Navalyayev. Non fictional stories

Serge Ardenne

NAVALYAYEV. NON FICTIONAL STORIES

From life of one idiot

PROLOGUE

Any endeavor that a person starts, usually ends either in success or failure – because this is how the world works and nothing will change – until the Dnieper dries up.

But if in the first case, when a person manages to cope with what he has conceived, the individual goes publicly, for each occasion, to sound about his genius, victory and success, explaining in details to everyone he meets who is not at all interested in the details of the triumphant, In the person of the narrator, to Olympus. In the second variant, when the same person suffers a fiasco, he invariably tries, avoiding publicity and any explanations, to find the perpetrators of failure, in every possible way trying to lose responsibility for failure. He does not find a place until he comes up with a story that he tells others, whenever it comes to what is so unpleasant for a blundered individual. People are cunning, greedy, unfair, cruel and this, you will agree, is not a complete palette of human vices. In everyone sits, if not a fire-breathing dragon abounding in all these far from the best qualities, then a goggle-eyed creature whose like the above sins are in an embryonic state, ready to germinate at any moment in the blink of an eye, appearing in all its abomination. A person is egotistical, selfish, prone to pathos and hedonism.

Many of the readers, of course, will be surprised and will not want to agree with us. With what we will not argue, just noticing to the dear reader, that we ourselves treat the above theory with considerable suspicion. And the best confirmation of this are the stories we recorded, about a man who, by his existence, does not allow idle rancors, like us, to assert something similar to the above. However, you, dear reader, if you want to delve into the essence of this narrative, there will be a great opportunity to see this personally and to the fullest.

Chapter 1

"DATE"

Once upon a time, even a little earlier than last Friday, there was a great country that existed in the era of developed socialism. Although not, it is rather huge, because greatness and magnitude, often quite different concepts, therefore the country was simply huge. This huge "Great Country" was also called very peculiarly, proudly and cheerfully – the USSR. Proudly, because the inhabitants of the country called it with admiration, threateningly ringing and clinking their tongues, as if minting jubilee rubles – eS ES ES ER.But the threat of confusion, involuntarily debunked the children growing up in the "Great Country", teasing her – Se Se Se Re. Well, of course, mindless foreigners whistling in their own way and manner – C C P. And so, this country, like many other countries, had its own government, and the government had its own people, as well as a flag, a coat of arms, a hymn and everything else that could be found and fetched in the vastness of the "Great Country". Under these conditions, hand in hand, the government, along with the people, stamped ahead, as it seemed, towards a great goal-communism!

But the Bible says – "leave them: they are blind leaders of the blind; And if the blind lead the blind, then both will fall into the pit. " (Matthew 15:14)That once again reminded, persuaded and proved, to those who did not try, that the way to communism was uneasy and inconclusive. That once again reminded, persuaded and proved, to those who did not try, that the way to communism was uneasy and inconclusive. And how could be oterwise It is always difficult to go toward something that does not exist. After all, a mirage is unattainable, and the path to it is tedious and vain, like aspirations to the horizon line or the efforts of the restless Sisyphus.

Exectly in this country and at that time the one whom we would like to tell our gracious reader about,could live.

The one that, thanks to whom we will be able to uncover a chain of accidents, starting and ending on our hero – citizen and comrade Navalyaev.

In one of the sunny, spring days, from the front entrance of house number 17, along Stepan Khalturin Street, (for some ridiculous accident called by the name of a revolutionary, a Narodnik terrorist who didn't have slightest relationship with either Kiev or the former Pankovskaya street,) came out man.His appearance was quite unremarkable, at first glance, if one did not look at it in more detail, the more it was not to get to know him better. Kallistratu Ippolitovich Navalyaev, the junior accountant in the most exemplary Housing Management Office in the Leninsky district of the city of Kiev, in autumn, October 23, turned thirty-four, that very day, stained with the blood of the Hungarian Revolution, valiantly crushed by Soviet tanks.At this age, men are said – "in full bloom", but not forces, not, especially, their heyday, Comrade Navalyaev was not observed.Low growth; With a tummy, hanging like a "backpack", under a flabby, swollen, fat breasts; With narrow, not seeing even a sparing morning charge of his shoulders, his not a slender silhouette, looked much older, the passport data of Kallistratus Ippolitovich.

