Music Teacher

1

The long autumn ended on a gray December morning. For one night, the city turned grey. And this gray hair at once erased the remains of rain-washed foliage from stiffened trees, slippery roofs and rugged sidewalks. By lunch, the snow fell, instantly filling the kitchen window.

- From you please, - complained to herself the woman Manya, - I have not yet got the boots, and even rash.

She climbed onto the table and, holding her right hand to the refrigerator, her left slammed the window. Then she bent her knees and leaned on the stove, slipped into the slippers spread on the floor. Throwing a crumpled parsley into the boiling borscht, she slapped down a long, half-dark corridor past the neighbors' rooms to the pantry. The cat rushed from under her feet, and the woman Manya, awkwardly stumbling, shouted into the void: “I can tolerate this black creature!” It's all the same that the doormat is lying, that it is! Holding a bad look dissolved in the dark animal, she felt the switch and in the dim light of the dust bulb began to rumble the contents of suitcases and boxes. The boot's butt got stuck in the suitcase slot. Baba Manya pulled her shin. The boot dutifully jumped into his hands. From the surprise, she lost her balance, hurting her shoulder on a joint. The annoyance demanded a way out. Slamming her boot into the next door a couple of times with her heel, she shouted: “Bring an animal – keep it with you!” Are normal people going to get this ugly? After waiting for the silence, she added, inflamed: “Maybe you don’t hear, so I can do it louder!” The door opened, and the woman Mania, clinging to her whole body, fell on the chest of Samson Petrovich, wrapped in a wool, striped sweater.

Oh, Senechka, you're at home," she sang, "but I'm thinking, maybe you can come out and clear the snow. See what's going on?

- Well, yes, of course - Samson Petrovich accepted the rules of the game - I thought why you are so anxious. There's nothing to clean the snow. The shovel seems to have been expropriated. You've been complaining yourself recently. By the way, you We, Maria Andreevna, have not yet crossed. My name is not Seneca. How many times can I say that?

- Oh, my God, how much fee, how much fee. I just don't see why. Why can’t you say in human language – stole a shovel! No, you have to show your learning.

As a duck rolling over, Baba Manya scrolled into the kitchen, and Samson Petrovich, annoyed by the completely unnecessary conflict, took a thick, note-filled briefcase, pulled a jacket – a hood over his head – and quietly slammed the door behind him. Wet snow burned his face, clogged under a carelessly wrapped scarf. Samson Petrovich pulled a stinging lightning and hurriedly walked to the subway. He was irritated by the weather, passers-by blinded by flying snow, the need to drag to class, the doom of returning to an uncomfortable room.

Samson Petrovich settled in a communal apartment two months ago, after the divorce, having exchanged a three-room apartment on the Flying. His wife and daughter moved to Izmailovo, and he moved to an old two-storey house near Kuznetsky Bridge. The center was important. The right students lived there, and the music school, the place of main work, was in several stops. But a month later, when Samson Petrovich settled in a new place, it suddenly turned out that the house was being demolished. Residents from the second floor immediately moved out, preferring separate housing in new buildings to a leaky roof and an almost constant lack of hot water. And Samson Petrovich, Baba Manya and the Frunzes, who had moved from Moldova, stubbornly hoped for “justice” and sent joint petitions to the relevant authorities on a weekly basis. No response. Utilities bills stopped coming, too. The Moldavians assumed that the address of the house no longer existed; this was the case in Chisinau when, after the earthquake, their private housing was designated for demolition. But the fact that the house remained standing, and even managed to exchange it for a room in Moscow, reassuring them in the current situation. Nevertheless, the fuss of Moscow was tiring, the gray autumn sky was depressing, and therefore, having received an invitation to the wedding of relatives, they happily drove home in November. Since then, from time to time, they have been reminded of themselves with canisters of home wine, which their acquaintances of the conductors of the Moldova train delivered directly to the apartment, and Baba Manya exhibited strictly in size along the wall.

Samson Petrovich found the subway building left behind.

I didn't want to come back, and he did.spassing by

He turned to Petrovka and then left to Stoleshnikov, where the wind for some reason felt much less. In the entrance, he breathed, then for a long time knocked down the sticky snow, stomping shoes on the tile floor and warmed himself, pressing his hands against the warm battery. The door was opened by a sleeping Angela, and it was immediately clear to Samson Petrovich that he was not expected.

- “We thought you wouldn’t come in this weather,” she said. - The kid's tired after school. He's asleep now. I don't feel like waking up. She moved impatiently from foot to foot; red fur poms swung to beat.

- Probably, the neighbor forgot to tell you that you called, said Samson Petrovich, breathing on his blue hands.

- I didn’t call, Angela said without a shadow of remorse, before I had time, and I was sure that you wouldn’t come. She tried to make a smile, but it turned out a smile. - And I'm not paying for class. He wasn't there. Come on Saturday, three.

Red pom-poms were hypnotized and did not allow Samson Petrovich to respond as he wished.

- Maybe we'll have tea while we're sleeping? he suggested, hoping to warm up a little.

- Excuse me, Samson Petrovich, but my husband is about to come from work, and we are teasing, Angela began to irritate. Come on Saturday, if that’s the case.

She shrugged her shoulders and stared at the front door. Samson Petrovich, without saying goodbye, left.

