Small sad story

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Little Virgo The parents of a Virgo child are very lucky, since children born under this sign are among the most flexible and easy to educate. His main aspirations are a passionate desire to understand everything, to sort everything out, to put everything in order, everything for

Viktor Platonovich Nekrasov

A little sad story

- No, guys, Canada, of course, is not so great, but still...

Ashot did not finish his sentence, he simply made a hand sign, which meant that Canada is, after all, a capitalist country, in which, in addition to super-profits and the unemployed, there are 24-hour grocery stores, free love, democratic elections, and, whatever you say, the Klondike - you can’t talk about it. Let us not forget, the St. Lawrence River and the trappers may still be preserved.

They understood him, but did not agree. Preference was given to Europe and, of course, Paris.

- What are you doing with your Paris! Give them Paris. Paris is the end. And Canada is a warm-up. Test of strength. Test of strength. This is the kind of Canada we need to start with.

It was already three o’clock in the morning, my things weren’t packed, and the plane was at eight in the morning, which means I had to be at the theater by six. And not very drunk.

- Put it aside, Sasha, dry tea is nonsense, try my Tibetan or Buryat-Mongolian herb, the devil knows, it will knock you out completely.

Sashka sucked on the grass.

- Well, breathe.

- Fairy tale. Pure lily of the valley...

We started talking about Tibet. Roman was once on tour in those parts from where he brought her, weed, and the famous mummy. I got it from former lamas.

They started drinking immediately after the performance; it ended early, before eleven. Ashot stocked up on vodka and beer in advance, his mother prepared a vinaigrette, and they got export sardines from somewhere. We drank at Roman's - he separated from his wife and lived as a bachelor.

Ashot was drunker than the others, and therefore more talkative. However, no one was drunk, they were just in high spirits - Sasha was included in a trip abroad for the first time.

“Enough about Tibet, God be with her, with the roof of the world,” Ashot interrupted Roman, who was prone to exotic details, and poured the rest of the vodka. - Staff! Then you'll suck again. So, the main thing is, don’t get excited. Don't get carried away with wine and women. Not because spies...

- Oh, Arkady, don’t talk nicely. We know everything ourselves,” Sashka raised his glass. - Went. For friendship! Peoples and developing countries!

- Bhai-bhai!

We drank. We finished the vinaigrette. Sashka again began to stretch his calves. It was hot and everyone was wearing shorts.

“Why are you massaging them all,” Ashot couldn’t resist and immediately jabbed: “They won’t get any longer.”

– Nijinsky also had short legs, - Roman retorted for Sasha, he knew everything about everyone. – By the way, do you know how he explained why he had such a phenomenal jump? It’s very simple, he says, I jump up and stay in the air for a minute, that’s all...

“Okay,” interrupted Sashka, “we need to move.” We pull on our trousers.

They started getting dressed.

– How much currency did they give you? – asked Roman.

- Not at all. They said they would give it on the spot. Pennies, what to talk about.

– Take the sardines, they’ll come in handy.

“And I’ll take it,” Sashka put two flat, unopened boxes into his pocket. - Bastard! – This already applied to power.

“But I’ll still call Henriette, whether you like it or not,” said Ashot. “Extra bashleys never hurt.” What airport do you land at?

- On Orly, they said...

“He’ll find you on Orly.”

– The first trump card for Krivulin.

- And you stay independent. This is the main thing, they are instantly lost. They think there is someone behind them.

Henriette interned at Leningrad University. Now I was on vacation. Ashot was going to marry her. Oddly enough, just out of love, without any ulterior motive.

“You’ll understand,” Sashka grumbled. “Don’t get carried away, or you’re slipping a foreigner into the hands of a Soviet citizen.”

- I'll call anyway.

- What an asshole.

This ended the discussion. We went outside, it was already quite light. The white nights began. The dawns, according to all astronomical laws, were in a hurry to replace each other, giving the night no more than an hour. Couples were hanging out along the embankments. On the Liteiny Bridge, Sashka suddenly stopped and, grabbing the railing, recited terribly loudly:

- I love you, Peter’s creation, I love your stern, proud appearance...

“Not proud, but slender,” Romka corrected. - Still, we must...

- I must, I must, I know... By the way, I love you bastards too! – Sashka grabbed both of them by the shoulders and pressed them tightly to him. - Well, what can you do, I love you, that’s all...

- And we? – Ashot glanced at Romka, freeing himself from the embrace.

- We’re just jealous, we’re simply jealous...

– Now it’s common to say that you’re jealous in a good way. Okay, so be it, I’ll bring a pair of jeans.

- Bring me a breath of freedom. And don't forget Lolita.

Ashot raved about Nabokov, although he had read nothing except “The Gift.” I read all four hundred pages in one night.

Sashka kissed both of them on their rough chins.

- Brother's love, brother's love! - he sang.

- To the bathhouse!

- Soulless pseudo-intellectuals. I'll bring you "Lolita", don't worry. Risking everything.

At home it turned out that Sashka’s mother had packed everything. She begged the Korovins - he often travels abroad - for a luxurious suitcase with zippers so that Sashka would not be embarrassed, and carefully packed everything. She also took out a foreign jacket, with gold buttons. Sashka tried it on, everything fit well on his ballet-sports figure.

- Well, why is this? – he fished a sweater out of his suitcase. - It’s summer...

“Summer is summer, and Canada is Canada,” Mom grabbed the sweater and put it back in the suitcase. - Same Siberia...

“In the summer it’s hotter in Siberia than in Moscow, dear Vera Pavlovna,” Roman explained. - The climate is continental.

However, the sweater remained in the suitcase. Sashka waved his hand; it was already half past five.

Mom said:

- Well, did you sit down in front of the road?

Some sat down on what, Sashka sat on a suitcase.

