And passers-by somehow cautiously avoided it. And more and more and more inevitably his thought was returning to the rope, to the loop — it was so easy, so accessible, it seemed to him to cope with all this in some quiet place.

So raving about randomly, Ivan turned out to be near the huge gloomy post-war building. Gray heavy battleship with loopholes narrow windows poured it in the ocean of time, disrupting, breaking into the invisible to the eye the smallest dust rain, and snow, and coolness, and heat, and fragile human life. And nothing more remarkable was the building that contained only an institute in its womb. It was not for nothing that Ivan was nailed to his gray board. Oh, nothing happened to him that day! And it was at the very moment when the idea of ​​the rope began to take on flesh, and Vanya had already sent the feet doomed to some yard - whistling the clothesline there and using the latter to realize the same connection with the eternity of the dark and echoing, the battleship of the institute something else inspired to him — something tender, something that warmed the soul's vanilla. And the warm name came up out of the hazy autumnal mist: “Maria.” “Maria,” Ivan repeated, whispered his lips hung over by the fever of a hangover with his lips, “Maria.”

Yes what? What? But simply - friends recently danced with Maria in the dark room. Everybody ran off somewhere. And now they do not look at Ivan as a judge, he is fit - not fit, but only - his eyes shine so warmly and trustingly to Ivan, and quiet hair strokes Ivan’s cheeks, and so obediently and supplely flexible, that there is no question in all this, but only - a silent answer, only a long soft "yes ...".

And with tears in his burning eyes, completely taken aback, he read her poems - impossible rhymes that got along at night from the unthinkable life. And it is impossible to rhyme desires, a long, ineffable words stanza between them arose a kiss. Ah, yes, how much is necessary for Ivan in the wolf’s loneliness, in his night of the nonstop Volga - a “sulfuric match”, yes? Yes of course! Yes, simply - to lull dreams, his dreams are in bright spots of outright anxiety.

And now, when, sinking, he was at the side of the battleship, it lit up - after all, in the bowels of the battleship, in the basement, where the multiplying equipment, where the entrance to an outsider was ordered, there now is the princess in the dungeon Maria longs. For some reason, it was precisely Ivan who felt sorry for him. And, mingling with the crowd of students, he rushed into the bowels of the battleship and descended into the coveted basement - a half-dark corridor, leaving somewhere in the bottomless depths, a low arch and rows of closed doors. It smelled like God knows what - some kind of cakes, paint and sauerkraut. He froze at the door with a sign "Laboratory multiplying equipment. No trespassing! ”And the heart sounded again:“ And if she is not alone? And if Maria's husband comes - he works in the same building - what will happen? What will happen then? What happens in addition to all my troubles? ”

But, overcoming this pitiful shudder in himself, yes, like this, like in the morning when he was yelling “would you go on ...” when by a miracle he escaped from the noses and beards of the material idea, turning into a wad of overcome groan, Ivan called.

There was a rustle behind the door - the flight of weightless steps. The door opened: “Oh, Maria, Maria, Maria!” She looked at Ivan with a smile, surprised and strange, which was replaced by a sudden fear, and her hand instinctively flew up to her lips: “Ah! You are white ... You are white, Ivan! ”

“May I not be red, Mary,” Ivan muttered to her, confused.

“Oh, no, you're supposedly in some kind of powder. All in some kind of agony ... No, by God, like a ghost! ”

“Aaaa! Maria, listen, Maria, this is not powder at all. This is dust. This is the dust of the material idea. You see, the creators fell ...

She looked at Ivan with ever-increasing fear: “Who are the creators?”

“Marx, Engels and Lenin,” - as Vanya said a certain password, and seeing how Maryin's eyes were misunderstanding, he moaned in despair to her: “I ... I somehow remained alive by a miracle. I ... I'm so happy to see you. I am Mary..."

And the desired pity lit up, the Mariins warmed their eyes, she remembered: “Oh, yes what am I! Yes, you come ... Though wash your face, otherwise it hurts so terribly, by golly. ”

She almost forcefully dragged him, washed him, sat him down on a chair.

“What's the matter with you, Ivan? Take it easy. Maybe tea for you? Would you like some tea? ”

"Yes, tea ... It would be great - tea," - and Ivan smiled a grateful and pitiful smile. Then he looked around - how close and deaf it was here! The whole space was almost occupied, piled up by levers, a machine for the reproduction of technical literature, similar to a medieval torture machine. Under the ceiling, feet of passersby flashed a window behind a frequent grating. A table, two chairs and a kettle are a dungeon, a well lit by a neon lamp. The place was forbidden for strangers - so that they would not multiply something SUCH. On the day, the police even checked Mary several times — in fact, what was the forbidden place. But Ivan calmed down here a bit, quiet. And Maria, sitting down opposite, took his hand in her and calmly and gently asked: “What's the matter with you, Ivan? Tell me."

Inspired tenderness and bitter happiness seized Ivan instantly, and cherishing Marina’s hands in her palms, he suddenly, in one breath, began to speak, speak, speak — without a hesitation, like a poem from a sheet — so he read Maria all his unattractive life, unprecedented bitter true story All, all - from childhood, from the echidna scandal behind the closet, from these cries, from which he had nowhere to go, and stormy to youth, to poems - these quarrels are inevitable with love and with the world, and to youth - as they drove him from everywhere , sensing his subjection to earthly possessions, to his youth, which had so collapsed so untimely and irrevocably into the failures of grayish, tangled everyday life. Everything, everything, everything Ivan told her - right up to the most recent events, about how even he overcame himself with this love, with his young wife, about how he got drunk, how they mouthed and shouted at home, about how he barely survived this morning he miraculously escaped from the noses and beards of the material idea, about how the autumn wind beat him here, because he, like a dog, well, n-no place to go. All this confession took place as if in a certain Cherry Orchard - and the spirit of the yellow leaves of the fallen, the spirit of helplessness of the noble and beauty dying in the clutches of a completely oh-soaked world, breathed.

“Ah, Vanechka, ah, this is not a good thing with a bas-relief. So I feel - surely something will happen. "

“I beg you, do not speak with these fearful phrases!” Better, you know, I'll read you poems. I wrote them to you at night ... At night - from the inconceivable life. This is ... This is about autumn, Maria. About you and about autumn. Listen:

"... and on mute stogny hail ..."

(A. S. Pushkin)

She got drunk

Lead from Volga,

He will revenge himself in full,

What will be long.

And, having shamed labor

The purple of the garden,

She will lie down, gentlemen,

On the slopes of hail.

And then, of course, everyone will drink

Such a time-

Forget the five-year work

And life burden

And so they drink - on the quarter,

For free -

For "to stand" for just

For the anniversary.

And I'm like everyone else - I'm buried

In these kitchens.

And strangles every black day

Separation of junk.

Like everyone, I accept - I will heal

From the life of the poison.

In delirium burning, I will fly

According to the towers of hail.

Of course it's scary gentlemen

But, don't burn me,

I would not recognize you, star,

Star, Maria.

I would not know life is compressed

How lips ruin

Dove, nezhat-voorostat

Executed, dove.

Me and the worst years -

Like euphoria

With you, swallow, star,

Star, Maria.

Your light is high, blue, ... Read more →