A glimpse of genius. Messerer about Akhmadulina

And now I think that we do not have time to find out our happiness. Actually, what is happiness? This is a conscious moment of being. And if you understand this, then you will already have enough...

Bella Akhmadulina

The book includes letters and photographs from the family archive of Boris Messerer, as well as works by photographers V. Akhlomov, V. Bazhenov, Yu. Korolev, M. Larionova, V. Malyshev, A. Osmulsky, M. Paziy, I. Palmin, V. Perelman, V. Plotnikov, Yu. Rost, A. Saakov, M. Trakhman, L. Tugolev, B. Shcherbakov

© Messerer B. A., 2016

© Bondarenko A. L., artistic design, 2016

© AST Publishing House LLC, 2016

Old Cinema House on Povarskaya. Ground floor lobby. Perhaps it was called the “ticket hall”. There is melting snow on the floor. There are crowds of people, languishing in anticipation of upcoming meetings. Leva Zbarsky and I are also standing, waiting for someone. The door is constantly opening to let incoming people through. The beautiful stranger seems to float into the space of the hall. She is in a slippery fur coat, without a hat, with snowflakes on her tousled hair. Passing by, she glances at us briefly and just as briefly sends us a subtle greeting with her hand.

- Who is this? – I ask Leva.

– This is Bella Akhmadulina!

First impression. Strong. Memorable. This is how it will remain in memory. It’s fleeting, but the feeling of falling in love arises...

Spring 1974. The courtyard of the House of Cinematographers on Chernyakhovsky Street, near the Airport metro station. I'm walking my dog ​​Ricky, a Tibetan terrier.

Bella Akhmadulina appears in the yard with a brown poodle. His name is Thomas. Bella lives one entrance away from me, in the former apartment of Alexander Galich. Bella at home. In low-heeled shoes. Dark sweater. The hairstyle is random.

The sight of her tiny, slender figure begins to ache in your heart.

We are talking. Nothing. Bella listens absentmindedly. We're talking about dogs.

About dogs that are not nearly as peaceful as they seem at first. Ricky tries to start a fight. He succeeds and bites through Foma’s nose. Drops of blood. Bella is unhappy. I am embarrassed. Soon she leaves. And suddenly, with all the clarity that came out of nowhere, I understand that if this woman wanted, then I, without a moment’s hesitation, would leave with her forever. Anywhere.

Then Bella will write:

What is the meaning of fate's delay between us?

Why is the zigzag so bizarre and long?

While we were dating and didn’t know the secret,

Who cared about us, smiled and knew?

Inevitably, like two in the ring,

We met in this hateful courtyard.

Thanks to the incomparable Ricky

For your participation in our destiny...

Sometimes something happens between people that they cannot understand themselves. There were three such meetings in the yard. On the last one, Bella suggested:

– Come in two days to Pasternak’s dacha. We will celebrate his memory day.

I painfully imagined my appearance in this sacred house for me, having only Bella's verbal invitation. At seven o'clock in the evening of the appointed day I appeared in Peredelkino near Pasternak's house. The gates were, as always, open. I was greeted by a large red-brown chow chow. It was impossible to read his attitude towards me from the dog’s face. I headed towards the house. I called and went in. A large company was sitting around the table. Of the guests, I remember well Alexander Galich, Nikolai Nikolaevich William-Vilmont, Stasik Neuhaus and his wife Galya, Evgeniy Borisovich Pasternak and Alena, Leonid Pasternak and his wife Natasha. Bella sat in the center. The guests seemed surprised by my arrival. One Bella joyfully exclaimed:

- It’s so good that you came!

– I invited Boris to this solemn day and I am very glad that he is with us today.

They pulled up a chair for me and offered me a glass of vodka. My arrival interrupted Galich’s reading of poetry. The reading continued. But suddenly Bella abruptly interrupted Galich and began to enthusiastically read her dedication to Pasternak:

Burn to eyes, hands - cold,

my love, my cry - Tiflis!

Nature's concave cornice,

where God is capricious, having fallen into caprice,

that miracle perched above the world...

The poem, read in one breath, bright and swift, sounded like a challenge to Galich’s monotonous reading. Undoubtedly, his politicized poems accompanied by strummed guitar irritated Bella. Although she immediately began to hug and praise Galich, trying to make amends for her indomitable impulse. He continued his speech.

I remember an unexpected meeting with Bella at the dacha of playwright Alexander Petrovich Stein and his wife Lyudmila Yakovlevna Putievskaya. My close friend Igor Kvasha and his wife Tanya, daughter of Lyudmila Yakovlevna, were there. I was very glad to see Bella again, I rushed to her, we talked all evening and decided to see each other in Moscow.

Two months pass. Mixed company. Bella and I meet in the apartment of the writer Yuli Edlis, in a house on the corner of Sadovaya and Povarskaya. A lot of people, a lot of wine drunk. Everyone is in high spirits. Everyone wants the evening to continue.

Suddenly Edlis says:

- Guys, let's go to Messerer's workshop. It's nearby, on the same street.

Suddenly everyone agrees. I'm happy. Bella and I are leading the procession. I lead the company straight along the roadway. The street is completely deserted. We go to my house - No. 20 on Povarskaya. We take the elevator to the sixth floor, in groups of four. Four lifts. I have a lot of different drinks. Guests are impressed by the workshop. And Bella too...

Bella leaves for Abkhazia to perform. Two weeks of agonizing waiting. Phone call, her voice:

- I invite you to a restaurant.

And my answer:

- No, I’m inviting you to the restaurant.

We go to the House of Cinema restaurant on Vasilyevskaya Street.

I was not an outside observer, but a participant in this crazy but happy life. I have always had many friends, communication with whom took up a significant part of my time. But the main instinct in life was the desire to preserve and protect Bella, to protect her. Immediately after being impressed by her beauty and fantastic talent, I discerned a certain trait of disastrous nature, Bella’s vulnerability and defenselessness, as a person not adapted to the everyday side of life.

Apr 15, 2017

A glimpse of Bella Boris Messerer

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Title: A glimpse of Bella

About the book “Bella’s Flash” by Boris Messerer

Boris Messerer is a Soviet and Russian theater artist and set designer. One hundred and fifty opera and ballet performances were staged thanks to the author. And he is also the husband of Bella Akhmadulina.

The proposed book “Bella’s Flash” is a collection of the author’s memoirs about Bella Akhmadulina. The story of the life and work of the great Soviet poetess. We recommend reading to everyone who respects the work of these two talented people, as well as their contemporaries and the era in which they lived.

An expressive, sedate book tells the story of the work of the sixties and artists of the 20th century. The work will appeal to people of the older generation, because this topic is close to them.

Boris Messerer describes the times when he lived and worked with his wife. Elements of their life, work, interests and experiences together merge with many remarkable names of other famous personalities.

The author has an excellent narrative language. He speaks touchingly and reverently about his wife. He admires her talent. Bohemian life at its finest! Its features and oddities sometimes surprise, sometimes delight. You will not remain indifferent. Many people still admire the cultural heritage of the sixties - poems, novels, performances, paintings. Are you wondering how it was all created? Then it's worth reading these memoirs.

If you are interested in Akhmadulina's work, then you have probably watched a video of her reading her poetry. An unforgettable sight. An extraordinary and bright person inspires admiration. What was she like through her husband’s eyes?

“A glimpse of Bella” is a real collection of sketches of a loving husband and creative contemporary. Moreover, Boris Messerer himself was much less famous than his famous wife. This biography is reminiscent of a family album, which contains the best that was in the family. With whom did you meet, with whom did you drink at the same table, with whom did you sing songs, and so on. Moreover, the other side of the coin, where the poetess does not look her best, is hidden. Not a word about her bad character and string of love affairs. The author can be understood. As they say, “it’s either good about the dead or...”.

The book is replete with transcripts of Bella Akhatovna’s own dictaphone recordings, as well as a string of fragmentary memoirs of the author, arranged in more or less chronological order. A little about the most important things.

The work is intended for the amateur. Useful for overall development.

On our website about books, you can download the site for free without registration or read online the book “Bella’s Flash” by Boris Messerer in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and real pleasure from reading. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find the latest news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginning writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary crafts.

Download the book “Bella's Flash” for free by Boris Messerer

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In format txt: | Boris Messerer (b. 1933) - People's Artist of Russia, laureate of State Prizes of the Russian Federation, academician of the Russian Academy of Arts, chairman of the section of theater, film and television artists of the Moscow Union of Artists.

Author of the set design for the opera and ballet performances “Second Lieutenant Kizhe”, “Carmen Suite”, “The Little Humpbacked Horse”, “Bright Stream” at the Bolshoi Theater, “The Queen of Spades” in Leipzig and Ljubljana, “The Bedbug” and “Lefty” at the Kirov Theater ( Mariinsky) Theater, “Spartak” at the Opera and Ballet Theater in Yerevan, “The Nutcracker” at the Kremlin Ballet Theater; dramatic performances “Boris Godunov”, “Woe from Wit” (director O. Efremov), “Next - Silence” (director A. Efros), “The Hunchback” (director A. Goncharov) and many others. In total - the scenography of more than a hundred performances. In 1990-1997 he was the main artist of the Moscow Art Theater.

He worked in the field of book graphics. He also designed the samizdat almanac “Metropol”.

Author of design projects for art exhibitions at the State Museum of Fine Arts - “From Giotto to Malevich”, “Russian Court Costume”, Pablo Picasso, Amadeo Modigliani, Federico Fellini, Tonino Guerra, Salvador Dali.

He is engaged in easel painting and watercolors. He held more than twenty personal exhibitions in Russian cities. Participated in Moscow, All-Russian and foreign art exhibitions in London, Paris, Sao Paulo, Prague, Milan, Edinburgh, Boston.

Thirty-six years of marriage connect Boris Messerer with Bella Akhmadulina.

Magazine version

Boris Messerer

A glimpse of Bella

Fragments of the book

Preface

The idea of ​​writing down, recording my observations and impressions became stronger in my mind after Bella’s and my life paths coincided.

Even before this event, I met many interesting people whom it would be right to remember. But after Bella and I started spending time together, the number of such meetings increased immeasurably. Bella gave me a whole circle of wonderful writers, and I rejoiced at her entry into the artistic and theatrical fields. And this process was completely organic, there was no premeditation in it, it proceeded naturally.

I was not an outside observer, but a participant in this crazy but happy life. I have always had many friends, communication with whom took up a significant part of my time. But my main instinct in life was the desire to protect Bella and protect her from various everyday troubles in order to protect her rare talent.

The story about human relationships and the events of our common life with Bella is not the main thing for me in this book. More important is the image of Bella herself, which I would like to convey to the reader.

Let Bella herself speak, so that the reader will again be carried away by her amazing, unique intonation, bewitched by the hypnotic influence of her speech.

To do this, I tried to record on a dictaphone much of what Bella said when I was able to do so.

Earlier and more successful entries include a description of Bella’s trip to France in 1962, memories of Tvardovsky, Antokolsky, and Vysotsky.

Bella's desire to talk about her childhood, her origins, her stay in Kazan during the war, and wonderful stories about the virgin lands became records of 2010.

The chronicle of life, manifested in the texts transcribed from the recorder, dates back to the very last time, when I constantly recorded Bella.

As always, Bella said all this not on the record, but simply while talking to me. When these conversations were transcribed and put on paper, then, re-reading them, I again begin to understand the immensity of Bella’s talent. And I also want to say about her lack of any vanity, which, perhaps, was her main quality.

For my part, I try to present the facts as accurately as possible, accurately indicate the dates and places of events in which we were participants, leaving Bella room for lyrical assessments and simply for her voice to be heard from these pages.

That is why I think it’s right to start with Bella’s story about her childhood, about life in evacuation and about her first steps in poetry. And only then try to give my description of a series of meetings with wonderful people with whom we were friends. I also try to do this because I am often the only witness of our communication with them and consider it my duty to talk about it.

Bella. Memories

There is a pathetic, wretched photograph left somewhere: two sad women - this is my mother, my aunt - but in their hands they have what they just found, what was born in April 1937. I don’t know if the photograph exists now, but I remember it well. And this pitiful creature, and these two unfortunate women, but then kind, who think that they have found something good, are all mistaken, all three. They will not find in themselves what happy parents know how to find, no, this can already be seen from their tiny and somewhat unhappy face. Does this poorly formed unhappy face know what is to come, what will happen next? It’s only April of 1937, but this tiny creature, this bundle they are holding, pressing close to them, as if they knew something about what was going on around them. And for quite a long time in the early, very early beginning of childhood, some feeling dawned on me that I knew, despite my complete lack of age, that I knew something that did not need to be known and was impossible to know, and, in general, that survival is impossible.

But somehow this bag unfolds. Well, of course, there is also an adoring grandmother, and an aunt, who was always drawn to some kind of exploits. She, in fact, did them constantly, first human, then military, then simply saving some animals, some people. Well, yes, they don’t know anything about this yet, and the impression is that it’s that one, this useless one, who is completely invisible, his face is wrinkled, that he knows that he is overshadowed by some kind of grief, which is completely out of his height, out of proportion. fate.

But why is he so sad, somehow he is growing up, somehow life, although miserable around him, is still growing him, feeding him. And only this constant, incredible sadness that attracted the attention of both relatives and people. What, where does this sadness come from? But it was reflected in some photographs. Subsequently, I will have to decipher and unravel this constant expression of grief, which is not inherent in such a small and insignificant baby. But I remember, I remember clearly.

I already have some little time. They are trying to console us with something, although there is nothing to console us with. But they put him on a frog, which is probably still standing, such a big frog in the Park of Culture. This just plunges me into despair, that is, this frog, its unfortunate situation, my connection with it - despair.

Here is an exhibition, and I remember it well, and they tell me that this is a holiday, this is an exhibition, I don’t answer anything to this, but they give me grapes, which are called “lady fingers”. The horror of these fingers, as if wounded, also leads to despair. In general, this is kind of unnatural behavior for a child who has no direct misfortunes, but still has relatives.

Well, maybe, then I think, well, firstly, in this house, in the first house in which I lived at a very young age, for some reason this house was called the Third House of Soviets, Felix Svetov lived there, he was an amazing man , but then I couldn’t know him, he was ten years older than me. He was a remarkably kind, noble man and he laughed a lot later when he remembered me, because he said: I remember that some kind of picker was digging in the sand. They forced me to look for some kind of pleasure in the sandbox. He had very little joy at first; when he was ten years old, his parents were arrested. I couldn’t know this if he was ten years older, but this is only one, one sweet figure that I now remember with love, and he is no longer alive. I couldn’t know this, but a very vast space was inhabited by these figures, and, perhaps, a helpless creature, tiny and able to sense general distress, because everyone was planted in this house and also around. Of course, I don’t want to exaggerate my infantile knowledge, but, nevertheless, there was something... Well, probably, some cars arrived, something was happening, that is, sensations, as befits a baby who is dressed in lace, I wasn't there.

