The light hit my eyes, my head was buzzing, as if in a transformer box. The newscaster - outrageously buoyant for half past five in the morning - said that "the predicted warming on European territory is a little delayed and snowfall is expected." "Go to hell!" - Maxim Ozerov advised the presenter and turned off the TV.

Sasha has already left for duty. In her ability to wake up in an inescapably good mood, there was a shamanism inexplicable for Ozerov: Sashka was cheerful, light, always had breakfast with pleasure, and with her whole appearance reminded Max of a thoroughbred, businesslike dachshund, who had gathered with the owner for a fox. He himself did not know how: in order to get up, he had to start ten alarm clocks, in the mornings the burrs that had taken up during the night bled from nowhere. Ozerov froze, shuffled his feet, knocked down corners and suffered from the realization of his own imperfection and spiritual laziness. Sashka took pity on him and - if he happened to leave earlier - cooked breakfast. He always refused, and she forced him to eat.

On the table stood a lukewarm jug with the rest of the coffee and a huge antique basket with a lid, straps and a darkened brass lock. The basket was covered with a terry-cloth kitchen towel. From under the towel protruded a polished thermos and the optimistic edge of a Krakow sausage. Pinned to the basket was a piece of paper with the caption: "To go."

So, snow?.. Maxim Ozerov defiantly pulled out of the closet and looked at his red camping down jacket with a torn sleeve. Well, a down jacket, but what is it? .. If it snows, there are four hundred versts and a hook ahead, then it’s a down jacket, and not at all the smart coat that he was counting on! Predicted warming is delayed, clearly stated. That is, apparently, it should be expected by spring.

Spring! - Maxim recited in the silence of the apartment. - The first frame is exposed! And noise broke into the room! And the blessing of the nearby temple! And the voice of the people! And the sound of the wheel!

Well, at least yesterday at the service they checked the wheels - all four, - and not a single one knocks. He climbed into a down jacket, threw a backpack over his shoulder, grabbed Sashka's basket - it crunched in greeting - and went out.

Ozerov was driving his off-road vehicle from Moscow, the windshield wipers creaked strainedly, the wide tires with a hum crushed the muddy water in the rolled rut of the Volga federal highway, the headlights cut through the gray veil of snow and drizzle. Yesterday he agreed to call on the dacha for Fedya - Kratovo was on the way, but now Maxim hoped that Velichkovsky would oversleep, and then he would win back on him. After wandering around the old and very sleepy village for a while, Ozerov finally turned onto the right street.

At the gate of one of the houses loomed a stooped figure dressed in a poisonous green robe, monstrous canvas trousers and orange fur moccasins. The image was completed by a bathing felt hat pulled down over the eyes with the inscription in large ligature "Steam to everything is the head." In one hand, the figure held a backpack the size of a small house, in the other - Ozerov almost could not believe his eyes! - a bottle of champagne; black headphone wire streamed down the hoodie, which turned out to be a snowboard jacket with a lion's face on the back.

Fedya Velichkovsky didn't oversleep.

Mr Director! Why didn't you tell me? We agreed that you will call! And you? Did you fool the little girl? - Fedya, somehow stuffing his incredible backpack into the trunk, unceremoniously climbed into the basket with Sasha's supplies, sniffed the sausage appraisingly and with enthusiasm and even with some lust asked: - Do you have hard-boiled eggs and fresh cucumbers?

Tatyana Ustinova

Shakespeare is my friend, but the truth is dearer

© Ustinova T., 2015

© Design. LLC "Publishing House" E ", 2015

All night the wind entangled in the roof roared and roared, and a branch of an old linden tree knocked on the window, making it difficult to sleep. And it started snowing in the morning. Maxim looked out the window for a long time and senselessly - just to delay the moment when he still had to pack up. Large flakes swirled in the November pre-dawn blizzard, slowly fell on the wet blackened asphalt, the lanterns flickered in the puddles with ugly pale yellow spots. With the last of its strength, Moscow was waiting for a real winter - so that, as soon as it comes, it would start waiting for spring. Maxim loved spring more than anything in the world - green, hot, midday, salty, with kvass from a barrel and walks in Neskuchny garden- but you still have to live and live before it, and somehow you can’t believe that you will live.

The light hit my eyes, my head was buzzing, as if in a transformer box. The newscaster - outrageously buoyant for half past five in the morning - said that "the predicted warming in European territory is a little delayed and snowfall is expected." "Go to hell!" - Maxim Ozerov advised the presenter and turned off the TV.

Sasha has already left for duty. In her ability to wake up in an inescapably good mood, there was a shamanism inexplicable for Ozerov: Sashka was cheerful, light, always had breakfast with pleasure, and with her whole appearance reminded Max of a thoroughbred, businesslike dachshund, who had gathered with the owner for a fox. He himself did not know how: in order to get up, he had to start ten alarm clocks, in the mornings the burrs that had taken up during the night bled from nowhere. Ozerov froze, shuffled his feet, knocked down corners and suffered from the realization of his own imperfection and spiritual laziness. Sashka took pity on him and - if he happened to leave earlier - cooked breakfast. He always refused, and she forced him to eat.

