collector's item

But life is not fair, and one day the oil accomplices are overcome by greed. They start a cartel called OPEC and start stuffing their own chests.. They pressed the West, but it doesn't work for us! In addition, they begin to quarrel among themselves.. Anyway, turn out to be richer than their previous owners, not to mention us. This was not foreseen in the project. The Architect of Our Middle East Policy, son of King Ibn Saud's advisor, Also — columnist and economist, our great and unrecognized — Well, I'm talking technically — the secret agent should have foreseen this turn of events! Everything has been going according to plan so far, all, as he promised, and suddenly — nate vam! No, let him say now, what should we do next. Generally, we need him now, here, so that at any time was at hand. In addition, in Moscow it will be safer for him, not talking — less temptations. It's easier to focus. Tea, not Beirut.
Which was much colder — that's for sure. At least, for a spy, who came from the heat. It is high time! And if you count, then exactly thirty years after, how he was recruited. Whatever that means. But now he 51 year, and he has to start a new life. Well, it's not that hard, because the local guys are getting out of their leathery leather, to help. And besides, in 51 year any life — not entirely new, any country — not quite a stranger. Especially if you've been spying on this country your entire adult life.. And especially if you didn't do it for the money, but by conviction. So the new place should be familiar to you, at least mentally. Because beliefs — this is your house, your main comfort; you save all your life, to furnish him. If the world around us is poor and colorless, then you fill this house with mental chandeliers and persian rugs. If this world was rich in texture, then your decor will be mentally black and white, with several abstract chairs.
AND, insofar as, dear tortured reader, we are nearing the end, let's allow ourselves a little anachronism. There is a certain type of Englishman, who love poverty and stupidity. He nods in satisfaction., when an elevator gets stuck or when one child is flogged for the antics of another. He learns hack and slovenliness, how will relatives know. He recognizes himself in a shabby wobbly rail, in damp hotel sheets, in the unkempt trees of the soot-covered window, in bad tobacco, in a smelly carriage of a late train, in bureaucratic obstacles, in laziness and indecision,in powerless shrugs of the shoulders, of course, in a bad-looking twill jacket, in gray. Therefore, he loves Russia — basically, on distance, because he cannot afford to go there, perhaps closer to old age, in 50 or 60, after retirement. And he's ready for a lot, to help Russia — his stupid, but sensual, sincere Russia, Russia from “doctor Zhivago” (film, not a novel), where the twentieth century has not yet entered on its tread marks “Good-bye”, where his childhood still continues. He does not want, for his Russia to become an American. He wants, to keep her passionate and awkward, in brown woolen stockings with wide pink garters (for heaven's sake, no nylon, no tights!). it — his equivalent to those guys from the working-class suburbs, who do not hesitate to make a break-in and for whom his old Cambridge friends will hunt in London pubs for the rest of their days. But he — not “blue”, he — “natural”; for him it is Russia; either Germany or Austria.
And if in Russia — communism, all the better. Especially if in the yard — 1933 year and Germany is out of the question. And if someone with a slight accent invites you to work for Russia, you too 21 year, then you say “Yes”, because it's so different from everything around, and in this there is a moment of undermining the foundations. If school is for what- something and teaches, then it belongs to the group: to the party or to the club, at the worst; cell creation. And the Communist Party — this is an option “Apostles”, something like a student fraternity, — besides, she preaches brotherhood. And in general, you follow the example of your friends, and they have words “world proletariat” conjure up the image of guys from the outskirts of workers who do not disdain to earn extra money, but on a large scale. And after a while you hear that very slight accent again, you are asked to complete the task — Nothing serious, but with a slight smell. And you do it, and now the owner of the accent has compromising evidence on you. If he is not a fool, then next time, when he asks you for a favor, he will not talk about the world proletariat, he will mention Russia. Because for the sake of, let us say, India you won't do it, although India, really speaking, this is also a part of the world and even more so — proletariat. Fifty years ago, social dreams were still ethnocentric, and spies — also. So a little more Chekhov for you, a little more Tolstoy translated by Constance Garnett — on the train, on the way to Spain, because — it's time. And with her — and place. A budding fellow can taste this brotherhood here with its blood, lice, hopes, despair, defeat, apathy. But instead he hangs out in the lobby “Nacional”, then meets some bastard upstairs, and they tell him (undoubtedly, to his secret relief), that he should change color — in the name of the greater good, he must change his orientation. This is how a promising thing learns about “large scheme”, alias — the future.
Next, when he hears a slight accent, he knows, that this is a voice from the future. The accent is slightly different, because the previous owner has already had his throat cut for the future security of our budding thing, and if the owner of the throat had, eg, girlfriend, then she, too, has already received her twenty-five years and hollows permafrost in the Russian Far East, on a majestic snowy background, not fit into the frame of the future “Zhivago”. However, when this voice from the future resounds in your ear again, war begins, Russia now — ally, and Intelligence Service wants, so that you can contribute to the war effort. It's kind of coming towards you — under its own power and clearly — this one “large circuit”, and you ask for work, associated with Russia. And since you — gentleman, senior gentlemen welcome you to this job, although they can be called such only because, which of the two possible doors they push in the restroom. But this is not for sure.