 2

Stoleshnikov was empty, but customers fussed in the deli – “thrown away” Finnish candy. Pushing into the queue, Samson Petrovich felt he was hungry and headed home, but the prospect of dinner in the room - with the TV or the grumpy woman Manei in the kitchen - forced him to go to Arfa. He ate there quite often, ordering the same thing - a schnitzel with finely poked fried potatoes and gray crispy bread. Fried potatoes are a favorite, they have never eaten. Mom cut it big and cooked it under the lid, adding water for softness. Katya, his wife, on the contrary, shrugged with straw and roasted to a semi-burnt state. And Baba Manya brought neat slices in butter to a golden color and then, like an accent, poured finely sliced garlic with herbs into the pan. At that moment, Samson Petrovich always came out of the kitchen - he felt that he could not resist this most delicious smell in the world and asked for lunch. And Grandma Mania, who knows what mood she's in. To buy - will treat, but with taunt, with mockery. And the humiliation in this world and without the woman Mani enough; no potatoes are not worth it.

Take his name, Samson. Now nothing, people are only politely perplexed - eyebrows house. And in school, the passage was not given, either in the usual or in the musical. In music, perhaps, even more insulting teased, because with knowledge of the case. Samson and Delilah, who doesn't know? And the funny thing is that they awarded him this name in honor of the same opera hero whose part his father performed in the chamber theater. It was only then that the mother accidentally learned that her father had an affair with the theatrical Delilah, and realized that the scenic passion and sincerity, taken by the audience and critics for acting, had a slightly different reason. But the name was given, and at first his parents did not agree to change it, and then, after sixteen, he did not want to change it, on principle.

Although the name cost him a concert career. In seventh grade, his friend, Levka Milstein, in class, for fun, cut off a strand of hair, on the back of his head, right in the center. - Here it is, the power of the hero, in my hands. Class was crying. Levka spent five minutes revelling in his own wit and five more with national fame. And then they got into a fight, and Samson Petrovich broke his pinky when he sealed Levka against the wall. The finger grew together somehow unsuccessfully, and I had to forget about the concert career. From the dream there was only a photo in an elegant frame, on which the venerable conductor shakes the hand of a nine-year-old stocky boy with curly blond hair, and the orchestrators, standing, applaud the young talent. In fact, looking at this photo, Samson Petrovich felt no regrets about the failed tours, unheard applause, unheard awards, and at the same time – countless hours not spent behind the instrument in the endless search for ever-elusive perfection. But when it came to his work in the music school, he in a philosophical manner, inadvertently, much significantly hinted at fateful accidents that actually turn out to be banal laws. In other words, he was quite satisfied with working with children – not very responsible, sometimes monotonous, but stable. Most importantly, Samson Petrovich felt in his place. He, however, did not like academic concerts and was irritated, listening to the third time in an hour the same played sonatina Clementi or the study of Cherny. But the daily routine, on the contrary, calmed, gave dimension and significance to each day lived.

Unlike many teachers, he was equally patient with talented students “with a future” and those who played “for themselves”, for which he was especially appreciated by his parents, recommending to friends and acquaintances. He preferred children with mediocre abilities. Gifted people were always with a fool, and instead of just teaching, it was necessary to constantly delve into their mood, adapt to a difficult character, so that God forbid, not to offend their vulnerable souls - the result of spoiling, as Samson Petrovich believed.

With two bets and private lessons, he believed he was providing for his family and therefore did not work during the holidays. But Katya thought otherwise. She constantly put him as an example of Lyovka, who earned much more by hacking and, in addition to a car and a dacha, could afford to take his wife on vacation twice a year. Despite numerous attempts, Samson Petrovich never managed to convince his wife that not all musicians can play by ear like Lyovka. And that he could not do it, not because he did not want to or was lazy, but because it is impossible to learn. According to Katya, with her specific thinking as a civil engineer, a musician should be able to play everything and always; the notes are the same, especially since there are only seven of them. In addition, she believed that the profession of music teacher is suitable for women, and male teachers are good only in the professorship. On this occasion, Katya and her mother-in-law had sharp skirmishes, which over the years grew into a purulent abscess of principled disagreement. The abscess broke through a grandiose scandal in the presence of Lyovka, in whose face her mother-in-law threw a contemptible one - labukh! He added, “I could have been a second Gilles.” But Katya was not convinced, and at the site of the boil there was a scar, inflamed every time it came to a vacation or a large purchase.

However, the reason for the divorce was not these differences, but the sudden death of the mother-in-law. A man went down, in a bathrobe and slippers, to the first floor in a deli and did not return. Died in line at the cash register from a heart attack. With a pack of Vologda oil and a stick of servelate in his hands. While ineptly provided assistance, while they figured out how to call an ambulance, while the head took out the unpaid deficit from the blue mother-in-law's hands, she stopped breathing. After the hectic funeral and unnecessary, painful memorials, it became clear that it was she, mother-in-law, her ability to say the right words at the right time, as well as the ability to remain silent, created a sense of family and home peace. It turned out that it was she who was interested in the routine news of Katina’s warehouse projects and simple secrets of her granddaughter’s childhood love affairs. It was her advice that helped Samson Petrovich peacefully coexist in a purely female school team, without being involved in the underwater currents of petty grievances and intrigues. Now, joint dinners and Sunday dinners, during which family problems were calmly listened to and discussed, became an occasion for clarifying the relationship, and any topic was another step towards misunderstanding and rejection of another opinion. After three months, without quarrels and quarrels, they separated.

At first, Samson Petrovich lived with Levka. In principle, he lived there quite well; a separate room in a huge apartment, where no one was shining before his eyes. And communication, in principle, there was no special time. After school and private lessons, Samson Petrovich came late. At the sound of the front door opening from the family bedroom, Levkin’s head popped open: “Oh, it’s you, hello.” We're kind of going to bed here. Nearby there was a wrinkled face of Marina. Holding her shirt strap, she said affectionately, "Samson, there's dinner on the table and fruit in the fridge." You have to eat. Okay? Then they both hid behind the door until morning. Levka married early, while still studying at the conservatory, but Marina did not get pregnant, which did not lead them to despair, but, on the contrary, forced them to solve the problem even more actively.

