- What are you watching? – the prima screamed, noticing Roman. - Why are you standing here? Get out, mediocrity, provincial! Are you still dreaming of a career in cinema?! Here's to you, not a career! - And she showed him an elegant fig, all consisting of thin seeds. “You’re good for nothing except fucking crazy old women like our little one!”

“Shut up,” Roman hissed, and his cheeks slowly turned red. - Stop immediately. Someone give me some water, she's hysterical!

- Oh, hysteria! – Dorozhkina spat at Roman, put her hands on her hips and walked towards Sofochka. -Where is the second one? Which one is at your beck and call?

Klyukin suddenly laughed loudly, heartily.

“Lerochka, you’re overacting,” noted director Verkhoventsev. He seemed absolutely calm, even indifferent, nevertheless he took a pipe from his breast pocket and began to light it. Smoking in the corridors is strictly prohibited.

- I?! It’s all of you who are underperforming because you’re not capable. They don't care! And you're impotent! All your achievements are far in the past! What are you good for, you old stump?! Just eat up the great ones - they eat, and you collect crumbs from them! You don’t have anything of your own, you steal everything, you crap! Where is the second one?! – she again flew into Sofochka. - Tell me, where?!

“I’m here,” Vasilisa squeaked from the back rows, dressed up in a blue silk dress for the occasion of a “special” performance. Her eyes were frightened.

Klyukin moved as if he wanted to take her hand.

– Did you give my dress to Nikiforova? Well, speak up! Cleaner, cleaning lady! Go to the sports club to wash the toilets and take out the buckets, you have nothing to do in the theater! She cleans toilets, does anyone know about this?! From the management?! Maybe she's dragging my dresses around the toilets?!

Vasilisa took a step back and swayed as if Dorozhkina had hit her. There was a faint ringing in her ears from horror and shame. The worst thing is that Roman heard about cleaning toilets! He heard, but didn't seem to pay any attention. He was breathing heavily against the wall, looking at the prima from under his brows.

- None of you are capable of anything! – the star continued to rage. - Because you are worthless! And you are also a nonentity! “She caught the eye of the pretty Alina Lukina, the daughter of the theater director. – Do you think your dad will push you into art? Your dad is a dirty lecher, understand?! Lord, how many times did he hint to me, how many times! “Only for me,” and she spat on the floor.

“That’s enough,” the theater director, who pushed his way towards her, said firmly. - Alina, go to your dressing room. Calm down, Valeria Pavlovna, or I’ll call the orderlies.

She laughed:

- All of you are afraid of me, all of you! Because I'm the only one telling the truth! And you are all like beetles, up to your ears in manure! Well, tell me, tell me that you didn’t call me to bed! Didn't this happen?

The director winced as if from a toothache and tried to take her hand:

- Don't touch me, freak! Do you think I don’t know that you’re doing nasty things to me behind my back?! With this bedding of yours, Lyalechka!.. She deliberately chooses the repertoire so that I don’t get anything, and everything is only for him, this mediocrity!

- It is not true! - shouted the out of breath Lyalya. She just ran into the office premises and landed right in the epicenter of the eruption. - Why do you say that?!

- Then I know! But you’re trying in vain, he’ll leave you anyway! Bro-osit! He's been hanging out with the director's daughter for a long time! I saw it with my own eyes! You are an old, useless nag!

Here the artists and employees began to move at once and screamed with sweet horror and indignation. The director and director looked at each other. Verkhoventsev carefully hid the still unlit pipe in his breast pocket, and they took the star under their elbows on both sides.

- Sofochka, water with ice from the buffet, quickly!

– Don’t touch me, remove your paws! - Valeria yelled.

- Yes, she’s gone crazy, God, she’s a damn hysterical woman!

- Guys, now the first call will be given!

- Sofochka, quickly!..

- Slap her in the face and that's the end of it!

- How are we going to play?!

Sofochka, completely red, wiping herself with both hands, trotted heavily along the corridor - everyone made way for her and averted their eyes - and found herself face to face with a tall guy, no one saw when he entered from the stairs. The guy was completely unfamiliar and out of place in the theater corridor - in an open red tourist jacket and heavy boots. Behind him loomed another, also unfamiliar.

“Hello,” said the first guy to Sofochka, who froze in front of him like jelly captured by a sudden frost. She blinked in confusion, not knowing which side to go around him; he occupied the entire corridor.

From under his brows, he looked around the crowd with lightning speed, made a decision, took his hand out of his pocket and handed it to Sofochka:

Either a sigh or a groan passed through the crowd.

“I’ve finished the game,” Verkhoventsev hissed through clenched teeth and unceremoniously pushed Dorozhkina towards the dressing room. Out of surprise, she took too big a step and almost fell. “Gentlemen of the actors, everyone is in place, the first bell will ring in five minutes!”

The director of the theater waved his hands in the manner of a housewife driving chickens from the yard into the chicken coop. The performers moved around randomly.

- Hello, hello, Maxim Viktorovich, my last name is Lukin, we are on the phone, if you remember...

“You’ll pay me for this,” Roman Zemskov said loudly to the star, went out onto the landing and slammed the door. The old, long-unwashed chandeliers on the ceiling trembled.

“Then, then we’ll figure it out,” the director cackled, “guys, everyone’s in place, in place, my dears!”

The “darlings” dispersed reluctantly, looked around and were indignant at the different voices. Valery Klyukin wanted to go after his wife, but changed his mind and disappeared somewhere.

“It’s fun here,” the capital’s director said loudly. – Do you have fun like this before every performance?

“Only in front of some,” the artist Nikiforova responded in a vindictive voice, offended by “sauce cabbage from a jar,” “when we are expecting important guests!”

“Later, everything later!..” Lukin continued to cackle.

Director Verkhoventsev shook Ozerov’s hand and pointed with his eyes at the artists, as if calling him to be an accomplice:

– Fine settings, nervous natures, you understand.

“I’m also a nervous person,” Ozerov said. – I would like to see the performance and now I’m nervous that I’ll be late. Won't I be late?

- How can you be late when everyone... is here! We have opened the director's box for you, it is for the most honored guests. Alina, girl, go to your place, we’ll discuss everything later.

- Dad, you have to fire her. Right now!

- Alina, we will solve everything. Most importantly, don’t pay attention!

“Yes,” Ozerov realized. – This is a gentleman named Velichkovsky, named Fedor, he is my... screenwriter and assistant. Fedya, where are you?

The two-meter tall fellow, who was watching the action from behind Ozerov, came forward and dangled his whole body - bowed to those gathered.

The impossibly pretty Alina Lukina looked at the assistant with lightning speed, the actress Nikiforova assessed him with a short glance over her shoulder, even the inopportunely raging prima flashed at the door of her dressing room - she glanced with one eye.

– And this is our head of the literary department, Olga Mikhailovna Vershinina.

Lyalya, whose hands were shaking violently, only nodded. She did not have the strength to get to know the newcomers properly. She thought that Romka was worried outside his door, probably even crying - he was sensitive like a child - and she couldn’t come in and console him.

Has no right.

He stopped loving her, and maybe he never loved her.

- Lyalechka, show the guests to the box, and we... will be there soon.

Lyalya was sure that the director and the chief director would now run head to head into the office, take an open bottle of Armenian cognac from the safe and sip half a glass each out of grief!