Perhaps my relatives survived because my grandmother’s brother Alexander Mitrofanovich Stopani was considered some kind of friend of Lenin. Grandmother studied at the Kazan gymnasium and, under the influence of Alexander, wore proclamations. The policeman stopped her, the good policeman:

What are you doing? You need to study, you need not to upset your family, not to upset your teachers. What are you doing?

But there was the influence of his brother; to my grandmother he seemed very kind, very correct. For her revolutionary actions she was expelled from the gymnasium, but she still remembered French and German.

The older brothers had different beliefs, they studied in the cadet corps, became officers, and then it is unknown where they went, either they died or left. One seems to have left somewhere. They did not engage in this revolutionary nonsense, like their younger brother Alexander. Grandmother recalled that she was afraid of them, they were very strict and so ironic. For example, they tied my grandmother to the table; she was the youngest in the family. They will tie you to the table and use a slingshot to hit the portraits.

Grandmother remembered when she saw Lenin for the first time at the May Day. For some reason it was necessary to swim across the Volga. There, in Kazan, the Volga. And so she saw Lenin for the first time; he was Ulyanov. Alexander Mitrofanovich somehow worshiped him, this continued all his life, and then my grandmother became disappointed, over time.

And so they sailed, my grandmother was still a high school student, but already with revolutionary offenses. When they were sailing on a boat, there was a man rowing, an oarsman, and this Lenin did not help him in any way. Grandma sat scared because the current was very strong. The rower was tired, but Lenin did not help him, he only shouted:

Rower, row! Rower, row!

Well, it was she who saw him for the first time, but, probably, it still remained in the young lady that the man did not help the other row, but there were second oars or whatever, I don’t know, it could have been helped if the current was strong.

Well, by the second time she saw Lenin, she had already endured a lot. She separated from her family, left the estate for Kazan for paramedic courses, entered into a fictitious marriage at the request of revolutionary leaders, fictitious, she emphasized this very much. As a child, I still might not understand, because this revolutionary, too, may have been good, but they were all crazy idealists. Not everyone, here is Lenin, I don’t believe that he was an idealist. The revolutionary was named Baranov, and his grandmother, nee Stopani, took his surname at the wedding, and so was Nadezhda Mitrofanovna Baranova.

And then, he was sick with consumption, this Baranov, the revolutionaries sent them to Switzerland, but then the grandmother began to strongly doubt everything, because they did not send money. Grandmother herself earned money as a nurse. She spoke French and German. With this money they lived with this unfortunate man dying of consumption. He did not get better in Switzerland. And so they lived, the grandmother was officially married, but unofficially she did not consider it a marriage. It was such an unfortunate neighborhood. He was dying of consumption, the comrades who sent them to Switzerland did not send money, but money was due. A vague, unclean story about embezzlement of money. Grandma didn't talk about it.

Well, then they couldn’t leave Switzerland because there was no support. Baranov needed feeding, treatment, and how to live. Grandma was denied a home a long time ago. Then she somehow saved some money and they left. Somehow we went to Russia, but in such a way that we ended up in the south of Russia, we got there in some miserable way. At this time, our Emperor was passing by; it was a famous journey. And they were put in prison - both the grandmother and all the unreliable ones. These unreliable persons were arrested for only three days. And Baranov died there, in prison.

This was before any revolution. After the death of the fictitious husband, the grandmother married another man, Likhachev. And then Christina, my aunt, was born in Nizhny Novgorod. Then my grandmother went to Donbass, where she worked as a nurse. Her youngest daughter, my mother, was born there.

Grandmother’s fourth husband, I saw his photograph, he was good, noble, with such a mustache. This Lazarev was already there, he adopted my grandmother’s children, Christina and my mother, they became Lazarevs.

My grandmother also had two sisters, but she was the youngest in the family. She was known as an ugly child, no one thought about her marriage, but these older sisters are well described by me from my memories. They were beautiful, as I wrote:

...beauties with huge eyes

gone crazy and merciful house

He dressed them up and watered them with tears.

Why did they go crazy? They were beauties with a very Italian appearance, but they were not married off for a very long time, and then they were given away unsuccessfully.

Grandmother, especially the older one, was mistaken for a Jew, she didn’t pay attention to it, she walked around in a robe like that. And Christina is wonderful, kind, selfless, she wanted to draw and become an artist.

In Donbass, my grandmother saw Lenin again. She worked as a nurse. I really liked it - “merciful sister”, that is, whose sister is everyone. We call it “nurse”. She somehow lived, fought illnesses. There was also a crazy department, my grandmother told me that such a woman flew out of the crazy department - her hair was flying, and she shouted: “Get out, Satan!” Such a terrible cry, suffering, some kind of evil spirit was driving away.

And the children all got sick, and so did the grandmother, because it was contagious. Then my grandmother fell ill with typhus, from which she almost died, typhus. And then Lenin came to visit his obsequious friend Alexander Mitrofanovich Stopani. Well, he showed up, my grandmother was sick with typhus, and he shouted:

Tell your sister to get some coffee!

Grandma served some poorly brewed coffee with some cold cream, and he shouted again:

Why is your sister, such a fool, still not learning how to make coffee?!

That's the character. Well, my grandmother began to lose consciousness, and she was taken to the hospital for typhus. That’s how grandma was, she was kind and amazing.

My first bright, distinct phrase and bright, distinct color - first the tulips bloomed, and suddenly this gloomy child, unfriendly, not at all likeable, suddenly saw blooming tulips and said: “I have never seen anything like this.” That is, such a clear phrase is absolutely clear. Everyone was surprised that a gloomy and perhaps unwise child suddenly spoke out. This struck me so much that, to console me, we were traveling in some trolleybus, they bought me, someone sold, some aunt, grandmother sold, several red poppies. That is, as soon as I had time to be captivated by them and be terribly amazed and so wounded by this scarlet beauty of them, this incredible color of these plants, the wind blew them away. This is how all the failures began, like these missing poppies. Here is the bright and wonderful scarlet color of first these tulips on some ridge, and then these several poppies, which fate immediately took away, they flew away, in general, I felt some kind of tragedy again.

Another memory... My father worked at an electrical plant, but this did not last long because he was expelled from the party, and until he was expelled, we went somewhere with him, and I remember, I was two years old. And I remembered that my father was driving some kind of car, the driver was sitting next to me, very embittered, apparently, like almost everyone around me, and I was out of servility and fear, and there was some kind of test tube in such an old car, apparently , for flowers, and I’m digging and picking something in it, which might remind him of cooking, say, porridge or soup. And suddenly he, hungry: “Everyone eat! - shouts. “You keep eating, but I don’t even have time to eat!” I remember this too, I remember it forever.

My mother told me that in the maternity hospital, this was the Catherine Hospital, she was transferred there from the Third House of Soviets when the contractions began, there was such a case: they were giving children to feed and suddenly they brought her some other child. She already knew me, but then some other child, who had something on her face, something damaged by something, she got scared, screamed, and the correct child was returned to her. I sometimes thought that maybe they were confused, but, of course, this is impossible, because all these Italian and Tatar things had a very strong effect.

My mother called my father Arkady, and when I started jumping in bed, he taught me to say: “I am a Tatay, I am a Tatay.”

My name is Isabella, why? My mother was obsessed with Spain in the thirties. She asked her grandmother to find a Spanish name for the newborn. But Isabel is still in Spain. Grandmother even thought that the queen was called Isabella, but the Queen’s real name was Isabel. But I realized it early and shortened it all to Bell. Only Tvardovsky called me Isabella Akhatovna. I get very embarrassed when they call me Bella Akhmatovna, this happened all the time, and it continued in the hospital. I say: “Sorry, I am Akhatovna, my father is Akhat.”

A photograph of two seedy, seedy women - my aunt, my mother and me. It's near the maternity hospital. But my father was not there. And from there they were immediately taken to the Third House of Soviets. But it took me a while to recover. The mother says she came to her senses when she was one year old, but she didn’t speak. My father came from Kazan and was assigned to the newspaper of some electrical plant. But then he was expelled from the party and kicked out from everywhere, and, probably, his mother somehow saved him. He was in some kind of despair, I somehow felt it all the time.

My mother told me something that somehow she managed to save my father, somehow, maybe because she... I didn’t know, I didn’t know until I was quite an adult where she worked. And she didn’t know, in my opinion, what she was doing. Well, translator and translator. She studied at the Institute of Foreign Languages, somewhere on Arbatsky Lane, I think, and from childhood she knew some languages, and then she learned Japanese and Spanish, she knew English and French. And apparently she was in good standing, I don’t know. And no one touched her, and she somehow saved her father. And my father, in my opinion, did not intend to marry her at that time. But when troubles started, his mother somehow dragged him out.

Already when he was expelled from the party and from work, he signed with his mother, and I remember we were at the exhibition, where for some reason I cried terribly.

Just when I was probably about three years old, we moved, which was also fate, precisely to Staraya Square, that is, it was residential building 10, fraction 4, on Staraya Square. My mother assured me that she gave me this bear, which I treasured so much, when I was a year old. I remember it very well, and I was in awe of it all my life, and then I gave it to Liza, asking her to take care of it, that it was such a dear bear to me. This means that I was at most three years old, at most, when they moved.

When I grew up and grew bigger, I already went to Red Square and the Alexander Garden, but I lived on Old Square, window to window with some dull, dull and sleepy Gogol man. But I remember his armlets well, and since I had no one to play with, I didn’t have any poppies anymore, I tried to play with this official. And while I was growing up, for my consolation, my grandmother, who suffered greatly for me, bought tiny chickens, and I showed him that I have chickens, he looked at it with bewilderment, probably he had no time for chickens. I loved these chickens, like other living beings, although this love inevitably ends in suffering. These chickens, because I was very sorry, I thought they were cold, I put them under the blanket, and of course, they could not stand my care. Some of the most difficult events that a small child experiences in suffering are difficult to understand, but my grandmother allowed me all kinds of animals.

And even before the war in the Park of Culture, I was very little, but I remember there was such a parachute tower, and those who were not afraid could jump with a parachute, with some kind of pole, or something, somehow this parachute was strengthened . My aunt Christina was jumping.

This Gorky Cultural Park, after the war, after everything, was of great importance in my childhood at school. I went there to skate by metro, mostly skated on Chistye Prudy, but I also went there, there was a lot of space for skating. Then, as an adult, I saw motorcycle racing along the wall where Levitin was. I didn’t know it was Levitin, but I saw it. And there was this Natalya Androsova, whom I later knew because she was some kind of friend of Mezhirov. Here they were rushing along this vertical wall. And Levitin’s death is amazing, I found out later. That's terrible.

And my heroic aunt was a nurse during the Finnish war, she served throughout the Finnish war. At first I didn’t understand what kind of war it was. A terrible, unjust, criminal war. The Finns resisted so much, they were courageous, they defended their fatherland, their homeland from the enemy invasion. Well, Khristinka, she was still of a heroic nature, it turned out that she protected our soldiers there, protected us with herself. Their snipers were very accurate, they were called “Finnish cuckoos,” but they probably saw that it was some kind of woman nurse, and she was only indirectly hit by a bullet, but she had marks. She was generally inclined towards heroism, then throughout the Patriotic War she was a nurse until the very end.

When the heroic aunt was already old, she saw how the kittens were thrown into some pond to drown, and she rushed after them. She pulled the kittens out of the water, and they became crazy and rushed at her, biting, and did not survive the trauma of drowning. In general, very good, very tragic, completely different from my mother. I worked as a painter, begged, my mother despised all this, but she and my grandmother influenced me the most.

As a child, a child goes through so many things, and then the beginning of the war, oh my God. How they rescued me from this garden in Kraskovo. The Germans came close to Moscow. My father had already gone to war, and people thought that everything would end soon, that this was some kind of nonsense. I was four years old, I had a teddy bear. These teachers in Kraskovo robbed everyone. The parents will send some gifts, they took them away. They had their own children. Once they wanted to take my bear away, but then I grabbed it so tightly that they got scared. So it was possible to disappear, because a glow was blazing over Moscow, Moscow was burning. They grabbed their children and consoled them, and all the other small fry were crying and crowding around, but, fortunately, my mother managed to pick me up. Well, further wanderings began. All this is useful to a person.

The war began, and my father immediately went to the front. Immediately all the rights from the party were returned to him, and he fought throughout the war, as expected. I was really looking forward to him, I generally took every military man for him. But for some reason he did not return for a long time, for some reason he did not return after the forty-fifth year. When he arrived, he had already become a major, and he had an orderly named Andrei Kholobudenko. And when he was somewhere at the end of the war, he could send something, some postcards. I remember two, some postcards from Austria, so beautiful, they amazed me. New Year's cards have already been sent.

I was evacuated very late. I got measles. Everything was already dangerous, the Germans were close to Moscow, and I could not be transported. There was such a lonely boy, it is unclear what happened to his parents. My grandmother says to me: “Go and play with the boy.” I played and got measles. And so, until the measles passed, it was impossible to evacuate. In Moscow, which was already empty of fast-moving refugees, this tension of the people could be felt. Well, the bombing continued. Probably, then, many, many years later, when I accidentally wrote a poem in a dream, I couldn’t understand where it came from, and then I thought that through the crack of the bomb shelter I still saw an airplane, because they shouted: “They shot it down! Shot down! Our guys shot down!” And someone, of course, had to die in the middle of Moscow.

It was impossible to go with measles, so as not to infect everyone else there who was not yet sick, but finally my grandmother and I were sent away. There was some kind of bale of insignificant content. And it was a train car. A huge part of the people had already been evacuated, first to Samara or approximately those places, but we remained. And it turned out - where he would bring it. It was still autumn, a kind of wonderful, tender autumn blooming with its pale yellowness, and it seemed to share the sadness of the people. And it was somehow sad to look at this wonderful sky. I remember this very much. And there was nothing, there was no one in our car, from time to time some trains rushed by, but it was so lonely... I was left with a feeling that could then be called or felt as the only one in the world, precisely this sick feeling, unlike anything else the fatherland with which you are completely alone, and you coincide with these faded trees, with these empty, empty places. And for some reason it seemed to me that there was a blue cow, but it was not blue, it was some kind of gray, lonely, sad cow, which was also a sign of complete orphanhood, complete. I remember this very much.

But one day another train, filled with cheerful young soldiers, stopped near us, that is, on parallel tracks. If I understood something, of course there was no point in having fun. They were taken to the front, taken precisely to a place from which they probably would not have to return. But they were young. I remember them, one at least. The carriages stood somehow very close, accompanying one another, and a cheerful, young man, I seem to remember now, young and ruddy and so clear-eyed, such a boy, such a young man with some light brown curls, looked at my grandmother and said:

Auntie, let me hold the girl!

But grandma got scared, thought that suddenly the train would move or something, and she hugged her close, she didn’t want to let her. And I remember he said:

Yes, let me, don’t be afraid, just let me hold it a little.