– Well?.. – he hugged and kissed his mother. His mother baptized him.

“They say there are a lot of Ukrainians in Canada,” she said out of the blue, obviously to hide her excitement, “more than in Kyiv...

“Perhaps...” Sashka walked up to the desk, took out a photograph of the three of them from under the thick glass, and put it in the side pocket of his jacket.

– I’ll look somewhere in Winnipeg and burst into tears... Let’s go.

People in the theater were already worried.

“You must have been drinking all night, Kunitsyn?” - Party organizer Zuev said, looking suspiciously. - I know you.

- God forbid, who do you think we are? I spent the whole night cramming about Canada. Who is the prime minister, how many residents, how many unemployed...

“Oh, I wouldn’t make a joke,” Zuev was cut and hated all the artists. “Run to the director’s office, everyone has already gathered.”

“Let’s run and run,” Sashka turned to the guys. - Well, look here without me... Open your mouth.

They touched noses and patted each other on the back.

“Hello Trudeau,” said Romka.

“And to Vladimir Vladimirovich,” Nabokov meant.

- OK. Be there! – Sashka made a pirouette and ran merrily along the corridor. At the end he stopped and raised his hand, a la The Bronze Horseman:

- The Neva is a sovereign current, its coastal granite... So, that means you don’t need jeans?

- Go...

And disappeared behind the door.

Of course, they were called the Three Musketeers. Although in appearance only Sashka Kunitsyn, a slender, graceful ballet dancer, was suitable. Ashot was smallish, but flexible, and had a southern Armenian-Gascon temperament. Roman was also unsuccessful in his height, and besides, he had a lopsided ear, but he was cunning, like Aramis. Porthos was not among them. It’s also unclear with Athos - there was not enough mystery.

In turn, each of them grew a beard and mustache, but Sashka, who danced the young handsome men, was ordered to shave it off, Ashot, with lush hair, was tired of shaving his mustache every day, and Roman, simply a musketeer, this detail turned out to be bright red.

In addition to inseparability, there was also something musketeer-like in their friendship - once they, albeit with bruises and abrasions, won a battle with a League hooligan, which finally cemented their common nickname.

Someone nicknamed them Kukryniksy - Kupriyanov, Krylov, Nik. S-okolov from those artists, and here – Kunitsyn, Krymov, Nikogosyan, also “Ku”, “Kry”, “Nick” - but somehow it didn’t take root.

All three were young - up to thirty, Sashka was the youngest - twenty-three, a wonderful age when friendship is still valued and people believe their word.

All three were actors. Sashka succeeded at Kirovsky, Roman at Lenfilm, as a film actor, Ashot here and there, but more on the stage, they jokingly called him “Synthetic Boy” - he sang, played the guitar, deftly imitated Marcel Marceau. In their free time they were always together.

Oddly enough, they drank little. That is, they drank, of course, we can’t do without it, but against the backdrop of the widespread abuse of alcohol in the country, which violated all statistical norms, they looked more likely to be teetotalers. Roman, however, sometimes went on a spree for three days, no more, and called it “creative release.”

“You can’t have everything about the lofty and eternal.” Sometimes you need to think about earthly things. For contrast, so to speak.

They didn’t argue with him, they loved him and forgave him even for the existence of his wife, beautiful but stupid. However, he soon broke up with her, and this brought the musketeer team together even more.

Viktor Platonovich Nekrasov

A little sad story

- No, guys, Canada, of course, is not so great, but still...

Ashot did not finish his sentence, he simply made a hand sign, which meant that Canada is, after all, a capitalist country, in which, in addition to super-profits and the unemployed, there are 24-hour grocery stores, free love, democratic elections, and, whatever you say, the Klondike - you can’t talk about it. Let us not forget, the St. Lawrence River and the trappers may still be preserved.

They understood him, but did not agree. Preference was given to Europe and, of course, Paris.

- What are you doing with your Paris! Give them Paris. Paris is the end. And Canada is a warm-up. Test of strength. Test of strength. This is the kind of Canada we need to start with.

It was already three o’clock in the morning, my things weren’t packed, and the plane was at eight in the morning, which means I had to be at the theater by six. And not very drunk.

- Put it aside, Sasha, dry tea is nonsense, try my Tibetan or Buryat-Mongolian herb, the devil knows, it will knock you out completely.

Sashka sucked on the grass.

- Well, breathe.

- Fairy tale. Pure lily of the valley...

We started talking about Tibet. Roman was once on tour in those parts from where he brought her, weed, and the famous mummy. I got it from former lamas.

They started drinking immediately after the performance; it ended early, before eleven. Ashot stocked up on vodka and beer in advance, his mother prepared a vinaigrette, and they got export sardines from somewhere. We drank at Roman's - he separated from his wife and lived as a bachelor.

Ashot was drunker than the others, and therefore more talkative. However, no one was drunk, they were just in high spirits - Sasha was included in a trip abroad for the first time.

“Enough about Tibet, God be with her, with the roof of the world,” Ashot interrupted Roman, who was prone to exotic details, and poured the rest of the vodka. - Staff! Then you'll suck again. So, the main thing is, don’t get excited. Don't get carried away with wine and women. Not because spies...

- Oh, Arkady, don’t talk nicely. We know everything ourselves,” Sashka raised his glass. - Went. For friendship! Peoples and developing countries!

- Bhai-bhai!

We drank. We finished the vinaigrette. Sashka again began to stretch his calves. It was hot and everyone was wearing shorts.

“Why are you massaging them all,” Ashot couldn’t resist and immediately jabbed: “They won’t get any longer.”

“Nijinsky also had short legs,” Roman retorted for Sasha, he knew everything about everyone. – By the way, do you know how he explained why he had such a phenomenal jump? It’s very simple, he says, I jump up and stay in the air for a minute, that’s all...