All this luxury mentioned above was piled up on short, plump legs, very suitable for walking, and not at all designed for running.Stooping, marked by an old scoliosis, a torso, the head of Comrade Navalyaev, who had long begun to grow bald, was crowned, how light, so little suitable for life.The protruding, fleshy ears only emphasized the harmony of the skull, this at least strange man, or as he was called at work – a "defective connoisseur."The Suite on Callistratus Ippolitovich, also did not differ anything remarkable, except in a rather old-fashioned cut and not matching our hero size.In other words, he was catastrophically old and hopelessly small, for a very simple reason – the deceased dad of junior accountant, Navalyaev-father, wore things extremely neatly and was much lower than the growth of Navalyaev-son, which, in our opinion, fully explains the mismatch of the dress With the content."But it's not a Suit that colors a person, but the content of a saving accounts", "Besides, a chic suit, it's an English wool, we custome made it for your dad on the day of defense of the thesis, which later, caused a bad mood, and That's why Hippolytus Albertovich rarely wear it… "These simple truths, Navalyaeva-mother loved to repeat, tremblingly smoothing on her son the folds of memories.

A double-breasted disgrace, incomprehensible and of little pleasant color, was an outrage committed by a completely mediocre tailor, who managed not only to emphasize the unfortunate figure of Navalyaev-father, but also extend this curse to a tangible son.

So, the buttoned up jacket, did not hide the buttons of the gulf, defiantly visible between the floor, but not carrying, nor the semantic load of the external threat. The trousers, narrowed, rather wide trousers, did not touch the toes of the shoes, not reaching for them, about ten centimeters, as if to demonstrate the simple pattern of synthetic orange-blue socks. Looking at the trousers, I wanted to remove excess fabric from my hips and to grind it with my trousers, but it all disappeared without a trace, it simply lost all sense after I met the quite outstanding owner of this dilapidated dress.

There was not such a good-natured, modest and innocuous nature in the whole complex that ensures the functioning of the engineering infrastructure of various buildings in the city of Kiev, as well as creating convenience and comfort for citizens living in them, by providing them with a wide range of services. Or in other words, with the words of the immediate leader Navalyaeva, deputy. The head of the housing management office, the fictitious housing and communal services, Zinaida Potapovna Neyeshkashi, – "There is no other such fool in the housing and communal services like our Kallistratus"

Once on the street, the junior accountant squinted at the sun's rays, stretching his lips in an indescribable silly smile, lifting his puffy, carefully shaven cheeks to his small round eyes. Holding his old shabby briefcase under his arm, he pointedly adjusted his tie kis-kis, bright purple to white peas, put on a felt hat and headed up the street, to the roar of a tram of eight running from the mountain, along Leo Tolstoy to "Solominka", along The fence of the Botanical Garden. Turning to Nikolsko-Botanicheskuyu, our hero soon reached the street Tarasovskaya, where in the ninth room, in a majestic house, standing, to this day in a gloomy desolation, built in the form of a well, with two arches, his uncle lived, on the maternal line – Radion Apollinarevich Navozov-Sukhoplotsky.

Rushing uphill, he passed the seventh number, behind the iron gate of which was based "strange" military unit; The building of the Mikoyan Institute; Fire station number 4, finally arriving at the courtyard of the house number 2, where one of the Housing and Exploitation offices of the Leninsky district, the city of Kiev, who was imprudent, one day, took in his amicable ranks, Junior Accountant Navalyayev.

Kallistrat Ippolitovich, who sinned with decency, with a touch of intelligence, including punctuality, however, by qualities not just useless, but at times viewed, came to the workplace for a quarter of an hour earlier. Having seated himself behind his bulky desk, he thievishly hid a bunch of lilies of the valley in a jaunty and, pulling his armpits, began to work. Navalyayev pushed large wooden scales, the Felix machine, took out a thick folder from the drawer of the table, threw back the cardboard cover, and, moaning his finger, began to leaf through the yellow pages. Smooth columns of figures lined up in solemn order on paper and as usual pleasing the younger accountant, today did not bring him the slightest pleasure. He fidgeted in his chair, wiped his forehead and neck with a checkered kerchief, looking sideways at the door. I did not have to wait long, to the office, where besides the navalyaevsgogo there were three tables, empty, waiting, like the trotters of their riders, a woman entered, in which Kalistrat Ippolitovich immediately recognized Rubensovskaya "Sleeping Angelica" and "Venus in front of a mirror", as if descended from the canvas Right here, into the smoky, dusty little Zhikov's room. Entered, mushy, lush forms, under a blue cotton robe, rattling an empty bucket, stopped at the threshold, leaning on an old mop.