- Come with me.

She didn’t remember what their names were, these Moscow ones, neither one nor the other!..

- Shall we go straight in our outerwear? – the assistant and screenwriter inquired and pulled off his wild green jacket with the face of a lion on the back. It must be customary for people in the capital to dress like this for the theater.

© Ustinova T., 2015

© Design. LLC Publishing House E, 2015

* * *

All night long the wind entangled in the roof roared and rumbled, and the branch of an old linden tree knocked on the window, disturbing sleep. And in the morning it started snowing. Maxim looked out the window for a long time and senselessly - just to delay the moment when he would have to get ready. Large flakes swirled in the pre-dawn November snowstorm, slowly falling onto the wet, blackened asphalt, the streetlights flickered in the puddles as ugly pale yellow spots. Moscow was waiting with all its might for the real winter - so that as soon as it came, it could begin to wait for spring. Maxim loved spring more than anything in the world - green, hot, midday, drowsy, with kvass from a barrel and walks in the Neskuchny Garden - but you still have to live and live until it, and somehow you can’t believe that you will live to see it.

The light hit my eyes, my head was buzzing, as if in a transformer box. The news channel presenter - outrageously cheerful for half past five in the morning - said that "the predicted warming in European territory is slightly delayed and snow is expected." "Go to hell!" – Maxim Ozerov advised the presenter and turned off the TV.

Sashka has already run away to go on duty. Her ability to wake up in an inescapably good mood contained a shamanism that was inexplicable to Ozerov: Sashka was cheerful, light-hearted, always had breakfast with pleasure, and with her whole appearance reminded Max of a thoroughbred, businesslike dachshund who had gathered with her owner to hunt a fox. He himself couldn’t do this: in order to get up, he had to set ten alarm clocks, and in the morning, hangnails that had appeared overnight would bleed from nowhere. Ozerov was freezing, shuffling his feet, knocking corners and suffering from the awareness of his own imperfection and mental laziness. Sashka felt sorry for him and - if he happened to leave early - prepared breakfast. He always refused, but she forced him to eat.

On the table stood a lukewarm Turk with the remains of coffee and a huge antique basket with a lid, straps and a darkened brass lock. The basket was covered with a terry kitchen towel. Sticking out from under the towel was a polished thermos and the optimistic edge of a Krakow sausage. Pinned to the basket was a piece of paper with the caption: “Take with you.”

So it’s snow?.. Maxim Ozerov defiantly pulled out of the closet and looked at his red hiking jacket with ragged sleeves. Well, a down jacket, what is it?.. If it’s snowing, four hundred miles ahead, that means it’s a down jacket, and not at all the smart coat he was counting on! The predicted warming is delayed, the message is clear. That is, apparently, it should be expected by spring.

- Spring! – Maxim recited in the silence of the apartment. – The first frame is being exhibited! And noise burst into the room! And the gospel of the nearby temple! And the talk of the people! And the sound of the wheel!

It’s good that at least yesterday the wheels were checked at the service center - all four - and none of them were knocking. He got into his down jacket, threw the backpack over his shoulder, grabbed Sashka’s basket - it crunched in greeting - and walked out.

Ozerov drove his SUV from Moscow, the windshield wipers creaked strainedly, the wide tires hummed the muddy water in the rolled rut of the Volga federal highway, the headlights cut through the gray veil of snow and drizzle. Yesterday he agreed to go to the dacha to pick up Fedya - Kratovo was on the way, but now Maxim hoped that Velichkovsky would oversleep, and then he would take it out on him. After wandering around the old and very sleepy village for a bit, Ozerov finally turned onto the right street.

At the gate of one of the houses loomed a stooped figure, dressed in a poisonous green robe, monstrous canvas pants and orange fur moccasins. The image was completed by a felt bath cap pulled down over the eyes with the inscription in large letters “Steam is the head of everything.” In one hand the figure was holding a backpack the size of a small house, in the other - Ozerov almost couldn’t believe his eyes! – a bottle of champagne; A black headphone wire streamed across the hoodie, which turned out to be a snowboarding jacket with a lion's face on the back.

Fedya Velichkovsky did not oversleep.

- Mr. Director! Why didn't you signal me? We agreed that you will call! And you? Did you fool the boy? “Fedya, having somehow stuffed his incredible backpack into the trunk, unceremoniously climbed into the basket with Sasha’s supplies, sniffed the sausage appraisingly and asked with enthusiasm and even some lust: “Are there any hard-boiled eggs and fresh cucumbers?”

- Comrade screenwriter! – Ozerov yawned without unclenching his jaw. - Saryn on the kitchka! Come on, sit down!

- Good morning to you too!

The doors slammed, the petrol VE-8 roared contentedly, and the “lifted” dark green jeep with a bright orange snorkel rolled merrily along the washed-out village road.

Velichkovsky took off his fur moccasins and, tucking his legs under him like a yogi, settled into a wide leather chair.

“We’ll have breakfast in Vladimir at a gas station,” he ordered. - I've thought of everything.

Under the stupid felt hat his head itched unbearably, but Fedya firmly decided that he would never take off his hat. In any case, until the boss pays due attention to her.

“Yeah,” Ozerov responded without any enthusiasm.

No, it won’t be done with just “uh-huh”! Velichkovsky scratched himself and continued soulfully:

- You, Mr. Director, will refuel your carriage, and I - Childe Harold - will eat badly brewed coffee with sausage in dough. Having settled down at a table by the window, I will look at the fast cars flying through the fog of a black and silver suspension of snow and rain in... uh... - Fedya paused for a second, choosing the most vulgar epithet - in a barely hatched, inhospitable, gloomy morning.

- Low-grade! - Ozerov gave his verdict.

For Velichkovsky this was the second trip, he was in a great mood, loved the whole world and especially himself in it. An invitation to the expedition was tantamount to being included in the circle of initiates, a special sign that meant “you belong among your own.” Something like the highest government award and a very closed club, where only the most faithful, close and promising were accepted. Fedya was “close and promising” for only six months. And no one - not even Ozerov - had any idea how much he liked it!

Business trips were invented by Vladlen Arlenovich Grodzovsky, the general director of Radio Russia, the shark, pillar and Mephistopheles of the radio world. Several times a year, Grodzovsky, by personal decree, sent Ozerov - his main director, accomplice and right hand - to some provincial city with a theater, where Maxim masterfully and very quickly recorded performances based on Russian and foreign classics for the State Radio Fund. The productions received European awards, the district theaters received fame and a small extra income, and the radio employees received a feeling of involvement and relaxation without interruption from their native production. Work on such trips was always... a little make-believe.

And now the chief director, laureate of everything and an absolute professional, Ozerov, was confident that he could handle Chekhov’s “Duel” at the Nizhny Novgorod State Drama Theater in two days. In the worst case - for two and a half. And then - a week of official business trip, when you can hang around the city, wander through museums, go to a comedy in a theater where everyone is already there, drink beer and eat crayfish in restaurants on the embankments. This is exactly how Ozerov now imagined “several days in the life of a Moscow director in Nizhny Novgorod.”

