Translated material
SYNOPSIS. An endless romance in parts. Frankenstein, or the Russian Patient
I.
We have just celebrated 30 years since the death of I. A. Brodsky.
And almost recently - in 2016 - they celebrated only 20 years. More than a year before that previous anniversary, at the end of 2014, when the World War had already begun, but we still did not understand what and to what extent it was all about, a warmly familiar literary critic approached me.
- Listen, Belkovsky. Should we make a film for the 20th anniversary? You just wanted some kind of movie. Yes, here it is. Can you come up with a plot?
— Uh... Is the film a documentary?
- Hybrid. As if based on real events, but with live actors. Which ones?? We'll pick more. Why think about this before the plot? You're always putting the cart before the horse, and that's why you don't get anything done.
And I came up with an idea. The plot—not yet a film, but its skeleton—was called “The Union of Redheads.” Like Conan Doyle, remember. Something like this.
Beginning - 1987, October 25. I. A. Brodsky had a nightmare for three days and three nights in a row. His eternal lover is Adelaide de Pompadour. Let's call it so that no one will be offended because of a random coincidence. In a proud thunderous voice she says to the Poet:
“If you give up the Nobel Prize, I’ll come back and be yours forever.”
He wakes up again. Refusing is impossible. Even for the sake of great love. Then, on October 25, 1995, they - I.A. and Adelaide - met physically after a long break. At the New York restaurant Per Se, on Columbus Circle. Immortal Beloved says:
“You don’t deserve love, but you deserve fame.” Is this worse? Both together are already too much.
Yes, I agree, it’s vulgar, almost like something out of “The Master and Margarita.” But on the other hand, doesn’t vulgarity always sell well? But we need less phantasmagoria—that’s what I was always taught.
And - Adelaide continued:
— “Landscape with Flood” is your best. This is made by a man who already has everything and doesn't bother about anything else. Peace of mind forever. You missed this so much before.
By chance, the Poet hears the waiter say to the customers at the next table:
- This is a tourist, but a good tourist. Happens here twice a year.
What? Is this the Poet - a tourist? In New York, which is a 21st century spaceport? It’s not scary to die here, the main thing is not to be buried here. He is so furious that he wants to turn the table over. Adelaide, overwhelmed by the sudden change in his mood, hurriedly leaves.
And - an imposing red-haired man sits down next to Brodsky from the vocal depths of Per Se. Above average height. With small, cold palms. And says:
- Don't be upset, my friend. You and I are both redheads. Everyone tries to offend the redhead. Let's create a "Union of Redheads" and offend them all ourselves. Those who don't understand will understand.
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