Life on the mattress for "mu -mu"

Dina Kabulova began to distribute food with Moscow homeless when she was seventeen. Now she is twenty -two, and she continues to help those who, for various reasons, were without a roof over her head. Her stories about life on the street are not aimed at causing pity, disgust or encouraging someone to make a donation. About life on the ventilation bars of the Moscow metro, attempts to survive the Cossack raid in the midst of the mundial and the eternal desire to start all over again - in three stories that open the new documentary cycle of samizdat.

Cross

Larisa stands, leaning against the fence at the entrance to the park at the station. Her hands flowing ice cream, she tries to lick him, but still all gets dirty. The ice cream is mixed with dirt in his arms, and from this picture it shifts me a little. She has a yellow shirt on her, and I see her shoulders. Sharp, with freckles, tanned, although the summer has just begun. During the winter, Larisa began to look much worse. I lost ten kilograms by ten, no less, from the eyelids the skin gets off, and all the hands in the scars.

In general, I'm a little afraid to look at the hands of the homeless. The nails are always dirty, wrinkles, burrs, corns and scratches. And now also ice cream. Larisa stands with her husband Andrei far from everyone else. “Larisa, good afternoon, pleasant appetite. Look great, already changed into the summer. Not cold? "

I'm trying to believe what I say. Larisa is 46 years old, she has two daughters and there is no one lung. This winter, she became very ill, even went to the hospital for a month. Pneumonia. I was very afraid that she would not come out alive, because her immunity became very weak in her twenty years of her life on the street. “Andrey, why aren't you with everyone today? Have you quarreled, or what? "

For them, this is completely unusual. All homeless people are different. Someone loves to do everything alone, hides, is afraid of everyone and suspects like our Misha. He hides his things for the night in the park. He burns them until no one sees. Lies from above and still waits for the night. I don’t know what he does in winter, but in the summer, his backpack is a very strong smell of mold and dampness. I am so from all the homeless station and find out, because he does not like to show his face.

Aksinya Remizova , Sonya Korshenboym , real hton and Russia - homeless gays, dad will show you how he kills, a barn from his sleepers, the chairman of the summer cottage is friendly with the police

And someone is always in the company and never is alone. Usually in the summer the guys will equip a cozy place under the fountain. There, there is such a nook behind the Mu-Mu restaurant, where no one except cleaners looks. In the very center of the city, where every day I do not know how many hundreds of people lies a double mattress. It is blocked by a huge garbage container, thanks to which visitors of the restaurant are deprived of the opportunity to see what I observe every week. They dragged the mattress from the nearest garbage dump, and gave them the wipers gave them the wipers. Now it is difficult to name blankets, everything is in oil, ashes, torn from the edge and some bloody stains. I prefer not to think about how they were there.

Usually, near the mattress, the remains of yesterday's feast lie even. Chicken bones, slicing sausages and cheese, rumpled tomatoes. And many, many all kinds of empty bottles. The assortment of a small store is straight. Here for every taste - "grape day", beer, vodka, cognac. Every week everything is repeated. I examine all this, count people and begin to slowly collect.

So, Vitya Khokhol is in place, Belarusian is also here, Ruslan, Vasya, Kolya and Vitalik. Sometimes someone new is looking at this holiday of life, and then we get acquainted.

- Guys, what kind of business, you can even get your hand here without getting up without getting up from the mattress. What are you breeding a pigsty here, just like my teenage sister? - And I begin to throw everything methodically.
- Dinochka, well, what are you, what are you, we will all take it ourselves. Sit down better with us, not so often come.
“No, Dean, they didn’t quarrel,” says Andrei. - Just Larisa and I decided to tie it. For two days now we have been holding on. Yesterday, of course, it was difficult, I had to drink a hundred grams, but it was purely hanging out. We want to come to ourselves for a week, quit thumping all the time, there they will remove GIPS there - and let's go to work on the farm, will you help? We are very counting on you.

I’m still a little afraid of Andrei, although he looks pretty nice now. A gray beard, tummy - an ordinary elderly man, such usually listen to the radio and read newspapers. But once Dima told me why Andrei was in prison.

Interestingly, they take them without a cross on the neck?

