- Статьи
- Culture
- The wind did not pull out of his hands: Izvestia publishes an unknown story by Tsypkin
The wind did not pull out of his hands: Izvestia publishes an unknown story by Tsypkin
"Good old Tsypkin. A Hint at the Collected Works" is the name of Alexander Tsypkin's collection of short stories, which is being delivered to bookstores this week. It contains the best of what has been written in ten years, that is, everything seems to be time-tested. But there is also a bonus — stories that have not been previously published. Izvestia publishes one of them, it is called "The last money of childhood." In a small text, the themes of love, family, memory and what cannot be bought, no matter how hard you try, collide.
Alexander Tsypkin. "The last money of childhood"
I spent a lot of money once. Thoughtlessly. Hysterical. It's criminal. Secretly from my family and friends. The amount was significant, although, of course, everything is known in comparison. But from the point of view of my monthly income at that time, it seemed colossal, and moreover, I wasn't the only one with plans for it.
To call a spade a spade, I committed embezzlement. Fashion has become the object of misuse of budget funds. Or rather... sneakers. Soviet sneakers. The downside of this unseemly act was a partial understanding of the structure of the female heart.
In May 1985, I was sent to the grocery store. Yes, yes, at the age of nine. In general, children in the USSR enjoyed a very high degree of freedom of movement. And without any geotags or mobile phones. We were leaving, and... everyone was sure we'd be back. And most of the time we came back.
For example, since the second grade, I have traveled to school myself for 20 minutes by bus and sometimes with transfers. By the way, it was at this age that I found a dream and pursued it almost all my adult life. I stumbled over recently, and somehow I even felt sad. The dream came true, but there was no happiness. In the second grade, the October Sasha Tsypkin wanted to become... a bus driver. "Why?" you may ask. The answer is banal. When you're small and your briefcase is big, life on a packed Soviet bus is overshadowed by an endless struggle for survival. They kick you, push you, call you names, and sometimes they can slap you on the back of the head. In other words, they discriminate and bully. And sometimes they gaslight.
There is no question of sitting down, you are a grain of sand in the ocean of workers. Sometimes a grain of sand was pressed against the glass separating the passenger compartment and the driver's cabin, and you could see how comfortably and without any tension he sprawled in his upholstered chair. The scoundrel.
Most of the time, the driver didn't do anything, as it seemed to you, since the bus was either at a bus stop or trudging along the broken streets. And you were jealous of him. He was so jealous that his ears cracked, blushing with shame at the thoughts of the owner of his head. I don't think I've envied anyone so much since then.
"The infection is sitting... it's warm for him... no one is yelling at him… Well, never mind, I'll grow up, buy myself a bus, sit like him, and drive around the city, no one will dare to kick or push me!"
I bought a bus not so long ago. A minibus, of course. Anyway, I didn't get behind the wheel. I stood next to them, remembered myself, traumatized by the merciless Leningrad passengers, and decided that I had defeated them. Finally. Why get behind the wheel? But I dreamed all my childhood. I waited. Some wishes don't have to be fulfilled, of course. It just gets more depressing.
Let's go back to my trip to the store. They gave me some rubles and a list of necessities. I'll make a reservation right away, sneakers were not included in this list. Moreover, the sneakers were not sold in the grocery store, it was necessary to look at the appropriate store on the next street. That is, enter the wrong door. I can't explain how I did it right now. A certain attraction arose between me and the cherished retail, as they would now call that shed, smelling of rubber and other sports. I considered mathematical equality a sign from above. The object of my lust cost exactly what I was given to buy food. Penny for penny. I committed an economic crime without hesitation and, realizing the futility of going to the grocery store, I trudged home.
— Sanechka, where's everything I asked for?.. Great-grandmother asked in amazement, looking at me, the box of sneakers and the grocery list.
— Unfortunately, I didn't have enough money.
Since childhood, formulations have been my trump card.
"For what?" — the great-grandmother, who worked as a pediatrician and understood life, smiled.
— For everything. I didn't say… But I... I was going to enroll in the football section. And there you need sneakers... the ones I wear to physical education are very uncomfortable.
Pure lies. The gym shoes were normal, just not very pretty. And my new purchase, I don't remember what, but it was significantly different aesthetically. Either the model is new or it's just fresh. Red with a dazzling white sole. They looked really cool.
My great—grandmother, who was stymied in two directions at the same time - by embezzlement and my new sports hobby, was worried, but decided to clarify:
— Are you going to the football section?
— Yes, you know how much I love football!
— I know. But why didn't you tell me about it when you went to the store?.. Your sneakers are very beautiful, but cooking them for dinner is not so easy. Did you even see the list I gave you?
"I saw it. I'm sorry, those sneakers... they'd all be sold out. If you give me the money, I'll go to the store right now and buy everything.
— What if you like something else at the sports store?.. She said with condescension and some sadness.
Next, I was given a lecture about the value of money, the difficulty of its immediate regeneration, and the fact that making purchases without permission does not go very far along the sin curve from theft. No, no one accused me of stealing, but I figured it out myself. However, the sneakers have already been bought.
— No, I'm glad you bought something useful, but just imagine if it were the last money we have, what would we do?.. You still have to ask next time, okay?