“Okay,” interrupted Sashka, “we need to move.” We pull on our trousers.

They started getting dressed.

– How much currency did they give you? – asked Roman.

- Not at all. They said they would give it on the spot. Pennies, what to talk about.

– Take the sardines, they’ll come in handy.

“And I’ll take it,” Sashka put two flat, unopened boxes into his pocket. - Bastard! – This already applied to power.

“But I’ll still call Henriette, whether you like it or not,” said Ashot. “Extra bashleys never hurt.” What airport do you land at?

- On Orly, they said...

“He’ll find you on Orly.”

– The first trump card for Krivulin.

- And you stay independent. This is the main thing, they are instantly lost. They think there is someone behind them.

Henriette interned at Leningrad University. Now I was on vacation. Ashot was going to marry her. Oddly enough, just out of love, without any ulterior motive.

“You’ll understand,” Sashka grumbled. “Don’t get carried away, or you’re slipping a foreigner into the hands of a Soviet citizen.”

- I'll call anyway.

- What an asshole.

This ended the discussion. We went outside, it was already quite light. The white nights began. The dawns, according to all astronomical laws, were in a hurry to replace each other, giving the night no more than an hour. Couples were hanging out along the embankments. On the Liteiny Bridge, Sashka suddenly stopped and, grabbing the railing, recited terribly loudly:

- I love you, Peter’s creation, I love your stern, proud appearance...

“Not proud, but slender,” Romka corrected. - Still, we must...

- I must, I must, I know... By the way, I love you bastards too! – Sashka grabbed both of them by the shoulders and pressed them tightly to him. - Well, what can you do, I love you, that’s all...

- And we? – Ashot glanced at Romka, freeing himself from the embrace.

- We’re just jealous, we’re simply jealous...

– Now it’s common to say that you’re jealous in a good way. Okay, so be it, I’ll bring a pair of jeans.

- Bring me a breath of freedom. And don't forget Lolita.

Ashot raved about Nabokov, although he had read nothing except “The Gift.” I read all four hundred pages in one night.

Sashka kissed both of them on their rough chins.

- Brother's love, brother's love! - he sang.

- To the bathhouse!

- Soulless pseudo-intellectuals. I'll bring you "Lolita", don't worry. Risking everything.

At home it turned out that Sashka’s mother had packed everything. She begged the Korovins - he often travels abroad - for a luxurious suitcase with zippers so that Sashka would not be embarrassed, and carefully packed everything. She also took out a foreign jacket, with gold buttons. Sashka tried it on, everything fit well on his ballet-sports figure.

- Well, why is this? – he fished a sweater out of his suitcase. - It’s summer...

“Summer is summer, and Canada is Canada,” Mom grabbed the sweater and put it back in the suitcase. - Same Siberia...

“In the summer it’s hotter in Siberia than in Moscow, dear Vera Pavlovna,” Roman explained. - The climate is continental.

However, the sweater remained in the suitcase. Sashka waved his hand; it was already half past five.

Mom said:

- Well, did you sit down in front of the road?

Some sat down on what, Sashka sat on a suitcase.

– Well?.. – he hugged and kissed his mother. His mother baptized him.

“They say there are a lot of Ukrainians in Canada,” she said out of the blue, obviously to hide her excitement, “more than in Kyiv...

“Perhaps...” Sashka walked up to the desk, took out a photograph of the three of them from under the thick glass, and put it in the side pocket of his jacket.

– I’ll look somewhere in Winnipeg and burst into tears... Let’s go.

People in the theater were already worried.

“You must have been drinking all night, Kunitsyn?” - Party organizer Zuev said, looking suspiciously. - I know you.

- God forbid, who do you think we are? I spent the whole night cramming about Canada. Who is the prime minister, how many residents, how many unemployed...

“Oh, I wouldn’t make a joke,” Zuev was cut and hated all the artists. “Run to the director’s office, everyone has already gathered.”

“Let’s run and run,” Sashka turned to the guys. - Well, look here without me... Open your mouth.

They touched noses and patted each other on the back.

“Hello Trudeau,” said Romka.

“And to Vladimir Vladimirovich,” Nabokov meant.

Early 80s Three inseparable friends live in Leningrad: Sashka Kunitsyn, Roman Krylov and Ashot Nikoghosyan. All three are under thirty. All three are “actors”. Sashka is a “ballet dancer” at the Kirov Theater, Roman is an actor at Lenfilm, Ashot sings, plays, and deftly imitates Marcel Marceau.

They are different and at the same time very similar. Since childhood, Sashka has captivated girls with his “sweetness, grace, and ability to be charming.” His enemies consider him arrogant, but at the same time he is ready to “give his last shirt.” Ashot is not distinguished by his beauty, but his innate artistry and plasticity make him beautiful. He speaks well, he is the founder of all plans. The novel is caustic and sharp-tongued. On screen he is funny and often tragic. There's something Chaplin-esque about him.

In their free time they are always together. They are brought together by “a certain search for their own path.” They vilify the Soviet system no more than others, but “the damned question of how to resist the dogmas, stupidity, and one-linearity pressing on you from all sides,” requires some kind of answer. In addition, you need to achieve success - none of the friends suffers from lack of ambition. This is how they live. From morning to evening - rehearsals, performances, filming, and then they meet and relieve their souls, arguing about art, talent, literature, painting and much more.

Sashka and Ashot live with their mothers, Roman lives alone. Friends always help each other, including with money. They are called the "three musketeers". There are women in their lives, but they are kept somewhat aloof. Ashot has a love - a French woman, Henriette, who is “training at Leningrad University.” Ashot is going to marry her.