"How?! Have you heard this story? Well, he still had the first walker on the youngster, for which exactly - I don’t know. He went out at eighteen years, walks along the street - and sees how a man eats tomatoes. And Andrei, they say, just loved tomatoes. He approached this man:

- Brothers, treated the tomato, otherwise I just went out, I have not seen such a year.
- Yes, what a bro with you, get out of here!

Andrei got angry, took out a knife and stabbed him twelve times in his stomach. So he was imprisoned for ten years or so, I no longer remember. Here is such a story. "

And I am even a little glad that there are no tomatoes in our weekly menu, otherwise you never have it ended.

- Dean, can you a request?

I already begin to hate everyone to myself, but myself in the first place. What this time, I wonder? Two phones that I knocked out for them, they safely drank, they regularly lose their clothes.

- Please bring me a cross and a long skirt, I want to start a new life, confess. And in the pants I'm ashamed.

I look at Larisa. Her hand is broken, her face is swollen from a multi -month binge, it smells of curling, and I just feel scared to look at the nails in sandals. For a new life, it means that only a long skirt with a cross does not get it. Well, fine.

Wonderful. And I think: why does she live for twenty years on the street, with a living mother and two daughters. There is an apartment, there is a specialty - I don’t want to work. So the whole thing is in the skirt, it turns out.

At such moments, I do not understand, I’re going there at all? It seems that without me they somehow cope better, at least learn to rely only on themselves.

-Okay, Laris, let's see, it was like a house was something. Let's bring next Saturday.
“Thank you, Dean, big.”

I go further to give out food to the suburban cash desks, I meet Dima, who got kittens somewhere and is now trying to figure out what to feed them. An hour later I see Larisa, who shoots money at the station. I go up to say hello again. I have portions of buckwheat with meat, but there are no more people. I think: Oh, excellent, I will give her everything. I come up, but she doesn’t see me point blank.

I say: "Larisa, what are you, it's me." He does not recognize and asks for money further. Probably did not want people to think something-and then did not give money.

Well, she went fuck then. Bring her a cross! Let yourself buy a cross for yourself, it’s even difficult to say hello. I know Larisa for more than a year, and this is the first time.

We did not communicate with her anymore. I was somehow very much offended, and for some reason it was not there next Saturday. I did not ask, I was still angry.

And a month later they called me and said that Larisa died in a hospital from pneumonia.

Interestingly, they take them without a cross on the neck?

Vetrodui

Faith has never been adapted to life. Not to mention a woman’s insanely complex life on the street. We met her in January, and, as Vera said, she recently here, about three months. During this time, she already managed to lose all her things twice, and with her work she was deceived three times. The belief of low stature and indefinite age, I think, was about fifty -five. But it was very much different from other homeless women.

Usually these are three types: very young, “lumpy”, like Vika from Murom. She is about thirty -five years old, and her traces of a former good life are noticeable in her. She always wanted to be beautiful, asked me to bring her face cream, mascara, linen, clean clothes. Even when her face was swollen with a multi -day binge, she still constantly looked in the mirror and straightened her hair. It looked, of course, absurd.

The homeless exit from the metro is called the "windfall." If the change is successful, then in winter the police do not drive them out of there. The bundles, right at the exit from the metro, are always littered with the remains of food, which three times a day, volunteers of different religious parishes, carefully distribute to everyone on the street.

Squated, on a covered floor, Vika sits, tall, with black curly hair and huge blue eyes. It does not at all organically look in a dirty nozzle with food remains and bottles. A leather black bag is always with her, and there is a mirror and cosmetics. Vika opened a small folding silver mirror and looked at it, straightening the strands of hair and tinting the swollen eyes with bright blue shadows. This felt some kind of aristocracy.

Many homeless people told me that she lives with different men in apartments, fucks with them, and in return she is allowed to wash, buy clothes and perfumes. And when she bothers them, she is thrown out into the street, and Vika again goes to the Kiev station, until she finds someone next.