Samson Petrovich was genuinely happy when it was possible to sign documents and move to his room. He carried books, notes, a sofa and a piano, which he occasionally played in the absence of Baba Money. It seemed to him that serious music caused her, if not class hatred, then irritation, and that she regarded his play not as a necessary component of a profession or at least a shortening of time, but as a show off by education and a deliberate opposition of intelligence to its simplicity. So today, what does it have to do with learning and a cat that was not lucky enough to be born white and fluffy?

3

Baba Manya finished her fried potatoes. I've had enough, but don't throw it away. Bread crust collected butter potato and garlic crumbs. I washed the plate – it’s amazing that the water and heat have not yet been turned off. It finally got dark outside the window. The lanterns lit in the dim winter light. From the pharmacy opposite hastily came out the last customer and immediately merged with his embrace drenched night.

- And where does this pianist wear, thought the woman Manya. Does he need so much money to keep up with the bad weather? No, I don't want you to sit in the warmth, have a potato with salted tomatoes to talk about. Wherever he goes, he squeamishes with such simple dishes. Just want to offer to try, so he wrinkles - you see, smells of garlic - and comes out of the kitchen - say, the plebeian spirit does not tolerate. And then he chews the sausage in the room and shares it with his cat. Maybe her father was right when he didn’t let her marry a musician.

They met at a trade school; their ensemble played at the evening. She stood by the wall, modest, in a dress embroidered, pale, legs strong, slim, not what now. And he played the saxophone, and he kept looking at her. He is fashionable like this; jacket in a cage with false pockets, trousers trophy, bright tie, oblique bangs on the eyes. I came over at half-time, met him. Then I saw you home. We walked around the house for a long time. She was interested in him, and he was with her, who knows. I guess she just liked it. Simple, unkissed, not like these uninhibited girls - with curls from under meningitis hats and eyebrows. She was ashamed of her friends when she said something wrong. They will, you fool. It's better to listen in silence, maybe you'll learn. She went to the conservatory to all sorts of cabbages, concerts. Life was boiling there, not like in her college. Three months later, he came to their house for lunch. Mom marinated the mushroom, cooked the jelly with a pig - at least throw it through the roof - so she said when she froze well.. And he spent the whole evening praising urine apples, refused mushrooms - disgusting, they say. My mother was offended, but did not show her appearance. And my father poured all his vodka, but did not get drunk, but only frowned. And he kept quiet. He got angry. And as the door behind the guest closed, she hid in the kitchen - she knew there would be a scandal. But the father did not even raise his voice, sat down on a chair and said deafly: “I don’t want to see this dude in our house again.” He will always be a stranger. You heard, mother, he called the jelly cold, he disdained mushrooms. Then he turned to his daughter: Is this musician hoping to feed his family with his pipe? Or is he going to sit on my neck? ?

And she listened, because she understood that her father was right, that he would always be a stranger in their family, and she wouldn't take root in him. And yet I could not stand it, a year later, on a winter Sunday morning, I came to congratulate my birthday. He opened the door, found out, was surprised, and from behind the shoulder the girl appeared asleep, broke.

- Who's that? - I asked automatically, stoned with a premonition of the answer.

- Wife. I got married. Yesterday was the wedding. You want to come in.

The voice itself is gentle, happy. He talks to you, and he looks and smiles at his young wife. She muttered the proper words, said goodbye, and for a long time she sat on the stairs, staring at one point, clutching an ungiven gift in a sweaty hand. And she wept with evil tears, ashamed of the preserved one, for whom chastity is unknown. I knew there would be no more humiliation in her life than that.

A couple of years ago in TSUM I came across them - openwork stockings were chosen. He slipped his eyes, didn't recognize. And good. She now looks much older than her years, not that his wife is thin, spinning, with a fashionable hairstyle. Apparently, all that is missing in life is openwork stockings with an arrow on skinny legs. And he is youthful, elegant, well-dressed, well-groomed. Seems to be a good feeder.

She doesn't need it either. Everything is on the table, everything is on the table, and more. True, the apartment in the communal apartment is the one that the parents got, but the room is huge in the center of the city. And that family life didn't work out, so there are so many divorcees around. It's my fault, too. The mother then took to the gypsy, to guess. She advised - you will sit and wait for the prince, you will remain in girls. Go find your happiness. It's not far. She started looking like mushrooms. Really, I didn't have to go far. Under the first bush I found a toad named Edgar. It is just amazing how his name tricked up did not correspond to a simple appearance; on a flat face, a duck nose, and cunning eyes under long, maiden eyelashes. But quick, businesslike. He was a vegetable store manager. I put it there too. Just drinking. Well, she doesn't mind drinking a drink or two herself, but her pension won't allow her to drink. So she divorced as soon as her father, his drinking companion, died. Well, at least the son is not in his grandfather and not in his father - intelligent, calm, non-drinking. In the North he works as a foreman, there he married and gave birth to a grandson. Only she hasn't seen her granddaughter yet. For the past five years, he has been asking to stay in Moscow on the way from vacation for at least a couple of days. No, they say it's a shame to lose a day at sea, especially a child. The Kremlin will have time to see and meet my grandmother. And she would have fried him pancakes, and cooked soups-borshchi-porridge, and in the section that she drove, and in the theater-zoo... You sit alone in a dark kitchen and don’t want anything. Even turn on the lights. Why? What in the light, what without it - the darkness of life.

4

The front door opened. The cold outdoor air slid down the hallway parquet and dissolved into the warmth of the kitchen. "From, I finally came. Apparently, all the money today earned, - thought the woman Manya, - maybe at least come to drink tea. I would open the lingonberry jam.”