I was not given a reading in his eyes or in his soul, but it is clear that in this tenderness with which he took someone else’s child, pressed him and held him for one minute, there was such suffering, because some children whom , maybe he was never supposed to, he himself never had one, I suppose, as I remember, he was quite a young boy. And so he held it, somehow briefly enjoyed this participation in the living warmth of a child, gave it away, and said:

Yes, take it, take it, don’t be afraid.

And he gave it away. Grandma happily took possession of her treasure and we set off.

The path was not easy. But, in short, at first it concerned Ufa, where we happened to stay for some time, but somehow there was nowhere to go, and we thought that Kazan was somehow nearby, and my father was born in Kazan, and his mother lived there , that is, my own grandmother is also a grandmother, but only on the other side, and some relatives. Well, my grandmother probably went there with anxiety and fear. I was in Kazan more than once later, but nothing remained of that dilapidated, dilapidated building.

My father was at war, and he could not provide any help to anyone from a distance. And then we appeared, complete strangers. This second grandmother especially scared me. She walked around in some kind of colorful long outfit, her head was wrapped, terribly gloomy, although they explained to her that this was her granddaughter, Akhat’s daughter, she didn’t like it. In general, for a long time, perhaps, she didn’t like the fact that he was in Moscow, but now it wasn’t his fault, he was at war. And of course, she was terribly annoyed that I didn’t speak Tatar. She even wanted to visit me several times, but my grandmother, of course, couldn’t allow that. Stop by so I can speak as I should, like normal people speak.

And we were given a corner, a perfect corner, and this grandmother was always gloomy. What is easier for a small child than to speak another language, but because I saw this hostility, hostility that was completely innocent, because, indeed, they all spoke Tatar, and I didn’t speak anything in Tatar. And what’s more, readings with my grandmother began again. This is about Viy, about terrible revenge.

And, besides, we were simply a terrible burden to them, then people were even surprised: “What, was there such a famine in Kazan?” Yes, such hunger. I don’t know why, either we lost some cards, or we didn’t have them, or something, I don’t know. Or the grandmother was completely unsuited to all this.

Well, at first, I remember it was summer. And somehow I even see myself, as if children draw: some strange creature walking on thin legs, unsure of life. And yet we were parasites, clearly painful parasites. They had some other relatives there, there was a boy, his father’s sister, whose name was Hayat, but she was kind. She was afraid of her mother to speak to me in Russian, but suddenly she said to me in a whisper: “Yes, you are Marusya, call me Marusya.” That is, she understood that Hayat was hard for me, I couldn’t learn. And I saw that there was warmth and love in her, and every time her mother did not see, she somehow managed to caress me, stroke me.

But I walked on these thin, thin legs, in some kind of dress still from Moscow, timidly moving somewhere. There was a very beautiful Black Lake there. By the way, this is the Black Lake, which I admired, some swans swam there, it was next to the Kazan KGB building, which was already connected with the fate of Aksenov, with his relatives, with his parents. But I didn’t know this, but I looked at the lake in which swans were swimming, and they, black, were reflected in the water, and I admired them.

Yes, not only was there no food, I was also terribly afraid of somehow depriving them, but there was nothing, no food, nothing. And I only remember how this father’s sister Hayat, or Marusya, as she told me to call her, was afraid for me. And I remember how she somehow sneaked up to me and slipped me an egg, and somehow wanted to force me to eat a little. I suddenly began to weaken and could no longer walk. Well, there weren’t any doctors there, but someone understood and said:

Yes, this is bad, your girl will die. Well, she has starvation dysentery.

Someone said, I heard it. My grandmother heard it too. And suddenly a truly wonderful lightness took possession of me, and then I will have to think about this memory. Suddenly I felt completely at ease, all the painful sensations were distant. This grandmother, and even she suddenly began to look differently, that grandmother, my father’s mother. It is unlikely that she was such a villain. And suddenly I feel some kind of almost flying away, so easily, so carefree, the main thing is that I don’t need to be afraid of anything, I don’t want anything - neither eat, nor drink, nothing, nothing. Just lie there, lie there, and seem to rise up somewhere.

But still, the grandmother found her mother somewhere, who acted as a translator in some service. She sent a telegram: “Bellochka is dying.” And I continued to do this with great, almost relief, because, in general, this whole hard life, which I had to experience a little: the troubles of the kindergarten, the bomb shelter, the bombing, the glow over Moscow, the bomb that gasped right next to me - all this is somewhere... it was completely far away, no matter. There is nothing, only such transparency and some kind of sinlessness of existence. But maybe this was the time when I was sinless.

But suddenly, after some time, I don’t know how far my withered wings flew, suddenly I saw some sobbing woman in military uniform standing over me. I didn’t even recognize it, that is, it was my mother who arrived. According to such a telegram, she was somehow released. But I didn't recognize her. And then, in fact, a certain gap begins again, because somehow they probably pumped me out a little, and when it was already possible to move me, they sent me on a ship, so. And the city - maybe it was Naberezhnye Chelny, well, something like that, somehow close there. There I began to come to my senses, then they tried to give me something to eat, which later hurt me, because from complete thinness, missing flesh... But this was for me, and there was a hungry dog, Aza, and I tried to feed her , I already understood well.

But the most amazing thing is the room that was rented, that is, it was a corner, part of the room, part of the hut. And the hostess, she amazed me, amazed me. I remember later I either saw her or tried to draw her. It was a completely smoldering, thin woman, all in black. Of course, she has someone... She never spoke to us and treated us with some kind of contempt, as if because we were alive, even though my mother said:

Yes, my daughter was sick.

She was completely either indifferent or disgusted, she prayed incessantly all the time, there was an icon in front of her. Without getting up from her knees day and night, day and night, day and night, she prayed. And I loved her so much, I sympathized with her so much. I understood that maybe she was praying for someone who could be prayed for in order to save him, but by her entire expression, her relationship with this icon, by the fact that she never rose from her knees, I was so frantic her face understood that probably the one she was so worried about had not returned, he was no longer there.

And then the evacuation time gradually ended. But I felt terribly sorry and loved this woman, and my mother, of course, was against it, and said:

All these prayers, all these prayers.

It annoyed her, but I drew it. I had two pencils there - black, yellow, and I drew this woman. And it turned out to be a whole icon on a sheet of paper, I kept it under my pillow. When my mother saw it, she was horrified:

What happened to you?

No, nothing... - I was scared.

Well, then again someone swam across the river, and then I saw that they were being transported on a cart, on the same cart that they now use to carry food. They’re taking me, my grandmother is dragging along, it’s already Moscow, here’s Ilyinsky Square.

It was already forty-four years old, I had to go to school in the fall. When I went to school for the first time, I remember the girl who went with me - Rita Shrider, she was Jewish, her family was very good. Such old Jewish people. I remember it was my grandfather and grandmother, they somehow taught me this way, they said it, I felt good with them. And of course, they loved it.

Well, no nonsense has ever entered my head, although the huge janitor who was right there suddenly says:

Wait, you’re a good girl, but why did your parents spoil you with your Jewish name?

And the mother, in addition to her friend, this highest friend Lepeshinskaya, had a friend Basya, whom her mother was looking for all the time, she was afraid that she had disappeared because of her Jewishness. Aunt Basya was good, she lived in a house near Ilyinsky Square; Where it says “Meat”, it used to be written “Mikoyan”. She lived there in the yard. But, of course, everything somehow threatened her all the time, and her mother knew it. And we were looking for this Basya. She somehow survived.

It’s good when a person understands from birth that this is dirty nonsense, just such nonsense. But I saw a lot of this as a child. But I didn’t know any Jews, I knew that everyone who is good is good.

I went to school once, and then I neglected my education. I didn’t go to school for three years, and nothing could be done about me. For some reason, school terrified me, and, I don’t know, I was already used to loneliness, to this illness, to this praying woman, whom I still remember very clearly.

The teacher, I remember, Anna Petrovna Kazachenko, came and asked her parents for some food to support her. But I still couldn’t do anything, and my whole life consisted only of walking along the Chinese Wall, along the embankment, and never going to school. And so I almost didn’t go. But somehow they kept collecting me all the time, and I even remember that one day I finally came, and such a stern, plump headmistress said:

Do you want me to show you the hardest, most untalented child in school?

Some commission that inspected the school, it:

Yes, of course, of course.

That is, clearly something wonderful could be seen, and she led me to them and said:

Well, write some word.

And the headmistress lived at the school, and she had a dog, which, of course, was the consolation of my life, my love. They didn’t let her in, they didn’t let her in, but still.

I tried to write. She said:

Well, do you see? Do you see children like this? She doesn’t think about her mother, not about her grandmother, who suffers for her because she doesn’t study at all, she thinks about the dog. And I noticed that she always thinks about the dog. What does she write, what letters? Do you see that she only puts emphasis on consonant sounds?

Yes! - the representatives were horrified. - Yes, but why is that?

I don’t know, there are children, you know, who do not lend themselves to any teaching, any upbringing.

That’s what they said, that is, they presented me as an unprecedented child, as an unprecedented fool, stubborn, gloomy, who also thinks only about dogs.

And again the teacher Anna Petrovna Kazachenko went and asked her mother for a chicken. Speaks:

You probably have two chickens? After all, you still have an aunt and a sister.

The mother gave away chicken and some food, all the food, just to somehow appease Anna Petrovna, who was unhappy, of course, hungry, apparently.

Well, what's your name?

Come on, this girl will be on duty for us. She probably knows how to hold a rag very well.

I have never been able to do this and I still can’t do this. But that’s how she fell in love with me precisely because of what I believe was military suffering. And once she asked me to manage this board and wipe it with a rag.

And I read so much by that time that, of course, I already wrote very well, and if I put the emphasis in “dog” somewhere in the wrong place, it didn’t mean that I couldn’t do it, because I read constantly, first with my grandmother, then alone. This incessant reading was of Pushkin, but mostly of Gogol, all the time. There were books in the house, and I was reading, and suddenly everyone noticed that I wrote without any mistakes and very quickly, and I even began to teach others to write.

Here is such a wounded post-war lonely sad woman, Nadezhda Alekseevna Fedoseeva, suddenly she had some kind of wing over me, as if I, I don’t know, reminded her of someone, or the wounded, if she was a nurse, or, I don’t know, somehow she fell in love with me. Well, everyone somehow took their cues from me. I actually wiped this board clean.

Well, there was something else, also connected with the war, because an art teacher appeared, and he was in military uniform, also wounded, he was limping and leaning on some kind of stick, and, besides, there was something in his face that also struck me , there was some suffering. That is, the sufferers seemed to unite among cheerful children, and here was this military man, in a military uniform, very torn, already worn out, and he, too, somehow took a closer look. But the fact is that, of course, later, from the heights of another day, I may think that I had no doubt that he was in danger of something else. But I definitely knew somehow that he would soon go somewhere, that he was in danger of some kind of grief. I remember him very well: so exhausted, somehow thin, lame, limping, but with such a deep, tragic look, looking at the children... And what did he think, what did he experience during this war? And so he says, addressing the children:

But kids, let’s draw Victory Day, draw, don’t be scared, draw.

It was just the 45th year.

You draw as best you can. If someone has been in the war, draw them. Well, draw whatever you want.

And so I used pencils, I had a box of pencils and a sheet of paper, and with all the pencils that I had, completely formless, but all the different colors that you can imagine, I drew. The children each drew what they could - some a tank, some an airplane, and I drew this formlessness, but I used up all the pencils for this. He walked around everyone, praised everyone, and came up to me, and suddenly became terribly moved, and gave me a huge five plus. And I was so amazed, that is, it coincided with what he had in mind, that is, it’s not so simple to have such many, many colored pencils. Completely formless, but very stormy, because it was Victory Day.

And with this huge A+ then, after all these school adventures, a certain turning point in my life began. When I brought it home and showed it, no one could believe it. Only, to my misfortune, he soon disappeared, and I think that his fate was bitter, I still think so. It was a long time ago.

And that life consists of losses, this was hard to learn, but it also incessantly concerned wounded animals - sometimes sick, sometimes dying. I still can’t do a lot, I can never forget.

My father had a colleague - Ivan Makarovich, very kind and good. They were friends since the war until he died. He had nowhere to go after the war; he went to the Volga to restore the collective farm. I remember my father and I went to the small village of Popadinka to visit Ivan Makarovich, where he began to manage the collective farm extremely unsuccessfully. For some reason this trip really stuck in my mind. I was probably already over eight years old. And we are going, they put me in the cab, and we were sitting in the truck, we are going to visit Ivan Makarovich. The war is already over. And there was a place of amazing beauty, but amazing hunger. But it all amazed me, because the Volga, right on the banks of the Volga. And here is this run-down collective farm that Ivan Makarovich tried to restore. Of course, nothing came of this, I think, because there were completely poor people there, everyone died, there was nothing.

But while we were driving, it was through Yaroslavl, apparently, that is, where the famous prison is, suddenly I saw such a huge queue. I asked:

Uncle, what are they behind?

And so he got so angry:

Why are they standing?! Then! They brought the package to the prison.

We were driving past, and they were standing, well, people were standing with packages. Or some with packages, some... But for the first time I saw it, as Anna Andreevna described it. This is a long line, but I didn’t understand what it was, so I asked. And he screamed at me, screamed, screamed, as if I could know. But then I'll understand. This means, as I understand it, it was the Yaroslavl prison, because we were traveling along this route.

Then we arrived. This poor Ivan Makarovich, he was completely naked and beggarly, wanted to feed us something. But beauty, beauty! Fantastic amount of strawberries. It was possible for them not to have anything, and I understood that they themselves had nothing to eat. But strawberries! Everything was scarlet from the strawberries to the very bank of the Volga. It was the first time I saw the Volga so much and was amazed by it.

We went there because my father thought of finding some kind of shelter there. There was nothing there, no cattle, only completely exhausted, starved people, women who had lost their husbands. In general, such a collective farmer is sad. Well, after some time we left.

Then my father got some kind of job, and I went to the camp singing: “Our camp is half-hearted, we are starving heads.” Yes, no, there was nothing there, but there simply wasn’t enough food.

And then suddenly the father settled down. There was no sin behind him. Well, a small flourishing suddenly came when my father got a job somewhere for these very modest military services of his. I left myself some kind of Red Star. This is how the wounds were saved. His military ranks were somehow certified and approved. Small ranks.

And suddenly they announce to me that we will go to the sea. Mother earned money. Although, due to the fact that she studied languages ​​all the time, listened to recordings, that is, she knew them all, but repeated them, everyone burst into us saying that they had heard a record with languages. They thought that something... But it was all hidden from me, of course, everything was hidden.

But at sea - yes. And it was almost impossible to get there, but we got to Gudauta. And they rented some amazing house. And amazingly kind, wonderful owners and two dogs. And a huge garden, and everything grew in it. All. The young owner’s name was Niyaz, well, I don’t know, Georgian or Ossetian. But they were very kind, amazingly kind. That some Russians came, this one was in the war, this one was something else. But, unlike all previous hunger strikes, they always tried to feed us something. But the main thing for me was, of course, that there were two dogs. Their names were Tarzan and Tutulika.