There was no work for Velichkovsky - he was transported solely as a reward for his work. More likely even in advance. He was a good author, and Ozerov determined with an unmistakable instinct that over time he would become a very good one!.. Fedya talentedly and completely shamelessly wrote any, even the most severe situation, observed tact, knew how to ask questions, make the right impression, knew when to argue and when you have to agree, and did not forgive yourself for hackwork.

He was lazy, unpunctual, pretending to be a frontier and a cynic.

Ozerov picked up Fedya on a morning sports channel, where he worked as a correspondent and became famous for a minute-long story about a cycling marathon, managing to use the word “coherence” eighteen times on a dare, and so cleverly that the material went on air.

It was difficult to drive the car. The snowfall only intensified, and the track was noticeably dusty. The hefty SUV slid and swam in the ruts, Maxim constantly had to “catch” its yaw with the steering wheel, and in the snowstorm everything merged: the rare Sunday cars, neat, wary in the fog, and the gray tongue of the highway with blurred markings, and the broken dirty roadside...

- What a great weather! - said Fedya. He took an electronic cigarette out of the pocket of his unimaginable pants, leaned back in his chair and tried to take a drag - it didn’t work. - How it works?

-Are you sick? - Ozerov, squinting one eye at Fedya, snatched the cigarette from his mouth and threw it into the cup holder between the seats. - There is no smoking in my car!

“They are environmentally friendly,” objected Fedya.

“Charter a bus in Vladimir and smoke for yourself,” Ozerov threatened, “and take off this felt cap!”

- Well, finally, Maxim Viktorovich! “Fedya threw his hat on the back seat and began to scratch himself with gusto, like a monkey. “I’ve been sitting in it for two hours like a fool, and you just noticed!” Where are your directorial powers of observation?

- I'm driving a car. I'm watching the road.

“It’s all the same,” Fedya continued with enthusiasm. – For us, art workers, the most important thing is to observe life and draw conclusions. Are you drawing conclusions from life, Maxim Viktorovich? Are you watching her?

- Not now.

- And I always watch! And I categorically affirm that any event can be reconstructed by its ending! If you know exactly how it ended, as an observant person, you can always tell what exactly was the impetus! So to speak, to understand what was in the beginning - the word or not only the word, but something else!

“Mmm,” said Ozerov, “what have you been reading?” American psychologists? Or did old Conan Doyle have that effect on you?

Just before his business trip, Fedya finished a script based on the stories about Sherlock Holmes. He fiddled around for a long time, tried it on, and eventually unearthed some kind of pre-revolutionary translation, so the script turned out to be amusing and completely unrecognizable, as if Conan Doyle suddenly went and wrote a completely new story.

Maxim liked this script so much that he even showed it to his superiors. The authorities thought about it and ordered to take the promising Fedya to Nizhny. The boy should rest, unwind and feel like “part of the whole.”

- And I got this crap! – Maxim nodded towards the cup holder in which the electronic cigarette dangled. - It would be better to buy a pipe.

– I don’t smoke, you know! Mom is against it, and in general the Ministry of Health warns! But how can a writer live without chicken? Look around - everything is stormy, everything is grey, everything is dark. Emptiness and darkness! There is chaos and a passion for destruction in the soul!

– Is it chaos and passion in your soul?

- And what? – Fedya became interested. – Isn’t it noticeable?

In Petushki the snowstorm began to subside, and in Vladimir it completely subsided. They climbed over some invisible wall, behind which suddenly there was no blizzard and the upcoming winter. The sky began to rise, the black asphalt, damp from the snow suspension, dried out and immediately became dusty, the windshield wipers squealed in vain on the windshield. For some time, their jeep seemed to be racing along the border between the seasons, and then suddenly, somewhere above, the sun sparkled dazzlingly brightly. It splashed through a hole in the sky, breaking through the clouds, flooding the road, fields, and the blackened forest in the distance, sparkling in the rear-view mirror of the car running ahead, and falling vertically onto the dusty dashboard of the jeep. The endless blind gray was replaced by a contrasting green-gray haze, permeated with warm sunlight, the last of this year.

They put on dark glasses - the movement turned out to be synchronized and “cool”, like in a film about special agents and aliens. Ozerov was amused by this.

The Vladimir bypass, always clogged with trucks, turned out to be completely free. Fedya, who proclaimed himself a navigator and buried his head in the “device,” threw it away as unnecessary. The Internet barely moved, traffic jams did not load, and Ozerov kept his foot on the gas - technology was once again put to shame.

– Do you, Mr. Director, know where to direct? – Fedya asked. He fished out a crumpled green satin from the glove compartment and began to scrutinize it. - We're in square E-14, right? Or... or S-18?

And he began to thrust the atlas under Ozerov’s nose. Maxim pushed Atlas away.

– It’s a straight line, Fedya. In a straight line all the way to Nizhny. Maybe we won't miss.

They drove through villages. Why is the federal highway laid through villages? It’s inconvenient, slow, unsafe, and in general!.. Fedya was always shy, but he really liked this Asian barbarism. There was some kind of correctness in him - without villages and the road is not a road!.. He loved to read strange names, guess the accents - the further from Moscow, the easier it is to make a mistake: Ibred, Lipyanoy Dyuk, Yambirno, Akhlebinino... Fedya felt sorry for the lopsided, blackened ones dilapidated village houses, destroyed either by vibrations from multi-ton trucks, walking around the clock along a highway cut right in the middle of the village, or by the villainous connivance of the owners, or simply by some misfortune. Therefore, in every village along the way, he always looked for some strong, serviceable, built-on house, shining with fresh, not peeling paint - just to rejoice at it and think: “What a beauty!”

He would never admit this to anyone - yet he is a frogman and a cynic who knows that life is gloomy and unfair. And he is quite a few years old, he turned twenty-four in the spring. And he has a lot behind him - a quarrel with his father over his choice of profession, university, proud refusal of graduate school, an unsuccessful novel, an unsuccessful first script, an unsuccessful first report!.. In general, Fedya was a seasoned fighter, but he felt sorry for the homeless to the point of tears dogs and rejoiced with all my heart in the well-maintained houses.

Immediately after Vladimir, he began to whine and whine that he wanted to eat and “exercise.” Ozerov answered for some time that he had to be courageous and endure hardships - it was a game, it amused both of them - and then Maxim taxied to the gas station.

Fedya shoved his feet into his moccasins, jammed the backs, and tumbled out.

- It's cold as hell! – he proclaimed with delight. - Give me a cap, Maxim Viktorovich, it will inflate my ears!

Ozerov threw him a “Head of Steam” hat, which Fedya immediately put on.

- For now, you refuel, and I’ll get in line! Do you want espresso or cappuccino?

- What other queue? – Ozerov muttered under his breath, getting out of the car. - Why is there a queue here?

The heavens were shining, and it was so cold that my breath froze and seemed to rustle around my lips. Maxim buttoned the collar of his down jacket under his chin. After sitting in the car for a long time, he began to tremble. And Sashka thought that he would have a “picnic on the side of the road”, she packed a basket!..

- Maxim Viktorovich! – screamed Velichkovsky’s head sticking out of the glass doors. – You’ll grab the supplies!

“Nonsense,” Ozerov said under his breath and shouted back: “I won’t take you!” I'll eat it myself!