The first chapter of the Odyssey of the Young Refugee - the memoirs of the reader, who went to Barcelona to play football, but for two years with his father Bomzhazha in Europe

“Do not whine, son, break through” Roman Gavrilin , Masha Shishova, the first chapter of the Odyssey of the Young Refugee, - the reader’s memoirs, who went to Barcelona to play football, but for two years with his father Bomzhazha in Europe

Vika persuaded me many times to help her leave for Murom, but each time everything flown. She asked to settle her in the hostel for a couple of days to put herself in order, change into clean, and suffer. Because otherwise it’s a shame to go home. “My daughter has never seen me like that, do you, Dean, do not understand what? When I walked along the street in Murom, people looked at me, so I looked gorgeous. Do you really not understand that in this form I can’t do it home. It’s better to die here than to disgrace in front of my daughter. ” At first I wore her new clothes. Pants, shirts, jacket. But everything was not that. “I will never wear it, why did you bring such a jeople at all.” And so all the time she came up with different reasons, so as not to return home.

The second type is grandmothers and women conditionally in fifty. They ask for alms and no longer hope for another life. Like the light, which in the 90s was deceived by the black realtors-and she was left without an apartment. She had a little roof, and she repeats the same thing many times: “Dean, what station do you live at? I had an apartment on Kolomenskaya. Small, however, but everything is. And then these scum deceived me. Look, there is not even registration in the passport. B-o-m-h. " Five minutes later, she again began to tell in the smallest details how her apartment was rewritten.

And the last is women who could find a couple on the street. And now all the time under protection and as behind a stone wall. Like Ira and Vanya, for example.

But faith was different. I arrived from Yaroslavl, because the children grew up, but there was no work there. Classical, in general, history. She wanted to get a cleaner, conductor or concierge.

We agreed to meet twelve on Kotelniki. At ten I called to remind you of the meeting. I found the suitable, as it seemed to me, a vacancy of a nurse. Not far from my house, so that there was an opportunity to look, check how Vera is, whether it copes. The salary is very small, but on the phone they liked everything. “Yes, Dean, I remember, thanks. Already at the station. Now we sing and go. "

"I will never wear it, why did you bring me such a junction"

At 12:05 there was no faith in the center of the hall. Like five minutes later, and fifteen and forty. The phone is not available. And for an hour an interview was scheduled in Lyubertsy. I walked on the platform back and forth and was madly angry from the fact that it happened to me again. On the only weekend, I postponed all things to solve someone else's life. Finally, the phone earned - and Vera said in an apologetic tone that now only on Taganskaya.

“But how did it happen?” - I'm breaking into a cry, and passing trains bother me. - Vera, but we have an interview in ten minutes, and you are late for an hour. You were at the station two hours ago.
- Sorry, Dinochka, there was still no food, but I could not go hungry.

From the Kotelniki we eventually went by taxi and rehearsed all the way, what would we say.

- So, you are my aunt, came from Yaroslavl, because there is no work there. So far we have stopped with me, but you can’t live here for a long time, since I have a small child. The experience of work is large, for three years they lived and looked after a woman with diabetes (this, by the way, was even true).

We leave the taxi, I adjust the belt of the hat and wipe the jacket from the dust.

- Hello, hello, this is Dina. We agreed on 13 for an interview. Here, we are at the entrance, please open. Sorry for being late: got lost a little along the road.

The woman on the phone replied that she knew nothing about the interview and, in general, where did I get her number. Strange.

- Sorry, I was probably mistaken.

I check the address, number. Just yesterday, thirty minutes spoke on this phone with a woman, discussed all the details, agreed on the exact time. It cannot be that I messed up everything. Five minutes later, a grandmother in a dressing gown and slippers leave the entrance. He examines us with Vera incredulously from head to toe: "Well, do not come in, I have been waiting for you for a long time."

We climb to the second floor, my grandmother opens the door - and the characteristic smell of the apartment where the old people live in my face. The spacious room is very dark, dirty windows, and the cabinet is all in the icons. In the corner is a bed and a wheelchair. After a couple of minutes, the daughter of this grandmother came, and it immediately became clear that they would not take Vera here. I began to talk about her, work experience, describe the situation. But I was asked to be silent, and to tell Vera herself.

She got confused in words, worsened, and in the end, almost crying, took out two tangerines and vanies from her pocket.

