How “left” jeans allowed a resident of a small town in Mordovia to get rich and declare war on God

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Twenty -five to thirty years ago, ordinary jeans with Lee or Levis label could make their owner the king. A person in such jeans could definitely count on success (at least in the opposite sex). In the new story of Mikhail Bokov from the Russian Gothic cycle, where the author writes about the provincial realities of the dashing of the 90s, the history of the Jewish Closher of Jeans, who declared war on the North. And he decided to build a synagogue in the middle of Mordovian swamps.

On New Year's Eve, Uncle Yasha brought jeans - to me and my mother. In jeans in our yard you could become a king. A man in jeans stepped a master around this world.

My mother and I turned the jeans in my hands and could not get enough. Uncle Yasha was sitting in a chair and pumping a toe of an acute shoe. “Try it, kid, - and go outside. Your mother and I need to talk, ”and, in addition to jeans, he handed me a piece of paper of ten rubles.

Oh, ten rubles were in those days in wealth. For ten rubles, I could buy Snickers, go to the club, where they played in the SEGA prefixes, order two hours of play, and already there - buy another Snekirs. In jeans, with ten rubles, I fell into a frosty city. Happiness emanated from me and drowned snow. It seemed to me that spring had come on the street, although the New Year was approaching - the decorated people ate looked in surprise after the boy with ten rubles.

Where did Uncle Yasha come from in our small town, one god knows. His sad southern eyes, full of Moses, sparkled like two diamonds among our slanting Mongol eyes. A covenant splashed in them, an outcome and camels moaned. Northern longing lived in our own.

He was not beautiful. False, round, all some kind of grated, invisible. My mother chose Uncle Yasha by the eyes and, perhaps, for something else. And he is for the Central Russian Beauty. The bald Yasha grabbed the best city peach: Blonde Elena is a beautiful, my mother.

He hid jeans himself. He lived in the closet, at the side of the Orthodox Church. The whites were shot here in the revolution, and then they arranged a commodity warehouse. Yasha and lived as if in a warehouse: he huddled among the boxes with tomatoes, scolded his old sewing machine, and in the evenings he listened to a cheap radio and sparkled in the night with his noble eyes.

On jeans, he earned the first million. My mother saw him. By the right of the person who shares the bed with her, Yasha took his mother to work for himself. She froze the fabric, sewed, gripped while Yasha was looking for sales markets. “Do you know how much money he has? - once said mom, having come home from work. - Million! He makes banknotes in old newspapers and hides between tomato boxes. ” "If he has so much money, why does he not move?" I asked. “He is strange,” my mother shrugged. “I don't always understand him.”

Yasha had to be invisible in our cold edges, but his eyes shone in the night like two spotlights, two shining southern spotlights who were looking for the treasured city of Jerusalem in northern night. The bandits soon came. They heard that not only their eyes shine with Yasha, but with them shove something else. Yasha did not unlock. He gave them the money wrapped in the Moscow Komsomolets newspaper. When he threatened to put an iron on a round stomach, he thought, rummaged and pulled out new packs of money.

Mom, a blond Russian beauty, left him. She fell in love with a guitar teacher in a local recreation center. "What do I need him with my own eyes?" - Mom said about Yasha and dismissed the combat weapon, which on the spot killed men: her linen braid. A guitar teacher looked and behaved like an Italian. His favorite word was Bon Jorno.

Yasha sailed, as the blind kutyat sometimes emerge from the lake, whom the indifferent owner throws into the abyss. From such a boot, seasoned wolves are obtained: they steal children and chickens from under the nose. The next time I saw Yasha by trading Turkish clothes in the market. “How are jeans? He asked me. “You will wear them for a hundred years, and nothing will happen to them, because I sewed them.” I abandoned the jeans, because by that time the workers' pants-pants were included in the fashion of our hungry outskirts.

Outwardly, he seemed to have not changed. He wore a widened tracksuit, his stomach became rounder, and a patch ate another piece of his head. But the details gave him out. In the neckline of the tracksuit, the star of David the size of my children's fist shone on the gold chain. The edges of the star Yasha inlaid with diamonds. I thought it was beautiful. “Buy my ice cream,” Yasha handed me a piece of paper at a hundred rubles. For a hundred rubles, I could buy two packs of “Malboro” and be a king.