The gas station room was clean, light and smelled delicious - coffee and baked goods. There was a queue at the bakery counter, and the tables in the cafe were all occupied. Fedya was sitting at the counter by the window on a high nickel-plated chair, prudently holding the other one with his hand and frantically waving to Maxim, like a signalman on board a ship.

-What are you waving?

- Yes, you see what a stir there is! Now you hold the chair, and I will go to the queue. Do you want cappuccino or espresso? Do you want me to fetch champagne from the trunk, you’ll get drunk, and then I’ll drive?

- Fedya, get in line. I'd like some tea. Black.

- With milk? – Fedya clarified. “How’s Cousin Betsy?”

They sipped from large glass mugs, Fedya alternately biting off a sausage and a “sweet snail with vanilla cream.” Another sausage - a spare one - was waiting on a plastic plate, and Fedya was happy to think that there was more to come.

– So – details! – he proclaimed with his mouth full. – The most important thing is the details, Maxim Viktorovich. Oscar Wilde said that only very superficial people do not judge by appearance! For example! What does my appearance tell you?..

Ozerov laughed and looked Fedya from head to toe - he immediately put on his “Head of steam” hat.

– Your appearance tells me that you are a lazy, slob and self-confident type. – Fedya nodded with pleasure. - What is your height? Meter ninety?

“Three,” suggested Fedya. - Meter ninety-three.

- Every form is disgusting to you.

– Why do you draw such a conclusion, Maxim Viktorovich?

– Instead of putting on any decent appearance, you still go on a business trip, especially with your superiors, and even to an unfamiliar place! - you put on all your one hundred and ninety-three centimeters oversized canvas pants and a jacket, suspicious in all respects. A person in such pants and a jacket certainly cannot be taken seriously, but you don’t even think about it.

“I don’t think so,” Fedya confirmed, widening his chocolate eyes. “I know that you take me seriously, but I don’t care about the others.” Meetings, dates and love affairs are not planned in the coming week. So your conclusion is incorrect. Untrue, colleague!..

Grodzovsky, the founding father and “organizer of our victories,” called everyone “colleagues,” and Fedya really liked this treatment.

– But the experiment must be clean! You know me well and, therefore, are biased. But here are the rest of the people! What can you say about them?

- Fedya, finish eating and let's go.

- Wait, Maxim Viktorovich! What are you saying, right? Sunday is all ours, and we have already traveled a path comparable to...

- There's a performance tonight. I want to see.

Fedya impatiently waved his hand with the sausage clutched in it.

“We’ll make it in time, and you know it very well!” He switched to a whisper: “There’s a couple sitting over there.” Well, over there, at that table! What can you say about them?

Ozerov involuntarily looked around. A man and a woman, both fairly young, were munching on sandwiches, each looking at their phone.

“They quarreled,” Fedya said in Maxim’s ear. – The trip didn’t go well! Did you notice how they paid for the food? They stood in line together, but ordered separately, and each paid from their own wallet. We also sat down together! That is, they are a couple, but they had a fight on the way. She must have insisted on a Sunday trip to see her mother, and he was going to the bathhouse with his friends.

- Fedya, go to the bathhouse yourself!..

“And that blonde over there in the Ford is picking up a beaver from a BMW,” Fedya pointed behind the glass. Ozerov, interested against his will, looked down the street. “She danced near her car for a very long time, as if she didn’t know how to insert a gun into the tank. But he still didn't pay attention. And now she asks him to fill her with washer, see?

There really was an old Ford in the parking lot, and near it stood a young platinum-haired creature in a tiny white fur coat and a burly man in a leather jacket that didn’t meet on his stomach, who actually looked like a beaver. The young creature was holding a canister in her hands, and the man was rummaging under the hood of the old Ford, trying to lift the lid.

“In fact, she can do everything herself,” continued Fedya Velichkovsky. “When the beaver was approaching, standing on the highway with a turn signal, she was already opening the lid. And she slammed it immediately as soon as he turned!

Maxim looked at his screenwriter as if he was seeing him for the first time.

- Listen, it turns out that you are a dreamer! Maybe you really will become a writer. The main thing is that you lie from the heart. And there is no way to check you.

- Why don’t you check? You can come and ask! Do you want me to ask? Easily! By the way, Bulgakov...

- Maybe let's go, huh? – Ozerov asked almost plaintively.

- You go, I’ll just take one more sausage now. Should you take it?

- You'll burst.

The sun was shining with all its might, the road ahead lay spacious and wide, resting on the shining cold horizon, there were still two hundred kilometers left to Nizhny Novgorod.

How good, thought Fedya Velichkovsky, that it’s still far away. Since childhood, he loved to travel “far”.

- This is our last date. I'm leaving.

Lyalya, who was rattling pots on the shelf, froze and carefully placed a large frying pan lid on a small ladle. The lid could not resist and moved.

- Romka, what did you... say?

- Lyalya, you understand everything. And let's not get hysterical, okay? I have a performance in the evening. After the performance I will go to my place.

- Where to your place? “Wait,” Lyalya said, fumbled for a stool, sat down, immediately jumped up and plopped down again, as if her legs couldn’t support her. - A performance, yes, I know, but... No, wait, it’s impossible...

She was going to cook porridge - Roman ate exclusively porridge and drank black coffee before the performance - and now the strongly open gas blazed and hissed, escaping from the burner. Lyalya had no idea to turn it off.

“Well, that’s it, that’s it,” he came up and stroked her on the head. - Well, you’re smart, old woman!.. You understand everything. We both knew that sooner or later...

“And I love you,” Roman said and pressed her head to him. “That’s why we’re breaking up.” This is much better, more correct!

Despite the fact that in the first second she realized that everything was over and he would leave her, he would leave today, now, she suddenly believed that it would work out. He loves her. He just said it himself.

“Romka, wait,” she asked. – Can you explain to me what happened?.. – And for some reason she prompted: – Have you stopped loving me?

He sighed. His stomach began to growl under her cheek.

“Probably, I never loved,” he admitted thoughtfully. – That is, I loved and still love, but not in the right way!..

- But as?! How to?

Lyalya burst out, tears appeared in her eyes, and she began to swallow quickly, quickly, trying to swallow every single one of them.

- Lyalka, don’t be hysterical! – Roman shouted. – Our paths must diverge. I decided it was better for them to disperse right now. Why continue when it is clear that there will be no continuation?

- But why, why won’t it happen?!

Wincing, he walked away and stood up, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. Very tall, very handsome and preoccupied with the “breakup scene.”

- Well... in everything, Lyalka. I'll probably go to Moscow. This metropolitan celebrity will record the performance with us, and I will leave. I can't take it anymore... here. “With his chin overgrown with corsair stubble, he pointed somewhere in the direction of the clocks that were ticking peacefully on the wall.

The walkers ticked, not paying attention to the catastrophe that had just scattered Lyalina’s life into pieces. They didn't care.

– Don’t think that I’m vulgar! But I really feel cramped here. So what awaits me? I played Trigorin, Glumov too. Played Mr. Simple. Well, who else will they give me? I'm getting old, Lyalya.

“You’re only thirty-two,” she said, trying to say something.

The blue gas flame, tearing apart the burner, hissed and danced before her eyes.