Sashka and Ashot are rushing around with the idea of ​​staging Gogol’s “The Overcoat,” in which Sashka should play Akaki Akakievich. In the midst of this work, foreign tours “fall” on Sasha. He flies to Canada. There Sashka has great success and decides to ask for asylum. Roman and Ashot are completely at a loss; they cannot come to terms with the idea that their friend did not say a word about his plans. Ashot often visits Sashka’s mother, Vera Pavlovna. She is still waiting for a letter from her son, but Sashka does not write and only once gives her a parcel with a bright knitted sweater, some little things and a large - “miracle of printing” - album - “Alexandre Kunitsyn”. Soon Ashot marries Henriette. After some time, they and Ashot’s mother, Ranush Akopovna, are given permission to leave: living in Russia, despite her love for everything Russian, is very difficult for Anriette. Despite the fact that Roman is left alone, he approves of Ashot’s action. Roman's last painting is on the shelf, and he believes that it is impossible to live in this country. Ashot really doesn’t want to part with his beloved city.

In Paris, Ashot gets a job as a sound engineer for television. Soon Sashka performs in Paris. Ashot comes to the concert. Sashka is magnificent, the audience gives him a standing ovation. Ashot manages to get backstage. Sashka is very happy to see him, but there are a lot of people around, and

The friends agree that Ashot will call Sashka at the hotel the next morning. But he can’t get through to Ashot: the phone doesn’t answer. Sashka himself does not call. When Ashot arrives at the hotel after work, the receptionist informs him that Monsieur Kunitsyn has left. Ashot cannot understand Sashka.

Gradually Ashot gets used to French life. He lives quite secluded - work, home, books, TV. He eagerly reads Akhmatova, Tsvetaeva, Bulgakov, Platonov, which you can easily buy in a store, and watches the classics of Western cinema. Although Ashot becomes, as it were, a Frenchman, “all their elections and discussions in parliament” do not touch him. One fine day, Romka Krylov appears on Ashot’s doorstep. He managed to come to the Cannes Film Festival as a consultant at his own expense, and he did this because he really wanted to see Ashot. For three days, friends walk around Paris, remembering the past. Roman says that he managed to deceive the Soviet Minister of Culture and “smuggle through” an essentially “anti-Soviet” film. Roman leaves.

Soon Sashka appears, flying to Ceylon, but the flight is delayed in Paris. In front of Ashot is still the same Sashka, who is “executed” because of what he did. Ashot understands that he cannot be angry with him. But there is so much rationality in what Sashka now talks about art. Ashot recalls “The Overcoat,” but Sashka claims that rich American “balletomanes” do not need “The Overcoat.” Ashot is offended that Sashka never asks about his “material well-being.”

Friends don't meet anymore. Roman's film is being shown across the country with some success. Roman is jealous of Ashot because there is no “Soviet rubbish” in his life. Ashotik envies Roman because in his life there is “struggle, sharpness, victory.” Henriette is expecting a child. Sashka lives in New York in a six-room apartment, tours, and constantly has to make important decisions.

From the publisher. While the text of the story was being typed at the printing house, Ashot received a telegram from Sashka asking him to immediately fly to him. “Expenses are paid,” the telegram said.

Retold

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Viktor Platonovich Nekrasov

A little sad story

- No, guys, Canada, of course, is not so great, but still...

Ashot did not finish his sentence, he simply made a hand sign, which meant that Canada is, after all, a capitalist country, in which, in addition to super-profits and the unemployed, there are 24-hour grocery stores, free love, democratic elections, and, whatever you say, the Klondike - you can’t talk about it. Let us not forget, the St. Lawrence River and the trappers may still be preserved.

They understood him, but did not agree. Preference was given to Europe and, of course, Paris.

- What are you doing with your Paris! Give them Paris. Paris is the end. And Canada is a warm-up. Test of strength. Test of strength. This is the kind of Canada we need to start with.

It was already three o’clock in the morning, my things weren’t packed, and the plane was at eight in the morning, which means I had to be at the theater by six. And not very drunk.

- Put it aside, Sasha, dry tea is nonsense, try my Tibetan or Buryat-Mongolian herb, the devil knows, it will knock you out completely.

Sashka sucked on the grass.

- Well, breathe.

- Fairy tale. Pure lily of the valley...

We started talking about Tibet. Roman was once on tour in those parts from where he brought her, weed, and the famous mummy. I got it from former lamas.

They started drinking immediately after the performance; it ended early, before eleven. Ashot stocked up on vodka and beer in advance, his mother prepared a vinaigrette, and they got export sardines from somewhere. We drank at Roman's - he separated from his wife and lived as a bachelor.

Ashot was drunker than the others, and therefore more talkative. However, no one was drunk, they were just in high spirits - Sasha was included in a trip abroad for the first time.

“Enough about Tibet, God be with her, with the roof of the world,” Ashot interrupted Roman, who was prone to exotic details, and poured the rest of the vodka. - Staff! Then you'll suck again. So, the main thing is, don’t get excited. Don't get carried away with wine and women. Not because spies...

- Oh, Arkady, don’t talk nicely. We know everything ourselves,” Sashka raised his glass. - Went. For friendship! Peoples and developing countries!

- Bhai-bhai!

We drank. We finished the vinaigrette. Sashka again began to stretch his calves. It was hot and everyone was wearing shorts.

“Why are you massaging them all,” Ashot couldn’t resist and immediately jabbed: “They won’t get any longer.”

“Nijinsky also had short legs,” Roman retorted for Sasha, he knew everything about everyone. – By the way, do you know how he explained why he had such a phenomenal jump? It’s very simple, he says, I jump up and stay in the air for a minute, that’s all...

“Okay,” interrupted Sashka, “we need to move.” We pull on our trousers.

They started getting dressed.

– How much currency did they give you? – asked Roman.

- Not at all. They said they would give it on the spot. Pennies, what to talk about.

– Take the sardines, they’ll come in handy.

