Confession of the fifteenth

The Ministry of Justice first brought individuals to the register of the media, “foreign agents”. Among them Sergey Markelov is the author of Novaya Gazeta

Necessary notification. This message was created and widespread by a Russian individual performing the functions of the media-foreign agent.

I do not like to start from the date, but on December 28 I published a photo on Instagram with the signature "kissed on Red Square." My wife and I really kissed the other day. Indeed, on Red Square.

I published a photo. I learned that he became a foreign agent. I think we need to correct the signature on: "The wife kisses with a foreign agent." He came home, and his beloved reads the horoscope: "At the end of December 2020, you will find an event that will turn your life over."

- This is good? - I ask.

“I don’t know, it’s not written here,” the wife answered and went to read the horoscope for January, just in case.

In general, on that day I went to a pharmacy for medicine. Now, like Grandfather Seryozha, in the morning I drink a handful of drugs - I burn with napalm bacteria Helicobacter in my stomach, detected on the FGDS, which I went to do to Moscow. Just after that, we kissed our wife on Red Square. I specifically repeat this for the third time to show how the road to our family Red Square.

Even that day, I managed to wash the car and eat a burger in the very restaurant that recently in Petrozavodsk was opened under the Black Star franchise. They brought me a burger pathos, hitting the bell - they already knew about everything, or what? Because an hour later a colleague literally wrote to me: “Are you already in the know?” And life, as they say, was divided into Burger and after.

The children were not surprised at all. They have not been surprised at nothing for a long time. They asked to order pizza. I ordered them pizza, for myself coffee. The courier spilled coffee along the way, returned a full glass and a free certificate for a large pizza after half an hour - was it scared to contact the ino -agent, or not to eat and dangle too much?

Now they write to me that I have to go to the cafe with the words: “Coffee to a foreign agent! And two glasses of cognac, certainly foreign! ” Congratulations on the proud title. They squeeze the hand in the correspondence on Facebook. Added to friends. Here she, Glory - came from where she did not expect. Although, why didn't you wait?

A year ago, a friend hinted that I was the first in the list from Karelia. But for what merits, for what activities?

I planned a little different. Get the Profession - Journalist award there or like that. I thought that this would be some long list of people especially marked by their homeland. I did not think that I would enter such a shorter.

The wife is surprised: “You, in general, lay in the hospital when you managed to become a foreigner? Are you leading a double life? ”

Yes, about fame. Not only the glory of the CPSU ( Russian rapper - ed. ) Got into a psychiatric hospital. When my easy anxiety was worn into difficult and uncontrollable when, after a couple of months of business trips, after a couple of texts written with difficulty, after a couple of days in a complete misunderstanding of what was happening, when it became completely unbearable when I finally got a wife, who then had not yet read the horoscope for December, because it was in January, family and personal circumstances brought me to the department of neurosians.

I did not get into ward number 6, and I was not before fiction. I got into the covid department, gathered everyone in a row, as if on an ark. In the ward, half of the beds are empty - only a mattress, a sheet, a thin pillow and a blanket. It is possible only in the ward. Once a day or two-three, if you're lucky, the nurses are allowed to smoke, in the evening, when everyone falls asleep when there are no doctors. Phone, books, personal belongings, pens, paper - everything is selected. Only green walls. Green mattresses. Green faces. And iron utensils. Three -time, in principle, good, food.

I lay there for a week and a half. Once my wife called me, a young nurse went to look out the window while I spoke on the phone, and I stole a pack of cigarettes from under the table, mine. While I was thinking where you could secretly smoke, an older nurse noticed that one pack of cigarettes had disappeared - and she was so noticeable, foreign, a friend gave it to my epic settlement to the hospital. That evening, I, ashamed of my madness, admitted that I took cigarettes-for sincerity I was allowed to smoke one cigarette in the toilet in the evening.

