505
What the authorities will deal with me?
Maria Serafimovna began to gather in the morning.
Quarters of bitches: pour into a glass, put on the bench.
Quarters of black bread: cut off a piece and cover glass.
Whisk: sweep up, and put in a corner of the fence, is sit down, think about Sergunko.
So she did every year, for twenty years. And before that - five and seven times a year, until the forces were more, but Basil was alive.
The flowers she had bought at the exit of the subway. Flowers were not enough, not that of the Trinity. But in the Trinity she did not go, did not like the crowd turns on a free shuttle bus to the city cemetery near a huge, drunken tears and the same, the laughter of children. I went when exactly knew spring came, it Seryozhenka waiting on his birthday, and it does not hurt anybody.
Maria Serafimovna sat on the bus. On the final stop of an old village cemetery to go was only a fifteen minutes. While riding, it is, like every once in a bus, and then, as she walked, recalled how they brought back in 1982, a large coffin. Open it is not allowed. Commissar said buried with honors as a hero of the liberation war. Only asked not to invite anyone, and especially not to spread the funeral. [Next]
Basil, of course, more silent. Since the funeral, and the truth is, there was no trouble. Even their village cemetery, the first time this was three soldier shot into the air from his gun three times. One of them, older, still, do not hesitate, then I went to Basil, picked up his two bottles of vodka. Two others, droopy ears, followed the elders, like puppies without wiping tears.
City advancing, and all the village next year allocated apartment. The village was demolished and the cemetery on the left edge of the ravine. But the ride was far away. And without Basil she began to go only once a year, on Serёzhenkin birthday.
*************************************
In one fine day Boris and his wife decided to see how to build their future home. He was the last in the city, near the forest, but they already like. There, in a two-bedroom apartment they will live with his son. Maybe with time, and with my grandchildren.
Passing the final metro station, Boris developed his peripheral vision, I saw an elderly man standing on the sidewalk in a crouching man, apparently, were not able to get into who quit, jam-packed bus. Something in his figure inclined Boris abruptly turn and slow down near the man asked his wife to open the window.
- Father, you where to go? - He asked.
The man hesitantly moved to the car, it was clear for him that he was not used to driving cars.
- Me? - He even showed the finger free hand (in another he had holschёvaya bag with protruding neck vodka, and strange, with the heads of the first spring daisies).
- Well, yes, you - where to go?
- I have until the end of the bus - a man once said country-style, at the same time pointing and looking into the distance.
- So sit down, we were just in the wrong direction, - said Boris, although his wife and made a face at him in bewilderment.
Looking in the rearview mirror, Boris has determined that a man is not too old, about fifty years.
- And exactly where you are going, said Boris, when they began to drive up to the bus terminus.
- Yes to the cemetery to visit son - the man said quietly.
Boris ringing in the ears. This is how the young son died this man?
- How so? - In a low voice, or I asked whether he thought. But the man heard.
- That's what I keep thinking: how so? They took her son, taken who knows where, and why, they brought in a coffin, even not allowed to see, even friends were not allowed to call, even the inscription on the grave is not allowed. Shot with machine guns three times promised to pay extra to their pensions.
Boris could not drive a car, he braked sharply. He remembered, remembered about crossbows in the army, about the death of the guard. But usually, in such cases, not honorably buried. A trembling voice, swallowing, asked:
- And where ... brought his son?
- They say - do not say, like, out of Afghanistan.
A few minutes later, on country, they reached the top of the path, and the man left. Reached into his pocket, Boris and his wife waved their hands in silence.
The man nodded, cracked lips, and went down the slope to vidnevshimsya rickety Birches and crosses.
Forces to carry out the Father at the tomb of the Son was not.
Boris and his wife went to see the first floors of their future homes. Dwellings with their young son.
************************************************
In a couple of kilometers on foot from their home, or a detour on the pavement five kilometers, stretches a chain of small lakes. He cared for the administration of neighboring diplomatic settlement, and from the other side to help local elite boarding. These lake-came a lot of people come to swim and from the places, and even from the city center. The water was cold, spring, flow, clean, despite the proximity of the city.