"I'm the new cleaning lady, my name is, Greta Adolfovna Raukobir [1]." She smiled, which gave Navalyayev an enthusiastic hiccup.

For him, it was not a secret, not a job, not the name, not the surname of the new employee, he found out all this in the personnel department after seeing the golden-haired Nymph, from the shores of the Baltic Sea, washing the floor in the long labyrinth of communal corridors. After meeting with such an amazing person, in the soul of many men the charming melodies of fairy-tale flutes and lutes sound, in Navalyaev's drum the drum has burst. It happened with him for the first time, except for the case at school, when the third-grade student Kallistrat Navalyaev helped the girl who had tucked her leg to take home a briefcase. Navalyaev did not arouse the interest of women, and, in truth, he reciprocated them. But Gretchen, in some special way entered his life, unnoticed, as if through the back door, illuminating his soul with the unquenchable flame of love. If so it is possible to name that feeling which has caused in Callistratus Ippolitovich an itch in the heels and acute restless fear – "And, what will my mother say?".

"Your name is delicious."

Shamefully he said.

"Do you know German?"

– Not that much, but Goethe I read in the original.

She looked with interest at the awkward figure of Navalyaev.

– Not bad for a person who only graduated from high school, or am I mistaken?

– No, that is, you are absolutely right, I studied at the colledge, but then with distinction did not defend the diploma, and at school I learned French, so I prefer Moliere.

He shyly looked down.

– And who do you forgive, do you work here?

– I work as a junior accountant.

– Yes, your prospects are illusory, to a man who owns German and French, in the sphere of the housing sector, never to rise above the bookkeeper. Do you have to be despised by coworkers?

Navalyaev shrugged his shoulders.

– Well, what are you sad, dear knight, introduce yourself to the lady.

"You are mistaken, my dear knight is me!"

A voice came from behind the cleaning lady. Greta Adolfovna was shown a tall dandy, about forty years old.

– Please love and pay, Lancelot Arturovich Ozerny, formerly a knight without fear and reproach, at the moment the chief of the plumbing team, I deal with water lakes sometimes shit, although I prefer water.

After recommending himself, the bright plumber waved his lips at the hands of the beautiful lady.

– What are you doing, I just now washed the toilets!

Gretchen wrenched her hand.

"I beg your pardon… please ignore me…"

Spitting out, Lantzelot Arturovich protested.

– What is there, so to squint, for disgrace?

The squeaky voice of the engineer for labor protection Sigismund Lazarevich Glistomorov was heard.

– You, what here, so skjazjat, for disgrace, so skjazjat, have arranged? To work, so to skye, it's time, and you, so to squeeze, giggle! It is not good, so skyeazhit, not in form, not order, so skyeat.

A small skinny, thin man with a yellow face, wearing a crumpled hat and a worn jacket, wearing a flannel waistcoat came into the room. The tumbling gates of his checkered shirt, buttoned up, did not fit a thin wrinkled long neck, which made it seem that the head was inserted in a suit hanging on a hanger, "hangers" for clothes, where there was no body.

A civil defense engineer, retired Lieutenant-Colonel Vertoprakhov Anton Kuzmich, whose incessant smoking caused the settling of such a diverse company, appeared in a cloud of smoke, scratching with polished chrome boots, into a single spacious cabinet, by the standards of that time. With fellow lieutenant-colonel, there could not be a smoking man in one room, not to mention women, so he was placed in the same room as Lovelace Ozerny, the smelling fragrant Bulgartabak, and the boring Glistomorov, who smokes a "nosogreyku" tube, with a particularly smelly self-timer, Navalyaev does not count. Kallistrat Ippolitovich not only did not smoke, he did not tolerate cigarette smoke, but to ask his opinion, especially the consent was not accepted in the friendly collective of housing management office №105.

– And now, young lady, leave the parade, men need to exchange reports about the match Dynamo – Torpedo! Verotoprakhov commanded, without even glancing at the cleaning lady who was leaving.