Samson Petrovich hung a wet jacket on his chair. He really wanted hot tea, but there was no light in Baba Money's room, which meant she was sitting in the kitchen again, in the dark, saving electricity. It is better to wait than to choke on tea under her judgmental, always dissatisfied look. Samson Petrovich poured himself some cognac, opened the piano and, sitting on a chair, played half-sound. It wasn't even a game, it was a play. So, the children's repertoire is Tchaikovsky's "Autumn Song", with its questioning and dreary quarts. Then I started something more melancholy, to the mood. But he stopped abruptly, catching a rustle outside the door. I really did. Found a place and a time.

- That's it," he shouted, "the concert is over, don't worry.

The rustle stopped, but someone was standing outside the door.

- “Here is a harmful grandmother,” thought Samson Petrovich with annoyance, and the evil opened the door.

Baba Manya sat under the door, in a folding chair, with her elbows in her knees and her head in her open hands.

- Well, what did I cry out," she said reproachfully, brushing a tear from her nose, "maybe you should buy tickets, so tell me.

Samson Petrovich choked with unspoken irritation and a light vodka overcook in the nose.

- I thought that kind of music wasn't your type.

- And you think less, it will be healthier, Baba Manya peacefully advised. - Play something else, I'll listen.

- “I don’t want to,” replied Samson Petrovich, still waiting for a trick.

- Well, I don’t want to, then maybe we’ll go have tea, – suggested Baba Manya, – I cooked jam in the summer, here in the first blizzard and open, we’ll take a sample.

And marmalade is branded, apple, bought on Kirovskaya.

- Hot tea would be good, Samson Petrovich surrendered. I haven't eaten homemade jam in a long time. And if you cook jam as well as fry potatoes, then I'd love to.

- Baba Manya stared at Samson Petrovich. - Potatoes? You can't stand the garlic spirit.

- Why do you think, Samson Petrovich wondered. What a potato without garlic!

- Or maybe mushrooms with vodka? - Suddenly asked the woman Manya herself.

- No, this is without me, Samson Petrovich wrinkled. - I don't like mushrooms.

- But can you explain why people like you disdain mushrooms? – squinted the woman Manya. - I have long wondered where such intellectual cleanliness comes from?

- It's a common difference in taste, not cleanliness. I personally don't like them. Slippery, gray. No vegetable, no fruit, no meat. So,

Intelligence or education has nothing to do with it. How do you feel about the Finnish candy? I bought a box here.

- Blue with gold, or what? – in business inquired the woman Manya.

- Like them.

- Ah, before, imports could still be bought, but now everything is for free, but on occasion. Five years ago, during the Olympics, it was a good time. All suspects were deported for a hundred and one kilometer, as under Stalin. You don't have business trips, you don't have local schmucks, you know, hippies. The streets are empty and the shops are dense. And saira to you with pyramids on the windows, and Korean on the counter, and that drink is wonderful, Fanta was called. And then these, she pointed her finger to the side of the door blocked by canisters, came again, and like a ball to roll.

- And what to talk about with her, thought Samson Petrovich, not knowing how to continue the conversation.

- Tell me, Samson Petrovich," asked the woman Manya, biting off the top of the candy and looking at its contents, "why do you have such an intricate name? I never heard that before.

- It's not hard, it's low. Biblical names are out of fashion now.

Is it biblical, or is it Jewish?

- Why? Not necessarily. These are the names mentioned in the Bible, in the Old Testament. Samson is a historical figure, a hero. He was endowed with extraordinary power. Then, a few thousand years ago, as now, the Jews were at war with the Philistines, the Palestinians of today. Samson’s purpose was to help his people defeat these Philistines. Samson fought them alone, killing them by the thousands until he fell in love with Delilah, a Philistine. For a good fee, pretending to be in love, she found out Samson’s secret, put him to sleep, and cut off the sleeper’s hair, because it turned out that it was in them his strength. Then the enemies gouged out his eyes and put him in prison. Once they brought him to a pagan temple, they wanted to mock. But he did not take into account that his hair had grown a little by then. And Samson asked to take him to the pillars on which the building was held, resting his hands in them and destroying the temple, burying in it both himself and his enemies. Well, I was named after him, or rather, after the hero of the opera "Samson and Delilah". My father was an opera singer, performing his part.

- Did this prostitute also die with everyone? asked the woman Manya thoughtfully.

- Also.

- Well, that's good. Her name should be removed from the title. They were glorified on equal terms. So your name makes sense. So I won't call you Senea again.

- Well, thank you, - smiled Samson Petrovich, - only I have a question for you: "How old are you, why do you call yourself a woman?"

Baba Manya turned red with embarrassment. “The tea is very hot, straight boiling water,” she said, wiping off the steam. - I'll take another candy, or I didn't try it.

Noticing the confusion of Baba Mani, Samson Petrovich regretted his question. “I’m not in my business,” he thought. He's going to go away and he'll be right.

- Your question, of course, is not tactical, but I am kind today, said Baba Manya, gently licking the filling from her finger. Honestly, I don’t remember who or when I was called that. It's kind of self-made. My husband divorced, my son grew up. What is in vain to buy outfits, manicures-hairstyles to do - only to waste money. It's not like you're in openwork stockings. Between the boxes and the barrels, life passed. Invoices, audits, reports. Then I see it's time for retirement. Could've done more work, why? The pension is good, enough for everything. Of the people I worked with, there was no one left. And the young came, with a high education, so for them I really am a woman. Well, that's how it goes, mania's woman. And used to. Don't you look like a grandmother yet? she asked in a deliberately indifferent tone.