- It’s already thirty-two! Already, and not just!.. Every day on TV they show boys and girls who are twenty-five, and they are stars! The whole country knows them, although they are mediocre, like... like sheep, I can see! I should have left a long time ago, ten years ago, but I kept putting it off. And now... I’ve made up my mind.

- Romka, you won’t leave me.

“If you loved me,” he said with annoyance, “you would have sent me away a long time ago.” I need to evolve or I will die. And you are just as selfish as everyone else.

Then it suddenly dawned on him what he needed to emphasize in the “parting scene” - namely, selfishness and true love. He became inspired.

– You know who you’re dealing with! I’m an artist, not a carpenter like your stupid neighbor!.. I have to grow above myself, otherwise why? Why was I born? Why did you endure all the torment?

- What torment? – Lyalya asked herself quietly. She also realized that he had “grabbed the essence of the mise-en-scène” and would now finish playing and leave. And she will be left alone.

The walkers continued to tick, and the gas continued to hiss.

Lyalya’s whole life turned to dust before her eyes, and Lyalya sat and watched it turn to dust.

– If you loved me, you would really help me! You wouldn't give me a moment's rest! Forced me to achieve more. Fight and win!

- Romka, you always said that at home you just need peace and nothing more. That you give everything to the viewer. And I helped you! True, I tried. I always select the repertoire so that you have something to play! Even Luka and I quarrel over this every now and then!

The director of the drama theater was sometimes called Luka behind his back, where Lyalya worked as the head of the literary department, and Roman did not work, but “served.” He knew that great artists always “serve in the theater.”

“You’re a smart grown-up woman,” Roman said wearily. “You couldn’t seriously assume that I would marry you!”

“I... assumed,” Lyalya admitted.

He waved his hand.

- Well, what do you want from me?.. I won’t stay. I have to break out.

She nodded.

He still stood in the doorway, looking at her. He didn’t want to finish the mise-en-scène. Somehow I felt ashamed, or something. Strange feeling.

“Well, I’m going to the theater,” he said finally. – Don’t wait for me in the evening. You understand everything, my dear!..

The “good” one understood everything.

Still, she was actually a “smart aunt” and read mountains of different literature during her life. From this literature she knew that this happens, and even quite often. Even almost always. Love ends in failure, hopes perish, dreams are trampled.

...You are no longer needed. You did everything you could for me - you selected performances for me, looked for roles, and persuaded obstinate directors. Now I have “taken the wing”, and your guardianship is bothering me. I will leave - to Moscow, to New York, to the North Pole - and there a new life will begin for me. It makes no sense to drag the old one along with you, and it’s boring. And here’s the most important thing: I stopped loving you.

And now I have to go. You understand everything, my dear. How grateful I am to you.

“I’m very grateful to you,” Roman muttered, not too confidently. – Things... I’ll do it later, okay?

Something rumbled on the porch, the old house shook, as if it were still intact, as if it had not just turned to dust.

- Mistress! - they shouted from somewhere. - Are you home?

Roman, who wanted to say something else, waved his hand. Lyalya sat and watched as he hurriedly pulled his jacket off the hook and put it on, without getting it into the sleeves. The front door, upholstered with black leatherette for warmth, swung open and, bending his head, neighbor Atamanov entered the house.

“Great,” said the neighbor. - Lyalya, I made the cornices. Bring it in?

“Bye,” Roman mouthed from behind his shoulder. - I love you.

The door slammed. Light, liberated steps sounded along the porch.

- Why are you like this? – Atamanov asked. - Your gas is steaming! Are you going to boil your laundry?

Lyalya sat on a stool and looked at her hands. The nail polish has completely peeled off. Tomorrow she was going for a manicure. Today there can be no manicure, today Roman has a performance. He plays the main role. She must be present. He always says that her presence supports him. And tomorrow will be just right. After the performance, Romka will sleep until noon, and she will have time to run to the salon.

- I say, I made the cornices. Shall we nail it now?

The neighbor pulled his shoes off one against the other - Roman always said that it was a plebeian habit to take off your shoes at the threshold - he walked into the kitchen and turned off the gas. It immediately became quiet, as if in a crypt.

Lyalya looked around, expecting to see a crypt, but saw her own kitchen and neighbor Atamanov.

- What do you need?

- Lyalya, what are you doing?

“Get out of here,” she said. - Leave now!

- And the cornices?

Pushing him out of the way, Lyalya rushed into the room, ran around it in a circle, knocked over a chair, opened the door to the bedroom, where destruction reigned - Roman always left destruction in his wake. Lyalya shook her head, howled, slammed the door, jumped out into the street and ran.

She stopped at the gate and ran back. Having reached the porch, onto which the extremely amazed neighbor Atamanov had climbed out, she rushed to the gate.

- Stop! Stop, who am I telling!..

The neighbor intercepted her when she was already pulling the latch.

- What are you doing? What it is?

- Let me in!..

But Atamanov was a big, strong man. He grabbed Lyalya and carried her. She struggled, hit him and screamed. He dragged her into the house, slammed both doors and said angrily:

Lyalya went into the room, sat down on the sofa and buried her face in her knees, as if her stomach hurt.

- Did you quit? – a neighbor asked from the corridor.

Lyalya nodded on her knees.

“Be patient,” Atamanov said.

“I can’t,” Lyalya admitted.

- What’s wrong...

“I can’t,” she repeated dully.

The neighbor stomped and sighed. Lyalya rocked back and forth.

“He’s not a match for you,” the neighbor finally said.

Lyalya nodded again. Her face was burning.

“You are a woman...” he searched for the word, “decent.” And this is some kind of remnant!

- I beg you, Georgy Alekseevich, leave me.

“How can I leave,” said neighbor Atamanov, surprised, “when you’re not yourself?”

He stomped around and left, and the door slammed.

Lyalya began to howl quietly, and she felt so sorry for herself, a useless, old, fat, disheveled woman who had just been abandoned by the only man in the world, that tears flowed abundantly at once and flooded the palms in which she buried her face. Lyalya grabbed an embroidered hard pillow and began to wipe them with it, and they kept pouring and pouring, flowing down the embroidery.

Nobody needs all this anymore - neither the embroidery, nor the pillow, nor the milk porridge that she got the hang of cooking. And no one needs a house or a garden. Nobody needs her life anymore. Romka said that he didn’t just fall out of love. He never loved her the “right way.” What's wrong with her? Why can’t she be loved as she should be?

Lyalya didn’t even notice how her neighbor Atamanov appeared in the room again. She didn't see or hear anything and only felt him push her in the side.

- Get up, you will help.

Lyalya lay sideways on the sofa, pressing a pillow to her face.

- Come on, come on, what’s up!..

He dragged stools from the kitchen, placed them near the window and again began to push Lyalya.

“I can’t,” she said.

“And next time I won’t be able to either,” Atamanov responded rudely. - I have a lot to do! The frosts have arrived, but my roses are still not covered, they will all die. Get up!..

She had no strength or will left for anything. Flooded with tears, she rose uncertainly, as if her body was not obeying her, and stood in the middle of the room, her arms dangling.

The neighbor handed her a heavy, cold drill with a black cord trailing behind it, and Lyalya obediently accepted it, and he perched himself on a stool and said quietly from above:

“Bring me the newspaper, hold it so that the dust doesn’t fly, and give me the drill.”

