sparkles of pure silver, stuck on top of this pie from the world of printing.

I hung on a postcard in a seizure of delight, and the brothers of my dad on the social camp, which were falling from the ship, already rummaged in bags and pockets in search of other treasures. I saw out of the corner of my eye a handful of something small, large, wrapped in the most delicate cellophane, my heart prompted: sweets! - I saw the dolls that came off from heaven! At some point, a sand man was in my hands. Probably, there was a translator nearby, otherwise how did I know what kind of cute in a red cap? I didn’t live in the GDR, I did not look at cartoons in which he pissed magical sand into the eyes of the children, leading all sorts of Sweet Dreams on them, I was now walking. And then I only breathed the smell of the freshest pink rubber, cotton threads from his beard, touched a warm woolen jacket and ... with a howl said goodbye.

Dad did not encourage greed, and the little man was seized in favor of some other Soviet child. Because in the USSR everyone was equal! Before Italian boots, French spirits, Czech sets, German zinger and even Chinese vases brought by grandmother from the Far East. All this caused addiction and love.

The value of the one who reached us was even obvious to the stupid second -grader, who exchanged October icon for the "Pedro" chewing gum at the Crown Hotel in my native Ulyanovsk.

The idea that the abroad does not just smell better and dress, but even thinks better, formed a little later. And again under the influence of a scoop. Catching up and overtaking the West in its collapse, he told me goodbye to the terrible truth, using the magazine "Spark" for this. While I laid flowers to different -caliber monuments to Lenin and recited the verses “Communists, forward!” - Manufacturers of spirits and sand men knew perfectly well that Lenin is a bandit, communists are hypocrites, and the USSR - a prison of peoples. And all this is somehow connected with the quality of their perfume, rubber and machines-not only sewing, but any!

The first day at school No. 1 named after Lenin, Order of Lenin, Ulyanovsk;
“Timurovites” of 4 “G” and the mother of the girl who died at the front; It is not known who is not known where. This happens if you go abroad more than ten times; Ostankino, end of the XX century Photo: From the Personal Archive

My childhood was deceived, youth was a mistake, and my dad didn’t really love me, so by the age of 18 I knew one thing: as soon as I earn money for a one -way ticket, they will no longer see me here anymore. The plan was like this: to leave the airport of conditional Paris, to bury the Soviet passport and money with Lenin under the nearest bush, to cut off all the tags on Cyrillic, to give up the police and mumble deafly in response to any questions. Want to deport me? Guess where! The main thing is not to start giving birth with them, like a radio operator Kat, until they give citizenship.

Alas, it was not possible to earn money for a ticket until the year 95. And it failed in it, so I passed my first passport control with a ticket received from the hands of my ex.

Control at that time screwed up without solving half of my criminal intentions. “You - what? release? " - I asked Tupo, not daring to kick the treasured turnstile of freedom.

The girl in uniform, which was responsible beyond her meter of the grandchildren's border, coldly asked what objections there were, and I broke forward to the plane. Fly, dig, cut, give up, mumble! For two weeks in Bulgaria (all the same, a foreigner!) I begged everyone (there were six of us) to join my brilliant plan. Alas, most people all their lives believe that they have something to lose.

The plan was this: to leave the airport of conditional Paris, to bury a Soviet passport and money with Lenin under the nearest bush, cut off the tags on Cyrillic and surrender to the police.

Of course, I considered myself a minority sung by a perestroika press. But, having drunk a liter of a half of the Bulgarian moonshine with the taste of medicinal herbs, poisoned by half a death of Bulgarian fish and burning in the sun to the redness of the Bulgarian pepper, I was forced to recognize the defeat. In front of the buyer of my ticket. I did not want to lose a person who gave me so much happiness. Where is he, there and me. So she returned to Vnukovo. It was a sad day. Then a sad year, and then a whole life, completely devoid of a plan. Life-reinforcement.

I lived in Moscow, every month, paying for now the rent of some apartment, then her mortgage. Then 200 dollars, or even 1200. Twenty -odd years, I only thought about how to get this money, not robbing or killing anyone. At first it seemed that marriage would save me, but it quickly became clear that whom his dad did not love, he was not suitable for the rest of his wife.

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Type curse. I had to go into work, then I had to get carried away with it, so as not to howl on the rented housing from endless losses. As a reward for my efforts, I began to grab money not only on rent, but also for flights, I gradually got rid of Russian tags on clothes, learned to protect the passport and mumble a little in English.

At work, I had to drink a lot, smoking, command, obey, pretend to be in the offices of terrible uncles, answer for my own and other people's mistakes, yabed, beg, be afraid, take care of everything that does not fit in my head, guess other people's thoughts, which I have not been guessing them, never fall asleep with a sense of fulfilling the duty and attending the planner of the Directorate of Channelian programs NTV. And when I sat there in some February of some 2000, laying out in front of me, like everyone, the last model of some Nokia, there were so many tanned people around that I finally understood what a corporate spirit was: we are all here for the sake of one thing. To leave! And then return and continue to sit on the glider, and, thereby, do not lose an invaluable opportunity-to leave-go-go. “I will tell you the cassettes as soon as I return from London”, “This is a long conversation, but I'm not in the country now,” “Will it wait for three days? I have Cannes. " Did they even talk about working with me about working with me or about a sand man, once torn out of their children's hands?

