Alexey Vayamretyl is a samurai lying on clean water and his real Kamchat path.

10

.0.

And

today

, the

little

Kamchatka

village

of

Branches

was

all

agitated.

Today, the small Kamchatka village of Branches was all agitated, as the news from one house to another house was carried not only by the local black crows, but also by the loud barking of dogs, which in such cases is especially sonorous and it reverberates throughout their village, stretching along the steep right bank of the Vyvenka tributary. One dog: – Gavv!– Gavvv! Another dog picks it up like a wave: – Govv! Govvvv!, And the third one: – Ha-woof-woof!! And even the fourth one, and the immature puppy is only his filthy: – Yap, yap! But even though he is small, he is also in their common choir, he is also in their branching dog family, he is also needed in this village of dogs, their common loud cacophony, which, once it started in the morning, it does not end until the evening. And, no amount of strict masterly shouts will help anyone to stop this cacophony. Unless they unscheduled bring a piece of juicy yukola from their mother's place or put a pot with cooked food supplies for them in the evening. All the residents, young and old, had long since gone out onto the spacious long street that stretches along the riverbank and had already met a cavalcade of loaded sleds walking on the ice of a not very wide tributary of the Vyvenka of this little stream Veveyvayama. On the roof of the local lonely houses, no matter where a lot of black crows and crows flew from. And now everyone in the village of Branches realized that something very special had happened today, something so likely and tragic. The mothers prudently took out sharp short knives from their leather belt scabbards and, without any command, immediately began to carve up the deer that was almost still warm, warming their bloody hands right in the belly of the red carcass. And Dimka's mother, Tatiana, bent over her husband's wet body, and tears poured out of her now red and still young eyes, which had never known grief. She couldn't even wail and grieve anymore, because she had expressed everything earlier, said everything a long time ago, when she first saw that prophetic busty black Kutkha raven who brought his son Dimka home so early… The father's body was somehow straightened in a special way, his arms are now outstretched along his body, and his eyes were still half-open and, without blinking, they were looking somewhere up there into the sunny clear blue sky, probably still trying to see his only and beloved son Dimka there.… Only the little Dimka did not understand what he had to do, where to hide his such frozen short hands.… He also didn't know what to do now, whether it was okay to cry or whether it was better to bite his lower lip so hard, literally squeezing it until it bled, and stand next to his father, holding onto his cold finger and listening only to his mother's crying, and her pleas to give her the strength to bear it all, and still suffer, remaining on white Sveta is a widow, left alone with all the difficulties and adversities. And Dimka thought: – If only Mom didn't fulfill her threats and didn't go with her father to the upper people there, and who will he stay with now? And, he leaned against his mother, and stroked her through her black curly hair, and it suddenly seemed to her that these were the touches of her beloved husband, and she bowed her head, unable to cry anymore, but only listened to those gentle soothing and rhythmic, supporting her, as well as the beating of her anxious heart. stroking, which calmed her without words now, and she clearly realized that she had to live for this warm little lump, she had to live for her own son in order to raise the same loving and strong guy.

11

.0.

Literally

all

the

Nymans

and

their

tribesmen

gathered

in

their

house.

In their spacious wooden house made of timber, all the Branching tribesmen gathered, even from the yurts scattered along the coast and for ten or even thirty kilometers, almost from Vyvenka and from Khailino, where there were almost half the villages of their blood relatives. When the mothers came, they fussed around the hearth in the kitchen and prepared their usual memorial meal. And the men settled down on the floor in the next room, where they laid out their father's body, and laid out the games that had been in the house for a long time, and of course, the cards that were badly worn and greasy from their hands, and, talking among themselves, they played cards in a simple fake "fool", passing the deck from hand to hand. Now, as it were, their friend was playing with them… others were just sitting on the floor and puffing on their smoking pipes filled with cheap tobacco poured out of Prima cigarettes, looking at the players from under their foreheads, and carefully counting who won how much.…

12.

Local

mourning.

