Without sentiment

There were quite a lot of our meetings for all these years of acquaintance with Natasha, and they got confused a little, of course. And just stands in the middle, surrounded by scattering cards-not going out in the future, as it usually happens when every memory is not the memory of the event, but the previous one, many times caused and repeated another memory, as in the textbook,-and in one unfolding plane, as in these fragments, there is a tiny figure in some sereal cocktail. With wings or flashlights, sparkling glasses, with backpacks-it was all as it was: sharp, loud-losed, straightforward, perspicacious, simple-minded, intentional, kind, difficult, hard-soft, irregular, unjust, heart, light, young, brave bird. Of course, there was no Natalia Evgenievna between us - as with everyone, she immediately, by phone through the ocean, discarded my respectful treatment and demanded to call Natasha. And I called her so - she immediately on “you”, I, of course, on “you”, but the way she wanted and as always signed, completely: Natasha. But here I will call her as often she arises in correspondence with friends and how she remained: NG. Both letters are not rare at all, but for some reason it seems to me-if you say NG, then it is immediately clear who we are talking about.

The first time I remember well. It was in August 97th. I just came to Paris for the first time and went to a meeting with NG-finally live-after several months of absentee dating as an editor-corrector of “Russian thought”. We-I and the new friend who accompanied me, is also an employee of RM-went to NG for her penultimate apartment, in the 15th, on Robert Lindet . Paris, as is the case in August, was completely empty. I kept in my hands the just bought bouquet. Seeing me with these half -flesh sprayed flowers, which, as it seemed to me, could like NG, my companion sarcastically burst out. And I soon understood why. The door opened quickly. A very small woman in gray curls flickered on the threshold. "Ah, Ira!" She shouted, as if we broke up the day before,-and, grabbing a bouquet and put it somewhere in the dark, disappeared. From the depths of the apartment came: "Wait, I need to finish here!" The pause gave me the opportunity to look around, to see a huge window at the level of the sidewalk (through which, as it turned out later, it was possible to climb and crawl out on occasion, as the youngest son of NG Osya did). A large table, at which then I will eat "Gorbanevsky" soup many times. And suspiciously tilted book shelves, recently folded or repaired by our common friend Manuk Zhazhoyan. Under this shaky building, I had to sleep on the cot on my next visit. And a computer monitor, a cumbersome old man,-because of him the mistress’s head was almost not visible. She played something quickly there. It was, as I said, in the 97th, no one in the virtual was waiting for her-it was an antediluvian leisurely game like a solitaire. But she had to be finished. Complete. Do. This was, as I later convinced, the whole NG: not only excitement, but also the ability to stay to the end, to begin and throw inability. Later, going to her or stopping at her, I saw her at the game many times-either at work and game at the same time, when instead of a diligently translated Polish text on the screen appeared poisonous green cards: crawling along the screen, they were rapidly replaced by the former boring text. These frequent sorties into the game were like puffs with a cigarette-cigarette butts and ashtrays was apparently invisible: NG was, as everyone knows, Chain Smaker , and only in this incessant smoking was one of its few not free. Or maybe just freedom - from the fear of death. I have a group photograph, she is there with friends-Manuk, Tole Kopeykin and also employees from RM-sits on the couch, cheerful and pretty chubby. It was after a heart attack, when the doctors forbade her to smoke and she obeyed for a while, and then waved her hand-not worth it! - And smoked again. By the time of our acquaintance, she was already like that again as everyone remembers her: thin, light, with a quick, sharp reaction.

Once we went with NG and her grandson who came from Poland in a cafe - and there, not having time to sit down at the table, NG rushed to the Pinboat cars and began to terribly and loudly pull these rods with incredible agility. The table was immediately surrounded by children, at first mockingly, and then encouragingly watched the game. And I immediately realized why we went to this cafe.

The gastronomic (and not) Spartanism of NG - a multi -day inexpensive lunch soup, a huge pan, to which guests were proudly invited - made an exception for oysters. On my first visit, we went to a good restaurant with her, where I had to find out what it is. Before that, although I had lived in America for five years by that time, the oysters were a rather conditional concept - a fruitless way from the Silver Age. A bottle of Gevürtstraminer was ordered (and explained why) - I also did not know anything about it before. And finally, a multi -storey tray was brought, on which they lay in the ice - and they really shone, shone and freshly smelled of the sea. They raised the glasses with the ice "Gevürztraminer" and drank. There was some good, good toast. “And now,” she said, “come on!” They are alive! Do not cheat! Do not cheat! Swallow !! " I, with horror, chewed a little quietly, swallowed. NG looked at me inseparably, waiting for a reaction. "Well??? She cried out, and turned to the next tables. "Do you feel how happy she is?" “I feel that she is not opposed,” I said rather uncertainly. The reddened, laughing NG (she later told everyone about this answer to everyone) shone, she was happy, she was like a coach who put on skates. We drank all this bottle with her and then sat in the dark on the bench on the bus stop at the wall, from which the fountain was beating, and on the next street, the invisible from here, which was hidden in the courtyard, which she had just shown me just showed me. They waited for my bus-it was the last, although it was still very early, but in Paris, after all, the last bus can go in some completely childhood. Smallly sober, we talked about our dead friend Manuke, and when I said that I do not understand, I don’t understand, NG quietly and unexpectedly said softly: “But this can be understood?” And she told me about the death, just as ridiculous, - literally the other day - drowned in the Baltic Sea of ​​a close friend, historian Vadim Borisov. And, despite her own very sharp, fresh pain, she said not suffering, but compassionately.