“And I’ll take it,” Sashka put two flat, unopened boxes into his pocket. - Bastard! – This already applied to power.

“But I’ll still call Henriette, whether you like it or not,” said Ashot. “Extra bashleys never hurt.” What airport do you land at?

- On Orly, they said...

“He’ll find you on Orly.”

– The first trump card for Krivulin.

- And you stay independent. This is the main thing, they are instantly lost. They think there is someone behind them.

Henriette interned at Leningrad University. Now I was on vacation. Ashot was going to marry her. Oddly enough, just out of love, without any ulterior motive.

“You’ll understand,” Sashka grumbled. “Don’t get carried away, or you’re slipping a foreigner into the hands of a Soviet citizen.”

- I'll call anyway.

- What an asshole.

This ended the discussion. We went outside, it was already quite light. The white nights began. The dawns, according to all astronomical laws, were in a hurry to replace each other, giving the night no more than an hour. Couples were hanging out along the embankments. On the Liteiny Bridge, Sashka suddenly stopped and, grabbing the railing, recited terribly loudly:

- I love you, Peter’s creation, I love your stern, proud appearance...

“Not proud, but slender,” Romka corrected. - Still, we must...

- I must, I must, I know... By the way, I love you bastards too! – Sashka grabbed both of them by the shoulders and pressed them tightly to him. - Well, what can you do, I love you, that’s all...

- And we? – Ashot glanced at Romka, freeing himself from the embrace.

- We’re just jealous, we’re simply jealous...

– Now it’s common to say that you’re jealous in a good way. Okay, so be it, I’ll bring a pair of jeans.

- Bring me a breath of freedom. And don't forget Lolita.

Ashot raved about Nabokov, although he had read nothing except “The Gift.” I read all four hundred pages in one night.

Sashka kissed both of them on their rough chins.

- Brother's love, brother's love! - he sang.

- To the bathhouse!

- Soulless pseudo-intellectuals. I'll bring you "Lolita", don't worry. Risking everything.

At home it turned out that Sashka’s mother had packed everything. She begged the Korovins - he often travels abroad - for a luxurious suitcase with zippers so that Sashka would not be embarrassed, and carefully packed everything. She also took out a foreign jacket, with gold buttons. Sashka tried it on, everything fit well on his ballet-sports figure.

- Well, why is this? – he fished a sweater out of his suitcase. - It’s summer...

“Summer is summer, and Canada is Canada,” Mom grabbed the sweater and put it back in the suitcase. - Same Siberia...

“In the summer it’s hotter in Siberia than in Moscow, dear Vera Pavlovna,” Roman explained. - The climate is continental.

However, the sweater remained in the suitcase. Sashka waved his hand; it was already half past five.

Mom said:

- Well, did you sit down in front of the road?

Some sat down on what, Sashka sat on a suitcase.

– Well?.. – he hugged and kissed his mother. His mother baptized him.

“They say there are a lot of Ukrainians in Canada,” she said out of the blue, obviously to hide her excitement, “more than in Kyiv...

“Perhaps...” Sashka walked up to the desk, took out a photograph of the three of them from under the thick glass, and put it in the side pocket of his jacket.

– I’ll look somewhere in Winnipeg and burst into tears... Let’s go.

People in the theater were already worried.

“You must have been drinking all night, Kunitsyn?” - Party organizer Zuev said, looking suspiciously. - I know you.

- God forbid, who do you think we are? I spent the whole night cramming about Canada. Who is the prime minister, how many residents, how many unemployed...

“Oh, I wouldn’t make a joke,” Zuev was cut and hated all the artists. “Run to the director’s office, everyone has already gathered.”

“Let’s run and run,” Sashka turned to the guys. - Well, look here without me... Open your mouth.

They touched noses and patted each other on the back.

“Hello Trudeau,” said Romka.

“And to Vladimir Vladimirovich,” Nabokov meant.

- OK. Be there! – Sashka made a pirouette and ran merrily along the corridor. At the end he stopped and raised his hand, a la The Bronze Horseman:

- The Neva is a sovereign current, its coastal granite... So, that means you don’t need jeans?

- Go...

And disappeared behind the door.

Of course, they were called the Three Musketeers. Although in appearance only Sashka Kunitsyn, a slender, graceful ballet dancer, was suitable. Ashot was smallish, but flexible, and had a southern Armenian-Gascon temperament. Roman was also unsuccessful in his height, and besides, he had a lopsided ear, but he was cunning, like Aramis. Porthos was not among them. It’s also unclear with Athos - there was not enough mystery.

In turn, each of them grew a beard and mustache, but Sashka, who danced the young handsome men, was ordered to shave it off, Ashot, with lush hair, was tired of shaving his mustache every day, and Roman, simply a musketeer, this detail turned out to be bright red.

In addition to inseparability, there was also something musketeer-like in their friendship - once they, albeit with bruises and abrasions, won a battle with a League hooligan, which finally cemented their common nickname.

Someone nicknamed them Kukryniksy - Kupriyanov, Krylov, Nik. S-okolov from those artists, and here – Kunitsyn, Krymov, Nikogosyan, also “Ku”, “Kry”, “Nick” - but somehow it didn’t take root.

All three were young - up to thirty, Sashka was the youngest - twenty-three, a wonderful age when friendship is still valued and people believe their word.

All three were actors. Sashka succeeded at Kirovsky, Roman at Lenfilm, as a film actor, Ashot here and there, but more on the stage, they jokingly called him “Synthetic Boy” - he sang, played the guitar, deftly imitated Marcel Marceau. In their free time they were always together.

Oddly enough, they drank little. That is, they drank, of course, we can’t do without it, but against the backdrop of the widespread abuse of alcohol in the country, which violated all statistical norms, they looked more likely to be teetotalers. Roman, however, sometimes went on a spree for three days, no more, and called it “creative release.”