The next day, in the morning, the neighbors' wide and long sleds drove up, and my father's body was loaded onto them in a new one, sewn overnight by the mammies, which the hardworking mammies literally sewed that night from two deer skins, which had long been hung on driftwood standing vertically outside the house, collected last summer. They even managed to decorate it with their multicolored beads, putting special swirls into the alternating geometric pattern and its dynamic graphics, which only they knew, which symbolized the earthly life of man and the long way he traveled through the local winding and long paths. Dimka didn't even know that his father was only 26 years old. It was the 26 small beads folded in a circle in the center that symbolized the years his father had lived, and there were also seven squares that symbolized the seven bears he had shot here on the Branches, and there were many beads that reflected all those partridges and hares that he shot with a gun, and more often than not, he caught snares on his loops and skillfully placed on bushes. Then in the afternoon, as soon as the hands of the clock crossed those still incomprehensible 12 o'clock Dima, everyone gathered together and went to the local Shamanka, which was about five kilometers from their village, and there the peasants cut branches of gray alder and resinous cedar in the morning, and built a tall bonfire, several bunches of dry grass were placed below and more cedar shavings, so that the fire would instantly embrace his body, which had long been cold, as if protected from it by a new kitchen, beautiful bags, and a new decorated Malachai, which no longer warmed him at all. When his father was laid on planks on a campfire folded with skillful hands, Dima still did not understand what would happen next, since this was the first time he had attended such a local funeral ceremony. Men from four sides approached the fire pit and at first whitish smoky tongues seemed to envelop his father's body in such a beautiful red kitchen, and then from somewhere below, yellow flames, like his father's new kitchen, stretched from the ground, easily hiding from his son's confused gaze the whole body of his native and beloved My father. Because Dima's confusion came after realizing that the fire was so hot, the fire was so strong, that all the cells of his family, his only one, would burst into bubbles in an instant, like in summer on his right hand when boiling water came out of kettles and then evaporate, like the bubble on his hand when he inadvertently touched a hot frying pan last week. And now Dimka was not looking at the place where his father was lying, because now he was incredibly scared again, but he was looking somewhere into the far sky, where warm streams of air and those yellow flames were easily rising, as if marking and tracing an invisible path in the frosty air, along which his My father will have to slowly climb up there to all their top people. He looked to the side and there, in the distance, on a green branch of a cedar tree, the same old black busty raven was sitting and he saw how tears were rolling from his eyes and Dimka wanted to cry himself again, and he was crying tears no longer, afraid of nothing and not understanding whether he would be scolded by adults who were standing everything was silent, and only the mother was quietly grieving, and the grandmother was not taken here, because she was so weak, after her daughter's son's lifeless body was brought to their house. Dimka only remembered her words.: – How is it that you are my son, my Sashenka left earlier than I. Yes, I won't live long now, I see we will meet again there soon. Wait for me and forgive me…" were her words, summing up her journey on this Kamchatka land. Since she had been ready to connect with all the upper people for a long time, but she did not have a real nudity. And now that her husband is not around, and her youngest son has left her, why should she be old and live here in the Branches? It's better to be up there with all their people. It's better to be with my son to help and support him.… Oh, how she didn't want it to be like this, she's seventeen-two, and her son is only 26 years old, and she's alive, and here, and her son, just a moment, a few more minutes, and already high up there, with them, with those of their upper people… And Dimka is only I heard how his hands were being squeezed by the rough hand of Anik Igor's neighbor, and Vladimir Akhytka was supporting him on his right. And, in the midst of the local silence, only the cedar tree crackling in a special way, either from the frost that had previously squeezed it, or from the heat that tore its branches from inside, squeezing out the burning resin, clearly spoke to everyone about something he only understood, and about something so special, and about forever- endless. – Ear-di-! Tr-sh-! – Pro-sh-! Tr-sch-! – Forever! – Tr-sh-! And, now blazing in the wind, an unlikely hot bonfire, and that icy glass into which his father's face was frozen stood in little Dimka's memory for a long time, for a long time it did not allow him to sleep peacefully on warm reindeer skins at night, calling out from the fright that came to open his eyes again and look around, and only the caring and hard-working hands of his grandmother Lukerya and his mother Tatiana carefully covered him with the skin of a deer, which was slipping from the kicking of his legs, and with the thick and warm skin of a bear, shot by his father in the spring, so that he could man up and grow up faster in his dreams, because an experienced hunter was needed in their village of Branches, and each time he remembered his only one, his beloved father, in a special way, not yet understanding where he really went from that hot campfire, as both his mother and his mother took him there to their ritual cemetery. But there was nothing but ashes in that place. And Kuthu brought abundant gifts to the broad-chested raven from his first independent hunt and even from his daily table, so that on Saturday or another day he could run to where his father's path ended and where only the memory of his path somewhere up to heaven remained in his soul. And it was now that he realized that his father was somewhere high up there and watching him closely, leading his son along a new local path that could only be here on a branch, and it began somewhere inside his memory to always support him, and even encourage him to work daily, and military affairs…

13.0.