On the table stood a lukewarm jug with the rest of the coffee and a huge antique basket with a lid, straps and a darkened brass lock. The basket was covered with a terry-cloth kitchen towel. From under the towel protruded a polished thermos and the optimistic edge of a Krakow sausage. Pinned to the basket was a piece of paper with the caption: "To go."

So, snow?.. Maxim Ozerov defiantly pulled out of the closet and looked at his red camping down jacket with a torn sleeve. Well, a down jacket, but what is it? .. If it snows, there are four hundred versts and a hook ahead, then it’s a down jacket, and not at all the smart coat that he was counting on! Predicted warming is delayed, clearly stated. That is, apparently, it should be expected by spring.

- Spring! - Maxim recited in the silence of the apartment. - The first frame is exposed! And noise broke into the room! And the blessing of the nearby temple! And the voice of the people! And the sound of the wheel!

Well, at least yesterday at the service they checked the wheels - all four - and not a single one knocks. He climbed into a down jacket, threw a backpack over his shoulder, grabbed Sashka's basket - it crunched in greeting - and went out.

Ozerov was driving his off-road vehicle from Moscow, the windshield wipers creaked strainedly, the wide tires with a hum crushed the muddy water in the rolled rut of the Volga federal highway, the headlights cut through the gray veil of snow and drizzle. Yesterday he agreed to call on the dacha for Fedya - Kratovo was on the way, but now Maxim was hoping that Velichkovsky would oversleep, and then he would win back on him. After wandering around the old and very sleepy village for a while, Ozerov finally turned onto the right street.

At the gate of one of the houses loomed a stooped figure dressed in a poisonous green robe, monstrous canvas trousers and orange fur moccasins. The image was completed by a bathing felt hat pulled down over the eyes with the inscription in large ligature "Steam to everything is the head." In one hand, the figure held a backpack the size of a small house, in the other - Ozerov almost could not believe his eyes! - a bottle of champagne; black headphone wire streamed down the hoodie, which turned out to be a snowboard jacket with a lion's face on the back.

Tatyana Ustinova

Shakespeare is my friend, but the truth is dearer

© Ustinova T., 2015

© Design. LLC "Publishing House" E ", 2015

All night the wind entangled in the roof roared and roared, and a branch of an old linden tree knocked on the window, making it difficult to sleep. And it started snowing in the morning. Maxim looked out the window for a long time and senselessly - just to delay the moment when he still had to pack up. Large flakes swirled in the November pre-dawn blizzard, slowly fell on the wet blackened asphalt, the lanterns flickered in the puddles with ugly pale yellow spots. With the last of its strength, Moscow was waiting for a real winter - so that, as soon as it comes, it would start waiting for spring. Maxim loved spring more than anything in the world - green, hot, midday, salty, with kvass from a barrel and walks in the Neskuchny Garden - but you still have to live and live before it, and somehow you can’t believe that you will live.

The light hit my eyes, my head was buzzing, as if in a transformer box. The newscaster - outrageously buoyant for half past five in the morning - said that "the predicted warming in European territory is a little delayed and snowfall is expected." "Go to hell!" - Maxim Ozerov advised the presenter and turned off the TV.

Sasha has already left for duty. In her ability to wake up in an inescapably good mood, there was a shamanism inexplicable for Ozerov: Sashka was cheerful, light, always had breakfast with pleasure, and with her whole appearance reminded Max of a thoroughbred, businesslike dachshund, who had gathered with the owner for a fox. He himself did not know how: in order to get up, he had to start ten alarm clocks, in the mornings the burrs that had taken up during the night bled from nowhere. Ozerov froze, shuffled his feet, knocked down corners and suffered from the realization of his own imperfection and spiritual laziness. Sashka took pity on him and - if he happened to leave earlier - cooked breakfast. He always refused, and she forced him to eat.

On the table stood a lukewarm jug with the rest of the coffee and a huge antique basket with a lid, straps and a darkened brass lock. The basket was covered with a terry-cloth kitchen towel. From under the towel protruded a polished thermos and the optimistic edge of a Krakow sausage. Pinned to the basket was a piece of paper with the caption: "To go."

So, snow?.. Maxim Ozerov defiantly pulled out of the closet and looked at his red camping down jacket with a torn sleeve. Well, a down jacket, but what is it? .. If it snows, there are four hundred versts and a hook ahead, then it’s a down jacket, and not at all the smart coat that he was counting on! Predicted warming is delayed, clearly stated. That is, apparently, it should be expected by spring.

- Spring! - Maxim recited in the silence of the apartment. - The first frame is exposed! And noise broke into the room! And the blessing of the nearby temple! And the voice of the people! And the sound of the wheel!

Well, at least yesterday at the service they checked the wheels - all four - and not a single one knocks. He climbed into a down jacket, threw a backpack over his shoulder, grabbed Sashka's basket - it crunched in greeting - and went out.

Ozerov was driving his off-road vehicle from Moscow, the windshield wipers creaked strainedly, the wide tires with a hum crushed the muddy water in the rolled rut of the Volga federal highway, the headlights cut through the gray veil of snow and drizzle. Yesterday he agreed to call on the dacha for Fedya - Kratovo was on the way, but now Maxim was hoping that Velichkovsky would oversleep, and then he would win back on him. After wandering around the old and very sleepy village for a while, Ozerov finally turned onto the right street.