- So you, it turns out, and sixty not yet, – calculated Samson Petrovich.

- Fifty-six to me, - dryly clarified the woman Manya and began demonstratively collecting dishes from the table.

5

On Fridays, Samson Petrovich worked from lunch and therefore got up late, waiting for Baba Manya to go about her business. Then it was possible to take a shower, wash laundry, drink coffee brewed in a turquoise and enjoy the thunderous silence, disturbed only by your steps, your presence, your own life. But this morning they could not sleep – they persistently scratched the door, and the creaking voice of Baba Mani finally woke Samson Petrovich, destroying the anticipated Friday bliss with the remnants of sleep.

- You would have cleaned the snow, Senechka..., Samson Petrovich, said Baba Manya, the front door would not be opened, it was dead. We're not going out until spring.

- So there is nothing to clean, Samson Petrovich snapped without opening his eyes.

- And I built a shovel last night, Baba Manya reported with a hissing whisper. I would have cleaned it myself, but I can’t open the door. .

- Why should one wake a man at eight in the morning, and even on his day off?

- You can't get out of the entrance.

The chanting of the flip-flops became barely audible. Samson Petrovich realized that there was no one to argue with - the woman Manya hid in her room. It was not possible to take a shower - the bathroom was hung with freshly washed colorful bike coats and night shirts in polka dots. Devil, Samson Petrovich hastily washed and, disdainfully spreading dripping rags on his head, his foot opened the bathroom door. There was a shovel next to the door, in the corner. Samson Petrovich noticed with amazement that its metal part was a road sign attached with wire to a mop stick.

“Maria Andreevna,” shouted Samson Petrovich into the loud void of the corridor, “What are you doing?” That's the kind of thing you can put in jail for. You didn't see that sign when you pulled it off?

- And at least I could see, - said the woman Manya, looking out of the room, - what, I had to yesterday, in a snowstorm, shopping run, looking for a shovel? What kind of sign is that important?

- It's a speed limit sign. Where was he hanging at the corner? And behind that turn is the descent. And now the people will not slow down, so an accident can happen. And that will be your direct fault. Do you even understand that?

- Oh, Samson, it's like they were looking at those signs. They go where they want and how they want with and without signs. Well, in extreme cases, a new one will hang - do not become poor. You're not gonna give me away, are you? I got another one here, round, right at the entrance to the yard - he was already hanging out on snot - I covered them with a barrel of salted tomatoes. They'll get cold in the barn.

- Is that a brick?

- No, you don't have to hang bricks on me. I haven't had enough bricks yet. I can use iron, but what are bricks for?

A brick is a sign that forbids entry into the courtyard. You stole him, too?

- Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh - I didn't look at the picture very much. I was attracted to the configuration. And I'll tell you, I've got the right eyeglass, exactly the size of the barrel.
- And now you want to set me up, Samson Petrovich enraged. Is that right? You'll be eating salted tomatoes, and I'll pay fines!

- What are you talking about, the woman was scared. I never thought of setting you up. It was snowing, it was cold, you went somewhere, the Moldovans disappeared altogether, there was no one to help. So I built it out of material. Look, Samsonczyk, you're gonna clear the snow fast, and then I'm gonna take a shovel and buy a new one. Only now I have to leave. If I don't run to the grocery store in the morning, these visitors will sort it out. So come on, do some physical work. It's good for you.

- I know, what It is useful, said Samson Petrovich through his teeth, to find a way to abstract from you.

- Oh, scared, what a word! sneered baba Manya. Here, too, an intelligent man lived, spoke all sorts of clever words and played chess with himself. So while he was engaged in this masturbation, his wife with Pashka, our locksmith, corrected her undermined female health. And then she dumped that chess player, and you settled in their apartment. Your wife must have sent you away too.

Seizing the shovel, Samson Petrovich roared down the corridor, and Baba Manya again fled to her room, muttering a word unfamiliar to her, a long, expletive-like word.

The snow frozen overnight did not succumb to the bending iron of a homemade shovel. Somehow Samson Petrovich scraped a glued, like frozen porridge, mass from the porch and paved a narrow path to the sidewalk. Behind his back, sliding, struggling to maintain balance, Baba Manya passed. Looking at her low figure wrapped in a ridiculous cat fur coat, Samson Petrovich once again regretted the day he was killed and that, in a hurry to leave Lyovka, he agreed to an unprofitable exchange, which turned into the loss of personal space and personal life.

We got the mail. Having placed a thick envelope with Murmansk address on the kitchen table of Baba Mani, Samson Petrovich called Levka.

- Look, are you busy? Why don't you stop by?

- No, I'm too lazy to get out of the house. Better you. Especially Marinka's gone somewhere.

- Okay. In half an hour I will, – agreed Samson Petrovich.

Carefully combed, unslept Lyovka opened the door. Throwing “Hi, how are you?”, Marinka returned from the store and disappeared in the kitchen.

- Let's go to the room, or what, Levka invited, cognac is good, pistachios.

- Whatever you say, replied Samson Petrovich, feeling a change in the house. Why are you sitting in different rooms?

- Nah, frowned Levka, we are now pregnant.

- Well? Finally! – Samson Petrovich rejoiced. - Congratulations!

- With what? asked Levka and smiled sarcastically.

- I did not understand, Samson Petrovich was confused.

- What is incomprehensible is that my function is fulfilled, the child is conceived, so I am no longer needed as a man. Well, nature knows such examples. Dolphins, for example, are highly developed animals, and the female, after successful mating, also loses interest in sex.

- Lyovka, what do you mean? Do you complain about the lack of sex? At least I don't care.