That was probably the first time I came across the phrase "last money." We lived very poorly. Now I know that my family has encountered this phrase quite regularly. Especially with the onset of the strange perestroika times.
Let's go back to the sneakers. My great-grandmother went somewhere and gave me a new three or five rubles. It's now that I understand that they weren't in the wallet, which means she took them out of some kind of stock. Later, my misconduct was sorted out in the likeness of a family council, but the reason that prompted me to commit fraud was recognized as relatively valid.
By the way, I went to the football section, but they didn't take me, but I wasn't upset, because I needed a different football. Country house. The sneakers were bought for him.
Every summer, I went with my great-grandmother and great-grandfather to my dacha in Toksovo and spent three carefree months there. Carefree. I suddenly realized that this particular condition is completely inaccessible to adults and is also completely not recognized by children. That is, we get into real happiness, but we realize the miracle that happened only years later, when it disappeared over the horizon of years.
I lived, as it is now obvious, absolutely carefree, although I had worries, especially in the country. A lot. But there was also football. Every day. On a crooked bumpy field, with a volleyball, and yet it was excitement, fighting, a real Colosseum! Until the last second.
And what was on your feet mattered. The key thing. It was absolutely impossible to play on what the hell kind of field. More precisely, to do it beautifully and effectively, scoring goals, creating the glory of the family name inside gardening. Isn't spending on sneakers worth it? No. Not worth it. But wasting on feelings is worth it.
I didn't mention that I bought the sneakers not just to score goals, but so that She could see it. She's the girl who lived next door. Her name was Masha. They came to the clearing and were one of the few spectators of our boys' ball fights. When she graced our battles with her presence, I ran around the field with triple the energy that my usual shoes couldn't handle. Not to say that we had any special relationship, just neighbors, but the child's soul went into shoelaces as soon as Masha lingered in conversation with me a little longer than usual. For some reason, it seemed to me that at those moments I was discovering the gift of levitation.
So, Masha once noticed what beautiful sneakers my friend Kirill was wearing in the arena (less gifted, in my opinion, from the point of view of football). I instantly burst into all the colors of jealousy. Masha and I only saw each other during the holidays, but I remembered about her for the other nine months, and about Kirill and his sneakers, too. Do you understand now what pushed me down the dangerous path of financial abuse?
In early June, when I arrived in Toksovo, I immediately found out the disposition of Masha. She was absent. They promised to bring her by July. A whole month of training. The sneakers, I must say, turned out to be not only beautiful, but also comfortable. Goals were scored with enviable regularity. However, one evening I noticed a strange discomfort after the game. I won't go into the details of my research, just to remind you that children are growing up. And their legs grow with them.
— No, no, no, no! Just not now!!! Don't try to grow up!!!
I shouted at my fingers and heels. In vain. By Masha's arrival, the sneakers had become too small for me. If someone is familiar with football, they understand what it means to play in such shoes. Torture. But feelings are stronger than pain! At the very first match, in Masha's presence, I pulled on rubber pads and after about ten minutes I was kicking the ball barefoot. However, the sneakers themselves were directly a meter away from Masha and, as the classics wrote, they did not ozonate the air. I scored three goals, turning my bare feet into red loaves. Kirill missed these three. After football, Masha went to the lake. With Cyril.
It turned out that it wasn't the sneakers, but Cyril himself. At the age of nine, I learned that if a girl likes a boy, she doesn't care what kind of sneakers he's wearing or how he plays football. She doesn't care if she doesn't like him.
I informed my great-grandmother about the incident and asked her to hide the secret from everyone.
— It seems to me that the fact is that Kirill is two years older than you.
—And always will be,— I added tragically.
Over the weekend, my grandfather on my father's side brought me the first cleats in my life. Everyone's jaws dropped, including Kirill. I think my great-grandmother told the family about my drama, and the family decided to support me. I slept in them for the first three days. They were so beautiful. Even Masha's problem faded into the background amid such happiness. Unique. Carefree.
And also about money. I remember how my great-grandmother and great-grandfather gave bills to the insurance agent once a month so that at the age of eighteen I would receive 1,000 rubles, a very large sum in Soviet times.
Having gone through all the hell of the twentieth century, they tried their best to ease my already very prosperous path to adulthood, and therefore, despite the tightness of funds, they found these rubles, sometimes, perhaps, the last. My great-grandfather, being a professor, worked at the clinic until he was eighty-seven years old. He traveled to the reception for an hour and a half by tram. And at night he continued to write textbooks. They are still learning from them. Until the last days of his life, he worried about how to provide for his family.
When I turned eighteen, these savings were reset by the collapsed Soviet Union. It's a good thing my great-grandparents didn't find out about it. They left a little before the onset of my insured event, namely my coming of age. And the country to which they gave their lives ceased to exist, as did the money of that country.
Perhaps it was the lack of a thousand rubles at the age of eighteen that made me spin much faster, and it is still impossible to stop this movement. Money in youth is desirable, but harmful to the prospects of a relatively prosperous old age. Decompose. But, I must say, the fear of being left without the last money appeared just then. I don't know if I've overcome it. I don't think so. But I know exactly what it's best to spend it on. For the carefree happiness of people close to you. And then great-grandparents will smile somewhere in their new incarnations, although they won't know why. They'll just smile.
Переведено сервисом «Яндекс Переводчик»