The bandits soon came to the light of David Stars. So one of them told me, my classmate, who was nailed to the elders. “We opened your Yasha like a gold box,” he said. “We took all his treasures, took the fur sheeps, took the last pants.” I shrugged.

Yashi was not a year. When we saw each other the next time, he opened the store and traded fur coats under the mink - in fact it was a painted arctic fox. For some reason, the store was called "Oi-WE". His sign sparkled in our grayness as a promised land, as a tablet, like hope. My mother left the guitarist and fell in love with a nuclear engineer. "What do I need him for, with my guitar?" She said. When I talked about Yasha and his mink, her face flashed with a blush: “Yes? Very interesting". That evening, I heard, a scandal happened between my mother and the engineer.

The signs of the Oi-Wer store, which glowed even brighter than Yashins of the eyes, came to the light of the bandits. This time Yasha was ready. He hired his own bandits. My classmate, who faded to the elders, disappeared that evening. It was said that the yashins of the bandits shot him in ten places, and the body was thrown into the river. The river was alone. We called her a smelly river. There was nothing alive in it. Sometimes pink foamy water gathered in the backwaters - such beauty was given waste of cellulose factory. The river flowed-flowed, scattered on the channels, converged again and in the end fell into the Volga. Perhaps my classmate also managed to swim to the Volga, we did not know this. His mother, distraught, walked barefoot in the cold and shocked her fist at the sign of the Oi-Wi store. “Damned Jews! - her yellow lips scraped against each other. “You killed Jesus, and you killed my Volodya.” It was impossible to prove something. Yashins bandits left no traces. Perhaps they were not at all. Perhaps this Jewish god came to the rescue: after all, he wore Yasha Davidov a star. And then the raids from the heavenly beam failed in place - everything happened in our marshy places. People saw talking bears. They met deer with the bodies of beautiful women in the forest. A heavenly and open earth ray seemed a melting.

Sometimes Yasha saw a crazy woman outside the window. And then he went out and silently gave her money. She threw them in his face. She fell in the snow and gnawed at the yashins of shoes. Shrugging his shoulders, Yasha left.

I remembered the jeans when I was finishing school. In surprisingly, they turned out to me to me: as if lying in the closet also grew up. On the back, Yasha hid a fashionable label sticker-Lee. She looked like real, only better. My ass in Yasha’s jeans was like a nut: in the graduation class it seemed to me that it was important.

Yasha figured out competitors and bought a white Mercedes. My mother saw him on the street and smiled. Her engineer was over. Once he went out the door and did not return. I suspected my mother ate him. I drank his strength and sprayed his shell. The souls of her men went in our apartment - everyone who could not get out of her linen braid.

Mom thought her weapon was working flawlessly. She did not notice that the braid was beginning to be made silver. Yasha drove past, and his eyes, full of southern sadness, darkened with anger. Yasha had enough women, young and impudent. Mercedes made him an enviable groom in our city.

The car was blown up with frosty morning of January, to baptism. Yasha was supposed to sit inside. But he did not sit - he stood nearby. He was carried away by an explosive wave to the next street: one leg fell off, the doctors sewed it. In the hospital, he sighed: “The White God does not love me. The White God takes revenge on me. " He called Jesus, our Mordovian land, our swamps and our energy with a white god. The North wants to get out of itself: an alien southern fruit with sadness in his eyes. “Oh, what have I forgotten in these parts? How did I bring me here? " - Yasha complained while his leg was growing.

He left the hospital and began to build a synagogue. He wanted to have an ally on a foreign land. He wanted the synagogue to grow above the Orthodox Church. It is better that she grows up to heaven and protects Yasha in his vain affairs with her warm ray.

Mom married a man whose body was splashing a swamp dull. He was sitting at our place, toads his eyes did not blink. He did not notice me. "What did you find in him?" I asked. Mom laughed: "This is love, my dear." Her braid was the colors of gray snow. Wrinkles covered their fingers and neck. It seemed to me that this man was drinking her life juice - just as she drank male juices before. Our house has become similar to the aquarium. Everywhere dragged over to the ceiling of algae. Il started in my bed.