Boris spring and summer went this way for physical exercise, but over the years has become increasingly travel by car: in the heat - to swim, and in good weather and just go. And the last time found that there was a straight road during that along the country road on which he used to go on foot. Back he went through it.
For uncool turn opened a long concrete fence, fence, obviously, another construction site. Apparently, construction and served the new road. Before his house was get nothing at all, when suddenly, amid flashed a piece of the fence, Boris said something tsarapnuvshee visual memory.
He stopped, turned the car around, went back a hundred meters back.
When he went there on foot for the last time, there was no concrete fence. There was a copse meadow with a footpath, lost in the slope. All around were semi-abandoned warehouses.
Now was the fence. At the fence he knelt old, lying next to her dark knapsack and bag of spring flowers. And it is strange: she was baptized, bowing to the high gray fence.
Boris walked over to her, not knowing yet what and how to ask.
- Uh ... my grandmother, and why you are standing at the fence - as gently as possible, but with intentional perplexity he asked.
The old woman stood up quite cheerfully, face turned to Boris. It was evident that her eighty years.
Boris looked in his eyes, nodded:
- Welcome!
- Yes, hello, - Boris still confused.
- So, I came to his son's grave, and then put a fence. A grave there - she waved her hand in the direction of the fence. More than five minutes to go, but do not let not told, they say. I just wanted something, son hundred grams of vodka to pour, but leave flowers. Birthday him today.
The story was the size of a woman, her face serene. Her trouble happened long ago, and she lived with her familiar, as if with the expectation of meeting with her son.
Boris turned around, looking around the place for a new remembering the many times that walked on this previously a country road. All the past years has been eliminated from the memory, and now surfaced: a man with flowers, dovezenny them here more than thirty years ago.
"... Not allowed to call friends ... bummed out machine three times ...».
- The son died? - He asked.
- So now everyone knows. Yes, in Afghanistan killed. Retire that's paid for it, recently added. And the grave is not allowed. Here. - Woman lowered her head turned to the place of the fence, behind which, she felt, was the tomb of his son.
Boris arrived to move on fenced plot, three hundred meters from the old lady. He came up to the gate. I went through the gate. Because the trailer was released a hefty security guard.
- What do you want? - His face, whitish and eaten by oplyvshee barrels dumplings and many buckets of vodka, expressed nothing but boredom and hatred toward the world.
- There's an old lady wants to go to the grave of his son, miss her repay.
- What's the old lady? - He went outside and looked along the fence. - ... Oh, is that right? So I said to her, not told, will not let.
- What are you, an animal, or what? Do not you have a mother there? She has a son killed in Afghanistan, miss, do you hear? - Boris changed his approach and tone.
- And you that your grief is not enough? - The guy looked around, took a step closer to Boris. - So you will add, and right now.
Boris retreated a couple of steps to the car, took out his phone, looking into the eyes of the guard pressed a couple of buttons, and brought his phone to his ear.
A man hesitated, looked at the car, on the phone, in person Boris.
- Ale, commander wasting your time. And nerves. Cut down the phone and quietly listen to - the security guard he threw up his hands in a conciliatory and retreated.
- Well?
- Well, then, I'm not a beast, and I have a mother. But I can not let her, I can not!
- Why?
- Since there are no graves here, I know about the cemetery, told me another half-year ago. The administration, when the site under construction were taken, saw that there were only two well-tended graves. We agreed somehow drawn up somewhere, and everything sryli cemetery. And the land was taken to the dump. Or pour into a ravine, do not know exactly ...
They were silent. Boris did not know what to say.
- And now think: Well, I'm comin it? And what will happen? And if it ends here, on the site? Or worse, will complain? What the authorities will deal with me?
2012-2014.
© Copyright: Boris Vasiliev 2, 2014
Illustration: photographer Alexander Vasilyev
www.proza.ru/2014/08/09/861
Quarters of bitches: pour into a glass, put on the bench.
