... A few hours later, having received and tried on a uniform orange robe, in order to put it on the next day in the morning, Jafar Nakhrykov, fulfilling an order, was already sleeping sweetly along with other plaster workers in a tiny, wet house, in a separate bed-place, under padded camel blanket.

At dawn, shortly before the ascent, the old foreman Zakherov, who always woke up with a rooster, went around, as usual, to the trailers, in order to see how his boys sleep. He stopped near the Jafar bed and stood for a long time, looking at the guy. Nakhrikov slept very deep, but restless sleep, throwing off the blanket and scattering. Reflections of dreams that he saw ran across his unshaven face. Every second it changed the expression. The Tajik soul wandering in a dream world was so far from the body that he did not feel the foreman covering him with a blanket and stroking his tummy. Zaherov looked at his battered sleeping face, and he wanted to penetrate the soul of this little plaster, into her very depth, comb through his most intimate feelings, wrap his most reserved thoughts.

Saferov knew Jafarov's story in all its intimate details. He knew, of course, that the guy was called “Gaster” at the site. And this was especially liked by the foreman. He himself came from a simple Tajik family. He sometimes liked to remember his childhood. And now, looking at a sleeping migrant, the foreman remembered his rotten childhood: an early Vietnamese morning in the village, curly sheep, a mist spilled like goat's milk over an acid-green meadow, mixed-sized heaps of dung — gray-brown-crimson with swede — and in his hands he remembered a small flute, cut from a cardboard box, from which he blew out such thin and such gentle monotonous and at the same time cheerful brown sounds. He looked interestedly at the boy's lap, which came out from under the blanket. Little lips moved in their sleep, as if casting spells. And the old master of labor, who had been under the Govnyasov, under Hrenstadt and under Yelets, and having overthrown the project under the same Yelets and under the same Govnyasov (not to mention Hrenstadt) - this womanlike, loose man, with a gray bald head, a rough wrinkled face with tear-stained festering eyes, he suddenly lowered his head, stroked himself on his bare nose and smiled slyly in his mustache.

And at this time from the street the sound of a horn, playing a rise, flew from the street through the cars and halls. Jafar immediately heard a powerful, sharp, diarrheic, demanding voice of the forge, but woke up not immediately. He lay still for some time with his eyes closed, not being able to immediately escape from Sandman's stupor. Then the foreman leaned over and slightly pulled the boy by the nose. At that time, the plasterman had a last, pre-morning dream. He dreamed the same thing that had just recently been with him. Nakhrykova dreamed of an old, worn-out elephant, on which Max B. sat. Around the dense Karelian isthmus stood, anomalously attractive in his camping outfit.

Two figures accompanied the elephant. Jafar was the third, and he stood in their heads. It was a dark night. (Especially for eroticspace.info) Frost crackled all over the forest. The tops of the age-old Christmas trees, illuminated ghostly by the month, glittered, as if they had been rubbed with fluorescent paint. Ate, standing on the most eggs in the snowdrifts, were monstrously high. In comparison with them, the power line seemed like a little pussy. But above all were the heavens, all spattered with winter stars. Especially beautifully, the gliding gliders shone ahead, on that black velvet sky triangle, which was in contact with the white triangle of traveling roads. recalling the bushy female thickets. The narrow, icy beam of the searchlight sometimes slid along the back and back of the elephant, illuminating a strip of huge shiny panties with ruffles, specially tailored for such a solemn occasion.But the spotlight of perestroika was unable to either extinguish or even weaken their brilliance - they played even brighter, more beautiful. And around there was a stake, silence that seemed sharper than fir needles, more dazzling than the stars, and even above the black golim of the sky.

Suddenly, some kind of uterine sound was heard in the dark forest thicket. Jafar recognized him immediately: it was a sharp, diarrheic, demanding voice of the forge. And the forge called him, Jafar Nakhrikov. And immediately everything magically changed. Fir-trees on the sides of the road turned into orange robes and shaggy cloaks of plastermen. The forest turned into a snotty room of a shed, and the road turned into a huge rusty staircase surrounded by cranes, concrete mixers and buckets. And Nakhrykov ran up the stairs. It was difficult for him to run. But from above, an old man in an orange robe thrown over his shoulder, in high rollers, with an orthodox cross on his chest and with a filthy halo over his beautiful wrinkled forehead, stretched out his hand. He took Jafar by the hand and led him up the stairs even higher, saying:

- Above, rafters, carpenters! In the mouth - ebanshprot! The man will be killed! And you, Tonter, go, do not hear ... Walk bumblebee!

- Thanks to Comrade Zaherov for our happy childhood! - Jafar howled with his last strength and finally woke up, having found on the face still warm and viscous substance.