The synagogue Yasha grew slowly. Like a stranger plant, it required care and soft soils. The North resisted. Yasha tore the rest of his hair and appealed to the sky. Now he traveled accompanied by security. His fur coat store has become a chain of household appliances stores.

He no longer hid the star of David under the Adidas suit. She became brighter, even more diamonds bloomed on her. Now Yasha wore her over the rest of his clothes. Ours, surrounding him, whispered: “Have you seen? Millionaire! I earned millions on the blood of the working people! ” In the souls of urban residents, at the sight of Yashina, the star boiled anger and envy. Yasha was discussed the more, the higher his synagogue became. And she grew up - years passed before she became higher by at least one row of bricks, but Yasha put his whole heart, prayers and means in it. And she thawed, substituted the sun with the sun of the caterpillar, preparing to become a butterfly.

In addition to Yasha, there was no one to pray in the synagogue. And then he wrote a group of Jewish musicians from Odessa. They accompanied his dates with God. In the silence of our swamps, a sad southern song of pipes and violins stuck into the darkness of snow blocks with a needle: she made stitches in the dark, sparkling - they forced the snow to melt and smell of the sea. This is exactly what was the last straw.

Then the newspapers called it “riots at the Jewish Church”, while others were called “an uprising of honest people”, and the third, the most evil and radical, “the answer of the Jewish conspiracy”. The crowd led to the unfinished synagogue a priest, father Nicodemus. He chewed people like a flame: “He steals our souls and our snow! He is Pharisee! People like him gave the order of the crucifix Jesus! ” The crowd growled. Father Nicodemus was her Prophet.

At the gates of the synagogue, he shouted: "Come out, demon!" Candles were burning inside and musicians played. They played a song about a person who has no home, who is everywhere alien, and he travels from station to station with his pince -nez and portfolio. "Come out!" - Father Nicodemus shouted again. But Yasha did not come out: instead of him, his guards came to people. “Western! You forgot who you are! Sold for foreign money! Drink the blood of the common people! " - Father Nicodemus Ryok, and his words were melted into stone, became a great Volga, caused a snowstorm. Someone in the crowd threw a stone at the guard. The guard thought that the bomb was flying: from the experience of working with Yasha, he was used to it that he had to deal with bombs. In response, he shot into the air, and then the stones flew from all sides. The frosty whirlwind opened the doors of the synagogue, blew the candles, and only in the darkness the sounds of a quiet and sad violin were heard for some time. Then in the song a person with a pince -nez and a portfolio finally found his house. The train brought him to the station where trains usually do not go.

Yasha was lying on the floor, and a gray beard twisted at his feet, which he never wore in his life. “The heart stopped,” said the ambulance doctor in front of the frozen, breathing frosty steam of the crowd. “The consequences of old stress and injuries,” the doctor explained. The crowd threw the stones and silently wandered home. Father Nicodemus ceased to be her prophet. He crept around, scored, became just a tired old man.

Where Yasha was buried, we did not recognize. A relative came behind her body - a black -haired woman with wrinkles, similar to cracks in the dry ground, the second cousin of Yasha. She cried on the coffin, although she never saw Yasha alive. She walked along the streets of the city, howling and dragging the coffin behind her in the snow. She passed one circle, and then the second and then the third. People watched her from the windows. They were afraid to move. They were afraid to turn on the light and TV. The city fell silent and plunged into darkness during this strange funeral procession. Then the woman took Yasha forever.

The lord of the toads, my mother’s husband, left after a series of scandals. Before leaving, for some reason he unscrewed all the screws in the house. The screws that held the cabinets. The screws on which the mirror hung. We came home and saw that all the furniture, and clothes, and dishes, dumped, lie on the floor. There were jeans upstairs - the very jeans that Yasha made with the inscription Lee. Mom looked at them and ran a hand through her hair. “Lord my God,” she said. “I became completely, completely gray.”