Quarters of black bread: cut off a piece and cover glass.
Whisk: sweep up, and put in a corner of the fence, is sit down, think about Sergunko.
So she did every year, for twenty years. And before that - five and seven times a year, until the forces were more, but Basil was alive.
The flowers she had bought at the exit of the subway. Flowers were not enough, not that of the Trinity. But in the Trinity she did not go, did not like the crowd turns on a free shuttle bus to the city cemetery near a huge, drunken tears and the same, the laughter of children. I went when exactly knew spring came, it Seryozhenka waiting on his birthday, and it does not hurt anybody.
Maria Serafimovna sat on the bus. On the final stop of an old village cemetery to go was only a fifteen minutes. While riding, it is, like every once in a bus, and then, as she walked, recalled how they brought back in 1982, a large coffin. Open it is not allowed. Commissar said buried with honors as a hero of the liberation war. Only asked not to invite anyone, and especially not to spread the funeral. [Next]
Basil, of course, more silent. Since the funeral, and the truth is, there was no trouble. Even their village cemetery, the first time this was three soldier shot into the air from his gun three times. One of them, older, still, do not hesitate, then I went to Basil, picked up his two bottles of vodka. Two others, droopy ears, followed the elders, like puppies without wiping tears.
City advancing, and all the village next year allocated apartment. The village was demolished and the cemetery on the left edge of the ravine. But the ride was far away. And without Basil she began to go only once a year, on Serёzhenkin birthday.
*************************************
In one fine day Boris and his wife decided to see how to build their future home. He was the last in the city, near the forest, but they already like. There, in a two-bedroom apartment they will live with his son. Maybe with time, and with my grandchildren.
Passing the final metro station, Boris developed his peripheral vision, I saw an elderly man standing on the sidewalk in a crouching man, apparently, were not able to get into who quit, jam-packed bus. Something in his figure inclined Boris abruptly turn and slow down near the man asked his wife to open the window.
- Father, you where to go? - He asked.
The man hesitantly moved to the car, it was clear for him that he was not used to driving cars.
- Me? - He even showed the finger free hand (in another he had holschёvaya bag with protruding neck vodka, and strange, with the heads of the first spring daisies).
- Well, yes, you - where to go?
- I have until the end of the bus - a man once said country-style, at the same time pointing and looking into the distance.
- So sit down, we were just in the wrong direction, - said Boris, although his wife and made a face at him in bewilderment.
Looking in the rearview mirror, Boris has determined that a man is not too old, about fifty years.
- And exactly where you are going, said Boris, when they began to drive up to the bus terminus.
- Yes to the cemetery to visit son - the man said quietly.
Boris ringing in the ears. This is how the young son died this man?
- How so? - In a low voice, or I asked whether he thought. But the man heard.
- That's what I keep thinking: how so? They took her son, taken who knows where, and why, they brought in a coffin, even not allowed to see, even friends were not allowed to call, even the inscription on the grave is not allowed. Shot with machine guns three times promised to pay extra to their pensions.
Boris could not drive a car, he braked sharply. He remembered, remembered about crossbows in the army, about the death of the guard. But usually, in such cases, not honorably buried. A trembling voice, swallowing, asked:
- And where ... brought his son?
- They say - do not say, like, out of Afghanistan.
A few minutes later, on country, they reached the top of the path, and the man left. Reached into his pocket, Boris and his wife waved their hands in silence.
The man nodded, cracked lips, and went down the slope to vidnevshimsya rickety Birches and crosses.
Forces to carry out the Father at the tomb of the Son was not.
Boris and his wife went to see the first floors of their future homes. Dwellings with their young son.
************************************************
In a couple of kilometers on foot from their home, or a detour on the pavement five kilometers, stretches a chain of small lakes. He cared for the administration of neighboring diplomatic settlement, and from the other side to help local elite boarding. These lake-came a lot of people come to swim and from the places, and even from the city center. The water was cold, spring, flow, clean, despite the proximity of the city.