I was lying in the same ward with a boy-anuntist and silent man. A overgrown hairy man with a beard, as I understood during a doctor’s bypass, was silent from behind the voices in his head and, as I understood from the court decision that lay next to him on the windowsill, attacked his neighbor with an ax. The 18-year-old boy was asleep all day, and in the evening he began to jump in bed non-stop in bed, play with the luntik-he had one with him. He is 18 years old. The nurse said that a local boy, he, in addition to autism, has a complete set, “And, in general, he was not doing a child’s child,” she added.

At night, the boy became “angry” and began to rage-he shouted that he was “evil”, wandered around the ward, once even hit me with a towel, apparently completely angry-then, by the way, they tied it to the bed so that he would not hurt himself or, perhaps, something sedative to fall asleep. I also fell asleep, silently, with the thought that I am in hell and that, in theory, I should be indignant, they say, you can’t tie people to the bed, but there was no strength at all.

Sometimes the boy woke up during the day, behaved calmer, but still jumped with the luntik, put on his head a striped hospital towel with the words: “Egyptian is good” or “Egyptian Evil”, depending on the mood. Under the dull yellow light of the night bulb, I tried to sleep and hoped that at least once left this place of complete despair and emptiness.

Places where it was impossible to leave the ward. Only to the toilet that does not close, and back. Places where the orderly was more likely to be allowed to get down to the corridor, and the men were built more built into the ward: “Where did they gather”? But so, kindly. There, in general, everything is kind, until you start to rage. Yes, and nurses and nurses are quite kind and courteous, and there would be all days there, only so that people in plastic costumes and masks would not flash in the aisle, in the sizes, in short, so that no one was yelling anywhere or to now fingers anywhere, so that with mirrors, TV, paintings and curtains, so that you can at least stick your nose out in an open window, To breathe wet autumn air, as it became in the normal compartment, when a week and a half later the orderly came and announced: “Markelov is translated,” and I began to look closely at the windows and doors, thinking how to escape from there.

They gave me my modest cosmetic bag. They opened the door. They led along the corridor. They opened the second door. Then the third.

And suddenly, clean bedspreads, warm cozy nurses in normal clothes, mirrors, TV and even shower several times a week. Flowers on windowsills. Yellow walls. And I - losing weight, haggard, with peeling skin on my face, rumpled hospital pajamas, dirty, smelly, (probably - the sense of smell was still at home, when my wife and I were ill, since both the tests for both were negative). They continued to give me tablets, then they began to prick injections. The tablets helped me approximately like ascorbic acid from diarrhea. But I got acquainted closer with the programs on the Friday and the First TV channel, I don’t have a TV at home, I switched to regular meals, washed down, a little freshened, if there is still a chance to shine in my state of a faded fruit.

I left the hospital unexpectedly - only I began to prick the injections, only I got used to the schedule and three meals a day, I just started gaining weight, as my department was transferred to covid, and me - to outpatient treatment. And I, crazy, went home with a diagnosis: either strong, or slight anxious disorder. My wife met me with the words:

"How did you let you go, are you crazy?" So, when is it I, crazy, managed to become an foreigner? &

To the hospital? When all autumn my wife and I solved the problems of the eldest son at school, or rather, our accumulated pedagogical errors? Or for a few small texts, for which he received small, irregular fees. Or for the film about Jay Alberg, a transgender from Karelia, which I presented in September and the fee from the film was enough for a month and a half of my life? Or in the first wave, when I also wrote several texts, took pictures and shot videos from the ships, wrote, again, about the first wave? For the fees that could finally buy new jeans, panties and socks for himself? Although, no, my wife replaced the torn socks with new ones - already with her salary. When did I manage to become a foreigner? For what merits to the Fatherland? Maybe there was no need to kiss my wife on Red Square?

The other day, I received a footcloth from lawyers-a list of what the SMI person should do, performing the functions of the foreign agent, so as not to fall under the fine. I re -read it and think ... Although, what is there to think?