A shadow of results. Anatoly Naiman died

Essay Dmitry Vodennikov

The child goes outside. There is winter. Everyone was wound on a child: rats, pants, shirt, sweater, fur coat, felt boots, hat, scarf. The child stands on Marat Street. The boy’s parents live in a communal apartment in one of the five -story houses. The child is watching.

Once he will observe this, in September 1941, from the windowsill (lay on him with his chest? He stood his feet?), As captured Germans, a whole platoon lead along Marat Street. They were dropped with parachutes like a landing. They walked in construction, more slowly than people usually walk, as if slightly hanging their legs.

The boy is watching again.

Having already matured, he will determine himself when he is offered to do this, after three, after only three words. "Well ... a stranger ... Zevaka ... Belmo." (Actually there are four words: another interjection of “well”, and it seems to be very important here. “Well-oh”. “Well, if you want it so ...” “I don’t want to play especially with you, but let's.”)

Alien, Zevaka, Belmo.

If the “stranger” is very clear (always on the sidelines, which is required from the observer), if the “onlook” is double (here is yawning, a loafer, walked, walked and stopped, and again a semi -nuclear observer), then why is Belmo?

A spot on the eye, a clouding of the cornea of ​​the eye. That is, he does not see what he should? No, hardly. Something else wanted to say. All the time it interferes with someone: they want to wrinkle him, get rid of him. And he sits in the eye - and not a snorka: do not cry and neatly not be removed with a finger.

He is, of course, a visitor. Ironous spiritualist.

The most famous dream (his famous “Stories about Anna Akhmatova” begins with him): he dreams like a white high Leningrad ceiling over him quickly swells: not with water - blood, and after a moment the scarlet stream collapses at him.

Not yet Bosch, but already close. One medieval mystic described how he visited paradise and hell. There is a pond covered with ice, and sinners are forced to slide along its cold glass on shaky skates or sledges.

It is not written about this, but it can be assumed that the edge of the pond has a boy (there is a hat, cotton pants, a fur coat, scarf). The boy watches how prisoners forever rode sledges or skates - eternal circles, eternal movement, neither gasp nor relax. But the boy is watching. He is by chance, he is not a sinner. His business is to be a visionary, to be all of them like a belibo in the eye. He, probably, all of them - to all the rest of their torment - terribly annoying. “What are you standing, boy? Go from here! " But the boy does not leave.

*A dream is not only himself, but that who sleeps.

Blinding him. Resigned. Naked.

In the soft grass. Forgetting duty and shame.

It would seem to sleep. But no, it does not give rest*

*Body-tel. Looking for places, mouse:

that meadow without blind - paradise bosom

Mother, so that there is him and a draw more.

The remains of sleep, look sleeping sleepily.*

<...>

This is also a textbook: when after a few hours the young Naiman met with Akhmatova and told his dream about swollen instantly and poured ceiling, she praised: “Not bad.” And then the classic:

“In general, the most boring in the world is other people's dreams and someone else's fornication. But you deserve it. I saw my dream on the night of October 1. After the world disaster, I, one-single, stand on the ground, on slide, on the mud, glide, I can’t stay on my legs, erodes the soil. And from somewhere on top, expanding as close as close and therefore threatening me more and more, a stream in which all the great rivers of the world were connected: Nile, Gang, Volga, Mississippi ... Only this was not enough. ”

Naiman has the Edgaropovsky, but modestly, although scary

(only the ceiling), Anna Andreevna has a scale, as always, measured with the personality of the dreamer: all the great rivers of the world collapsed, they did not forget a single one in a dream. “Tell me why my great country, having expelled Hitler with all its technology, needed to go through all tanks through the chest of one sick old woman?” Well, what can you do, Anna Andreevna? If on the head - all the great rivers, then on the chest - all tanks.

