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Robert Morgan
Many moons ago, the dollar stood at 870 liram, and I was 32 of the year. Planet also weighed on the two billion souls less, and bar he Statsyone, where I arrived cold December night, It was empty. I stood there and waited for the only human being, which is known in this city. It is very late.
Every traveler knows this alignment: This mixture of fatigue and anxiety. When one considers the dials and schedules, When you study the venous marble underfoot, inhaling the smell of carbolic and dim, exuded in the cold winter night iron locomotive. What I took up.
Besides yawning bartender and immobile, similar to the Buddha, matron at the cash register, I could not see a soul. The, however, us apart there was little: the entire stock of their language — word “espresso” — I have already spent; I used it twice. I also bought their first pack of, which in the coming years it was to mean “Shit State”, “Social Movement” and “Sure Death”1 — the first bundle MS 2. So I picked up my bags and walked out.
The night was windy, and before turning on the retina, I was seized with a feeling of absolute happiness: in his nostrils his everlasting — for me -sinonim: merznuschih smell of seaweed. For some, it's freshly cut grass or hay; For others — Christmas needles with tangerines. For me — frozen seaweed: partly due to the properties of the onomatopoeic name, which came together flora and underwater world, partly because of the trace of incompatibility and covert submarine drama contained in the concept of. “Where the stone under dark foam”, as the poet said,. In some verses identify themselves; at the time of retracting the smell in the Stazione steps I was already a big expert on incompatibility and secret dramas.
Attachment to the smell should, beyond all doubt, attributed to childhood on the shores of the Baltic Sea, in the homeland itinerant siren from a poem by Montale. I have, but, We had doubts. Not least because, that childhood was not so happy (and rarely, It is a school of insecurity and self-loathing, and that the sea, then escape from my part of the Baltic really could only eel). Anyway, for nostalgia, it attracted hardly. I always knew, that the source of this affection which is not here, but outside biography, It is a genetic warehouse, somewhere in the cerebellum, among others, the memories of our ancestors of chordates, at the worst — on the very same fish, from which our civilization has arisen. whether the fish was happy, another question.
Finally, the smell is a violation of the oxygen balance, invasion of his other elements — methane? carbon? sulfur? nitrogen? Depending on the amount of intrusion get taste — smell — stink. It's all a matter of molecules, and, seem to be, happiness is a moment, when faced with the elements of your own composition in a free state. then they, absolutely free, enough, and I felt, which stepped into your own portrait, made of a cold air.
All backdrop was the dark silhouette of domes and roofs; bridge hung over the black curve of the water mass, both ends of which cut infinity. At night in unfamiliar territories infinity begins with the last lantern, and here he was twenty meters. It was very quiet. From time to time a dimly lit motorboat crept in either direction, crushing screws reflection of the huge neon Cinzano, tries again to stay in the black oilcloth water. Silence returned much earlier, what did he do it.
All smacked of arrival in the province — in some unfamiliar, provincial place — possibly, to their homeland, after years of absence. Not least, this was due to my anonymity, irrelevance lonely figure on the steps of the Stazione: good target oblivion. Also it was a winter night. And I remembered the first line of a poem by Umberto Saba, which once upon a time, in a previous incarnation, translated into Russian: “In the depths of the Adriatic wild…”. In depth, I thought, in the backwoods, in a forgotten corner of the wild Adriatic… Worth a look, Stazione to see in all its splendor rectangular neon and sophistication, to see printed letters: VENEZIA. But I do not look back. The sky was full of stars winter, as often happens in the province. Казалось, at any moment he could away barking dog, I do not exclude a rooster. eyes closed, I imagined a beam of cold seaweed, sprawled on the wet, possibly — icy rock somewhere in the universe, indifferent to — где. Stone was as if I, beam algae — my left hand. Then out of nowhere there was a large covered barge, a cross between a tin can and a sandwich, and deaf buried her in Stazione berth. A handful of passengers ran to the shore and rushed past me to the station. Then I saw a single human being, which is known in this city; painting was fabulous.
The first time I saw her a few years ago, in the previous incarnation: in Russia. Then the picture was in the form of Slavist, more precisely, specialist in Mayakovsky. Recently, almost in slashing the painting as an object of interest in the eyes of my company. That it did not happen, It was a measure of its foreseeable advantages. 180 cm, tonkokostnoe, leggy, thin-faced, with a mane of chestnut brown and almond-shaped eyes, with a decent Russian on fantastic outlines of the lips and with a dazzling smile in the same place, in stunning, the density of tissue paper, suede and stockings to match, hypnotically unfamiliar smelling perfume,– painting was, undoubtedly, the most elegant creature female, sumasvodyaschaya foot has ever stepped into our circle. It was taken from the, that moisturizes dreams of a married man. Besides, Venetian.
So that we are easily digested by its membership in the Italian Communist Party and the associated weakness of our avant-garde to innocent thirties, I write it off to the west levity. I think, whether it is an ardent Nazi, we would alkali her no less; possibly, even more. It was really stunning, and as a result of confusion with paid idiots Armenian blood on the periphery of our circle, total reaction were more surprise and anger, zeal than or clenched teeth, хотя, in fact, It should not have to be angry with fine lace, Mess Island National sauce. we, but, angry. For it was worse, what a disappointment: It was a betrayal of the fabric.
In those days, we identify with the essence of style, beauty with intelligence. Still, we had an audience of book, and at a certain age, believing in the literature, you assume, that all share or should share your tastes and preferences. Therefore, if someone looks good, it is your. Untouched by the outside world, especially Western, We did not know, that style is sold in bulk, that beauty is simply a commodity. Therefore, we considered the physical picture of the continuation and the embodiment of our ideals and principles, and all her clothes, including transparent things,– heritage of civilization.
The identification was so strong, and the picture so pretty, that even now, years later, entered into another age and, so to speak, to another country, I inadvertently took the former manner. Crowd crowded deck vaporetto3 to its coat of nutria, I asked the first thing, what she thinks of the newly published “motet” Montale. Familiar sparkle twenty-eight pearls, repeated on the rim of the pupil and hazel extended until loose silver of the Milky Way,– that's all, I got in response, but it was not enough. maybe, It is in the heart of civilization, ask about her recent achievement was a tautology. maybe, I just made a faux pas, because the author was not local.

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