At the gate of one of the houses loomed a stooped figure dressed in a poisonous green robe, monstrous canvas trousers and orange fur moccasins. The image was completed by a bathing felt hat pulled down over the eyes with the inscription in large ligature "Steam to everything is the head." In one hand, the figure held a backpack the size of a small house, in the other - Ozerov almost could not believe his eyes! - a bottle of champagne; black headphone wire streamed down the hoodie, which turned out to be a snowboard jacket with a lion's face on the back.

Fedya Velichkovsky didn't oversleep.

- Mister Director! Why didn't you tell me? We agreed that you will call! And you? Did you fool the little girl? - Fedya, somehow stuffing his incredible backpack into the trunk, unceremoniously climbed into the basket with Sasha's supplies, sniffed the sausage appraisingly and with enthusiasm and even with some lust asked: - Do you have hard-boiled eggs and fresh cucumbers? ..

- Comrade screenwriter! Ozerov yawned without opening his jaws. - Saryn on a kitchka! Come sit down!

- And you good morning!

The doors slammed, the petrol V-8 roared contentedly, and the “lifted” dark green jeep with a bright orange snorkel merrily rolled along the washed-out village road.

Velichkovsky threw off his fur moccasins and, tucking his legs under him like a yogi, settled himself in a wide leather armchair.

“We will have breakfast in Vladimir at the gas station,” he ordered. - I've thought of everything.

Under the stupid felt cap his head itched unbearably, but Fedya firmly decided that he would never take off his cap. In any case, until the boss pays due attention to her.

“Uh-huh,” Ozerov replied without any enthusiasm.

No, one “yup” is not enough! Velichkovsky scratched his head and continued earnestly:

“You, Mr. Director, fill your crew, and I, Childe Harold, will seize badly brewed coffee with sausage in dough. Sitting at a table by the window, I will look at the fast cars flying through the fog of black and silver suspension of snow and rain in ... uh ... - Fedya hesitated for a second, choosing the most vulgar epithet - in a barely hatched, unfriendly gloomy morning.

- Base! Ozerov issued a verdict.

For Velichkovsky, this was the second trip, he was in good mood He loved the whole world and especially himself in it. An invitation to the expedition was tantamount to being drawn into the circle of initiates, a special sign that meant "you are your own among your own." Something like the highest government award and a very closed club, where only the most faithful, close and promising were accepted. “Close and promising” Fedya was only six months old. And no one - not even Ozerov - guessed how much he liked it!

Business trips were invented by Vladlen Arlenovich Grodzovsky - CEO"Radio of Russia", shark, pillar and Mephistopheles of the radio world. Several times a year, Grodzovsky, by personal decree, sent Ozerov - his chief director, accomplice and right hand - to some country town with the theater, where Maxim masterfully and very quickly recorded performances based on Russian and foreign classics for the State Radio Fund. Productions received European awards, county theaters received fame and a small extra income, and radio employees received a sense of belonging and relaxation without interrupting their native production. Working on these trips has always been… a bit of a make-believe.

And now the chief director, winner of everything and an absolute professional Ozerov was sure that Chekhov's "Duel" at the Nizhny Novgorod State Drama Theater would be done in two days. In the worst case - for two and a half. And then - a week of an official business trip, when you can hang out around the city, wander around museums, go to a comedy in a theater where everyone is already your own, drink beer and eat crayfish in restaurants on the embankments. This is how Ozerov now imagined "a few days in the life of a Moscow director in Nizhny Novgorod."

There was no work for Velichkovsky - he was taken exclusively as a reward for his labors. Rather, even in advance. He was a good writer, and Ozerov determined with an unmistakable instinct that over time he would become very good! .. Fedya talentedly and completely shamelessly wrote any, even the most fierce, situation, kept time, knew how to ask questions, make the right impression, knew when to argue and when you have to agree, and did not forgive yourself for hack-work.

He was lazy, unpunctual, pretended to be a frondeur and a cynic.

Ozerov picked up Fedya on the morning sports channel, where he worked as a correspondent and became famous for a minute story about a cycling marathon, managing to use the word “coherence” eighteen times on a dare, and so cleverly that the material went on the air.

It was hard to drive. The snowfall only intensified, and the track was noticeably powdered. A hefty SUV slid and floated in a rut, Maxim constantly had to “catch” his yaw with the steering wheel, and in a snowstorm everything merged: the rare Sunday cars, neat, alert in the fog, and the graying tongue of the highway with smeared markings, and the broken dirty roadside ...

- Well, the weather! Fedya said. He took an electronic cigarette from the pocket of his incredible pants, leaned back in his chair and tried to inhale - it did not work. - How it works?

- Got sick? - Ozerov, squinting one eye at Fedya, snatched a cigarette from his mouth and threw it into the cup holder between the seats. - No smoking in my car!

“They are environmentally friendly,” Fedya objected.