“You can’t have everything about the lofty and eternal.” Sometimes you need to think about earthly things. For contrast, so to speak.

They didn’t argue with him, they loved him and forgave him even for the existence of his wife, beautiful but stupid. However, he soon broke up with her, and this brought the musketeer team together even more.

We read books. Different. Tastes did not always coincide. Ashot loved long novels, like Faulkner, Forsytes, Buddenbrooks, Sashka loved science fiction - the Strugatskys, Lem, Roman's idol was Knut Hamsun; in addition, he pretended to be in love with Proust. Hemingway united them - he was in fashion then. They began to forget the remarque.

But the main thing that brought them together was completely different. No, they did not delve into the jungle of philosophy, the great teachings there (at one time, though not for long, they were keen on Freud, then yoga), they did not vilify the Soviet system more than others (in this matter, a certain carelessness and joy of youth overshadowed most of the dirty tricks that are not tolerated by older people ), and yet the damned question - how to resist the dogmas, stupidity, one-linearity pressing on you from all sides - required some kind of answer. They weren’t fighters or builders of the new either; they didn’t intend to rebuild the collapsing building, but they still had to try to find some kind of loophole in the ruins, a path in the sucking swamp. And succeed. This was not said out loud, it was not accepted, but none of the three of them suffered from a lack of ambition.

In short, he united them and brought them closer together through a certain search for his own path. A path on which, having achieved something, it was desirable to remain on top. Sargent and fond of precision, brief definitions Ashot boiled everything down to the basics: the most important thing is not to dirty your own underpants! The slogan was taken up, and although gossips, changing the emphasis, they called it “diplomacy of cowards,” the guys were not at all offended, but they shirked social work and did not go to meetings where they were working on someone.

They were different and at the same time very similar friend on a friend. Each one stood out in some way. Golden-haired, curly Sashka captivated all the girls from the age of fourteen - not only with the whirlwinds of his dance, white-toothed smile, languid gaze and suddenly flashing eyes, but also with all his harmony, grace, and ability to be charming. His enemies considered him an arrogant, narcissistic peacock - but where have you seen a handsome twenty-year-old youth with a developed sense of self-criticism? – he really, lounging in his shorts in a chair, took graceful poses and stroked his legs, very offended when they told him that they could have been longer. He sometimes became bored when a conversation about someone dragged on longer than that person, in his opinion, deserved, but he could listen about himself without getting bored. But, if necessary, he was right there. When Roman once fell ill with a severe flu, Sashka served him and cooked semolina porridge, like birth mother. In short, he was one of those about whom it is customary to say “he would give his last shirt,” although he loved and wore shirts only from Saint Laurent or Cardin.

Ashot was not distinguished by his beauty and marvelous build - he was short, long-armed, overly broad-shouldered - but when he began to enthusiastically tell something, puffing on his pipe, or portray, his innate artistry and plasticity made him suddenly beautiful. His speech, and he loved to talk, consisted of a deft combination of words and gestures, and, looking at him, listening to him, you did not want to interrupt, just as one does not interrupt an aria in a good performance. But he also knew how to listen, which is usually not characteristic of Chrysostoms. Moreover, no one could compare with him as an inventor, the ringleader of all the skits, the author of caustic epigrams, funny, merciless caricatures that enlivened the usual dullness of wall newspapers. And, finally, he and no one else was the founder of all far-reaching and far from always feasible plans. He could also give away the shirt, although his Soviet-made cowboy shorts were in no way comparable to Sashkins.

Roman was not a Greek ephebe either. Of half-Russian, half-Jewish blood, he had a hunchbacked nose, lop-eared ears, and was even slightly shorter than Ashot. Sarcastic and sharp-tongued. No, he was not a joker, but his witticisms, dropped as if by chance, without pressure, could strike one on the spot. He could stop someone's protracted tirade with two or three deftly inserted words. And that’s why they were a little afraid of him. On screen he was funny and often tragic. There was something Chaplinian about him, coexisting peacefully with Bester Keaton and the forgotten Max Linder. His dream, oddly enough, was not Hamlet, not Cyrano, not Strindberg’s forgotten Eric XIV, who was once brilliantly played by Mikhail Chekhov, but the half-mad Minute from Hamsun’s Mysteries. But who, even Visconti or Fellini, would think of filming this novel? “And I would be included in the encyclopedia with this role, I guarantee.”

It’s not entirely clear about the shirt, since he always wore sweaters, and what was underneath is unknown. But there were a lot of sweaters, so it’s not a shame to part with them.

This is how they lived. From morning to evening there were rehearsals, performances, filming, concerts, and then we met and relieved our souls, arguing about something and listening to the Beatles, whom we idolized. Wow! Unknown Liverpool guys, but they conquered the whole world. Even Queen of England, who presented them with the Order of the Garter or something else. Well done! Real art.

There were also women in their lives, but they were kept aside, they were allowed into the team only in exceptional cases - holidays, birthdays. Ashot had his French wife, Henriette, before that, with whom, for reasons unknown to anyone, he separated a long time ago. Roman, thank God, recently. Sashka was a convinced bachelor. And if he got along with girls, it didn’t last for long. He didn't have a permanent one.

Mothers loved their friends. Sashkina, Vera Pavlovna, worked in the library of the House of the Red Army, Ashotova, Ranush Akopovna, worked as an accountant at the radio. This did not bring much income; they lived modestly, mainly on the earnings of their children. The children, thank God, did not drink (according to Soviet standards) and were not misers. Ashot and his mother have no money, Sashka immediately offered, but no, he got it from someone and brought it - “Okay, okay, Ranush Akopovna, we’ll talk about interest later.” Romka, he was a jack of all trades, and when the ceiling in Sashka’s kitchen almost collapsed (the upper occupants left and forgot to turn on the tap), he repaired everything in three days - plastered and painted. Ashot serviced all three houses regarding electrical wiring, radio, and televisions. In a word, “one for all, all for one” is the main motto of pre-revolutionary scouts and our Soviet musketeers.