Discussion of the football holiday, fanned by tobacco smoke, quickly became bored, indifferent to the sporting achievements of his native country Navalyayev, besides, the neride of the Baltic waves, which he did not lose hope of contemplating as often as possible, entered the palace of his interests. Kallistrat Ippolitovich did not understand what exactly he wanted from Greta Adolfovna, his indecisiveness was omnipresent, all-encompassing, and even in dreams, Navalyayev was bashfully frustrated, depriving him of the opportunity to dream.

He pulled off the armlets, and, as usual, unnoticed, slipped out into the corridor. In the shadows of the housing management office labyrinth, he noticed the once slender outlines of the outlaw of his own peace, and darted into the open toilet door. Leaning against the wall covered with peeling tiles, he held his breath, reveling in the sweet sounds of a squeegee crocheting on the plank floor.

At this moment, bent over the plain of the floor, the newly-made cleaner felt the touch of someone's palm, the cotton that shook the soft tissues of the bottom of her back.

– So you are our new cleaner, that you came to the hero city of Kiev from far Kaliningrad?

Greta Adolfovna, dropping the mop, instantly straightened herself, as if from a snake bite, so that her blond hair, which had emerged from under the colorful kerchief, closed large gray eyes. Wiping her hands on the dressing gown, she removed the disobedient curl, looking with interest at the fat man, who so unceremoniously greeted the new subordinate.

– And I'm Yukhim Ostapovich Kakun, the head of the housing office, and therefore, your immediate supervisor.

As a result of the desperate attempts to hide from her intrusive gaze the bare knees, Greta's chest swayed like a cold on a shaky table, which only increased the interest of the chief. His small, red eyes from regular drunkenness, felt the lush forms of the guardian of purity.

"So it's from Kaliningrad…"

Mentally, he said, stripping the appetizing lady with a glance.

"… but do you know, my dear, that the city of Kaliningrad is named after the grandfather of Kalinin Michal Ivanich, the" All-Union headman "?

Not without a shadow of superiority asked Kakun, as if offering an illiterate cleaner to continue the conversation, the history of her native land, in a more intimate atmosphere. Suddenly, Greta Adolfovna took a proud posture and said ironically:

– If you started talking about Kaliningrad, the capital of East Prussia, called up to 1255 – Twangste, and then, until July 4, 1946, Koeningsberg, then you can hardly tell me something new.

Like a razor, she slashed by the arrogance of Yukhim Ostapovich.

– Besides, I arrived not from Kaliningrad, but from Sovetsk to your information, the former Tilsit, a city where, in the middle of the Neman river, in 1807, in a tent, on a raft, a peace treaty was concluded, between Napoleon and Alexander the First, after The war of the fourth coalition. Are you interested in the details or may be the key issues discussed by the emperors?

And without that the red eyes of the chief were bloodshot, turning into two ripe cherries.

– You are a citizen do not forget! What there Prussia?! What emperor?!

The blood struck in the face of the junior accountant sitting in the ambush. Realizing that there was a scandal in the air, he, suppressing fear, even shutting his eyes, rushed, as if in the last battle, to the embrasure of the enemy pillbox.

"I kindly ask forgiveness for me, Ostap Yukhimovich, but the situation is really the case, that the comments of the esteemed Greta Adolfovna take place,… and they are also embodied in the annals of world history, which I had the honor to convince myself…

"Why do you allow such a tone to talk to your subordinates?" We do not have a slave system! Who is the communist representative in your housing and communal services office?

Quietly looking around, Kakun, with a quick step, sometimes lightly shifting to a raucous, semi-natural pace, forgetting about the aggravated arthritis, rushed to the door to his own reception room.

An awkward silence hung in the space of the dim corridor. Wanting to fall through the earth, hiding his pretty dignified dignity there, Navalyayev did not dare to raise his eyes to the fearless cleaner.

– Well, what are you, Callistrat Ippolitovich, do not worry…

– And I will not think about it!

Suddenly, firmly pronounced Navalyaev, struggling to get out of the pre-stupor state.

"On the contrary, I have the honor to ask you to be indulgent… Well, how about… letting you go home, at the end of a day's work?"

At eighteen o'clock, at the hour when all the employees of housing and communal services office, like the inhabitants of a ravaged anthill, begin to randomly run through the communal labyrinths, who are looking for a company that promises idle entertainment in the company of a bottle of port wine "three axes"; And who hastens to collect information on the invisible abundance of products, fruits of the gastronomic and meat and dairy industry of "developed socialism", in nearby shops, Navalyaev flung himself into the courtyard, carefully packing a bouquet of lilies of the valley. His awkward silhouette, shifting on flat feet, grew at the turn, under the windows of his native enterprise, waiting, like a sprinter shot a starting pistol.