“Chart a bus in Vladimir and smoke yourself,” Ozerov threatened, “and take off that felt cap!”

- Well, finally, Maxim Viktorovich! - Fedya threw his hat into the back seat and began to itch with rapture, like a monkey. - I've been sitting in it for two hours like a fool, and you just noticed! Where is your directorial observation?

- I'm driving a car. I'm watching the road.

"It doesn't matter," Fedya went on enthusiastically. – For us, artists, the most important thing is to observe life and draw conclusions. Are you drawing conclusions from life, Maxim Viktorovich? Are you watching her?

- Not now.

- And I'm always watching! And I categorically affirm that any event can be restored by its finale! If you know exactly how it ended, as an observant person, you can always tell what exactly was the impetus! So to speak, to understand what was in the beginning - a word or not only a word, but something else!

“Mmmm,” Ozerov drawled, “what have you been reading? American psychologists? Or did old Conan Doyle have an effect on you?

Before the business trip, F...

© Ustinova T., 2015

© Design. LLC "Publishing House" E ", 2015

* * *

All night the wind entangled in the roof roared and roared, and a branch of an old linden tree knocked on the window, making it difficult to sleep. And it started snowing in the morning. Maxim looked out the window for a long time and senselessly - just to delay the moment when he still had to pack up. Large flakes swirled in the November pre-dawn blizzard, slowly fell on the wet blackened asphalt, the lanterns flickered in the puddles with ugly pale yellow spots. With the last of its strength, Moscow was waiting for a real winter - so that, as soon as it comes, it would start waiting for spring. Maxim loved spring more than anything in the world - green, hot, midday, salty, with kvass from a barrel and walks in the Neskuchny Garden - but you still have to live and live before it, and somehow you can’t believe that you will live.

The light hit my eyes, my head was buzzing, as if in a transformer box. The newscaster - outrageously buoyant for half past five in the morning - said that "the predicted warming in European territory is a little delayed and snowfall is expected." "Go to hell!" - Maxim Ozerov advised the presenter and turned off the TV.

Sasha has already left for duty. In her ability to wake up in an inescapably good mood, there was a shamanism inexplicable for Ozerov: Sashka was cheerful, light, always had breakfast with pleasure, and with her whole appearance reminded Max of a thoroughbred, businesslike dachshund, who had gathered with the owner for a fox. He himself did not know how: in order to get up, he had to start ten alarm clocks, in the mornings the burrs that had taken up during the night bled from nowhere. Ozerov froze, shuffled his feet, knocked down corners and suffered from the realization of his own imperfection and spiritual laziness. Sashka took pity on him and - if he happened to leave earlier - cooked breakfast. He always refused, and she forced him to eat.

On the table stood a lukewarm jug with the rest of the coffee and a huge antique basket with a lid, straps and a darkened brass lock. The basket was covered with a terry-cloth kitchen towel. From under the towel protruded a polished thermos and the optimistic edge of a Krakow sausage. Pinned to the basket was a piece of paper with the caption: "To go."

So, snow?.. Maxim Ozerov defiantly pulled out of the closet and looked at his red camping down jacket with a torn sleeve. Well, a down jacket, but what is it? .. If it snows, there are four hundred versts and a hook ahead, then it’s a down jacket, and not at all the smart coat that he was counting on! Predicted warming is delayed, clearly stated. That is, apparently, it should be expected by spring.

- Spring! - Maxim recited in the silence of the apartment. - The first frame is exposed! And noise broke into the room! And the blessing of the nearby temple! And the voice of the people! And the sound of the wheel!

Well, at least yesterday at the service they checked the wheels - all four - and not a single one knocks. He climbed into a down jacket, threw a backpack over his shoulder, grabbed Sashka's basket - it crunched in greeting - and went out.

Ozerov was driving his off-road vehicle from Moscow, the windshield wipers creaked strainedly, the wide tires with a hum crushed the muddy water in the rolled rut of the Volga federal highway, the headlights cut through the gray veil of snow and drizzle.

Yesterday he agreed to call on the dacha for Fedya - Kratovo was on the way, but now Maxim was hoping that Velichkovsky would oversleep, and then he would win back on him. After wandering around the old and very sleepy village for a while, Ozerov finally turned onto the right street.

At the gate of one of the houses loomed a stooped figure dressed in a poisonous green robe, monstrous canvas trousers and orange fur moccasins. The image was completed by a bathing felt hat pulled down over the eyes with the inscription in large ligature "Steam to everything is the head." In one hand, the figure held a backpack the size of a small house, in the other - Ozerov almost could not believe his eyes! - a bottle of champagne; black headphone wire streamed down the hoodie, which turned out to be a snowboard jacket with a lion's face on the back.

Fedya Velichkovsky didn't oversleep.

- Mister Director! Why didn't you tell me? We agreed that you will call! And you? Did you fool the little girl? - Fedya, somehow stuffing his incredible backpack into the trunk, unceremoniously climbed into the basket with Sasha's supplies, sniffed the sausage appraisingly and with enthusiasm and even with some lust asked: - Do you have hard-boiled eggs and fresh cucumbers? ..

