I will dream about this more than once: an asphalt court in front of the supermarket, where after school boys are chased by skateboards. And I never could and never envied them, as well as skiers, rushing from the mountain, or racers on the autorodeo.

But I loved flying from a cliff in the sea.

At this site in front of the supermarket, near the house where we lived three on the second floor — I, father and mother, and there were many colors on the windows, and there were also cats and a dog. The dog was always: first two Airedale terriers, then one, then they took a poodle; The last was Begtsi’s basset, they thought he would oblige Dad to walk.

So, that morning I was walking with a dog. On this platform near the supermarket, in the early morning of some almost ninety year, they all three agreed on nothing to do. In the morning, from nothing to do. And they were not drunk, they were not even acquaintances, they had never met before. But, glancing at each other, understood, somehow realized that they could play this strange game. They povovatyvali from the belts of pistols and began to fire each other. And one fell, because the bullet hit him in the head. Then almost all of them had weapons. This boy was left lying on the steps of the supermarket, in his hand was clamped a pistol, and in the head — a hole from a bullet.

And I remember this, because when I came home, my father stood in the kitchen and smoked in the window, as always. We exchanged glances and thought about the same thing.

Father sat down, arms outstretched,
but I’m running to him, me too
spread out his arms; separation day
surplus, forgotten and summed up.
Sunset in the garden on the Black River.
Father sat down, the sun set,
and I’m running, and he’s laughing …
I run cross to the cross of the fathers,
in the arms, in the inevitability of the meeting.
And he will take me by the shoulders —
and we will leave in the end.

Ravens crouch. This somewhat distracts the teenager at the last desk. The thick notebook in the cage is fresh and innocent, and the hand does not rise to carry on the blank sheet the ridiculous equations from the board. I want to write a novel, of course, autobiographical. There is no biography yet, but perhaps the first fact happened — this is the desire to write a novel. The teenager displays on the cloth cover the title: «Dogs and knights.» With a handwriting problem, but then the teenager tried, the title appeared in beautiful Gothic, and decorated with appropriate curls and vignettes. Next — the question of the graphomaniac: what to write about? The alluring oxymoron «dog-knights», broken by the union «and», pushes to the exciting topic of choice — to be a knight or a dog. Later, the attitude towards one and the other changed more than once: and chivalry was discredited, and psovism gained dignity, words played in the plot of life.

But something important, sharp, memorable then still happened. From this window with crows and the lack of a teenager’s absence, the bell of the first image, the first image of himself in the third person, rang in the ugly tedium of the lesson. The teenager mentally writes not «I», but «he»: «He looked out the window into the yard. A boy with a knapsack behind his shoulders was walking along the courtyard — a first-grader. The boy looked up at his window. And he saw that this boy was himself. »

Thinking this, a teenager at a school desk in a boring lesson did not understand what explosion had just transformed his reality.

Poodleha jumped out on the highway, she was immediately crushed by a car, my dog ​​jumped after her, brakes screamed, someone maneuvered, a menacing stream from both sides circled a living dog and a dead poodle
I think about death and do not understand what she is. Once on a walk my dog ​​chased a small poodle. She rushed forward, he followed her, both barked cheerfully, roared ahead of him and signaled the highway with a car stream. Behind the two cheerful dogs, I ran frightened and yelled:

— To me! Stand!

Poodleha jumped out on the highway, she was immediately crushed by a car, my dog ​​jumped after her, brakes screamed, someone maneuvered, a menacing stream from both sides went round a living dog and a dead poodle. I also jumped on the track. My dog ​​looked at the dead object with absolute indifference, not seeing in it any connection with the cheerful girl-friend. I dragged him off the road, tied him to a bush, then carried him under a bush crushed, and we left. Three days over the place the crows circled, and on the fourth I looked under the bush — there was nothing.

Voroniy grays behind the school window, the teenager looks out the window and mentally says to himself «he». Some eccentric professor celebrated his son’s birthday not by the fact of his birth, but when he two and a half years later, one day he said «I». Before that, everything was in the third person:

— Loka went for a walk, Loka wants to eat, Loka loves mom, dad.

And suddenly this is not clear who says:

— I’ll go, I want, I love. I’m Loka.

Then he will be Loka to the end, until the moment when the entry in the passport is knocked out on the gravestone — there is Loka. But the question arises: where is the one who before the «I — Leka» spoke about himself in the third person?

Maybe this is immortality? For he, who speaks «he» of Luke, could also ask the pope or his mother:

«And will Loka die?»

Whatever they answered, he already intuitively knows the answer by himself: of course, Lyoka will die.

But the fate of the inquirer itself is unknown, nothing is said about it, and not even asked the question. As a memory of this gap, we have a complete lack of understanding of death, we can not grasp it, it is not our experience.

And so the teenager at the school window under such a distinct raven grays assimilates the habitual «I», goes to the remembered «he.» And immediately the reality in the sensation is more authentic than any other, and even more so the reality of the school lesson, captures it. And in this reality, he sees himself as a peer standing at the window and seeing himself a first-year-old who glanced through this window from below, from the depths of the courtyard.

The thick notebook in the cage was still clean. It seems that the main, unspoken novel about a meeting that is impossible in a biography, has no vocabulary, and is called life itself, is written down in it-you can not write about it in the third person or in the first. And this novel, perhaps, my main — no, not a product — recognition.