Getting there, buying tickets, I remember everything, it was impossible. My father showed me some military documents, but no one paid attention to it, everyone was from the war, and everyone was going somewhere.

Tarzan and Tutulika are two dogs. And besides, our love with these two dogs, it, of course, immediately became incredible. And we played in this garden all the time. I had several dolls with me, one was bald. I even remember all of them, what they looked like, what their names were. And there was a hare, his name was Borya. So I played with these toys, and the dogs played with me. And this, of course, could be taken as complete happiness after the war and all these bombings and hunger strikes. Yes, it was bliss. We were hiding with this Tarzan and Tutulika, because I all played with them, I just played and kissed them. The owners knew this and laughed a lot.

It was very close to the sea. There was a photograph of me, a very thin little girl. And I didn’t like being filmed with my parents.

I had no idea how to part with Tarzan and Tutulika. And the owners said:

Leave the girl. What are you in Moscow? She will live well with us.

So kind.

One day they said that we would go to visit their friends in a neighboring village. Also Abkhazians, probably, because it’s right on the very shore. And so we went to visit these people, along this wonderful road, along flowering bushes and trees. And then we arrive, and there are such joyful screams. And how they caressed and loved this strange child, who came from Moscow, some seedy one. And they kissed like that, they hugged like that, it was all in my head. But they loved it so much, as if this jewel had just fallen into their hands, they were so happy about some stranger’s child. Yes, they were amazing.

And so the owners said, leave it. But, of course, my parents didn’t leave me. But they said:

Let him live with us. She plays with dogs, eats well, and has already learned to swim in the sea.

Yes, such a wonderful house. And most importantly, this amazing kindness - just feed everyone, just treat everyone, just caress everyone. Such people. And it was so difficult for me to part with them...

My mother graduated from the Institute of Oriental Languages, spoke Japanese, spoke English, French, and wanted to teach me something, but nothing came of it. So she brought someone, I don’t know who he was, by what fate he could have ended up here, always by some difficult and probably difficult one - an American, a perfect American, who did not speak a single word of Russian. And he, apparently, somehow lived very hard, and where they got him and why, and, probably, his fate was dubious and dark. This poor Eugene, he walked around in a leather jacket that we didn’t wear, but he seemed poorly dressed, and he smelled of some terrible sweat, but this smell was very pleasant to me, and I somehow respected this Eugene. Who was he, what did he do? Well, of course, he disappeared, like everyone else who tried to teach me English. Eugene and I fell into an incredible friendship. But when he entered this huge communal apartment in which we lived on Old Square, he was horrified. But it’s okay, we played like this: he took toys, said “duck” - so she “duck”, well, and we started talking to him somehow. Soon he disappeared, I asked my mother:

Where did Eugene go?

And she was embarrassed and said:

Maybe he will come again.

Well, of course, he never came again. And I didn’t want to study English anymore, but things were going great with him, because he didn’t speak a single word of Russian, and I matched him.

I remembered that there were no Christmas trees before the war, then they appeared, in 1947 or something, but somehow I knew that they existed. During the evacuation, I remember I decorated a twig with some kind of cotton wool, but I could be wrong, I was little. And then my father brought big Christmas trees, but I was not allowed to touch the toys or Santa Claus there. But they never put a star on them, but put a tip on the top. Here Lisa tells me:

Mom, what about the tip?

But there was no star, and if there was, then it was a Kremlin star. There was no star, because they were afraid that it was the Star of Bethlehem, which it really is.

As a child, I adored balloons, it’s described in my mind. My grandmother took me to the Bolshoi Theater, and there stood a salesman with a bunch of red flying balloons. I always loved it, I was obsessed, my poor grandmother bought it for me on the way back. I remember everything: this bunch, red balls and gold there was some kind of design on them.

I thought: how fast I’m standing!
Away the muscles rush and frolic!
My body, having overthrown my power,
behaves arrogantly and cheekily.

“I thought: how fast am I standing” - this is a very good line. Written at the same time as “The Tale of the Rain”, all this was not published at first, but I read it. I read it at performances. Nobody really found fault with anything. The records remain. Some have an authentic recording of my reading. '62? No, no, later, much later. The first book was published in 1962. I didn’t write good poetry then.

When we lived on Old Square - well, I exclude the war, because my father is at the front, my mother is in this service, Christina is at war, and I am all with my grandmother - one day some revolutionary old women discovered her. Grandmother received a small pension, but they wanted her to receive, as they were supposed to, the old Bolsheviks. The grandmother was completely poor, she had a book about childhood diseases, because it was left over from her medical activities, there was a page where a terrible rickety child was depicted, and there the grandmother put her pitiful money, a small pension. And then someone robbed her. But she's okay.

My grandmother had the biggest impact on me, and so did Khristinka. And even the name of the eldest daughter - Christina, the name already says that the grandmother was distracted from all these revolutionary affairs. Grandma has already woken up.

So, when these old women appeared, and grandmother and Khristinka lived in such a narrow, long room, it was a former hotel, we lived in some kind of junior suite, and grandmother had a single room, they lived there together with Khristinka. And that means my father and mother all huddled together. What remains of communal apartments is horror. I don’t know, maybe this is exaggerated, but I remember how I suffered that there is no separate place for a person who still composes and wants to be alone. Of course, you can’t sleep in the room with your parents, but where can you get a nursery? I kept dreaming of some kind of separate space, as a result they fenced off the space with a screen and put some kind of sofa bed there, a floor lamp stood there with a huge yellow lampshade, this was my office as a child. I remember that I had some swans hanging on an oilcloth, flying, like in a fairy tale.

It’s hard for everyone together, I began to understand this early, to seek solitude. And at the institute, however, things turned out very well for me - when my parents separated, my father went somewhere to Kuntsevo, and my mother went to Novopodmoskovnaya Street, then Zoya and Shura Kosmodemyansky.

At my grandmother’s I was hiding behind a curtain, I dragged all the animals there, my grandmother fussed with everyone, Christina too, and I behind a black curtain, and a pile of rags. They had nothing. Mother dressed well, she always loved to dress smartly, she did not help them, she despised Christina.

Christina also had a face with some Italian features, but everything else was not. A beggar, a painter, in some kind of paint, a grandmother in a robe walked around incredibly.

So, when these old women came, I was in that room, hiding behind the curtain, my parents were at work. And so the grandmother refused their pension and said:

I don't need anything, I have everything.

She was like that. Here, he says, I have a granddaughter, Bellochka. That's where my happiness is. She followed me, brought me, and what came out was this sullen, gloomy child, quite angry. These old women looked at this terrible child who does not greet, does not speak, does not answer questions, and said:

Nadya, what's good here, some kind of terrible child.

Grandma said:

Well, let's get out of here!

And she kicked them out. My grandmother and I went out onto the landing, they were coming down the stairs, I described it - scary old women were coming down, like folded umbrellas, black, tall figures.

In the fourth grade, a teacher appeared, Lidia Vladimirovna Lebedeva, very strange, stern, bulky and at the same time somehow slender, apparently due to extraordinary human decency. It was not even the grace of the figure, but some kind of decency that ate it up. For example, she could not give good grades to those who did not deserve it, and so on. And here I began to study a lot, that is, I fell in love and then always loved handwriting and literacy. And she also loved this about me, that I love letters so much that I write carefully. I told:

Lydia Vladimirovna, let me write you something.

And she told me that let me write and write, that is, I didn’t mean essays, but just write, write. I understood well that letters, the addition of letters, their sequence - there is such a great meaning in all this, it means so much. She was surprised by my attention to letters, and I had old books, with old letters.

And she also asked me to study with some girl. And I studied. But she was very strict, if someone did not want to study, she then very strictly reproached and very much encouraged the one who studied diligently, this was, apparently, her decency. But it ended badly, because her strictness, her bad grades for those who did not study well, aroused the wrath of the school, this one, in Kolpachny Lane.

Kolpachny Lane was also noticeable to us because captured Germans walked past us all the time; they were being taken to build a house on Kotelnicheskaya Embankment, as it later became clear. But pity for them - this, in my opinion, was inherent in many. Somehow, suddenly, pity overwhelmed people who themselves had experienced grief, as if from them, in connection with them, and yet it was somehow overshadowed, and all the time I wanted to slip them something - a bun, a chocolate bar. And some kind of weak, unhappy smile of the German suddenly dawned on his face.

The German soldiers were leading the Germans to the construction site, and nearby we were hooligans. Abakumov lived in the house, but we didn’t know who he was, they said that he was a big boss, and we, all this most mischievous group, constantly pressed the bell and went as fast as we could. Once he looked at who was doing this, he realized that they might be future enemies of the people, but, in any case, for now they were just some stupid children. But one day he threatened so much that they realized that there was no need to play with this guy. But they played with someone else, just opposite, right opposite my entrance on Old Square, there was some kind of entrance, and there was an employee from the Central Committee on duty. This is what I described about him, how he kicked out a rat, but I regretted it and picked it up. And so we jumped there, shouting: “Uncle, uncle, parrot, uncle...”. Some games. Then, when I remember, all these people: Abakumov is here, the Central Committee is nearby, other institutions, so, in general, this air must have been saturated with something, although, it seems, the people in the apartment were simple.

Yes, but let’s not talk more about Lidia Vladimirovna Lebedeva. And then she was expelled precisely because her performance in the class was so poor. And the only reason I had such success was because I didn’t study well. I also had good grades only in language and grammar. But it ended with her being expelled from school. For all of us who studied poorly, we still understood that this was a terrible injustice. She has such a special posture, as if she is facing some kind of test, and she must endure this and never, never bend her head unattractively, never bend over, never ask for someone’s pity. And she was expelled. Then we were the whole class, it was class “B”, I still remember everyone, no one is alive anymore, probably, but maybe, maybe someone is. And so we went, I began to lead it all. We must say that we can’t live like this, we can’t live like this, it’s impossible. It’s with us, it’s with us that such injustice is being committed. Everyone agreed with me. Where should you go? Well, probably in RONO. And go and say that the teacher who was ours was a very good teacher, she was unfairly expelled from school, unfairly.

And off we went. And we walked so proudly, I remember it was the first such demonstration. We walked so proudly and walked in proudly, but at first no one paid attention to us. We still asked:

Who can I contact about class matters at school?

What is it?

We have a teacher, she is very good, she is very competent, she is very good...

Basically they said:

Get out of here and don't set foot in here. They don't come here.

And they kicked me out, kicked me out. They kicked out Lidiya Vladimirovna, they kicked us all out, but they kicked out the whole class. Expelled from school. And we were somehow terribly friendly, because we were from the same street, at the same age. And we were transferred, everyone was kicked out of this school to another school, everyone was disbanded into different classes. We agreed, in honor of the rebellion, to go without briefcases and resist the teachers, but in fact nothing came of it later.

I started writing early, but with a different kind of charm, not like many children, perhaps, I had a different hobby, I read Gogol, and I also read Beecher Stowe. This Beecher Stowe influenced me greatly, and in my poems I always had an unhappy boy, a black man. And all the time some planters, some poor, exhausted, innocent blacks. That’s why I can be so happy for the American president, I feel some kind of ridiculous tenderness for him, he doesn’t even know that in Moscow someone wrote all the time about blacks. But, fortunately, a wonderful woman named Smirnova helped me out of this somewhat.

I have completely noble modesty - never write letters to newspapers or magazines. But once I did write to “Pionerskaya Pravda”, once again standing up for poor Tom, who was suffering on the plantations, so, apparently, I was so angry, I felt so sorry for him. I performed a lot with these poems at the pioneer camp and sent some. And I received a letter from a wonderful woman, after all, I myself later had to, in some other times, answer letters from people who wrote, and it seemed to me that I always wrote to them well. And when I received this letter, I was somehow very consoled, because it was written: “Dear girl, I see that you are suffering very much for everyone who is suffering. This is very merciful, but still, you go to school, you have other children there, and you see everything in some distance, where everyone is suffering. Yes, you should feel sorry, of course, especially for some distant and defenseless ones, but maybe you will look around you and see what is closer to you.” This letter had a great impact on me. I began to write something from a life closer to me, but it was also unsuccessful.

Then many years passed, I became already famous, and we met with this woman, and I said:

You may not believe me, but I remember you.

She was amazed:

Was it really you, and do you remember?

I speak:

Well, of course, this made a big impression on me, after all, now I seem to have improved somewhat.

Sometimes such smart women were found among all the cruelties that a child faces.

Well, there was a time at school when I wrote a sequel to “Woe from Wit.” My teacher, she kept this for a long time, but let’s not say that I carefully saved it. I burned it in the fireplace. But, probably, I somehow owned the syllable, I think, maybe. Various characters from “Woe from Wit” also walked there, and I persuaded the whole class... to study.

House of Pioneers of the Krasnogvardeisky District on Pokrovsky Boulevard, in a wonderful old mansion, I don’t know whose, what wonderful, unfortunate and destroyed people, there were wonderful so-called circles for those who are doing something. And there were some good people there, in this old, wonderful house on the shore of Pokrovsky Boulevard, right on the edge of it, near Chistye Prudy, and they were working on such colorful things. There Igor Shelkovsky studied in the art studio, then Leventhal, who lived in Paris and I hope he still does now. I went to a literary circle led by Nadezhda Lvovna Pobedina, I have fond memories of her. She had sad young poets there. The mood was generally mournful and sad. And the most important one was named Nezhivoy, a boy who was considered the most gifted. Unfortunately, his last name later came true and turned into authenticity.

There I studied in two clubs, the second was drama, I attended both, one did not interfere with the other, on the contrary. The drama was directed by Ekaterina Pavlovna Perelman, a very good wife of the artist Perelman. And I had particular success in comic roles, for example, in Rozov’s play about a blind girl, which was called “Her Friends,” or something, and I played a housekeeper. I was a great success in the housemaids there, I played in such a way that the whole house just laughed, I played the housekeeper amazingly, that’s true. Leventhal told me this. He said that he had not forgotten, because I portrayed some kind of funny, but also poor person. I was good at this because my parents hired different women from different cities to do the cleaning. Different characters, accents, speech, habits - there was a whole class. They all gave me a lot. But that's okay. But here is a small scene, a wonderful scene, probably in some beautiful manor house. There I portrayed Agafya Tikhonovna.

Yes, but it was a drama club, which was very distracting, as my family thought. Justifying my passion for the drama club, I remembered Nekrasov, told my parents and mother:

The joy of youth

Friend of ideals,

Oh scene, scene! not a poet

Who wasn't a theatergoer?

So, maybe that's how it is. And then life turns into theater, you have to hold on. But I never studied any speech technique, I always didn’t pronounce “l” and I knew that this was right for me.