- Comrade screenwriter! Ozerov yawned without opening his jaws. - Saryn on a kitchka! Come sit down!

- Good morning to you too!

The doors slammed, the petrol V-8 roared contentedly, and the “lifted” dark green jeep with a bright orange snorkel merrily rolled along the washed-out village road.

Velichkovsky threw off his fur moccasins and, tucking his legs under him like a yogi, settled himself in a wide leather armchair.

“We will have breakfast in Vladimir at the gas station,” he ordered. - I've thought of everything.

Under the stupid felt cap his head itched unbearably, but Fedya firmly decided that he would never take off his cap. In any case, until the boss pays due attention to her.

“Uh-huh,” Ozerov replied without any enthusiasm.

No, one “yup” is not enough! Velichkovsky scratched his head and continued earnestly:

“You, Mr. Director, fill your crew, and I, Childe Harold, will seize badly brewed coffee with sausage in dough. Sitting at a table by the window, I will look at the fast cars flying through the fog of black and silver suspension of snow and rain in ... uh ... - Fedya hesitated for a second, choosing the most vulgar epithet - in a barely hatched, unfriendly gloomy morning.

- Base! Ozerov issued a verdict.

For Velichkovsky, this was the second trip, he was in a great mood, loved the whole world and especially himself in it. An invitation to the expedition was tantamount to being drawn into the circle of initiates, a special sign that meant "you are your own among your own." Something like the highest government award and a very closed club, where only the most faithful, close and promising were accepted. “Close and promising” Fedya was only six months old. And no one - not even Ozerov - guessed how much he liked it!

Business trips were invented by Vladlen Arlenovich Grodzovsky, the general director of Radio Russia, the shark, pillar and Mephistopheles of the radio world. Several times a year, Grodzovsky, by personal decree, sent Ozerov - his chief director, accomplice and right hand - to some provincial city with a theater, where Maxim masterfully and very quickly recorded performances based on Russian and foreign classics for the State Radio Fund. Productions received European awards, county theaters received fame and a small extra income, and radio employees received a sense of belonging and relaxation without interrupting their native production. Working on these trips has always been… a bit of a make-believe.

And now the chief director, winner of everything and an absolute professional Ozerov was sure that Chekhov's "Duel" at the Nizhny Novgorod State Drama Theater would be done in two days. In the worst case - for two and a half. And then - a week of an official business trip, when you can hang out around the city, wander around museums, go to a comedy in a theater where everyone is already your own, drink beer and eat crayfish in restaurants on the embankments. This is how Ozerov now imagined "a few days in the life of a Moscow director in Nizhny Novgorod."

There was no work for Velichkovsky - he was taken exclusively as a reward for his labors. Rather, even in advance. He was a good writer, and Ozerov determined with an unmistakable instinct that over time he would become very good! .. Fedya talentedly and completely shamelessly wrote any, even the most fierce, situation, kept time, knew how to ask questions, make the right impression, knew when to argue and when you have to agree, and did not forgive yourself for hack-work.

He was lazy, unpunctual, pretended to be a frondeur and a cynic.

Ozerov picked up Fedya on the morning sports channel, where he worked as a correspondent and became famous for a minute story about a cycling marathon, managing to use the word “coherence” eighteen times on a dare, and so cleverly that the material went on the air.

It was hard to drive. The snowfall only intensified, and the track was noticeably powdered. A hefty SUV slid and floated in a rut, Maxim constantly had to “catch” his yaw with the steering wheel, and in a snowstorm everything merged: the rare Sunday cars, neat, alert in the fog, and the graying tongue of the highway with smeared markings, and the broken dirty roadside ...

- Well, the weather! Fedya said. He took an electronic cigarette from the pocket of his incredible pants, leaned back in his chair and tried to inhale - it did not work. - How it works?

- Got sick? - Ozerov, squinting one eye at Fedya, snatched a cigarette from his mouth and threw it into the cup holder between the seats. - No smoking in my car!

“They are environmentally friendly,” Fedya objected.

“Chart a bus in Vladimir and smoke yourself,” Ozerov threatened, “and take off that felt cap!”

- Well, finally, Maxim Viktorovich! - Fedya threw his hat into the back seat and began to itch with rapture, like a monkey. - I've been sitting in it for two hours like a fool, and you just noticed! Where is your directorial observation?

- I'm driving a car. I'm watching the road.

"It doesn't matter," Fedya went on enthusiastically. – For us, artists, the most important thing is to observe life and draw conclusions. Are you drawing conclusions from life, Maxim Viktorovich? Are you watching her?

- Not now.

- And I'm always watching! And I categorically affirm that any event can be restored by its finale! If you know exactly how it ended, as an observant person, you can always tell what exactly was the impetus! So to speak, to understand what was in the beginning - a word or not only a word, but something else!

“Mmmm,” Ozerov drawled, “what have you been reading? American psychologists? Or did old Conan Doyle have an effect on you?

Just before the business trip, Fedya finished the script based on the stories about Sherlock Holmes. He fiddled around for a long time, tried on, and eventually unearthed some kind of pre-revolutionary translation, so the script turned out to be amusing and completely unrecognizable, as if Conan Doyle suddenly took and wrote a completely new story.