A

STUNNING

HUNCH.

On December 28, 2012, information spread through all Russian news channels, and the European SNN, Euro NEWS, that American singer and pop star Whitney Houston died in 2012 in a hotel in New York, not by herself, drowning in a bathroom, as previously announced by the American investigation, but that her death at the hotel was then attributed to the hand of the American or Uruguayan drug lords, to whom, according to reliable rumors, she owed more than one and a half million dollars. And listening to this news feed, Alexander Ugolev compared the word drugs and extracted it from his tenacious memory and remembered how, as recently as November 2011, Dima Vayamretyl himself had been asking for a long time and meticulously where his younger brother Alexei had actually disappeared, since they were fishing on Olyutorka only the three of them. Denis, Alexey and Gena Umyavilkhin. Alexander Ugolev and the local cops, and of course he asked his own people to talk to them "for a pillow", and paid for their emergency services, and compared the decision of the district Court in the summer of 2011, when Igor Primerov, the bailiff, was convicted of drugs and, in a flash, he remembered those urban and Elizovsky fishermen, who were the actual owners of that fishing trip, and also in their village they smoked almost openly, green grass, it seems, cannabis. Yes, and they were detained by the police at the same time when Alexey himself disappeared, i.e. in late September or early October… And, he also remembered how it was shown on TV in October of this year that in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, drug control arrested an unprecedented batch of almost one and a half tons in cans of hashish oil in Kamchatka, which was imported by sea from Primorye or even from Vladivostok itself, and of course it was, and it was intended for the next fishing season for fishermen. and fish processors of numerous coastal fishing enterprises of various economic forms, LLC, or JSC, or even sole proprietors. And now, the reasons for Alexey Vayamretyl's disappearance and even that consequence, everything seemed to settle down with him, like that complicated, difficult-to-solve puzzle, it naturally formed into one such rigid picture of their local Olyutorsky, their Kamchatka uncomplicated life… It formed in his head into that special puzzle, that is, into that not likely complex one. a life picture in which his simple and trusting soul, such a vulnerable soul as Alexei Vayamretyl's, was not given by his very nature to survive, it was not given to endure all such an insidious onslaught on her by all this swashbuckling of his young and carefree life.… Alexander Ugolev also recalled, as it were, those reservations, and those drunken conversations between his brother Dimka and his first friend Gennady Umyavilkhin after his vodka ball, that Alexey owed drug dealers almost 350 thousand rubles and that his probably "those" Tilichiki new, ruthless and young drug dealers put on their special fast counter, demanding from him an exorbitant amount of money for a young guy, or even interest on their lost sales money....

14.0.

The

purest

ice,

it

yawns

here

in

Koryak

nilgykyn

mymyl.

1983.

And at the same time, literally twenty kilometers south and closer to the district center to Tilichiki… October in the north of the Kamchatka Peninsula turned out to be quite unusual this year. Literally until the middle of the month, torrential rains continued for two weeks without stopping for a single day. One three-day cyclone would leave, another would replace it for the next three or five days, and Pacific water from nowhere, which came to the local land from the sky, flooded and soaked it so much, as if providence itself wanted, as we did in the bathhouse, to wash away all the dirt that had accumulated over the centuries from it and came to these virgin Kamchatka territories are scum. The rains flooded the Kamchatka land, so that the local Kamchatka land would heal anew, shine with a special local indescribable Kamchatka flavor, with its ecological diamond facet, which does not exist in any region of Russia.... And so, just before the November holidays, as always, twenty-degree frosts hit this northern region, and Vadim Terentyevich Goryainov and Alexander Yakovlevich Ugolev, one of the heads. The department of propaganda and agitation, and another instructor of the Olyutorsky district committee of the party, who arrived in the district from far Kharkov literally in 1980, decided together on the next Saturday on the same day, November 4, 1983, to go fishing on a frisky chariton and see if the ice on the Avyavayam River really became. Vadim Goryainov, in the local Bogulianovka tract, had a cozy little house made and hidden in the cedar bush a long time ago, literally a ten-minute walk from the bank of the Avyavayam River, and he quietly hid behind the cedar bushes at the very small but noticeable hill among others. The view from here of the river and the vast valley was so beautiful, the places were so berry-scented and hunting, and so enchantingly fabulous… And how quiet it is here, and how clean it is, and how pristine it is. …

1

5

.0.

Alexander

Ugolev

always

collects

a

hiking

backpack

in

advance.