Lyalya gave him the drill, found an old newspaper on the hanger under her coats and jackets and climbed onto the stool. She did all this as if watching herself from the side - here is a shaggy, tear-stained, scary woman, shuffling with slippers, walking into the corridor, bending down, rummaging, then, hunched over, carrying a newspaper, as if she had a heavy load in her hand.

– Hold it straight, don’t shake your hands.

The drill squealed, the wall vibrated, and small yellow sawdust fell onto the newspaper. She squealed for quite a long time.

“No need,” said Lyalya, and she couldn’t hear herself because of the squealing, “nobody needs this anymore.”

On a business trip to Nizhny Novgorod, director Maxim Ozerov and his partner Fedya Velichkovsky will have to record a play for radio! The ancient drama theater greets Muscovites with riddles and secrets! And right during the performance, a murder occurs!.. The main director Verkhoventsev dies a strange death, and there was also an attempt on the life of the leading actress!..

Maxim Ozerov begins his own investigation, in which his young partner Fedya actively helps him. Sometimes it seems to them: they are not so much recording a performance as they are participating in an incredible, phantasmagoric performance, where everything is according to the rules - there is a villain as elusive as a shadow, there are beauties, there are monsters, there is even a real ghost!..

Read online Shakespeare is my friend, but the truth is dearer

Excerpt

All night long the wind entangled in the roof roared and rumbled, and the branch of an old linden tree knocked on the window, disturbing sleep. And in the morning it started snowing. Maxim looked out the window for a long time and senselessly - just to delay the moment when he would have to get ready. Large flakes swirled in the pre-dawn November snowstorm, slowly falling onto the wet, blackened asphalt, the streetlights flickered in the puddles as ugly pale yellow spots. Moscow was waiting with all its might for the real winter - so that as soon as it came, it could begin to wait for spring. Maxim loved spring more than anything in the world - green, hot, midday, drowsy, with kvass from a barrel and walks in the Neskuchny Garden - but you still have to live and live until it, and somehow you can’t believe that you will live to see it.

The light hit my eyes, my head was buzzing, as if in a transformer box. The news channel presenter - outrageously cheerful for half past five in the morning - said that "the predicted warming in European territory is slightly delayed and snow is expected." "Go to hell!" – Maxim Ozerov advised the presenter and turned off the TV.

Sashka has already run away to go on duty. Her ability to wake up in an inescapably good mood contained a shamanism that was inexplicable to Ozerov: Sashka was cheerful, light-hearted, always had breakfast with pleasure, and with her whole appearance reminded Max of a thoroughbred, businesslike dachshund who had gathered with her owner to hunt a fox. He himself couldn’t do this: in order to get up, he had to set ten alarm clocks, and in the morning, hangnails that had appeared overnight would bleed from nowhere. Ozerov was freezing, shuffling his feet, knocking corners and suffering from the awareness of his own imperfection and mental laziness. Sashka felt sorry for him and - if he happened to leave early - prepared breakfast. He always refused, but she forced him to eat.

On the table stood a lukewarm Turk with the remains of coffee and a huge antique basket with a lid, straps and a darkened brass lock. The basket was covered with a terry kitchen towel. Sticking out from under the towel was a polished thermos and the optimistic edge of a Krakow sausage. Pinned to the basket was a piece of paper with the caption: “Take with you.”

So it’s snow?.. Maxim Ozerov defiantly pulled out of the closet and looked at his red hiking jacket with ragged sleeves. Well, a down jacket, what is it?.. If it’s snowing, four hundred miles ahead, that means it’s a down jacket, and not at all the smart coat he was counting on! The predicted warming is delayed, the message is clear. That is, apparently, it should be expected by spring.

- Spring! – Maxim recited in the silence of the apartment. – The first frame is being exhibited! And noise burst into the room! And the gospel of the nearby temple! And the talk of the people! And the sound of the wheel!

It’s good that at least yesterday the wheels were checked at the service center - all four - and none of them were knocking. He got into his down jacket, threw the backpack over his shoulder, grabbed Sashka’s basket - it crunched in greeting - and walked out.

Ozerov drove his SUV from Moscow, the windshield wipers creaked strainedly, the wide tires hummed the muddy water in the rolled rut of the Volga federal highway, the headlights cut through the gray veil of snow and drizzle. Yesterday he agreed to go to the dacha to pick up Fedya - Kratovo was on the way, but now Maxim hoped that Velichkovsky would oversleep, and then he would take it out on him. After wandering around the old and very sleepy village for a bit, Ozerov finally turned onto the right street.

At the gate of one of the houses loomed a stooped figure, dressed in a poisonous green robe, monstrous canvas pants and orange fur moccasins. The image was completed by a felt bath cap pulled down over the eyes with the inscription in large letters “Steam is the head of everything.” In one hand the figure was holding a backpack the size of a small house, in the other - Ozerov almost couldn’t believe his eyes! – a bottle of champagne; A black headphone wire streamed across the hoodie, which turned out to be a snowboarding jacket with a lion's face on the back.

Fedya Velichkovsky did not oversleep.

Tatyana Ustinova

Shakespeare is my friend, but the truth is dearer

© Ustinova T., 2015

© Design. LLC Publishing House E, 2015

All night long the wind entangled in the roof roared and rumbled, and the branch of an old linden tree knocked on the window, disturbing sleep. And in the morning it started snowing. Maxim looked out the window for a long time and senselessly - just to delay the moment when he would have to get ready. Large flakes swirled in the pre-dawn November snowstorm, slowly falling onto the wet, blackened asphalt, the streetlights flickered in the puddles as ugly pale yellow spots. Moscow was waiting with all its might for the real winter - so that as soon as it came, it could begin to wait for spring. Maxim loved spring more than anything in the world - green, hot, midday, drowsy, with kvass from a barrel and walks in the Neskuchny Garden - but you still have to live and live until it, and somehow you can’t believe that you will live to see it.

The light hit my eyes, my head was buzzing, as if in a transformer box. The news channel presenter - outrageously cheerful for half past five in the morning - said that "the predicted warming in European territory is slightly delayed and snow is expected." "Go to hell!" – Maxim Ozerov advised the presenter and turned off the TV.

Sashka has already run away to go on duty. Her ability to wake up in an inescapably good mood contained a shamanism that was inexplicable to Ozerov: Sashka was cheerful, light-hearted, always had breakfast with pleasure, and with her whole appearance reminded Max of a thoroughbred, businesslike dachshund who had gathered with her owner to hunt a fox. He himself couldn’t do this: in order to get up, he had to set ten alarm clocks, and in the morning, hangnails that had appeared overnight would bleed from nowhere. Ozerov was freezing, shuffling his feet, knocking corners and suffering from the awareness of his own imperfection and mental laziness. Sashka felt sorry for him and - if he happened to leave early - prepared breakfast. He always refused, but she forced him to eat.

On the table stood a lukewarm Turk with the remains of coffee and a huge antique basket with a lid, straps and a darkened brass lock. The basket was covered with a terry kitchen towel. Sticking out from under the towel was a polished thermos and the optimistic edge of a Krakow sausage. Pinned to the basket was a piece of paper with the caption: “Take with you.”