- So this is all in the past, Levka sighed with genuine bitterness. We've been in separate bedrooms for a week since the day she found out she was pregnant. You see, I, the fool, believed that we had love, and that the process of fucking was proof of it. And it turned out she needed me only as a male - to procreate. She used me, that’s the worst part.

“Levka, you are wrong, you are selfish,” said Samson Petrovich. During pregnancy, a woman already thinks about the child, about his safety, and from sex almost does not get pleasure. It's the law of self-preservation. You're gonna have to spend a couple of months.

- No, it's you, old man, who's wrong because you can't look forward. And I'm up there, in terms of sex, I don't see anything good for myself. After birth, it'll get worse. Don't shake the bed, you'll wake the baby. Oh, don't you understand, I'm so tired all day, and you're here with your molestation. “Don’t touch my breasts, the milk will be lost,” Lyovka said.

- Stop exaggerating. I remember having a different relationship with my ex before my daughter was born. So what?

- Yes, that's it, and what? - Levka summed up meaningfully. - Where are you and where is she?

They finished the remnants of cognac.

- So what did you want to see, what happened or so simple? – recalled Lyovka.

- Samson Petrovich is dead. It became clear that the problems associated with the stubborn woman Manei would look too petty in comparison with the universal scale of the Levkin experiences.

- No, I just came in, I haven't seen you for a long time, and there was an hour before work. All right, I'm running. Don't see me off.

6

The last student went home. It was quiet. Only from the distant class were cello sobs heard – someone stubbornly memorized the passage, repeating the same mistake. “We should come up and tell you that there is a division in the second bar,” thought Samson Petrovich. They knocked on the door and, without waiting for the invitation, a young woman entered the room. She held the hand of a ten-year-old boy.

- You are Samson Petrovich, right? she asked, and again, without waiting for an answer, exhaled.

- What is the matter? asked Samson Petrovich as he continued to dress.

- I know it's late and you're probably in a hurry, but I just want to ask you to listen to my son.

- We do not recruit children in the middle of the school year, said Samson Petrovich, and believe me, I am not saying this because I am in a hurry and want to get rid of you. In fact, I am not in a hurry at all, he added unexpectedly to himself.

- The woman was embarrassed. I know it's summer, but I've been recommended. They say you can approach any child. Mine isn't exactly normal. Everyone says he has a good musical ability, but he is...introverted. It's not easy to get along with him.

- Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to make music. Maybe it is better to give him to the sports section, eh? – smiled Samson Petrovich, winking at the child.

The woman sat tiredly on the chair and stared at Samson Petrovich from the bottom up. Under the lifeless electric light, her face suddenly aged. From the corners of the mouth, as from pebbles thrown into the water, ripples of fine wrinkles ran.

- Just listen to him. You know, he learned to play himself. The piano remains of the previous tenants. Nobody showed him how to play. And all of a sudden, you’re going to play the teacher, aren’t you, your son? she said in a begging tone, hugging the child by the shoulders.

He twitched and remained standing, looking at his feet.

             – “Here is a capricious boy,” thought Samson Petrovich, – Maybe he's waiting, Do you think I'm gonna talk him into it?            

Slightly pushed by his mother, the boy reluctantly budged.

- Well, what's your name? asked Samson Petrovich, trying to sound as friendly as possible.

- His name is Vitalik, the woman hastily replied.

- Sit down," Samson Petrovich pointed to the piano, "play something.

The boy approached the instrument and suddenly began to sweep the invisible dust from its cover with his palms. He did it frighteningly methodically, paying no attention to those present. He also concentratedly folded the notes lying on the piano into a perfectly smooth pile, opened the lid and sat on the chair, gently putting his hands on his knees. Without lifting his head, he took a chord and froze again, as if waiting or listening to something. Fake cello note pesky fly buzzing from behind the wall. Losing patience, Samson Petrovich said, "Come on, show me what you can do." The boy continued to sit, scraping something off the key. The words addressed to him hit the cotton wall of indifferent silence and, sluggishly pushed, flowed into the stuffy room space.

- Look, it turns out your mom wasted dragging you into this cold. Well, look at me. I do not bite, I do not shout, I only teach music, Samson Petrovich cheerfully rhymed, ashamed of the falsehood of unexpected verbal impromptu and his pedagogical helplessness.

The boy turned his head and raised his eyes. Samson Petrovich tried to catch his eye and realized the futility of these attempts. Trying to hide his confusion, he opened the lid of the second piano and took a couple of chords. Stopping tapping his knuckles on the chair, the boy repeated the chords without changing their sequence. Without saying a word or looking at the child, Samson Petrovich played a fragment of the first waltz that came to mind. After bowing his head and moving his lips, the child diligently repeated what he heard and again froze, safely hiding his eyes under a thick, low bangs.

- What an unpleasant, wary look, thought Samson Petrovich, not on, but through. The look is like flowing faces and objects.

As he approached the window, Samson Petrovich said, Well done! Now play something to your taste. I’m not going to look at you, I’m just going to listen.

The child again clumsily bowed his head to a slightly raised shoulder and played the same waltz, but in a different way - more lively and sloppy. Having lost the excerpt, he did not stop, as for the first time, but played it completely differently - with a different, cutting dissonances, harmony, with syncopes, it would seem absolutely inappropriate here, but in some incomprehensible way easily and naturally combined with an unpretentious, worn-out melody.

- This sounds better than in the original – fresher, more talented, said Samson Petrovich. - How does he do that? You can't learn that. If it wasn't for those gutta-percha fingers, those grinds, I'd think he was a genius.

Vitalik continued to play the same twenty bars, and with each replay Samson Petrovich grew to hate the waltz. And the boy, like a toy run by a large metal key for a certain number of turns, waited for the factory to run out, gradually quieting down and slowing down. The right hand lay on his knee, and the left continued to shake off the inaudible remnants of sounds from the wet keys.