The witness of the NG ability to truly empathize and regret -in the old Russian sense of the word, her delicacy, so unexpected in this sharp and straightforward man, I was not once. On the same very first visit, I left a priceless envelope with leaflets given to me for reading in the subway. Having met uselessly in the subway, I dragged on to the editorial office of “Russian Thought”, where NG and I agreed to meet in order to go to Montmartre, which she was eager to show me. I burst into the editor in Ponuro. Seeing my face, everyone rushed to me, and Natasha too. They brought tea, as if I were sick. I told Natasha that I had no mood for a walk, but she insisted gently and somehow made it clear to me that it would not be necessary to talk. We drove on the bus for a long time and were silent. He climbed higher, the back of the venue on which we stood was flooded with the glass sun, we barely held on our feet - and, holding tightly by the handrails, were silent. And then they walked uphill for a long time along the heat - a middle -aged heart, making this physically difficult route for her just in order to show the guest of Paris at all costs: “Just look - this cobblestone, this groove! This is the ninth century! " It was amazing - this delicacy, this true kindness.

Arriving in a year, I stopped at her at the invitation of NG. The first day passed perfectly, I reached the night, and they put me to sleep on the cot under the very flooding book shelves. But it is not a fear that all these wonderful books will fall on me now, did not let me fall asleep. I am so arranged that I can’t sleep in a smoky room at all. Natasha worked for a long time, and smoke stood - not to take a break. Then she lay down, and even before dawn, she stared, blinked and tried to stop the jumping heart, and at dawn quietly went out and went to sleep at another friendly house. I decided not to say anything, I could not offend her, although I did not quite imagine how I would exist here at all this week. But, while I was sleeping, they told her everything - and by the time I came to the RM, she, still horrified and ahai (which I had never heard before), had already raised the whole editorial office to my feet, and I was immediately found on my whole trip - just on Montmartre. She was not only not offended - she immediately began to pity me and quickly did as I was better. Both her religiosity, and churchness were also so - internal, experienced, real. We never touched these topics, and I was not devoted to the deeper layers of her religiosity, but in it was this unbending ability to active good and compassion without sentiments, to see everything, and not to judge, just keep a distance with something unsympathetic to her: the ability that is so often absent in the church-anyone.

In the early 2000s-it seems, in 2003-the festival of the Russian underground was held in America, and NG was in New York. I went to her “Plaza”, where they were placed (it was funny to see the Spartan NG in such a dazzling, elaborate, alien to her surroundings, but she was surprisingly easily and naturally fit into it). We ran into her room, NG quickly came up with something elegant, and we rushed to drink coffee before the performance. There, patronizingly abandoning something sarcastic about my cardboard New York glass, the NG Parisian gladly set about espresso from a normal white cup, as expected by a civilized European. As it often happened, she immediately asked about my mother, her namesake-they, although they had a long time ago common friends, seemed to have never seen each other, but between them-through me already-some special relations were established: on my mother’s side-obvious delighted respect, from NG, only intuition, understanding and warmth. And then, quickly telling about her, she asked about the house, about her daughter-and here I, and others who did not know how to lie, and even more so NG, briefly admitted that I had just had changes in the family. And the NG, who at least twice said to me cheerfully: “And I - cunning: I gave birth to two sons, but I didn’t get married,” NG, who always understood everything and was so easily treated, all sorts of dramas, suddenly frowned and gloomily said that it was all very bad. This was an obvious condemnation - if not myself, then the situation that she did not approve and which she could not accept in principle, because for NG the family was everything. Her reaction was not only hit by, but terribly upset. I did not, of course, that she would be excited and began to ask the details, but I thought that she would accept this message much more calmly. In this reaction, there was no common “you can know better for you” in such cases, but there was an undoubted firm confidence that I committed and continued to make a mistake, was sincere concern - fate not only of the child, but also to the person with whom I had never seen in life, there was compassion for them. I later reviewed this memory for a long time and with a different feeling: it would seem what difference it makes me - this is my life and I know better, but its severity remained in me for a long time - and only because it was NG.

The same firmness was inherent in NG in work - and, I think, it must be said here (because, perhaps, many do not know) that in a small version of the “Russian thought” NG worked as an editor and, in fact, a corrector. With her vision! Both the editor and the corrector were amazing - vigilant, accurate. And these endless Polish translations of the house. He has always been at work. On that oyster evening at the bus stop, she told me one simple thing, which was also remembered for me forever. “You know,” she said calmly, “I never have depression at all, because I'm too busy.” In my opinion, she still said this somewhere, in some interview, but for me these words contacted that night shop in the dark in that difficult year for us. And although I am also more or less than the same warehouse, even if I am far from all over the NG in all, at one time these words and this memory helped me a lot. Maybe they will help at least another person-and only this is why these of my forced personal notes are somehow justified.