Alexander Ugolev collected his hiking backpack in the evening. At four o'clock in the morning, in order not to wake up his wife and son with preparations, he put a loaf of bread in a plastic bag, and from his stash he took out a bottle of Bulgarian Brandy, which was one of the best drinks here on the Kamchatka peninsula in Soviet times, as Tilichik's own food-processing vodka, somehow with friends measured it, it was only 37.5 degrees of fortress, instead of the 40 degrees prescribed by the then GOST. – How much does the food processing plant itself and their directorate in the person of Yeremeyev have… if?… And this question has remained unanswered for both of them until today. Probably all modern millionaires and billionaires like Prokhorov, Mordashev, Vekselberg, Bryntsalov, Berezovsky and many others, and it was from those 1.5 or 2.5 degrees of vodka that were not filled back then in Soviet times, which today have easily turned into their mansions and into their not one million dollar villas, and on the southern coast of France. and in Florida or Miami in the USA, or in such a prim and really capitalistically calm England, and they even successfully invested in those Chelsea football clubs and NBA basketball-American clubs with their names unknown to us, to increase and magnify their untold and unjust riches… Yes, right now, in 1983, it was not important for Ugolev. He will have to live for seven long years to begin those tumultuous, those special nineties, and then those memorable two thousandth years, which will change so many things in our entire fleeting lives, from our rigid thinking to the way of our very lives, radically changing our entire worldview and, how it will be difficult for us to do all this then, with what difficulty we will have to break all the long-established stereotypes and drastically change all our views. And for some, this will be impossible in principle, even beyond their physical and moral strength. And in their exorbitant anguish, in their spiritual impulse, they will fall into the abyss or into the abyss of history, and history itself, great Time, and Space itself will grind them, and all their moral views, and even their established principles, leaving behind only a small piece of sand from that durable "concrete", from which they were previously all molded… And today, this Bulgarian Brandy drink somehow warmed them both in a special way, somehow worried about his still young soul, although he had not been a proponent of real drunkenness since his childhood until he was completely "cut off", when he seemed to know nothing, when he seemed to know nothing. And you don't remember. But here's how I met Vadim Terentyevich Goryainov, who was about twelve years older, there wasn't a Saturday off or a red Sunday so that they wouldn't get on their narrow skis and, even in the cold in January, when the frosts here were at thirty degrees and both didn't go to the nearest river in the Bogulyanovskoye tract, or downhill, Loose, or even to the Fly Agaric tract and for fish, and to relax a little, and naturally take a break from the labors in the village of Tilichiki. And, in that cozy house of his, they had firewood and a piece of coal from a passing tractor, which took only a couple of bags to Khailino, and then you can just sit here by the stove and look into such a fabulous red and warm flame blazing in the stove, and also listen to the evening stories of all the local fishermen, all the guests are hunters and just by chance, who came on the occasion of vacationers, since there is no theater, no museum, or even a simple restaurant in the area for five hundred kilometers, where a man can simply take his soul away, talking easily, without protocol, without supervision, without their eternal socialist censorship, which has probably been in the blood of each of us since 1933 or 1947....

16.0.

War

and

bread

…

And Alexander Ugolev, walking slowly on his wide skis, remembered how his mother had taught and carefully instructed him when he was a little boy. – Son, you're a frozen bread, but never put it to your chest and don't cut it! Oh, then in February 1942, the Hungarians were at our Savintsy camp, and they brought frozen bread from the field kitchen, and for joy they put a dagger in a loaf and leaned it against their chest for convenience, and from the frozen bread, the tip slipped into their own chest… And… And go figure out if his own people killed him or killed himself, or maybe those brave Savinsky partisans did it to him in the early morning…

1

7

.0.

Young

people

went

fishing

fast.