So it’s snow?.. Maxim Ozerov defiantly pulled out of the closet and looked at his red hiking jacket with ragged sleeves. Well, a down jacket, what is it?.. If it’s snowing, four hundred miles ahead, that means it’s a down jacket, and not at all the smart coat he was counting on! The predicted warming is delayed, the message is clear. That is, apparently, it should be expected by spring.

- Spring! – Maxim recited in the silence of the apartment. – The first frame is being exhibited! And noise burst into the room! And the gospel of the nearby temple! And the talk of the people! And the sound of the wheel!

It’s good that at least yesterday the wheels were checked at the service center - all four - and none of them were knocking. He got into his down jacket, threw the backpack over his shoulder, grabbed Sashka’s basket - it crunched in greeting - and walked out.

Ozerov drove his SUV from Moscow, the windshield wipers creaked strainedly, the wide tires hummed the muddy water in the rolled rut of the Volga federal highway, the headlights cut through the gray veil of snow and drizzle. Yesterday he agreed to go to the dacha to pick up Fedya - Kratovo was on the way, but now Maxim hoped that Velichkovsky would oversleep, and then he would take it out on him. After wandering around the old and very sleepy village for a bit, Ozerov finally turned onto the right street.

At the gate of one of the houses loomed a stooped figure, dressed in a poisonous green robe, monstrous canvas pants and orange fur moccasins. The image was completed by a felt bath cap pulled down over the eyes with the inscription in large letters “Steam is the head of everything.” In one hand the figure was holding a backpack the size of a small house, in the other - Ozerov almost couldn’t believe his eyes! – a bottle of champagne; A black headphone wire streamed across the hoodie, which turned out to be a snowboarding jacket with a lion's face on the back.

Fedya Velichkovsky did not oversleep.

- Mr. Director! Why didn't you signal me? We agreed that you will call! And you? Did you fool the boy? “Fedya, having somehow stuffed his incredible backpack into the trunk, unceremoniously climbed into the basket with Sasha’s supplies, sniffed the sausage appraisingly and asked with enthusiasm and even some lust: “Are there any hard-boiled eggs and fresh cucumbers?”

- Comrade screenwriter! – Ozerov yawned without unclenching his jaw. - Saryn on the kitchka! Come on, sit down!

- Good morning to you too!

The doors slammed, the petrol VE-8 roared contentedly, and the “lifted” dark green jeep with a bright orange snorkel rolled merrily along the washed-out village road.

Velichkovsky took off his fur moccasins and, tucking his legs under him like a yogi, settled into a wide leather chair.

“We’ll have breakfast in Vladimir at a gas station,” he ordered. - I've thought of everything.

Under the stupid felt hat his head itched unbearably, but Fedya firmly decided that he would never take off his hat. In any case, until the boss pays due attention to her.

“Yeah,” Ozerov responded without any enthusiasm.

No, it won’t be done with just “uh-huh”! Velichkovsky scratched himself and continued soulfully:

- You, Mr. Director, will refuel your carriage, and I - Childe Harold - will eat badly brewed coffee with sausage in dough. Having settled down at a table by the window, I will look at the fast cars flying through the fog of a black and silver suspension of snow and rain in... uh... - Fedya paused for a second, choosing the most vulgar epithet - in a barely hatched, inhospitable, gloomy morning.

- Low-grade! - Ozerov gave his verdict.

For Velichkovsky this was the second trip, he was in a great mood, loved the whole world and especially himself in it. An invitation to the expedition was tantamount to being included in the circle of initiates, a special sign that meant “you belong among your own.” Something like the highest government award and a very closed club, where only the most faithful, close and promising were accepted. Fedya was “close and promising” for only six months. And no one - not even Ozerov - had any idea how much he liked it!

Business trips were invented by Vladlen Arlenovich Grodzovsky, the general director of Radio Russia, the shark, pillar and Mephistopheles of the radio world. Several times a year, Grodzovsky, by personal decree, sent Ozerov - his main director, accomplice and right hand - to some provincial city with a theater, where Maxim masterfully and very quickly recorded performances based on Russian and foreign classics for the State Radio Fund. The productions received European awards, the district theaters received fame and a small extra income, and the radio employees received a feeling of involvement and relaxation without interruption from their native production. Work on such trips was always... a little make-believe.

And now the chief director, laureate of everything and an absolute professional, Ozerov, was confident that he could handle Chekhov’s “Duel” at the Nizhny Novgorod State Drama Theater in two days. In the worst case - for two and a half. And then - a week of official business trip, when you can hang around the city, wander through museums, go to a comedy in a theater where everyone is already there, drink beer and eat crayfish in restaurants on the embankments. This is exactly how Ozerov now imagined “several days in the life of a Moscow director in Nizhny Novgorod.”

There was no work for Velichkovsky - he was transported solely as a reward for his work. More likely even in advance. He was a good author, and Ozerov determined with an unmistakable instinct that over time he would become a very good one!.. Fedya talentedly and completely shamelessly wrote any, even the most severe situation, observed tact, knew how to ask questions, make the right impression, knew when to argue and when you have to agree, and did not forgive yourself for hackwork.

He was lazy, unpunctual, pretending to be a frontier and a cynic.

Ozerov picked up Fedya on a morning sports channel, where he worked as a correspondent and became famous for a minute-long story about a cycling marathon, managing to use the word “coherence” eighteen times on a dare, and so cleverly that the material went on air.

Tatyana Ustinova

Shakespeare is my friend, but the truth is dearer

© Ustinova T., 2015

© Design. LLC Publishing House E, 2015

* * *

All night long the wind entangled in the roof roared and rumbled, and the branch of an old linden tree knocked on the window, disturbing sleep. And in the morning it started snowing. Maxim looked out the window for a long time and senselessly - just to delay the moment when he would have to get ready. Large flakes swirled in the pre-dawn November snowstorm, slowly falling onto the wet, blackened asphalt, the streetlights flickered in the puddles as ugly pale yellow spots. Moscow was waiting with all its might for the real winter - so that as soon as it came, it could begin to wait for spring. Maxim loved spring more than anything in the world - green, hot, midday, drowsy, with kvass from a barrel and walks in the Neskuchny Garden - but you still have to live and live until it, and somehow you can’t believe that you will live to see it.

The light hit my eyes, my head was buzzing, as if in a transformer box. The news channel presenter - outrageously cheerful for half past five in the morning - said that "the predicted warming in European territory is slightly delayed and snow is expected." "Go to hell!" – Maxim Ozerov advised the presenter and turned off the TV.

Sashka has already run away to go on duty. Her ability to wake up in an inescapably good mood contained a shamanism that was inexplicable to Ozerov: Sashka was cheerful, light-hearted, always had breakfast with pleasure, and with her whole appearance reminded Max of a thoroughbred, businesslike dachshund who had gathered with her owner to hunt a fox. He himself couldn’t do this: in order to get up, he had to set ten alarm clocks, and in the morning, hangnails that had appeared overnight would bleed from nowhere. Ozerov was freezing, shuffling his feet, knocking corners and suffering from the awareness of his own imperfection and mental laziness. Sashka felt sorry for him and - if he happened to leave early - prepared breakfast. He always refused, but she forced him to eat.