- Help yourself, please! We probably have to. - I got up and went towards the exit.
- We will definitely call you. We will consult with mom and pick you up, ”a woman tells me in a short leopard robe, rubber slippers and a bundle on her head. I only saw such in TV shows on TV.

We go out into the street with Vera and immediately light it. By the way, the main condition for the work was the lack of bad habits: “Okay, ver, don’t be upset, there will definitely be something else.”

Do you know fame?

- Good afternoon, tell me, do you know fame?

I am a message on VKontakte from an unfamiliar girl. I wonder what fame. I open a list of friends. One common friend: Vyacheslav Afanasenko. Well, of course I know the glory, we see each other every week. I just don’t know what to answer, she is unlikely to know that Glory lives periodically on the street, meets with Lisa, who has been vagrant for the past fifteen years, and sometimes earns small thefts.

- What fame?
- Well, fame, Glory Afanasenko. He has a common photo with you on the page. Here.

Wow, really. Glory has only six photos on VKontakte. Five of them are from the army, in the form of a Weadaler. The face is swollen-probably something was noted. And one more - with me. We stand under a tree, the hand of glory on my shoulder. As I remember now that day.

It was spring, and the guys and I were going to arrange an annual picnic with homeless people.

“What should we do on your picnic? They don’t even let me in the subway what you are talking about at all, ”said Alexander, who knows the station like his five fingers. His daughter, according to his stories, lives in America and does not know what is with him. Alexander loves to ride a bicycle in the summer, and in winter he always walks without gloves. I wanted to give him, even brought him once, but he refused, said that his hands never feel the cold now. On the appointed day, I arrived and began bypass. In the afternoon of the homeless on the street, they appear closer in the evening. At the exit, Alexander saw - well, yes, as I thought. “Well, where are I, where I’ll go in this form, I’ll even be ashamed to stand with you in the carriage.”

How to get drunk for one dollar Alexey Sinyakov swill, Stalin sows hemp, tincture of wiper and industrial glue, squats with a pellet of vodka - bruises do not learn to be sad in crisis “Well, where are I, where will I go in this form, I will even be ashamed to stand with you in the carriage”

Alexander has a blue bag from Ikei, where he stores his few things. The hat is stretched on the forehead, but not from the cold, but because it turned out once that it was shy. The mustache and beard are gray and careless.

Dima is not in place. Usually he asks for a trifle at the suburban cash desks. In the world, I did not particularly count: it is heavy on the rise. Further-to the public toilet at Mu-Mu. Well, clear, everyone is sleeping. Vitya Khokhol, Belarusian, Lizka. They are crowded on a dirty mattress behind a garbage container, but are not covered by anything. I wanted to wrap them with a blanket in a child and stick it on the side. But it seems not cold on the street, so nothing, they will do without my care.

- Hello, Dina? Well, where are you there? I have been standing at the entrance to the subway for ten minutes, waiting for you. Did you deceive me about the picnic? And I, a fool, believed you. - I do not believe my ears. He did not forget, and even came on time, he did not have to search and remind, yes.
- Yes, yes, Glory, I'm here, at the toilets. I wanted to call the guys too.
- Well, you are a fool, I immediately told you: no one will go - why do they need it. Yes, and no one will miss: the change is bad today.
- Okay, okay, you are right again. Now I'll come, wait a bit.

The picnic turned out to be excellent then. There were many homeless people from other stations. We fried sausages on the grill, ate vegetables, fruits, cheese, sausage, sweets. The guys grabbed the guitar and played songs, we all sang together, and then someone even wanted to play KVN. I usually don’t really like this, somehow it went too much and reminds the feast of my grandmother. Therefore, Glory and I went to be photographed.

Я попросила своего друга снять нас у неработающего фонтана и под деревом. Получилось на удивление неплохо. Так даже и не скажешь по фото, что один из этих двоих живёт на улице. Слава старался одеваться чисто, стирал одежду на «Курской», куда приезжают бездомные со всей Москвы, так как только там можно помыться и продезинфицировать одежду. А из-за того, что он совсем ещё молодой, буквально на пять лет старше меня, девятнадцатилетней, то и вообще следы улицы пока не отпечатались на его лице.