I finally understood what a corporate spirit is: we are all here for the sake of one. To leave!

I don’t know how much this unity of colleagues in roaming continued if one president of my homeland did not make her happy with a completely different president, such whose face I could not remember for two years. Everyone hoped that I would not have to. I didn’t attack. I had to find a distinctive feature of this nondescript phenomenon from other similar ones. The sign was this: I did not understand at all what he was talking about. As if I don’t hear the words, but the rattle of radio waves!

More than ten seconds to endure this rattle, it was unbearable. I wanted my head under the crane, I wanted apples, vodka, songs of the Cranberries group, photographs of Kilimanjaro snow, 6% natural. Such that will return to the imperfect, but real world from flesh and blood. For 17 years in Ostankin, I have firmly learned that the men on the monitor did not hear me, but when I saw this particular man on any small -pixel surface, to this day I loudly ask him to shut up and not lie, even if he simply congratulates dear Russians a Happy New Year.

The monastery of the XII century on the mountain where I live; CEFALù is one of the few places in Sicily, where there are many Russian tourists; The steps of the Massimo Theater in Palermo, where one of the last scenes of the “godfather” was shot; ISOLA BELLA - island that can be reached by water; Castelbuono. Mountain Sicily, foreigners see here, but rarely photos: from a personal archive

The Russians themselves also gradually developed an attitude, which did not facilitate my life in any way. I looked at them with the eyes of the tipsy Fedor Mikhalych, with a tear and despair. If you want to understand what I mean, sit in the last train from Yaroslavl, insert something sunny in the Italian-“longing” or ricchi e poveri-it doesn’t matter, and watch how the grandmother, opposite the egg with a bun, throws off the husks into the sore polyethylene package, and the fires of the impending stations flickered on her indifferent face.

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I lived my life in one of the most gloomy and tiring cities in the world, I tried to invest the maximum skill and merciful truths in the advertisement of the series “Damned Paradise”, “Brothers” and “Anti -Killer”, I slept three hours every now and then, because the TV channel, where I worked, appeared either the new owner, and the program “Live with wolves” was replaced by “ Wolf to howl ” - and all this misfortune was not a misfortune, I know!

In the Middle Ages, people cooked each other in the resin! But the grandmother, who will get nothing but lies and eggs for a new year - still finished me off. Not because I am so compassionate, but because I am this grandmother! Without grandchildren, without homeland, without good and evil, without answers, without questions. Just deadly tired. I'm going to Sergiev Posad watch TV and sleep. Tomorrow to the train again. For some reason. Life-reinforcement. It became so scary for me to grow old in Moscow or Sergiev Posad under the rattle of these unnecessary radio waves! ..

To get out of the ruins-you need to see the light, otherwise which way to climb something?

I could not see the real light, no matter how I stared around, so I had to invent it. To scrape along the photon, so to speak, from childhood, youth, films, from school education, to learn the moments of happiness and warmth from their two -week graters into warmth and happiness. I blinded him from what was. Not just from the past, but from past illusions about the world where everything is different. Because not everyone is given to get new illusions after forty. Sicily appeared. From black eyes Al Pacino: “Women and children can be frivolous. There are no men. " From the only book that dad read to me aloud when I was sick with a pig is a “mysterious island”. From a turn in the magazine of the mod, which Nagi dragged from the third floor, we examined it on the chest in the hallway: “Look, this is Italian! Singer! She smokes, and she is also called Nadia! When I grow up, I will also sing and smoke! " Of the grandmother's white boots donated by some visiting people in the year 70.

In Sicily, I was no longer capable of anything other than tears of happiness and recognition. Each donkey was my brother, every cherry - my story

Of the ancient Greeks who have never lived in Russia. From the eternity that any sea breathes. From the language called half of food, medicine and all that the music consists of. Of the ridiculous Celentano, a man on the springs. From the city of Togliatti, where I first saw living Italians. They sculpted the Zhiguli car there, and the Russians sang the Avanti Poppolo, struggling with their kind, old imperialism. From stupid crowds in Italian films that solve all the problems in the operetta mode. From impassable native garbage on the streets of Naples. From a ray boy and the girls of Prada, after all. When I first got into Sicily, I was no longer capable of anything other than tears of happiness and recognition. Every donkey was my brother, every cherry was my story.

And now I am not five already, but 48. I am sitting in the bear corner of the most backward Italian province, where not everyone says even in Italian. I have no work or friends who can help in evaluating what is happening. Because my life is now beyond their experience and understanding. I do not know how I will earn how to drown the house and where to call in a fire, which is very likely starting from the end of May. My Sicilian old age in a house, well hidden on the slope of the mountain, among oaks and sheep pastures, is especially vague. Do you know what I'm sorry for the most? About their own cowardice. Why, why, did I not do everything listed in the heading of this text, about 20 years ago? You have to live in a dream. Even the most ridiculous.

Sicily