They praised me a lot, and all sorts of people came to look at me. In addition, I also read something, and they said that there was nothing to think about this one, I should take it to the theater, but I knew that never, under no circumstances. They appreciated my abilities, these too, they were useful to me later, they were useful on stage. But I never took this seriously. And so they reproached me, my mother reproached me, they wanted me to study. Nobody knew what I would do, because when I was a child, some guests came to my parents, approached the child, as they always approach children, and said: “Well, who do you want to be?” - and they make some kind of goat there. Well, the children say what they want to be, I don’t know, a fireman, a pilot. I answered like this:

I will be a writer.

She probably didn’t pronounce the “r”. But she still said “writer.” The guests were horrified. We thought, what kind of monstrous child is this, he says that he will be some kind of writer.

I told you that I had quarrels with many famous writers, well, with some, some. But no one was going to quarrel with Chukovsky, but I... He actually wrote to me, accused Nadezhda Lvovna Pobedina of some kind of pessimism, that the circle was somehow very mournful, everyone indulged in sadness. And we met, but some time had already passed, I was walking in the sun, and Korney Ivanovich Chukovsky and Kataev were walking. Korney Ivanovich greets very kindly. But I didn’t visit his bonfires; his fame, for me, was nothing. And so he tells me:

Hello, hello, beautiful young lady Bella Akhmadulina.

Something like this. He remembered my name. It’s hard to remember, but just by sound.

You know, you caused me sadness, but because I wrote you a letter where I reproached Nadezhda Lvovna Pobedina, I somehow knew about this circle, and you, you didn’t think to answer me.

But I was still young then:

Korney Ivanovich, I received your letter and I apologize for not answering it, it seemed to me unfair and even cruel in relation to Nadezhda Lvovna Pobedina, whom you mention.

Well, actually it was audacity. Kataev laughed so hard, laughed and said:

Korney Ivanovich, why are you teaching children some kind of sadness? It would be better if you built a shalman here, in this place, instead of a library, you would build a shalman, otherwise you will be sad here.

They joked like that, they were friends. Chukovsky briefly explained that in this circle they write some very sad poems, but also bad ones, by the way. No, that they were bad, that’s what I’m saying, but that they were sad, that was just good, because these young creatures seemed to resist, they resisted all the so-called fun or some kind of lie that everyone felt, sensed and children. And Nadezhda Lvovna, it’s unlikely that she was a great writer, but what she wrote about sadness was educational. Well, in general, this is where our relationship with Chukovsky ended. In addition, I could not forgive Korney Ivanovich that, having initially congratulated Pasternak on the Nobel Prize, he no longer appeared at his house when the persecution began.

I walked from the House of Pioneers, they praised me there in the drama club, where I portrayed Agafya Tikhonovna, they said that I had a lot of abilities, they praised my literary nonsense. I said that I would definitely engage in literary work. So I was walking home along the boulevard, my cheeks were burning from all this praise, the snow was melting on them. And when I arrived, there was such an entrance to this house, I saw blood. It was a dog that died, a small poodle. The housekeeper, just the one I was approximately portraying, took me out without a leash. I was completely distraught. And such a lesson forever turned out that all praise is nonsense compared to genuine grief. I was fifteen years old then, I think. And that everything is nonsense, there is only what is serious. Well, life is death. Dead dog.

And so I was in such a state, I almost didn’t speak, didn’t walk. And there, suddenly, in this communal apartment, they installed a telephone, which, by the way, no one called. The neighbors didn’t know how to use it, only my mother sometimes came up and was surprised that I was on the phone, I even remember it - 55 99 10. And suddenly my name was:

Bella, go, this is for you.

Hello, dear, I know your name is Bella, I know that grief has befallen you. You indulge in such despair - you don’t go to school, you don’t talk to anyone. Believe me, I live a lot, I have endured so much grief, I should live and be.

I only found her poems later, I didn’t know. Well, so she speaks to me, consoles me from grief and says:

Maybe I’ll seem closer to you, I heard you write something, you know, so do I.

And in such an amazing, ancient, beautiful voice he says:

But I even have a position. I run a dog club, where there are mainly poodles.

Then I found her poems and read them. Wonderful, better than my crappy ones. She was an old person, a wonderful person, and she was also in charge of this club. And somehow I began to get better, began to get better...

I saw Boris Leonidovich while still a schoolgirl; I was with a young man who studied with me in a literary circle. I don’t think I know Rogovin, but maybe I’m wrong. He was such a learned young man, rather dry, the son of a professor, spoiled, with aplomb. We, high school students, went to the Moscow State University club. The hall was almost empty, and only in the first few rows sat beautiful ladies in some kind of black, modest toilets. And on stage a person unknown to me read poetry. I was struck by his voice, some kind of witchcraft. This was Boris Leonidovich. Poems from Doctor Zhivago. But I didn’t know any of this. And this young man, Vadim, said:

I never liked or understood Pasternak.

And I didn’t know anything about Pasternak, but I remembered some kind of obsession in the voice, an unknown, inexplicable phenomenon. That's how I heard it for the first time. It was incredible. This voice, this voice, this face, this becoming is different, this is not something that is equal to us. I understand this. So I remained in an eclipse, in some kind of eclipse, for a long time, then circumstances helped me, and I could already read it, as I can read and understand. And it was early, it was still at school...

When I graduated from school, they all wanted me to win a silver medal. I had a terrible dream about mathematics, and I didn’t understand anything about it at all. But, despite the strict supervision, one of the girls, gold medalists, somehow slipped me an answer. I made some grammatical mistake and never received the silver medal.

My parents wanted me after school (my father was once a journalist in a large circulation at Elektrozavod) to enter the journalism department at the university, which, of course, was contraindicated for me. At the first interview, I was asked about the newspaper “Pravda”: who is the editor-in-chief there, what have you read. I speak:

Yes, I have never read this newspaper.

I was kicked out and was no longer allowed.

And so I finally entered, I don’t even know who gave this advice, to the newspaper “Metrostroyevets”. It’s strange that sometimes such a small and almost touching establishment can give something to a person. It's on the street somewhere near GUM. And when I showed up there after school, I was seventeen years old.

The small literary department was in charge of a small woman, Margarita Petrovna Nevolina. She sat on the file of this publication, the file grew larger, she sat higher and higher. I, of course, was terribly shy, I was terribly afraid, but I appeared, and she looked at me with extraordinary surprise, because this was some strange phenomenon in their newspaper. She asked:

What's your name?

I speak:

She says:

Well, I don’t know, but I’ll call you Squirrel. Well, what do you want, squirrel girl?

I speak:

Yes, you see, I wanted, I want to write, I tried to write, unsuccessfully, maybe always, but I wrote. You have a newspaper, I think maybe you will take me and I will write something.

My name is Nevolina.

And so she, this Margarita Petrovna, dear Nevolina, called this rather respectable man there, even though he held a small position in the newspaper, but still he was also someone who had to do something. Speaks:

A new employee came to us. Would you like to take a look?

And he looked, and laughed a lot, but very good-naturedly, and said:

And why did this employee come, what does he want?

He asks to be hired for some conditional, insignificant position. I didn’t go to university, I finished school, but I’ll write if they ask me for something.

And they generally liked it all somehow, because it brought some variety. They didn’t need such an employee at all, but they were kind people and saw that the employee was clearly harmless and probably useless, but still, here he was. Well, they said, okay.

Let us take you, so you will be a freelance correspondent.

And I said:

Of course, thanks, I will.

Okay, let us give you the first task. To begin with, you will try topics that are not difficult for you, that are easy to understand. Metrostroy is a huge organization, keep in mind, and in addition to building the metro, it does a lot of other things. Here we have, including some kind of greenhouse at the Los station, where they grow several cucumbers and several tomatoes for some needs.

And I was delighted, but with timidity I went to this station, they gave me a document stating that I was such an employee, and I presented it with extraordinary admiration. Indeed, there were several cucumbers, tomatoes, and some other plants growing there, very modestly, but somehow very attractive to me. And I wrote a long article about how Metrostroy has a greenhouse where delicious tomatoes, cucumbers, and plants grow. They, when I returned to them this huge, well, for them, this is a small newspaper, when I returned to them this article, which occupied quite a large place, all these good people could not help laughing, because I described the tropical circumstances of this greenhouse and its a necessity for Metrostroy. And they kept the greenhouse to grow some vegetables, something small for Metrostroy workers, for a kindergarten. And suddenly I see: “At the Los station there is a greenhouse “Metrostroyevets”” - two lines.

This was the first one, and they laughed very, very, very much, but they said that it was still written very well, and it’s good that you feel that way, that’s right. In general, they praised me. And then I became attached to them. I began to come to them every day, as if it were work, and it instilled in me a great feeling of strict seriousness. They caressed me and gave me such simple tasks.

But if the greenhouse comes first, then they said:

Well, you know, you’ll try again: the Metro Construction workers, or rather, they’re still like apprentices, they’re renovating the Prague restaurant, and you show up there, show your documents. They will probably laugh, because they are all very young, but tell them that this is a very serious matter.

And, indeed, I appeared in the “Prague” restaurant, where repairs were underway by Metrostroy and the future winter garden was being repaired, I saw it later. These young boys, the artisans who worked there, of course, made me laugh all the time when I asked them about electricity, how they conduct electricity and how electricity and the metro are connected. This was not connected in any way, but, nevertheless, I wrote an article, and something was written there that young Metrostroy workers had installed several kilometers of electricity, well, again the newspaper laughed terribly.

These artisans laughed at me because they didn’t take me seriously. I said that I was a correspondent for the newspaper “Metrostroyevets”, they laughed at me, boys, boys. They despised some strange girl. There were these iron beams stretched out, quite sharp, I raised my head, somehow responding to their laughter, or some questions, they were always talking some kind of nonsense, which did not fit in the newspaper, but they corrected it there, and they themselves figured out how to write it - I raised my head and broke my face into blood, and then all these evil-tongued, or sharp-tongued, boys were horrified, because I broke my eyebrow, the mark is still there, and my face was covered in blood.

They were terribly scared, no one knew what to do, but they found some kind of medicine there, and they instantly bandaged my head and sent me on the metro, as a metro construction worker, to the Metrostroy clinic. But when I was going on the subway, and by that time they had already given me some kind of overalls, some kind of helmet, and when I was going on the subway, first of all, I was terribly proud that I was such a Metrostroyevsky person, and everyone was coming they just take the metro, along the escalator, just like that, and I’m going with a work-related injury, which all the escalators immediately noticed, because my head was all bandaged, with a referral to the Metrostroy clinic. And here I go, and everyone feels sorry for me. And I’m terribly proud, really, they’re just skating, and I’m riding with a wound, blood is bleeding through the bandage, and they feel sorry for me, and say:

What is it, just some girl, where did they take her? Yes, in overalls, and in some kind of helmet, and covered in blood, in bandages. Where are you going, poor thing?

I speak:

No, no, nothing, I’m working, it’s for work, and I’m going on business, in the direction. - And so on.

I showed up at this Metrostroy clinic, and there they told me:

Well, since you are such a metro builder, then be patient.

There they stitched up my wound.

And this scar was small, although it is still visible under the eyebrow.

But, nevertheless, they stitched it up. Stitched up. I was proud, but the editors were somehow actually scared, because everyone was laughing at her, and she was walking around in bandages.

The next day I showed up with bandages. They said no, I need to somehow distract myself for two days, and then they will come up with a task for me. And then I began to ask: show me the tunnel. And they showed it. But then they took me with an adult. That’s when I learned that there is a third rail from which the forces of electric trains come. They showed us and told us what it was. In my opinion, Fomin was there, such an employee. I still know all this.

I printed information so often reduced to the minimum that sometimes it was even written: “Freelance correspondent Bella Akhmadulina.” I worked there so often that I had to sign somehow differently, in my opinion, “Freelance correspondent B.A.”

I remember such a kind laugh, not offensive, cheerful. In my opinion, the name of the editor-in-chief was Yakov Davidovich, but I could be wrong, but I remember Nevolina just fine. I thought that this experience was very useful to me.

And this went on for some time, and they petted him all the time. I was even called up some time ago as an old metro builder.

I read in the newspaper that in a bus workshop a person writes poetry, being in some difficult but low-level work position, writes poetry and at the same time is involved in the literary circle of the Likhachev plant. And I was very impressed. I think: “Does he write poetry? I’m also writing something, and he’s a worker, and he’s writing...” Once my father told me something, taught me something. Speaks:

Well, there are workers there, you see, they write, and here you are...

And I went and met Vinokurov, who led this circle.

Evgeny Mikhailovich Vinokurov was quite young at that time, he just had to earn extra money this way. And very intelligently, very witty, although it was a burden, maybe it was a burden for him, but... Vinokurov always said later that I was his student, in a sense it was exactly like that, because I came and went to this circle .

There were very gifted people there, and I noticed them. Everyone there praised me for “Woe from Wit,” and I noticed very gifted people - Natalya Astafieva, such a wonderful person. A bus workshop worker, Kolotievsky, wrote poetry. I don’t remember anything from it, only “Freckles lie on my hands, like crumbs of tobacco.”

Nobody understood, and I didn’t understand, that time was changing ever so slightly, the nightmare was changing ever so slightly into something non-nightmarish.

It was summer, and I asked my family to send me somewhere to a village, on the Oka River, and they sent me to some amazing little place, where there was a completely devastated village long ago. I always wanted to be alone. So they rented me such a small hut on the Oka River, and I really enjoyed it there. It was such tenderness, because it was a small, tiny hut with some kind of stove that I didn’t know how to light, and completely destroyed, and the complete absence of anyone. There was no one, not a single person, but I loved it. I saw these trees, and there were still snakes crawling there, but not dangerous. And the forge especially touched me, because I understood that it was old, ancient.

And I lived in this hut and really looked at this forge, that is, at ancient times, at the old times. And I accidentally admired it all the time, but I wrote such completely insignificant poems - they were called “Black Stream”, and something else. But these nights, this magical loneliness. And, indeed, there was this stream there, which was called Black. And, apparently, this is how it all got intertwined.

When I appeared, suddenly first Vinokurov, and then Shchipachev: “Ah! What a “Black Stream”!” Well, then Shchipachev said that we need to prepare poems for the magazine.

I think that, besides the kindness of Stepan Petrovich Shchipachev, why such kind of affection suddenly surrounded me. Still, in the midst of this time, which has not had time to wake up from complete darkness, from fear, from a multitude of some kind of human sorrows, grievances, here is a being of an indefinite title, of indefinite occupation, writing some more poems. And the poems, I know that they were terrible, that is, very insignificant, but, nevertheless, Shchipachev chose some poems that, I don’t know, only perhaps his good nature might have pleased him, but he somehow praised. He and, in my opinion, their common efforts, his and Vinokurov’s. So they showed these poems to Selvinsky.

Vinokurov, he was a very kind person. Very kind and Stepan Petrovich Shchipachev. Then we became friends. And suddenly - a call when the mother answered the phone:

Shchipachev is calling you.