Lieutenant-Colonel Vertoprakhov Anton Kuzmich, as usual, with ostentatious secrecy, put several folders in the fireproof cabinet with useless documentation and pointed meaningfully, chewing a cigarette:

"Well, comrade officers, we'll look at the advance, but for the present we are out of reach, so I propose" Tears of Michurin ", for lack of money, a couple of bubbles, and in" Botanica ", in the bosom of nature?

– I, so to squeeze, I do not see any obstacles, so as not to drink, so to squeeze.

Clapping his hands, with a fuse, supported the Glistomorov. Both engineers looked inquiringly at the window-glazer, Ozerny, the only applicant who could not break the classical number of participants, while drinking hot drinks. Lancelot Arturovich's face was clouded by alarming suspicions, he was not looking up, watching Navalyaev, handing Gretchen smiling, a wilted bouquet.

"And he's a walker… but you can not tell."

The brigadier of the plumbers whispered soundlessly.

– Do not understand?

Lifting his eyebrows, Vertoprakhov snarled suspiciously at the betrayal.

– You are my friend, so skjazyat, uchavstvuete in disgrace, so skjazyat?

– With pleasure!

Smiling, Ozerny answered, pulling out of his pocket a pack of "Opal."

– Let's smoke, and across the road, opposite the "fire", there and take.

The voices of Verotoprakhov and Glistomorov had already subsided into the corners of the corridor, when the brigadier's stern gaze rested on a corner above his own desk, full of pictures from foreign journals.

On the peeling, poisonous-green wall hung a glossy sheet, where a herd of strange Mustangs, driven by dashing guys in broad-brimmed hats, rooted in the saddles of sapping horses, raced across the red land of the Grand Canyon, picking up poles of dust. He sternly looked at the sleek, athletic cowboy athlete, in a red shirt smoking only Marlboro cigarettes and intuitively hating him, this capitalist myth, and, moving into the smoking room, whispered on the run:

– Nothing, we'll see, who will win!

At this time, enjoying the aroma of withered lilies of the valley, Greta Adolfovna, accompanied by a seizing, then one or the other, Navalyayev, passed the colonnade of the gate of the Botanical Garden.

– "Where do you live, Callistrat Ippolitovich?"

– – I live here in the street Stepan Khalturin, the right word, it's an amazing place, it was inhabited by famous people, famous not only in our city, but all over the world. Here, once, the remarkable Karl Christiania, who was subsequently known for having broken the square in front of our red university, the present Shevchenko Park, arranged gardening. It was a pleasure to live such gentlemen as Mikhail Dragomanov, Iosif Yasinsky, in the three-story house number 9, lived the family of Grushevsky. Here the artist and architect Vasily Krichevsky, writer and publisher Yury Tishchenko, poet Alexander Oles worked. Still a schoolboy lived on Pankovskaya, in the eighth issue, Maxim Rylsky; And in the tenth, just in front of my house, the world-size, historian Eugene Tarle. Here, if you want to know, at the corner of the Nikolsko-Botanicheskaya, materials were prepared for the first journal on philosophy in the Russian Empire, the "Philosophical Three Month", published with the money of the university professor, Alexander Kozlov. And this is not all the list of interesting facts connected with Pankovskaya Street.

– – Pankovskoy?

– – Yes, so the street was called until the summer of 1939, then it was renamed, and in my subjective opinion, it is completely unsuccessful.

– Disintegrating beads of historical facts associated with the glorious Kiev, the Vladimir Cathedral, which reminded of itself with a copper alarm, about Fundukleyevskaya – Lenin street, Bibikovsky Boulevard, and now Shevchenko Boulevard, they reached the metro station "University".

– – So I'll take you there?

– – But I live on Nivki, and it's not close.

– – It does not matter! I'm a man.

– A strange smile slipped over the woman's lips.

– – I see.

– Somehow absolutely doomed she said.

– "Well, then, let's go, if you insist."

– On the steps of the escalator, they descended into the womb of the Kiev subway. The noise of the wagons flying through the dark tunnel, did not allow to continue the conversation. Finally they went to the Nyvky station, where they boarded the twenty-sixth trolleybus. After quite a long time, the International Square appeared behind the windshield.