- Vitalik," said the woman quietly but persistently, "come here.

The child dutifully approached her.

- I am not sure, or rather I am quite sure that I cannot teach such a shy child, said Samson Petrovich, hoping to avoid further explanations and objections. He turned away and focused on putting notes in his briefcase.

- It’s not shyness, the woman quietly said, it’s autism.

We need your help.

- Samson Petrovich asked, Why did you decide that I could help you? I am not a doctor, but a music teacher.

- He has a doctor. And he says music will help Vitalik become more contactable. Understand, he needs it.

- You will understand that I have no experience with such, Samson Petrovich again stumbled, looking for a word, difficult children.

- But you have intuition. You felt that he was avoiding contact, figured out to stand behind him and got your way.

- Come on, I will take you to the subway, Samson Petrovich replied evasively and clicked the switch.

7

Samson Petrovich never knew how to read in transport. Even on the subway train after a few minutes, the lines merged, and he began to nauseate. But I thought it was good.

At the transfer with him in the car came two girls – it seems, sisters – and sat down opposite. The youngest wore the same hat as his daughter; yellow, shaggy, like a bumblebee. And this one has a snow-covered bumblebee. The older the daughter became, the more strange and alienated she became. Somewhere gone is the undivided, all-accepting love that he loved her in early childhood. Strange seemed her behavior, her petty, even mercantile interests, and most importantly, the complete absence of any musical abilities. Classical music not only did not interest her, but it caused outright boredom, which she did not try to hide – she was distracted, started to fool around, or just left the room. In the eyes of the students Samson Petrovich sought and saw admiration. He wanted to believe that enthusiasm is transmitted even to the laziest, and therefore the indifference of his daughter was perceived as a desire to do evil, as a personal offense. This boy, Vitalik, seems... Even it, thanks to his pedagogical talent, he managed to pull out of the shell of loneliness. Helped, if only briefly, to overcome the tenacious fear of painful distrust. Of course, he's unlikely to call that woman. Such a heavy student will take too much time and nerves, will require energy., That's enough for three regulars. From a professional point of view, someone would be interested. But not him. Samson Petrovich remembered with dislike the boy's look. In the end, genius is also a disease, a mistake of nature. And it is better to observe it from the outside than to become aware again and again of one’s – no, not mediocrity – ordinaryity every time one comes into contact. And in general, what does he care about someone else's child who entered his life, if they spoke different languages with their own? Sometimes the daughter seemed to him too smart, defiantly unceremonious in assessments and judgments, audaciously thinking for her years. Arguing with her, he was irritated to the point of anger, recognizing the originality of her thinking, and then ashamed of his reaction and hostility, which a father should not feel for his own child.

She accepted the divorce calmly, without tears or questions. And when, after saying goodbye and taking the suitcases, Samson Petrovich headed to the door, she, passing the open instrument, poked evil fist at the keys, enjoying the extracted dissonance and painful reaction of her father.

Samson Petrovich could barely stand on his feet, slipping on the snow-covered ice. There came a woman loaded with bags. Samson Petrovich pressed against the snowdrift, yielding a narrow path trampled by rare pedestrians. The shoes got snow and began to melt, nasty flowing inside. In the gateway, either a janitor, or a tenant, broke ice, loudly mother winter, which, although late, but for Moscow services came, as always, unexpectedly.

The door to the apartment was open. In the corridor, the district Stoyanov argued with Baba Manei, dressed in poisonous green satin kimono.

- No, citizen Surkov, since material evidence was found at the place of your common residence with citizen Veselovskiy, therefore, you have a common responsibility before the law. You will be liable for theft, and for damage to the state, and for the deliberate creation of a dangerous traffic situation.atTo attract victims. Well, at least we still have conscious citizens signaling such outrages.

- Did those conscious people point to me? Maybe they were standing next to me and unscrewing this piece of iron?

- They did not stand, did not unscrew, but actually saw how your neighbor was cleaning the snow with this very tool! And your entrance is common, as is this address. I will also write a protocol for both. I don't care who planned and who implemented, so to speak.

- So look where it lies, it is a weapon, Baba Manya did not give up, at his door! And he cleaned! So he's in demand.

The precinct, puzzled by the last argument, cursed and began to draw up a new protocol. Baba Manya raised her head victoriously, but when she came across a look at Samson Petrovich standing at the door, white with anger, she suddenly took the district officer under her arm and succinctly said: Why did you get to this sign? Well, the man borrowed the iron. He didn’t make it, he made it snow. He'll be back tomorrow. You're nervous, you're wasting your time. It is better to take a canister as a souvenir - you see, the wall is standing - and go with God. ?

- So, Stoyanov cheered up, canisters, you say? So you're still stealing the diesel?

- What are you, the woman of Manya indignantly, why do we have a solarium? This is Moldovan wine, homemade. Take the canister you like, and forget this conversation.

Standing behind the back of the district officer, Samson Petrovich saw how his neck became raspberry from the disturbance. "All," he thought, "were here."

- And two can be, Stoyanov squeezed out of himself, these are from the edge, bummy?

- It is possible, - the Baba Manya answered indifferent tone - but only a sign.

You can put it back on. Samson Petrovich is not someone, but a famous musician, pianist. No need to freeze his hands. Oh, there he is, she gleefully surprised. It's so late, you're working, you're teaching the kids. You, Samson Petrovich, come in, or we've blocked the corridor, talking about nonsense. Our precinct is leaving.

Carrying the canisters carefully, Stoyanov headed for the exit. When he got to the staircase, he turned around and malignantly announced: “Yes, by the way, my wife here – she is in this... well, in general, where she works – said that after the New Year you will be evicted.” So pack up and say thank you for the warning. You will chew Olivier salad on your suitcases.