On the table stood a lukewarm Turk with the remains of coffee and a huge antique basket with a lid, straps and a darkened brass lock. The basket was covered with a terry kitchen towel. Sticking out from under the towel was a polished thermos and the optimistic edge of a Krakow sausage. Pinned to the basket was a piece of paper with the caption: “Take with you.”

So it’s snow?.. Maxim Ozerov defiantly pulled out of the closet and looked at his red hiking jacket with ragged sleeves. Well, a down jacket, what is it?.. If it’s snowing, four hundred miles ahead, that means it’s a down jacket, and not at all the smart coat he was counting on! The predicted warming is delayed, the message is clear. That is, apparently, it should be expected by spring.

- Spring! – Maxim recited in the silence of the apartment. – The first frame is being exhibited! And noise burst into the room! And the gospel of the nearby temple! And the talk of the people! And the sound of the wheel!

It’s good that at least yesterday the wheels were checked at the service center - all four - and none of them were knocking. He got into his down jacket, threw the backpack over his shoulder, grabbed Sashka’s basket - it crunched in greeting - and walked out.

Ozerov drove his SUV from Moscow, the windshield wipers creaked strainedly, the wide tires hummed the muddy water in the rolled rut of the Volga federal highway, the headlights cut through the gray veil of snow and drizzle. Yesterday he agreed to go to the dacha to pick up Fedya - Kratovo was on the way, but now Maxim hoped that Velichkovsky would oversleep, and then he would take it out on him. After wandering around the old and very sleepy village for a bit, Ozerov finally turned onto the right street.

At the gate of one of the houses loomed a stooped figure, dressed in a poisonous green robe, monstrous canvas pants and orange fur moccasins. The image was completed by a felt bath cap pulled down over the eyes with the inscription in large letters “Steam is the head of everything.” In one hand the figure was holding a backpack the size of a small house, in the other - Ozerov almost couldn’t believe his eyes! – a bottle of champagne; A black headphone wire streamed across the hoodie, which turned out to be a snowboarding jacket with a lion's face on the back.

Fedya Velichkovsky did not oversleep.

- Mr. Director! Why didn't you signal me? We agreed that you will call! And you? Did you fool the boy? “Fedya, having somehow stuffed his incredible backpack into the trunk, unceremoniously climbed into the basket with Sasha’s supplies, sniffed the sausage appraisingly and asked with enthusiasm and even some lust: “Are there any hard-boiled eggs and fresh cucumbers?”

- Comrade screenwriter! – Ozerov yawned without unclenching his jaw. - Saryn on the kitchka! Come on, sit down!

- Good morning to you too!

The doors slammed, the petrol VE-8 roared contentedly, and the “lifted” dark green jeep with a bright orange snorkel rolled merrily along the washed-out village road.

Velichkovsky took off his fur moccasins and, tucking his legs under him like a yogi, settled into a wide leather chair.

“We’ll have breakfast in Vladimir at a gas station,” he ordered. - I've thought of everything.

Under the stupid felt hat his head itched unbearably, but Fedya firmly decided that he would never take off his hat. In any case, until the boss pays due attention to her.

“Yeah,” Ozerov responded without any enthusiasm.

No, it won’t be done with just “uh-huh”! Velichkovsky scratched himself and continued soulfully:

- You, Mr. Director, will refuel your carriage, and I - Childe Harold - will eat badly brewed coffee with sausage in dough. Having settled down at a table by the window, I will look at the fast cars flying through the fog of a black and silver suspension of snow and rain in... uh... - Fedya paused for a second, choosing the most vulgar epithet - in a barely hatched, inhospitable, gloomy morning.

- Low-grade! - Ozerov gave his verdict.

For Velichkovsky this was the second trip, he was in a great mood, loved the whole world and especially himself in it. An invitation to the expedition was tantamount to being included in the circle of initiates, a special sign that meant “you belong among your own.” Something like the highest government award and a very closed club, where only the most faithful, close and promising were accepted. Fedya was “close and promising” for only six months. And no one - not even Ozerov - had any idea how much he liked it!

Business trips were invented by Vladlen Arlenovich Grodzovsky, the general director of Radio Russia, the shark, pillar and Mephistopheles of the radio world. Several times a year, Grodzovsky, by personal decree, sent Ozerov - his main director, accomplice and right hand - to some provincial city with a theater, where Maxim masterfully and very quickly recorded performances based on Russian and foreign classics for the State Radio Fund. The productions received European awards, the district theaters received fame and a small extra income, and the radio employees received a feeling of involvement and relaxation without interruption from their native production. Work on such trips was always... a little make-believe.

And now the chief director, laureate of everything and an absolute professional, Ozerov, was confident that he could handle Chekhov’s “Duel” at the Nizhny Novgorod State Drama Theater in two days. In the worst case - for two and a half. And then - a week of official business trip, when you can hang around the city, wander through museums, go to a comedy in a theater where everyone is already there, drink beer and eat crayfish in restaurants on the embankments. This is exactly how Ozerov now imagined “several days in the life of a Moscow director in Nizhny Novgorod.”

There was no work for Velichkovsky - he was transported solely as a reward for his work. More likely even in advance. He was a good author, and Ozerov determined with an unmistakable instinct that over time he would become a very good one!.. Fedya talentedly and completely shamelessly wrote any, even the most severe situation, observed tact, knew how to ask questions, make the right impression, knew when to argue and when you have to agree, and did not forgive yourself for hackwork.

He was lazy, unpunctual, pretending to be a frontier and a cynic.

Ozerov picked up Fedya on a morning sports channel, where he worked as a correspondent and became famous for a minute-long story about a cycling marathon, managing to use the word “coherence” eighteen times on a dare, and so cleverly that the material went on air.

It was difficult to drive the car. The snowfall only intensified, and the track was noticeably dusty. The hefty SUV slid and swam in the ruts, Maxim constantly had to “catch” its yaw with the steering wheel, and in the snowstorm everything merged: the rare Sunday cars, neat, wary in the fog, and the gray tongue of the highway with blurred markings, and the broken dirty roadside...

- What a great weather! - said Fedya. He took an electronic cigarette out of the pocket of his unimaginable pants, leaned back in his chair and tried to take a drag - it didn’t work. - How it works?

-Are you sick? - Ozerov, squinting one eye at Fedya, snatched the cigarette from his mouth and threw it into the cup holder between the seats. - There is no smoking in my car!

“They are environmentally friendly,” objected Fedya.

“Charter a bus in Vladimir and smoke for yourself,” Ozerov threatened, “and take off this felt cap!”

- Well, finally, Maxim Viktorovich! “Fedya threw his hat on the back seat and began to scratch himself with gusto, like a monkey. “I’ve been sitting in it for two hours like a fool, and you just noticed!” Where are your directorial powers of observation?

- I'm driving a car. I'm watching the road.

“It’s all the same,” Fedya continued with enthusiasm. – For us, art workers, the most important thing is to observe life and draw conclusions. Are you drawing conclusions from life, Maxim Viktorovich? Are you watching her?

- Not now.

- And I always watch! And I categorically affirm that any event can be reconstructed by its ending! If you know exactly how it ended, as an observant person, you can always tell what exactly was the impetus! So to speak, to understand what was in the beginning - the word or not only the word, but something else!

“Mmm,” said Ozerov, “what have you been reading?” American psychologists? Or did old Conan Doyle have that effect on you?

Just before the business trip...