Her performance really shocked. Once - it was already in 2010, that is, she was 74 - we stayed with her for three days, but by the evening of the first day she left for Poland. Having launched us, quickly arranging and feeding us with a soup, she rushed to the computer and continued to scribble another custom -made translation. It was already her last apartment, in the 14th, much smaller than the one where it was possible to go through the window. She worked almost until the very departure, instantly packed and left with her son Yasik to the station. I have never seen a person before a trip, and even on business, and even another country gathered so quickly and, besides, he was engaged in a routine, rather boring business. Left alone, we felt her light friendly presence. It was a housing of a very poor old man. There are some cups in the bathroom, linen on ropes. A pan left in the sink. The sunset sun, beating in a small kitchen window with divorces. It was not a cheerful apartment, but it was not sad-and not even because of books and ashtrays everywhere, but because it was immediately felt that it was both an apartment and a workshop, and the workshop was not sad. It was a house of a person who has a lot to do something and say and who is in a hurry.

They were waiting for her everywhere, she was a hero, but what a modest hero! And how modest, humble she was a writer! “I wrote, but, of course, not as good as Manuk would write ...” In the verses of NG, which we must talk about separately, there was not only the pose of the poet, but also the widespread underlying confidence that the author was elected - to generate or broadcast heaven. She realized her gift without coquetry, but not only guessed, but also directly talked about the accident of such a birth.

* * *

You understand, you understand,
What am I saying?
You will not deceive, you will not deceive,
That this is all not the fruit of the mind only?
I feel, I hear, I am angry

And density, and a rarity of speech,
Loaded on these shoulders
Random, mine,
as a warrior clicking on the veche,
Leaving the battles [1] .

NG is a typical tram poet, and so she called herself. A poet who works, working with a voice. The Parisian tram is a bus. And she knew everything about bus routes. Then I was asked the other day: "Do you think, NG is still a living poet?" What! Tram poets generally have more chances to stay alive for a long time, because the poem does not arise from the plan, but from a barely tangible shift, instant, random heart trend, on the joints infinitely repeated in such life. And then they go out at their stops, and the poem ends, because when you are on a bus or tram, then, even surrounded by people, you are in such soft, warm headphones, and falling out into the street, you immediately lose them. And all the metaphysics and everything that flickers and flickers in these verses disappear there on the surface of life, but not inside the time to develop - as it turned out, in great dependence on the route and the quality of shaking - poems. And it, even if very small, is living.

This is someone and Gdey
Melts the bolt
On the Fahrenheit scale
at eighteen hours,

And it costs a scum
Soul backfall
on an cast body
Breathing with heavy heat.

Once upon a time I wrote about these short verses of her, about the persistence of the bifurcated presence of the only and instantly recognizable author in them:

“The author standing, spreading his hands, the author (at the time of reading - reader) is a soul in a whip. And the heat-either from above-pipe, from the setting sun, or from the inside-the body? Souls? And in Harev, exaggerated by Fahrenheit, according to which everything is 100, where everything is blurred, shifted, the predicates drove away from the subject, and “and” briefly in the Volandovsky settled in the double “someone” and “Gdey”, the reader suddenly sees the soul and the body separately, like a double silhouette in a non-boring photograph. There, in this Peckla, casting up (abandoned, dropped ), overgrown with random grass, all sorts of weeds and reservations, simply: abandoned, the body stands separately from the heart, equal to it, that, like her, inappropriately ” [2] .

I was going to write about NG for a long time, and everything was scary - not to do not, to humiliate her memory with non -senile, random words. And now she decided and wrote about her now, as I recall, without reviewing an interview on YouTube , not re -reading her books - only polystyan and re -read the inscriptions on them. Сколько всего можно сказать о ней, и сколько уже — и как чудесно — написали (и еще напишут) те, кто знал ее намного ближе: ведь мы с ней, в сущности, не были друзьями, а просто очень хорошими знакомыми и коллегами — все-таки мы ужасно далеко друг от друга жили. И очень мало у меня от нее имейлов, а один — просто отправленный всем auto response , и столько в нем от ее быстрой, решительной жизни, от всего ее облика, что я его скопировала и храню:

« Dzisiaj odlatuje do Warszawy. Wracam 4 grudnia.
Je pars aujoud'hui en Pologne. Ja reviens le 4 décembre.
Сегодня улетаю в Варшаву. Вернусь 4 декабря».

29 ноября 2018 года
Парамус, Нью-Джерси

[1] Н. Горбаневская. Последние стихи того века. — М.: Арго-Риск, 2001.

[2] И. Машинская. В поисках лещика, или Невесомая добыча (Н. Горбаневская. Кто о чем поет. — М.: Арго-Риск, 1997). Новая камера хранения. Впервые: Звезда, № 11, 1998.

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