Face, after the rain, in flowers,
Eyelashes in drops of diamonds,
Ah, the aromas of lace,
my head is spinning…,
I want to spin…
…... there was nothing unusual in the fact that she loved lilacs. Many Muscovites and even some Muscovites like blooming lilac bushes. There are a lot of lilacs in Moscow. Lilac blooms in the Botanical Garden, blooms in the alleys of VDNH, in Maxim Gorky Park, at Lomonosov Moscow State University. I am well acquainted with the magical Kolesnikov lilacs growing in Lilac and Izmailovsky parks, on Preobrazhenka and Sokolniki. In Filevsky Park, when I walk there alone, lilac bushes bow and nod from afar with their velvety, elastic fleitz brushes, whisper something and smile at me... they'll find out.
In the square near the Bolshoi Theater, a rare lilac blooms, lilac Galina Ulanova. On a summer June night, you can see how the city breeze gently sways its light, weightless snow-white inflorescences, which, hovering and dancing over the invisible bushes, splash out their fabulous, exciting, music-like smells on passers-by.
Many, many rare, lost varieties of lilac are found in old Moscow courtyards, where it is left to survive along with tall cherries and sad tired apple trees.
There is a Lilac Street in Moscow, a Lilac Boulevard, and even someone saw a lilac fog. He probably lies about the fog, but he lies beautifully, in St. Petersburg.
.........yes, there was nothing unusual in her love for lilacs, it was strange that in her stories she broke lilacs at her grandfather's dacha. As far as I knew, there had never been dachas in this family. For a long time I listened with a slight irony to her stories about childhood, about shady alleys and foam-like caps of lilac, barely noticeably waving high, high against the background of the blue sky and the yellow, sparkling sun. She enthusiastically told how she and her grandfather carried huge bouquets of lilacs from the dacha home to their room. Fragrant, with notes of cinnamon and almonds, the flowers that had just been plucked and gathered in bouquets turned her head, creating a sense of celebration. Walking along Victory Street, satisfied with the day that had already passed, they generously shared their lilac happiness not only with neighbors, but also with passers-by along the way.
I used to make fun of her stories, until one day she showed me this cottage. The cottage was already heavily abandoned. It was surrounded by a long, leaning green fence in places, behind which alleys were still discernible, and an old, but still strong, large house "............ Dachas" …
The owner and the staff were taciturn and indigestible. He always spoke softly, occasionally making comments in the form of clarifying questions, sometimes slightly mocking. Although Grach was transferred here recently, he did not regret his previous work at the center and tried never to remember it. Here at the dacha he breathed a sigh of relief. Old dreams with white huts, cherry orchards, endless steppe returned to him, becoming strong and calm again. The rook did his job calmly and honestly. Carefully performing all his duties, he almost lovingly watched, took care of his car, on the serviceability of which, perhaps, as he believed, some earthly affairs depended, and sometimes the course of someone's life. In general, he worked, as he had been used to for many years.
But today, today the Rook was in a hurry. He had already found out that the "Owner" was not going anywhere, he was in the bath, and it was luck. The rook was in a hurry! His soul was singing! Walking briskly through the alleys wet after the rain, he was looking for the most beautiful and fragrant lilac bushes. At the fork he stopped, here they are the best flowers-purple with shades of pink gathered in heavy double bunches. The flowers, still wet from a recent fleeting thunderstorm, seemed to be strewn with shiny, iridescent small diamonds in the sun. The aromas of lilac and wet warm earth were slightly intoxicating and dizzying. Choosing the fluffiest branch, the Rook tilted it, but before breaking it, he could not resist, tilted the flowers to his face and inhaled the fragrance. "Are you picking flowers?" a familiar voice spoke softly, but somewhat irritably. Startled, he flinched and opened his hand. The branch released, showered with a rain of diamonds and lilac petals, soared skyward. The body habitually stretched out at attention, but suddenly, instead of the statutory phrase, as if justifying himself, looking straight into the faded old man's eyes of the "Owner", he said in confusion, "wife, wife... she gave birth to a son." Looking for support and understanding, he looked at the people standing behind the Old Man. The crowd next to the Owner was silent, a fellow countryman in an embroidered shirt was looking at something in the transparent sky.
The tone of the voice changed, became a little softer. Thinking, the Old Man pulled a branch towards him and lowered his face into the flowers as if inhaling the fragrance. Son- he repeated, releasing the branch. On his reddish eyelashes and in the corners of his eyes, which somehow immediately darkened and turned brown, droplets of lilac moisture glistened, as if tears had welled up at the wrong time. Turning away from the Rook, looking somewhere to the side, he ordered in a muffled voice: "Do not touch! The path tears up what it wants." and already on the move added: "Never touch." The crowd made a noise, someone laughed, congratulating, slapped the Rook on the shoulder, someone on the back, and followed the Owner ....
After the death of the Owner, the Rook was arrested, but two years later he was released and taken back to work at the "..... DACHA".
The rook, when the lilac bloomed, sometimes used his right, the right to give joy! He came to the dacha first with his son, and later when his son grew up with his granddaughter.
And if you have been in late spring, in May, on Victory Street, you could meet a small, fragile, mobile girl, sparkling with ringing laughter and a silent, thoughtful old man. "Don't rush the goat," grandfather sometimes asked. The granddaughter slowed down, pressing her fragile shoulder against him, wanting to hold and give support. Holding large bouquets of lilacs in their hands, happy they walked slowly side by side, willingly sharing their lilac happiness...
Kuntsevo 2000.
P.S.
: Good afternoon. I would like to offer you a plot, it's a pity if it disappears. All events are real. For some time I was friends with the family of one of the drivers ...... Like many of us in this family, there were several stories about the events of the mid-20th century. Family stories were told a little differently each time, but in general everything coincided. I wrote down an average version of one of the stories, which I offer you. Slightly changed the driver's surname.
: This is a copy of the message you sent to the Editorial Board "............. ……..." through …………
Answer:.......... If you are ready to pay for the placement of materials in our magazine, please contact..........
approx.Fleitz - (from him. Floz - layer) is a very wide flat brush (it can be round or oval), designed mainly for applying wide colorful layers with one stroke, allows you to create a very wide, dense brushstroke of paint; thanks to which it is possible to create large-area textures with several brush movements.