so, you know the country, in which you find yourself thirty years later, in adulthood 51 of the year. Full of energy, of course, but the best — behind. Well, guess what, white cliffs of sussex! Well, weather, cursed island! And the whole Pax Britannica! You will still pay for that, that they ruined such a brilliant career and put an intelligent man to graze on the grass at the apogee of his rise! A smart man knows, how to get even with the empire: with the help of another empire. (And they cannot come together.) And here “large circuit” grows a lot. Not a tooth for a tooth, and the whole jaw! who knows, perhaps, the greatest satisfaction for any spy is the thought that, that he plays the role of Rock, that he holds all the threads in his hands. Or — cuts them. He seeks to become like Clotho or Arachne. Deus in machina, running on gasoline (he, maybe, did not even realize the irony, when he settled in Mazutny lane — at least, at first). But whether you are god or damn, establish control over oil fields — bigger game, than transferring the secrets of British intelligence to the Russians. Anyway, in London and there is practically nothing more to give out, but in the local game — stakes are gigantic. The whole world order is at stake. And whoever wins, this will be his victory! No wonder he — economist and columnist — was reading “Capital” and “Seven Pillars of Wisdom”. Not even speaking about, that Russia will win anyway, for what can you expect from democracies? No determination. Imagine Russia — his untidy Russia, in brown woolen stockings with pink garters, in the role of master of the planet - and not only thanks to nuclear warheads or ballistic missiles; imagine her, sincere and lazy, with all the oil revenues of the Arabian Peninsula under the pillow — doubting, Chekhov's, irrational! She would be a much nicer host (not, loving mistress!) world, than his own Carthusian West, which is so easy to fool (and he himself is a great example). And in the worst case, if Russia is not the winner, and some Arab — sheikh or dictator, it suits him too. And in general, dad would be proud of him, if everything went to Saudi Arabia.
She got it all — almost entirely. Anyway, such a large share, that this brand should have been issued by Saudi Arabia, not Russia. Well, can, will also release. Or Iraq, or Iran. Who will take over the oil monopoly, he should release this brand. Brother, muslims, muslims! Where would they be now, if not for the Soviet foreign policy of the 1960s and 1970s, that is, if not for the late Mr. Philby? Imagine for a minute, what they can't buy “Kalashnikov”, not to mention the rocket launcher. They wouldn't be on the front page, they would not even be taken as a background for camels from a cigarette pack… But life is unfair and the beneficiaries do not remember their benefactors, — as, however, and sacrifices — their tormentors. Or maybe, Do not need. Can, it is better for the sources of good and evil to remain lost in the darkness — and especially evil. Who cares, than the face of the deity is shrouded: the theory of dialectical materialism or the turban of the Prophet? Will we be able to distinguish them from each other? In the end, there is no hierarchy between cherry orchard and trivial sand; it's a matter of taste — only. Like people, so is money. Money, looking at all, are deprived of individual consciousness and the gain therefore goes to the desert simply out of a sense of kinship with the principle of many. Generally, like a certain type of Englishman, money gravitates to the east - if only because, that this part of the world is more populated. Secret agent, in this way, — only the first swallow, harbinger of a large bank. And if he settles there, in the east, and is completely assimilated by local liquor or a loving maiden, What's bad about it? Did the pigeons return to the ark? Mother, dear reader, imagine a letter, sent today or in the near future from Moscow to Riyadh. What do you think, what will be in this letter? Happy Birthday, plans for the summer, news or news of the death of loved ones, cold climate complaints? Not, rather something about money. for example, request for financial assistance to Muslim brothers, living on owls. territory. And most likely it will be written in English, this letter, and will not be honored with perlustration. May be, by looking at the return address, the postmaster will raise his crescent eyebrow, covered with a traditional headdress, but after a moment's hesitation, throws the envelope into the appropriate box; and on the envelope — stamp with a portrait of Philby.
“It's gloomy”, — a haggard reader nods his head. But wouldn't the course of things have brought us to the same point even without the assistance of our English friend? Sure, would lead, considering the so-called dynamics of the modern world, that is, the population explosion and industrial appetites of the West. These two factors would already be enough; there is no need for the third, let alone someone's individual efforts. Best case scenario, our English friend put it, what was in the air, or rather, lay underfoot. Otherwise, he played no role.. Sooner or later it had to happen, with or without Kim, with or without Russia. Well, may be, without Russia it would take a little longer, Well, so what? Personality doesn't matter, it's all about the economy, So? In this sense, even if the person does exist, in fact, it doesn't seem to exist. Slightly solipsistic, but in a Marxist way, and our English friend would be the first to appreciate this thought. Finally, historical necessity was his motto, his credo, his main objection to the pricks of conscience. AND, eventually, for all occupational hazards of a certain type of activity, belief in the inevitable triumph of the deed, who do you serve, this is a safe bet, is not it? (And if this business wins in your lifetime, a?) Anyway, in terms of historical necessity, our friend was superfluous, at best - tautology. Or insurance. For the purpose of history was to make the Arabs rich, west — the poor, and leave Russia to dangle between heaven and earth. This is what it says in its pure bel canto of the need for a count “total”, and who is our author, to argue with it? Penny, that is, the price of a sense of our friend's historic mission; but the author is not entitled to more for taking off his imagination. And generally speaking, what are its sources?

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Joseph Brodsky
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