It was a lot for her; she knew that such a poet existed. He was very famous, especially such nonsense: “Love is not sighs on a bench and not walks in the moonlight.” I timidly picked up the phone. He said some kind words to me. The poems were generally insignificant. This was before the institute, apparently, because after that it started. It was very difficult for me to talk to Shchipachev. I say:

Stepan Petrovich, thank you.

You know, your poems seemed wonderful to me.

Well, why could they seem beautiful? Because the time has just come, the time. It did not last long, and I was not cherished for long. And Stepan Petrovich told me something else. He said:

You know, after everything, I really liked your poems.

And then they published poems in “October”, published two or three terrible poems. I even received a huge fee. The magazine “October” paid 70 rubles, a lot of money. Mother asks:

And what are you going to do with this money?

I speak:

I'm going to buy myself a dog.

Very good.

Which later became another tragedy. But I bought a dog immediately. And everyone remembered her, everyone knew who knew me.

And many years will pass before I understand that I write very poorly. But I always remember Stepan Petrovich with love and his dear, beautiful wife.

But before that I worked at the newspaper “Metrostroyevets”, for some reason with some incredible and tragic passion. Before, before these poems, and then they began to praise. And that’s when my mother received Selvinsky’s letter for me. Yes, my mother knew Selvinsky well, that is, not him, but she read him, we had a book, some kind of “Umka is a Polar Bear” or something like that, I don’t know. And suddenly such an unworthy metropolitan correspondent was suddenly showered with praise from everywhere.

This is a very touching letter. I must say that there were some weak, gentle, dragonfly-like protective forms in me. It’s not that all this had an effect on me, but he greatly exaggerated my abilities and said and wrote that this was “a talent on the verge of genius,” and so on*. He recommended me for admission to the institute, where I was accepted with great success.

* I will quote this letter in full (B.M.):

Dear Isabella Akhmadulina!

I am writing to you under the impression of your poems sent to me for review Lit. institute. I am completely shocked by the enormous purity of your soul, which is explained not only by your youth, but also by your powerful, completely masculine talent, permeated with femininity and even childishness, sharpness of mind and brightness of poetic, and simply human feeling!

How can you save this for the future? Do you have enough will not to trip over everyday life? It is more difficult for a woman poet than for a male poet... Be that as it may, no matter what happens in your life, remember that you have a talent with the traits of genius, and do not sacrifice it to anyone or anything!

Goodbye, you wonderful creature, be joyful and happy, and if some misfortune happens, the poet only becomes purer and higher from this.

Ilya Selvinsky

Well, in the fall of next year, I remember, young, already knowing what Metrostroy is, I move to the Literary Institute along Ilyinsky Square, and then to Tverskoy Boulevard. I was dressed up a little. Blooming creature. Well, I showed up. There were already some other students there, that is, older ones, and I aroused everyone’s curiosity. But everyone greeted me so kindly, very warmly, because he said that “your talent is on the verge of genius” and that “how difficult it will be for you, because especially for a woman...”. And so on.

At the institute, at the beginning, in the first year, several people rallied who were considered more capable, and there were some very nice, but who did not prove themselves. They tried to admit people to the institute not based on their literacy or poetry skills, but on the basis of this. There were some former sailors there, well, and there was a wonderful one, with whom we were very friends, who also became famous, miner Kolya Antsiferov. So they tried to ensure that they were not those who studied with Nadezhda Lvovna Pobedina, that is, no one there thought about Pobedina, but simply not those who had read a lot of books. And there was a wonderful, absolutely wonderful person, whom I still love dearly, Galya Arbuzova, Paustovsky’s stepdaughter. She was remarkable both in intelligence and kindness, a wonderful person, and she still is like that. Even though many years have passed, I always remember her with love. Well, and, of course, some of Paustovsky’s influence passed through her, both influence and support.

But there were two more - Pankratov and Kharabarov. They also stood out as somehow gifted. Meanwhile, they were from a remote province, orphans, but there was something in them, in my opinion, there was a clear presence of some kind of ability. And so we published some kind of newspaper - “We!” with an exclamation point.

But their fate in my life also turned out to mean something. All this was not even connected with me, that is, we were just friendly, and, indeed, they wrote, somehow avoiding general similarity. One of them was from somewhere in Kazakhstan, the other was from Siberia, and we were friendly, very friendly. It ended sadly, but not because of me.

They went to Boris Leonidovich in Peredelkino, read their poems to him, he praised them very much and approved them. I never went anywhere. They walked and talked with him and were so happy. This has remained with me all my life, that somewhere in my poems it is written that “the calamity of all adorations is enormous,” that is, I did not want to, I could never go anywhere, that is, I maintained my such separateness, and if this is adoration, then this does not mean that you have to knock on doors. That's what I thought, and I was right.

But it must be said that there were some dark forces in the institute, and even more so outside. In this first feuilleton, in which they ridiculed me, Pankratov and Kharabarov were somehow also touched upon. In general, they paid attention because they somehow behaved perkily, and, apparently, I later thought that someone was intimidating them, and, in general, someone was ruining their lives, but most importantly, their soul, because that instead of such a young and fresh friendship, all this turned into nothing.

Smelyakov is a very remarkable figure in my life. When we met, I was very young. I was probably eighteen years old; I found myself at the House of Writers celebrating the New Year among adults. Everyone was well dressed, I was poorly dressed. My parents sewed something for me, some kind of green dress, Chinese high-heeled shoes. Smelyakov was sitting with me, I already knew a lot about him and knew him, but, of course, I was very young. Probably, at eighteen, not everyone is necessarily so young, but I was. He drank, but I, of course, didn’t. I asked him:

Yaroslav Vasilyevich, do you remember all the people who were involved in your misadventures?

He sat three times. And he said:

Yes. Shall I show you here?

There were many writers there in the hall of this New Year's House of Writers. He says:

This one, for example, and this one, for example, and this one.

So he listed almost everyone who was there. I grabbed my own gray coat with a fox collar - my mother sewed it, and in Chinese shoes, I walked through the snow to Old Square, where I lived then, I was so shocked. And then live and think.

I didn’t try to publish all my early poems at all; some, perhaps, were published by accident. For example, in the first feuilleton “Childe Harolds from Tverskoy Boulevard” in “Komsomolskaya Pravda” they quoted a stolen draft, I did not offer this to anyone:

We are going tired

hands are cold.

You and I are old

like sorcerers

The skiers have arrived -

Hats hanging.

You and I are superfluous

in a young forest.

I did not offer them either for the seminar or for discussion. I wrote to them: “Where did you get the poems you quote? This is my draft, not subject to any publicity, any execution.” But no one was going to answer me. Still, I understood what they were doing. This aroused such interest among readers, the public - who is she?

The second feuilleton “Riding on a pink horse”, of course, greatly helped to attract some attention from the public, I began to understand that this was already a success, because it was written that some kind of, yes, blooming, meanwhile she considers herself riding on a pink horse, so . And I had this kind of terrible, bad poem, but about a horse, it was called “Horse”. Indeed, about a horse that I didn’t know up close, but nonetheless. And this was connected not only with some poem - gloominess was approaching. The fact is that this was the time when the enlightened public suddenly woke up from the general darkness. Suddenly the magazine “Literary Moscow” was published, then “Tarussky Pages” appeared, and all this was very short. Some new signs appeared, seducing the signs of the times, but this was, as always, a mistake, because it did not last long, it turned into complete darkness.

Our seminar leader, Kovalenkov, is such an ambiguous gentleman, but he remembered a lot. He was imprisoned the night after Stalin's death. He treated me with great passion, was in love with me when I was young, and I said such terrible insolence, some kind of bickering on my part, rudeness or dangerous jokes. He once told me in the presence of the entire seminar:

Tell me, beautiful Bella Akhatovna, what kind of pantaloons do you wear, with or without lace?

I speak:

Don't pretend that you don't know this.

He tried to court me and ended up disowning me. He had a very good wife, Elizaveta Sergeevna Kovalenkova, and now only Seryozha Kovalenkov, his grandson, remains.

I remember I was already a student, 1956, when Fadeev shot himself. I, too, once blurted out something about Fadeev, all rudeness and insolence, too, because it’s difficult to idealize an image, you can recognize some kind of original talent, but sign this terrible fate... He headed the Writers’ Union, all the arrests, everything was with him. Moreover, in the fifty-sixth year, those who survived imprisonment began to return. Then I even wrote something childish about Fadeev, but I threw it out and never remembered it.

He got his gun ready

The candle swayed and held on.

How hard he has aged.

How long did it last.

After the second year, when there was a youth festival, exemplary, good Komsomol members, like Firsov, for example, remained in Moscow, and they tried to send the bad ones somewhere during the youth festival. Well, here we are - to virgin lands, and I went with pleasure, it was interesting. But our virgin lands were like this, where there were no harvests, there were no harvests, we built a shed in the steppe. The woman there was very nice, a student of Lithuanian origin Marite Gleboskaite, but I didn’t know how to cook anything. There the boiler had to be prepared for this entire student brigade. We cooked, but no one knew how to do anything, they allowed some waste, no one paid us, but it was believed that we were making money. But we fed the students, we didn’t spare anything - we spit whatever they gave us, whatever we could buy in the store.

The director of this state farm, which was in the distance, was kind to me and even gave me a horse to buy food. I knew how to harness, some kind of soup... The horse ran away, I tied it to a fence, some kind of fence, tried to climb on it before locking it up. In Pushkin’s words, “ban”: “But you know: shouldn’t we order the brown filly to be locked in the sled?”

I then wanted to return to the places where we built the shed - Shira station, the Lenin state farm. I went alone and started asking for some help from the district committee to get to that place. They gave me a truck. And so we went. And I already drove a car well, I had a license. Back then, upon delivery, you were supposed to be able to drive a truck. A great man, a drunkard, but absolutely great, Ivan Ivanovich, worked with me. He had an assistant, Kostya. I had to drive the truck, I gave it all up. I remember how you had to press the gas with your foot, and you had to know how the truck worked, and they took me to Solyanka. We drove along Solyanka along some side streets. I knew everything and passed it perfectly.

And so the secretary of the district committee came with me; as it turned out, he was a womanizer. He had some kind of party name, I forgot, I won’t lie. In the middle of the steppe there was a salty lake, double, like an eight, called Belyo, in my opinion. The steppe is huge. And so we drove off, he was driving, we drove up to this lake, he said:

Let's go swimming.

I speak:

How to swim, where, in a salt lake?

Salty is not salty, you need to swim. Come on, take off your clothes, let's go.

I speak:

Well, you go, I won't go.

He was angry with me, spoke to me in an offensive way, undressed like an idiot, stayed in his long shorts and went into the lake. He threw his clothes into the cab of the truck and left the keys in the ignition. But he didn’t know who he was dealing with.

From this lake to the road there are five kilometers, and the road itself - I don’t know how many kilometers - from the Shira station to the village of Tergesh. I stayed in the cabin, he threw his clothes and went into the lake and began to do something there in the salt water. Well, I thought and thought, turned around and drove towards the road. I can imagine what he experienced, naked, in the middle of the steppe. Not naked, but in these black shorts. I drove to the road, stood there and returned. Some kind of nobility exceeded. He cursed me.

Yes, there you are, ugh, do you think I need you at all?! My wife just left for Sochi.

I said:

It doesn't matter to me.

We drove off, of course, he was driving. We got to this Shira station, where they were building a shed, everything there was overgrown to hell, there was no longer any shed. The entire local population suffered from trachoma. We turned to the chairman of the state farm, he remembered me, he gave me a pheasant then when we were getting ready to leave. He said:

We have no time for this, I can’t help, everyone is sick with trachoma. It started with sheep, all the sheep died, now people are getting sick.

We set off on the way back. The misfortunes of this district committee member continued. He was driving a truck, suddenly the car stops. We are sitting. He curses me, I curse him. I speak:

Listen, do you know what happened to you?

He says:

Anything can happen to you, I'm just waiting for some kind of trouble.

I speak:

Your ventilation belt has broken.

And it really was torn. And so we were sitting there, suddenly some truck was coming towards us, he asked for help, and he said:

What can I do, I don’t have any spare belt.

And then I said:

You go, we haven’t gone far yet, Lenin’s state farm is there, the director is familiar to me, maybe he can help with something.

And they waited and waited. They sent a truck. It was all amazing too.

Then there was a huge moon. I looked at this moon. He says:

Well, haven't you seen it? I guess I only saw it in the planetarium.

We spent the whole night getting there, he hated me, cursed me all the time. And, nevertheless, we got to the station, he cursed me for the last time. I him. Speaks:

I finally got rid of you, damn you.

I speak:

Say hello to your wife when she returns from Sochi.

Well, he spat at me.

My short-lived success continued until Boris Leonidovich Pasternak received the Nobel Prize. A scandal broke out at the institute, and not only at the institute, at the institute only to a small extent. They announced to everyone: this writer is a traitor. Some easily signed the charges, some simply did not understand what they were talking about. Yes, adult writers, some eminent writers signed false curses against Pasternak. But they just told me what I needed, they shoved this paper... It’s good if at an early age a person understands that you will make a mistake once and then for the rest of your life, your whole life... But it never occurred to me to make a mistake, I couldn’t do it , it would be as strange as, I don’t know, hurting my dog ​​or some kind of atrocity.

This applied to all writers, rarely did anyone manage to avoid this, that is, decent people, of course, tried to avoid this somehow, at least somehow not to get dirty, to somehow maintain their neatness, but some did not succeed. Even my fellow students, those who went to Boris Leonidovich - Pankratov and Kharabarov... In their young years, it is very easy to frighten such defenseless people, to spoil them with some dark forces, and this undoubtedly affected them. Corrupting weak souls is very convenient for these seducers. When they signed this too, they first went to Pasternak. But this is described by Ivinskaya and it is generally known how they came to Boris Leonidovich as if to ask for some kind of indulgence, and he said that, of course, of course, sign, otherwise it will only be worse for me, more bitter, don’t, don’t aggravate my sadness . Well, something like this, but Ivinskaya wrote: “Then he looked out the window as they, holding hands, briskly ran to the gate.”

I didn’t scold them at all, I thought, where will they go, will they join the army or what? I thought that they were defenseless in their orphanhood, in this case, one is from Siberia, the other is from somewhere in Kazakhstan, and it was precisely because of their vulnerability that attention was paid to them. It’s just that suddenly, for the first time for myself, I clearly understood: all my suffering, grief - cannot be compared with one another. But this is the first test of human essence. After all, apart from the Metrostroyevsky greenhouse with a tropical tomato, of course, there was little experience...

By that time I had seen Boris Leonidovich once, that’s how I told him, but I, of course, had already read quite a lot, some books, and I already knew what he was talking about, that is, I remembered how he read then, in this MSU club, there were these majestic ladies, beautiful ladies, completely immaculate, who probably don’t exist anymore in the world. And all this, that is, this lesson...

I must say that I didn’t quarrel with them, I didn’t hurt them with any reproach, that is, I understood that it was from my youth that I understood this weakness, which so easily succumbs to rot and oppression. They became somewhat intimidated, always mysterious, and threw some things at me. I gave them small gifts - mittens or socks or something else, they threw it all in my face.