All three took their work seriously. Sashka rehearsed the prince in “The Sleeping Beauty”, he was praised, maybe even too much, Ashot thought so, in any case, Roman was assigned, if not the main role, then the second one after leading role a sort of neurasthenic father, half-philosopher, half-alcoholic. Ashot prepared a vocal-musical-poetic composition he himself invented from the poems of Garcia Lorca interspersed with motifs of the Spanish War.

However, work is work, and we need to talk about it. And generally speaking.

In the West everything is much simpler. There is virtually no housing problem. At worst, there is a room in the attic where you can receive ladies and just get ready. Cafes are also good for the latter, and there are a million of them. In Russia the situation is worse.

This is what usually happens.

– How are you freeing yourself today?

- At eight, half past nine.

– By eleven o’clock I’ll have already taken off my make-up.

- Clear. Then it's half past eleven with me. You don't have to bring anything. What you need is there.

By “what you need” we still mean half a liter. Sometimes a couple of bottles of wine, but less often.

It’s best to sit with Roman, he lives alone. Those two have mothers. Both are quite nice old ladies, that’s the only way they are called, although both are far from retirement age, both work. But one loves all sorts of forks and plates and is always worried that there is no ironed tablecloth, the other does not attach much importance to tablecloths, but is not averse to inserting a phrase or two into a general dispute: “And in our time it was considered bad manners to interrupt each other every minute. You must be able to listen. In that great art" “So follow this art,” the not very kind son teaches, and the mother, offended, falls silent. But not for long, she also loves about lofty things: “Well, how can you compare Moore, Miro or whatever they are with our Antokolsky, how much sadness, how much thought there is in his Spinoza.” Since then, Ashot’s room began to be called “At Spinoza’s.” Sashkina was nicknamed “Maxim” - in honor of the Parisian restaurant, according to everyone, the most luxurious in the world. Romkino’s shelter on the seventh floor, with a window overlooking a deep courtyard-well, was called by others a “den,” but the guys preferred to call it a “tower,” like Vyacheslav Ivanov’s, where the cream of Russian literature once gathered.

So, at half past eleven, let’s say, at Roman’s, in his “tower”. There is a round black table in the middle. There is no tablecloth, not even a newspaper, anything spilled is wiped up immediately, Romka is a neat person. Around the table are a Viennese chair, a stool and an antique chair with a high back and torn leather, but with lion faces on the arms. At first it is played as a joke as to who should sit on it; everyone wants to sit in the chair, but then in the heat of the argument they forget it and they even sit on the floor.

On the table there is a crystal decanter, thanks to which Roman is known as an esthete; the pebbles in it clink sweetly when vodka is poured. Other dishes are vulgar faceted glasses, popularly known as “granchaki” - this is also seen as aesthetic. The appetizer is basically gobies in tomato. Sometimes jellied meat (when it appears in the grocery store).

The dispute is surrounding the trial of Sinyavsky and Daniel. He somehow pushed everything into the background. All three of them, of course, sympathize with them, even are proud of them - the Russian intelligentsia has not yet died out - but Ashot still accuses Sinyavsky of duplicity.

– If you are Abram Tertz, and I am for Abram Tertz, then don’t be Sinyavsky, who writes some articles in Soviet encyclopedia. Or or…

- What to live on?

- For a book about Picasso. I wrote...

“Then don’t be Tertz.”

- And he wants to be one. And so he did. Honor and glory to him for this!

- No, not for that. For not renouncing.

- Wait, wait, that’s not what we’re talking about. The question is, is it possible to be at the same time...

- It is forbidden!

- And I say - it’s possible! And I'll prove it to you...

“Hush,” the third one comes in, “let’s figure it out.” Without temperament, calmly.

An attempt is made to figure it out without temperament, calmly. But it doesn't last long. Drawing parallels and turning to the past, they stumble on Bukharin.

– Do you know that before his arrest he was in Paris? And he knew that he would be arrested, and yet he returned. What does it mean?

This was Ashot, the main polemicist. Sashka waves his hand dismissively.

- Politics, politics... I'm not interested in it. She went to hell...

- Such is the age, dear sir. Like it or not, you'll get dirty. Your beloved Picasso wrote Guernica. And "Dove of Peace". Party members, fuck him by the leg. And Matisse too...

- But I’m not! And you too. And you... Why?

– We live in another state, we know everything.

- And they read all the newspapers, they could know more than ours...

- OK. Shut up. Listen better to what the well-known Oscar Wilde, who knew a lot about this, said about all this.

- What is this?

- Arts.

– I know what Lenin said about art. The most popular of arts...

- This movie. That's why I work there. – Having disappeared into the kitchen for a minute, Roman returns with a quarter. - Let's drink to Oscar Wilde.

“And I offer for Dorian Gray,” Sashka splashed some water into the glasses. - A terribly luxurious guy. I'm jealous.

- And you are an elementary, Soviet, squeezed libertine. That's why you're jealous. Quiet, potential libertine.

- Duli... And unlike me, not potential.

“You’re a bastard after that.” I didn’t spare him my hangover check...

- All! – Ashot jumps up. – The floor is given to me. Let's talk about elementary existential-egocentrism.

And a new approach begins.

The stupidity of the conversation, the jumping from topic to topic, the desire to make jokes, the wine pairings - all this does not in the least prevent them from taking quite seriously the behavior of both defendants - mainly, pride - in them, and the fact that the greatest artists in the world so easily bought into in beautiful words... For them these are not empty concepts - Honor, Duty, Conscience, Dignity...