So far, the two of them were walking young and rather sporty. Pass through a Wide stream. Rostislav Andreevich Zhilenko, a school colleague of the physicist, was caught up with ahead, he was a veteran of the Great Patriotic War of 1941-1945, who, despite his years, was still such a tenacious walker that this young 33-year-old Alexander Yakovlevich could not keep up with the sixty-year-old rangy old veteran, as the youngest lacked a breathing apparatus. – And, it is not clear why? – It was as if he was well-trained, and still quite young and energetic, but that old front-line and army bearing, that four-year-old army habit of long-standing transitions, was hidden somewhere inside that withered old man and war veteran, and now it seemed that his thin veins were not at all they strain themselves when he walks through the local hummocky tundra like this, not staying for a minute and not showing others that he is tired or it is hard for him to walk. When they came to the Avyavayam River, which was not far away, Alexander Yakovlevich's underwear, though cotton, had long been soaked by the sweat that had come out of his body, and already, after the first hole he cut on foot, he was so chilled here on the ice that an unstoppable tremor went through his still young body.… Now they began to produce new thermal underwear, and even for special forces soldiers with even greater absorbency, and then we were happy with simple cotton and even fleece army underwear.… And he looked away, shivering from the cold, which seemed to come from somewhere inside. Rostislav Andreevich Zhilenko, a teacher and veteran, stood a little to one side, as he came first, but Alexander was in no hurry to drill the ice, much less fish, as he wanted to do right away. And first, he slowly unpacked his bulky and weighty hiking backpack, took out his underwear, just like Alexander and Vadim's, and, ignoring the light snow and the northern, as always fresh breeze, he began to change his underwear, first undressing literally to the waist. Then, he did the same with his underpants and, after hanging the same wet underwear on the nearby bushes of the coastal willow, and only then picked up his long ice axe. They didn't take any special tools for fishing anymore. This time, they also did not take their elongated steel ice drills, as they expected that the thickness of the ice would not exceed 7 centimeters, well, 10-15 centimeters at most in places, and Alexander Yakovlevich himself was also coping with his heavy-duty steel hatchet, which was attached to his wide army belt, which was prudently fastened with two straps. harnesses. And, Alexander Yakovlevich immediately analyzed these actions of Rostislav Andreevich and realized that changing (replacing) moistened underwear with absolutely dry underwear allowed the dry old man to feel quite comfortable in the local cold, and he and Vadim Terentyevich had to heat a kettle on a primus stove to keep warm and also drink a glass from the inside as-I wish I had a Brandy warming them up to add calories to my inner stove, but still it was pretty cool for both of them today.... And after that, following the example of an experienced veteran, for every fishing trip in winter, Alexander Yakovlevich, like an experienced veteran, took a dry spare change of underwear and even dry spare socks in his backpack and, having changed clothes even without the usual alcoholic "tonic" in the form of one hundred grams of brown Brandy, he felt all day. it is quite warm and comfortable on every fishing trip, even at sub-zero local temperatures, often reaching thirty or even forty degrees, not like off the coast in Tilichiki, where the temperature rarely dropped below 20 degrees below zero. And he prudently cut a loaf of bread into thin slices or small crackers in advance at home, because on the very first day he remembered those Romanians in 1942, when he tried to cut an ice loaf with his folding knife, which was not something to cut, but simply could not enter its frozen flesh.… And when they caught the same goldfish and the nimble, dark-haired charitons he loved, they both had no limit to his joy and satisfaction, and the real pleasure of being united with the local nature itself. Especially when you are still young, when you are so energetic, when you are absolutely healthy, when you are surrounded by loyal and devoted friends who are able not only to give sound advice, but also to help and support you at any moment.… And how much has been discussed with them and their friends, how much has been learned, and not what is written in books or magazines that have been censored more than once, but directly from this human book of life, which was also written in their expressive eyes, which look at you so sympathetically and quietly tell you about their whole lives, and about the lives of other people, they often tell you, and sometimes they share with you what they have lived for a long time, selflessly share what they have seen with their own eyes, and this is our real life, different from the one often written in newspapers or even shown on TV in those days., when at party or Komsomol meetings it is impossible, except for the officialdom, to hear your soul tugging at a word. And yet this current Brezhnev hypocrisy, this party duplicity, is realized only after time has passed, and especially today, when you remember those bonuses given out in their district committee of the CPSU in envelopes, and their pomposity, and often ostentatious poverty, which could not be compared with what you yourself had to go through. both in childhood and in his youth, when he studied at the institute… Simple fishing is the real Kamchatka life. The journey to the river is also their life, even training and supporting the hearts of each of them. The joy that the backpack has become heavier from the catch is also life… and so, when you come home and there is a basin full of still fluttering fish, and the youngest son asks: – Dad, he watches her splash her tails, and he climbs after her almost into the bathroom to catch her with his not yet skillful hand. And this is also their Kamchatka life. Because you are responsible for her, because you are obliged to guide and support this inexperienced hand for a long time, just by squeezing it in your palm, so that he feels your strength and so that he feels all your will… And you have to support his son for a long time, and you also have to teach and mentor him, and teach him about his life. To teach him how to hold a long rod, and to give her his pen a rebuff point when life circumstances require it, and all this is the multifaceted life with which our earthly happiness is formed, from which our great worldview and all our local Kamchatka worldview are formed. …