— Вы когда со Славой последний раз общались? Он нам вчера позвонил, сказал, что сломал ключицу и его срочно надо забрать домой в Молдову. Родители уже выехали за ним на машине, завтра утром будут, а он перестал выходить на связь. Вы могли бы его найти?

It's just impossible! Сколько же я уговаривала Славу вернуться домой, ведь там у него квартира, отношения с родителями хорошие, что для бездомных вообще-то редкость. И вот он им сам позвонил. Impossible!

- Yes! Конечно я его найду, а во сколько должны приехать родители? Они на машине?
— В десять утра. На машине, да. Дина, скажите мне честно, Слава во что-то ввязался? Он занимается криминалом?
— Ну, как вам сказать… Я точно не знаю.
— А его девушка правда беременна?
- What?! Какая девушка?
— Слава сказал, что его девушка беременна и без неё он никуда не поедет.
— Так, ладно. Об этом мне ничего не известно. Утром поеду его искать: примерно знаю, где он может быть. Дайте родителям вашим телефон мой, пусть звонят.
— Это не мои родители, я жена брата Славы.
— А, понятно, я не знала, извините.
— Ничего-ничего, спасибо вам!

Слава оказался на своём обычном месте.

— Ну привет, собирайся, за тобой сейчас приедут.
— Кто приедет, о чём ты?

Начинаю пересказывать, что со мной связалась его родственница, и родители будут уже совсем скоро. У Славы на глазах выступают слёзы.

— У меня когда-то с отцом был конфликт. Я его ударил, он меня. Я с ним вообще не разговариваю. Я поэтому, как квартиру снял и понял, что сам тут не вытяну, матери позвонил и попросил забрать. Ходить вообще не мог, отпиздили меня — долг, говорят, возвращай. А я человек честный, помню про все долги, но что ж делать, если сначала надо квартиру снять, отмыться, постираться, а потом на работу выходить. Я же не могу в таком вот виде работать. Они мне ключицу сломали, я даже ходить не мог. Лиза мне скорую вызвала, они гипс даже не наложили — просто какими-то бинтами обмотали и вышвырнули. Тут я и понял, что без полиса мне ничего не сделают. Решился позвонить матери. Она мне сразу сказала: «Лизу с собой бери». Видишь, какие у меня хорошие родственники, сразу приехали.

Дин, понимаешь, я сижу на этой квартире, долг надо возвращать. Ну они ко мне пришли и телефон мой забрали. А я номер не помню, сказал маме только, что я в Москве. Я и не думал, что они правда за мной приедут. А видишь, они меня через тебя нашли, я и представить не мог. Лиза, поехали, пожалуйста.

— Слава, я никуда не поеду. Не заставишь меня.

На площади светит солнце, люди сидят у фонтана, девушки фотографируются, а напротив нас сидит компания и пьёт пиво. Сегодня первый солнечный день за неделю. Лиза и Слава плачут, нежно держат друг друга за руки и курят.

«Полиция руки марать не хочет, а нам это не впервой. Для нас это честь — чистить родной город»

— Посмотри, Лиз, какие у меня родственники, они ночью написали и уже едут — поезжай, пожалуйста. Родственники у меня очень хорошие, они помогут, они тебя полюбят.

У Лизы мать — алкоголичка, отдала их с сестрой в детдом, когда Лизе было шесть. По её рассказам, в тринадцать она сбежала и начала жить на улице. Пела под гитару, спала в переходах, связалась с компанией взрослых ребят, и они взяли её под своё крыло. Когда Лизе исполнилось восемнадцать, ей положена была комната в коммуналке. Но она не хотела жить там, не понимала, как будет одна в маленьком городе. Так и осталась на улице. Это было больше пятнадцати лет назад.

— Лиз, я сам этот дом своими руками строил, поехали. Это не чей-то дом, а мой. Ты поедешь. Поедешь. Куда ты денешься — поедешь со мной.
— Я никогда дальше Москвы не выезжала, куда я поеду. У меня даже паспорта нет.
— Эй, ребята, сигаретой не угостите?

Это подошёл один парень, слегка шатаясь, из компании напротив. В руках банка «Балтики 9».