Others also had some fear. And one day, when I was sitting there, I was already living on Novopodmoskovnaya Street, as it was called then... I saw a car stop. I was scared because I had my favorite dog, which was bought with that first fee. He lived with me for a long time, and this forever remained and now remains my tragedy - the thought of this dog. So I thought how scared he would be, I thought that they had come for me. But that’s exactly what they came. They came with a kind of mysterious look, because they could not directly justify themselves, and somehow I did not want to hear excuses. In general, they became complete strangers to me forever, for the rest of my life. But I thought to myself, then I thought that they couldn’t do it any other way, I regretted it, I understood that they would be expelled from the institute, they would be drafted into the army, they were homeless, orphans, but... It was somehow different for me. They were very tempted, but I was not.

Well, what about expelling me from the institute? I was already in my fourth year. But I just laughed, then laughed, although there was some kind of sadness, that’s when I became completely alone, there was some kind of sadness, of course, but the fact is that the audience around me was very invigorating, the world and death are red.

They expelled me for Pasternak, but pretended that this was Marxism-Leninism. Naturally, I did not keep up with this subject. We had a diamat teacher, and she had diabetes, and I once confused diamat and diabetes. This is dialectical materialism - diamat. Well, at that time I defended it as cynicism. No, I didn’t know, I didn’t want to offend. “You call teaching some kind of diabetes...”

They sent me a teacher from the Institute of Marxism-Leninism for the last re-examination; he was a man of Armenian origin and some kind of professor. He came for the test, a whole crowd of students stood at the door, we talked for three hours. His first question was, of course, about Pasternak, why I didn’t sign. I said, and I honestly hadn’t read Doctor Zhivago yet, I said:

I haven’t read the novel “Doctor Zhivago”, but this is my favorite poet, how can I commit such a crime, it’s against my conscience. And acting against a poet is generally harmful for anyone.

He says:

However, I am in my subject.

I speak:

Well, try it.

He is asking:

What did Mao Zedong say about the labor movement? - A question.

I answer so cheerfully:

That the labor movement is a progressive, leading doctrine for everyone.

He says:

Well, you know something.

I speak:

Do you think I read this? I just came up with this.

In general, it was all coming to an end very quickly, there were questions of the same kind. Then he says:

I understood everything, I cannot give any satisfactory rating. I see that you are a capable person, but if you studied not the day before the exam, but studied thoroughly for a semester, you would still be able to talk, but you clearly neglect everything.

I knew perfectly well that I had already been excluded, that all this was for the sake of exclusion, but it was difficult to formulate somehow. But it almost amused me, and here hung two proper portraits - Marx and Lenin. I speak:

If I studied your science for at least a week, my portrait would hang between these two.

He said:

I see you are incorrigible, but these are rather dangerous jokes.

And that was the end of it. This answer was quite famous at that time.

And they brought me to the director, Boris Nikolaevich Seregin, who had already announced my expulsion. And I looked - he was illiterate, kind of dark-faced, one-armed... If we were talking about Dostoevsky, he called Netochka Nezvanova Natochka Nezvanova, such a monster. He said:

We will, of course, expel you, but if you work in production for two years, like Soviet people, then we’ll see in two years.

I speak:

As far as I know, things aren’t going very well between us and industry, and my participation can’t fix anything there. I’d rather do something else, I’m doing something, writing, translating.

He says:

That's it, that's it.

Well, he signed it, which means he’s an exception. What two years, why wait? But I looked at him, and his face seemed to me somehow, there was some kind of yellowness in it, some kind of illness and some kind of weakness in general. I thought: “I feel sorry for him.” This is true. When I remember him, I think, in my opinion, it’s a pity. And, probably, if you live like them, you will really turn yellow.

And after that I went out onto Tverskoy Boulevard, I still see the boulevard with tenderness, and I never had any anger against them, never.

About Boris Leonidovich after I was already expelled from the institute. This is described by me, how I saw him again and how my formula “The disaster of all adorations is enormous” was again confirmed.

I was expelled from the institute, and some elders, through some tricks, got me into the House of Creativity in Peredelkino in the fall of '59. And suddenly I saw Boris Leonidovich. He came to the office, which I think is still there. They didn’t have a telephone then, and he came to call. And again I was struck by his face. He didn’t know about the exception, because I didn’t go to him, they did, everyone went - and Voznesensky went... But I never went. And suddenly, the moon was shining, I saw this face, an incredible face. It is, indeed, incredible, but whoever loves this face can, of course, console himself with the face of Evgeniy Borisovich, which is very similar, and his voice. But his extraordinary gentleness and kindness. I realized that he was going to call, and I was standing at the threshold, and I retreated. But something interested him, I don’t know. He somehow peered at me. But his face and voice... I looked at his face, completely fascinated, and said nothing, but I could say it. I just bowed and said:

Hello.

He looked at me with some kind and lively curiosity. It was autumn. He still had time. He will then go to Georgia for a short time and die, as is known, in May. And he said it so tenderly and so kindly. This voice came from the depths, which were born for a reason, and sounded for a reason. He peered at me, something reminded him, probably they still told him about my expulsion, but I didn’t say anything, although I had been outside the institute for a long time, that is, since the spring. Just in time for my birthday, I was expelled. And he said:

Yes, yes, they told me about you, and I recognized you right away.

But perhaps it was the extraordinary gallantry and kindness that was always inherent in him.

Tell me why you never come in? Sometimes we have nice, interesting people.

I was so amazed that he said that there were some other interesting people.

I didn’t say anything, I looked at him and looked. They look at him like that once in a lifetime, because I won’t see him again. He was wearing this blue raincoat and this cap. And I already read, already read, but his disasters were already ugly. But he was soft and affectionate this autumn, although everything was already approaching him, that is, on him and on the Ivinskys. It doesn’t take much to see such impeccable greatness, such simplicity. And also this: “Why don’t you come in? We sometimes have nice, interesting people. Come back tomorrow". I later described it: “I didn’t come either tomorrow or later.”

Many of my stories were connected with this adoration for Boris Leonidovich; everything that could relate to the offense caused to him was reflected in a whole sad event in my life, and there were a lot of these cases.

Evgeny Borisovich lived in a temporary hut and did not like to gather. On the day of Boris Leonidovich’s death, everyone came, but he somehow reluctantly appeared, stayed with the children and with Alena in a temporary shelter. I don’t know about Evgeny Borisovich himself, he had wonderful children: Borya, Petya, the youngest Lizochka, now I don’t even know how old she is, a good girl. How many years have passed, they are no longer young people, they have children, the surname exists, the similarities exist, such appearances do not disappear. About Evgeny Borisovich Lidiya Korneevna said:

How much Zhenya looks like you.

And Boris Leonidovich answered:

Is Zhenya handsome?

Zhenya is very similar and speaks somewhat similar.

When I was expelled from the institute, Sergei Sergeich Smirnov began to persuade me to come and talk. I refused at first, but Sergei Sergeevich very persistently called me and offered to see me. I speak:

And what do you want?

He says:

I want to help you because you might get lost.

This is because she was expelled from the institute. This was known. Who am I? Nobody. Parasite? And I went to him.

I came to his office at Literaturnaya Gazeta and said:

What are you offering me? I believe that you can help me, but with what?

He says:

You may be subject to constant misunderstanding, and this may even be dangerous for you. Why are these people who are in charge of everything so insensitive to gifted and talented people?

I speak:

Why, on the contrary, are they very sensitive, they notice signs of giftedness and begin to harass this person. Why is this insensitivity, very sensitive? For them, this is a real danger - such willful people. Well, let's not exaggerate me, but it is true.

He was unusually merciful and began to say:

You see, you are undoubtedly the kind of person who needs protection. You were expelled from the institute, you probably write, but no one publishes you and no one will publish you. Maybe you know, we have “Literary Newspaper in Siberia”, where you can work as a freelance correspondent. If you went, it would give you a lot. And besides, this will be a way out for you.

And he persuaded me.

Andrei Smirnov, director, son of Sergei Sergeevich, really appreciates this story, because this is my very good memory of Sergei Sergeevich. He may be a difficult person, but he is a very important one. He became famous, he was already famous, because he wrote about the border when the war began, “Brest Fortress,” and this was precisely what was praised. And he was the editor-in-chief of Literaturnaya Gazeta and headed the Moscow Writers Union.

Then, when Andrei Smirnov portrayed Bunin, I really didn’t like it all. They also had a screenwriter there, Dunechka. Maybe she's talented. I even gave her something, a ring. Then I was very disappointed. It's all because of Bunin. This is some kind of nonsense.

I flew to Irkutsk, like some other trainee journalists. The second group was already there. “Literary Newspaper in Siberia” started in Novosibirsk, then moved in a carriage. There was a sign on the carriage: “Literary newspaper in Siberia.”

My group was good, but they treated me with prejudice. They heard some incomprehensible rumors about me: I was probably expelled from the institute by some capricious fifa. But nothing like that. This group was headed by some former partisan writer, there were some women there, there was a supply manager, and so he began to give me everything: some kind of overalls, a helmet. He said: “I’ll get you a horse.” Everyone loved me. Some of them left this group because they couldn’t stand it, but I continued until the bitter end.

And, of course, a lot amazed me. Kuzbass, Novokuznetsk, former Stalinsk - I saw it all. I had poems like this - glorifying a steelworker, beauty, hard work. But my naivety, my youth, they somehow protected me.

In some city I saw orange smoke, it seemed very beautiful to me, and it was apparently nitrogen production, “fox tail”. That's what I admired.

I saw these people, these unfortunate people gathering around the carriage of the Literary Newspaper in Siberia, thinking that they could complain. They were all sick. In general, I saw a lot of grief, a lot of human grief. Nevertheless, I continued to work. I had a poem about the blast furnace, about steelworkers. After their shift, they came out exhausted, they wanted to drink beer and eat, but there was nothing in the stores, no food. But vodka, please. Well, of course, I wasn't interested in that. They treated me well, they understood that this was some kind of Moscow phenomenon. Well, I'm wearing overalls and a helmet, which is ridiculous. But I started this in the newspaper “Metrostroyevets”, there, perhaps, there were some concessions.

A story that I really appreciate is when I went to Siberia with Literaturnaya Gazeta - “On Siberian Roads.” I remember how I drove around Siberia by car, and I was already in some kind of dress, my mother sent me from America, I didn’t wear trousers. And I described it very well, how I arrived, how Shera Izrailevich Sharov was with me, a writer, in the story he acts like Shura, such an awkward person, he sat, always tied his legs and drank. Very good. And so he also traveled with me.

And so at the district committee we began to ask for some help to get to the right place. We met the secretary of the district committee, Ivan Matveyevich, and his assistant Vanya, which is true in the story. They were exhausted, and I showed my ID that I was a correspondent. I started asking them:

Well, well, I need to get there, I have a business trip, a certificate.

They were exhausted, their eyes were red from lack of sleep, because there were huge steppe areas, cleaning, they had to do this, but they took us.

Shera had a task for archaeologists to find, and I had a task to find a famous Khakass storyteller and singer.

We were looking for nine archaeologists across a vast area. Nine archaeologists were led by one one-armed man. This is described in detail in a story that I called “A Summer Full of Adversity,” or something. But Mary Lazarevna Ozerova made “On Siberian Roads.” The story is good.

And yet the secretary and his assistant went with us. Their image is very positive, good, kind people, exhausted, tired of this work. We kept looking for these archaeologists, and stopped at a bathhouse on the way. They go to the men's bathhouse, and I go to the women's bathhouse. And there were naked women washing themselves, mostly railway workers, and when I showed up, they laughed at me so much. They knew that it was some kind of Moscow, and they said:

Oh, you're so white. Well, stay with us, we will quickly bring darkness to you.

They treated me well, I was shy, but they treated me well and laughed at me.

Then we got into the GAZ-69 and drove off, looking for archaeologists. As a result, we found them, but we searched for a very long time. And the famous Khakass storyteller, the singer whom I was looking for, went bear hunting. They could do that. As a result, the character of these Khakass is described. And this instrument, which the main storyteller himself played, and his brother called it “chatkhan”. And there was a legend, my brother performed it, about some hero whose name was Kun-Tenis. He had a red caftan with nine buttons, and all this was described and sung by me.

And also, when we were driving along the road, the Khakass nature was so powerful - now the steppes, now the forest. We were driving, suddenly something crunched under the car, and Vanya, the youngest, Ivan Matveevich’s deputy, said:

Eh, poor chipmunk.

He stopped the car and said:

No, the chipmunk survived; it was a flower with such a powerful stem that fell under the wheel of a car.

When we found archaeologists, they rushed to us with the following questions: “What’s in Moscow?” They were in Siberia for a long time, this is their job. And suddenly I look - where are Ivan Matveevich and Vanya? But they are not there. They saw that we had reached our goal and left.

Overall the story is very good. It was published immediately, because of Sergei Sergeevich, of course. I arrived, and such complete luck. Or maybe relative.

By the way, the poem “Oh, everything will happen to you, and your youth...” is not a direct dedication, but to Shera Sharov. He really liked this poem.

It's me! Ah, hurry up

listen and open.

Quiet and old

your poor shoulders.

I found you a brother -

a leaf from one branch.

How are you going to grow old?

without consulting me!

Just now I remembered Shera Sharova, we were friends, so I braided my legs too and remembered that he was sitting like that. An old man of Jewish origin, very good, and, in my opinion, a good writer. We went there with him, and he is described in the story. He read this and really didn’t like it because he understood the hint about drinking.

Sergei Sergeevich created a scandal, not in the Writers' Union, but a scandal in general, because his position was already so majestic, both the head of Literaturnaya Gazeta and the secretary of the Writers' Union. The Secretariat of the Writers' Union met. Everyone was there: Rasul Gamzatov, Berdy Kerbabaev, the rector of the Literary Institute, all the secretaries, there were a lot of them. And Smirnov asked me:

You just need to be a bit more modest. You should not smoke in front of them, and you should dress very modestly.

I remember my mother always sent me parcels from America, I was dressed up, some kind of heels, a skirt embroidered with sequins. Of course, I didn’t smoke, but still I was dressed smartly, perhaps provocatively smart.

Even in college, they were annoyed that I dressed unusually. My mother sent me the most beautiful red coat from America, with buttons at the back. They drew a caricature of me: it means that on my “Muscovite” it was written “made in USA”, from my head it was “made in USA”, and on the coat with buttons on the back - “made in USA”. Caricature. And there was one man there, a theater teacher, and apparently he experienced cosmopolitanism and everything, because he saw the caricature and cried. “Made in USA” - an ad hung from my head.

I was reinstated at the institute in my fourth year, from which I was expelled after a long absence while I was traveling to Siberia. And during my reinstatement at the institute, Vsevolod Ivanov, when Zakharchenko said something positive about me, but cheekily, said:

How dare you! This is not just some pretty woman, this is a poet.