His childhood was spent in a house on the Black River in Leningrad. Then they moved, and I went for a long time to that house to look at the windows of our apartment in the third floor. Dog’s syndrome. And when he stopped going — childhood was over.

But one day … On the Christmas night of the Millennium year there was a big children’s snow. And I came to that yard. Only one window shone with someone’s insomnia — ours. And in the window this, clinging to the glass, was watched by someone. And I stood in the courtyard and looked at him. Who was it — «I», «he»? That, in fact, that’s all.

I understand and boring the reality of the lesson, school, everyday life. But I live, apparently, in that glance, in the tension of the meeting, when one of the dark courtyard, standing under the lantern, looks at the other, adhering to the sleepless window.

They were few, counted on the fingers, I remember everything. I remember and hate cruelty, not someone else’s — my own. I remember the pain, not my own, but someone else’s — it burned with an instant coming of guilt. The father never fought-or? .. It was impossible to imagine the fighters. Fierce — yes, the cause of rage and anger was me, my cruelty, my aggression. He did not understand it and could not find the means to defeat it, impotence gave birth to rage. He was thoroughly permeated with a sense of humor, and humor and cruelty are incompatible, do not get along with one single person. I have such a light playful humor given very rarely — as a gift. On the contrary, irony, sarcasm, free or involuntary mockery are peculiar — this made you fight.

On the Kolomyazhskoe highway from the embankment of the Black River to the Commandant’s airfield, wheezing with a motor, pret truck. In the back of the body, a man wearing spectacles sits at the side of the junk, my father. He keeps almost six-year-old Lyoku, who did not want to move from his house to a stranger, and he had to donate two plastic rapiers and fencers’ masks brought from toy Estonia before time. With one hand, Loka grabbed the side of the truck, another waved a green rapier, and in delight Loka did not notice that they had already passed the dueling obelisk of Pushkin, the unknown Aerodromnaya Street and Bogatyrsky Prospekt, crossed the tram tracks to the Testers and drove into the big foreign yard of someone else’s house. Loka stands alone in the yard of the fencer’s toy mask with a plastic rapier in his hand, on the sand in front of him another rapier and mask. And where did the truck go? After thirty-seven years, it worries me: the sight of memory does not see the truck at the entrance — it could not have unloaded in five minutes and could not leave. Loka could not come to himself in the middle of someone else’s court, when everything was already unloaded and disappeared, leaving him alone, he could not. But Lyoku does not care: he did not notice how the house, in which Loka lived for almost six years, disappeared from life, did not notice. It is much more interesting and important that now a boy approaches him, looks at the mask and rapier in the sandbox.

— Who are you? Asks the unfamiliar boy.

«I’m Loka, tomorrow is my birthday.»

— And I’m Marat.

— Do you know how to fence?

The first fight did not take place — the enemy fled in horror. Yes, and it is understandable, I myself would have run away from such an unfortunate fool. Marat, he did not know how to fence at all, lashed Lyoku with a rapier on his arm. Lyoka froze from an unfamiliar feeling-an unbearable burning pain. He did not forgive the less pain before either the chair or the table when he suddenly struck the corners — he immediately took revenge, grabbing a mop and furiously beating up the abusers. Loka tore off the mask, tears of rabies were in his eyes, Marat quickly realized the seriousness of his anger, threw off the rapier and ran without looking back.

And on the second floor of a strange house a window was opened:

«Lesha, go home!»

A strange yard, a strange house, and my mother called him Lesha. Looking at the burning red mark on my hand, I screamed, choking with loss, I realized: the rapier and the mask are not real, I do not have a home anymore; someone else’s mother calls from another’s window, she does not know what my name is. And the real ones are only pain and fury from the vile or inept attack of an unfamiliar boy, who has barely caught a trace.

A few years later we fought again, already being strong friends. There were some reasons, I do not remember which ones, I know one thing: I was stronger, the outcome of the fight seemed to be a foregone conclusion. A curious courtyard was crowded around. I approach Marat, frighteningly twisting my face, clenching my fists. Suddenly, a sharp pain in the groin, I stick my knees into the grass of the football ground and a good scream of yelling at the whole yard. Then I found out how vulnerable a self-confident man might be, and for three months he looked anxiously at the purple bruised epicenter of his vulnerability. So, Marat was forever invincible, although he showed no courage.

First class Dima Dudinas at the first break after the first lesson ascended over the flower bed of the teacher’s table, kicked the vase with dahlias and declared that he is the strongest, and does anyone want to make sure of this? He was fat and gloomy. I did not tease him «fat,» but was determined to challenge his invincibility. Grasping at the breasts and singing for decency, we both suddenly felt the joy of mutual sympathy. Dimka lifted me, I — him, we slapped each other on the shoulder and felt good. There were no other candidates for the role of supermen among the first-graders. Uchilka Galina Borisovna (GB) put us in the gallery, where I stayed, five times moving from school to school. GB walked along the rows and all those who did not have neat letters in the inscriptions, hammered a meter with a ruler in the bashkas. Having reached us, it was aimed, but Dudinas intercepted her hand in the brush, pulled out the ruler and broke it in half. We were both kicked out of the classroom. In a recreation Dima clung to a high school student who shouted: «Hey, zhirrest!» In a moment Dudinas banged his head against the wall, and I got a kick in the stomach and the same evening I went to the Military Medical Academy, where doctors with shoulder straps put a heroic diagnosis: «Wounding of the right wall of the stomach.»

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