— Нет, братан, сами стреляем.
— Так, господа празднующие, документики свои показывайте. Спиртные напитки в общественных местах распивать запрещено, нацию позорите. Девушка, вот вы, — я вас тут раньше не видел. Паспорт свой покажите.
— Нет уж, это вы сначала покажите.

Я даже не заметила, откуда взялись эти люди. There are four of them. Трое высокие, все одеты одинаково: полностью в зелёной спортивной одежде, штаны с карманами, кроссовки найк, кепка и чёрный рюкзак на спине. А один низкий, в точно такой же одежде, но цвета́ — зеркально: чёрные штаны, толстовка, кепка, а рюкзак зелёный, под милитари.

— Пожалуйста, пожалуйста. Надо же, какая у нас тут важная! Ты вообще откуда взялась и чего с этими алкашами водишься?

Самый низкий парень достаёт из кармана удостоверение на толстой цепи. «Войсковое казачье общество»

— Извините, а вы кто вообще?
— Пойдём отойдём, дорогуша.

Я встаю и отряхиваюсь. Смотрю на Славу и Лизу, но они как будто совсем не удивлены.

— Ну смотри, вот ты видишь: сейчас час дня, а этот сброд тут вид портит, бухает. Ты же понимаешь — сейчас чемпионат, иностранцы приезжают, на нашу страну смотрят. Неужели ты хочешь, чтобы они увидели этот мусор?
— Какой мусор?
— Да тут везде мусор. Бомжи эти сраные, алкашня, проститутки расхаживают. Мы город чистим от этого.
— Так, ясно. А кто вам дал такое право?
— Как кто — правительство города Москвы. А ты что, новости не читаешь? Нас после 5 мая наняли, чтобы следить за порядком в городе во время чемпионата. Полиция руки марать не хочет, а нам это не впервой. Для нас это честь — чистить родной город.
— Круто, а к вам можно вступить?
— Ты что, тебе дома надо сидеть, борщи мужу варить и за хозяйством смотреть. Я, если бы твоим мужем был, давно бы тебя из дому перестал отпускать. Вот скажи, зачем тебе эти бомжи, что ты водишься с ними?
— Ну это я уж сама разберусь. А можно ваше удостоверение ещё раз посмотреть?
— Смотри, конечно, мне не жалко.

Я достаю телефон из кармана, чтобы сфотографировать, но один парень резко хватает мою рук

— Эй, не трогать меня!
— А ты телефончик свой убери обратно тогда. Ладно, давай, пошли мы.
— Ой, Дин, куда ж ты с ними пошла? Ты что, не знаешь, кто это? Я тебе не рассказывал разве? Это они Фаруха побили, когда он отказался уходить с вокзала. Мы думали, у него все зубы выпадут, всё-таки не молодой уже он. Кстати, с тех пор и не видно его — в больнице, наверное. Они и заставили волонтёров не кормить нас в парке. Мол, вид портим из гостиницы, куда все съехались, чтобы футбол смотреть. Нас теперь кормят та-а-ам, минут пятнадцать пешком отсюда. А говорят, на других вокзалах ещё хуже, люди пропадали даже. Слухи ходят, что их за 101-й километр свозят.

— Здравствуйте, вы сейчас где находитесь? — мне звонят родственники Славы. — Мы подъезжаем уже. Сможете к дороге подойти?
— Да-да, уже идём! Слава, пошли скорее! Лиза, вставай.
— Я никуда не еду. For nothing.

Слава берёт Лизу за руку и тянет вперёд. Мы подходим к дороге, из светлой иномарки выходит крупный мужчина в коричневом пиджаке. Я стою немного сзади. Он пожимает Славе руку и оглядывает Лизу сверху вниз. Открывает заднюю дверь, и они садятся. Он подзывает меня рукой. Из передней двери выходит женщина средних лет.

— Дина? Спасибо вам огромное, я не знаю, что бы мы без вас делали. Он ведь, дурак, телефон потерял, мы бы его как иголку в стоге сена искали в этой вашей Москве. Но сейчас-то всё должно наладиться. Thank you!

The road that leave the house of Dina Kabulova , Semyon Sheshenin , Anastasia Krenyuk how those who do not let their own children, resentment and shame in the continuation of the documentary of the Samizdat about the life of Moscow homeless people do not let on the threshold