Anatoly Nayman:

“... She was stunning - I will say an awkward, but the most suitable word - grandiose, impregnable, far from everything that is near people, from the world, silently, is motionless. The first impression was that she was taller than me, then it turned out that one height was with me, maybe a little lower. She kept very straight, as if carried, she walked slowly and, even moving, looked like a sculpture: a massive, as if she had been blocked, moments seemed carved, classic and as if already seen as an example of a sculpture. And what was wearing on her-something dilapidated and long, possibly a shawl or old kimono, resembled light rags thrown in the sculptor's workshop on an already finished thing. Many years later, this impression clearly surfaced in front of me, connecting to Akhmatova’s entry about Modigliani, who believed that women who should sculpt and write seem awkward in dresses. ”

Naiman, of course, is a knight.

We somehow forgot the original meaning of this word, we mention only ironically. But he stood on his knightly post all his life without dropping the banner. He did not even lean him for a minute.

* * *

*Throw an invisible look

knight, for life and death

And go at random

further. Saving a third,

A quarter, octopus, fraction

destination. Heat

Croups. Like me, Ugrobe

Experience and path. Go.*

The boy, who has already become a young man, then a young man, then mature, then the elderly, by old age knows perfectly well what experience and path are. He writes at the end of his life:

“What is the old person to be afraid of? Especially when in his life there were such disasters that he could not even think about that they would happen ... to say, “I’m not afraid” - this is a lies, to say “I’m afraid of all” - this is Hokhma. Fear is also a component of life. Here you wake up, dark, the wind howls outside the window. If there were “sickening” and “scary” in one word, it would be a very accurate word. It’s scary that you have to live a day. ”

As calmly and clearly said.

You can learn this (turning to yourself not yet calm and not intelligible words), if you are ready to observe: stand in a fur coat and hat on Marat Street, look straight, then grow up, live life and write it all down.

The father of the boy, who has long grown up and now died, was a fundamental Tolstoye. The boy’s father had even troubles associated with the fact that he did not want to fight. I think the paternal experience and the path to Naiman influenced. At least he remembered this almost joke. (It was, it was not where we know?)

Say, someone asked Leo Nikolaevich: “What should I do? I am terribly afraid of the generals, I just tremble, almost losing consciousness. ” To which Lev Nikolaevich supposedly said: "And you look at him in the bath."

The knight is not the one who constantly serves. The knight is the one who can look at you ironically and say: “But I will not serve you. I didn’t come out with meaning. ”

And the smile will crawl out crookedly from our smug face. This is an awakening. Let not from the ceiling sown in a dream, but still awakening. And, it seems, we woke up naked. We are not Leo Tolstoy and not Akhmatov. So we need. Next time we will not speak nonsense.

<...>

*Awakening - rain and short heat,

He does not accept complaints, coloring, a boudiller.

South Zheleznodorozhny and North River

Put at the early hour of a groovy alarm clock.*

*Would sleep - until the coincidence of the thread

gear and wheels, numbers and arrows!

Sleep to breathe like ozone. Would get enough sleep.

Having got up from the altar, to be at ease.*

*If not own, whose face was there,

Whose body was it, to understand the consumption.

Exit like about three years, five years old, on the porch,

in front of which the calf is nap in the grass.*

The calf is still asleep in the poetic grass. And the person who wrote about him and did so much for our swell and chill culture. There is almost no one else to connect us either with Akhmatova or Brodsky: he is no longer interested in us. Yes, and maybe there was never. He just watched us. How for captured soldiers from the windowsill (well, while lying on it, leaning out or standing? Or maybe sitting?). Or on the street. He just stood and looked at us. Then he turned away. You didn't like us, Anatoly Genrikhovich? There is no answer.

Anatoly Nayman once said:

“This is an interview with an old person. I want or do not want, it is some kind of ... Conclusion, an anamnesis of how life has been living, a shadow of results. Lay out. In fact, people have nothing to say to each other. At some time, there were no personalities who would have something to share with humanity. Somehow the rank of e-em-tar-quadrate, or how to live a hundred years of loneliness. I can neither convey to someone, nor to receive from someone a worldview, knowledge, a tragic charge-nothing that everyone would know. Only particular. "

So already one poet said. "The main thing is all over, the details remained." Also, by the way, he was familiar with Akhmatova. The preface wrote to her first book. But she did not love him.

The fifth floor, felt boots, a hat, a huge beautiful life, a stranger, a onlook, a belibo. The shadow turned, slipped under the ice.

The river boy left.