The widow of Vsevolod Ivanov, Tamara Vladimirovna, was so amazing, the mother of Koma Ivanov. Boris Leonidovich once gave her a white lilac bush, which may not bloom for long. And hers blossomed, blossomed, she trembled over it so much. There a gate led to Pasternak's dacha. Tamara Vladimirovna was very reliable, very devoted. It has a lot of advantages. And being powerful is good, otherwise you can’t resist what’s happening.

And so Smirnov said to Seryogin:

What is this, why, as a talented person, do they begin to exclude him, persecute him, and somehow mock him. We need to save the young, and teach them, and distinguish between talent that needs protection and those who are minding their own business.

Well, that's approximately it. And I defended my diploma. Received a diploma with honors.

Preparing the text

Tatiana Alyoshka

To be continued

Boris Messerer

A glimpse of Bella. Romantic chronicle

And now I think that we do not have time to find out our happiness. Actually, what is happiness? This is a conscious moment of being. And if you understand this, then you will already have enough...

Bella Akhmadulina

The book includes letters and photographs from the family archive of Boris Messerer, as well as works by photographers V. Akhlomov, V. Bazhenov, Yu. Korolev, M. Larionova, V. Malyshev, A. Osmulsky, M. Paziy, I. Palmin, V. Perelman, V. Plotnikov, Yu. Rost, A. Saakov, M. Trakhman, L. Tugolev, B. Shcherbakov

© Messerer B. A., 2016

© Bondarenko A. L., artistic design, 2016

© AST Publishing House LLC, 2016

Old Cinema House on Povarskaya. Ground floor lobby. Perhaps it was called the “ticket hall”. There is melting snow on the floor. There are crowds of people, languishing in anticipation of upcoming meetings. Leva Zbarsky and I are also standing, waiting for someone. The door is constantly opening to let incoming people through. The beautiful stranger seems to float into the space of the hall. She is in a slippery fur coat, without a hat, with snowflakes on her tousled hair. Passing by, she glances at us briefly and just as briefly sends us a subtle greeting with her hand.

- Who is this? – I ask Leva.

– This is Bella Akhmadulina!

First impression. Strong. Memorable. This is how it will remain in memory. It’s fleeting, but the feeling of falling in love arises...

Spring 1974. The courtyard of the House of Cinematographers on Chernyakhovsky Street, near the Airport metro station. I'm walking my dog ​​Ricky, a Tibetan terrier.

Bella Akhmadulina appears in the yard with a brown poodle. His name is Thomas. Bella lives one entrance away from me, in the former apartment of Alexander Galich. Bella at home. In low-heeled shoes. Dark sweater. The hairstyle is random.

The sight of her tiny, slender figure begins to ache in your heart.

We are talking. Nothing. Bella listens absentmindedly. We're talking about dogs.

About dogs that are not nearly as peaceful as they seem at first. Ricky tries to start a fight. He succeeds and bites through Foma’s nose. Drops of blood. Bella is unhappy. I am embarrassed. Soon she leaves. And suddenly, with all the clarity that came out of nowhere, I understand that if this woman wanted, then I, without a moment’s hesitation, would leave with her forever. Anywhere.

Then Bella will write:

What is the meaning of fate's delay between us?
Why is the zigzag so bizarre and long?
While we were dating and didn’t know the secret,
Who cared about us, smiled and knew?
Inevitably, like two in the ring,
We met in this hateful courtyard.
Thanks to the incomparable Ricky
For your participation in our destiny...

Sometimes something happens between people that they cannot understand themselves. There were three such meetings in the yard. On the last one, Bella suggested:

– Come in two days to Pasternak’s dacha. We will celebrate his memory day.

I painfully imagined my appearance in this sacred house for me, having only Bella's verbal invitation. At seven o'clock in the evening of the appointed day I appeared in Peredelkino near Pasternak's house. The gates were, as always, open. I was greeted by a large red-brown chow chow. It was impossible to read his attitude towards me from the dog’s face. I headed towards the house. I called and went in. A large company was sitting around the table. Of the guests, I remember well Alexander Galich, Nikolai Nikolaevich William-Vilmont, Stasik Neuhaus and his wife Galya, Evgeniy Borisovich Pasternak and Alena, Leonid Pasternak and his wife Natasha. Bella sat in the center. The guests seemed surprised by my arrival. One Bella joyfully exclaimed:

- It’s so good that you came!

– I invited Boris to this solemn day and I am very glad that he is with us today.

They pulled up a chair for me and offered me a glass of vodka. My arrival interrupted Galich’s reading of poetry. The reading continued. But suddenly Bella abruptly interrupted Galich and began to enthusiastically read her dedication to Pasternak:

Burn to eyes, hands - cold,
my love, my cry - Tiflis!
Nature's concave cornice,
where God is capricious, having fallen into caprice,
that miracle perched above the world...

The poem, read in one breath, bright and swift, sounded like a challenge to Galich’s monotonous reading. Undoubtedly, his politicized poems accompanied by strummed guitar irritated Bella. Although she immediately began to hug and praise Galich, trying to make amends for her indomitable impulse. He continued his speech.

I remember an unexpected meeting with Bella at the dacha of playwright Alexander Petrovich Stein and his wife Lyudmila Yakovlevna Putievskaya. My close friend Igor Kvasha and his wife Tanya, daughter of Lyudmila Yakovlevna, were there. I was very glad to see Bella again, I rushed to her, we talked all evening and decided to see each other in Moscow.

Two months pass. Mixed company. Bella and I meet in the apartment of the writer Yuli Edlis, in a house on the corner of Sadovaya and Povarskaya. A lot of people, a lot of wine drunk. Everyone is in high spirits. Everyone wants the evening to continue.

Suddenly Edlis says:

- Guys, let's go to Messerer's workshop. It's nearby, on the same street.

Suddenly everyone agrees. I'm happy. Bella and I are leading the procession. I lead the company straight along the roadway. The street is completely deserted. We go to my house - No. 20 on Povarskaya. We take the elevator to the sixth floor, in groups of four. Four lifts. I have a lot of different drinks. Guests are impressed by the workshop. And Bella too...

Bella leaves for Abkhazia to perform. Two weeks of agonizing waiting. Phone call, her voice:

- I invite you to a restaurant.

And my answer:

- No, I’m inviting you to the restaurant.

We go to the House of Cinema restaurant on Vasilyevskaya Street.

Usually in such a situation, I continuously say something to my companion and completely capture her attention. Here everything happens the other way around - I can’t get a single word in.

We are going to my workshop.

And life begins again. From my new page...

In that December and in that space
my soul has rejected evil,
and everyone seemed beautiful to me,
and it couldn’t be otherwise.
Love for a loved one is tenderness
to everyone near and far.
Infinity pulsated
in the chest, in the wrist and in the temple...

Bella's memories

The idea of ​​writing down, recording my observations and impressions became stronger in my mind after Bella’s and my life paths coincided.

If before that I had met many interesting people whom it would be correct to remember, then after the coincidence with Bella the number of such meetings increased immeasurably. She gave me a whole circle of wonderful writers, and I rejoiced at her entry into the artistic and theatrical spheres. This process was completely organic, there was no premeditation in it.

I was not an outside observer, but a participant in this crazy but happy life. I have always had many friends, communication with whom took up a significant part of my time. But the main instinct in life was the desire to preserve and protect Bella, to protect her. Immediately after being impressed by her beauty and fantastic talent, I discerned a certain trait of disastrous nature, Bella’s vulnerability and defenselessness, as a person not adapted to the everyday side of life.

The story about human relationships and the events of our common life is not the main thing for me in this book. More important is the image of Bella herself, which I would like to convey to the reader.

Let Bella herself speak, so that the reader will again be captivated by her amazing, unique intonation, bewitched by the hypnotic influence of her speech. I tried to tape down much of what she said when I was able to do so. Earlier and more successful entries include a description of Bella’s trip to France in 1962, memories of Tvardovsky, Antokolsky, and Vysotsky.

Bella's desire to talk about her childhood, her origins, her stay in Kazan during the war, and wonderful stories about the virgin lands became records of 2010.

The chronicle of life, which appears in the texts transcribed from the recorder, dates back to the very last time, when I constantly wrote it down.

Bella said all this not on the record, but simply while talking to me. When these conversations were transcribed and put on paper, then, re-reading them, I again understood the immensity of Bella’s talent.

I tried to present the facts as accurately as possible, accurately indicate the dates and places of the events in which we were participants, leaving Bella room for lyrical assessments and simply for her voice to be heard from these pages.

That’s why I think it’s right to start with Bella’s story about childhood, life in evacuation and her first steps in poetry. And only then will I give myself the floor to describe the time in which we lived, the series of meetings with people with whom we were friends.

Boris Messerer

A glimpse of Bella. Romantic chronicle

And now I think that we do not have time to find out our happiness. Actually, what is happiness? This is a conscious moment of being. And if you understand this, then you will already have enough...

Bella Akhmadulina

The book includes letters and photographs from the family archive of Boris Messerer, as well as works by photographers V. Akhlomov, V. Bazhenov, Yu. Korolev, M. Larionova, V. Malyshev, A. Osmulsky, M. Paziy, I. Palmin, V. Perelman, V. Plotnikov, Yu. Rost, A. Saakov, M. Trakhman, L. Tugolev, B. Shcherbakov

© Messerer B. A., 2016

© Bondarenko A. L., artistic design, 2016

© AST Publishing House LLC, 2016

Old Cinema House on Povarskaya. Ground floor lobby. Perhaps it was called the “ticket hall”. There is melting snow on the floor. There are crowds of people, languishing in anticipation of upcoming meetings. Leva Zbarsky and I are also standing, waiting for someone. The door is constantly opening to let incoming people through. The beautiful stranger seems to float into the space of the hall. She is in a slippery fur coat, without a hat, with snowflakes on her tousled hair. Passing by, she glances at us briefly and just as briefly sends us a subtle greeting with her hand.

- Who is this? – I ask Leva.

– This is Bella Akhmadulina!

First impression. Strong. Memorable. This is how it will remain in memory. It’s fleeting, but the feeling of falling in love arises...

Spring 1974. The courtyard of the House of Cinematographers on Chernyakhovsky Street, near the Airport metro station. I'm walking my dog ​​Ricky, a Tibetan terrier.

Bella Akhmadulina appears in the yard with a brown poodle. His name is Thomas. Bella lives one entrance away from me, in the former apartment of Alexander Galich. Bella at home. In low-heeled shoes. Dark sweater. The hairstyle is random.

The sight of her tiny, slender figure begins to ache in your heart.

We are talking. Nothing. Bella listens absentmindedly. We're talking about dogs.

About dogs that are not nearly as peaceful as they seem at first. Ricky tries to start a fight. He succeeds and bites through Foma’s nose. Drops of blood. Bella is unhappy. I am embarrassed. Soon she leaves. And suddenly, with all the clarity that came out of nowhere, I understand that if this woman wanted, then I, without a moment’s hesitation, would leave with her forever. Anywhere.

Then Bella will write:

What is the meaning of fate's delay between us?
Why is the zigzag so bizarre and long?
While we were dating and didn’t know the secret,
Who cared about us, smiled and knew?
Inevitably, like two in the ring,
We met in this hateful courtyard.
Thanks to the incomparable Ricky
For your participation in our destiny...

Sometimes something happens between people that they cannot understand themselves. There were three such meetings in the yard. On the last one, Bella suggested:

– Come in two days to Pasternak’s dacha. We will celebrate his memory day.

I painfully imagined my appearance in this sacred house for me, having only Bella's verbal invitation. At seven o'clock in the evening of the appointed day I appeared in Peredelkino near Pasternak's house. The gates were, as always, open. I was greeted by a large red-brown chow chow. It was impossible to read his attitude towards me from the dog’s face. I headed towards the house. I called and went in. A large company was sitting around the table. Of the guests, I remember well Alexander Galich, Nikolai Nikolaevich William-Vilmont, Stasik Neuhaus and his wife Galya, Evgeniy Borisovich Pasternak and Alena, Leonid Pasternak and his wife Natasha. Bella sat in the center. The guests seemed surprised by my arrival. One Bella joyfully exclaimed:

- It’s so good that you came!

– I invited Boris to this solemn day and I am very glad that he is with us today.

They pulled up a chair for me and offered me a glass of vodka. My arrival interrupted Galich’s reading of poetry. The reading continued. But suddenly Bella abruptly interrupted Galich and began to enthusiastically read her dedication to Pasternak:

Burn to eyes, hands - cold,
my love, my cry - Tiflis!
Nature's concave cornice,
where God is capricious, having fallen into caprice,
that miracle perched above the world...

The poem, read in one breath, bright and swift, sounded like a challenge to Galich’s monotonous reading. Undoubtedly, his politicized poems accompanied by strummed guitar irritated Bella. Although she immediately began to hug and praise Galich, trying to make amends for her indomitable impulse. He continued his speech.

I remember an unexpected meeting with Bella at the dacha of playwright Alexander Petrovich Stein and his wife Lyudmila Yakovlevna Putievskaya. My close friend Igor Kvasha and his wife Tanya, daughter of Lyudmila Yakovlevna, were there. I was very glad to see Bella again, I rushed to her, we talked all evening and decided to see each other in Moscow.

Two months pass. Mixed company. Bella and I meet in the apartment of the writer Yuli Edlis, in a house on the corner of Sadovaya and Povarskaya. A lot of people, a lot of wine drunk. Everyone is in high spirits. Everyone wants the evening to continue.

Suddenly Edlis says:

- Guys, let's go to Messerer's workshop. It's nearby, on the same street.

Suddenly everyone agrees. I'm happy. Bella and I are leading the procession. I lead the company straight along the roadway. The street is completely deserted. We go to my house - No. 20 on Povarskaya. We take the elevator to the sixth floor, in groups of four. Four lifts. I have a lot of different drinks. Guests are impressed by the workshop. And Bella too...

Bella leaves for Abkhazia to perform. Two weeks of agonizing waiting. Phone call, her voice:

- I invite you to a restaurant.

And my answer:

- No, I’m inviting you to the restaurant.

We go to the House of Cinema restaurant on Vasilyevskaya Street.

Usually in such a situation, I continuously say something to my companion and completely capture her attention. Here everything happens the other way around - I can’t get a single word in.

We are going to my workshop.

And life begins again. From my new page...

In that December and in that space
my soul has rejected evil,
and everyone seemed beautiful to me,
and it couldn’t be otherwise.
Love for a loved one is tenderness
to everyone near and far.
Infinity pulsated
in the chest, in the wrist and in the temple...

Bella's memories

The idea of ​​writing down, recording my observations and impressions became stronger in my mind after Bella’s and my life paths coincided.

If before that I had met many interesting people whom it would be correct to remember, then after the coincidence with Bella the number of such meetings increased immeasurably. She gave me a whole circle of wonderful writers, and I rejoiced at her entry into the artistic and theatrical spheres. This process was completely organic, there was no premeditation in it.