- So until the New Year there are only two weeks left, the woman Manya shouted into the gray, fuzzy back and looked confused at Samson Petrovich.

- What about...?

- How can you do that? – Samson Petrovich “Yesterday a seagull, homemade jam, and today you are doing nasty things behind your back, blame your idiotic actions on me?” You, Maria Andreevna, are a dishonest person. Let me tell you what.

- So I'm dishonest? You mean that's what you meant? Of course, we are simple people, we do not carry paper in briefcases. You musicians are intellectuals, right? I knew one. Also clean like you.

Right, my late dad hated them all. Well, Leshchenko is there, Kobzon - nothing, decent. And the rest – or drunks like Vysotsky – through vodka and died – or worthless like you.

- “You don’t know what you’re saying,” Samson Petrovich said, “you probably drank again.”

- Oh, I almost forgot - Mannya's grandmother deftly translated the topic, pretending to be deaf for a minute - your daughter called here. You never said you had a daughter. What's her name?

- Masha, Maria, Samson Petrovich automatically murmured.

- Wow, namesake, - pityed the woman Manya.

Samson Petrovich shuddered inwardly, imagining for a second that his snub-nosed, gray-eyed daughter could grow into this kind of baba Manya with beer-smelling beers hanging over his ears.

- How old is she?

- Well, twelve. Is this an interrogation? What do you care? – Samson Petrovich threw, removing his shoes whitened from moisture.

- Nothing. That's why you're alone, because you're looking for tricks, you don't believe people. I just wanted to tell you your daughter called. Missing.

- So she said that she misses, or did you just come up with it? – Samson Petrovich inquired in an indifferent tone.

- Probably misses, once called, again snapped the woman Manya.

- How long have you been communicating? asked Samson Petrovich through his teeth.

- Yeah, ten minutes. Oh, the kettle whistles. I'll turn it off. Come to the kitchen if you want.

Samson Petrovich silently drank strong, infused on herbs unknown to him, tea, sipping cranberry liquor and snacking on the hated salt pits. With Baba Manei it was convenient; no lengthy explanations were needed, one could answer in a monosyllable way or just nod and shake one’s head, thinking about one’s own. Well, that's who he is - a loser, a failed pianist, not the best husband and certainly no father.

- That's what I say," continued Baba Manya, pointing her finger into an envelope from Murmansk, "where am I going with my grandson? They will be moved to hell to the curtains - neither the section nor the music school can be reached. He will play the piano like you.

- What grandson?

- Well, I'm telling you, my grandson is coming to live with me. That in five years never visited, but the boy became ill, so remembered. I needed it right away.

- You never mentioned him.

- So first of all, is it okay to talk to you in human terms? You don't notice ordinary people. You look either through or down, as if not people, but objects around you. It's like you're on your own and everyone else is passing by. And only when pushed, you pay attention. And secondly...

- Of course, Samson Petrovich again disconnected from the chatter of Baba Mani. top-down. Like the characters of his beloved Chagall. Fly to themselves and look from there - calm and distant. From above, from our own, non-communal world, the ugly trifles of life, broken fates are not so noticeable. There are no requests, reproaches from there, and therefore you can imagine that you have nothing to do with the rest of the hustle and bustle that remains there, below. Like letting your soul fly when it's hard. Only it falls down, returns to its place, because the earth's attraction.

- And what do we do now - to the district council, or maybe directly to the Moscow Council to turn?

- What to do, what to do? To pack, replied Samson Petrovich, ringing the saucer with an empty cup.

8

The lazy March rain turned the melting snow into a mess. “Great weather to move,” thought Samson Petrovich as he approached the house.

Baba Manya stood at the entrance and led the loaders dragging a barrel of salts into the body.

- What will you do with it on the fifth floor? asked Samson Petrovich.

- I'll glaze the balcony, and all the business, - cheerfully answered the woman Manya. - Don't leave it. Are you all set up?

- I'm staying with a friend. The new room needs renovation. It seems that there lived a decent lady, PhD in ancient manuscripts, and bedbugs even crawl during the day.

- That's the same woe from the mind - we can read books, and wipe after ourselves or wash the toilet - this is below our dignity.

- Okay, Maria Andreevna, let's not fight for the last time.

I came to pick up the cat. Thanks for watching.

- Come on, not a lot of care, the woman of Manya brushed aside, taking the animal out of the cushion-filled wicker basket.

She dutifully moved into the hands of Samson Petrovich.

- Look, he said, she turned gray in the week she lived with you!

- Come on, Samsonczyk, do cats turn gray? I just bleached her a little bit. Tail and one ear. Not exactly black. She crossed my path a hundred times a day, I was tired of spitting over my shoulder.

-Munya's mother was justified.

Numb Samson Petrovich stared bluntly as a massive, With frozen brine stains, the barrel tilted from the push of a moving car and, slowly overboard, fell onto the road. Stuck in dirty snow, flattened pink tomatoes, resembled an incomprehensible variety of flowers scattered on an unwashed nylon blanket. The tin round of the road sign swirled on the rib and fell, bumping into the boot of the sloppy woman Mani.

- See, not fate, said Samson Petrovich philosophically, shaking off a sticky sprig of celery from his trousers. Well, all of you. Maybe when I see you again. The earth is round.

- Right, round. sniffed the woman Manya, nodding at the man who entered the yard.

Squinting and turning his head to the sides, he walked past them, carefully carrying a heavy, gurgling noise canister. Finding the right door with his eyes, he sighed with relief and cheerfully walked to the entrance of the empty, who had survived his last winter, at home.