Once they spent the whole evening, tired after performances and concerts, understanding how in the modern Russian language ordinary concepts acquired the exact opposite meaning. Honor and conscience, it turns out, are nothing more than the personification of the party. Labor is only noble, although everyone knows that it is complete shirking and theft. The word “slander” is perceived only ironically - “I listened to it yesterday on “The Voice”. They are slandering that we are buying bread from Canada again. But people don’t talk about vodka other than “The Spike of America.” What about enthusiasm? The boy asked his father what it was. He explained. “Why then do they say that everyone voted with enthusiasm? I thought it meant “this is how it should be, ordered.” And everyone is so boring...” And the public? What does this mean? The Mongolian public is protesting, the Soviet public is outraged... Where is she, what does she look like? This concept simply does not exist, it has disappeared, dissolved.

But the fed-up politics - the scoundrel sticking its stinking nose in everywhere, perhaps causing the most heated disputes - was not the main thing for them. The main thing is to figure out what and how you are doing. In your native art, to which, no matter what you say, you are going to devote your whole life. At twenty-five years old, falling in love not only with someone, but also with something is necessary.

All three considered each other talented. Even more. And with the peremptory and unceremoniousness characteristic of youth, they took on solving problems that were not always solvable.

Ashot indulged in this activity with particular zeal. Roman often broke away from the company, leaving for several days, or sometimes even a month, with his film group on an expedition. Ashot and Sashka were left alone, and then what Sashka called “pedagogy” began. I always have to teach someone. Soviet Pestalozzi. The fact is that Ashot considered Sasha not just a talented dancer with excellent data, but also an actor. A good dramatic actor.

“Understand, asshole, you can do much more than you are doing,” he took out his pipe, lit a cigarette and began teaching: “Batmans and all these pas de deux and padecatres are excellent for you, maybe even better than others, but you are young and stupid. Most importantly, stupid. You don’t understand that ballet is not just about your bullshit and grabbing ballerinas by the tits. Ballet is theater. First of all, the theater.

- Arkady, don’t talk nicely. – This Turgenev phrase was used when Ashot got too carried away.

– Don’t interrupt... Ballet is theater. In other words, image, transformation, getting inside. Well, okay, you tore off the prince in “Sleeping Beauty”, the girls will sigh for you, ah-ah, darling, and someone will die of envy, but, forgive me, what is there to play in your prince? No, you need a role. Real role. And we need to look for it. And find. And gasp to the whole world. Like Nijinsky with Petrushka.

- Ashotik, dear, Diaghilev is needed for Petrushka. Where can I get it?

- I am your Diaghilev. That's all! And you must listen to me.

Of all his talents - and Ashot was indeed talented: he has a voice, something like a baritone, very pleasant, and hearing, and he is flexible, perfectly copies people, draws and writes well - but of all these talents, he himself highlights the director's direction. Scripts of all concert programs writes himself, directs himself. His dream is to create his own studio, gather young guys, eager, searching, and show class. The laurels of Efremov and Sovremennik did not give him rest. Everything is done with sheer enthusiasm, in housing clubs, at night.

“Something like West Side Story, you know?” Have you seen Yudenich? Shine! No worse than the movie.

Sashka only saw the film - at a closed screening - and, of course, was stunned.

- We’ll fool the same Volodin, Roshchin, Shpalikov or one of the young people, we’ll order music for Schnittka, and they’ll write us a ballet, modern ballet. And what? Moiseev started with “Footballist”. Well, we are from “Aqualangist”. The underwater kingdom, Sadko, mermaids, masked scuba divers with these guns, nuclear submarines... The world will gasp!

So, without noticing the time (once it started at ten in the evening and ended when the metro was already working), they could walk all night along the endless embankments, on their granite slabs, wander around Bronze Horseman, back and forth along the Campus Martius. In any weather, rain, snow, ice. They slipped, fell, laughed. And they made plans, and they made, and they made...

Maybe this better days in life, these nightly vacillations. Everything is ahead. And plans, plans. One is more tempting than the other.

- Well, let's go plan?

Lord, many years from now these days and nights will be remembered with a slight touch of humor, perhaps, but with tenderness and tenderness, much more cloudless than the memories of the first night of love. No clashes, quarrels, insults, and if there were, they were immediately forgotten, unthinkably easily, no gloominess. And you don’t get bored, and your legs don’t get tired from Liteiny to Dvortsovoy, across the bridge, to the Exchange - well, we get to the sphinxes and back - and for some reason we ended up at the monument to the “Guardian”. And the fed-up Brezhnevs and Kosygins, the struggle for peace, progressive circles and other nonsense were forgotten.

Of course, nothing worked out with Volodin and Roshchin, and Ashot decided to take up the matter himself. Somehow they took them to the repeat cinema to see “The Overcoat” with Rolan Bykov. Once they saw her, but they forgot about her, but now she suddenly inspired her.

- All! You are Akaki Akakievich! – Ashot blurted out. - You and only you! I'm writing "The Overcoat"!

“Fear God,” Sashka laughed. - Akakiy Akakievich has difficulty climbing the third floor...

“If necessary, I’ll make even the old-world landowners gallop.” If only there was music...

And Ashot plunged into Gogol.

For a while, Sashka’s breath stole from his throat, but he was hovering in the clouds of a lower layer. “I’m not a strategist, I’m a tactician,” he said, and, with difficulty clearing his eyes in the morning after a night’s walk, he ran to the rehearsal.

And yet, he was still drawn into this exciting game invented by Ashot. And in this game a new word was born - for Ashot, in any case, it was clearer than clear - a new word, the same one, in no way inferior to the Russian ballet of the beginning of the century in Paris. Nothing less. And, if desire could move mountains, Ararat would tower above the Admiralty Needle.