Maxim liked this script so much that he even showed it to his superiors. The authorities thought about it and ordered to take the promising Fedya to Nizhny. The boy must rest, unwind and feel like "part of the whole."

- And got this garbage! Maxim nodded at the cup holder, in which an electronic cigarette dangled. - I'd rather buy a pipe.

I don't smoke, you know! Mom is against, and indeed the Ministry of Health warns! But how is a writer without a cybaret? Look around - everything is cloudy, everything is gray, everything is dark. Emptiness and darkness! In the soul of chaos and a passion for destruction!

- Is it chaos and passion in your soul?

- And what? Fedya asked. - Not noticeable?

In Petushki, the blizzard began to subside, and in Vladimir it completely subsided. They climbed over some kind of invisible wall, behind which suddenly there was no blizzard and the upcoming winter. The sky began to rise, the asphalt, black and damp from the suspension of snow, dried up, immediately became dusty, the wipers creaked in vain on the windshield. For a while, their jeep raced as if along the border between the seasons, and then suddenly, somewhere above, the sun shone blindingly brightly. It splashed through a hole in the sky, broke through the clouds, flooded the road, the fields, the forest blackened in the distance, sparkled in the rear-view mirror of the passenger car running in front, fell vertically on the dusty dash of the jeep. The endless blind grayness was replaced by a contrasting green-gray haze, pierced by warm sunlight, the last of this year.

They put on dark glasses - the movement turned out to be synchronous and "cool", like in a movie about special agents and aliens. Ozerov was amused.

Forever clogged with trucks, the Vladimir district turned out to be absolutely free. Fedya, who proclaimed himself a navigator and buried himself in the "device", discarded it as unnecessary. The Internet was barely moving, traffic jams were not loading, and Ozerov knew himself putting pressure on the gas - technology was once again put to shame.

- And you, Mr. Director, know where to govern? Fedya asked. He fished a wrinkled green satin out of the glove compartment and began to scrutinize it. “We're in E-14, right? Or… or C-18?

And he began to thrust the atlas under Ozerov's nose. Maxim Atlas pushed me away.

- Here in a straight line, Fed. In a straight line right up to the bottom. Let's not miss.

They drove through the villages. Why is the federal highway laid through the villages? It's uncomfortable, slow, unsafe, and in general! Fedya was always shy, but he really liked this Asian barbarity. There was some kind of regularity in him - without villages and the road is not expensive! .. He liked to read strange names, guess the accents - the farther from Moscow, the easier it was to make a mistake: Ibred, Lipyanoy Duke, Yambirno, Akhlebinino ... Fedya felt sorry for the lopsided, blackened dilapidated village houses, destroyed either by vibrations from multi-ton trucks, walking around the clock along a highway cut right in the middle of the village, or by the villainous connivance of the owners, or simply by some kind of misfortune. Therefore, in every village along the way, he always looked for some strong, well-built, built-on, shiny house with fresh, not peeling paint - just to rejoice at it and think: “What a beauty!”

He would never admit this to anyone - yet he is a frondeur and a cynic who knows that life is gloomy and unfair. Yes, and he is quite a few years old, twenty-four in the spring knocked. And he has everything behind him - a quarrel with his father over the choice of a profession, a university, a proud refusal of graduate school, an unsuccessful romance, an unsuccessful first script, an unsuccessful first report! .. In general, Fedya was a seasoned fighter, but he felt sorry for the homeless to tears dogs and heartily rejoiced at the right houses.

Immediately after Vladimir, he began to whine and whine that he wanted to eat and “stretch.” Ozerov answered for some time that he had to be courageous and endure hardships - it was a game, she amused both - and then Maxim taxied to a gas station.

Fedya shoved his feet into his moccasins, wrinkling up his heels, and tumbled out.

- Cold dog! he proclaimed with delight. - Give me a hat, Maxim Viktorovich, it will blow in my ears!

Ozerov tossed him a hat “Steam is the head of everything,” which Fedya immediately put on.

- You while refuel, and I'm in line! Would you like an espresso or a cappuccino?

- In what queue? Ozerov muttered under his breath as he got out of the car. - Where is the queue from?

The sky was shining, and it was so cold that the breath froze and seemed to rustle around the lips. Maxim buttoned the collar of his down jacket under his chin. After sitting in the car for a long time, he was trembling. And Sashka thought that he would have a "picnic on the side of the road", he collected a basket! ..

- Maxim Viktorovich! - shouted leaning out of glass doors head of Velichkovsky. - You grab some supplies!

- Balda, - Ozerov said under his breath and shouted in response: - I won’t take it! I'll eat it myself!

The gas station was clean, light and smelled delicious - coffee and muffins. There was a queue to the counter with rolls, the tables in the cafe were all occupied. Fedya was sitting at the counter by the window on a high nickel-plated chair, the second prudently held his hand and waved frantically at Maxim, like a signalman on board a ship.

– What are you waving?

- Yes, you see what a stir there is! Now you hold the chair, and I'll go in line. Would you like a cappuccino or espresso? Do you want me to bring champagne from the trunk, you get drunk, and then I'll drive?