Boris spring and summer went this way for physical exercise, but over the years has become increasingly travel by car: in the heat - to swim, and in good weather and just go. And the last time found that there was a straight road during that along the country road on which he used to go on foot. Back he went through it.
For uncool turn opened a long concrete fence, fence, obviously, another construction site. Apparently, construction and served the new road. Before his house was get nothing at all, when suddenly, amid flashed a piece of the fence, Boris said something tsarapnuvshee visual memory.
He stopped, turned the car around, went back a hundred meters back.
When he went there on foot for the last time, there was no concrete fence. There was a copse meadow with a footpath, lost in the slope. All around were semi-abandoned warehouses.
Now was the fence. At the fence he knelt old, lying next to her dark knapsack and bag of spring flowers. And it is strange: she was baptized, bowing to the high gray fence.
Boris walked over to her, not knowing yet what and how to ask.
- Uh ... my grandmother, and why you are standing at the fence - as gently as possible, but with intentional perplexity he asked.
The old woman stood up quite cheerfully, face turned to Boris. It was evident that her eighty years.
Boris looked in his eyes, nodded:
- Welcome!
- Yes, hello, - Boris still confused.
- So, I came to his son's grave, and then put a fence. A grave there - she waved her hand in the direction of the fence. More than five minutes to go, but do not let not told, they say. I just wanted something, son hundred grams of vodka to pour, but leave flowers. Birthday him today.
The story was the size of a woman, her face serene. Her trouble happened long ago, and she lived with her familiar, as if with the expectation of meeting with her son.
Boris turned around, looking around the place for a new remembering the many times that walked on this previously a country road. All the past years has been eliminated from the memory, and now surfaced: a man with flowers, dovezenny them here more than thirty years ago.
"... Not allowed to call friends ... bummed out machine three times ...».
- The son died? - He asked.
- So now everyone knows. Yes, in Afghanistan killed. Retire that's paid for it, recently added. And the grave is not allowed. Here. - Woman lowered her head turned to the place of the fence, behind which, she felt, was the tomb of his son.
Boris arrived to move on fenced plot, three hundred meters from the old lady. He came up to the gate. I went through the gate. Because the trailer was released a hefty security guard.
- What do you want? - His face, whitish and eaten by oplyvshee barrels dumplings and many buckets of vodka, expressed nothing but boredom and hatred toward the world.
- There's an old lady wants to go to the grave of his son, miss her repay.
- What's the old lady? - He went outside and looked along the fence. - ... Oh, is that right? So I said to her, not told, will not let.
- What are you, an animal, or what? Do not you have a mother there? She has a son killed in Afghanistan, miss, do you hear? - Boris changed his approach and tone.
- And you that your grief is not enough? - The guy looked around, took a step closer to Boris. - So you will add, and right now.
Boris retreated a couple of steps to the car, took out his phone, looking into the eyes of the guard pressed a couple of buttons, and brought his phone to his ear.
A man hesitated, looked at the car, on the phone, in person Boris.
- Ale, commander wasting your time. And nerves. Cut down the phone and quietly listen to - the security guard he threw up his hands in a conciliatory and retreated.
- Well?
- Well, then, I'm not a beast, and I have a mother. But I can not let her, I can not!
- Why?
- Since there are no graves here, I know about the cemetery, told me another half-year ago. The administration, when the site under construction were taken, saw that there were only two well-tended graves. We agreed somehow drawn up somewhere, and everything sryli cemetery. And the land was taken to the dump. Or pour into a ravine, do not know exactly ...
They were silent. Boris did not know what to say.
- And now think: Well, I'm comin it? And what will happen? And if it ends here, on the site? Or worse, will complain? What the authorities will deal with me?
2012-2014.
© Copyright: Boris Vasiliev 2, 2014
Illustration: photographer Alexander Vasilyev
www.proza.ru/2014/08/09/861