- Fed, get in line. Me tea. Black.

- With milk? - said Fedya. “How is cousin Betsy?”

They sipped from large glass mugs, Fedya alternately biting off a sausage, then "a sweet snail with vanilla cream." Another sausage - a spare - was waiting on a plastic plate, and Fedya was happy to think that everything was still ahead.

- So - the details! he announced with his mouth full. - The most important thing is the details, Maxim Viktorovich. Oscar Wilde said that only very superficial people do not judge by appearance! Here's an example! What does my appearance tell you?

Ozerov laughed and looked Fedya from head to toe - he immediately put on his hat "Steam is the head of everything."

- Your appearance tells me that you are a lazy, sloppy and self-confident type. Fedya nodded happily. - What is your height? Meter ninety?

“Three,” said Fedya. - Meter ninety-three.

- Any form is disgusting to you.

- From what do you draw such a conclusion, Maxim Viktorovich?

- Instead of taking on a somewhat decent appearance, you still go on a business trip, and even with your superiors, and even to an unfamiliar place! - you put on all your one hundred and ninety-three centimeters dimensionless canvas pants and a jacket, suspicious in every respect. A man in those pants and jacket is definitely not to be taken seriously, but you don't even think about it.

“I don’t think so,” Fedya confirmed, widening his chocolate eyes. “I know you take me seriously, but I don't give a damn about the rest. Meetings, dates and love chickens are not planned for the next week. So your conclusion is wrong. Wrong, colleague! ..

The founding father and “organizer of our victories” Grodzovsky called everyone “colleagues”, and Fedya was terribly pleased with such an appeal.

– But the experiment must be clean! You know me well and are therefore biased. But here are the rest of the people! What do you say about them?

- Fed, eat up and let's go.

- Wait, Maxim Viktorovich! What are you, right? Sunday is at our complete disposal, and we have already traveled a path comparable to ...

- There's a performance tonight. I want to see.

Fedya waved his hand impatiently, holding the sausage in it.

- We will have time, and you know very well about it! .. - He switched to a whisper: - There is a couple sitting there. Well, get out, get out, at that table! What can you say about them?

Ozerov glanced around involuntarily. A man and a woman, quite young, were munching on sandwiches, each looking at their phones.

“They quarreled,” Fedya said into Maxim’s ear. The trip didn't go well! Did you notice how they paid for the food? They queued together, but ordered separately, and each paid from his wallet. Sit together too! That is, they are a couple, but had a fight on the way. She must have insisted on a Sunday trip to her mother, and he was going to the bathhouse with his friends.

- Fedya, go to the bath yourself! ..

“And that blonde over there in the Ford is gluing a beaver from a BMW,” Fedya pointed behind the glass. Ozerov, interested against his will, looked into the street. She danced around her car for a very long time, as if she didn't know how to put a gun in the tank. But he didn't pay any attention. And now she asks him to fill her washer, see?

There really was an old Ford parked in the parking lot, and a young platinum-haired creature in a tiny white fur coat and a hefty man in a leather jacket that didn’t converge on his stomach, actually like a beaver, were trampling around beside him. The young creature held a canister in his hands, and the man rummaged under the hood of the old Ford, trying to lift the lid.

“In fact, she knows how to do everything herself,” Fedya Velichkovsky continued. - When the beaver was on the way, standing on the highway with a turn signal, she was already opening the lid. And immediately slammed it as soon as he turned!

Maxim looked at his screenwriter, as if seeing for the first time.

– Listen, and you, it appears, the dreamer! Maybe you'll really be a writer. Most importantly, you lie from the heart. And you won't be tested.

Why don't you check? You can come and ask! You want me to ask! Easily! By the way, Bulgakov...

- Let's go, huh? Ozerov asked almost plaintively.

- You go, and I'll just take one more sausage. Should you take it?

- You'll burst.

The sun shone with might and main, the road lay ahead, spacious and wide, rested against the radiant cold horizon, until Nizhny Novgorod There were still two hundred miles left.

It's good, thought Fedya Velichkovsky, that it's still a long way off. Since childhood, he loved to travel “far away”.

- This is our last date. I'm leaving.

Lyalya, who was rattling pots on the shelf, froze and carefully placed a large frying pan lid on a small ladle. The cover could not resist and went.

– Romka, what did you… say?

- Lal, you understand everything. And let's not get hysterical, okay? I have a performance tonight. After the performance, I will go to my place.

- Where to yourself? Wait, - said Lyalya, groped for a stool, sat down, immediately jumped up and flopped down again, as if her legs were not holding her. – The performance, yes, I know, but… No, wait, it’s also impossible…

She was going to cook porridge - before the performance Roman ate only porridge and drank black coffee - and now the very open gas blazed and hissed, escaping from the burner. Turn it off Lyalya did not guess.

- Well, that's it, that's it, - he came up and stroked her head. - Well, you're a smart old woman! .. You understand everything. We both knew that sooner or later...

“I love you too,” Roman said, and pressed her head to him. “So we are breaking up. So much better, right!

Despite the fact that in the first second she realized that everything was over and he would leave her, he would leave today, now, she suddenly believed that she would manage. He loves her. He just said it himself.

“Romka, wait,” she asked. - You explain to me what happened? .. - And for some reason she suggested: - You stopped loving me?

He sighed. Under her cheek, his stomach growled.

“Probably never loved,” he admitted thoughtfully. - That is, I loved and still love, but not in the right way! ..

- But as?! How to?

Lyalya escaped, tears appeared in her eyes, and she began to swallow quickly, trying to swallow them all to the last.

- Lyalka, don't be hysterical! Roman shouted. Our paths must part. I figured it would be best if they parted ways right now. Why continue when it is clear that there will be no continuation?

Tatyana Ustinova

Shakespeare is my friend, but the truth is dearer

© Ustinova T., 2015

© Design. LLC "Publishing House" E ", 2015

All night the wind entangled in the roof roared and roared, and a branch of an old linden tree knocked on the window, making it difficult to sleep. And it started snowing in the morning. Maxim looked out the window for a long time and senselessly - just to delay the moment when he still had to pack up. Large flakes swirled in the November pre-dawn blizzard, slowly fell on the wet blackened asphalt, the lanterns flickered in the puddles with ugly pale yellow spots. With the last of its strength, Moscow was waiting for a real winter - so that, as soon as it comes, it would start waiting for spring. Maxim loved spring more than anything in the world - green, hot, midday, salty, with kvass from a barrel and walks in the Neskuchny Garden - but you still have to live and live before it, and somehow you can’t believe that you will live.

The light hit my eyes, my head was buzzing, as if in a transformer box. The newscaster - outrageously buoyant for half past five in the morning - said that "the predicted warming in European territory is a little delayed and snowfall is expected." "Go to hell!" - Maxim Ozerov advised the presenter and turned off the TV.

Sasha has already left for duty. In her ability to wake up in an inescapably good mood, there was a shamanism inexplicable for Ozerov: Sashka was cheerful, light, always had breakfast with pleasure, and with her whole appearance reminded Max of a thoroughbred, businesslike dachshund, who had gathered with the owner for a fox. He himself did not know how: in order to get up, he had to start ten alarm clocks, in the mornings the burrs that had taken up during the night bled from nowhere. Ozerov froze, shuffled his feet, knocked down corners and suffered from the realization of his own imperfection and spiritual laziness. Sashka took pity on him and - if he happened to leave earlier - cooked breakfast. He always refused, and she forced him to eat.

On the table stood a lukewarm jug with the rest of the coffee and a huge antique basket with a lid, straps and a darkened brass lock. The basket was covered with a terry-cloth kitchen towel. From under the towel protruded a polished thermos and the optimistic edge of a Krakow sausage. Pinned to the basket was a piece of paper with the caption: "To go."

So, snow?.. Maxim Ozerov defiantly pulled out of the closet and looked at his red camping down jacket with a torn sleeve. Well, a down jacket, but what is it? .. If it snows, there are four hundred versts and a hook ahead, then it’s a down jacket, and not at all the smart coat that he was counting on! Predicted warming is delayed, clearly stated. That is, apparently, it should be expected by spring.

- Spring! - Maxim recited in the silence of the apartment. - The first frame is exposed! And noise broke into the room! And the blessing of the nearby temple! And the voice of the people! And the sound of the wheel!

Well, at least yesterday at the service they checked the wheels - all four - and not a single one knocks. He climbed into a down jacket, threw a backpack over his shoulder, grabbed Sashka's basket - it crunched in greeting - and went out.

Ozerov was driving his off-road vehicle from Moscow, the windshield wipers creaked strainedly, the wide tires with a hum crushed the muddy water in the rolled rut of the Volga federal highway, the headlights cut through the gray veil of snow and drizzle. Yesterday he agreed to call on the dacha for Fedya - Kratovo was on the way, but now Maxim was hoping that Velichkovsky would oversleep, and then he would win back on him. After wandering around the old and very sleepy village for a while, Ozerov finally turned onto the right street.

At the gate of one of the houses loomed a stooped figure dressed in a poisonous green robe, monstrous canvas trousers and orange fur moccasins. The image was completed by a bathing felt hat pulled down over the eyes with the inscription in large ligature "Steam to everything is the head." In one hand, the figure held a backpack the size of a small house, in the other - Ozerov almost could not believe his eyes! - a bottle of champagne; black headphone wire streamed down the hoodie, which turned out to be a snowboard jacket with a lion's face on the back.

Fedya Velichkovsky didn't oversleep.

- Mister Director! Why didn't you tell me? We agreed that you will call! And you? Did you fool the little girl? - Fedya, somehow stuffing his incredible backpack into the trunk, unceremoniously climbed into the basket with Sasha's supplies, sniffed the sausage appraisingly and with enthusiasm and even with some lust asked: - Do you have hard-boiled eggs and fresh cucumbers? ..

- Comrade screenwriter! Ozerov yawned without opening his jaws. - Saryn on a kitchka! Come sit down!

- Good morning to you too!

The doors slammed, the petrol V-8 roared contentedly, and the “lifted” dark green jeep with a bright orange snorkel merrily rolled along the washed-out village road.